Ser Rick Longsword POV
Two years. In the space of two years, I had gone from a skinny village boy to a knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Rick Longsword. The name felt solid on my tongue, a shield and a promise. If my parents watched from the Seven Heavens, I hoped they saw the man I had become, not the orphan they had left behind.
I owed it all to Ser Julius. He had given me a sword, training, and a purpose. Now, I returned to the Stormlands not as a helpless smallfolk, but as a sworn sword of the man they called the Gatebreaker, carrying one of his own blades at my hip. I felt ready to face the world, perhaps even to best the famed Steel brothers in a fair fight.
When our ships, the Sea Hammer and her sisters, entered Shipbreaker Bay, the very air changed. This was not the gentle roll of the Narrow Sea; this was the fury of home. Salt spray stung my face, and the wind howled a welcome—or a warning. On the horizon, shrouded in mist and rain, stood Storm's End.
It was more a force of nature than a castle. A single, colossal drum tower, its base lashed by waves, its head lost in the clouds. Ser Julius had taught us its history during our travels—of Durran Godsgrief who defied the gods themselves, and of Bran the Builder who raised this unbreakable bulwark. Seeing it now, I believed every word. This fortress had never fallen. It was a declaration of defiance carved in stone.
We docked at the small, sheltered harbor below the castle. A party of Baratheon men, led by the castellan, Ser Harbert Penrose, was waiting. They greeted Lord Robert with a relief that was palpable. We were escorted up the winding path to the gates, the sheer scale of the walls making us feel like ants.
At the gate, Lord Robert's brothers awaited him. Lord Stannis, a man of my own years but with a face already set in grim lines, and young Lord Renly, a boy of five who stared at us with wide, curious eyes.
Lord Robert swept Renly into a crushing embrace, his laughter booming even against the wind. His greeting to Stannis was more reserved, a clasp of arms and few words. I saw the tension there, a story I was not part of.
Lord Robert introduced our party, his pride in Ser Julius and our deeds at Gulltown evident in his booming voice. But I saw the looks from the assembled Stormlords—suspicion, assessment, a hint of disdain for a foreign knight and his upjumped smallfolk retinue. Only young Lord Renly seemed genuinely captivated, especially when Ser Julius offered him a few quiet words that made the boy's face light up.
A feast was held that night in the Great Hall, its massive hearth fighting back the damp chill of the coast. The next day, ravens flew and riders were dispatched. The war had come to the Stormlands.
Lord Robert's strategy was swift and direct. He summoned his most loyal bannermen to bring only their horse, forming a mobile strike force. His first target was House Connington of Griffin's Roost.
We rode out, a thunder of hooves beneath the stormy skies. But when we reached the castle, we found its lord, Jon Connington, absent. His cousin, Ser Roland Connington, met us at the gates and surrendered without a fight. He presented a royal decree, ordering him to rally the Targaryen loyalists and crush the Baratheon rebellion.
"The loyalists gather at Summerhall, my lord," Roland confessed, his face pale. "They mean to unite their strength there."
Summerhall. The name was a spark to tinder in my heart. It was not far from my birthplace. The lords who were gathering there were the same ones whose knights had taxed our village into starvation, who had looked away when fever took us. The memory of my parents' faces, gaunt and weary, flashed before my eyes.
Lord Robert acted with decisive fury. He stripped the Conningtons of their lordship on the spot, naming the cooperative Roland as the new Lord of Griffin's Roost, but placing him under house arrest. He then took the Connington men-at-arms into his own host.
We turned our horses toward Summerhall. The mood among my comrades—Hale, Alfy, Claw, and Morty—shifted. The professional focus of soldiers was replaced by a cold, quiet rage. We all hailed from villages like mine, places ground under the heels of such lords.
The upcoming battle was no longer just about crowns and rebellions. It was about justice. It was about vengeance.
As we rode, the words formed in my mind, a silent vow. When I had lands of my own, a house of my own, they would be my words, my creed, carved into my very soul.
Vengeance Will Be Ours.