Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

Author's Note:

Hey everyone,

I've seen some comments about the story being too long, focusing too much on history, and not having enough of the MC. I understand that some readers prefer a faster-paced narrative, but I want to assure you that everything has a purpose. This buildup is necessary to create a strong foundation for the story.

That said, the War Arc will conclude in just three more chapters, so I ask for your patience. Once this arc is complete, the story will shift its focus entirely to the MC's journey, his growth, and his impact on the world.

This chapter is going to be a long one, so I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for sticking with me, and I truly appreciate your support.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the waves as the royal fleet approached the shores of Bloodstone. The sea, once serene, now roared with the echoes of war, carrying the weight of thousands of men eager to carve their names into history. The salt-filled air mixed with the acrid scent of burning wood from distant pirate holds that still smouldered from previous battles.

Ormund Baratheon stood at the prow of the lead ship, his eyes fixed on the jagged coastline ahead. Behind him, banners of the great houses of Westeros fluttered in the wind—Targaryen dragons, Baratheon stags, Stark direwolves, Arryn falcons, and the golden lions of Lannister. The royal host had arrived, and with it, the wrath of Westeros.

Thanks to the invaluable information gained from the captured mercenaries, the landing had been planned with precision. Maelys and his forces were concentrated in the south of the island, fortifying their position in preparation for an expected direct assault. But instead, the Westerosi forces had chosen the northern shores—rugged, treacherous, but largely unguarded.

Quellon Greyjoy's longships had sailed ahead, clearing a path by eliminating any remaining pirate vessels that could alert Maelys to their landing. Now, with the path secured, the warships of House Velaryon and the Crownlands surged forward, carrying the first waves of knights and soldiers.

As the keels scraped against the shore, Ormund was the first to disembark, his heavy boots sinking into the wet sand. Behind him, the warriors of Westeros followed, a flood of men clad in gleaming steel and chainmail. The sound of metal striking shields rang through the air as units formed ranks, their commanders barking orders to maintain order and discipline.

Lord Jon Arryn rode up beside Ormund as the first makeshift encampments were being erected. "A good landing," he said, surveying the growing encampment. "We have the element of surprise, but it won't last long."

Ormund nodded, gripping the handle of his Warhammer. "We must strike soon before Maelys has time to adjust his strategy. But we need to be prepared. Bloodstone is no ordinary battlefield."

Lord Hoster Tully joined them, his brow furrowed with concern. "Scouts report that the terrain ahead is rough—steep hills, narrow valleys. If we press forward recklessly, we'll be fighting on the ground of Maelys' choosing."

"Then we make it ours," Ormund declared.

"We fortify our position here in the north, establish a supply line, and ensure our forces are well-rested. When we march south, we will do so as an unstoppable tide."

The camp rapidly took shape. Tents were pitched, supplies unloaded, and defensive fortifications hastily erected. Archers were placed on elevated ground, and scouts were sent ahead to monitor enemy movements. The forges rang with the sound of steel being sharpened while men gathered around fires, murmuring prayers to the gods of their faith.

As night fell, the torches flickered against the cold wind sweeping in from the sea. The tension was palpable—this was the calm before the storm.

Tomorrow, steel would meet steel, blood would stain the ground, and only one side would emerge victorious.

In the distance, past the darkened hills, Maelys Blackfyre waited, his forces unaware that the storm was coming from the north.

The war for Bloodstone had begun.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The halls of the Bloodstone war camp trembled as Maelys Blackfyre paced before his war council. A monstrous figure of pure brute force, his sheer presence sent chills through the spines of even his most hardened commanders.

The news of the disaster had arrived: Old Mother had abandoned him, her fleet scattered to the dark waters, and Samarro Saan, his trusted sellsword captain, had been crushed—his skull shattered by the brute strength of Ormund Baratheon.

His blood boiled with rage. The pretenders in Westeros had landed. The Targaryen host had set foot on Bloodstone, creeping into his domain, daring to challenge his might. He clenched his fists until his nails dug deep into his palms, droplets of blood falling onto the cold stone floor. His fury was like a storm, ready to erupt.

Maelys turned his piercing, golden eyes toward the gathered remnants of the Band of Nine and his remaining commanders. Around the table stood ruthless killers, sellsword captains, reavers from the Stepstones, and exiled lords with nowhere else to go. They had followed him out of greed, lust for power, and the promise of a new kingdom. Now, they stood before him with nervous anticipation, awaiting his command.

Ser Derrick Fossoway, an exiled Westerosi knight with a jagged scar across his cheek, stepped forward. "The Targaryens think they have won a great victory, my lord. They think us broken. They think they can land their army without contest. They will soon learn otherwise."

Ser Tybero, a seasoned war captain of the Golden Company, folded his arms. "They have numbers, but we have something greater. They fight for duty; we fight for gold, power, and survival. That makes us far deadlier."

Maelys grinned a twisted smile that revealed his jagged teeth. "Aye, they think they have us cornered. But they have simply walked into our trap. Let them come. Let them believe they have the advantage. And when the time is right, we will rip their throats out!"

He slammed a gauntleted fist onto the war table, his voice booming through the chamber. "Prepare the men. We march at dawn. Gather every last cutthroat, every damned reaver and exile. Tell them there is no turning back now. Victory or death. There is no in-between!"

The war horns of the Blackfyre forces echoed across the fortress, signalling the gathering of the host. Throughout the encampment, mercenaries, brigands, and desperate souls armed themselves with whatever steel they could find. Shields were strapped to arms, blades sharpened, and war banners hoisted into the air.

