Robert

The four of them—Robert, Davos, Aegon ('Call me Egg') and Oswell—rode with haste he hadn't seen since the rebellion, back when he thought that everything would be alright—Lyanna would be alive, he'd be a good husband and a great king—should he merely get to King's Landing in time. He'd failed, of course, but was now determined not to make the same mistake.

When they'd left Winterfell, Robert had been reminded of the last time he'd done so—the drunken haze he'd been in, the crawling pace of movement, and the constant whine of Cersei and Joffrey in his ears. For all that he might regret how he'd been as both a husband and a father, he was still, in truth, somewhat relieved that Joffrey wasn't his—the boy was a sadist and a lackwit, and Robert had always dreaded the day he'd take the throne. Then again, maybe if he'd been a better father, he wouldn't have ended up like that. In truth, he didn't know what could've been different.

But now he knew about his other son—Gendry, Davos had said. He'd known about Mya and Edric, of course, but they'd been relatively safe where they were, so he'd never felt much of a need to seek them out. But this lad had been under his nose the entire time, barely an inch away from Cersei finding him and sending her dogs after him. No, he'd been a terrible father, but there frankly wasn't time to dwell on that.

As Ned was so fond of saying, Winter was coming.

They stopped for the night as they had for the last fortnight, dismounting and building a fire in silence before gradually slipping into sleep. Tonight, however, was not like every other night.

Tonight, they were camped at the Ruby Ford.

What had once been the setting of Robert's proudest memory now felt cold and hollow, as though someone had baked a pie absent any filling. He'd always seen it as the righteous warrior standing over a depraved lunatic, securing peace for the kingdoms with a single blow of a hammer. Looking back, knowing what he now knew, it was closer to a child pushing over another because they'd stolen his favourite toy. Gods, he'd been a simpleton.

They sat in silence for a while, Oswell already asleep, having been the last person to take watch the night before, while Robert worked to pluck up enough courage to ask Davos the question had been on his mind since Winterfell. 'What's Gendry like, Ser Davos? Is…is he a good lad?'

Davos smiled at him. 'A good man, your grace. He's a man grown, make no mistake of that. But aye, he's good. Strong as well, and I'd wager he's near as skilled as you with a hammer. Looks just like you. He's a Baratheon, through and through.'

Thank the gods for that. I'm not sure I could handle another fucking blond child.

'Thank you. Do you have any children, Ser Davos?' The question left Robert's lips before he knew it.

'Yes, your gr—Robert.' The smuggler coughed and cleared his throat. 'Seven sons. Well, three now, since the Blackwater.' His voice was sad and his eyes were full of sorrow, and Robert regretted ever asking the question. 'Now it's just Devan, Stannis, and Steffon.'

By the gods, how was Stannis ever able to inspire such loyalty? Far as I recall, he had all the charisma of bloody Pycelle.

'There're few things worse in this world than losing children,' Egg said. 'I'm sorry for your losses.'

Davos simply nodded, looking as though he'd aged a decade. 'If you don't mind, my lords, I'm rather tired. Would one of you be able to take first watch?'

'Aye, of course.'

As Davos' soft snores filled the air, Robert and Egg sat in silence, avoiding eye contact as the latter poked at the flames between them with a stick.

'Why are you here?' It came out more bluntly than it would've ideally been, but the sentiment remained.

'What?' Egg replied.

'I'm here for my son. Davos is acting as my guide. Oswell was sick of politics and fancied a trip. Question is, why did you come?'

The unlikely smirked, his eyes once again focused on the fire. 'Curiosity, I suppose. Firstly, we're going to King's Landing, and I'm curious as to how that'll have changed over the years.'

'For the worse, I'm sure,' Robert grumbled. 'The stinking shit-pile that it is.'

'Aye, most likely. But also, because of you.'

'Me?'

What have I done this time?

'Yes, you.' Egg took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. 'When…when I first awoke beyond the Wall with Aegon and Rhaegar, the way he ranted about you made you sound like some demon from one of the seven hells—which, by the way, was wholly supported by you bursting from the trees and pummelling the shit out of him.'

Robert simply grinned.

'Then I heard your story, and Lyanna's, and all of a sudden the picture was far more detailed, but still massively contradictory.'

'In what way?' Robert asked.

