Scene 1: The Doubt
The convoy from Storm's End arrived under a slate-grey sky, and it was a sight to behold.
Fifty heavy wains, their axles groaning, rolled into the camp. They were piled high with sacks stamped with the seals of Pentoshi merchant houses. This was the result of Robert's liquidation of the Baratheon treasures—gold turned into calories.
Stannis Baratheon rode at the head of the column. He was only eighteen, but he already had the face of a man of forty—balding, grim, his jaw set in a perpetual grind of duty.
He dismounted in the center of the camp, expecting relief. He had brought a fortune in grain. He expected cheers.
Instead, he found a camp that simmered with quiet resentment.
He walked past the "Stag" weighing stations. He saw the orderly latrine pits. But he also heard the whispers.
"Look at the wagons," a soldier near the fire pit muttered, eyeing the Pentoshi stamps. "Full to the brim. And yet we get one Stag a day."
"The King counts every grain," another spat. "He hoards it while we tighten our belts. I bet the officers are eating fresh bread tonight."
Stannis stiffened. He walked toward the command tent, where Robert was waiting.
Robert stood by a map table, looking tired. The "Eagle Vision" had been running constant simulations on the Ashford terrain, and it was draining him.
"You brought the reserve?" Robert asked, not looking up.
"Fifty wagons," Stannis said, his voice flat. "The castle cellars are still full to the rafters. We have enough grain to feed this army for six months."
Stannis pulled off his gauntlets, looking at his brother with a frown.
"So why are the men grumbling? I rode past the mess lines. They look at the wagons like wolves. They say you are starving them."
"They are not starving," Robert said, finally looking up. "They are on combat rations. One Stag of grain. Half a Stag of dried meat."
"Robert," Stannis said, his voice sharp. "We have the food. Why ration them like we are already under siege? It breeds mutiny. They see the supply train. They know it's there. To deny them a full belly when the wagons are sitting right there... it looks like greed."
"It is not greed," Robert said. "It is velocity."
He pointed to the map, to the massive red blob marking the Tyrell host.
"Mace Tyrell is feeding his men lamprey pies and Arbor gold. And because of that, his army moves three miles a day. They are fat, slow, and happy. If I feed my men full rations, they get heavy. The supply train runs out in two months instead of six."
"Discipline is one thing," Stannis countered. "But you are pushing them too hard. You let them dig ditches. You let them carry their own packs. And now you withhold food that is sitting right in front of their eyes?"
Stannis gestured outside, where Hoke was looking sullenly at his meager bowl of porridge.
"You have blurred the lines, Robert. You play at being a common soldier, but you control the food like a miserly lord. It is a dangerous combination. They will not love you for this. They will hate you."
Robert stood up. He picked up his helmet.
"You think they hate me?" Robert asked quietly.
"I think they doubt you," Stannis said honestly. "They think you are saving the good meat for yourself."
"Come with me," Robert said.
"Where?"
"To the chow line," Robert said, stepping out of the tent into the drizzle. "It is time for supper. And I want you to see how a miser eats."
Stannis followed, his teeth grinding. He respected the logistics, but he feared the morale failure. He believed in law. He believed soldiers should be fed and officers should command.
He didn't understand that Robert was about to turn the act of eating into an act of war.
[End of Scene]
Chapter 8: The Officer's Burden
Scene 2: The Example
The mess line fell silent as the two Baratheon brothers approached.
Usually, the officers' mess was separate—a tent where captains ate roasted chicken and drank decent wine while the men ate hardtack and gruel outside. It was the way of the world. Lords ate; peasants watched.
Robert ignored the officers' tent. He walked straight to the main distribution line, where hundreds of spearmen were waiting with their wooden bowls.
The cook, a sweating man named Pate, froze when he saw the King towering over him.
"My... my Lord?" Pate stammered, holding the ladle.
"One ration, Pate," Robert said, holding out a battered tin bowl.
Pate looked nervous. He glanced at the hungry soldiers watching, then back at the King. He dipped the ladle deep, trying to scoop up the thicker chunks of salted pork from the bottom of the cauldron—the "Lord's Portion."
"No," Robert said.
He reached out and stopped Pate's hand.
