Chapter 14: Call to Arms and Drums of War.

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Author's Note:

Hello, dear readers!

First of all, thank you for your patience and support! I know that the story has been slow-paced so far, with the protagonist still a baby even after 13 chapters. This was intentional—I wanted to properly establish the world, characters, and relationships before diving into the main events of the story.

Now, as we enter the war arc, I want to clarify a few things:

The protagonist is still a baby and will not have any role in the war. This arc is meant to set the stage for the world he will eventually inherit. I know some of you might be expecting him to take action already, but that won't happen yet.

The war arc will take a very few chapters to conclude—it will not be rushed. I want to fully explore the strategies, politics, and consequences of the war before moving forward.

After the war, the story will completely shift focus to the protagonist—it will become his journey alone. The pacing will increase, with faster progress, timeskips, and major events unfolding quickly.

If you were expecting a quick resolution, I kindly ask for a bit more patience, as I aim to make this arc as immersive and impactful as possible.

So, for those waiting for the protagonist's true journey to begin, I promise—it's coming very soon! Once the war arc is over, the story will focus entirely on him, and the real adventure will begin.That being said, after the war arc, the story's pacing will improve significantly. There will be more action, intrigue, and character development, making the narrative even more engaging. I promise that every slow chapter is leading to something great, and your patience will be rewarded!

Thank you for your patience and support! Your comments and feedback mean a lot, and I appreciate every single reader who's following this journey with me.

Stay tuned for what's coming next!

Valar Dohaeris

Horcruz

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The war council chamber within the Red Keep was filled with the greatest lords of Westeros, their banners lining the room, flickering under the golden light of torches. The air was thick with tension, the weight of the coming war pressing heavily on their shoulders. Maps of the Stepstones were spread out across the war table, detailing every island, every narrow strait, and every potential battlefield where men would soon bleed and die.

King Jaehaerys II Targaryen sat at the head of the table, clad in regal black and crimson, the warlike crown of Maekar resting upon his brow. His face, though lined with age and illness, remained calm and unreadable. Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, stood to the side, ever watchful.

To his opposite sat Prince Aerys, his youthful eagerness barely contained, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. His violet eyes burned with excitement, naïve to the weight of war.

The Targaryen dragon loomed above them, embroidered into every tapestry, a reminder of the dynasty they swore fealty to.

Some watched him intently, while others seemed barely interested in the meeting at all.

At his right sat Lord Ormund Baratheon, the Hand of the King, his expression unreadable beneath his black and gold armour. Beside him sat his son Steffon, eager but silent, awaiting his father's lead.

The War Council had begun.

"This is a gathering of lords," Jaehaerys finally spoke, his voice controlled, "but make no mistake—this is a council of war.".

The words silenced the low murmurs among the lords.

Further down the table, Lord Tytos Lannister, ruler of Casterly Rock, sat uncomfortably, his fingers fidgeting against the sleeves of his fine gold-threaded doublet. Next to him was Ser Jason Lannister, his younger brother and a seasoned knight. Roger Reyne, the Red Lion of Castamere, leaned back with a smirk as if amused by the proceedings.

Lord Rickard Stark, Warden of the North, sat in rigid silence, his steel-grey eyes betraying no emotion. Jon Arryn of the Vale, his white beard neatly trimmed, listened intently, as did Hoster Tully of Riverrun, who had not spoken since the meeting began.

The Dornish delegation, led by Prince Quentyn Martell, sat apart from the others, their veiled expressions unreadable. Lord Quellon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands sat with his arms crossed, a man who preferred action to words.

At the far end of the table stood Denys Sunglass, the spymaster, his sharp features pale beneath the candlelight. It was he who had summoned this meeting.

Lord Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King, stood beside a large map of the Stepstones, his deep voice commanding attention.

"We all know why we are here. Maelys Blackfyre has set his sights on Westeros, and if we do not stop him now, the war will come to our shores. We must strike first."

