Steel flashed, sparks flew, and the war-drum beat of clashing blades rang out again and again as Haegon Blackfyre, clad in the black and red of his house, fought tooth and nail against Prince Aegon Targaryen and Ser Duncan the Tall.
For over half an hour, they danced the dance of death, swords ringing, sweat pouring, blood painting the sand and soil.
Haegon was a warrior born—trained by Aegor Rivers himself, a veteran of battle, powerful and graceful, each stroke with Blackfyre a reminder of the first Daemon Blackfyre's strength. But Duncan was a mountain in motion, each blow like a crashing wave, and Aegon fought with a cleverness and swiftness that belied his youth. Together, they pressed him hard.
Haegon parried a sweeping cut from Duncan, then barely ducked Aegon's lunge. He countered with a vicious backslash that scraped Duncan's pauldron, but the knight pushed forward undaunted, hammering him with brute strength. Aegon came low, slicing at Haegon's legs. He jumped back, panting, blood dripping from a cut on his brow.
The two red dragons bore down again in perfect coordination. One would strike high, the other low. One would feint, the other press. Inch by inch, Haegon was forced back—toward the very waters of the bay he'd crossed to claim his birthright.
Elsewhere on the field, Dark Sister hissed through the air.
Brynden Rivers was tiring.
His pale hair matted with blood and sweat, his lips split and bleeding, his one red eye locked on his foe. Aegor Rivers, grim and relentless, pressed his advantage, each stroke a reminder of his long-honed fury. They were nearly evenly matched—nearly. But Bittersteel had always been the better swordsman, and now, it showed.
He knocked aside Brynden's guard with a brutal shoulder-check, followed by a lightning-fast backhand slash. Dark Sister flew from Brynden's hand, clattering into the mud. Bloodraven fell back, stumbling, breath ragged.
Aegor raised his sword for the killing blow.
And then he heard it—
"I yield!"
The cry cut across the field like thunder.
Aegor froze.
All eyes turned.
Haegon stood on his knees in the sand, Blackfyre cast aside, its black blade dull with dirt and blood. His hands were raised in surrender, his face calm, lips tight with shame, pride buried beneath a prince's duty.
A murmur rippled across the battlefield. Men stopped mid-strike. Steel stilled. Banners stilled. Even the cries of the wounded seemed to quiet as the war paused upon the sound of surrender.
Duncan and Aegon stood on either side of Haegon, blades at the ready, waiting for treachery. But it never came.
Prince Aegon looked down at his vanquished foe with a mixture of awe and sorrow. "Command your men to throw down their arms. Spare them more death."
Haegon looked up, chest rising and falling. He gave a faint nod.
But before the words left his lips—
"Traitor!"
The blade came without warning.
Prince Aerion, his face twisted into a hateful sneer, stalked from behind like a vulture. In one swift motion, he drove his sword into Haegon's chest, the steel piercing through links of mail, flesh, and bone.
Haegon gasped. Blood spilled from his mouth.
"No one yields to bastards, Blackfyre." Aerion whispered with venom. "Especially not a prince."
He twisted the blade and yanked it free. Haegon crumpled into the sand, clutching his wound as blood pooled around him.
Silence fell once more—only heavier now.
Ser Duncan grabbed Aerion and threw him back. Aegon dropped to his knees beside the dying Haegon, gripping his hand as the black dragon choked on blood and breath.
Aegor Rivers saw the murder from across the field.
His scream tore through the chaos, more animal than man. With sword still raised, Bittersteel turned and fled—toward the ships, toward the sea, away from the betrayal, the fire, the fall.
The Golden Company broke.
Their banners fell.
The Third Blackfyre Rebellion ended not in triumph nor surrender, but in flame and treachery.
And in the mud of Blackwater Bay, as the tide began to rise, Haegon Blackfyre—last son of Daemon the First—died not as a king, but as a man.