Night crept on King's Landing, and blanketed the skies with a darkness that smothered the city and left only silence. There wasn't a single candle left flickering on a window sill as mothers tucked their children into bed, or as whore's pleasured soldiers whose nerves ran rampant as they prepared for the siege that was upon them. For the moment the bells rang above them, they would march and fight for their king on what may be their very last night in this world.

Robbie and his men did not seek such luxuries and instead found simple pleasures in ale and stale bread in one of the small inns nestled in the walls of Flea Bottom. It wasn't a nice place by any means, its cracks in the walls and foul stew left the Outcast Inn looking like a palace, though the patrons were not all that different. Sailers, merchants, and smolfolk sat all around them. They spoke in hushed whispers between desperate sips of ale as Stannis Baratheon was coming, war was coming to their gates, and while Joffrey had his soldiers, they feared what the pillage would bring. For months their King had let them starve, and now they worried for their wives, their children, and their lives - and Robbie was going to have to ask them to fight for him.

It left a sour taste in his mouth.

As he marched on King's Landing from the Stormlands, he had convinced himself that it would be easy. That he would stand up from the table, and announce his claim. That people would follow him without any thought. That those people would fight and die for him because his father's blood ran through his veins - and what a fool he was to think such a thing. The lives of these men had no less value than his own, and they had nothing but his word to prove that he was Robert Baratheon's son. Surely, that would not be enough - even if many claimed he looked just like his father, did the smolfolk know Robert's face well enough to see a resemblance? Not even Robbie believed it, he had never seen his own father's face.

Robbie tried to drown the thoughts away with a drink, the beer bitter as it flooded his mouth, and did his best to focus on the conversation had at his own table instead of the muttered at the tables beyond.

"It has been a fortnight," Ronnet's hushed voice laced with worry between mouthfuls of stew, "the streets are calm, and the men are ready, yet, Stannis has yet to give any sign or signal."

"Maybe we arrived too soon," Devan suggested slowly, "or maybe the winds were not with them-"

"The winds were favorable," Dornoros assured. Donoros had spent most of his life at sea, Robbie knew he would know the winds better than anyone.

"They should be here," Ronnet stressed again, "if they are coming at all."

"No," Robbie cut in, "my uncle wouldn't do that. He may have sent us off to our deaths, but he wouldn't have done it if he had nothing to gain from it. He is cruel, but he is not stupid. The fleet is-"

Bells rang throughout the city, their low, hum a warning for what was to come. It sent chills through Robbie to his core, eliminating any semblance of calm that he had held since entertaining the city. They had all told them what it had meant; They ring for horror. A dead king, a city under siege. "He's here," Robbie muttered, looking out into the Inn and out to its patrons who all gazed towards the door as if at any moment Stannis himself was going to walk through it and slaughter them all.

"It's time Robbie," Devan coaxed him, "what are we going to do?"

Robbie didn't answer for a long time as he sat nearly paralyzed in his seat, his hand wrapped around his empty cup. Knuckles grew white as the cup failed to collapse under his grasp, and his heart thundered in his chest. He had to ask these men to lay down their lives for him. It was not going to be an easy task, but it was the only way to assure their victory.

Robbie took a steady breath, "Devan, go into the alley, prepare the cart and the weapons. With these men, or alone, we will march on the castle and we must not waste any time." The loyal squire nodded, abandoning the table and disappearing out into the street.

A restlessness had begun to overtake the inn. An uneasiness as men shifted in their chairs and others began to speak in raised voices, but Robbie he spoke louder. "I have been in King's Landing for but a day," Robbie stood up from his chair and took slow strides to stand at the center of the room. One by one, he could feel each set of eyes fall on him, watching, waiting for him to speak again. "But it couldn't be more clear how Joffrey Baratheon has abandoned the people of this city, but what is a king if not a servant of the people?"

Swallowing hard he looked out into the silent room, each man sitting drunk and awestruck. "Where has he led you since he has taken the Iron Throne? To war? To hunger?" A wave of muttering took the crowd, each man looking to one other as they spoke of their king. "Do you hear the bells? My friends tell me they ring for many things, but today they ring for siege. Stannis Baratheon sails his fleet into Blackwater Bay, and his men will march on the Red Keep with the sole intention of taking the Throne, but they will need our help-"

"Why should we fight for him?" Came the voice of one.

"He has no right!" Came another.

"And Joffrey Baratheon has his right?" Robbie countered.

"He's a bastard!"

"Born of incest!"

"The King's blood does not run through his veins," Robbie's voice continued to boom, only to come to silence as he took in a sharp breath, "but it runs in mine."

