The Stronghammer - CH - 10 (Patreon)

The ship glided swiftly through the shimmering waters, the salty breeze ruffling Robert’s hair as he stood at the bow, contemplating the path ahead. Only twenty-two of them had survived the harrowing night, but the weight of knighthood felt like both a blessing and a burden on his shoulders. He knew that to truly honor the title of Sir Robert Stronghammer, he would need to face the Crabfeeder and his men, the real test of his newfound identity.

As they approached the main island, Robert could see the banners of House Velaryon fluttering against the sky, a vivid reminder of the alliance they had forged. The ship docked with a gentle thud, and Robert’s heart raced at the thought of rejoining the larger force.

Jason Tyde was waiting at the port, his face lighting up with a warm smile as he spotted Robert. “Robert!” he called, his voice filled with genuine relief. “You’ve returned, and with valuable supplies! You fought bravely.”

Robert stepped off the ship, shaking Jason’s hand firmly. “We did what we could, Captain. The men held their ground.” He gestured back to his fellow survivors, who were now disembarking and gathering around them.

“Come, let’s get you all settled,” Jason said, leading the way toward the encampment. “We have healing tents set up for the wounded, and I believe you’ll want to meet with the commanders.”

As they walked through the bustling camp, Robert took in the scene around him. Soldiers were sharpening their swords, preparing their armor, and discussing strategies in hushed tones. The atmosphere was charged with a mix of tension and determination. Robert felt a sense of belonging among them, a realization that this was now his place.

Once they reached the healing tent, Robert’s gaze fell on the injured. They lay on cots, some with bandages wrapped tightly around their wounds, others receiving attention from healers who moved swiftly to tend to their needs. Robert felt a pang of sympathy, knowing all too well the cost of war.

“Make sure to check on your men,” Jason urged, noting Robert’s moment of reflection. “They need your support now more than ever.”

Robert nodded and turned to his fellow survivors, gathering them close. “We’ve made it through the worst,” he began, his voice steady. “You fought with honor, and we will continue to do so. The battle against the Crabfeeder is still ahead, but we are stronger together.”

As he spoke, Robert noticed the camaraderie forming among the men. They exchanged stories of the night’s battle, laughter mingling with somber recollections. Each one seemed to regard Robert with newfound respect, acknowledging the knighthood that had shifted their perception of him from a mere recruit to a leader.

Amid the conversations, Robert made his way around the tent, offering words of encouragement and listening to their tales. He learned about their lives before the war—where they hailed from, what drove them to fight. Each story deepened his resolve to protect them, to lead them into battle not just as comrades, but as brothers.

Robert followed Laenor Velaryon through the bustling camp, the air thick with tension and anticipation. Soldiers moved purposefully, preparing for the inevitable clash with the Crabfeeder’s forces. As they approached the main tent, Robert felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. This was where the leaders would discuss their strategies, and he was about to step into a world of warcraft that would shape his destiny.

Inside the tent, the atmosphere was charged with urgency. Laenor gestured for Robert to enter, and he stepped inside to find Corys Velaryon, Vaemond Velaryon, and Prince Daemon Targaryen deep in discussion. Maps were spread out across the table, dotted with markers indicating troop positions and potential enemy movements.

Corys Velaryon looked up first, his gaze narrowing as he studied Robert. “Are you from Stormland?” he asked, curiosity etched on his features.

Robert felt a flicker of recognition. The Baratheon resemblance was undeniable, and he quickly weighed his options. Claiming any direct ties could complicate matters, but there was an opportunity here. “I am Robert, Sir Robert Stronghammer of Vale,” he replied confidently. “My mother was from Stormland.”

“And your father?” Corys pressed, his interest piqued.

“I don’t know who my father is,” Robert said, crafting his response carefully. This way, he sidestepped any connection to the current lord while still suggesting a noble heritage. The likeness to the Baratheons might grant him unearned respect, and he intended to use it to his advantage.

Laenor nodded, a knowing smile creeping across his face. “It seems the blood of warriors runs through you. That strength will serve us well.”

Robert straightened, feeling the weight of their expectations. “What’s the current plan?” he asked, eager to contribute.

Daemon Targaryen leaned forward, his piercing eyes assessing Robert with a mix of respect and challenge. “We need to strike swiftly and decisively. The Crabfeeder’s men are emboldened, believing they can wear us down with hit-and-run tactics. We will not give them that satisfaction.”

Corys spread out the map, indicating various islands and choke points. “We’ll split our forces. Laenor will take a contingent to cut off their escape routes, while I lead a direct assault on their main camp. Robert, with your experience in combat, you’ll be at the forefront of our attack.”

