Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

Author's Note:

Hey everyone,

I want to thank you all for your patience and support. I was unwell for the past few days, which is why I couldn't release a new chapter. But I'm feeling much better now and have resumed writing!

I truly appreciate your understanding, and as a thank-you, here's the next chapter. Hope you enjoy it!

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The sky over Grey Gallows was painted in hues of crimson and gold as the main host of Westeros arrived upon its shores. The cold autumn wind howled over the waves, carrying with it the scent of brine, sweat, and blood. The island, long a haven for cutthroats and pirates, stood before them like a wounded beast—fortified, yet trembling under the weight of what was to come.

The waters of the Stepstones churned beneath the prows of the Royal Fleet, the banners of House Targaryen snapping in the wind.

The sea was merciless—waves crashing against the wooden hulls, the sky darkening with every passing hour. Yet, the soldiers aboard spoke not of the storm ahead but of the battle to come.

From the decks of the Royal Fleet, banners of black and red snapped in the wind, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen heralding the arrival of vengeance. The drums of war beat in a steady, ominous rhythm, their echo carrying over the waves, announcing the doom of those who had made Grey Gallows their stronghold. The island's defences, though hastily prepared, stood tall with sharpened stakes, wooden palisades, and hastily formed barricades along the beaches. But no fortification would hold against the might of Westeros.

Lord Ormund Baratheon, clad in black and gold armour, stood at the bow of his flagship, his face grim. Behind him, his son Steffon tightened his grip on his sword. Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully watched the island with measured eyes while Prince Aerys and the White Bull, Gerold Hightower, prepared for the landing. The men were ready—eager to wash away the filth of piracy with steel and fire.

In the lower decks, knights sharpened their blades, speaking in hushed tones. Some whispered of Maelys the Monstrous, of the horrors he had inflicted upon his enemies. Others boasted of the glory they would earn, of the songs that would be sung of this war. The sky was grey, thick with the coming storm as if the gods themselves held their breath in anticipation of the blood to be spilled. The main host had arrived.

Fifteen thousand strong.

The heart of Westeros' might.

The Ironborn fleet, led by Quellon Greyjoy, had already secured Grey Gallows, their longships still patrolling the coastline, ever watchful for signs of Blackfyre reinforcements. The Westerlands host, under Ser Jason Lannister, had rooted out most of the pirates who had infested the island's fortresses. However, remnants remained—cutthroats and corsairs, scattered and desperate.

Now, the true war was about to begin.

The ships of House Velaryon and the Royal Fleet began to dock one by one, their hulls heavy with soldiers, horses, and supplies. Men disembarked in waves, stepping onto the stony beaches, their boots sinking into the damp sand. Their breath was visible in the cool morning air, and the only sounds were the screech of gulls and the steady crash of the waves.

Lord Ormund Baratheon was the first to set foot on land, his heavy boots grinding into the stone beneath him. The Hand of the King, and now the supreme commander of this war, stood tall and unshaken. Behind him rode his son, Steffon Baratheon, his youthful features marked with determination, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

As the great lords arrived, they gathered in the makeshift war camp established by Ser Jason and Lord Quellon. The Lannister and Ironborn forces had done their work well—Grey Gallows, once a stronghold of pirates and sellswords, was now firmly under Westerosi control. But pockets of resistance remained.

Lord Ormund turned to Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "We root out every last one of them. No quarter. No mercy. We take this island and make it a fortress."

Gerold Hightower nodded. "I will lead a detachment to clear the eastern cliffs. There are reports of holdouts in the old watchtower."

Ormund turned to Lord Rickard Stark and Lord Jon Arryn. "I want a sweep of the western forests. The Blackfyres may have left spies behind."

The lords nodded, their men already moving into formation.

"Ser Jason, you've fought here the longest," Ormund continued. "Your knights will lead the charge against the last pirate stronghold. We burn them out."

Ser Jason Lannister smirked, his golden mane glinting under the morning sun. "With pleasure, my lord."

The order was given.

The hunt began.

