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Chapter Text

Somewhere, in an old man's wandering mind.  

It was a hot summers night, sticky and sweaty, and King Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Lord Protector of the realm, lay dying in bed with an ill-gotten fever.  

Bed stricken, with a throat drier than a desert, the meat to his bones lost, Robert Baratheon was none too pleased with his current state. He’d found rather quickly that there was little one could do in this situation—woe as he was to admit it—but reminisce. Old memories from a younger man’s life had been almost all his entertainment, and certainly what had kept him sane thus far. It certainly wasn’t the easiest process at that age—yet, what other choice did he have?  

Robert had known it was his time for a while now. And though desperately, he’d wished he might fall in glorious battle with warhammer in hand, it appeared that the gods had revealed their cruelty once again. It seemed their final gift for him was that he wasn’t shitting his guts out, and was still lucid enough to recognise (though hardly see) some of those who crowded around his bedside.  

‘Tis a sweet relief to dream of summer deep in the depths of winter. When the precious warmth of the sun floats leagues away, and the only sensation is a frigid wind cutting right to the bone. Hopelessness had been the first terror to arrive when he’d spent that first-night fever-stricken, alone in his chambers, and with no one close at hand to hold. Quiet despair came next, drowned in his cups, until eventually, wallowing in self-pity at what must’ve been the hour of the bat, that Robert had come to some sort of acceptance. Not a very pleasant one.

His friends and family were far away then, and no recovery possible from this; what use was there in crying? Would it bring those he needed any closer, or slow down this horrid process? Unlikely.  

Some men who thought themselves bigger than their boots would maddeningly philosophise that much could be learned from these experiences when life was at its lowest. Robert, however, wasn’t quite sure they’d thought of the possibility you might not come out on the other side, and be able to make use of those lessons or wisdom.  

The hardest lessons were learnt in winter, he might concede. Robert had been fortunate enough to outlast all those winters, but such wasn’t keeping him warm now, was it? It was passion and pleasure that would rejuvenate his creaky bones and get his heart thumping, not the knowledge of how quickly your piss froze in a blizzard.   

His hazy mind drifted far away, thoughts haphazard and jumbled. Where was he? The Red Keep , he recalled. Whose here? Well... Cortnay is... where the hell is Cortnay?  

Robert had been born in a winter. It was a rather mild one, which he found rather curious given who had ascended to the throne that very same winter. All gods of any creed were rather fond of omens, were they not?  

The first winter he could  recall,  was when he had learnt the hardships winter brings: famine, disease, extinction of entire households. That was when his Lord Father had kept him close at hand, to listen in on every little problem brought before court, from the lowliest smallfolk of the lands, to the strongest of father’s bannermen. Even some neighbouring lords as well, his wisdom respected well beyond the borders of the Stormlands.   

There’d been a tactfulness to his Lord Father’s ruling that Robert had never quite picked up on. He’d tried his best in the end, and some of that imparted knowledge had guided Robert’s hand here and there.  

The very next winter he had seen firsthand how quickly a man may freeze to death. That had been in the Vale—or had it been the North? It made no difference, for he could still recall the man’s face frozen in odd serenity, his body still standing sentinel for... for who was it now?     

There was a winter years later that brought terrible strife to the realm, whence he had learnt never to take what was yours for granted. The whole realm pitted against each other, and true loyalties were tested, the fields awash with blood, and the rivers choked by corpses and other foul debris.  

Oh, but he’d killed that cunt, left him in bloody ruins in the shallow waters of the Trident.  Ha! Now wasn’t that a fine feat? Earned me my crown, didn’t it?   Would’ve at least done you well to learn a tad of humility then, you old fool.  

One winter had been the most terrible of all. When a vengeful spirit had come to wreak havoc on those who dared enjoy the summer sun tickling your skin. Everything Robert held dear was near put to an icy sword. The freezing cold was the only sensation one could feel, and setting oneself alight the only relief. All that ever was, and all that ever could be nearly stolen right from them, at the whims of an ancient evil.  

Yet, he’d vanquished that as well and ushered in a summer that would last for an eternity, a summer that left those bone-chilling nights a distant memory of a darker age. Everything had all led up to that moment, in the end.  

His head was throbbing as he tried to think that far back, and it was not doing him any good for his mental fortitude right now. Robert would rather recall the sweet moments—ha! Mayhaps that was what he was doing; dreaming of summer as winter devoured him whole.  Let it come.  W e learned how to die long ago.  

Had he been more able-bodied, Robert would have preferred to feast, fuck, and fight his way until the end. Now, wouldn’t that be a fine death for a King? Wouldn’t that be a fine death for a man who’d feasted, fucked, and fought all his life? The gods were playing him for a fool, punishing him for his misdeeds, for his terrible sins by stripping him of all that made him whole. Might be I give them a piece of my hammer when I see them, ha! 

Oh, but it all hurts now, and they’d cast him southwards if he dared bite the hand that feeds. He was far too old now for that sort of challenge, older than anyone had ever thought he’d have lived to–even himself.  

Robert had not met a man happy with such a death. Not that they’d been able to tell him. But you could see it in their eyes in those final fleeting moments, voiding their bowels with arms outstretched, grasping at what little they had left. That wasn’t a soldier's death, and it certainly wasn’t the one he had desired.  

Memories floated before his eyes, bright stars guiding the way, each one a little fragment. A fragment of what? A key? The key to his life he supposed; how philosophical he had gotten in the twilight hours of life! Mayhaps those lessons from the old maester had struck true, coming to fruition long after his death.  What was his name... ah! Bressen! Wait no... Creylen? Cress... Cressen! That was definitely it!     

Robert's chest rumbled and his throat rattled as he laughed. It quickly devolved into a coughing fit that wracked his whole frame, till he thought he might even cough up his lungs.   

A soft hand was on his arm immediately, the sensation warm, calming.  She used to hold me like this.  Then a cool, damp cloth was laid upon his forehead. She used to temper me so . It was dull antidote to the raging fever that had taken hold of him just scarce a week ago, which had left a once mighty specimen hollow-cheeked and gaunt.   

“Mya,” he groaned out, grasping at the air as he did. “Are you there?” 
 
“Yes Father,” she replied. “I’m here. Cortnay is as well.”  

“Cortnay… Cortnay, where are you?”   

“I’m right here father. Right here.” 
 
Even in these blurred and confused moments, he didn’t miss the crack in the façade. A voice that could rage worse than an autumn storm had been reduced to such soothing softness, sweet as a maiden, tinged with the same sadness of those wishing off their husbands to war.  

Where is that boy?  A sharp pain shot up Robert’s spine when he tried to roll over so he might see them, the dim light clouding his peripherals. A new hand arrived at his shoulder to steady him, strong yet gentle fingers gripping his shoulder blade.   

“Be still Father!” A panicked voice came.  Who was that speaking?     

As he tried to respond, a shortness of breath attacked him, chest tight, tongue caught in his throat. Wincing as he began, Robert persevered.  

“I wish to–” Another cough reared its ugly head. “I wish to see the both of you.”   

The hand on his shoulder relaxed, the bed sinking as a movement occurred. Someone took a seat just next to him, the sheets shifting and rustling as the new presence made itself comfortable. A face loomed above, staring right at him. A shock of hair black as a raven’s feather cascaded around a long and handsome face, graced with high cheekbones, and piercing grey eyes shrouded in mystery peeked out through the shade. Broad shoulders nearly blocked out all the light, and for a brief moment, Robert worried the Stranger had come already.

“Here, Father.”   

“Cortnay?” 
 
Cortnay nodded, hair shifting as he did. But not a sound came from his mouth. His son was tight lipped, like he’d just been found sneaking scone from the pantry. Speak to me boy! What is it?  

“Gods, you really were the best of both of us. More  her  than me, ha!” Robert could almost see  her  now. She was hovering above him, an apparition of the Maiden and the Warrior in one neat bundle.   

Thinking he heard a stifled sob, Robert tried to discern who it was. Without a second thought, he raised his hand to cup the boy's face, nestling his fingers in the locks tucked away at his ear. There was a wetness that graced his palm as it flattened on the boy's cheek, and he brushed the tears away. What good were tears for? A life well-lived, in spite of it all. 
 
“Oh, you were her pride and joy Cortnay!”  

Even the mere thought of her pulled at his heartstrings, a throbbing ache that dulls the senses.  Return to me, oh my wild love! My restless beauty! My gorgeous rose in a land of rotten fields! My lighthouse in stormy seas, guide me from my doom!  

“Would you tell me about her, Father?”   

More stories? I’ve already bored myself to death on those. “Oh, she told you plenty. And that’s a long story,” he added, grumbling.  

Was she summer or spring? No, she was all of it. Everything, tightly woven with a frail string. She was a warm kiss on sun-soaked skin, a hurricane on autumn seas, an icy blizzard in frigid snows, and a lush day spent riding through the meadows.   

He smiled absentmindedly, thoughts wandering far from this mortal coil.  

Though, his son was restless, and resolved to have him occupied with storytelling when he should be busy dying. “Then tell me again–all of it.”  

What a curious son of theirs Cortnay was. Strong-willed and built like an aurochs, a talent and fondness for war and the sword, and yet, should a book be laid before him, you'd have thought they’d raised a bloody maester! Who knows where he picked that up from–it certainly wasn’t either of them.  

Always a question on his mind, and usually one he couldn’t answer.   

“Where did the Dragons come from?”  

“Valyria”.  

“But what about before that?”   

If he hadn’t been their first, he’d have flourished at the Citadel.   

“All of it? By the gods, you’ll drive me to an early grave!” He snorted at that one, though found the room unresponsive spare for sweet Mya, a chuckle heard from wherever she stood.  Ned would have found it funny too, if he were here.  

Today was the day he died like those pansy knights, recalling soft memories of their mothers cradling them whilst a spear was lodged in their hearts.  So be it.    

Oh, but she’d torn his walls down long ago, rearranged him ‘till he was sane.  So be it.    

Let King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name–and probably the last–, King of the Andals and... and whatever else it was, die with a smile on his lips, dreaming of sweet Lyanna and the sweet life she opened his eyes to. So be it.    

Mayhaps in another life, it would be with a sword in hand.   

Mayhaps a maester was about to burst through the door clutching what he claimed was the true elixir to eternal life.  

Mayhaps this was all another dream, and he was to wake up to sweet Lyanna nuzzled against his chest like she used to on cold nights. Oh, she’d have giggled at him now.  “Really Robert? Telling tall tales again?”  

“Sit here Mya, my sweet girl, sit with me and Cortnay and—” An awful cough ripped through him, tormenting his throat yet again. Robert felt the cloth threatening to slide down to his face, now soaked in sweat.   

“Mya sit with me.” And she did at once, occupying the other side, head resting on Cortnay’s broad shoulders.   

He did not fail to notice a swelling of the room, movement in the distant shadows, where his eyes could not distinguish what was what anymore. Was it all really that interesting to whatever gaggle of servants and such had been brought to watch him in his final misery?   

Bah! Bugger them all, it's just these two on the bed–it’ll be like the old days when they were both still tiny little things dashing around with bumps and bruises on their knees!  

‘Tis a sweet relief, after all, to dream of spring in the depths of winter.  

Chapter Text

Harrenhal    

The great hall of this awful castle was cavernous, swallowing you whole. White, thick trunks of old weirwoods served as support beams, and bats had made their homes in hollowed holes of the wood, hiding away now that the hall was fit to burst. The hearths that the hall was named for lined both walls from start to end and were unlit in the warm spring air. Their smokestacks clung to the walls like ivy as they rose high, a dizzying effort to track them to where they ended. 

Truly, the hall of a hundred hearts commanded all your attention. 

Occupying the whole of smooth-slate floor were a hoard of wooden tables and benches. All were crowded by men of a thousand and more colours, a sea of heads bobbing up and down. An army of servants attended them all, arms laden with fine drink and piping hot food, and a dozen and more singers had been making their rounds, whilst outside in the courtyard a troupe of mummers had been putting on a fine show. 

Bedazzled in his best dress, Lord Walter Whent had truly put on a magnificent affair to usher in what was surely to be a wondrous tournament. There was nought to do but dive into all the revelry with utmost haste. 

Robert Baratheon had dragged dear Ned Stark far into the depths of the hall to where the men of the Stormlands had taken up residence. All were eager to talk with their lord no doubt, and it’d been some time since his last visit down south.  

Past darling Denys Arryn, towering old Yohn Royce, and a stern-faced Jon Arryn they had went. Poor old Jon had done his best to keep the two of them in line, and certainly Ned was keeping straight as an arrow, always the favourite of Arryn’s two wards. Robert, on the other hand, had already lost much of his coin purse to a dark-skinned man who hailed from Ibben, enamoured by his boasts about a penchant for cyvasse. Robert had never played.

