The Stronghammer - CH - 35 (Patreon)

Robert Baratheon soared through the cold, dark skies on the back of the Cannibal, the massive black dragon whose wings beat silently against the night air. The journey from the Axe to Westeros was long, but the Cannibal made it in a matter of days, flying through the cover of darkness, navigating across the vast expanse of the Shivering Sea and then the Narrow Sea. With every mile they crossed, the weight of Robert’s ambitions grew heavier on his shoulders. He had spent two years away, building his power in secret, but now he was ready to return to the game he had left behind, and this time, he would not play by anyone’s rules but his own.

The Cannibal, as though understanding the need for stealth, flew low over the treetops as they neared the coasts of Westeros. The dragon’s black scales blended into the night sky, and its shadow passed unnoticed over the sleeping land below. No watchman would see them, no curious eyes would track their approach. Robert had no intention of announcing his return with fire and fury—not yet, at least. His presence needed to remain a secret until the time was right.

His destination was the Kingswood, a vast forest south of King's Landing and close enough to Storm’s End that he could travel between both locations undetected. The Kingswood had long been a place of legends and intrigue—of bandits, outlaws, and kings. It was dense and remote, offering the perfect place to land without drawing attention. No one would expect a dragon to emerge from such a place, and the thick canopy of trees would provide cover for the Cannibal.

The bitter winds of the high skies nipped at Robert’s face as they flew over Blackwater Bay, the dark waters reflecting the crescent moon like shards of silver. He could see the outline of Dragonstone in the distance, the Targaryen seat perched on its volcanic island like a brooding sentinel. Robert’s thoughts lingered on Rhaenyra for a moment—his desire to claim her had driven him to unimaginable lengths, and now the pieces were finally falling into place. But first, he needed to establish his presence quietly in Westeros, to gather his forces before making any bold moves.

As they flew over the narrow stretch of land between Storm’s End and King’s Landing, Robert scanned the terrain below. He recognized the dark silhouette of the Kingswood sprawling out beneath him, an endless sea of trees swaying gently in the night breeze. The time had come.

He patted the Cannibal's thick neck, signaling the dragon to descend. The great beast responded immediately, tucking in its wings and dropping toward the earth in a smooth, controlled dive. Robert's heart quickened as they plunged into the forest, the treetops rising up to meet them. At the last moment, the Cannibal spread its wings, catching the wind and slowing their descent. They landed softly in a clearing deep within the forest, the dragon’s massive claws sinking into the damp earth.

The silence that followed was profound. Robert dismounted, feeling the familiar weight of his boots hitting the ground. The air here was cool, fragrant with the scent of pine and moss. The Cannibal shifted behind him, its enormous bulk settling into the clearing, where it would wait for Robert’s next command. The dragon's eyes gleamed in the moonlight, but it made no sound, perfectly still except for the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of its chest.

Robert surveyed the area, making sure they were well-hidden. The thick foliage and towering trees offered the perfect cover. Even if someone had seen them land, it would take a skilled tracker to follow their trail this deep into the Kingswood. He had chosen this place carefully—no nearby villages or patrols, just the untamed wilds of the forest, where no one would suspect a Dragonlord to be hiding.

He began to move, careful to step lightly on the forest floor. He had brought a small pack with provisions, some gold, and a map of the surrounding area. The Cannibal would remain here, hidden and safe, while Robert made his way toward his first destination—Kingslanding.

As Robert trekked through the woods, he thought about what lay ahead. His mind drifted back to his people on the Axe, the kingdom he had built from nothing. They were safe, prospering, and loyal to him. He had left them in good hands, his trusted advisors overseeing everything in his absence. The Cannibal would remain hidden until he was ready to unleash the full might of his dragon on Westeros. But for now, his goals were more subtle.

By dawn, he would reach the edge of the Kingswood, and from there, it was only a short ride to Kingslanding. He had sent no raven ahead, no warning to anyone of his return. He wanted to see things with his own eyes, to assess the political landscape, and to find out how much had changed since his disappearance.

And, most importantly, he wanted to know if Rhaenyra was still waiting for him.

As he made his way through the dense forest, the soft hooting of owls and the distant rustle of leaves filled the night air. Robert felt a sense of calm wash over him. His dragon was hidden, his people were safe, and soon, he would be in the heart of Westeros, where he could begin his true conquest.

