Chapter 10: The Blackwater Dash & The Serpent's Coil
The decision, once made, was executed with the ruthless speed that was fast becoming Robar Baratheon's hallmark. Within the hour, as ordered, the Stormdancer, a sleek, dark-hulled cog refitted for speed and stealth from BCR's burgeoning maritime assets, was prepared. Its captain, a grim-faced Ibbenese whaler named Morrec, poached by Davos Seaworth for his unparalleled knowledge of coastal currents and his utter lack of inconvenient loyalties beyond gold, awaited his new Lord's command.
Robar's Phoenix Team, forty-eight men and two women handpicked for their lethal skills and unwavering nerve, assembled on the fire-scarred courtyard of Felwood. They were clad in boiled leather dyed black, their faces obscured by shadows, their weapons – short swords, daggers, garrotes, and specialized tools for climbing and disabling traps – secured silently. Each carried a small, sealed packet containing a neutralizing agent for wildfire, concocted by the renegade pyromancer Maester Vaellyn, who was himself part of the team, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of fear and the thrill of forbidden knowledge. These were not knights bound by chivalry; they were corporate raiders, primed for a hostile extraction.
"The target is Aerys Targaryen and his chief pyromancers," Robar addressed them, his voice a low, cutting whisper that carried to every member. "Our objective is threefold: neutralize the King, prevent the ignition of the wildfire caches, and secure the Red Keep with minimal damage to the city's infrastructure. This city is a valuable asset; we are not here to see it incinerated by a madman." He paused, his cold blue eyes sweeping over them, his Haki a palpable pressure. "Failure means the death of hundreds of thousands and the loss of a prime economic zone. More personally, it means your deaths. Succeed, and the rewards will be commensurate with the risk. BCR does not forget its high-performing assets."
He gave final instructions to a grim-faced Lord Estermont, who would hold command of the main Stormlander forces in his absence, and to Stannis, who was already en route to oversee the continued "pacification" and resource exploitation of the Kingswood. Their orders were clear: maintain relentless pressure on Targaryen loyalists, continue the feints towards various Crownland strongholds, and under no circumstances attempt a direct assault on King's Landing until they received word from him. The success of this covert operation depended on the illusion that Robar was still leading the main army.
The voyage north along the coast was a masterpiece of stealth and speed. Morrec, the Ibbenese captain, proved his worth, navigating treacherous shoals and avoiding the few Targaryen patrol vessels with uncanny skill. Robar spent most of the journey in his cabin, poring over Davos's crudely drawn maps of King's Landing and the Red Keep's underbelly, cross-referencing them with Robert's own memories of the castle from his boisterous youthful visits. His mind was a supercomputer, running countless simulations, identifying potential choke points, ambush locations, and escape routes. He used his Observation Haki to its fullest extent, a living radar sweeping the waves for miles, detecting the faintest hint of danger. Once, a fast-approaching Targaryen dromond, likely on a desperate scouting mission, veered away abruptly as Robar focused his Conqueror's Haki in its direction – not enough to cause panic, but sufficient to instill a profound sense of unease in its captain, a "bad omen" that made him change course.
Under the cloak of a moonless, starless night, two days later, the Stormdancer slipped into a secluded cove a few miles south of King's Landing, a rendezvous point pre-arranged by Davos's agents. Small, dark skiffs, manned by silent figures who knew these waters intimately, ferried the Phoenix Team ashore. The air was thick with the stench of the city – woodsmoke, sewage, and an undercurrent of fear.
Their infiltration into King's Landing itself was a tense, shadowy affair. Guided by one of Davos's lead agents, a former Flea Bottom cutpurse named Finn whose loyalty Robar had purchased with the promise of a BCR pension plan, they moved like ghosts through the sleeping city. They avoided the main thoroughfares, sticking to darkened alleys and rooftops, bypassing Gold Cloak patrols with contemptuous ease. Robar, leading the way, felt the city's pulse through his Haki – the fear simmering beneath the surface, the pockets of watchful paranoia, the drunken snores of oblivious citizens. He moved with the predatory grace of a panther, Robert's powerful frame now perfectly attuned to stealth and silence. Twice, they encountered Gold Cloak patrols who were more alert than expected. Twice, those patrols were neutralized silently, efficiently, their bodies vanishing into the shadows before any alarm could be raised, victims of precisely thrown daggers or Robar's own Haki-suffused grip crushing a windpipe.
