Here we go, a new chapter!

The tenth one to be exact.

I'm happy to see people enjoy reading my story, and wished to thank you all! Let me know in the comments your opinion of how it's going, there's always room for improvement.

Enjoy!

Robert

Antlers was a fair keep - not by any means great, but the Buckwells held the border between the domains of the Crown, and the fractious Riverlords.

Their golden antlers flew proudly above the battlements. Thankfully, not joined by the halved lion-and-stag - but Robert would still have his work cut out for him.

He led the front alongside Barristan, who bore the standard of the Crowned Stag, and Lord Dondarrion. Lancel sounded Robert's hunting horn - for lack of anything better - to announce their arrival. And so they were challenged at the gates.

"Halt! Who bears the King's standard?" their captain bellowed from the ramparts.

And here goes nothing. "Robert Baratheon!"

The soldiers seemed distinctly unconvinced. "King Robert is certainly dead, unless the Stranger has seen fit to return him! I ask once more - who are you?"

"If you will not recognize your King," Barristan swooped in to the rescue with the grace of a hunting falcon, "then recognize his Kingsguard! I am Barristan Selmy, and I serve but the true King!" Robert barely resisted scratching his head, like some country boy.

They'd taken great pains to polish Barristan's enamelled armour, and it seemed as smooth as the Mirror Shield of legend. His bold declaration had certainly given the guards pause, for a runner had set off from the walls - presumably to fetch their Lord.

The captain stood vigil with the rest of his men, still as wary as they had been, Robert noted.

Robert had picked Antlers, for he knew that the Buckwells would not be kindly disposed towards the Bitch Whore. She'd somehow managed to give them great offence, as was her wont, and they'd not graced the increasingly Lannister-infested court for many a year.

Lord Dondarrion, of course, still had his doubts. Then again, battling the Mountain was bound to make anyone wary - Beric had almost been hanged by the cunt. Without Barristan's timely intervention, the Lightning Lord would certainly have met the Stranger.

After some time, the portcullis opened and Lord Benedict Buckwell finally came out - looking decidedly unfriendly with his household guards at his shoulder. Robert's men were about to respond in like fashion, but he bid them cease. There are no enemies here - yet.

Benedict Buckwell looked a right fop; he sported long curly hair, and a trimmed beard of the Riverlander style. His white doublet was pompous, with blue linings running through the sleeves. Who did he dress up for? Even the court dandies weren't this… showy.

He didn't seem to recognize Robert, but Lord Buckwell knew a Kingsguard - the Kingsguard, when he saw him. "Gods be good - you stand before the King! Kneel, you shits!" Robert barked laughter, startling them even further. The courtyard fills with the resounding echo of greaves clashing on stone.

Loyalty for a dead man. "Rise, my friends. 'Tis good to see you again, Lord Benedict - we must speak."

Buckwell nodded vigorously. "Certainly, your Grace. Tristifer, bread and salt! Selwyn, to my solar!" As he continued barking orders, Robert could not help but feel some smug satisfaction.

Gods, something going right for once!

Flickering torches cast dancing shadows on the wall. Robert always thought the shadows looked like the beasts of the Kingswood, glimpsed out of the corners of the eye - a reminder, to be ever alert for danger - or treachery.

The Buckwells had covered the walls with tapestries, of great hunts and heroic deeds; one caught his eye.

It depicted a mighty stag, locked in fierce battle with a wolf; the Buckwell Stag, certainly, but it could have leapt off the Baratheon standard. I'd bet on it over the wolf.

The Great Hall was adorned with even more antlers - Gods, the Buckwells must love killing stags - and massive wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, weathered by age. Robert could almost hear the echoes of feasting and laughter, clashing tankards and drunken brawls.

The Buckwells' solar, though small, was cosy . Woodsmoke and freshly-baked bread mingled in the air; the bread with a bowl of salt rested on the ironwood desk. Oh look, more antlers.

A man awaited them - bearing a white snail on his red gambeson. "This is ser Erwyn Hall, heir of Middleton." Lord Benedict clarified.

Ah, Riverlander. The man bowed his head, "Your Grace, an honour." Not so slow were their words - Robert had toppled over laughing when he heard them.

The maester had taken the switch to him for that - and Robert wore it with good humour, as Ned stared on with pity in his eyes. Gone and done, those days.

Lord Benedict offered his own chair to Robert, which he graciously accepted. "Wine to quench the thirst?" He proffered a jug.

Robert sighed, and raised his hand - in refusal. All the drink in the world's never done me any good, anyway. "Nay, my Lord, we need clear heads for this." The look of surprise on his face, he warranted he'd see again soon enough.

