War banners painted the wind; ranks of infantry stood like a forest.
The allied forces of House Targaryen, House Baratheon, and their banners were fated to meet Maelys Blackfyre's army on the low, barren beaches.
Thanks to the firm support of the Iron Islands, they were able to land directly from the sea.
A bitter gale howled, snapping the banners. Horns sounded—bleak, far-reaching, and mournful.
"Longbowmen, ready!"
Duke Mond raised his hand. Longbowmen stood atop the decks, drawing their bows from leather cases, stringing them, pulling back, and fixing their sights on the enemy entrenched along the shore.
The first volley flew—meant to cover the infantry's charge.
Longbowmen were a vital part of any army, yet none had ever surpassed the legendary Bloodraven. Supernaturally perceptive, divinely precise, rigorously trained—his Raven's Teeth, several hundred peerless marksmen, had once stood unrivaled across the Seven Kingdoms. With that single force, Bloodraven had personally slain the first Blackfyre father and son, crushing multiple Blackfyre rebellions.
But after Bloodraven marched north, ordinary longbow units never again possessed such splendor. Part of the reason lay in the lords themselves—many believed crossbows to be devil's weapons, and longbows not much better. Noblemen preferred honest steel: spears and greatswords. Besides, outfitting a longbow corps was costly—raising one to Bloodraven's level was simply impossible.
Arrows fell like rain.
Golden Company sellswords crouched behind earthen berms and crude fortifications. The arrowstorm inflicted limited casualties, but it was enough to keep their heads down.
"Soldiers, take heart!"
At last, the troop ships ran aground. Soldiers leapt into the surf, charging forward amid roars and shouts. The war for the Stepstones surged into its first great crescendo.
On every stretch of Bloodstone Isle, men could be seen leaping ashore.
Duke Mond rode back and forth at the front, rallying the troops. A black warhammer hung at his waist. The warriors were ready for what might be their final battle.
He saw many young faces—some already pale with fear. Their beards were barely grown, their features still sharp and youthful, yet they were about to face the Stranger's embrace.
Seven forgive me, Duke Mond thought silently. I have torn these children from their parents' arms, from their lovers' embraces. I had no choice. I will win this victory for them.
He glanced back and saw Ilyss, Steffon, and Tywin safely positioned in the carefully guarded reserve lines. Letting the boys witness the brutality of war without exposing them to its worst dangers—that was the mercy of an older generation.
Maelys Blackfyre was infamous, but he was also one of the greatest warriors of the age. The Golden Company, hardened by years of relentless warfare, was not to be underestimated.
Mond thought again of Rhaegar—the young prince. Perhaps this child truly will bring me luck.
"Three-man groups! Watch the thing that feeds you, boy!"
A veteran kicked a hesitant recruit who was glancing around in panic.
"Shields up! Shields up!"
Experienced soldiers raised their shields, guarding their vital points.
"Watch for crossbows—bows!"
Orders rippled through the ranks, yet the chaos of battle still overwhelmed many green soldiers.
"Bloody hell… they got their hands on a lot of Myrish crossbows."
Myr's crossbows were infamous in Westeros—devil's tools said to have claimed even the life of a dragon prince.
A red-haired soldier bearing the sigil of House Tully waded ashore—only to be struck in the throat by a thin, whistling bolt. Like a gray shadow, it silently harvested another life.
"Mother… forgive me!"
He clutched his neck as blood seeped between his fingers, his final cry swallowed by the roar of battle.
The landing was brutally bloody. Severed fingers. Slashed throats. Blood that never stopped flowing. Swords grew nicked and blunted from overuse, and even the strongest warriors began to tire beneath the endless slaughter.
The Golden Company clung stubbornly to their crude fortifications, refusing to give ground. Some fired simple hand-crossbows—three bolts at a time—granting the allied forces the devil's smile when least expected.
Blood and fire reigned.
Wave after wave of royal soldiers fell, only for the next wave to surge forward—like wheat cut down in a field. Yet what they lost was not grain, but lives—beautiful, singular lives that would never grow again.
The sands of Bloodstone Isle slowly turned red, blood seeping into the sea itself.
"My lord, you are our noble commander. Allow me to lead the vanguard."
Ser Barristan stepped forward. Warriors like him were rare; capable Hands of the King even rarer. More than that, Barristan feared for the duke—Maelys Blackfyre lived by the blade, while Duke Mond had spent too many years buried in governance.
Maelys was more savage. More ruthless.
"Ser, I know your valor well," Duke Mond laughed. "But as commander, I must lead from the front. Forgive an old man his stubborn pride."
His black hair streamed in the wind. In that moment, Barristan truly saw an unflinching stag charging forward.
Duke Mond spurred his horse ahead, leading the assault. The allied army no longer had the luxury of tending the fallen.
"Warriors! I—Hand of the King, Supreme Commander of the Alliance, Duke Mond of House Baratheon—cannot promise you riches. But I swear this: I will stand with you, until death itself!"
He gazed upon the clashing lines, the mounting casualties.
"Rise! Rise!"
His voice thundered, as though he glimpsed his father's mad laughter surging back through the river of time, merging with his own.
"Forward—until death!"
"Until death!"
"Forward!"
Duke Mond charged.
Ser Jorah Hightower, Ser Barristan, and Lord Hoster followed at his back, surging ahead together.
Black banners with red dragons became a crimson river, drowning everything in its path.
Men hacked and screamed amid the chaos. The dead and dying were ignored—each warrior cared only for his own survival.
Forward—until the black dragon's head was severed.
Halfway up Bloodstone Isle, beneath a banner bearing a gilded skull, Maelys Blackfyre stood surrounded by his Golden Company guards. Thick-necked, powerfully built, a massive tumor bulging at his throat, he watched the red tide rushing toward him.
"Daemon Blackfyre… Aegor Rivers of Coldsteel," he muttered. "Grant me your blessing."
"I will slaughter the elites of the Targaryen dynasty and reclaim the long-lost glory of House Blackfyre."
Struggle to the end—that was the fate of every Blackfyre generation.
"Gold above, black steel below! Curse you, Targaryens—the Iron Throne belongs to my blood!"
Maelys raised his sword and spurred his horse toward the enemy.
My years grow old, but my blade remains sharp.
"Gold above, black steel below!"
The Golden Company roared the cry and charged with him.
The scrape of armor, the clash of steel, the screams of dying men, the splatter of blood—all merged into a single note, the anthem of death.
Perhaps the Stranger had opened his eyes, gazing indifferently upon mankind as it butchered itself.