The clash of Dark Sister and Bittersteel's longsword echoed above the battlefield, each strike like a drumbeat of doom. Brynden Rivers and Aegor Rivers fought not as men, but as demons conjured from the depths of old hatred. Sword met sword, elbow slammed against cheekbone, armored gauntlet crunched ribs.
Brynden was lean and fast, his pale cloak swirling like a shadow; Bittersteel, brutal and relentless, drove forward with the power of a bull. Blood slicked their blades. Bittersteel took a cut across his left arm; Bloodraven staggered as a mailed fist split his lip and broke a tooth. Still they fought, neither yielding.
Around them, the battlefield raged.
Maekar Targaryen, forgotten by his foe in the fury of their duel, found himself beset by a tide of mercenaries. But the prince roared like a dragon of old, swinging his black spiked mace with the wrath of House Targaryen. Helmets caved. Chests broke. Bones shattered.
"Come, traitors!" he bellowed. "I'll send you all to hell!"
Meanwhile, the right flank of the Golden Company, sensing weakness in the royal lines, surged forward, breaking through the shield wall with bloodied swords raised high.
Too late, they realized their triumph was a trap.
The black pitch glistened beneath their boots, unnoticed in the heat of charge. The smell hit them next—tar and oil.
Then came the arrows.
A hundred fire-tipped shafts fell from the sky, loosed by Maekar's hidden archers.
The pitch ignited in an instant. Flames roared across the earth. Men screamed and horses reared, their golden cloaks catching fire as the inferno swallowed them. The Blackfyre advance faltered—then broke.
Amidst the chaos, Prince Aerion had fallen from his horse. Blood trickled down his temple as he stumbled to rise, dazed, his once-gleaming armor caked in mud and gore. Around him, men died screaming.
And behind him, Haegon Blackfyre came.
Cloaked in smoke and steel, the silver-gold braid of his beard whipped in the wind as he crept like a wraith through the slaughter. Blackfyre, the ancient sword of kings, gleamed in his grasp. His eyes locked on Aerion with the cold certainty of a man striking down a blood debt.
This was no tourney. This was war. Vengeance. Justice.
Haegon raised the blade.
But he was not alone.
From the smoke, Prince Aegon appeared—eyes wide with shock, then fury.
"Aerion! Behind you!"
Haegon lunged—
And Ser Duncan the Tall stepped into his path.
Steel met steel. Sparks flew.
Haegon's blow crashed against Duncan's blade, and the big knight's feet skidded in the bloodied mud. Aegon surged forward, sword drawn, joining Duncan at his side.
Haegon snarled and stepped back, his violet eyes blazing.
So here it was. The blood of Daemon Blackfyre against the blood of Aegon the Unworthy. Sons of fire, sons of ruin.
The scene ended in the scream of steel and the roar of flames, as three dragons faced each other in the eye of the storm—one black, two red—and destiny hung upon the edge of a sword.