Robert I

[Lannisport, 7th moon, 289AC]

The scent of salt and forge-smoke filled the air of Lannisport, where the golden harbor glittered under the midday sun, the scar of what the ironborn wrought on the city still apparent yet being washed away. Ships bobbed lazily in their moorings, their sails bearing a riot of colors, crimson lions, golden roses, blue trouts, and crowned stags. The fleets of the realm had assembled, and with them came the lords, ambitious, proud, and squabbling.

King Robert Baratheon stood on the carved stone balcony of the Lannisters' guest manse, a goblet of Arbor red in hand. His broad frame filled the open space, the wind tousling his dark hair and beard, the weight of his chain of office pressing down on him like a silent reminder of his duty. From here, he could see the Redwyne fleet anchored beside his own royal ships. Galleys bristling with oars, warships adorned with winged lions and grapevines, and the mighty Baratheon stag itself stood proud. An impressive sight, but Robert knew the real battle would not be on deck, it would be in the war councils, in the glances and whispered alliances among these highborn peacocks.

Behind him, the grand hall was alive with the hum of preparation. Servants scurried about, setting up for the evening feast, while the lords assembled for the war council. He could hear the faint sound of footsteps in the hall behind him, heavy and deliberate.

Jon Arryn, ever the quiet presence, entered and nodded to Robert. "Robert, the lords await your presence."

Robert grunted, finishing his wine in a single swallow. "They can wait. Nothing important happens without my say."

He strode into the war room, where the lords were already gathering: Tywin Lannister, Mace Tyrell, Hoster Tully, and Paxter Redwyne. These were the men whose strength would shape the coming war. Robert had little patience for their scheming, but they were necessary. Each of them held power, and each of them would play a crucial role in this campaign.

The room was lavish but somber, oak-paneled walls, a great stone hearth crackling with fire, and a long table covered in maps, letters, and the scattered remnants of a dozen meals. Tywin Lannister, ever the meticulous planner, was poring over a map with a few of his bannermen. His sharp eyes, the color of emeralds, flicked up as Robert entered, but he said nothing. Tywin was a man of few words, but when he spoke, it was as if every syllable carried the weight of history.

Mace Tyrell, by contrast, was puffing up his chest like a rooster in a pen. His doublet was embroidered with golden roses, the sigil of House Tyrell, and he looked like a man who had eaten well for years. He was smiling, perhaps too widely, as though he believed his family's vast wealth could buy him victory.

Paxter Redwyne, the Admiral of the Reach, stood to the side, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning the sea charts laid out before him. He was a man of few words, but his reputation as a master of naval warfare was undisputed.

Off to the side, scanning more maps, this time those of Pyke itself, was Lord Randyll Tarly, the man who bested him in battle during the rebellion, a shrewd and calculating strategist. The kind of man who loved to have on your side, and feared when against.

Finally, Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun, sat with his usual quiet authority. His face was lined with age, his silver hair gleaming in the firelight. But there was something sharper in his eyes now, a hint of the man who had seen too many years of battle, too many wars fought for others' gain.

"Let's get to it then," Robert grunted, tossing his cup onto the table. "The Ironborn are watching us dawdle like maidens at a feast."

Tywin's gaze flicked toward him, unreadable. "You'd have us sail uncoordinated, Your Grace? The fleets require staggered deployment. Discipline."

"Discipline?" Robert bared his teeth in something like a grin. "Tell that to the Ironborn pissing on our shores. We know how to fight, don't we?"

Mace Tyrell cleared his throat, eager to interject. "The Tyrell fleet is ready to sail on your word, Your Grace. Lord Paxter assures me our supply ships can sustain the expedition for a year if necessary."

Robert waved it all off. "Good. I'm not waiting another bloody moon to watch the Ironborn burn."

Jon Arryn, who had been quiet until now, looked up from the map. "Before we plan the landing, there is news from the North."

The room quieted instantly. Even Tywin, ever the calculating strategist, seemed intrigued.

"A raven from Seagard," Jon continued, unfolding the parchment with a deliberate motion. "Intercepted on its way from… Blacktyde Island? Alaric Stark has landed on Pyke."

Robert's heart leapt in his chest. He turned sharply, his eyes fixed on Jon. "Stark? That cold-eyed pup took Pyke?"

"No, Your Grace," Jon said, his tone measured. "He has laid siege to it. The northern fleet conquered Blacktyde Island and razed some of the largest shipyards the Iron Isles had to call upon, it would seem the boy even slew Lord Blacktyde in single combat. Soon after, they set sail for Pyke. They've trapped the Greyjoys in their own fortress."

Robert's expression broke into a wide grin, and his booming laugh filled the room. "Ha! That's a true son of the North! Aye, I knew the boy had steel in his spine."