'I'm sure you'll be getting sick of this answer, but, well…you. You were simultaneously the demon of the trident, a lovesick pup lusting after Lyanna, an unfaithful womaniser who was still faithful to a woman long dead, a warrior and a king and a failure all in one. I saw you revelling in the bloodshed of the battle, but then visiting Brandon and helping co-ordinate the wildlings. Then, of course, you drop everything for the son you've just found out about and do absolutely nothing to make it any clearer—you supposedly hate the Targaryens, but have allowed me to accompany you on your journey with no resistance. So yes, I suppose I'm here because I'm curious about you.'

Robert nodded for a moment, mulling over the words in his head. 'That's, uh…insightful.'

'Yes, I thought it rather was. Now, go to bed. I'll take first watch.'

Oswell

As much as they'd always be his home, he truly did hate the Riverlands—the constant stink of damp earth, the way that your boots would never be completely dry, the fact that you couldn't go half a mile without some cretin proclaiming that their trout was the finest in the Riverlands made him reluctant to go there whenever possible.

With that in mind, when Oswell saw the far-off spires of King's Landing slowly getting closer, he was—despite his better judgement—filled with joy. Sure, he'd spent some of the most miserable years of his life there guarding a maniac, but the relief he felt at the thought that Aerys wasn't currently plotting to burn some poor fucker outweighed the nervousness he likely should've been feeling. After all, based on what he'd heard through all of Robert's grumblings about his ex-wife, she may not be any better.

'Gods,' Oswell said, staring around him in wonder as they entered the outermost gate. 'I haven't been here since before that damned tourney.'

'Harrenhal?' Robert asked.

'Aye. Gods, what a shit-show that was.'

'Last time I was here, or—well, hereabouts, I suppose, I'd been gored by a boar and practically had my innards spilling out,' Robert said. 'Hardly my finest moment.'

Oswell tossed a copper to a blind beggar asking for alms, snatching it back out of the air when he saw the man move to catch it. That, he knew, was the oldest trick in the book—pretend to be blind so that you might be given more money. Had he been clever enough to keep the ruse up, Oswell may have even been inclined to let the man keep it. 'How about you, Egg?' he asked, still revelling at the idea of being able to refer to a Targaryen by their nickname.

'Nothing quite so fanciful or interesting as Robert here, I'm afraid,' Egg said. 'Last thing I did here before heading to Summerhall was something about Maelys Blackfyre. I can't remember just what, I'm afraid.'

'The Monstrous? It was Ser Barristan who defeated him, if I recall correctly,' Oswell cut in, fondly remembering his sworn brother. 'Does he still live, Robert?'

'Aye, that he does—I pity the man who tries to kill Barristan Selmy,' Robert replied. 'Or at least, he did when I died. He was the finest lord commander of the sorriest bunch of Kingsguard you've ever seen.'

'We're here.' Davos had been largely silent, his watchful eyes darting about as they'd traversed the narrow streets of King's Landing, but now spoke, two simple words signifying that their journey was at an end. By now they'd reached the top of the hill, the shabby shacks with the rusting horseshoes now a distant memory. Now was the land of silver and gold, polished bronze and shining onyx. They'd come to a pair of doors, massive slabs of weirwood topped with all manner of wondrous beasts with two stone knights standing guard—if this was the work of Gendry, Oswell thought, he truly was the skilled craftsman that Davos had promised him to be.

'Tobho.'

At Davos' word, the large man who'd been stoking a nearby fire turned round, pulling down his face covering so that he might converse more easily with the customer. When he saw Davos, his eyes widened before he coughed and averted them. 'Hello, Master Seaworth, it's been a while. How can I assist you…gentlemen?' The man—Tobho, according to Davos—had a thick Qohorik accent, making gentlemen seem like a thinly veiled insult.

'Greetings, Master Mott,' Davos said. 'We heard that there was a new smith nearby—I heard he may have a slight…family resemblance, let's say, to my companion here.' He gestured to Robert, who gave a slight grin and a small wave to Tobho before pulling his hood back up. It was common knowledge that there were eyes everywhere in King's Landing and Robert was clearly all too aware of that.

'I…' The master smith seemed reluctant, his eyes frantically looking around before he finally spoke. 'I cannot help you sir! You clearly cannot afford my wares, fine as they are! Why don't you go to one of those shit-heaps by Fishmonger's square, amongst the alleys and the cheap whores!'