Jaehaerys exhaled. He had not wanted this war—but the war had come to him.

"Let us speak plainly, my lords," Jaehaerys began, his voice level. "The Blackfyres has not been seen in Westeros for years. But now, we have reports that the last Blackfyre pretender has raised an army. He has gathered the Ninepenny Kings, and their forces grow stronger by the day. They seek to claim the Iron Throne."

A murmur ran through the lords.

Lord Tytos Lannister, ever the weak-willed, hesitated before speaking. "Surely, this is a matter for the Free Cities. They will not allow Maelys to grow too strong; their own interests will be threatened. Why should we send our own people to die in Essos?"

"Because if we wait, it will be too late," Lord Jon Arryn interjected, his voice steady and resolute. "Maelys seeks to take the Stepstones, control the Narrow Sea, and from there, Westeros will be within his grasp."

Roger Reyne scoffed, "The Blackfyres have been a dying ember for decades. This is not our fight, Your Grace. The Free Cities will take care of this."

Denys Sunglass cleared his throat. "You are mistaken, Lord Reyne. This is very much our fight."

The spymaster turned to face the lords, his grey eyes dark with worry.

"We have spies in Tyrosh. They tell us that Maelys has won over the warlords of the Stepstones. He has seized the Disputed Lands and sacked Tyrosh, and now, he has the full backing of the Golden Company and Tyrosh. If we do not act, he will carve out a kingdom of his own—and from there, he will invade Westeros."

The discussion grew heated, lords arguing back and forth, some eager for war, others hesitant.

Lord Ormund Baratheon spoke next. "If we allow Maelys to take the Stepstones uncontested, he will hold the key to the Narrow Sea. Trade will be strangled. Piracy will increase tenfold. He will become a king in all but name. And once he is strong enough, he will land in Westeros. I will not wait for that day to come."

Quentyn Martell nodded in agreement. "If we must fight, it is better to fight now—before the war comes to our shores."

Hoster Tully leaned forward. "But do we have proof that he is coming?"

Denys Sunglass stiffened. "Not yet."

At that moment, the great doors of the chamber swung open, and a breathless messenger rushed inside.

"Your Grace!" he panted, dropping to one knee. "Urgent word from our spies in Tyrosh!

The chamber fell silent.

The man fell to one knee, his cloak stained with travel dust. A guard handed Jaehaerys the sealed scroll and the king broke the wax with a swift, decisive motion.

As his violet eyes moved over the words, his face hardened like stone.

Then, in a voice that carried across the room, he read:

"Maelys Blackfyre has set sail.

He leads host of twenty thousand men intending to take Stepstones.

He will reach Bloodstone in a month."

The air turned heavy. For a moment, no one spoke.

A stunned silence fell over the room. It was as if the room itself had been thrown into the abyss of the Stranger's embrace.

Then, chaos erupted.

Lord Hoster Tully cursed under his breath. Lord Quellon Greyjoy clenched his fists. Tytos Lannister paled, his hands shaking slightly. The lords began arguing once more, their voices a cacophony of concern and strategy.

Then—

Ormund Baratheon slammed his fist against the table.

"Damn him! He moves faster than expected!"

Jon Arryn exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "So, it is war after all."

Rickard Stark, ever the man of duty, spoke calmly but firmly. "If we do not stop him at the Stepstones, he will invade Westeros."

Across the table, Tytos Lannister's fingers twitched.

His face had gone pale. Sweat glistened at his temples.

He licked his lips before speaking. "Tw—twenty thousand men?" His voice cracked. "Gods help us."

Roger Reyne scoffed. "It is but a rabble of exiled sellswords and pirates. If the Golden Company was truly invincible, they would have conquered Westeros long ago."

"Tell that to Bittersteel," Ormund shot back, his tone clipped. "Every Blackfyre pretender before Maelys failed because they lacked an opening. Maelys has one. If he takes Bloodstone, he will fortify it. He will control the Stepstones. And once he does—"

Jon Arryn finished the thought. "He will choke the Narrow Sea."