Tywin's sharp gaze never left Robert. "A bold move, Your Grace. One that leaves the North exposed."

Jon Arryn interjected before the tension could rise. "Lord Stark left garrisons and retains the support of the Umbers and Karstarks. And Winterfell still stands strong. It was a calculated risk."

Robert's grin widened. "Calculated, eh? That's the kind of Lord I want at my side when we crack Pyke open."

Mace Tyrell, ever eager to stay on good terms with the king, nodded enthusiastically. "A bold move indeed. The North always plays its cards close to the chest."

"Aye," Robert said, waving a hand dismissively. "And it's worked for them so far. If there's one thing I respect, it's a man who knows how to fight and doesn't waste words, or in this case, a boy I suppose."

Tywin's voice cut through the conversation like a blade. "But this changes our plans, Your Grace. If the Northmen fail, we lose our strategic timing. We need to consider the Ironborn's counteroffensive."

Robert's eyes narrowed. "So, you think we should delay our strike? I'd rather see the Greyjoys drown in their own blood."

Tywin's lips curled into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. "No. But the Ironborn won't just roll over. They'll fight fiercely. We must secure our supply lines first."

Jon Arryn added, "Perhaps it would be wise to consider our landing points again. The west coast of Pyke is heavily fortified."

"I don't care for fortified coasts," Robert growled, pacing back and forth. "Let the Ironborn keep their walls. We'll burn them down."

The room fell into a tense silence. Robert could feel the eyes of the lords upon him, each of them waiting for him to make a decision. He knew what they wanted: a king who could make decisions, who could lead them to glory.

But Robert had never been one to sit behind a desk and calculate outcomes. He had spent his life charging into battle, trusting in his strength and will. But now, as the weight of the war settled over him, he realized how much depended on these men. The politics, the alliances, the supply chains, they were all as crucial as the strength of his arm.

Hoster Tully, ever the steady presence, spoke up. "Your Grace," he said, his voice calm. "The Greyjoys are wild, yes, but they are also cunning. We cannot underestimate them."

"Underestimate them?" Robert snorted, turning back to face the room. "I'll have their skulls on pikes by the end of the summer. I'll drink their blood if it comes to it."

Tywin's expression remained neutral, but Robert could see the gleam of calculation in his eyes. "And after Pyke, Your Grace? Will we march on the Iron Islands or turn back to our other enemies?"

Robert waved a hand dismissively. "One enemy at a time, Tywin. Let's finish this war first."

The rest of the meeting passed in tense deliberation. Tywin continued to argue for strategic caution, while Mace Tyrell offered his customary exuberance for the glory of their armies. Jon Arryn kept his counsel, as always, offering wisdom when necessary. Paxter Redwyne, silent for most of the council, finally spoke up in favor of a decisive strike, seconded by Randyll Tarly.

As the meeting adjourned, Robert stood by the balcony once again. The evening sun dipped lower, casting a reddish glow over the sea, and he allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. The fleets were ready, the lords were falling into line, and the Ironborn would feel the sting of the Baratheon war machine soon enough.

But it was the news from the North that stayed with him. Alaric Stark, brave, cunning, and unafraid to take risks, had struck a blow against the Ironborn before Robert had even sailed.

"Well done, Alaric," Robert muttered to himself, his voice low and approving. "The North will not falter under your watch."

[Off the coast of Pyke]

The wind howled like a direwolf's cry as the royal flagship, King Robert's Hammer, surged forward, cutting through the churning black waters that ringed the Iron Islands like a curse. King Robert Baratheon stood at the prow, one gauntleted hand gripping the rail, the other clutching a horn of spiced wine. Salt clung to his beard, the brine-laden air mixing with the thick tang of old blood and battle-sweat that still clung to his armor.

Behind him, the royal fleet stretched across the horizon like a forest of sails and iron. The banners of Houses Baratheon, Lannister, Tully, and Tyrell snapped in the wind, their sigils dancing in defiance of the storm. Word had come that morning from his brother Stannis: Great Wyk had bent the knee, after being broken. Old Wyk had fallen to Ser Barristan's assault, the old knight carving through ironborn as if the Warrior himself had possessed him. Harlaw and Orkmont had been taken in a joint assault by the forces of the Reach and Westerlands, Tyrell gold and Lannister steel working in rare harmony.

Now, only Pyke remained. The Kraken's den.

Robert's blood thrummed with anticipation. The ironborn had taunted him with their raids, their rebellion. Balon Greyjoy had crowned himself king, but Robert meant to rip that crown from his head with a warhammer.

Thoros of Myr stumbled across the slick deck, his red robes soaked and clinging to his bulky form. He carried a wineskin in one hand and his ever-burning sword in the other, which hissed with steam each time the rain touched its flame.

