Starpike, 233 AC
The sun had not yet risen when King Maekar sounded the advance.
Under a stormy grey sky, the royal host stormed the bloodied slopes of Starpike. The earth was still slick from the last night's rain, and the wind howled like a dying thing. Yet still they charged—black and red banners unfurled, war horns echoing through the valley, the clash of steel ringing out as the soldiers of House Targaryen surged forward under their dragon-helmed king.
Arrowfire rained from the ramparts, but the Raven's Teeth, Bloodraven's personal marksmen, stationed on the high ridges to the left flank, unleashed death with uncanny precision. One by one, the Peake archers atop the battlements fell, their blood splattering across the stone walls.
Below, the royal vanguard met resistance, fierce and fanatical. Spiked pits opened beneath their feet. Tar-soaked logs rolled down from hidden channels, setting men aflame. Still the dragon advanced.
Through flame and chaos, King Maekar I himself led the assault, mace in hand, crimson cloak trailing behind him. His crowned helm gleamed even in the dull light. He moved like a warhammer given form—shattering shields, battering down pikemen, driving his men forward.
"Break their gate!" he bellowed, voice like thunder. "Bring it down!"
The battering ram, shaped like a dragon's head, surged forward, pushed by armored men who knew the touch of death already. With each crash, wood splintered, bolts cracked, and finally—with a great groan of timber and iron—the gate of Starpike shattered open.
A roar went up from the host.
Then it happened.
From above, massive boulders, hidden deep within the cliffs, were released—a last, cruel trap laid by Lord Peake. The air screamed with their descent.
"Scatter!" someone cried.
Too late.
Stone met flesh and steel, with a thunderous crash that split the hill. Men were pulverized where they stood, the vanguard crushed beneath thousands of pounds of stone. The screams were deafening—then suddenly silenced.
When the dust settled, the ground was red and wet, bodies mangled and broken. Among them lay Lord Robert Reyne, his golden armor twisted and his famed red mane soaked with blood.
And there, beneath a jagged heap of shattered rock and crushed sigils, lay King Maekar I Targaryen.
On the edge of the carnage, Prince Aegon, his face blackened with soot and grief, stood alongside Ser Duncan the Tall and his young squire, Tion Lannister. They had survived by chance, caught just beyond the trap's edge.
From the broken gate, a figure stumbled forth—Tywald Lannister, twin to Tion, and squire to Lord Reyne. He had climbed the breached gate in the confusion, blade in hand, when a Peake spear found his chest.
"Tion!" he called, voice rasping.
The twin ran, catching his brother just before he fell. He cradled him in his arms, their faces mirrors of one another, tears cutting through the grime on Tion's cheeks.
"I—I would not die a squire," Tywald whispered. "Let me die... a knight."
Aegon, kneeling beside him, unsheathed his sword with a trembling hand. "In the name of the Father, I dub thee Ser Tywald. Arise—"
But Tywald never rose.
He died with a smile and a tear on his cheek, a knight, his blood soaking into the earth beside the gate he had crossed.
Tion held him close and wept. Even Ser Duncan turned his head, the pain of the moment plain in his weathered face.
The storm above broke. Rain fell like tears from the sky.
Later, with mud clinging to his boots and his heart heavy, Aegon climbed through the rubble, Ser Duncan beside him. There, among the shattered bodies and twisted banners, they found Maekar's remains, half-buried and unrecognizable but for his crowned helm, flattened beside his broken form.
The last great hammer of the dragon line had fallen.