Chapter Four: The Calm Before The Storm
The morning after the battle of Ashford dawned with a chill that seemed to cling to the very bones of the men in Robert's camp. The sky, painted a dreary gray, was veiled by low-hanging clouds that threatened to unleash another torrent of rain upon the already sodden earth. The air was thick with the scent of wet soil and woodsmoke, mingling with the staleness of old blood and sweat from the previous day's carnage. The ground beneath the soldiers' boots squelched as they trudged about their tasks, every step heavy with the weight of what was to come.
Siege engines, monstrous wooden constructs built from the felled trees of the surrounding woods, began to take shape under the skilled hands of Robert's engineers. Each creak of timber, each hammer's strike, echoed through the camp, a reminder that the lull between battles was only temporary. There was no time for rest, no reprieve for the weary. The siege of Ashford had to begin in earnest, or all would be lost.
Anakin Skywalker moved through the camp like a wraith, his dark cloak billowing slightly in the cold breeze that swept across the encampment. The hood of his cloak was pulled low over his face, casting shadows across his sharp features and obscuring the storm brewing in his blue eyes. He walked with a purpose that was both measured and deliberate, yet he was aware of the eyes that followed his every step.
The men of Robert's army, regarded him with a mixture of wariness and reluctant respect. They had fought beside him at Ashford, witnessed the savagery with which he dispatched foes, and now they whispered his name among themselves—**Skywalker**—a name that carried with it an air of mystery and danger. He was no lord, no knight, no sworn bannerman of any house. He was an outsider, a foreigner with strange customs and a presence that set him apart from the rest. Yet, his prowess on the battlefield could not be ignored. He had earned their grudging respect through blood and steel, though their suspicion remained ever present.
Anakin felt their stares, heard their mutterings, but he paid them no mind. His thoughts were focused on the task ahead, on the siege that would soon commence, and on the role he would play in it. **Always the outsider**, he mused silently, his lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile. It was a role he had grown accustomed to—one he had embraced long ago. In the end, it didn't matter what these men thought of him. What mattered was the fight, the battle, and the victory that awaited them beyond Ashford's imposing walls.
Ahead of him, the large command tent loomed at the center of the camp, its weathered canvas rippling in the wind. The light from within spilled out onto the damp earth, casting long shadows that danced across the ground like specters of the past. The low murmur of voices drifted through the air, carrying the weight of strategy and decisions that could alter the course of the rebellion. The lords of the Stormlands and their allies were inside, deep in discussion, their words infused with the gravity of men who knew their decisions could shape the fate of kingdoms.
Anakin hesitated just outside the entrance, allowing the voices to filter into his mind. These lords were not men given to idle talk. Their words carried weight, the kind of weight that could crush those unprepared for its burden. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, steadying his thoughts, before stepping inside.
The interior of the tent was dimly lit by torches mounted on iron brackets along the canvas walls, casting flickering shadows across the faces of the gathered lords. Robert Baratheon stood at the head of the table, his massive frame dominating the space. He was a giant of a man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, his every movement filled with the raw power of a warrior born for battle. His armor, still dented and scratched from the clash at Ashford, gleamed dully in the firelight. Sweat and dirt still clung to his brow, but his piercing blue eyes blazed with the same unquenchable fire that had driven him through countless battles. Robert was not merely a man—he was a force of nature, and his presence filled the room like the roar of an oncoming storm.
Around the table, the other lords sat, each man a portrait of focus and intensity. Lord Bryce Caron, lean and hawkish, was in the midst of speaking, his finger tracing the lines on the map before him. His dark hair hung loose around his sharp-featured face, which was locked in an expression of impatience that betrayed his eagerness for action. His voice, though calm and steady, held a barely concealed edge, as if the words themselves might cut through the air like a blade.
"My lord," Bryce said, addressing Robert directly as his finger moved along the map's surface, "Ashford's walls are formidable—thick and reinforced. If we are to break them, we must act swiftly. Time is a luxury we cannot afford. Every day we delay gives the Targaryens more opportunity to regroup, to rally forces to their side."
To Robert's left, Lord Grandison, an older man whose battle-worn face told the story of a thousand campaigns, let out a low grunt. His hair, once dark, had long since turned to white, and his eyes, though pale and clouded with age, still held the sharpness of a mind honed by years of warfare. He was a grizzled veteran, and his voice, deep and gravelly, resonated with the weight of experience.
