Ormund Baratheon’s eyes were closed. Someone had closed them for him.
Five dark bruises marked his throat, too deep to have been left by human fingers alone. One side of his neck was grotesquely swollen. His breastplate had been removed, and all that remained on his chest was torn cloth and the place where a pin had been ripped away.
The badge that marked him as the king’s Hand was gone. Maelys Blackfyre had taken it, calling it the usurper’s Hand.
He had killed its owner and stolen his badge besides.
Outside the tent, the defeated army never ceased making noise. Horses screamed, wounded men groaned, healers shouted for armor to be stripped away, and bloodied soldiers wandered between tents calling the names of lost brothers and friends. Broken spear shafts and shattered shields were being piled together without pause.
A defeated army was not quiet. It was unbearably loud.
Yet within the tent there was an uncanny stillness.
Steffon Baratheon sat beside his father, both hands crusted with blood. His father’s blood.
He was fourteen. Until this morning, he had been the heir to Storm’s End. No longer. He had simply not yet been given time to accept it.
Aerys stood a short distance away, his armor caked with mud and blood, one side of his discarded helm dented inward. The prince did not speak first, as he usually did.
Neither did Tywin. He watched Steffon, but did not search for words of comfort. No—he seemed closer to choosing not to search for them.
Gerold Hightower entered the tent. The White Bull. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. And now the man who would have to bear the command Ormund had held.
It was not a station he had sought. Ormund living would have been far better. No one in the tent said so aloud.
After a long while, Steffon spoke.
"I will kill him."
It was so quiet it first sounded like he was speaking to himself. Aerys raised his head. Steffon released his father’s hand.
"Maelys Blackfyre. I will kill him."
Aerys looked at his friend for a moment. "When that day comes, I will stand with you."
Steffon turned to him. "There is no need for Your Grace to involve yourself."
"He seeks my throne," Aerys said. "Before he is your enemy, he is mine."
"Even so—"
Tywin cut in. "Not today."
Steffon turned. "What?"
"If we go back out today, we lose again. We were struck before all our men had even disembarked. We came ashore where Maelys chose, our ranks already tangled. If we return now, we give him the battle he wants once more."
Steffon rose slowly. "My father is dead."
"I know."
"He died in my arms."
"I saw."
Tywin’s answer was brief. "That is why you must not die."
Steffon strode toward him. "Say that again."
"I said wait."
A fist flew. Thud. Tywin’s face snapped to one side. Several knights moved on instinct, but Gerold raised a hand to stop them.
Tywin slowly turned back. Blood seeped from the inside of his split lip. He did not strike back.
"Your father is dead."
Steffon’s fist rose again. "Shut up."
"Which is why Storm’s End needs you now."
The hand stopped. Swallowing blood, Tywin met his friend’s eyes. "If you rush Maelys and die with him, who will remain?"
"Tywin," Aerys called quietly.
Tywin shut his mouth. Aerys stepped forward.
"Steffon."
"Will you tell me to wait as well?"
"Yes."
Steffon’s face twisted. "After he did that to my father?"
"Even so."
"Not you too."
The air in the tent froze. Steffon seemed to realize belatedly what he had said, but it was already too late.
"Aerys. Not you too."
The knights around them lowered their eyes. Few men could speak so to the heir to the Iron Throne and remain unscathed.
But Aerys’s expression did not change. He looked at Steffon as a friend, rather than a prince.
"Yes."
Steffon breathed harshly.
"You may be angry," Aerys said. "At me. At Tywin. But I will not allow your corpse to lie beside his today."
Steffon’s lips trembled. "I have to kill him myself."
"Then live," Aerys said. "You must live to kill him."
Gerold moved then. "Lord Baratheon."
Steffon turned, his face hardening at the title. "Do not call me that."
"I must."
"My father is still here."
Gerold’s gaze touched Ormund’s body. "Lord Ormund’s body is here."
Anger spread through Steffon’s eyes, but the White Bull did not look away.
"Until this morning, you were heir to Storm’s End. Now you are its lord."
Those words were crueler than anything else. They proved his father’s death more concretely than the body itself.
"The lords of the Stormlands look to you now," Gerold continued. "So do your knights and soldiers."
"So you are telling me to forget my father’s murderer?"
"No. Remember him. Hate him if you wish. If the chance comes, take his head with your own hand. But do not go to die now."
"What difference is there?"
Gerold studied him. "What are the words of House Baratheon?"
The boy’s eyes wavered. Then he answered, "Ours is the fury."
"Again."
Steffon’s jaw clenched. "Ours is the fury."
Gerold nodded. "Yes. Fury must be yours, my lord. You must not become fury’s possession. The lord of Storm’s End is Lord Baratheon—not his fury. If you wish to avenge your father, survive first."
Steffon did not answer. But he raised no fist against anyone again.
Aerys watched him, then turned to Gerold. "Now it is my turn, I suppose."
"What do you mean, Your Grace?"
"You mean to tell me not to fight as well."
Gerold did not deny it. Aerys straightened, no longer a friend but the heir to the throne.
"I am Prince of Dragonstone. Lord of that island, and heir to the Iron Throne. Maelys Blackfyre wants the Iron Throne. This is my war. Give me men."
"No."
Aerys narrowed his eyes, though he did not rage. "I will hear your reason."
"The Iron Throne entrusted command of this campaign to Lord Ormund Baratheon. He has fallen, so I have taken up that command."
"I am the man who will inherit that throne."
"One day, you will be."
Aerys’s gaze sharpened. "One day?"
"The man seated upon the Iron Throne today is His Grace King Jaehaerys. I was not given this command to protect Your Grace’s honor. I was given it to protect the Iron Throne."
"I am to inherit it."
"Which is why you must live all the more."
"I know what happens if I die. I know who remains after me. But soldiers are dying in my name, to protect the throne I will someday hold. And I alone am to stay behind?"
"If necessary."
"And if I refuse?"
"I will put Your Grace aboard a ship."
Aerys’s hand touched his sword hilt. "If I will not board?"
"I will put you aboard."
"How?"
"Bound, if necessary."
Tywin’s gaze flickered aside. Steffon lifted his head. Aerys stared at the White Bull for a long time. Gerold did not move.
At last, the prince’s hand fell from his sword. "Very well. Today, I acknowledge Ser Hightower’s command."
Gerold bowed. "Thank you, Your Grace."
"It is nothing to thank me for." Aerys looked at dead Ormund. "Win next time."
Gerold looked at the body too. "That is why I survived."
＊ ＊ ＊
A war council was held before sunset. A map of the Stepstones lay spread over a table, its edges water-stained and marked in places by bloody fingerprints.
Roger Reyne spoke first. "We must strike again at dawn."
Jason Lannister looked at him. "Not all our forces have assembled."
"Which is why we cannot delay. The Hand is dead. By tomorrow night Maelys will boast that he drove the Seven Kingdoms’ army into the sea. Victory is gold to sellswords, and rumor runs faster than steel among soldiers."