Brushing past the assembled gallantry of the Reach, their nauseating, floral aroma had left a sour taste in Robert’s mouth, and it taken much effort to push through them all. Then it had been the men and women of the Blackwater—river and bay—, who regarded him with haughty expressions, their worries eased with an easy grin. Here and there were other men of the North and Vale, who of course, Ned and Robert had to stop for each time, until they’d begun to lose count of the minutes wasted talking about hunting. Fine conversation sure—but who cares when wine was awaiting them! 

On and on the crowds stretched: hedge knights and wizards, gaggles of septons preaching about the excesses of this feast, merchants from across the sea swathed in silks and bold perfumes, and countless others who Robert could not put names to. All night, up on the dais, Whent tittered back and forth with the weight of his jewellery, greeting all who came before him, and calling out to those who missed him. A wonder then that Robert had escaped his wandering gaze so far. 

The dreadful politicking of the realm was all but forgotten in the clamour of the hall. Not even King Scab’s surprising appearance yesterday had managed to dim Robert’s mood—quite a show King Aerys Targaryen had made of that. Robert had found that the king kept his hair at waist length, matted like a bird’s nest, with horrid fingernails to match, fit to serve as blades. Cackling away to himself or otherwise glaring daggers at the rest, the king had spent all his time behind a shield of six knights armoured in white. The seventh had been sent back to King’s Landing; what a right mess that was, when Lord Tywin’s pride and joy had been named to the Kingsguard—at five and ten, no less! 

Deep in his cups now, Robert heard a cheer go up from somewhere nearby. He looked around, and saw a group of northmen playing at dice, and wondered who’d just had their night made. A drinking competition with Ser Richard Lonmouth had not left Robert lame yet, and groaning as he got out of his seat—leaving the brawny haired man of the marches face down on the table—Robert stumbled his way over to them.  

Ned of course was close at his heels, profusely apologising to Ser Leowyn Templeton for their sudden departure. His friend took a long moment to eye up Lonmouth as wall, grimacing at the sight, before catching up to Robert. 

“Robert!” he whisper-shouted, peering around his shoulder. “Can we not? 

“What?” Robert was cut off by a rude belch and rubbed his stomach. “I’ve got losses to make up, Ned!” 

“You can make it up in the melee! Gods knows how many ransoms you’ll be taking when your through with that mess...” 

“Aye—and if I lose? Bah!” Robert continued his march undeterred. “If we get back to their Eyrie and Denys has got more winnings than me, I’ll never hear the end of it!” 

Perhaps I could buy Mya a nice new toy as well...  

From where he stood now, some of the northmen’s heraldry could be made out: a horse’s head, a bear, a pair of axes at the end of the table, and a bunch of buckets at the other—was that a moose on that one's surcoat? 

However, sticking out like a sore thumb in the centre was none other than the direwolf of House Stark. Ned noticed too. His looked turned sour, and by way Brandon Stark’s head was hung, they both knew who’d just played their last hand. 

Drifting over all the noise was a voice soft as silk. “It's time to let off Brandon. You’re too far in,” the voice warned, struggling to make itself heard. 

Brandon was vexed, and quick to rebuke the other man. “Fuck off Mark! Another round!”   

“Please Robert, can’t we just—” 

Robert was already drawing up to the table by then. He peered over them all and saw that it was Ser Mark Ryswell who had urged caution. The knight's head was bowed in resignation, until he saw the arrival of Brandon’s brother, looking up to them in mild relief. 

“He’s been at it all night, Ned,” Ryswell lamented. 

All at the table looked up then, roaring as the realisation that Brandon had been caught set in.  

“Old Stark didn’t give you much silver, did he Brandon?” A Mallister man shouted. 

The man with buckets on his broach slammed the table with a meaty fist. “Go on Stark! Tell dear Ned you’ve just paid for Jeffory’s new horse!” 

Brandon Stark raised his attention from the table. Where Ned had a quiet look about him, Brandon appeared far fiercer, a roguish look to him that would have maidens swooning. Though the long Stark face, grey eyes, and brown hair spoke to the relation, the two couldn’t be further apart in temperament.  

The scowl that he wore quickly turned to a grin—till he saw Robert standing there, swaying side to side, and frowned. 

“Come to end my winning streak, Ned?” 

“Winning streak? You’re poorer than a fur merchant in Dorne!” Jested a man in green with the badge of a bear. 

Quietened with just a look, the man shrunk back into his seat, and Brandon turned back to the two.  

“Well, I now know why I’ve lost. You’ve brought him,”  the elder Stark drawled.   

He wants to do it that way, aye?  

Right as Robert was about to retort, Ned strode past him. His dear friend’s face was twisted with too many emotions, till at last a despondent look was settled on, grey eyes cloudy. 

“You can put it to rest just for one night Brandon, can’t you?” 

Brandon shook his head, smirking. “What you , can do, is take a seat right here and be my lucky charm! Come on Ned, be a good brother! Or sit next to Mallister over there and tell me when it’s looking dire.” 

Once again, the table roared its approval, and Robert was quickly forgetting the slight of before. Meanwhile, Ryswell looked up to Ned and Robert sorrowfully. “I don’t imagine there’s much left but coppers in his coin purse by now.”    

Grinning as Ned stifled a groan, Robert began to make his way around the table, to where a space had appeared next to Mallister.  

Brandon piped up again right as he took his seat. “Don’t look so glum brother.” Patting the seat as he spoke, it became more than apparent Brandon was just as deep in his cups as Robert was. “Before long we might be able to buy this whole stinking castle!” 

Like the dutiful brother he was, Ned stepped over and plopped himself next to Brandon, mumbling out an apology as Ryswell shifted over to make room.  Gods, I wish Stannis would lend me a hand like this.         

As Brandon’s squire, Ethan Glover—who looked just as old as Robert—set to preparing for the next round, Robert turned to Jeffory, who was already counting his winnings. 

“How much is in there?” 

“You’ve got no idea! Poor Mark warned him round after round. Now, I think I might just be riding a new horse this tourney!” 

Chuckling at that, he patted the man on the back, then turned to the man at his left. It was a Mormont man, he knew, for who else had a bear for their emblem? His black hair already looked to be thinning, and if here not built like a bear, few maidens would’ve spared him even a glance. 

“From Bear Island?’ Robert asked. 

“Aye. Jorah Mormont, heir to Bear Island.” 

“Well met Jorah.” He took a moment to cover his mouth when he felt another belch bubbling up. “What’s got you this far south?” 

“Brandon invited the lot of us to join him, said we couldn’t miss it.” As he spoke, the man’s attentions drifted to somewhere behind Robert. Jorah’s dark eyes suddenly had a tinge of excitement to them. 

Robert turned then, curious, and saw that a serving girl was approaching him, arms laden with ale and wine. She was a pretty thing, with long blonde hair, a dimpled face, and large breasts straining against a tight, simple dress. 

Clocking Robert’s gaze immediately, the girl obliged him with a flirtatious grin and sidled right up next to Robert. Carefree as she bent down to set down the drinks, Robert did not fail to notice Jorah’s sudden turn of mood, but forgot all about it as a sudden panic set in—couldn’t she have at least waited till it was quiet? 

Brandon leaned onto the table as it all happened, cold eyes staring at Robert through the black locks falling over his face. He dared to stare right back at him, never letting his gaze wander awry. Reaching out for a cup of wine so that his hands might be otherwise occupied, Robert knew he couldn’t make a fool of himself before his betrothed’s brother. 

Speaking of sweet Lyanna, where was she?  

Ned had said his sister was to attend the tourney at Harrenhal, and so would the youngest Stark brother, Benjen. Yet, he’d failed to find either of them thus far—though really, he only cared for the former.  

Ah, Lyanna Stark, what a wild beauty! He’d been dying to meet her ever since Ned had first spoken of her, and had known at once she had to be his. An offer had been passed along, and now it was so close to coming true... 

Drawn back to the hall was soft hands massaged his shoulders, a shiver ran down his spine. A rogue finger then trailed down his back. Mallister was rather bemused at the whole affair, whilst Mormont seemed a tad jealous of all the attention, scowling.  This one couldn’t compare to Lyanna Stark, Robert knew, and found the willpower within to ignore her. 

 “My lord, how tired you must be after a gruelling day,” the girl purred, leaning closer.   

Robert made no move, locked in a tense standoff with Brandon that he just couldn’t lose. There was a glint in the young man's eyes, a look that he could not place. First to break the uneasy silence that had fallen on the table, Robert sipped at his wine as he spoke, bristling at the girl’s continued wanderings. “It’s been a while Brandon, hasn’t it?”   

“Oh sure, we’ve all got our  affairs  to deal with–some more than others.” Brandon raised a horn of ale to his lips, not breaking eye-contact. “Though I hear you’ve got a bit of coin to throw around; mind lending your soon-to-be good brother some so I can show these lazy louts that I mean business?”   

He couldn’t help but grin. Alas, Robert was still sober enough to know when a sour deal presented itself. “You seem to be on a bit of a losing streak Stark. Are you sure that’s the smartest idea?”    

Ryswell muttered something–though Robert didn’t catch it. As Brandon mulled over that one, scowling, Robert felt the girl grow impatient at his side, one hand now twisting through the long locks at the back of his head. 

Brandon conceded that point at last and nodded wearily. "You seem a bit preoccupied anyway, Baratheon.” On cue, the girl leaned around to his other ear, pretending to snap at it with her teeth.    

Still as a statue Robert remained, defiant in the face of her flirtations—even if he felt his smallclothes tighten. 

“How about a game of dice of our own, and leave Mallister to his winnings?” Robert proposed to distract himself and draw Brandon back into his graces.   

Stark was enthralled by the offer, smirking. “Aye, what a fine idea.”    

Ned however looked appalled, shaking his head in dismay and looked to Ryswell for support, the northmen just shrugged. By now, the girl was at the end of her wits. She drew back in a huff, swatting at his back in annoyance no less, before storming off back into the crowds, shouting something at Robert as she did. The table hollered and howled at that, slamming the table with fists. 

Cunt . 

At the very last, Ned had been drawn out of whatever mood he was in. A soft smile awaited Robert, Ned’s long face no longer set in displeasure. Brandon finished laughing after a short while and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. Returning his full attention to Robert, the tension of before had all but melted away. “Another round of dice was it, Baratheon? You’re on.”   

And so, from there on the evening passed smoothly, and round after round of drinks were downed with ease–especially once Ser Richard finally woke up and wound his way over, bringing some other men with him. All brothers of House Darry, Robert learned. Though he couldn’t remember which one was the eldest. 

Eventually, as the evening drew into night, the hearths were finally lit. So drafty was the great hall that any worries of a smoky haze were quickly dispelled, and Robert thought he wouldn’t mind sleeping here. Thick scents of spice-lathered meat had him salivating, Lord Whent still up there on the dais making sure the night went as perfectly as it could—even as King Aerys got into an argument with his heir, Prince Rhaegar. 

Even Robert had to admit the prince was pretty. Tall and lean, with indigo eyes that drew you in, the crown prince cut a handsome figure. Not as though he and Robert had ever gotten to talk much, someone to be observed from afar.     

Many men had come and gone from their table as the night progressed. Ryswell and Mormont had departed some ago to join some other northmen, and were replaced briefly by Denys, who boasted about how he was going to win tomorrow's joust. When Mallister left with his winnings, Denys joined him, and it was then that Benjen made an appearance. Sidling up at Brandon’s left side, the lad kept mostly to himself for the rest of the night after squeaking out a quick hello to everyone.    

Still, Lyanna had yet to make an appearance, and Robert had begun to worry.   

“Say Ned,” Robert started, the words spilling from his lips before he might think better of it. “Where’s that sister of yours?”   

All three Starks brought their full attention to him as he finished. To his great confusion—and bemusement—found that none of them seemed too pleased. Ser Mark looked between them all, then decided it was him time to depart, catching the attention of a White Harbour knight as he did. 

“Why do you ask?” Brandon inquired. There was an edge to his voice Robert thoroughly misliked. 

I wasn’t fucking speaking to you, was I Brandon?    

“I’ve just not seen her as of late. Why? There a problem with wishing to see your betrothed?”   

Out of the corner of his eye, Robert saw Benjen shift uncomfortably for gods knows what reason. Then, Ned leaned forward to answer, much to Brandon's clear chagrin. “She’s got…  other  … things to attend to.” 

Ned had seemed not only shy but concerned as he spoke. “What  other  things?”  Robert asked. 

An answer was not forthcoming from any of the three, and if Robert was a bit more sober, he might’ve pressed the issue further. Alas, he could hardly see straight at this moment, and within a minute he’d turned his attention back to Lonmouth, who’d proposed yet another drinking game with a name he could hardly pronounce.   

