The Black Dragon and the Stag met in a narrow pass.
Both were considered the best in the Seven Kingdoms in terms of armor, warhorses, and weapons. A good set of armor alone was worth five gold dragons, not to mention these most powerful and extravagant individuals. But the battle now depended solely on who was the true warrior.
Maris Blackfyre's meteor hammer swung with immense weight, and Mond Baratheon blocked the overhead strike with his warhammer.
The impact force from the weapons colliding made Duke Mond's arm muscles ache. He had to admit that Maris Blackfyre was truly a born warrior. Looking at the spikes and protrusions on the meteor hammer, Duke Mond had no doubt that if he were hit in the face, he would become a pile of rotten flesh.
The two rode their horses, attacking each other. There were no fancy moves, only life-or-death attacks. It was dull yet dangerous.
War is a bloody exercise; exercise is a bloodless war. Duke Mond was still too lacking in actual combat experience and strength.
A triumphant, ferocious smile appeared on Maris Blackfyre's face, and the tumor on his neck seemed to come alive. He already felt the scales of victory tipping in his favor.
Maris Blackfyre's movements became faster and his strength greater.
Gradually, Duke Mond felt his strength failing him.
When Duke Mond was young, he was also a strong and robust warrior, the dream lover of countless maidens. But politics, nation, meetings, and discussions consumed a great deal of his time. A warrior's life is ultimately finite, and the less time a warrior dedicates to battle, the less favor he receives from the goddess of luck. In this regard, Maris Blackfyre, who had no wife or children and had fought for half his life, was far beyond Duke Mond's comparison.
Warriors are like sharp swords; they cannot be slack or stagnant. Iron grinds iron to make an edge.
Maris Blackfyre struck left and right, his meteor hammer like a rolling evil dragon, wantonly spewing flames towards Duke Mond.
"Bang!" Duke Mond's vision blurred as the meteor hammer heavily struck his chest, creating a dent. Even those at a distance from the battlefield heard the massive, dull thud. The impact sound was so heart-wrenching, as if the Stag on the armor had let out a death wail.
Dizziness, ringing in his ears, entwined golden stars—Duke Mond felt his vision go black. He couldn't even lift his warhammer to counterattack. Duke Mond swayed precariously on his horse. He felt his bones shattered, his body like fragments of a thousand-holed spear.
All this happened too fast; battles often don't need much time. Just intense, swift attacks were enough to decide the outcome of the confrontation.
"With this hammer, I will completely end the Stag's life," Maris Blackfyre raised his meteor hammer again. This strike was meant to smash Duke Mond's face and utterly defeat him.
Just then, Duke Mond's warhorse suddenly whinnied. It no longer obeyed its master's command, stomping its hooves on the ground, turning around wildly, and galloping back towards the Royalist army.
Maris Blackfyre was also a little surprised by this scene.
"Even if Mond didn't die from that hammer, he is severely wounded and has lost the ability to command. Whether he lives or dies, let the Seven Gods decide!" Maris Blackfyre retreated to the Golden Skull banner, raising his meteor hammer.
"Maris Blackfyre will win! The Golden Company will win!" Maris Blackfyre shouted arrogantly. The hill position was still held, and the Golden Company's great banner unfurled in the wind.
"Victory!" "Victory!" The Golden Company's soldiers also cheered, filled with excitement.
"Father!" Ser Steffon cried out, riding forward from the crowd.
He tightly embraced Duke Mond's body; though not yet dead, he was severely wounded and unconscious, with blood seeping from his nose and mouth. Command of the Royalist army had to be immediately transferred.
There were professional medics with the army who first examined the Duke, but given the severe injuries, he would likely have to be taken back to Westeros for treatment.
"Now, everyone, I am in command! Hold the line, hold the line!" Ser Gerold Hightower shouted loudly. He was tall and robust, dressed in the White Knight's armor, with a white cloak adorning him—truly a White Bull.
Both the Royalist and Golden Company formations pulled back. The Royalist army had more numbers but low morale, while the Golden Company also needed to rest before fighting again. Both sides reached a temporary ceasefire.
Ser Gerold Hightower was appointed in a time of defeat; truthfully, it was not a desirable assignment.
Not everyone sincerely obeyed him, and the Kingsguard captain was also leading such a large army for the first time. Moreover, Duke Mond was gravely wounded and near death, so the army's morale was not high.
The White Bull only had clumsy offensive tactics; beyond that, he had no new tricks.
The war fell into a stalemate, with the Royalists and the Golden Company mixing together like water and sand, painting Bloodstone with blood, sweat, and tears.
On this day, the vast wilderness stretched out, horses galloped, and various banners fluttered in the air. The cavalry of the Royalist army and the Golden Company once again plunged into the quagmire of war, until the young, fearless knight, Barristan Selmy, challenged Maris Blackfyre.
Maris Blackfyre looked at the young man who rode up to challenge him, tall and handsome, with pale blue eyes as firm as iron. Barristan Selmy wore silver-white armor, bearing the Selmy family crest: three yellow wheat stalks on a brown field.
"Young man, go back quickly, my meteor hammer is about to add another soul to its count!" Maris Blackfyre shouted, showing some appreciation for talent. Perhaps in this young man, he saw his younger self. It was a pity that such a heroic figure could not be brought under his banner.
"Please remember my name, Barristan Selmy!" Barristan swung his sword, pointing it at Maris. The knight did not retreat; there was only a fight to the death.
"Arrogant young man!" Maris Blackfyre also ignited, raising his meteor hammer and charging towards Barristan.
Man like raging fire, horse like wild wind, in the swirling dust, only the entangled fight of the two knights could be seen.
Maris Blackfyre threw off his helmet, roaring as he wielded his meteor hammer. His gaze was as sharp as a blade, yet he could find no weakness in Barristan.
But Ser Barristan's sword light was chilling, like a great river flowing backward. Amidst the shimmering waves were killing intent and anger.
Gradually, Maris Blackfyre's strength also waned. He was, after all, old.
The sword pierced Maris Blackfyre's throat. His beautiful cloak, his pale hair, were now stained with the smell of blood.
"Maris Blackfyre is dead!"
"Maris Blackfyre is dead!" Barristan Selmy cut off Maris Blackfyre's head. Maris Blackfyre's headless body fell heavily to the ground, a river of blood flowing.
Barristan held his sword in one hand and Maris Blackfyre's head in the other, displaying it to the crowd.
Barristan shouted loudly on the battlefield, his voice resounding.
Prince Duncan's smile, Prince Rhaegar's salute, seemed still before his eyes. He had not failed the trust of others and had created miracles far surpassing those before him.
As this sound was uttered, all other sounds dissipated, a brief silence, and others stopped their fighting.
Until a moment later, an even louder shout erupted.
"Barristan the Savior!"
"Savior of Bloodstone, Ser Barristan!"
The Royalist soldiers cheered, their voices capable of breaking gold and stone.
With Maris Blackfyre's death, a new legend was born, and the victory of this war was already decided.