'My thanks,' Davos said in scarcely more than a whisper. 'May the Black Goat look upon you kindly, Master Mott.' He placed a small pouch on a nearby table, setting it down with a clink.

They turned to leave before a pointed cough from the smith called them back. 'Ser Davos. You…you'll look after him, won't you?'

'You have my word,' Robert cut in, his eyes blazing with passion. 'That boy will see no harm while I still draw breath.'

With that, the group turned away one more, stepping out from the blistering heat of the forge into the stagnant and rotten air of King's Landing, with Oswell narrowly avoiding accidentally putting his boot into a suspicious pile of brown that lay upon the floor.

'Right,' he said. 'Fishmonger's Square, anyone?'

The Stag Smith

It had been a typical day. He'd woken at dawn, lit the fires, made sure the guests were fed, and then flashed the baker across the road his most charming smile in the hopes of getting a better price for the loaf he was buying. As was typical, he was unsuccessful, getting back to the forge two coppers lighter with a barely congealed clump of flour, milk and salt.

After that, it continued normally—he'd serve a surly customer, politely ask for payment, and then give them a smack when that didn't work. First it had been some hedge knight demanding he'd fix his sword, conveniently having forgotten any form of coinage, only to find a few stags in his pocket when he was missing a tooth or two. Then it was a man with a horseshoe, a child who'd tried to nick his supply of nails, and a drunkard who'd almost thrown up into the red-hot coals when he'd been informed that he was not, in fact, in a tavern. On and on it continued, the slow repetitive monotony of daily life slowly dragging by even as the sun began to set.

'Alright, lad?'

Gendry recognised that voice—the one oasis of calm in the nightmares of red that he lived every night. Sure, he'd seen worse on the road with Arry and Yoren and the brotherhood, but none had managed to worm their way into his mind as that red witch and her fucking leeches had. But that voice was a reminder of a better time, so as he turned around to greet Davos, he had a genuine smile on his face.

'Aye, not too bad. Yourself?'

'Been better, been worse,' the smuggler replied. He wasn't alone, Gendry noticed, with three cloaked men of varying builds and sizes behind him. Still, aside from the occasional uncle of questionable sanity, Davos seemed like the kind of man who'd keep decent company, so he didn't question it. 'Is…is there a place we can talk? Somewhere that we won't be overheard?'

Gendry thought for a moment. Ordinarily, his room above the forge would suffice, but his guests might protest against people coming up, especially given how he'd drilled into them that no-one could be trusted. Still, they'd be hidden, and he could hardly turn Davos away, not with how far he'd likely travelled to see him. 'Upstairs. Give me a moment to close up, and I'll join you.'

The group filed past, the slanted wooden stairs creaking under their weight, dust falling from the ceiling as they moved about upstairs as he closed the windows and quenched the fires. Gendry folded up his apron and set it down on a chair before following.

'What do you want?' Flea Bottom was never a place for subtlety, and Gendry knew that Davos would prefer any avoidance of beating round the bush.

'It…it's a long story,' Davos said.

What followed could only be described as a madman's fever dream—returned kings and warriors, re-animated dead beyond the wall, the threat of eternal winter and a thousand other perils. Had it been anyone else at any other time, Gendry would've laughed them out of the room. But this was Davos—possibly the only man of sound mind on Dragonstone, who'd saved his life when it was worth pitifully little and received nothing in return. Not to mention, he'd seen some strange things of his own in recent times. 'Say I believe you. What…what does this have to do with me?'

'One of those who returned…he—'

'Hello, lad,' the tall man behind him bellowed, throwing back his hood to reveal a near-mirror image of Gendry. 'I'm Robert. I…I'm your father.'

No.

This was impossible.

His father had been a drunk and a fool, who'd run the kingdoms into the ground before getting killed by a pig. Who was this man who looked exactly like him, young and strong and fit—everything that the King had not been?

'Ok.' His mind was racing, and he could barely get out a slight sound of affirmation before being pulled back into the whirlwind of thoughts.

'Ok? Is that it? Are you alright, boy?' Robert asked.

So, that's what fatherly concern sounds like. Interesting.

'Aye, give me a moment.' The thoughts had slowed, but his breathing had come back in full force.