The conversation lulled thereafter, but the drink still flowed, and it’d gotten to the point where Robert had lost track of who was sitting with them at the table. With a pounding head and turbulent stomach, he had to put a short pause to their game. The room around him had spinning for the past half hour now, and he strained to even discern what was going at the next table over, chuckling along at whatever it was Lonmouth was on about. 

A voice cut through the nausea, bawdy and energetic. “Ned! Go on up and dance with her!”   

“What? No! I-”   

“Don't' make me command you, Ned! Gods, look at her eyes!”    

What had poor Ned gotten himself into now?     

Raising his head to where he thought his friend was sitting, Robert saw Brandon goading Ned to indulge himself for once (a rather futile ambition, Robert and Denys had learned quite quickly at the Eyrie). 

“She wants to dance with you! Come on Ned!”   

Now what a sight that would be, Ned dancing the night away with some pretty girl. He and Denys had tried their best to get him into such at the Eyrie and had failed quite miserably. Whilst they had found their ladies and enthused them with trips back and forth across the hall, Ned had elected to sit with Jon Arryn and the other lords of the Vale, talking about gods knows what. 

Robert snorted as he watched his friend desperately attempt to feign ignorance, who was now scanning the room as if this was all some great mystery. In vain, Robert tried looking around to see who this lady was, only to find the whole hall was blurry. 

“She does?” Ned whispered, at last relenting to reality.   

Brandon groaned. “Look, just get up there and dance with her, or I’ll do it myself!”   

His friend huffed in misplaced displeasure, before finally rising from his seat and disappearing off into the crowd—not without one last mournful look back to them.   

“Who’s caught Ned’s eye,” he asked no one in particular.   

“Lady Ashara Dayne,” drawled Lonmouth, breath reeking worse than a corpse. “A real beauty Robert—from Dorne, no less.” 

A likely story. Robert knew who the “real” beauty was. Unfortunately, just not where she was at this very moment...  

“Mhm,” Brandon agreed absentmindedly. Tracking Ned as he moved through the crowd, it seemed the elder Stark was just as enamoured as his brother was. 

“Is she Ser Arthur’s sister?”   

“Younger sister," a slurred reply from Richard clarified.   

Ser Arthur Dayne was a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, and last Robert had seen of him, was standing in quiet conversation with Prince Rhaegar at the far side of the hall. Simply nodding his head with pursed lips, Robert settled back into his seat. 

Brandon must’ve lost sight of Ned, for he turned back to Robert, a sly smile upon his lips. “Will you dance, Baratheon?” 

“Like this?” Robert exclaimed, gesturing to himself. “You’re bloody dreaming, Stark.   Don’t imagine I’ll impress Lyanna at all in that area, anyhow.”    

Stark’s face soured, and he pulled away from Robert.  Gods, what is he on about now?  To punctuate the movement, he crossed his arms, then looked back out to find where Ned had got to. By now, Lonmouth looked about ready to pass out. Probably time for him to get back to his rooms, his head lolling to one side, and drool threatening to spill from his lips.   

“Alright you,” Robert announced. Working himself methodically from the bench to grab the man, it took all his energy not to collapse as well. “You're done.”   

Lonmouth cursed Robert with something foul, though the meaning was lost in the slapdash slurry of words that followed. Working both hands under his armpits, Robert gently manoeuvred him up and out from the table, mumbling out an apology when the man’s knees banged against the table.   

“Fucking right mess you are,” he observed as Lonmouth now stood swaying on both feet, gripping to Robert's doublet for dear life.   

Brandon briefly looked back across the table at their soon-to-be misadventure, grimacing at the sight, then once again returned to tracking Ned, Benjen dutifully following his brother's example.   

Lonmouth shook his head furiously as he was manhandled around but seemed unable to go a step further and complain verbally. Then at last, he relented, resting his head against Robert’s shoulder, one hand draped across his for support.   

It was a right mess to get out of the hall, hobbling about this way and that, shunted to and fro as the feast turned rather rowdy, the drink having taken a strong hold on most present. Remiss as he was to miss a chance to dance, Robert would rather see his friend set up right for the night and persevered through it all. Toes were stood on, elbows barely dodged, and shoulders knocked as they stumbled onwards, forging a haphazard path through a hundred and more sweaty bodies tightly packed. 

Ahead loomed the wide-open doors of the hall. Guards were posted at the sides, eying up all who came and went with a great deal of suspicion. Once they broke through the crowds and into a clearing before a set of stairs, two came forward to grab Lonmouth. Robert relinquished control, happier for it, but noticed as the two gave each other an odd look. What? Never seen a drunkard before?    

The guardsmen supported Lonmouth at the hip as they guided him out, Robert following close by. Annoyingly, the two gave him no further thought as they made their way down the stairs, then raced ahead as fast as the limp body they were hauling along allowed them.    

Clumsily passing through the great oaken doors, Robert continued undeterred. Swaying gently from side to side as he did, at last he found relief in the cool breeze that flowed around once he arrived outside. Grateful for this opportunity of respite from the stinking interior, Robert made to follow the guardsmen to wherever Lonmouth’s lodgings were. Unfortunately, they had forgotten him, leaving Robert to flounder about, and he was left to watch as they hurried across the yard and disappeared into the depths of one Harrenhal’s twisted towers. 

What a terrible castle this was. It sprawled across acres and acres—yet one found little pleasure in exploring its vastness. Twas a monument to Black Harren’s arrogance. Harren and his line had found refuge in this castle built on the bones of slaves, held together by blood, when Aegon the Dragon had invaded with his sister-wives. All had perished when dragon fire had been unleashed, and now Harrenhal’s five black towers looked more like melted candles made of old, crumbling wax, than the foreboding battlements they intended to be. The largest castle in all the realm, and yet, who the fuck would want this mess? 

Robert looked out across the courtyard to the walls of the castle, taller than they had any right to be, and thick to march. A dozen guardsmen marched atop them, lanterns swinging in the air. There were certainly fewer present than one would’ve hoped for, which then again wasn’t exactly surprising given the sheer scale of it all—it probably cost as much to man the entire castle for one night as it did to feed all of Storm’s End during a tourney!   

They wore dark spotted halfhelms and bascinets that showed a worrying amount of wear and tear as the light danced across them. Scratched and dented they all seemed, with some looking like they’d been used since at least Aegon’s conquest.    

Without realising, his body drew closer to the walls, and now he stood almost right beneath them, far enough away to still get an angle on the passing men. Now and then, one would lean over with his lantern to inspect the courtyard, pausing in quiet amusement when he inevitably saw a rather inebriated giant of a man staring right back at him. 

When he tired of that, Robert turned to look back at the great hall. Those leaving now outnumbered the ones arriving—probably the most sensible bunch who knew it was all winding down now.  Gods, what time was it?    

One of those leaving stuck out like a sore thumb–despite their stature. They were skipping across the yard in Robert’s general direction, dark brown hair reaching down to his shoulders, the only other thing Robert could make out from this distance.    

Whoever it was didn’t seem to take notice of him, looking this way and that as they continued their course, drawing ever closer.   

“Lyanna, are you out here?” Called out the voice. 

All his senses roared back to life at her name, his body stiff as a spear.  

“Lyanna?’ They called again; this time tinged with concerned. Robert began to look around himself, excited that she could be nearby. 

Closer and closer the figure drew, till eventually the boy was no more than twenty yards from Robert, though looking off and to the right into the gloom of the courtyard. A copse of old elms occupied this space, serving as ample protection for Robert from any searching gaze. 

The boy was a bit frantic now, pacing off into the dark. "Where are you, Lyanna?”   

Just as Robert was about to approach, anxious to aid in the search for his betrothed, there was a sudden ruffling of leaves, and a woosh as someone popped down from the treetops. They landed with a soft thud before the boy, hidden behind the trunk.  Could that be her?  

“I’m right here Benjen.” The voice was sweet as summer berries, a world of pleasure within them. They betrayed no softness though, firm. So, that’s what she sounds like.  

“What’s got you so worried?” Lyanna asked, goosebumps prickling Robert’s skin as she spoke. 

“Ned said that you didn’t like the feast… and so I got worried!” Benjen held his hands behind his back as he spoke. “And, well, I wanted to see if you were alright...”   

Lyanna giggled at her younger brother, and oh how it had Robert dreaming like some silly maiden. “Oh, I just felt like getting away from it all.”   

Robert savoured the sound on his tongue, drinking it in. He could live off just her voice. But he wanted more, and as soon as possible at that. 

Benjen nodded, now fiddling with the hem of his trousers. “Do you want to come back? Brandon's been looking for you. And... Lord Robert.” His name was spoken quieter than the rest, as if it embarrassed the boy.  Good grief.    

Feeling a need to reveal himself, if only to scare the little Stark who’d been throwing him cautious glances the whole night into some sense, Robert was just about to step out when her response gave him pause. 

“He’s  been drinking, hasn’t he?” Her once vibrant voice was now downcast and anxious, the implication beyond clear to him. He felt a pang in his heart, as if someone had given it a good squeeze, and suddenly the world around was a lot greyer.   

Benjen nodded again, still fiddling. Robert felt a small sense of shame he couldn’t quite place as he watched on, averting his gaze back to the hall. He had never felt a greater urge to race off before he made a fool of himself than this moment. Not even Lord Arryn had been able to cow Robert in his worst moods—what was she doing to him? 

The two siblings stood in silence for a short time. Crickets hiding away in the soft grass began their cacophonous symphony, and Robert wished he might join them now, hide away from these worrisome feelings. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

Maybe I could smash my way through this wall…    

“I see.” A wet crunch was heard as she must’ve moved away from the tree, the courtyard now moist with evening dew. He turned back to face them, seeing that now Lyanna stood right before Benjen, taking her brother by the shoulders.   

Robert’s breath caught in his throat as his betrothed was finally revealed to him in all her beauty. Long, dark brown hair cascaded past her shoulders, resting just above her elbows. Her face was long like that of a Stark’s, something entrancing about how handsome it was despite its humbleness. She was not nearly as tall as Robert, slim of figure—but Robert had never cared for that sort of thing as much as others. 

Lyanna Stark was better than her brother had described her. Elegant yet roguish–or was boyish a better word? Whatever it was, he loved it, and seeing her there in that dim light did well to sober him up.  

Once again, her sweet melody graced his poor ears. “Run back to Brandon and Ned and tell them… tell them I’ll be back soon.”   

Another nod from the small boy, to which Lyanna giggled again, delightful, a noise he just needed to devour. She got down on one knee then, placing a kiss on his forehead lovingly. “Go on now, I won’t be long.” 

“Promise?’   

“Promise.”   

“Ok.” He gave her a long look, then darted off at once back to the hall, almost bouncing with each stride.   

Lyanna sighed again, standing back up to lean against the tree, twiddling with her thumbs. To have stood still there any longer would’ve done nought but shame him, the thought of hiding away like a cretin any longer agonising. Though he thought he was being rather careful as he moved away from the wall, Lyanna heard the movement immediately, snapping her attention right to him.   

To say she looked startled was an understatement to be sure, and then the sudden shock on her face morphed into what might’ve been anger, then finally landed on confusion.    

“How long have you been there?” She pressed at once. Pushing herself off the tree to get a better look at him, Robert could see when it clicked in her head who it was. “Oh, it’s you.” 

“Not long.” Robert replied. 

There was a sudden urge to just walk away then and not have to deal with the stress involved with detangling this mess. But he found himself rooted to the ground with some strange trickery, his limbs unresponsive.   

“I, you-” She didn’t seem to know quite what to say, so taken aback by the turn of affairs. “You ought not to sneak up on people like that!”   

Instinctively snorting at the accusation, that only riled her up more. “I’d not even been aware of your presence till he turned up shouting and all that.”   

That only somewhat calmed her, the scorn of before washed away. What a wild thing she was. Lyanna made no further move, standing a few yards from him now, the closest they’d ever been. Awkward silence ensued. Robert inched a tad closer, desperate for her presence. 

“I’m not just a drunkard, you know.” It was an innocent enough defence, he thought, his personality clearly on some sort of trial before.   

Her nose twisted, sniffing at the air, and something flashed across her face. “No, you’re also a serial womaniser.” Oof.  

Their first meeting and that was how she greeted him? What was there to even say to that?  Defend yourself at least!   

“Not in a while!”   

Lyanna scoffed at his words, turning away from him “Oh, “not in a while”! How pleasant for me.”    

“I’ve been trying!” Gods, she was insatiable! Was the woman he had to live with, one would scrutinise his every move? 

Robert looked away with a huff, the frustration overwhelming.  And what does it matter regardless?  Then glancing sideways at Lyanna, he had to suppress the urge to shout. “Who are you to judge me anyhow?”   

She rounded back on him with a glare, her grey eyes cold as ice. An accusatory finger was pointed at him, and Robert swore she looked ready to stab him, body bristling at her fury. 

