The darkness of night shattered with the deafening sound of chaos. Robert's eyes snapped open, his senses jolting him awake even before his mind caught up. He had heard it—the desperate shout, “Raiders! They’re coming! Arm your—” The voice was cut off abruptly, snuffed out as if someone had choked the life from it.
He didn't hesitate. In a heartbeat, he reached for his warhammer, the cold metal familiar and reassuring in his grip. He burst out of his tent, only to be met with a scene of pandemonium. The camp that had been so quiet moments before was now ablaze, flames licking at the sky and casting monstrous shadows across the sand. Screams of pain and terror filled the air, mingling with the harsh clanging of steel on steel.
Robert's eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the chaos. He saw men, his comrades, staggering through the smoke, their clothes and skin ablaze, running wildly in their agony. It was a sight that chilled him to the bone, even in the heat of the firestorm. The stench of burning flesh assaulted his nose, mingling with the acrid smoke that stung his eyes.
The attackers were everywhere, moving like shadows among the tents, their swords flashing in the firelight. The Crabfeeder's men had struck in the dead of night, using the darkness and confusion to their advantage. They moved with ruthless efficiency, cutting down the recruits in their sleep or slitting the throats of those who barely had time to react.
"Come on, Robert, move!" he muttered to himself, shaking off the shock. He couldn’t afford to freeze, not now, not here. He gripped his warhammer tighter and began running toward the nearest group of raiders, his heart pounding in his ears like a war drum.
The first enemy he encountered didn’t even see him coming. A slim man, covered in ragged leathers with a band of cloth wrapped around his face, had just plunged his dagger into one of the recruits when Robert reached him. Without a word, Robert swung his warhammer in a wide arc, feeling the impact as it connected with the man’s head with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed, and the raider collapsed to the ground, lifeless.
The sound drew the attention of two more raiders, who turned to face Robert, weapons raised. They were quick, eyes gleaming with the promise of violence, but Robert had spent years honing his strength, and now he let it all flow through him. One of them lunged, a short sword aiming for Robert's belly. He sidestepped, bringing his warhammer down hard on the raider’s arm, shattering bone and sending the man to his knees. The other slashed at him from the side, but Robert twisted his body, the blade barely grazing his ribs, and swung his weapon upward, catching the man under the chin. The force lifted the raider off his feet, his neck snapping audibly before he fell limp to the ground.
"Robert! Over here!" It was Jason Tyde’s voice, ragged but still holding that commanding tone. Robert spun around to see the captain, bloodied and struggling against three attackers. One of them had a spear, jabbing it at Jason’s chest while the others tried to flank him.
Without a second thought, Robert charged forward, barreling into the man with the spear, knocking him off balance. The raider stumbled, and before he could recover, Robert brought his warhammer crashing down onto his skull. Jason took the opportunity to run his sword through another attacker’s gut, then turned to face the last, his eyes flashing dangerously. The raider hesitated for a moment, clearly contemplating whether to flee or fight. He chose wrong. Jason lunged, driving his blade deep into the man's chest, twisting it before yanking it free. The raider collapsed, gasping for breath as blood bubbled up from his lips.
"Well met, Robert," Jason panted, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "They came from the south, sneaking up the beach. Bastards caught us with our trousers down."
Robert nodded, barely catching his breath. "How many do you think there are?"
"Too many," Jason replied grimly. "But we’re not dead yet."
The fires were spreading now, devouring the tents and casting long shadows that danced and flickered, making it hard to tell friend from foe. All around, Robert could see men struggling, fighting desperately to survive, some falling to the ground and not getting back up.
A group of raiders, perhaps ten or twelve strong, suddenly emerged from the smoke, charging toward Robert and Jason. They were yelling, a bloodthirsty cry that sent chills down the spine of even the bravest men. Robert steadied himself, his warhammer feeling like an extension of his arm, and glanced at Jason.
"Ready?"
Jason grinned, even though blood trickled from a cut on his forehead. "Always."
Day or night, land or water, outnumbered or with the odds in his favor—it made no difference to Robert. Battle was where he thrived, the only place where he truly felt alive. War was his domain, his very element, and he moved within it like a storm given form. He was no stranger to adversity, no stranger to facing impossible odds, and he took pride in the fact that he had once stood toe-to-toe with Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning—the greatest knight Westeros had ever produced. And in that duel, he had not only survived but held his ground.