As the sun set over Bloodstone, Maelys emerged from the war council onto the great plateau where his men had assembled. The battlefield stretched below, illuminated by the flickering light of torches. Thousands of eyes stared up at him—some filled with loyalty, others with greed, but all with the desire for war.

He spread his arms wide, his voice a storm rolling over the sea of men. "LOOK AT YOU!" he bellowed.

"Sellswords and exiles! Thieves and reavers! Men who have been cast out of their lands, forced into the shadows like dogs! And yet, here we stand! We are not weak! We are not broken!"

A chorus of roars erupted from the gathered army, shields banging together in deafening unison.

"They call me a monster," Maelys continued, his grin widening.

"They whisper that I am the last of my kind. That I am cursed. That I should not be king! But I AM A KING! I AM THE STORM THAT WILL SWEEP OVER WESTEROS! I AM BLACKFYRE! AND I WILL NOT FALL!"

His Valyrian steel sword struck the ground, sending a tremor through the stones beneath his feet.

"Tomorrow, we march upon these so-called dragonlords. They hide behind banners and bloodlines, clinging to their precious Iron Throne. But we know the truth! They are weak! They are FRAIL! We will cut them down, we will burn their banners, and we will claim the throne that is OURS BY RIGHT!"

The army howled in fury, blades raised high. The fires of war burned in their eyes, their lust for battle awakened by their monstrous leader.

Maelys lifted Blackfyre, the ancestral sword of his house, its dark steel glinting beneath the firelight.

"No better friend, no fiercer foe," he roared. "This is our war! This is our destiny! KILL THEM ALL!"

The war cries of sixteen thousand men thundered across the island of Bloodstone, shaking the very air. The merciless host of Maelys Blackfyre was ready.

At dawn, the first great battle of Bloodstone would begin.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The cursed island of Bloodstone loomed in the grey dawn, its jagged cliffs rising from the turbulent sea like the broken teeth of some long-dead beast. The sky was an ominous shade of crimson and violet as if the gods themselves had slashed it open, letting the blood of war seep through. A thick mist curled over the land, twisting through the gnarled, blackened trees and the scattered ruins that bore the scars of ancient battles. The scent of salt, damp earth, and lingering death hung in the air. This island had seen war before, and now, once again, it would be drenched in blood.

At the heart of the cursed land, two armies faced each other, standing like statues before the storm of battle. The royal host of Westeros, twenty thousand strong, stood in grim silence, their banners fluttering under the wind that howled like a dying beast. Across the field, sixteen thousand men under Maelys Blackfyre's command waited, a horde of mercenaries, exiles, and killers gathered under the Black Dragon's banner. There was no honour among them—only greed, ambition, and the promise of bloodshed.

At the centre of the royal army stood Ormund Baratheon, clad in blackened steel, his Warhammer resting against his shoulder like an executioner's blade. His son, Steffon Baratheon, stood beside him, the young lord's face set in hard determination. Behind them, the heart of the army—Stormlanders and Dornish spears—stood like a wall of flesh and steel, ready to crush their foes beneath their might.

To the left flank, Ser Jason Lannister commanded the Westermen, golden lions gleaming under the grim morning light.

On the right flank, Lord Rickard Stark, the Warden of the North, led his northerners with silent steel-eyed resolve, their heavy furs and plate armour an unyielding bulwark.

Behind the infantry, the Tully brothers, Hoster and Brynden positioned their archers, the longbowmen of the Trident standing ready. The younger Tully, Brynden, rode along the lines, ensuring every man understood the task ahead.

The cavalry was the realm's pride: Jon Arryn's heavy knights of the Vale, their warhorses pawing the earth, eager for battle, their lances pointed toward the sky.

The light cavalry, commanded by Ser Gerold Hightower, was positioned to react swiftly, ready to strike where needed.

In the rear, Prince Aerys Targaryen, his golden white hair flashing under his helm, rode alongside young Tywin Lannister. Though he burned with eagerness, Aerys was positioned safely behind the main battle lines. Tywin, ever watchful, his face unreadable, observed everything with a calculating gaze.

.

.

Across the battlefield, Maelys Blackfyre, the Monstrous himself, towered over his men. A mountain of a man, his grotesque second head, a vestigial growth upon his shoulder, twitched as if it had a mind of its own. His armour was blackened steel, his crimson cloak tattered from years of war. He wielded a massive Morningstar, each swing promising devastation.

Leading his infantry was Ser Tybero, a sellsword captain from Myr, his men a rabble of exiled knights, criminals, and blood-hardened mercenaries.

The elite troops, led by Maelys himself, were a terrifying force of brigands and rogue knights, clad in mismatched armour, eager to carve out their piece of history.

On the flanks, Ser Derrick Fossoway, an exiled Westerosi knight, and Seracaro the Red Reaver, a pirate lord of the Stepstones, commanded their rear forces, veterans of countless skirmishes, now prepared for open war.

The wind howled through the battlefield, carrying the scent of blood yet to be spilt. The silence was deafening. Every soldier gripped their weapons tighter, felt their breath quicken, their hearts thunder in their chests. Some whispered prayers to the Seven, others to the Old Gods, while some merely spat and steeled themselves.

Maelys Blackfyre sat atop his warhorse, a beast as monstrous as he, and surveyed the battlefield with his mismatched eyes. He sneered,

"Are you afraid, dogs of Westeros?!" His voice bellowed across the field, thick with contempt.

"You come to face the TRUE dragon! Your bones will be my feast, your heads my trophies! This land belongs to House Blackfyre, and I shall take it in fire and fury!"

From the royal host, Ormund Baratheon responded, stepping forward. He lifted his great Warhammer, pointing it toward Maelys with unshaken resolve. "This day, we put an end to you, pretender! There is only one dragon dynasty, and it will not bear your name! Westeros does not fear you—we will break you!"