The battle for Grey Gallows was not a grand engagement, not a battle of banners and formations—it was a brutal, methodical purge. The pirates, scattered and leaderless after the death of Liomond Lashare, fought with the desperation of cornered animals.

The Royal Navy drew closer, the water splashing violently against their hulls. Already, the defenders upon the island loosed arrows, their black-feathered shafts raining down upon the approaching fleet. Shields raised, Westerosi knights and men-at-arms crouched, bracing themselves against the deadly volley. The first arrows clattered uselessly against the iron hulls of the Ironborn longships, while the Velaryon vessels weaved through the barrage with grace.

Then came the command. Ormund Baratheon raised his Warhammer high, his voice booming over the din of battle.

"ASHORE! LEAVE NONE ALIVE!"

The first to charge into the surf was the Ironborn, their battle cries like the roaring waves that carried them. Lord Quellon Greyjoy led them personally, his great axe cleaving through the first pirate who dared challenge him. The shores erupted in chaos as the Ironborn tore into their foes with brutal efficiency, hacking through flesh and armour alike. The pirates fought with desperation, but they were outmatched. They were raiders, slavers, thieves—no true soldiers.

Behind the Ironborn came the Westerosi vanguard—knights of the Stormlands, Riverlands, and Vale crashing into the enemy like a relentless tide. Jon Arryn led the cavalry, his men striking deep into the disorganized defenders, cutting them down as they scrambled to flee toward the interior of the island.

The Riverlords, led by Hoster Tully, waded through the fray, their shields locked as they advanced with deadly precision.

Ormund Baratheon himself led the charge into the heart of the battlefield, his Warhammer breaking bodies like a smith's hammer striking hot steel. He moved like a storm, every swing crushing bone, every strike leaving broken corpses in his wake. The pirates that attempted to rally around their captains were scattered like leaves before the wind, their makeshift barricades shattered under the might of Westerosi steel.

Further up the shore, Ser Gerold Hightower carved a path through the enemy ranks, his sword a blur of silver. He fought with grace and precision, his movements almost inhuman in their speed. Wherever he struck, the enemy fell in droves, his legend growing with every life he claimed.

Nearby, Richard Stark, the Grey Wolf, moved with disciplined power, his Valyrian steel Greatsword Ice cleaving through desperate foes as if they were mere training dummies.

Despite the overwhelming force of the Westerosi, the pirates did not surrender easily. Those who could not flee fought to the last, knowing the wrath that awaited them should they be captured. Some attempted to set fire to the supplies and food stores, hoping to starve their attackers. But their efforts were in vain. The Westerosi forces pressed forward with relentless determination, extinguishing every last ember of resistance.

As dusk fell upon Grey Gallows, the battlefield was silent save for the moans of the dying. The pirate fortress had been taken, its walls painted red with the blood of its former inhabitants. The last remaining defenders were rounded up and executed at Ormund's command, their heads placed upon spikes along the shoreline—a grim warning to any who would dare challenge Westerosi's might.

The fortifications began immediately. Engineers and builders, who had accompanied the army, set to work reinforcing the captured stronghold. The wooden palisades were replaced with stone, supply caches were secured, and the docks were repaired to accommodate the full might of the Royal Fleet. The army was no longer just an invading force—it was an occupation. Grey Gallows would be their stepping stone to Bloodstone, and from there, the final battle would commence.

As the stars began to emerge in the night sky, Ormund Baratheon stood upon the battlements of the newly claimed fortress, looking east toward Bloodstone. The war was far from over. Maelys would not sit idle. He would strike back, and when he did, the storm would meet him head-on.

With a final glance at the horizon, Ormund turned to his assembled commanders.

"Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we will prepare. And soon, we march on Bloodstone."

The men cheered, their voices carrying across the waves. The final battle was drawing near, and all of Westeros would soon learn the fate of the last Blackfyre.

Grey Gallows belonged to Westeros.

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Maelys POV

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The Blackfyre war camp on Bloodstone was a city of steel, blood, and ambition. Torches flickered in the night, illuminating banners of the black dragon upon red, their silk torn and battle-worn, stained with the salt of the sea and the blood of those who had defied their claim. The air reeked of sweat, steel, and desperation, for even the most hardened mercenaries knew the war would not be as swift as they had once thought.

