The sun hung low in the sky, casting a reddish hue over the island, a fitting reflection of the blood that had been shed the night before. With the funeral rites completed and the dead finally at rest, the survivors were left to face the grim reality of their situation. They were alone, stranded on an island in hostile territory, with no means of escape and no guarantee of rescue.
Robert gathered the men who remained, their faces still lined with exhaustion and grief, but with a spark of determination glinting in their eyes. Jason Tyde, injured but still standing, leaned on a makeshift crutch, his face pale and drawn from the loss of blood. Robert knew that every decision made from this point on would be crucial to their survival. There was no room for error, no second chances.
“We can’t stay here,” Robert began, his voice cutting through the somber silence. “If we wait, hoping for rescue, we’ll be sitting ducks. The Crabfeeder’s men will return, and next time, they’ll come with more numbers. We need to be proactive, not reactive.”
Jason nodded, though his eyes were clouded with doubt. "Aye, but what do you suggest, lad? We’ve no ship, and rowing to the main island isn’t exactly a stroll in the park. It's miles from here."
“That’s exactly what we need to do,” Robert replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We have a few rowing boats left. You’ll take a couple of men—our best rowers—and head toward the main island claimed by Lord Corlys Velaryon. You’ll inform him of what happened here and bring back reinforcements. It’s our best shot.”
The men exchanged uneasy glances, but there was a sense of agreement in the air. They knew Robert was right; staying on the island was a death sentence, and they had no choice but to reach out for help. The realization brought a sense of urgency, the kind that only comes when one faces the edge of a blade.
Jason sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "You’re right, Robert. It’s our only chance. But you… You’re the strongest fighter here. Are you sure you should be the one staying behind?"
Robert’s eyes were hard, unyielding. "I’ve fought before. I can hold my own and lead the others if the Crabfeeder's men come back. We’ll protect the provisions, and we’ll survive until you return. That’s a promise." He looked each of them in the eye, one by one, and saw the doubt slowly melt away, replaced by a grim sense of purpose.
After a moment, Jason nodded. “Alright then. I’ll take Bannon and Torren with me—our best rowers. We’ll make it to the main island and bring back help.” He paused, looking at Robert with an expression that was part respect, part gratitude. "Just… make sure you’re still here when we get back, alright?"
Robert allowed himself a faint smile. "I’ll be here. You have my word."
It didn’t take long for them to prepare. The men worked quickly, moving with the efficiency of those who understood that time was not on their side. Supplies were loaded into the rowing boat—enough water and food to last the journey, weapons in case they ran into trouble, and a small lantern for signaling any ships they might encounter on the way.
As the boat was lowered into the water, Robert clapped Jason on the shoulder. “Safe travels,” he said. “And bring help as quickly as you can.”
Jason grinned, though it was a shadow of his usual bravado. “You just keep the fires burning, Stronghammer. We’ll be back before you know it.”
With a final push, Jason, Bannon, and Torren climbed into the boat and began to row, their oars cutting through the water with practiced strokes. The remaining men watched in silence as the boat grew smaller and smaller, until it was little more than a speck on the horizon.
When they were finally out of sight, Robert turned back to the men who remained. “We have a job to do,” he said, his voice steady and strong. “We’re going to protect our provisions, and we’re going to survive. But more than that, we’re going to show these bastards that we’re not afraid. We’re going to stand our ground.”
The men nodded, some gripping their weapons tighter, others setting their jaws in determination. They were few, but they were far from broken.
Robert divided them into small groups, assigning each to different watch points around the island. The provisions were moved to a more secure spot, nestled between two large rocks that offered some natural protection. He instructed the men to dig shallow trenches around the camp’s perimeter, using whatever tools they could find, and to sharpen wooden stakes to place in the ground—crude, but effective.
Hours passed, and the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the island. A chill wind blew in from the sea, carrying with it the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. It was a harsh reminder of how far they were from safety, but Robert refused to let despair take root. He kept moving, kept working, kept his mind focused on the task at hand.
As night fell, they built small, contained fires around the camp’s edges, not to draw attention, but to provide light in case of another attack. The men gathered around these fires, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames, their eyes sharp and vigilant.
Robert stood apart from them, his warhammer resting against his shoulder, his gaze fixed on the dark waters that surrounded the island. He knew that the enemy would come, sooner or later. And when they did, he would be ready.
“Keep your eyes open,” he called out to the men. “Listen for any movement. And if you see anything—anything at all—raise the alarm.”
They nodded, their voices a low murmur of acknowledgment. Robert allowed himself a moment to breathe, to feel the weight of the responsibility that now rested on his shoulders. He hadn’t asked for this role, hadn’t sought it out. But it was his now, and he would not fail.
