Chapter 4: Forging the Stormblade
The silence in the solar following Robar's pronouncement stretched taut. Stannis's dark blue eyes, so similar to his own yet worlds apart in their expression, remained fixed on him. They were eyes that missed little, that judged harshly. Renly, a small shadow, peeked out from behind his older brother, his childish curiosity warring with an instinctive fear of this new, formidable Robert.
"Cooperation, Robert?" Stannis finally spoke, his voice as unyielding as his posture. "Or obedience? There is a difference."
Robar almost smiled. This one, at least, had a spine and a brain. He preferred dealing with intelligent opposition, or intelligent allies, over sycophantic fools. "In times of crisis, Stannis, the distinction becomes academic. What I require is efficiency, dedication to House Baratheon's survival and prosperity, and the execution of lawful commands. You are my brother, a Baratheon of Storm's End. Your role in this is not optional."
He gestured towards a stack of freshly organized parchments on the table – Maester Cressen, under duress and with Robar's terrifyingly precise instructions, had already begun restructuring the castle's record-keeping. "Ser Cortnay Penrose is reviewing our defensive protocols. Ser Harbert is intensifying the garrison's training. Steward Pate is currently… rectifying certain fiscal irregularities under armed guard." A brief, cold flicker in Robar's eyes promised an unpleasant fate for the embezzling steward. "There is much to be done before our bannermen arrive."
"And what role do you envision for me in this… new order?" Stannis asked, suspicion still lacing his tone. He had always been the overlooked brother, the dutiful one laboring in Robert's charismatic, chaotic shadow. He clearly sensed that shadow had now become something far more consuming.
Robar considered. Stannis's defining traits were his rigid adherence to justice, his meticulous nature, and his grinding determination. These could be powerful tools if properly channeled. "Storm's End needs a quartermaster general of unparalleled diligence," Robar stated. "Someone to oversee the inventory of all war materials – weapons, armor, siege equipment, food stores, medical supplies. To ensure their maintenance, their optimal allocation, and to report directly to me on any deficiencies or potential bottlenecks in our supply chain as we prepare for war. It is a task requiring meticulous attention to detail, unwavering honesty, and the authority to compel cooperation from every department within this castle. Maester Cressen can handle the ledgers, but I need someone to verify the physical realities they represent."
He saw a flicker of something in Stannis's eyes – surprise, perhaps, at being offered a position of actual substance, of critical importance. "You would trust me with this?"
"Trust, Stannis, is a commodity earned through performance," Robar replied coolly. "I am offering you the opportunity to earn it. Your reputation for diligence precedes you. Prove it justified. Ensure that when our banners are called, every spear is sharp, every bowstring sound, and every man has rations. Failure in this will directly impact our war effort. Success will be… noted." He let the implication of future rewards, or punishments, hang in the air.
Stannis was silent for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. Then, he gave a curt nod. "I will do it. I will require full access and your authority to enforce compliance."
"Granted," Robar said immediately. "Maester Cressen will provide you with the initial inventories. Your task is to verify and then optimize them. Report any resistance or deliberate obstruction directly to me." This was perfect. Stannis's rigid nature would brook no inefficiency from others, and his reports would be brutally honest. He would become, in effect, Robar's internal auditor for war logistics.
As for Renly, Robar's gaze softened fractionally – not with affection, but with the practicality of dealing with a child who was currently irrelevant to his larger schemes. "Renly," he said, his voice losing some of its harsh edge. "You will spend your mornings with Maester Cressen. He will instruct you in letters, sums, and the histories of the Great Houses. In the afternoons, Ser Harbert will begin your instruction in basic swordplay. A Lord of Baratheon must be learned and capable." He had no time for a pampered princeling. Renly would be molded into a useful asset, or at least kept from becoming a nuisance.
Renly looked to Stannis, who gave another stiff nod. The boy then looked at Robar and mumbled, "Yes, brother."
With his brothers assigned their new roles – one a critical cog in his burgeoning war machine, the other placed on a track for future utility – Robar turned his attention to the wider Stormlands. Ravens had indeed been dispatched, carrying summonses sealed with the crowned stag of House Baratheon. They called his bannermen to Storm's End, not for counsel in the traditional sense, but to receive their directives.
While he awaited their arrival, Robar transformed Storm's End. His days were a whirlwind of calculated activity. He was a constant presence, striding through the courtyards, the armory, the smithies, his blue eyes missing nothing. He'd "persuaded" Maester Cressen to unearth old geological surveys of the Stormlands – mostly forgotten records of stone quarries and rumored iron deposits. Robar studied these with an intensity that baffled the maester, occasionally making cryptic notes or demanding expeditions to seemingly barren locations. If rich veins of ore were "discovered" in the coming months, it would be attributed to Lord Robert's uncanny intuition. He was already planning how Baratheon Consolidated Resources would secure exclusive mining rights.
The castle's smithies, previously producing weapons at a leisurely pace, were now operating day and night. Robar, drawing on his 21st-century understanding of process optimization, introduced revolutionary concepts. He didn't call it an assembly line, but he broke down tasks: one group of smiths forged spearheads, another hafted them, another sharpened. Arrow production was similarly streamlined. Quotas were set, and met, under the threat of his displeasure – a displeasure no one wished to experience after witnessing the fate of Steward Pate.
