The Stronghammer - CH - 21

The clash between Robert Stronghammer and Prince Daemon Targaryen had escalated from a noble joust to a savage brawl, the likes of which none in King’s Landing had expected to witness that day. The final strike of the joust had barely been called before Daemon, humiliated by his loss, had stormed across the field with his sword drawn. And though the onlookers had expected a scuffle, what followed was far more brutal.

Robert, no stranger to combat, had met Daemon’s charge head-on. The force of their meeting sent a ripple of shock through the crowd. Daemon, quick and agile, lashed out with his blade, but Robert fought back like a man possessed, every strike seeming to come not from a place of honor, but from deep, untamed rage. Each blow carried with it the weight of Robert’s infamous reputation, but as he fought, something dark and furious came over him, driving him into a frenzy that even Daemon’s sharp skill could not contend with.

Within minutes, Daemon had lost his sword, and Robert, seizing the opportunity, discarded his own weapon in a show of raw strength and disdain. He didn’t need it. His fists became his weapons, crashing into Daemon’s body with a force that could shatter bones. The Rogue Prince, renowned for his daring and deadly skill, was reduced to a bloodied figure on the ground as Robert’s fists pummeled him again and again. The spectators were frozen, watching in horror and disbelief as one of the most powerful knights in the realm unleashed his fury.

It wasn’t until several guards intervened, prying Robert off Daemon’s broken form, that the beating stopped. Robert, still breathing heavily, eyes wild, seemed to snap back to reality. The adrenaline that had fueled his rage began to ebb, and he looked down at Daemon with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. The sight before him—a Targaryen prince, the blood of Old Valyria, lying crumpled in the dirt, barely conscious—was not something Robert had fully registered during his frenzy.

The king, Viserys Targaryen, rose slowly from his seat on the dais, his expression conflicted. He looked at his brother’s battered form and then at Robert, still standing tall, fists clenched at his sides. The tension in the air was palpable. The king’s face betrayed his inner turmoil. Daemon was his brother, the blood of the dragon. But he had been the one to initiate the fight, dishonoring the tournament. On the other hand, Robert had crossed the line—his unrelenting assault had gone far beyond the rules of any contest.

But there was no denying the truth: Robert Stronghammer was one of the most powerful knights in the Seven Kingdoms. If the matter were to go to trial, Robert would undoubtedly demand a trial by combat, as was his right. And after what everyone had witnessed, no one would be foolish enough to face him. The strength Robert had displayed in bare-knuckle combat was terrifying enough, but with his favored weapon—the Warhammer—he was a force of nature. Few knights in the realm could block the devastating blows of a Warhammer in Robert’s hands, much less hope to defeat him.

Viserys knew this well. If Robert fought in a trial by combat, the outcome was almost certain. The king glanced at his Hand, Otto Hightower, whose expression was one of quiet disapproval, though even Otto could see the futility of punishing Robert after Daemon had been the instigator.

With the eyes of the court on him, Viserys cleared his throat, addressing the gathered nobles and commoners alike. “Ser Robert Stronghammer,” he began, his voice measured but firm, “you are pardoned for your actions today.”

A collective gasp ran through the crowd. Some whispered in agreement; others murmured in disbelief. But the king’s word was final. Punishing Robert would have only caused more unrest, and Viserys had no desire to turn a day meant for celebration into one marred by bloodshed and trials. Daemon, bruised and battered, was carefully lifted by the guards and carried to the healer’s tent. The maesters rushed to tend to him, their faces grim as they assessed the damage done to the prince’s body.

Robert, still standing in the center of the field, felt the weight of the crowd’s eyes on him. He could hear the whispers, the mix of fear and awe in their voices. His victory in the joust had already secured his name in the annals of the day’s events, but what had transpired afterward would make him a legend—or a terror, depending on who told the story.

Tyson, Robert’s squire, approached cautiously, holding out a cloth for Robert to wipe the blood from his hands. Tyson’s eyes were wide with a mixture of admiration and concern. He had seen Robert in battle before, but this… this was something different.

“Ser Robert…” Tyson began, his voice hesitant, “are you all right?”

Robert didn’t answer immediately. He wiped his hands clean, his mind still reeling from what had just occurred. The image of Daemon’s bloodied face lingered in his thoughts, and the vision of Rhaegar Targaryen that had overtaken him during the fight gnawed at the edges of his sanity.

“I’m fine,” Robert said gruffly, though the tightness in his voice suggested otherwise.

The crowd, still buzzing with excitement and shock, began to cheer. The day had reached its climax in a way no one had expected, and while there were those who were horrified by the violence that had unfolded, others reveled in the spectacle. It was a festival, after all, and the people had been given a show they would talk about for years.

Robert cast one last glance at the healer’s tent where Daemon had been taken. He felt no remorse for what he had done—Daemon had asked for the fight—but something deeper, something darker, lingered in the back of his mind. The rage he had felt, the uncontrollable fury that had consumed him, was not something he could ignore.

