Chapter 11: The Kingsguard's Dilemma & The Mad King's Due
The corridor, dimly lit by a single flickering torch, became an arena of frozen tension. Ser Barristan Selmy, his hand now firmly on the hilt of his sword, embodied the unwavering loyalty of the Kingsguard. His eyes, narrowed in suspicion, darted from Robar's imposing, shadowed form to the dark figures of the Phoenix Team arrayed behind him. He recognized the insignia-less, functional black leather as belonging to no House he knew; these were intruders, deep within the Red Keep, and dangerously close to Maegor's Holdfast.
"Lord Robert Baratheon?" Ser Barristan's voice was low, incredulous, yet edged with steel. Robert was supposed to be hundreds of leagues away, leading an army. "What is the meaning of this intrusion? By what right do you come armed into the King's own keep in the dead of night?"
Robar met his gaze, a flicker of something akin to professional respect in his cold blue eyes. Barristan Selmy was a known quantity, a high-value asset in terms of skill and reputation, albeit currently aligned with a failing enterprise. Killing him would be… inefficient, if it could be avoided. A prolonged fight here would be disastrous.
"Ser Barristan," Robar's voice was a calm, resonant bass, utterly devoid of Robert's usual boisterousness. "I am here on urgent business concerning the security of this city and its… primary occupant. Stand aside. This does not concern you."
"Anything concerning the safety of King Aerys concerns me," Barristan retorted, drawing his longsword with a whisper of steel. The torchlight gleamed on its polished surface. "You are leading armed men through the Red Keep unannounced. That is an act of treason. Lay down your arms and explain yourselves, or face the consequences."
Robar's mind, a hyper-efficient processor, evaluated the variables. Barristan was too skilled for a silent takedown by his team without risk of noise. Deception was unlikely to sway such a man of rigid honor. That left a direct approach.
"The consequence of your interference, Ser, will be the incineration of this city," Robar stated, his voice dropping to a chillingly earnest tone. "Aerys plans to unleash the wildfire. Tonight. I am here to prevent that. To stop him from murdering every man, woman, and child in King's Landing. Are you truly so bound by your oath that you would defend a king who intends such an atrocity? Would you be an accomplice to the greatest act of mass murder in the history of Westeros?"
He saw a flicker of doubt, a momentary hesitation in Barristan's eyes. The knight knew of Aerys's madness, his obsession with wildfire. He had been there when Lord Chelsted, the previous Hand, had argued against its use and paid for it with his life. The accusation, the sheer horror of what Robar described, struck a chord.
But Barristan's jaw tightened. "My oath is to protect the King, not to judge him. If he is mad, then perhaps he can be reasoned with, or contained. But I will not allow you to harm him, Baratheon. That is not your right."
"Rights," Robar scoffed, a sound like stones grinding together, "are determined by those who have the power to enforce them. I am giving you one chance, Ser. For your reputation. For the lives of the innocents in this city. Stand down. Allow me to deal with Aerys and his pyromancers. Or, you will force my hand, and the outcome will be regrettable."
He subtly shifted his stance, his immense frame radiating an almost visible pressure. The air around him grew heavy, the torch flame wavering as if in a sudden draft. This was his Conqueror's Haki, not unleashed in a wave to incapacitate, but focused, a personal aura of indomitable will that pressed down on Barristan's senses. The Kingsguard knight, for all his valor, felt a prickle of unease, a deep, instinctual warning that the man before him was more than he appeared.
"I will not stand down," Barristan declared, though his voice was a fraction less certain than before. He raised his sword, assuming a defensive posture.
Robar sighed internally. A wasted asset. "So be it."
What happened next was too fast for most of the Phoenix Team to follow, a blur of motion and contained power. Robar didn't draw a weapon. He simply moved. He crossed the distance between them in an instant, his speed utterly belying his size. Barristan, a master swordsman, reacted with incredible swiftness, his blade flashing in a defensive arc.
But Robar wasn't aiming for the sword. He met Barristan's attack head-on. As the blade descended, Robar's left forearm, now shimmering with the invisible energy of Armament Haki, rose to intercept it. Steel met what felt like unbreakable iron with a clang that echoed unnaturally in the confined space. Barristan's eyes widened in shock as his Valyrian steel-quality sword, a weapon that could shear through lesser steel, bit only shallowly into Robar's Haki-reinforced arm, sending a jarring shock up his own limb. The wound on Robar's arm was superficial, already closing.
Before Barristan could recover from the impossibility of what he'd just witnessed, Robar's right hand, also glowing faintly with Haki, shot out like a viper. It wasn't a punch, but an open-handed strike aimed at Barristan's chest, just over the heart. It connected with the force of a battering ram. The Kingsguard's pristine white breastplate dented inwards with a sickening crack. Air exploded from Barristan's lungs. His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut, his sword clattering uselessly beside him. Unconscious, possibly with several broken ribs, but alive.
Robar looked down at the fallen knight, then at the shallow cut on his own arm, which had already stopped bleeding. "A man of principle," he murmured, almost to himself. "Such a waste of good talent." He then turned to his stunned team. "Secure him. Gag him. Hide him. Vaellyn, check his vitals; I need him alive if possible. He could be a valuable PR asset later." This cold, pragmatic assessment of a near-legendary figure sent a fresh shiver through his hardened operatives.
Two team members quickly dragged Barristan into a nearby alcove, binding and gagging him with practiced efficiency. Maester Vaellyn, after a quick examination, nodded. "Alive, my lord. Bruised, ribs likely broken, but he will live."
