The sibling... the word felt queer, meant for a dream, carving and mending his soul in a strange harmony. Above all, he knew that it was the truth, it had to be, a stubborn ache in his chest would not let him forsake it. Even now, on the battlements, with mist shrouding the river mouth and the sun sinking low in the west before yielding to another night to come. Can I fight? he wondered, in the moment when Sansa uttered the words, the farewell was hard, he yearned to hear more. Hear from her. The stag was prancing through the mist, in full strength, ready to seize the crown, a royal circlet barely placed upon his brow. The hilt of the Blackfyre felt heavier than usual; his sword was defying him, loath to leave its scabbard. Might be Blackfyre knows I am not prepared to face another battle so soon after Jon's death. Now, I stand alone.

"Your grace, are you well? Do you require water?" asked Laswell Peake, too seasoned a man to not sense a turmoil on Aegon's demeanor. I must stand for my men; they cannot confuse my sorrow for dread.

"This wind is opening my wounds, never a welcome thing," Aegon fibbed. A befitting reply to a man whose life is of steel and war. You cannot fight for decades in the Golden Company, as Peake did, and not bear wounds that smart. The man made a serjeant ere Aegon's nameday. Wisely so, Aegon put Peake in command of the Mud Gate, where Baratheon's hammer will strike fiercest.

Stannis filled the bay with nigh half a thousand of his ships, most smaller trade galleys, carracks, and cogs. A wooden shaft on a spear to bear men-at-arms until a sharp spearhead breaches entrance at the river. A tip laden with almost eighty warships, large and stout; half of which Stannis taken from his elder brother when he served as Master of Ships, and the other half a boon from Free Cities. A score of foes Aegon did not even know he had. Foes of my friend are my foes as well, and Illyrio never ceased to remind me of his bounteous friendship. If Velaryons and Celtigars stood by the side of the stag, he would have more than a hundred. Alas the trident and claw are in my grasp, ready to smite the foes rear. Lord Stannis was not the only one who received gifts; Aegon got forty warships moored at King's Landing and two scores of trading ships Tyrion Lannister impounded in the interest of Joffrey's crown.

The dragon borrowed more than just ships from the dwarf, the entire plan to defend King's Landing perched on small legs. First, with the doom of wildfire, Aegon shall annihilate Baratheon's spearhead; then, the fleet commanded by Lord Velaryon will strike and shatter the shaft. The fleet led by Driftmark's Seahorse departed three nights ago for Duskendale, under the cloak of a moonless night and howling storm. Lord Rykker pledged three warships of his own— the only three he had— old and weary, but still fit for war.

"Ships in the river," warned the voice from the watchtowers. Yet, from the merlons of the southern wall, only white mist glided across the dark currents of the Blackwater.

From the belly of the mist, warhorns spoke first, followed by drums, an eerie and steady rhythm. Aegon never fancied drums, especially not these, clear and ordered, hinting at an enemy ready for battle, well-trained and armed. Stannis Baratheon had such a renown, a seasoned commander with enough battles under his girdle. Firm in mind and body, as hard as iron.

Twelve shadows emerged in a straight battle line, from the wide river mouth. The stag emblazoned in flame gleamed on sails and stern; fire on canvas came to life, casting light on the dark river trapped in fog and the late day. The work of the Red Priestess, it was known to him, the most perilous tool in Baratheon's host.

Once, he shared a bed with one servant of R'hllor in Pentos, in the sorrowful years after Eira's death, when he had somewhat lost himself, drowning in books, work, and occasionally, in women. Dyed blue hair did not deceive her, she instantly knew Aegon was not a son of rich cheesemonger Illyrio Mopatis but a prince from a distant land. A better prize, worthy to ensnare, just so, if only Aegon were so simple to prey upon

"Serjeant, let them know we are not slumbering," Aegon ordered to serjeant Malo. A creak of battle engines brought catapults and scorpions to life.

"Catapults!" roared the men, and voices reverberated through the long wall as officers far away relayed the order all the way to the Walls of the Red Keep. Catapults hurled great stones at the first line of the ships. Sadly, most stones missed their marks, but the game began, at least a seemingly harmless, innocent part of it. The tempting part, the moment lovers shed each other's clothes, a gentle touch of intrigue before passions take over. It looked splendid, as line after line of Baratheon ships came into sight. Drums and horns chanting, stones flying across the skies, scorpion bolts darting the air like shooting stars. Ships answered with force of their own, flinging stones over to the gravel beach, stronger ones grazing against thick walls.