A roar erupted from the royal army, shields banging, swords raised high. The Blackfyre men howled in defiance, weapons rattling, the lust for battle thick in the air.

The war horns blew.

The battle had begun.

As the first arrows darkened the sky, as cavalry surged forward like roaring tides, as men charged with swords drawn and death in their eyes—

Bloodstone screamed.

And war swallowed them all.

The battlefield was eerily silent for a moment. A heavy mist still lingered over Bloodstone, curling around the warriors like spectres of death. The ground beneath them was cracked, dry in some places, yet treacherously muddy in others. Old bones, rusted weapons, and shattered shields from past battles littered the land—a cursed island that had known only war and death.

The drums of war pounded in the distance.

Ormund raised his hammer skyward and bellowed, "FOR THE KING! FOR THE REALM! CHARGE!"

Jon Arryn raised his sword high. His steel armour gleamed under the grey morning sun, his blue cloak of House Arryn billowing in the salty wind. His horse, a proud destrier armoured in silver and blue, pawed at the earth, eager to charge.

Behind him, a thousand knights of the Vale, mounted on the finest warhorses in Westeros, sat in disciplined formation, their lances gleaming like deadly spears of light.

Ahead, the Golden Company's front lines stood firm, shields locked in an unbreakable wall, spears braced forward.

Jon's eyes locked onto his target.

He turned back toward his men and roared, "FOR THE VALE!"

And then they charged.

The knights surged forward like an avalanche of steel. The earth trembled beneath the thunder of hooves, a deafening storm of power and fury. The enemy held their ground, bracing for the impact.

The first crash of steel and flesh was like the sky itself shattering.

Lances impaled men in a single thrust, splintering upon impact, driving through chainmail and bone. Horses reared and kicked, trampling the fallen. The first rank of the Golden Company buckled, men sent flying by the sheer force of the cavalry charge.

Jon Arryn drove his sword through the chest of a captain, twisting the blade free as he galloped forward. He slashed left and right, carving a bloody path through the mercenary ranks.

The knights behind him fought with relentless aggression. Blades flashed, blood sprayed, and men screamed.

For a moment, it seemed as though the Westerosi cavalry would shatter the enemy completely.

But then—the mercenaries responded.

A horn bellowed from the enemy's side. Reinforcements surged forward, bristling with spears.

A second line of Golden Company soldiers locked shields, spears braced. The front rank had fallen, but the second rank held firm.

Jon's horse crashed into a wall of shields, rearing up wildly. He barely managed to pull it back before a spear nearly took his head. The cavalry that had torn through the first line now found itself trapped in a brutal melee, unable to retreat or push forward.

The battle turned into a desperate struggle, knights hacking wildly, horses collapsing as spear thrusts found their mark.

Jon Arryn knew then—they needed the archers.

From the high ground, overlooking the battlefield, Hoster and Brynden Tully stood with their archers, their bows already drawn, watching the carnage below.

Hoster Tully's face was grim. He saw how the cavalry had slowed, how the enemy was closing around them like a great iron vice.

Brynden Tully, younger but sharper, stepped forward. "We need to lose now. If we wait, they'll cut down the cavalry."

Hoster hesitated only for a moment before raising his hand.

"Archers, notch arrows!"

A thousand bowstrings creaked in unison, the sound lost beneath the battle's roar.

Hoster let the silence hang for just a moment. Then—

"LOOSE!"

The sky darkened.

Thousands of arrows rained down like death itself, whistling through the air before slamming into the enemy ranks.

Men screamed. Shields were pierced, flesh torn, and chainmail ripped apart. Some died instantly, their bodies collapsing into the mud. Others staggered, clutching at their throats or faces, gasping for air as they drowned in their blood.

Jon Arryn and his knights ducked low, their armour deflecting any stray shots as the arrows decimated the mercenary lines before them.

For a moment, it looked as if the enemy's formation would finally break.

But then—

Men rose from the bloodied mud, arrows still embedded in their bodies, their hands still gripping their swords.

The Golden Company did not break.

Even those pierced by arrows dragged themselves to their feet, wounded but still fighting. They were not mere sellswords. They were warriors of exile, men who had nothing left but war.

One man ripped an arrow from his shoulder, snarling as he rushed forward to stab a wounded knight in the throat. Another, despite having an arrow buried deep in his thigh, lifted his spear and drove it through the chest of a Vale horseman.

The Golden Company refused to die.

The archers loosed another volley—but the battle raged on.

The first true bloodbath of the war had begun.

.

.

.

Ormund Baratheon stood atop the command ridge, his Warhammer resting against his shoulder, watching the battle unfold. His eyes, sharp as a storm, studied the field below with the mind of a veteran commander.

The charge of Jon Arryn's Vale cavalry had struck like a storm, breaking through the first ranks of the Golden Company. But the enemy had not broken.

Now, the once-glorious charge had turned into a vicious melee—knights trapped within a sea of mercenaries, unable to advance or retreat.

Jon Arryn and his knights were being surrounded.

Ormund gritted his teeth. If they lost the cavalry now, they would lose their best chance of breaking Maelys' forces.

He could not let that happen.

"Sound the Horns. We Attack."

"Lord Hand, we should wait for another arrow volley—" one of his officers began.

"No." Ormund's voice was like thunder.

"If we wait, the cavalry will be overrun. We strike now."

Ormund raised his Warhammer, the mighty weapon glinting under the sun.

"Stormlanders, Dornish spears, With me! We charge!"

The war horns blew.

And then Ormund Baratheon led the heavy infantry himself.

The Royal Host surged forward, the ground shaking under their weight.