Robbie hadn't known what to expect when he had made his claim, but it hadn't been the silence that consumed the room. Each man watched him, eyes wide and jaws slacked. Maybe they were trying to think back to a time to they had seen his father, trying to see the resemblance - maybe they didn't believe him, but they had to. This was the only way-

"It's true," Donoros spoke up, standing up alongside Robbie, "Stannis Baratheon himself proclaims it!"

"Robert Baratheon is my father," Robbie spoke out, proud and true, "and Cersei Lannister is my mother. I have come to King's Landing to make my claim to the Iron Throne."

"Bullshit."

"He looks just like him."

"How many Kings must fight in this war?"

"Traitor!"

The room unfolded into chaos around him. Men shouted and slurred as their drinks were spilled. Blades were drawn and fists were thrown as the tavern guests stood divided. Some believed him, while others did not and would defend King Joffrey Baratheon, and it sent Robbie's heart thundering deep in his chest and made his body feel as if it was struck by lightning. Their battle had begun. With a quick glance back at the men that had followed him into King's Landing he shouted, "Kill no one!"

"Aye!" Donoros called back, leaving his blade in its place on his hip, and jumped into the brawl with a grin spread across his face.

Donoros' familiar smile gave Robbie a moment of calm, and for a moment he felt as if he were back home in Morogos where your cup was always full of ale, he could have a pretty whore in his lap - and a fight could be provoked with a single glance of an eye. "Feels just like home," Robbie let out a low laugh that was cut short when a firm fist collided with the angle of his jaw.

Cursing under his breath, Robbie spit the taste of blood from his mouth and shut his eyes tight before letting bright eyes focus on the man brave enough to punch a Baratheon. He wasn't a small man but he wasn't all the big either, his cheeks were shallow and eyes sunken in low. He was frail, Robbie could see it right down to his skeletal fingers that balled into fists and prepared for another strike.

"I don't want to hurt you-"

The man swung, but Robbie was ready this time ducking low to collide with the man in his middle and pushing him back against one of the heavy wooden tables. "I don't want to hurt any of you!" he shouted loudly, "Hasn't this war put you through enough? Lords have been fighting for a claim that is not their own, and it is you that has been made to suffer for it! Those who will fight with me, I ask you to march on the Red Keep tonight! To those who oppose my claim, and support the usurper, I ask that you do not stand in our way! For when you walk out that door tonight, you will be walking into a battlefield!"

The inn fell into silence. Not a first was thrown or a blade brandished as some men fell back to their seats defeated. Others remained on their feet, their faces already bloodied from the tavern brawl, ready to fight for him.

Robbie stood in awe, the room was still divided, with half as many men sitting as standing, but it was many more than he could have asked for. Face hardening he gave the men a firm nod and turned to the door. "We have weapons we can provide to you, but they will be nothing compared to the blades the King and his guard will yield against us," he cautioned them, "but they will not see us coming."

There was a clamor of footsteps behind him as he lead his forces down the alley and to the cart they had tucked away beneath burlap and street clutter. Devan had made quick work of clearing it all away and readied the blades for each fighter. "Do we have enough?" Robbie asked Devan as he approached the cart.

"Enough fighters, or enough blades?" Devan countered as he rushed to each man with a weapon for their hands to yield.

Robbie sighed, a small smile on his lips, "both-"

He was to laugh, but all noise was consumed by a greater, louder boom that consumed King's Landing. Robbie hadn't heard anything like it before. First, he looked down at the ground, it was stable beneath his seat. Then he looked at the buildings, they failed to crumble. Finally, he looked at the sky, and its darkness had faded. Stars went unseen as the sky was overtaken by a bright green glow, a color unlike any he had seen before.

"Donoros?" Robbie's voice waivered as he looked at his friend. Donoros had sailed over much of Essos and between Essos and Westeros for much of his life, he had to have seen something before - but Robbie was only met with the shake of his head. He didn't know either.

"It's wildfire!" Andrew spoke out in awe as he looked to the skies.

"Pyromancer's Piss?" Ronnet mocked, "It hasn't been used since the fall of the Targaryen dynasty."

"They used it today," Andrew told him and put a sword into his hands, and then offered one to Robbie, "that glow, it's coming from over the waters. We need to march to the keep now, we may be the only hope Stannis has."

Robbie failed to reach for the blade and instead took two quick strides, deeper into the streets so he could get a better look at the skies above. "My Uncle, he-"

"There is nothing we can do for him out there Robbie, we must hold true to the plan!" Andrew's words were but a mere echo in Robbie's ears as he stared out at the emerald horizon.