"We need not kill more men tomorrow merely to stop a rumor," Tywin said.
Roger turned slowly. "Did I ask you?"
"I was told this was a war council."
"Seems you inherited military command with your father’s place."
Jason’s expression hardened, but Tywin answered first. "Had my father been here, he would likely have listened to Lord Reyne’s opinion longer."
Roger smiled. "Lord Tytos does listen well to others."
"Too well." Tywin met his eyes directly. "If generosity is given for too long, those receiving it tend to forget it was generosity."
The tent went silent. Roger’s smile faded slightly.
"An amusing thing to say."
"You would do well to remember it."
"What?"
Tywin lowered his gaze to the map. "Debts do not vanish merely because they have grown old."
Jason tapped the table. "Enough."
"Yes, Uncle." Tywin withdrew at once. Roger did not continue, though his gaze lingered on Tywin’s face.
Then Quellon Greyjoy pulled the map closer. Several faces in the tent visibly tightened. The Iron Islands were not merely a place to men of the western coast. They meant burned villages, vanished ships, and stolen people. That Quellon chose a different path from his fathers did not mean mainland lords liked it.
"Will you entrust even the sea to ironmen?" Roger asked.
Quellon’s hand stopped over the map. "Would you take it instead?"
"At least my men are not accustomed to stealing what belongs to others at sea."
The ironborn knights shifted, but Quellon held them back with one hand.
"That must be why two of Lord Reyne’s ships stole reefs today."
Roger narrowed his eyes. "Greyjoy."
"If you do not know the sea, say so. Disliking my homeland and knowing those waters are different matters."
"Enough," Gerold cut in. "Lord Reyne, if Lord Greyjoy’s fleet had not protected our retreat today, there would be more corpses outside. And Lord Greyjoy, having come beneath the king’s banner, you do not raise the honor of the Iron Islands by insulting mainland lords."
Quellon took his hand from the map. "Understood."
"If you still hate one another after the war, hate one another as much as you please. For now, look to the same enemy."
Neither man spoke further.
"Continue," Gerold said.
Quellon traced a narrow channel. "Tomorrow morning is impossible. The tide runs west, and if we force large ships in, they will meet reefs before Maelys."
"The afternoon?" Jason asked.
"It can be done."
"Then in the afternoon," Roger said.
Gerold shook his head. "We will not attack."
"You mean to retreat again?"
"If necessary."
"We lost the Hand today."
"Will losing another hundred knights tomorrow bring Lord Ormund back?"
Roger had no answer.
"These rocks are not what we must defend," Gerold said.
"Westeros," Aerys said.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Then we need only block Maelys’s path across."
Quellon nodded. "An army-bearing fleet has fewer routes than one might think. It needs deep water, a bay large enough for many ships, shore for disembarking men, and water to drink after they land."
He crossed out one point. "No large fleet can enter here." Another. "Here, there is no water after several days." A third. "Here, if we hold, they must turn back."
"So we can reduce the routes they can take?" Tywin asked.
"Yes."
Gerold continued, "With every advance they make, their choices will lessen."
"While we keep giving them victories?" Roger asked.
"If the victory is necessary."
"Giving them victories. Fine words."
"I never said we lost deliberately today. We did lose. We lost men and ships. But losing does not mean we must let the enemy choose the next battle too."
"What do we do in the meantime?" Aerys asked.
"Gather men. Feed them, let them rest, heal their wounds."
"And summon more from the mainland," Tywin added.
"They are already being summoned."
That night, it began to take visible form. Royal transports arrived first, unloading sacks of grain, bundles of arrows, fresh spear shafts, and fodder. Ships returning carried wounded men unable to walk and horses no longer fit for battle.
Two days later, fresh soldiers crossed from the mainland. Hundreds, then hundreds more. Riverlands spearmen landed, followed by food and tents sent from the Reach. Ships from the west brought arrowheads and mail, while knights and soldiers of the Stormlands crossed the sea after hearing of Ormund’s death.
Incoming ships disgorged men and supplies. Returning ships took wounded men, empty casks, and broken gear away.
On the map of the Stepstones, Westeros’s stones fell back one by one. Yet behind them, other things accumulated: grain, water, arrows, ships, and men who had not yet bled.
Maelys devoured islands. Gerold devoured time.
＊ ＊ ＊
For the first few days, drink never ran dry in the Black Dragon’s camp. The pin torn from Ormund Baratheon’s Hand badge hung beneath Maelys’s black dragon banner, clinking against the pole whenever the wind blew. Clink. Clink.
The Golden Company loved the sound. They had slain the usurper’s Hand, driven Westerosi soldiers from the shore, and Maelys himself had broken the man’s neck. At first, that was enough.
Samarro Saan raised his cup. "Why not open the next cask in the cellars of Storm’s End?"
The Old Mother snorted. "What if the wine is poor?"
"Then we beat the owner until he brings better."
"I like that."
Laughter rose, and Maelys laughed with them. Westeros beyond the sea seemed close enough to touch.
Three days later, they won again, taking a small island. Five days later, another strongpoint guarding a narrow channel fell. The Golden Company raised its banners over empty storehouses and a well fouled by a dead animal. On the next island, they fought for two days before the Westerosi withdrew by night, leaving tents but not a fistful of usable grain.
Then the enemy held longer, and withdrew again. On the map, black stones kept moving west. Victory. Then another victory.
For the first ten days, every messenger’s arrival opened a cask. In the next ten, it took two victories to open one. Soon even news of victory brought no search for drink. The islands multiplied, but empty places multiplied aboard the ships, and soldiers’ boots wore thin.
The strange thing was the enemy. They were plainly losing, yet their armor improved. The men fought yesterday were exhausted, while those appearing today had flesh on their faces. New banners appeared on islands where none had been seen days before.
Dead men in Maelys’s camp did not return. Among the Westerosi, another ship crossed to fill every empty space.
Nine Eyes was the first to say it aloud. "Their numbers are not shrinking."
Samarro set down his cup. "They run every time."
"Those who run shrink. New men come from behind." Nine Eyes jerked his chin eastward. "We have only the men we dragged from Tyrosh. They have home across one sea."
The Old Mother cursed under her breath. He was not wrong.
Days later, the Golden Company seized another post and found the food store empty. In the distance, transports were sailing away—not fleeing with soldiers, but carrying empty casks and wounded men. Beyond them, other ships sailed west, laden with fresh men and supplies.
Maelys saw them. "Pursue them."
Samarro’s ships sailed out. Only half returned by midday. Longships of the Iron Islands had waited beyond the horizon.
After that, pursuing supply lines became difficult. At sunset, no one knew in which channel ironborn sails would appear. At night, they vanished among reefs and reappeared at dawn in an entirely different strait.
Maelys’s army kept winning. But with each victory the enemy did not vanish; it condensed farther behind. His own army spread thin. Every island taken required a harbor and storehouse to guard, soldiers and ships left behind.
