Scene 1: The Wall
The rain over Gulltown was not a gentle shower; it was a curtain of iron grey, hammering against the black water of the Bay of Crabs.
To the defenders on the walls, it was miserable weather, a reason to huddle near the braziers in the guard towers and curse their luck.
To Robert Baratheon, standing in the knee-deep surf at the base of the curtain wall, it was cover.
He pressed his back against the cold, slime-slicked stone. The sea crashed against the rocks a few yards away, the rhythmic booming masking the sound of his breathing. He was soaked to the bone, his heavy wool cloak weighed down with water, his chainmail clinging to him like a second skin.
He looked up.
The wall towered forty feet above him. It was wet, slippery, and sheer.
Analyze, the command fired in his brain.
The world shifted. The color drained from his vision, replaced by a high-contrast monochrome. The rain became streaks of silver light. The darkness of the stone wall dissolved, revealing the texture of the masonry.
He didn't see a glowing path. He saw the truth of the stone.
He saw where the salt spray had eaten away the mortar between two blocks ten feet up. He saw a rusted iron ringbolt, likely left by masons a decade ago, protruding from the shadows twenty feet up. He saw the slight overhang of the crenellations where a guard would be blind to everything directly below.
"My Lord," a whisper came from beside him.
It was Lyn Corbray. The lithe Vale knight was shivering, his face pale in the darkness, but his eyes were burning with a manic excitement. He held a coil of black rope.
"The patrol passed," Robert whispered back. His voice was a rumble of thunder, barely audible over the surf. "Two minutes until the next rotation."
Robert didn't wait.
He didn't climb with the grace of a dancer. He climbed with the violence of a bear.
He jammed a steel piton into the first crack he had seen. He didn't use a hammer; he shoved it in with the palm of his hand, the sheer brute force of his new body driving the metal into the eroding mortar.
He hauled himself up.
The weight of him was immense. His muscles screamed—the deltoids, the lats, the forearms—but the power was there. It was hydraulic. He felt like an engine made of meat.
He reached the rusted ringbolt.
Test it.
He visualized the stress fracture in the iron. It was old, brittle. If he put his full weight on it, it would snap.
He adjusted his grip, distributing his weight to his feet, finding a microscopic ledge on the wet stone that a normal man would have slipped off. His boots, wrapped in rough leather, found purchase.
He moved up. Ten feet. Twenty. Thirty.
He reached the lip of the crenellation.
He hung there by one hand, his fingers digging into the stone like talons. He closed his eyes and listened.
The "Eagle Vision" wasn't just sight; it was a sphere of awareness.
He heard the scrape of a boot on stone. He heard the rustle of oiled leather. He heard a stifled yawn.
One target. Bored. leaning on the parapet.
Robert didn't vault over. He waited.
Wait for the thunder.
A flash of lightning illuminated the bay, turning the world stark white. A second later—CRACK.
In the exact moment the thunder rolled, Robert moved.
He surged upward, his massive arm hooking over the stone. He didn't pull himself up; he launched himself.
The guard never saw him. He was a shadow detaching itself from the night.
Robert's hand—huge, calloused, wet—clamped over the guard's mouth. His other hand grabbed the man's belt.
There was no struggle. The difference in strength was comical. It was like a child fighting a statue.
Robert dragged the man into the shadows of the merlon. The guard's eyes were wide, white discs of terror. He was young, a Grafton levy, probably a fisherman's son conscripted a week ago.
Robert felt a flicker of hesitation—the modern morality of the transmigrator flinching at the intimacy of the violence.
He is an obstacle, the cold logic countered. He raises the alarm, the Vanguard dies. 300 men die.
Robert twisted his grip.
There was a wet snap.
The guard went limp.
Robert lowered the body gently to the wet stone. He felt no pleasure. He felt no glory. He felt only the cold satisfaction of a task completed.
He looked over the edge. Lyn Corbray and the first squad of the Vanguard were waiting below, invisible in the gloom.