Now, it begins.

The Buckwells were obviously leal men - but experience brings caution. And so Robert did one of the things that he did best - he made men believe in him.

The two lords were curious about Robert's little 'adventure' with the assassins, which he retold with his usual gusto. "A miracle indeed," Erwyn mused, "I wished my squire was at least half the man as yours."

Robert laughed. "He's a good lad. Was a bit lumpy, but he grew out of it." I'll take leal men where I can get - even if they're fucking Lannisters.

"I cannot let the Lannister brat sit his arse on the throne, my Lord," Robert concluded. "As bad as I was at ruling, I daresay the Seven Kingdoms have had enough of incest-spawn!" he guffawed, to general cheer.

They made their plans on a detailed map of the Crownlands and southern Riverlands; as good a map as Robert had ever seen. As the pieces of this War of Five Kings - now six kings , he thought ruefully - laid out before him, Robert could only shake his head.

"First and foremost," Benedict started, "Our intentions - mine, and ser Hall's here - were to join your brother, Stannis."

That Robert had not expected. "A bold move, my Lord. Can you truly tweak the Lion's whiskers so?"

Ser Erwyn chuckled at the image. "We believe so, your Grace. That damnable woman wanted to use us as common fodder - against King Stannis! While she and hers cower behind the safety of high walls!"

What possessed the bitch to act like that , Robert wondered. Too many missing pieces on this damn map.

He pondered deeply. What should they do now? Just go straight to Stannis and join forces? That grated against his very soul, but needs must , as Ned was fond of saying. The solution may not be in plain sight , Jon always said - wait...

"Ser Barristan, what of the Vale?" Robert asked, pointing to where the map did not extend.

To his credit, the man caught on quickly enough. "The Vale remains neutral, your Grace. A queer thing, considering that the regent Lysa Arryn was originally Lysa Tully of Riverrun."

Robert rubbed his face in exasperation. Gods, a floppy fish. "And what of the Valemen? The Royces and Waynwoods won't stand idle while the fish flops about!" Once I get my hands on her throat, I'll make her go squish-squish –

"By the latest raven, the Royces have retreated to Runestone," Benedict answered. "The lady Lysa seems to have invited more unsavoury sorts to the court, but they execute her will with an iron fist."

It was a grave error to offend Lord Yohn, Robert knew. He and his would oppose Lysa's regency - but this talk of unsavoury sorts bothered Robert. Still, it was the thing to do.

"We won't go south," he declared. "I once held close acquaintance to many of the Lords of the Vale. I will go to Bronze Yohn; together, we shall rally the Valemen. Their might may very well change the course of this bloody war," Robert said, gesturing at the map - and all the pieces on it.

"A sound plan, your Grace." Barristan assented, "But for such an undertaking, we must be adequately supplied." He looked pointedly at Lord Buckwell.

Benedict Buckwell got there too, eventually. "Worry not, Lord Commander. Us leal men must aid our King, in whatever form we can!" he declared. Bloody hells, the man smells blood in the water.

In the end, it boiled down to politicking - the very thing Robert detested.

Lord Rollingford, Buckwell's neighbour - that he evidently thought little of - had made to rustle Buckwell smallfolk out of their lands, and settle in his own serfs instead.

Lord Benedict had been laughed out by his other neighbours against this grave injustice , as he termed it, causing him to seek aid from Riverlander houses such as the Halls. And with his King here, he could beg royal favour for himself.

With the supplies and arms conveniently unavailable till such favour was granted . Robert felt like spitting. Loyalty bought is no loyalty at all, but needs must.

Lord Buckwell had given Robert the greatest quarters of the castle. As he stepped inside, he was greeted by a room that seemed like an oasis of respite in the midst of turmoil. The room was grand, yet not ostentatious, and Robert appreciated the simplicity it offered.

As per usual, the walls were adorned with tapestries and antlers. A great wooden chest rested near the corner, filled with bedsheets and other fabric. In the opposite, there was a modest library, stocked with books on warfare, history, and even some poetry.

The centerpiece of the room was a large bed, its wooden frame solid and sturdy. The mattress was piled high with soft feather-filled pillows and thick blankets, inviting the tired King to rest his weary body. Robert gratefully sank onto the mattress, feeling the comfort envelope him like a warm embrace. Gods… I needed this.

As Robert settled back against the pillows, he let out a long, weary sigh. The events of this long night of planning had taken their toll, and he could feel his eyes growing heavy: sleep eventually claimed him.

He dreamt of a time when laughter filled the halls of the Eyrie - when Ned was still by his side.