Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

BLOODSTONE 260 AC

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The morning sky over Bloodstone Island was a canvas of grey, stretched taut with heavy clouds that threatened to weep before the battle's end. A stiff sea breeze rolled across the jagged cliffs, carrying with it the mingling scents of salt, iron, and the faint, bitter tang of blood — a foretaste of the violence yet to come.

The royalist camp stirred with tense energy, a hive of motion bound by discipline and fear. The ground trembled under the weight of armoured warhorses as stablehands tightened saddles and brushed sleek manes, their hands slick with sweat despite the chill. The distant hum of war horns vibrated in the air, a low, mournful call that echoed off the rocky shores.

In the heart of the camp, lords gathered around the great war table, its surface littered with detailed maps and carved figures representing battalions. Ser Gerold Hightower, stoic and unyielding, traced his gauntleted finger over the strategy lines, his voice low but firm as he spoke to the assembled commanders.

"Jon Arryn, your cavalry will sweep wide—cut through their flanks before they can regroup. Stark, Tully—hold the wings and push in once the front bends. Brynden, your archers will blanket their defences—leave nothing uncovered."

The lords nodded in grim agreement, their faces etched with the weariness of war too long drawn.

Nearby, Quellon Greyjoy checked the edges of his axes, their curved blades gleaming in the dull light. His men, salt-soaked and hardened, prepared for the sea raids that would cut off Maelys' supplies and retreat.

Prince Aerys Targaryen stood apart, gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles blanched. His violet eyes, wild with emotion, flicked between the towering spires of Bloodstone and the war camp. He felt the weight of the blood feud pressing on him — this was more than a battle; it was vengeance.

Tywin Lannister approached, his golden armour polished to a ruthless shine. "You grip that blade any tighter, Aerys, and it'll snap before you even reach Maelys."

Aerys didn't smile. "Let it. So long as it finds his heart first."

Steffon Baratheon laughed, the sound raw and booming. "Save that fire for the field."

The soldiers readied in their ways — some tightening armour straps until the leather bit into their skin, others muttering half-remembered prayers to the Seven. The clash of steel on whetstone rang sharply in the air, each spark a whisper of the death to come.

The air was heavy with the charged stillness that comes before battle—the kind that made every breath feel laboured, every heartbeat loud. Dust hung in the air, kicked up by the stomping hooves of restless warhorses, while the faint cries of gulls circled above the grey, churning sea.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the towering Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood upon a raised platform fashioned from hastily stacked crates and timber. His gleaming white armour, though dulled by the salt-laden winds of the Stepstones, caught the light as he removed his helm, revealing silver-streaked hair matted against his brow.

Before he stretched the royal host—thousands of armoured men bearing banners of the Seven Kingdoms. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen rippled above them, flanked by the direwolf of Stark, the crowned stag of Baratheon, the lion of Lannister, the falcon of Arryn, the trout of Tully, and the Kraken of Greyjoy. Their colours clashed in a sea of steel, leather, and hardened faces.

Gerold raised his sword high, its blade gleaming in the muted sunlight.

"MEN OF WESTEROS!" His voice thundered across the camp, silencing the murmurs, the clang of armour, the snorts of horses. Thousands of eyes turned toward him.

"YOU STAND HERE TODAY, NOT AS LIONS, STAGS, WOLVES, OR KRAKENS. NOT AS RIVALS. BUT AS BROTHERS—BOUND BY BLOOD, BY DUTY, AND BY HONOR!"

A cheer swelled, but Gerold raised a hand, commanding silence.

"You know why we are here. You know the name of the man who has poisoned these stones with blood. MAELYS BLACKFYRE!"

The crowd roared at the name, their voices echoing off the jagged cliffs.

"A TRAITOR! A USURPER! A KINSLAYER!" Gerold's voice was like a blade, each word cutting through the crowd. "For a year, he has bled us, dragged this realm through the mud, and now—NOW—he stoops to darker deeds!"

He let the weight of his next words fall heavy.

"A week ago, his assassins crept into the Red Keep. Their blades sought not a soldier, not a king, but a child—an infant prince! The blood of House Targaryen nearly spilled in his cradle!"

A furious uproar surged through the ranks. Swords were slammed against shields. Men shouted curses.

"But they FAILED," Gerold continued, voice hard, eyes fierce. "Queen Shaera bled for her nephew. A mother's love shielded him—and it will not be in vain!"

He pointed his blade toward the distant walls of Bloodstone, the stronghold of Maelys.

"That man—Maelys Blackfyre—sent poisoners and butchers to our children. He breaks the laws of men and gods. He spits on honour. And for that, he will pay IN BLOOD."

Aerys Targaryen, clad in polished armour with a ruby-encrusted sword at his side, stepped forward, his violet eyes blazing with fury. "Maelys tried to kill my mother. My nephew. I SWEAR ON MY NAME—HE WILL DIE BY MY HAND!"

The lords raised their blades in agreement—Steffon Baratheon swinging his Warhammer in the air, Tywin Lannister nodding curtly, his cold green eyes narrowed in focus. Even Jon Arryn and Richard Stark, men of more measured temperaments, clenched their fists, rage hidden behind solemn expressions.

Ser Gerold's voice rose once more.

"Maelys and his Blackfyres wanted this war. They wanted chaos. BUT WE WILL GIVE THEM RUIN!"

He turned, sweeping his sword across the vast host.