Not a man has perished yet, just a display of might from both sides, testing each strength points and weakness. If only those sailors knew, a fiery beast lurks beneath their hulls, deep down resting amid seagrass. South of the river, a thousand armored horsemen cast off shyness, leaving the security of Kingswood. Hopefully, soon, there'll be none to pluck them out, not a ship, not a small boat.

"Ahhhhh," a voice cracked as Aegon lost his first man, crushed by a boulder, somewhere down the wall, likely from the Fury. The Maiden had just shown her pearl to an eager lover. The tip of Stannis's spear, a sea leviathan so huge and full of oars, it kills with its indomitable appearance. By chance Aegon shall seize it by the horns, with the paint-chipped Lady of the Silk, a ship so old it's not deserving of the wood that built her.

And then, gliding down the current came Aegon's seven, a vanguard made of the worst ships in the royal fleet of King's Landing, speeding downstream to face the foe. Sailing to perish, manned by a skeleton crew of clueless men. The men I am sending to die, some of them with families, sons to be reared, daughters to wed. One hundred twenty-eight of them, some old, some young. It must be done. Can golden dragons replace a sire, Aegon did not know, but he was certain families would get their due, for a sacrifice... A falsehood to myself, it's not a sacrifice when men do not know they are dying. Oarless, seven ships were borne by a swift river, hastening towards the first battle line.

"Better to raise the chain," Laswell Peake was worried prey might elude the trap. A little bit more, or so much will be for naught.

"No," Aegon said patiently, "we need as many as we can get in. Seven battle lines at least." Luck be it, the wildfire just might consume five scores of Baratheon ships. The chain would seal the escape route, seven of Aegon's ships laden to the brim with wildfire will inflame the first two battle lines, and submerged barrels complete the inferno. The forging of the chain was Tyrion Lannister's idea; to add wildfire reinforced by rigging ropes was Aegon's. From shore to shore, ropes held lines of sand-filled barrels, each having a heart of wildfire pot. Hallyne cautioned him the strength of the river might set them off early, yet he took the gamble, and payday was at hand. Unawares, a dozen enemy ships crossed the underwater threat.

"And our men Stannis mayhaps lurks on yonder ships," added ser Daemon Sand, holding high Aegon's banner as standard bearer. Ser Loras joined Aegon's left hand. Only two white cloaks to stand with him in war, for Ser Barristan lay abed since the trial by combat. And Rolly fell, not by sword, but by my poor judgment. Shieldless Rymen, as the smallfolk dubbed the Rykker boy, remained at the Red Keep to watch over the queen. A task Ser Loras would have claimed in other times, but not this day, and Aegon knew full well the reason. "Revenge is a dish best served cold," the men of the Free Cities oft said. To face a giant, a sword I would draw if it meant seeing Eria just for a split of a second.

"Hardly so, Stannie is more than a lord of war, but a master of ships. He knows the first blood is at the river, too costly," Aegon replied. "He means to land with that host, not to brave a river battle". Land, breach the mud gate feeblest of them all, and face me, rattle me out of the city my forefathers raised.

"The river is unworthy of the honor to slay him," Ser Loras said adamantly, his gentle voice glinting with hidden fury, ready to erupt more fiercely than wildfire. The White Flower stands defiant in the shadow of doom.

From Varys, Aegon learned Stannis is a bold man, an upright king, too stubborn not to lead by deed. He'll come.

A runner came from the King's Gate, "Your Grace, Captain Balaq stands ready and waiting. Enemy riders are thronging across the river, a thousand and more awaiting the boats."

"Well. Let them bear witness to our triumph," spoke the Bastard of the Godsgrace. The bulk of Stannis's men sailed with him from Dragonstone, but Aegon kept one eye on the Kingswood, on the host Guyard Morrigen marshaled.

Ere long, another runner came, from a different way. "If it please your Grace..." The lad's words were silenced when boiling pitch struck the merlons, drenching a score of the Golden Company men-at-arms. Two tumbled over the wall into the city, the rest shrieked while writhing on the ground. Warships were assailing the battlements with scorpions and catapults. Aegon's forces were not idle; ordered rows of ships were breaking under the dreadful bolts from the walls.

"Go on," Aegon urged the green runner back to his senses, lifting him to his feet. A sheen of sweat covered the boy's brow. "What are the tidings from Captain Pease?" The hour has come; the Blackwater must be shut by now.

"The chain is raised, your Grace," he answered meekly, "seven enemy galleys crashed into it, sinking. More damaged." Glad words, Aego rejoiced, the chain will hold them off.

