A Golden Path: Design 3.8 (ch. 31)

Salladhor Saan sipped a fine vintage, seated in the cabin of his flagship, the Valyrian, gazing out towards the Bloodstone through a stained glass window. Robert Baratheon, Heir to the Stormlands and son of the Westerosi Hand of the King, proved that he was more than just a boy coasting off his father's name. Taking the Bloodstone had been a shock for the masters and merchants of Essos, and the spark that saw to it that they treated this ‘island dispute’ with utmost seriousness.

There wasn't a mercenary company left in the Disputed Lands, and open pardon was granted to any pirate who would turn their gaze to Westeros. These days, the Stepstones were so choked with ships that patrolled or blockaded that one could walk from Essos to Dorne by jumping ship to ship and their feet would never touch the waves below. 

Currently, he was playing the part of a diligent admiral, in command of his now fleet of twenty-five galleys. Many were liberated from no-good pirates who saw the defenseless shores of Essos and decided to turn their gaze to easier prey. But not wiser prey. Now, he commanded a true fleet, accepting an easy task to blockade an island as the Westerosi fleet cowered in their docks, as they understood they were outnumbered five to one. 

Something that they sought to change by joining up the fleets of the Reach and the Royal fleet, but something that had been prevented with a bit of clever maneuvering. 

Now, it was but a waiting game, and he sat perched upon the ideal vantage. 

“Captain,” his first mate knocked at the door. Salladhor bayed him to enter, and the short but stocky man did so. “The Stormlord has chased off another assault. Eighty dead, a hundred and fifty wounded on our side.” 

Salladhor merely sipped his wine, the losses meaning nothing to him. Quite the opposite, really, he was almost overjoyed to hear that another grievous defeat had befallen the Second Sons and other lesser mercenary groups that scurried around what would be his island. The more of them that died, the easier seizing the Bloodstone would be. And, once it came time to reward loyal service, official recognition of ownership was a process much smoother when you already possessed the thing in question. 

“And the Stormlord?” He questioned, only for his first mate to shake his head. The boy was a clever one. Far more so than Salladhor would have ever expected. He hid his losses well, making it impossible to gauge his waning strength. Robert picked a well-fortified hill, fortified it more, and fought at the front of every assault that happened nearly every day for months. 

“Unfelled,” came the swift and what was now the expected answer. 

Salladhor laughed lightly, “The boy likely killed half of them himself.” Ah, were it he wasn't a lord. Robert Baratheon had a talent for victory that Salladhor found himself admiring more and more. He took the Bloodstone, which was a feat in itself, and now he was holding his ground with dwindling supplies, flagging men, and the boy was making it look easy. “That hammer of his is likely to steal more lives once dusk falls. Hm.” 

How the boy was stealing away in the dead of night with dozens of his men was a question that was likely answered by the now flooded tunnels of the Bloodstone. There was no proof, but most suspected that they swam through the flooded tunnels, finding various exits, and used them as a means to come and go as they pleased. A simple thing in idea, but Salladhor could barely imagine the raw nerve that it took to plunge yourself in pitch black waters and navigate a maze that was dangerous enough when you could see and breathe, with one wrong turn meaning certain death. 

The boy's ability stood in contrast to the Westerosi Prince, who was held up on a tiny island that wasn't even worth a name. He was in a similar position, backed into a corner on an island that was entirely controlled by mercenaries, and the prince did not dare to leave his cave. From what Salladhor had heard, disease and hunger tore through the Westerosi camp, and it was only a matter of time before the young prince was captured. 

Salladhor hoped that it would not be soon. A captured prince would end a good thing far too soon. 

No, what was best for him was for this war to drag on for a bit longer. Let the Stormlord continue to weaken the mercenaries on the Bloodstone. Let his fleet swell in strength as other crews fell under his sway, be it by influence, bribes, or by killing the captain and seizing the ship by force. 

‘A year.’ In a year, he would be in a position to have it all. A great armada. Seats of power. Position of influence. In a year, he would be in a position to call himself King of the Stepstones. King of the Pirates. 

The thought of it sent a shiver down his spine, and he made to take another sip of his wine as his gaze was affixed to the prize outside of his window. So very close and yet so very far away. He just needed time. And wine, apparently, as his goblet was empty. Holding it out, he waited for the sound of his cup being filled. 

Only after a few seconds, it remained empty. 

Glancing over, his heart immediately stilled in his chest when he saw his first mate lying on the ground with a pool of crimson growing around his head. Salladhor immediately jumped to his feet, his eyes darting to the corner where his servant should be, only to find it empty. 

A hand of iron clamped down on his shoulder from behind. 

Fear rose in the back of his throat, “Wait-” he started to bargain, only to be answered by something striking him in the throat. The taste of iron coated his tongue, his gasp was wet and a gargle. His hands clutched at his throat, but the hand ripped itself from his gasp, revealing a bloody dagger. His blood. 

‘Oh.’ He tried to rise again, to flee, but his head swam, and he barely managed a step before collapsing. He was caught before he hit the floor and was placed on his back. 

The very last thing he saw was impossibly blue eyes staring down at him with complete disinterest before everything went black. 