Quellon Greyjoy, who had been silent, finally leaned forward.

"We should burn his fleet before he ever reaches land," he rumbled. "Let the Ironborn take to the sea. Let us do what we do best."

Jon Arryn disagreed. "You will not reach them in time. We must face them on land."

Tytos Lannister shook his head rapidly, his hands trembling as he reached for a goblet of wine. "No, no. This is madness."

All eyes turned to him.

"We should let the Free Cities handle this," Tytos continued, his voice weak. "This is their problem, not ours. Why waste our men fighting an Essosi war."

Ormund Baratheon's gaze darkened.

"And when the Free Cities fail? When Maelys sails into Westeros, what then, Lord Tytos?"

Tytos gulped down his wine. "We do not know that will happen. Perhaps he will be satisfied with the Stepstones—"

Rickard Stark cut him off, his voice like steel. "A conqueror is never satisfied. Do you truly believe a Blackfyre will stop with the Stepstones? Who believes he has a stronger claim to the throne than any of us sitting here?"

Tytos wiped his forehead, struggling to find his voice. "We—we could negotiate with him—"

"Negotiate?" Ormund's voice was a low, dangerous growl.

Jon Arryn's eyes narrowed. "You would suggest bending the knee to a pretender?"

Tytos went silent.

Aerys, who had remained silent for too long, stood abruptly. "There is no negotiating with Maelys! He has made his move, and now we must make ours!"

Jaehaerys had heard enough.

He stood, his frail body hidden beneath the imposing weight of the warlike crown of Maekar.

"Enough." His voice, though weak, carried authority.

"Call the banners. Westeros goes to war."

The room fell into absolute silence. Some lords muttered in agreement, while others remained silent.

He let the tension linger.

Then, with a voice that cut through the doubt like a sword, he spoke:

"The Blackfyres are no longer a forgotten whisper. Maelys does not seek peace. He seeks war. And if Westeros does not rise to meet him, he will take what is ours."

His gaze swept the room.

"We do not wait for the storm. We strike before it reaches our shores. We call the banners. Summon your men. The realm marches to war."

As the lords began to discuss their battle plan, Jaehaerys straightened his shoulders, his eyes sweeping across his council.

"I will lead the army. As king, it is my duty."

Jaehaerys' violet eyes blazed with resolve as he spoke his words.

The room froze.

And then—

"NO "

"Absolutely not! The king must remain in Westeros. The realm needs you here."

The word was like a thunderclap, cutting through the air with the force of a blade.

All eyes turned to Ormund Baratheon, who stood rigid, unyielding, his face set in hard lines.

"Your Grace," Ormund's voice was firm but respectful. "You are the King. Your place is here, in Westeros, ruling and ensuring the stability of the realm."

Jaehaerys stiffened. "Aegon the Conqueror led his armies."

"Aegon was a dragonlord with Balerion at his command," Ormund countered swiftly. "You have no dragons at your command, and more importantly, Westeros cannot afford to lose its king. Who will rule while you march? Who will hold the realm together should Maelys' forces strike here while you are gone?"

Jaehaerys clenched his hands into fists. He knew the logic, but the fire in his blood demanded he take action.

"I will not sit idly while men die for my crown," he insisted.

Ormund slammed his gauntleted fist against the table, rattling the silver goblets upon it. "And I will not allow my king to ride into a war he is not meant to fight!"

Jaehaerys set his jaw. "And if we fail? If Maelys lands? What then? I will not cower behind these walls."

"You are no warrior, Your Grace," Ormund countered. "You must rule. Let me command the armies. I will be your sword and shield."

Jaehaerys gritted his teeth, his frail frame rigid. But in Ormund's eyes, he saw not defiance—but duty.

After a long silence, Jaehaerys relented. "Very well, you shall lead in my stead, Lord Ormund. You will have full command of the armies."