Robert uncoiled the heavy rope tied to his waist and lowered it.
He signaled twice with his hand.
The breach is open.
He turned his back on the dead boy and looked out over the sleeping city of Gulltown. The "Eagle Vision" pulsed again, overlaying the city with a grim tactical map.
The Customs House glowed in his mind's eye—a beacon of gold in a city of grey.
He reached over his shoulder and unslung the massive warhammer. The leather grip was wet, but his hand locked around it with a familiarity that scared him.
"Now," Robert whispered to the storm. "We get paid."
Chapter 3: The Breach of Gulltown
Scene 2: The Treasury
The descent from the wall was a controlled slide into the shadows. Robert landed in the mud behind the main gatehouse, the impact jarring his teeth, but his knees bent to absorb the massive kinetic energy.
He straightened. The storm hammered against his helm, masking the sound of his boots on the wet cobblestones.
Two guards stood by the winch mechanism, huddled under a lean-to, sharing a skin of wine. They were the only thing standing between five thousand Valemen and the city.
Robert stalked forward.
The first guard turned, his eyes widening as a lightning flash illuminated the intruder. He opened his mouth to shout, but Robert's gauntleted hand clamped over his face, slamming his head back against the stone pillar.
Crunch.
The second guard fumbled for his sword, dropping the wineskin.
Robert didn't punch the breastplate. He stepped inside the man's guard, grabbed him by the throat and the belt, and heaved. He slammed the man bodily into the heavy timber of the gate. The air left the guard's lungs in a wet wheeze, and he crumpled.
Silence returned to the courtyard.
Robert looked at the winch. It was a massive iron mechanism, geared to lift the heavy oak crossbar. It would take two men to turn it, and it would be slow.
Too slow, the calculator decided. Efficiency requires destruction.
He unslung the warhammer.
He looked at the iron locking pin that held the crossbar in place.
He swung.
The hammerhead struck the pin with the force of a falling anvil. Sparks showered in the rain. The iron pin sheared clean off.
With a groan of stressed wood, the counterweight released. The heavy oak crossbar slammed upward, retracting into the wall. The gates, no longer barred, groaned open an inch, pushed by the wind.
Robert stepped back.
A moment later, the Vanguard hit the wood from the other side.
The gates burst open. Lyn Corbray led the charge, Lady Forlorn screaming in the night.
"VALE! TO THE VALE!"
The city woke up screaming.
Thirty minutes later, the main square was a vision of chaos.
The resistance had been pathetic, but with victory came the rot. Robert marched through the muddy streets, his hammer resting on his shoulder. He watched the breakdown of order with cold, analytical fury.
To his right, the "Gulltown Contract" was dissolving.
He saw men kicking in the doors of a silversmith's shop. He saw a trio of soldiers cornering a woman near a well, dragging her by her hair into an alley.
"The spoils of war!" one soldier laughed, tearing at her dress.
Robert didn't hesitate.
He closed the distance. The soldier didn't see him coming. Robert didn't start a conversation. He swung the haft of his hammer, the wood cracking against the back of the man's knee.
The soldier screamed and collapsed.
The other two spun around, hands on their swords. They froze when they saw the antlers.
"My Lord?" one stammered. "It is our right! The city is ours!"
"The city is an asset!" Robert roared, his voice cutting through the rain. "And you are burning your own pay!"
He looked around. It was spreading. Smoke was rising from the merchant quarter. If the city burned, the tax base burned. If the soldiers looted individually, the wealth would disappear into pockets and pouches, untaxed and uncounted.
Shrinkage, his mind hissed. Massive inventory loss.
He needed to centralize the greed.
He turned his gaze to the large stone building at the end of the square. The Customs House.
"Corbray!" Robert shouted.
Lyn Corbray appeared, looking disappointed that the fighting was dying down. "My Lord?"
"Get the Captains," Robert ordered. "Tell them to bring their squads to the square. Tell them the King's Gold is being weighed."
