The Stronghammer - CH - 11 (Patreon)

After the fall of the Triarchy and the victory celebrations, Robert Stronghammer found himself standing on the shores of the Stepstones, watching the waves crash against the jagged rocks. Though he had spent only a few days here, he had earned more gold than many would in a lifetime, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by the men around him. Some looked at him with admiration, others with envy, but all acknowledged that it was Robert’s cunning and fearlessness that had brought the war to an early conclusion.

The grand melee that followed the battle had been fierce, with warriors from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms vying for honor and glory. Robert, wielding his trusted flails, moved through the throng of men with the grace of a seasoned dancer. He ducked under wild swings, deflected blows with his chains, and struck with precision and power. One by one, his opponents fell, until there was no one left standing to challenge him. As he stood in the center of the arena, his chest heaving and his armor glistening with sweat and dust, the crowd erupted in cheers. Prince Daemon himself had risen to his feet, a look of approval and respect in his eyes.

“You fight like a monster,” Prince Daemon had told him later, clapping him on the shoulder. “But unlike us, you have no wings to carry you. Perhaps, one day, you’ll find your place among us.”

But Robert had only nodded politely, hiding the unease that crept into his heart at the thought of being bound to any lord, even one as mighty as a Targaryen.

Now, as preparations were made for the return journey to King's Landing, Robert took one last look at the bloodstained sands of the Stepstones. He knew this victory would be talked about for years, that songs would be sung about the cunning knight who had turned the tide of battle. Yet, in his heart, he felt a strange emptiness, as if this grand victory was just another step on a path that stretched endlessly before him.

As the ships were loaded, Robert stood on the deck of one of the vessels, the wind tugging at his dark hair. He could feel the eyes of the soldiers on him—those who had fought beside him and those who had watched from the sidelines. They whispered his name, Sir Robert Stronghammer, in hushed tones, like he was some legendary figure come to life. He exchanged a nod with a few of the men, those who had stood with him as bait, who had risked their lives on his word alone.

One of them, an older man named Gareth, approached him. “I fought in more battles than I can count, lad, but I’ve never seen someone fight like you,” Gareth said, scratching at the scar on his cheek. “You could make a fine lord, you know. There’s gold, land, and power waiting for someone like you in Westeros.”

Robert smirked. “I’ve no desire to be a lord, Gareth. Gold is enough for me, and maybe a bit of peace.”

Gareth chuckled. “Peace is a rare thing for men like us.”

The ship's sails caught the wind, and soon they were cutting through the waves, leaving the Stepstones behind. The journey to King’s Landing was smooth, with only the occasional storm cloud in the distance. As they sailed, Robert kept to himself, reflecting on what lay ahead. Though he had no interest in following any Targaryen, he couldn’t deny that the power and wealth he now possessed opened doors that had always been closed to men of his kind.

Robert and his company arrived at King’s Landing on a bright, clear morning. As the ship eased into the harbor, the city’s docks teemed with people who had come to see the warriors who had defeated the Triarchy at the Stepstones. The soldiers stood tall, proud of their achievements, their armor gleaming in the early sunlight. Robert couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride himself as the crowd erupted in cheers. They had fought, bled, and conquered—and now they were being treated as heroes.

Prince Daemon had flown ahead on his dragon, Caraxes, leaving Robert and the others to the slow, steady journey back by ship. The sight of the red-scaled dragon circling above King’s Landing had undoubtedly stirred excitement and awe among the citizens, but Robert knew better than to envy the Prince’s dramatic entrance. There was something more satisfying about sailing in on a warship, the salt air whipping through his hair and the smell of victory still fresh.

As they disembarked, banners bearing the sigil of House Velaryon fluttered in the wind, and a small band of minstrels began to play a triumphant tune. Lords and ladies from various houses watched from a distance, curious to see the man who had helped turn the tide of the war. It was clear that they expected Robert to bow, to show his gratitude for their recognition, but he had no interest in playing the part of the humble knight.

“We’ve done it, lads!” Robert called to his men as they stepped onto the solid ground. “And now it’s time to celebrate like true warriors!”

His men cheered, clapping each other on the back, already making plans for the night ahead. They had risked their lives, faced down death itself, and now it was time to reap the rewards. As Jason Tyde approached Robert with a wide grin, Robert could already guess what the young noble would say.