"Today, we end this rebellion. We end the Blackfyre line forever. FOR THE IRON THRONE. FOR THE REALM!"

"FOR THE REALM!" the army roared back, thousands of voices crashing like a wave.

The horns sounded.

Ser Gerold lowered his blade, the fire of war burning in his eyes. "MOVE OUT!"

The ground trembled as the host surged forward, thousands of feet pounding the earth, drums echoing across the hills. Above them, banners snapped in the rising wind, the dragons of House Targaryen leading the charge.

The storm had broken.

The final battle had begun.

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The sun rose like a blade of fire over the jagged horizon of the Stepstones, casting a blood-red hue across the vast field that stretched before the ancient stronghold of Bloodstone. The once-proud castle, its weathered towers still standing like defiant sentinels, bore the scars of centuries of war. Once the seat of Daemon Targaryen, the self-proclaimed King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, it now stood as the last bastion of Maelys Blackfyre's rebellion.

The field before Bloodstone was a brutal expanse of dirt and jagged rock, scarred by old trenches and deep craters from past sieges. Salt from the sea air mingled with the earthy scent of churned mud, while gulls circled overhead, their cries drowned by the distant roll of war drums.

The banners of Westeros's great houses fluttered in the stiff morning breeze. The crimson dragon of House Targaryen led the host, flanked by the direwolf of House Stark, the crowned stag of House Baratheon, the golden lion of House Lannister, the falcon of House Arryn, the trout of House Tully, and the Kraken of House Greyjoy.

Ser Gerold Hightower rode at the front, his white cloak trailing behind him, the sun glinting off his polished armour. The lines of soldiers stretched as far as the eye could see — infantry in the centre, archers positioned on the rising hills, and heavy cavalry waiting in the rear for the signal to charge.

Prince Aerys Targaryen sat astride his horse, gripping the hilt of his sword, his face pale but resolute. Beside him rode Lord Steffon Baratheon, hammer slung over his back, and Lord Tywin Lannister, his green eyes cold and calculating. The lords exchanged no words — none were needed. The weight of the moment was heavy enough.

Jon Arryn's heavy cavalry, sleek destriers clad in steel barding, lined the left flank, their lances glinting in the dawn light. On the right, Richard Stark and Hoster Tully led the flanking forces, grim and ready. Atop the hills, Ser Brynden Tully's archers nocked their arrows, the heads dipped in oil, ready to rain fire upon the enemy.

Quellon Greyjoy's longships prowled the coastline, waiting for the signal to strike at Maelys's supply lines and cut off any chance of retreat.

Opposite them, Maelys Blackfyre's forces gathered in chaotic but brutal formation. Mercenaries from Tyrosh and Lys filled the ranks — hard-eyed killers, sellswords driven by coin, not loyalty. Slave soldiers, shackled and branded, stood in grim silence, their fear twisted into desperation.

At the centre of the enemy host stood Maelys Blackfyre himself, his towering figure clad in blackened plate armour. The jagged scar across his face was a stark reminder of the First Battle of Bloodstone. His single, bloodshot eye swept the field, hunger for blood and vengeance burning within.

By his side stood Ser Tybero, his captain of horse, and Ser Fossoway, his most trusted commander, their faces set in grim determination. War drums pounded, deep and slow, matching the beat of Maelys's war-hungry heart.

For a heartbeat, the entire battlefield stood in eerie stillness — a breath held before the storm.

The sea breeze carried the mingled scents of salt and blood, the cries of gulls twisted into ghostly wails above the pounding war drums.

Ser Gerold Hightower raised his sword high, the silver blade glinting in the harsh sunlight.

"THIS DAY, THE BLACKFYRE USURPERS FALL!"

The war horns blared — deep, thunderous calls that shook the very air.

Both armies surged forward.

The air vibrated with tension, heavy with the scent of blood, sweat, and salt. Across the mist-laden fields of Bloodstone, a terrible silence reigned — the kind that presses on the chest before the scream of war. In that hush, Jon Arryn's heavy cavalry lined up, hundreds of knights clad in gleaming steel, their lances poised, horses snorting clouds of steam into the cold air.

Jon Arryn sat tall in his saddle, his silver falcon banner fluttering above him. The pale sky cast a grey sheen over his polished armour. His gloved hand tightened around the reins as he raised his sword.

"FOR THE CROWN!" he bellowed, the cry ripping through the fog.

War horns answered.

The earth trembled as the heavy cavalry surged forward. Hooves pounded like thunder across the sodden ground, shaking the stones of Bloodstone itself. Lances lowered in unison, their sharp iron tips glittering like deadly teeth in the morning light. The mist parted before them like a curtain, revealing the enemy ranks bracing behind a wall of shields.

The impact was cataclysmic.

Lances splintered against steel and bone, the deafening crack echoing across the battlefield. Men were torn from their feet, bodies were twisted, impaled, or crushed under the sheer force. Blood sprayed in heavy arcs, painting the cavalry's armour in deep crimson.

Jon Arryn's horse crashed through the breach, its armoured flank heaving with effort. He swung his sword, cleaving through a spearman's helm, the blade biting deep. Around him, his bannermen fought with brutal efficiency — axes hacking through wooden shields, maces caving in breastplates.

But Maelys had prepared.

"SHIELD WALL!" a Blackfyre captain roared.

Maelys's veterans locked their shields together, forming a brutal iron phalanx. Thick wooden shields bristled with spikes, their edges overlapping. Spears jabbed outward in a deadly forest of steel.