In, Out.

In, Out.

In, Ou—

A thud in the cupboard interrupted his panic.

Shit. He'd almost forgotten about them.

'I…To be completely honest, I…I think I might have already known about them that returned,' he said, the effect of his words instantaneous.

'Wha—what?' A stocky Riverlander said. 'That's impossible! How can that be?'

Gendry gave a shaky breath, quietly relieved at the power balance shifting back in his favour. 'Ask them yourself. You can, uh, come out, lads!' Nothing happened for a moment, before a clatter came from the cupboard, with two bodies crashing to the floor. 'Alright, so, uh…these are two knights of the Kingsguard, Ser Aemon and Ser—'

'Dunk?' the slight man who'd remained silent so far shouted, his eyes brimming with tears. 'Is that really you?'

'Hello, your grace,' Ser Duncan the Tall said from his position on the floor. 'You have no idea how good it is to see you.'

The Hedge Knight—The Day of the Return

Gods, everything hurt. His lungs hurt as they filled with smoke, his back hurt under the weight of the pillar he was holding up, his entire body hurt as he slowly roasted in his white steel plate. The room was now empty, he realised, and he dropped the pillar with a crash. He wasn't as young as he'd once been, and no longer had the strength to keep it up.

'Ser Duncan! A hand, if you wouldn't mind!' The voice rang through the fog, weak and raspy but still very much alive. As Duncan walked over, every step a momentous effort, he realised who it was.

'Your Grace!' he shouted . 'One moment, I'll get you out!'

King Aegon the Unlikely was sat on the floor, his legs crushed beneath the weight of a large stone pillar and his stomach occupied by a large flagpole, his face streaked with soot and pain in equal measure. Prince Duncan, the heir to the throne, lay next to him, blood pooling around his head where a ceiling beam had fallen. 'Don't bother, Dunk. I'm a dead man, and you will be too if you don't get out of here. Flee, you lackwit!' His body was racked with coughs, every moment appearing to be agony.

'The Kingsguard,' Dunk began, recalling the words he'd said to Gerold Hightower a few moons before, 'does not flee.' He cracked a smile and gestured to the hole punctured in his armour, with a piece of chandelier stuck in his midriff. 'And just between you and me, I reckon I might be done for anyway.'

'Gods, Dunk. I'm so sorry.'

'Don't be, your grace.'

Duncan sat down, wincing as he did so, and placed a hand on Egg's shoulder. 'Remember how, the first time we met, I threatened to give you a clout round the ear?'

The king laughed, wincing as he did so. 'Of course. I really was a little shit, wasn't I?'

'Undoubtedly. Anyhow, I should've done the same when you suggested hatching fucking dragons.'

They both laughed before falling into a companionable silence, the flames still roaring around them.

'We…we never should've left Ashford Meadow,' Aegon croaked. 'Chequy Water, Winterfell, Dorne, all of it. Those were the happiest days of my life, you know. Dunk and Egg, travelling the kingdoms.' His voice was beginning to fade, and he was now coughing more often than not.

'Have faith, your grace. You'll see it all again soon, I promise,' Duncan said, the hollowness of his words clearly going unnoticed.

'Thank you Dunk. You…truly are one of…the greatest knights to ever…'

The King spoke no more, and Duncan wept.

And then he died.

And then he awoke. He'd been here before, he knew—it was the undercroft of the White Sword Tower, lined wall to wall with the armour and arms of the Kingsguard, which, incidentally, he wasn't wearing. He was dressed in roughspun cloth for the first time since he'd taken the white cloak, as though he'd awoken on the side of the road with Ser Arlan after some tourney or other. The armour, he noticed, was different than what he was used to—it had a crown and some basic patterns engraved, but the three-headed dragon was gone. Strange.

'Who the fuck are you?'

Duncan jumped to his feet and turned, narrowly avoiding running into the sword that was pointed at his Adam's apple. There was a man before him, dressed in good-quality leathers, his purple eyes practically glowing in the beam of sunlight that shone through the window. He was a Targaryen, that much was evident, but not one that Dunk knew. He coughed and drew himself up to full height. 'I am Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.' He was using his knight's voice—the one he used for kings and nobles, none of his Flea Bottom dialect evident in the slightest.

