Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

Year: 260 AC

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THE REBEL WAR CAMP 

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The air inside the war tent was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and the iron tang of steel. The crimson banners of House Blackfyre hung limply in the damp air, the dragon sigil distorted by the heavy folds. A single brazier flickered at the heart of the room, casting monstrous shadows on the canvas walls, its light licking the brutal scars that marred Maelys Blackfyre's face.

Maelys sat upon a heavy oak chair, its legs carved with snarling dragons, his massive form draped in a dark cloak that did little to hide the bulk of his frame. His armour, though dulled and scored from countless battles, glinted menacingly under the flickering light. A jagged scar stretched down the side of his face—a reminder of the first clash on Bloodstone a year past—where fire and steel had nearly ended him.

He flexed his gauntleted hand, still feeling the phantom sting of the wound beneath the iron, as his eyes swept over the war council. Lords and sellswords alike, their armour dented and bloodied, stood around the war table, a massive map of the Stepstones spread before them, dotted with carved markers of armies and fleets.

The war had dragged on—longer than he had ever intended. Attrition. A bleeding, festering wound that refused to close. His armies were battered, forced into a war of patience against an enemy that fought like ghosts—harrying his supply lines, ambushing isolated units, and vanishing into the mist before his men could regroup.

"Another week, another hundred men dead in the jungle," Ser Tybero spat, slamming a gauntleted fist onto the table.

"These damned guerilla tactics are bleeding us dry. The new leader they've sent is no fool—he strikes, vanishes into the hills, and leaves our men in the mud."

Maelys grunted, the sound deep and guttural. "They fear me. They will not face me in the field."

"Cowards," Maelys spat, slamming his fist onto the table, making the wine goblets rattle. "Hiding in shadows, striking like vermin. No honour in this."

Ser Tybero, his captain of horse, leaned forward. "They bleed us, your grace. Bit by bit. This is no longer a war of swords but of time. And time... is their ally."

Ser Fossoway, his armour stained from days of the campaign, leaned forward. "This new commander—they say he uses the locals, knows the terrain. He's cutting off our supply lines, burning what little we can forage. If this continues—"

"We will grind them down," Maelys growled, slamming his fist onto the map, and crushing a small wooden ship beneath his gauntlet. "Their blood will water these stones."

Maelys growled low in his throat. His left side still ached—where the sword had bit deep during the First Battle of Bloodstone. Months of recovery had only stoked the fire of his hatred.

The tent fell into a heavy silence until the tent flap rustled. A scout stepped in, dust from the long road still clinging to his cloak, panting, his face pale beneath a sheen of sweat. He dropped to one knee.

"My liege, the payment has been made. The shipment will reach King's Landing in two days."

A low, rumbling laugh built-in Maelys' chest, swelling into a brutal roar of triumph. "Finally! The fools will never see it coming."

He chuckled—a deep, echoing sound that vibrated through the tent walls. "Let the dragons mourn their lost hatchlings."

Ser Fossoway, leaning on his spear, raised an eyebrow. "If I may, my prince—what shipment?"

Maelys' smile widened, teeth bared like a wolf's. "A gift to House Targaryen. The Sorrowful Men of Qarth. Masters of death. They will finish what my blade or my forefathers could not. House Targaryen's lineage will be snuffed out like a dying candle."

Maelys' grin was wide, savage, almost inhuman.

A cold hush descended upon the council. Even the brazier's flames seemed to flicker lower. Even hardened killers like Fossoway paled at the name of the sorrowful men—silent, merciless, and known for leaving no survivors.

"But, my prince," Ser Tybero spoke, his voice measured, "if they succeed, what of Aerys? That fool is here, in Bloodstone? He is still the heir to the Iron Throne."

Maelys's single eye burned with hatred. "Aerys..." He stood, towering over the table, his great shadow flickering in the torchlight. "He will die by my hand. I will gut him before his men. I will see his head on a spike, and with it, the last ember of House Targaryen extinguished forever."

He turned sharply, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden planks. "Tybero, send word to Tyrosh. I want more ships. And more slaves—strong ones. We will drown Westeros in blood before this is done."