"By R'hllor's light, this storm shall pass," Thoros declared, sloshing wine onto the deck as he handed Robert the skin. "The fire will cleanse the darkness, Your Grace."

Robert barked a laugh and took a long swig. "Your fire's about as useful as a eunuch in a brothel. But I won't say no to your wine. Tell me, Thoros, how many sermons must I suffer before you admit you're a drunk who likes fire?"

"Only as many as it takes to save your soul," Thoros replied cheerfully. "You are chosen by R'hllor, you know. Why else would the flames show me your face last night?"

"Because you drink more than I do," Robert said, grinning. "The only gods I've ever known are steel and victory. And maybe wine, if it counts."

Thoros clapped him on the back. "That's the spirit, Your Grace. One day, you'll see the light. Perhaps when we put Pyke to the torch?"

"Perhaps," Robert said, his tone softening. He peered into the mist ahead. "Or perhaps we'll let the Starks do it. Alaric's already cracked the outer defenses, they say. Brought siege towers and catapults over half the island, damn fool. And the men love him for it."

"A Stark worth respecting, then?"

"Aye," Robert said. "More than that. He's a wolf with teeth, that one. And he remembers how to use them."

Suddenly, a call rang out from the crow's nest. "Land ahead! Lordsport in sight!"

Robert's grin widened. "About time."

The fleet began to shift, longships of the royal navy breaking off into squadrons. Siege barges, troop carriers, and heavy galleys pushed forward, aiming to make landfall near Lordsport. War horns blared over the waves, answered by the deep thrum of Ironborn drums from the cliffs.

The battle began before the first keel scraped shore.

Flaming pitch rained down from the cliffs of Pyke as the royal fleet surged forward. Robert roared commands, waving his warhammer overhead. Arrows darkened the skies, and siege ladders clattered into place. Fire blossomed from the sea as ironborn longships, desperate and mad, rammed into the king's vessels.

Robert leapt from the prow as King Robert's Hammer hit shallows, landing knee-deep in seawater with a roar. Thoros stumbled beside him, sword blazing. The Kingslayer and Ser Derrick Morrigen, a newer member of the Kingsguard, followed, blades gleaming, while Lord Randyll Tarly marshaled the infantry behind them.

Steel met steel in the surf. Ironborn screamed oaths to the Drowned God as they charged, their axes crude but deadly. Robert swung his hammer in wide arcs, breaking shields, cracking skulls, leaving carnage in his wake.

He fought like a god of war. Every strike shook the earth. A Botley captain lunged at him with twin axes, but Robert caught him mid-swing, his hammer pulping the man's chest with a sickening crunch.

The Redwyne fleet joined from the south, its archers blanketing the cliffs with fire. Smoke mingled with sea spray, and the cries of the dying were drowned by the thunder of war.

It took hours. But when the sun dipped low, Lordsport was theirs.

Bodies littered the beach. Botley's meager fleet lay in ruin, their sails burning. Robert stood among the wreckage, chest heaving, his arms and armor slick with blood, not all of it his enemies'. A cut split his brow, and another grazed his thigh, but he stood unbent.

"Bring me a horse," he growled. "We ride to Pyke."

[Later, Castle Pyke]

The ride inland was swift. The roads were clogged with dead ironborn, their bodies left for the crows. Smoke rose in columns where Northern siege engines had battered Greyjoy towers.

By dusk, they reached the northern camp.

It was orderly, grim, and efficient, just like the Starks. Pikes lined in neat rows, tents set in quiet discipline. No songs, no boasting. Just cold preparation.

Robert dismounted before the largest tent, where the direwolf banner flew high.

Out stepped Eddard Stark, the future Lord of Moat Cailin, and Robert's brother in all but blood, eyes shadowed and face pale from a no doubt tiring siege. But behind him came Alaric Stark, shorter by a head, no small feat for a boy of 10, a quiet storm in human shape. At his side was Ser Torrhen Stark, the young lord of the north's sworn shield, heavy-shouldered and clad in dark boiled leather over chainmail. His face was unreadable.

"Your Grace," Eddard said, bowing. "You come at the final hour."

"Just in time for the killing blow," Robert replied, clapping Ned's shoulder. "You did well, old friend."

Alaric stepped forward and inclined his head. "Pyke's gates are whitered, their walls waning. We await your word to finish it."

Robert eyed the boy; his presence was quiet, almost ghostly, but there was power in it. Not the shout of command, but the certainty of winter.

"Then let's end it," Robert said.

Alaric turned, gesturing toward the dark silhouette of Pyke in the distance. "Then come, Your Grace. The kraken's bleeding."

Robert's smile was savage.

"Let's drown him."