The Dothraki were a force to be reckoned with, but their strength lay in numbers and ferocity, not strategy. News of a rising Khal—Khal Rako—reached Robert's court, brought by a caravan of merchants who had narrowly escaped a raid. This new Khal was uniting smaller khalasars under his banner, his eyes set on the fertile lands and wealth of Stormrage.
Robert stood in his council chamber, his Blackstone commanders and advisors gathered around him. A map of the surrounding lands was spread across the table, marked with the known movements of Khal Rako's forces.
"Your Grace," began Darius, his chief advisor, "the Dothraki are massing on the plains to the northeast. If Khal Rako succeeds in uniting these khalasars, they could pose a significant threat."
Robert smirked, leaning over the map. "The Dothraki may be fierce, but they're predictable. They crave glory, wealth, and blood. And they underestimate us."
Ser Garvin, a veteran of the Blackstone Legion, nodded. "We've bested them before, my lord. But if they attack in force, even Cannibal can't be everywhere at once."
Robert straightened, his eyes gleaming with confidence. "We won't wait for them to come to us. We'll take the fight to them."
Robert turned to his commanders, his voice steady and resolute. "Khal Rako thinks he can unite the screamers and plunder our lands. But the Dothraki are only loyal as long as their Khal is strong. We'll show them just how fragile that loyalty is."
"How do you propose we do that, my lord?" asked Darius.
"We'll lure them into a trap," Robert explained. "The Dothraki thrive in open combat, but they falter in tight quarters and against disciplined formations. We'll draw them into the narrow passes near the Red Hills."
Ser Garvin grinned. "A classic pincer maneuver, with the Blackstone Legion holding the line."
"And Cannibal?" Darius inquired.
Robert's grin widened. "Cannibal will remind them why no Khal has ever dared challenge Stormrage before."
The orders went out swiftly. Scouts were dispatched to track Khal Rako's movements, while the Blackstone Legion prepared for battle. Farmers and villagers along the Dothraki's projected path were evacuated to fortified settlements, their crops and livestock secured.
Robert paced the war tent, his face a mask of frustration. The air inside was tense, filled with the quiet hum of strategists discussing alternatives. The Blackstone Legion commanders stood ready, their eyes flicking nervously to the sky, hoping for a shadow that had yet to appear.
Cannibal was missing.
Ser Garvin broke the silence. "Your Grace, it's been hours. Without Cannibal, our advantage is severely diminished."
Robert slammed his fist on the table, the wooden surface creaking under the force. "I know, Garvin. Cannibal should have been here by now."
Darius, ever the voice of reason, interjected, "Perhaps the connection is weakened by distance. Or maybe Cannibal has found something more... interesting."
Robert's jaw tightened. The mental bond he shared with Cannibal was unique, an understanding forged through countless battles. It wasn't mere telepathy—it was a primal connection, a fusion of will and instinct. But today, it felt distant, almost muted.
"I felt his eagerness when I called," Robert said, his tone laced with frustration. "Cannibal wanted to come. And yet..."
"We can still fight without the dragon," Garvin suggested, though his tone lacked conviction. "The Dothraki bleed like any other men."
Darius frowned. "True, but they outnumber us five to one. Without the fear Cannibal brings, their morale won't break so easily."
Robert's gaze swept over his gathered commanders. He could see the doubt in their eyes, the growing fear that their carefully laid plans were unraveling.
"Then we adapt," Robert said firmly. "We'll show them that Stormrage's strength isn't tied to a single beast."
Garvin hesitated. "But, Your Grace, the Dothraki will press their advantage. Their numbers—"
"Let them come," Robert interrupted, his voice cold. "We'll turn the battlefield into their graveyard. If Cannibal won't fight with us, we'll fight without him."
As dawn broke, the Dothraki horde appeared on the horizon, their horses kicking up clouds of dust. Khal Rako led the charge, his warriors shouting battle cries that echoed through the hills.