"Swift action can be as much our undoing as our salvation, Lord Caron," Grandison replied, his tone deliberate and measured. "Sieges are not won by haste and recklessness. If we press the attack too soon, before we've had the chance to wear them down, we risk losing more men than we can afford. Ashford's walls may be thick, but so too are the defenses within. Rushing in blindly will only lead to slaughter."
Lord Estermont, seated across from Grandison, raised his goblet with a heavy hand and took a small, deliberate sip of wine before speaking. His face was round and ruddy, his deep-set eyes tinged with the sort of quiet worry that had taken root in him ever since the rebellion had begun. His voice was softer than the others, less forceful, but no less firm in its conviction.
"The Reach is no stranger to warfare," Estermont said, his voice a slow drawl. "Their men are seasoned, and their walls are built to withstand a prolonged siege. But if we can sever their supply lines, choke them off from the outside world, their resolve will weaken. Starve a man long enough, and even the mightiest castle becomes little more than a gilded cage. Patience, my lords. Patience will serve us better than any reckless assault."
A contemplative silence fell over the tent as the lords digested Estermont's words. The only sound was the faint crackling of the torches and the steady drip of water outside, where the rain had begun to fall once again. Bryce Caron tapped his fingers against the table in a slow, rhythmic pattern, his brow furrowed in thought. Though clearly skeptical of Estermont's cautious approach, he was not one to dismiss the wisdom of another lord so easily.
Robert remained silent, his sharp gaze fixed on the map spread before him. His jaw tightened, and his fingers traced the outlines of Ashford's walls as if seeking some hidden weakness within their stone. The fire of battle still smoldered in his eyes, but beneath the fury lay a mind that could cut through the chaos of war with the precision of a blade. This was not merely a brute force conflict—this was a game of strategy, of cunning, and of patience. And Robert was a man who knew when to bide his time, and when to strike.
Anakin stood in the shadowy corner of the tent, his presence almost unnoticed amidst the towering figures of Westeros's nobility. Yet, he was aware of everything. He observed the subtle shifts in posture, the flickers of doubt in the eyes of some lords, and the silent resolve in the faces of others. This was a world of men, of lords and banners, of lands and crowns. It was a world far removed from the one he had once known, yet here he was, drawn into their struggles.
And it was then that Robert Baratheon spoke, his voice breaking through the heavy silence with the weight of command.
"Skywalker."
The name hung in the air, a stark contrast to the formal titles used by the other lords. All eyes turned toward Anakin, their expressions ranging from curiosity to caution. Robert's gaze was direct, his tone neither overly familiar nor cold. There was respect in the way he spoke to Anakin, but it was the kind of respect that was earned through deeds, not words. And it was a respect tempered by wariness, for Robert trusted few men, especially those he did not fully understand.
"My lord," Anakin replied, stepping forward with a smooth, measured movement. His voice, though calm, carried a quiet authority, the kind that came not from titles or lands, but from experience and conviction.
"You've seen your share of sieges, I imagine," Robert continued, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Anakin. "What say you? Should we strike hard and fast, or wait them out?"
Anakin's gaze flicked down to the map spread out on the table before him. The markers indicated the positions of Robert's forces surrounding Ashford and the enemy's fortifications. He traced the roads leading into the town, the supply routes that fed the garrison within, and the choke points where the enemy might reinforce or escape. Though the scale was smaller than the campaigns he had fought in before—entire planets locked in warfare—the principles remained the same.
He let a moment pass, ensuring his thoughts were clear and deliberate. This was not the world he knew, but war was universal. The lords of Westeros spoke of sieges and warfare with the authority of men who had lived through countless battles. But Anakin's experience was different. He had seen entire cities starve, watched planets burn under the weight of overwhelming force. And yet, here he was, advising lords who understood only the rules of their world.
"My lord," Anakin began, his voice steady, "patience will win this battle, not haste. Lord Grandison speaks the truth—if we throw ourselves against their walls without first weakening their defenses, we will bleed men for little gain. However," he continued, his tone hardening, "time is also not our ally. The longer we wait, the greater the risk that reinforcements will come to aid them."
Bryce Caron, whose sharp eyes had been trained on Anakin since Robert addressed him, crossed his arms over his chest, his expression thoughtful but lined with skepticism. "So what would you have us do, Skywalker? Do we sit and wait, or do we act?"
Anakin inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the challenge but not backing down. "Neither," he said. "We must strike a balance. We should harass their outer defenses—small, coordinated raids to disrupt their lines, force them to spread their forces thinner. It will pressure them to waste resources and keep them on edge. Simultaneously, we should work to cut off their supply routes. Starvation and fear will do more to break their resolve than a single overwhelming assault."
