Chapter 6 — "The Winter of the Victors" (part 2)
POV: Jon Arryn — The Weight of the Crown
King's Landing, 283 AC
The Iron Throne.
Jon Arryn looked at it and felt a chill run down his spine. That mass of swords, a symbol of absolute power, seemed more like a reminder that no king is safe.
It had been just weeks since Robert Baratheon had been crowned, and he could already see the kingdom crumbling. The new king didn't attend the Council, preferring to spend his days in brothels and taverns, drinking wine until he collapsed.
"This isn't the Robert who led men into battle," Jon thought bitterly.
That Robert had been a hurricane: furious, unstoppable, inspiring. But this… this was a broken man.
Lyanna Stark was dead, and with her, the part of Robert that could have been a good king.
Jon turned to Stannis Baratheon, who stood tall at his side, his brow furrowed as always.
"The kingdom needs stability," Jon said, stroking his beard. "And Robert needs to learn to rule."
Stannis snorted.
"Robert won't learn. Not tomorrow, not ever. He has no interest in the kingdom, only in drink and whores."
"Then we must sustain it," Jon replied calmly.
Stannis looked at him as if he wanted to argue, but finally nodded.
He was a tough man, but also practical.
Across the room, Tywin Lannister entered with his usual imposing stride. His red cloak trailed on the floor, and his cold eyes seemed to measure everything. Jon watched him warily.
"True power does not yet sit on the throne," he thought.
"He walks among us."
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POV: Tywin Lannister — The Chess Game
King's Landing, 283 AC
Tywin Lannister surveyed the throne room like a hunter surveys a cage full of prey. Everything was chaos. Perfect.
Robert was weak, Jon Arryn was old, Stannis lacked charisma, and Eddard Stark would soon retreat to the North. Westeros needed a new order, and Tywin planned to be the architect.
"Chaos is a ladder," he thought.
That was why he had given Cersei as Robert's wife. A masterstroke. In time, his grandchildren would be kings. Their blood would rule Westeros.
All Tywin needed was patience.
But there was one thing that irritated him deeply: Varys.
The eunuch always smiled, always knew more than he should.
As the Council discussed the future of the surviving Targaryens, Tywin noticed Varys watching him from the shadows. It was a silent reminder that he wasn't playing this game alone.
"He must be watched," Tywin decided.
"And, when the time comes, eliminated."
---
POV: Varys — Spiders Weave Their Webs
King's Landing, 283 AC
Varys smiled as he listened to the shouts of the Council. Jon Arryn urged caution, Stannis demanded the hanging of all Targaryens, and Tywin, silently, weighed every word.
It was a play… and he knew the script.
Because Varys knew something no one else did:
The dragons were not dead.
In a distant city in Essos, two children had been hidden. The children of Rhaegar Targaryen. One day, they would be the key to unleashing a new war, one he himself would help prepare.
And all the while, he watched Robert fall further into decline. The kingdom would inevitably divide. And when the time came, Varys would be ready to pull the strings.
"The game of thrones never ends," he said to himself.
"Only the players change."
---
POV: Stannis Baratheon — Storm's End
Storm's End, 283 AC
The sea wind battered the walls furiously, carrying with it the smell of salt and memories of hunger.
Stannis walked silently around the castle, overseeing the repairs after the siege. The stone still bore the scars of fire, the battlements were broken, and the harbor remained empty.
But what worried him most wasn't the walls… but the people.
Hunger had killed many. Fear had killed just as many. The eyes of the survivors were empty, dull.
Among them was one boy who caught his attention more than any other: Ronnel Storm.
Stannis watched him train on the parade ground. He was barely four years old, but his body was strong, his gaze intelligent. He moved with a maturity beyond his years.
"He's a bastard," Stannis repeated to himself, as if to convince himself it didn't matter.
But he couldn't ignore that the boy learned quickly. Too quickly.
The soldiers talked about him. The serving women adored him. Even the maester said his mind was sharper than any child he'd ever seen.
Renly, on the other hand, hated him. The boy saw him as a threat.
Stannis noticed everything. And silently noted it.
"If Robert doesn't learn to rule, I'll need all the loyal men I can find," he thought.
"Even a bastard."
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POV: Ronnel Storm
Storm's End, 283 AD
Ronnel sat atop the wall, holding a baby raven on his shoulder. His ice-blue eyes gazed at the horizon. The sea stretched as far as he could see, and with it, the promise of freedom.
But he wasn't free. Not yet.
He had survived the siege, but he had learned a bitter lesson:
"In this world, the weak die."
He saw the streets filled with orphans, the kitchens where stale bread was handed out, the starved looks. He saw the despair.
And he decided he would never be one of them.
He used the nights to train in secret.
Through the raven, he practiced his warg skills. He felt the wind in his feathers, the quickening of his tiny heart, the view of the world from the sky.
But he also studied. He stole books from the maester, memorized maps, learned names, lineages, alliances.
He knew the future would be bloody.
He knew that one day, all of Westeros would burn.
And when that day came...
He wouldn't be a pawn.
He would be a player.
POV: Ronnel Storm — The Player's Awakening
Storm's End,284 AD
The sea roared against the cliffs.