Inside the great war tent, Maelys Blackfyre loomed over a massive war table, his monstrous form casting a long shadow under the dim candlelight. His golden eyes, filled with fury and malice, scanned the reports that lay before him—parchments marked with the sigils of fallen lords, maps stained with blood, and the grim news that had just arrived.

Grey Gallows had fallen.

His fleet had been shattered.

And the army of Westeros was not coming in scattered waves as expected—it had arrived in force.

Fifteen thousand strong.

His enemy had outplayed him.

For the first time in years, the war-hardened mercenaries of the Stepstones saw something rare.

Maelys Blackfyre was furious.

His hands clenched into fists, the veins bulging like thick cords beneath his scarred skin. His fingers, thick as iron, gripped the hilt of Blackfyre, the legendary sword of his ancestors. The weapon, forged in the fires of Valyria, hummed as if it could sense its master's rage.

The wine cup in his hand exploded as his grip tightened, shards of glass embedding themselves into his palm. He did not flinch as blood dripped onto the table before him.

"Those cursed Westerosi," he growled, voice like grinding stone. "They dare strike first? They dare take Grey Gallows before I've even begun my conquest?"

"How?" he roared, his voice like boulders crashing together in fury.

"How did they take Grey Gallows? I was assured the island was secure!"

The assembled captains shifted uncomfortably, glancing at each other. None dared speak.

Then, his monstrous gaze fell upon one of his allies—Nine Eyes, a notorious spymaster of Lys. The Lyseni stood tall despite the overwhelming presence of the Blackfyre Pretender. His fine silk robes, adorned with embroidered waves, were a stark contrast to the heavy armour of the Golden Company men around him. He was no brute—he was a man of cunning, a master who commanded the loyalty of some of the deadliest spies and cutthroats in the Essos.

"You should have warned me of their movements," Maelys snarled his monstrous head twitching, its lips curling into a grotesque grin of its own. "You were supposed to have spies in Westeros! How did they muster so quickly? How did they strike before I was ready?"

Nine Eyes remained calm, though he knew the price of failure under Maelys' rule. He dipped his head slightly, his smooth voice carrying through the chamber.

"My King," he began, his tone calculated, "Our spies did report their preparations. What we did not expect was the audacity of their strategy. They made you believe they were still assembling their forces in Westeros while already moving in secret. A cunning deception, to be sure."

Maelys's eye twitched.

"Cunning or not, they have dealt the first blow," he hissed. "And I will not allow them another."

Samarro Saan, the infamous pirate captain and leader of a thousand sellswords, stood before him with a carefully measured expression. He was a man of lean build, dressed in the flamboyant silks of Lys, his beard neatly trimmed despite the war raging around him. His violet eyes gleamed with an intelligence that few trusted.

"It was the Ironborn, my king," Samarro said smoothly. "The Greyjoys struck with their full force, their longships tearing through our fleets. The Westerlands forces, led by Ser Jason Lannister, stormed the island, cutting down our men before we could mount a proper defence. Liomond Lashare fought to the last, but he fell to the Westerosi blades."

Maelys' lips curled back into a snarl. "That fool Lashare should have held them back! What good is a pirate king if he cannot command the sea?"

"Dead men cannot answer for their failures, my king," Samarro said with a casual shrug. "But we can still answer theirs."

Maelys slammed his fist onto the war table, rattling the goblets and maps. "Then we will! I will not sit here and watch as these Targaryen dogs take our lands piece by piece."

He turned to the shadows of the tent, where a withered figure stood wrapped in silken robes—Old Mother, the Pirate Queen of the Black Sea, a crone of unknown age whose eyes gleamed like black pearls in the candlelight. The whispers of her past claimed she had sailed the Basilisk Isles before the Doom of Valyria, that she had killed a hundred men with her own hands, and that no ship could outrun her wrath.