The night was long, but Robert knew one thing: by the time the sun rose, he would be one step closer to claiming his destiny.

Robert arrived at King's Landing just before dawn, the first rays of sunlight barely piercing the thick haze that hung over the city. Perched atop a small hill outside the city walls, he could see the sprawling capital stretching out before him, a tangled mass of buildings and streets that seemed to pulse with life even in the early hours. King's Landing had always been a city of extremes—wealth and poverty, power and squalor—all crammed into one chaotic place.

He took a deep breath, and immediately regretted it. The air here was foul, thick with the stench of human waste, rotting food, and the acrid smoke of countless chimneys. It was a far cry from the fresh winds of the Axe or the salty tang of the Bitterweed Bay. The scent of the city assaulted his senses, reminding him of why he had always preferred the open wilderness to the crowded, filthy streets of Westeros' largest city.

From his vantage point, Robert could make out the major landmarks of the city. To the east, the Red Keep loomed high on Aegon’s Hill, its red stone walls towering over the rest of the city, a symbol of Targaryen power and the iron fist that ruled the Seven Kingdoms. The Dragonpit, though a ruin now, was visible in the distance—a stark reminder of the dragons that had once roamed freely over the land. Below the Red Keep, the sprawling slums of Flea Bottom festered like an open sore, the labyrinthine alleys and hovels home to the city's poorest residents.

Closer to the heart of the city was the Great Sept of Baelor, its seven crystal towers shimmering faintly in the dawn light. It was the center of religious power, a place where the common folk and nobility alike came to pray, to seek the wisdom of the Seven, and to atone for their sins. Even from a distance, Robert could see people flocking to the sept’s steps, seeking solace and guidance in a city where life was hard and death was never far away.

The harbor, lined with ships of all kinds, bustled with early morning activity. Merchants, sailors, and dockworkers moved about in a frantic dance, loading and unloading goods from across the Narrow Sea and beyond. King's Landing was a city that never slept, and its port was the lifeblood that kept it running. Spices, silks, wines, and exotic goods from Essos flowed into Westeros through this port, along with a steady stream of foreign dignitaries, mercenaries, and slavers.

As Robert approached the city gates, the hum of activity grew louder. He could hear the clang of iron from the smithies, the shouts of merchants hawking their wares, and the cries of children playing in the streets. King’s Landing was alive with energy, its streets teeming with people of every kind—nobles in fine silks riding in ornate carriages, peasants with mud-caked boots carrying bundles of firewood, beggars slumped in alleyways, and sellswords with grim faces and hardened eyes patrolling the streets.

The Gold Cloaks, the city’s guardsmen, were posted at every corner, keeping a watchful eye on the crowds. Their presence was meant to keep the peace, but Robert knew better. The Gold Cloaks were as corrupt as the city they protected, willing to look the other way for the right price. He had no desire to attract their attention.

As he made his way deeper into the city, the streets became narrower and more crowded. The cobbled roads were slick with filth, and every now and then he had to step aside to avoid a slop bucket being emptied into the street from an upper window. Vendors lined the streets, selling everything from stale bread to cheap wine, while children darted between the crowds, picking pockets with practiced ease.

The cacophony of voices filled the air—men shouting, women haggling, dogs barking. It was a far cry from the orderly villages and growing towns of his kingdom on the Axe. Here, everything was crammed together in a chaotic jumble, and the sheer density of people made it impossible to move quickly through the streets. Yet despite the filth, the noise, and the stench, King’s Landing had a raw vibrancy that was hard to ignore. The city was alive, constantly changing, constantly moving.

Robert passed through the Street of Steel, where blacksmiths worked their forges, hammering out swords, armor, and horseshoes. The clanging of iron echoed through the narrow streets, and the heat from the forges was almost unbearable. He paused for a moment, watching a smith hammer out a new blade, sparks flying as the iron met the anvil. It reminded him of the forge back on the Axe, where he had begun arming his people. But here, the weapons were not for some noble cause—they were just another commodity to be bought and sold.

Further down, the Street of Sisters beckoned, filled with silk merchants and jewelers catering to the noble houses of Westeros. Their colorful stalls stood in stark contrast to the squalor of the nearby slums, offering a tantalizing glimpse of luxury in a city filled with deprivation. Here, the wealth of the realm was on full display—fine silks from Yi Ti, gemstones from the Summer Isles, and gold jewelry crafted by master artisans. But Robert had no interest in these baubles.