The Hand of the King bowed deeply, his expression unreadable.

"I shall not fail you, Your Grace."

Jaehaerys then turned to Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

"You will be second-in-command, Gerold."

The White Bull bowed in acknowledgement, his white cloak billowing as he stepped forward. "I will not let the realm fall, Your grace"

Tytos Lannister, the ever-cowardly lion, shifted uncomfortably. His fingers twisted his golden rings, his eyes darting around as if looking for an escape.

"I—I will send men," he stammered. "Yes, of course, a thousand knights… ten thousand Westermen… led by my brother, Ser Jason."

Ser Jason, a hardened knight, nodded firmly.

"And my son, Tywin, will ride with them," Tytos added, his voice uncertain, but the words shocked the room.

Several lords looked surprised.

Even Tywin himself who was serving wine seemed caught off guard.

Jaehaerys studied the young Lannister, his golden hair catching the candlelight, his green eyes calculating, thoughtful. This was a boy, yet already a man. He would watch him closely.

One by one, the other great lords declared their banners.

Rickard Stark pledged two thousand Northmen.

Jon Arryn sent two thousand Vale knights.

Hoster Tully sent two thousand Riverlords.

Quentyn Martell pledged two thousand Dornish spears.

Luthor Tyrell sent 3000 Reach knights.

Quellon Greyjoy rose.

"I will send one hundred longships."

The ironborn's voice was calm, unshaken, but there was an unmistakable gleam of battle lust in his eyes.

With each lord pledging men, the numbers were tallied.

A force of twenty-six thousand men and 200 warships—a host that could meet Maelys in battle.

Now came the most crucial decision of all.

Jaehaerys traced his finger over the map of the Stepstones, eyes narrowing in contemplation.

"Do we face him at sea?" Jon Arryn asked.

Quellon Greyjoy grunted. "Maelys has transports, not warships. We could sink his fleet before it reaches Bloodstone."

Ormund shook his head. "We cannot risk it. Maelys will have fortified Bloodstone by the time we arrive. If we attempt a direct naval assault, we could lose half our forces before even setting foot on land."

A new voice spoke.

"Then we take Grey Gallows first."

The room turned toward the speaker.

It was Brynden Tully.

Young. Barely tested in war. Yet his eyes held something sharp, something calculated.

"Explain," Ormund commanded.

Brynden leaned over the table. "Maelys will have secured Bloodstone, but he cannot fortify every island at once. If we take Grey Gallows, we can use it as a base—fortify our own position before launching the final assault on Bloodstone."

Ormund stroked his beard, considering.

Brynden leaned forward, his voice steady but sharp, his mind weaving a trap within a trap. "We should split our forces into two. The first wave—led by the Westerlands and Ironborn—will sail around the Stepstones under the guise of mere raiders, striking Grey Gallows with swift and overwhelming force. But that is not the true gambit."

He let the silence linger for a moment, allowing the weight of his words to settle before continuing.

"Through our spies, we will feed Maelys false reports—whispers that we are still gathering our banners, assembling an overwhelming host for a direct assault on Bloodstone. He will sit and wait, fortifying his position, believing he has time. While he watches for a great invasion that will never come, our second wave—an elite force of Westerlands knights and Ironborn reavers—will descend upon Grey Gallows and secure it before he even realizes his mistake."

Brynden's eyes gleamed with calculated ruthlessness. "By the time Maelys sees through the deception, he will find himself cornered. The Stepstones will be slipping from his grasp, and the noose will already be tightening around his neck."

A heavy silence settled upon the council chamber as Brynden Tully finished laying out his strategy. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the long table where the great lords sat, their expressions varying from intrigue to scepticism. The young Tully of Riverrun, barely into his prime, had dared to speak boldly in the presence of seasoned commanders and highborn lords.