"You," Maelys barked at her, his patience already worn thin. "Take your fleet and strike at the Westerosi ships. Show them what true terror means. Burn their supply ships and cut off their reinforcements. I want Grey Gallows isolated before they can prepare their next move."

The old crone grinned, her teeth yellowed and sharp. "Blood shall run through the Narrow Sea, my king. They will not see us coming."

Maelys turned back to Samarro Saan. "And you. Take fifteen hundred of your best men and strike the island from behind. The fools will be too busy fortifying their stolen land to see you coming. Burn their camps. Slaughter their sentries. Make them fear the Blackfyre name."

Samarro bowed with a smirk. "A pleasure, my king. They will not know what hit them."

Maelys leaned forward, his massive frame towering over the table. His voice dropped to a low growl, thick with menace. "Do not fail me, Samarro. I do not forgive failure."

Samarro met his gaze, unfazed. "I do not intend to fail, my king. By the time I return, the Westerosi will be licking their wounds."

Maelys watched as his commanders departed, his blood thrumming with the promise of vengeance. The battle for the Stepstones had only just begun.

And he would see Westeros drown in its blood before he allowed the Blackfyre name to be erased from history.

The next day, a fleet of sixty ships set sail under the dark skies, the banners of the Blackfyres and the Pirate Queen fluttering against the winds. The night would bring fire and steel, and the storm of war was far from over.

The war drums sounded.

The counterattack had begun.

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The sea was restless that night. The winds howled like spectres, dragging the waves into a furious crescendo, slamming against the hulls of the Royal warships.

The Westerosi fleet, commanded by the Velaryons, had been patrolling the northern waters of Grey Gallows, ensuring the safety of their foothold as the great host prepared for the final push against Maelys. White sails glowed under the moonlight, gliding through the still waters with quiet dominance. Confidence ran high as the Targaryen banners flew proudly above the ships.

But they were being watched.

The fleet, led by Lord Manfred Velaryon, Master of Ships, was anchored just off the coast of Grey Gallows. Their mission was simple: patrol the waters, restock war supplies, and reinforce the main host. The men aboard had grown accustomed to the sea's song, but on this night, it carried a foreboding melody.

Then, the darkness was shattered.

Torches burned upon the horizon, growing larger and brighter until they became a floating inferno. The warning bells rang too late—before the Velaryon fleet could react, the enemy was upon them. The Black Sails of the infamous Old Mother, the Pirate Queen of the Stepstones, emerged from the abyss like a swarm of hungry beasts. Sixty ships, manned by ruthless reavers, cut through the waters with terrifying speed.

Aboard the flagship Sea Dancer, Lord Manfred Velaryon stood tall upon the quarterdeck, his silver hair whipping in the wind as his keen eyes scanned the oncoming assault.

The first strike was swift and devastating.

From the shadows, burning arrows rained down upon the unsuspecting Velaryon warships, igniting sails, rigging, and decks in an instant. The sea itself seemed to catch fire as pitch-soaked projectiles exploded upon impact, transforming the once-tranquil ocean into a battlefield of smoke and flame.

Grappling hooks tore into wooden hulls.

Boarding planks crashed down.

Then, the pirates swarmed.

"Battle stations!" he roared. "Raise the shields, ready the scorpions! We will not let these mongrels take the sea!"

But the pirates had planned well. Their attack was swift and relentless. Flaming projectiles rained down upon the Velaryon fleet, setting sails ablaze and splintering hulls. The enemy rowed with desperation, seeking to close the distance, their grappling hooks latching onto the Velaryon ships, pulling them into brutal boarding skirmishes. Screams of steel and fire echoed across the water as blood seeped into the waves.

It was chaos.

And amidst this chaos, Samaaro Saan made his move.

Under the cover of the battle, the cunning pirate lord led his 1500 men through the unguarded shores of Grey Gallows. The defenders, focused on fortifying their positions against a future land assault, had not anticipated an attack from within. Silent as shadows, Saan's forces slipped through the coastal defences, moving like vipers with one goal in mind—burn the war supplies, sabotage the fortifications, and delay the main host.