Beyond flea bottom, beyond the walls and the gates that guarded the city of kings, the water of Blackwater Bay was bright with fire and his Uncle's men were burning with their ships. Those men were dying, because of him. A large, dirty hand raised to his face, running over tired eyes and a sullen look - he would not let their deaths be in vain.

"A bastard sits on the Iron Throne," Robbie's voice boomed over the small crowd he had recruited to his cause, "let's go take it from him!" His words were less than inspirational, yet, the men around him cheered, their swords thrust high up into the air. They wanted Joffrey's head, and Robbie was determined to give it to them.

They moved together, as one, through the streets of Flea Bottom, with Robbie leading the small army of men. Their strides started off slow, their movements careful and deliberate, but as they grew closer to the keep there was no stopping the quickening of his steps. Their footsteps became a rumble against stone and dirt in the streets, and as the first guard caught his sight the night came alive with their battle cry. Robbie's was the first face the armored guard had seen, and it very well might have been the last as he was swarmed. No amount of skill was a match for the many limbs that swung tarnished swords, while others used their bodies to render the guard defenceless. His blood splattered, and his screams pierced the air until they were silenced by his own blood.

Robbie could feel it on his face, the blood hot and thick as it dripped down the angles of his face. He stood still over the man's body, looking down at his gold armor that was now painted red with death. His large fist gripped at the pommel of his sword so tight his knuckles went white, Robbie wasn't entirely sure who had killed the man, but it left his gut heavy with disgust. His men picked at his corpse, the life still slipping from him, and stripped him of his armor and weapons before marching onwards.

"The gates!" came a shout, drawing Robbie's attention from the corpse at his feet, "They're open?"

Raking a bloodied hand through his curls, Robbie marched forward with quick steps. Beyond them was a sea of white cloaks that seemed to glow in the night. Among them was a boy dressed in black armor and red fabrics. His sword was still sheathed at his hip, and his face was painted with horror.

"I can't believe it," Andrew near gasped, "that's him! That's Joffrey Baratheon!"

"He's running-" Robbie frowned, at a loss for words as chaos ensued around him.

The Kingsguard with their white cloaks stained with blood had little regard for their castle guard. Those without titles, or stood as lesser knights, could be slain as long as they protected their king. Their cowardly king, who wouldn't fight for his people, or his title. The title Robbie was determined to take for him.

"The false king cowers behind white cloaks!" Robbie roared, and his men roared with him, "let's show him how real men fight, aye?" And they roared again, their weapons raised.

There was no fear in any one of their faces, only anger, and pride as they marched on the Red Keep as one. The deeper they pushed the more bodies that would fall at the hands of the Kingsguard. Their white cloaks were soiled in the crimson of the blood. The blood of the people they ruled - but even with their casualties, Robbie and his men had the numbers, forcing the false King Joffrey Baratheon and his guard into further retreat.

"Push forward men!" Robbie cried, out, raising his sword, sending blood dripping down over the blade and down over the angles of his knuckles and hand.

Bodies of the smallfolk bumped and collided, moving through the gates of the Red Keep like cattle. Robbie had intended to lead them by voice and by example, but their hunger for justice drove them onwards. They pushed their bodies of mere skin and bone pushing past that of his, strong of bone and sinew. Robbie groaned out as he was trapped between bodies, he could move no more than the sudden duck or dodge of the carless blade swung by an untrained man.

"Push forward!" he had to call again, his large frame managing to move towards the cover of the castle walls, but it was too late.

For out of sight, high on the castle wall came an archer who had been alerted by the commotion that took the castle gate. He had drawn an arrow from the quiver on his back and aimed for the bodies large and easy to hit, and his first arrow struck Robbie.

It was a pain unlike he had ever felt. The arrowhead cut through his shirt, and the skin and muscle beneath, wedging itself deep in the flesh between his back and shoulder. Robbie stumbled forward, an anguished cry leaving his lips as he was nearly trampled by those who marched with him from the tavern in Flea Bottom. "Archers! Get to cover, the archers-"

Arrows whistled through the night sky, raining down on Robbie and his men. Some struck stone, others flesh and the men pressed onward. Under the cover of the great red walls of the Keep, Robbie stumbled down to his knees. His muscles burned as if they were set ablaze by fire, and his shirts were soaked with his own blood and the blood of the slain. "Robbie!" he heard the concerned voice of his squire, his small hands coming to rest against the strength of Robbie's back.

"We must keep going," Robbie hissed out, his eyes on the floor as they fell in and out of focus at the pain, "we mustn't let Joffrey make his retreat."