Robert listened intently, a gleam of approval in his eyes as he nodded. "Aye, I like the sound of that. Harass them, bleed them dry, and when they're desperate and weak, we'll smash through their walls and take Ashford."
Lord Grandison, ever the voice of caution, ran a gnarled hand over his graying beard. His pale eyes flicked from Anakin to Robert, and after a brief pause, he gave a slow nod. "A sound plan, my lord," he rasped. "But it will require discipline from our men. Raiding parties can easily be drawn into traps or overextend themselves. We must ensure they know their limits."
Estermont, who had been quietly nursing his wine, leaned forward slightly. His eyes, hooded with thought, glanced between the lords. "We must also not neglect our own defenses," he cautioned. "If the Targaryens send reinforcements—and they will—we could find ourselves caught between Ashford's garrison and an enemy host from the Reach. We must be prepared to pull back if the situation turns against us."
The mention of retreat sparked an immediate reaction from Bryce Caron, who leaned forward, his eyes flashing with irritation. "Retreat?" he spat, his voice thick with disdain. "We cannot afford to retreat, Estermont. Not now, not after the ground we've gained. If we withdraw, we'll lose momentum—and worse, the men will lose faith. They'll see it as a sign of weakness, and we cannot afford that."
Anakin watched as the tension in the room began to rise again. The lords, for all their experience and wisdom, were men of passion and pride, each one driven by his own fears and ambitions. This was not a battle of swords and steel, but a battle of wills—a conflict fought with words and strategy. And in this war room, the stakes were just as high as they were on the battlefield.
"Peace, Bryce," Robert said, his voice a low growl that silenced the growing discord. He turned his intense gaze to Estermont. "Estermont is right to be cautious. We won't retreat unless we have no other choice, but I won't have us caught blind either. We need to be ready for anything the Targaryens might throw at us. We're no fools, and we won't be trapped like them."
The air in the tent seemed to settle after Robert's words, the tension easing but not entirely dissipating. Anakin stood quietly, his mind running through the scenarios, calculating the next moves like pieces on a galactic chessboard. This was their war, their conflict, and though he had been pulled into it, he remained, in many ways, an outsider. Anakin had never sought power or lands, nor did he care about the politics of kings and lords. What mattered to him was the fight itself—the necessity of it, the purpose it brought him in a world where the lines between right and wrong blurred as easily as shifting sand.
His thoughts were broken by Robert, who turned his gaze toward Anakin once more. "You've proven yourself a capable warrior, Skywalker," Robert said, his tone carrying a weight of authority mixed with a guarded praise. "But you're not from here, and you don't know these lands as we do. Don't think that just because you've fought beside us that we'll welcome you with open arms. Loyalty isn't something we hand out freely—not in times like these."
Anakin met Robert's gaze, his own eyes reflecting the countless battles he had survived and the scars that no one could see. "I don't expect loyalty from men who don't know me, my lord," Anakin replied evenly, his voice as steady as the ground beneath them. "I'm not here for your trust, nor am I here for titles or lands. I fight because it is necessary, because this rebellion needs to succeed if your people are to have a future."
Robert studied him for a moment, his sharp blue eyes searching Anakin's face for any sign of deception. When he found none, he grunted softly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Aye, that much is clear," Robert said, his voice softer but still edged with caution. "But make no mistake—I keep my eye on everyone who fights for me, even those as skilled as you. Power has a way of twisting men, and this war has seen more than a few betrayals."
Anakin's gaze remained firm, his voice calm but resolute. "I stand where the battle is, Robert. I don't care about thrones or crowns. I care about winning this war and ensuring that the right side prevails."
Robert raised an eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and approval. For a brief moment, the tension that had defined their interactions since the beginning seemed to ebb, replaced by a sense of mutual understanding. Robert might not fully trust Anakin—he trusted few men completely—but there was a growing respect between them, a recognition of shared purpose forged in the fires of battle.
After a long silence, Robert's expression softened ever so slightly, and he allowed himself a brief, sharp grin. "Good," he said, his tone lighter now. "Because we're going to need men like you in the days ahead. The siege of Ashford will test us all, but with the right moves, we'll break their walls and take what's ours."
