Lord Boremund Baratheon lingered for several days in the Kingdom of Stormrage, taking in the vast changes his son had wrought in a remarkably short span. It was difficult to reconcile the young man he had once known with the resolute king who now commanded the loyalty of this land and its people. Everywhere he looked, Boremund could see Robert's influence woven into the kingdom's fabric—a testament to his son's grit, vision, and fierce determination.
He marveled at the Cannibal, the monstrous black dragon perched high on a mountain peak overlooking the city. It was known that no one had been able to tame the beast until Robert. Even from a distance, the dragon radiated an aura of pure, untamed ferocity, its black scales gleaming like midnight. To witness his son ride such a creature, guiding it with an ease that belied its fierce reputation, filled Boremund with an equal measure of pride and awe.
As he walked through the streets of Stormrage, Boremund observed the life that pulsed through its veins. Marketplaces bustled with traders and artisans, farmers brought fresh produce from the fields, and children laughed as they played in the city's narrow alleyways. There was a sense of order here—a stark contrast to much of Essos, where chaos and lawlessness often reigned unchecked. In the Kingdom of Stormrage, people carried themselves with a quiet confidence, secure in the knowledge that they were protected.
Much of that security came from the Blackstone Legion. Boremund watched as these hardened warriors drilled in the training yards, preparing both seasoned soldiers and new recruits alike. Their movements were precise, disciplined, and fierce—these were no ordinary soldiers but elite warriors, bound by a code of justice and loyalty. He could see their influence extending even into the lives of common folk, who had begun adopting their mannerisms and language, even carrying simple weapons, as was now required by law.
Under the watchful eyes of the Blackstone Legion, the kingdom's boundaries were patrolled tirelessly. These soldiers were both guardians and symbols of justice, upholding the rule of law with an iron resolve that left an impression on all who saw them. Whether facing down slaver bands or enforcing order in distant villages, the Legion's presence brought peace to regions that had once been overrun by marauders and criminals.
Boremund had always known that his son possessed a strength that could not be contained, but he had not anticipated the depth of Robert's ambition. Here, in the wilds of Essos, Robert had carved out a realm that stood as a beacon of justice, strength, and unity—a place where all people, no matter their origins, could find safety under his rule. And as Boremund watched the people of Stormrage carry on with their daily lives, he understood that they looked up to Robert as more than just a king; they saw him as a protector, a dragonlord, and a symbol of hope in a land often marred by suffering.
On his final day in Stormrage, Boremund stood atop the walls of Robert's fortress, gazing out over the kingdom his son had built. His heart swelled with pride, tempered by a quiet sense of wonder. He knew that what Robert had built here was more than just a kingdom—it was a legacy, something that would endure long after they were both gone.
As he prepared to depart, Boremund turned to his son. "You've done something remarkable here, Robert," he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. "I always knew you were destined for greatness, but this… this is beyond what I could have imagined."
Robert's eyes met his father's, a flicker of appreciation crossing his face. "Stormrage is only the beginning," he replied. "There's more work to be done. But I know this—my people will have a home that no one can take from them. And they will know that justice is more than just words. It's our way of life."
With a final embrace, Lord Boremund departed, returning to Westeros with a newfound respect for the son he had once underestimated. And as his ship vanished over the horizon, Robert turned back to his kingdom, knowing that the path ahead was filled with both challenges and possibilities. In this land of fire and blood, he would forge a new future—one that would echo far beyond Essos, reaching even into the heart of Westeros.
By the time Lord Boremund Baratheon's ship docked at the port of King's Landing, news of his journey and the astonishing story he carried had already spread like wildfire throughout Westeros. Whispers filled the streets, reaching highborn and low alike: Robert Stronghammer, a bastard of House Baratheon, had risen to claim a throne of his own across the Narrow Sea. He was now the King of Stormrage—a name that was already stirring curiosity and inspiration in every corner of the realm.
For the downtrodden, the bastards of noble blood, and the countless smallfolk who felt powerless under the great lords, Robert's story became a beacon of hope. His journey had shown that even those born on the margins of power could carve their own destiny, and his tale gave rise to dreams that might have otherwise stayed buried in hearts unspoken.
When Boremund finally set foot on the docks, he was met with a crowd like none he had ever seen before. People of all kinds, from merchants to farmers, from commoners to the children of lesser knights, had come to catch a glimpse of the man who fathered this "Bastard King." Though Boremund was only a lord, the people of King's Landing greeted him with cheers and admiration usually reserved for royalty.
As he made his way through the throngs of people, Boremund could feel their hopeful gazes upon him, each face filled with awe, excitement, and a newfound sense of possibility. Children held wooden swords aloft, calling out Robert's name as if he were a hero from some grand tale. Young men and women alike watched him pass, eyes brimming with dreams they might not have dared to speak before.
The news had also reached the Red Keep, where the lords and ladies of the court buzzed with both intrigue and unease. The notion of a powerful Baratheon ruling across the sea—and one born outside of wedlock, no less—was unsettling to some, while others admired the boldness and ambition it represented.
When Boremund finally reached the gates of the Red Keep, he was met by royal guards who escorted him inside, where the nobility awaited him. Lord Boremund could sense their eyes upon him, searching for some sign of this newfound power he represented through his son. In every corner of the hall, whispers abounded—speculation about Robert's rule, the power he wielded with a dragon by his side, and what his existence might mean for the balance of power in Westeros.
