Chapter 2: Due Diligence on Allies
The short walk from Robert's chambers to Jon Arryn's solar was an exercise in sensory recalibration. Every stone in the wall, every draft whispering through the Eyrie's high corridors, every scent – of beeswax, old parchment, the distant tang of snow from the peaks – was processed, cataloged. Robert's memories provided context, but his own mind, the mind of a 21st-century predator, performed the analysis. The Eyrie was a fortress, nigh impregnable through conventional medieval assault. A significant asset for House Arryn, but a logistical nightmare for supply. An investment with high defensive dividends but poor liquidity.
He paused outside the heavy oak door, flanked by two Arryn guards whose expressions were carefully neutral. Inside, he knew, were Jon Arryn, Warden of the East, Lord of the Eyrie, a man Robert remembered with genuine, if boisterous, affection and respect. And Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Robert's foster brother, a man of grim honor. Both were now key pieces on a rapidly changing chessboard, pieces he needed to understand intimately before he could leverage them effectively.
His mind ran a swift due diligence check.
Jon Arryn: Older, respected, cautious. His primary value was his network of alliances and the legitimacy he lent to any cause. A potential chairman of the board, easily guided by a competent CEO. Risk factor: His traditional sense of honor might become an impediment later.
Eddard Stark: Younger, driven by a rigid moral code. A strong military commander by Westerosi standards. Fiercely loyal to Robert (the original Robert, at least). Asset: The North's manpower and Stark's unwavering nature, if properly directed. Liability: His honor could make him inflexible, predictable, and a potential future obstacle if Robar's methods became too… overt.
He needed to project an altered Robert. One still recognizable, but changed by the recent – to them – tragedies. Grief, yes, but channeled into cold resolve. Fury, yes, but tempered by a newfound strategic acumen. It would be a delicate performance. He wasn't an actor by trade, but manipulation was a language he spoke fluently. The key was to offer them a Robert who was more effective, more capable of achieving their shared goal: the removal of Aerys Targaryen.
He smoothed the front of the borrowed tunic, a garment of surprisingly good wool but appallingly crude tailoring. The sensation of the rough fabric against his skin was a constant reminder of the primitive nature of this world, and the immense opportunities for improvement – and profit.
"Enter, Lord Robert," Jon Arryn's voice called from within, a voice that, according to Robert's memories, usually held a tone of warm indulgence for his unruly ward. Today, it was strained.
Robar pushed the door open and stepped inside. The solar was large, dominated by a massive weirwood desk and tall windows that offered a breathtaking, if windswept, view of the Vale. Jon Arryn stood behind the desk, his face etched with worry and sorrow. He looked older than Robert's memories suggested. Eddard Stark stood near the window, his back to the room, gazing out at the mountains. He turned as Robar entered, his grey eyes, usually somber, now stormy with a grief that Robar recognized as genuine and deeply felt.
This was the moment. First impressions were critical in any negotiation.
"Jon. Ned," Robar said, his voice carefully modulated. He allowed a hint of Robert's usual familiarity, but stripped of the boisterousness. The tone was level, serious, with an undercurrent of something hard and unyielding. He felt the power within him, the nascent Gura Gura no Mi, like a coiled serpent, and with it, a faint hum of what he recognized from his GoT lore as Haki – an awareness, a presence that subtly filled the room. He didn't unleash it, merely let its potential color his demeanor.
Jon Arryn's brow furrowed slightly. He exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible glance with Ned. Clearly, this was not the Robert they had expected. Not the raging bull, nor the inconsolable wreck.
"Robert," Jon Arryn began, his voice heavy. "You've heard the news from King's Landing. About Lord Rickard… and Brandon."
Robar nodded slowly. He walked further into the room, his movements measured, controlled, lacking Robert's usual restless energy. He felt their eyes on him, analyzing. Good. Let them analyze. He wanted them to see the change.
"I have," Robar replied. "Murder. By the King. A declaration of war against our Houses." He kept his gaze steady, meeting Jon's, then Ned's. He let a flicker of cold anger show, the kind that spoke of retribution, not just blind rage. This, he calculated, would be more reassuring to them than a display of uncontrolled fury.