The men around him bowed their heads, a mix of fear and loyalty etched into their faces. Only Ser Fossoway and Ser Tybero dared to meet Maelys' gaze, a flicker of unease in their eyes.

Maelys did not care.

The war wasn't over.

Not yet.

Maelys Blackfyre stood at the precipice of his dream—so close he could taste the Iron Throne. And he would burn the world to ash if it meant placing the Black Dragon above it.

And soon, the rivers of Westeros would run red with dragon blood.

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Jaehaerys POV

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The night hung heavy over the Red Keep, its stone walls soaked in silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of a dying hearth. King Jaehaerys II Targaryen sat alone in his solar, hunched over a spread of parchment maps and raven scrolls, the weight of the realm bearing down on his shoulders. Candlelight flickered across his lined face, casting long shadows that danced with every gust of wind sneaking through the ancient windows.

His fingers traced the jagged lines of the Stepstones on the map—the bloodied chessboard of this damned war.

The reports were the same, each inked word a dirge.

The war dragged on—a slow, gruelling conflict of attrition. Guerrilla tactics, led by the cunning Brynden Tully alongside the fierce Dornish and stoic Northmen, had harried Maelys Blackfyre's forces. It was the only thing keeping the rebel armies from pushing deeper into Westerosi lands. Yet, even with these small victories, the cost had been steep.

Quick strikes. Deadly retreats. Maelys the Monstrous was feeling the sting, but so was the Crown.

The thought of Ormund Baratheon's death still gnawed at him. His brother-in-law—steady, if not brilliant—had fallen to a coward's weapon, a poisoned arrow that struck true in the chaos of battle. The loss had shaken the court, but none more than Princess Rhaelle, who had wept openly in the great hall.

And Ser Jason Lannister—bold and brash—had faced Maelys himself, only to fall beneath the brute's monstrous blade. Two great lords, felled in the heart of battle, leaving voids that could never truly be filled.

Their deaths had left a hole in the Crown's strength and a heavier hole in Jaehaerys' heart.

His gaze drifted to another report—this one praising Ser Barristan Selmy. The young knight's valour had become a legend overnight. A sword so swift it was said the Seven themselves guided his hand. The thought lingered. Perhaps the Kingsguard could use another sword, one as pure in heart as in skill. A man like that belonged in the Kingsguard. Jaehaerys made a mental note to consider him for a white cloak when this war was done—if it ever ended.

But still, the war dragged on, bleeding the realm dry. He clenched his jaw. If this war didn't end soon, it wouldn't be Maelys who broke the realm—it would be time and hunger.

His thoughts drifted to his son, Aerys, far from the safety of the Red Keep and seated in a war camp where swords whispered louder than councilmen. Jaehaerys frowned, unease coiling in his gut. He wanted Aerys to prove himself, to grow into a king worthy of the Iron Throne, but there was something about tonight—something wrong. The air felt heavy and charged as if the gods themselves held their breath.

He stood, walking to the open window that overlooked the black stretch of the Blackwater Rush. The breeze felt cold against his skin. A warning? Or merely the weariness of age?

"Foolish thoughts," he muttered, though the weight in his chest didn't ease.

His gaze softened when it drifted towards the nursery chambers. His wife, Shaera, was there tonight, tending to young Aemon—his nephew, though already the centre of whispered courtly rumours. They spoke of his precocious nature, how at barely a year old, the boy had taken his first steps and formed his first halting words. Some called him a prodigy. Others, something more.

Jaehaerys allowed himself a smile. "May you grow strong, little dragon," he murmured. "May you stand tall when the realm needs you most like your namesake - Aemon the Dragonknight, or Maester Aemon."

He closed the window against the creeping chill and returned to his chair, though sleep tugged at his heavy lids. The maps blurred before him, the inked rivers and mountains fading into dark shapes.

Yet that sensation of wrongness lingered just beneath the edge of dreams.

"Just the wind," he whispered, willing himself to believe it.

And slowly, the King drifted into an uneasy sleep, the flickering candlelight his only guardian against the shadows creeping ever closer.