The salt-laden wind battered the walls, and the constant sound of waves crashing against the stone was like a distant drum, reminding him that the world was vast, unfathomable… and that he, Ronnel Storm, didn't plan to spend his entire life locked away in this castle.
He stood in the courtyard, barefoot on the damp earth, his torso bare. That morning's training had been brutal: running, lifting, practicing combat forms with sword, spear, and bow. His breathing was slow and controlled, and although he was barely six years old, his body resembled that of an eight-year-old.
He was already 1.47 meters tall. His muscles were defined; his reflexes were sharp. And most importantly: his mind was a weapon.
Twelve months had passed since the end of the rebellion, and in that time Ronnel had learned more than any other boy his age… even more than most of the adult men at Storm's End.
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The Secret Training
Maester Cressen believed Ronnel spent his nights sleeping.
But the nights were his.
When everyone else had left, Ronnel would go into the library with a candle and a notebook he had handmade. There, he would apply the knowledge of the 13 templates he had acquired:
Sheldon Cooper → perfect memorization, mathematical calculations, basic engineering, scientific strategy.
Ted Mosby → architecture, spatial design, ability to create building, harbor, and defense plans.
Dr. Watson → medical knowledge, anatomy, poisons, first aid.
Jason Bourne → hand-to-hand combat, stealth, eidetic memory for maps and faces.
Raizo → silent assassination techniques, pain control, shadow movement.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni → breathing, body control, superhuman physical endurance, sword mastery.
Dr. House → advanced diagnostics, understanding of the human body, manipulative persuasion.
Newt Scamander → magical understanding of creatures, empathy with animals, contact with the wild.
Héctor Barbossa → navigation, trade, plunder, maritime politics.
Daniel Park → mixed martial arts, improvisation, combat adaptation.
Harvey Specter → negotiation, persuasion, information control, political manipulation.
Michael Corvin → genetic adaptability, untapped potential strength.
Patrick Jane → reading body language, emotional manipulation, reputation building.
He combined it all into a single mental workout.
He knew he couldn't rely on brute force alone. If he wanted to survive in Westeros, he needed to be a wolf among wolves.
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Relationships and Reputation
Over the past year, the way people viewed him had changed drastically.
The maids adored him. Not only because he always spoke to them with respect, but because he often quietly helped them. Sometimes he showed up with firewood when they needed it most, other times he fixed simple things in the kitchen using basic physics. It wasn't uncommon to hear murmurs in the hallways:
—"That boy is different…"
—"He has Robert's eyes, but… he's smarter. Kinder."
—"One day he'll be someone important, I know it."
The cooks respected him because he often helped out during the toughest hours of the day, when the entire castle was hungry. He learned simple recipes and perfected them, and more than once saved the banquet by improvising ingredients when supplies were scarce.
The guards and knights had accepted him into the courtyard. At first, many laughed at him for wanting to train at his age. But when they saw his discipline, they stopped mocking him. Now, some even asked his opinions on how to improve balance, breathing, or using body weight. The veterans were beginning to speak of him with quiet respect.
Even Maester Cressen, one of the wisest men in Westeros, saw him as a prodigy.
"You are no ordinary boy, Ronnel," he said one afternoon, as he watched him write advanced calculations at the table. "One day, your mind will be sharper than any sword."
---
The Relationship with Renly
The bond with Renly Baratheon had changed slowly.
At first, Renly saw him as a threat. A strong, tall, handsome, and talented bastard… he was the kind of person who could overshadow him.
But Ronnel never humiliated him. He never bested him in front of others. Whenever he could, he let Renly win small arguments. He explained things to him as if he were an older brother, but without making him feel inferior.
One day, while they were both training with wooden swords, Renly fell backward. The guards laughed. Ronnel gave them a cold stare, and everyone fell silent.
"You covered yourself well," Ronnel told him, helping him up. "You just lost your balance."
From then on, Renly stopped attacking him with venomous words. They spent more time together now, and even sought him out to play or learn new things.
"I won't be your enemy, Renly," Ronnel thought.
"But I won't be your shadow either."
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Stannis's Respect
Stannis Baratheon was not an easy man to impress.
Yet he had watched Ronnel all year. He knew the boy spent hours training, that he pushed himself harder than any other, that he was disciplined.
"You have the mettle of a Baratheon," he told him one day, as they inspected the damaged harbor. "But remember this, bastard: the world will not give you anything. You will have to take it."
Ronnel bowed his head.
"I know, my lord. And I am willing."
For the first time, Stannis smiled faintly.
A gesture that, to anyone who knew Stannis, was equivalent to a hug.
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Ronnel's Plan
At night, while the baby raven slept on his shoulder, Ronnel wrote in his black leather notebook.
He had three clear goals:
1. Train and perfect every skill in the 13 templates.
It wasn't just about survival. It was about mastering every possible knowledge: combat, politics, trade, magic, medicine, and manipulation.
2. Build an information network.
The cooks, maids, guards, and sailors spoke... and Ronnel listened. Little by little, he began to weave a web of his own within Storm's End.
3. Prepare his departure.
Storm's End was his home now, but he couldn't stay forever. He wanted to see the Free Cities, the Yi Ti Empire, the deserts of Sothoryos...
And to achieve that, he needed money, connections, and power.
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