Ormund charged at the centre, his massive Warhammer swinging in devastating arcs. The first man in his path had his ribs crushed in an instant. Another warrior, trying to block, was sent flying as the hammer shattered his shield like driftwood.

Dornish and Stormlanders followed behind him, roaring as they clashed with the Golden Company.

On the left flank, Jason Lannister led the Westermen with ruthless aggression, his golden blade slicing through flesh like butter.

"Hold the line! Drive them back!" Jason bellowed.

But the Golden Company was not so easily broken. Ser Tybero, their infantry commander, barked orders, rallying his men.

"Stand firm, you dogs! Hold the ranks!"

The sellswords responded with savage fury, cutting down men in a desperate bid to hold their ground.

On the right flank, Richard Stark's Northmen fought with grim efficiency.

Richard carved through the enemy with brutal, deliberate swings, his greatsword cleaving through steel and bone alike. His men, fueled by Northern discipline, fought fiercely, slowly but surely pushing their flank forward.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, led the light cavalry around the battlefield's edge.

Seeing an opening, he turned to his riders.

"With me! We strike their rear!"

The Kingsguard rode like ghosts through the dust, manoeuvring behind the enemy lines before launching a devastating charge.

Screams filled the air as men were trampled beneath hooves, swords flashing in all directions.

The Golden Company's formation began to crumble.

The battlefield descended into chaos, swords clashing, bodies falling, and blood pooling into the cursed ground of Bloodstone.

Ormund Baratheon fought like a man possessed.

His Warhammer shattered skulls, crushed ribs, and broke bones with every swing. He fought not like a lord, but like a soldier—his armor was dented, his gauntlets dripping with blood, but he did not slow.

His stormlanders and northmen fought around him, holding the line against the relentless Golden Company forces.

Despite their discipline, the mercenaries were now being pressed on all sides.

For the first time in the battle, they began to falter.

And yet, despite the losses, despite the blood, despite the chaos, the enemy did not break.

Because at the rear of the battlefield, a towering shadow loomed.

The battlefield had shifted.

For hours, the fight raged across the blood-soaked sands of Bloodstone, the cries of dying men mixing with the relentless clang of steel. The Royal Host, though battered, was beginning to gain ground.

Ormund Baratheon, ever the unyielding force, led the charge of the heavy infantry, Stormlanders, Northmen, and Dornish spears pushing forward in a relentless surge.

He smashed his way through the Golden Company's ranks, and his Warhammer struck like a falling mountain, shattering bones and armour alike. To his left, Ser Jason Lannister fought valiantly, his golden lion crest stained crimson as he cut down foe after foe. Richard Stark held the opposite flank, his northern warriors battling fiercely against Maelys' seasoned sellswords. The Vale's heavy cavalry, led by Jon Arryn, carved through the enemy lines like a sword through soft flesh.

The tide was turning.

Until the ground shook beneath them.

A deep, thunderous sound rolled across the battlefield, hooves pounding like war drums.

Then, from the enemy's rear, a monstrous war cry shattered the air.

"SLAUGHTER THEM! BURN THIS ISLAND IN BLOOD! LET NONE LEAVE ALIVE!"

From the smoke, Maelys Blackfyre charged into the fray.

Atop a colossal black destrier, its eyes red as hellfire, Maelys rode into battle like a demon unleashed.

His armour was black and crimson, the colour of his House, the colour of conquest.

A great black cloak, torn and tattered from war, billowed behind him like the wings of a vulture.

In his left hand, he bore a shield—a grotesque, nightmarish thing made of fused skulls, the remnants of men who had once defied him.

In his right hand, he wielded a Morningstar larger than a man's head, its spikes dripping with gore, its iron surface dented from the countless lives it had ended.

Behind him, his elite troops, the Butchers of the Golden Company, followed—mercenaries, exiles, and murderers handpicked from the most ruthless killers in his service.

And at their head, Maelys led the charge.

The Royal Host's momentum stopped.

For a moment, only the thunder of hooves and the screams of the dying filled the battlefield.

Then—chaos.

Maelys crashed into the Vale cavalry like a boulder smashing through glass.

His Morningstar swung once—four men were sent flying, their bones shattered, their armour caved in like parchment.

Another swing.

A knight of House Corbray tried to parry—his sword snapped in two before the Morningstar crushed his skull into the dirt.

Maelys laughed—a deep, booming sound that sent shivers down the spines of men.

"IS THIS THE BEST WESTEROS CAN OFFER?!"

He ploughed through the battlefield like a storm-given form, his warhorse trampling the fallen, his shield sending men flying with each charge.

Terror Spreads Through the Royal Host

The Royal Host faltered.

Knights hesitated.

Maelys roared in the challenge, his presence alone a force of destruction. His Morningstar swung like a reaper's scythe, sending men flying and crushing steel and skull alike. He was a beast, an unstoppable force of raw brutality, laughter booming over the battlefield as he relished the carnage.

Maelys cut through the chaos, revelling in the slaughter, his second head twitching and grinning as if it, too, enjoyed the carnage.

The Golden Company, emboldened by their commander's arrival, rallied.

The tide of battle shifted once more.

As Maelys rampaged through the battlefield like a storm of death, he turned his monstrous gaze toward the Western flank.

The Lannister forces, still holding their ground after hours of brutal combat, saw him approach—a giant in black armour, his shield of skulls gleaming with fresh blood, his Morningstar dripping with the remnants of crushed men.

The golden banners of House Lannister wavered, their knights shifting in place, dread creeping into their ranks as the beast of Blackfyre rode toward them.

And then—

Ser Jason Lannister stepped forward.

Jason Lannister, younger brother of Tytos, was no coward.

