Among the blood-soaked ruins and smoke of Summerhall, Robert, Euron, and the newly arrived Prince Oberyn held a brief war council to decide the fate of their prisoners.
Euron idly kicked a loose stone with the toe of his boot, breaking the silence first. He looked at Robert. "So, what's your plan for our guests?" He meant the captured Lords Cafferen and Grandison, and the prisoner "Silveraxe" Edric Fell.
Robert grunted, a ruthless glint in his eye. "Those three traitors? Perfect! Before we march north, I'll take their heads to bloody our banners. A blood oath to start the campaign feels just right!" His voice was thick with murderous intent.
Prince Oberyn Martell stood nearby with his arms crossed, listening quietly. His handsome face betrayed no emotion, and he offered no opinion on the brutal suggestion.
But Euron shook his head, clearly disagreeing. He shifted the conversation to a more practical question. "Forget them for a second. Right now, how many lords and nobles in the Stormlands have explicitly answered the call and pledged their swords?"
Robert waved a large hand, annoyed and dismissive. "Plenty! Enough to fight a war!"
At this, the old maester standing behind Robert couldn't help but step forward with a helpless sigh. Holding a scroll of parchment, he corrected his lord clearly but cautiously. "My Lord Euron, to be precise, about two-thirds of the lords in the Stormlands have responded. But... some of the most important houses, like House Selmy of Harvest Hall and House Connington of Griffin's Roost, have yet to declare for us. though they haven't declared for the Mad King either. Furthermore, there are twenty-three lesser nobles and landed knights still sitting on the fence..."
"Enough!" Robert slapped the ruined wall beside him impatiently, sending dust cascading down. "Who dares not support me? Before I march on King's Landing, I'll crush them one by one!"
"We don't have time to crush them one by one," Euron's voice was as cold as ice water, dousing Robert's rage. "Push them too hard, and you'll just drive them straight into the arms of the Iron Throne. Listen, Robert. If the men in your dungeon switch sides now and join the rebellion, it sets a perfect example for every fence-sitter out there. It proves to the Stormlands—and the Seven Kingdoms—that Robert Baratheon doesn't just have a warhammer, but the belly to hold those who surrender. That will bring more swords to your side than fear alone."
Robert glared at Euron, his chest heaving a few times before he finally let out a heavy breath, compromising. "Fine! We do it your way! But we don't have much time. If they don't know what's good for them..." He trailed off, but the unspoken threat hung heavy with the scent of blood.
The dungeons of Storm's End were cold and damp. Water beaded on the stone walls, and the air smelled of mold and despair.
"Silveraxe" Edric Fell, Lord Grandison, and Lord Cafferen were held in adjacent cells, awaiting an unknown fate. They expected execution or eternal imprisonment. They didn't expect a carefully designed "taming" to begin.
In a dilapidated hall serving as a makeshift interrogation room, Euron Greyjoy summoned the captured lords one by one. He didn't torture them, nor did he bother asking for information. He simply stood there, casually polishing his terrifying twin blades, "Cherry Ten" and "Kogarashi," with a soft cloth.
He spoke calmly, as if talking to himself or stating a fact long since decided.
"I assume you've read the proclamation denouncing the Mad King. The board is set. The Iron Islands, the Stormlands, the Vale, the Riverlands, Dorne, and the North—half the continent stands with us. The roses of Highgarden? They're just putting on a show at the border, refusing to commit real strength. The lions of the West are sitting still, but everyone from Tywin Lannister to a three-year-old child knows the bad blood between him and the Mad King. He's just waiting for the perfect moment to deliver the killing blow."
He raised his eyelids, his bottomless dark eyes sweeping over the pale faces of the three prisoners.
"A wise man knows which way the wind blows. You should know better than anyone who is strong and who is weak right now. Moreover, your rightful liege lord, Robert Baratheon... Prince Rhaegar kidnapped his betrothed. The Mad King's insanity sent his parents to a watery grave. He is the undisputed leader of this rebellion, and he is the man who will be King once the tyranny is crushed."
His tone suddenly turned cold and contemptuous. "As for that Mad King Aerys you still claim to serve... he won't be king much longer. He'll either be a rotting corpse at the bottom of the Blackwater or a smear of meat on the floor of the Red Keep that no one bothers to clean up."
Euron leaned forward, stopping his polishing. The blade reflected a ghostly light. "Since news of your defeat at Summerhall spread, more wavering lords in the Stormlands have sworn fealty to Robert. Now, the choice left to you is simple."
"Do you want to be buried in the ashes of history with a madman from a dying era, your houses extinguished? Or do you want to seize the chance to swear fealty to the new King, to enjoy glory and wealth in his dynasty, and restore your families?"
"Do I really need," Euron's lips curled into a cruel smirk, "to teach you the answer?"
