Westeros – The Red Keep, Outer Courtyard
The sound of hooves on cobblestone echoed through the courtyard as the banners of House Targaryen snapped high in the wind. Soldiers bustled about, donning mail, sharpening blades, and securing packs to saddles. The royal host was forming, a thousand strong and swelling with each hour, clad in crimson and gold. The smell of oil, steel, and sweat filled the air, mingling with the promise of war.
King Maekar stood tall near the great gates of the Red Keep, his hair streaked with silver, his jaw grim beneath his thick beard. He wore a suit of blackened plate chased with red enamel—fire and blood wrought in steel. Beside him stood a tall white destrier, restless beneath its armor.
Prince Aegon rode into the courtyard, flanked by guards in Blackwood livery. His wife, Lady Betha Blackwood, rode at his side, cloaked in midnight velvet with the weirwood leaf-and-raven pin gleaming upon her breast. Her long black hair was braided back in warrior's fashion, her expression calm but resolute.
Aegon dismounted with purpose and stepped to his father. "We are ready, Your Grace," he said, voice strong despite the shadow of war. "House Blackwood stands with us. I will ride in the vanguard, if you permit it."
Maekar's hard eyes flickered to his youngest son. There was pain there still—loss of Daeron, of Aerion—but he placed a gauntleted hand upon Aegon's shoulder and nodded. "You have your mother's steel, and your own fire. Make me proud, Egg."
Lady Betha approached then, serene and composed. She bowed her head before the king. "May the Old Gods and the New watch over you both," she said, her voice rich and firm. "And may your blades be swift and true. The realm needs peace, not ruin."
Just then, the sound of another horse's approach drew their attention.
Brynden Rivers arrived astride a lean black courser, his pale cloak fluttering behind him like the wings of a carrion bird. His single red eye gleamed with cold intensity beneath the shadows of his hood.
"My lords," Bloodraven said, dismounting with practiced grace. "Scouts confirm it—the rebels have broken from the Marches and now make for the riverlands. They seek to draw support from old Blackfyre sympathizers along the Trident."
Maekar's jaw tightened. "Then they will find only graves."
He turned, and a page rushed to hand him his crowned helmet—black steel adorned with red dragon wings curling back like horns. He placed it over his head with a solemn finality.
Then came the King's mace, wrought of black iron and studded with ruby, heavy with the weight of justice and fire. He gripped it tightly and mounted his steed in a single smooth motion.
"Sound the drums," Maekar commanded. "Form the line. We march at dawn's first light."
Aegon followed suit, mounting beside his father. Brynden's black horse pranced in place, eager, as if knowing its rider would ride toward fate itself.
The gates of the Red Keep creaked open.
The banners of House Targaryen unfurled in the rising wind.
The royal host marched out to war.