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 THE CITY OF KING'S LANDING 

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The Red Keep, a fortress of towering walls and iron gates, stood like an unyielding sentinel above King's Landing. Its spires pierced the night sky, bathed in the cold silver glow of the moon. But even the strongest walls can harbour cracks, and even the most vigilant guards can falter.

It began at the docks.

A merchant vessel, heavy with spice crates and bolts of silk from Qarth, docked under the cover of night. No one paid much attention to the Qartheen sailors — pale men draped in flowing robes, their faces partially concealed beneath long, silken veils. The city's harbour was always bustling, and with war draining resources and men, inspections were rushed.

In the shadows of the ship's hold, two figures crouched low among the crates, their bodies swathed in dark cloth. The Sorrowful Men of Qarth—renowned for their silent kills and haunting final words, "I am sorry." It was said they never failed a contract.

When the time was right, they slipped from the ship, moving like wraiths along the wharves. The guards were few and distracted, some deep in conversation, others nursing flasks of sour wine. One assassin cut the throat of a dockhand who had noticed their odd gait — the man slumped wordlessly to the ground.

The first checkpoint was the King's Gate, where guards controlled entry into the city proper. But chaos, even in the smallest forms, creates opportunity.

A fire had broken out earlier that evening in the Flea Bottom slums — a row of tenements ablaze. Smoke still curled into the sky, and half the city's watch was preoccupied with managing the panic. The assassins exploited this. Draped in servant garb stolen from the ship, they blended into a caravan of traders returning from the harbour.

No one noticed the blood-stained rags beneath their tunics.

Once within the city, the next hurdle was the Red Keep itself — a castle designed to repel sieges, not infiltration. But gold had already paved the way. A minor steward, deep in debt and heavy with gambling losses, had been paid handsomely to ensure a small postern gate — normally sealed — was left unlatched for one hour that night.

The assassins slipped through unnoticed, their soft-soled boots muffling every step as they passed through shadowed courtyards and narrow, torch-lit corridors. They moved with precision, evading patrol routes that had been mapped out weeks in advance.

Inside the Keep, the courtyards were quiet. Most of the household guards were stationed at the outer walls or posted near the royal chambers — but the nursery wing? Lightly guarded, it was considered the safest part of the Keep. Few would have thought the true threat would come from within.

The assassins pressed deeper into the heart of the Red Keep.

One of them paused near the kitchens, where the last of the night's servants were finishing their work. With a quick flick of his dagger, he slashed the throat of a scullery boy who wandered too close. Blood pooled on the stone floor, unseen as the killer melted back into the shadows.

Their plan was simple: Split up. One would create a diversion if discovered, while the other continued to the nursery to complete the mission — kill the progeny of House Targaryen. No room for error.

The halls ahead branched in multiple directions. One assassin veered left, heading for the heart of the nursery wing. The other circled wide, planning to reach the Queen's chambers from the opposite side.

Ser Harlan Grandison, a vigilant Kingsguard stationed near the nursery, stood watchful beneath the flickering torchlight. His sharp eyes caught a subtle irregularity—the gait of one of the 'servants' was too calculated, too careful. Their hands were too calloused for kitchen work, their movements too fluid for simple servants.

His gaze narrowed as he stepped forward, his armoured boots echoing in the silence.

"Halt," he commanded, his instincts flaring.

The figures froze for a heartbeat. Then—steel flashed. One of the assassins lunged, a dagger gleaming in the torchlight, aimed straight for Grandison's throat.

With a grunt, Grandison sidestepped, parrying the blade with a loud clang.

"Assassins!" he roared, the alarm ricocheting through the stone halls.

Grandison's sword was like a flash, the steel gleaming under the torches. One assassin lunged, daggers flashing, but Grandison parried, his blade ringing out as it clashed with steel.

"Jonothor!" Grandison roared, calling his former squire, Ser Jonothor Darry, who had been stationed nearby. Jonothor arrived, sword drawn, just as the second assassin slipped away, vanishing into the maze-like halls leading to the nursery.