A seasoned knight, respected in the Westerlands, he had led their forces with honour. But even he knew that no ordinary man could stand against Maelys Blackfyre and live.

But he was no ordinary man.

And if Maelys was a monster, then Jason would show him the wrath of a lion.

The battlefield seemed to quiet for a moment as if the gods themselves paused to watch.

Jason raised his sword, its golden hilt shining under the blood-drenched sky.

"Maelys!" he bellowed.

The Blackfyre monster halted his steed, turning to face the golden-clad knight who dared to call his name.

"You think you can stop me, little lion?" Maelys snarled, his deep voice like gravel grinding against steel.

Jason held his ground, breathing heavily from the hours of combat behind him. His golden armour was dented, his surcoat torn, and blood smeared across his blade.

But still—he stood.

"Let us end this here. You and I, Blackfyre. Let's see if your skulls are enough to stop a lion's bite."

Maelys laughed—a terrible, bone-chilling sound.

Then, without another word—he charged.

Their swords clashed like thunder, the shockwaves of their battle sending men stumbling away from them.

Jason moved like a predator, dodging and weaving through Maelys' brutal strikes, using his agility and skill to avoid the crushing blows of the Morningstar.

He slashed at Maelys' side, drawing blood—thick, dark blood that oozed from beneath the Blackfyre's armour.

Maelys roared, swinging his Morningstar with terrifying force—Jason barely dodged, the weapon missing his skull by inches.

The two combatants circled each other, panting, waiting for an opening.

Jason, though exhausted, was faster, sharper, and more precise.

And then—he saw it.

With one final burst of speed, Jason lunged, his sword slicing through Maelys' exposed shoulder.

The Blackfyre staggered, grunting in pain, his blood spraying onto the sand.

For the first time, Maelys took a step back.

Jason, eyes burning with determination, did not hesitate.

He struck again.

His sword met resistance—Maelys' shield of skulls.

The blade lodged between the grotesque bones and stuck fast.

Jason's golden eyes widened.

Maelys grinned.

"Too slow."

Before Jason could react, Maelys swung his morningstar in a brutal, arching blow—

The spikes caved in Jason's chest.

The Lannister knight stumbled backwards, gasping, blood bubbling from his lips.

His sword slipped from his grasp, still trapped in Maelys' shield.

He fell to his knees, eyes wide, reaching for something that was no longer there.

The battlefield seemed to be still.

Maelys loomed over him, his shadow swallowing the dying lion whole.

And with a final, merciless swing, the Morningstar crushed Jason's skull into the dirt.

The Westermen's morale broke.

"Jason Lannister is dead!"

The Lannister knights hesitated, their charge faltering as fear took hold.

Maelys bellowed in triumph, raising his bloodied weapon high.

"DO YOU SEE?! THIS IS YOUR GOLDEN LION! BROKEN! SLAUGHTERED LIKE THE REST! WHO ELSE DARES TO STAND AGAINST ME?!"

But then—

A new figure emerged from the chaos.

Not a knight in golden armour.

But a man clad in crimson.

Roger Reyne, the Red Lion of Castamere, had seen enough.

His friend, his fellow commander, was dead.

And now—he would avenge him.

Before Maelys could strike again, Roger led a furious counterattack, his sword slicing through the elite Golden Company troops surrounding the battlefield.

The Westermen, seeing their new leader, roared in defiance.

Roger cut through Maelys' elite men like a man possessed, his blade dancing through the enemy ranks, leaving nothing but corpses in its wake.

The Golden Company's morale began to crumble.

Maelys, still wounded, gritted his teeth.

He had not expected this much resistance.

The Royal Host was bloodied—but they were not breaking.

And as Roger Reyne drove his forces forward, Maelys grunted in frustration.

His shoulder throbbed. Blood dripped from his wound.

This fight was not over.

"Fall back!" he snarled to his captains.

And with that, the Black Dragon retreated.

The Westermen, though wounded, held their ground.

The battle was not won.

But Jason Lannister's death had not been in vain.

And the war for Bloodstone—

Had only just begun.

.

.

.

The battle rages fiercely, neither side gaining the upper hand. Blood pooled into the dirt, turning the ground slick with the fallen. Hours passed in an endless clash of steel and screams of the dying.

The rear flank of the battlefield was in chaos.

The Golden Company's mercenaries, once thought to be disciplined, were wavering, their formations buckling beneath the relentless assault of the Royal Host's cavalry and infantry.

The ground was a graveyard, littered with the dead and dying.

Amidst the carnage, one knight stood apart.

Ser Barristan Selmy.

At only twenty-two years of age, he fought not like a knight—but like a legend in the making.

His longsword gleamed in the bloodied light, his shield dented but unbroken.

His Dornish sand steed, a swift and nimble warhorse, danced between foes, carrying its rider into the heart of the enemy's lines.

And wherever he rode, men died.

While Ser Gerold Hightower commanded the cavalry on the right flank, Barristan had broken off, leading a charge deep into the enemy's rear.

He was a whirlwind of steel, his movements flawless, every strike precise and fatal.

He cut down a sellsword with a single thrust and slashed another's throat before the man could even raise his sword.

Arrows whistled through the air, but he weaved between them, his shield deflecting those that came too close.

The mercenaries began to fear him, whispering his name like a curse.

"The Bold… the Bold is here!"

His nickname was not new.

At only ten years old, Barristan had entered a Tourney of Blackhaven as a mystery knight, challenging none other than Prince Duncan the Small himself.

The moment the young boy lifted his lance, the crowd laughed.

But Prince Duncan?

He had not laughed.

And when the match began, Barristan had charged with the fury of a man grown.

