Interlude: The Rebel Stag

The sky over the camp was a bruised shade of purple, the fading light of dusk casting long shadows over the rows of tents. The air was heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and sweat, the noise of clinking armor and muttered conversations drifting through the evening air as the men prepared for the night ahead.

In the center of the camp, Robert Baratheon stood at the head of a gathering of his closest lords. Robert's tall, broad-shouldered frame seemed to tower over the others, his thick brown beard framing a face lined by years of battle but still youthful in its vigor. His dark hair was matted from the day's fight, but his piercing blue eyes burned with intensity. He rested his hands against the worn table in front of him, his calloused fingers gripping the edges. His presence alone was enough to command attention, and every lord in the circle knew that when Robert spoke, they listened.

The makeshift council sat around a large, worn map of the Riverlands spread across a wooden table. Torches flickered in the growing darkness, casting eerie shadows over their faces. Bryce Caron, Lord of Nightsong, sat to Robert's left. He was lean and sharp-featured, with high cheekbones and dark eyes that gleamed with an almost predatory cunning. His black hair fell in loose waves around his face, and his armor, though practical, bore the insignia of his house proudly.

Beside him stood Lord Grandison, an older man with a head of thinning gray hair and a lined face that spoke of many years of war. His eyes, pale and clouded, looked past the map as though they were still seeing the battlefield. His posture, though slightly stooped, retained a sense of quiet dignity, and his voice, when he spoke, carried a weight of experience that the others could not ignore.

Lord Estermont, with his round face and deep-set eyes, sat hunched slightly forward, his pudgy fingers gripping a goblet of wine as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He had the look of a man more suited to council chambers than battlefields, but the crest of House Estermont emblazoned on his green cloak was worn with pride, and there was a stubborn set to his mouth that suggested a hidden strength.

The gathered lords sat or stood around the table, their expressions ranging from concern to impatience. They had been discussing the next phase of their campaign, but it hadn't taken long for the conversation to shift to the newcomer in their ranks: Anakin Skywalker.

"He's too powerful to ignore," Bryce Caron said bluntly, his fingers drumming on the table. "You all saw what he did at Ashford. Men are whispering that he's some kind of sorcerer or demon."

Grandison, older and more cautious, leaned in closer, his brow furrowed in thought. His bushy eyebrows nearly touched as he peered over the map. "Aye, but can we trust him?

Lord Estermont, ever the cautious voice, raised his goblet to his lips before speaking. "He's dangerous. That much is clear. But he's also effective. We'd be fools to dismiss him after what we've seen. And after Ashford, the men are speaking of him like a legend come to life."

"Dangerous indeed," Bryce interjected. His sharp gaze darted toward Robert, who had remained mostly silent throughout the exchange. "But the question remains, what do you intend to do with him? Are you planning to give him command? Make him one of your lieutenants?"

Robert looked up from the map, his eyes narrowing as he considered the question. The flickering torchlight cast shadows across his face, giving him a momentary look of fierce determination. "He's no leader," Robert said finally, his voice firm. "The men trust him in battle, yes. They saw him break the Reach cavalry like they were made of glass. But trust like that... it's fragile. They follow me, and that's how it will stay. Skywalker is a weapon, a damn good one, but a weapon nonetheless."

Grandison nodded, seemingly satisfied with Robert's answer, but Bryce wasn't done. "A weapon, aye. But what happens when that weapon decides it no longer wants to be wielded?"

Robert slammed his fist on the table, rattling the goblets and causing several lords to straighten in their seats. "Skywalker fights for us because he chooses to. He's not some mad dog waiting to turn on us. As long as I lead, I'll make sure he has no reason to question his place here. But make no mistake—if it comes to it, I'll be ready."

There was a brief silence as Robert's words hung heavy in the air. The lords exchanged glances, their expressions thoughtful, but none dared to press the matter further. Robert Baratheon was a man of unyielding will, and when he made a decision, it was final.

After the meeting, Robert took a moment to himself before seeking out Anakin. The night had grown darker, the stars faintly visible through the wisps of cloud that still clung to the sky. Robert found Anakin standing near the edge of camp, his black cloak fluttering slightly in the wind, his silhouette barely distinguishable from the shadows.

The firelight cast faint glimmers on Anakin's face, revealing his sharp, angular features. His dark brown hair was cropped short, and his blue eyes seemed to glow faintly in the low light, reflecting a deep intensity. His cloak, tattered and worn from countless battles, hung loosely around his tall, muscular frame. There was a stillness about him, a calm that belied the power Robert knew lurked just beneath the surface.

Robert approached slowly, his heavy footsteps crunching on the dirt. "Skywalker," he called out, drawing the man's attention.

Anakin turned, his expression unreadable but not unfriendly. "Robert."

For a moment, the two men simply regarded each other in silence, the tension of the earlier battle still lingering in the air.

"I spoke with the lords," Robert said, breaking the quiet. "They have... concerns about you. About what you are, what you can do."

Anakin's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "I'm not surprised. I felt their eyes on me during the battle. Fear. Confusion."

Robert nodded, coming to stand beside Anakin. He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze sweeping over the camp below them. "They're not wrong to be cautious. What you did today... it's the stuff of legends. But legends can scare men just as easily as they can inspire them."

Anakin tilted his head slightly, regarding Robert with a hint of curiosity. "And what about you? Are you afraid of me, Robert?"

Robert snorted, shaking his head. "I've faced worse than you, Skywalker. What you did out there... it's unlike anything I've seen, true, but you fought beside us. You bled beside us. That's enough for me."

Anakin's expression softened, his gaze shifting back toward the horizon. "You don't wear armor," Robert observed after a moment, his tone light but curious. "Why is that?"

Anakin's smile faded, his eyes darkening with a memory. "I was trapped in armor once," he said quietly. "Confined, like a prisoner in my own skin. I swore I would never let myself be caged like that again."

Robert raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the answer but sensing the depth of the pain behind it. He didn't press further, instead offering a nod of understanding. "Fair enough. Armor can protect you, but it can also be a cage. I've seen men who were too wrapped up in steel to even fight properly."

Anakin chuckled softly at that, the sound low and brief. "I prefer to rely on myself. The Force is more protection than any armor could ever be."

Robert's eyes gleamed with curiosity, but he refrained from asking further about the Force. "Tell me, Skywalker," he said instead. "What drives you? Why do you fight with us?"

Anakin was silent for a moment, his gaze distant. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and thoughtful. "I fight because I believe in something greater than myself. I've made mistakes, terrible ones. But here... maybe I can make things right. Maybe I can find a new purpose."

Robert listened carefully, nodding slowly. "We're all fighting for something, whether it's a crown, our families, or redemption." He clapped a hand on Anakin's shoulder, offering a rare smile. "Whatever your reasons, I'm glad you're with us."

The two men stood in companionable silence for a while longer, the weight of the war hanging over them like a shroud. But in that moment, there was a mutual respect between them—one forged in the heat of battle and tempered by the understanding that they were both warriors, each carrying their own burdens.

As the night deepened and the camp settled into a quiet lull, Robert turned to head back to his tent. "Get some rest, Skywalker," he said over his shoulder. "There's still a long road ahead."

Anakin remained where he stood, his gaze fixed on the stars above. "Goodnight, Robert," he murmured, though his thoughts were far away, dwelling on the battles yet to come and the choices he had yet to make.