“Your betrothed!”  She cried out. 

They weren’t even married! What did it matter anyhow? Worse husbands had had plenty more affairs; as if Rickard Stark didn’t keep a lady on the side–father probably did as well!”    

Lyanna resumed her march then, now standing right in front of him, finger still levelled at his chest. “We are to be married, Robert! Married! And you swagger around the whole realm like it's just yours for the taking!” She was rather exasperated, throwing her hands in the air as if that made her words any more compelling.  “Ned told me you’ve already fathered a bastard in the Eyrie!” 

“Don’t you bring Mya into this I-” He’d spoken too rashly, venom in his words. Barely able to calm himself, he moved on from that, knowing it would only lead to worse places. 

“ I already told you I haven’t been drinking that much! What more do you want from me!”   

She gave no response. With nostrils flared, brows knitted together, and fists clenched at her side, Robert was taken aback by her boldness. “Go on! Tell me then dammit!”   

“Figure it out yourself!” She cried out, snarling at him like he’d just struck her.    

Before he even had a chance to argue back, she’d stormed off back to the hall, kicking up dust into the air as she did. For a moment he felt ready to scream out to the heavens, a hell storm of gnashing teeth and curses for all the world to hear. Robert took one step forward, and then another, face contorted in frustration.  

And then, he faltered.  The anger had been sapped away from him as quick as that, and muscles relaxed that he wasn’t aware were even tensed.   

“Lyanna!” He called out dejectedly. “I’m sorry!”   

She gave no response, though she clearly heard him, head turning to one side.   

“Fuck!” He groaned out between clenched teeth. “Fuck!”    

What was it with these Starks? What was it with  him?  

Robert stood alone now in the courtyard, bitter and inconsolable, not sure who to direct all this anger towards. Not sure how to express this profound sorrow now engulfing him, either. A painful throb thumped at his heart as if he’d just been stabbed. A thousand and one things were racing through his mind that he couldn’t decipher, and far too many emotions ready to pour forth that left him weak in the knees.   

In a rage he threw his hands in the air, doing his best not to scream. He paced back and forth in the yard, kicking up dirt and grass all the while, entirely unsure of how to proceed, devoid of the tools needed to resolve this situation.    

Before long, Robert Baratheon was back in the great hall, drinking away again with new friends whilst the world moved around him at a rapid pace. He and Lyanna avoided eye contact for the rest of the night, and feigned weak excuses when an occasion popped up that they might need to stand near each other. Neither left the hall that night pleased, and both had many things to complain about to any who would listen.   

In the end, they both went to sleep after long and dreadful ruminations to their respective chambers, united in grief—some old, some new.   

Chapter Text

Ashford  

“Your betrothed, Robert!’  

He was in a maze of twisting, turning tunnels. Black brick was all around him. It was hot to the touch, and smoke drowned his throat, pooled in his lungs till all he could taste was fire .  

“We are to be married, Robert!”  

How long he had been in these tunnels, he knew not. Now and then, he’d catch a glimpse of the sun above. It taunted him, wafting in through cracks in the wall. Up and above, against a smoggy sky, he could see those horrid towers, looming, waiting. There were noises as well, foul , retched screaming. Burnt flesh was the taste on his tongue now.  

“Figure it out yourself!”  

Robert Baratheon awoke with a start, gripping the sheets for the dear life. His whole body was tense and plastered with a thin sheen of sweat. The others in the tent stirred as well, and his squire, Justin Massey, was soon at his side. Mother have mercy , he whispered to himself as Massey opened his mouth.  

“Are you alright, my Lord?” The lad asked.  

His mop of flaxen here shone in the dim light of the tent. In the last few months, he’d grown taller, broader, and Robert was sure his service would be over soon.  

“Fine.” Still his squire was unmoved. “Get out of my face,” he then muttered darkly, and that was that.  

A thin stream of sunlight streamed through a crack in the tent flaps. The birds were out and about, singing their sweet song, and beyond these cloth walls, he could hear the clamour of an army readying itself for battle. It was that which got him back on track; dreams of battle would’ve been a much better way to get the blood pumping.  

“Where’s Lord Royce,” Robert then groaned, finally sitting up.  

“Waiting outside, my Lord.”  

He ran a hand through his hair, cursing when it caught in the long locks. “Tell him I’ll be out quick.”  

Before he’d even begun to prepare, Robert took a moment to gaze upon his warhammer, resting by the tent’s flap. This was the weapon that would reap ruin upon Prince Rhaegar and King Aerys. The craftmanship of Storm’s End and its smith Donal Noye—did Noye ever dream this was what it was to be used for?  

Quick to dress himself, within a few minutes he was stumbling out through the tent door. His guardsmen, Gyles and Grance, were already at attention, less they got a mouthful from the Lord of Greenstone. Stern-faced Royce Estermont stood waiting, his helm in one hand. Robert’s grandfather through his mother, the lord was anything but Cassana. Where his mother had soft and cheerful, warmth in her green eyes, Royce was icy, tongue well-guarded—till it was time for a spiteful remark.  

“Lord Randyll Tarly's awaiting us, Robert,” he intoned. Then gesturing out to the west, Robert followed his hand to a low-lying hill. He could just see the castle of Ashford out there, on the northern side of the river Cockleswhent, shimmering in the morning sun. It was Robert’s first time this far into the Reach, and for war, no less.  

“How many men?”  

“Ser Fell’s outriders tell me somewhere north of twelve thousand.” His grandfather then looked past Robert, and he saw Ser Edric Fell some ways away, waiting to be called upon. Dark of hair and darker eyed, he was far easier going than he appeared.  

“But his men took a heavy beating,” Royce continued. “Ser Cedrik Staedmon is presumed captured, and Lord Grandison’s cousin, Ser Ossifer, took a nasty hit to the head—we don’t think he’ll wake up.”  

A groan escaped him, and Royce shot him a dark look. Calm yourself , it said, as if even Jon Arryn could manage that.  

Gods, and where was Jon Arryn now? The last he’d seen of the man he’d come to regard as a second father was at the docks of Gulltown. What a fine feat that was, when they’d stormed the city’s walls, and taken the rest by noon.  

“I’ll take my men through the high road, meet Lord Hoster somewhere near the Green Fork.”  

There was no “Be well,” for both knew that well wishes would get them nowhere in a world turned on its head.  

Supposed to reconvene somewhere south of the God’s Eye they were. At the very least, on the opposite shore from Harrenhal. Join their hosts into one, strike south, capture or kill King Aerys Targaryen—it made no difference, for vengeance would be achieved regardless.  

Now, some moons later, Robert was hardly any closer north, stuck in the endless plains and rolling hills of the eastern Reach, looking for a way to break through and secure his western flank against any encroachments. The first few holdfasts had fallen quickly enough. Then there’d been a battle in the foothills of the red mountains, and progress had slowed.  

“Any news from the north?”  

Royce shook his head, nose scrunched. “Little and less. The crown has been slow to muster is what we’ve heard.”  

“And the Dornish?” Robert thought to Lords Dondarrion and Caron, who’d had to remain at home to watch the passes.  

“Nothing— yet .”  

After Gulltown, Robert had sailed back home to Storm’s End, managing to give the Targaryen Fleet the slip. Lord Selwyn Tarth escorting him the rest of the way, loyal as he was. What a shame he couldn’t have spent even a night at Evenfall Hall. Scarcely a week had been spent at home before he had to ride out and subdue his own lords, the defence of it now entrusted to his brother Stannis. Lords Cafferen, Grandison, and Fell had all plotted against him when the Hand of the King had sent out his missives, and he’d smashed them all in turn in a single day not too far from the ruins of Summerhall.  

Now, Lords Jon Cafferen and Humfrey Grandison were amongst his favoured commanders, and the late Lord Fell’s second son, Edric, a trusted advisor—friend even. What a few nights in Storm’s End hosted by Lord Robert Baratheon couldn’t do for the mind, eh? If only Stannis could learn such charm...  

But for what? So many of his men already lay dead and buried, their blood spilled in a terrible fight with their own peers.  

For Lyanna, of course.  

And, Prince Rhaegar’s arrogance as well—just speaking the name summoned foul bile to his mouth.  

It was the final round of the joust, one of the most splendid affairs ever hosted. Robert remembered where he was seated, somewhere left of the royal box. He remembered when Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard was sent tumbling to the dirt. He remembered when Prince Rhaegar had ridden past his own wife, poor Elia Martell, and lain the victory’s wreath in the lap of Lyanna Stark. He remembered the silence that had fallen upon the grounds, the air taught with tension. And then there was the horrid cackling of King Aerys that had followed.  

Brandon Stark had been unable to restrain himself, having to be held back by his friends, less he slew the prince right then and there. Robert fared far better; Lyanna was beautiful indeed, and to crown her Queen of Love and Beauty an honour, even. Aye, that had been a nice thought. Then, it had festered. Late at night, Robert recalled the way the prince had gazed upon her, and even now, thoughts of whatever terrible things the prince was unleashing upon her at this very moment plagued him.  

Then, before Robert had had even a chance to ruminate long on the matter, Rhaegar had gone and kidnapped her not too far from those dark walls of Harrenhal. For what purpose? Who knew. Probably just to spit in Robert’s face, flout his arrogance to all.  

Robert looked across the encampment, spread wide across the rolling hills of the Reach. “Right. Well, bring me the lords, and send a rider back to the Storm’s End.”  

“With what message?”  

“There’s to be battle, and to expect the worst.”  

They had not even ten thousand men at this moment, many still back out east mustering. The Stormlands was not known for large armies, not as the Reach was, though it was made up for in tenacity, the sheer willpower he knew each of his men possessed. Not to mention that House Connington, perhaps the most powerful of all his bannermen, had refused his summons. Lord Jon Connington was in King’s Landing, the castellan said, and they awaited his permission before moving.  

House Lonmouth did not heed my summons either...  

There’d been no time to wait, and off they’d marched without the strength of Griffin’s Roost. Lord Jon was a friend of Rhaegar’s, and Robert knew deep down he’d not be getting his help.  

Lord Royce nodded and made off to see to those duties. Massey was at his side then, tightening his sword belt as he scanned the whole encampment. At last, Ser Edric made his way over as well, dipping his head as he approached.  

“Are you ready?” Robert asked, stretching his shoulders.  

“Aye. Are you?”  

“We’ll be feasting in that castle soon enough,” Robert replied, grinning. He nodded to Ashford as he spoke, though made no comment that it might as prisoners.  

Too much to think about now, so many moving parts that were happening far beyond this plain field and lazy river.  

When word had spread that Lyanna Stark had been kidnapped, the whole realm had come alive. She’d been in the Riverlands for the wedding of Brandon Stark and Catelyn Tully and was apparently found on the road not too far from Harrenhal. Brandon of course had roused his closet compatriots: Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce, Elbert Arryn, and Jeffory Mallister. They’d all ridden to King’s Landing, demanding justice. Then they’d been imprisoned, and their fathers had been summoned to answer for their “crimes”.  

Dark tales followed of what had happened, tales Robert misliked reminiscing on. It would not serve him well to dwell on that had been, when every action he took brought him one step closer to freeing Lyanna.  

King Aerys had then called for Robert’s own head—Ned's too, who was now hopefully back home in the north, mustering his men as the new Lord of Winterfell. Grown up a bit fast, haven’t we Ned?  

Jon Arryn, bless his soul, had refused. And so, it was war, and now Prince Rhaegar was nowhere to be found, nor Lyanna Stark. But for the prince’s arrogance, Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm’s End was now within pissing distance of Ashford, in lands unknown to him, with the might of the Stormlands at his back, and a fury urging him onwards.  

“Figure it out yourself!” He heard upon the breeze.  

~~  

“Order !” Lord Cafferen cried as the bugles blared.  

“Steady up men! Steady!” Ser Cortnay Penrose barked.  

Despite their best efforts, the mood of the men was too jubilant. Though Robert would love nothing more than to revel in past victories, his men could not temper themselves for battle as he could, jostling this way and that as if they all weren’t about to be headed in the same direction.  

“ FORM UP YOU LOT!” Robert finally bellowed. Only then did they finally see sense, and the murmuring quieted still one could only hear the clink and clank of armour.  

Out there on the opposing hill was their first real opponent. He could see the striding huntsman of House Tarly high above the centre, and already, the men beneath it had begun a slow charge. The noise was deafening as thousands of boots and hundreds of hooves pressed their way forward without pause. Too impatient to await Robert’s army, it was perhaps his men's only chance to beat the larger force.  

More men than that of Horn Hill had come to face Robert: a white sun on orange for House Ashford, the horn of plenty for House Merryweather, flowers for House Meadows, both apples of both Fossoways. And then, proud amongst them all, the golden rose of Highgarden.  

