Chapter 6: Where the Blackfyres Meet Their End
From King's Landing to the Stepstones stretched an endless sweep of sea and sky.
The capital was warm, sheltered, and prosperous—yet peace did not reach the hearts of its people. When war loomed beyond the horizon, no one could truly remain untouched.
Men bled on distant shores, while in the city women wept, children prayed, and the old stared anxiously toward the sea.
On the day the host sailed for the Stepstones, every sept in King's Landing overflowed. Faith was the one comfort still within reach. When despair pressed close, even the proud bent their heads to the gods.
The smallfolk crowded the Great Sept of Baelor. House Targaryen did not.
Within the Red Keep lay a quiet sept, reserved for the royal family. There, away from the murmuring masses, the dragonlords knelt.
Once, the Valyrian dragonlords had believed in nothing but fire and blood. Gods were tools, priests ornaments, faith a chain for lesser men. With dragons, they had torn down theocracies and kingdoms alike, leaving ash in their wake.
But dragons were gone.
And now, like any other kings, they prayed.
Incense drifted through the sept. Light filtered through colored glass, painting the kneeling figures in hues of red and gold. The Seven watched in silence—the Father, the Warrior, the Mother, the Maiden.
Rhaegar watched as his grandparents and his mother bowed their heads with solemn devotion, praying for swift victory and safe return.
House Targaryen was already waning, yet its faith burned fiercely.
The Blackfyres were not what they once had been.
The first rebellion had nearly torn the Seven Kingdoms in half. But now, Maelys Blackfyre—the Monstrous—was confined to the Stepstones, clutching rocks and pirate dens like a drowning man grasping driftwood.
After the tragedy of Summerhall, the dragons had few heirs left—and fewer still who could command armies.
Such was the nature of Westeros.
War never truly ended. Peace was only an interlude. And among schemers and scholars alike, men trusted strength above all else.
King Jaehaerys II was frail, bookish, never trained to rule. His crown had come not through preparation, but catastrophe. Summerhall had taken his father, his elder brother Prince Duncan, and Ser Duncan the Tall—the realm's greatest knight.
Had even one of them lived, the burden would not have crushed him so.
As prayers whispered on, the king's thoughts had already flown east—to the Stepstones, that ancient powder keg between continents.
The Stepstones lay under a clearing sky, the sea still sharp with cold wind.
Rhaegar's thoughts followed the fleet.
Ironborn longships cut through the waves, black-and-gold kraken banners snapping taut. They patrolled the outer ring, escorting the troop transports bearing the king's host.
The rebels had seized the high ground. Every landing beach bristled with crude fortifications, sharpened stakes, and traps sunk into the sand.
The longships scattered, ferrying men ashore. Hardy Ironborn rowed without complaint, faces like weathered stone.
The true prize was Bloodstone.
Largest of the Stepstones, Bloodstone was held by Maelys Blackfyre and the Golden Company—mercenaries hardened by decades of exile and war. They were the closest thing the rebels had to a disciplined army.
Break Bloodstone, and the rest would crumble.
The Ironborn eyed King Quellon Greyjoy's flagship with quiet resentment.
Once a fearsome reaver, Quellon had abandoned the Old Way. He favored peace, trade, and reform. To many of his people, the burning of the Stepstones should have been the perfect chance to raid the Westerlands and the Riverlands alike.
Yet none dared defy him.
Quellon Greyjoy ruled absolutely—tall, powerful, sharp-eyed. A lord who smiled as easily as he killed, and thought twice before drawing steel.
The Ironborn would not fight inland. Holding the sea-lanes was the extent of their duty. Their blood was best spent on raids, not sieges.
Aboard Lord Ormund Baratheon's flagship, banners of black dragon on red, crowned stag, roaring lion, and leaping trout snapped together in the wind.
The Old Kraken had skipped the war council. None complained. The Iron Fleet was already the greatest gift the Iron Throne could demand.
With the sea secured, victory was possible.
Men crowded around the oak campaign table.
Closest stood Ser Gerold Hightower of the Kingsguard—the White Bull—Ser Jason Lannister, Lord Ormund Baratheon, and, forcing his way among them, Lord Roger Reyne.
Beyond them stood Prince Aerys Targaryen, Ser Tywin Lannister, Lord Steffon Baratheon, Ser Brynden Tully, and the young Ser Barristan Selmy. They listened, but did not speak.
Barristan had not been meant to sail—but Lord Ormund, noting the two princes' favor, had ordered him brought along.
The table was small. Most stood. None complained.
To stand here was honor enough.
Lord Roger Reyne's face was flushed with excitement. A man of his station rarely stood among such company. Victory here might open doors long denied him.
Lord Ormund spoke plainly.
"Cut off the Blackfyre's head, and the alliance collapses. Bloodstone first. Once Maelys falls, the rest will scatter."
None disagreed.
"The landing will be tight," Ormund continued. "I will lead the van with Ser Gerold. Ser Jason, the Westerlands follow behind. If I fall, command passes to Ser Gerold. Should he fall, Lord Hoster Tully will bear the king's banner."
Ser Jason inclined his head, relieved. Lord Ormund would take the hardest blow himself.
Lord Hoster said little. The Riverlands were no stranger to war, but he was no famed warrior. Even so, he accepted the duty without complaint.
Jason Lannister spoke next, voice firm. "If my banner falls, command passes to Lord Roger Reyne."
Roger blinked, then nodded eagerly. Westermen were precious. They must be preserved.
Lord Ormund drew his sword and raised it high.
"Bloodstone shall be the grave of House Blackfyre."
Steel flashed.
"The grave of House Blackfyre!" Ser Gerold echoed.
"Destroy the Blackfyres!"
Voices thundered together as swords met in the air.
Far away, Rhaegar felt it.
The tide of history had begun to turn.
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