Chapter 3: Storm's End: An Audit of Inheritance
The journey from the Eyrie to Storm's End was an exercise in controlled frustration for Robar. Medieval travel was appallingly inefficient. Horses, while faster than walking, were still subject to the terrain, the weather, and their own damnably animalistic needs. The small retinue Jon Arryn had provided moved at a pace Robar found glacial. He spent most of the ride in a state of intense internal activity, a stark contrast to the stoic, imposing figure he presented externally.
Robert's memories supplied the route, the names of the minor keeps they passed, the expected courtesies. Robar's mind, however, was a whirlwind of calculations. He analyzed the landscape not for its beauty – a concept he found fiscally irrelevant – but for its strategic and economic potential. Forests were timber reserves, rivers potential transport routes or power sources for mills, hills possible locations for mines. Every league covered was a new data point entered into his evolving model of Westeros.
He practiced with his newfound Haki. Observation Haki, he found, was already surprisingly intuitive. He could extend his senses, feeling the presence of his escorts around him, the deer hiding in the treeline, the bandits who briefly considered an ambush before his passive, oppressive presence – a nascent form of Conqueror's Haki he was barely aware of projecting – made them instinctively shy away. Armament Haki was a harder, more internal sensation, a feeling of spiritual reinforcement he could bring to his limbs, making his already formidable strength even more potent. He once, idly, while his horse was being watered, picked up a fallen log that three of his guards together had struggled to move earlier, lifting it with one hand and tossing it aside as if it were kindling. The guards' subsequent wide-eyed silence was… satisfactory. Fear was an excellent lubricant for obedience.
The Gura Gura no Mi remained a latent power, a sleeping giant. He knew its potential was catastrophic, world-altering. He wouldn't unleash it idly. For now, the subtle applications of Haki and the sheer force of his intellect were more than sufficient.
As they finally approached the Shipbreaker Bay, the salt-laced wind whipping Robert's black hair across his face, Storm's End rose from the cliffs like a stone fist clenched against the rage of the sea. It was a formidable structure, its massive curtain wall and single, colossal drum tower speaking of centuries of defiance against storms and enemies alike. Robert's memories supplied a sense of pride, of belonging. Robar saw a prime piece of real estate, a secure operational headquarters, strategically vital and resource-rich, but undoubtedly managed with typical feudal inefficiency.
The guards at the gate, recognizing their lord's banner, scrambled to open the massive bronze-bound gates. As he rode into the outer courtyard, the castle staff began to assemble – stablehands, serving wenches, men-at-arms, stewards. They were expecting the boisterous, laughing, perhaps drunken young lord Robert. They got something else entirely.
Robar dismounted with a fluid economy of motion that belied the bulk of Robert's frame, which he was already subtly reshaping through sheer will and the beginnings of a brutal conditioning regime he conducted in the privacy of his chambers during their overnight stops. His blue eyes, cold and piercing, swept over them. There was no bellow of greeting, no clapping of shoulders. Just a silent, unnerving appraisal. The assembled household staff grew quiet, their welcoming smiles faltering.
An elderly man in the grey robes of a maester hurried forward, a chain of many metals around his neck. Maester Cressen. Robert's memories identified him as a kindly, if somewhat fussy, old man, loyal to House Baratheon for decades.
"My lord Robert! Welcome home! We… we had not expected you so soon, but praise the Seven you are safe!" Cressen's voice was warm, but there was a tremor of uncertainty in it as he looked up at the towering, strangely silent young lord.
"Maester Cressen," Robar acknowledged, his voice a low rumble that carried easily over the wind. "Assemble the castellan, the master-at-arms, and the chief steward in the solar. Immediately. I require a full accounting of Storm's End's resources, personnel, and finances. And send word to my brothers. Stannis and Renly. I wish to see them." He didn't know Stannis well from Robert's memories beyond a sense of dour disapproval, and Renly was just a child. But they were Baratheons. Potential assets, or liabilities. They needed to be assessed.
Cressen blinked, taken aback by the abrupt, authoritative tone, so different from the Robert he knew. "Of… of course, my lord. At once." He bowed hastily and scurried off, already muttering instructions.
