Chapter 7: The Stormblade Unsheathed
The plains surrounding Storm's End, usually dotted with grazing sheep and the occasional hunting party, had transformed into a vast, armed encampment. For weeks, men had poured in from every corner of the Stormlands – knights from Tarth and Swann, archers from the Dornish Marches, grim men-at-arms from the rainwood, and even a contingent of nervous-looking merchants who had overextended themselves on Baratheon War Bonds and now sought to protect their investment by offering their services as quartermasters and logistics aides.
Robar had watched this mobilization with a cold, appraising eye. Under the unforgiving regimen he and Ser Harbert had implemented, and the equally unforgiving logistical oversight of Stannis, this was no mere feudal levy. The men were better equipped, their armor gleaming from BCR-funded polish, their weapons sharp. They drilled relentlessly, their movements increasingly precise, their traditional boisterousness replaced by a grim, focused discipline. They were still Stormlanders, proud and prone to fury, but Robar was channeling that fury, tempering it into a weapon. He called them his Stormblade Cohort, a name that was beginning to circulate with a mixture of fear and pride among the ranks.
On the eve of their departure, Robar summoned his newly appointed commanders to the great hall. These were men he had carefully selected – some for their loyalty, like old Lord Estermont; some for their martial prowess, like Ser Cortnay Penrose and Bryce Caron (who, despite his initial bluster, had recognized the changing winds and thrown his lot in with vigor); and some for their sheer ruthless pragmatism, like a newly promoted knight named Ser Davos Seaworth, a former smuggler whose knowledge of coastal routes and unconventional tactics Robar found intriguing. Stannis, of course, was his second-in-command, responsible for the army's operational efficiency.
The driftwood throne remained empty. Robar stood before them, a map of the southern Crownlands and northern Reach spread on a table.
"My lords, commanders," he began, his voice devoid of warmth but resonant with absolute authority. "Tomorrow, the Stormblade is unsheathed. Our initial objectives are twofold: to secure our western flank against potential Tyrell aggression, and to eliminate Targaryen loyalists who threaten our supply lines and project Targaryen power into our sphere of influence."
He tapped the map. "Our first target will be the castles of House Fell of Felwood and House Cafferen of Fawnton. Both have declared for Aerys. Their lands border our own, and their loyalty to the Targaryens makes them a direct threat. We will make an example of them. Swiftly. Decisively."
He outlined his strategy: a two-pronged advance. He himself would lead the main force against Felwood, the stronger of the two. Stannis, with a smaller, more mobile contingent including Davos Seaworth's irregulars, would simultaneously move on Fawnton.
"Lord Stannis," Robar said, his gaze locking with his brother's. "Your objective is Fawnton. I expect its unconditional surrender or its utter annihilation within three days of your arrival. Secure all assets – gold, grain, livestock. Send word to Lord Cafferen: swear fealty to me, contribute to BCR, and he may retain his head and a portion of his lands under my direct oversight. Refusal means ruin."
Stannis nodded, his jaw tight. "It will be done, Robert. And Lord Fell?"
"Lord Fell," Robar's lips curved into a humorless smile, "will receive a similar offer. But I anticipate he will be… less receptive. His castle is strong, his men numerous. He will provide an excellent test for our new siege techniques and the discipline of our Cohort." He was also aware from his GoT knowledge that Felwood was strategically significant, controlling key routes. Its acquisition would be highly profitable.
"The Tyrells," Lord Estermont interjected, his brow furrowed. "They command the strength of the Reach. Will they not move to counter us?"
"Mace Tyrell is an oaf," Robar stated with cold certainty, "but he is advised by his mother, Olenna, who is far shrewder. They will be cautious. They will not commit their main strength until they see a clear advantage. Our swiftness in dealing with Fell and Cafferen will give them pause. It will signal our strength and resolve. Furthermore," he tapped another point on the map, near the border with the Reach, "Ser Cortnay, you will take a thousand men and fortify Griffin's Roost. Its lord, Connington, is in exile, and the castle is under-manned. It will serve as our forward operating base and a bulwark against any probing attacks from the Reach. Make it impregnable."
Ser Cortnay Penrose, a veteran soldier, nodded sharply. "As you command, my lord."
The rest of the briefing was a masterclass in cold, logistical precision. March routes, supply chains, contingency plans, rules of engagement (which focused more on asset preservation than chivalry) – Robar left no detail unaddressed. He spoke of minimizing their own casualties not out of compassion, but because "every trained soldier is a valuable asset, expensive to replace." He authorized controlled foraging, but strictly forbade unauthorized pillaging – "BCR will manage the acquisition and distribution of all captured goods. Theft will be punished by summary execution."
The next morning, under a grey, windswept sky, the Stormblade Cohort marched. Nearly twenty thousand strong, they moved with a discipline that was unsettling to behold. Banners of the crowned stag flew alongside those of the other Storm Lords, but there was no question who was in command. Robar rode at their head, mounted on a powerful black charger. He wore plain, functional steel armor, expertly crafted in Storm's End's revitalized smithies, bearing only a simple, unadorned crowned stag on the breastplate. He carried no ancestral Valyrian steel blade – House Baratheon possessed none, a deficiency he intended to rectify – but a massive, unornamented warhammer rested easily in a saddle loop, a weapon he could wield with devastating force.