One day, the Old Mother picked up a black stone from the map. "Which one is this?"
"Twelve," Nine Eyes answered.
"We have won twelve times? And what does this place produce? Gold? Grain? Women?"
No one answered.
"It is an island," Maelys said.
The Old Mother dropped the stone onto the table. "A rock island."
"It controls the sea lanes."
"I did not follow you to bed sea lanes. Neither did my children."
Alequo Adarys folded the letters he had been reading—many letters, sent by merchants and shipowners of Tyrosh.
"I am hearing the same from my side. Shipowners demand higher freight. They lent ships believing this war would be brief."
"Pay them more."
"With whose coin?"
Maelys’s expression hardened, but Alequo did not avert his gaze.
"At first, merchants in Tyrosh brought out coin with every victory, believing the Black Dragon would soon cross the sea. Now they ask questions. When will we enter Westeros? When will the sea lanes be fully open? How many more months will this war last? Time may be honor to a king, but it is money to a merchant."
"My ships are not free either," Samarro said. "Some burned, some struck reefs, and sailors died."
"Do you have ships left to fight?" Maelys asked.
"I do."
"Then fight."
Samarro’s face tightened. "Should I not keep ships to seize my own kingdom?"
The Old Mother gave a dry laugh. "You look as though you think only your crown is a crown. I remember our oath beneath the Crowned Tree: the man who eats first helps the next man gain his share. He ate Tyrosh. Now it is your turn—on the condition ours comes after."
Nine Eyes had been silent, studying the map. At last he placed one finger on a point.
"Here."
Bloodstone, one of the largest islands in the Stepstones.
"The end of our path is there."
"Why?" Samarro asked.
"Look elsewhere. Ironborn keep prowling the west; large ships cannot properly approach. Go far south and lose days, while the supply line lengthens. Go north without taking that island, and our back is exposed."
The Old Mother leaned over the map. "Then they are waiting there."
"Yes. They know we will come."
"No," Alequo said slowly. "They made us come there."
The tent fell silent.
Maelys had known already: empty storehouses, vanished supplies, rotating troops, ironborn ships that disappeared and reappeared, enemy ranks thickening despite repeated defeats. The White Bull had yielded ground and bought time. Now that time was gathering in one place.
Bloodstone.
＊ ＊ ＊
That same island lay at the center of the Westerosi map. Bloodstone: one of the largest and harshest islands in the Stepstones. Northward lay the route to Tarth and the Narrow Sea; southward, the waters of Dorne. Abandoning it would let Maelys keep gnawing at their sea lanes, but failing to defend it would open a gate to Westeros for the Black Dragon.
Most of the troops and supplies withdrawn over the past weeks had gathered there. Grain sacks rose higher than tents behind the shore. Quivers and spear shafts stood in rows; smiths’ fires repairing broken mail did not die even at night. Fresh mainland troops drilled inland while units that had fought first rested behind them. Wounded men able to wield swords again received treatment; those who could not were put aboard departing transports.
They held less ground than when they had first entered the Stepstones. Yet the army gathered on Bloodstone was larger, better fed, and carried more arrows.
Quellon Greyjoy indicated the western channel. "Only my ships can enter here."
"The western galleys?" Jason asked.
"If two enter abreast, both die."
"Then block it with your Iron Islands fleet."
"Half will suffice. The rest go south. If the enemy goes around there, we can bite their flank."
He marked two eastern beaches. "These are the only shores where they can land a large force at once. This bay can be used too, but the waves are poor. With a southern wind, landing craft will collide."
"Would Maelys use it?" Aerys asked.
Quellon’s mouth twisted faintly. "If he thinks he has men to spare."
"He will think so," Roger said.
Kevan Lannister pointed to the island’s interior. "Water?"
"Two wells secured, a small southern spring, and an old cistern we have cleaned."
"How long can we hold?"
"With ships coming and going, a long while. If the sea is closed, three weeks, if we feed the horses as we do now."
"And if we reduce the horses?"
"The men live longer."
"The cavalry?"
"This is an island," Quellon replied. "Unless horses mean to swim out and seize enemy ships, would it not be wiser to save water first?"
Roger frowned, but Jason nodded first. "Send the horses back."
Tywin glanced outside at another arriving transport, its deck packed with heads. "More today."
"Men from the Reach," Gerold said. "A little over six hundred."
"Every time Maelys moves forward, we grow behind him."
"That is why we withdrew."
"Was it Bloodstone from the beginning?" Steffon asked.
"No. I considered three places." Quellon marked two other islands. "One has no water; after a week we thirst first. The other lets big ships approach too easily; if they press us with numbers, we are trapped. So this is the place."
"Luck favored you," Roger said.
"Greatly."
"You admit it easily."
"If I insist luck is skill, I will die next time."
Aerys studied Bloodstone. "What if Maelys passes it by?"
"He must leave Bloodstone behind him," Tywin said, "and the Iron Islands fleet with it."
"A supply ship will vanish each night," Quellon said.
"If he circles south?"
"It costs more time. They have no time now."
"The Council of Nine," Aerys said. "Maelys may wait, but the others want their share."
"And they will soon know that we keep receiving fresh men and supplies," Tywin added.
"They likely know already," Gerold said.
"Will they still come?" Steffon asked.
"They will. Maelys himself will come."
Steffon slowly clenched his fist, then opened it himself. "Fury is mine."
Gerold gave the smallest nod.
"He has been devouring islands," Aerys said, touching Bloodstone. "We waited for the day he would devour this."
"He should be hungry enough now," Gerold said.
A few mouths shifted faintly. The White Bull placed his palm over Bloodstone.
"Here, we do not retreat."
＊ ＊ ＊
Bloodstone lay at the center of the Black Dragon’s map as well. But the eyes upon it saw different things. Alequo saw letters. Samarro saw ships. Nine Eyes saw channels and tides. The Old Mother saw the faces of her men, whose tempers had soured with even their drink.
Only Maelys looked beyond the island: the Blackwater, King’s Landing, the Iron Throne.
Alequo tossed a bundle of letters onto the table. "Beginning next month, Tyrosh cannot send as much gold."
"Have you forgotten the oath beneath the Crowned Tree?"
"That oath is why you still spend my money. But Tyrosh is already my kingdom. What use is it if merchants turn from me while I wait here for your throne?"
"At least you have eaten something," Samarro said.
"Having eaten it, I must protect it."
"I have not eaten yet."
"Without ships, you cannot go eat anything."
Alequo looked to Nine Eyes. "How many ships?"
"If we strike Bloodstone head-on? If we end the first day with only ten ships lost, we are lucky."
Samarro cursed. "Whose ten ships?"
The Old Mother laughed. "Now we reach the heart of it. There are nine kingdoms, but each man wishes another man’s ships to sink."
"My children say the same," she continued. "When does Maelys eat his throne?"
