The clash of steel rose like thunder as Prince Maekar, his sons at either side, led the vanguard of the royal host into the teeth of the Golden Company. Warhorses crashed together. Iron rang against iron. Screams filled the air—men dying, men killing, and men shouting the names of kings and gods.
Maekar swung his blackened spiked mace with merciless strength, breaking through the line like a hammer through glass. He sought one man, one name—Haegon Blackfyre.
And he found him.
Haegon met the charge with sword in hand, his dragon-breastplate stained with the first blood of battle. At his side, Aegor Rivers—Bittersteel—matched Maekar blow for blow, their swords singing and sparking in the air. It was two against one, a deadly dance of warhorses and fury.
Behind them, Prince Aerion's blade flashed like wildfire, cruel and fast. He drove his charger into the flank of the Golden Company, cutting down a grizzled lieutenant with a savage flourish. But even as the man fell, six hardened mercenaries surrounded him, snarling curses in tongues Aerion scarcely understood.
"Come, cowards," he sneered, baring his teeth. "I'll burn you all."
Farther off, Prince Aegon found himself locked blade-to-blade with a towering mercenary captain, his arms like tree trunks, his axe biting dangerously close. Aegon fought with valor, but the man bore down on him with brute force, forcing the prince to one knee.
The axe rose high.
Then it stopped.
Ser Duncan the Tall had arrived.
With a bellow, Duncan drove his greatsword into the space between the man's gorget and breastplate, and the captain fell. Aegon gasped for breath as Duncan pulled him up.
"Get behind me, Egg," he said. "Stay alive."
Side by side, the hedge knight and the boy prince stood firm as the Golden Company swarmed anew.
From atop the cliff, Lord Bloodraven watched it all.
His lone red eye fixed on the chaos below, calculating, reading the flow of battle as others read books. With a nod, he gave the signal, and the Raven's Teeth loosed a volley of black-fletched arrows upon the left flank of the Golden Company. Men screamed and fell; horses reared and tumbled.
Then Brynden Rivers mounted his pale gray steed, the crescent moon shining faintly on his dark crimson cloak. He unsheathed Dark Sister, its Valyrian steel glimmering like shadowfire, and drove his horse into a gallop.
Down the hill he rode, into the tempest.
He came upon the heart of the melee—where Maekar fought Haegon and Bittersteel, already bloodied and barely keeping pace. Maekar's helm had been dented, his mount foaming, but he held on with grim Targaryen will, swinging that deadly mace again and again.
And then—Bloodraven.
He reined in beside Maekar, blade poised. With a voice cold as the grave, he called across the carnage:
"Aegor."
Bittersteel turned.
Their eyes met—red and purple, past and blood.
"Rivers," Bittersteel hissed, his knuckles white around the hilt of his longsword. "At last."
The others faded around them. For a heartbeat, there was only silence between two bastards of House Targaryen, born of war, wreathed in ghosts.
Brynden raised Dark Sister, and pointed it directly at his half-brother.
"Let us end this."