"They are... distracted," Corbray said, eyeing the looting.
"Tell them," Robert snarled, leaning close, "that any man not in the square in five minutes gets nothing."
Corbray nodded, sensing the danger, and ran to blow his horn.
Robert marched to the Customs House. The heavy oak doors were barred. He smashed the lock with two swings of his hammer and kicked the doors in.
He found the vault room. It wasn't a bank; it was a cage filled with iron-bound chests.
He grabbed the first chest. It was heavy, filled with silver. He dragged it out, the wood scraping loudly against the stone floor. He dragged it not into the mud, but onto the high stone steps of the Customs House, visible to the entire square.
He went back and dragged out two more.
By the time the soldiers began to gather—confused, bloody, and still clutching stolen goods—Robert stood on the steps before three massive chests.
The mob was restless. They were adrenaline-drunk. They saw the chests, and a ripple of avarice went through the crowd. A group of twenty spearmen surged forward, eyes locked on the prize.
"Back!" Robert shouted.
They didn't stop. The gold fever had them.
Robert didn't argue. He swung his hammer. The lead man took the blow to his shield, and the force shattered the wood and sent him sprawling down the steps with a broken arm.
The surge stopped.
"The first man who touches this step dies," Robert bellowed.
He raised his hammer high and brought it down on the lid of the center chest.
CRACK.
He ripped the lid off.
He reached in and pulled out a handful of silver stags and gold dragons. He held them up, the coins glinting in the torchlight.
"Look at it!" Robert commanded.
He threw the handful back into the chest with a heavy clink.
"You want to steal a copper pot? You want to ruin a girl?" Robert pointed to the open chest. "Or do you want this?"
The square was silent, save for the rain.
"This is the Grafton Hoard," Robert announced. "It is the King's Tariff. And it belongs to the Vanguard."
A cheer started, but Robert cut it off with a slash of his hand.
"BUT," he roared. "It is paid by share. And shares are paid to squads."
He pointed to a Captain of the Arryn household guard.
"Captain! Form your men! If your count is full, you get your share. If a man is missing because he is off raping or burning, the whole squad waits!"
It was a masterstroke of management. Suddenly, the soldiers weren't looking at the gold; they were looking for their wayward comrades. Peer pressure weaponized.
"Get them in line!" Robert ordered. "We pay the Captains. The Captains pay you. Any man caught looting after this payment loses his hand!"
The mob mentality broke. The structure of the army snapped back into place. Men began to shout for their squadmates, dragging looters out of shops, not to arrest them, but to get them in line so they could get paid.
Robert stood on the steps, leaning on his hammer, watching the chaos organize itself into rows.
He looked at the open chest.
Dividend payout, the accountant thought. The cost of doing business.
"Corbray," Robert said to the knight who had returned to his side.
"My Lord?"
"Guard the steps. If anyone rushes the chest without my order, kill them."
"With pleasure," Corbray smiled.
Robert sat down on one of the closed chests. He was exhausted. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a dull ache in his shoulders. But the city wasn't burning. The gold was secured. And the men were loyal, bought and paid for.
He took a deep breath of the wet air.
Scene 3
Scene 3: The Hand
The distribution of gold was a noisy affair, but it was organized. Robert stood on the steps, watching the system work.
Then, the anomaly appeared.
A merchant's wife tried to cross the square. A soldier in a checkered surcoat saw the glint of gold at her throat. Greed overrode discipline. He lunged, ripping the chain from her neck, shoving her into the mud.
"One for the road!" he laughed.
He didn't make it two steps.
Robert exploded from the steps. He didn't run; he charged like a bull. He seized the soldier by the throat and the backplate, lifting him off his feet.
The square went silent.
"I spoke clearly," Robert said, his voice flat.
He didn't draw a dagger. He dragged the struggling man to the horse trough. He slammed the soldier's right arm onto the wide stone rim.
"My Lord—plea—"
"Open your hand," Robert commanded.