“A glorious entrance, Robert!” Jason exclaimed. “King’s Landing hasn’t seen such a welcome in years. What will you do with your newfound wealth?”

“Simple,” Robert replied with a smirk. “I’m going to find the finest brothel in this city, and I’m not leaving until I’ve spent some of the coin I’ve earned.”

Jason laughed, shaking his head. “A man with simple pleasures, I see. But after all you’ve done, I’d say you deserve it.”

They exchanged a few more words before Robert turned to the winding streets of King’s Landing, eager to find the distractions he sought. As he walked, the crowd parted before him, whispering his name with awe and curiosity. He could feel the weight of their eyes on him, the admiration mingled with envy, but he paid them little mind.

It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for—a luxurious establishment tucked away in one of the more affluent parts of the city. The building was grand, with ornate carvings and rich velvet curtains framing the entrance. Lanterns cast a warm, inviting glow, and the scent of perfume wafted through the air.

A woman greeted him at the door, her smile practiced and inviting. “Welcome, Ser Robert. We’ve heard of your great deeds in the Stepstones. Please, come in.”

Robert nodded, handing her a few gold dragons as he stepped inside. The interior was just as lavish as he’d imagined, with plush couches, silk drapes, and beautiful women lounging about, waiting to entertain. It was the kind of place where a man could forget his troubles, at least for a little while.

“Make sure I’m not disturbed,” Robert instructed, his voice firm but not unkind. “Tonight, I want to forget about wars, battles, and everything else.”

“Of course, my lord,” the woman replied with a graceful bow, leading him deeper into the establishment.

As the hours passed, Robert allowed himself to indulge in the pleasures that the brothel offered. He drank fine wine, laid with beautiful women, and let the burdens of war slip away. For this brief moment, he wasn’t a warrior, a soldier, or a man who had faced death—he was just Robert, a man who wanted to enjoy life and all the pleasures it could offer.

But even as he lost himself in the revelry, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this was only a temporary reprieve. He knew that the real world waited outside these walls, with its demands, dangers, and challenges. Yet, for now, he chose to ignore it, savoring the warmth, the laughter, and the touch of soft hands against his skin.

Tomorrow, he would face whatever came next. But tonight? Tonight was his, and he intended to enjoy every single moment of it.

While Robert indulged in the comforts of the brothel, unaware of the whispers spreading through King’s Landing, another story began to take shape within the minds of the nobility. The rumor mill, ever eager to weave new tales, had found its latest topic: Robert Stronghammer himself.

Among the higher circles of Westeros—the lords, ladies, and those who lived and thrived on gossip—there were murmurs about Robert’s striking resemblance to Lord Boremund Baratheon, the powerful and often scandalous Lord of Storm's End. It wasn’t just the similar strong, broad build or the way Robert carried himself with that distinctive Baratheon swagger. No, there was something about his eyes, the shape of his jaw, and the way his unruly black hair framed his face that reminded everyone of Boremund in his younger days.

And everyone in those circles knew that Lord Boremund was not a man known for his fidelity. He had a reputation for bedding women wherever he went, from noble ladies to common tavern wenches, leaving the women with broken hearts. It was common knowledge that if a woman crossed paths with Boremund and caught his eye, it wasn’t long before she ended up in his bed. This was especially true during his younger years when he had been far less discreet about his indiscretions.

When Robert mentioned, albeit briefly, that his mother hailed from the Stormlands, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. The resemblance was uncanny, and the timing made sense. Could it be that Robert Stronghammer wasn’t just some common sellsword but the bastard son of Lord Boremund Baratheon? If so, this made him not only connected to the noble House Baratheon but also, by extension, to the royal Targaryen bloodline through the marriage ties between House Baratheon and House Targaryen.

The news spread like wildfire among the noble houses. Whispers of "The Baratheon Bastard" echoed in courtly gatherings, private dinners, and the quiet corners of King’s Landing. The idea of a new potential claimant to the Baratheon legacy sent ripples through the capital’s political landscape. It was a tantalizing notion, one that intrigued many, including those who saw the potential benefits of allying themselves with a man like Robert—strong, proven in battle, and now, potentially of noble blood.