Robar strode towards the entrance to the great keep, his heavy boots echoing on the ancient stones. The castle felt… sturdy. Centuries of investment here. But he could already see areas for improvement. The logistics of supply within the castle walls, the organization of the armory, the very flow of people. All could be optimized.
The solar of Storm's End was a large, somewhat gloomy chamber, its thick walls pierced by narrow windows that did little to dispel the shadows. It was dominated by a heavy oak table and shelves groaning with dusty scrolls and ledgers. Within minutes, the requested individuals were assembled, looking nervous. Ser Cortnay Penrose, the castellan, a stern man with a neatly trimmed grey beard. Ser Harbert, the master-at-arms, old but still formidable. And a portly, balding man named Pate, who served as the chief steward and keeper of the household accounts.
Robar took the high-backed chair at the head of the table, a seat that had belonged to generations of Baratheon lords. He felt the faint thrum of his Observation Haki extending, cataloging their heart rates, their subtle shifts in posture, the scent of their fear or sycophancy.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice leaving no room for pleasantries. "As you are aware, the realm is on the brink of war. Aerys Targaryen has murdered Lord Stark and his heir, and now demands my head and that of Lord Eddard. We will not oblige him."
He paused, letting that sink in. "Storm's End will be a primary target and a primary contributor to the coming conflict. I require a precise understanding of our current state of readiness and our financial capacity."
He turned to Pate first. "Steward. The ledgers. All of them. Income from our lands, taxes, tithes. Expenditures for the household, the garrison, maintenance. Current reserves of gold, silver, and grain. I want to see every dragon, every stag, every groat accounted for."
Pate, sweating profusely despite the cool air of the solar, stammered, "My-my lord, the ledgers are… they are extensive. It would take days to…"
Robar's gaze sharpened. "Then you had best begin, Steward Pate. I am a fast reader." He gestured to a pile of scrolls on a nearby shelf. "Bring them. Now."
For the next several hours, the solar was a place of tense activity. Pate and a pair of terrified clerks scurried back and forth with stacks of rolled parchments and leather-bound books. Robar devoured them. His mind, honed by decades of complex financial analysis in a world centuries ahead, processed the medieval accounting with contemptuous ease. He spotted inconsistencies, rounded figures, unexplained expenditures, and areas of blatant inefficiency within minutes.
"This account for 'miscellaneous repairs to the south tower' in the last fiscal year," Robar said, tapping a vellum sheet, his voice dangerously soft. "It's three times the estimate provided by Maester Cressen for the same work two years prior, adjusted for material costs. Explain the discrepancy, Pate."
Pate went pale. "My-my lord, prices fluctuate… a harsh winter…"
"The records show a mild winter," Robar countered, his eyes like chips of ice. "And Maester Cressen's notes indicate most of the stone was quarried from our own lands, minimizing transport and purchase costs. Where did the extra thirty gold dragons go, Pate?"
The steward began to tremble. Ser Cortnay Penrose watched with a grim expression. This was not the indulgent young lord who barely glanced at household matters.
Robar didn't wait for Pate's fumbling excuses. "We will revisit your… creative accounting later, Pate. For now, understand this: every coin spent from this day forward will be meticulously tracked. Every asset will be leveraged for maximum return. Baratheon Consolidated Resources now manages the finances of this house. And I am its chief executive officer." The term 'CEO' clearly meant nothing to them, but the intent was unmistakable.
He moved on to Ser Harbert, the master-at-arms. "Armory status. Number of swords, spears, bows, arrows. Condition of armor. Number of trained men-at-arms in the household guard. Their pay. Their training regimen."
Ser Harbert, a man more comfortable with steel than sums, answered more directly, though even he seemed taken aback by the sheer detail Robar demanded.
"The armory is well-stocked for our current needs, my lord. Five hundred longswords, perhaps twice that in spears. Bows enough. Arrows… we are always making more. The garrison numbers two hundred, all good men, drilled daily."
"Daily?" Robar raised an eyebrow. "Their regimen?"
Ser Harbert described the typical medieval drills. Robar listened, then shook his head.