"The standard," Robert ordered.
He pointed to the balance beam sitting on the table. The "Stag" stone sat on one side.
"Weigh it."
Pate swallowed hard. He poured a standard scoop of greyish barley porridge onto the scale cloth. It balanced. Then he added the daily allotment of dried beef—a strip no bigger than a finger.
The scale tipped perfectly level.
"One Stag," Robert announced, his voice carrying over the silent camp.
Pate tried to add a piece of bread on the side. "For your strength, my Lord... you are a big man..."
"Does Hoke get extra bread?" Robert asked, gesturing to the spearman standing nearby.
"No, my Lord."
"Then neither do I."
Robert took the bowl. He took the single strip of meat. He didn't retreat to his tent. He sat down on a log next to the fire, shoulder-to-shoulder with a group of terrified levies.
He began to eat. He didn't grimace. He ate the tasteless, boiled grain with the steady rhythm of a machine refueling.
Stannis stood by the kettle, watching the scene. He saw the soldiers exchanging looks. The resentment that had been simmering in the camp—the whispers of "hoarding" and "officer's greed"—evaporated instantly.
They saw their King, a man of six-and-a-half feet, starving himself voluntarily.
A soldier near Robert pushed his own piece of bread toward the King. "My Lord... take it. You need the meat to swing the hammer."
Robert pushed it back gently. "Eat, lad. I have fat to burn. You don't."
He finished the bowl, scraped it clean, and stood up.
"Back to work," Robert said to the camp.
The grumbling was gone. In its place was a grim, fanatical resolve. If the King could do it, they could do it.
Later, inside the Command Tent.
Stannis paced the floor. He was agitated, which for Stannis meant his jaw was clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.
"It was theater," Stannis accused. "Effective theater, but theater nonetheless."
"It was necessary," Robert said, pouring a cup of water. "They needed to see that the austerity isn't punishment. It's strategy."
"Strategy?" Stannis stopped pacing. "You have fifty wagons of Pentoshi grain sitting outside. You could feed them double rations and still have enough for three months. Why starve them? Why weaken them before the battle?"
"Sit down, Stannis."
Robert unrolled the map of the Reach. He pointed to the villages surrounding Ashford.
"Look at these," Robert said. "Fawnton. Old Oak. Risley. What happens if we run out of food?"
"We forage," Stannis said immediately. "It is standard doctrine. We send outriders to take grain from the peasantry."
"And what happens when we take their grain?"
"They starve," Stannis shrugged. "Better them than us."
"No," Robert corrected. "When we take their grain, they run. They run to the nearest lord. They run to Mace Tyrell. And they say: 'The Stags were here. They took my grains/cattle. They headed West/North.'"
Robert jabbed a finger at the map.
"Foraging creates noise, Stannis. It creates refugees. It creates a trail of angry people pointing fingers right at us."
He leaned back, his eyes burning with the cold logic of the transmigrator.
"Mace Tyrell is loud. He has to be. His army is so bloated he must pillage every village he passes just to feed his knights. That is why Tarly knows where every Tyrell battalion is—he just follows the smoke."
"And us?" Stannis asked, the realization dawning on him.
"We carry our own weight," Robert said. "We don't steal a single apple. We don't burn a single barn. The peasants stay in their homes. They don't run to Tarly because they have nothing to report."
He tapped the location of their camp.
"To the smallfolk, we are ghosts. To Randyll Tarly, we are invisible. He can't find us because we don't need anything from the land."
Stannis looked at the map. He looked at the brothers' reflection in the polished steel of a breastplate. He saw the genius of it. It wasn't just about discipline; it was about Information Control.
"Silence is expensive," Stannis murmured. "You pay for it with hunger."
"I pay for it with control," Robert said. "I would rather my men be slightly hungry and invisible, than full-bellied and surrounded."
He looked at Stannis.
"That is the Officer's Burden, brother. We starve so we don't have to steal. And because we don't steal, we strike from the shadows."
Stannis nodded slowly. It was a harsh, unyielding logic that appealed to his very soul.
"One Stag," Stannis repeated. "I will inform the quartermaster. My ration is to be weighed the same."