Ser Jonothor Darry, once his squire and now a seasoned knight, was the first to respond. His sword gleamed as he sprinted into view, eyes widening at the sight of the clash.

The assassin was unnervingly fast, wielding his daggers with brutal precision. Grandison's broadsword clashed against the flashing blades, steel meeting steel in a vicious dance. Sparks flew as the assassin twisted low, aiming for Grandison's legs, but the Kingsguard kicked him back, heavy boots slamming into the assassin's chest.

The skirmish echoed down the halls.

"Jon!" Grandison barked, narrowly dodging another swipe. "The nursery! One slipped away—go! Protect the Queen and the Prince! I'll deal with this one!"

Jonothor's jaw clenched. Without hesitation, he turned, boots thudding against stone as he raced down the corridor. Behind him, the metallic song of clashing blades echoed, Grandison still locked in deadly combat.

The assassin was skilled—too skilled. His twin daggers were like vipers, darting with precision. Grandison parried one, two, three strikes but caught a shallow cut across his arm. Blood dripped onto the stone, but he didn't falter.

More guards arrived—ten in total—drawn by the commotion. They poured into the hall, their swords gleaming as they surrounded Grandison and the assassin.

The intruder didn't hesitate. He fought like a cornered wolf, blades slashing in wide, deadly arcs. Two guards fell quickly, blood pooling beneath them. Each time his dagger struck, he whispered a chilling, "I'm sorry," as though absolving himself with each kill.

But the numbers overwhelmed him. Grandison, despite the bleeding gash on his arm, pressed the advantage, driving the assassin back. His sword carved a deep cut across the killer's arm, forcing him to drop one of his daggers.

Seeing the opening, Ser Harlan Grandison, with a roar, lunged, his blade slamming the remaining dagger from the assassin's hand. The killer stumbled, fumbling for a small glass vial in his belt—poison, no doubt meant for a swift, painless death.

Harlan was faster.

His sword pommel cracked against the assassin's temple, sending him sprawling. The vial clattered harmlessly across the stone floor. Guards surged forward and knocked the wounded assassin down before he could recover.

Guards pinned the wounded assassin down, shackles locking around his wrists as he struggled weakly. Harlan staggered back, blood dripping from his wounded arm, but victory was secured.

"Take him to the dungeons," Harlan growled, cradling his injured limb. "We'll see who sent him."

As the guards dragged the battered assassin away, the Red Keep's halls once again filled with the echoes of steel and the heavy breaths of survivors. But the shadow of the night's treachery lingered — a grim reminder that even the strongest walls could be breached, and the blood of dragons was never truly safe.

The shadows of the Red Keep grew deeper as the moon hung high in the sky, its pale light casting eerie silhouettes across the ancient stone walls. All was still, save for the soft murmurs of guards stationed in the corridors. Yet, beneath the veneer of calm, danger prowled.

The second assassin moved like a wraith through the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, his silent steps muffled against the cold stone floors. The clash of steel echoed faintly in the distance—the distraction had worked. The sounds of battle had drawn the guards away from their posts, leaving a thin veil of vulnerability around the heart of the royal family.

His gloved hand traced the edge of the curved dagger at his side, its polished blade glinting faintly beneath the torchlight. This was his task — his sacred contract. His target? The Targaryen infants. No witnesses. No survivors.

The corridor leading to the nursery stretched ahead, faint candlelight flickering from within. Outside, two maids sat dozing against the wall, their heads lolling forward in peaceful ignorance. The assassin didn't hesitate.

Shhk.

One swift motion and the blade slit the first maid's throat — blood pooling silently at her feet. The second barely had time to open her mouth in shock before the same fate met her, a gurgled cry dying in her throat.

The nursery door stood ajar.

Inside, the soft coos of the infant prince mingled with the gentle voice of Queen Shaera, who hummed an old Valyrian lullaby, cradling Prince Aemon in her arms. Her silver-gold hair glowed in the soft light of the hearth, her violet eyes weary but tender as she gazed upon the boy.

She didn't hear the assassin step through the doorway — not until the cold wind of his presence made the candlelight flicker.

Then she turned.

