From King's Landing to the Stepstones, an endless vista of sea and sky.
King's Landing is warm and comfortable, yet the people cannot enjoy the quiet.
After all, who can ignore the suffering of loved ones and pretend to know nothing?
Never, never.
Soldiers sweat on the front lines, while women, children, and the old weep behind them.
On the days the host sails for the Stepstones, every sept in King's Landing overflows; faith is the one thing within reach. When people are desperate, religion becomes irresistible.
The dragonlords never squeeze into the Great Sept of Baelor with the smallfolk; they have a quiet chamber in the Red Keep for prayer.
The ancient Valyrian Dragonlords believed in nothing save their own dragons and power. Any gods they kept were for show, to placate the lower classes and slaves. In Essos they did as they pleased, toppling countless theocracies and nations, erasing entire peoples.
When they had dragons, they trusted dragons, scorned every faith, and sneered at priests and temples. When they lost their dragons, they had only the Seven left to trust.
Within the septs the Seven have their own names: the Warrior, the Maid, etc. Incense drifts, and the prayers of the faithful merge into a flowing river, quiet and devout.
Colored windows cast halos over the congregation, so that every face looks part of the ritual.
Rhaegar watches his grandparents and mother bow devoutly to the Seven, praying for peace to come quickly and for the soldiers to return safely.
The Targaryen Family is already in decline, yet their faith in the Seven remains fervent.
Maris Blackfyre is not the most powerful of the Blackfyre rebels; the first rebellion once spread fire across half the Seven Kingdoms, whereas Maris remains confined to the Stepstones.
After the tragedy at Summer Hall, the dragons are left with few heirs and no generals to lead them.
Such is the reality of Westeros: war never ceases, and neither Westeros nor Essos can be called harmonious. Compared to schemers and scholars, people trust natural-born warriors and admire those with superior martial prowess.
Jaehaerys II was frail and never trained to be king; his ascension as the second son was a complete accident.
But the wildfire at Summer Hall carried off Aegon V, Prince Duncan, and Ser Duncan the Tall, thrusting Jaehaerys II onto the stage of history ahead of schedule. Prince Duncan and Ser Duncan were fearless and legendary warriors, seasoned in battle.
If even one of them had survived, the king would not have had to exhaust himself so.
Amid the prayers, the thoughts of Jaehaerys II and the others have already drifted to the Stepstones, the powder keg of the continent.
On the Stepstones, war has broken out many times; the bridge between two continents has never known lasting peace.
"I hope my arrival brings luck to Lord Monde and his men," Rhaegar thought. The Stepstones' sky had just cleared; the sea breeze still carried a hint of chill.
Upon the sea, the longships of the Ironborn stand in line, their black-and-gold kraken banners snapping in the wind. The Ironborn's vessels patrol the outer perimeter, escorting the troop ships carrying Lord Monde and his forces.
The Ninepenny King's forces have seized the high ground, constructing fortifications on the beaches of every island.
Antlers and traps can be seen everywhere.
The longships scatter, manned by hardy Ironborn who ferry the iron throne's host ashore. The crucial target is Bloodstone.
Bloodstone, the largest of the Stepstones, is held by Maris Blackfyre's Golden Company. Maris commands the strongest force, and the Golden Company is the closest thing to a regular army among the mercenaries, fierce and formidable.
The great lords must take this hard bone—Bloodstone—while the lesser lords sweep up the remaining islands.
The Ironborn glare resentfully at King Quellon Greyjoy's flagship. In his old age he has abandoned the Iron Islands' ancient traditions. Once a renowned warrior, now he favors peace. With the Stepstones ablaze and the realm suppressing the rebellion, this would have been the perfect opportunity to raid the Westerlands and the Riverlands while the kingdom is tied down on two fronts.
Yet none dare defy the king; his rule is absolute, a warrior who can take a life with a smile. King Quellon stands six and a half feet tall, strong as an ox and agile as a cat, the most cautious, wise, and formidable lord since Aegon's Conquest.
Though forced into this war, the Ironborn still saw only a cold, gray, and cruel sea. They were long-limbed, most with long gray hair, superb swimmers who preferred swift, decisive raids.
The Ironborn would not fight on land; securing sea-lanes for the dragons was already their limit. Ironborn blood was best spilled for plunder.
Aboard Lord Monde's flagship, banners of black dragon on red, crowned Stag, roaring lion, and leaping silver fish mingled into a single splendid tapestry.
The stubborn Old Kraken skipped the war council, and none blamed him: the Iron Islands had agreed to furnish ships, their greatest contribution. With King Quellon Greyjoy's iron fleet, the iron throne held the sea—otherwise the war would be harder.
Banners snapped in the wind as every man clustered around Lord Monde.
Innermost stood White Bull Gerold Hightower, Yellow Lion Jason Lannister, Duke Hoster, and Red Lion Lord Roger who had squeezed into the quartet. Beyond them, Prince Aerys, Ser Tywin, Ser Steffon, Blackfish Ser Brynden, and fearless Ser Barristan formed an outer ring: they might watch and listen, but they had no vote.
Barristan had not been meant to board this ship, yet every man felt a warrior praised by two princes might bring surprise. Lord Monde singled him out and had White Bull bring Barristan along.
The little oak campaign table felt cramped beneath the press of knights; most men lacked even chairs, yet the captains took pride in standing at Mond's side, pride greater than any pretty girl's favor.
Were we not the greatest, most powerful knights of our time?
Most thrilled of all was Lord Roger, his face flushed: a man of his station rarely saw such lofty company.
If he won here, the Stormlands' Baratheon, the Riverlands' Tully, and The Reach's mighty Hightower might welcome him among them; a dream that had haunted him could finally come true.
"Strike off the black dragon's head and the war is won. The Ninepenny King is only a loose alliance; once we deal with Maris Blackfyre, greediest for Westeros, the rest will scatter." Lord Monde spoke.
All nodded: the plan was set. What mattered now was troop placement, above all the first assault.
"Bloodstone's ground is limited; too many troops cannot deploy. I and Ser Gerold will lead Baratheon and the van; Ser Jason, you bring the Westerlands behind. If my banner falls, command passes to Ser Gerold Hightower. Then, with the Seven's blessing, let Duke Hoster take the flag—may he bear it." Mond glanced at the pale Hoster: though one of the four commanders, he had been nearly invisible.
Ser Jason exhaled in relief: Lord Monde was decent, taking the hardest fight himself.
Duke Hoster said little more; the Riverlands were ever a battlefield, and House Tully was weaker than the rest—Hoster himself undistinguished, no one calling him a great warrior. In repute he lagged behind even Ser Gerold.
"Aye, my lord. I, Jason of Lannister: if my banner falls, command passes to Lord Roger." Jason's voice was steel.
Lord Roger blinked, accepting. The sons of the West—Lannister or no—must be kept safe. To achieve great things, first secure good men; these were precious Westermen he must protect.
"Bloodstone shall be the extermination ground of House Blackfyre." Lord Monde drew his sword, thrust it skyward, voice ringing. He had the blood of the Stag; he would burn himself out.
"The extermination ground of House Blackfyre," Ser Gerold echoed, blade flashing.
"Annihilate House Blackfyre!"
Voices crashed like thunder as every sword point met at a single spot.
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