Robert felt a rush of adrenaline. This was his moment to prove himself, to solidify his place among these men of renown. “I won’t let you down, my lord,” he vowed.

As the council continued, strategies were laid out, and Robert contributed his insights, drawing on his instincts from the battlefield. He felt the camaraderie growing, a sense of unity forming as they prepared to face a common enemy.

Hours passed, and the discussions became more intense, filled with shouts and passionate ideas. Robert found himself at the center of the plans, his thoughts and suggestions taken seriously. It was a heady feeling, knowing he was seen as an equal by these seasoned warriors.

As the night wore on, Laenor clapped Robert on the back. “We fight at dawn. Rest while you can, Sir Robert. Tomorrow, we claim victory.”

The strategy discussed in the war tent was straightforward, yet daring. Robert had proposed a risky but potentially effective plan: he would act as bait to draw the Crabfeeder's men out of their hiding spots. The Crabfeeder's soldiers were notorious for their brutality, executing captured foes by feeding them to crabs—a gruesome spectacle that left many warriors in fear. But Robert knew that fear could be turned into a weapon.

As dawn approached, the commanders gathered around the map once more, their faces illuminated by flickering torchlight. Robert outlined his plan with clarity and confidence. “I’ll allow myself to be surrounded, making it seem as if I’m at their mercy. Their arrogance will lure them into the open. While their attention is fixed on me, Lord Corys Velaryon and his men will cross the sea from the rear, and Prince Daemon can rain fire from above with his dragon to the ground and Lord Laenor Velaryon will take out their archers on top with Seasmoke.”

Corys Velaryon studied Robert closely, a mix of respect and concern in his gaze. “You realize the danger you’re putting yourself in?”

“I do,” Robert replied, steel in his voice. “But if we can draw them out and disrupt their ranks, we stand a chance. They will underestimate me.”

Laenor nodded, appreciating Robert’s courage. “We need to take out their leaders quickly. If we can eliminate the Crabfeeder himself, the rest will falter.”

Prince Daemon leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “I’ll take my dragon high into the air, ready to strike when the moment is right. Timing will be everything.”

As the details were finalized, the tension in the tent was palpable. Each man understood the stakes; failure could mean their demise, while success could shift the tide of the conflict. Robert felt a surge of adrenaline, knowing he would face the enemy head-on, but also the weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders.

The tension in the air was electric as Robert gathered the forty brave souls willing to risk everything for gold and glory. They were men of various ages—some seasoned warriors, others older and weathered by life, but all united by a fierce determination to defy the odds. The lure of the prince’s gold had drawn them in, and Robert made it clear: they were about to become bait in a deadly game.

“Listen closely,” he began, his voice steady and commanding. “You will act as if you are survivors from a shipwreck, lost and alone. Our enemies will see us as vulnerable, ripe for the taking. They won’t suspect that we’re here to draw them out.”

The men nodded, some with steely resolve, others with a flicker of fear in their eyes. Robert could see that they understood the gravity of the situation. They were likely not to return, but their sacrifice could shift the balance in this brutal conflict.

A ship was arranged, adorned with the sigil of House Lannister. It sailed towards the island of Crabfeeder, a carefully calculated ruse. As it approached the shore, Robert led his men, pretending to be disoriented and in need of refuge.

“Quick! Set up camp!” Robert shouted, gesturing as if they were frantically trying to establish a temporary shelter. The ruse was crucial; they needed to appear as helpless as possible.

The men rushed to gather supplies and set up tents, casting glances at the dense foliage where the Crabfeeder's men likely lurked. Each movement was deliberate, designed to sell the act. Robert’s heart raced as he kept an eye on the tree line, waiting for the moment the enemy would take the bait.

“Remember,” he whispered to the nearest soldier, an old man named Eldric. “Keep your wits about you. When they come, we fight. Together.”

Eldric nodded, his face a mask of determination. “Aye, lad. If this is how I meet my end, then let it be in a blaze of glory.”

As they continued their charade, Robert sensed the tension in the air. Every rustle of leaves made his heart skip a beat, but he held firm, keeping the act alive. He knew that patience was key; the Crabfeeder’s men would come, lured by their apparent weakness.

Suddenly, a shout rang out from the treeline. “Look! They’re just sitting there!”

Robert’s breath caught as a group of armed men emerged, their eyes gleaming with malice. They had taken the bait, just as he had hoped. The Crabfeeder’s men approached cautiously, clearly eager to capitalize on what they perceived as an easy victory.

