The Sea Raven rocked gently as it made its final approach to the small, desolate island that would serve as their staging ground before they met their commanders. The sun dipped low in the sky, painting the horizon in shades of crimson and gold, as if foreshadowing the bloodshed that awaited them in the coming days. Robert stood at the bow, his gaze fixed on the rugged coastline ahead.
“Lower the sails!” the captain, Jason Tyde, barked. “Bring her in slow! We’ve no need to be dashing ourselves against the rocks on our first night.”
The crew scrambled to obey, moving with a sense of urgency and caution. Navigating the waters around the Stepstones was no easy task. This archipelago of countless islands, both large and small, was infamous for its treacherous reefs and hidden shoals lurking just beneath the waves. Many an unwary captain had met their end in these waters, their ships reduced to splintered wood by the invisible fingers of submerged rocks. The thought of a sudden, unceremonious end made the men more vigilant.
Robert watched as they drew closer, his eyes scanning the shoreline. The island wasn’t much to look at—a strip of sand and rock, with a scattering of hardy grasses and low shrubs that clung stubbornly to life in the salty air. It was a small refuge, but it was better than nothing.
“First time in the Stepstones?” came a voice beside him.
Robert turned to see a fellow recruit, a tall, wiry man with a hooked nose and a scar running down his cheek. He had introduced himself earlier as Marten Rivers, a bastard from the Riverlands who’d signed up for the campaign in hopes of earning enough gold to buy himself some land.
“Aye,” Robert replied, nodding. “Though I’ve heard plenty of stories.”
“Haven’t we all?” Marten chuckled grimly. “Pirates, sellswords, exiles, and worse. This place has a way of drawing out the desperate and the dangerous.”
Robert nodded, keeping his gaze on the approaching island. “And here we are, adding to the count.”
“Aye,” Marten agreed. “But if you survive this place, there’s good coin to be made. And if you’re lucky, you might even find some glory.”
“Luck,” Robert muttered, more to himself than to Marten. “Luck and a strong arm.”
As soon as the Sea Raven anchored off the shore, Captain Tyde wasted no time in ordering the crew to begin unloading their supplies. "Move it, lads!" he shouted. "Every crate, every barrel! We’re not leaving anything on this ship!"
The recruits, weary from their journey but eager to prove themselves, sprang into action. Robert joined them, hauling heavy crates filled with salted meat, dried fish, and hardtack, the staples that would keep them fed in the coming days. Sweat quickly soaked through his tunic as he worked, muscles straining with each step. It felt good to be doing something physical after days at sea, but he knew this was only the beginning of the hard work ahead.
The men formed a line from the ship to the beach, passing along crates, barrels, and sacks with practiced efficiency. Marten Rivers took his place beside Robert, the two of them working together to heave a particularly heavy barrel onto a small rowboat waiting just off the ship's side.
“By the gods, what’s in this thing?” Marten grunted, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Feels like it’s filled with rocks.”
“Wine, I’d wager,” Robert replied with a smirk, gritting his teeth as they lowered it into the rowboat. “Wouldn’t do to let the lads fight on an empty stomach, would it?”
“Aye, and it wouldn’t do to let us fight sober either,” Marten chuckled, shaking his head.
Rowboat after rowboat ferried the supplies from the Sea Raven to the shore, where the recruits unloaded the cargo and began carrying it inland. The sand was soft underfoot, making each step feel twice as heavy, and the salt-tinged wind whipped at their faces, carrying with it the scent of the sea. By the time they reached the treeline, Robert’s arms were burning, and he had to pause to catch his breath.
“Keep moving!” barked Captain Tyde as he strode up and down the line. “We’ve got to get this done before nightfall!”
A few of the more experienced recruits, those who had fought before, kept watch as the rest worked, their eyes scanning the darkening horizon for any sign of trouble. It was a reminder that they were still very much in enemy territory, and that danger could strike at any moment.
“Why unload everything here?” one of the younger recruits, Garreth, asked as he passed by with a sack of grain slung over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t it be easier to keep it on the ship?”
“Easier, yes,” Robert answered, grunting as he hoisted another crate. “But a ship’s no place for supplies if we’re ambushed. It’s too easy for it all to be lost in one go. Out here, we can protect it, spread it out, make it harder for anyone to take it all.”
“And if the ship’s sunk or taken by pirates, we’ll still have what we need,” Marten added. “Basic rule of warfare: always keep your supplies where you can see them.”
Garreth nodded, though he still looked unsure. “Makes sense, I suppose.”
As the last of the supplies were unloaded, the men began stacking the crates and barrels into a makeshift camp, arranging them into a rough circle with a few tents erected around them. It wasn’t much, but it would serve as their base for the night.