Night shrouded Storm's End, but the study was warm.
Fire danced in the hearth, casting shadows on the tapestries and the oak table laden with wine and food.
Robert Baratheon dismissed his guards and faced the three surrendered nobles alone—Lord Cafferen, Lord Grandison, and young Edric Fell.
He didn't look down on them as a victor. Instead, he poured their wine himself. In the heavy atmosphere, Robert's gaze first landed on Edric. A rare heaviness appeared on his rugged face.
" regarding your father, Lord Gerard... I am sorry," Robert said, his voice lower than usual, stripped of its battlefield thunder and replaced with sincerity. "He was a brave knight. He held to his loyalty until the very end. To die for one's beliefs on the battlefield... that is one of the most honorable ends a knight can choose. I respected his courage, even if we stood on opposite sides."
These unexpected words were like a warm current, instantly melting the hardest ice in Edric Fell's heart—the hatred and humiliation born of his father's death.
By redefining a brutal slaughter as an honorable duel between knights, Robert greatly eased Edric's grief and cleared the biggest psychological hurdle preventing him from laying down his arms and serving a new master.
Robert Baratheon's massive frame sank into a wide chair, diminishing none of his imposing presence.
He didn't treat Cafferen, Grandison, and Edric as prisoners. He ordered their shackles removed and had servants bring large tankards of ale and meat sizzling with fat. He shoved the cups into their hands himself, slapping their shoulders with his heavy palm and laughing heartily.
"Come, my lords! Let's drink to this damn weather!" He complained loudly about the gloom outside, acting as if they hadn't been fighting to the death just days ago, but were old comrades reunited. He spoke openly of his past misadventures on the Blackwater, even mocking himself about the time a boar chased him halfway across the Kingswood. His genuine, fiery spirit was infectious, driving away the last of the chill and awkwardness in the room.
He didn't mention the word "betrayal." It was too heavy and humiliating. Instead, he raised his cup, looking at the three men, his voice booming and tempting. "Join us! Let's end that madman's reign together and build a Seven Kingdoms for a new age! Your courage and honor should be used for something worth fighting for, not buried with a tyrant sinking into history!"
Robert slammed his cup down on the table, sloshing ale. He leaned forward, his eyes, previously hazy with drink, now sharp as a hawk's.
"Listen," his voice dropped, carrying the weight of a mountain. "The Targaryens murdered my parents. They kidnapped my beloved Lyanna. They imprisoned, tortured, and murdered Ned Stark's father and brother in the vilest way possible! Aerys is completely mad. He isn't just burning nobles; he's burning the whole realm with wildfire!"
He looked at them with burning eyes. "What we are doing isn't rebellion. It isn't treason. We are saving Westeros. We are liberating this land from the hands of a tyrant and a madman! This is a noble, necessary, and just cause!"
Then, he gave his terms. His tone was decisive, filled with kingly grace. "Swear fealty to me. All past sins are forgiven. You keep your lands, your titles, and all your honors. Then, not as prisoners, but as bannermen and brothers-in-arms of Robert Baratheon, you march with me to King's Landing!"
He opened his arms as if embracing a new future. "We go together to topple that rotting dynasty and build a fairer, stronger order!"
For "Silveraxe" Edric, Robert's respect for his father and his equal treatment satisfied his hunger for "knightly honor." Serving Robert was no longer a humiliation, but a continuation of his father's legacy of "fighting for a rightful liege"—and this liege was far more worthy than the Mad King.
For Lords Grandison and Cafferen, as seasoned politicians, they were pragmatic. Euron had shown them the destructive consequences of stubborn resistance, while Robert offered a dignified and profitable way out. Swearing fealty to Robert was the optimal solution to save their families, lands, and status.
Finally, in a simple ceremony, the three men knelt on one knee before Robert one by one, placing their swords at his feet and swearing their oaths.
Robert personally helped them up, returned their swords, and offered them a cup of wine.
"For the Stormlands!" he shouted.
In that moment, they were no longer prisoners, but new bannermen of House Baratheon, new warriors in the Usurper's War.
When news that Lord Grandison, Lord Cafferen, and "Silveraxe" Edric Fell had surrendered and chosen to lay down their arms spread like wildfire across every corner of the Stormlands, the final outcome was sealed.
Those lords who were still watching and waiting saw that the strongest royalist nobles had submitted. The last shred of hope for the crown evaporated. Whether out of fear of Robert Baratheon's thunderous military might, a calculated recognition of his "just" cause, or simply the reality of family survival, every undecided bannerman in the Stormlands made the only possible choice.
Oaths of fealty flooded into Storm's End like the tide.
The once-fractured Stormlands, after a brief period of pain and bloodshed, was finally forged back into a single, unbreakable iron plate. Now, with no knife at his back, Robert could march north with all his strength.