"The arrow it's-" Devan spoke his words of caution only for Robbie to raise his hand, silencing him.

"Pull it out," Robbie cast his glance upwards, his jaw slack and body unsteady - even while on his knees, "do it!"

Robbie could feel his squire's hands on his back, moving closer to where the arrow had wedged itself in his back. They moved with great hesitancy, shifting the arrow as he gripped it tightly with both hands, it earned a hiss from Robbie's lips. He grit his teeth firmly together, waiting for the arrow to be drawn from his flesh - he hoped its removal would be far less painful than it had been tearing into him. His hands gripped into fists on his lap, his knuckles growing white in restraint, but the pain didn't come. Cursing the gods, Robbie's lips parted, speaking a mere syllable; "Dev-" before pain struck him.

His words became a cry, the pain consuming him as he was arched over on the stone floor. Blood spilled from his wound, Robbie could feel it trickling down the muscles of his back and soaking into his clothes.

His cries had captured the attention of those who were close enough to notice, including Robbie's dearest of friends. "Robbie!" Donoros' called, and the echo of his footsteps was heard after as he abandoned his position in battle to return to his friend.

Robbie could only see Donoros as he came to kneel in front of him. His face was bloodied, and his long black hair was falling from the leather that fastened it out of his eyes at the back of his head. Sweat glistened over his flesh, he looked like hell. Robbie scoffed, he undoubtedly looked the same, no, worse.

"Just a scratch," Robbie assured them, his large hand reaching for his friend's shoulder, "we must keep fighting-"

"The blood, your grace," Devan spoke up from behind him, his face painted with concern as Robbie staggered on his feet to face him, "it will continue to spill, you will need a maester-"

Robbie's head shook, "we must take the Keep and hold it for Stannis," he made clear as familiar faces began to appear around them.

Andrew and Ronnet had joined them, their faces sharing Devan's worry as they looked at him. With their numbers, they had successfully taken the gate and infiltrated the Red Keep. Joffrey and his guard had retreated deep into the castle, mobs of smallfolk chasing after them while others broke off to pillage the corridors and take whatever valuables they could carry.

"Ronnet, Andrew," Robbie raised his arm to point to them but groaned as it tested the tear in his shoulder, "you know the castle best, take Donoros, Devan too. You know where they would retreat, guard it. No one in or out and spill no blood unnecessary. They will await the king's justice."

"Fucking Estermont," Ronnet half cursed, a smile growing on his lips as his hand raised to pat the knight's back with endearing comradery.

"We can't leave you here," Donoros told him, his voice firm, "word will reach the mud gate and their fighters will flock to the keep. They will kill you-"

"I'm not staying here," Robbie assured, "I will take the throne room." And bleed out there if he must.

One by one, after a long and silent stare, Robbie's friends left him to stand alone in the grand entry of the Red Keep. He was unsteady on his feet as he looked out over the walls of great red stone and the carnage they had brought within them. The bodies of smolfolk and the castle guard, all strangers, lay lifeless on the stone floor. Their blood had stained walls, skin and floor, even Robbies hands as he reached for the sword that he had been so quick to cast aside when the arrow had struck him.

His grip was weak around the pommel of his sword, an unfamiliar numbness taking his fingers with the hold. It felt heavy in his hand, so heavy that Robbie feared it might draw him to the ground with each careful stride that carried him deeper into the keep. He stepped over limbs and his boots trudged through puddles of blood that had grown thick. It left a trail of footsteps behind him, each fading with every stride. There was a calm in the unfamiliar corridors of the castle that could have been his home. There was no rattle of armor, no ring of swords as they collided, and the screams were mere echoes as he moved further into the embrace of the castle walls. The stone was licked by torch-lit flame, lighting the way into the unknown. Robbie moved with great caution, looking around each shadowy corner and up and down each unfamiliar corridor. His steps stuttered as Robbie was forced one way or the other with no clear indication of which way would take him to the Iron Throne.

The darkness only seemed to grow as the clamor of battle had almost completely faded in the distance behind him. Men were dying by the sword, by hand and by mace - but Robbie was left to battle one onward alone. The unknown greeted him with every unwavering stride. He did not know what awaited him around every corner, and each door he forced open with the push of his large hand, but Robbie could not afford to be fearful that he may come face-to-face with one of Joffrey's sworn swords. While his injuries had been limited, he would not fare well in battle alone.