…

Robert opened his eyes to find that he had cried in his sleep. They weren't tears of loss. They weren't tears of fear. They were tears of pain. 

His entire body hurt in a way that he genuinely hadn't thought possible. Every muscle screamed at him when he pushed himself into a sitting position on the leaf bed and tossed away the thin cover. The pain was enough that he had to grit his teeth to stop from crying out, his body begging him to fall back into bed and to never wake up. 

His gaze lowered, and he saw that his body wasn't so much as a patchwork of bruises but one giant one. There wasn't an inch of flesh that wasn't a violent dark purple or a sickly faded yellow. The bruises felt like they went bone deep, and he was lucky the rest of his bones were as thick as his head; he'd be a sack of bone shards, blood, and meat. 

“... milord?” A boy questioned, his tone colored by concern. A squire that Robert took under his wing because the hedge knight he served under got himself killed. Blonde, bright blue eyes, and he looked at Robert like he was about to shatter to pieces. 

He just might. 

“My armor,” Robert started, taking a deep breath and ignoring how the action pained him. The boy jolted before jumping into action. First came the gambeson that was a patchwork and covered in mud and blood stains. Then came the mail. And, lastly, the plate armor. 

His armor had been a thing of beauty when his father presented it to him for the Melee, which felt like a lifetime ago. The black and gold of his house colors, the embellishments, the antlers… he barely recognized it. The surface was scraped and dented, the smiths having greater priorities than polishing his armor. The horns were hacked off by his own hand after some pirate cunt had nearly killed him by grabbing one and blocking his vision. But, despite how ugly the thing was, the armor did its job a thousand times in as many battles over what felt like years, but was actually two months. 

But, with the armor on, the bruises and weakness were hidden from sight and that was what mattered. He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and swallowed the pain before he strode forward towards the opening of his tent, but not before he grabbed his well-used warhammer and shouldered it with a confident swagger that nearly made him whimper. But it was necessary. 

That was just reinforced when he stepped outside of his tent, and he felt the weight of so many eyes on him. Men stood straighter, people running to and from one end of the camp moved a bit faster, while those mending clothing or preparing a meal from their dwindling supplies chopped with a touch more enthusiasm. They looked to him, and they needed to see a leader, or the camp would trip over themselves to see who would surrender first. 

The five thousand men that had served as his army had been whittled down to four thousand because of the constant attacks. The mercenaries had the men to just throw them at the walls day in and day out, since they knew they couldn't starve them out. The camp that he selected had a natural water source, though it lacked food, of which they had another month left. Something that the mercenaries didn't know, otherwise they wouldn't throw men into a grinder that was the only possible angle of attack at the top of a cliff. 

“Lord Baratheon? Are we sallying out again?” A knight questioned, rising up from where he had been performing some maintenance on his armor. However, before he could rise halfway, Robert clapped him on the shoulder. 

“I’ll save you a place next time,” he assured him with a smile he hoped didn’t seem forced. The knight made a token effort of resistance, but Robert didn’t fail to notice the look of relief that passed over his features when he thought he wasn’t looking. The narrow pass that led to their camp was defensible, leaving only one position to defend from. Robert cycled the warriors on the makeshift palisade, but it wasn’t easy to rest knowing that a flimsy wall was all that was between you and death. 

He walked through the camp, answering hails and breaking his fast with a bowl of offered porridge. There was a point when he would have gagged to swallow it down, but there was no seasoning more potent than hunger. And nothing made a man hungrier than hard fighting. 

By the time he arrived, he saw the others had gathered for the raid. Two hundred men, with two-thirds of them wearing light armor, be it a gambeson or studded leather. Chainmail was simply too noisy for what they planned to do in the dark, with the final third that he would lead, acting as the mail fist to punch through the chaos the light infantry would cause. They greeted him with silence, but they stood taller, parting ways when he made to approach the only other entrance and exit. 

A dozen men were using the water screws to pull gallons up from one of the tunnels that he had flooded. The water was pushed to a reservoir that was dug for the purpose of holding the water, and with every gallon that was lifted, the water level in the tunnel dropped. It had taken eight men to build what he had asked. 

Eight men who died with lungs full of water to build a dam in the tunnels. A dam that held back the water, letting them come and go as they pleased. The mercenaries had tried endlessly to map out the tunnels, only to die in the dark. The waters had likely claimed as many as his hammer had. 

He dropped down into the tunnel, landing with a splash that covered his boots, and led the way through the labyrinth that he had been forced to learn. It was too risky to leave a guide for a mercenary to stumble upon. It took time to pump all that water back in the tunnels, after all, and that left a dangerous window of opportunity for the enemy to seize. No one uttered a word in the tunnels, though the splashing of water and the jingling of chainmail always felt impossibly loud. For months now, he expected the mercenaries to hear it across the island, but they never did. 

It felt like an age had passed by the time they arrived at the secret exit, one of many that they used to come and go, but it had likely only been fifteen minutes. Time lasted longer because of the smell of wet rot from whatever poor bastard had tried to navigate the waters and died in the effort. Pushing up the hatch by just a touch, Robert peered into the darkness and was relieved to see that there were no guards posted. Throwing the hatch open, they climbed out and prepared themselves for the task. 

