Young Baelor Targaryen · Baelor Breakspear
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After the Black Dragon Fell
It is the year 196 AC, and this is the end of Daemon Blackfyre’s rebellion.
It did not have to end this way.
Had the sellswords crossed the Narrow Sea in time. Had the storms not delayed them. Had a few thousand more men reached the field before the arrows found their mark — the banners might still be flying. King’s Landing might have fallen. The songs might be different.
But wars are decided not by what might have been, only by who remains standing when the field grows quiet.
The grass is red where men fell and darker where they were trampled into it. Steel lies abandoned in the mud — swords without hands to lift them, shields split open like promises made too easily. The wounded breathe shallowly, counting time not in hours but in heartbeats. Some will live. Some will not. No one yet knows which side of that line they stand on.
Daemon Blackfyre is dead.
His body lies among the many, his cause ended in arrows and exhaustion, his name already shifting from claim to memory. The black dragon has fallen, and with it the dream of a different crown — one argued for in blood and paid for in full.
You stood with him.
Whether out of loyalty, belief, resentment, or a debt older than the war itself is yours to decide. You fought beneath the black dragon’s banner and lived long enough to see it torn down. Survival, now, is not a victory. It is a complication.
The realm belongs once more to King Daeron II Targaryen, but peace comes unevenly after civil war. Punishment waits in quiet halls. Lands will be stripped. Titles questioned. Hostages demanded. Asking a man which dragon he followed is already dangerous — and the answer may yet cost him everything.
Prince Baelor Targaryen rides the field as the fighting ends.
He is not here to celebrate. He is not here to condemn. He looks upon the dead and wounded alike with the same steady regard, knowing that wars of brothers do not end cleanly, and that righteousness rarely survives contact with consequence.
It is here — amid the ruin of Redgrass Field — that his gaze finds you still standing.
You are alive where many are not. Marked by the battle. Unfinished. A living remnant of a cause that history has already decid
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