chapter 18 arriving in essos

Jhogwin – ceasar POV

The wind whipped at my face as I stood on the bluff overlooking the cramped, bustling port. My ships—two hundred fifty strong—were packed like sardines in the shallow harbor, their hulls groaning against the weight of thousands of men disembarking in waves. Boats darted back and forth, ferrying soldiers from the larger vessels anchored offshore to the overcrowded docks. The air was thick with the shouts of my captains, the heavy thud of boots on weathered wood, and the groan of planks under the weight of armor and weapons.

Twenty-five thousand men. All brought from Westeros to Essos to serve under my banner. It took twenty-eight grueling hours to get them all ashore, and this sorry excuse for a port was straining under the pressure. The local governor had practically wet himself when I arrived, his guards frozen in terror as the first of my troops set foot on the docks. I almost pitied them—almost.

When he'd tried to demand docking fees for my fleet, I gave him an option: either let me use his miserable little port for free, or I'd burn it to the ground before the sun set. Needless to say, he chose the latter. Once the last of my men stepped off the ships, the town's gates slammed shut as if they could somehow stop me from coming back when I pleased. But I wasn't interested in their pitiful defiance. Not yet.

We set out immediately, marching eastward. Two weeks at sea had been hell for my men, but now the real challenge began. The heat of the Essosi plains baked the earth beneath our feet, and the horizon shimmered like molten gold. We would reach Vaes Dothrak in three days. The Dothraki didn't know it yet, but their city would soon be mine. Their horses, their power—everything they held dear. Why waste gold on horses when I could take thousands of the best steeds in the world for free?

I glanced at the men marching behind me, their disciplined ranks a sharp contrast to the chaos of the port. I could feel the tension in the air, the anticipation. They knew what was coming. Soon, the Dothraki would bow, or they would find their corpses without skulls.

As we marched, my thoughts drifted westward across the Narrow Sea. To Westeros. What chaos must be brewing in King's Landing? How must they be reacting to my growing power? I could almost picture the looks on their faces—the panic, the plotting. A smile tugged at my lips.

Soon enough, they'll know what it means to face a true ruler not a drunk fat oaf.

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Westeros – Robert Baratheon's POV

"That boy must be killed!" Cersei's voice was shrill, her words cutting through the air like a knife. She stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, her green eyes blazing with fury, every inch of her was an enraged queen. Her golden hair hung in disarray, and her cheeks were flushed red from shouting.

I shifted on the cold, uncomfortable steel of the throne, my fingers drumming idly on its armrests. I was getting tired of this. Every day, it was the same thing—Cersei ranting and raving about her nephew, my nephew by marriage, growing too powerful. But even I had to admit, the boy was becoming a problem.

"I agree with the Queen," Littlefinger chimed in, his tone as slick as oil. The man never missed an opportunity to advance his own interests. His smirk barely concealed the frustration gnawing at him. The boy had been systematically undercutting his control over King's Landing's brothels and taverns. His rival houses offered better whores, better drinks. Every attempt to sabotage him had ended in disaster—guards sent to intimidate his men turned up dead, and his competitor had his brothels burned to the ground. Yet no one could ever trace it back to him the boy. The Bloody Giant, they called him, and it wasn't just a name. The boy was already bigger than any ten-year-old should be, but there was more to him than brute strength. He was cunning. Deadly cunning.

"As do I, Your Grace," Varys added softly, his hands folded in his sleeves. "He's cut down my little birds in the West. Wherever his men move, my information dries up. He's made it difficult for me to keep track of what happens beyond the capital. His soldiers—hardened, loyal—hunt bandits under the pretext of 'justice.' But they're spreading his influence everywhere they go."

I grunted, letting them have their say. I knew where this was going. "And what would you have me do, woman? Kill my own nephew for knocking some sense into a boy you raised to be an arrogant little shit?"

Cersei's face twisted in rage. "He disrespected the crown prince, Robert! He broke Joffrey's jaw, shattered Jaime's hand, and took the royal guard that was meant to protect your heir! Do you not see the insult?"

I stood up, the weight of the crown heavier with every passing day. "The boy—our nephew—showed more sense than Joffrey has ever had. The Kingslayer," I spat the title with disdain, "went for the kill against his own blood. Hes lucky all he got was a broken hand that will heal in 6 moons. And as for the Hound, I don't blame him for following my nephew. I'd have done the same if it meant getting out of this gods-forsaken mess of a kingdom."

Cersei's face flushed deeper, her lips trembling with rage. "But Robert—"

"But nothing!" I barked, silencing her. "This conversation is over. We will not move against him, do you hear me? The boy is untouchable. His gold, his army, and with Tywin Lannister backing him, he's more than just my nephew. He's a future kingmaker without his backing joffrey will never sit on the throne now all of you exept Jon get the fuck out." I turned to Jon Arryn, who had been quietly observing the exchange from the side as everyone left. "Tell me, Jon. What do you think?"

Jon sighed, his face as worn and weathered as always. "The boy is growing too powerful, Your Grace. The Westerlands have stopped offering us loans, and the only reason the realm isn't bankrupt is because of his taxes and trade. His influence stretches far beyond the West now. Even Dorne trades with him. His wealth, his soldiers, his resources—they're growing by the day."

I took a deep breath, draining the goblet of whiskey in my hand. "I know, Jon. His fleet is already bigger than the crown's, and his steel—better than any weapon I've seen. Save for Valyrian steel, but those swords are few and far between."

Jon hesitated, then spoke quietly. "There may be a way, Robert. A marriage."

I frowned, setting the goblet down. "A marriage?"

"Yes. He's only ten namedays, not much older than Myrcella. If you were to offer her hand to him, no one could challenge his loyalty to the crown. You would have giants in your bloodline, and Joffrey—well, Joffrey could still be king as long as he doesnt say imp in the boys presence again, and with the boy as an ally rather than a potential enemy all our worries would cease to exist."

I mulled over Jon's words. Marrying Myrcella to my nephew would bind him to the Baratheons—make him a part of the royal family in a way even Tywin couldn't ignore making him give another loan or to. But it would also mean giving the boy even more power i say to jon.

"Then we wait," Jon said softly, his eyes meeting mine. "But we both know how things will end, Robert. You need an ally like him. Better to have him close than risk having him as an enemy."

I stared at the empty goblet in my hand, the weight of the decision heavy on my shoulders. A boy no older than ten namedays was already a threat to the Iron Throne. How long before the boy set his sights on more than just trade and soldiers to protect his buisnesses that span all of Westeros with bars and brothels and selling food from stalls what then?