The Stronghammer - CH - 14 (Patreon)

As Robert Stronghammer began his journey through the dense and sprawling Kingswood on his mare, Mya, he felt a sense of freedom wash over him that he hadn't experienced in years. The cool air, tinged with the scent of pine and damp earth, invigorated him as the quiet rustling of leaves and distant bird calls filled the otherwise silent woods. This was the life of a man on a true adventure—no lords, no courts, no petitioners trying to entangle him in their schemes. Just him, his horse, and the wild expanse ahead.

The road winding through the Kingswood was treacherous and nearly abandoned, and it wasn't hard to see why. The thick trees loomed high, blocking out much of the sunlight, casting long shadows on the path ahead. It was a perfect place for bandits to hide. Many had taken to making the Kingswood their home, forming camps deep in its heart, far from the watchful eyes of the city guard. Robert had heard the stories—robberies, ambushes, and even murders that happened in these woods, and he knew the risk he was taking by choosing this route.

Still, none of it bothered him. He had faced worse dangers on the Stepstones, fighting the Triarchy and dodging arrows on blood-soaked beaches. Bandits were no more a threat to him than the wind rustling the branches overhead. He had no interest in hunting them down, no desire to play the hero of the woods. As long as no one stood in his way, he would let them be.

As he rode deeper into the forest, he began to notice signs of life. Groups of poachers, armed with makeshift bows and traps, moved stealthily through the trees, dragging behind them the carcasses of elks they had hunted. They were wary of him, their eyes scanning him from a distance, but they made no move to approach.

One poacher, an older man with a scraggly beard and a worn tunic, nodded his head at Robert as he passed. Robert returned the nod, his hand never straying to his sword. These people weren’t his enemies. They were just men trying to survive in a harsh world, feeding their families however they could. And Robert had no inclination to make their lives harder. The forest was theirs as much as it was anyone's, and he saw no sense in spilling blood over a few stolen animals.

As long as they left him in peace, they could do as they wished in these woods. He wasn’t the king’s enforcer, nor did he care for the politics of poaching laws. The Kingswood had seen far worse than hungry men taking what they needed to survive.

Mya moved steadily beneath him, her black coat gleaming in the scattered sunlight that broke through the trees. Robert stroked her neck gently, a silent reassurance to his trusty companion. She had been with him through many battles and travels now, and he trusted her instincts as much as his own. Together, they were making their way through this wild, forgotten part of the world—on a path that would lead him to Storm’s End.

The deeper he ventured, the quieter the forest became. The wind died down, the animals grew silent, and the feeling of isolation set in. It was just him and the road now, stretching out endlessly before him.

But in that solitude, Robert found comfort. The world of courts and castles was loud and chaotic, filled with whispers, plots, and politics. But here, in the Kingswood, there was none of that. Here, a man could be free to think, to reflect on where he had been and where he was going.

His thoughts drifted back to Lord Boremund Baratheon, the man he was connected to by blood. The meeting with King Viserys had left him with mixed feelings. Robert had no desire to claim anything from the Baratheons, nor did he want to stir up any trouble with the powerful family. But he knew that rumors had a way of taking root, growing into something far more dangerous than the truth. His name was already being spoken in whispers throughout the realm—of who he was, where he came from, and what his future might hold.

But for now, Robert was content to let those rumors swirl. He had a destination in mind, and until he reached Storm’s End, he would not let anything or anyone distract him from his path.

After a long, uneventful journey, Robert Stronghammer finally reached the border of the Stormlands. The landscape gradually transformed from the dense, shadowy trees of the Kingswood into the open, windswept plains of his ancestral homeland. As he crossed into the familiar territory, a strange mix of relief and confusion settled over him.

For three nights, he had camped in the Kingswood, fully expecting trouble. Bandits were known to be ruthless in these woods, especially toward lone travelers like himself. He had heard stories of entire caravans disappearing, their bodies never to be found. Yet, as the days passed, not a single soul had disturbed him. He had been left alone, free to make his way through the woods without incident. It was almost eerie.