Anakin inclined his head in a brief nod of acknowledgment, but his mind was already turning toward the challenges to come. This war was far from over, and the battles ahead would demand more from him than just his skill with a blade. He could feel it, a shifting in the winds of fate, as if the very world was holding its breath, waiting to see how the pieces would fall.
As Robert clapped a heavy hand on Anakin's shoulder, his grip firm but not unfriendly, Anakin felt the weight of the Rebel Lord's expectations pressing down on him. "We'll see this through, Skywalker," Robert said with a final nod before stepping away. "One way or another."
With that, Robert turned and left the tent, his lords following in his wake, their voices low but determined as they began discussing the next steps in their preparations. The night outside was cold, the distant glow of campfires casting flickering shadows on the ground as Anakin stepped out into the open air. The sounds of the camp—the clinking of armor, the crackle of flames, the low murmur of voices—washed over him, a constant reminder of the war that surrounded them.
For a moment, Anakin stood still, his eyes drawn to the dark silhouette of Ashford in the distance. Its towering walls loomed against the night sky, cold and unyielding. He could feel the weight of the siege pressing down on his shoulders, the knowledge that this was only the beginning of a conflict that would stretch on for months, perhaps even years.
But Anakin Skywalker was no stranger to long battles or impossible odds. He had fought in wars that had consumed entire galaxies, stood against enemies that defied comprehension. This war, this siege, was just another chapter in a story that had already been written in blood.
Yet, as he looked out at the distant walls of Ashford, Anakin couldn't shake the feeling that this war—this rebellion—was different. It was not just a battle for a throne; it was a battle for survival, for the future of an entire land. And though he still carried the weight of his past, the darkness that had once consumed him, Anakin knew that his path was now tied to this world, at least for a time.
The siege of Ashford loomed ahead, and with it, the promise of more bloodshed. But Anakin Skywalker, once a man bound by the shackles of his past and the dark whispers of ambition, now walked a different path—a path that, for the first time in many years, felt like it might lead to something worth fighting for. This rebellion, this land—it was not his by birthright or by choice, but it was where fate had brought him. And perhaps, for now, that was enough.
As he lingered outside the command tent, the cold air biting at his skin, Anakin found his thoughts drifting, despite his efforts to focus on the task at hand. The world around him felt strangely distant, the sounds of the camp fading to a dull hum as he stared at the looming silhouette of Ashford. His mind wandered back to the battles of his past—fierce, brutal engagements on worlds far from this one. He had led legions into battle, seen cities burn, and planets fall to their knees. Yet, here in this world of stone castles and wooden siege engines, the stakes felt no less real, no less immediate.
The ground beneath his boots was wet and cold, slick with mud from the rains that had soaked the battlefield the day before. Ashford's walls rose defiantly in the distance, dark and imposing against the overcast sky, the torchlight from within its walls barely visible. The castle had stood for centuries, its stone battlements weathered but unyielding. It had seen countless sieges, countless wars, and yet it remained, a testament to the resilience of those who defended it.
For all the strength and determination of Robert's forces, Anakin knew that Ashford would not fall easily. The walls were thick, the defenders numerous, and the men inside had the advantage of time and preparation. Siege warfare was a slow, grinding process—a game of patience, attrition, and strategy. It was not the kind of battle that could be won with a single decisive strike. No, this would be a war of endurance, and Anakin had the unsettling sense that it would take far more from them than they expected.
He took a deep breath, feeling the cold air fill his lungs, and allowed himself a brief moment of introspection. What was he really doing here, in this land so far removed from the world he had known? What purpose did this war serve for him? He had told Robert that he fought because the fight demanded it, and that was true. But there was something more, something deeper that gnawed at him from within.
Anakin had spent years running—from his past, from his mistakes, from the darkness that had once consumed him. He had lost everything he had once cared about, everything he had fought to protect. And now, here in Westeros, he had found himself in another war, another conflict that seemed to mirror the struggles of his past. The faces were different, the stakes unfamiliar, but the essence of it was the same—power, ambition, and the lives of men caught in the crossfire.
But there was something about this rebellion, about Robert Baratheon and his cause, that stirred something within Anakin. It wasn't just about thrones and crowns. It wasn't just about power for the sake of power. Robert was fighting for something real, something tangible—a future where men could be free from tyranny, where the rule of one man did not mean the suffering of countless others. It was a fight that, for the first time in a long time, Anakin felt was worth fighting.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and Anakin turned to see Bryce Caron making his way toward him. The lord's hawkish features were set in a pensive expression, his arms crossed over his chest as he approached.
