The black dragon and the stag met head-on.
In armor, warhorse, and weaponry, both men stood among the very best the Seven Kingdoms could offer. A single suit of such masterwork plate was worth five gold dragons at the least—never mind the cost borne by men of such power and privilege. Yet in this moment, none of that mattered.
Only one question remained.
Who was the true warrior?
Maelys Blackfyre swung his spiked morningstar, its weight like a falling mountain. Lord Monford Baratheon raised his warhammer and barely managed to block the crushing blow.
The impact sent a violent shock through Monford's arms, muscles screaming in protest. He had to admit it—Maelys Blackfyre was born for war. One glance at the brutal spikes and ridges of that weapon told him the truth: had it struck his face, there would have been nothing left but pulp.
They charged again and again, horses thundering, weapons rising and falling.
No flourishes.
No tricks.
Only killing blows.
Dull. Direct. Deadly.
War was a blood-soaked drill; drills were bloodless war. And in true combat experience and raw strength, Monford was hopelessly outmatched.
A savage grin spread across Maelys Blackfyre's face. The grotesque knot of flesh on his neck seemed to pulse with life. He could feel victory tipping toward him.
His strikes grew faster.
Heavier.
Bit by bit, Monford found himself failing.
In his youth, the Lord of Storm's End had been a mighty warrior—strong of arm, broad of shoulder, the dream of countless maidens. But politics, councils, debates, and the weight of rule had stolen his hours. A warrior's life was finite. The less time one devoted to battle, the less favor one earned from the goddess of fortune.
In that, Monford could never match Maelys Blackfyre—a man without wife or child, who had spent his entire life in slaughter.
A warrior was like a blade.
If not honed, it dulled.
Iron sharpened iron.
Maelys pressed the attack, the morningstar roaring like a maddened dragon, striking again and again.
Boom!
Monford's vision flashed white as the weapon smashed into his breastplate, caving it inward. Even soldiers far from the clash heard the thunderous impact. It was as if the stag emblazoned upon his armor had let out a dying cry.
Dizziness. Ringing ears. Golden stars spinning.
Monford could no longer lift his hammer. He swayed atop his horse, bones shattered, his body feeling like splintered spears driven through flesh.
The fight had ended in moments.
It always did.
Relentless pressure decided battles far faster than courage ever could.
"One more strike," Maelys Blackfyre growled, raising his weapon again. "And the stag dies."
He aimed for Monford's face.
At that instant, Monford's warhorse screamed.
Ignoring its rider's commands, the beast reared, slammed its hooves down, and wheeled around—bolting wildly back toward the royalist lines.
Maelys stared, momentarily stunned.
"That blow was enough," he declared coldly. "Even if Monford lives, he can no longer command. Whether he dies or not—let the Seven decide."
He turned back beneath the golden skull banner and raised his morningstar high.
"Maelys Blackfyre shall prevail! The Golden Company shall prevail!"
"Prevail!"
"Prevail!"
The mercenaries roared in answer, drunk on blood and triumph.
"Father!"
Ser Steffon Baratheon rode forward, catching Monford as he slumped in the saddle. His father still breathed—but barely. Blood spilled from his mouth and nose. Command had to be transferred at once.
The army's surgeons rushed in, but the wounds were grave. Storm's End's lord would need to be taken back to Westeros—if he was to survive at all.
"Now hear me!" shouted Ser Gerold Hightower, his voice booming across the field. "All troops—by my command! Hold formation! Hold the line!"
The White Bull stood tall in gleaming Kingsguard plate, his white cloak snapping behind him.
Both armies pulled back. The royalists were numerous, but shaken. The Golden Company needed time to recover as well. An uneasy truce settled over the battlefield.
Commanding a battered army was no gift.
Not all obeyed willingly. Hightower had never before led such a force, and morale was low with Monford dying.
The White Bull knew only one way forward.
Advance. Slowly. Relentlessly.
And so the war ground on—royalists and mercenaries mixed like water and sand, painting Bloodstone with sweat, tears, and blood.
The plains thundered with hooves. Banners of every color whipped through smoke and dust. Cavalry clashed again and again—
Until a young knight rode forth.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
Maelys Blackfyre looked upon the challenger—tall, straight-backed, eyes pale blue and unyielding as steel. Barristan wore silver-white armor bearing House Selmy's sigil: three golden wheat sheaves upon brown.
"Go back, boy," Maelys called. "My morningstar thirsts for souls."
For a moment, there was even regret in his voice. Perhaps he saw himself, long ago, in the young knight.
"Remember my name," Barristan said, leveling his sword.
"Barristan Selmy."
He did not retreat.
Only death lay ahead.
"Foolish whelp!" Maelys roared—and charged.
Man like fire.
Horse like wind.
Dust swallowed them whole.
Maelys cast aside his helm, screaming as he swung, eyes sharp as blades—yet he could find no opening.
Barristan's sword shone cold as a flooding river, each stroke carrying fury and resolve.
Slowly… Maelys weakened.
Age claimed its due.
Steel pierced his throat.
His fine cloak, his pale hair—both soaked crimson.
"Maelys Blackfyre is dead!"
Barristan Selmy took the head himself. The body collapsed, headless, blood pooling like a river.
Holding sword in one hand and Maelys' head in the other, Barristan raised it high.
Prince Duncan's smile.
They seemed so close.
He had not failed them.
Silence swept the battlefield.
Then—
"Savior Barristan!"
"The Savior of Bloodstone!"
The royalists erupted, their cheers strong enough to shatter stone.
With Maelys Blackfyre's death, a legend was born.
And the war's outcome was sealed.