For one brief moment, the world held its breath.

Then—impact.

The young Barristan was unhorsed instantly, crashing into the dirt.

As he struggled to his feet, his face bloodied but unbroken, Prince Duncan dismounted, laughing—not out of mockery, but out of respect.

He had lifted the boy to his feet, clapped him on the shoulder, and declared for all to hear—

"This one is a boy but a BOLD one."

The name had never left him.

And today, on the fields of Bloodstone, the name was reborn.

At the very rear of the Golden Company's forces, hiding among fleeing men, stood Seracaro, the Red Reaver.

A veteran pirate turned mercenary, his reputation was one of butchery and cruelty.

He was known for slaughtering villages and for taking no prisoners.

But today—

Today, he was afraid.

He had seen Maelys retreating, seen the Western flank falter after the death of Jason Lannister.

And now—he saw the monster that was Barristan Selmy riding toward him.

The young knight's armour was drenched in blood, his eyes cold as winter steel.

Barristan did not slow down.

"You—" Seracaro stammered, raising his cutlass in panic.

It was not a duel.

It was a slaughter.

Barristan carved through him effortlessly, his longsword piercing through the Red Reaver's throat, slicing cleanly in a single stroke.

Seracaro collapsed, choking on his blood, his body twitching in the dirt.

And with that—

The Golden Company's rear collapsed.

The moment Seracaro fell, the mercenaries knew the battle was lost.

"The Red Reaver is dead!"

"They've broken the rear!"

"Fall back! FALL BACK!"

Panic spread like wildfire.

Men threw down their weapons, scrambling to flee toward the southern shores, trying to escape by ship.

But there was nowhere to run.

The Royal Host's cavalry swept through them like wolves through sheep.

Barristan, his blade dripping red, turned his horse, surveying the battlefield.

The fight was not over.

But today—he had left his mark.

And though he did not know it yet, this battle would be remembered for generations.

The first time, Barristan the Bold became more than just a name.

He will became a legend.

.

.

.

.

.

The battlefield of Bloodstone had turned into a graveyard of steel and corpses.

The sun, now hanging low in the sky, cast an eerie, crimson glow over the war-torn land as if the gods themselves wept for the fallen.

The stench of blood and burning flesh filled the air, mixing with the metallic tang of sweat and iron.

But amidst the chaos, amidst the bodies of both mercenaries and Westerosi soldiers, one thing became clear—

They were in a stalemate.

Ormund Baratheon, his massive Warhammer now stained with the blood of dozens, took a shuddering breath as he looked across the battlefield.

His Stormland infantry, along with Dornish spears, had pushed the enemy lines again and again, yet the Golden Company refused to break.

Even without Maelys, even after the flanks had faltered, even after Seracaro had been cut down by Barristan Selmy—

The Golden Company stood.

At their centre was Ser Tybero, the hardened sub-commander of the sellswords, his blade slick with blood, his armour dented but unyielding.

He fought with unyielding ferocity, rallying the mercenaries with sheer will and discipline, cutting down Westerosi knights who dared approach him.

The mercenaries, though they had suffered tremendous losses, still held their ground.

More Westerosi knights fell.

More archers ran out of arrows.

More Stormland infantry collapsed from exhaustion.

And Ormund could see it—

This would not be a victory today.

This was a bloodletting.

Where Was Maelys?

Ormund scanned the chaotic battlefield, his breathing heavy.

He had not seen Maelys Blackfyre since Jason Lannister fell.

The monstrous pretender had charged into battle with his skull shield and morningstar and had cut through dozens of men, but then—

He was gone.

And that unnerved Ormund more than anything.

Was he regrouping?

Was he preparing another charge?

Was he simply watching from the shadows, waiting for them to bleed out?

It didn't matter.

Because right now—they were losing too many men.

He turned his gaze to his army.

Even seasoned warriors, those who had fought in countless battles, were beginning to waver.

The Stormland spearmen, their arms trembling from the weight of their shields.

The Northmen, who fought like demons, now breathing heavily, slowing down, their blades losing their edge.

The Dornish spears, who had stood firm against the mercenaries, now struggled to maintain formation.

Ormund gritted his teeth.

No.

They would not die here for nothing.

They had made their mark.

The Blackfyre pretender had been wounded.

His flanks had faltered.

His best commanders were dead.

And yet, the battle had not been won.

If he pressed forward, if he ordered another charge, they would only lose more men.

Men who would be needed for the final battle.

His mind was set.

With one final look at the battlefield, Ormund roared the command—

"RETREAT! FALL BACK TO FORMATION!"

His voice cut through the battle like a thunderclap.

At first, there was hesitation.

Some men did not want to retreat.

But then, they understood.

This was not a coward's retreat.

This was a strategic withdrawal—to fight another day.

Jon Arryn, covered in dust and blood, immediately began pulling back his cavalry.

The Tully archers, who had long since exhausted most of their arrows, began falling back in order.

Ser Gerold Hightower, seeing the order, took his light cavalry and began forming a defensive line, ensuring no pursuit could reach them.

The Westerman, reeling from the loss of Jason Lannister, were covered by Roger Reyne, who held the flank just long enough for them to pull back.

And then—the Royal Host began its retreat.

The Golden Company, too bloodied to mount a proper counterattack, did not pursue.

They had taken as much damage as the Westerosi had.

The retreat had begun.

The Royal Host, bloodied and exhausted, pulled back in order, falling into their pre-planned formations as the archers and cavalry covered their withdrawal.

The Golden Company, just as exhausted, did not pursue with full force. They had taken as much damage as the Westerosi army.

And yet—

Even in retreat, death still hunted them.

Steffon Baratheon, his armour dented, his sword red with blood rode beside his father.