Jon's second wave of cavalry thundered into the wall — and faltered. Horses shrieked as iron pikes pierced their chests, and riders were thrown screaming into the mud. A destrier collapsed under its knight, both buried in the bloodied dirt, the man clawing for breath before a spearhead silenced him.

The charge staggered.

Jon Arryn cursed, rallying his remaining men. "REGROUP! STRIKE THE FLANKS!"

The battlefield trembled under the relentless drumbeat of hooves.

The mists clung low over the marshy ground as Lord Richard Stark rode at the head of his bannermen. Grey cloaks flapped in the cutting wind, direwolf banners rising high above the churned mud. His greatsword, Ice, gleamed dully under the pale sunlight, its weight familiar in his gauntleted grip.

"Forward!" Stark bellowed, his voice rising above the chaos. "For the North!"

Northern horsemen surged forward, hooves pounding like thunder across the soft, uneven ground. They tore through the mist, a wall of steel and fury, spears lowered and shields tight. Stark's cavalry struck the enemy flank like a hammer—men screamed, shields splintered, and bones snapped beneath heavy hooves.

Richard's horse reared, and he brought Ice down in a wide arc, cleaving through a rebel captain. Blood sprayed across his armour, but he didn't slow.

"Break their line!"

The enemy's left flank buckled under the Northern assault, rebels fell back in a tangle of men and steel.

On the opposite side of the battlefield, Lord Hoster Tully led his riverlords into the fray. The sigil of House Tully—a leaping trout—snapped in the sea breeze as his infantry pushed through the rocky outcroppings, driving forward with measured discipline.

"Keep formation!" Hoster roared, his sword flashing. "Press them to the sea!"

Tully's men formed a crescent, archers on the ridges and pikemen driving the enemy toward the coast. The rebel soldiers fought like trapped rats, but the riverlords held firm. Spears thrust through gaps in armour, while swords and axes hacked through flesh and bone.

The terrain played to their advantage. The muddy ground sucked at the rebels' boots, slowing them as Tully's infantry surged forward. Screams echoed as soldiers were cut down or driven into the shallows where Ironborn longships rained arrows from the sea.

High above the field, Ser Brynden Tully—The Blackfish—commanded his archers from a ridge. His sharp eyes flicked over the chaos below, reading the shifting tides of battle.

"Light the pitch," Brynden ordered.

Archers dipped their arrows into tarred braziers, flames licking the tips before the Blackfish raised his sword.

"Loose!"

A storm of fire rained down. Flaming arrows cut through the mist, landing in enemy ranks with deadly precision. Men screamed as the fire caught on shields, armour, and dry grass. Smoke billowed, clouding the battlefield and driving the enemy into natural choke points.

Brynden's voice thundered again. "Staggered volleys—cut off their retreat!"

Another wave of arrows followed, driving the rebels into the tightening jaws of the pincer.

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The battlefield was a cacophony of steel, blood, and screams—a brutal theatre where men became beasts, and honour drowned in mud.

Blood soaked into the earth until the ground itself seemed to bleed. The mud sucked at boots, turning the battlefield into a quagmire where men slipped and drowned in filth.

Smoke billowed from the burning trenches as fire, meant for the enemy, leapt uncontrollably in the wind. A gust carried the flames into a cluster of Tully soldiers, their cries piercing the din as their banner ignited.

The screams. The chaos. The stench of iron and smoke.

Jon Arryn, his armour dented and slick with blood, raised his sword again. "PUSH! We break them here, or we bleed forever!"

The royalist forces surged forward, trampling the dead beneath their boots, the field becoming a writhing sea of bodies — man and horse — locked in brutal, bloodied struggle.

The Dornish spearman crouched low behind the remains of a shattered cart, the sharp tang of blood mixing with the salt air. His spear trembled in his hands, slick with sweat and gore. Around him, bodies piled in the trenches, blood turning the dirt into a sucking mire. A warhorn blared, and he surged forward, feet slipping in the sludge.

"Push! PUSH!" a captain screamed.

He lunged, driving his spear into the gut of a charging knight. Warm blood splattered his face. The knight didn't even have time to scream. Before he could pull the spear free, an explosion of hoofbeats sounded—heavy cavalry thundered through, their lances turning men into ragdolls.

The spearman dove into the mud as a riderless horse collapsed nearby, its massive body pinning another soldier beneath it. The trapped man clawed at the ground, blood bubbling from his lips.

"Help! Please—"

A stray arrow silenced him, piercing his throat.

The spearman crawled forward, blood soaking his tattered cloak. Around him, men slipped in the mud, their faces twisted in terror and pain. A squire, no older than sixteen, knelt nearby, staring at the corpse he had just killed. His vomit mixed with the blood-soaked earth.

"Stand up, boy! Stand—"

An axe split the squire's helm, cutting the command short.

The Dornishman didn't look back. He had no time for the dead.

Ser Varric Dren, a sworn sword of Maelys Blackfyre, gripped his shield tighter as the enemy flanks surged forward. The Targaryen banners, red and black, moved like a tide. Around him, Maelys's soldiers braced in shield walls, iron interlocked, pikes angled outward.

"Hold the line!" the captain roared.

But Varric's hands shook. He could feel it—the fear, the weight of Maelys's gaze from the distant ridge. Maelys would slaughter them if they broke.