He finally found himself in Flea Bottom, where the true underbelly of the city lay. The narrow, twisting alleys were lined with hovels barely fit for animals, let alone people. The air here was thick with the smell of rot, and the streets were little more than mud and waste. This was where the poorest of the poor lived, scraping by on whatever scraps they could find. The taverns in Flea Bottom were notorious dens of filth and vice, places where a man could lose his life over a cup of sour wine.

As Robert walked through the squalor, he could feel the eyes of the people on him. His clothes were simple but clean, his stature unmistakable. He knew how to blend in when he needed to, but here in Flea Bottom, he stood out like a wolf among sheep. Yet no one approached him. Perhaps they sensed the danger lurking beneath his calm exterior, or perhaps they were too beaten down by life to care.

Finally, Robert found the small tavern near the edge of Flea Bottom. It was a dingy place, its wooden sign hanging crookedly above the door, and the sound of muffled conversation leaked out into the street. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The tavern Robert had chosen wasn’t just any ordinary, run-down establishment in Flea Bottom. Unbeknownst to most, it was one of the secret hideouts of the Blackstone Legion, the shadowy group of mercenaries and former soldiers who operated in the underworld of King's Landing. The Legion had ties to both nobles and criminals alike, dealing in information, assassinations, and covert operations. Robert had been close to them once—very close—but that was before he left without so much as a word.

As he sat in the dim corner of the tavern, nursing his drink, the memories came flooding back. The Blackstone Legion had been more than allies to him—they had been his brothers in arms. When Robert first arrived in King's Landing years ago, disillusioned with the petty squabbles of noble houses and the crown's politics, it was the Blackstone Legion that had taken him in. Together, they had fought for causes both noble and questionable, their bond forged in blood and secrecy.

But that was two years ago.

When Robert left for the Axe, he hadn’t said goodbye. His departure had been sudden, driven by the need to carve out his own destiny far from the intrigues of Westeros. He hadn't thought much about what his disappearance would mean to the Legion, but now, sitting in their hideout once more, he realized how much time had passed and how uncertain their reaction would be. He wasn’t sure if they would welcome him back as a friend or see him as a deserter.

The tavern’s barkeep, a grizzled man named Caz, was one of the few who knew the true nature of the place. Caz had been with the Legion for years, acting as a gatekeeper to those who knew the secret code. He gave Robert a glance, one that lingered for a moment too long, but said nothing. Whether Caz recognized him or not, Robert couldn’t tell, but the man had a way of reading people, and Robert suspected his arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In the far corner of the tavern, Robert knew there was a hidden door that led down into a network of tunnels beneath King's Landing. These tunnels connected the tavern to the main Blackstone Legion base, a secret stronghold hidden deep below the city, away from prying eyes. The Legion used the tunnels for moving contraband, conducting covert operations, and hiding from enemies when necessary. Robert had walked those tunnels before, and the memories of those dark, winding paths sent a thrill of nostalgia through him.

But now, two years later, he wasn’t sure how the Legion would greet him.

Finishing his drink, Robert stood and made his way to the corner of the room where the hidden door was located. He paused for a moment, glancing at the other patrons. No one seemed to pay him any attention, though he could feel the eyes of Caz still lingering on him. Taking a deep breath, he pushed aside a loose wooden panel in the wall, revealing the narrow staircase that led down into the tunnels.

As he descended into the darkness, the air grew cooler and the sounds of the bustling city above faded away. The flickering torchlight from the sconces on the walls cast eerie shadows, and the familiar scent of damp earth and stone filled his nostrils. Robert felt a strange mix of anxiety and anticipation. It had been too long, and though he had missed the Legion, he had no idea what kind of reception awaited him.

The tunnel led him deeper underground, past several checkpoints where members of the Legion would usually stand guard. This time, the posts were empty, and Robert continued until he reached the large, iron-bound door that marked the entrance to the Legion’s main base.

Before he could knock, the door swung open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar running down the left side of his face. It was Galen, one of the Legion's most seasoned fighters and someone Robert had once called a friend. Galen’s face was a mask of surprise and suspicion as he looked Robert up and down.