"It's time," said Daemon as seven royal galleys drew near two hundred yards from Stannis's first rank. In Aegon's ears, bells were ringing; victory was nigh. Stannis's ships bit the hook, moving to ramming speed; archers stood poised on decks of ships. The black iron head on the Fury, in the shape of the bounding stag, aimed at the Lady of the Silk. Just a bit more, and the green monster shall swallow its wooden quarry. Agonizingly, time crawled too slowly in the sand glass. Did Aegon the Conqueror feel thus as he awaited Gardner forces to fill the field of withered grass?

All of a sudden, from the deck of the Fury, a glittering arrow took flight, long and lean, sparkling in colors of a rainbow. So far from the walls, yet it seemed so bright, a flame in the form of an arrow, elegantly shimmering through the thin fog. No, a shock drove the air from his chest before the flame landed on the deck of the Lady of the Silk, breaking all his schemes. Someone must have betrayed their secrets. How could it be that Varys failed in his duty so badly?

"Gods be merciful," Laswell Peak breathed, in a grunt, as the fiery arrow fell onto the partly unfurled sails of the Lady of the Silk. The old ship blazed faster than anything Aegon had ever beheld. It did not only merely burn; it melted, devouring the ship inward by the venom of the green liquid freight.

The green blast blinded all but Aegon; his lilac Targaryen eyes peered into the void. Daemon slid gauntlet fingers over his halfhelm; Laswell averted his face; Ser Loras dropped to the ground, not as nimbly as his renown. The flash robbed many of their sight, as eyes were turned away, people cried in agony wrought upon their eyes. Aegon felt no pain, nor were his eyes tired of gazing into the flames.

Boooooooom, a deafening sound replaced the light a heartbeat later. The rumbling noise roused anyone who might have yet been slumbering in King's Landing.

Timbers and shattering wood served as the spark, kindling the fire on the remaining six ships like a broken necklace; all seven ships burst in a row. Boom. Boom. boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

A bridge of fire clove the river in twain, forming a flawless line, towering high, dwarfing even the walls of the Red Keep. The wall of green fire was tame, sparing all of Stannis's ships as they dropped anchor before it. It's her, the red witch, Aegon felt, her magic feeds on fire, and I gave her the grandest pyre she could ever dream of.

Swoosh. Swoosh. Murky river water was lashing the green wall on the other side, too feeble to break it, sending jets of steam towards the city walls.

In a thunderbeat, men blinded by the green blaze now shrieked as steam seared them alive in their plate armor and mail shirts. Helpless, Aegon could only watch the horror. When the steam reached his spot upon the battlements, he was the lone men standing. Targaryen skin withstands heat. My army is Targaryen only in a banner.

Furiously, he lifted the visor, gazing at the green wall-bridge, a wicked thing ablaze with the same unquenchable malice. Like in an emerald glass, he spied her red eyes in it, searing through the darkness itself. Two rubies on a face as pale as his, gorgeous in the grace of a woman, crowned by copper-red hair. She was startled; she did not reckon anyone could peer at the world with shade of her own eyes. Melisandre of Asshai, thrall of the Lord of Light, R'hllor. Lilac stare of Targaryen shattered flickering ruby, lifting the veils of the mummer's show.

"I see you," Aegon murmured, his voice blending into the hissing death of scalding steam and the madness of pleas for help. "I see your true face, not a comely one, but old, marred by ages." The blood-red ruby on a golden chain became his hand as Aegon's words strangled her. Utterly amazed, she was wholly enchanted, losing herself as their two minds linked across vast spaces.

"How?" she quailed in a raspy voice as the vision took them both, in a swirl of memory, to the Red comet, the first one, in the year he was born, when King's Landing was more tranquil. The chamber they saw was in the Red Keep, where Margaery now sleeps. In the middle of it stood a man, tall as Aegon, sharing the same silver hair, though his eyes were of deep purple, almost indigo.

"Aegon," the man said to a Dornish woman nursing a newborn babe in a grand wooden bed. "What finer name for a king?" The name resounded, turning into a sob, as the face of his mother, Elia, came into sight.

"Will you make a song for him?" Elia softly asked, paying heed to the sleeping babe rather than the fanciful musings of her husband.

"He has a song," Aegon's father answered, sure as the coming of dawn. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire." The fallen Targaryen Prince lifted his head as he spoke, and his eyes met Aegon's; it seemed as if he glimpsed his son standing on the battlements, witnessing his army perish in the scorching steam on the southern wall of King's Landing. Sorrow came over Aegon, and Melisandre was stunned and mute. The joining of minds brought them closer, and Aegon sensed despair in her heart. She was wrong; she had mistaken Stannis for a savior he was not.