The enemy cavalry slammed into the shield wall. Wood splintered. Men screamed. Varric's ears rang as a horse collapsed inches away, its blood spraying across his face.

"Push back! For Maelys!"

He drove his sword forward, stabbing wildly through a gap in the shields. A Northman's face contorted in agony before he fell. Varric had no time to celebrate. The sky darkened with arrows.

"Shields up!"

The first volley struck. An arrow punched through the man beside him, the tip emerging from his throat. He gurgled and slumped forward. Varric flinched, but a second volley cut deeper, finding gaps in armour. Bodies collapsed around him.

He heard it then—the war horn. Deep and guttural.

Maelys was coming.

Fear twisted Varric's gut. Men whispered tales of the Monstrous One—how he split men in half with a single blow. And if they failed here, it wouldn't be the enemy's blades that ended them—it would be Maelys's wrath.

But there was no running.

He raised his shield higher, bracing for the next wave, as the ground beneath him turned to sludge, thick with blood and the stench of death.

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The battlefield was chaos incarnate. Bodies clogged the trenches, blood pooling beneath shattered armour. Horses collapsed mid-charge, their dying cries mixing with the screams of men. A Targaryen bannerman, pinned beneath his mount, clawed at the mud until an arrow ended his suffering.

Flaming arrows rained down, igniting the blood-soaked ground. Smoke curled, choking the air, while the mud thickened into sludge, pulling at boots and dragging men down.

The clang of steel against steel echoed across the bloodied field, the cries of the dying swallowed by the thick smoke that rolled in from the burning tar pits. The sky, once pale with dawn, now darkened beneath heavy clouds, mirroring the growing uncertainty on the battlefield. The clash between life and death reached its fever pitch, and amidst the chaos, Maelys Blackfyre finally entered the fray.

A horn blared—a deep, guttural sound that silenced even the cries of the wounded. Maelys Blackfyre emerged astride a monstrous warhorse, his blackened armour glinting dully beneath the overcast sky. The Blackfyre banner, a three-headed dragon reversed in colours, snapped above him, blood-red against pitch-black.

At his side, loyalist soldiers followed, a grim wave of hardened mercenaries, sellswords, and desperate men. The sight of Maelys, towering above them with his cruel, jagged blade in hand, sparked both fear and renewed vigour within his ranks.

Maelys's deep voice thundered across the battlefield, "For the Black Dragon! No mercy! No retreat!"

Jon Arryn's heavy cavalry, still locked in their wedge formation, thundered toward Maelys's lines. But Maelys had prepared. Spiked trenches and long pike walls bristled ahead, an impenetrable barrier against the charging horsemen.

"Form ranks!" Jon Arryn roared, but it was too late.

The first line of cavalry slammed into the pike wall. Horses screamed as sharpened steel pierced their flesh, riders were thrown from their mounts, and they were trampled in the chaos. Mud and blood churned together as the cavalry charge faltered, the momentum broken.

Jon Arryn, his white cloak now blackened with mud, fought to rally his men. "Fall back and regroup!"

But the enemy pushed forward.

Archers on Maelys's side lit tar pits scattered across the battlefield. Flaming arrows arced high before crashing into the viscous black pools. Fire erupted in great pillars, cutting off escape routes and forcing the royalist infantry into narrow killing fields.

In the marshlands on the northern flank, Jon Arryn's cavalry struggled. Horses bogged down in the soft ground, their hooves sinking deep into the mud. Men slipped and drowned in the mire, dragged under by their heavy armour.

Jon Arryn himself found his horse floundering, the beast panicked and wild-eyed. He dismounted, boots sinking into the muck as he cut free his comrades.

"This is a trap! Pull them out!"

But the chaos was total.

From the ridge above, Maelys's archers rained down volleys of black-feathered arrows. Each shot found its mark, skewering men pinned in the mud. The royalist formation began to fracture.

Maelys was a whirlwind of death. His giant Morningstar crushed through shields and bone alike, each swing of his blade an execution. Even his men gave him a wide berth as he tore through the ranks of Hoster Tully's infantry, the mud around him red with blood.

A royalist knight charged at him, lance aimed at Maelys's heart. Maelys twisted in his saddle, catching the lance mid-thrust, snapping it in two before bringing his blade down, splitting the knight's helm.

The battle shifted. Maelys was not merely leading the charge—he was the storm itself.

Through the swirling chaos, Maelys's monstrous figure charged at the head of his Blackfyre cavalry, cutting down any who dared to stand before him. His one good eye gleamed with bloodlust as his massive axe swung in deadly arcs, leaving only ruin in its path.

But then—

From the western ridge, drums thundered.

"FORM RANKS!" roared Lord Steffon Baratheon, his crowned stag banners rising high as his infantry surged forward.

Steel-clad men, shields locked and pikes raised, stormed the bloodied field. Baratheon's infantry crashed into Maelys's cavalry like a tidal wave against a stone. The sound of splintering lances and screaming horses filled the air as the charge broke against their pike wall.

"STEADY!" Steffon bellowed, slamming his warhammer into the ground before hefting it with brutal intent.

Maelys's cavalry reeled under the sudden wall of steel. Horses screamed as pikes pierced through flesh, and Blackfyre knights toppled from their saddles. Yet Maelys himself charged through the line, his war axe cleaving a path through the infantry.

Steffon met him head-on.