Robbie gripped the pommel of his sword tight with his bloodied hand, but with each stride, the pommel threatened to slip from his slick hold. The adrenaline of the fight was fading, and he could the blood running down his back now from the arrow's kiss. It soaked into his shirt, leaving it heavy on his shoulders and the pain was a burning sting that was unlike anything he had felt. It left him to grit his teeth, fighting through the pain as he came to the meeting place of four darkened corridors. The one behind him that lead to the blood and death of battle and the three in front of him that knew only darkness and the flicker of flame.

It was there he heard footsteps, the hand that rest on the pommel of his sword gripped it a little tighter. Bright eyes looked from each dark corridor to the next, waiting, listening, and dreading having to draw his sword high for combat. Then, he listened a little harder, his eyes narrowing as he tried to look through the shadows. There was only one pair of footsteps. Light, delicate footsteps.

Robbie straightened up slowly, his fingers slipping from his pommel as the figure of a young woman graced his eyes. She was tall and dressed in a gown as elegant as Robbie had ever seen. The dark, purple color of the dress only contrasted her long auburn hair and her skin was so fair it reminded him of the dolls his father had once carried on his ship as cargo. And her eyes, he couldn't look away from them once he had met their stare. Wide with fear, and as blue as the seas. She was beautiful, even when fear consumed her so fully that she was left to stand at the center of the corridor frozen like a deer startled as it was grazing.

Robbie raised his hand from the pommel of his sword, abandoning it fully as he presented her with two empty hands raised up and out in front of him. A show of peace. He was to be no threat to her, not when by the look of her alone he was so fully convinced that she very well might be a princess.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he told her, his words low, slow as he made to attempt to advance to retreat. Robbie too was still, his eyes looking away from her for but a moment to look up the hallway she had first appeared in. No one followed.

"Go on your way, just-" he looked back down the corridor that had been painted with his own blood, "just not that way."

Heeding his caution, the fearful girl griped her skirts in her hands. She hoisted them up just enough for her to turn and run down. He watched her, her skirts and hair swaying with every stride until she had been consumed by the shadows and he was left alone in the corridors of the keep. Robbie's choice was clear to him now. He could go back the way he had come in full retreat, he could take the corridor the auburn-haired maiden had taken to him or the one she had used to flee, or he could take the path untraveled.

He stared down the corridor untaken for a long moment. Waiting, listening for any sign of life only to be met by silence. Then, with his hands returning to his sword, he pressed onward into the unknown.

Each stride left his heart to thunder in his chest, his pace quickening as darkness enveloped him between each fade of the torchlight that hung up on the keep's great walls. His breathing became heavy as his body ached with pain, but not even the desperation of his breath could conceal the heavy sound that was the opening and closing of a door in the distance. Robbie gripped his sword tighter, and he didn't stop his stride until he came to double doors that rival those of the bank of Braavos. The doors of oak-and-bronze towered up the ceiling. This was it, it had to be, the Great Hall.

His bloodied palm pressed firm against the door. He needed all the strength of his body to push one of the double doors open, and when it gave way just enough for him to slip inside it was almost enough to leave him stumbling down the steps. It was unlike anything he had ever seen with tapestry hung from the walls, moonlight shining through the colorful glass windows and it was so large he was sure you could fit entire villages in its walls - and yet it was empty. His brows fell as he took the steps down into the hall, his curls hanging down into his eyes as he looked behind every pillar and in every shadow.

He was alone.

It was a thought that phased him for only a moment before his eyes fell on the Iron Throne at the end of the hall. A seat forged by dragon fire and the swords of those conquered by the great Targaryen Dynasty. A Dynasty that would inevitably fall to the hands of his own blood, Robert Baratheon the first of his name. The throne that was his by birthright. The throne that he would hand over to his Uncle Stannis when the battle had been won - and yet it called to him like a siren's song. His eyes fixed on it, and the glimmer of the moonlight against tarnished metals.

The narrow steps up the throne were too small for his feet - Robbie's steps were quick just to keep himself from stumbling down them before he came to the seat five kings had been fighting for. A hand reached out, two strong fingers brushing over the rigid angles of a single arm of the throne. It was cool to the touch, drawing him in further for a moment he thought he might sit on it but before he could there was another clamor of a door. Smaller this time. Somewhere behind the throne.

Robbie jumped back, his hand on his sword in an instant as he tracked the quick footsteps that were coming straight for him. Then he froze - and so did she.

Standing with a boy in her arms, his golden hair twisted into braids and a gold breastplate of armour over her red gown she was just had they all had described to her. Her eyes were like green emeralds, her skin fair and her body graceful. She was the Queen, his mother, but all they shared on the surface was the look of shock that took both of their faces.