Lord Quellon Greyjoy was the first to react. The Lord of the Iron Islands, ever the pragmatic warrior, leaned forward, his sharp grey eyes studying the map. He tapped his calloused fingers against the wood, his mind already visualizing the naval movements. "Splitting our forces is a gamble," he said in a measured tone. "But it is not without merit. The Ironborn thrive on the seas, and we will strike with the fury of the storm. If we can cripple the enemy's fleet at Grey Gallows, we will cut off their reinforcements before they can properly set foot on Bloodstone."

He nodded in approval. "I will lead the fleet. Let the sea run red."

Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale, ever the cautious and measured tactician, folded his hands before him. "An ambitious plan, Lord Brynden. But one that requires absolute precision. A two-pronged assault is a strategy that can win wars or lead to ruin. If Maelys anticipates such a move and sets a trap, we risk losing both Grey Gallows and our landing force." His piercing blue eyes darted toward Ormund Baratheon, awaiting the commander's verdict.

Ser Jason Lannister, who would lead the Westerlands host, let out a hearty chuckle. "Bold thinking, Tully. Few men in this room would suggest such a plan outright, let alone with such conviction." He leaned forward, gripping the pommel of his gilded sword. "I say we take the risk. I will lead the first force and take Grey Gallows. Give me the men, and I'll plant the Targaryen banner on its walls before the week is out."

Tytos Lannister, however, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The Lord of Casterly Rock was already uneasy about sending his men to war, and now they were proposing to send his younger brother into what could be a deadly gambit. "My brother speaks boldly," he muttered, "but we must not forget that the enemy is ruthless. This Blackfyre Pretender will not fight honourably. A misstep here could cost us dearly."

Brynden did not flinch under the scrutiny. Instead, he met every lord's gaze with the quiet confidence of a man who had calculated every possibility. "Then we ensure there is no misstep. If we control Grey Gallows first, we gain an unshakable foothold in the Stepstones. With the Ironborn securing the sea and our main host landing after fortifications are made, Maelys will be forced to defend rather than attack. We dictate the terms of this war."

There was another pause—this time not of doubt, but of realization. The logic in his words was undeniable.

Lord Hoster Tully, his brother, was the next to speak. His tone was filled with both pride and apprehension. "You have the mind of a strategist, brother. But war is not a game of Cyvasse. It is a battlefield of blood and steel, where plans are crushed under the weight of unforeseen chaos." He exhaled. "Yet… I cannot deny that this plan may be our best course of action."

Lord Ormund Baratheon, the overall commander of the campaign, finally stood, his authoritative presence silencing the remaining murmurs. His piercing gaze scanned the gathered lords before returning to the young Tully. "It is a very dangerous and bold plan… but one with undeniable merit. It plays to our strengths and forces Maelys into a reactive position. And in war, the one who dictates the battlefield often dictates the victor." He exhaled, then nodded. "So be it. We take Grey Gallows first. Ser Jason Lannister, you will lead the initial force of the Westerlands host alongside the Ironborn fleet under Lord Quellon Greyjoy. Once the fortress is secured, we move in with the main host."

A ripple of agreement passed through the lords. Some nodded in approval, others exchanged uncertain glances, but none raised a voice in opposition. Brynden Tully had proven himself a man worth heeding. The war had yet to begin, but already, new names were being forged in the fires of strategy.

Jaehaerys Targaryen, who had watched the exchange in contemplative silence, finally spoke. His voice was firm, filled with the weight of kingship. "Then let it be done. In one week We march for war."

The meeting was settled. The war would begin, and Brynden Tully's bold plan would shape its first act.

The War Council was over.

And the real battle had just begun.

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Aemon's POV – The War Stirs the Realm

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The Red Keep was never truly silent. The echoes of history lingered within its ancient halls, whispers of kings and queens long gone. For three months, Aemon had observed the rising tension in the castle and the city beyond. Though he was still a babe in the eyes of all, his mind was sharper than any would ever suspect.

The war had begun.