“Stay calm!” Robert hissed to his men, tightening his grip on his warhammer. “On my signal!”

The enemy continued to advance, their confidence palpable. Robert could see the greedy looks in their eyes, eager to claim the spoils of a seemingly effortless victory.

He had left his faithful Warhammer behind, opting instead for two flails—his second favorite weapon. The spiked metal balls swung dangerously on their chains, and he felt a surge of confidence as he practiced a few quick moves, the weapons dancing through the air with ease.

As the distant sound of approaching footsteps grew louder, Robert called to his small band of thirty men. “Stay sharp! Remember, we’re here to bait them. No fear!”

With a sudden shout, he charged forward, the sound of his voice cutting through the air. “Fight!” The men followed, their adrenaline pumping as they rushed toward the oncoming horde of the Crab Feeders.

Robert swung his flails with precision, the chains whipping around him as he struck at the nearest enemies. He could feel the energy of battle surge through him, the thrill of combat igniting his instincts. The first of the Crab Feeders fell, and he pressed forward, knowing every second counted.

In the distance, he heard the roar of Seasmoke as Laenor Velaryon arrived, raining fire upon the archers stationed high above. “Yes!” Robert shouted, feeling a rush of hope. The tide was turning.

Then came the shriek of Prince Daemon’s dragon, Caraxes, echoing across the battlefield. The ground shook beneath the weight of its wings, a powerful sound that sent shivers through both friend and foe. Robert’s heart raced as he caught sight of the dragon swooping low, flames erupting from its maw.

“Push them back!” Daemon’s voice rang out, rallying the men around him. The forces of House Velaryon surged forward, flanking the Crab Feeders and forcing them into disarray.

Amidst the chaos, Robert spotted the Crab Feeder himself, a figure clad in dark leather, attempting to escape toward the caves. Determination fueled Robert’s pursuit. “You won’t get away!” he shouted, driving himself faster.

The Crab Feeder turned, eyes wide with fear. “What do you want?” he spat, backing away.

“Your end!” Robert declared, raising his flail. The man was no warrior, just a coward hiding behind his cruelty. With a swift motion, Robert struck him down, dragging him back toward the fray.

He held the fallen leader aloft, calling out to his men. “Look! The Crab Feeder is dead!” The sight galvanized the remaining soldiers, their resolve solidifying as they witnessed the fall of their enemy’s leader.

With renewed vigor, the men surged forward, knowing they had the upper hand. Robert felt a surge of pride as they rallied around him, the tide of battle finally turning in their way.

The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wines as the great feast unfolded in the makeshift hall. Laughter and the clinking of goblets filled the atmosphere, a celebration of victory over the Triarchy. Prince Daemon, now crowned King of the Narrow Sea and Skepton, sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding respect.

Robert Stronghammer found himself amidst the revelry, a quiet smile playing on his lips. After the chaos of battle, this was a welcome reprieve. The Velaryon lords praised his bravery, their eyes alight with admiration. It was a sharp contrast to the grim realities they had faced just days before.

As the feast progressed, Robert’s suggestion to keep soldiers on the island garnered attention. “We must ensure that none of the Sea of Clouds claim this land in our absence,” he had argued, and the lords had unanimously agreed. It was a practical move, and the Velaryons honored him with hearty toasts.

“Here’s to Sir Robert Stronghammer!” Daemon proclaimed, raising his goblet high. The hall erupted in cheers. Robert felt a warmth spread through him at the acknowledgment, yet he remained grounded. He had no desire to follow a Targaryen’s whims, despite their newfound camaraderie.

As the night wore on, Robert was approached by various lords, each eager for his oath of loyalty. He appreciated their respect but saw no future in pledging himself to a Targaryen. His path lay in the pursuit of wealth and glory, not in servitude.

When the moment came for the rewards to be handed out, Robert was taken aback. He received a sum of 2,500 golden dragons—a small fortune. To a lord, it was modest, but for a common man turned knight, it represented endless possibilities. He could live comfortably for the rest of his days, far removed from the hardships of common life.

With this wealth, Robert envisioned a future filled with tournaments, where he could further prove his prowess and potentially earn even more. The thrill of competition beckoned to him, promising adventure and the chance to grow his fortune.

As the festivities continued, Robert sat back, watching the revelers around him. He felt a sense of belonging but remained mindful of his true ambitions. Money was his goal, and with it, he could carve out a legacy of his own—one that didn’t depend on a Targaryen’s favor.