That was his target then, whichever Tyrell had roused themselves for today. If he could capture the Lord Paramount of the Reach even, Mace Tyrell, now, wouldn’t that be a fine feat? Would that blustering oaf have even roused himself for war?  

Robert paced back and forth across the line atop his trusted charger, black as night, its temper as bad as his. Behind iron visors, he could see the whites of his men's eyes, following him everywhere he went. Steady, Robert thought, holding his warhammer high, steady . They sported their own standards: his own colours, a royal gold with a black stag in the centre, the sleeping lion of Grandison, white fawns of Cafferen, the green sea turtle of Estermont, quills for Penrose, crows for Morrigen, the pierced heart of Staedmon, and so many more fluttering in the wind.  

Let them, come to us, let them break against our steel.  

That was what he had told all his commanders, and that was what had been relayed to all their serjeants. Desperate as he was to be over and done with it now, some amount of patience was needed, and Robert had to content himself with a defence. Fine. He could oversee that.  

But Robert could not be everywhere at once. Out of the corner of his eye, far on the left flank, there was movement. He dashed across, passing by his other commanders, equally bewildered. “ORDER!” He bellowed again, waving his arms. “HOLD STEADY!”  

Lord Jon Cafferen was brandishing his sword high, waving it in distress. Half his men, farthest from Robert, were already well past him, whilst those closer had heeded Robert’s words. Robert looked left. It was too late, the frontline of the foe already dangerously close. A terrible, shimmering scythe appeared behind them, and the cavalry of Horn Hill poured forth aimed right at the men.  

Robert had to make a choice, and quick. The only sensible option was to abort his dash, knowing he could not command his whole army from one side—one that would surely be thrown into chaos within a minute.  

“STEADY MEN!” Robert roared one last time, then turned back to the centre. Shooting Cafferen a look, he saw that still only half his men had heeded the command, and those too stupid to stay put were already turning tail back to the safety of the camp. Fuck .  

Ser Cortnay Penrose was still barking orders to his men as Robert galloped past. A brief look was exchanged, the feeling of dismay mutual.  

At the very least, the centre had held steady in Robert’s absence. His serjeants knew what was to come. Pikemen on each side of the centre force were already braced for impact, his cavalry between them with lances lowered, and the infantry that swarmed between them readied their weapons, feet firm. Shrill shouts across rang out as his archers picked their targets, and Robert felt as confident as he could about what was to come.  

Right as he resumed his prior position, Robert raised his warhammer high in the air. The iron spike atop it glowed in the morning sun. Flexing his fingers around it, Robert took a deep breath. His heart was racing, and every muscle in his body twitched with anticipation. This , was what he was made for.  

“ WITH ME!” Was his final command, and with that, lowered the warhammer, aiming it right at whichever ugly cunt showed his face first.  

It was some up jumped knight no less, that was closest. The Reachmen had sent their mounted knights first, as if they could break Robert’s force with but one charge. A giant “v” was spread out before him, all the colours of the rainbow present—blinding, almost.  

With a kick, his charger was spurred forth, and soon at his side were his other men, baying for blood, cursing those who dared stand challenge them. Loud and frightening as a thunderclap Robert met this knight atop his cream-coloured horse, armour flecked with gold. Within a second, he’d been ripped from the saddle with one low arc of his weapon, crushed beneath the stampede of horses.  

All around him were scenes of chaos as the two forces met. Men and mount alike screamed as they were each cut down in turn. Mud and blood were all that one could see, Robert left to swing haphazardly to clear a path ahead. Another man down, and then another, and then another, and soon enough, space had been cleared for him to start on his true charge.  

High above the battlefield, that banner of Highgarden continued to mock him. Wiping the muck from his visor, Robert could see the standard bearer now, and at the man's side no doubt, was his target.  

Whichever Tyrell it was, they were dressed in their best for this: golden vines adorned with leaves and thorns adorned his breastplate, a crown of flowers was engraved into his helm, and the cape he wore was heavy, green as a merry meadow. Garish and gaudy, Robert thought.  

“ FOLLOW ME! TO ME!” He called out for any who would listen.  

Soon, he was flanked by his bravest and boldest fighters: Edric Fell, Brus Bolling, Qarlton Cole, Damon Morrigen, and countless more he could not make just yet. They cut a path towards the rose of Highgarden without hesitation, thundering ahead with brutal efficiency, leaving trail of destruction in their wake.  

Halfway there now, and suddenly a terrible cry was heard. Robert dared to look left, grimacing as Cole was dragged from his horse and beaten bloody. There was no time to weep, a great prize awaiting him, and on they pressed. He swung the warhammer forward in a might arc, cutting down the infantry at his side, till its spike was pointed right at the enemy commander.  

The gap rapidly close, now riding through the panicked reserves, and at last, Robert was upon the man. At the last second, this Tyrell senses his imminent doom’s presence, and bravely elected to meet it with steel. They clashed in a mighty effort, circling each other as men scrambled for space. He was quick with his sword, but no match for a heftier weapon than that. Robert screamed at the man for more as he battered away at his shield, and with the butt of his hammer, sent it upwards, smacking the man’s helm clean off.  

This was not a familiar face—one of the hundreds of cousins Mace Tyrell possessed no doubt—and Robert would forever remember the look on his face when the spike of the warhammer drove right into his neck. Blood sprayed forth from the gaping wound, and his eyes were wide and white with terror. Just like that, the man fell from his saddle. It’d have been nicer to capture him, though.  

His death did not break the men of the Reach, much to Robert’s dismay. On and on and on they all fought, a bitter clash that must’ve lasted an hour. But no matter how many men they cut down, more and more continued to appear across the horizon. Lords took other lords places, fresh faced knights quick to replace those fallen, and all the while arrows whistled overhead.  

 Yet, Robert had no such reserves, no amount of manpower at his command to stem the tide. Before long, he was pushed back to where he had started, bloodied and beaten. Still, Robert refused to yield, many still failing to cow him, and the men at his side as ferocious as an autumn storm.  

Not even that could last, however.  

“My lord!”  

He turned and saw a rider pushing through the sea of men. “Lord Robert!” The man cried again, and Robert was forced to meet him, grimacing as he regarded the battlefield with a sweeping look.  

“Lord Cafferen is dead! The left flanks gone, all of it!”  

Sure enough, when Robert stood up in the stirrups to assess the situation, he found it more than dire. The knights of Horn Hill were dangerously close to cutting their way through to the rear end, and Robert could just see Lord Randyll Tarly cutting a devastating path right to Robert. The noose was tightening around them, overwhelmed as they were by the sheer number the Reach could muster.  

“Lord Royce says we must retreat my lord; the battle is lost!”  

A wrath fit for the gods swelled within in him. Robert was ready to clout the man across the ear. Then an arrow did the job for him, and he watched was sent flying off his horse.  

“Fuck,” was the first word that came to him.  

He prayed to the gods for what might be his final time, then called for a retreat loud as he could. “TO THE NORTH!” Robert boomed out across the battlefield. “NORTH MEN, NORTH!”  

Chapter Text

Stoney Sept  

She was a pretty one, this girl. Hair as red as fire was splayed out across his chest, and her body ran just as hot. With each breath she took, Robert could feel her breasts rise and fall. Plump, fitting right into his hands. Idly, he ran a hand across her back. Strong, too. 

The wound at his chest flared as the girl took another breath. From a fucking arrow, of all things. 

He began to wonder who’d found her for him. Grance, most like, who stood posted right outside the door. The guardsmen had set off to see the proprietor the moment they’d been ushered through the sewers from that last basement, talking about “good services” awaiting. Running a hand through his hair, Robert leant back down, resting his head atop the pillows. 

“Fuck ,” he groaned, lamenting what had led to this moment.  

What a mess this all was. To say the flight north from Ashford had been chaotic was an understatement; just how many they had exactly lost remained unknown. It felt like every hour, Edric, would bring new names as the lords counted their men. “ Lord Dickon Morrigen dead, his heir Lester captured,” Robert had first found out when they’d raced passed Tumbleton. Then it was “ Ser Willem Penrose and Ser Walter Bolling killed in the rearguard”. Gods, Robert should’ve been there with them. 

Most recently, it had been a correction that Ser Cedrik Staedmon was dead, not captured. His father, Lord Alesander, had at first been livid. Now though, he was holed up in one of the other rooms of this brothel Robert was in, soothed by the soft hands of a dozen whores he had bought with what coin hadn’t fallen by the wayside in the baggage train. 

“Easy,” Robert warned when the girl tried to reach southwards. He was in no mood for it now, not with the dead on his mind. 

Looking up at Robert, he found her green eyes laced with disappointment. Her hand continued its advance, and this time he reached out to stop it, slapping it away. “ Enough .” 

Robert didn’t need any further frustrations, so when Lyanna whispered in one ear, every bone in his body ached, and every muscle and tendon twitched and tensed. “We are to be married!” His betrothed complained once again, as if he hadn’t heard it a thousand times already. We’ll see what she says when I rescue her after all this—and what will she say if I fall in battle for her?  

Everyone except Lyanna Stark seemed to see the merits in this; what was one common whore to Lyanna? One night of fucking to a lifetime of marriage? His other lords were likely enjoying themselves right now, and here Robert was, stewing in misery and self-loathing.  

“Get off me,” Robert abruptly announced. A stiff drink was needed, and surely the man upstairs had something better than that last round. If the foe was up there now, he couldn’t give much of a shit. 

The girl muttered her complaints of course, but relented all the same, and was soon gathering her clothes up—though dressed herself noticeably slow. He regarded her with a knowing gaze, and set about finding his own clothes, strewn about the room. At least the “best” brothel in Stoney Sept had whores who could listen. 

This town was nothing special Robert had realised rather quickly. Straddling the border between the northern Reach and southern Riverlands, somehow, it had missed out on the best parts of both. At least the game was good—if Robert could have even just a day to himself to explore! 

Jon Arryn had spoken of it in a letter sent ahead to Storm’s End. “It will be loyal to Lord Hoster, I can promise you that,” his foster father had written. “ The town’s master is sympathetic to our cause; he’s complained at length to Riverrun on the excesses of the crown.”  

Well, they didn’t turn Robert’s men away when they’d all turned up at the gates to the town—but he still saw the way their people regarded them all, suspicion in their blatant staring. Whispering to each other as they’d ferried Robert down and into the bowels of the city, they thought he didn’t notice. But he did. With every inch of him on edge, he couldn’t afford to miss a thing. 

Somewhere up in the streets the enemy was said to be on the prowl. The master had not even come to see Robert, or any of his lords for that matter, cooped up in that manse of his, hidden away by the western wall. Could be dead, for all Robert knew. 

“Grance!” Robert called out through the door. 

No response. Probably off with some whore. 

As he found and tightened his sword belt, Robert mused on if he would even leave this stinking town alive. Lord Randyll Tarly had been tailing them for quite a while, only to retreat once they’d passed the upper Mander—surely, they did not mean to let him escape?  

“They’ll be headed east, Robert,” Royce had informed him—as if Robert was so stupid as not to see the painful reality unfolding before him. 

Gods, and how soon before they’d be at Storm’s End? Not with Lyanna, not with the rearguard, and now, far away from Stannis and little Renly, surely to be under siege soon enough. Just how long until Robert could defend what was his? It seemed that every time someone sought to take such, Robert was far away, and always caught unawares... 

“Lord Gulian Swann is leading men of the marches north—but we can’t be sure if he’ll make it as far as we did.”  

Those few days spent free of that rabid dog of Lord Tyrell’s chasing them had not lasted long either, as men from the Blackwater had been mustered to give chase, and harassed Robert every step of the way. Hearing little of what they got up to on the streets above, one thing he had caught onto were the whispers of crow cages and other foul things being used to lure him out. Let them try; his men would not break, and he’d kill every single cunt sent down here. 

“Grance! You lazy lout!” Robert called out again. 

Still no response. But there was a thump he heard. 

“Go see what’s keeping him,” he then said, turning to the girl who’d just finished fixed her blouse. 

Rolling her eyes, the girl at least had the sense to obey, teasing him with swaying hips as she padded over to the door. If only there was the time to take her again. She gave him one long, last look before swinging it open. Next time , he mouthed. 

With a dreadful creak, the door swung upon, and a grim thud followed. There was Grance. Well, what was left of Grance. His body was crumpled against the door, falling over as it was swung inwards. The girl screamed of course and flew right past the corpse of one of Robert’s best men without a moment’s hesitation.  

Drawing closer, Robert saw a gaping wound where his heart was, still bleeding profusely. His whole body bristled, and Robert’s thoughts grew clouded. The first question that came to mind was not when but who; who needed to have their head ripped clean off. That need gnawed at him, a throb in his ears as he tried to make sense of it all. 

Like a moth to a flame, Robert grabbed his warhammer, still leant against the doorframe, and marched right out into the hall.  