Ned Stark finally spoke, his voice raw. "Lyanna… Aerys holds her. And now he demands our heads." His hand clenched into a fist at his side. Pure, unadulterated emotion. A liability in a leader, but a powerful motivator for a soldier.
Robar's internal response to Lyanna's name was a flat line. Another asset in enemy hands. The emotional charge it held for these two, however, was a tool. "Aerys has overplayed his hand," Robar stated, his tone devoid of doubt. "He seeks to eliminate threats, but has instead forged an alliance against him. His paranoia has made him predictable."
Jon Arryn leaned forward. "Predictable, Robert? He is the Mad King. His actions are anything but."
"On the contrary," Robar countered, moving towards the large map of Westeros spread across a side table. He tapped the Crownlands. "He lashes out at those he fears. The Starks, for their influence. The Baratheons, for our… martial reputation." He allowed a ghost of Robert's pride to surface. "He believes that by striking the heads, the body will fall. A common mistake of tyrants who underestimate the resolve of those they oppress, especially when their core interests are threatened." He was deliberately using language that was more sophisticated than Robert typically employed, testing their reactions.
Ned looked at him, a strange expression on his face. "You sound… different, Robert."
Robar met his gaze directly. "Grief changes a man, Ned. So does the murder of one's future kin and the threat of one's own execution. The time for roaring and feasting is past. Now is the time for cold iron and colder calculation." He saw a flicker of understanding, perhaps even approval, in Ned's eyes. The honorable Stark would respond to the idea of righteous, focused retribution.
Jon Arryn nodded slowly. "Aye, it is. We have spoken, Ned and I. We cannot bend the knee to Aerys. To do so is to accept death, or worse, to live under a king who butchers his own lords paramount without trial."
"Bending the knee is not an option," Robar agreed. "It's strategically unsound. It offers zero return on investment and guarantees total loss." He ignored their slightly puzzled looks at his phrasing. "So, we fight. The question is not if, but how. And how to ensure we not only survive, but profit from this… unavoidable expenditure of resources."
"Profit?" Ned's voice was sharp. "This is about justice, Robert! About rescuing Lyanna! About avenging my father and brother!"
Robar turned to him, his expression unreadable. "Justice, Ned, is often a byproduct of decisive victory. And victory is most efficiently achieved when it is well-funded and strategically sound. A bankrupt rebellion is a failed rebellion. As for Lyanna," he paused, "her safe return is a priority, of course. An asset to be recovered." He saw Ned flinch slightly at the word 'asset' but pressed on. "But our primary objective must be the neutralization of the Targaryen threat. Permanently."
"He means to take the throne," Jon Arryn said, less a question than a statement.
Robar didn't confirm or deny. "I mean to ensure that no king can ever threaten our houses, our lands, or our people like this again. If that requires a change in management at the highest level, then so be it." He looked at the map again. "Aerys has loyalists. The Tyrells will likely side with the crown, their eyes on royal favor. The Martells have ties through Elia. Lannister… Tywin is an opportunist. He will watch and wait, and back the likely victor. We need to ensure we are the likely victor, swiftly and decisively."
He began to pace, outlining his thoughts. Not the restless pacing of Robert, but the measured stride of a lecturer, or a CEO addressing his board.
"Logistics," he began. "War is fed by gold and grain. The Stormlands are fertile, but we must secure supply lines. The Vale is defensible but can be isolated. The North is vast, its supply lines long. We need a centralized war chest, contributions assessed fairly, managed efficiently." He could already envision the "Rebellion Fund," managed by him, of course.
"Manpower. We need a swift mobilization. Jon, you have the Knights of the Vale. Ned, the Northern levies. I will muster the Stormlands. But we need more. Riverrun. The Tullys are a critical swing. Hoster Tully has marriageable daughters. An alliance there is paramount." He looked at Ned. "Brandon was to marry Catelyn Tully. That alliance must be salvaged. Perhaps for you, Ned?" He knew, of course, that this would happen. But suggesting it now made him seem strategically prescient.
Ned looked uncomfortable but nodded. "Lord Arryn and I had discussed this. It is a possibility."