King Jaehaerys' war council had decided upon a grand campaign against Maelys the Monstrous and his Blackfyre pretenders, and now the realm had been set into motion. The call for banners had been answered, and Westeros had stirred from its slumber. For weeks, he had heard the hurried footsteps of knights preparing for war, the clanking of armour being fitted, and the hushed murmurs of anxious courtiers speculating on what was to come. The realm held its breath, awaiting the first true strike.

Now, news had arrived.

Aemon sat quietly in his chamber, perched upon Queen Shaera's lap as she absentmindedly stroked his silver hair. He could feel the tension in her touch, the weariness in her eyes. It was not just worry for the realm—it was worry for her husband, for her son, and for the future. A mother's worry, a queen's burden.

The doors to the chamber opened, and a messenger was ushered inside. His face was flushed, his breaths laboured from running up the many steps of Maegor's Holdfast. He bowed deeply before the king and queen, his voice trembling not from fear, but from urgency.

"Your Grace," he gasped, "a raven has come from the Stepstones. Grey Gallows has fallen. The Westermen and the Ironborn have been victorious!"

For a moment, silence hung in the air. Then, like wildfire, the words took root.

Jaehaerys rose from his seat, eyes sharp as steel. "Speak. Tell me everything."

The messenger swallowed before continuing, his voice filled with the weight of the report.

"Ser Jason Lannister led the Westerlands host in the assault, striking Grey Gallows from the west while Lord Quellon Greyjoy and his longships attacked from the sea. The Blackfyre sympathizers and their pirate allies were caught between hammer and anvil. Liomond Lashare, one of Maelys' most trusted warlords, attempted to rally a defence, but he was slain in battle by Ser Jason himself. His fleet was utterly destroyed, and the island now belongs to us."

The king exhaled slowly, a ghost of relief washing over his features. The lords who had gathered in the chamber began to whisper among themselves, and Aemon could see their faces shift from concern to pride. It was the first true victory of the war, and it would not go unnoticed.

"What of our losses?" Jaehaerys asked.

"Minimal, Your Grace. A few hundred men lost, but nothing compared to what we have gained. Maelys' forces have been crippled at sea. Without Liomond and his fleet, the Blackfyre pretender's naval strength is but a shadow of what it once was."

There was a shift in the air. This was not just a battle—it was a message. A statement. Maelys had expected the war to begin with him taking Bloodstone and launching his invasion. Instead, he had lost Grey Gallows before he had even gained proper footing.

It was a stunning blow.

The lords present reacted in their own ways. Lord Jon Arryn nodded approvingly, ever the quiet tactician. Lord Hoster Tully and Lord Rickard Stark exchanged brief glances, understanding that the war had begun in earnest. Lord Tytos Lannister, ever a nervous man, seemed slightly relieved that his brother had lived but wary of what was to come.

"A fine beginning," Ormund Baratheon declared. "But the true battle still awaits us."

Aerys, who had been listening from the side, clenched his fists. His violet eyes burned with restless energy. "Then we must strike while the iron is hot. Bloodstone is next!"

His words were met with a few chuckles from the older lords, but his enthusiasm was not entirely misplaced.

"Patience, My Prince ," Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, said with a knowing look. "There is still much to prepare."

Aemon, though still cradled in his mother's arms, felt the shift in the atmosphere. The war was no longer just words spoken in the halls of power. It was real. And it was moving swiftly.

As the news spread beyond the Red Keep, the city of King's Landing buzzed with excitement and apprehension alike.

The victory at Grey Gallows sent ripples through the streets, from the lowest beggars to the wealthiest merchants. Soldiers cheered, knights praised the Seven for their triumph, and dock workers sang songs of victory by the harbour. In the inns and brothels of Flea Bottom, rumours swirled like storm winds—some claimed the war would be over within weeks, and others feared Maelys would retaliate with a vengeance never before seen.