The man refused, clutching the necklace. Robert squeezed the man's wrist until the bones ground together. The soldier screamed and opened his fist. The necklace fell into the mud.
Robert raised his warhammer.
He didn't swing it like a weapon; he dropped it like a pile driver.
CRUNCH.
The sound was wet and sickening. The stone trough cracked. The hand was no longer a hand; it was a ruin of meat and bone flattened into the masonry.
The soldier's scream was a high, thin wail that cut the air. He dropped to the ground, clutching the mangled stump of his wrist.
Robert kicked him onto his back. "Cauterize it. If he lives, he carries water. If he dies, burn him."
He picked up the necklace and tossed it to the weeping woman.
"Take my coin, you live rich," Robert roared to the army. "Take her necklace, you lose the hand that took it."
Twang.
An arrow hissed past Robert's ear, sparking off the stone.
High above, on the balcony of the Gatehouse Keep, Marq Grafton stood with a bow. He was surrounded by four guards.
"You possess the mud, Baratheon!" Grafton shouted. "But the Keep is sealed!"
Robert looked up. Thirty feet of wet stone. The doors were iron-reinforced oak. A ram would take an hour.
Robert looked at the heavy iron chains that ran from the winch (which he had destroyed earlier) up into the machinery room of the gatehouse tower.
"Corbray!" Robert barked. "Keep their heads down!"
"With pleasure!" Corbray signaled his archers. A volley of arrows forced Grafton and his men to duck behind the crenellations.
Robert ran to the gate. He didn't climb the wall; he leaped for the thick, greasy iron chain of the portcullis.
He hauled himself up.
It was a brutal, ugly climb. His armor scraped against the stone. His muscles burned under the 300-pound load. But the chain held. He climbed hand over hand, boots slipping on the wet masonry, powered by sheer hydraulic force.
He reached the machinery opening—a wide murder hole overlooking the gate.
He pulled himself onto the ledge. He was inside the tower, one floor below the roof.
He charged up the spiral stairs. Two guards met him. He didn't slow down. He smashed the first one with his shoulder, sending him tumbling back down the steps. He backhanded the second with a gauntleted fist, breaking his jaw.
Robert kicked open the door to the roof.
Grafton spun around, his bow useless at this range. "He's here! Kill him!"
Two guards charged.
Robert swung the hammer low. He swept the legs of the first guard, shattering a knee. The man fell screaming. The second guard hesitated. Robert grabbed him by the breastplate and threw him—physically threw him—over the battlements.
Grafton was alone. He drew his sword, his hand trembling.
Robert stepped forward, ignoring the point of the blade. He slapped the sword aside with his armored forearm and grabbed Grafton by the throat.
He lifted the Lord of Gulltown into the air.
"You wagered on the Dragon," Robert growled, walking him to the edge.
He held him over the drop. The Vanguard below watched in silence.
"You lost."
He let go.
Marq Grafton fell thirty feet. He hit the cobblestones with a final, wet thud.
Robert stood on the ramparts, the rain washing the blood from his armor. He raised his fist.
"GULLTOWN IS OURS!"
The roar of five thousand men shook the city walls.
Chapter 3: The Breach of Gulltown
Scene 4: The Parting of Ways
The rain had stopped, replaced by a heavy, rolling fog coming off the Bay of Crabs.
Gulltown was quiet. It wasn't the silence of the dead, but the silence of the subdued. There were no fires consuming the merchant district. There were no screams of women echoing from the alleys. The "Gulltown Contract" had held.
Robert sat on a crate of salted fish near the main gate, wiping the grey matter of Marq Grafton off his warhammer with a rag.
He tilted his head.
He heard the rhythmic thrum of hooves on wet earth long before the sentries on the walls raised the cry.
"They're here," Robert said to Lyn Corbray, who was leaning against the wall, counting his share of the gold.
Corbray looked up. "I hear nothing."
"You will," Robert grunted.
