Robert wrenched his legs free from the mud with difficulty, panting as he trudged toward his horse.
Months of campaigning to suppress the rebellion had left him far thinner than before. The weight he had put on while living comfortably in King's Landing had long since been burned away.
"Damn those Ironborn!"
Robert spat hard, the phlegm tinged with the taste of iron.
Without enough warships, his army could only rush back and forth in vain.
The Ironborn ships were ill-suited for head-on battles, but they were fast, and with their intimate knowledge of the coasts and waters, they struck like ghosts.
Appear, raid, vanish.
Robert's army was exhausted, constantly on the move. Months passed, grain was consumed, yet there were no real victories to show for it.
"Has the Lannister fleet arrived yet?" Robert asked grimly.
"Your Grace, Lord Tywin says it will be here soon."
"Hmph." Robert snorted coldly. "I know exactly what that old bastard is plotting. He wants me to exempt him from taxes again."
The lack of ships had become the greatest obstacle in crushing the rebellion.
Yet the royal treasury was nearly empty.
Left with no choice, Robert announced tax reductions as an incentive, urging lords across the realm to contribute their ships.
Nearly fifty vessels had been gathered so far, but it was still nowhere near enough.
On the Iron Islands, even lesser noble houses often owned over a hundred longships built for speed and raiding.
Individually they were not especially powerful, but together they were like swarms of flies, driving Robert to exhaustion.
As he was preparing to return to camp, a young nobleman who appeared to be from the North approached him with urgent news.
"Your Grace, we've captured Balon's second son, Maron!"
The world suddenly seemed brighter to Robert. It was as if he were floating.
"Are you certain? Absolutely certain he's Balon's son?!"
"Yes, Your Grace. There's no mistake!"
Ecstatic, Robert hurried back to camp, where he soon met his old friend Ned.
"Your Grace," Ned began to bow, but Robert waved him off impatiently.
"Enough of that. Where is he? Bring him here!"
Soon, a young man with disheveled hair was dragged forward. He wore only a thin garment in the biting wind.
Everyone expected him to be trembling with fear, but instead he walked with his head held high. His face was bluish from the cold, yet there was no fear in his eyes.
The sight irritated Robert. He unbuckled his sword, scabbard and all, and smashed it into the young man's leg.
"Your Grace!" Ned stepped forward to stop him, but Robert ignored him.
"I am your king! Is this how you stand before your king?!"
Maron lifted his head and glared at him.
"King? The king of this realm is Targaryen. The Ironborn recognize only the Targaryens.
Now that they've left Westeros, you are nothing but a usurper. We Ironborn have our own king!"
The word usurper was the one thing Robert could never tolerate. His eyes bulged as he reached for his warhammer, ready to crush the young man's skull.
Ned hurriedly threw himself between them.
"Your Grace, calm yourself. With him, at least we can negotiate with Balon."
"I'll kill that pretender sooner or later!"
After great effort, Ned finally calmed Robert down.
Just as they were preparing to interrogate Maron about Ironborn plans, Robert's accompanying maester approached, his expression grave, and handed him a letter.
"Your Grace, from House Hightower."
"Hightower?"
Robert frowned and took the letter. After reading it, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.
He stared at it for a long time without speaking, making Ned increasingly uneasy.
"Hahahaha! This is a joke!" Robert burst out laughing.
"Ned, look at this. Is this even possible? A brat defeating a hundred thousand men? The gods would have to be mad!"
Ned took the letter and felt a chill run down his spine.
Gohor was now protected by a fleet. To break it would require an equally large navy and a massive army.
Braavos was powerful, but too far away. Pentos was militarily weak.
Volantis lay beyond the terrifying Chroyane. As for the Three Daughters, they were busy tearing each other apart.
The Targaryens had completely escaped the danger of extinction. With Pentos as a port, they were now casting a hungry eye toward Westeros.
Before Ned could speak, Robert barked, "Investigate this! Find out which idiot with a dog-chewed brain sent this letter. I want him punished!"
False intelligence was almost unheard of among maesters. Dragonstone's Faelor aside.
As the maester prepared to withdraw, a sudden clatter of hooves sounded outside the tent.
A rider galloped into camp, his attire bearing the sigil of House Arryn. The blue falcon plunged straight into the encampment.
Likely from King's Landing.
The rider dismounted hastily and handed Robert another letter.
"Your Grace, a message from the Hand of the King."
Robert glanced irritably at the maester. The maester understood, took the letter, and skimmed it quickly.
"Your Grace, the Hand says the Targaryens have indeed taken Gohor and confirmed an alliance with Pentos.
However, they do not intend to wage war in the near future and advise you to focus on suppressing the rebellion."
Robert's face twitched. His eyes burned like those of a stag driven mad by blood.
So it was true.
Viserys was barely more than a boy. What had Robert been doing at that age?
Someone had to be helping him. Behind the Targaryens, there must be someone unfathomably dangerous.
But who?
Robert sat there, furious, staring blankly at the filthy carpet trampled with boot prints.
Ned had no idea what to say. He had never been good with words, least of all comforting ones.
Suddenly, he noticed the rider subtly signaling to him.
Ned knew his foster father well. If a trusted messenger had been sent, it meant there was information that Robert must not know.
Ned nodded slightly.
When Robert began shouting curses toward the east, Ned judged that he would be fine for now. He led the rider to a quiet place nearby.
"My lord," the rider whispered, "the Hand asked me to give this to you. And you must not tell the king."
He pulled out a small bamboo tube. There was clearly another message inside.
Ned accepted it, checked that no one was watching, and opened the tube.
The words inside nearly froze him where he stood.
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