Banners billowed like paintings, infantry stood like forests.
The combined host of Targaryen, Baratheon, and others was fated to meet Maris Blackfyre's force on the low-lying beach.
Thanks to effective support from the Iron Islands, they could land from the sea.
A cold wind snapped, whipping the banners; horns sounded, bleak and far.
"Longbowmen, ready!" Lord Monmouth raised a hand; archers on the prows drew their bows from leather sleeves, nocked arrows, and aimed at the foe upon the strand.
The first volley soared out, covering the charge of the soldiers.
Longbowmen are vital to any host, yet none match the peerless Bloodraven—divine archer and master trainer. His Raven's Teeth, hundreds of crack shots, are supreme in the Seven Kingdoms. With this band he slew the first-generation Blackfyre father and son and quelled many a Blackfyre Rebellion.
After Bloodraven rode north, common bow-units never again shone like the Raven's Teeth. One reason: lords deem the crossbow a devil's tool and the longbow little better; nobles prefer true steel—lances and greatswords—yet raising a longbow corps costs dearly, and matching Bloodraven's standard is nigh impossible.
Shafts fell like rain; Golden Company taxi-troops crouched behind earthen mounds, so the shower did little harm, yet it kept their heads down.
"Soldiers, be brave!"
Seeing the moment ripe, the transports nosed onto the strand; warriors leapt into the surf. With war-cries the Stepstones storm surged to its first crescendo.
From every crag of Bloodstone leapt the shadows of men.
Lord Monmouth rode back and forth, the black warhammer at his hip; the warrior was ready for the last battle.
He saw many young faces—some already touched by fear. Beards still downy, cheeks still sharp, they were forced to greet the Stranger.
Seven Gods, forgive me for taking these children from parents' arms and lovers' embraces. I have no choice; I will win this victory for you, he silently prayed.
Glancing rearward, he saw Aerys, Steffon, Tywin and the rest safely placed in the well-guarded reserve—let the boys taste war's cruelty without great peril; such is a father's mercy.
Maris Blackfyre, though infamous, ranks among the age's finest warriors; after years of grinding war the Golden Company's strength cannot be scorned.
Monmouth thought again of Rhaegar—perhaps that princeling will bring me luck.
"Triads—watch your kit, boy!" A veteran kicked a fidgeting recruit.
"Shields up!" Old hands already raised shields over vital points.
"Mind the crossbows, mind the arrows!" Orders rippled out, yet in the chaos raw recruits still froze.
"Bastards got plenty of crossbows from Myr." Myrish crossbows, Westeros' most hated engines, devil's weapons that once slew a dragon prince.
A red-haired soldier—Fish sigil on breast—waded ashore, only for a slim quarrel to shear his throat; the grey ghost of a shaft reaped the taxi-soldier.
"Mother, forgive me!" Hands clutched his neck, blood seeping through fingers; his final cry rang out.
The landing ran red—severed fingers, slashed throats, blood that never stopped. Blades notched from endless hacking; even the mightiest tired of unceasing slaughter.
Maris Blackfyre's taxi-troops held crude works, vowing no retreat; some Golden Company men fired simple triple-shot crossbows, dealing the devil's smile to the allies.
Blood and fire raged on.
Wave upon wave of kingdom taxi-soldiers fell, yet fresh waves pressed forward like wheat in a field—only these stalks would never rise again. Bloodstone's strand slowly soaked red, the stain seeping into the sea.
"Your Grace, noble commander, allow me the vanguard," said Ser Barristan. The realm lacks warriors like him and able Hands; more, he fears for the Duke—Maris fights for every breath, while Monmouth, long buried in statecraft, is worlds apart.
Maris is wilder, more ruthless.
"Your valor is known, ser, yet a commander should lead the charge; forgive this old man's whim." With a laugh Monmouth refused, black hair streaming; to Barristan he seemed a fearless Stag advancing.
At his signal the allied line surged, too busy to heed the fallen.
"Warriors, I—hand of the king, commander of this host, Lord Monmouth of House Baratheon—cannot lavish you with gold, but I can stand with you unto Death." He watched the butcher's bill mount.
"Rise up! Rise up!" His ringing cry soared; he seemed to see his father Laughing Storm rise from the long river of years to merge with him.
"At them—unto Death!"
"Unto Death!"
At them!"
Lord Monmouth charged.
Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Barristan, and Duke Hoster followed, all charging as one.
Black banners with red dragons became a crimson river, smearing and swallowing all.
Warriors clashed; the dead and downed were ignored—each man fought only to live.
Forward—until the Black Dragon's head is hewn.
Halfway up Bloodstone, beneath a standard bearing a gilded skull, the burly, goitred Maris Blackfyre watched the Targaryen assault from amid his Golden Company. Seeing the red river rush toward him, he murmured, "Warrior Daemon Blackfyre, Blackfyre Aegor Rivers, grant me your favor. I shall slay these Targaryen elites and win long-lost honor for the Blackfyre line." Fight to the end—such is every Blackfyre's fate.
"Gold above, iron below—damn you Targaryens, that throne belongs to my house!" Maris Blackfyre raised his longsword and spurred into the Targaryen ranks. I grow old, yet my edge is keen.
"Gold above, iron below!" Golden Company warriors echoed the war-cry and surged after him.
Mail chafing, steel clashing, men shrieking, blood spurting—all merged into one deathly chord.
Perhaps the Stranger has opened his eyes, numbly watching humanity slay itself.