King's Landing
Once the commander for the Stepstones campaign was decided, the gears of war turned swiftly.
The scrape of spearheads, the clash of steel, the weighty thud of armor—
These sounds drowned out all other considerations.
When no other choice remained, only war could be chosen.
The lecherous, sentimental, and disastrously fertile mediocrity that was King Aegon IV—
That studhorse of a king—
Had, even on his deathbed, left behind the embers of war for the realm.
The shadow of House Blackfyre had long hovered over Westeros.
They refused to relinquish their desire for the Iron Throne, claiming it as their birthright.
Rebellion after rebellion.
Five generations of Targaryen kings plagued without pause.
Though the Blackfyres failed every time, the endless uprisings and grand battles left the realm scarred and bleeding.
Fortunately, dragons were already extinct.
Otherwise, dragonlords slaughtering one another would have unleashed a catastrophe even worse than the Dance of the Dragons.
"Maelys Blackfyre—
The two-headed monster.
A kinslayer.
Commander of the Golden Company."
From the Tower of the Hand, Lord Ormund Baratheon issued his orders as ravens flew in and out of the Red Keep.
"This year, the bloodline of Blackfyre will be extinguished.
The realm will finally know peace."
Across vast Westeros, mobilization began.
From the Iron Islands, the Westerlands, and the Riverlands—
To the Crownlands and the Stormlands.
Forces from many realms, united for a single decisive strike.
The people had grown sick of blood, fire, and tears.
Sick of the Blackfyres' endless rebellions.
Now House Blackfyre was thin-blooded and fading.
Kill Maelys the Monstrous, and everything would end.
…
The reception chamber of the Tower of the Hand was far smaller than the king's own hall, yet no less elegant.
Myrish carpets lined the floor.
Golden garden windows let in soft light.
A painting on the wall depicted dragon and stag standing in harmony.
House Baratheon had always been House Targaryen's strongest pillar—
Who would have thought that after a few twists of fate, they would become mortal enemies in Robert's era?
But no one cared about décor now.
Their thoughts were already thousands of miles away, on the battlefield.
Lord Ormund Baratheon wore black leather, a small stag sigil pinned to his chest.
"Targaryen—Aerys.
Baratheon—Steffon.
Lannister—Tywin."
He looked at the young men before him, seeing echoes of his own youth—
Unrestrained, ambitious, brilliant.
Back then, even his smile had been sharp as a blade.
Golden hair and pale green eyes—Tywin.
Black hair and blue eyes—Steffon.
Silver hair and indigo eyes—Aerys.
Strong bloodlines, unmistakable traits.
Each youth bore the clear stamp of his House.
They tried to appear mature, yet traces of boyhood still lingered on their faces.
Young.
Tall.
Well-built.
Each of them shone like a newly forged sword.
When Lord Ormund called their names, all three stepped forward with pride and restraint, offering respectful bows.
They were the golden generation of King's Landing.
The future masters of Westeros.
Bathed in ancestral glory, they yearned for honor on the battlefield.
And at this historic gathering, there was one more presence—
A swaddled infant.
Prince Rhaegar, cradled in Aerys's arms.
"And of course," Lord Ormund said warmly,
"the future of the next generation—Prince Rhaegar."
As he looked into the child's eyes, he saw hope.
He saw a future of peace.
Rhaegar held deep respect for this old lord.
Sadly, he had no clever way to grant him even a few more years of life.
The baby prince's gaze shifted briefly to Tywin.
The golden-haired youth was undeniably handsome, yet a faint shadow clung to his expression.
The Laughing Lion's disgrace had spread across the Seven Kingdoms.
Tywin bore endless rumors and slights, especially as other houses increasingly looked down on House Lannister.
That humiliation burned fiercely within him.
At this moment, every breath Tywin took was spent gathering strength—to restore the lion's glory, no matter the cost.
Aerys and Steffon, by contrast, seemed far more open and natural.
Aerys had not yet rotted into what he would become.
He was still a charming young prince.
Rhaegar's birth had brought him genuine joy.
For now, they were truly a harmonious father and son.
The elders worked tirelessly to bind dragon, lion, and stag together—
Letting the three grow up as close friends, forging an unbreakable alliance.
The Dragon–Lion–Stag alliance was a masterstroke.
The lion provided gold.
The stag provided warriors.
Add Dorne, the Reach, the Riverlands—
House Targaryen could crush any rival.
Unfortunately, even such a brilliant move failed in the end.
Once Aerys went mad, he flipped the table himself.
Rhaegar found Aerys deeply uncomfortable—
Yet for now, he lacked the strength to escape his father's embrace.
And Aerys's descent into madness reeked of conspiracy.
The Three-Eyed Raven?
The maesters?
Rhaegar wanted to uncover the truth.
To reverse the future—
Time itself was his trump card.
"Maelys Blackfyre is powerful," Lord Ormund said steadily,
"but we are stronger. The Iron Islands and the Westerlands support us."
"And Maelys is a kinslayer. The Seven themselves will curse him. He will die a wretched death."
The curse of kinslaying was no joke—
A burden on the soul and a stigma despised across all Westeros.
"I will take my sword," Aerys declared passionately,
"and cut off both of Maelys's heads. I will reclaim the sword Blackfyre!"
Rhaegar nearly rolled his eyes.
Aerys was exactly that kind of man—
Aware, on some level, that he was mediocre, yet convinced he was exceptional.
He lacked any truly outstanding talent or martial prowess,
Yet always believed himself superior to others.
"Regardless," Lord Ormund said gravely,
"war is a place of death. You must all guard your lives carefully."
In war, politicians gave speeches.
Nobles chased glory.
And parents buried their children.
Blades showed no mercy.
The dangers of battle could not be measured—only endured.
The three young men nodded in agreement.
In truth, as second-line commanders, they would be deployed selectively, surrounded by elite guards.
Still, Lord Ormund could not put his heart at ease.
The realm's finest young talents were priceless.
The one Rhaegar worried about most, however, was Lord Ormund himself.
The Ninepenny Kings' war was doomed to fail—
But Ormund Baratheon would die in it.
Aerys had risen early, drunk on praise and flattery.
What he lacked most was an elder statesman like Ormund—
A man of judgment, experience, and restraint.
By blood and by authority, Ormund could guide Aerys—
And Aerys would not dare ignore him.
By tradition, Ormund would act as regent for a time—
Delaying the moment when Aerys and Tywin would begin to despise one another.
A way is needed, Rhaegar thought,
to let the duke live.