Pate's "rectification" had been a masterclass in cold, economic cruelty. Robar hadn't had him flogged or executed. Instead, after Pate had, under extreme duress, revealed the location of his ill-gotten gains (a pitiful sum, really, but it was the principle), Robar had him formally charged with theft and dereliction of duty before a quickly assembled household tribunal. His lands and personal assets were seized by House Baratheon as restitution – a significant addition to BCR's capital base. Pate himself, stripped of his position and dignity, was indentured to BCR for a period of ten years, assigned to the most grueling, unpleasant tasks in the castle – mucking out stables, hauling stone for Robar's planned fortifications, under the direct, unsympathetic supervision of a guard Stannis had personally selected for his lack of humor. The man was a walking, shivering testament to the price of inefficiency and corruption under the new Lord Baratheon. The castle's finances, remarkably, became impeccably honest overnight.
The garrison's training regimen became legendary in its brutality. Ser Harbert, initially taken aback, found himself grimly impressed by Robar's innovative, if savage, drills. Robar himself often oversaw these sessions. His physical transformation was accelerating. Robert's already powerful frame was becoming leaner, harder. He moved with a speed and power that was utterly terrifying. Sometimes, during sparring sessions, he would disarm veteran knights with contemptuous ease, his movements too fast to follow, his strength overwhelming. He didn't use his quake powers, not overtly. But the Haki radiating from him, the sheer oppressive weight of his presence, was enough to make hardened soldiers falter. He was forging them into an elite force, the future "Stormblade Cohort," as he mentally designated them – fiercely disciplined, ruthlessly efficient, and loyal to him through a potent combination of fear and the promise of reward. He ensured they were paid well, directly from BCR's coffers, and better equipped than any fighting men in the Stormlands had ever been.
He also began establishing an intelligence network. Trusted men from the garrison, those who showed quick wits and discretion, were quietly tasked with gathering information from local villages, inns, and among the retinues of the minor lords. He wanted to know everything: who was grumbling, who was ambitious, who had hidden wealth, who was sleeping with whom. Information was power, another currency he intended to monopolize.
His internal monologue was a constant stream of calculations, projections, and strategic planning. The upcoming war was not just a dynastic struggle; it was a leveraged buyout opportunity on a continental scale. Every battle would be an audit of Targaryen assets. Every captured lord a potential source of ransom or allegiance. He mentally drafted the terms for "Baratheon War Bonds" – offering his Storm Lords a chance to invest in the rebellion, promising substantial returns backed by confiscated Targaryen lands and properties. It would tie their fortunes directly to his success.
He spent hours with Stannis, reviewing inventories and logistical chains. Stannis, true to his nature, was ruthlessly efficient in his new role. He uncovered stockpiles of supplies that had been "forgotten" or mismanaged for years. He identified corrupt quartermasters in the outlying keeps and brought them to Robar's attention for "restructuring." The two brothers, so different in temperament, developed a strange, effective working relationship built not on affection, but on a shared understanding of necessity and a mutual respect for competence, albeit for entirely different reasons. Robar saw Stannis as a valuable tool; Stannis, perhaps, saw in Robar the strong leader House Baratheon desperately needed, however unsettling his methods.
A week after Robar's arrival, the first of his bannermen began to appear on the horizon. Lord Estermont, his own grand-uncle, was among the earliest, his expression a mixture of concern for his nephew and curiosity about the rumors already spreading like wildfire about the changes at Storm's End. He was followed by Lord Cafferen, Ser Penrose's brother-in-law, and old Lord Grandison, who looked more like a stiff breeze would blow him over.
Robar ordered no great welcoming feast. Instead, as each lord arrived with his retinue, they were escorted to the main courtyard, which had been transformed. Gone was the usual leisurely chaos. Now, it was a scene of disciplined activity. Squads of Baratheon household guards, gleaming in newly polished armor, drilled with brutal precision under the watchful eyes of Ser Harbert and, occasionally, Robar himself. The clang of hammers from the overworked smithies provided a constant percussion. The very air of Storm's End crackled with a new, focused energy, an almost palpable sense of purpose and thinly veiled menace.
Robar received them in the main hall, not on the ancient driftwood throne of the Storm Kings, but standing before it, a towering, imposing figure. He wore plain black leather, no finery, but his presence dominated the vast space more effectively than any crown or jewel. Stannis stood to his right, a ledger in hand, his expression as grimly impassive as ever. Maester Cressen stood to his left.
As more lords filed in – Tarth, Swann, Dondarrion, Caron – their initial greetings died on their lips as they took in the scene, the altered demeanor of their young overlord, the subtle but unmistakable tension in the air. This was not the Robert they had come to advise or offer condolences to. This was a Lord Paramount who had summoned them to receive his decree.
Robar waited until the last of the major bannermen, the fiery Bryce Caron and the famously honorable Beric Dondarrion among them, had assembled. His cold blue eyes swept over them, assessing each man, calculating their loyalties, their strengths, their potential value to his enterprise.
"My lords," his voice cut through the expectant silence, clear and resonant, carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Welcome to Storm's End. We have much to discuss. The King has made war upon our houses. We will answer him. Not with grief, but with vengeance. Not with pleas, but with steel. And we will do so efficiently, decisively, and profitably."
The Storm Lords exchanged uneasy glances. The game had changed. And their new Lord Baratheon was setting rules they had never encountered before. The forging of the Stormblade had begun, and they were all now part of its edge, whether they yet realized it or not.