Soon, the closer they got to the Iron Bank, the more chaotic the streets became. Men and women ran away from the Iron Bank while distant screams echoed nonstop. Once the Iron Bank was in sight, wounded soldiers appeared, running out of the bank's massive gates. Some were limping, some without an arm, and others without a leg.
There was blood everywhere.
The Sealord saw all that through the palanquin. "I only sent 50 men."
Even the chief attendant beside him was confused. Nonetheless, they continued and eventually arrived at the bank. Outside the gates, the Sealord got out, and with the help of his attendants, he walked into the bank.
The smell of blood was pungent. As soon as they entered the bank's threshold, there were dead bodies littered all over. But they all had a pattern. They all died facing the doors, as if trying to run away.
The Sealord, now guarded by his attendants, walked deeper into the bloodied bank and eventually arrived at the vaults.
Hell was an understatement if used to describe the spacious hall. There were no clanking swords or roaring men. There were just dead bodies littered on every inch of the marble floor. Blood puddles all around.
Far in the distance, in front of a closed vault's door, King Robert's lone figure stood, arms crossed, leaning his back against the vault. His entire body was coated in blood from head to toe. Even his hair looked red, not black.
The place where Robert stood was the only part with no dead bodies.
"What happened here? I didn't order an attack." The Sealord erupted in aged anger, seeing the loss of life. "Fifty men, I sent—fifty! Yet here, I count hundreds."
"That is… one of the guard captains." The chief attendant recognized some faces. "They must have reacted to the chaos and attacked."
The Sealord sighed weakly. "Such pointless loss."
"So, you're the Sealord, are you?" Robert's voice rolled like distant thunder. "Come to parley or test your steel?"
"I seek no quarrel, King Robert," the Sealord said, leaning on his attendants as he stepped over the fallen men to draw closer. "I know my words hold little weight now. But I swear, I had no hand in the Iron Bank's treachery. It was only after your capture that I learned of their dealings with the pretender."
Robert let out a rough laugh, full of scorn. "Your words are piss in the wind, Sealord. The Iron Bank's treachery won't be swept under some damn rug. The reputation destroyed will take decades, if not centuries to recover."
"You speak the truth, King Robert. Forgive me, but that very reason led me to strike at you, sending my First Sword. A fool's hope, perhaps, but in my mind, silencing you was the only way to protect the bank's name. The wager the Iron Bank placed would've seen its reward had you met your end. And as it goes, history remembers only those who emerge victorious."
"Spare me your buts and ifs, Sealord. You lost. The Iron Bank lost. But there's still plenty left for me to take. So, tell me—what now?" Robert asked. Not even the first of the two days had passed yet.
"I stand here for that reason. I accept your terms, King Robert. All your debts to the Iron Bank will be erased, and ten million gold dragons will be transferred to you. And as a token, I'll send a company of a thousand men to help you end the siege of King's Landing."
"Hah! Keep your men, Sealord. I'll break the damn siege myself." Robert let out a booming laugh, striding forward without a care. He ignored the rattled attendants and walked past them, headed towards the exit. "Send the gold once I end the damn siege."
"Ah!"
But midway, Robert stopped and walked back. He went back to the Vault and opened it, finally letting out all the bank representatives he'd captured. But he didn't let Tycho Nestoris leave.
"I'm taking this one." Robert dragged the man along. "And in case you're planning a way out, Sealord. Remember, Braavos isn't that far from Westeros."
####
As soon as Robert arrived at his hired ship, he was greeted by Ser Davos. The man had located his ship and transferred his men over to keep it safe.
"Your Grace!"
"Davos." Robert gave a grunt and a nod but didn't slow his stride. He was drenched in blood, dripping from boots to beard, and not in the mood for talk. His steps left a trail of red behind him. "Get the ship moving. I'll clean up first."
In the ship, the bath wasn't similar to what he had in the Red Keep. There was no tub, there couldn't be. Nor was there warm water. All he could afford was a bucket of water and plenty of pieces of soft, clean cloth so he could wipe the blood off himself.
So, Robert grabbed a bucket full of water and went to his personal chamber on the ship. A small but decent-sized cabin, fitting for a king. It had a bed and a table on the side. He could have cleaned up on the deck itself, but he didn't feel like doing that.
He liked to believe he wasn't Eddard, nor Robert. He wanted to believe he wasn't even a human anymore. But all that blood, all that gore, and all those killings that came so easily weighed somewhat on his psyche.
It wasn't hard to deal with them. They didn't sadden him or depress him. Just a little unsettled. It was soothing, as not having those emotions was scarier. The last thing he wanted to be was the Mad King.
Soon, he discarded all his clothes, getting naked. Then he pulled the chair away from the table and sat down on it. He grabbed a soft, clean cloth, soaked it in water, and started wiping his torso first.
Almost there.
He noticed his belly; not as fatty now, but it was still noticeable. It was truly a challenge to get rid of it fully. While he remembered Robert as being big-bodied from the start, this new body was far more muscular than Robert ever was. His arms were thick enough to be someone's thighs, pure muscle and might. His chest, broad with patchy hair, was firm and in shape. His legs were even more defined, the big muscles forming noticeable patterns.
As he wiped his arms, he lost himself in a trance-like state. The past many months had seen great ups and downs. Golden Company, Meereen… Daenerys. He felt no guilt for what he did. But he did feel mournful. If only Daenerys was sane in the head, he would have spared her.
Now, her tragic story ended at his hands. It made him wonder how his own story would end. Or was it even his story? He was no more than a dead man walking.
Knock! Knock!
"Your Grace?"
Before he could respond, the door was pushed open. His back was turned towards it, so he had to look behind at the two figures standing in the door frame.
"What happened?" He asked the two women. The only two women on the ship. One was Rhaea, and the other was Missandei.
Rhaea was the first to enter, shaking her head. She walked over to Robert's right side and took the piece of cloth from his hand. "We came to help you clean."
Missandei closed the door behind her and joined Robert on his left side, grabbing a fresh cloth and using it to wipe the blood off of him. But she was more tight-lipped, her eyes constantly looking down at his resting shaft.
"You're no serving girls, and you bloody well don't need to act like it," Robert advised them. "You're coming with me to find good, noble husbands."
"But we're not in King's Landing yet, Your Grace," Rhaea replied, her silver, waist-length hair left to fall behind her back. Her loose, silky dress was already falling off the side of her shoulders.
Robert looked up at her face. She resembled Daenerys a lot, yet she did not. Rhaea was taller and curvier, her face different, as were her eyes. But there was still some resemblance. It reminded him of his actions, followed by pity.
"And…" Missandei voiced on the left side, similarly dressed as Rhaea. Her golden, sparkling eyes innocently tried to focus on Robert's face, albeit failing. "W-when we're in the Red Keep, we should make ourselves useful."
Robert chuckled, feeling their soft hands wipe him all over. "I already have a wife and a son waiting for me."
"But you can't do her like you can do me," Rhaea sultrily replied, her hand tracing dangerously close to his lap.
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