"There must be one more," Rhaegar said, though whether he was speaking to Aegon or the princess Elia in the bed he could not tell. "The dragon has three heads." He went to the window seat, picked up a harp, and ran his fingers softly over its silvery strings. Bitter sorrow filled the room as his mother and father and his child-self vanished into green gleam reflected in the River.

"Free my men," Aegon shouted at Melisandre, emptiness of loss stoking his wrath; as the red priestess lost her power before his voice, falling prey to her own doubt. Melisandre collapsed on the deck of the ship she shared with her false king, releasing the hold she had on the wall of the green flame. In a moment, the vast green inferno crumbled upon itself, sending a formidable green avalanche on Stannis's fleet. The wall of fire crashed on the fleet, sending flames, far and wide. On the southern shore, trees of Kingswood caught fire in a dozen different places. The last time such a thing happened a quarter of the wood was lost.

The looming heat pierced the cold river water, licking the barrels hidden deep below, and ships nearer to the great chain boom at last went up in flames. The flaming beast was so colossal that there were scarcely any screams, as a thousand men burnt quicker than parchment. Fire leapt from the river, sliding towards the fleet moored at sea.

Wildfire is a power no one should meddle with, and once more, the green foe turned on Aegon, as some barrels loosed by the blast drifted away beneath the iron chain, bursting there, creating the largest scorpion bolt known to men. The chain snapped and crimson links flew towards the Mud Gate, falling short by twenty yards. Yet, the iron was hard, fueled by the green flame; it smashed through the wall like a long sword forged for the Great Titan of Braavos. By the Mud Gate, the wall was weakest, half as thick, so the sword of chain links passed through, slicing a breach fifteen feet wide and toppling houses behind the wall.

"What have I done!" Aegon wished to command men to seal the breach, but he was the sole one on feet. Shy of two thousand Golden Company men-at-arms guarded the wall from the Red Keep, all the way to the King's Gate. Most were on the ground, injured or dead from the steam blast, their faces crimson, full of blisters.

"Sire, are you hurt?" called Laswell Peake, still in fine shape, protected by his gold-gilded armor, sheltered behind the watchtower.

"I am... Ser Loras, Ser Daemon, Myles," Aegon tried to reach the white cloaked guardians, yet no voice answered his call, as the steam turned into a faint mist filled with half-silenced cries from wounded men.

Time was running short, safety slipping through his fingers, Aegon swiftly rushed towards Ser Laswell. "Take as many Gold Cloaks from the second line, gather all the helping hands you can muster, and remove the wounded from the walls." There were too many wounded; it would overwhelm the healers and septas at the aid station, yet there was no other choice.

Turning in a circle, he tried to find another man, urgently needing a runner. Then his eyes spotted Ser Daemon, revealing a half-blistered face. "Can you ride?" the king asked.

"I will if I have to," the Dornishman answered in a raspy voice.

"Good," Aegon placed his hand on the knight's shoulder. "Ride to the Old Gate, order Ser Denys to bring his company here to the breach. Have him dispatch runners to other serjeants—Lorimas, Ser Humphrey, Ser Duncan. I need Golden Company men at the breach." A few companies of well-trained men must suffice, along with a company of crossbowmen.

"Sire," Myles Mooton broke in on Aegon, cutting through the fog like a blade, fairing better than ser Daemon.

Aegon paid him no heed, for a moment, giving his last words to Ser Daemon. "Let the City Watch hold the north and east. We have more pressing matters hereobout."

"Myles, make haste to the Lion's Gate. Bid Lord Manwoody to scramble half his strength and send them here," just as Aegon finished the order for his second runner, Daemon Sand spurred his black-maned Sand Steed, racing to deliver the message.

"As you will it," said the young Mooton, making for the wall steps to his own mount.

Soon the word came along the wall: hundreds died of the steam blast, twice as many maimed, but hundreds still had steel in hand. More than I dared to dream.

The breach in the wall gaped wide, a yawning chasm where Stannis meant to break the Mud Gate. Aegon descended the steps, inhaling the hot air and the smoke. Two massive carts blocked the way through the breach, but he feared it was not enough. For a proper defense, he needed his army here. Above and below, stones were heaped into carts, to seal every crack.

The streets jamed, choked with the folk of King's Landing and the Gold Cloaks carrying wounded men to the safety of the inner city. The crowd was thickened by the men who came to defend the breach, so Laswell Peake raised his soft voice, 'Wounded by the Street of Steel, clear the Muddy Way.'