Robert didn't know how many mercenaries were on the island, only that they were outnumbered. It could be as many as ten thousand, or as little as six. Thankfully, the bait had worked, and the mercenaries drew themselves up in separate camps, thinking that they were more spread out across the island than they were. Or it could just be mercenary bands not playing nice with one another. In any case, it made the task easier, as Robert spied several large camps marked by their campfires. 

Their goal wasn't that much different from what slavery had been months prior. Destroy what supplies they could in the hopes that the Royal Navy would stop any resupply. That, and simply killing as many as they could as fast as they could before the mercenaries managed to muster a response. He had learned his lessons well on the receiving end of such raids. 

They walked the jungle in relative silence, the light infantry walking ahead towards a large camp that had not yet erected a palisade. Robert half thought it was bait until a prisoner confessed that there were no trees in the Disputed Lands. The thought likely hadn't occurred to the company leaders. Either way, it worked to their benefit. 

If they killed enough in the raids, or they killed enough on the walls, then the assaults would stop. And if the assaults stopped… then he could rest a day. Maybe even two. 

That was his goal as they slunk through the darkness, inching closer towards their target. Food was going to be a problem, but it was a problem for another day. He just wanted rest. A full night's sleep. To let his injuries heal so he wouldn't wake in the middle of the night, weeping from pain. Sleep had always felt like a waste of time, in a way, time that was better spent doing something, but if it meant getting a full eight hours, he'd kill every mercenary on this island. He'd conquer the Daughters for a feathered bed. 

Once they were close, Robert and his knights dropped down into a crawl through the dirt to approach the camp unseen. From his vantage, through the shrubbery, he saw his men crawling closer on the edge of the fires that cast back the shadows. The mercenaries stood on guard, peering out into the darkness, but the light around them blinded them to what was before their very eyes. 

The only clue before the attack began was a sharp whistle of arrows leaping from the dark. Two archers per guard to ensure that they died, and to ensure that they fell, men sprang forth to finish them off. Throats were cut with relative ease, the bodies dragged away into the dark while other men approached. They dipped the prepared torches into the braziers to light them, then, without further hesitation, rushed into the camp and began tossing the torches onto the tents to cause chaos as they attacked the unprepared men who scrambled out. 

Some did so with their arms and armor; others managed only to stumble out with a weapon. Within twenty seconds, the alarm bell began to ring, serving as their signal. Robert, along with his knights, jumped to their feet and rushed into the camp, just as the light infantry started pulling back. The mercenaries, caught off guard as they were, had learned to react quickly to their night raids. 

That was their role in this. To smash that early resistance and to cover the retreat of the light infantry. Robert entered the camp with a roar, seeing a man giving chase to his infantry, and Robert saw the sudden panic in his eyes. Yet, all the same, Robert swung his hammer with all of his strength, striking him in the side of his head, and reducing it to chunks and a fine mist. 

He took another step forward, killing another man with the backswing. Another step forward, he slammed the shaft of his hammer into a man’s face with enough force that his nose caved in, making him stumble back and fall on his ass. Then, with a roar, Robert swung his hammer at another man’s ribs, caving them in, before spinning the weapon in his hands to catch another in the eye with the hook on the back. 

A heavy foot on the chest stopped the man with the crushed nose from rising, but he still held up his hands, a cry of terror and a plea in a language that Robert didn’t understand spilling forth. He might not know what was said, but there was no doubt in his mind what the man was begging for. Yet, almost without thought, Robert slammed his hammer down on his head, crushing it like a fruit, and moving on. 

The air was heavy with the scent of smoke and blood, war cries and shouts echoing out. His gaze searched the camp, looking for the telltale signs of a proper response, which would serve as their signal to leave. But he didn’t see it. There were people running towards them, offering up what resistance they could, but it wasn’t organized. It was men who saw the attackers and tried to drive them off. 

Something was wrong. 

Almost as if to underscore the thought, Robert heard a horn blowing, and his blood froze in his veins. Had the mercenaries really sacrificed a camp to draw them in? No, that didn’t matter. What mattered was his response. “Form up! Form up!” He shouted to his knights and his light infantry, who were already pulling back, as these raids needed to be as quick as a bolt of lightning. 

Where was the ambush coming from? He searched for it in the chaos, hearing the thumps of hooves and a rising war cry growing closer that betrayed the number of men that they would need to fight through-

“For the North!” 

Robert nearly dropped his hammer when he realized that he understood the war cry, the implications washing over him as he watched the first riders storm into the camp. In the low light of the burning camp, his gaze landed on the dire wolf banner of House Stark. And when he understood, he laughed. 

He laughed and laughed and laughed until he wept, and that was the state that Ned found him in near the heart of the burning camp, their enemies dead or fleeing. His friend wore the same unadorned armor that his brother wore for the Melee, tossing off his helmet when he saw Robert, his expression one of unashamed concern when he saw the state of him. 

But that didn’t matter. 

The day had been saved and maybe this wretched war would come to a close.