Her scream shattered the fragile peace.

"GUARDS!"

The assassin lunged.

Shaera twisted her body, clutching Aemon to her chest as the dagger flashed through the air. The first blow struck her shoulder, a sickening thud as the blade bit deep into the flesh. She staggered but did not fall.

"You will not touch him!" she cried, defiance ringing in her voice.

But the assassin was swift.

The assassin's next slash cut across her back, blood spilling onto the silk sheets, but still, she shielded the infant prince. Her violet eyes, wide with terror and resolve, locked onto the assassin's hidden face.

"Please—" the assassin murmured, voice shaking as if the act itself clawed at his soul. "I'm sorry."

Shaera, breathing heavily, forced herself to stand between the killer and the cradle, her body failing, but her will ironclad.

Aemon awoke with a terrified wail, his wide eyes locking onto the sight of his aunt bleeding above him. His tiny fists clenched the silken sheets as he cried out, helpless against the horror unfolding around him.

Aemon's cries filled the room, high-pitched and panicked, his tiny hands clawing at the air as he sensed the fear around him. His wide violet eyes locked on the assassin's shadowed form, the sight of the gleaming blade causing his cries to grow louder, raw with terror.

The assassin raised his dagger for the killing blow.

Steel rang out.

Ser Jonothor Darry burst into the room, his armour bloodied from the earlier skirmish, his sword already swinging. The assassin whirled to meet him, blade clashing against steel as Jonothor forced him back with sheer strength.

"Back, coward!" Jonothor roared, his blade catching the assassin's wrist and forcing the dagger free.

The assassin moved with desperation now, lunging for the Queen again, but Jonothor was faster. With a powerful swing, his sword cleaved through the assassin's side, sending him crashing into a shelf of wooden toys. Blood splattered across the stone floor.

Breathing hard, Jonothor rushed to Shaera's side. Shaera slumped to the ground, blood pooling beneath her, her grip still tight around baby Aemon. Jonothor didn't hesitate—he tore strips of cloth from his tunic, pressing them against her wounds, trying to staunch the bleeding. "Stay with me, my queen. Help is coming," he muttered urgently.

"Maester! Get the Maester!" Jonothor bellowed.

Aemon's cries quieted as he stared up at Jonothor, his wide eyes glistening with tears.

"It's okay, my prince," Jonothor whispered, pressing a bloodied hand to Aemon's tiny chest. "It's okay."

Moments later, the room flooded with footsteps, steel, and desperate voices. The maester was summoned, and Shaera was rushed to the healer's chambers, Jonothor carrying both her and the prince to safety.

The night's silence was broken, replaced by the grim aftermath of blood and steel. But the prince lived, and the queen—though gravely wounded—still breathed.

The Red Keep, once still and silent, now throbbed with the aftermath of violence. And though the danger had passed—for now—the blood spilt in the nursery left a stain that would linger long in the halls of the Targaryens.

The blood of the dragon had nearly been snuffed out in the dark.

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Jaehaerys POV.

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The torches in the Red Keep flickered violently, casting long, twisting shadows along the cold stone walls as King Jaehaerys II Targaryen stormed through the halls, his crimson robes trailing behind him like the tail of an enraged dragon. The scent of blood still lingered in the air, heavy and metallic, mixing with the faint smoke of the torches.

His hands trembled, not from fear—but from barely contained rage.

Assassins, he thought bitterly, within my very walls. In my stronghold. With blades meant for my blood.

He clenched his jaw as the door of council creaked open, and Ser Harlan Grandison stepped inside, his armour dented, his white cloak smeared with crimson. His injured arm was hastily bandaged, blood still seeping through the cloth.

Jaehaerys rose shakily from his chair. "Tell me."

Harlan bowed low, his face shadowed with guilt. "Two assassins, Your Grace. Disguised as servants. One made it to the nursery."

The words landed like hammer blows.

"Shaera?" Jaehaerys rasped.

"Queen lives," Harlan answered quickly. "Though she was wounded—badly. She shielded the prince with her own body. Were it not for Ser Jonothor Darry…"

The King exhaled, his relief tempered by the weight of what had nearly transpired. "And the boy? Aemon?"