"Soon," Maelys said.
"The first time I heard that, I had less white hair than I do now."
"Are you dissatisfied?"
"Of course. If you eat Westeros, whose turn comes next? My children die today, and their share may be years away."
"That is the problem," Alequo said.
Maelys’s eyes went cold. "Have you gathered merely to hurry me?"
"No," Nine Eyes said at last. His finger touched Bloodstone. "To tell you that you are already being hurried."
He moved black stones aside one by one. "We have won twelve times. Our ships have dwindled. Our men have dwindled. And them? They keep receiving men from the mainland. Grain. Arrows. New ships."
"Merchants hear the same rumor," Alequo said. "Westerosi transports sail day and night."
"And the grain on the islands we took?" the Old Mother asked.
"They took it first."
"Then what did we take?"
"Rocks," Nine Eyes answered.
She laughed irritably. "As I said from the first."
"It changes if we take Bloodstone," Maelys said. "The road to Tarth opens. We enter the Narrow Sea. Then the Blackwater."
"If we take it," Alequo said. "And if we do not? My coin ends."
"My ships end," Samarro added.
"My children’s patience ends," said the Old Mother.
"And Greyjoy’s men close the way behind us," Nine Eyes finished.
They spoke different words, but the conclusion was one. There was no time.
Maelys considered other paths. Circle far south around Bloodstone: too slow. Divide his strength and open another channel: too likely to be defeated in detail. Stay where he was and await the Westerosi: the Council of Nine would fracture first.
The White Bull knew all that too.
Maelys smiled slowly. "Not bad."
"What is not?" Alequo asked.
"The White Bull. He is calling me there."
"If you go, you do what he wants," Nine Eyes said.
"And if I do not?"
No one answered.
Maelys looked from one man to the next. "Your money dries up. Your ships diminish. Your men leave. And they grow stronger. So we take it now."
"Knowing it is a trap," Samarro said.
"Yes."
"When?" Maelys asked Nine Eyes.
The sailor pulled the map toward himself. "Dawn, three days hence. The tide comes in, and if the northeast wind blows, landing craft can close swiftly."
"We strike then."
"If the wind turns, wait a day."
Maelys narrowed his eyes. Nine Eyes did not bend.
"If you mean to play king even over the sea, do it alone."
After a moment, Maelys laughed. "Fine."
The Old Mother clicked her tongue. "Sometimes he thinks he is a real dragon."
"Sometimes?"
This time Samarro laughed briefly. The tension eased, but no one forgot what had been said.
Maelys rose, his enormous body casting a shadow across the map. "Three days hence, we devour Bloodstone."
No one rose to leave. They remained for different reasons: gold, crowns, recompense for lost ships, or because returning now would gain them nothing. But for now, all looked at the same island.
＊ ＊ ＊
Dawn on Bloodstone opened with arrows before wind.
As the horizon whitened, black sails surged together toward the eastern shore. The tide was good. Nine Eyes’s calculation had not been wrong. Landing craft closed quickly.
The trouble was that the Westerosi knew it too.
Before the first boat reached the sandbar, arrows came down. A soldier at the front clutched his throat and fell into the water. Dozens followed. Shields rose; those too slow fell.
Men jumped into the sea before their boats even grounded. They struggled through waist-deep water, while those climbing down behind pressed into the narrow approach until the whole mass tangled.
"Forward!"
"Stop pushing!"
"Shields up!"
Those who fell were trampled before they could rise. One arrow pierced a shield, another lodged between armor plates. Seawater slowly turned red.
Above the shore, a golden lion flew. Jason Lannister raised his sword from horseback.
"Archers, keep shooting! Do not give them time to get out of their ships!"
A second storm of arrows fell. Jason looked once at the shore as a knight warned him he was too far forward.
"If we do not press them now, they set foot on land. Spearmen!"
The western shield wall moved. The Golden Company had not yet formed ranks. Those ashore tried to go forward while men behind shoved against their backs, and wounded men and those fallen in the water lay tangled beneath their feet.
Then the western spear wall struck.
The Golden Company gave ground at the first collision.
"Push!" Jason shouted.
One step. Then another.
"Lannister!" The cry shook the shore. "Drive them into the sea!"
The first rank of invaders stepped back into the water. A little more, and the landing would be broken before the reinforcements could even come ashore.
Then, in the center of the western line, a man suddenly rose into the air. An armored body crashed down atop two soldiers behind him. A spear shaft broke; a shield crumpled inward. A gap opened among the men.
And through it came a huge black shape.
Maelys.
Someone screamed his name too loudly. "Maelys!"
Black armor. A bloodied sword. A small second face fused to his right shoulder. The monster of rumor stood before them.
An archer loosed almost by instinct. The arrow buried itself in Maelys’s shoulder.
"He is hit!" western men cheered.
Maelys stopped, looked down at the arrow, grasped its shaft in thick fingers, and ripped it out at once. Flesh and blood came with it. He threw it away and walked on.
The cheering diminished sharply. A second arrow struck his side, making him sway. He snapped it in half and continued. A third glanced from his armor.
The first archer drew again and met Maelys’s eyes. His fingers froze.
"Shoot!" someone shouted.
The archer’s lips trembled. "It does not die."
"What?"
"It does not die!"
A few paces back, the tale had changed already. He walked after arrows struck him became arrows could not hurt him; farther back, men said the Black Dragon could not be slain by arrows. On a battlefield, those who had not seen a monster made it grow fastest.
Maelys ran. He beat aside the first spear, breaking its shaft. The second man fell with his shield, and when Maelys’s foot came down on his breastplate, the iron bent inward. He seized a third man by the wrist and twisted; bone broke before the scream came. Pulling the man before him, he let a spear from behind bury itself in his own soldier’s back. Then he threw the corpse away and advanced.
The Golden Company saw. Men who had been pushed toward the water stopped one by one. Their king was moving forward, bleeding, arrow-struck, yet not stopping.
"Black Dragon!" someone cried.
More voices joined. Dozens turned. Through the breach Maelys had made, the Golden Company surged as one. The western line swayed backward for the first time.
Jason dismounted. "Do not fear! Look at my banner!"
The golden lion snapped overhead. Jason pointed his sword at bleeding Maelys.
"That thing bleeds too! And whatever bleeds can die!"
It was an obvious truth. It had to be.
"Six men! Go in together!"
Spear points moved at once. One caught in Maelys’s armor. Two were pushed aside by his sword. One pierced the belly of a Golden Company man following behind. A fifth grazed Maelys’s shoulder; the last drove between plates at his already wounded side.
Maelys staggered. Jason seized the moment.
"Now!"
He forced his way in and slashed Maelys across the face. Blood sprayed. His second blow came at once, but Maelys caught it. Steel rang, and the impact ran from Jason’s wrist to his shoulder. Still he did not retreat.
"Monster."
Jason struck again. Maelys’s left hand shot out and caught his right arm above the elbow. Jason tried to wrench free. It would not move.