Aemon saw the way the people changed. He was still a babe, but he could sense it. The way the Red Keep guards stood taller. The way the maids whispered to one another with newfound hope. The way even the most cautious nobles seemed to breathe easier, if only slightly.

Yet, there was no true peace.

If anything, the city felt even more tense. They had won a battle, but the war was far from over. The final host was preparing to set sail—a force of fifteen thousand men, led by Ormund Baratheon himself. The war had truly begun, and now, the full might of Westeros was about to be unleashed.

The streets of King's Landing were a sight to behold. Everywhere, soldiers lined up in formation, their armour gleaming under the autumn sun. The banners of noble houses rippled in the wind—Stark grey and white, Tully red and blue, Arryn blue and ivory, Baratheon black and yellow. The scent of burning incense mixed with the sweat of soldiers preparing for war.

Aemon watched from the Red Keep's high balcony, held securely in Queen Shaera's arms. The king stood beside them, his expression unreadable.

This was it.

The final host was ready.

Aerys stood among the knights, his expression filled with youthful eagerness and hunger for glory. "I will fight, Father. I will bring glory to our house."

Share stiffened at the words. "Jaehaerys, you cannot mean to send him. He is still so young—"

"He is a prince of House Targaryen," Jaehaerys interrupted, though his voice was not without hesitation. His eyes lingered on his son, on his heir. "And he will be surrounded by great men. Ormund will watch over him. Tywin and Steffon will be with him. If he is to rule one day, he must know the weight of war."

Shaera looked ready to argue, but she saw the determination in Aerys' face. Aemon, despite being a babe, felt the heaviness of the moment. His aunt and uncle—each carried burdens beyond measure. He wished, for a fleeting moment, that he could speak as he truly was, to warn them of all that was to come. But he could not.

Instead, he could only watch.

The Red Keep was a fortress of stone and fire, but today, it stood as the heart of a realm marching to war. The banners of House Targaryen draped the walls, their three-headed dragons fluttering in the cold morning breeze. The courtyard of the castle was filled to the brim with men—knights in polished armour, hardened soldiers tightening their gauntlets, and commanders adjusting their swords. The city itself had come alive as if holding its breath for what was to come.

Aemon, in the arms of Queen Shaera, watching it all unfold. His young eyes, too large for a babe his age, captured every detail—the way the sun glinted off steel, the way men gripped their swords with reverence, the way the wind carried the murmurs of the city's people as they whispered of war.

At the centre of it all, stood the King.

Jaehaerys II Targaryen, frail but unyielding, stepped onto the raised platform overlooking the assembled army. His crimson robes, embroidered with the sigil of his house, billowed around him like the wings of a dragon. Upon his brow sat the warlike crown of Maekar I, its black iron spikes gleaming ominously. He looked across the gathered warriors, men who had answered the call of their king, men who would carry the banners of the realm to the Stepstones. His violet eyes, deep and unwavering, carried the weight of history upon them.

And then he spoke.

"Warriors of Westeros!" His voice, though not the booming roar of Ormund Baratheon, carried across the assembled host with undeniable command. "For too long, a false dragon has threatened our peace. For too long, the Blackfyres have cast their shadow over our realm, seeking to steal what is rightfully ours. But no more! Today, we set sail not for conquest, but for justice! Today, we ride not for glory alone, but to end the Blackfyre line forever!"

A thunderous cheer erupted, steel-clad fists pounding against shields, the sound echoing across the courtyard.

Jaehaerys raised his hands, and silence fell once more.

"You fight for your families. You fight for your homes. You fight for the peace of Westeros! No pretender, no sellsword, and no exile shall ever sit on the Iron Throne while true dragons still rule! This war will be swift, and it will be merciless! Maelys dreams of a kingdom forged in blood, but he will find only death in the Stepstones!"

The men roared again, their voices rising like fire into the sky.

Aemon, still held tightly by his aunt, shivered—not from fear, but from the sheer power of the moment. Even as a babe, he could feel it. This was history in the making.