The Targaryen laughed, his stern face suddenly becoming kind in spite of the sword he was still brandishing. 'You must be my replacement. Strange, I'd have thought it to be Ser Gwayne or Ser Donnel, but I can see that you're a warrior, and my brother was never much for ceremony. Although…I can't say I've ever heard of House Thetall, is it a new one?'

Gods, was this man a simpleton? 'It's The Tall, as in, my height. And there's no Gwayne or Donnel on the Kingsguard—are you sure you have the right names?'

'Of course I'm sure! Who are you to question me, Prince Aemon of House Targaryen?'

Is he taking the piss? Does he really believe me to be such a lackwit? 'Prince Aemon has been at the Wall for years, and you're far too young to be him. So, you are not only a liar, but a simpleton too.' He smirked and made to move, before the sword was at his throat once again.

'How dare you question my honour! Prepare to meet your end at the hands of the Dragonknight!'

The Dragonknight?

In spite of all that had happened that day—the fire, the princess giving birth, the king and then Duncan himself dying—this was the first thing to truly cross the line. Duncan broke down laughing, tears streaming down his face as a maniacal cackle left his lips.

The supposed Dragonknight lowered his sword, his hands moving to his hips as an incredulous look graced his face. 'Are you done?'

'A-a-almost,' Duncan wheezed. He pulled himself back up straight, looking his adversary in the eye once more. 'You are aware that the Dragonknight's been dead for a good 80 years or so? That didn't factor into whatever trick you were trying to play?'

The man had the good grace to look dumbfounded. 'I…I thought it a dream. The daggers, Aegon, the Toyne brothers. When I awoke here, I assumed I'd been wounded but had recovered. But you're telling me I really died, and, and I…came back?'

Had it been any other time, Dunk would've laughed the man out of there, but too many things weren't adding up. He was clearly a Targaryen, albeit not one that Duncan had ever seen. He—Aemon, apparently—wasn't lying, which, now that he'd taken a moment to truly think, was plain as day.

And Summerhall. It had been far too realistic to be a dream, with none of the pain that should still linger at all present—feeling his stomach, he could find no trace of the chandelier ever entering his body—and none of the achiness that accompanied old age. In fact, this was the best he'd felt in years. Still, he could enjoy his newfound strength later. For now, he needed to get to the bottom of this.

'Something strange is going on,' Duncan said to the man, who was staring blankly, his shoulders slumped. 'Arm yourself. We're going to find the White Book, and we're going to find out just what in the name of the gods is going on.'

The Dragonknight-The Day of the Return

How, in the name of the fucking gods, could it have gone that wrong?

As they hit the ground and began running for the River Gate, Aemon could think of nothing but the myriad of ways in which their attempt to view the White Book had been well and truly cocked up—an abundance of guards, the distinct lack of eloquence from the aurochs beside him, and the eagerness with which the guards had attacked them.

Still, they'd been successful, which was more than could be said for the corpses left behind them. The aurochs, it turned out, wasn't half bad with a sword. They'd been outnumbered three to one and had emerged unscathed. Well, physically unscathed.

Mentally, Aemon was unsure whether he'd ever recover.

300 fucking years after the conquest? Surely he'd wake up soon from this nightmare, no doubt brought on by the blades of the Toyne brothers, in his bed—Naerys would be there, and it would all be better. For now, though, he figured he should just run.

They'd reached Fishmonger's Square, which was dirtier and more decrepit than he remembered, but still rife with hiding places. They barrelled through a door, Duncan—as he'd introduced himself—ducking to avoid hitting his head on the hanging anvil sign above the entrance. They dropped immediately, hearing the patter of the gold cloaks' boots thunder past them as they pressed against the wall. The soldiers may have been gone, or they may not have been—quite frankly, it was too great a risk to raise his head to check, so he simply sat, his breaths heavy as he tried to regain any semblance of focus.

'They're gone.'

Aemon and Duncan both turned at the voice, seeing a large figure looming over them, shirtless and sweating and utterly terrifying, which—for a knight of Aemon's calibre—was no easy feat. His chest was as broad as a furnace and his arms were like twisted knots of muscle, the veins bulging as he loosely swung his hammer to and fro. This was a man, Aemon could tell, who knew how to intimidate people.

