The Stronghammer - CH - 12 (Patreon)

Robert stepped through the grand entrance of the Red Keep, feeling the eyes of the guards on him as they followed closely behind. The towering crimson walls loomed over him, casting long shadows that stretched across the marbled floor. Each step he took echoed, bouncing off the high ceilings and resonating through the corridor, a constant reminder of the grandeur and power that this castle held.

The Red Keep was a marvel of Westerosi architecture, its sheer size and intricate design meant to inspire awe and fear in equal measure. Blood-red tapestries, embroidered with golden lions, dragons, and stags, hung from the walls, their regal designs a tribute to the various noble houses that had played their part in the realm’s history. Tall pillars carved with ancient Valyrian glyphs stood proudly along the corridor, bearing the weight of the great halls above. The scent of burning incense lingered in the air, a mix of myrrh and sage that hinted at the wealth and opulence of the royal family.

The floors were laid with polished tiles of black and white, arranged in intricate patterns that seemed to dance in the flickering torchlight. At intervals, towering suits of armor stood like silent sentinels, their visors lowered, glistening under the light. Their presence, though unmoving, gave the sense that one wrong step might provoke them into action.

As Robert continued through the labyrinthine corridors, he couldn’t help but notice the delicate carvings on the walls—scenes of battles, feasts, and the rise and fall of kings that had ruled from this very seat of power. There were the conquerors, their dragons soaring above them in victory, and the fallen, their crowns cast down in defeat. The history of the realm was etched into every stone, every tile, and every crevice of the Red Keep, as if to remind all who entered that power was fleeting, and the throne was never truly secure.

The corridor twisted and turned, leading Robert past towering archways and grand doorways guarded by men clad in the crimson armor of the City Watch. Their eyes followed him, wary and watchful, though they made no move to stop him. He knew they were not there to protect him but to ensure he didn’t stray from the path laid out before him.

As they ascended a flight of wide, spiraling stairs, Robert caught glimpses of the sprawling city below through narrow, arrow-slit windows. King’s Landing stretched out in all directions, a sea of red-tiled rooftops and winding streets that pulsed with life. He could hear the faint clamor of the city—a distant murmur of thousands going about their daily lives, unaware of the man who now made his way toward the seat of power.

At the top of the staircase, the corridor opened into a vast hall lined with stained-glass windows, their colorful designs depicting the Targaryen dragons in all their fiery glory. The light streaming through them cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the floor, painting Robert in hues of red, gold, and black as he walked. The sight was awe-inspiring, a reminder of the Targaryens’ former glory and their iron grip on the realm.

Finally, he stood before a pair of massive, ornate doors, intricately carved with the sigils of House Targaryen—the three-headed dragon, its wings outstretched, breathing fire. Flanking the entrance were two Kingsguard knights in their resplendent white armor, standing as still as statues. One of them stepped forward, his voice echoing in the hall.

"Ser Robert Stronghammer, you have been summoned by the King," he announced, his tone formal and commanding. "You will be escorted to the throne room."

Robert nodded, the weight of the moment pressing down on him as the doors creaked open, revealing the heart of the Red Keep: the throne room. He stepped inside, feeling a strange mix of awe and defiance as his eyes fell upon the Iron Throne itself—a jagged, twisted mass of swords, welded together and darkened with age. It loomed over the room like a monstrous shadow, a symbol of power and the heavy price that came with it.

As Robert moved forward, he couldn't help but wonder whether this journey would mark the beginning of a new chapter in his life or whether the whispers of his supposed lineage would prove to be the very thing that would seal his fate.

The resemblance between Robert and Borros Baratheon, Lord Boremund's legitimate son, was striking enough that it left little doubt in the minds of many who had seen them. It wasn't just that they shared similar features—the strong jawline, the broad shoulders, the same piercing blue eyes—it was the way Robert carried himself, the confident swagger that seemed innate to Baratheon blood. The king could see why people were so quick to draw the connection between Robert and the Lord of Storm’s End.