Robert had prepared for the worst, keeping his sword close and sleeping with one eye open, but no attack ever came. The bandits who frequented the Kingswood, the poachers, the desperate—all had seemingly decided he wasn’t worth the risk. Perhaps it was his reputation as a knight, or maybe it was the way he carried himself, a man unafraid of danger. Whatever the reason, he had passed through one of the most dangerous parts of Westeros without drawing a drop of blood.

Now, as he rode deeper into the Stormlands, the sense of unease began to fade, replaced by a deep feeling of belonging. The open sky above, the rolling hills, the distant sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs—it all felt like home. He could almost hear the echo of his ancestors in the winds that swept across the land, the blood of Durrandon calling to him as it had for generations.

Robert had grown up hearing tales of the Stormlands from his parents, stories of the ancient Storm Kings and their endless battles against invaders from both land and sea. He had learned about the unyielding spirit of the Baratheons, their strength and pride rooted in the very storms that ravaged their lands. The Durrandon bloodline ran through his veins, whether he accepted it or not, and now that he was here, in the heart of the Stormlands, he could feel it.

Every hill, every tree, every gust of wind felt familiar, as if the land itself recognized him. The sense of destiny that had always haunted him, the whispers of who he might truly be, grew louder with each passing mile. The closer he got to Storm’s End, the more certain he became that this journey was about more than just clearing up old rumors. It was about understanding who he truly was, and what his future might hold.

He spurred Mya forward, the black mare’s hooves thundering against the ground as they sped toward Storm’s End. The towering fortress on the coast was still days away, but Robert could already picture its imposing walls and battlements, standing as a silent guardian against the storms that battered the shores.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the land, Robert found a suitable place to make camp for the night. He dismounted and began setting up his fire, the familiar routine calming his thoughts. The journey had been long, but the most important part of it was still ahead. Soon, he would stand before Lord Boremund Baratheon, the man everyone suspected might be his true father.

But for now, Robert let himself relax. The journey through the Kingswood had been strange, and the quietness of it left him on edge, but here, in the Stormlands, he felt safer. The land was his.

The very next day, Robert Stronghammer arrived at the imposing gates of Storm’s End, the ancient stronghold of House Baratheon. The massive stone walls loomed before him, seemingly impenetrable, standing as they had for thousands of years against both storm and siege. As he approached the gate, the guards eyed him warily, though their expressions shifted when he gave his reason for visiting.

“The name’s Robert Stronghammer,” he said, his voice firm. “Here to see Lord Boremund Baratheon, as per the king’s suggestion.”

The guards exchanged glances, and after a brief moment of hesitation, they nodded, allowing him entry. The respect they afforded him didn’t go unnoticed, and Robert could tell that his reputation preceded him. The tales of his prowess in the Stepstones had spread far and wide, and it seemed even in Storm’s End, a place of warriors and lords, his name carried weight.

As Robert passed through the gates and into the courtyard of Storm’s End, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of familiarity and discomfort. The fortress was every bit as formidable as he had remembered, yet it was the people within it that unsettled him the most.

Servants bustled about the courtyard, but as he made his way deeper into the stronghold, he noticed that many of them had stopped to stare at him. Their gazes lingered, curious and almost... knowing. Some whispered to each other, their eyes following him as he passed, while others stole quick glances before hurrying away. It unnerved him more than he wanted to admit.

Robert had never been to Storm’s End in this new life, but the way the servants looked at him—like they had seen him before, or at least knew of him—set his mind racing. The rumors about his connection to the Baratheon bloodline must have spread here as well. Perhaps it was his resemblance to the Lord of Storm’s End, Boremund Baratheon, that caught their attention. Or maybe there was more to it.

Every glance and whispered conversation only deepened the sense of unease. Had the rumors grown so strong that people were already treating him as if he belonged here, as if he were part of the Baratheon family? Or was there something more they knew that he didn’t?

He dismounted from Mya, handing the reins to a stable boy who approached nervously, and began walking toward the main keep. The towering stone walls seemed to close in around him, but Robert kept his head high, refusing to let his uncertainty show. He was here for answers, and whatever Storm’s End had in store for him, he was ready.

Yet the servants’ strange looks lingered in his mind. They looked at him not as a stranger, but as someone familiar, someone they already knew or had heard of in hushed tones. Was it just the rumors, or was there more to this than he realized?