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The Velaryon fleet, unprepared for such a sudden attack, struggled to reorganize. The once-proud Sea Dancer burned as Lord Manfred Velaryon, commanding the defence, fought desperately against the tide of invaders.

At the centre of it all, Old Mother's flagship—The Blood Siren—cut through the water like a spectre of death. The pirate queen, an ancient terror, stood at the helm, her wrinkled face painted with streaks of red, her sharp eyes gleaming with the promise of slaughter.

With a raised bony hand, she signalled the next assault—and twenty more pirate vessels surged forward, crashing into the Velaryon fleet like a tidal wave of carnage.

"This is madness!" one of his lieutenants shouted.

"Hold the line!" Manfred bellowed, his sword slashing through a reaver's throat.

But for every pirate slain, two more took their place.

The Velaryons were being overwhelmed.

Their ships burned. Their men fell. The Stepstones reeked of death.

The Velaryon fleet was crumbling. Nearly forty ships had been lost to fire and piracy. Lord Manfred Velaryon fought valiantly aboard his flagship, his blade carving through enemies as he desperately tried to hold the line.

And then—

A deep, thundering horn echoed across the battlefield.

From the western horizon, a new force arrived.

The Ironborn had come.

It was at that moment the tide shifted.

The banner of the Kraken flew high above the fleet as Lord Quellon Greyjoy led his longships into battle. The Ironborn, born of the sea, moved with terrifying efficiency. Their longships, sleek and deadly, carved through the pirate fleet like wolves among sheep.

CRASH..!!

A war ram split through the hull of one of Old Mother's galleons, sending splinters and screaming men into the depths. The Ironborn showed no mercy, boarding enemy ships with axes and cutlasses in hand. They fought like demons, overwhelming the already-exhausted pirates. The Kraken had come to claim the sea.

Lord Quellon Greyjoy had been watching from a distance, waiting for the perfect moment.

Now, he struck.

"RAISE THE IRON STANDARD!" he roared.

And the Ironborn surged forth like a hurricane of iron and death.

Ballistae fired, sending massive iron spears through pirate hulls.

Galleys rammed into enemy ships, splintering wood and drowning men in the sea.

Greyjoy warriors stormed the decks, axes flashing, swords hacking, shields breaking.

The battle shifted in an instant.

Quellon Greyjoy cut through the enemy like a force of nature. His Giant Axe, Reaper cleaved through men and timber alike, and his voice was like thunder, rallying his warriors.

"LEAVE NONE ALIVE!" he bellowed.

The Ironborn did not take prisoners.

Old Mother watched in horror as her mighty fleet was shattered. She had expected victory and had seen herself ruling the Stepstones as queen of the waves. But now, her forces were in ruins, her ships burning, her men drowning.

She knew what was coming.

And she would not die here.

Panic overtook her.

"Retreat!" she screamed, her voice barely audible over the roar of destruction.

"Fall back into the dark waters!"

With one last glance at the burning battlefield, she turned her ship around and vanished into the dark seas.

She had lived long enough to know—

Quellon Greyjoy was not a man to be trifled with.

With the remnants of her fleet—no more than ten ships—she fled into the unknown. Some say she was swallowed by the deep, others claim she escaped to distant shores, never to return. But in that moment, her reign as the terror of the Narrow Sea had ended.

As dawn broke over the Stepstones, the battle was over.

Grey Gallows still stood. The enemy had been repelled.

The sea was littered with burning wreckage and bodies floating in the waves.

The Velaryons, though bloodied, had survived.

The Ironborn stood victorious.

But the war was far from won.

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The night air over Grey Gallows was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning supplies. Fires crackled and flickered across the supply depots as Samarro Saan and his mercenaries wreaked havoc upon the fortifications that the royal host had worked tirelessly to erect. The sellswords moved like wraiths through the shadows, setting fire to barrels of grain, toppling wooden barricades, and slaughtering any unfortunate sentry caught unaware.