His Observation Haki was extended, a subtle net cast over his army and the surrounding countryside. He could feel the rhythm of the march, the morale of his men, the presence of wildlife in the distant woods, the subtle shifts in the terrain. Occasionally, when the path grew particularly rough or a stream too wide for easy crossing, a localized tremor, almost imperceptible to those around him, would subtly reshape the land, easing their passage. He was learning to integrate his powers seamlessly into his command.
The march on Felwood was swift and brutal. They covered ground at a pace that would have exhausted a lesser army, but Robar's relentless discipline and BCR's efficient supply chain kept them moving. Scouts, led by Davos Seaworth's handpicked men, ranged far ahead, ensuring their path was clear and providing Robar with constant updates.
As they approached the dense forests surrounding Castle Fell, Robar received his first piece of significant external intelligence. A raven arrived, not from Ned or Jon Arryn, but from one of his newly established BCR agents in King's Landing – a city he was already infiltrating with spies disguised as merchants and laborers. The message was brief: Aerys was in a rage over the news of the rebel lords mustering. He had ordered Lord Merryweather, his Hand, to crush the rebellion swiftly. Royalist forces were gathering, and several marcher lords traditionally loyal to the Targaryens were being called upon to strike at the Stormlands.
This confirmed Robar's strategy. Neutralizing local loyalists like Fell and Cafferen was even more critical now.
Felwood was a strong castle, nestled deep within ancient woods, its stone walls dark and forbidding. Lord Fell, an old, irascible warrior fiercely loyal to the Targaryens, refused Robar's generous terms of surrender (which included a BCR-backed loan for infrastructure improvements if he switched allegiance) with a volley of curses and crossbow bolts.
"Predictable," Robar murmured, observing the castle's defenses. He had no intention of settling in for a lengthy siege. Time was a resource more valuable than gold.
"Prepare the trebuchets," he ordered. These were not the clumsy medieval siege engines Lord Fell would expect. Robar, drawing on his fragmented knowledge of advanced mechanics, had guided Storm's End's engineers to build counterweight trebuchets of a design far more powerful and accurate than anything currently seen in Westeros.
As his men began to assemble these monstrous machines just out of effective bowshot, Robar rode forward with a small escort, under a banner of parley he had no intention of honoring beyond delivering a final ultimatum.
"Lord Fell!" he bellowed, his voice amplified by a subtle application of Haki, easily carrying over the walls. "You have one hour to reconsider my terms. Surrender your castle, your treasury, and swear fealty to me, and you and your men will be spared. Your house will continue, albeit under new management. Refuse, and by sunset, your castle will be rubble, your lands forfeit, and your line extinguished. BCR is prepared to offer you a severance package, or a funeral."
A torrent of abuse was Fell's only reply, culminating in the defiant cry, "The Dragon forever!"
Robar turned his horse. "So be it. Inform Stannis that Fawnton is likely to prove equally… uncooperative. Tell him to expedite its acquisition."
He gave the order for the bombardment to begin. The new trebuchets flung massive stones with terrifying force and accuracy, smashing into Felwood's ancient walls. But Robar had another surprise. Interspersed with the stones were clay pots filled with a highly flammable mixture Maester Cressen had helped him concoct – not wildfire, but a potent incendiary that burst into ferocious flame upon impact.
Lord Fell's men, initially defiant, began to panic as sections of their walls crumbled and fires erupted within their defenses. Robar watched, his expression impassive. This was not war as these men knew it. This was demolition. This was a hostile takeover executed with overwhelming force.
As evening approached, with Felwood's main gate shattered and its defenders demoralized, Robar gave the order for the assault. He did not lead it himself in a glorious, reckless charge. Instead, he directed it from a vantage point, like a conductor leading an orchestra of destruction. His Stormblade Cohort, drilled to perfection, advanced under a hail of covering fire from his archers, their discipline holding even as they faced Fell's desperate counterattacks.
Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, bloody shadows, a tremor ran through the ground – a tremor only Robar consciously controlled. It wasn't a massive earthquake, just a precisely targeted shockwave directed at the base of Felwood's already weakened keep. With a groan that seemed to echo the dying cries of its defenders, the central tower cracked, buckled, and then collapsed inwards in a deafening cloud of dust and debris.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackling of flames and the moans of the wounded.
Robar rode forward into the ruined courtyard. Lord Fell lay crushed beneath a fallen beam, his defiant expression frozen in death. The surviving defenders threw down their weapons, their faces masks of terror and disbelief.
"Secure the castle," Robar ordered his commanders. "Take inventory of all remaining assets. Tend to our wounded. Prisoners will be interrogated for intelligence and then offered employment in BCR's new Felwood Reconstruction Division. Their skills are now our assets."
He looked around at the devastation, a cold satisfaction settling within him. The Stormblade had been blooded. Felwood was his. Its resources, its lands, its manpower – all now belonged to Baratheon Consolidated Resources.
A raven arrived as his men were dousing the last of the fires. It was from Stannis.
"Fawnton secured. Cafferen yielded. Assets cataloged. Awaiting further instruction."
Robar almost permitted himself a genuine smile. Two targets neutralized. Two new revenue streams acquired. The war had begun, and he was already turning a profit.
Word Count: Approx. 3000 words