As the first stars began to twinkle in the sky, Robert looked out across the water, toward the distant island where Jason and his men would be rowing. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t know if they were still alive or if they’d made it to safety. But he had to believe they would. He had to believe that help would come.
And until it did, he would fight. He would protect the men under his command, and he would hold this island with every ounce of strength he had.
The decision to relocate the camp was a turning point, a move that symbolized Robert’s growing leadership and tactical awareness. As dawn's light began to wash over the island, the men, though weary from the night’s battle, moved with a renewed sense of purpose. Robert’s orders were clear, and they knew that their survival depended on creating a defensible position, one that would not be easily taken by the enemy if another attack came.
Stolen story; please report.
Robert led the way as they began transporting their provisions, weapons, and what little equipment they had to the elevated terrain he had scouted earlier. The site was perfect for their needs—it offered a natural defense, with a steep incline at their backs that no enemy could scale. In front of them was a clear view of the lower ground, an ideal position to spot any approaching attackers. They were now in a place where they could see danger coming before it reached them.
“Put the provisions over there,” Robert directed, pointing to a flat, sheltered area between two large rocks. “We’ll set up the tents around this point, with the fires in the center to keep us warm and alert during the night.”
The men worked with a sense of urgency, carrying sacks of grain, barrels of water, and crates of dried meat up the incline. They moved the wounded to the new camp, making sure they had the best possible shelter and comfort given the circumstances. A few of the men found scraps of cloth and used them to bandage the injured, while others began to repair what they could of the damaged equipment.
Robert’s eyes scanned the area, his mind already working on how to fortify their position. “We need to make use of the resources we have,” he called out to the men. “Collect every weapon you can find—swords, spears, axes, whatever you can carry. Take them from our fallen and from the enemy. Every blade could be the difference between life and death.”
They set to work scavenging the battlefield from the night before. There was no time to dwell on the fact that some of these weapons had belonged to their own comrades. This was war, and sentimentality had no place here. Robert himself picked up several bows and quivers of arrows, setting them aside for those who were skilled enough to use them.
“Garlan, you’re a good shot,” Robert said, handing the man a bow. “I want you and a few others posted along the perimeter. If you see anything moving in the dark, shoot first, and we’ll ask questions later.”
The archer nodded, a look of determination etched into his features. “Aye, Robert. We won’t let them catch us off guard again.”
With the weapons collected, Robert directed some of the men to create makeshift barriers using anything they could find—broken pieces of wood, stones, even the tattered remains of the enemy’s banners. They arranged them in front of their position to slow down any potential attackers, giving them precious seconds to react if another assault came in the dead of night.
Next, Robert split the remaining men into shifts. “We’ll take turns standing watch,” he instructed. “No one sleeps without a guard on duty. I don’t care if you’re exhausted—you sleep in shifts, and you stay ready.”
He assigned each man a specific duty, making sure there was no confusion. The warriors took their places, knowing that their lives depended on staying vigilant. Robert himself took the first watch, standing at the highest point of the camp with his warhammer resting against his shoulder.
As the sun climbed higher into the sky, a sense of uneasy calm settled over the island. The men took the opportunity to rest, eat, and patch their wounds, but no one allowed themselves to relax completely. There was an unspoken understanding that the enemy would return, and when they did, they had to be ready.
Later in the afternoon, a light drizzle began to fall, cooling the sweat on their faces and dampening the ground around them. Robert took this as a blessing—it would make the ground slick, harder for the enemy to gain a foothold if they tried to charge up the incline.
Standing by the makeshift barricade, Garlan approached Robert, wiping rainwater from his face. “You’ve done well, Robert,” he said. “The men respect you. They trust you.”
Robert nodded, but there was a weight behind his eyes. “It’s not about respect. It’s about survival,” he replied. “We do what we have to, or we die. It’s that simple.”
Garlan paused for a moment, then gave a grim smile. “Aye, but you make it look easy. Most men would be cowering by now.”
“I’m not most men,” Robert answered, gripping the handle of his warhammer. “And neither are any of you. We’re going to survive this, Garlan. We’ll hold out until Jason returns with reinforcements.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Garlan asked, the unspoken fear finally given voice.
Robert looked out over the island, his jaw set in determination. “Then we fight until we have nothing left. But we’ll make them pay for every inch they try to take.”
The hours passed, and as night fell, the rain intensified. Robert walked the perimeter, checking on each of the men he had posted, ensuring they were alert and ready. They had learned from the previous night, and now they stood with their backs to the fire, their eyes trained on the darkness beyond.
The wind howled, carrying with it the distant sound of crashing waves, and every shadow seemed to shift and move. But Robert stood firm, his heart steady, his grip on his warhammer unwavering.
He had fought in the dark before, against worse odds than this. He had faced down the best knights of the Seven Kingdoms, and he had survived. He would survive this too.