Their weapons clashed with a thunderous boom. The ground itself seemed to shake beneath the force of their blows as hammer met Morningstar, steel ringing out over the chaos. Steffon grunted as Maelys's strength nearly drove him to his knees, but he pushed back, swinging his hammer for Maelys's side. The blow glanced off thick armour, but Maelys staggered for a heartbeat.

"DRIVE THEM BACK!" Steffon roared.

While the infantry fought to hold the line, the left flank buckled under the relentless assault. Blackfyre spearmen surged into the thinning ranks, cutting through northern bannermen.

But then a horn blared from the rear.

Ser Gerold Hightower led the vanguard of the rear guard, his white cloak flowing behind him as he thundered forward with Prince Aerys Targaryen and Tywin Lannister at his side.

"TO THE LEFT FLANK!" Gerold's voice boomed across the field.

Aerys, his silver hair matted with sweat, burned with fury. "We end this today!" he spat, leading his men into the fray.

Tywin rode beside him, face set in cold calculation. "Stay behind the shields. Let the spears take the first blow."

The rear guard charged into the crumbling left flank, crashing into the Blackfyre forces with brutal force. Lannister men, armoured in gold and crimson, formed a shield wall as Aerys's sword slashed through enemy ranks.

Aerys's rage-fueled him, each stroke of his blade a deadly blur. "FOR THE DRAGON!" he roared, cutting down a Blackfyre bannerman with a swift strike.

Tywin fought methodically, his blade flashing with precision. He cut down two men with ease before calling out, "Reinforce the pikes! Don't let them form ranks!"

Together, the three forces—Steffon's infantry, the rear guard, and the reinvigorated left flank—began to push Maelys's cavalry back. Yet the battlefield was far from won.

Maelys still raged in the centre, cutting through soldiers like wheat, his bloodlust insatiable.

The tide had turned—but the storm still raged.

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"In war, there are no victors—only survivors."

The battlefield of Bloodstone had become a pitiless wasteland of steel, blood, and death. The sky, heavy with smoke, wept ash onto the torn earth, where corpses outnumbered the living. The ground was a churning mire—bloodied mud sucking at boots, the iron stench of blood choking the air. Time lost meaning as the clash of steel became an endless rhythm, a brutal symphony of chaos.

The battle raged for hours—no victors, only the dying.

Perched atop a muddy rise, a northern archer wiped the blood from his brow with shaking fingers. His quiver was nearly empty. Around him, the dead sprawled in grotesque heaps—arrows jutting from bodies like cruel thorns.

"Loose! Again!" his captain shouted.

He nocked an arrow and sighted a cluster of enemy pikemen—but his hands trembled. Below, a boy—barely old enough to hold a sword—staggered, blood streaming from a wound across his chest.

The archer hesitated.

The boy looked up.

"I'm sorry," the archer whispered before losing the arrow.

It struck the boy's throat. He crumpled.

The archer sat back, bile rising in his throat.

The battlefield was a canvas of agony.

A royalist infantryman was pinned beneath his dead horse, legs crushed and twisted. He clawed at the mud, reaching for help, but the next moment, a stray arrow found his throat. Blood bubbled from his mouth as he died alone.

Bodies piled in the trenches—limbs tangled, faces half-buried in the sludge. Blood mixed with rain, turning the ground into a thick, red muck. Soldiers slipped in it, falling onto corpses, some too exhausted to rise.

A young knight, his armour too large for his thin frame, made his first kill—a clean thrust into a rebel's gut. But when the man screamed, clutching at the blade, the knight paled and vomited into the mud.

Nearby, a warhorse took an arrow to the eye, shrieking as it collapsed, crushing its rider beneath. The man screamed, pinned until a passing soldier slit his throat out of pity.

Steel clashed, arrows hissed, and men died—over and over.

Hours bled into each other.

The royalist army pushed forward, only to be driven back by Maelys's brutal countercharges. The air was thick with smoke from burning trenches. Screams echoed through the mist, drowned out only by the hammering of war drums.

Jon Arryn's cavalry was bogged down in the marshland, horses sinking into the mud as enemy pikemen advanced. His men hacked and slashed, but the pikes took their toll. Knights fell, their banners sinking into the muck.

Hoster Tully's forces clawed for the centre, but Maelys's shield walls held firm—interlocked iron plates forming a brutal phalanx that absorbed each charge.

On the flanks, Richard Stark's men surged through broken terrain, axes cleaving through Maelys's light infantry—but the mud slowed them, and rebel archers picked them off one by one.

The sun dipped low, casting blood-red light over the battlefield.

And still, no victor.

Even hardened soldiers faltered.

Men wept openly as they dragged their comrades from the mud, only for stray arrows to end them. Others froze mid-charge, paralyzed by the sheer scale of death before them. The sound of steel on bone, the wet thud of axes splitting skulls—each noise etched itself into the minds of those still standing.

In the trenches, a soldier knelt beside his fallen friend, hands shaking as he whispered, "You'll be fine, you'll be fine." The friend was already dead.

Even the victors looked hollow-eyed, faces spattered with blood—some their own, some not.

The clash of steel slowed as exhaustion set in.

Fighters staggered through smoke and mud, too tired to lift their blades. Arrows dwindled. Shields splintered. Men wielded broken swords and dented axes.

For long hours, the battle raged—with no victor, only death.

Maelys's forces stood bloodied but unbroken.

The royalists pressed on, but their dead littered the field.

