Smoke lingered in Robert's hair long after the flames at Crow's Nest had been beaten down.
He could still smell it as he stood at the prow of his ship, watching the coastline recede behind them. The village below Lord Morrigen's keep had burned with a stubborn, choking fury, and though the raiders had not remained to challenge the walls, they had left ruin enough to stain the horizon for hours. Robert had walked through the blackened streets himself, boots crushing cinders, jaw set tight as he looked upon what had once been homes and storehouses. The pirates had not sought plunder. They had sought demonstration.
That was what angered him most. They had come to prove something.
He gripped the rail now as the southern wind pulled against the sail, his knuckles whitening not from effort but from restraint. The men aboard his ship watched him with that same careful attention he had grown used to in recent months. They expected him to answer flame with steel. They expected certainty. He intended to give it to them.
The scout ship caught the black sails at dawn two days later.
The sighting came as the fleet rounded a jut of rock where the current cut sharply east. The lookout's cry was sharp and immediate, and Robert felt the shift ripple through his crew before the words were even finished. He stepped forward, following the man's pointing hand toward the distant shape against the morning light.
Three ships.
The same number that had struck Crow's Nest. They did not flee at once. They maintained their course. That alone was enough to tell him something had changed.
"They want us to see them," his first mate muttered.
Robert's mouth curved slightly, though there was no humor in it. "Good."
He ordered the fleet to spread slightly rather than cluster. The memory of the inlet ambush remained sharp in his mind, and he would not be drawn blindly again. The waters here were deeper, less treacherous, but reefs lay scattered beneath the surface like waiting teeth. He had learned enough to respect them.
As the Stormlander ships closed distance, the pirate vessels adjusted formation, tightening into a defensive wedge. Archers lined their rails. Grappling hooks hung ready.
Robert felt the familiar pull of battle rising within him, that fierce clarity that stripped doubt from thought. The anger he had carried since Crow's Nest sharpened into focus.
They would not burn another hold today.
The first volley of arrows arced through the air as the fleets entered range. Shields rose in unison along the Stormlander decks. A shaft struck near Robert's shoulder and splintered against wood. He did not flinch. He raised his hammer instead, the weight grounding him, reminding him of who he was in moments like this.
"Forward," he commanded.
The ships collided with a violence that reverberated through bone and plank alike. The impact sent men staggering as grappling lines were thrown and caught. Wood scraped against wood, the sound raw and immediate.
Robert boarded first.
He always did.
He leapt the narrowing gap between hulls with a force that carried him straight into the heart of the opposing deck. A pirate lunged toward him, curved blade glinting, and Robert answered with a downward swing that shattered shield and collarbone together. The hammer struck again before the body had finished falling.
Around him, Stormlanders surged forward, blades flashing in tight arcs as they pressed the advantage. The pirates fought with discipline, retreating in coordinated steps rather than scattering, shields locking to form a barrier at the deck's center. They had learned from earlier defeats. They did not underestimate him now.
Robert welcomed that.
He drove into the shield wall with a roar that cut through the din, the hammer crashing against reinforced wood until the barrier splintered under repeated impact. He felt the tremor travel up his arms with each blow, but he did not relent. The line broke. Once broken, it did not reform.
He fought without flourish, without speech, without the easy laughter that had once followed battle. The memory of burned homes steadied his rhythm. Every strike carried purpose.
To his left, a Stormlander knight stumbled beneath a downward axe. Robert pivoted instantly, intercepting the second swing meant to finish the man. The hammer caught the pirate across the helm, the metal denting inward with a dull crunch. Blood sprayed across the deck, dark against weathered planks.
The second pirate vessel attempted to flank, but Robert's captains held formation. The third tried to disengage when the tide shifted subtly in Stormlander favor. They were not fools, they sensed the battle turning.
Robert did not allow retreat to become escape.
He ordered one of his ships to cut hard starboard, intercepting the fleeing vessel before it could gain distance. Grapples caught. The fight spread across three decks now, steel clashing in overlapping chaos.
The sea churned beneath them, red threading outward in widening currents.
When it was done, two pirate ships lay crippled and one had sunk outright, dragged under by hull damage sustained during the engagement. Survivors were dragged onto Stormlander decks in chains, their discipline gone, replaced by the blank shock of defeat.
Robert stood amid the wreckage, breath heavy but steady. The hammer hung at his side, darkened by blood and seawater. He looked out over the captured vessel and felt no triumph, only grim satisfaction.
"They won't burn another hold," his first mate said quietly.
Robert nodded once.
But as the fleet turned back north with prisoners in tow, word traveled ahead of them faster than sails could carry. By the time they reached the next port, men already spoke of the battle as decisive. By the time they reached Storm's End, the tale had grown further.
Three ships had become five.
The boarding had become legend. The hammer had shattered an entire shield wall in a single strike.
The courtyard filled as the fleet docked, men eager to see proof that the Stormlands struck back. Robert disembarked to cheers this time, not muted respect but full-throated approval. Lords clasped his forearm openly. Even those who had once counseled patience now praised decisive action.
Orys stood at the edge of the gathering. He did not look diminished. He looked thoughtful.
Robert met his gaze across the yard for a brief moment. There was no challenge in it, only a silent acknowledgment that something had shifted.
Crow's Nest still smoldered in memory, but now the Stormlands had blood of their own to show in answer.
As night fell and the hall filled with celebration, Robert found himself surrounded by voices recounting the battle in tones that edged toward myth. He laughed at some exaggerations, corrected others, and allowed certain details to grow as they would.
Across the chamber, Orys spoke quietly with Stannis over a map that had not yet been rolled away.
Applause swelled again through the stone halls of Storm's End.
And this time, it was unmistakably directed at one man.