The Gold Cloaks of the City Watch were no match for the Golden Company; they lacked discipline and order. But they could keep the peace in the city, and so they did, making both roads passable for their use.

The swift current of the Blackwater swept the shattered wreckage of Stannis's ships, aflame and smoking, towards the sea, bringing doom to hundred more vessels that lurked in the shadow of the Red Keep.

Denys Strong was the first to heed his summons, with a hundred men in golden mail and plate pacing behind his white destrier.

"The bastard is landing ships north of the Iron Gate, thousands of men. We should ride out, face them in battle." Strong's great grey mustaches quivered with his fury. He holds me responsible for the wildfire disaster; he is not wrong. Nonetheless, all the true warships of the current Lord of Dragonstone were no more, his merchant galleys and pirates too meager a power to challenge my small fleet. Lord Velaryon is a loyal and valiant man; he will come.

"We are short of men, horses... but so is he. Not only sailors perished on those ships but knights and soldiers. I am not a fool to abandon the walls for a whim of short courage," said Aegon, his words stinging the serjeant, who turned his back to his king, spurring his mount towards the ranks of incoming men. I only need to outlast Stannis. Now, thousands of his troops are stranded on the other side of the Blackwater. Those he has, he must land far away and trudge the miles to the Breach.

The darkness of the night enveloped the city, bringing a cold breeze that cleared the foul smell of burning. The wall stirred again with hundreds of archers on the parapets and nearly a thousand men before the half-sealed breach. In the cover of darkness, columns of Stannis's soldiers moved from the sea to the river, betrayed by glimmers of torches. From a tourney ground east of the city to another in the north, by the water's edge. Thousands of soldiers and over a hundred heavy barges on their backs. Stannis, with great toil, seeks to join his two armies split by the riverbed.

With spiced wine in hand, Aegon watched from the watchtower as the dance of lights and shadows played out in the dark night. The Green Fire towers on the river cast their long tongues over the city, while their black silhouettes stained the southern wall of King's Landing. The Dragon banner was lost in the night, snapping proudly on the wall. At this moment, Aegon had his two white shadows: Ser Loras had recovered from a slight wound, while Ser Daemon's face was hidden in bandages. All the charm of the Dornishman lay under cloth drenched in black blood.

"Wondrous, is it not," a voice said behind him, and Aegon barely recognized the man who spoke, with grime on his face, clad in rough, muddy cloth. The crisp sound of swords being drawn greeted the words when the Kingsguard drew their steel.

"Varys," Aegon gestured to his guards that there was no danger from the man before them.

"Death," Varys went on, "Much like the last time this city was besieged. But more marvelous now, festive as a fair, with smoke rising and the show of emerald flames." Poetic, perhaps, but not the same; the foe would not sneak through small doors this time.

"We've had only a few desertions among the Gold Cloaks, you've weeded out the rotten apples," Aegon shifted the topic, the sour taste of impending death leaving an unpleasant sensation on his tongue.

"Lord Pease has; he named new officers and sacked the unworthy ones. Drilled the men. Gold Cloaks have not been in better shape in years. I did my part, put up a few road signs for good Lord." The tattered new garb the spider wore could capably deceive anyone. An appearance appalling to look at, cloaked in a mask of stench.

"Tell me the state of the enemy. I summoned you for it, have I not?" A faint bitterness tinged Aegon's voice. In the distance, enemy voices grew louder, nearer to the riverbank. The ferrying of dismounted troops from the south must have started.

"Grave or not. Lord Velaryon launched his attack an hour ago, striking hard. Or so I belive, its challenging to tell who is winning, with thick clouds of smoke, and now the night. The Blackwater is not alone in bearing burning ships. Pirate galleys and small Myrish ones are all the defense Stannis can rely on, poor defenders if any. Ships are fleeing; the merchants he bought are not warriors, their steel is for gold, not for a vow. Cotton and spices are what they know to unload, not landing soldiers in rough waters, in the pitch-dark night. Many have smashed below the sea wall, but..."

"but Stannis disembarked most of his men," Aegon completed Varys's thought and the spider confirmed it with a nod of his hooded head. "I suppose it would have been too easy if we burned all his warriors on the Blackwater. I saw the great battering ram devoured, fire claimed his finest men."

"It did..." Varys did not dare to disagree with his king, "but oft, a wounded beast fights fiercest, charging without fear. The witch could not shield the fleet from the green horror. The river bears the broken pieces of ships to the sea, adding more woe to the masters of merchant galleys. Drifting death in full splendor." Aegon said nothing of his encounter with the witch, her deep red eyes, once bright with certainty, extinguished soon after by doubt.