"Good," Robar said. "The rest of you, with me. We've wasted enough time."
The encounter, though brief, had cost them precious minutes. They pressed on, deeper into Maegor's Holdfast, the route now more perilous. Robar's Haki swept ahead, detecting guard patrols, which they either bypassed or neutralized with chilling speed. He moved with a focused intensity that bordered on inhuman, every sense alert, every muscle coiled.
They reached the heavily guarded corridor leading to Aerys's solar. Here, the King's paranoia was evident. At least a dozen household guards, men chosen for their loyalty or their fear, stood watch, their faces pale and nervous. And among them, Robar noted with grim satisfaction, were two figures in the distinctive robes of the Alchemists' Guild – pyromancers.
"Vaellyn," Robar whispered, "the pyromancers are your priority. Neutralize their ability to ignite anything. The rest of you, take the guards. Silent takedowns if possible, but speed is paramount. Eliminate all resistance."
The Phoenix Team moved like wraiths. Darts tipped with a fast-acting soporific Vaellyn had prepared silenced two guards before they could react. The others were engaged in a flurry of brutal, close-quarters combat. Robar himself was a whirlwind of destruction, his Haki-infused fists and feet striking with the force of siege weapons, crushing armor and bone. He moved through the guards like a wolf among sheep, each blow precise, disabling, lethal. Within moments, the corridor was clear, the guards either dead or unconscious, the two pyromancers disarmed and subdued by Vaellyn's team, their pouches of ignition powders confiscated.
Before them now stood the final, iron-bound door to Aerys's solar. From within, they could hear a high-pitched, keening rant, punctuated by bursts of mad laughter. The scent of wildfire components was stronger here, mixed with the cloying sweetness of incense and fear.
Robar didn't hesitate. He didn't need a battering ram. He focused his Gura Gura no Mi power into his fist, a barely visible shimmer of condensed vibrational energy. He punched the iron door just beside its massive hinges. There was a sound like cracking thunder, and the reinforced oak splintered, the iron bands snapping like thread. With a second, similar blow, the door ripped from its frame and crashed inwards.
Robar stepped into the solar, the Phoenix Team fanning out behind him.
The room was opulent, yet reeked of decay and madness. Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, stood hunched over a large table upon which lay a map of King's Landing, littered with green-glowing markers. He was a pale, gaunt figure, his silver-gold hair long and matted, his fingernails like yellowed talons. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, fixed on Robar with a mixture of terror and manic fury. Beside him stood Wisdom Rossart, the new Hand of the King, his face a mask of smug arrogance that quickly dissolved into disbelief. Two remaining Kingsguard knights, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Jonothor Darry, stood protectively before the King, their swords drawn, though their expressions were ones of grim resignation rather than defiance.
"Traitors! Assassins!" Aerys shrieked, his voice cracking. "You dare intrude upon my sanctuary? Rossart! Burn them! Burn them all! Burn the city! Let Robert be king over charnel and ashes!"
Rossart fumbled for something at his belt, likely an igniter. Before he could produce it, a crossbow bolt from one of Robar's team members thudded into his chest, sending him staggering back with a choked gasp.
"Ser Jaime, Ser Jonothor," Robar's voice was calm, but carried an absolute authority that cut through Aerys's mad rantings. "Your King is relieved of his command. He intends to destroy this city. I am here to prevent that. Lay down your arms. This is over."
Ser Jonothor Darry, an older knight, looked from Aerys to Robar, his face a mask of conflict. But Jaime Lannister, young, golden-haired, and with a cynical twist to his lips Robar recognized from Robert's memories, merely lowered his sword a fraction. "He truly means to burn it all, doesn't he?" Jaime asked, his voice surprisingly calm, directed more at the air than at anyone in particular.
"He does," Robar confirmed. "And I am the new management. This asset will not be liquidated."
Aerys, seeing his protectors hesitate, scrambled towards a small brazier where several vials of wildfire were being warmed. "I'll do it myself! I'll burn you all!"
Robar moved. He crossed the room in two strides, his hand lashing out. He didn't strike Aerys. He simply snatched the vial of wildfire from the King's grasp with contemptuous ease. Aerys stumbled back, his face a mask of thwarted rage.
"It's over, Aerys," Robar said, his voice flat. He looked at the vial in his hand, then at the Mad King. This was the culmination of his plan, the critical point of the hostile takeover.
Aerys lunged at him, not with a weapon, but with his claw-like hands, shrieking incoherently.
Robar didn't even flinch. With a sigh that was almost bored, he backhanded the King across the face. The blow, even moderated, sent Aerys sprawling to the floor, dazed and whimpering.
"Secure him," Robar ordered. "And these two Kingsguard. Vaellyn, locate every vial, every pot of wildfire in this Holdfast. Neutralize it. Now."
As his team moved to obey, Robar stood over the fallen King. The man was pathetic, a broken relic. The crown of Westeros, he thought, was a severely underperforming asset.
Jaime Lannister, after a moment's hesitation, slowly sheathed his sword. Ser Jonothor Darry, looking utterly defeated, did the same.
The Mad King's reign had ended not with a bang, nor even a whimper from Aerys himself, but with the cold, efficient precision of a corporate restructuring.
Robar looked around the solar. The map of King's Landing lay on the table, its green markers indicating the extent of Aerys's planned immolation.
"A significant liability, now neutralized," he murmured. His gaze then went to the window, towards the sleeping city beyond. "And a prime asset, ripe for development."
The first, most dangerous phase of the acquisition was complete. Now began the consolidation.
Word Count: Approx. 3100 words