"Skywalker," Bryce greeted, his tone neutral but not unfriendly. "You seem deep in thought."
Anakin glanced at him briefly before turning his gaze back toward Ashford's walls. "Just thinking about the siege," he replied simply. "It's going to be a long fight."
Bryce nodded, his sharp eyes narrowing as he followed Anakin's gaze. "Aye, that it will," he said quietly. "But we'll break them. One way or another, we'll break them."
Anakin could sense the resolve in Bryce's words, the determination that had driven the lord to this point. But beneath that determination, Anakin also sensed the weight of doubt, the quiet fear that lingered in the back of every soldier's mind when faced with a battle that seemed impossible. Siege warfare was as much a battle of the mind as it was of the body, and Anakin knew that the days ahead would test them all in ways they had yet to imagine.
"You seem confident," Anakin remarked, his tone thoughtful.
Bryce's lips twisted into a wry smile. "I've fought in enough battles to know that confidence is half the fight," he replied. "If the men see you hesitate, they'll falter. If they see you doubt, they'll lose heart. You have to believe, even when the odds are against you."
Anakin turned to face Bryce more fully, his eyes searching the other man's face. "And do you believe, Lord Caron?"
Bryce hesitated for a moment, his expression hardening slightly before he answered. "I believe in Robert," he said at last, his voice firm. "He's a good man, a strong leader. He'll see us through this war, one way or another."
Anakin nodded slowly, though he could sense the unspoken doubts that lingered beneath Bryce's words. In war, belief was a fragile thing—easily shaken by defeat, easily lost in the face of overwhelming odds. And yet, it was belief that held armies together, that kept men fighting even when all seemed lost.
"Then we fight," Anakin said quietly, his voice carrying a calm certainty. "And we win."
Bryce's expression softened slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he looked at Anakin with something akin to respect. "Aye," he agreed. "We fight, and we win."
With that, Bryce gave a curt nod and turned to leave, his footsteps crunching softly in the damp earth as he made his way back toward the center of the camp. Anakin watched him go, his thoughts once again turning inward. The siege of Ashford was just the beginning—a single battle in a war that would stretch on for who knew how long. And though Anakin had fought in wars that spanned entire galaxies, this war, this rebellion, felt different. It was smaller, more personal, yet somehow more important.
He took a deep breath, the cold air stinging his lungs, and turned his gaze back toward the distant walls of Ashford. The night was growing darker, the stars obscured by thick clouds that promised more rain. The fires of the camp burned brightly in the darkness, their light casting long shadows that danced across the ground like fleeting phantoms.
For now, all Anakin could do was prepare for the days to come. The siege would be long, and the challenges many, but he would face them as he had always faced the trials of war—with strength, resolve, and the knowledge that every battle was a step toward victory.
As he turned to head back toward his tent, a quiet resolve settled over him. This was his path now, for better or worse. And whatever challenges lay ahead, Anakin Skywalker would face them with the same unwavering determination that had carried him through countless battles before.
The siege of Ashford had begun, and with it, a new chapter in the rebellion had opened. And though Anakin did not yet know what the future held, he knew one thing for certain—he would see this war through to the end, no matter the cost.
The next few days passed in a blur of preparation and tense anticipation. The soldiers in Robert's camp worked tirelessly, constructing siege engines, fortifying their defenses, and scouting the land around Ashford for any sign of Targaryen reinforcements. The rain came and went in fits, leaving the ground muddy and slick, but the men pressed on with grim determination. They knew what was at stake.
Anakin spent much of his time on the outskirts of the camp, watching as the siege engines were assembled—massive trebuchets and ballistae, designed to hurl boulders and flaming projectiles into the heart of Ashford. The engineers worked with a practiced efficiency, their hands moving quickly and precisely as they fitted the pieces together. It was a far cry from the advanced technology Anakin had once known, but the principles were the same—overwhelm the enemy with superior firepower, break their defenses, and force them to surrender.
He walked among the men, his presence a quiet but constant reminder of the battle that awaited them. Though he spoke little, the soldiers had come to respect him for his skill and his unflinching resolve. They still whispered about him when they thought he wasn't listening—whispers of his strange origin, his unknown past—but those whispers no longer carried the edge of suspicion they once had. He had earned their respect in the only way that mattered—through action.
In the evenings, Anakin would return to the command tent, where the lords gathered to discuss strategy and review their progress. The tension among them had eased somewhat as the days passed, but the weight of the siege still hung heavy over their heads. Every decision they made carried with it the potential for disaster, and they knew that a single misstep could cost them everything.
