"So be it, Your Grace. You're a dead man anyway."
Sighing, Robert stood in one place and watched the First Sword of Braavos charge at him with 50 of his men. The place was large enough to accommodate their battlefield. It was like a hall, the ceiling as tall as the throne room back in the Red Keep.
Too bad the pristine marble was about to gain a crimson hue.
"It was nice meeting you, King Robert." The First Sword of Braavos roared and aimed his sharp, thin sword at Robert's neck. "Remember this name, for it is the last you shall hear—Qarro Volentin!"
Robert didn't flinch or react to the incoming strike at his neck. He wasn't dressed in any armor, just a simple, fine tunic and breeches with a surcoat on top. He just stared back at Qarro Volentin.
"Haaaaa!"
Clank!
Robert caught Qarro's blade, a mere inch from his neck. He grabbed it with his bare hand, all the while his steely gaze looked at Qarro with an emotionless look. As if the man was nothing. That blade was nothing. The name, First Sword of Braavos, was nothing.
"You prattle on and on… what a damn waste."
"You!" Qarro tried to pull back his sword, slicing Robert's fingers with it. But he couldn't. Robert's grip was insane.
"I gave you the easy road, and you walked right past it. This? This is what you chose."
Wooosh!
Robert swung the spear held in his other hand. In a quick, smooth motion, the top blade sliced through Qarro's neck with a quick snap, severing the head.
And just like that, the First Sword of Braavos was dead. His head rolled away while the body, still in Robert's grasp, sprayed blood like a fountain, coating Robert and the floor crimson.
"Master Volentin!"
The other 50 or so men saw their commander dying and rushed at Robert in a similar fashion. But they dared to crowd around Robert, a grave mistake.
Woosh!
"When… will… you… learn?!"
Like a dancing jester, Robert pivoted on his feet and swung the spear in a circular motion, slitting the throats of all men who came close. Normally, slicing metal was impossible. While fairy tales showcased knights slicing each other casually. In reality, when armored men fought, it was more of a brawl than a sword fight. Sure, it would start with swords initially.
Robert, however, was never one of those. He'd always been blessed with strength, and the warhammer was his choice. That meant he could cave armor and crush his enemies.
But now, with his inhuman strength, he ripped through Braavosi armor. His spear got chipped, its sharp edges dulled, more deadly and painful.
"Gaaaah!"
"Aaaargh!"
Men roared at the attack and then groaned in pain. Lucky ones died instantly; unlucky ones sprayed their blood and died slowly, agonizingly, forming a crimson puddle around Robert.
Clank!
Thud!
One after another, Robert struck and killed. There were 50 men, and he reduced them to less than 10 within a few moments. Not a single man lasted beyond the first swing of their swords. Worse was that they didn't even connect.
In that entire duration, Robert didn't take more than ten steps. Bodies just kept piling up around him.
"N-No, no, no…"
Thud!
Robert smashed the dulled spear into the second last man's chest, straight through the armor and piercing his fragile heart. To his luck, death came instantly.
"I surrender!" The last man left threw away his sword and raised his arms sideways. "I… I surrender, Your Grace!"
"Aye, that's smart of you." Robert didn't bother chasing him. He still needed someone to return and report, after all.
"Run back to your Sealord; tell him what you saw. And tell him this—he's got two days. I want all damn debt wiped clean and ten million dragons, or I'll burn this place down."
The soldier froze. "B-But…"
"I know. But five million was before the treachery—before you had the gall to raise steel against me a second time. Remind him that every slight has its price."
The Braavosi soldier traced his steps back and ran away without arguing further. He was just a messenger, anyway.
Taking that moment, Robert returned to the vault's door and sat down with his back against it, resting. He didn't care how long it would take, he wasn't leaving Braavos empty-handed.
He just hoped Stannis would hold the fort until he returned.
####
Ferrego Antaryon was the current Sealord of Braavos. Being a man in his advanced age, he was sickly and failing. Barely able to stay awake and attend to important issues, he was woken up by his attendants in a rush.
Then, the attendants made him ready before taking him to his solar in the Palace. He didn't lack money and luxury. His House Antaryon was one of the wealthiest in Braavos. He had the most power, but it was still not above magisters and keyholders.
"What troubles you?" he asked, his voice thin as he eased into his seat. "I had thought you Westerosi lords cared for Braavos only when their purses ran light and the Iron Bank ran heavy."
"Hah! A fair notion, my Lord, for most perhaps—but not for House Tyrell." The portly man chuckled, stroking his well-groomed mustache. "I am Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, Warden of the South! And I come not for myself alone, but on behalf of many great houses—aye, even the Lannisters."
Eyes barely open, the Sealord nodded. "And what can I do for such many great houses?"
"My Lord, we seek to hire swords, aye. Our first thought was the Golden Company, but alas, they are otherwise engaged, I suppose. Now, as you have oft employed them—and still do, I hear—I had hoped you might spare a company or two for our cause?"
The Sealord frowned. "The Reach and Westerlands need men? Since when? I'm sure you can muster a grand army alone."
"We may, aye, but wisdom counsels against it. Lord Tywin wagers it all, for his house stands to gain or fall in equal measure. But House Tyrell is no desperate gambler—we thrive, we endure. Our strength lies in growing, not in reckless risk, and so we seek to see our ranks flourish—"
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The door opened. Two attendants walked in with a Braavosi soldier between them.
"We lost, My Lord!" The soldier shouted. "Master Volentin is dead. All the others died, too. He sent me back to give you the message. He now wants ten million dragons instead."
Tired, the Sealord placed his arms on the table. "Is he wounded?"
"No, not a single scratch. We didn't last a single move."
"So it seems the rumors were true. He did defeat the Golden Company single-handedly," the Sealord said and looked at his chief attendant. "Has the information from Meereen been confirmed?"
"Two of the three messengers have confirmed it, My Lord. Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons were found dead." The chief attendant answered.
For a long moment, the Sealord said nothing, his gaze distant, lost in thought. Then, with a slow scratch of his beard, he spoke. "To fight him... is lunacy. If he can bring down dragons, Braavos will be no more than a ruin beneath his feet. We could muster thousands, overpower him in time, but the cost... the damage to our city... it would be too great."
Weakly, the Sealord Antaryon tried to stand up.
"Prepare my palanquin, Chief Attendant. A folly has been wrought by the Iron Bank. Whether or not I gave my consent is of no matter. It has been done, and that is the truth of it."
Seeing the Sealord leave, Mace Tyrell jumped to his feet. "W-What happened, My Lord?"
"Ah, you are the father of his woman, yes?" The Sealord looked back at Mace. "Robert Baratheon lives, Tyrell—and he is strong. The Golden Company, you will not find, for it is no more. The Targaryen pretender had abducted your King with the Golden Company and Iron Bank's treachery. But your King—King Robert—he slaughtered them all. The Golden Company was torn asunder, its leaders put to the sword. And then, he hunted down the three dragons and their damned mother. A truce, Tyrell. Seek one with him before it's too late."
"What?" Mace frowned. It was far too absurd to believe. "Now, now, I grant you, Robert is a formidable man, no denying that. But really, you make him sound like The Warrior himself! The Golden Company, alone? Preposterous! How could one man—"
"Stranger things have sailed the seas of Essos, Lord Tyrell. I deal in what is certain, and Robert is no longer a man. Yet, if dragons walked this world, then perhaps there is truth to his power as well. Best you return to your house and bid them to stay clear of the storm. There's naught to be gained in opposing him."
By then, the Sealord's palanquin arrived. The old, frail man sat into it and let the eight, strong attendants carry him out of the Palace.
______________________
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