It was a war of attrition now.

And the worst was yet to come.

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SER BARRISTAN POV

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The clash of steel and the screams of the dying echoed across the bloodied field as Ser Barristan Selmy rode hard through the chaos. His cloak, torn and streaked with blood, flapped wildly behind him as his destrier galloped through the churning mud. Around him, his light cavalry weaved through broken shield lines, slashing down any rebel soldier who dared to face them.

The ground was a ruin of bodies and steel, horses sinking in blood-thickened muck, the stench of death hanging heavy. Barristan's armour was dented, his gauntlets slick with blood, but his focus never faltered. Every swing of his blade was precise—a severed arm, a crushed helm, a throat split wide.

"WITH ME!" he roared above the carnage, his voice cutting through the din. The cavalry surged at his command, a white wave against the black tide of Blackfyre soldiers. They danced around the heavier infantry, striking where lines thinned, retreating before pikes could close in.

But for every rebel they felled, another took their place. Barristan could feel it—the battle was dragging, becoming a war of attrition. The fields were drowning in blood, and Maelys Blackfyre, the heart of this chaos, still stood.

His horse shuddered beneath him as an arrow nicked its flank, but Barristan held firm. He hacked through a rebel spearman, then another, pushing deeper into enemy lines.

"This won't end until the head falls," he thought grimly.

He reined his horse sharply, calling his captains to him. "We break through. Straight to Maelys. This ends now."

A captain, blood streaking his cheek, hesitated. "Through their vanguard? We'll be torn apart."

"We'll be dead anyway if this drags on," Barristan replied, his tone steel. "You want this to end? Follow me."

With a rallying cry, he plunged forward.

His light cavalry cut through the chaos, veering away from the main fray and into the deeper heart of the enemy. Arrows darkened the sky, but Barristan rode low, shield raised. His men followed, tightening their formation.

The Blackfyre lines buckled under the force of the charge. The speed and brutality of Barristan's advance took them off guard. His blade flashed—a captain fell, his throat a crimson ruin. Another was trampled under the hooves of Barristan's warhorse.

Ahead, through the haze of smoke and fire, he saw him.

Maelys Blackfyre.

The Monstrous.

A towering figure, armour blackened and splattered with gore, his Morningstar swinging in wide, brutal arcs. Even from this distance, Barristan could feel the pull of danger, the sheer weight of the man's presence. Maelys cut down three royalist knights in moments, his Morningstar a force of nature.

Barristan's heart thundered—not with fear, but with grim purpose.

He spurred his horse forward.

Maelys turned as if sensing the charge. His single eye, gleaming with violent anticipation, locked onto Barristan. He raised his weapon, pointing it directly at him—a challenge.

Barristan rose in the stirrups, his torn cloak whipping around him. "FOR THE KING!"

His horse surged ahead.

Steel screamed against Steel as the first clash broke around Maelys's position. Barristan's men fought to hold off Maelys's guard while he closed the distance. The Blackfyre soldiers, monstrous in size and strength, fell beneath the speed of his strikes.

Then it was just him and Maelys.

A storm against a mountain.

Around them, the battle continued to rage, but for Barristan, the world narrowed to Maelys—the monster who had fueled this bloodshed for too long.

This is it, he thought, teeth gritted. One of us dies here.

The legendary duel had begun.

The din of battle dimmed, muffled beneath the heavy fog of smoke and blood, as the battlefield's chaos seemed to part for two titans—Maelys Blackfyre and Ser Barristan Selmy—to meet their destiny.

The clash was inevitable.

The fires of war burned high, embers drifting like dying stars against the smoke-choked sky. Across the mud-slicked field, Ser Barristan Selmy reined in his horse, breath fogging in the cold air, his longsword heavy in his grip. The blade's edge was chipped, its once-shining steel now marred with the grime of war, but it still gleamed in the firelight—clean, purposeful.

Across from him, Maelys Blackfyre loomed like a monster from the old tales. His armour was blackened and battered, a jagged crown twisted into his helm. The massive Morningstar in his gauntleted hand swung lazily at his side, its spiked iron head crusted with blood and gore. Even his horse seemed a creature of shadow, its nostrils flaring as it pawed at the blood-soaked ground.

For a moment, there was only the wind.

Then, with a thunder of hooves, they charged.

The ground quaked beneath them. Barristan's heart drummed in his chest—loud, relentless—as he spurred his mount forward, his longsword raised. Every muscle tensed as Maelys swung first, the Morningstar hissing through the air, a brutal arc aimed straight for his skull.

Barristan yanked the reins hard—his horse jerked sideways—but he could feel the force of the swing in the air, the heat of it, as the Morningstar slammed into the mud where he'd been, a thunderous crack splitting the earth. Clumps of wet dirt sprayed upward.

Barristan twisted in his saddle, his blade flashing in a wide arc. It struck Maelys' side—a screech of steel on steel—but the blow barely bit through the armour. Maelys barely flinched.

"Is that all, boy?!" Maelys roared, his voice like rolling thunder.

Barristan didn't answer. He couldn't. There was no space for words here. Only survival.

Maelys' destrier surged forward, nostrils flaring, and the Blackfyre swung again. This time, Barristan ducked low, feeling the wind shear past his head as the Morningstar tore through the air. The sheer force of it shook his teeth in his skull.

The horses circled, hooves sloshing through bloodied mud, breath ragged from both man and beast.