Death was the world he stepped into, this cramped, damp, and dim brothel its crude canvas. How he’d been ignorant to this hellscape, he had not a clue, nor was there the time to ponder such. Up and down the length of the hallway were men struggling. Robert saw heads bashed in and bodies beaten bloody, arms cut clean off, and innards spilling forth onto the wooden floor. 

Before he could digest any of it, a knight was screaming foul curses and sprinting towards him, dirk in hand. His foe wore a cream surcoat trimmed with red, a far too familiar beast sewn into it, and faintly recalled a rumour spread within this brothel of who was the new Hand of the King after Lord Merryweather. 

Quick as he could, Robert unleashed his warhammer in a might arc, roaring as he did. He took no pleasure in it, when the head of it slammed into the knight’s chest and sent him flying into the wall, a sickening crunch ringing out. Not yet finished, the man continued to crawl towards Robert, his futile efforts finally ended with one swift boot to the temple.  

He dared to take a moment to inspect the man’s colours once again. Two griffins in combat, one red, one white. House Connington.  

I see , was what Robert first thought, 

Then rage; foul, putrid, harrowing rage swelled up within him. It coursed through his veins, pooled in fingertips as they flexed around his weapon. It captured his heart and mind and drove him to march right down that hallway and kill every single fucking bastard in sight. On the bodies of the other fallen he saw the arms of House Rykker, Rosby, Stokeworth and Staunton, Buckwell and Blount; all men of the Blackwater Bay and Rush, all lead lords sworn to King’s Landing, and steadfast allies of House Targaryen. 

It was one thing for that many to have been sent out to defeat him. But for men of House Connington to be here, their lord apparently the new Hand of the King? Lord Jon Connington had done more than made his choice; he wanted to lead the bloody effort himself! Was there glory in this? Bah! This would keep the man up every damned night of his life! 

The other lords at Summerhall were quick to submit before the tides of battle had even turned. Joon Connington though? No; he would put them all in the dirt at their lowest, have all King Aery’s craven lickspittles accompany him as he did. No, this was different to when the rebellion was still nascent, and news had scarcely spread of what unfolded in the throne room. This was to prove his obedience to that rotten cause, not hesitantly obey an order, and see sense before the tides of battle had even turned. 

Robert marched onwards, others falling in around him, half-dressed and tenfold furious. There was no time to look for Justin Massey who he’d left in the care of the proprietor. A short prayer was offered to his squire, Robert hoping the tenacity he had served with at Ashford remained.  

They carved a bloody path through the bowels of this brothel, no prisoners were taken, and the only mercy a quick death. If quarter was to be offered, Robert would’ve been offered parlay, a chance to prepare. Already wounded anyhow, Robert did not have the patience to dawdle with offers of mercy. 

Lord Jon Connington was always a spiteful man. Nights spent glaring across the feast hall at Robert when he’d make his half year visits to Storm’s End and see to its affairs. Angry letters crowding his rookery about issues others had already seen to. A rare demand even, for Robert to return at once from his fostering. As if it were that simple and as if it was wise to disrespect one of the most powerful lords of the realm! 

A close confidant of Prince Rhaegar’s, no less, who’d spent just as much time at King’s Landing as Robert had at the Eyrie. Hypocrite! Probably wanted a piece of his betrothed as well, and for that, Robert was more than ready to tear each and every bone from his craven body. 

Arriving now at the ground floor of the brothel, the sounds of battle outside were apparently. The shrieking of steel dancing with steel, the cries of dying men and horse alike, the back and forth of orders as each serjeant fought to have himself heard. Robert felt it deep in his bones, how perfectly he slotted into all this. Doubts and worries fled from his mind as he burst through the front with a triumphant roar. 

Screeching above it all, with such fury you’d think the heavens were crashing down to earth, were the town’s bells. Their incessant clamour was unending; there must’ve been near a hundred of them clanging away! Each time they were rung, Robert felt a deep vibration course throughout his body, shaking his bones and bashing his mind about his skull. 

The first to challenge him on the streets of Stoney Sept was a man caught by surprise just before the brothel. He wore a cream cape tinged with red and gold, some fish on his cape, and wielded a longsword in both hands. Robert bashed him in the head with the butt of his hammer before he could react and stepped over his corpse and moving onto the main square before his blood had run cold. 

A sea of iron was crashing around him, impossible to make out who was who. Robert forged a path ahead with his faithful few, fighting for any ounce of space that might offer them leverage, a challenge to even breath as the crowd of soldiers swelled back and forth, furious as the tides.  

The fountain was his first target, sitting in the very centre of the market square, the leaping trout that crowned it serving as an able guide. Its waters were already choked with foul and grisly debris, and by the time he put one foot in it, that there had been water in at all was a wonder. Blood, blood everywhere. It seeped through his clothes, pooled in his boots, left his hands sticky as he gripped his warhammer. His hair was already matted with it as well, clinging to his skin. 

Robert swung madly around him, relishing in every shout that arose with each new contact. He breathed in the air, thick with the scent of death. It sent him wild . 

“FIGHT ME YOU COWARDS!” He bellowed and knocked a man senseless when he took to such challenge. 

The man at his left fell to Staunton spearman, and Robert returned the favour with the head of his hammer. Crack went the cunt’s skull as it collided. Then another. Before long, the walls of the fountain were lost to the mountain of bodies. Nearly tripping on the low edge, Robert frantically searched for his lords and knights; men still in stupor with no armour were hardly strong company. 

There was Ser Damon fighting two men at once, and just as Robert was about to aid, both the foes were cut down in turn. The two found each other's searching gaze. A mailed fist was raised, and Robert raised his free hand in return. Grinning, pride ballooned within him, only adding more fuel to the fire. These men of the Blackwater were no match for the pride of the Stormlands; they spent their days lazing about in King’s Landing or Duskendale, fattened from their slimy food and sour drink. 

He saw Ser Borys split a man's head in two, then drag a horseman down and relieve his neck of its ugly head. Ser Brus was right by his side, tearing their foe a new one. The two were a terror for any who stood in their way, and Robert marched right over to them, kicking down a Rosby man who tried hacking away at his legs. 

“My lord!” Brus called out, dashing over to meet him. 

“Where are the other lords?” Robert shouted. There was a ringing in his ears, those bells still ringing in cacophonous chorus.  

“On the walls! The walls!” The knight cried out and gestured to his left. 

“Lord Arryn is here, and Lord Tully!” Borys then informed, giddy as a child. “Look my lord! Look!” 

Sure enough, atop the walls of the town, were the colours of his allies: a blue as bright as a clear sky for House Arryn, bands of deep blue and red for House Tully. And, by the gods, did he spy the white of House Stark? 

Ned, Ned’s here! Robert thought, forgetting all about the carnage around him. Frantically he looked all around, hoping to catch just a glimpse of his dear friend. How’d they even know I was here? Most of their ravens had fallen astray in the flight from Ashford, and when they’d first arrived at Stoney Sept, Robert had quietly come to the realisation that his might be the last thing he ever saw.  

Now though, now there was more than a glimmer of hope. Now, victory was within his grasp, so tantalisingly close. Robert looked further down the claustrophobic lanes of the city, seeing that the horsemen whizzing past with swords and bludgeons raised were knights of the Vale: Templetons, Redforts, Royces, Belmores, Waynwoods, and so many more. There were Brackens and Blackwoods as well, Mallisters, Vances, and all the other petty lords and knights of the Riverlands that Lord Tully could muster.  

One roared past, trampling a griffin knight. More joined him in their glorious stampede, continuing onwards down the main street of the town, off towards where the royalist forces still flowed from. Robert could see the gatehouse now on the far eastern side, smoke billowing out from its battlements. The banner of House Connington that had arrogantly flown there was ablaze, and he watched gleefully as his own golden colours rose to replace it.  

Robert had been surrounded by those of his men still alive in the market square as he moved on from the fountain. Together as one they pressed the advantage, clearing a path towards the town’s sept, where more of his men were stuck indoors. Crowding around its entrance was what looked to be the last organised force of the royalist. At the mere sight of Robert’s relief force, most of the rabble turned tail and ran. Not all though, for some rallied behind a knight with a winged helm who wielded an axe. 

For half a moment, Robert hoped it was Jon Connington, what with his cape split white and red, winged greathelm, and battling griffins on his brooch. But this one was shorter than Robert remembered, not near as stocky, and that loathsome voice of the lord’s, grating against the ear, worse than a prattling septon, did not reveal itself. All the same Robert met the man with the ferocity of an aurochs.  

And though this one tried to offer good quarry, before long, with a long sweep of the hammer, he had been subdued. The spike wrenched apart his foe’s breastplate with a delightful crunch. A well of viscera was drown forth, and quick as that, the man was on the floor, already limp. 

Ser Cortnay Penrose had been amongst those trapped inside the sept, and out he raced to face whoever was left, grinning when he saw it was Robert. Unable to tell where the blood ended and Cortnay’s blazing red hair began, Robert wondered how long they’d been at it. 

“My lord,” the knight said, dipping his head. “They interrupted your fine debauchery?”  

Others cautiously crept out behind Cortnay, relieved to find their friends awaiting. It was up and to the walls they were now headed, on the hunt for stragglers like a rabid pack of hounds, whilst others set to securing the storefronts and squat abodes that leant onto the lanes.  

A crude sight greeted Robert when he looked up and around. Just as the townsfolk had said when they thought Robert unawares, there were the crow cages. They lined the streets in the dozens, and within them were held captive those poor men who could not find refuge quick enough. Reeking worse than death, some still had arrows embedded in them, whilst others were missing limbs. By the gods, Robert even saw some of the townsfolk amongst them? So, this was how Lord Connington wished to play? So be it. 

With arms outstretched to Robert as he passed, praising his name, he ordered some of those accompanying him to free them.  

On they pressed, running down all that was left. The day was surely theirs, and what confirmed that to Robert was a voice that one could heard clear above all the clamour. It cracked out like a whip, ordering men to the other gates and watchtowers: Lord Jon Arryn’s. Though he could not find where he was at this very moment, Robert took comfort in his mere presence. Closer and closer he thought he drew, until around a corner stumbled another, just as important a man. 

Clutching his midsection, supported by a taller knight with a black trout etched into his breastplate, was Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun. He recognised Robert at once, flipping up his visor to reveal a bruised and dirtied face. Despite it all, he wore a smile—missing at least one tooth—and shouted to his aide to manoeuvre him over. 

“Lord Robert!” He greeted, so casual you’d forget there was a battle still raging on around them. “You seem to be missing your armour?”  

“Aye,” was all he could muster. Robert looked down to the lord's gut, his arm clearly not enough to stem the tide. 

Hoster saw his concern, waving him off at once. “Forgot I was too old for this! It was that Lord Connington who did me in, right when I first entered!” 

Might be he could have the guts to face his own lord next time...  

“Brus!” Robert called out to the burly knight. “Help Lord Hoster here!” 

The knight at the lord’s side muttered something, the voice gravely and severe. Hoster nodded once, and a sympathetic look was at sent Robert’s way as the Lord of Riverrun was led away to safety, Buckler holding him by the other arm. 

At the end of the alley he now stood in was a stairwell carved into the side of the wall. Bodies littered the steps and hung from the battlements, and right at the top of it was exactly who he needed. 

“Jon!” Robert shouted as he hurried along, forsaking all measure of caution. “Jon!” 

Around them the battle had quietened, distant, subdued. Robert found that the lord was unresponsive, worried for half a moment he was too late. On the steps now, Robert couldn’t care less as his boots met flesh, one hand on the wall for support as he approached, shouting out to catch Arryn’s attention. 

Jon Arryn was kneeling, he saw, with his helm in one hand and sword cast aside. His knights stood around and made way for Robert as he arrived. Most had their heads bowed, and offered odd looks to the Lord of Storm’s End. What’s going on?  

“Jon?” Robert called again, quieter, cautious. 

There was someone was lain before Lord Arryn, who wore the same blues as he, with the same white moon emblazoned on his surcoat, and their falcon proudly displayed on his pauldrons. The hair—no, no, it couldn’t be... 

Denys Arryn’s body was already cold. Pretty eyes looked up to the bright sky, and even in death, he smiled, handsome and youthful. Jon had clasped one of his kin’s hands, and for a moment, Robert thought he heard him weep bitter tears. It can’t be!  

That was how Robert would always remember Denys, his dear friend; as beautiful as the Maiden, as gallant as the Warrior, and strong as the Smith. The deep gash at his neck did not take away from all that, nor the wounds upon his chest, or the blood that seeped from his lips. One of the last of the noble Arryn’s, and scarcely a man grown. 

Robert took one knee, shaking his head as he observed the obscenity. Who had cut him down? When had he died? Why must he have fallen today? Had it been Lord Connington? Had Robert been too busy being serviced when it all happened? Must more die for his cause that never should’ve been? 