As Robert approached the entrance to the great hall, he steeled himself. The truth, whatever it was, awaited him inside. But the questions gnawed at him still: Did these people know something about him that he didn’t? And if so, was it something that would change his life forever?

Robert stood before the great hall of Storm's End, memories from his past life rushing back to him like a storm. He remembered this place, though it was not a memory from this life—it was from a life long ago. The massive oaken doors, the high stone walls, and the ever-present winds of the Stormlands made this place as foreboding as ever. The servant who had gone to announce his arrival soon returned and informed him that Lord Boremund Baratheon was waiting for him.

Taking a deep breath, Robert followed the servant inside. As he stepped into the great hall, he was immediately struck by the sight of Lord Boremund Baratheon sitting on a large stone chair, his posture commanding and his face a mixture of authority and age. There was something familiar about him, something that tugged at Robert’s memories, though he had never met this man before in his current life.

As Robert approached, he noticed it immediately—the slight resemblance between Lord Boremund and his own father, Steffon Baratheon. It was uncanny. The same strong jawline, the same intensity in the eyes. Though older, Boremund carried himself with the same Baratheon pride that Robert had seen in his father. Yet, as Robert drew closer, the hostility that had once been etched on Lord Boremund’s face began to melt away. His expression shifted into one of disbelief, then shock.

It was only then that Robert noticed another presence in the room—another pair of eyes watching him from the far corner. Turning slightly, Robert saw a man standing there, almost his own age. The resemblance between them was startling. This man looked like he could be Robert’s twin, with the same dark hair, broad shoulders, and Baratheon features. His eyes, his stance—it was as though Robert was looking into a mirror.

The realization hit him hard. The servants’ strange looks, the whispers, the uncertainty that had lingered in his mind since he arrived at Storm’s End—it all made sense now. He didn’t just resemble the Baratheons; he looked exactly like Borros Baratheon, Lord Boremund’s son and heir to Storm’s End.

As Robert approached Lord Boremund, he could see the shock and confusion playing out across the older man’s face. Boremund’s eyes flicked between Robert and Borros, as if trying to comprehend the impossible likeness between the two.

"Gods..." Lord Boremund finally muttered under his breath, his voice filled with disbelief. He sat up straighter in his chair, eyes narrowing as he studied Robert more closely. "You look... just like him. Just like Borros."

Robert remained silent, his mind racing. He hadn’t come here to reveal anything about his true origins, but now it seemed that his very presence was raising more questions than answers. Borros, standing silently in the corner, was equally stunned. His gaze never left Robert, as if he too was trying to make sense of this strange turn of events.

For a moment, the great hall was filled with a heavy silence. Robert, Boremund, and Borros—three men, all bound by blood, whether they knew it or not—stood in a tense standoff of realization.

“I came here to speak with you, Lord Boremund,” Robert said finally, breaking the silence, his voice steady despite the storm brewing within him. “But it seems... there’s more to this than I anticipated.”

Lord Boremund didn’t respond immediately. He continued to study Robert, his disbelief slowly turning into something more. Perhaps suspicion, or perhaps... recognition.

“Speak, then,” Boremund said, his voice regaining its strength, though the shock still lingered in his eyes. “What business do you have with me, Robert Stronghammer?”

Robert took a deep breath, steadying himself. The truth of his parentage was still a mystery even to him, but standing here, in the hall of Storm’s End, staring at his almost-twin in Borros, the weight of that mystery seemed heavier than ever. The blood of Durran Godsgrief and the Baratheon line ran deep, and now, it seemed, so did Robert's connection to this ancient house.

But for now, he would stick to his story. There was no need to reveal anything yet. Not until he had the full truth himself.

“I came at the suggestion of King Viserys,” Robert began. “To clear up the rumors that have been swirling about my connection to Storm’s End and the Baratheon line. I assure you, my lord, I did not start these rumors myself.”

Lord Boremund’s eyes narrowed again, but this time it wasn’t disbelief—it was something else. A question, unspoken but heavy in the air between them. Borros continued to watch silently, the tension in the room thickening.

“And yet... here you stand, looking as though you were born of my blood,” Boremund muttered.

Robert clenched his jaw. The truth, or whatever version of it that existed, was beginning to unravel before him. But for now, all he could do was play along, until he discovered what fate truly had in store for him.