"Unharmed, though… shaken." Harlan's eyes lowered. "He saw the blade. He saw the blood."

Jaehaerys closed his eyes for a brief moment, a prayer whispered silently to the Seven. Aemon lives.

But then the fury returned — white-hot and blinding.

"Who sent them?" His voice was low, dangerous.

"We captured one alive, though barely. He spoke of nothing"

"Poisoners and killers," Jaehaerys hissed. "Their blades never fail. Yet this one did." He crossed to the window, staring out over the darkened city below. "And the other?"

"Dead, Your Grace. Ser Jonothor cut him down in the nursery."

The King's fingers tightened against the stone ledge.

"They came for my blood," Jaehaerys muttered, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had ruled through fire and shadow. "Not just me. My family. My House."

"LOCK IT DOWN!" Jaehaerys roared to the guards stationed outside the council chambers. "The Red Keep is sealed—no one leaves, no one enters. I want every corridor swept, every servant questioned, every shadow dragged into the light!"

The guards bowed low and scattered, armoured boots thudding against the stone as they moved to obey.

But the King wasn't done.

"Seal the city gates," he barked to another captain. "No ships in the harbour, no merchants in the streets. The Red Keep will be guarded. I will not have my enemies lurking within my walls."

The man paled but nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."

Jaehaerys pushed through the towering oaken doors of the council chamber, the great map of Westeros stretched out on the table before him. But it wasn't maps he was interested in now — it was blood. His jaw clenched, the veins in his temples throbbing as he slammed a fist onto the table.

"BRING ME THE SPYMASTER!"

Moments later, Lord Denys Sunglass, the King's spymaster, entered, his face pale but composed. He gave a low bow though the tension in the room was palpable.

"Speak," Jaehaerys growled.

"My men have confirmed it, Your Grace," Denys began, his voice calm but edged with caution. "The assassins were Sorrowful Men—killers from Qarth, trained to kill without hesitation. It took gold, and a lot of it, to send them here."

"And there will be more," Jaehaerys spat. "The Sorrowful Men never stop until the contract is fulfilled."

"Unless the contractor dies," Denys added grimly. "That is their code."

The fire in Jaehaerys's chest burned hotter. Of course.

"Who paid them?" he demanded.

"We can only make assumptions, but the answer seems obvious."

The name lingered in the air before Denys even spoke it aloud.

"Maelys Blackfyre."

The very name sent a thunderclap of fury through Jaehaerys's veins.

"Of course it's him," the King snarled. "That bastard traitor would see my line extinguished."

He turned sharply, his cloak billowing, and stared out the high, narrow window that overlooked the city, the lights below flickering in the darkness like dying embers.

"He tried to kill my wife and my nephew," Jaehaerys whispered, his voice low with a dangerous calm. "A child. In his cradle."

His hands curled into fists.

"Send word to the dungeons," Jaehaerys barked. "Let the dungeons bleed him dry. Every name, every coin pouch, every whisper—I want it all dragged from him. If he dies before he speaks, so be it."

"And if he gives us nothing?" Denys asked.

"Hang him from the battlements," Jaehaerys growled, "and let the crows take their time."

Jaehaerys's mind spun. His thoughts drifted to the war that still dragged on in the Stepstones. The faces of the council echoed in his mind — some loyal, others scheming — and then, the memory of Ormund Baratheon and Ser Jason Lannister fell upon him like cold iron.

Ormund, felled by a poisoned arrow. Jason is cut down by Maelys's blade.

He clenched his fist tighter. Maelys was still out there—plotting. Growing bold enough to send assassins into the heart of the Red Keep.

Jaehaerys's gaze drifted towards the moonlit horizon. How long before he tries again?

His thoughts flickered to Aerys, his son, still camped with the armies in the Stepstones. Jaehaerys's heart twisted with a father's fear. I sent him to war, but was my greatest danger already here within my walls?

The cold sensation of foreboding wrapped around him.

The realm teeters on the edge, he thought. The blood of the dragon is thinning—one more blade in the dark, and it could all end.