"One more thing, Lord Varys, did you know I have a sibling, a bastard my father fathered with a Stark maid?" The answer had to be yes; if anyone knew, it would be Lord Varys, too shrewd to let the truth slip beyond his ears. Varys then stiffened his back, a faint shock piercing through the bandages of Ser Daemon Sand, a sharp dart of an uncomfortable silence shot from the half-closed visor of the Knight of the Flowers. Margaery would not be pleased with this, a rival she loathed more than me.

"A brother. The boy Lord Stark passed off as his own bastard. He now serves in the Night's Watch as a steward to the Lord Commander. A decent lad, skilled with a sword, raised with northern lordlings. And a small correction, Your Grace, not a bastard." His father followed the path of the Conqueror, Aegon realized at once, taking a second wife—a custom strange even to Targaryens. A smile tugged at his cracked lips, as gods do play humorous games. Just to think, the boy Sansa grew up believing was her half-brother, is in truth mine.

However, the smile was not for Varys. "You are a valuable man, Lord Varys, too valuable to squander. But keeping secrets... too often I picture your head on a spike, for all of King's Landing to behold, and the crows to enjoy on the eunuch flesh."

Not frightened, Varys flashed a yellow smile of his own, "Lord Stark told no one, not even his beloved wife. He wanted his sister's boy safe, of course. My motives are not so tender. The lad may be as noble as tales from the frozen wilderness of the North claim, or he may be a new Maegor, eager to usurp Your Grace, or later his nephew. Taking the black is a sworn oath not easily breakable; let your brother stay where he is."

"Yes, for the realm. Always for the good of the realm. Some things burst precisely because there are secrets. If Stannis had shared with his brother the truth of incest, he might have been the heir apparent."

"Or die a traitor," Varys did not share that view. "Men would rather die for a delusion than face the hard truth. Deep down, Robert knew, felt it in his bones, but lie is more soothing, easier to bear than disgrace. Alas, I say, even if he trusted his brother, or if the late Hand Stark had time to spread the word, Stannis would not be the heir for long. The manhood of Robert Baratheon is insatiable, stronger than his hammer. A hearty wife could have given him an heir and seven spares." Ser Daemon chuckled, but the pain forced him to restrain himself, while Ser Loras looked almost affronted by the words. Downstream, men screamed as burning pitch caught some of Stannis's men in the dark. "Shamefully, most catapults aimed at the river, not the tourney grounds," Varys remarked as if engines of death were a useful tool for mankind.

Black smoke shrouded the riverbank as the banners of the foe came into sight. Like lightning in a stormy night, green flames leapt, flashing at the soldiers' march, hidden in darkness. The Stag in fiery heart, Estermont turtle of the Isle, Morrigen crow, Bar Emon swordfish, Caron nightingales, Errol haystack... Aegon's heart sank when the green flash showed the griffin banner of House Connington.

"Here they come," Ser Daemon declared as dozens of boats emerged, each tilted down, shielding a score of men, shields lifted against arrow points.

"Give them hell," Aegon curtly commanded to ser Laswell and his serjeants. Flaming shafts flew through smoke, raining fire on several boats. Men below fought to free themselves of the burning load; fleeing flames only to face a barrage of arrows.

Blackfyre in hand, Aegon went down the steps once more, standing before the shield wall of Golden Company men-at-arms. A golden arc faced the yawning maw, soon to spew out a poisonous scream of war. Drums roared beyond the walls, horns urged men to hasten to the breach.

The first bold soul to reach the cart was greeted with a crossbow bolt, dropping in a soft sigh, becoming one more hurdle for the attackers. Then, from the half-light, a flaming torch appeared, setting wooden carts on fire. Quietly, Aegon's men waited for the fire to unlock the gates of hell for the enemy, helpless to do more.

"Hasten, bring more rocks!" bellowed Laswell Peake, leading the Gold Cloaks, as men of the City Watch flung stones between crenels at the Baratheons below. The clash of arrows rumbled along the full length of the wall as defenders traded shafts with attackers. Painted in shades of green, the battle appeared like richly colored art from the Free Cities, gracing the ornate wall of some magister. Cries of pain resounded, cries of glory evaporated, dispersing as fear into the streets of King's Landing. Boiling pitch spilled over brought a loud chorus of screams. A fleeting hope glimmered for a short moment as Aegon stood among the groans of his men—his Golden Company, his Dornishmen, his Crownlanders—in whose hearts he trusted, with whom he fought shoulder to shoulder before.

