Lord Boremund Baratheon leaned back in his chair, studying Robert with an intensity that only deepened as the moments passed. The resemblance between Robert and Borros was undeniable, and now Boremund understood why the rumors had spread so quickly. It wasn't just idle gossip—there was something in Robert's face, in his bearing, that spoke of Storm's End. The way he carried himself, the way his eyes flicked between Boremund and Borros, calculating yet respectful—it was as though the gods themselves had sculpted him from the same bloodline.

For a man who had been a notorious ladies' man in his youth, Boremund couldn't completely dismiss the possibility that Robert might indeed be his son. His wild years, spent in the courts of Storm's End and even in King's Landing, had left him with more than a few entanglements, some of which he had long since forgotten. But this... Robert Stronghammer, the famed knight of the Stepstones, could he truly be the result of one of those indiscretions?

The thought troubled him deeply.

As Robert explained his background, his voice steady and his demeanor calm, it became clear that Robert had no knowledge of any connection to noble houses. He was a knight, a man of war and adventure, and from the sound of it, had made his own way in the world without the benefit of noble titles or claims.

"I've lived my whole life as a commoner," Robert said. "A man of no noble ties, and no need of any. I've fought for my survival and earned whatever respect I've gained through my deeds alone."

Boremund listened carefully, still weighing the situation. Robert's tone was earnest, and there was no sign of deception in his words. He truly believed himself to be nothing more than a knight—an exceptional one, perhaps, but a common-born man nonetheless. That only deepened Boremund's confusion. Could it be that Robert had no idea he might have noble blood? Or was this all a clever act?

When Robert finished, silence filled the hall once more. Boremund tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair, considering his next move.

"You've explained your circumstances well enough," Boremund finally said, his voice measured. "But you must understand, Robert, that the resemblance between you and my son... it's too strong to ignore."

Robert frowned slightly but remained silent, allowing Boremund to continue.

"There are whispers, as you've no doubt heard. Whispers that you might be of my blood, a son I never knew I had," Boremund admitted, the words coming out with more difficulty than he anticipated. "I was not a careful man in my youth, and I had... well, certain dalliances. It's possible, though I don't recall your mother, that you could be my son."

Robert's brow furrowed at the suggestion. "I've no claim to any noble house," he said firmly. "I've made my life as a knight, and I don't need anything from you, my lord. I came here because the king suggested I clear up the rumors, nothing more."

Boremund nodded, though his mind was still turning over the possibilities. Robert's honesty, his forthrightness—it was a quality that Boremund respected. There was no sense of entitlement, no demand for recognition. If anything, Robert seemed more interested in leaving this place and returning to his life on the road than lingering in Storm's End.

But Boremund couldn't let him leave just yet.

"I understand your desire to live your own life, Sir Robert," Boremund said, his tone softening. "But if there's even a chance that you could be of Baratheon blood, it's something that needs to be explored. You and Borros... the resemblance is striking, more than I've ever seen between two men. If you truly are my son, or even just related to the Baratheon line, I believe it's worth finding out."

Robert remained silent for a moment, clearly weighing Boremund's words. He had no desire to complicate his life with noble politics, but there was something in Boremund's expression—a mix of concern and responsibility—that made him pause.

"I've no need for anything from you, Lord Boremund," Robert said again, his voice respectful but firm. "But if you insist..."

"I do," Boremund interrupted. "Stay a few days, at least. Get to know Borros. You might not be my son, but you could be something more than just a passing knight. And if you are... well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to that.

Borros Baratheon was furious when he first heard the rumors. The idea of someone, some pretender, claiming to be his half-brother was an insult to his family, to his own bloodline. He had stormed through Storm's End, intent on confronting this man, this Robert Stronghammer, with his sword in hand. If the rumors were true, and this so-called knight thought he could claim a place in his family, Borros would handle it himself.

But when Borros finally met Robert, his anger cooled, replaced by something unexpected—understanding.