A knock echoed at the chamber doors. One of the maids, trembling and tearful, stood there.

"Your Grace, Princess Rhaella is… distraught. She begs for you."

Jaehaerys's fury softened for a moment.

"Of course," he muttered.

When he entered Rhaella's chambers, he found her curled on a chaise, her face pale, eyes swollen from tears. She clutched Rhaegar tightly in her arms while another maid tried to comfort her. The sight of his daughter — fragile, frightened — splintered a piece of the King's heart.

He crossed the room, kneeling beside her.

"They are safe," Jaehaerys said gently, though his voice still trembled with residual rage.

"They tried to kill him," Rhaella whispered. "They tried to kill Aemon—and mother—" Her voice broke.

Jaehaerys reached out, placing a hand on her trembling shoulder. "They failed."

"But they'll try again—"

"Not if I end this war," Jaehaerys cut in, voice hardening. "I swear it, Rhaella, I will not allow another assassin within these walls. I will bring this to an end."

He stood, the fire rekindled fully.

"Send word to Ser Gerold Hightower," Jaehaerys ordered. "The time for playing defence is over. I want a final assault planned — the Stepstones will burn."

The councillors stiffened at the command, but no one dared argue.

"Every ship we can spare will sail. I want men from the Crownlands, more food, weapons, anything Gerold needs. This war ends in fire."

He turned to the spymaster. "And Maelys Blackfyre?" His voice was as cold as winter steel.

"Dead," Denys replied.

"Good," Jaehaerys spat. "Let it be known—the Blackfyre line ends now. I will not suffer their name to stain my house any longer."

The chamber filled with the hum of quickened quills as the council moved to obey.

Jaehaerys took a final glance toward the city's skyline, the clouds dark and heavy above the spires of the Red Keep.

You wanted war, Maelys? he thought. You'll choke on it.

And with that, the King of Westeros prepared to end a blood feud that had haunted the realm for generations — with fire and blood.

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General POV

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THE ROYALIST CAMP

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The royal war camp stretched across the rugged expanse of the Stepstones, a web of banners, tents, and siege engines bracing against the sea winds. Colours of Westeros's great houses flew high — the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the golden lion of House Lannister, the crowned stag of House Baratheon, the direwolf of House Stark, the falcon of House Arryn, the trout of House Tully, and the Kraken of House Greyjoy. The air was thick with salt, smoke, and the iron scent of war.

Within the largest command tent, the lords and commanders gathered, the heavy oak war table cluttered with maps, figurines, and goblets of strong wine. The flickering torches cast long shadows on the grim faces of the men who carried the weight of the realm.

At the head of the table stood Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. His white cloak was stained with dust, his polished armour dulled by the campaign. His gauntleted hand traced lines on the map as the lords around him debated the coming assault.

"Brynden's guerilla tactics have been our sharpest blade," Lord Hoster Tully stated, gesturing to where Maelys's supply lines had been shattered. "But Bloodstone still stands."

"Maely's men fight like a cornered wolf," Lord Jon Arryn added, his pale blue eyes calm but sharp. "We should expect him to lash out before the end."

"Then we give him no time," growled Lord Richard Stark, his northern burr heavy with cold fury. "We strike now, end it before more good men die."

"Patience, Lord Stark," came the cool voice of Lord Tywin Lannister, his green eyes calculating. "Recklessness feeds the enemy."

Prince Aerys Targaryen scoffed from his seat, swirling his wine. "We've been patient for a year, Tywin. How many more moons do we let Maelys mock us from his crumbling walls?"

"Until we can end it cleanly," Tywin retorted, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his tone.

Lord Steffon Baratheon let out a booming laugh, clapping Aerys on the back. "You'd have stormed the gates alone, wouldn't you?"

Aerys grinned. "And still won."

Their easy camaraderie lightened the tense air, the bond of old friends forged in their youth still strong. Tywin, Steffon, and Aerys — the golden lion, the storming stag, and the dragon prince — had grown together under the Red Keep's towers, their rivalry laced with respect.

But the moment shattered as the tent flaps were flung wide.