As they neared the looming silhouette of Aegon's High Hill, upon which the Red Keep squatted like a brooding stone beast, the tension became almost unbearable. The city around the Keep was eerily quiet, the usual nighttime sounds replaced by an oppressive silence. They could smell it now, faint but unmistakable – the acrid, chemical tang of wildfire components, a scent that Maester Vaellyn confirmed with a grim nod.
Finn led them to their primary infiltration point: a disused sewer culvert that, according to Davos's intelligence, connected to an ancient, forgotten section of the Red Keep's dungeons. The entrance was hidden behind a crumbling section of the old city wall, overgrown with thorny vines. It was a disgusting, foul-smelling passage, but it was also their best chance of gaining entry unobserved.
One by one, the Phoenix Team slipped into the darkness, Robar bringing up the rear. The tunnels were a labyrinth, slick with slime and echoing with the drip of unseen water. Maester Vaellyn, his knowledge of the Keep's older sections proving invaluable, helped navigate the maze, occasionally pointing out structural weaknesses or potential traps that Robar's Haki confirmed.
After what felt like an eternity of crawling through suffocating darkness, they reached a rusted iron grate. Beyond it, a faint torchlight flickered. This was it – the entrance to the Red Keep's lowest dungeons. Robar used a subtle, localized tremor to loosen the grate from its moorings without a sound, then pushed it inward.
The air beyond was stale, heavy with the scent of despair and ancient suffering. They were in.
The dungeons were mostly empty, save for a few skeletal remains in the deepest cells – testament to Targaryen justice. Their objective lay far above. Following Vaellyn's guidance and Robar's Haki-enhanced senses, they began their ascent, moving through forgotten storerooms, disused servant passages, and behind ancient tapestries, a silent, deadly current flowing upwards through the veins of the sleeping castle.
They encountered their first significant obstacle in a narrow spiral staircase leading to the main levels. Two household guards, Targaryen men by their Targaryen red-and-black surcoats, were stationed at its head, looking bored but alert. Before anyone else could react, Robar flowed past his team members. In the dim light, he was a blur of motion. One guard gasped as Robar's hand clamped over his mouth, a precisely targeted Haki-infused chop to the neck silencing him permanently. The other barely had time to register his companion's collapse before Robar's other hand, hard as iron with Armament Haki, delivered a single, devastating blow to his temple. Both were dead before they hit the ground, their bodies caught and lowered silently. No alarm. The efficiency was chilling.
As they emerged into a deserted corridor on one ofr the Red Keep's main residential levels, the sounds of the castle became more distinct – distant snores, the clatter of a dropped pot from the kitchens, the murmur of voices from a nearby guardroom. The stakes were impossibly high. Every shadow could hide an enemy, every corner could lead to discovery.
Davos's intelligence had pinpointed Aerys's current location: not his royal chambers, but a fortified solar deep within Maegor's Holdfast, where he had taken to spending his nights surrounded by his pyromancers and a handpicked guard of Kingsguard knights who still clung to their oaths, or perhaps their fear. Reaching it would mean traversing the most heavily guarded sections of the castle.
Suddenly, Finn, their guide, stiffened, holding up a hand. His street-honed senses, augmented by the fear Robar inspired, were sharp. From around a distant bend in the corridor, they heard the distinct, rhythmic clang of armored footsteps – a Kingsguard patrol. And not just any Kingsguard. Robert's memories, sharp and sudden, supplied a name as a tall figure in pristine white armor, his features noble yet stern, rounded the corner: Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold. One of the most skilled swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms. And utterly, inflexibly loyal to his vows.
This was an unplanned variable. A significant one.
Robar met Ser Barristan's surprised, then instantly suspicious gaze. The Kingsguard's hand went to the hilt of his sword. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, the fate of the mission, and perhaps the city, hanging in the balance.
This was not a Gold Cloak patrol to be silently dispatched. This was Barristan the Bold.
Robar's mind raced. Direct confrontation here would raise the alarm. But retreat was not an option.
His predatory gaze locked with Selmy's. The game had just escalated.
Word Count: Approx. 2950 words