Another charge.

This time, Barristan angled his sword upward, slashing the reins of Maelys' horse in a desperate gamble. The massive destrier shrieked as the reins snapped, bucking wildly. Maelys bellowed, trying to regain control, but the horse reared violently, hooves flailing.

The Blackfyre was thrown.

He hit the ground with a heavy, armour-clad crash that sent a shudder through the earth. For the briefest moment, he didn't move.

But then, with a growl, Maelys surged to his feet—mud clinging to his dented armour, his one good eye burning with rage.

Barristan was already off his horse, boots sinking deep into the muck as he strode forward, longsword ready.

The duel would end on foot.

They circled, mud sucking at their boots, the sounds of battle distant now—only a backdrop to the violence at hand.

Maelys lunged.

The Morningstar came down with horrifying speed—Barristan barely sidestepped, the spiked head striking the ground where he'd stood, throwing up a spray of mud and blood. He slashed across Maelys' exposed side, the blade sliding between a gap in the armour, but the wound was shallow.

Maelys didn't even grunt.

Instead, the Blackfyre giant swung the Morningstar again, wide and low. Barristan leapt back, but the spiked head grazed his thigh, tearing through leather and into flesh. Pain lanced up his leg, hot and blinding, but he forced himself to stay upright.

Maelys pressed his advantage.

Another brutal swing.

This time, Barristan didn't dodge. He raised his longsword, angling the flat against the Morningstar's path. The impact nearly tore the weapon from his hands—his shoulders screamed with force—but the Morningstar deflected just enough to crash into the mud rather than his ribs.

Barristan stumbled, gasping, vision swimming.

Maelys laughed. "You're not fit to die by my hand, boy."

Barristan's fingers tightened around his hilt. He lunged.

The longsword thrust forward, quick as a striking viper, plunging deep into Maelys' shoulder. The Blackfyre howled—raw, animalistic—and staggered backwards. His grip on the Morningstar faltered.

Barristan ripped the sword free, blood pouring from the wound.

But Maelys wasn't done.

He surged forward, his Morningstar arcing in a desperate, final blow. It crashed into Barristan's side, denting his armour, the force sending him sprawling into the mud.

For a heartbeat, Barristan saw nothing but grey sky and the curling smoke above.

Then the pain hit.

It burned down his ribs, sharp and brutal. His lungs screamed for air.

He rolled just as Maelys brought the Morningstar down again—this time, it missed by mere inches, embedding deep into the dirt where Barristan's head had been.

With a roar of defiance, Barristan surged to his feet, his body a symphony of pain, and drove his longsword upward.

The steel punched into Maelys' side.

Through armour.

Through flesh.

Through the lung.

Maelys froze.

A strangled gasp clawed from his throat. Blood bubbled past his lips as he staggered, hands slackening around the Morningstar. His one good eye locked onto Barristan—a storm of hatred, disbelief, and something ancient, like the weight of his family's cursed history.

Then, Maelys crumpled to his knees.

His massive body sways.

And fell.

The Morningstar slipped from his fingers with a heavy thud.

The mud sucked at his armour as his bulk hit the ground, face-first, blood pooling beneath him.

The battlefield fell silent.

A stillness, heavy and final, spread across the field.

Then, like a crack in the dam, the shouts began.

"Maelys is dead!"

"The Blackfyre is dead!"

Barristan stood over the fallen Blackfyre, chest heaving, blood dripping from his sword. His armour was battered, his body broken in places he wouldn't feel until much later—but he stood.

He had killed the last of the male Blackfyres.

The dynasty was finished.

The rebellion was over.

The winds swept across the field, carrying away the smoke, the fire, and the ghosts of a bloodline that had haunted Westeros for generations.

Barristan's sword clattered from his grip, sinking into the mud beside the fallen monster.

For a moment, all he could hear was the wind and the slow, rhythmic beat of his own heart.

The war was over.

And Barristan Selmy had carved that truth into the bones of the realm.

.

.

.

.

.

The thunderous roar of battle quieted as Maelys Blackfyre's lifeless body crumpled into the blood-soaked mud. His massive form, once the towering shadow of rebellion, now lay broken and still, the heavy Morningstar half-buried beside him.

A profound silence washed over the battlefield — a moment where every man, friend and foe alike seemed to hold their breath.

For a heartbeat, the world stilled.

Then came the cries.

"Maelys is dead!"

"The Blackfyre is slain!"

The shout echoed like a rolling wave, rippling across the battlefield, passing from throat to throat, across ranks of bloodied men who barely understood what had happened. It was a guttural, raw sound — part disbelief, part triumph. The towering terror of the Blackfyre line, the last male heir of a cursed dynasty, lay slain.

The morale of Maelys' forces cracked.

At first, it was subtle — a tremor in their shield walls, the slackening of bowstrings. Then it broke. Men began to flee. Blackfyre's bannermen, who had sworn blood oaths, turned their horses around, spurring them desperately toward the rocky shores. Foot soldiers, wide-eyed and pale, threw down their spears and fled into the mist.

The rebellion, which had burned so hot and fierce, now flickered and died.

But mercy was a stranger here.

"NO QUARTER!" thundered Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his voice cutting through the chaos as he raised his sword high, its blade gleaming crimson in the murky light. "Cut them down! Every last one! For the realm! For the King!"

The roar that followed was feral.

The royalist forces surged forward with renewed bloodlust. What had been a brutal slog transformed into a slaughter.