Why?  

With all his energy spent, there was nothing Robert could do but remain silent. His throat was dry, his body a wreck, and the pain flared in his chest once again.  

Jon suddenly turning to Robert. “House Targaryen must go,” he croaked out. There were no tears in his eyes. But suddenly, the lines on his face were far more apparent, his lip trembling ever so slightly. Jon took a deep breathe. “Your grandmother was a Targaryen, Robert,” he announced, and looked right to Robert as he spoke. Something flicked across his eyes that Robert could not place. 

“Rhaella?” Robert looked back down to Denys as he spoke, finding himself unable to care for a lady he’d never met. Some compensation to his grandfather for another broken betrothal. “I knew that.” 

“Aye. I suggest you press that claim of yours then.” Jon bit his lip, shaking his head as he gazed out upon the savagery of this battle. “The realm cannot bear their curse any longer, the brutality they have wrought upon us all.” 

Robert drew back. “You want me to claim the Iron Throne?” 

A thousand and one things flew to his mind, things that Robert had never even dreamt of? King of the Iron throne? Usurp House Targaryen? The two houses were not natural enemies... was Prince Rhaegar not his cousin? 

But thinking on it now, the relation meant little. The love between the two was lost, long before Prince Rhaegar had trampled upon his rights, and long before even Steffon had been sent out on that stupid voyage for the same prince’s pride. On the order of that cruel King, no less. 

King Robert Baratheon... First of His Name...  

Jon only nodded. He returned his attention to Denys and took to placing both the young man’s hands together atop his chest. A knight found Deny’s sword amongst the carnage and handed it to Jon at once.  The hilt was fashioned in the shape of a falcon’s wings, and soon Ser Denys Arryn clutched his weapon one final time. It had been a gift from Lord Arryn when Denys had married his niece, Lady Sharra; that poor woman, and now another son would be without a father—Osric was not even two. 

They didn’t speak much for a time then, preferring to keep to their private memories of the man lain before them. Robert had some dreams of a crown to muse upon now, anyhow, dreams that would surely keep him up at night just as one memory of Lyanna Stark already had.  

Though Jon had had Elbert as heir, Denys had been treated just as well, a man the Lord of the Vale could trust with almost anything. Named him as Keeper of the Gates of the Moon as well, replacing Jon’s brother Ronnel some years after the latter had died.  

How he'd taken to bumbling Robert and quiet Ned, neither of them could say. One day the man would be stuck at the gates, glaring daggers when Robert quietly teased him from across the hall. Ned would slap Robert’s hand of course and lecture him on the merits of learning from their friend's example. Well, then Denys would take them out to Gulltown to “relieve some stress,” as he called it, and then Robert got to lecture Ned on the benefits of good leisure. 

Right as Robert got to thinking about those innocent, sweeter times, Ned made his appearance, looking all the worse for wear. Without a second thought, Robert was up and squeezing the life out of him in a bear hug. There was not much left for Robert to hold onto now. Losing Ned? He couldn’t stomach the mere thought of that. 

“How’d you get here?” He had to ask, his excitement only tempered by the loss he’d just learned of. 

Ned smiled sadly, his grey eyes flickering with something subdued. “For you, Robert, I’d move mountains.” 

The Lord of Winterfell took note of Denys then. Murmuring what might be a quiet prayer, Ned closed his eyes. “Too many have been lost today,” he finally commented. “When we first arrived, we all thought it a miracle we’d find you alive, Robert.” 

If that man hadn’t moved on from Grance...  

“Aye well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” 

Nodding with a soft smile, Ned knelt on the other side of Denys. “He was the first to scale the walls, I remember. I told him he was mad. He just flashed me a grin and took to the ladders before I could stop him.” 

And for what? Some man who was too busy with a common whore? Thought he was moved by the bravery, the devotion of darling Denys, it brought no ounce of relief. What a waste. Robert should’ve been out there to meet him, protect him from whoever had done this. 

The sun was setting now, far off in the western hills. He could see the last remnants of the royal army fleeing, scattered and dazed. Gods, there were still thousands of them, all in vibrant colours, many still ahorse.  

“Who killed him?” Robert inquired after a moment. 

No one answered at first. Until a household knight stepped forward, hand on his heart. “Lord Connington.” 

Fury returned to him, its venom in every vein. Vengeance would not quell the storm brewing within, and only the complete annihilation of these cunts might bring him somewhere closer to a sense of peace. Robert walked to the battlements. He gripped the stone for dear life and lowered his head. 

Ned was at his side soon enough, a hand on his back. “Soon,” he said. “Soon. We’ve got to head to Riverrun. 

“What for?” Robert asked, barely interested. His mind was on King’s Landing now. 

“I’m to—” Ned went silent then. Looking over his shoulder, his gaze went cloudy.  

“I’m to marry Lady Catelyn Tully.” 

Brandon’s betrothed, the same wedding Lyanna had been riding to. Another victim of Prince Rhaegar’s folly.  

He let him have a moment of quiet contemplation, before turning fully, and grasping his shoulder. “Are you... alright Ned?” 

“Aye let’s just... get it over with.” Another sad smile, far too commonplace now, not at all reminiscent of the Ned Stark he had grown up with. “We’ll be at King’s Landing soon enough, and then it will all be over with.” 

But for what purpose?  

Chapter Text

The Trident   

There was little on Robert’s mind but that cunt of a prince. Somewhere across these waters he awaited, having at last revealed himself and taken command of the royalist host—or so Edric’s scouts told him. A pity it had taken this long to find him; it would’ve done them all a favour if he’d settled this back at Harrenhal, like a real man would. 

Robert glanced right, then left. As far as the eye could see, men scurried like little ants up and down the length of the river Trident where it ran lowest, readying themselves for battle. Somewhere to his right rode his dear friend–no, brother–Ned, and to Robert’s left rode Jon Arryn. Here in the centre was Robert atop a broad-backed charger, the mighty beast that would carry him to certain victory. 

Pondering on the matter for some time now, Robert no longer rode as a rebel lord, but now a claimant to the Iron Throne. How grand it would be to set the realm right at last, he’d thought, and what an honour for Lyanna Stark to be his queen, and not just his lady. All his friends close at his side as well—how the thought had captured his mind, set on that goal now. 

Soon, Lyanna, soon. All will be set right once I put this cunt in the ground.  

If Rhaegar Targaryen was to steal Robert’s rights right out from under him, Robert was plenty pleased to return the favour. Only this time, he’d have the courage to do it in his face. 

There, across the Trident, waited his foe. Hopefully they would be his final foe, for if the rebels won the battle today, he wagered there would be nothing left standing between them and King’s Landing. Then, mayhaps, they could at last bring King Aerys to justice. Then the men of the Reach besieging Storm’s End would melt away and do fealty—and Robert might even be allowed to smack Tarly around his bald head. 

Lazily flapping in the wind, the vibrancy of the heraldry on display made it was clear they’d mustered all that they could in their efforts to defeat Robert. Beneath such was a mass of shimmering steel painted every colour imaginable; simple black and whites, oranges and yellows, greens and blues, pinks and reds, and every which colour in between.  

Finally settled in, Robert was keenly aware of just how large this force was, their flanks stretching just beyond his own. More of them were hidden behind a low hill across the river, no doubt. Such did little to scare him. If he could survive Ashford and Stoney Sept, he could survive this. 

Let them come. Let me bathe in the blood of these cretins–as much as the gods have seen fit.   

Where the royalists brought men from Dorne, the Reach, some of the Riverlands and more from the lands sworn directly to the throne, Robert brought all the power of the Vale, Stormlands, North, and almost all the lords of the Riverlands. His men were bloodied and bold, where theirs were beaten and craven. If only they’d been able to give chase after Stoney Sept... 

Lazily swinging the great warhammer at his side back and forth, Robert made peace with the prospects of battle. There were no whispers behind him that betrayed his men’s anxiety. No, they’d survived too much to fret about mortality now, and instead they jeered at the enemy ahead. From the walls of Gulltown to the banks of the Trident; was this was Prince Rhaegar hoped for?  

The tension in the air was palpable. It weighed heavy on his shoulders, hanging on by just a thread. All around, both armies seemed to breathe; frightened, wild beasts, anxious to lash out at any moment. And as his frayed thoughts reached a fever pitch, a loud rumbling was heard. Within seconds, the beasts had begun to move, and a thousand and more feet marched forward with well-placed precision, weapons drawn and a rainbow assortment of shields raised.   

Far too impatient, far too untested, the royalists endeavoured to cross the river first. Any advantage they possessed was for nought, Robert quickly, realised, grinning at the prospects of the bloodbath surely to follow. A cry rang out across the battle line. “ Forward men!” Their commander cried, his serjeants then parroting the order.  

The moment was his to seize, and he spurred his horse on, dashing back and forth across the centre force. He passed Humfrey Grandison as he donned his helm, Gulian Swann affixing his cloak, Royce Estermont—as dour as ever—Alesander Staedmon, Damon Morrigen, Cortnay Penrose, and all those other familiar faces. Unwavering in their loyalty, Robert finally came to a rest some yards from the very centre of the line. 

“Brave men of the Stormlands!” Robert bellowed out, his heart thumping madly. “Meet these cretins with a fury like none other!”    

Mailed fists rose high to the heavens, and a chorus of voices joined his. 

Galloping across the centre formation, Robert’s voice thundering out for even the gods to hear. “ Crush them beneath your boots!”    

Another roar came from his army. “Fury!” They cried. “Fury!”   

Robert doubled back across the formation to the other side, screaming at the top of his lungs. “For House Baratheon!”   

“For House Baratheon!”  

“For Lyanna Stark!” Robert bellowed. 

He turned now to face the enemy, hoping to catch a glimpse of the prince. 

“For Lyanna Stark!” The chorus of voices answered. 

They all descended into a clamouring of howling and shrieking, cursing those who dared stand between them and justice.  Lowering the visor of his antlered great helm then, Robert then raised his iron warhammer high in the air. With that, his armies began their own march. 

“FACE ME, PRINCE RHAEGAR!” Robert finally challenged. “YOU COWARD!”  

Itching to be the first across the river, Robert had to temper himself, knowing a mounted charge melt the moment it met the spears and pikes jutting out from the royalist footmen—a break had to appear first. And today, he had to entrust this brave feat to those beneath him, now trekking through the mud and gunk.  

When they had well passed the lapping waters of the trident, but mere seconds away from meeting the enemy, then did Robert Baratheon lean forward in his saddle. He signalled to those on horseback around to sidle up. Let the first waves beat themselves bloody, and then, we will crash through them all. That was what he had informed his commanders, and seamlessly, the orders were followed out.  

The wind whipped at their side as they began their slow charge, his ears already ringing. Already, the first sounds of battle were crying out, and Robert was as eager as ever to join the fray. Now was their time, Robert’s men making far more progress than was ever expected. 

Five.   

Overhead, hundreds of Tarth arrows whistled past, plummeting down to earth, viciously finding their targets. 

Four.   

Shrill cries of steel meeting steel rang out at all sides. Robert dared look around, and saw that up and down the river, the battle was well underway. 

Three.   

Men roared their displeasure as they foot tooth and nail for every inch of space, and all the while the charge picked up speed. 

Two.   

Right as they were in the final moments of their charge, the royalists seemed to panic. Their lines were haphazard, broken on first contact, and a neat gap had appeared that Robert meant to make the most of. 

One.   

The heavens crashed down to earth as the centre met with furious force, an ecstasy of fumbling as each man fought for his piece of ground. The knights around Robert had sped ahead and poured through the gaps with the ferocity of an autumn storm. Screaming at the top of their lungs and callously cleaving their way through their foes, already, their foe’s centre was on the verge of collapse. 

Well into their assault now, Robert found to his delight that there the enemy could offer no response to his charge. Their pikemen were scattered, their first wave far overstretched and worn down to pitiful pockets. He waved the hammer down to his side to bar any further movement. 

“With me men! With me!”   

Above, arrows continued to streak back and forth across the sky. A plague of locusts blotting out the sky, men caught in the midst of battle were too slow to raise shields, and now the gap from before was a chasm. 

The enemy scrambled to reform, but it was far too late to slow them down now. Crashing into the enemy line, striking whilst the iron was hot, Robert roared his approval as it all came to fruition. In an almighty effort, he sent the warhammer’s head out in a monstrous arc. Immediately, its spike collided with the side of the closest man's helm, his jaw wrenched clean off in a spray of blood and viscera.  

Robert then looked to his left and right, calling out to any who could hear. “Forward men! Forward!”   

More than sure of his efforts now, the warhammer was cast ahead of him without hesitation. It was a vicious and unrepentant harbinger of death—how many could he fell today with just this weapon alone. All the while, as the royalist centre collapsed, Robert’s attentions darted this way and that. He was scanning for any signs of the commanding lord; really for any signs of Prince Rhaegar.  