“All right, that’s the last of it!” Captain Tyde called out, clapping his hands together. “Good work, lads. Now, get some rest while you can. We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Robert dropped the crate he was carrying with a heavy thud and took a moment to stretch his aching arms and back. He felt the soreness in every muscle, but there was a sense of satisfaction in the work they had done. They had claimed a small piece of this island, and in the morning, they would claim even more.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“This way!” Captain Tyde called, waving them toward a clearing just beyond the beach. “We’ll make camp here for the night. We set out at first light, so get some rest while you can.”
The recruits began to spread out, setting up makeshift tents and unrolling their bedrolls. Some gathered driftwood for a fire, while others sat in small groups, speaking in low voices. Robert found himself a spot near the edge of the camp and began unpacking his gear. His warhammer, worn but reliable, lay beside him, a reminder of the battles he had fought and the ones yet to come.
“Robert Stronghammer from the Vale, right?” A man with a thick beard and broad shoulders approached, extending a hand. “Name’s Torren Stone. Bastard of House Redfort.”
Robert took the man’s hand and shook it firmly. “Good to meet you, Torren. What brings you to this gods-forsaken place?”
“Same as most, I suppose,” Torren replied with a shrug. “Gold, adventure, maybe a bit of both. Besides, there’s not much for a bastard back home. Figured I’d make my own way.”
“Aye, seems that’s the case for most of us,” Robert said. He glanced around at the others, many of whom carried the look of men who had seen hardship and had nothing left to lose.
The fire was lit, and the recruits gathered around it, the flames flickering and casting long shadows across their faces. The warmth was welcome, as the night air had a chill to it, even here in the southern seas. They sat in silence for a while, each man lost in his own thoughts.
It was Marten who finally broke the silence. “You lot ever wonder why they call this place the Stepstones?” he asked, his voice low.
“I heard it’s because they’re like a path between Westeros and Essos,” offered a young man named Garreth, who looked barely old enough to wield the sword strapped to his hip.
“Could be,” Marten said with a shrug. “Or maybe it’s because each of these islands is like a stepping stone into Hell itself.”
There was a murmur of agreement, but no one laughed. They all knew the dangers that awaited them.
“I heard the Sea Snake himself carved his way through these islands once,” said another recruit, a broad-shouldered man named Gared. “Fought alongside Prince Daemon Targaryen, burning ships and slaughtering men. Now we’re following in his wake, it seems.”
“Aye,” Robert said, nodding. “But the Sea Snake had a fleet and a dragonrider at his side. All we’ve got is ourselves.”
“That’s more than most, in a place like this,” Torren muttered. “Better to face it with brothers at your back than alone.”
Robert looked around the circle of men and saw their faces reflected in the firelight—young, old, scarred, and untested. They were a ragtag group, but they were all they had. For better or worse, they would have to rely on each other in the days to come.
“We make for the main camp at first light,” Captain Tyde said as he joined them by the fire. “The fighting’s been fierce in the Stepstones. The Triarchy’s dug in deep, and they won’t be giving up these rocks without a fight.”
“We’ve heard the stories,” Marten said. “But tell us, Captain, what’s it really like out there?”
Tyde looked around the fire, meeting each man’s gaze in turn. “It’s not like any battle you’ve fought before,” he said. “There’s no glory to be had in the Stepstones. No honor. It’s just blood and death, over and over again, on the same patch of ground. You fight, you kill, and you hope you don’t end up face down in the mud with an enemy’s blade in your back.”
The recruits fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them like a shroud.
“But know this,” Tyde continued, his voice steady. “If you survive, you’ll have stories to tell that no man can ever take from you. You’ll have earned your place among the warriors of Westeros, and there’s no greater prize than that.”
The fire crackled, and Robert felt a spark of determination ignite within him. He had left his old life behind, shed his name, and his past, but in this moment, he knew that he was still Robert Baratheon, the young lord who had once dreamed of glory.
And in the Stepstones, he would find it—or die trying.
“Rest while you can,” Tyde said. “Tomorrow, you become soldiers of the Stepstones.”
The men settled into their bedrolls, the fire dying down to embers. Robert lay on his back, staring up at the stars that twinkled above them. The wind whispered through the grasses, carrying with it the scent of salt and the promise of blood.
He closed his eyes, his hand resting on the hilt of his warhammer. Tomorrow, he would fight. And whatever fate awaited him in the Stepstones, he would face it head-on.
The next day was barely a whisper on the horizon when the first sparks of the campfire crackled to life. The recruits, eager for the day ahead, huddled around the flickering flames, cooking what little rations they had. The smell of salted fish and roasted bread filled the air, mixing with the scent of the sea. There was a buzz of excitement mingled with tension as they awaited their orders.
Robert sat among them, feeling both the camaraderie and the weight of his own thoughts. He had spent most of his previous life surrounded by luxury, lords, and the politics of King’s Landing, and yet here he was, shoulder-to-shoulder with common men, preparing for battle. It felt strangely liberating. He poked absently at the small piece of dried meat in his hand, chewing on both the food and the lingering uncertainty about what lay ahead. The war in the Stepstones was just a dimly remembered chapter in history, one he had never paid much attention to. In truth, he only remembered scattered details – the names of key figures, a few scattered victories, but nothing more. It had seemed so irrelevant back then.