"Good," Robert smiled grimly. "Now, let's talk about where we are going to kill Randyll Tarly."
[End of Scene]
Chapter 8: The Officer's Burden
Scene 3: The Enforcer
Night settled over the camp, heavy and wet. The rain had returned, turning the ground into a black slurry, but the discipline of the Stormlands host did not waver.
Stannis Baratheon did not sleep. He patrolled.
He walked the perimeter of the supply wagons, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path Robert had ordered laid down to prevent the carts from sinking. The camp was silent, save for the rhythmic clack-clack of the sentries pacing their rounds.
Stannis checked the lines. He checked the latrines (limed and covered, as per the new code). He checked the pickets.
Then, he heard a rustle.
It came from the shadow of the third supply wain—one of the Pentoshi grain carts.
Stannis didn't shout. He didn't draw his sword. He moved with the grim, silent determination of a shadowcat. He rounded the corner of the wagon.
A soldier—a corporal of House Errol—was kneeling in the mud. He had worked a knife into the canvas of the lowest sack and was funneling dried beef strips into a pouch at his belt.
The man was stealing calories.
Stannis stepped into the light of the nearby torch.
"Corporal," Stannis said. His voice was not loud, but it had the temperature of a winter frost.
The man jumped, dropping the beef. He spun around, eyes wide with terror. "My Lord! I... I was checking the knots! The damp..."
"Your pouch is full," Stannis noted, pointing to the bulge at the man's waist.
"I... I was hungry, my Lord. The ration... it's not enough for a working man."
Stannis stepped closer. The corporal shrank back against the wheel.
"The King marched twenty miles today," Stannis said. "The King carries a warhammer that weighs more than your torso. The King ate one Stag of porridge and one strip of beef."
Stannis grabbed the corporal by the collar and slammed him against the wood of the wagon.
"Do you work harder than the King, Corporal?"
"No... no, my Lord."
"Then why do you deserve more than him?"
The noise attracted the guard. Two spearmen ran over, spears lowered. They saw Stannis holding the thief.
"Summon the company," Stannis ordered. "Now."
The Judgment
Ten minutes later, two hundred men of the rearguard stood in a semi-circle around the wagon. They were tired. They were wet. And they were watching their commander hold a pouch of stolen beef.
Robert stood at the back of the crowd, arms crossed, watching. He did not intervene. This was Stannis's test.
Stannis held up the pouch.
"This man," Stannis announced, his voice grinding like millstones, "stole three days' worth of meat. He took it from this wagon."
He looked at the soldiers.
"This wagon does not belong to Lord Baratheon. It belongs to you. It is the life of this army. When he cut this sack, he did not steal from my treasury. He stole from your bellies."
Stannis turned to the corporal, who was weeping on his knees in the mud.
"You say you are hungry. We are all hungry. Hunger is the price of speed. And speed is the price of victory."
Stannis drew his sword. It hissed as it left the scabbard.
"In the Stormlands, the penalty for theft is the loss of a hand," Stannis recited the law. "But we are at war. And you have endangered the unit."
"Mercy, my Lord!" the corporal sobbed. "I will put it back! I will take double shifts!"
"The King ate dust today so that you would not have to forage," Stannis said coldly. "He starved himself to keep you hidden from the enemy. You repaid that sacrifice with greed."
Stannis raised the sword.
"We do not starve," Stannis shouted to the men, his eyes burning with a sudden, fierce conviction he had learned only hours ago. "We sharpen."
The sword fell.
It was clean. It was brutal. It was necessary.
As the body was dragged away, Stannis wiped the blade on a cloth. He looked at the men. They didn't look rebellious. They looked terrified, yes, but they also looked at the wagons with a new reverence. The food wasn't just grain anymore; it was a sacred trust, protected by iron law.
Robert walked up to Stannis as the men dispersed.
"Hard justice," Robert murmured.
"Necessary justice," Stannis replied, sheathing his sword. "Fairness is not kindness, Robert. Fairness is consistency. If the King starves, the thief must die."
Robert clapped a heavy hand on his brother's shoulder.
"You are ready," Robert said.
The Departure
Dawn came with a heavy fog. The camp was breaking down, the "Stag" machine preparing to roll west toward Ashford.