Faced with this situation, the king was caught in a dilemma. Punishing Robert for a rumor, especially when the man had served well during the campaign in the Stepstones. And so, he summoned Robert to the throne room, intent on confronting him directly.

Robert, standing tall and unflinching before the Iron Throne, addressed the king with the respectful tone of a common soldier. "Your Grace," Robert began, his voice clear and steady, "I have never claimed to be the son of any lord. I spoke only of my mother, who hailed from the Stormlands. I do not know the identity of my father, and I have never claimed otherwise. If there are rumors to the contrary, they did not come from my lips. It is the conclusion that others have drawn, not a truth that I have ever professed."

The king listened carefully, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the man before him. It was clear that Robert's words were honest, his expression devoid of any guile or deceit. The king turned his gaze to his advisors, who were whispering among themselves, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

"This is a matter of rumor, not fact," the king finally said, his voice echoing through the hall. "We cannot punish a man for the idle chatter of others. It is no crime to resemble a lord, nor is it a crime to speak the truth of one’s origins. As long as Ser Robert has not claimed falsely, he stands guilty of nothing."

There was a murmur of agreement from the court, and the tension in the room began to dissipate. However, the king leaned forward, fixing Robert with a sharp, penetrating stare. "But understand this, Ser Robert. If you are found to be spreading falsehoods, or if you attempt to claim something that is not yours by right, I will not hesitate to take action against you. You may be a man of the Stormlands, but you are not a Baratheon."

Robert bowed his head deeply. "I understand, Your Grace. I seek only to make my own way in this world, with the name my mother gave me."

The king, satisfied with the answer, gave a slight nod. "Then go, and let this matter be settled. You have served the realm well, and you shall be judged by your actions, not by whispers."

The king said, his tone less stern but more contemplative. "It would be wise for you to pay a visit to Storm's End. Meet with Lord Boremund Baratheon, speak your truth, and let him see for himself the man you are. It would be better for both of you if this matter is addressed directly, so that no enmity festers between you. The rumors will not be silenced unless the two of you find common ground."

Robert paused, considering the king's words. He knew that meeting Lord Boremund might not be easy, especially given the fury the lord was known to harbor toward anyone claiming to be his kin. But Robert was a man who faced challenges head-on, and he understood that to avoid this encounter would only make matters worse.

"As you wish, Your Grace," Robert replied, bowing once more. "I shall travel to Storm's End and speak with Lord Boremund. I have no desire to be at odds with him, nor to have my name tainted by falsehoods."

The king gave a satisfied nod, appreciating Robert's willingness to confront the situation. "Good. And may the gods grant you the wisdom to navigate this path. The realm is better served when men can face one another with honesty rather than steel."

Before Robert could leave the throne room, King Viserys leaned back on his seat, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. He had heard tales of Robert Stronghammer long before this meeting—whispers of his valor, his cunning during the Stepstones campaign, and even more personally, from his own brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen. Daemon had spoken of Robert with an admiration rarely reserved for other men, praising his strength, his courage, and his skill in battle, qualities that reminded the king of the greatest knights in Westeros.

"Tell me, Ser Robert," Viserys began, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the young man before him. "You have proven yourself in battle, shown qualities worthy of knighthood, and perhaps even more. Have you ever considered taking the white cloak and joining the ranks of the Kingsguard? Men like you are rare, and such talent should be placed in service to the crown."

Robert paused, caught slightly off guard by the king's proposition. He could feel the eyes of the court upon him, waiting to see how he would respond. But his answer came naturally, without hesitation. "Your Grace," Robert began, a sly smile playing on his lips, "I’ll be honest with you. I love my pleasures too much, especially the company of women. A life without such pleasures, without the warmth of a woman’s touch... well, that’s a life I wouldn’t find worth living."

The court murmured, some stifling laughs, while others gasped at his frankness. But Viserys merely chuckled, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. He remembered, suddenly, a moment many years ago when Boremund Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, had said something strikingly similar when Viserys had jested about Boremund one day donning the white cloak himself. "A life without a woman's touch? That’s no life at all," Boremund had claimed with a hearty laugh.