Robert wasn't a threat. He made no claims to Storm's End, no demands for power or position. In fact, Robert had been clear from the start: he had no interest in politics or in the title of lord. All he wanted was to live his life as a knight, a man of action and adventure, not of courtly intrigue. Borros, at first skeptical, couldn't help but respect that.

"I'm no lord," Robert had said with a shrug. "Never wanted to be one. I've lived my life with a sword in hand, and that's where I plan to stay. You've no need to worry about me trying to take anything from you or your family."

That proclamation changed things. For Borros, it was a relief—a man who could fight, who had proven himself in battle, and yet had no designs on power. It was rare to find someone who didn't see noble blood as a path to power, and in that moment, Borros knew Robert wasn't a pretender. He was a man who knew his own worth, and more importantly, knew his own place in the world.

Over the next three days, the two men grew closer, much to Borros' surprise. At first, he had expected nothing but tension between them, but Robert's easygoing nature and his genuine disinterest in anything but living his life had a way of disarming Borros.

They went on fishing trips together, riding through the Stormlands, and shared countless drinks as they bonded. Robert had a way of speaking, a natural confidence that Borros couldn't help but admire. The more time they spent together, the more Borros felt a kinship with him. It was something he had only felt once before—with his best friend, Tomas Bracken. And now, in just a few days, he felt it again with Robert.

"I didn't think we'd get along," Borros admitted one night as they shared a bottle of wine in the great hall. "But you're not half as bad as I thought you'd be."

Robert laughed, clinking his cup against Borros'. "That's about the highest praise I've ever gotten."

Borros smirked, taking a drink. "Just don't go getting any ideas about sticking around. You've made it clear you've got no interest in playing lord."

"I won't," Robert replied, leaning back in his chair. "Storm's End is your home, not mine. I've got the road, and that's all I need."

The two continued their banter, and Borros felt a deep sense of trust growing between them. Robert wasn't just some knight with Baratheon blood—he was someone Borros could rely on. If there ever came a time when he needed help, he knew without a doubt that Robert would be there, sword in hand.

It was strange, Borros thought, how quickly this bond had formed. But Robert was someone worth trusting, someone who shared more than just a resemblance. There was something in Robert's character that resonated deeply with the Baratheon line—the same fierce independence, the same unshakable strength.

By the end of the third day, the two brothers shared a meal with Lord Boremund Baratheon. The mood was light, the food hearty, and the wine flowed freely. It was a rare moment of peace in the stormy halls of Storm's End.

Boremund watched the two of them, his mind still turning over the strange fate that had brought Robert to his door. There was no denying the similarities between them—not just in appearance, but in temperament. Robert had the same Baratheon fire, the same sense of honor and duty, and perhaps most importantly, the same sense of independence that had always defined their house.

As the meal ended and the laughter faded, Boremund made his decision.

"Robert," Boremund said, his voice firm as he stood at the head of the table. "You've proven yourself to me these past few days. I can see the blood of the Baratheons runs strong in you, even if you had no knowledge of it before."

Robert looked up, a slight frown crossing his face.

"I've sent word out to the lords of the Stormlands," Boremund continued. "Robert Stronghammer, the hero of the Stepstones, is my son."

The hall fell silent. Borros looked at his father, then at Robert, his expression unreadable.

"I don't need a title, my lord," Robert said slowly. "I've no interest in being a lord or a noble."

"I'm not asking you to take up a title," Boremund replied, his voice softening. "But the truth is the truth. You are of my blood, and that will be recognized, whether you wish it or not. What you do with that knowledge is up to you."

Robert stared at the table for a moment before nodding. "I'll accept it. But I'm still a knight first and foremost. That's not going to change."

Boremund smiled, satisfied with the outcome. "As you wish, Sir Robert. But know that you'll always have a place here at Storm's End, should you ever need it."

Robert glanced at Borros, who gave him a small, approving nod. The bond between them had been forged, and for better or worse, Robert Stronghammer was now a part of the Baratheon legacy.