Robert remained the focal point of these meetings, his booming voice and commanding presence filling the tent as he issued orders and listened to the advice of his lords. Anakin remained on the periphery, offering his insight when asked but otherwise staying silent. He had no desire to insert himself into the internal politics of the rebellion. Anakin knew his role. He was a fighter, not a lord or strategist in the way these men understood power. His experience, though different, was still valued when it came to the art of war. But the subtleties of Westerosi politics were a web he had no interest in getting tangled within. He watched the lords argue over provisions, routes of attack, and diplomatic overtures, but his mind stayed focused on the siege—on the practical steps they needed to take to win.
The preparations continued, slow and methodical. Siege towers were constructed, tall and ominous wooden structures that loomed over the camp like skeletal giants. Each one bristled with ropes and ladders, designed to scale the walls of Ashford once they had weakened the defenses enough to mount an assault. Anakin studied them closely, his thoughts drifting back to past campaigns where such structures had either spelled victory or led to crushing defeat. Their success would depend on timing, precision, and the discipline of the men driving them forward.
Days turned into weeks as Robert's forces settled into the rhythm of a siege. The soldiers began to dig trenches around the perimeter of the castle, cutting off access to the gates and forcing the defenders to conserve their resources. Small raiding parties, just as Anakin had suggested, harried Ashford's supply lines, attacking convoys and burning any provisions meant for the garrison. Each success chipped away at the defenders' morale, sowing fear and uncertainty within the castle walls.
Ashford itself seemed to grow darker with each passing day, its towering stone walls standing like a fortress against the inevitable. From afar, Anakin could see the figures of archers patrolling the battlements, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of an approaching assault. The castle had once been a symbol of stability and power, but now it felt like a cage—a place where men were trapped, waiting for death to come knocking.
The tension within the camp mounted as the days wore on, a palpable sense of anticipation hanging in the air. The men grew restless, eager to end the stalemate and bring the fight to the enemy. Even Robert seemed more agitated, his usual boisterous demeanor giving way to a brooding intensity. He wanted action. He wanted to break Ashford and bring the rebellion one step closer to victory. But the castle's walls remained stubborn, and the siege dragged on.
Anakin found himself drawn to the outskirts of the camp more frequently, seeking moments of solitude in the midst of the tension. He often stood alone, gazing out at the distant walls of Ashford, lost in thought. His mind churned with memories of battles long past—wars fought on distant worlds, against enemies who were now little more than ghosts. Yet, despite the vast differences between those conflicts and this one, the familiar weight of responsibility pressed down on him just the same.
One evening, as the sun began to sink below the horizon, casting the sky in hues of deep purple and crimson, Anakin stood at the edge of the camp, his cloak drawn tightly around him to ward off the evening chill. The wind stirred the air, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and the muted sounds of men preparing for the night.
As he stood there, lost in his thoughts, a voice broke the silence.
"Skywalker."
Anakin turned to see Lord Grandison approaching, the older man's gait slow but steady. His weathered face, lined with the marks of age and battle, was softened by the fading light. Though Grandison moved with the stiffness of a man who had seen more winters than he cared to count, there was still a sharpness to his gaze that spoke of a mind far from dulled by the years.
"My lord," Anakin greeted him with a nod, his tone respectful but measured.
Grandison came to stand beside him, his eyes fixed on the distant walls of Ashford. For a moment, neither man spoke, the silence between them filled only by the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.
"Been watching you," Grandison said after a time, his voice low and gravelly. "You're different from the others. Not just in the way you fight, but the way you carry yourself. You don't seem like a man with a stake in this war. Yet, here you are."
Anakin glanced at him, studying the older man's profile for a moment. There was no malice in Grandison's words, only a quiet curiosity, as if the old lord were trying to puzzle out a piece of a larger mystery.
"I've fought many wars," Anakin replied quietly, his voice carrying the weight of his past. "And I've learned that it's not always about personal stakes. Sometimes, it's just about doing what needs to be done."
Grandison let out a soft grunt of acknowledgment. "Aye, I've seen men like you before," he said. "Men who've been through more battles than they can count. They fight because that's all they know how to do. But eventually, every man has to decide what he's really fighting for."
Anakin's gaze drifted back to Ashford, his expression unreadable. "And what do you think I'm fighting for, Lord Grandison?"