"Good," Robar continued. "The Targaryen fleet is a concern. Dragonstone and King's Landing give them naval dominance in the Narrow Sea. We need to consider how to mitigate that. Perhaps overtures to the Iron Islands? Unlikely allies, but their fleet could harass Targaryen shipping, for the right price." Balon Greyjoy. Another asset to be managed or neutralized later. For now, a potential, if distasteful, tool.
Jon Arryn was listening intently, his initial surprise at Robert's demeanor giving way to thoughtful consideration. "You've given this considerable thought, Robert. More than just battle rage."
"Rage wins skirmishes, Jon," Robar said calmly. "Strategy, logistics, and superior financing win wars. Aerys has the advantage of the crown's resources, but he is erratic. We must be disciplined, united, and overwhelmingly effective. We must project strength and inevitability. That will sway the waverers, like Tywin Lannister, to our cause."
He then played a card from his future knowledge. "And the wildfire, Jon. Aerys has caches of it beneath King's Landing. He's mad enough to use it if he feels cornered. We must factor that into any assault on the capital. It's not just a city to be taken; it's a potential deathtrap that could consume our armies and the entire population. Any victory there must be swift, surgical if possible, to prevent him from giving that order."
Jon Arryn and Ned Stark exchanged alarmed looks. "Wildfire beneath the city?" Jon breathed. "Seven hells."
"My sources are… unconventional, but reliable," Robar said smoothly, leaving them to imagine what that meant. It added to the mystique, the sense that he possessed insights beyond the norm. "The point is, we face a multi-faceted threat. We need a multi-faceted response."
The meeting continued for another hour. Robar listened more than he spoke, interjecting with pointed questions or strategic suggestions that consistently surprised them with their depth and foresight. He proposed a rapid communication system using ravens, a way to coordinate their disparate forces. He suggested target priorities, focusing on isolating Targaryen loyalists and securing key resources. He spoke of discipline in the ranks, minimizing pillaging not for honor's sake, but because "damaged goods fetch a lower price, and a cooperative populace is easier to tax later." This last comment earned him another sharp look from Ned, but Jon Arryn merely stroked his chin thoughtfully.
By the end, the initial shock at Robert's transformation had morphed into a grudging, perhaps even hopeful, respect. This was not the boy they knew, but perhaps he was the man they needed.
"I must return to Storm's End immediately," Robar stated. "To muster my banners and secure my own house. The Stormlords will follow me, but they need to see their Lord, ready and resolute. And I need to assess our treasury and begin preparations." He was already thinking of tax levies, forced loans, and resource nationalization under the BCR banner.
Jon Arryn nodded. "Agreed. Ned will ride north. I will rally the Vale. We will need a rendezvous point. Perhaps near the Trident?"
"The Trident is strategically sound," Robar concurred. "But our initial campaigns will be regional. Secure our own lands first. Consolidate. Then, strike outwards." He paused. "One more thing. This rebellion, it needs a face. A justification beyond our grievances. We fight for a more stable realm, for an end to tyranny. A message of hope, however cynical its origins, is a powerful recruitment tool."
He was planting the seeds for his own eventual claim, framing it not as ambition, but as a necessary step for the good of all. It was all about branding.
As they prepared to disperse, Ned Stark approached him, his expression still conflicted. "Robert… be careful. This path you're on… it's a dark one."
Robar met his gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in his blue eyes. He could have offered platitudes, reassurance. Instead, he chose a more calculated truth. "The world is a dark place, Ned. Sometimes, it takes a greater darkness to bring the dawn. Or at least, a more profitable dawn." He offered a thin, almost predatory smile. "Don't worry about my soul, old friend. Worry about our victory. The rest is just accounting."
Leaving them to ponder his cryptic words, Robar strode from the solar. The first negotiation had been a success. He had subtly shifted the power dynamic, established his intellect, and laid the groundwork for his operational command of the Stormlands. Next stop: Storm's End. It was time to audit his inheritance and begin the true work of building his empire, one gold dragon at a time, amidst the chaos of war. The initial investment phase was about to begin.