Ormund Baratheon, still gripping his massive Warhammer, was breathing heavily. His face was streaked with sweat and grime, but his eyes remained focused on their withdrawal.

The army was moving steadily—until a single enemy archer, hidden behind the wreckage of a broken cart, raised his bow.

The man's golden sellsword cloak was tattered, his hands shaking, but his aim was steady.

And he had only one target.

His eye locked onto Steffon Baratheon.

The young heir of Storm's End.

The next in line after his father.

The future of House Baratheon.

With a slow, steady breath, the archer pulled the bowstring taut, the feathered tip of the arrow gleaming in the dying sunlight.

Then—

He released.

Ormund's battle-worn eyes, sharp as a hawk's even in exhaustion, caught the flash of movement.

His body reacted before his mind could even think.

"STEFFON!"

With one last surge of strength, Ormund threw himself sideways, raising his thick, plate-covered arm just in time—

THWACK!

The arrow pierced through the gap in his armor, slipping past the steel and leather and embedding deep into his side.

A sharp, wet gasp escaped Ormund's lips as searing pain shot through his body.

His knees buckled—but he did not fall.

Steffon whipped around, his heart plummeting as he saw the red fletching of the arrow buried in his father's side.

"FATHER!"

Ormund's grip on his Warhammer loosened his vision, blurring. The world around him spun, but he refused—refused—to fall.

His breathing turned ragged, blood oozing through his armour, staining the black and gold of House Baratheon.

The retreat continued.

But Steffon did not move forward.

He refused to leave his father behind.

Jumping from his horse, he grabbed Ormund's armoured form, slinging his father's massive, wounded frame over his shoulder.

"We must go!" Steffon yelled. "Move, move!"

Soldiers rushed around them, some trying to cover their retreat, others barely escaping with their lives.

Gerold Hightower and his light cavalry formed a barrier, ensuring no sellsword or enemy archer could finish the job.

"Keep moving, Cover the Commander! "

Ormund gritted his teeth, forcing his failing body to keep some semblance of strength.

Steffon did not respond.

His father's blood was dripping onto his armour, onto his hands—

He needed to get him back to camp.

The Baratheon heir carried his father across the battlefield, his mind racing.

Ormund's breathing was shallow, but he was still alive.

The arrow remained embedded in his side, and Steffon knew—if they didn't treat him soon, he would not make it.

The battle had ended in a stalemate—but at what cost?

As the Royal Host fully withdrew, with banners lowered and bloodied shields, Steffon refused to let go of his father.

Ormund had saved his life.

Now, he would save his father's.

And with that, the first battle of Bloodstone came to a bitter, bloody end.

.

.

.

.

.

The war camp was eerily silent.

Gone was the roar of battle, the clash of steel, the cries of men locked in mortal struggle. Instead, the chilling stillness of dawn settled over Bloodstone like a shroud, broken only by the distant crash of waves against the rocky shores.

The air was thick with the stench of blood and burnt flesh. The fires from the night before still smouldered, casting thin plumes of smoke into the grey sky. The battlefield—once a storm of fury and violence—was now a grim wasteland of corpses, broken weapons, and banners torn to shreds.

Throughout the camp, men moved slowly, wearily—wounded soldiers groaning, survivors whispering prayers, healers tending to those who could still be saved.

The ground was soaked red, the very earth itself seemingly drinking the blood of the fallen.

It was a hollow victory if it could even be called that.

Both armies had bled each other dry.

Near the centre of the camp, under the crimson-draped banners of House Lannister, Ser Jason Lannister's body was carefully prepared for transport. His golden armour was cleaned of blood, but the deep dents and gashes remained—a testament to the ferocity of his final battle. His sword, which had once flashed like sunlight on the battlefield, was laid upon his chest, his hands folded over the pommel.

The Westerman stood in mourning, their usual boldness replaced by sombre silence.

At the heart of them all, Tywin Lannister stood like a statue, his hands clenched at his sides, his green eyes devoid of emotion.

His uncle had been the first great casualty of the war.

The men spoke in hushed tones of how Ser Jason had bravely duelled Maelys the Monstrous, how he had wounded the beast, but in the end, he fell beneath the Blackfyre Pretender's might.

Tywin said nothing.

He had not spoken since his uncle's body was retrieved.

He had not wept, nor raged, nor cursed the gods.

He merely stood in silence, his golden lion cloak hanging heavy on his shoulders, his gaze locked onto Jason's lifeless face.

Ser Roger Reyne stood beside him, his crimson armour dulled by battle, arms crossed, watching the young heir of Casterly Rock with an expression somewhere between respect and curiosity.

Tytos Lannister, Jason's brother, was not present.

The Lord of Casterly Rock would have collapsed in grief when he heard the news.

It would be Tywin who would ensure his uncle was taken home. Tywin, who would carry his legacy. Tywin, who would one day rule.

And the boy who once had been a lion cub was now standing amidst wolves and vultures.

The camp whispered about him.

Some said he would break down. Others said he would swear vengeance.

But he did neither.

He simply stood, unmoving, his face set in cold stone, as the soldiers began preparations to transport Jason's body back to Westeros.

The Hall of Heroes in Casterly Rock would be his final resting place.

Jason Lannister had died a warrior's death.

But for Tywin, it was not enough.

For Tywin, there was no honour in defeat.

Only humiliation.

Only vengeance.

.

.

.

The war camp was a place of whispered prayers and heavy hearts. The stench of blood and burning wood still lingered in the air, and the wounded groaned in agony as the healers moved through the tents, tending to the countless men who had barely survived the slaughter at Bloodstone.

But in the largest tent at the centre of camp, the mood was even heavier.