Five minutes later, the main host of the Vale poured through the shattered gates.
Jon Arryn rode at the front, flanked by Eddard Stark. They looked prepared for a siege—armor buckled tight, shields up, eyes scanning the rooftops for archers.
They found none.
Instead, they found the Vanguard lined up in orderly rows, eating hardtack and guarding piles of confiscated weapons. They found the smallfolk peering timidly from their windows, unharmed. They found the banner of House Arryn already flying from the Keep.
Jon pulled his horse to a halt before Robert. The Lord of the Eyrie looked around, his jaw slack. He looked at the unburned houses. He looked at the disciplined soldiers.
"The city..." Jon stammered. "It is secure?"
"The city is yours, Jon," Robert said, standing up. The movement was smooth, predatory. "Grafton is dead. The treasury is secured. The men have been paid from the tariff, not the populace."
Ned Stark swung down from his horse. The Quiet Wolf looked older than his years, his long face solemn. He walked up to Robert, his grey eyes searching Robert's face.
"We expected smoke," Ned said quietly. "We expected a sack."
"I told you," Robert said, his voice dropping to a rumble only Ned could hear. "I am not playing games anymore, Ned."
Robert saw the worry etched into the corners of Ned's eyes. He saw the tension in his shoulders. Ned wasn't thinking about the victory; he was thinking about his sister.
"Come," Robert said, clapping a massive hand on Ned's shoulder. "We have no time for victory laps. The tide is turning."
The docks of Gulltown smelled of salt, tar, and rotting seaweed.
Two ships bobbed in the dark water. One was a heavy cog, broad-beamed and sturdy—The Storm's Fury. The other was a sleek, fast Braavosi trading galley Robert had "appropriated" from the harbor master—The Titan's Spear.
The mist swirled around them, isolating the three men from the rest of the army.
"The cog will take me to Storm's End," Robert said, pointing to the heavy ship. "I need to call the banners. I need to secure the Stormlands before the Tyrells cut us off."
He turned to Ned and pointed to the fast galley.
"That one is yours, Ned. She's the fastest keel in the harbor. The captain has been paid double. He will get you to White Harbor in three days if the wind holds."
Ned looked at the ship, then back to Robert. "You thought of everything."
"Someone had to," Robert said.
Jon Arryn stepped forward. "This is madness. Splitting up now? We should march together. Strength in numbers."
"Strategically unsound," Robert countered, the "General" persona taking over. "If we stay together, the King can trap us in the Riverlands. We need to stretch him. I will light a fire in the South. Ned will light a fire in the North. You will hold the Vale."
He looked at Jon. "Make him fight a war on three fronts, Jon. He doesn't have the mind for it."
Jon sighed, shaking his head. "You have changed, Robert. In the span of two days, you have become..."
"What I needed to be," Robert finished.
He turned to Ned. The two foster brothers stood toe to toe.
Ned stuck out his hand. Robert ignored it. He pulled Ned into a crushing embrace, the steel of their pauldrons clanking together.
"Find them, Ned," Robert whispered into his ear. "Call your banners. March South. But if you see Rhaegar..."
He pulled back, gripping Ned's shoulders. The "Eagle Vision" flared, burning blue fire in Robert's eyes.
"Leave him to me."
Ned nodded, a grim resolve settling over his face. "Winter is coming for them, Robert."
"And the Storm is coming with it," Robert replied.
Ned turned and boarded the galley. The ropes were cast off. The sails unfurled, catching the stiff wind.
Robert watched him go for a moment, then turned to his own ship. He didn't look back at Gulltown. He didn't look back at the gold or the glory.
He walked up the gangplank of The Storm's Fury, his warhammer resting easy on his shoulder.
As the ships pulled away from the dock, moving in opposite directions into the grey mist, the history of Westeros fractured.
The drunkard was gone. The boy was gone.
Ned went North to call the wolves.
Robert sailed South to wake the storm.
[End of Chapter 3]