Jaehaerys took a deep breath, then lowered his voice, his tone firm but resolute.

"I do not ride with you, but my blood does! My son, Aerys, rides to battle! My nephew, Steffon Baratheon, rides beside him! My realm will not sit idle while false kings rise against us. You, brave warriors of Westeros, will return home not as mere men, but as legends! You will be the sword that ends the Blackfyre threat forever!"

Silence lingered for but a moment.

Then, like a storm breaking free, the army erupted into a deafening war cry.

"DRAGONS! DRAGONS! DRAGONS!"

The chant echoed through the streets, carried by the thousands of voices who had come to witness the great departure.

Jaehaerys turned to Ormund Baratheon, the man he had entrusted with command and nodded. The Storm Lord, a warrior of imposing presence, stepped forward.

If Jaehaerys had been the voice of history, Ormund Baratheon would have been the voice of war.

Draped in the black and gold of House Baratheon, his muscular frame was clad in steel, a great Warhammer slung across his back. He was a warrior, a man born for the battlefield, and today, he led the armies of the realm.

"Soldiers of Westeros!" his voice boomed like thunder, reaching even those at the farthest end of the courtyard.

"We stand upon the edge of history! The Blackfyres have plagued our fathers and our fathers' fathers, but today, we end their name once and for all! This is no mere battle! This is vengeance! This is the justice of House Targaryen, the fury of House Baratheon, the might of Westeros itself!"

His golden eyes blazed as he turned toward the gathered knights.

"You have fought battles, aye, but this war shall be remembered in songs! They will sing of how you shattered Maelys' forces! They will tell of how you broke his so-called army! They will remember the men who stood with their king and ended the last of the Blackfyres!"

The soldiers roared in response, fists pumping into the air, swords raised high.

Ormund unslung his Warhammer, slamming it into the stone floor beneath him, the crack of impact shaking the silence.

"By this time next year, we shall drink to our victory on the bones of the Blackfyres! We shall return as conquerors, as dragonlords, as heroes! But first—first, we sail! And by the gods, we shall return victorious!"

Another deafening cheer filled the courtyard, shaking the very foundations of the Red Keep.

The army was ready. The fleet was prepared.

It was time.

The docks of King's Landing were alive with movement, yet there was an undeniable heaviness in the air. Soldiers hugged their families, knights kissed their wives, and young squires whispered prayers.

From the high balcony of the Red Keep, Aemon watched the fleet depart.

He felt it.

The weight of history. The march of destiny.

The army was massive—fifteen thousand men, banners waving, armour gleaming under the golden sun. Knights rode through the streets, their lances were upright, their horses adorned in the colours of their houses. Men carried great war banners, House Stark's dire wolf, House Arryn's blue falcon, and House Baratheon's crowned stag—all marching beneath the red and black dragons of House Targaryen.

The Royal Fleet stood ready, its sails adorned with Targaryen dragons and Velaryon seahorses. The longships of House Greyjoy floated beside them, their Kraken banners billowing. The city streets were flooded with people, commoners and lords alike, cheering, weeping, praying.

And there, standing at the very forefront of it all, was Aerys.

His silver-gold hair shone under the sun, and his crimson cloak draped over his armour. He looked up at the Red Keep, at the King and Queen watching from above. His eyes met Shaera's—his mother's gaze filled with worry and unspoken sorrow.

For a moment, Aemon saw doubt flicker across his face.

And then it was gone.

Aerys turned back toward the fleet, stepping onto the flagship with his cousin Steffon and friend Tywin at his side. The drums of war began to sound.

Aemon, in Shaera's arms, felt a deep unease settle in his bones.

The fleet set sail, banners flowing, drums echoing.

The war had begun in earnest.

And as the fleet disappeared beyond the horizon, he could not shake the feeling that fate was moving in ways even he could not predict.

For better.

Or for worse.