He glanced at Captain Jason Tyde, who was sharpening his sword by the fire, the blade glinting in the light. Robert took a breath and leaned forward. "Captain," he started, trying to keep his tone respectful but curious. "You seem to know a fair bit about what’s happening in the Stepstones. Could you tell us more about the current situation? I’ve heard stories, but it’s hard to tell what’s true and what’s just talk."
Jason Tyde looked up, studying Robert for a moment before nodding. "Aye, the Stepstones… It’s a mess, lad, and that’s putting it kindly." He paused, sheathing his sword and gesturing for everyone to gather closer. "You lot deserve to know what you’re getting into, especially if you want to come out of this alive."
He cleared his throat and began, "As many of you might know, the Triarchy—Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh—have held control over the Stepstones for some time now. They started out by taxing every Westerosi ship that passed through, and when that wasn’t enough, they started outright raiding our vessels. And now they’re pushing harder, taking more and more, like a bloody tide rising over the stones."
The men around the campfire murmured, nodding as they listened, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames. Robert, leaning forward, hung on every word, eager to fill in the gaps of his knowledge.
"And that’s where Lord Corlys Velaryon comes in," Jason continued, his voice steady and calm. "He asked King Viserys for aid, but the king, well… he had other matters to attend to. So, Corlys took it upon himself to fight back. With his own ships, he sailed out to the Stepstones, determined to take them back." He paused, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "He wasn’t alone. Prince Daemon Targaryen came with him, along with his dragon, Caraxes. And more recently, Lord Laenor Velaryon joined the fight as well, riding his dragon, Seasmoke."
A ripple of excitement spread through the group. They all knew the stories of dragons and the power they wielded. Robert felt his heart beat a little faster, as if he were a boy again, listening to tales of ancient battles.
“But if they have dragons, why isn’t the fighting over already?” Garreth, the young recruit, asked, his face scrunched up in confusion.
"Good question," Jason said, nodding approvingly. "You’d think a dragon’s fire would be enough to end things quickly, but the Crabfeeder’s no fool. He’s a slippery one, that Kragas Drahar. He and his men use the islands’ natural caves and tunnels to their advantage. They hide underground whenever the dragons come, and as soon as night falls, they crawl out like rats to attack our forces, then slip back into their holes before the dragons can find them."
Another recruit, a grizzled veteran named Ser Roy, spat into the fire. "Cowards," he muttered. "Won’t face us in open battle."
"Aye," Jason agreed, "but a clever coward is still dangerous. And it’s been going on for months now, wearing our forces thin. Every time we make some headway, the Crabfeeder’s men slip back into the tunnels, and we’re left holding nothing but scorched earth. It’s a battle of attrition, one we’re losing bit by bit. Lord Corlys is doing his best, but we need more men, more ships, and above all, more time.”
“So, what about King Viserys?” Robert asked, feeling his frustration bubbling up. “Is he still not helping?”
Jason shook his head, his expression hardening. "Not yet. He’s too caught up with the politics back in King’s Landing. We’re out here fighting and bleeding, and he’s content to let it be someone else’s problem. But that’s why Prince Daemon’s here. He’s not waiting around for help – he’s taking the fight to the Triarchy himself."
Robert clenched his fists, feeling a surge of admiration for the rogue prince. “Prince Daemon… does he fight alongside the men?”
“Oh, aye,” Jason said with a grin. “He fights all right. He’s no king’s lapdog, that one. When he’s not burning their ships or attacking their camps, he’s on the front lines, cutting men down with Dark Sister in hand. And when you see him, when you hear that war cry of his, you feel like you could take on the whole bloody world.”
The fire crackled and hissed, sending embers drifting into the sky, as the recruits sat in silence, absorbing Jason’s words. The air seemed thicker, more charged with the knowledge of what lay ahead. It wasn’t just a war they were joining; it was something bigger, something that would shape the history of Westeros.
“Tomorrow,” Jason finally said, standing up and dusting off his hands, “we’ll be meeting our commanders, and you’ll see the men who’ll lead you into battle. But for now, get some rest. You’ll need every bit of strength you have.”
Robert lay back, staring up at the stars. They were fighting against shadows and men who slinked in the dark. It wasn’t the glorious battle he had imagined, but it was real, and it was dangerous. He knew, deep down, that his future was as uncertain as the flickering flames before him. But there was one thing he was certain of: he was ready for whatever came next.
As the fire burned lower and the men began to drift off to sleep, Robert stayed awake, listening to the crackle of the flames and the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. He whispered to himself, “No more lords, no more banners, just the hammer and the fight.”