Scene 1: The Outbreak
Shipbreaker Bay lived up to its name.
The heavy cog, The Storm's Fury, groaned as it slammed into the stone quay beneath the massive curtain walls of Storm's End. The sea was a churning cauldron of grey foam and black water. Rain lashed sideways, stinging like gravel.
Robert Baratheon stood on the prow, unbothered by the spray. He watched the castle loom out of the mist—a single, massive drum tower that had defied gods and armies for thousands of years. It was home. It was a fortress.
And right now, it smelled like a sewer.
The gangplank thudded down. Robert marched off, his boots ringing on the wet stone.
A group of men waited in the shelter of the main gate archway. At their center stood Ser Harbert, the Castellan. The old man looked like a piece of the castle that had broken off and learned to walk—grey, hard, and unyielding.
Harbert didn't bow. He stared at Robert with eyes like flint.
"You're alive," Harbert grunted.
"Disappointed?" Robert asked, stopping before him.
"Surprised," Harbert admitted. He gestured to the massive iron-bound carts lined up in the courtyard, covered in oiled tarps. "The grain from Pentos arrived yesterday. The cellars are full. Stannis is down there now, counting every sack personally. He hasn't slept in two days."
"Good," Robert nodded. "And the gold?"
Harbert scowled, his jaw tightening. "The tapestries are gone. The silver plate is gone. My father's sword... gone." He spat on the ground. "We look like paupers, Robert. The Great Hall is bare stone. If the Lords see it, they will think House Baratheon is bankrupt."
"Let them think what they want," Robert said, his voice hard. "When the Tyrells are eating their horses and we are eating salted pork, they'll understand."
"It better work," Harbert warned. "Because if we lose, you won't have a castle left to decorate."
"Where is the army?" Robert asked, looking past him toward the sprawling fields beyond the outer walls.
Harbert's expression shifted. The annoyance vanished, replaced by a grim, weary look.
"In the mud," Harbert said. "But you might not want to go out there, my Lord."
"Why?"
"The Pale Mare," Harbert whispered. "She arrived three days ago."
Robert didn't listen. He marched out of the main gate, Harbert and a retinue of guards trailing in his wake.
The encampment of the Stormlands host stretched for miles. Tents of oiled canvas and roughspun wool cluttered the fields. Smoke from cooking fires hung low in the damp air, trapping the stench.
And the stench was horrific.
It wasn't just the smell of unwashed bodies. It was the sweet, metallic scent of blood and the sour reek of liquid human waste.
Robert walked through the mud. He saw men—hard men, Stormlanders—lying in the filth outside their tents, groaning. He saw stains on the backs of breeches. He saw the pale, gaunt faces of dehydration.
He stopped at the edge of the 4th Battalion's lines. A Captain, a man named Ser Gowen, approached. He looked terrified. He held a cloth over his mouth.
"My Lord," Gowen mumbled through the cloth. "You shouldn't be here. It's the bad air."
"Report," Robert ordered, the cloth over his own nose doing little to block the smell.
"Fifty dead since yesterday," Gowen said, his voice shaking. "Two hundred more can't stand. They just... they shit until there is nothing left, and then they shit blood. And then they die."
Robert looked at the water barrels sitting near the tents. He looked at the latrine trenches dug less than twenty yards away, overflowing into the mud that tracked back into the camp.
"Where is the Maester?" Robert demanded.
"Here, my Lord."
Maester Jurne shuffled forward. He was a young man, chains clinking softly, but his face was resigned. He was wiping his hands on a stained rag.
"Jurne," Robert growled. "What is this?"
"The Bloody Flux, my Lord," Jurne said with a helpless shrug. "It is the cost of war. When men gather in such numbers, the humors become unbalanced. The damp air from the bay... it sours the blood."
"The air?" Robert pointed to the overflowing latrine trench. "You think it's the air?"
"The miasma is thick," Jurne insisted. "I have ordered leeches to draw out the bad blood. We are burning incense to purify the wind. But..." He sighed. "It is in the hands of the Gods now. The weak will die, the strong will remain."
Robert felt a flash of white-hot rage. It was the anger of a modern man staring at medieval ignorance.