Robert stood at the front lines, his axe in hand. His armor gleamed in the morning light, a symbol of defiance. Behind him, the Blackstone Legion formed ranks, their shields locked and spears poised.
Robert's eyes flicked to the sky once more. Still no sign of Cannibal. His grip on his axe tightened.
"Men of Stormrage!" he bellowed. "Today, we fight not with the strength of dragons, but with the strength of our hearts and steel! Show these screamers what it means to challenge us!"
A roar erupted from the Legion, their resolve hardened by their king's words.
The clash was brutal. The Dothraki charged in waves, their cavalry hammering against the Legion's shield wall. Without Cannibal's fire, the battle became a test of endurance and discipline.
Robert fought at the forefront, his hammer carving through Dothraki warriors with ruthless efficiency. Each swing was precise, each strike calculated. His commanders fought alongside him, rallying the troops with shouts and defiance.
But the toll was heavy. The Dothraki pressed hard, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm the defenders.
The battlefield was a hellscape of blood and steel. The screams of dying men and horses mingled with the clash of weapons, creating a deafening cacophony. Robert stood in the thick of it, his hammer crushing through flesh and bone as if it were made of clay. His armor, once polished and gleaming, was now drenched in blood—some of it his own, most of it Dothraki.
Around him, his strongest warriors fought fiercely, forming a protective circle. Darius, Garvin, and the Blackstone captains held the line, their swords and shields working in unison to fend off wave after wave of Dothraki screamers. But even their combined might was beginning to falter.
"For every one we kill, five more take their place," Darius grunted, parrying a Dothraki blade and driving his sword into the attacker's gut. "They're endless."
Robert spat blood from a split lip and drove his dagger into another foe. "Hold the line!" he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. "We can't let them break us!"
But even as he gave the command, he could feel the tide turning against them. More of his men were falling, their blood soaking into the earth. The Dothraki, sensing weakness, pressed harder, their war cries echoing across the battlefield.
Garvin stumbled back, narrowly avoiding a spear thrust. "Your Grace, we can't hold much longer!"
Robert's grip on his axe tightened. His mind raced for solutions, but none came. He had counted on Cannibal's fire to turn the tide, but the dragon had not answered his call. Without that devastating power, the battle seemed all but lost.
Just as despair began to take hold, a sudden roar split the air. It was a sound unlike any other, a deep, guttural bellow that shook the very ground beneath their feet.
Robert looked up, his heart pounding. From the clouds, a massive form emerged, its crimson scales glinting in the fading light. The beast was long and serpentine, its wings beating with terrifying force.
"A dragon!" someone shouted, awe and fear mixing in their voice.
But it wasn't Cannibal.
Robert's eyes narrowed as he recognized the creature. "Caraxes," he muttered.
Atop the blood-red dragon sat a familiar figure. His silver hair streamed in the wind, and his black armor caught the dying light. It was Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince.
Without hesitation, Caraxes unleashed a torrent of dragonfire upon the Dothraki horde. The flames roared across the battlefield, consuming everything in their path. Horses reared and screamed as they were engulfed, and men fell, their bodies charred and broken.
The Dothraki, so fierce and unyielding moments ago, were now in disarray. Their lines broke as panic spread through their ranks. Some tried to flee, only to be caught in the dragon's fiery wrath.
Robert watched in stunned silence as the tide of battle shifted. The sight of so many enemies burning alive sent a surge of renewed strength through his veins.
"Stormrage!" he bellowed, raising his bloodied axe high. "To me! Fight!"
His soldiers, emboldened by the sudden turn of events, rallied around him. With a unified roar, they surged forward, cutting down the disoriented Dothraki with brutal efficiency.
Darius fought his way to Robert's side, his face smeared with blood and ash. "Daemon Targaryen!" he shouted over the din. "Why is he here?"
Robert grinned, his eyes alight with a mix of relief and determination. "To remind the world why dragons are to be feared."
