Blackwater Bay, 219 AC
The surf broke black and white upon the shore as the ships of the Golden Company rammed their prows into sand and stone. With cries in the Common Tongue and the harsh syllables of Lys and Myr, armored men surged down gangplanks and leapt into the shallow tide. Shields splashed. Warhorns bellowed. Trumpets screamed like dying things.
At their head rode Haegon Blackfyre.
He was every inch the image of his father—tall and broad of shoulder, silver-gold hair braided in the Tyroshi fashion, beard glinting in the mist. His armor gleamed black with crimson inlay, the sigil of the Blackfyre dragon emblazoned proudly across his breast. And on his hip hung the sword Blackfyre, that ancient Valyrian steel blade once borne by Aegon the Conqueror himself—stolen from crown to pretender.
Aegor Rivers, Bittersteel, rode at his side, grim and unflinching, his black hair tied back with a golden clasp, purple eyes narrowed against the wind. A cloak of black and gold rippled behind him, and in his gauntlet he gripped the banner of the Blackfyres, its three-headed dragon inverted and wrathful.
Atop the dunes and forming across the high ground, the royal host had drawn their line—lances gleaming, spears bristling, shields locked tight. Red banners flew in the wind. The Targaryen dragon roared upon the wind as warhorns answered the challenge.
Prince Maekar stood at the front on his black destrier, flanked by his sons—Aerion Brightflame in his dragon-helm, and Aegon the Unlikely beside him, visor down but sword steady. Behind them stretched knights of the crownlands and stormlands, and the bowmen of the Raven's Teeth, already drawing strings at Lord Bloodraven's silent command from the cliffs above.
Two armies faced each other—two faces of one house, one legacy divided.
Haegon raised his sword, and it sang in the wind like a living flame."For House Blackfyre!" he cried. "For my father, my brothers, and the realm that was stolen from us!"
The Golden Company roared their answer:"BLOOD AND FIRE!"
He spurred his charger forward, Bittersteel galloping beside him, the front line of exiled knights and sellswords surging like a tidal wave behind them.
Prince Maekar lowered his lance. "Now," he growled, and the horns of the red dragon sang out.
The tide broke. The Blackfyres crashed into the royal host with the fury of ten thousand storms. Shields split. Horses screamed. Swords found flesh and bit deep. On that blood-soaked shore, the second Redgrass Field began—not in the open, but upon the very doorstep of the Iron Throne.
Brynden Rivers watched from above, his lone red eye tracking the shape of the battlefield like a hawk surveying prey. He said nothing, only raised one pale hand.
The Raven's Teeth loosed a storm of arrows.