As the cheers of the crowd grew louder, Robert knew that while the day had ended in his favor, the consequences of his actions would echo far beyond the tournament grounds. And somewhere, deep inside, he wondered just how much control he truly had over the darkness that had driven him to beat a prince nearly to death.

After the tournament, as the cheers of the crowd subsided and the festival’s energy began to settle, Robert Stronghammer returned to his tent, his mind still haunted by the savage rage that had overtaken him during his fight with Daemon Targaryen. He barely had time to reflect when Holden Cross, his commanding officer from the Blackstone Legion, entered the room with a look of quiet fury on his face.

Holden was a man of precision and discipline, and Robert had always respected him for that. But now, it was clear that Robert’s actions at the tournament had put their mission at risk.

"Robert," Holden began, his voice cold and controlled, "what in the name of the gods were you thinking out there? Beating a prince into the ground like that? We almost lost our chance."

Robert straightened, knowing Holden was right but unwilling to back down completely. "Daemon attacked me, Holden. I didn’t start it, but I finished it."

Holden’s eyes narrowed. "You let your temper take control. You could’ve killed him, and then we’d be in no position to complete our task. It’s a miracle the king pardoned you, and an even bigger one that you still have an invitation to dine with the royal family. That’s our only chance to carry out the mission."

The reminder of the mission brought Robert’s focus back. The assassination. It had been planned for weeks, and he was a key player. If his outburst had jeopardized that, he knew Holden had every right to be furious.

Holden stepped closer, lowering his voice. "We’ve got limited time now. The target—Maelor—is a spymaster on the King’s Small Council. But he’s not just some harmless bureaucrat. His crimes go deeper than politics. He runs a network of spies, and the worst part… his spies are children."

Robert’s brow furrowed in confusion. "Children?"

Holden nodded grimly. "He takes them from orphanages, street urchins with no one to care for them. He trains them to carry messages and secrets, but in order to ensure they don’t betray him, he has their tongues cut out. They’re nothing more than silent pawns in his game, mutilated and broken to serve him. They can’t speak, can’t ever reveal what they know. It’s monstrous."

The realization hit Robert hard. Maelor, the spymaster, was more than just a man of secrets; he was a man who preyed on the vulnerable, twisting children’s lives to serve his dark purposes. The thought made Robert’s blood boil, but this time, he held his rage in check. He had learned his lesson from the tournament. This wasn’t about losing control—this was about precision, about justice.

Holden continued, his voice low but filled with urgency. "He’s going to be at that dinner, Robert. It’s our only chance to get close to him. The king’s inner circle will be there, all thinking they’re safe. But Maelor… he won’t leave that dinner alive."

Robert clenched his fists, the weight of the mission settling over him like a cloak. "How do we do it?"

Holden glanced around the room, checking to make sure they were alone. "You’ll be seated close to him. We’ve already arranged it. During the meal, create a distraction and poison his drink. You’ll take few seconds to make your move. Quick, clean, no spectacle. We can’t afford to draw attention to ourselves, not after what happened today."

Robert nodded, his jaw set. He had fought many battles, but this would be different. This wasn’t about glory or honor; it was about putting an end to a man who had destroyed countless lives, a man who had to be stopped.

"And what happens afterward?" Robert asked, his mind already working through the plan.

As Robert stood there, absorbing the weight of the mission, he glanced at Holden Cross, waiting for further instructions. Holden’s steely eyes locked onto Robert’s, his voice now low and calculated.

"When it's done," Holden began, "you’ll stay put. Act like you’re completely innocent. No sudden moves. No panic. You’ll have no idea how Maelor died, and no one will think you do."

Robert frowned, understanding the layers of deception that would be required. "What if they suspect me anyway? I’m already on thin ice after the incident with Daemon."

Holden shook his head. "They won’t. You’ve no history with Maelor, no reason to harm him, and no one will ever believe you’re connected to poisoning the Master of Whispers. Everyone saw you on the field today—you’re a warrior, not a schemer. That’s your cover."

Holden then reached into his cloak, producing a small vial no bigger than a finger. "This is what you’ll need. A potent poison, undetectable until it’s too late. Slip it into Maelor’s drink when the opportunity presents itself. As a knight, no one will check you for anything when you enter the Red Keep. But even then, hide it well. Keep it secret."

Robert took the vial, feeling the cold glass in his palm. He nodded, realizing how delicate this mission would be. It wasn’t about brute strength or open conflict. It was about subtlety, precision—the kind of fight Robert wasn’t used to but would need to master if they were to succeed.

Holden stepped back, the seriousness of his expression never faltering. "Remember, no mistakes. We can’t afford to fail. Maelor’s death will send ripples through the Small Council. But no one will know it was us."