He looked at the soldiers. These were his assets. His capital. And they were being liquidated by shit because his Chief Medical Officer believed in ghosts.
"Fifty men," Robert whispered. "That is a platoon. Gone."
He looked at the water barrel again. He saw a soldier dip a cup into it. The soldier's hand was filthy.
"Stop!" Robert shouted.
The soldier froze, the cup halfway to his lips.
Robert turned to Harbert. "The Gods have nothing to do with this. We are killing them ourselves."
Harbert frowned. "Robert, be reasonable. It's the Flux. It happens in every camp."
"Not in mine," Robert snarled.
He grabbed Maester Jurne by the shoulder of his robes, pulling him close. The Maester squeaked in alarm.
"Listen to me, chain-man," Robert said, his voice low and dangerous. "You are done with leeches. You are done with incense."
"My Lord?"
"I am taking command of the camp," Robert announced to the terrified Captain and the confused Castellan. "The School of Iron is now in session."
He turned to the Captain.
"Ser Gowen! Get every healthy man on their feet. If they can hold a shovel, they work."
"Work, my Lord? We are preparing to march!"
"No one marches until I stop the bleeding," Robert roared. "We aren't fighting the Tyrells yet. We are fighting the water."
He looked at the camp with the cold, calculating eyes of the transmigrator. He didn't see a tragedy. He saw a sanitation engineering problem.
"Boil everything," he muttered to himself. "We're going to boil the whole damn world."
.
Chapter 4: The School of Iron (The Flux Crisis)
Scene 2: The Black Barrels
The command tent was silent, save for the drumming of rain on the canvas.
Robert stood at the head of the table. He had removed his armor, wearing only a black tunic stained with mud. On the table, he had laid out a strange collection of items: a pile of river gravel, a sack of fine sand, and a heap of blackened, crushed wood from the smithy.
Maester Jurne looked at the pile with disdain. Ser Harbert looked confused. The captains looked terrified.
"Boiling is too slow," Robert said, breaking the silence. "We would need a forest of firewood to boil enough water for twenty thousand men every day. And hot water does not quench thirst on a march."
"Then we pray," Maester Jurne sighed, adjusting his chain. "The miasma—"
"Quiet," Robert snapped.
He pointed to the map of the camp.
"Problem one: The Shit," Robert said bluntly. "We are shitting where we eat. We are shitting where we drink."
He looked at Ser Gowen.
"New standing order. The latrine trenches are to be filled in. Immediately."
"Filled in, my Lord?" Gowen blinked. "But... where will the men go?"
"Downstream," Robert pointed to the far edge of the map, well below the water intake. "And they will not dig trenches. They will dig pits. Deep ones."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a growl.
"And every man is issued a spade. When he finishes his business, he covers it with earth. Immediately. If I see open filth in this camp, the Captain of that squad loses a rank. If I see a man relieving himself near the river upstream..." Robert paused. "He drinks from the latrine."
The captains paled. It was brutal, but it was clear.
"Covering the filth stops the flies," Robert explained, though he knew they wouldn't understand the vector theory. "The flies carry the poison on their feet. No shit, no flies. No flies, no Flux."
"It is a novel theory," Harbert admitted. "But what of the water we have now? The river is already fouled."
"That," Robert said, gesturing to the pile on the table, "is what this is for."
He signaled to the two squires standing in the corner. "Bring it in."
The squires lugged in a heavy wine cask. The top had been removed. A hole had been bored near the bottom, fitted with a simple wooden spigot.
"I need charcoal," Robert said. "Not ash. Charcoal. Burn the wood until it's black, then crush it. Not to dust, but to the size of gravel."
He began to fill the cask as he spoke, demonstrating.
"Bottom layer: Large stones," he said, pouring the gravel. "To let the water flow."
"Middle layer: Sand," he poured the sack. "To catch the filth you can see."
"Top layer: The Charcoal."
He dumped the black, jagged chunks of burnt wood into the barrel until it was nearly full.
Maester Jurne scoffed. "You intend to feed the men water filtered through... burnt trash? This is madness, my Lord. The charcoal will blacken the water. It will poison them further."
"Charcoal eats poison," Robert said. He didn't use the word adsorb. He used the language of war. "It traps the humors in its pores."