For hours, chaos reigned as the enemy methodically dismantled the foundation of the Westerosi foothold. Saan, a seasoned and cunning warlord, knew that if he could disrupt the royal host's supply lines and delay their fortifications, it would cripple their advance against Bloodstone. The victory at Grey Gallows had given the Westerosi confidence, but they had left themselves vulnerable.

By the time dawn's light crept across the horizon, the damage had been done. Large portions of the fortifications lay in ruin, and the storehouses burned low, reduced to smouldering ash. Saan surveyed the battlefield with satisfaction, his violet Myrish eyes glinting with the promise of a successful retreat.

"Pull back to the ships!" he ordered his men, his voice carrying over the sound of crackling flames and the groans of the wounded. "We've done what we came for—let Maelys know we have bloodied their nose. We return to Bloodstone."

His men began their withdrawal toward the shore, moving swiftly under the cover of retreating shadows. But before they could reach their ships, a deep, thunderous war horn sounded from the far end of the island.

A terrible stillness fell upon the battlefield, and then, from the tree line, a great host emerged like a storm rolling in from the sea.

Ormund Baratheon had arrived.

The Hand of the King, a mountain of a man clad in black and gold plate, led the charge with fury in his eyes, and a great Warhammer gripped tightly in his hands. Beside him, the cavalry of the Vale, led by Jon Arryn, formed a spearhead of destruction, their banners snapping in the morning wind.

"Slaughter them all!" Ormund roared, his voice booming like thunder as he surged forward, swinging his Warhammer with devastating force. The first mercenary unlucky enough to stand in his path was sent flying backwards, his ribs crushed into splinters upon impact.

The battlefield erupted into chaos as the royal host crashed into Saan's forces like a tidal wave against brittle rock. The cavalry of the Vale cut through the sellswords with ruthless efficiency, their lances impaling men like skewers, their warhorses trampling those who attempted to flee. The screams of the dying filled the air as swords clashed, steel meeting steel in a brutal symphony of war.

Saan fought desperately to regain control, barking orders at his men to form ranks, but it was too late. The ambush had been perfectly executed, and his mercenaries were outnumbered, outflanked, and utterly overwhelmed. His forces, once so confident in their destruction of the Westerosi fortifications, now found themselves being butchered without mercy.

Ormund Baratheon was a beast of war, his Warhammer swinging with relentless brutality. He crushed skulls, shattered limbs, and sent men screaming to the ground with each blow. He fought with the wrath of a man who had waited too long to unleash his fury, and the battlefield became his proving ground. Blood soaked his armour, but none of it was his own.

Saan, realizing that the battle was lost, turned to flee toward the remaining ships, but he never made it. Ormund spotted him through the chaos, his massive frame bulldozing through the last remnants of Saan's guards.

Saan turned, sword raised in desperation. "Wait—" he started, but the words never left his lips.

Ormund's Warhammer swung in a brutal arc, crashing into Saan's skull with bone-shattering force. The impact sent a spray of blood and brain matter across the sands as Saan's body crumpled lifelessly to the ground. His mercenaries, seeing their leader's gruesome end, threw down their weapons and surrendered; those who did not were cut down where they stood.

The battle was over.

As the sun fully crested the horizon, Ormund stood amidst the carnage, surveying the battlefield with a grim expression. Around him, the royal host cheered their victory, but the Hand of the King was already thinking ahead.

"The prisoners," Ormund said, turning to his commanders. "Interrogate them. We need every piece of intel they have on Maelys' defences."

Jon Arryn, his armour spattered with blood, nodded. "And what of the bodies?"

Ormund looked toward Saan's corpse, a mess of crushed bone and unrecognizable flesh. "Send what's left of Saan back to Maelys on a ship," he said coldly.

"Let the Blackfyre bastard know that we are coming for him next."

The soldiers roared their approval, their spirits lifted by their triumph. The Stepstones would run red with blood before the war was over, but today, victory belonged to the true dragon.

With Grey Gallows now secured and the last remnants of the enemy's counterattack crushed, Ormund gave the order.

"Prepare the army," he commanded.

"We march for Bloodstone."

The war was far from over.

But the next battle would be fought on Maelys' doorstep.