Chapter 10: A Desperate Battle
The ink had dried, and the seal of the Targaryen dragon—the red-and-black three-headed emblem—was affixed to the loan documents. The contract with Braavos was complete. Three years from this day, the Iron Bank would demand repayment, and the wheels of finance, subtle and unrelenting, would grind across Westeros.
Some wars required only blood and steel; others, the careful weight of coin and ink.
Jaehaerys II sank back in his chair, feeling the exhaustion of responsibility pressing upon him. Borrowing from Braavos was like drinking a bitter potion to quench thirst, yet the alternative—a kingdom crippled by debt, mutiny, or invasion—was far worse. The Red Keep had survived rebellions, famines, and riots, but even the oldest walls could not shelter a king from the consequences of insufficient gold.
Rhaegar, seated at the side of the table in his small chair, observed the Braavosi envoy with sharp eyes. The man—tall, lean, and precise—radiated a quiet authority. His voice had none of the warmth of a Westerosi lord; it was calculated, each word measured, reflecting both knowledge and menace. Though no name was given, Rhaegar recognized the subtle warning beneath every gesture: Braavos did not forget, and Braavos did not forgive.
"Raise your cups," the envoy said finally, lifting a goblet of Arbor red. "To the alliance of the Sea Kings and the Dragonlords."
Jaehaerys sipped cautiously, while Rhaegar merely nibbled at a crust of bread. The prince's mind was already racing: Braavos was more than a lender. It was a shadow, a hand guiding distant threads of power, watching the Seven Kingdoms as a watchful predator waits beneath the waves.
With the contract sealed, attention returned to the war. Across the Stepstones, the tide of battle continued unabated. Flames licked the sky, and the cries of men and the clash of steel echoed across Bloodstone. Every inch of beach was soaked in blood, yet soldiers pressed forward, driven by duty, desperation, or fear.
At the forefront, Lord Monder Baratheon, hand of the king, clashed once again with Maris Blackfyre, the Black Dragon of the Stepstones. Their armies had met in waves, yet for now, all attention narrowed to the duel of commanders.
Time seemed to slow. Around them, the chaos of war continued, yet a bubble of silence wrapped the two champions. Westerosi tradition glorified single combat: a duel to decide honor, morale, or even the fate of a battle. The Southern knights, obsessed with display and bravado, believed that death in combat was nobility's ultimate proof. The North, more practical and pragmatic, found such displays tedious, yet the spectacle commanded respect across the realm.
Maris Blackfyre, massive and fearsome, bore a meteor-hammer coiled like a living serpent. His silver armor shone beneath the sun, and a red surcoat emblazoned with a black dragon rippled in the wind. His eyes, white-haired brows furrowed, were fixed on Lord Monder. Over decades, Maris had grown monstrously strong; his reputation for crushing men with his bare hands—or his hammer—was well-earned.
Lord Monder, equally imposing, rode a charger as black as midnight, gilded plate reflecting the sun. A stag's head adorned his helm, antlers rising proudly. His warhammer, engraved with Baratheon sigils, gleamed with a lethal promise. "A Stag does not kneel to a bastard!" he roared. "Bloodstone shall be the Blackfyre's grave!"
Maris bellowed back, charging with his meteor-hammer swinging in a deadly arc. Sparks flew as the hammer clashed against Monder's shield. The impact sent shockwaves through the ground, toppling a pair of soldiers who had dared stand too close.
The surrounding battlefield seemed to hush, as if the world itself had paused to witness the duel. Even the Golden Company and royalist knights instinctively cleared a path for the champions. Warriors held their breath, knowing that the outcome of this clash could decide more than pride—it could turn the tide of the Stepstones campaign.
Barristan Selmy, ever vigilant, observed from a distance. Fearless as always, he restrained himself; single combat was a privilege reserved for commanders. Yet every fiber of his being urged him to act, to shield his lord should disaster strike.
The combatants circled one another, striking and feinting, testing the other's reach and reflexes. Sparks flew with each clash of metal. The air was thick with smoke, blood, and the scent of sweat. Maris's hammer moved with surprising speed for a man of his size, whipping like a snake around Monder's defenses. Monder's strikes, deliberate and powerful, sent tremors through the ground.
"Yield, and I shall spare your life!" Maris shouted, yet the fury in his voice was not mere words—it was a declaration of war.
Monder's response was simple: a roar and a countercharge. Steel clanged, and the two forces of strength and will collided.
Rhaegar, watching through the flickering flames of the distant battlefield, felt a chill run down his spine. Strategy and coin might secure armies, but the heart of war still beat strongest in the flesh and blood of its commanders. Every decision, every clash, every life lost would ripple across history.
And in that moment, the young prince realized the bitter truth: even kings and bankers could not command the outcome of a sword. Only courage, skill, and will could do that.
As the duel raged, smoke rose from shattered wagons and burning tents. The cries of men surged like a tide, ebbing and flowing with the clash of armies. Maris's eyes narrowed, veins straining as he swung his meteor-hammer again. Monder met it with his warhammer, sparks erupting, echoing across the battlefield.
Neither would yield. Neither could. The Stepstones would bear witness to a duel for the ages.
The Iron Bank may have lent gold; Braavos may have observed from the shadows. But here, on Bloodstone, honor, fury, and the raw will of men determined the fate of kings and bastards alike.
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