He grabbed a bucket of murky, brown river water—the same water that was killing the 4th Battalion.
"Pour it," Robert ordered.
The squire hesitated, looking at the Maester, then at the King. Fear won. He poured the brown sludge into the top of the barrel, right onto the black charcoal.
The water disappeared into the muck.
They waited.
The silence stretched. The Maester crossed his arms, a smug look on his face. "You see? It is merely mud now."
Then, a sound. Drip.
Robert knelt by the wooden spigot at the bottom. He held out a clear glass goblet—one of the few luxury items left in the castle.
Drip. Drip. Flow.
A stream of water poured from the spigot.
It wasn't brown. It wasn't black.
It was crystal clear.
The room gasped. Ser Harbert leaned in, his eyes wide. "Sorcery?"
"Engineering," Robert muttered.
He held the goblet up to the lantern light. The suspended particulate was gone. The smell of rot was gone.
Maester Jurne stared. "It... it looks pure. But looks can deceive. The poison is likely still inside, hidden by the charcoal trickery."
Robert looked at the Maester. He knew the risk. The filter wouldn't catch everything—viruses could slip through—but without the heavy sediment and bacteria attached to it, the viral load would drop massively. It was 90% safer than the river.
"You are the man of science, Jurne," Robert said.
He thrust the goblet into the Maester's hand.
"Drink it."
Jurne trembled. He looked at the clear water, then at the brown bucket it had come from. "My Lord... I..."
"If it is poison, you will die," Robert said coldly. "And I will find a better Maester. If it is clean, you will live, and you will set the smiths to making charcoal day and night."
The Maester looked at the faces of the captains. He saw no mercy there.
He closed his eyes and took a sip.
He paused. He smacked his lips.
"It... it tastes of nothing," Jurne whispered. "It is cold. Clean."
He took a larger gulp. He opened his eyes, shock replacing the fear. "It is sweet water."
Robert took the goblet back and downed the rest in one swallow. He slammed the cup onto the table.
"Ser Harbert," Robert barked.
"Yes, my Lord!" Harbert's voice was sharp, the skepticism gone.
"I want fifty barrels made by sunset. I want the smiths crushing charcoal until their hands bleed. Every drop of water this army drinks goes through the Black Barrels. No exceptions."
He turned to the Captains.
"You have your orders. Bury the shit. Filter the water."
Robert picked up his warhammer from the corner of the tent.
"Now," he said, a grim smile touching his lips. "I'm going to go inspire the men."
Chapter 4: The School of Iron
Scene 3: The Latrine Mutiny
The rain had turned the designated "Sanitation Zone"—a polite term for the new latrine fields—into a quagmire of sucking mud.
Robert tramped through the sludge, the black mood of the storm matching his own. He had spent the morning shouting at smiths about charcoal consistency. Now, a runner had told him work had stopped at the southern perimeter.
He rounded a cluster of trees and saw the problem.
A company of three hundred men—levies from House Cafferen—stood idle in the rain. They leaned on their spears, looking miserable. Their spades lay in a pile in the mud, untouched.
Standing before them, under a dry oilskin pavilion, was Ser Cafferen. He was a man of the old breed: vain, proud, and currently, an obstacle.
Robert splashed toward him. The "Eagle Vision" pulsed, highlighting the stagnation.
"Why are the spades on the ground, Cafferen?" Robert barked, ignoring the shelter of the pavilion and standing in the rain.
Ser Cafferen straightened his sword belt. "My Lord Robert. There has been a misunderstanding. You ordered the men to dig ditches."
"I ordered deep pits. Twenty feet long, ten feet deep. Covered daily."
"These are men of the Stormlands," Cafferen sniffed, gesturing to his troops. "They are soldiers. They are here to bleed for you. To die for you. They are not thralls to dig in the muck like common farmers. It insults their honor."
The soldiers looked down, shuffling their feet. They didn't look insulted; they looked terrified of the Flux, but they were bound by the feudal chain to obey their lord.
"Honor?" Robert stepped under the pavilion. The air temperature seemed to drop. "You talk of honor while your men drink their own filth?"
