"Robert Baratheon the First, entering!"
Robert and Cersei walked into the throne room. The king's arrival immediately silenced every conversation.
Cersei slowed her steps, watching Robert ascend the twisted, jagged Iron Throne.
Since becoming king, Robert had handled little actual governance. He looked toward his foster father, Jon Arryn, for guidance.
Arryn sighed inwardly.
A troubling thought flashed through his mind: he might one day have to train a successor for this impulsive foster son.
The slender Lord Arryn withdrew a sealed message from his robes and addressed the hall:
"According to our intelligence, the Targaryens intend to abandon Dragonstone and flee to Essos.
The false king Viserys has taken with him more than half the island's people and nearly all the fleet.
Remaining on Dragonstone are the Mad King's widow, Rhaella, and three young dragonspawn.
They still cling to their claim on the Iron Throne.
The island is weakened and nearly undefended. This is our chance to wipe out the Targaryens once and for all.
By the authority of Robert Baratheon the First, I call you to arms—to strike the final blow!"
His voice rang firm and powerful, betraying no hint of age.
"Yes! It is time to finish them!" A young, overeager voice cut in—Renly Baratheon, Robert's youngest brother.
"Take Dragonstone! Avenge our fleet!" Renly cried, oblivious to the stiffness spreading across Stannis's face.
"Your Grace," said Lord Paxter Redwyne, "the Redwyne Fleet stands ready for your command."
The Redwyne Fleet had suffered losses in the Battle of the Narrow Sea, but it remained the only significant naval force Robert could rely on.
With Redwyne's support, the assembled lords nodded in approval.
With a fleet, their soldiers would not have to swim to the island.
With overwhelming numbers, capturing Dragonstone would not be difficult.
"We have sixty thousand men," Robert declared proudly. "With every soldier spitting once, we could drown Dragonstone's Dragonmont!"
Not a kingly remark—but entirely Robert.
At that moment Kevan Lannister, who had brought ten thousand Westerland soldiers, asked:
"Your Grace, is the news about Rhaegar's son still being on Dragonstone reliable?"
"Of course it's reliable," Robert replied.
Kevan nodded and stepped back.
As long as Viserys and Young Aegon lived, Robert's rule could never be secure.
To keep this operation secret, Robert had not summoned the Reach or Dorne.
Instead, he privately contacted Redwyne and mobilized the fleet.
The gathered lords were eager, almost gleeful.
Winter had lasted over three years; times were hard. Everyone needed prey to fill their empty bellies.
Rumor spoke of millions of gold dragons in Dragonstone's treasury—an irresistible lure.
But Ser Barristan stood silently, troubled.
Since bending the knee, he had become a Kingsguard to House Baratheon. Yet he had once served Rhaegar. Now he was being asked to slay Rhaegar's bloodline.
His heart twisted in conflict.
He knew Robert would attack Dragonstone.
All he could do was beg mercy for the children—perhaps if the remaining Targaryens renounced their claim, Robert might spare them.
During the heated discussions, the new Grand Maester hurried to Jon Arryn, stuffing a letter into his hands.
A few nearby lords, including Ned Stark, noticed the sudden shift in Arryn's expression.
His sparse brows furrowed tightly—clearly, the letter bore bad news.
Even Robert sensed the change.
"What is it?" he barked.
The question drew the entire hall's attention. The chatter died instantly as dozens of lords craned their necks toward Arryn.
Arryn handed the letter to Jaime Lannister—whose right hand was gone—and Jaime carried it toward the Iron Throne.
Too slowly for Robert's liking.
"Gods! Move faster, Kingslayer! You lost your right hand, not your right foot!"
Jaime flushed scarlet and lowered his eyes, enduring the humiliation.
Cersei, as his twin, felt every sting of shame cut through him. But with her hand resting on her swelling belly, she could do nothing.
Robert's outburst had captured every eye.
Those with sharp vision could see his face reddening, then paling, and his breath quickening.
At last Robert flung the letter to the floor and roared:
"Greyjoy! Those damned ironborn! May they rot in the seven hells with Rhaegar!"
The mask of royal decorum shattered instantly.
The king stood on the Iron Throne, cursing loudly. But his curses told the lords everything they needed to know.
Balon Greyjoy had rebelled.
Putting down an ironborn uprising versus exterminating the last Targaryens—which mattered more?
This was now Robert's dilemma.
"It must be because the Targaryens attacked the royal ships. Otherwise Balon would never dare rebel!" Brynden Tully snapped.
The Riverlands had once belonged to the ironborn until the Targaryens stole them and gifted them to House Tully.
Riverrun, as usual, feared the ironborn the most.
Historically, the North, the Westerlands, and the Riverlands suffered most from ironborn raids.
The North was vast wilderness—the ironborn often lost more in travel costs than they gained.
The Westerlands were wealthy, but long ago they took noble hostages from the isles and declared they would hang one every time an ironborn ship appeared.
Since then, even in Tywin's absence or during Robb Stark's campaigns, Balon never dared raid the Westerlands.
Thus, the Riverlands were always the ripest target—weak militarily and sitting on stolen land.
Ned looked at Brynden.
He knew the man was right.
Balon must have seen the crown's weakened naval power and seized the chance.
Everyone in the hall realized it:
The wealthy Targaryens would not be attacked. Instead, they would now spend a fortune fighting the impoverished ironborn.
Yet the opportunity was fleeting.
This was one of the last chances in years to take Dragonstone.
Soon the Targaryens would strip the island clean—down to the last golden dragon.
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