"Let go."
Maelys stepped in. Jason struck his face with his mailed left fist, smashing his nose. The grip did not loosen.
"Let go, you bastard!"
Maelys twisted Jason’s arm sideways. The shoulder joint dislocated first. Jason screamed as his body turned with it. Maelys planted a foot against his breastplate.
Jason’s eyes widened. At last he understood.
"Wait."
Maelys shoved his body away with one foot and pulled the seized arm at the same time. The dislocated joint stretched farther. Leather straps went taut, mail links strained against each other. He pulled again. Rings burst free. Leather tore. Beneath it, flesh and muscle followed.
Jason’s scream split the entire shore.
One more pull.
The arm remained in Maelys’s hand, torn from the body. The sword was still clenched in its hand.
Jason stared at his right shoulder. For several moments he made no sound, wearing the expression of a man unable to understand what had vanished from his body. Then blood erupted like a fountain and he screamed again. His knees gave way. His remaining hand could not stop the wound.
Maelys threw the torn arm aside. Sword and armor fragments rolled over stone.
Jason’s eyes followed his arm. "Save—"
Maelys’s shadow covered him. Jason looked up.
"Lannister," Maelys said.
That was all. His sword descended, and the scream ended.
"Lord Jason!"
The cry rose somewhere among the western men, then spread down the line.
Jason Lannister was dead. Maelys had killed him. Torn off his arm. Ripped him to death. The tale grew more horrible as it traveled.
The golden lion wavered. Men had held because they saw that banner, but its lord beneath it was gone. The first western rank began to collapse. One man turned; the soldier behind him moved too, without knowing why.
Then another banner rose in place of the golden lion: a red lion.
Roger Reyne had watched Jason die from beginning to end. The color had already drained from his face, but not from his voice.
"Raise the red lion!"
A knight hesitated. "Lord Reyne?"
"Raise the banner!"
The red lion climbed over the battle line. Some fleeing soldiers lifted their heads. Roger seized one nearby.
"Where are you going?"
"Lord Jason is dead!"
"I saw."
"We have to bring back his body!"
Roger looked once toward Maelys. "Go now, and there will be another body. Gather the living first."
He shoved the soldier back, then reached for another knight. "Abandon the left. Pull the archers behind the second line. Put Lord Jason’s men beneath my banner."
"Are we retreating?"
Roger’s eyes went cold. "We retreat so we do not rout. Fall back facing forward!"
Men gathered beneath the red lion. The crumbling western army began, piece by piece, to regain its shape.
＊ ＊ ＊
Tywin saw the golden lion go down from afar. A breathless messenger soon brought the truth.
"Ser Tywin. Lord Jason—"
That was enough. Tywin’s face barely moved.
"Tywin," Aerys said.
Tywin closed his eyes for the briefest instant, then opened them. "Who holds the western army?"
"Lord Roger Reyne is gathering the men."
Tywin looked to the red lion raised where his uncle had died. Roger was doing well. He was stopping the western army from breaking under Jason’s death. Whether Tywin liked it or not, he had to acknowledge that.
"He is doing well," Tywin said.
"For now," he added quietly. Only Aerys heard. The prince said nothing.
＊ ＊ ＊
Gerold fought on the other side of the line. The white cloak he had worn that morning was soaked in mud and blood beyond recognition. His first horse had died under arrows. The second had broken a foreleg when it fell. He rode a third now.
A Golden Company man thrust a spear from the side. Gerold ducked it and cut him below the throat. The man fell beside the horse’s hooves as a messenger rode in.
"Ser Hightower! The western army is being pushed back!"
"Lord Jason?"
The messenger faltered.
"He has fallen. Maelys Blackfyre killed him himself."
Gerold’s sword hand tightened for an instant. Nothing more.
"Lord Roger?"
"He is rallying the remnants!"
"Has the enemy all disembarked?"
"No! Many ships have yet to reach shore!"
That was enough. Gerold turned in the saddle.
"Bring up the Riverlands!"
Brynden Tully came riding shortly after, a helm in one hand and half-eaten bread in the other.
"You called?"
"Take half your men. Make a way for the western army to withdraw, and take their place."
Brynden raised a brow, looking toward the Golden Company rolling forward like a great wave. "Surely you are not ordering me to stop that with half my force?"
"Do not stop them. Hold them."
Gerold’s sword pointed toward enemy ships still out on the water. If the troops ashore could not break through, those behind could not even land.
"How long do I hold?"
"As long as you can."
Brynden closed his eyes briefly. "I hate that sort of order most."
Gerold caught an enemy sword. "I do not like giving it."
Brynden’s mouth lifted a little. He tossed the remaining bread to a soldier, put on his helm, and shouted, "River men!"
The Riverlands troops moved.
＊ ＊ ＊
The withdrawing western army and advancing Riverlands army tangled head-on in a narrow road. At first it resembled less an army than a market square on fire. Men trying to fall back collided with men ordered forward; some cursed first because they could not even tell which way the enemy was.
"Move!"
"Where are we supposed to go?"
"To the right!"
"The enemy is there!"
Brynden forced his horse through them. "Lannister men! Those falling back, pass through our ranks! Do not run so quickly that you fall and kill the men behind you!"
A panting soldier shouted, "Easy to say!"
Brynden drew his sword. "Then run only fast enough not to fall!"
That was the end of it. The Golden Company crashed in. Spears and shields met. The Riverlands’ first rank swayed but held; two men fell in the second collision.
Brynden did not keep shoving men into the front. When the first rank was hurt, he withdrew it and set the next. Step by step, little by little, he bought time.
Then a cry rose from the front.
"Maelys!"
Brynden looked up. The huge black body stood among the men, blood flowing from his shoulder and dark stains spreading along his armored side. Yet he kept coming.
"That is the man who killed Lord Jason," a knight said.
Brynden stared for a while. "Bigger than the stories."
Maelys struck the line. One spear was knocked away by his sword; a second scraped his armor; a third stabbed into his side, though he twisted before it could go deep. Its point scraped the gap already torn open.
Maelys caught the shaft and dragged the soldier bodily forward. His fist struck the man’s face, crushing helm and man together.
Brynden went in himself. Swords met. Clang! One blow was enough to numb his whole arm. He did not accept the second. He stepped back at once and yielded his place to the next soldier.
"You are retreating?" the knight beside him asked.
"I did not come here to show strength against that thing."
He motioned to his men. "Fall back two ranks at a time!"
"Do we not hold?"
"If we all die holding, we buy no time. Make every step we give cost blood!"
The Riverlands army withdrew by inches as it fought. They stabbed, fell back, and the next line received the enemy. Maelys kept advancing, but not as swiftly as before. With every step, someone scraped his armor or struck at an old wound. Many died, but the entire line did not break.