The most curious of all were the Velaryons, who had their own ties to both the Baratheons and the Targaryens. Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, had long been interested in anything that could strengthen his family’s standing, and if Robert truly was a son of Boremund, it would mean that he shared blood with the Velaryons through Dowager Queen Alyssa Velaryon, Boremund’s own mother.

"Perhaps he’s more than just a sellsword," Princess Rhaenys murmured to her husband, Corys Valeryon, as they sat in their quarters in King’s Landing, discussing the recent rumors. "If he truly is Boremund’s son, it could be to our advantage to keep an eye on him."

"He has the look of a Baratheon," Corys agreed thoughtfully. "Stubborn, fierce, and proud. But we must tread carefully. A man like that, with blood ties to both the Stormlands and Dragonstone, could change the balance of power in Westeros."

As the rumors gained momentum, the nobles eagerly awaited how Robert would react when he learned of his potential lineage. Would he try to claim his place among the Baratheons, or would he continue as the warrior who had earned fame through his own strength? In either case, the tale of Robert Stronghammer had taken on a new dimension, one that could shape the future of the realm in unexpected ways.

And yet, while the nobles whispered and plotted, Robert remained blissfully ignorant, savoring his time in the brothel, unaware that his name was quickly becoming one of the most talked-about in the Seven Kingdoms.

When the rumor finally reached Storm's End, Lord Boremund Baratheon was far from amused. Sitting in his great hall, the words of the gossiping courtiers were still ringing in his ears. For a man who had indulged in countless affairs throughout his life, Boremund had always prided himself on one particular fact: he had never left behind any bastards. He had taken every precaution, ensured that no child could lay claim to his bloodline. And now, to hear that some unknown warrior in King’s Landing was supposedly carrying his name infuriated him.

"Outrageous," Boremund muttered, his hands clenching the arms of his seat. The flames in the hearth crackled, echoing the heat of his anger. "Who dares spread such falsehoods? Who dares claim to be of my blood without my leave?"

Boremund paced the hall, his mind racing. It wasn’t just his reputation at stake—it was the honor of House Baratheon, an ancient line that he had worked so hard to preserve. The thought of some sellsword sullying his family’s name was more than he could bear.

Without wasting another moment, Boremund summoned his maester and dictated a letter to be sent directly to the Red Keep. The letter was sharp, his words cutting and to the point. He addressed the king, insisting that this rumor be put to rest and that the man in question be found and brought before the court.

"Your Grace," he wrote, "it has come to my attention that a man in your capital falsely claims to be my son, a bastard born of the Stormlands. I assure you, I have no such child. This imposter is a liar and a fraud, and I demand that he be found and dealt with accordingly. Such a stain on my house's name cannot be tolerated. I humbly request that you assist in ensuring this matter is resolved with the utmost urgency."

Boremund's signature, bold and unmistakable, marked the end of the letter, and he handed it to the maester with a stern glare. "Make sure this reaches the king," he ordered. "And send word to my men in King’s Landing. I want them to find this so-called son of mine. If he truly is spreading lies, I will have his head myself."

Meanwhile, in King’s Landing, the whispers about Robert’s supposed lineage only grew louder. As he continued to bask in the pleasures of the city’s finest establishments, he remained unaware that the eyes of Storm’s End were now upon him. His resemblance to Boremund Baratheon was undeniable, and every noble who saw him couldn’t help but wonder: Was he truly a Baratheon bastard, or was he simply an opportunist who bore a coincidental likeness to the lord of Storm's End?

It wasn’t long before a royal messenger arrived at the brothel, delivering a summons to Robert. He was to appear before the court at the Red Keep, where questions about his parentage would be raised. For Robert, this moment would either be the beginning of his ascent to something far greater than a mere sellsword—or the start of a perilous journey that could end with him facing the wrath of a lord who wasn’t known for his mercy.

As the brothel keeper handed Robert the sealed parchment bearing the royal crest, he raised an eyebrow. "You’ve been called to the Red Keep, it seems," she said. "Looks like the highborn are taking an interest in you. Best be careful, lad. Once you step into their world, there’s no going back."

Robert took the letter, his expression hardening. The Baratheon blood in his veins—whether true or not—had always made him a man of action. And now, it seemed, he would finally have to confront the rumors that had begun to swirl around him. With a curt nod, he tucked the parchment into his belt and took a deep breath.

"Let them come," he muttered to himself. "I’ve faced worse than the wrath of lords."