'Alright, mate?' Duncan asked, his voice a far cry from the emulation of nobility that it had been before. 'Sorry for the intrusion and all, but we'll be on our way in a second. Just, uh, give us a moment to catch our breaths and make sure that the guards are nowhere near.'

'Take your time,' the figure said, sitting down on a wooden chair that creaked as he made contact. He was young, much younger than Aemon had at first believed, and his smile took away any of the threat that it may have otherwise carried. 'I'm none too fond of the gold cloaks myself. You can stay here for the day, but then—' his voice turned hard and his eyes turned steely, and the hammer in his hands so longer seemed as though it was solely a tool—'You're going to tell me just why they want you.'

Egg

'So, you know, we told him who we were, and he told us who he was, and we made a plan to get North as soon as we could,' Duncan explained. 'He's spent around two moons getting the funds and supplies, and we were to leave in a week, I suppose that plan's out the window now?'

'Aye,' Ser Davos said. 'We've been in King's Landing for near a day—they'll be on our tail soon enough, and if we linger any longer than necessary, our heads will surely end up on pikes. How soon can you leave?'

As they hammered out the details regarding the plan of action, Egg simply took a moment to breathe. He hadn't seen Dunk since Summerhall, reminiscing about the good old days as the castle collapsed around them. To see him now, young and strong as he'd been at the tourney of Ashford Meadow, was surreal to say the least.

And gods, he was in the presence of the bloody Dragonknight! That in itself was a mirac—

His thoughts were interrupted as an arrow flew through the window, landing an inch to the left of his foot.

'Gendry Waters!' The bellow come from outside, accompanied by the clamour and clank of assembled troops. A dozen at least, Egg was sure. 'We know you're in there, harbouring enemies of the crown! Come out peaceably and surrender, or you will be killed!' The voice was noble and self-assured, with a certain arrogance that Egg had seen in too many lords, the kind of arrogance that ensured that violence would ensue, one way or another.

'He'll kill you either way, Gendry,' he said. 'I don't suppose there's a way out through the back?' The young smith shook his head, confirming Egg's worst fear.

'Then we fight! Boy!' Robert shouted, a crazed grin on his face. 'You any good with that hammer?

As the sun set over Blackwater Bay, seven figures left King's Landing, reaching their horses that had been hitched in the mouth pf the Kingswood. They were battered and bruised, but ultimately unharmed, and rode immediately.

They did not stop until sunrise.

A/N: Another chapter done, hope you enjoyed it! As usual, feel free to favourite, follow, and review, and cheers to all of you who already have. Again, I am a spectacularly lazy person who doesn't believe in proofreading, so apologies in advance for any mistakes/objectively bad writing.

Also, thanks especially to everyone who's favourited-Champions of the Dawn has reached 100 favourites, which is frankly more than I ever expected!

Next chapter will focus on Ned, Lyanna, Lyonel & co as they do their thing in the Riverlands. Will there be romance? Will there be suspense? Will there be adventure? Probably not, but you should still read it anyway.

Hope you're all staying safe,

-Kinginthenorth1 xox

DarthMaine: I reckon that'd probably be a spoiler if I told you that.

Kingmanaena: Thank you! Glad you're still liking it.

ficreader2011: Cheers! Hope you like the direction I go with it.

Mister LaGuardia: Thanks! Really looking forward to that whole story line.

Force Smuggler: Glad to see you're enjoying it! In terms of Lady Stoneheart meeting Robb, just remember that he's currently on his way to Essos, so will (for the moment) be uninvolved in that side of things. Mark my words, though, they will meet.

Thangzet0t1: Thanks a lot, glad to see that you're enjoying it! Don't worry about your English-it's still better than any attempt of mine to speak in another language :)

King of Yawns: First of all, thanks a lot for the feedback-that's all really kind of you to say, and I appreciate it more than you know. As for the rest of it, the point I was making was that there is so much unmined potential in so many people, with Ser Duncan being the example of a commoner who was given the chance to do great things. Your points about Zuckerberg, Gates, and Bezos miss the mark slightly-I'm not saying that the world is necessarily full of visionaries and that anyone could be a tech mogul or whatever, but rather that a large factor in their success was the privilege and wealth that they came from in the first place, and that that could be the difference between their success and the lack of success of someone from a poorer, less privileged background. Again though, massive thanks for the feedback!