The battering ram splintered the half-charred cart in two, hurling slivers of blackened wood into the air still thick with steam and smoke. The second blow, stronger, more keen, cleared the way for the brave men—brave foes eager to flee the perils outside.

"They shall not pass," Aegon lifted Blackfyre high. A royal Valyrian steel does not shine with R'hllor magic like the one Stannis brandishes, but it slices deeper, slices with the force of dragon fire, of ancient spells woven long ago. "Hooah, hooah, hooah," the war cries of the Golden Company blended with embers fleeing burning carts, losing the battle with fire.

"For the King," Ser Daemon carried a new call of loyalty, which echoed over the lines of soldiers. "For the king, for the king," others chanted the fervent words, joining them with other war cries: "Dorne, Dorne, King's Landing."

The voices of the brave were hushed as scores of men stormed through the breach, clad in linen skirts, shirts of jade plates, and bronze helmets. Slave soldiers, bound to Stannis by the will of Illyrio's foes—the ones Varys warned him about.

"Storm's End, Storm's End," hollowed the soldiers behind them. The first line of enemies fell under Aegon's crossbowmen, scattered on roofs and balconies of nearby houses. More of them died, the rest would face a harder way in, Aegon tried not to revel in so much death, yet victory always rests on the corpses of the foe.

Lines of soldiers clashed, covering the first cobblestones of Muddy Way in a dance of death and steel, spilling blood on heaps of mud and dirt on the ground. As it tends to be in every battle, time slowed down, and Aegon swung his dragon steel at the first foe—a lean man of copper skin from Old Ghis, with a reddish mustache peeking out of a slit in his helm. To his credit, he did not even cry out, just collapsed to the ground as Blackfyre opened his flesh.

Hemmed in between the stone wall behind them and the shield wall in front of them, the invaders fought savagely. From the battlements above, arrows poured down on them as archers changed sides, firing shafts on both sides of the wall. Some dashed up the steps, only to meet spears barring passage on the wall. The flood of arrows and stones filled many hearts with dread as slaves turned back, hoping to flee the disaster, but the way was blocked by more and more foot soldiers streaming in.

By Aegon's left, Ser Loras rumbled through foes, slashing, stabbing, beheading like a madman. "Where is he!" the Knight of Flowers roared, a stark shift from his usual soft voice, well-nigh unbecoming. Odd or not, the man he sought was summoned by Tyrell's ire.

Stannis Baratheon possessed a kingly bearing, a crown of flames crowning his basinet, wrought from antler links. His armor was formidable, but his sword caught the eye—an ominous thing glowing red, as if just forged on a smith's anvil, hammered with the rage of the stag. As per the teachings of his new faith, the Baratheon king had no Kingsguard of his own; instead, a host of knights shielded him, following the king's banner.

Aegon sprang forth, bent on engaging in the duel to reclaim the seat of Dragonstone. An ebony slave briefly crossed his path, only for a flicker, as the dark edge of Blackfyre severed the alien arm from shoulder to chest. Stannis's sword showed a strength akin to it, piercing the desirous heart of a Dornishman. Pushing on, Aegon was not in the mood to bestow glory to anyone today. His heart under his black armor thumped as hard as catapults on the walls, hurling rocks upon ranks of men before the outer wall.

A tremor of pain coursed through him, from the heart to the tips of gauntlet-clenched fingers, reminding him that he was not the same as before. The knight in red and white then faced him, two griffins clashing atop the great helm. Aegon raised a dragon-embellished oaken shield, absorbing the blow, yet Connington's sword bit a few splinters from the shield—given to Aegon by Jon. This knight must be his cousin, Red Ronnet, scorned by Jon, a man of knightly renown.

In a second strike, Red Ronnet unleashed all the fierce might of a man intent on slaying a king. Blackfyre bore the brunt of it, recoiling and dropping the chance to fight back; terrified to land its edge upon the griffin shield or the surcoat of red and white, which, in Aegon's mind, only belonged to one men. I cannot attack him, my soul... The strength of the sword knocked his shield to the side. The sword had a red hilt, with two griffins serving as crossguards. "I cannot... fight back," Aegon whispered in the solitude of his helm.