“Stay sharp,” he whispered to himself, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline that always accompanied the anticipation of battle. “Stay sharp, and we’ll see another dawn.”
The night was long, and the tension was palpable. But as the hours dragged on, Robert felt a flicker of hope. They had moved their camp, fortified their defenses, and prepared for the worst. They had done everything they could to tip the scales in their favor.
And if the enemy came again, they would be ready. This time, they would not be caught off guard. This time, they would stand their ground.
For now, they waited, eyes on the horizon, hearts pounding in their chests. And in the darkness, Robert stood like a sentinel, unyielding and unbroken, ready to face whatever the night would throw at them.
The news hit Robert like a punch to the gut, but he didn't allow himself even a moment to falter. He’d known, deep down, that this was always a possibility. War was unpredictable, and the odds had never been in their favor. But still, the reality of facing down 300 men with only his ragged band of 50 weighed heavily on him.
He nodded at the watchman who brought the information, his face as stoic as ever. "You've done well," Robert said. "Go back to your post and keep watching. We need every bit of time we can get."
The man nodded, grateful for the calm strength in Robert's voice, and hurried back to his vantage point. Robert took a deep breath and turned to the others who had been resting or sharpening their weapons. He needed to rally them, to prepare them for the inevitable clash.
"Listen up!" he called out, his voice cutting through the quiet of the camp. The men gathered around, their faces pale in the flickering torchlight, but their eyes still holding a glimmer of hope. "The enemy’s coming, and they're bringing more men than we thought. Three hundred of them, against our fifty. If you want to run, you have my blessing. There's no shame in it. But if you stay, if you fight, I swear to you, we’ll make them bleed for every step they take on this island."
Silence hung in the air for a moment, the reality of the situation sinking in. Then, one of the older warriors stepped forward, his voice gruff but steady. "We stay," he said. "If we run, they'll hunt us down one by one. But here, at least we have a chance."
Another voice joined in, and then another, until all 50 men stood together, ready to face whatever came.
Robert felt a surge of pride and nodded. "Good. Then here’s what we’ll do." He began giving orders, assigning the archers to the highest points, where they could rain arrows down on the attackers as they tried to land. "Aim for their officers first," Robert instructed. "Take out anyone giving orders. The more chaos we cause, the better."
He positioned the spearmen at the natural choke points, where the rocky terrain would funnel the enemy into narrow paths. "Hold the line," he told them. "If they get past you, they’ll be on top of us in seconds. So make every strike count."
Finally, he turned to the men who would fight with him at the front, wielding swords, axes, and whatever weapons they could salvage. "We’ll be the last line," he said. "We don’t let them take this hill. We fight until we can’t lift our arms, and then we fight some more."
The men nodded, and Robert could see the fear in their eyes, but also the resolve. They were ready to die, if it meant taking as many of the enemy with them as possible.
As they took their positions, Robert stood alone for a moment, staring out into the darkness. He thought of his family, of the life he might have had if he'd chosen a different path. But those thoughts were fleeting. He was a warrior, and this was where he belonged.
A soft sound caught his attention, and he looked up to see Garlan standing beside him, bow in hand. "You think we’ll survive this?" Garlan asked quietly.
Robert smirked. "We’re going to make them wish they’d never set foot on this island," he said. "And if we don’t survive, we’ll take enough of them with us that they’ll sing songs about this night for generations."
Garlan chuckled, shaking his head. "Only you could find humor in this, Robert."
"It’s not humor," Robert replied, his eyes hardening. "It’s resolve."
The minutes ticked by, feeling like hours, as they waited. The rain had stopped, leaving the ground slick and treacherous, but the air was still and heavy, as if the island itself was holding its breath.
Then, finally, they saw them—dark shapes moving across the water, the faint sound of oars slicing through the waves. The enemy was coming.
Robert raised his warhammer, the weight of it familiar and comforting. "Archers, ready!" he called out, and heard the twang of bowstrings as they drew back.
The first boats landed, and Robert saw the figures spill out onto the shore, dark shapes moving in the dim light. They moved cautiously at first, but as more men landed, their confidence grew, and they started to surge forward.
"Loose!" Robert shouted, and a hail of arrows flew through the air, striking the first wave of attackers. Men fell, screaming, but still, they came on.
The enemy began to climb the slope, their numbers overwhelming. Robert stood at the front, his men arrayed behind him. He felt the adrenaline surge through him, his blood singing with the promise of battle.
"For Gold and Glory!" he roared, and charged down the hill, his warhammer swinging in a great arc. The first man to reach him barely had time to raise his sword before Robert’s hammer struck, shattering bone and steel alike. The enemy fell back, stunned by the ferocity of his attack, and Robert pressed forward, using his weapon to carve a path through the mass of bodies.