And at sea, a different battle raged. Iron Islands longships slipped among reefs. The low, long vessels that looked poor on open water moved entirely differently in narrow channels. Before larger ships could turn, they were alongside. Grapples flew. Sailors crossed over. One enemy ship caught fire; another grounded on a reef as it tried to escape. Ships behind lost their way and collided.
The Golden Company’s reinforcements could see land before them and still could not disembark.
Brynden glanced at it, remembering faces at the morning council as they had looked upon Quellon. He said nothing, and raised his sword again. Maelys was knocking down another man before him. For now, they had to survive the land.
＊ ＊ ＊
Gerold did not pour in all his strength at once. When the western army withdrew, the Riverlands entered. When the Riverlands neared their limit, he sent in royal troops. Water and arrows waited for men who fell back, the stores gathered on Bloodstone over days. New troops freshly arrived from the mainland stepped into emptied places.
As Maelys had come westward one victory at a time, the Westerosi had gathered men and supplies behind those victories. The difference showed more clearly as the battle lengthened. When a Golden Company man died, his place stood empty. When a tired Westerosi unit withdrew, men whose swords still looked new stepped forward.
Still, battle did not obey plans. Retreating men collided with advancing ones, horses fell, wounded were trampled, half the orders went unheard and the rest drowned beneath screams and curses.
Gerold ran through the center himself. "Clear the right!"
The soldier before him did not hear, so Gerold shoved him by the shoulder. "That way! Twenty more paces!"
Brynden’s shout came from afar. "At this rate we shall yield the sea itself!"
"We change before then!"
"Remember you said that!"
A messenger rode in. "Six enemy ships are entering the southern bay!"
Gerold’s face tightened. "Lord Greyjoy?"
"Already moving. He sends word: he has taken the sea, so Ser Hightower should try not to lose the land."
Gerold said nothing for a moment. Nearby, Aerys’s mouth moved ever so slightly.
"I said nothing," the prince said first.
Gerold turned to the messenger. "Tell Lord Greyjoy the south is his."
The messenger departed. Soon the horns of the Iron Islands sounded in the distance. That was enough.
But matters ashore had become desperate. The Riverlands were near their limit. Roger had only barely re-formed the western force. More than half the royal reserve had already been committed.
Aerys saw it first. "Commit my men."
Gerold looked at him. "Your Grace must remain."
"I said commit my men. I did not say I would go alone to take Maelys’s head. Is there reason to let the Dragonstone soldiers grow stale?"
Gerold surveyed the field. There was not.
"I will use the troops."
"I go too."
"Your Grace—"
"I know what happens if I die. But to those men, I am not simply someone meant to live safely behind them. If I order them forward, then when they turn their backs, I must at least stand where they can see me."
Gerold watched the prince for a long time. It was difficult to dispute. Aerys was hot-blooded, yes, but he was not a boy who understood nothing.
"Do not leave the central line."
"I will not."
Tywin approached. "I will remain beside His Grace."
"Your uncle is dead," Aerys said. "You may go to the west."
Tywin glanced at the distant red lion. "Lord Roger Reyne holds the western army. My place now is at Your Grace’s side."
Steffon came close too.
"Lord Baratheon," Gerold said.
"I know. I will not go to Maelys."
Gerold did not immediately believe him. Steffon read it in his gaze. In the distance, the crowned stag of the Stormlands fluttered.
"My people are there. I will go to them first."
Gerold studied him. "Very well."
He looked from one to the next: Prince of Dragonstone, heir to Casterly Rock, lord of Storm’s End. They were young, but no longer children who could simply be kept behind.
"Your Grace, hold the center. Ser Tywin, take the right. Lord Baratheon, to your own banner."
"Understood," they answered.
Gerold’s gaze stayed briefly on Steffon. The boy spoke first.
"Fury is mine."
No further explanation was needed.
Gerold raised his sword. "Go."
＊ ＊ ＊
Aerys had no fear. He handled a sword well enough. The trouble was that he knew too well he had no fear.
Still, at first he kept his promise. He did not leave the central line, moving with Dragonstone soldiers and stepping in himself whenever the front rank wavered.
A Golden Company man thrust a spear. Aerys shoved it away with his shield and slashed the man’s shoulder. Another enemy came from the side, but Tywin’s sword caught him first.
"Left, Your Grace."
Aerys turned. "I saw."
"Then move a little faster when you see."
The prince shot Tywin a look. "After the war, I must correct your manners first."
Tywin did not take his eyes from the enemy. "Live to correct them."
Aerys’s mouth lifted for an instant. There was no time for more. The enemy came again.
Steffon fought some distance away beneath the Stormlands banner. He said little, swung his sword, and steadied men. Yet whenever a gap opened, he searched for black armor in the distance.
Maelys.
Once, Steffon truly stepped toward him. The Black Dragon was only dozens of paces away, knocking men down. Steffon’s eyes narrowed.
Then a cry came from beside him. "My lord!"
A Stormlands knight had taken a spear in the thigh and collapsed. Steffon stopped. Maelys stood before him. His own man lay at his side.
Fury must be yours.
Steffon gritted his teeth and turned his back on Maelys.
"Lift him!"
Two soldiers ran over. "Carry him back!"
The fallen knight seized Steffon’s arm with a bloody hand. "My lord—"
"Do not speak."
Steffon tore his own cloak and pressed it to the wound. His hands trembled, but he did not let go.
"We go home to Storm’s End alive."
A stretcher arrived and carried the knight away. Steffon watched for a while, then lifted his sword again. Maelys still lived. His vengeance was not done. But from the instant he became a lord, there were people he saw before vengeance.
＊ ＊ ＊
Maelys was tiring too. It was simply hard to notice. In the morning, he had driven the shore back three paces at a time. After noon, it became two.
Blood ran from the holes where arrows had been torn free of his shoulder, while a broken arrowhead remained between the armor plates at his side. Jason had cut his face. A Riverlands spearman had slashed his thigh. His armor was dented in many places, with links beneath his throat broken.
Even so, whenever Maelys entered a line, men flew, spears broke, shields snapped. The Golden Company followed through the breaches their king made.
Gerold saw it repeatedly from afar. At first he wondered when that man would ever tire. By afternoon, the question changed. He was tired already. He was simply still stronger than other men while tired.
Gerold was not the only man to notice.
＊ ＊ ＊
Barristan Selmy had been there since the battle began. No one had watched him especially. He fought among the royal troops like any other knight, cutting down one Golden Company man, blocking another’s spear, raising a fallen soldier, catching an arrow from behind upon his shield.
His armor was already drenched in blood. Some of it was surely his own.
Barristan the Bold. On a battlefield, even such a name was nothing remarkable. There were many bold men. Most were dead.
Barristan stepped behind the line briefly, breathing hard.
"Are you well, Ser Selmy?" a knight asked.
"For now."
He said no more. He watched Maelys.
He had watched him all morning. At first he saw only strength. Now he saw something else.