Stannis stood by his horse. His small escort—ten knights—waited to ride back east, to Storm's End.
Robert stood beside him. The two brothers looked nothing alike. Robert was a giant, bursting with muscle and life. Stannis was wire and bone, tight and brittle.
"The Tyrell vanguard will be at Ashford in two days," Robert said, checking the cinch on his saddle. "I will engage them there."
"You are outnumbered," Stannis said. "Even with your... new methods. Four to one."
"I have the ground," Robert said. "And I have the surprise. Tarly is looking for a traditional army. He won't find one."
Robert turned to face Stannis. The playfulness was gone.
"Go back to the castle, Stannis. Lock the gates. Mace Tyrell will come for you after he deals with me. Or if I slip past him, he will besiege you to cut off my retreat."
"Let him come," Stannis said through gritted teeth. "I will hold Storm's End until I eat the rats."
"Don't just hold it," Robert said. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a scroll. It was covered in drawings—charcoal diagrams, engineering schematics.
"Take this."
Stannis unrolled it. "What is this? Pumps? Layers of sand?"
"The water," Robert said. "The castle well is deep, but if the siege lasts a year, the latrines will seep. The dead will poison the ground. This is a filter system. Charcoal and sand. Build it. Drink nothing that hasn't passed through it."
Stannis looked at the diagram. It was brilliant in its simplicity.
"And the granary," Robert added. "Standardize it. Count every sack. Ration the castle from Day One as if you are on Day Three Hundred. Do not let the castellan feast while the garrison starves."
"I will," Stannis promised. "I will weigh the rats if I have to."
They stood there for a moment. The silence between them was usually filled with awkwardness. Today, it was filled with respect.
"If I fall at Ashford," Robert said quietly, "you are the Lord of Storm's End. You are the head of the House."
"You will not fall," Stannis insisted, though his voice wavered slightly. "You are too stubborn to die."
Robert laughed, a short, sharp bark. "True enough."
He swung onto his massive horse.
"I am the Hammer, Stannis," Robert said, looking down at his brother. "You are the Anvil. I will strike them. But you must bear the weight."
"I will not break," Stannis vowed.
"I know," Robert smiled. "That is why I leave my home to you."
Robert kicked his spurs. The destrier thundered away, leading the column into the mist. Stannis watched him go until the Stag banner was swallowed by the fog.
Storm's End - Three Days Later
The great drum tower of Storm's End stood defiant against the crashing waves of Shipbreaker Bay.
Maester Cressen shuffled into the Great Hall, clutching a stack of ravencraft scrolls. He expected to find Stannis brooding in the solar, worrying about the approaching Tyrell fleet.
Instead, he found the Great Hall transformed.
The long tables had been cleared of feasting gear. In their place were measuring stations.
Soldiers were hauling sacks of grain from the lower cellars. Stannis stood in the center of the room, holding a balance beam.
"Maester," Stannis said, not looking up. "Record this. Sack 405. Wheat. weight: One Stag minus two ounces. Fill it."
"My Lord?" Cressen asked, bewildered. "What are you doing?"
"We are preparing," Stannis said. "The siege is coming."
Stannis pointed to the corner of the hall, where the castle smiths were working on a strange contraption—a series of barrels filled with crushed charcoal and fine river sand.
"Is that... for the wine?" Cressen asked.
"For the water," Stannis said. "Robert says the Flux kills more sieges than the sword. We will filter every drop."
Cressen blinked. This was new. Stannis had always been diligent, but this... this was inspired.
"Robert said this?" Cressen asked. "Since when does Robert care about water filters?"
Stannis stopped. He rested his hand on the balance beam. He looked at the pile of standardized sacks, the neatly organized survival machine he was building.
"Robert has changed, Cressen," Stannis said quietly. "He gave me the tools. He gave me the method."
Stannis picked up a piece of charcoal.
He turned back to the soldiers, his voice ringing with absolute command.
"Next sack! Move! The Tyrells will find no weakness here!"
As the castle buzzed with a newfound, frantic efficiency, Stannis finally felt the burden settle onto his shoulders. It was heavy. It was crushing.
And he was ready to carry it forever.
[End of Chapter 8]