Chapter 184 — Take Storm's End in Ten Days!
The moment those words left his mouth, the Small Council chamber erupted into noisy discussion.
Pitying gazes fell upon the two wretches kneeling on the floor.
So that's it—
They'd come to appeal directly to the Iron Throne.
Everyone knew that several Stormlands lords had been defeated at Summerhall, but none of them had realized that the three Lords had actually lost their ancestral lands as well.
And judging by their pitiful state, they must have endured an especially brutal ordeal.
Damn Robert Baratheon… utterly unfit to rule.
Lord Cafferen wept as though his heart had been torn out. Beside him, Lord Grandison was less theatrical, but tears still streamed down his face, his expression delicate and pitiable.
"Fought bravely"…
Well, Fell had been brave. When Robert's army broke into the city, Fell had rallied men immediately—only to have his skull smashed in by a warhammer.
As for these two, they hadn't dared resist at all. They fled in panic. One fell from his horse and cracked his head; the other broke his leg.
Their injuries had nearly healed already—
But before setting out for King's Landing, Lord Randyll Tarly had specifically told them to look as miserable as possible.
So last night, after some discussion, they decided to reopen their old wounds themselves.
To be fair, Grandison had really gone for it—one solid smash to the head with a stone, nearly sending Cafferen to meet the Stranger.
Cafferen hadn't held back either. With that force, Grandison would probably limp for the rest of his life.
As for their lands…
Those were now under Baratheon control. That part wasn't fabricated.
Even if it only happened after their defeat at Summerhall.
"Outrageous!"
Acting Master of Laws Kevan Lannister was the first to rise, his voice filled with righteous anger.
"By the Seven! A liege lord is meant to be the shield of his vassals!"
Kevan had always been a man of honor. Upright, capable, yet content to stand behind his brother Tywin for decades.
But hearing Cafferen's account, even he couldn't tolerate it.
"Robert Baratheon not only failed to protect his bannermen—he seized their lands and castles, even pursuing them to extinction!"
"This is a blatant violation of the laws of the realm!"
"There has never been a crime more egregious in all the Seven Kingdoms!"
Tywin glanced briefly at Kevan… then returned to silence.
Extermination…
He had done that himself once.
But only after provocation—and certainly not in the same manner as Robert's barbarity.
"Your Grace."
Kevan stepped forward again, his voice ringing through the hall.
"More than half a month ago, summons were sent to the Stormlands. To this day, not a single lord has answered the call to attend the Dragon's Advent Ceremony."
"The events at Summerhall prove beyond doubt that Robert Baratheon has ceased to be loyal to the Iron Throne."
"Now he commits atrocities such as these. I formally advise that envoys be dispatched immediately to the Stormlands."
"Robert Baratheon is to be ordered to King's Landing to stand trial. By decree of the Iron Throne, his title of Lord should be stripped—and granted instead to his brother, Stannis Baratheon."
The Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon, rose at once in agreement.
"Indeed, Your Grace!"
"Since the death of Lord Steffon Baratheon, the Stormlands have ignored every royal summons."
"When Your Grace, the Queen, and King Viserys were endangered in Dorne, they didn't send so much as a single boat to aid you!"
"Robert Baratheon must be punished—only then will the might of House Targaryen be made clear!"
Master of Coin, Qarlton, leapt up as well, though the others had already said nearly everything he wanted to say. His face flushed crimson as he managed only:
"Your Grace… the lords speak the truth!"
The Masters of Laws, Coin, and Ships were united—rare unanimity.
Even the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister, raised no objection.
Had King Aerys still lived to see such harmony in the council, he might have laughed himself out of the grave.
Silence fell.
Only the steady tapping of Lance Lot's knuckles against the jagged blades of the Iron Throne echoed through the chamber.
"…Not enough."
At last, Lance Lot lifted his gaze. Cold blue eyes flashed like drawn steel.
"Your proposals are sound. But the Stormlands have already made their defiance clear."
He scanned every face below the steps, calm and merciless.
"The North stands opposed to us. Now the Stormlands join them."
"Then we fight."
His voice rose—sharp, unmistakable.
"Robert Baratheon slaughtered his vassals, seized their lands, defied royal command, and soaked every stone of Summerhall in blood."
"He even colluded with Dorne's traitors, seeking to oppose the Iron Throne through marriage."
"He has chosen war."
"Then we answer him with war."
"Lord Kevan."
Kevan bowed immediately. "Your Grace."
"Draft the declaration," Lance commanded without pause.
"As Master of Laws, you will write it."
"I want every lord, knight, and commoner in the Seven Kingdoms to see Robert Baratheon's crimes laid bare."
"In the name of the Iron Throne and House Targaryen, command him to immediately abandon his marriage pact with House Martell—renounce his betrothal to Princess Elia."
"And order him to set out at once. Within three days, he is to present himself in King's Landing to receive the Iron Throne's final judgment."
"Yes, Your Grace!"
Though Kevan didn't understand why Lance insisted on adding the clause regarding the Dornish marriage, he accepted the order without hesitation.
"Lord Velaryon."
"Your Grace!"
The Master of Ships stepped forward almost by reflex, a long-forgotten fire blazing in his eyes.
How many years had it been?
How many years since the Velaryon fleet had truly gone to war—rather than rotting in harbor, battered by sea winds, occasionally venturing out to fish or escort merchant convoys?
This time, he would prove his worth as Master of Ships in the campaign against the Stormlands—and wash away the disgrace of having once offended the Regent.
"Mobilize the fleet immediately."
As expected, Lance's voice—cold and lethal—cut through the chamber.
"Proceed via the sea lanes. Seal off Storm's End completely. I want it blocked from the sea."
"Yes, Your Grace!"