Maelys’s left shoulder moved a fraction slower whenever he turned left. After broad swings, his side stiffened once. His right leg began to limp ever so slightly the longer he fought.
Each thing alone meant nothing. An arrow did not kill him. Neither did a spear point. Jason’s sword had not brought him down, nor the wounds left by Brynden’s soldiers.
But a day was long. Small wounds earned by dozens of men at the price of their lives had gathered on one body. The same parts of his armor had been struck again and again. Mail links broke. Leather lifted. Even a monster came apart slowly—only much later than an ordinary man.
Barristan watched Maelys turn left again. Again, he was slow.
A riderless horse stood nearby. Barristan took its reins.
"Where are you going?" the knight beside him asked, eyes wide.
Barristan mounted. "There."
The knight followed his gaze and went pale. "Ser Selmy."
Barristan was already moving.
"Ser Selmy!"
One horse rode against the current of the battle through withdrawing soldiers. Men cursed and made way.
"Where is he going?"
"That fool is mad!"
Barristan did not answer. He cut the throat of one Golden Company soldier who leveled a spear, let his horse shoulder aside a second, and passed a third.
Men began to recognize him.
"Selmy!"
"Barristan Selmy!"
Gerold saw the horse at a distance. At first he did not know who it was, only that the direction was wrong. Everyone else was giving way before Maelys; only one man rode straight toward the Black Dragon.
"That is—"
Then he knew. "Selmy!"
The battlefield swallowed his voice.
Barristan kept riding. Maelys saw him too. A mounted knight came straight at him. A Golden Company soldier stepped forward.
"Your Grace."
"Move aside," Maelys said.
"I will take him."
"Move."
The soldier withdrew. Barristan’s horse gathered speed.
Ten paces. Eight.
He raised his sword. Maelys suddenly set his own sword on the ground. Barristan’s eyes shifted.
Five paces.
Maelys drew back his right arm. Only then did Barristan understand. The fist was not meant for him.
It was meant for the horse.
Before Barristan could pull the reins, the huge fist smashed into the horse’s head. Thud. The sound was horribly dull. The horse’s head snapped sideways, its forelegs folded, and Barristan was flung from the saddle.
Sky and ground spun. His back struck stone. All air left his lungs at once. For several moments he could not even hear.
When his senses returned, dirt and blood mixed in his mouth. The horse beside him did not move. He tried to breathe, but his chest would not follow.
A shadow covered him.
His body moved first. He rolled aside. Maelys’s foot came down where his head had been, sending chips of stone flying.
Barristan rose using his sword like a crutch. At least he had not dropped it.
Maelys looked at him. "You lived."
Barristan did not reply. He raised his sword. Maelys picked his sword up again.
The first stroke came down. Barristan blocked. Steel rang, and he thought his whole arm would collapse. His knees bent; the blow ran from wrist to shoulder.
One time was enough. This was no opponent he could beat through strength.
He evaded the second. Maelys’s sword struck the rim of his shield and split the wood. The third scraped Barristan’s breastplate in a shower of sparks. Then a fist came. He raised the shield.
Thud. The shield flew from his hand and Barristan was driven several paces back.
Maelys followed. Barristan stabbed for his throat. Maelys turned his head, and the point only grazed skin. The sword pommel smashed Barristan’s face. White burst before his eyes. One knee struck the ground; blood filled his mouth again.
"Is that the end?" Maelys asked.
Barristan spat blood and stood again. That was his answer.
Maelys’s sword moved. Barristan blocked, evaded, and retreated, taking as few blows head-on as he could. One solid strike would end him. Meanwhile, he could not know how many times he must strike before Maelys fell.
So while he fought, he watched.
Left shoulder. Maelys turned. Slow.
Next attack. Side. The body stiffened briefly as Maelys drew his sword back.
Again. Right leg. The knee trembled slightly whenever he planted his foot hard.
Barristan continued to retreat. Maelys perhaps took it for fear and pressed in deeper. He swung broadly. Barristan evaded. Maelys turned left.
Again, slow.
For the first time, Barristan stepped in.
Maelys saw it and turned his sword in haste. Barristan’s blade was knocked aside. Then the left hand came for his throat—the hand that had broken Ormund’s neck, torn off Jason’s arm.
Barristan ducked. Thick fingers brushed over his head. Instead of retreating, he moved deeper inside. They were too close for Maelys’s long sword to draw proper strength.
Barristan’s point slashed Maelys’s thigh. Maelys’s knee wavered.
A fist descended. Barristan evaded with his head, but not his shoulder. A dull impact spun him sideways, pain like breaking bone shooting through him. Still, he did not let go of his sword.
Maelys turned to follow. Left.
Slow again.
This time Barristan saw beneath the throat: the join in the armor struck all morning. Several mail rings had broken. Leather had opened along one side. Beneath it was a narrow gap, large enough for one sword point.
He did not rush in. He confirmed it.
Once more. Maelys raised his sword. Barristan drew back; the blade passed before his nose. Maelys turned left.
Slow.
Barristan went in.
One step. His sword point found the gap. Maelys’s eyes widened. Barristan gripped his sword with both hands and drove it beneath the armor, through leather and into flesh. He pushed to the end.
A strange sound burst from Maelys. Not a word.
Barristan pulled the sword free. Blood poured out. Maelys’s hand flew again—he was not dead yet. Barristan threw himself back, and fingertips scratched his cheek.
Maelys staggered, one hand over his throat. Blood kept forcing its way between his fingers. The mouth on the small face fused to his right shoulder twitched grotesquely too.
Maelys looked at his hand. His blood. Then at Barristan.
"You…"
Blood boiled in his throat. Barristan held his sword up, his arms trembling violently.
"Barristan Selmy."
Maelys looked at him as if hearing the name for the first time. He tried to move the corner of his mouth, but only blood came out. His fist rose again.
Slow.
For the first time, unmistakably slow.
Barristan evaded. His sword cut open the wound in Maelys’s throat again. The great body shook, yet did not fall.
With his last strength, Barristan stepped in once more. His sword point drove up beneath Maelys’s chin.
The huge body went rigid. Barristan withdrew the blade. One of Maelys’s knees touched the ground.
Boom.
Even kneeling, he was immense.
The fighting around them began to stop one patch at a time. A Golden Company soldier opened his mouth with an unbelieving face.
"…Your Grace?"
Maelys did not answer. He lifted his head. No one knew what he saw. Perhaps the sea. Perhaps Westeros beyond it. Or perhaps the Black Dragon banner snapping above him.
His lips moved, very faintly.
"D…aemon…"
Barristan did not hear.
Maelys Blackfyre fell forward. His enormous body struck the stone. This time, he did not rise.
Barristan remained standing for a few moments, sword still in hand, staring at Maelys’s back as if to make certain he was truly dead. Then his hand began to shake. His arm followed. The sword point lowered. One knee buckled, then the other.
Barristan sank beside Maelys’s corpse. He had no strength left to move.