The older man was silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if searching for the answer within Anakin's guarded expression. "I don't know," he admitted at last. "But I think you'll figure it out soon enough. War has a way of revealing things about a man—things he didn't even know were there."
Anakin's lips quirked into a faint smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps," he said quietly. "Or perhaps war just reminds us of what we've lost."
Grandison glanced at him sharply, but said nothing more. The two men stood in silence for a while longer, the night settling around them like a heavy cloak. Eventually, Grandison gave a brief nod of farewell and turned to leave, his footsteps crunching softly in the dirt as he made his way back to the camp.
Anakin remained where he was, staring out at the distant walls of Ashford. The siege would soon come to a head—he could feel it in his bones. The stalemate would not last much longer, and when the time came, he would be ready.
The stars began to emerge from behind the clouds, twinkling faintly in the darkening sky. Anakin's thoughts drifted once more, the memories of the past swirling in his mind like echoes of a distant storm. He had been many things in his life—a warrior, a leader, a man consumed by darkness. But now, in this strange land, he found himself walking a different path, one that felt unfamiliar yet oddly right.
The siege of Ashford was only the beginning. The war ahead would test him in ways he could not yet imagine, but he would face it with the same unyielding resolve that had carried him through so many battles before. Whatever the future held, Anakin Skywalker would meet it head-on.
For now, all he could do was wait.
The night passed slowly, the camp shrouded in darkness as the fires burned low. The soldiers slept fitfully in their tents, their dreams filled with the sounds of battle and the distant echo of Ashford's walls looming ever closer. The air was thick with anticipation, as if the very land itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable clash that would soon come.
When the dawn finally broke, it did so with a muted light, the sky still overcast and heavy with the promise of rain. The camp stirred to life once more, the soldiers rising from their makeshift beds and readying themselves for another day of preparation. The siege engines were nearing completion, the final touches being added by the engineers who worked tirelessly to ensure their success.
Anakin awoke early, the cold seeping into his bones as he emerged from his tent. He stretched briefly, shaking off the remnants of sleep, and made his way toward the center of the camp. The lords would soon gather again to discuss the next phase of the siege, and Anakin knew that the time for action was drawing near.
As he approached the command tent, he caught sight of Robert Baratheon standing near one of the large siege towers, his arms crossed over his chest as he spoke with one of the engineers. The Rebel Lord's expression was as fierce as ever, his eyes gleaming with the fire of a man who lived for battle. Anakin could sense the impatience radiating off him, the hunger for action that had been building ever since the siege had begun.
Robert caught sight of Anakin as he approached and waved him over with a broad, welcoming gesture. "Skywalker!" he called out, his voice booming even in the early morning. "Come and have a look at this beast. These engineers of mine have built something worthy of song."
Anakin approached the towering structure, his eyes scanning its reinforced beams and the ropes that dangled from its heights. It was an impressive piece of craftsmanship, sturdy and well-designed, built to withstand the onslaught of arrows and stones that would inevitably come its way when they launched the attack.
"It's impressive," Anakin remarked, nodding in approval. "But it will take more than siege towers to bring Ashford down. We need to make sure their defenses are weakened before we commit to a full assault."
Robert grinned, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Aye, you're right about that. We've got more in store for them than just these towers. We'll soften them up first, make them bleed, and when the time is right, we'll bring the full weight of this rebellion down on their heads."
Anakin could see the battle lust in Robert's eyes, the thrill of the fight that drove him forward with a relentless energy. It was the same hunger that had fueled countless warriors throughout history—the desire to crush one's enemies, to emerge victorious against the odds. But Anakin had seen where that hunger could lead. He had seen men, even himself, consumed by it, losing sight of the greater purpose in the chaos of war. Yet, despite these thoughts, he couldn't help but respect Robert's fierce determination. It was that very drive that had rallied men to his cause and kept this rebellion alive.
"I trust your instincts, Robert," Anakin said quietly, his tone measured. "But remember, there's more to war than breaking walls. The men inside Ashford—they'll fight because they have no choice. We need to break their will, not just their defenses."
Robert's grin widened, and he clapped Anakin on the shoulder with a heavy hand. "I like the way you think, Skywalker. Break their spirit, and the castle will fall without us having to tear it apart stone by stone."
Anakin nodded, though his thoughts remained focused on the days ahead. Robert was right—the siege would test them all. But Anakin had the sense that it would test him in ways he hadn't yet fully considered. This wasn't just a battle for a castle. It was a battle for the future of Westeros, a future that would be shaped by the decisions made in the coming days.
