Chapter 11: Barristan the Savior
The Black Dragon and the Stag met in a narrow mountain pass, where jagged stone pressed close and the wind carried the stink of sweat, blood, and iron.
Here, lineage meant nothing.
Maelys Blackfyre, the Monstrous, rode beneath the banner of the Golden Company—the black skull crowned in gold snapping violently above him. His massive frame filled the saddle, pale hair flying loose, the grotesque second head-like tumor at his neck pulsing beneath scarred flesh.
Opposite him stood Lord Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King, armored in black and gold, the crowned stag emblazoned proudly upon his breastplate. His warhorse stamped and snorted, sensing death close at hand.
Both men wore armor worth kingdoms. Their weapons were masterpieces of war.
But only one would leave this pass alive.
Maelys Blackfyre swung his meteor hammer, the spiked head crashing downward like a falling star.
Lord Ormund raised his warhammer just in time.
The impact thundered across the pass.
Pain exploded through Ormund's arms, numbing fingers and rattling bone. His muscles screamed in protest, and for a fleeting instant he felt his grip weaken. In that moment, he knew the truth—
Maelys Blackfyre was everything the songs claimed.
One clean strike from that monstrous weapon would crush helm and skull alike. There would be no mercy, no second chance.
They wheeled their horses and clashed again.
There was no elegance here. No knightly display. Only brutal, efficient violence—each strike meant to kill. Dust churned beneath hooves, steel rang, and the cries of dying men echoed from below.
War rewarded only those who lived for it.
Lord Ormund had once been a mighty warrior, the pride of Storm's End. But years as Hand had stolen time from the saddle and given it to councils, parchments, and politics. Strength fades when it is not tested.
Maelys Blackfyre had never stopped testing his.
He pressed forward relentlessly. The meteor hammer whirled left and right, its weight terrifying, its rhythm unbroken. Each blow drove Ormund back, breath growing heavier, vision narrowing.
Then it came.
The hammer smashed into Ormund's chest.
The sound was sickening—metal collapsing inward with a dull, crushing thud. Even soldiers far from the duel heard it, a noise like a dying beast's cry.
Lord Ormund's vision went black.
His warhammer slipped from his grasp. His body swayed in the saddle, ribs shattered, lungs burning. Blood filled his mouth. He could not even lift his arm.
Maelys Blackfyre raised his weapon again.
"With this blow," he roared, "the Stag dies!"
Before he could strike, Ormund's warhorse screamed and bolted. Madness seized the beast; it spun wildly and galloped back toward the royal lines, carrying its unconscious master away from death.
Maelys Blackfyre stared for a heartbeat—then laughed.
"Whether he lives or dies, let the gods decide!"
He turned back beneath the Golden Company banner, lifting his hammer high.
"Victory!" he shouted. "Maelys Blackfyre will not fall!"
The sellswords roared their approval.
"Father!"
Ser Steffon Baratheon rode hard from the ranks, catching his father as the horse slowed. Lord Ormund lived—but barely. Blood seeped from his mouth and nose, his chest armor crushed inward.
The healers came at once. Their faces were grim.
"He must be sent back to Westeros," one said. "If he survives the voyage."
Command passed at once.
"Hold the line!" thundered Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The White Bull stood tall in white armor and cloak, a living standard of royal authority. "Hold the line!"
Yet morale wavered. Their commander lay broken, and the enemy still held the heights.
The battle ground on—bloody, grinding, merciless.
Until a young knight rode forward alone.
Barristan Selmy lowered his visor and spurred his horse.
Dust swirled around him. His silvered armor gleamed beneath the sun, the sigil of three golden wheat stalks on a brown field bright upon his shield.
Maelys Blackfyre turned, surprised.
"Go back, boy," Maelys called. "My hammer has taken enough souls."
Barristan's grip tightened on his sword.
"Remember my name," he said clearly. "Barristan Selmy."
Maelys laughed—and charged.
Steel met iron. Fire met resolve.
Maelys fought like a beast unleashed, hammer swinging with ruinous force. Yet Barristan moved like flowing water, his blade precise, relentless, without hesitation.
He is old, Barristan realized. Strong—but old.
Minutes stretched into eternity. Sweat poured. Breath came ragged.
Then Barristan struck.
His sword slid beneath Maelys Blackfyre's guard and pierced his throat.
Blood sprayed. The monstrous pretender staggered, eyes wide with disbelief. His pale hair darkened with red. He fell.
Barristan severed the head cleanly.
"Maelys Blackfyre is dead!"
Silence fell.
Then the battlefield exploded.
"Barristan the Savior!" "Savior of Bloodstone!"
Barristan stood amid the carnage, sword in one hand, Maelys Blackfyre's head in the other.
In his mind flashed Prince Duncan's smile, Prince Rhaegar's solemn salute.
I did not fail, he thought.
With Maelys Blackfyre's death, the war was decided.
A legend had been born.
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