c42: The Quarrel
"Since…the Hand has left King's Landing, then there's no need to trouble him with this matter."
The slightly overweight king, Robert Baratheon, paused for a moment as if something caught in his throat, then shook his head and pressed on.
His gaze shifted sharply toward Grand Maester Pycelle, who still lingered on the floor, groaning and moving with deliberate slowness. Robert's eyes widened with sudden irritation.
"Pretending!"
"Up! Now!"
Though Robert had worn the crown for only half a year since the end of Robert's Rebellion, his body had already thickened, his once-lean frame swelling with indulgence.
Yet beneath the growing weight, the strength that had felled Rhaegar Targaryen at the Battle of the Trident still lingered.
If anything, the heavier king seemed even more imposing. His booming voice and fierce glare alone were enough to make Pycelle tremble.
The old maester scrambled to his feet at once.
"Your Grace!"
Robert did not wait.
"Send ravens immediately summon all my bannermen!" he roared, his voice shaking the chamber. "I will lead the attack on Dragonstone myself!"
He could not endure the thought that the last remnants of House Targaryen still lived.
In his mind, the war was unfinished.
He had believed that once the royal fleet was completed, crossing Blackwater Bay and crushing Dragonstone would be effortlessa final blow to end the dragons forever.
After all, the fleet he had funded at immense cost, drawing gold from every corner of the realm and even debts tied to Iron Bank of Braavos had been intended as the greatest naval force in Westeros.
Its strength was meant to surpass even the fearsome fleets of the Iron Islands.
The Baratheon fleet had been larger, heavier, and better supplied than anything the Targaryens could muster.
Most of the ships at Dragonstone, by contrast, were old and worn, remnants of a fading dynasty.
To Robert, the conclusion had been obvious strength alone would decide the battle.
But now, everything had been overturned.
The destruction of that fleet at Storm's End struck down in the storm as described in the earlier chapters alongside Sir William's strategic foresight was not only a loss, but a humiliation.
And worse, it planted something far more dangerous in Robert's heart.
Doubt.
For reasons even he could not fully explain, the man who had once laughed in the face of danger as the fearless Lord of Storm's End had begun to change.
Not only in body but in spirit.
Now, consumed by anger, he sought to crush the threat completely.
The command rang out again: he would gather all his vassals and march on Dragonstone.
At these words, Grand Maester Pycelle stood frozen, his aged face pale with disbelief.
He had always known Robert to be bold recklessly so but even this seemed excessive.
Dragonstone was no great kingdom.
It was a harsh volcanic island, sparsely populated, little more than a fortress surrounded by jagged cliffs and stormy seas.
Was it truly worth summoning the full might of the realm?
"Your Grace…"
Pycelle stammered, his voice unsteady as he tried to respond.
But before he could continue
another voice spoke.
"Your Grace."
Sir Barristan Selmy stepped forward slightly, one hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, his white cloak trailing behind him like a silent oath. His brow furrowed as he met the king's gaze directly.
"Those who fled to Dragonstone are but a widow and her child."
"They pose no threat to your rule."
Across Westeros, from The Wall in the far North to the deserts of Dorne, Robert's authority was nearly absolute.
And with Jon Arryn traveling south to secure peace, the realm was already moving toward unity.
What remained on Dragonstone was insignificant in comparison, a grieving queen and her newborn child, with no armies, no wealth, and only the remnants of a battered fleet.
"They are no threat to the safety of the realm," Sir Barristan continued calmly.
"There is no need to summon the full strength of the Seven Kingdoms to deal with a defenseless woman and her infant."
His voice did not rise, yet every word carried weight.
"It would not bring you glory, Your Grace."
"It would diminish it."
Though he now served the Baratheon king, Sir Barristan had never forgotten the horrors he had witnessed during the Sack of King's Landing the brutal deaths of Elia Martell and her children, carried out in the chaos that followed the fall of the city.
He had said nothing then.
But in his heart, he had drawn a line.
A knight's honor demanded limits.
And for Sir Barristan Selmy, that limit was clear no harm must come to women and children.
However, Sir Barristan's words struck like a spark against dry tinder and instantly ignited the fury of Robert Baratheon.
"I was not clear before, so hear me now!"
"Sir Barristan Selmy!"
"I want them dead, both of them!"
"I will not suffer any spawn of the dragon to live in this world!"
The king's rage burst forth like a storm over Blackwater Bay. His massive frame tensed, his beard bristling, spittle flying as he roared. He glared at the white-cloaked knight as if sheer force of will could bend him into obedience.
Yet Sir Barristan Selmy did not yield.
The veteran knight stood unmoved, his brows drawn together, his calm blue eyes fixed steadily upon the king. The fury before him did not shake him just as he had once stood firm before Aerys II Targaryen in his madness.
Nearby, Grand Maester Pycelle trembled, sensing the danger in the air. He hurriedly stepped forward, bowing slightly as he spoke in a quavering voice.
"Your Grace… please…"
"The Seven Kingdoms lie at your feet. You may summon countless knights, yes but their warhorses cannot cross the sea."
Though Pycelle's words seemed to support Sir Barristan, his reasoning was far from honorable.
He did not truly object to the deaths of Rhaella Targaryen or Viserys Targaryen. In truth, he believed eliminating them would prevent future threats especially now that rumors had begun to spread that Viserys had been proclaimed king on Dragonstone.
But in his mind, Robert's reaction was excessive a hammer raised to crush something that could be dealt with more quietly.
More importantly, there was a practical matter that could not be ignored.
The Baratheon dynasty had lost its greatest advantage.
The royal fleet painstakingly constructed after Robert's Rebellion, funded by vast sums and meant to dominate the seas had been utterly destroyed in the sudden assault at Storm's End.
With that loss, Robert's power no longer extended easily across the Narrow Sea.
Pycelle swallowed nervously before continuing.
"Lord Redwyne's fleet has suffered losses as well… and has withdrawn to the Arbor to recover."
"And as for the Iron Fleet…"
He hesitated, carefully watching the king's expression.
"You may recall that Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands has not yet come to King's Landing to swear his allegiance."
Every word was chosen with care, avoiding offense while still revealing the truth.
The reality was simple, Robert no longer possessed a fleet capable of striking Dragonstone.
For the moment, the seas belonged to the remnants of House Targaryen.
…
By the next day,
news of the royal fleet's destruction spread like wildfire through the streets of King's Landing.
From Flea Bottom to the halls of the Red Keep, whispers grew into fearful speculation.
The Targaryens long thought defeated had struck back.
Some even dared to wonder if the dragons would rise again.
Meanwhile, far from the capital,
the fleet of Dragonstone had already turned back.
Under the command shaped by earlier decisions guided in part by foresight shared with Sir William the victorious ships cut through the restless sea.
With a sharp rush of wind and spray they vanished into the distance,
leaving behind only smoke, ruin, and the echo of a storm that had changed the course of the war.
...
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