For a moment, the battlefield was strangely quiet. Then cries burst from both sides at once.
"Your Grace!" cried the Golden Company.
"Selmy!" cried the Westerosi. "Barristan Selmy!"
Both armies moved at once: one toward their dead king, the other toward the knight still living.
"Get the king’s body!"
"Pull out Ser Selmy!"
A brief, desperate melee erupted around the two men. One Golden Company soldier swung his sword weeping.
"Do not touch His Grace!"
A Westerosi knight shoved him back with his shield. "Get Ser Selmy out first!"
Two knights took Barristan beneath the arms. His legs held no strength, his toes dragging over the ground.
"Release the sword!"
His hand still gripped its hilt.
"Ser Selmy!"
Barristan barely opened his mouth. "…No."
"What?"
"Just… leave it."
He had no strength to say more.
Across from them, Golden Company men lifted Maelys’s corpse. It was not easy even with four men hauling.
"Lift his waist!"
"His legs!"
"Do not drop him!"
They were not trying to save their king. They were trying not to surrender his dead body to the enemy. A long trail of blood remained where the enormous corpse passed.
From that moment, the battle changed completely. The Golden Company no longer advanced. It moved back around its king’s body. Troops that had not yet landed stopped disembarking.
At sea, the news soon spread: Maelys was dead. The Black Dragon had fallen. The Golden Company was withdrawing its king’s body.
Some ships shouted to turn back; others called to wait for orders. When one ship turned its prow first, those behind followed, and vessels became tangled again in the narrow channels.
Bloodstone, which moments before had seemed a gate to Westeros, became once more a worthless, blood-soaked rock island.
＊ ＊ ＊
Gerold was among the last to realize the battle was ending. A Golden Company man rushed him one final time. Gerold caught the sword, shoved him away, and drove his point through the gap beneath the man’s arm. As the man fell, Gerold pulled free his blade and swayed once. His left arm would not rise properly.
Someone caught it. Brynden, one side of his face covered in blood.
"Can you stand?"
"For now," Gerold said.
Brynden smiled faintly. "I have heard that often today."
"Only of the living."
Brynden did not answer.
A cheer rose in the distance. At first Gerold could not make it out. Then one name became clear.
"Maelys is dead!"
Gerold lifted his head. Brynden looked the same way. Then came another cry.
"Selmy! Barristan Selmy!"
Gerold said nothing for several moments. Near the shore, the Golden Company was withdrawing. At its center, men carried an enormous body. Maelys.
On the opposite side, knights were almost dragging another man away. Barristan.
Aerys walked toward them, his helm gone, blood from a cut on his forehead soaking to his brows.
"Is it true?"
Gerold did not answer. The prince was already seeing it.
"That man… really killed him."
Tywin followed, cloth wrapped around one arm. His eyes went first to Barristan.
"Is he alive?"
"For now," Brynden said.
Tywin nodded once.
Steffon arrived later, dragging the tip of his sword along the ground. He said nothing. He watched only Maelys’s receding corpse—the man who had killed his father, the man Steffon had sworn to kill himself.
Now he was dead, by another man’s sword.
Steffon did not look pleased. Nor did he look cheated. He looked like a man who had not yet found the emotion he was meant to feel.
After watching for a long time, he let go of his sword. Iron struck stone.
"Ours is the fury," he said, very softly.
Gerold heard. Steffon looked at him. The White Bull said nothing.
After a while, Steffon looked to the sea again.
"It must be ours."
This time Gerold gave the smallest nod.
＊ ＊ ＊
As the sun declined, Quellon Greyjoy came up from the water. His armor was wet to the waist, dried blood and seawater mixed across his face and hands. Ironborn followed him. Mainland soldiers made way as they passed. Some still watched them with unfriendly eyes, but none approached to speak.
Quellon did not care. He went straight to Gerold’s side and looked out at the sea.
"They are leaving."
"I see."
Black ships turned one by one. Several Iron Islands longships were already behind them.
"Shall we pursue?" Quellon asked.
Gerold did not answer immediately. He looked at the sea, then at the shore. Westerosi soldiers had reached their limits as well. Some lay on the sand still armored. Some sat silently beside dead friends. Others stared blankly at blood as though only now discovering their own wounds.
The red lion still stood. The golden lion did not. Jason Lannister would not return. Neither would Ormund Baratheon.
Barristan was surrounded by healers, apparently still conscious. He had not released his sword.
Aerys moved among his soldiers, seeing to the wounded. Tywin walked toward the western camp, where Roger Reyne’s red lion was gathering what remained of Jason’s men. Steffon returned to the tent where his father waited.
"There are many ships we can take," Quellon said again.
"How many will we lose?" Gerold asked.
"I do not know. But I am confident we will lose fewer than they do."
Gerold considered, then shook his head. "Enough for today."
Quellon’s eyes narrowed. "Fleeing ships are easiest to take when pursued."
"I know."
"Tomorrow they scatter."
"That too I know."
Gerold looked at the shore. "But too many people died today."
Quellon did not reply. He watched the sea for a long time, then lifted his right hand. A horn sounded from a distant longship. The pursuing ironborn vessels slowed one by one and turned their prows back.
"Thank you, Lord Greyjoy," Gerold said.
Quellon answered only by removing his wet glove. After a moment, he said quietly, "Next time, let us not let them go."
"Next time," Gerold answered without looking away from the sea.
There were no more words between them.
＊ ＊ ＊
Maelys’s death did not end every fight. The Council of Nine remained. The Golden Company had not vanished. Not every island of the Stepstones had been reclaimed. Tomorrow they would have to drive out fleeing sellswords, find scattered ships, and reclaim the islands held by pirates one by one. Someone would die the next day, and likely the day after that.
But the kind of war had changed.
The war that had marched toward Westeros was over. So was the Black Dragon that had flown toward the Iron Throne.
Gerold watched the departing ships. For a moment, Maelys’s huge body was visible upon a deck before men carried it below. The Black Dragon banner came down slowly.
How much blood had flowed since Daemon Blackfyre first demanded a crown? The Redgrass Field. The rebellions that followed. When the first Black Dragon died, his son inherited the name. When that son died, another heir appeared. Though generations vanished, the exiles raised another Black Dragon.
Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. And then a fifth.
Five times the Blackfyres had tried to return to Westeros. This time was different. The last male descendant had died: Maelys Blackfyre.
No one had ever heard that he had a son.
The Golden Company would remain. The exiles would remain. Somewhere, people would remain who longed for the Black Dragon.
But that was different from blood.
There was no son to follow. No next Black Dragon.
The blood had ended.
At least, Gerold believed so. Soon all Westeros would believe it too.
He let out a long breath. The smell of blood and salt filled his lungs.
Ormund. Jason. Thousands whose names he would never know.
Too many people had died.
Still, it was over. This time, truly.
Gerold looked west, beyond the sea, toward Westeros.
And thought:
At last.
The Blackfyres were finished.
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