"It is the Maester's job to cure the sick," Cafferen dismissed. "It is my job to lead warriors, not ditch-diggers. I will not have them exhausted by peasant work before the enemy even arrives."
Robert looked at Cafferen. He saw the rigidity of a system that would rather die with dignity than live by work.
He didn't shout. He didn't strike the man.
He turned and walked back out into the rain.
He walked to the pile of discarded tools. He reached down and grabbed a heavy iron spade. The handle was rough wood, meant for calloused hands.
Robert walked to the marked line of the trench.
He drove the spade into the earth.
It wasn't a casual dig. It was an assault. He slammed his boot onto the blade, sinking it deep into the heavy clay. He heaved, the muscles of his back bunching under his wet tunic. A massive clod of earth flew over his shoulder.
He dug again. And again.
He fell into a rhythm. Slam. Heave. Throw.
The soldiers watched in stunned silence. This was Robert Baratheon. The Lord Paramount. The man who was six and a half feet of royal blood. And he was standing in the mud, digging a shitter.
Robert didn't look at them. He attacked the ground with a ferocity that was frightening to behold. He dug as if the earth itself had offended him. Sweat mixed with the rain on his face. His boots sank into the mire, but he didn't stop.
One minute passed. He had cleared a hole three feet deep.
Two minutes. He was a machine of soil and iron.
The sound of his breath—heavy, rhythmic, angry—was the only sound in the clearing.
Ser Cafferen stepped out of the pavilion, his face pale. "My Lord... please. This is... this is unbecoming. Stop this madness."
Robert didn't stop. He threw a shovel-load of wet clay that landed with a wet thwack near Cafferen's polished boots.
"My Lord!" Cafferen squeaked.
Robert finally stopped. He leaned on the spade, chest heaving, steam rising from his shoulders in the cold rain. He looked at the soldiers—the common men who would be the first to die when the dysentery took hold.
"I do not ask you to do what I will not do," Robert shouted, his voice raw.
He pointed to the hole.
"The Flux does not care about your honor," Robert roared. "It does not care if you are a lord or a peasant. It will rot your guts out and leave you crying for your mother in a pool of your own blood."
He pulled the spade out of the mud and held it out like a weapon.
"I intend to win this war. But I cannot win it with an army of ghosts."
He looked at a young soldier near the front—a boy of sixteen, shivering in the cold.
"Do you want to die shitting yourself, lad?" Robert asked softly.
The boy shook his head violently. "No, my Lord."
"Then pick up a shovel."
The boy hesitated for a second, glancing at Ser Cafferen. Then, the survival instinct—and the awe of seeing a King covered in mud—broke the feudal conditioning.
The boy ran to the pile and grabbed a spade.
"For the Storm Lord!" the boy shouted, digging into the earth next to Robert.
It was the spark.
Another man moved. Then three. Then the whole company surged forward. They grabbed spades, mattocks, and pickaxes. They swarmed the line, ignoring Ser Cafferen's sputtered protests.
They dug with a frenzy. They dug because their King was digging with them. They dug because for the first time in their lives, a High Lord was trying to save them, not just spend them.
Robert stepped back, handing his spade to a burly sergeant.
He wiped the mud from his face and walked over to Ser Cafferen. The Lordling was trembling, not from cold, but from the sudden realization that his authority had evaporated.
"You said it is peasant work," Robert said, towering over him.
Cafferen couldn't meet his eyes. "My Lord... I only meant..."
"It is peasant work," Robert agreed. "And that is why they are better at it than you."
He leaned in close.
"Grab a shovel, Cafferen. Or leave my camp."
Cafferen stared at him, horrified. Then, slowly, with shaking hands, the Lord walked into the mud and picked up a spade.
Robert watched them work. The line of the trench was deepening rapidly. The fear was gone, replaced by purpose.
Maester Jurne arrived, breathless, holding a report.
"My Lord! The 4th Battalion... no new cases since this morning. The charcoal water... it seems to be working."
Robert nodded. He didn't smile. He looked at the muddy, sweating army working in the rain.
"Good," Robert grunted.
He turned back to the castle.
"A King must ensure his men do not die of fever," he muttered to himself, the words of a textbook he had read a lifetime ago. "Before he asks them to die of steel."
[End of Chapter 4]