The northern bannermen under Lord Richard Stark pressed hard into the broken Blackfyre lines, their axes rising and falling like the relentless tide. Richard's direwolf sigil gleamed with fresh blood as his men hacked through the fleeing rebels, their white cloaks soaked with red. The sound of iron boots in the mud was drowned by the screams of men cut down mid-flight.

"Show them the cost of treason!" Stark roared, his blade cleaving through armour and bone.

Nearby, a young soldier — a boy no older than sixteen — struggled beneath his fallen horse. Mud and blood sucked at his legs as he clawed at the ground, his free hand reaching, reaching for salvation. For a breathless moment, his gaze met that of a passing knight — but the knight rode past, ignoring the boy's panicked cries. A stray arrow found him seconds later, piercing his throat. His outstretched hand twitched once, then stilled.

To the right flank, Hoster Tully drove his men forward. Archers rained down volleys on the fleeing soldiers — arrows whistled through the smoke-thick air, burying themselves in backs and throats. Some rebels tried to form shield walls, but they shattered under the weight of Tully's advancing infantry.

Atop the ridge, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stood among his archers, his voice hoarse from command.

"Light the fields! Cut off their retreat!"

Flaming arrows soared skyward, arching over the battlefield before slamming into oil-soaked trenches. Walls of fire erupted, choking black smoke curling into the sky, trapping the rebels between the advancing royalists and the inferno.

In the sea below, Lord Quellon Greyjoy's longships set the Blackfyre escape vessels ablaze. From the cliffs above, the sailors watched as Ironborn raiders stormed the decks, axes glinting, slaughtering the last of Maelys' retreating allies. The sea foamed red with blood.

A Greyjoy captain, laughing maniacally, dragged a wounded Tyroshi sailor to the edge of a burning galley and hurled him into the churning sea. The man barely had time to scream before the waves swallowed him whole.

On the broken battlefield, Blackfyre loyalists screamed as they were cut down. Some threw aside weapons, falling to their knees in surrender — but Ser Gerold's command had been clear.

No quarter.

"For Maelys!" one desperate rebel bellowed, charging Ser Jon Arryn, only to be cut down mid-stride, his head bouncing into the mud before his body collapsed.

"The crown is broken!" another rebel shrieked as he tried to scale the cliffs, only to be pierced by two arrows from Brynden's archers.

Mud churned to sludge beneath trampling boots. The stench of blood, piss, and smoke mingled with the salt of the nearby sea. Everywhere, the battlefield echoed with the final screams of the dying.

A young Tyroshi spearman, barely seventeen, thrust wildly at royalist troops but found his spear caught on a shield rim. A knight rode him down without hesitation, the Tyroshi's body vanishing beneath iron-shod hooves.

In the chaos, a rebel captain tried to rally his men, waving a tattered banner.

"Stand! For Bloodstone!"

An arrow took him in the throat. He gurgled, the banner slipping from his grasp before he toppled into the mud.

As the final cries faded and the last of the rebels were slain or swallowed by the sea, Ser Gerold Hightower rode through the carnage, raising his bloodied sword high.

"The Blackfyre line is ended! The traitor is dead!" he bellowed, voice raw but triumphant. "Victory is ours!"

A roar rose from the royalist ranks, deafening in its might.

"Victory!"

Swords thrust skyward. Helmets were torn off as men embraced, bloodied faces shining with the knowledge that they had survived. Some fell to their knees, praying to the Seven. Others wept openly.

But others — the hardened veterans — stood in the muck and simply breathed, seeing the ghosts of the dead all around them.

Ser Barristan Selmy, still breathless from his duel with Maelys, knelt for a moment, not in respect — but in exhaustion. His longsword still dripped with Maelys' blood.

"It's done," he whispered.

The mud beneath Maelys was black with his blood, the twisted crown atop his helm glinting dully in the weak light.

But as he rose, his gaze drifted over the carnage — a field of corpses stretched in every direction. The cries of carrion birds pierced the heavy silence. Fires crackled on the horizon. The smell of burning flesh lingered.

Not far away, Prince Aerys sat atop his horse, staring out over the dead. His violet eyes glittered strangely.

"This is what victory looks like," Aerys muttered, more to himself than anyone nearby. His hand trembled — but whether with excitement or fear, none could say.

Tywin Lannister, riding up beside him, gave the prince a cold glance. "Victory has a cost, your grace. Remember that."

Aerys did not answer. His gaze was fixed on the distant pyres.

.

.

.

.

At the fringes of the battlefield, a lone Blackfyre loyalist stood trembling, his spear slick with blood. He had seen Maelys fall. Had heard the roars that followed. His comrades lay dead around him.

For a moment, he simply stood there, shoulders heaving, before he ripped the Blackfyre badge from his chest and hurled it into the mud.

Then, dropping to his knees, he plunged a dagger into his throat.

No one saw. No one cared.

His blood soaked into the battlefield, joining thousands of others.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the smoke-thick sky glowed an angry orange. Crows circled above the battlefield, their harsh cries rising over the fading cheers.

Ser Gerold Hightower rode through the remnants of the field — past broken banners, crushed helms, and the tangled corpses of men and horses. He passed soldiers looting the dead, others weeping beside the bodies of fallen brothers.

The victory was absolute.

But there was no joy in it.

The Blackfyre line had ended.

But in the silence that followed, only the dead truly rested.