As the last of the Dothraki fled or fell, Caraxes descended, landing heavily on the scorched earth. Daemon dismounted with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the battlefield before settling on Robert.
"Stronghammer," Daemon called, his voice carrying across the silent field. "You look like hell."
Robert laughed, a deep, guttural sound that shook off the weight of the battle. "You have no idea."
The two men approached each other, clasping forearms in a warrior's greeting.
"You're late," Robert said, his tone half-joking.
Daemon smirked. "And yet, just in time." He glanced around at the carnage. "It seems I arrived at the climax of your little skirmish."
"Skirmish?" Robert barked a laugh. "That was an army."
"Not anymore," Daemon said, gesturing to the burning remains.
The scent of smoke and blood still lingered in the air as Robert and Daemon sat around a wooden table inside the command tent. The victory had been hard-won, and though exhaustion hung heavy in the air, the two men found themselves in a rare moment of levity.
Daemon swirled the wine in his goblet, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. "It's not every day one hears of a bastard son of House Baratheon carving out his own kingdom in the heart of Essos."
Robert chuckled, pouring himself another drink. "And yet here we are. Though I have to ask, why did you really come, Daemon? Surely you have more pressing matters in Westeros."
Daemon raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "Pressing matters? You mean my duties in the Vale?" He spat the word as if it were poison. "Let's just say I needed an excuse to escape the clutches of my oh-so-beloved wife."
Robert snorted. "Lady Rhea Royce, still as charming as ever?"
Daemon's expression soured. "Charming as a winter storm. I'd rather face a thousand Dothraki than spend another moment in her presence." He took a long sip of wine, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "When I heard you were building a kingdom, I thought, 'Now there's a good reason to leave.'"
Robert leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "So you came all this way to satisfy your curiosity and avoid your wife?"
"Precisely," Daemon said with a grin. "Though I must admit, I'm impressed. Stormrage is more than just a fledgling kingdom; it's a force to be reckoned with."
Robert nodded, his expression turning serious. "It wasn't easy. The lands were barren, the people broken. But with hard work and a bit of luck, we've turned this place into something worth fighting for."
Daemon raised his goblet in a mock toast. "And fight you did. I haven't seen such ferocity since the Stepstones."
Robert clinked his goblet against Daemon's. "A fight worth remembering. Though I could have done without the Dothraki trying to burn my crops to ash."
Daemon chuckled. "They've learned their lesson, thanks to Caraxes. But tell me, what's your plan now? The Dothraki won't be the last to covet your wealth."
Robert sighed, running a hand through his blood-matted hair. "We'll fortify, rebuild, and train harder. Stormrage must be ready for whatever comes next."
Daemon leaned forward, his tone shifting. "And what of your ambitions, Robert? You've built a kingdom, but do you plan to keep it confined to these lands? Or is there more you seek?"
Robert's gaze hardened. "My people come first. They've suffered enough under slavers and raiders. If expansion means risking their safety, it's not worth it."
Daemon studied him for a moment before nodding. "A wise answer. Not what I expected from the man who once thrived on chaos and indulgence."
Robert allowed himself a small smile. "People change, Daemon. Responsibility has a way of reshaping a man."
Daemon raised his goblet again. "To responsibility, then. May it never find me."
Robert laughed, the sound hearty and genuine. "You're incorrigible."
As the night deepened, their conversation drifted to shared memories and old battles. Daemon's visit, though unexpected, had brought a sense of camaraderie that Robert hadn't felt in years.
Before they parted for the night, Daemon stood, his expression serious once more. "You have my support, Robert. If ever you need Caraxes and me, send word. The Rogue Prince doesn't forget his friends."
Robert rose as well, clasping Daemon's forearm. "And you'll always have a place here in Stormrage. Just don't bring your wife."
Daemon grinned, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "As if I'd ever make that mistake."
With that, the two men shared a final toast, the bond between them stronger than ever. The fires of battle had forged not only a victory but also a renewed alliance—one that would shape the future of Stormrage and beyond.
Author's Note:
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