The fury that coursed through his veins was like an unquenchable fire, growing hotter and more intense with each enemy he struck down. It wasn't just rage; it was a force that fueled him, made him stronger with every swing of his hammer, every impact of steel meeting flesh. His warhammer, an instrument of destruction that most men would struggle to lift, was like a mere twig in his hands. It moved as if it were a natural extension of his body, obeying his will with a precision and fluidity that belied its massive weight.
He could block incoming strikes with the haft of the hammer, deflecting swords, axes, and spears as if they were nothing more than child's toys. And when he swung, it wasn’t just a blow—it was a death sentence. There was no blocking a warhammer, no deflecting its weight and momentum. It wasn’t a weapon designed for finesse or subtlety; it was a tool of destruction, and in Robert’s hands, it was more than a weapon—it was a force of nature.
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Against him, the Crabfeeder’s men stood no chance. Robert moved through them like a whirlwind, the hammer crashing down upon them with unyielding force. He didn’t just strike them—he obliterated them, breaking bones, shattering skulls, and crushing the life out of any who dared come close. His strikes were not wild or uncontrolled; they were precise, each one aimed with the intention of ending a life in a single, decisive blow. And he moved with such speed and efficiency that his enemies barely had time to react before they found themselves staring down death.
One man, a particularly large and scarred raider, rushed at him with a sword, aiming a strike at Robert’s head. With a fluid motion, Robert parried the attack with the haft of his warhammer, twisting it to disarm the man in one swift move. Then, with a powerful upward swing, he drove the hammer’s head into the raider’s chest, the impact lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing into the dirt, his ribs crushed into splinters.
Another came at him with a spear, trying to jab at Robert’s side. But Robert anticipated the attack, sidestepping just enough to avoid the thrust. He brought the hammer around in a wide arc, catching the man across the side with a sickening crunch. The raider’s body crumpled like paper, his weapon clattering to the ground as his life drained away.
The chaos of the battlefield swirled around him, but Robert moved with the calm precision of a master. He adapted to every threat, countered every attack, and cut down his enemies one by one. And even though he preferred the weight and power of his warhammer, Robert was no stranger to other weapons. When a raider managed to close the distance and attempted to grapple with him, Robert didn’t hesitate. He drew a dagger from his belt and drove it into the man’s throat with ruthless efficiency, before letting him slump to the ground, lifeless.
Those who tried to flee found that there was no escaping him. Robert pursued them, relentless, each step taking him closer to his next victim. He could read their movements, anticipate their desperate attempts to evade him, and every time, he was faster, stronger, more determined. For Robert, this was more than just a fight—it was a test, a proving ground. It was where he showed the world that he was more than just a warrior—he was a force that could not be stopped.
He fought as if he were born for this, and perhaps he was. And as he tore through the Crabfeeder’s men, cutting them down with the raw, brutal strength of his warhammer, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Robert was a warrior in his element, a storm of iron and blood that left nothing but devastation in his way.
Robert felt a blade graze his shoulder, the pain sharp and immediate, but he didn’t let it slow him down. He spun on his heel, bringing his warhammer down on the man who had cut him, crushing his leg and sending him sprawling to the ground. Another raider lunged at him, but Robert was faster, swinging his weapon upward and catching the man under the chin with a blow that snapped his head back violently.
The rest of the raiders faltered, their confidence shaken by the sheer ferocity of Robert's attack. They exchanged nervous glances, clearly weighing their options, and then one by one, they turned and fled back into the darkness.
"That’s right, you cowards!" Jason yelled after them, spitting on the ground. "Run back to your master!"
Robert lowered his warhammer, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Around him, the camp was still in chaos, but it seemed the worst of the fighting had moved further down the shore. He glanced at Jason, who was staring after the retreating raiders with a look of pure hatred.
"How many did we lose?" Robert asked, his voice hoarse.
"Too many," Jason replied quietly, wiping the blood from his sword. "But we’re still here, Robert. And as long as we’re still here, there’s hope."
Robert nodded, swallowing hard. The flames still roared around them, and the cries of the wounded filled the night, but somehow, he felt a spark of hope burning in his chest. This was just the beginning, he knew, and the road ahead would be long and bloody. But for now, he had survived. For now, he had fought, and he had won.