Lord Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King and Commander of the Royal Host, lay upon a makeshift cot, his face pale and drenched in sweat. His broad chest rose and fell shallowly, his breaths uneven, his lips dry and cracked.

His Warhammer, the symbol of his strength and his House, rested beside him.

The feathered arrow that had struck him had been removed, but its wound still bled, the flesh around it swollen and darkening unnaturally. The Hand of the King was a strong man, a warrior who had led armies and fought in countless battles, but now, his strength waned.

And those gathered around him knew.

Something was wrong.

Steffon Baratheon knelt beside his father, his hands gripping Ormund's calloused fingers, refusing to let go. His youthful face, always so full of brash confidence, was now marred with fear. His father was the strongest man he had ever known, and yet here he was—helpless.

The healer, an elderly man with a gaunt face and thin white hair, finished his examination, his gaze grim as he turned to those present—Ser Gerold Hightower, Jon Arryn, Rickard Stark, and Hoster Tully.

Silence.

The healer let out a slow, tired breath before speaking.

"It is Manticore venom."

The words struck like a hammer against a stone.

Steffon froze, his grip tightening on his father's hand.

The other lords exchanged dark glances, their expressions shifting from concern to something far more serious.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, straightened, his voice a low growl. "Are you certain?"

The healer nodded grimly. "I have seen wounds like this before. The arrow itself was not what would have killed him… it is the venom that now runs through his blood." He gestured toward the wound, where the flesh had turned an unnatural blackish hue, the veins surrounding it darkening like creeping shadows beneath the skin.

Steffon shook his head in denial, his voice desperate. "Then cure him! We have herbs and medicines—do something!"

The healer lowered his eyes. "There is no cure, my lord."

The words hit like a sword through the gut.

Steffon's face twisted with rage and anguish. "There has to be something!" He grabbed the healer by the front of his robes, shaking him, his voice cracking. "You're a healer! Heal him, damn you!"

Ser Gerold stepped forward, placing a firm hand on the young Baratheon's shoulder. "Steffon," his voice was calm but heavy, the weight of reality settling upon them all. "Let him go."

Steffon released his grip, his breath ragged, his fingers trembling as he turned back to his father.

The healer hesitated before speaking again, his voice softer. "Whatever venom they used… it was made to kill slowly. He does not have long."

The words were daggers in Steffon's heart.

The others fell into grim silence, absorbing the truth of it.

The great Ormund Baratheon, one of the mightiest lords in Westeros, the Hand of the King, the shield of the realm, was dying.

And there was nothing they could do to stop it.

Yet, despite the pain, despite the creeping darkness pulling him toward the Stranger's embrace, Ormund's storm-blue eyes remained fierce.

He would not pass in weakness.

He would die as he lived—a warrior, a leader, a father.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, knelt beside the dying man.

Ormund turned his head slightly, his lips twitching, fighting against the pain to speak.

His voice was hoarse and ragged, yet still carried authority.

"Tell… tell the king…" He gritted his teeth, forcing out the words. "I held the line."

Gerold bowed his head, his expression unreadable.

Ormund's gaze sharpened.

His stormy blue eyes locked onto Gerold's, and with the last strength in his body, he grasped the King's guard's white cloak.

"You… command now."

The room fell silent.

Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, Rickard Stark, and Roger Reyne—all watched as the great man passed his burden to the White Bull.

Gerold's jaw tightened, but he nodded solemnly, placing a gauntleted hand over Ormund's arm.

"I will not fail you."

Ormund turned his head—his eyes seeking his son.

Steffon was there, kneeling beside his father's cot, gripping his hand tightly, his face wet with tears.

The young Baratheon lord shook his head desperately as if refusing to accept what was happening.

"Father… please…" he choked out.

Ormund's lips twitched into a weak smile.

His calloused, bloody fingers slowly reached out, brushing against his son's cheek.

"I'm proud of you."

Steffon's shoulders shook, his breath hitching.

Ormund's gaze softened, filled with love, pride, and sorrow.

"Look after your mother."

Steffon squeezed his father's hand, refusing to let go.

"I—I can't do this without you," Steffon sobbed.

Ormund let out a shallow, pained breath, then, with the last strength left in his body, he reached for his Warhammer.

The mighty weapon of House Baratheon, the hammer that had shattered shields, broken bones, and crushed kings, lay beside him.

He weakly lifted it and placed it in Steffon's hands.

The weight of it was immense, far heavier than Steffon had ever imagined.

Yet, his father looked at him and, with a final, faint smile, whispered—

"Yes… you can, you're… not a boy anymore."

"You're… a Baratheon."

Steffon let out a choked sob, clutching the warhammer tightly.

Ormund exhaled, his chest rising… and falling…

And then, his eyes slowly fluttered shut.

His hand fell limp in his son's grasp.

The storm had ended.

Ormund Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, Hand of the King, Commander of the Royal Host, died in his son's arms.

For a moment, no one spoke.

The lords, knights, and warriors who had fought beside him, who had called him brother-in-arms, could only stare.

Jon Arryn clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists.

Hoster Tully looked away, his face filled with grief.

Rickard Stark simply lowered his head, murmuring something in Old Northern tongue.

Roger Reyne, ever the Red Lion, simply crossed his arms, his expression unreadable.

Prince Aerys stood frozen, his hands trembling, his face pale.

Steffon was shaking, gripping his father's hand, pressing it to his forehead.

The air was heavy with sorrow.

Then—

Gerold Hightower, without a word, reached down and removed his white cloak.

He draped it over Ormund's body.

A warrior had fallen.

A son had lost his father.

A realm had lost a legend.

And the war… was far from over.