Yet Boremund's thoughts remained on Robert, on the kingdom he had seen his son build with his own eyes. Though he himself had left Stormrage and returned to Westeros, he knew that the legacy Robert was forging would not be contained within the borders of Essos. As he walked through the halls of King's Landing, he knew that Robert's spirit had already left its mark on Westeros, challenging the old hierarchies and breathing life into those who had once felt lost and forgotten.
As Boremund was led into the throne room, he held his head high, carrying with him the pride of his son's accomplishments. He knew that Robert's story had only just begun, and that the hope he had ignited in the hearts of the common folk and nobility alike would continue to grow. For as long as tales of kings and dragons endured, Robert Stronghammer's rise would serve as a testament to the strength that lay within even the most unlikely of hearts.
In the grand throne room of the Red Keep, King Viserys Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne, a look of contemplation clouding his normally serene face. The lords and courtiers gathered around him were restless, eyes darting back and forth as they exchanged hushed words. Boremund Baratheon, the Lord of Storm's End, stood before the king, freshly returned from his journey to Essos. He'd come back bearing startling news that had already sent shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms: the mysterious king across the Narrow Sea was none other than his own son, Robert Stronghammer—a bastard who had risen from obscurity to crown himself King of Stormrage.
Boremund looked older somehow, burdened by the weight of what he had witnessed. His voice was steady but carried a tone of wonder as he confirmed to King Viserys and the assembled nobles that the rumors were indeed true. "Yes," he said, pausing to steady his voice. "Robert Stronghammer, my son, rules as King of Stormrage. And more astonishing than that…he has claimed the Cannibal."
The throne room fell into stunned silence. The Cannibal—a dragon so wild and fierce that even seasoned Targaryens had died attempting to tame it. It was a creature of nightmarish legend, feared as much by its fellow dragons as by humans. And yet, a bastard son of House Baratheon had achieved what no Targaryen prince had managed.
The revelation sparked murmurs across the hall, rippling through the ranks of nobles gathered in attendance. Many wore expressions of disbelief; others, especially those with bastards of their own, were struck by a strange, vicarious pride, as though Robert's ascent was proof that greatness could come from the unlikeliest places. Yet some, like Corlys Velaryon, wore expressions of thinly veiled displeasure. A staunch supporter of Targaryen authority, Corlys viewed the Cannibal as the birthright of House Targaryen, one of the last symbols of the family's Valyrian power. That a bastard—not even of pure Targaryen blood—had claimed it felt, to him, like an affront.
Corlys leaned over to whisper to a nearby lord, his voice filled with disapproval. "The Cannibal belongs to the royal family. It was a wild beast, yes, but it was meant to serve the realm. What right does a Baratheon have to it?"
Boremund caught Corlys's words and stiffened but chose to remain silent, allowing the king to speak. Viserys, noticing the growing tension, raised his hand to silence the room. His voice, calm but commanding, cut through the murmurs.
"House Baratheon may not wear the crown of Old Valyria, yet its blood is our own," he said, his gaze steady, first on Boremund and then on the gathered lords. "Robert Stronghammer is as much a Valyrian in blood as any of us. And he is, it seems, intent on building his own legacy across the sea."
The king's words were not merely a statement of fact but a calculated reminder of the Targaryen-Baratheon blood ties. Viserys understood the dangerous potential of Robert's kingdom, yet he also saw an opportunity in it. With the Cannibal at his command, Robert was a formidable force in Essos, one that Westeros would do well to acknowledge rather than antagonize. Besides, the Kingdom of Stormrage was far from the Iron Throne's influence and not easily reached. To embark on a campaign to subdue Robert would risk untold losses and yield few gains. And though he wouldn't admit it, Viserys felt a lingering worry about what it would mean to face the Cannibal in open battle.
Still, there was a lingering tension in the air. The nobles, especially those tied closely to the Targaryen dynasty, felt uneasy at this breach of their dragonlord tradition. For centuries, dragons had belonged solely to the Targaryen line, an exclusive bond that symbolized their connection to Valyria's ancient power. Robert's unprecedented claim blurred that line, and even those who accepted his Valyrian blood found themselves questioning what his rise would mean for the established order.
As murmurs continued, Viserys raised his hand once more, his tone firmer this time. "The Iron Throne has no quarrel with the Kingdom of Stormrage," he said, his gaze passing over the gathered lords. "However, we are not so foolish as to ignore the opportunity before us. Essos is vast and full of riches, and a strong kingdom ruled by Valyrian blood could be…beneficial to the realm."
The nobles exchanged glances, realizing that Viserys intended to turn Robert's unexpected rise into an advantage rather than a threat. Viserys continued, "I will send a delegation to establish trade with Stormrage. While it may be a distant realm, I see no harm in exploring the possibilities of a partnership. After all, who better to hold Essos than one of Valyrian blood?"
With Viserys's decision, any dissenting murmurs had little room to linger. Yet, as the king's words settled, many lords wore expressions of mixed emotions—reluctant acceptance for some, cautious interest for others. There were even a few who looked to Boremund with newfound respect, or perhaps envy, aware that his son's accomplishments had elevated House Baratheon's status in a way no one had anticipated.
As Boremund left the throne room, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders, though he knew it was only temporary. Rumors and tales of his son's deeds had already begun spreading like wildfire across the Seven Kingdoms, carrying whispers of Robert's strength, his dragon, and his fierce kingdom in Essos. Smallfolk, bastards, and outcasts took heart from his story, a tale of a man born low who had risen to unthinkable heights. To them, Robert was a living legend, a figure who represented the idea that even the humblest birth could produce greatness.
Author's Note:
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