With that, Holden gave Robert a final nod and disappeared into the shadows outside the tent, blending into the thick crowd still celebrating the aftermath of the tournament. Alone now, Robert stood quietly, gripping the vial in his hand.

He wasn’t just a knight in a tournament anymore. Tomorrow, he would play the part of an assassin—one with a mission that had to be completed with perfect precision. And for the first time in his life, Robert would have to win a battle without lifting his hammer.

As Borros Baratheon stormed into the tent, his face was flushed with anger, his voice sharp as he barked, "Robert, what in the Seven Hells was that? What were you thinking?"

Robert looked up, visibly ashamed. He hadn’t meant to lose control, especially not against Daemon Targaryen, with whom he held no personal grudge. The rage had consumed him in a way he hadn’t experienced in years.

"I'm sorry, Borros," Robert muttered, his voice low. "I lost control. It was like... it was like I was back on the Stepstones, fighting for my life. I saw Daemon, and I—I snapped."

Borros’s furious expression softened as he processed his brother’s explanation. He knew the horrors Robert had faced in those brutal campaigns and understood how the echoes of those battles could haunt a man. "At least you weren’t punished," Borros said, his tone calming. "But you need to keep a tighter rein on that temper, Robert. It could get you killed one day."

Robert nodded. He regretted the outburst but was grateful that the worst punishment he’d faced so far was a scolding from his brother. In an attempt to smooth things over, Robert handed over the tournament winnings to Borros. "Here, take this. Store it with the rest of my treasures. You've always been the better steward between the two of us."

Borros accepted the pouch of coins, his mood lightening as he secured it. But his eyes flicked toward the entrance of the tent, his brow furrowing in suspicion. "Who was that leaving just now? I saw someone slip out."

Thinking quickly, Robert lied smoothly. "Oh, that? It was Tyson's father, coming to collect what I promised. You know, after the boy helped me out during the tournament." He didn’t flinch, knowing Borros would never question a story as simple as that. In reality, Robert had already settled Tyson with a generous sum of 25 gold dragons—more than enough to ensure the boy would be well cared for until he could stand on his own.

Borros seemed satisfied with the explanation, though a flicker of doubt remained in his eyes. Before he could press further, one of the Red Keep's guards approached them, his demeanor formal and composed.

"Ser Robert, you are expected at the dinner this evening. The King himself has requested your presence."

Robert nodded, mentally bracing himself for the evening ahead. His mission weighed heavily on his mind, but he needed to keep up appearances. Beside him, Borros raised an eyebrow. "Seems like we’re both going, brother. We can continue this later."

Borros left the tent soon after, leaving Robert alone to contemplate the task at hand. His thoughts shifted to the vial of poison now hidden away on his person. Tonight wasn’t just about feasting with the royal family—it was about completing the mission Holden Cross had set for him. His mind sharpened as his focus zeroed in on the goal.

Robert dressed himself in the finest garments he owned, the rich fabrics and gold accents making him look every bit the hero he was hailed to be. Before setting out, he ensured Mya, his prized steed, was securely stabled at one of the Blackstone Legion’s properties, guarded by men he trusted with his life. His mind was focused on the mission ahead, and he hid the vial of poison in the most inconspicuous place he could think of—deep in his shoe, a spot no one would likely think to check.

With his preparations complete, Robert stepped out into the bustling streets of King’s Landing. His presence did not go unnoticed. The people had seen his feats in the jousting tournament, and word of his brawl with Prince Daemon had spread like wildfire. As he moved through the crowds, it seemed like all eyes were on him. Women eyed him with a hunger that made him smirk, children gazed up at him in awe, their little faces filled with wonder and admiration, and men looked on, some with jealousy burning in their eyes, while others offered respectful nods or words of congratulations.

Merchants called out to him, trying to sell their wares, offering anything from finely crafted blades to charms said to bring good fortune. But Robert was focused, his mind locked on the mission awaiting him at the Red Keep. He didn’t stop to engage with the crowd, merely offering a curt nod or a brief word of thanks before pressing on.

As he walked, he could feel the weight of the city’s attention pressing on him. He had become a hero to these people—his victories in the tournament and on the battlefield had earned him their admiration. Yet beneath that admiration, there was something darker—a sense of expectation. The people wanted more from him, and they would be watching closely to see how his story would unfold.

The imposing Red Keep loomed in the distance, its stone towers casting long shadows as the sun began to set. Robert quickened his pace. He had no time to bask in the glory the city had bestowed upon him. His mind was on the dinner ahead, where he would sit among the most powerful men and women in the realm, including Maelor, the Master of Whispers—his true target.

He would have to be cautious, calculating. One wrong move, one misstep, and the delicate balance he walked could collapse. But Robert was not a man who shied away from danger. He had fought through worse, survived harsher, and now, with the poison vial safely hidden, he was ready to face whatever came next.

As the gates of the Red Keep drew nearer, Robert steeled himself. The mission was clear, and tonight, he would fulfill his duty—no matter the cost.