With the arrival of a new son in the Baratheon family, Lord Boremund decided to celebrate the occasion with a small festival at Storm's End. It was an event that drew the bannermen of the Stormlands and minor lords alike, all eager to see this newly revealed bastard of House Baratheon. Word had spread quickly, and the festival buzzed with rumors and speculation about the mysterious knight who had fought in the Stepstones and now bore the blood of Storm's End.

As part of the festivities, a grand melee was arranged, a traditional display of martial prowess for all the knights and warriors present. At first, Robert Stronghammer had no intention of participating. He wasn't one for such displays—he preferred the real battles, the ones that had stakes beyond titles and cheers from the crowd. But the whispers and suggestions of the lords, combined with Borros' encouragement, left him little choice.

"You've got nothing to prove, Robert," Borros had said, his grin both encouraging and mischievous. "But I've seen you fight. Let them see what you're made of."

And so, Robert entered the melee.

The field was packed with men eager to show their strength and skill, each knight determined to be the last man standing. Robert stepped into the arena, his massive warhammer in hand, the weapon that had earned him his name during the battles at the Stepstones. As he surveyed the field, he could see the skepticism in their eyes—whispers of doubt about whether this bastard knight was truly as formidable as the rumors suggested.

The melee began, and the chaos of battle erupted. Knights clashed in fierce duels, weapons clanging and shields splintering. But all eyes soon turned to Robert.

From the moment his hammer struck the first opponent, it was clear he was no ordinary knight. Robert fought with an unmatched ferocity, his warhammer sweeping through the melee with deadly precision. The sheer power of each blow left trails of blood in his wake, knights falling one by one under the force of his strikes. Where others fought with caution or tried to conserve their strength, Robert seemed to draw energy from the battle itself, growing more relentless with every opponent that fell before him.

The crowd watched in awe as he single-handedly tore through the ranks. His warhammer became an unstoppable force, smashing through armor and shields with ease. Blood splattered across the field, and soon, the arena was littered with fallen knights, all victims of the man they had doubted.

The melee raged on, but by the end, only one man stood tall—Robert Stronghammer, now covered in blood and sweat, his hammer still gripped tightly in his hands. The battlefield was silent for a moment as the crowd processed what they had witnessed.

And then, the cheers erupted.

The lords and bannermen, once skeptical of the bastard knight, now shouted in approval, their voices ringing through the Stormlands. Robert had earned their respect in the only way that truly mattered—in the arena of battle.

It was then that one of the lords, a grizzled old knight who had served under Boremund for decades, raised his voice above the crowd.

"Bloody Storm!" he shouted, pointing at Robert. "That's what he is. The Bloody Storm!"

The crowd echoed the cry, the title catching on like wildfire. "Bloody Storm! Bloody Storm!" they chanted, their voices shaking the walls of Storm's End. Robert, though exhausted, couldn't help but smile grimly. The title suited him—it was a name born not of noble birth or politics, but of blood and battle.

When the melee was over, Robert was presented before Lord Boremund and Borros in the great hall. Boremund looked at him with a mix of pride and awe, while Borros grinned, knowing full well the impact his half-brother had made on their bannermen.

"Well fought, Robert," Boremund said, his voice carrying through the hall. "You've more than earned your place here."

Robert nodded, but his thoughts were already turning to the road ahead. He had proven himself, but he was no lord. The title of "Bloody Storm" might follow him now, but his heart still lay in the life of a wandering knight.

As the festival came to a close, and Robert prepared to leave Storm's End, the lords of the Stormlands would remember the day the Bloody Storm swept through their melee, a force of nature that left a trail of blood and broken knights in its wake.

As Robert left Storm's End a few days later, the wind whipping through his hair as he rode his mare, Mya, he couldn't help but feel that something had shifted within him. He wasn't just a wandering knight anymore—he was part of something larger, something he never expected.

But for now, his path was still his own. And as he looked out at the road ahead, he knew that whatever came next, he would face it as Robert Stronghammer, son of Storm's End.


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