His reply rang louder than usual. He unconsciously wet his lips, dry from excitement.
"Lord Varys."
Lance's gaze did not linger on Velaryon. It shifted calmly to another corner.
The rotund Master of Whisperers stepped forward without making a sound, his expression still one of gentle sorrow.
"Your Grace."
His tone carried no trace of emotion.
"Dispatch ravens to the Reach at once," Lance ordered flatly.
"Contact Mace Tyrell—no… send the message directly to Lady Olenna."
"Have her instruct Lord Randyll Tarly to advance east immediately, using Nightsong as a staging point."
"Strike Blackhaven. Create the appearance of an invasion deep into Stormlands territory, forcing Robert Baratheon to divide his forces to defend his flank."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Unlike Velaryon, Varys showed no excitement at all. He withdrew silently, fading from the chamber as though he had never existed.
That sense of invisibility made him even easier to overlook than Tywin Lannister—who was still pretending to be a decorative statue.
Watching Lance issue command after command, calmly orchestrating a war as if the outcome were already decided, Qarlton finally understood what the Regent had meant by "notification."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
His heart was bleeding.
A new king crowned. Dragons returned. King's Landing had become a golden hen laying eggs by the hour.
Lords from every corner of the realm flocked to the capital. Inns overflowed. Prices skyrocketed. Taxes poured into the treasury like a tidal wave—half a month rivaling an entire year's revenue.
And now—
A naval blockade. Fleet-wide deployment. Supplies, sailors' pay, ship maintenance…
Each order burned gold dragons.
With a single decree, the Crownlands would transform into a vast war machine—and its fuel was molten gold.
Qarlton could already see his freshly filled treasury being emptied chest by chest. His chubby face twitched.
He'd thought the Regent would issue stern condemnations, give Robert a way down, quietly peel away wavering Stormlords.
But no.
Still—
Looking at Velaryon's flushed excitement and the white-armored regent calmly commanding the board…
Why did his blood suddenly feel so hot?
Screw the gold dragons.
Let's do this.
"Your Grace!"
Spurred by the warlike atmosphere, Qarlton clenched his heart shut and charged forward, courage finally overpowering thrift.
His voice trembled—but rang loud.
"We should also dispatch a ground army southward—apply direct pressure on the Stormlands and force Robert Baratheon into panic!"
He puffed out his chest, trying to look resolute, though his twitching face betrayed him.
"Oh?"
Lance raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.
The notoriously stingy Master of Coin—suddenly generous with war?
"Yes, Your Grace!"
Qarlton no longer cared about the treasury.
"I propose Ser Barristan Selmy lead ten thousand elite infantry down the Kingsroad! Let the blade point straight into the Stormlands' heart and show Robert Baratheon what betrayal of the Iron Throne truly costs!"
The council murmured approval.
Barristan Selmy—peerless knight, unrivaled commander. No one in King's Landing was better suited.
"No."
The Regent's voice fell like a blade.
Silence slammed into the chamber.
All eyes snapped toward the Iron Throne.
Lance lifted his gaze, sapphire eyes seeming to pierce the Red Keep's stone walls, staring straight into the Stormlands' open plains.
"Eight hundred."
"Light cavalry."
"I will lead them personally."
—!!!
His words were slow, precise, and absolute, hammering into every heart.
The confidence was so overwhelming that even Tywin Lannister turned his head to look.
"But… Your Grace!"
Qarlton recovered first, alarmed.
"The Dragon's Advent Ceremony begins in ten days! If you personally ride to the Stormlands, the lords of the realm won't be able to witness your glory—"
He didn't doubt Lance's strength. Since Duskendale, the Regent had never lost.
"Ten days."
Lance waved him off, chin lifting, eyes filled with disdain.
"Within ten days, I will storm Storm's End myself."
"I will tear Robert Baratheon's head from his shoulders and hang it from the walls of the Red Keep—so every lord attending the Dragon's Advent Ceremony can see it clearly."
"What?!"
"Ten days?!"
"Impossible!"
Whispers exploded across the hall.
Yes, Storm's End was close—two days by hard cavalry ride.
But that was Storm's End.
A fortress said to have never fallen in all of history.
And before it lay four or five major Stormlands cities.
Eight hundred men. Ten days.
No one believed it could be done.
Even with dragons—these were hatchlings. Rhaego couldn't even breathe fire yet.
Give it twenty years, and Lance could boast about capturing Robert in a day, stopping for a whorehouse on the way—and they'd believe him.
But now?
Still, no one dared oppose him.
Especially Velaryon—who had long since lost all courage to resist after the coronation.
"Your Grace… please reconsider."
In the silence, timid Qarlton bit down and spoke again.
"Your strength is unquestionable, but this is too dangerous."
"Eight hundred riders, deep in enemy territory—if you're surrounded, we may not reach you in time!"
"We should advance on all fronts, encircle them—"
"That's enough."
Lance waved him silent.
He understood the concern.
But some risks had to be taken.
Ashara was in Storm's End.
If he did nothing—what kind of man would that make him?
"Carry out my orders."
"You are the pillars of House Targaryen."
"I, Lance Lot, on behalf of King Viserys, thank you for your service."
He gave no room for further argument.
Velaryon hooked Qarlton by the neck and dragged him out before he could protest again.
Silence returned to the Iron Throne.
"Uncle Rhaeseryon… are you going to beat the bad people?"
Only then did little Viserys blink up, curiosity shining in his eyes.
"Heh…"
Lance didn't answer directly. He patted the boy's head.
"Do you know how we deal with those who defy us, little Viserys?"
"Of course! Father taught me!"
The innocent voice echoed across the throne—making the two Kingsguard twitch.
"Burn… burn them all."
---