"Keep me informed," Anakin said, glancing once more at the siege tower. "We'll need to move quickly once the time is right."
Robert nodded, his expression briefly shifting to one of focus. "You'll know as soon as we're ready. Until then, keep an eye on the men. They've taken a liking to you, whether they admit it or not."
Anakin gave a small nod of acknowledgment and then turned to leave, making his way back through the camp as the men around him stirred to life. The air was filled with the sounds of preparation—the clang of steel, the creak of wood, and the low murmur of voices as soldiers discussed the coming siege. Despite the tension, there was an undercurrent of resolve in the camp, a sense that they were on the cusp of something great.
He passed by groups of men sharpening their swords and adjusting their armor, their faces set with grim determination. Many of them had fought at Ashford's gates and survived, and now they stood ready to do it again, knowing that the siege would be far more grueling than a single day of battle. They were veterans now, tempered by blood and fire, and they carried themselves with the quiet confidence of men who had seen death and emerged on the other side.
As Anakin continued through the camp, he caught sight of a small group of younger soldiers gathered around a fire. They were huddled together, speaking in low tones as they passed a skin of wine between them. Their faces were drawn with fatigue, but their eyes held the flicker of youthful determination that had not yet been dulled by the horrors of war. One of them, a boy who could not have been more than seventeen, looked up as Anakin passed and gave him a tentative nod.
"Skywalker," the boy said, his voice uncertain but filled with a quiet respect. "Is it true what they say? That you've fought in battles larger than this, in lands far away?"
Anakin paused, turning his gaze to the boy. He saw the hope in the young soldier's eyes, the yearning for some kind of reassurance in the face of the brutal reality they now lived in. Anakin nodded slowly, his expression calm but distant.
"I've fought in many battles," he said softly. "Larger, yes. And smaller. But war is war, no matter where it is fought."
The boy's eyes widened slightly, and the others around the fire leaned in closer, their curiosity piqued. "What's it like?" the boy asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "To fight in places we've never seen? Is it different?"
Anakin considered the question for a moment, his thoughts briefly drifting back to the battles of his past—the screams of soldiers, the roar of engines, the devastation that had been wrought on planets that no longer existed. His heart felt heavy with the memories, but he pushed them aside, focusing instead on the present.
"It's not so different," he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "Men fight for the same reasons, whether they're on the other side of the world or right here. They fight because they have to. Because something is at stake, something worth protecting. But war… war changes you. It leaves scars that can't always be seen."
The boy nodded solemnly, his expression shifting from curiosity to understanding. Anakin could see the weight of the words settle on the young soldier's shoulders, the knowledge that the battles ahead would shape him in ways he couldn't yet imagine. The others around the fire remained silent, their gazes fixed on Anakin as if waiting for some final piece of wisdom.
"Remember this," Anakin said, his voice low but filled with a quiet authority. "Fight for each other. Fight for what matters. And when this war is over, if you're still standing, hold on to who you are. Don't let the battle take that from you."
The soldiers nodded, their expressions serious as they absorbed Anakin's words. He could see the resolve in their eyes, the determination to fight not just for Robert's rebellion, but for the men standing beside them. It was a bond that war forged between soldiers—a bond that could not be broken, even by death.
Anakin gave them a brief nod of farewell and continued on his way, the weight of his own advice lingering in his mind. He had seen too many men lose themselves to the madness of war, becoming little more than hollow shells of who they had once been. And yet, despite everything, he still held on to the hope that this conflict could be different. That perhaps, in fighting for Robert's cause, he might find some measure of redemption for the darkness that had once consumed him.
The day wore on, the sky remaining overcast and heavy with the promise of more rain. The camp buzzed with activity, the men preparing for the siege with a sense of urgency that belied the slow pace of the previous days. The siege engines were nearly complete, the raiding parties had returned with reports of disrupted supply lines, and the lords gathered once again to finalize their plans.
As the sun began to set, casting the camp in long shadows, Anakin found himself standing once more at the edge of the camp, gazing out at the distant walls of Ashford. The fires of the enemy camp flickered faintly in the distance, tiny points of light against the darkness. He could feel the tension building, the sense that the siege was about to reach a critical point.
As the darkness deepened and the stars once again peeked through the clouds, Anakin stood alone at the edge of the camp, his thoughts filled with the weight of the days to come. The siege of Ashford was about to enter a new phase, and with it, the true test of their strength and resolve would begin.
But whatever the future held, Anakin Skywalker would be ready to face.