A dust-covered rider stumbled in, his face ashen, blood on his torn cloak. In his trembling hands, he bore a sealed letter, the Targaryen sigil dark with wax.

"News from the King… urgent," he gasped, thrusting it towards Ser Gerold Hightower. "But—there's worse. There was an assassination attempt… on the royal family. On Queen Shaera—and Prince Aemon."

The tent erupted into stunned silence.

Aerys Targaryen went rigid. The goblet of wine slipped from his hand, crashing to the stone floor. "What?" His voice was hoarse, disbelief clashing with sudden, burning rage.

"They live," the rider rushed to add, "but the Queen—she was gravely wounded protecting the Prince. The assassin—one of the Sorrowful Men—slipped into the nursery. Only the sacrifice of her guards and her strength saved the Prince."

Aerys's face twisted with fury and fear. "My mother—my nephew—"

He staggered back, but Steffon Baratheon caught him by the shoulder, his stormy blue eyes heavy with concern. "Aerys, they survived. They're alive."

"But she's hurt!" Aerys hissed, panic lacing his words. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "They tried to take my family."

"Who would send Qarthi assassins across half the world?" Lord Richard Stark growled, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword.

"Maelys," Tywin Lannister said grimly. "Only he would be bold—and cruel—enough to use the Sorrowful Men."

Aerys's jaw tightened as his violet eyes burned. "I swear—on my blood—I will kill Maelys myself."

"You will have your chance," Ser Gerold Hightower assured, finally breaking the silence as he opened the king's letter. "But first, we do this right. The King commands it."

The tent grew quiet as the Lord Commander read the King's decree aloud:

"The realm cannot afford this war to drag on. End it. The Blackfyre line must be extinguished. Reinforcements have been dispatched. Supplies, arms, and men are en route. The Blackfyre line must end — Maelys Blackfyre must die."

The words rang heavy in the tent.

"No more delays," Ser Gerold declared. "We strike Bloodstone in a week."

"About time," Brynden Tully growled, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Here's how we do it," Ser Gerold continued, placing tokens on the map. "Lord Jon Arryn, you'll lead the heavy cavalry. Break their flanks and keep their men pinned."

Jon Arryn nodded. "It'll be done."

"Lord Richard Stark and Lord Hoster Tully will command the flanks. Sweep wide and press inward once the front breaks."

Richard Stark's cold gaze met Hoster's, and both gave a firm nod.

"Ser Brynden Tully, your archers will rain fire upon them. Keep Maelys' men trapped under a storm of arrows."

Brynden smirked. "My men live for that."

"Lord Quellon Greyjoy," Ser Gerold turned to the reaver-lord, "raid Maelys' supply ships and shorelines. Starve them of reinforcements."

Quellon grunted approval. "The seas will run red."

"Lord Steffon Baratheon," Gerold continued, "you'll command the infantry. Form the bulk of the assault and push into the fortress once the walls are breached."

"With pleasure," Steffon said, gripping his father's Warhammer.

"And Prince Aerys…" Gerold hesitated.

"Put me on the Vanguard," Aerys demanded.

"No," Gerold cut in firmly. "You'll command the rear guard—hold the reserves. If the lines break, you'll be the spear that drives us home."

Aerys opened his mouth to protest, but Steffon stepped in. "You'll still have your fight, Aerys. And when we breach those gates, Maelys will be yours."

Tywin stepped in, clapping a hand on Aerys' shoulder. "We need someone in reserve we can trust. The final push might rest on you."

Aerys hesitated before nodding. "Very well."

Aerys's fury cooled slightly, but his resolve only hardened. "But Maelys dies by my hand."

The lords exchanged glances. No one doubted Aerys's thirst for blood now.

The final battle was set.

The war council dispersed, the lords leaving to rally their men, the heavy knowledge of the assassination attempt lingering in their minds.

As the last of the lords departed, Ser Gerold Hightower lingered over the map, his finger resting on the stone fortress of Bloodstone Island.

"This ends here," he muttered before snuffing out the lantern.

The storm was coming. And Maelys Blackfyre would not survive it.