Chapter 7-Blood and Fire on the Stepstones
Banners billowed like living paintings, infantry standing dense as forests.
The combined host of House Targaryen, House Baratheon, and their allies was destined to meet the forces of Maelys Blackfyre upon the low, treacherous beach.
Thanks to firm support from the Iron Islands, the army was able to land from the sea.
A cold wind snapped across the shore, banners whipping violently as horns sounded—long, bleak notes echoing over water and stone.
"Longbowmen, ready!" Ser Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King, raised his hand.
Archers standing upon the prows drew bows from leather sleeves, nocked arrows, and aimed toward the shoreline.
The first volley screamed through the air, shielding the advance of the soldiers behind it.
Longbowmen were vital to any host, yet none could compare to the peerless Brynden Rivers, the Bloodraven—divine archer and master of war. His Raven's Teeth, hundreds of deadly marksmen, had once been unrivaled in the Seven Kingdoms. With them, he slew the first Blackfyre pretender and his heir, crushing rebellion after rebellion.
After Bloodraven rode north, no bow unit ever shone so brightly again. Lords scorned both crossbows and longbows, preferring the honest weight of steel—lances and greatswords. Training archers was costly, and matching Bloodraven's standard was all but impossible.
Arrows fell like rain.
Golden Company soldiers crouched behind earthen works, the volley doing little harm—but it kept their heads down.
"Soldiers, be brave!"
Seizing the moment, the transports ran aground. Warriors leapt into the surf, shields raised, war cries tearing from their throats as the storm of battle reached its first crest.
From every crag of Bloodstone, enemy figures emerged.
Ser Ormund rode back and forth along the line, black warhammer hanging heavy at his side. This was a warrior who had long prepared for a final battlefield.
He saw many young faces—some already touched by fear. Beards barely grown, cheeks still sharp, boys forced to meet the Stranger far too soon.
Seven forgive me, he prayed silently. I have torn these children from their homes. I have no choice. Grant me victory.
He glanced back and saw Prince Aerys, Ser Steffon Baratheon, Ser Tywin Lannister, and the others safely held in the guarded reserve.
Let them taste war, he thought, but not die in it yet. Such was a father's mercy.
Maelys Blackfyre, though infamous, was among the greatest warriors of his age. Years of constant war had hardened him, and the Golden Company was not to be underestimated.
Ser Ormund thought briefly of Rhaegar.
Perhaps the boy will bring me luck.
"Triads—mind your kit, boy!" a veteran barked, cuffing a trembling recruit.
"Shields up!"
"Watch the crossbows!"
Orders rippled down the line, though some green soldiers still froze.
"Bastards brought Myrish crossbows," someone spat.
Myrish crossbows—hated throughout Westeros, devil's weapons that had once slain a dragon prince.
A red-haired soldier bearing the silver trout of House Tully waded ashore, only for a narrow quarrel to slice clean through his throat. He clutched desperately at his neck as blood poured between his fingers.
"Mother… forgive me…"
The beach ran red.
Severed fingers, shattered shields, endless blood. Blades grew nicked and dull from constant slaughter; even the strongest warriors began to tire.
Maelys Blackfyre's mercenaries held crude fortifications, swearing no retreat. Some Golden Company men fired simple triple-shot crossbows, loosing death with mechanical cruelty.
Blood and fire ruled the shore.
Wave after wave of the Iron Throne's soldiers fell, yet fresh ranks pressed forward—like wheat under the scythe, except these stalks would never rise again. Bloodstone's sand darkened, the stain creeping steadily into the sea.
"Your lordship," Ser Barristan Selmy said urgently, "allow me to take the vanguard."
He feared for the Hand. Maelys fought like a cornered beast, while Ser Ormund—long burdened by rule and duty—was no longer the man he once was.
Maelys was feral. Relentless.
"Your valor is beyond question," Ser Ormund replied with a laugh, hair whipping in the wind, "but a commander must lead the charge. Indulge an old man."
At his signal, the allied line surged forward, stepping over the fallen without pause.
"Warriors!" Ser Ormund shouted. "I am Ser Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King and commander of this host. I cannot promise you gold—but I will stand with you unto death!"
The butcher's bill climbed before his eyes.
"Rise up! Rise up!"
His cry rang like thunder. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw his father—the Laughing Storm—striding beside him across the years.
"At them—unto death!"
"Unto death!"
Ser Ormund charged.
Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Lord Hoster Tully followed as one.
Black banners marked with red dragons surged forward, a crimson river sweeping all before it.
Steel met steel. The living fought while the dead were ignored.
Forward—until the black dragon's head was hewn away.
Halfway up Bloodstone, beneath a banner bearing a gilded skull, the burly, misshapen Maelys Blackfyre watched the assault.
"Daemon Blackfyre," he murmured, "Aegor Rivers—grant me your strength."
He raised his longsword.
"Gold above, iron below! The Iron Throne belongs to my house!"
The Golden Company roared in answer and surged after him.
Mail screamed, steel rang, men shrieked, blood sprayed—everything collapsing into a single, terrible chord.
Perhaps the Stranger had opened his eyes, watching in silence as mankind slaughtered itself once more.
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