The morning crept over the horizon with a sluggish, almost reluctant pace, the sun’s first light illuminating the grim aftermath of the midnight battle. It felt as if the world itself was hesitating to acknowledge the horrors that had unfolded in the darkness. For those who had survived, sleep had been a distant, unreachable luxury. They stood watch over their provisions with tired, bloodshot eyes, clutching weapons that still bore the blood and grime of last night’s fight. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves, sent their hearts racing, but the danger had passed, leaving only the haunting silence of the dead.
Robert stood among the fallen, his eyes sweeping over the battlefield. The bodies of the recruits, men who had come to the Stepstones with dreams of glory and wealth, now lay motionless, scattered like broken dolls. Many of them still had that spark of hope frozen on their faces, as if they had died clutching onto the belief that they would emerge victorious. It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that so many had died not in the heat of a fair fight, but to a cowardly ambush in the dark. Robert’s heart tightened with an emotion he rarely felt—sorrow for the lost, anger for the manner in which they had been taken.
Among those who survived, there was a noticeable change in how they looked at Robert. They had seen him in action, a whirlwind of destruction that tore through the enemy lines as if he were a creature of myth and legend. He was only twenty years old, barely a man in the eyes of many, but the way he had fought, the way he had stood unyielding in the face of death—it had earned him something more valuable than gold or titles. It had earned him their respect. In a single, bloody night, Robert had become their leader. Not by title, but by the simple, undeniable fact that he had proven himself to be the strongest among them.
As the survivors gathered around the remains of their camp, Jason Tyde, his arm wrapped in a hastily tied bandage, made his way to Robert. "It’s bad, lad," he said, his voice rough with pain and exhaustion. "We lost more than half our men. Those bastards got the drop on us." He glanced toward the shoreline, where a column of black smoke was still rising. "And our ship, the Sea Raven… they set it aflame. We’re stranded here."
Robert nodded, his expression unreadable. He looked around at the remaining fifty-three men. Men who, though battered and weary, stood with weapons in hand, ready to follow him. “We’ll make do,” he said simply. “We’ll survive. We always do.”
They had a grim task ahead of them. One by one, they collected the bodies of their fallen comrades, laying them out in rows. There was no time to dig graves, no ground soft enough to receive them. So they made a great funeral pyre, stacking the bodies with a reverence that spoke of shared blood and shared suffering. For some, prayers were murmured, for others, tears were shed, but all were sent off with the same unspoken promise—that they would be remembered.
The Crabfeeder’s men, however, received no such honor. Their bodies were dragged to the shore and tossed into the sea, where the waves would carry them away to whatever fate awaited their kind. There was no ceremony for them, no words of farewell. They had come in the night to kill and burn, and now they would feed the creatures that dwelled beneath the waves.
Robert stood by the edge of the pyre, watching as the flames took hold, their heat driving back the chill of the morning. It felt like a weight had settled on his shoulders, the mantle of leadership heavy and cold. He hadn’t asked for it, but now it was his, and he would carry it as best he could. He owed it to the men who had died, and to those who still lived.
Jason Tyde stepped up beside him, his face drawn with pain and fatigue. "What now?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. "We’ve no ship, no way to get off this rock. And the Crabfeeder’s men will be back, I’ve no doubt about that."
Robert turned his gaze to the horizon, where the sun was finally breaking free of the clouds, casting its golden light over the sea. "We fight," he said, his voice steady, unwavering. "We fight, and we survive. And when we get off this rock, we’ll make them pay for every drop of blood they spilled here."
The men around them nodded, some muttering words of agreement, others merely gripping their weapons tighter. In that moment, Robert felt a flicker of pride for these men, for their resilience, for their courage. They were battered, bruised, and broken, but they were still standing. And as long as they stood, there was hope.
As the flames of the pyre crackled and roared, sending plumes of smoke into the morning sky, Robert raised his warhammer high. "To the fallen," he called out, his voice carrying across the island. "To those who gave their lives. We will not forget you. And we will not rest until this land is ours!"
A cheer rose up, weak at first, but growing stronger with each voice that joined in. It wasn’t a victory cry, not yet, but it was a promise—a promise that they would endure, that they would fight, and that, no matter what came, they would not be broken.