"Insufficient. We need to increase drill frequency and intensity. Introduce new combat scenarios. And their pay… are they paid directly, or through intermediaries?" He was already thinking about cutting out middlemen, ensuring loyalty was directly to him, tied to their remuneration.
He then turned to Ser Cortnay Penrose. "The castle's defenses. Weak points. Stockpiles of food and water, beyond what Pate has… estimated. Siege readiness."
Penrose, a veteran of several minor conflicts, gave a thorough report. Storm's End was, indeed, a mighty fortress. But Robar's mind, with its knowledge of future siegecraft (even if only theoretical from his world's history books and games), saw potential vulnerabilities, areas where modern thinking could improve upon ancient design.
"The sea gate," Robar mused. "It's strong, but its supply chain during a prolonged siege could be interdicted. We need to explore secure underwater access points or alternative provisioning methods." This was beyond their current comprehension, but he was planting seeds.
By late afternoon, Robar had a fairly comprehensive, if appalling, picture of House Baratheon's Storm's End operations. Vast potential, squandered by inefficiency, complacency, and minor corruption.
"Maester Cressen," he said, turning to the old man, who had been observing the proceedings with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "You will assist Steward Pate in reorganizing the ledgers according to a new system I will provide. All accounts are to be transparent and cross-referenced. Ser Cortnay, you will conduct a full review of all guard rotations and defensive protocols. Ser Harbert, you will draft a new, more rigorous training schedule. I expect these reports on my desk within three days."
He stood, signaling the initial audit was, for now, concluded. "Pate," he added, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper as the steward tried to sidle out. "Find those thirty gold dragons. Or I will find them for you. And you will not like my methods of recovery." Pate practically sprinted from the room.
Later that evening, after a solitary meal he'd had sent to the solar – the idea of a boisterous feast in the great hall, as Robert would have demanded, was anathema to his current focus – Robar stood looking out at the raging sea. Shipbreaker Bay, aptly named. The power of nature here was immense. He felt a kinship with it, with the storm. He held out a hand, palm open to the spray, and focused. A low thrum began in his chest, spreading down his arm. The stone beneath his feet vibrated almost imperceptibly. He could feel the Gura Gura no Mi, taste its power. With a thought, he could crack the very foundations of this castle. Or, perhaps, raise new islands from the bay for expanded port facilities. The possibilities for infrastructure development alone were staggering.
A soft knock. Maester Cressen entered, looking concerned. "My lord, your brothers are here. Lord Stannis and young Lord Renly."
Robar turned. Stannis, he recalled from Robert's memories and his GoT knowledge, was a year younger than Robert, serious, unyielding, and possessed of a fierce sense of justice. And often overshadowed. Renly was but a child, seven years old.
"Send them in, Maester."
Stannis Baratheon entered first. He was a lean, unsmiling youth of perhaps eighteen, with the dark Baratheon hair but a stern, appraising gaze that lacked any of Robert's usual warmth. He observed Robar with an unnerving intensity. Renly, small and wide-eyed, clung to Stannis's hand.
"Robert," Stannis said, his voice as clipped and formal as Robar remembered. "Maester Cressen told us of your… new directives for the household." There was a hint of suspicion, perhaps even disapproval, in his tone.
Robar met his younger brother's gaze. This one, he sensed, would be harder to manipulate with charm or feigned camaraderie. Stannis would respond to logic, efficiency, and results. Or perhaps, to overwhelming authority.
"Stannis. Renly." He offered a curt nod. "The times require a firmer hand on the tiller. Aerys has declared war on our House. Complacency is a luxury we can no longer afford."
He looked at Stannis, a new calculation forming. This dour, unyielding brother. He might be a valuable asset, if his rigid nature could be channeled correctly. A chief operations officer for BCR, perhaps, overseeing the implementation of Robar's grander designs with ruthless efficiency.
"I trust," Robar continued, his voice cool and authoritative, "that I will have your full cooperation in the challenging times ahead. Our House must present a united front. And a profitable one."
Stannis merely stared, his jaw tight. Renly hid further behind him.
The audit of his inheritance was far from over. It had merely expanded to include family.