The world froze as the Knight of the Griffin Roost lifted his sword, keen to end the line of Dragon Kings in the name of his Baratheon lord. The thought suddenly struck Aegon: if he were to die by Ronnet's hand, by good custom, Ronnet would have the right to issue a plea to the king—for Lordly stature and lands lost to the rebellion. An act of greed, a selfishness common to any man but Jon Connington, parted two men from each other. A veil of falsehood fell from his eyes as Aegon saw Red Ronnet for what he was: merely a landed knight, not a worthy shadow of Jon Connington.

A griffin-ornated sword drew nigh, opening its jaws to bite the charcoal of dragon armor. "Do not throw your soul for sorrow, as I did," Jon Connington's counsel rang deep within Aegon's heart. Blackfyre took flight, battering down the enemy sword, and as light as leathery wings of a dragon soaring up, it tore through the well-made armor. With a deep cry, the fine armor plummeted to the ground, dragging down the knight inside.

The clang of swords buzzed as the wrath of war reached the hour of the owl. Darkness hid blood, masked sweat and fear, but the shield wall of the Golden Company and men of Dorne held fast. While the griffin knight rummaged in pain, two slaves closed in on Aegon, as a knight clad in white came before him, slicing through weak jade armor like a cake.

"Ser Barristan," Aegon recognized the man. The old man had no place here; he took a wound for my pride, he must not give his life for it.

"Too long I've waited to fight for a king of my liking," smiled Ser Barristan, moving quicker, parrying attacks with a pale white shield, striking harder than men half his age.

"The Knight of flowers, the knight of flowers," the men cheered as Ser Loras Tyrell gracefully came into sight, crossing a good steel forged in the heart of Highgarden, with the sword glimmering in red. Three knights guarded Stannis; Ser Loras made three corpses of them, beneath the shining silver armor, soaked in the green hue of raging wildfire, amidst the yellow torches of the city walls, and the colors of the men he killed—a purple-mounted knight of House Morrigen, gold trumpets on blue of House Wensington, red gyrons of House Follard—a rainbow of death tinted the gorgeous armor Ser Loras wore, a rainbow thirsting for revenge for a lost lover.

"Renly!" Ser Loras's screamed for all to hear, the wrath lifting his voice high to the stars veiled by clouds of smoke. The memory of Eira elicited a tear, as Aegon witnessed the Knight of Flowers unleashing all the rage of the world upon Stannis Baratheon. The unfolding duel invigorated the defenders with bravery as a swarm of men pushed the enemy towards the breach. Now or never, Aegon knew, not letting his eyes waver from Ser Loras.

The last time Ser Loras cried Renly's name, the keen edge of his sword pierced a weak spot in Stannis's armor, striking a mortal blow. Lord Stannis dropped gracelessly as the redness of his sword dimmed along with the hundred hearts of his men. Despair gripped the kingless army as slaves and knights alike broke ranks, fleeing from their ordered formation.

"The King is dead," quivering voices spread the news to the men outside the walls, those still hoping for a chance to show their valor in battle. "Stannis is dead."

Guyard Morrigen tried to restore order among the falling ranks, spurring the running men to fight on. Eager to flee the snare of the walls, his own men turned on him, dooming his fate in the chaos of battle.

The defeat became a rout. Baratheon soldiers scattered on every corner, running blindly, too terrified to hold their ground. They dropped their weapons, dying on the spear points or falling to the earth. The foe heedlessly ignored all rules of warfare, losing discipline left and right.

"Drive them to the river!" Aegon yelled command as the last of the enemies left the inner wall, fleeing madly like a fox hunted by a pack of wolves. A fierce charge of defenders on foot ensued, roused and maddened by the scent of victory. Aegon, not in the same rush, crossed the breach, dispatching a Baratheon man-at-arms. Most of his men had already outpaced him, a perilous situation in his mind, as the enemy might still muster a reason to strike back—many beyond the wall had not felt the storm of battle.

Nothing of that sort came to pass, as fear is a beast that runs fast; many turned left toward where the fire still ravaged the bank of the Blackwater, under the looming shadow of the Red Keep. Those most desperate, hounded by the lash of panic, found false salvation in the river itself, only for the swift current to drag them into the wildfire.

Some clusters of foes lingered behind, unable to escape anywhere.

"Ser Denys," Aegon spotted the serjeant, "Round them up; enough blood is shed today."

A cold grip seized Aegon's soul as he met eyes with the Red Priestess once more amid the flickering tongues of wildfire. Red eyes gauged him deeply, filled with dread of what they beheld. Lonely eyes, vanquished in the realization of how the truth they followed had deceived them.

"You are wrong," Aegon sighed, "...and not alone in fearing the future to come."

Fatigue wrapped Aegon as he noticed droplets of rain on his armor. The autumn showed them mercy.