It was in that instant that Viserys felt a certainty settle over him. This was no coincidence, and the resemblance between Robert and the Lord of Storm’s End was not just in the sharp lines of his face or the boldness of his spirit. The same spirit, the same charm, the same fire—Robert had inherited it all from Boremund.

"I see," the king replied, his smile fading into something more thoughtful, almost knowing. "You are, indeed, a man who knows what he wants. Very well, Ser Robert, I will not press the matter of the Kingsguard any further. But I urge you, speak with Lord Boremund. There are questions that need answering, for your sake and for his."

With those final words, Robert was dismissed, his next destination clear. As he left the Red Keep, he couldn’t help but feel a mix of apprehension and resolve. The journey to Storm's End would be a test, one that would determine whether he could find a place in this world beyond the shadow of rumor and suspicion.

As King Viserys shifted his attention back to the petitions brought before him, his mind kept drifting to his daughter, Rhaenyra. Throughout the audience, he had noticed the way her eyes had lingered on Robert Stronghammer—the intensity, the spark of curiosity, and something more. It wasn't the first time he'd seen that look, but it concerned him all the same. Rhaenyra, his beloved daughter, the Realm's Delight, had prospects that extended far beyond a newly knighted warrior, no matter how skilled or handsome he might be.

He couldn't help but recall the recent meeting with Borros Baratheon, the heir of Storm’s End, who had come to King’s Landing to seek Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage. Borros had presented himself with all the pride and strength expected of a Baratheon, but Rhaenyra had shown little interest in the match. Viserys had hoped that she would see the sense in securing such a powerful alliance. Storm’s End was a key fortress, and the Baratheons were a family of great standing. But Rhaenyra had been resolute, refusing to entertain the idea of marrying Borros, no matter how practical the union might be.

And yet now, her gaze was drawn to Robert, a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Borros—so much so that it was almost unsettling. There was the same proud bearing, the same dark hair, the same intense eyes, and, most of all, that fiery spirit that the Baratheons were known for. But where Borros had failed to capture Rhaenyra’s attention, Robert seemed to have done so effortlessly. Was it the tales of his heroics in the Stepstones? Or perhaps the air of mystery that surrounded him, this warrior who might very well be a bastard of Lord Boremund Baratheon himself?

Viserys found himself frustrated by the unpredictability of it all. Women, he thought, were a mystery that even a king could not decipher. How could Rhaenyra be so uninterested in a noble lord like Borros yet show such keen interest in a knight with uncertain parentage and prospects? He knew that the matter could become even more complicated if Robert’s lineage was proven. If he truly were Boremund Baratheon’s bastard, then what kind of turmoil might that bring to the realm?

Viserys sighed, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on him. He had hoped to secure a future for Rhaenyra that was worthy of her station, one that would protect the Targaryen line and ensure the strength of House Targaryen for generations to come. The last thing he needed was for her to be infatuated with a man of lesser standing, no matter how skilled or charismatic he might be.

As Rhaenyra stood by his side, her eyes still occasionally drifting toward the doorway through which Robert had exited, Viserys leaned over and whispered, "Daughter, you know the path before you is not one to be taken lightly. There are alliances to be made, ones that will shape the future of our house."

Rhaenyra turned to him, her expression one of defiance yet tempered with respect. "I understand, Father," she replied softly. "But is it wrong to admire someone who has proven himself so valiantly? Shouldn't a warrior's heart be admired for what it is, regardless of birth?"

Viserys sighed, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. "A warrior’s heart is indeed admirable, my dear. But remember, you are a Targaryen, and that name carries with it a weight and responsibility far greater than you may yet comprehend. Be careful where your heart leads you, Rhaenyra. It can often lead to paths from which there is no return."

Rhaenyra nodded, but Viserys could see that the flame of interest had not been extinguished. And so, the king returned to his duties, troubled by thoughts of knights and daughters, of bastards and lords, and of the uncertain future that lay ahead. As he watched Rhaenyra steal one final glance toward the hall’s entrance, Viserys could only hope that whatever path his daughter chose, it would be one that would not burn their house to the ground.