Where is this fucking cunt?   

A nameless knight fell in at his left wearing a green cape carrying a long lance low. Aiming straight for the chest a dismounted knight, the lance plunged was ferociously straight through the man, skewering the next foe as he continued his bloody charge.  

Robert saw Swann men at his left, Morrigen men at his right, Penrose’s, Mertyn’s, Fell’s—even men of House Selmy had roused themselves for battle! How would Ser Barristan feel when he saw his own kind fighting against him? Him, and his cretin charge. A devilish thought, that was. 

All around, the soldiers were already caked with slick mud. Impossible to make who was who anymore, having lost any other indicators of allegiance as well, and each strike he sent out had had to be well calculated. The Trident ran red with blood, other foul debris choking it too. They needed to break free of this monotony, get across to the others side and wreak havoc upon the reinforcements. Of the same mind, he and his knights began to break free of the river. Any many left—most now in flight—were savaged, and they hollered to their footmen to follow. 

Striking out onto hard ground now, Robert found that butchering his way through them all was not any easier than in the river. Those who had fled the river had reformed themselves into neat rows and squares, anticipating the cavalry’s approach, and Robert’s men were still floundering in the water, struggling with the debris. 

Still, more flocked to his side to replace the fallen. As a tight-knit unit they surged ahead, unbent and unbroken. Robert sighted one man in particular riding amongst the men, shouting out commands, sword waving high in the air. At his side was his standard-bearer flying a banner bearing two black hammers crossed, the coat of arms of House Rykker. A man of Aerys’. 

Robert aimed the warhammer straight at who he presumed to be Lord Rykker, calling to those around him to push ahead. 

Looking to his right, he saw the clash stretched down the river and back onto the far northern bank, a seething mass of rivermen clamouring for control of their foothold. He saw Lord Mallister dismounted, other men of Hoster’s close by, and right in the thick of it. To his left, the situation was far more dire. The footmen there had already faltered and were back to slugging it out in the shallows. 

Lord Rykker had seen Robert now, waving frantically for the formation up the slope to reinforce him, and elsewhere a trumpet seemed to blare its disapproval, the men unsure of whether to meet this assault before it gained more traction or retain the advantage of the heights.  

Feeling the ground rise beneath him as they made their way off the flat of the bank and onto the start of the slope, the rush was truly like no other. Robert was drawing ever closer to his target at a rapid and relentless pace. Spurred on as he watched Rykker panic at the sight, he took one last deep breath and focused on his target. 

The raging chaos around him quietened as he kicked his charger into a mad dash. Everything around him was but a blur, a buzzing in his ears. Robert's face lit up as the lord turned back to bravely meet him, sword held defiantly in his direction, thanking the gods that they had blessed with him a good fight. 

His mount crushed another man beneath him as it got to speed on solid ground, leaving the safety of his fellow knights to meet the lord one-on-one. Those of the infantry that had reformed were too scattered to offer quarry, and Lord Rykker was too far away from any of them to seek any aid. 

Robert raised the warhammer high behind him with his right hand. Standing up in the stirrups, cackling all the while, he threw any shred of caution to the wind. Rykker mirrored him, sitting high in his saddle so he might cut across Robert with his longsword. Dust was all around, and, blinking away tears as Rykker came upon him, Robert sent his right arm forward in a triumphant swing.  

A crunch rang out as the head of the warhammer drove straight into the lord's pauldron, crushing it and the shoulder within in an instant. His sword flew far away out of his hand, Rykker himself howling in agony as he was catapulted from his saddle. The hard ground beneath raced to meet him, and his cries were short as his body collided with the earth, falling dead silent.  

Robert did not ruminate on the victory, wheeling around as clarity returned to him. The situation was more than alarming; the men he had forded the river with were falling away, few having wearily followed his pursuit of Rykker. Many were forced away as the squares of pikemen slowly descended to the riverbank, and the enemy was closing in on Robert—and quick.    

There was no time wasted as he raced back to his men, slamming into two dismounted knights who were stabbing at Lord Grandison's. Blood pouring from the old lord’s gut, coating his saddle and legs in a sickly red wash. Robert’s eyes met Grandison for a moment, a pale and ghastly expression just visible behind the slits of his great helm. Another one to fall for him?  

Back to the river was all his mind could muster, but the thought didn't reach his mouth. His head darted back and forth as he assessed the situation, the height offering him a glance at the whole battlefield. Robert watched in quiet displeasure as the Arryn flank was forced further back, farther back than where they’d begun their charge, then turned his head to see the northern end of the ford in savage shambles, unable to tell what was what, and who was who.  

Close at hand, one of his household knights lopped another’s head off with his sword, before being shunted from his saddle as a wild and dying horse smashed into his own. Just next to him, another’s face was smashed in with a morningstar, the weapon then swung around, catching another unfortunate soul's leg.   

All these clamorous scenes and more demanded his attention, confusion yielding to lucidity as sense returned to him.  Grabbing at the reins and rearing the destrier so that all might see him, he raised the warhammer aloft, voice booming across the field. “To the shallows! Return to the river!”   

The men of the stormlands heeded his call, the footmen that had made it to this side of the river back into formation, edging slowly backwards as they knights slipped past them. Their weapons were thrust wildly outwards as they warded off the advancing line currently attempting to ensnare them. Those valiant men were awarded only death in gratitude for their final service to House Baratheon, the whole formation outnumbered.  

Some of the enemy broke through the thinning lines to hack away at the cavalry during its retreat. Robert screamed profanities at the swarm of black armour surrounding them, sending the warhammer out without rest, revelling in the pleasure as the spike struck a man's temple.  

Their foes' efforts were for nought, as in a few seconds they’d reached the safety of the waters, and those men who’d broken through were sent tumbling down into the mud beneath. The shallows had by now been besmirched by a mess of bloated and bloody corpses, their horses struggling to push through the clutter, hooves sinking deep into the silt or catching on stray reins and blades.   

Looking behind him, Robert watched in horror as the men guarding his retreat were all but swamped in a ruthless counterattack. The line had been decimated, their foothold on the bank lost in an instant. Too bold. Too quick. Denys Arryn had died for much the same.  With a heavy heart, Robert spurred his horse on faster and faster to escape the carnage—though every inch of his body screamed out in protest. Once again, his men were being left behind. But this time, he’d surely have something more to show for it. 

Two score more lords and knights of the royalists had appeared on the horizon as well, cresting the top of the slope. When Robert next looked back again, he found they had bolstered the weakened centre with fresh faces, proud banners snapping in the wind.  Too late now to catch Robert, they paced back and forth, ordering their men, and seeing where they ought to strike next. 

During that moment of relief where he was able to think clearly again, Robert breathed in deeply. At once, his nostrils were assaulted with the rancid smell of death and decay. So intoxicating was it that Robert felt rather lightheaded, swaying side to side ever so slightly in his saddle, thanking the gods his horse was undeterred as it continued to cross the river. 

Just as he thought he might fall from the saddle, they’d returned to where they’d started from, a strong showing of rivermen now shielding their rear. Bellowing out further commands to reshape the line to ready itself for another assault, the lords and serjeants were quick about their duties, shouts echoing out across the entire centre.  

Sparing Grandison but a short glance as the man worked his way to the rear, it was obvious he was no longer fit for battle, and Royce Estermont quick to take his place, followed by Ser Edric Fell in his black and green armour. 

Back out across the Trident, where the royalist men gathered themselves, he heard an ensemble of trumpets blare energetically. Right across from where Robert waited, a gap then appeared in the men on the hilltop. Quick to fill such was a large procession of mounted knights, each with a bannerman at their side proudly waving the colours of House Targaryen, other assorted crownlands houses, and a smattering of river lords.  

You , Robert growled, wheeling his horse around. 

In the centre, unmistakable, strode Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Armoured head to toe in dark steel yet to see battle, he sat astride a tall destrier black as ink, wearing a greathelm adorned with small dragon wings atop his head, and a garish display of rubies on his chest plate shining brightly in the morning sun. Some craven of the Kingsguard was next to him as well, dressed in armour as white as snow, with a long crisp cape to match, shadowing his every move.  

There were many proud young scions of the royalist houses at his side, Robert realised: brown and black armour worn by three proud men of House Darry, yellow and blue for two sons of Goodbrook, white with red and gold tinges for an assortment of Mooton men. Black hammers, spiked maces and daggers, rams with golden horns, and white lambs; more and more gathered at the prince’s side, mounted or not, like rats scurrying to the last crumb of bread. Sycophants, bathing in a coward's damp shadow.  

They moved together as a bulging mass ready to burst at the seams, lances lowered, or swords raised high. They seemed to stalk Robert and his collection of lords, prowling a short patch of the riverbank back and forth. Occasionally, one might dart off to some far-away place to see to the battle at hand; most preferred to be in the orbit of the prince, desperate for a shot at glory.  

He did not need to call out for aid to match this growing threat, for a dozen more lords and knights of the Stormlands and Riverlands appeared here to protect their own, banging butts and handles of weapons against raised shields. The clamour was deafening, and Robert bore a proud smile. Fight me, Rhaegar Targaryen, and the best of the realm you’ve roused for war.  

Green turtles of Estermont; the lightning men of Dondarrion; the owl of Mertyns. All were here. Crows and moths, red hearts and quills, the boldest and brave of the stormlands were on full display. There were Brackens and Blackwoods, Vance’s of both sides, mere Tully men and then Butterwells and Pipers. 

There was no lull in the fighting as this scene ensued; blankets of arrows crisscrossed back and forth across the entire battleline, great black masses blotting out the great blue sky above. They heralded death and destruction to all beneath its shadow, and Robert patted the shield tied to his saddle. 

The minutes drew on as Robert raced up and down the centre in a tiresome effort to hold the line, feeling helpless all the while as the sheer numbers of the enemy overwhelmed the centre. Still, the rivermen held on under brave Lord Jason Mallister’s leadership, a contingent of Robert’s men acting as a lifeline across the river, sortieing back and forth.  

Far, far too much was happening to make any sense of it. The Arryn lines blurred into the Dornish, and then into the Baratheon lines and mess of rivermen on both sides of the fighting. Gallant and flowery knights of the Reach, with their vibrant heraldries and bejewelled armaments, were now indistinguishable from grizzled and battered northmen dressed in simple mail and furs.  

The ford between the two centre forces had descended into a mess of muddied men scrambling for control of its deepest point. Still unable to discern who was who, Robert had to hold onto the hope the lines had not yet collapsed. Only two men was all he able to recognise: Lord Gulian Swann of Stonehelm, and Ser Damon Morrigen, fighting side by side astride, right in the thick of. The former wore a great black and white cape billowing out behind him, the latter having lost his helm in the fray, long hair whipping in the wind. 

The prince and his entourage continued to pace back and forth across the riverbank and sometimes the shallows, searching for the weak link in the chain, somewhere to prod and then collapse upon. A dozen different voices clamoured to be heard above the chaos. Robert watched as one of the three Darry's made vague gestures with his free hand, then right next to him, a knight of indiscernible origin pointed the other way in exasperation.  

Green boys come to play at war, eh?  

Amidst the ear-splitting symphony of battle, Robert thought he caught glimpses of Rhaegar’s melodious voice. It desperately vied for control amongst the babbling, yet his supposed compatriots senselessly droned on, not yielding to a superior command.  

“Steady up men!” Robert ordered again, voice booming out like rolling thunder.   

“Hold!” Ser Edric cried.     

“Form up!” Estermont hollered, clear as day. 

Lord Swann had heard the call as well and tried to bring structure to the desperate defence of the ford. But alas, it was not enough, for just as the spearmen might gather themselves to fend off a probing assault, a sortie of dismounted knights would send their brethren lurching astray, putting the whole effort into a tailspin.  

Robert moved closer to the thick of the fighting, shouting out all the while any encouragement that came to mind, swinging the hammer forth to knock away some fool who’d thought himself lucky to reach the other side, hoping to end the war with a single swift stroke of his sword.  

Closer and closer the royalist entourage drew, soldiers of all types gathering at their side. Drawn to the radiance of a royal himself, they were anxious and ready to plug the gaps where the frontline failed, snapping out like vipers every few seconds. 

By now, it was nigh on impossible to make out what had been the Trident, the ford so clogged with bodies–moving or unmoving. A seething mass of men hammering away at each other, back and forth, back and forth. Some were drowned in the filth beneath, others wrenched down and pummelled mercilessly to a pulp with mailed fists. Arrows flew freely across the line; some went far overhead to pelt the reserves, and others fell well short of their targets to slay friend and foe alike. A reckless charge by lightly armoured horsemen faltered once it met the shallows, riders sent careening into the murky waters as the mounts tripped in the muck.  

The efforts of any commander brave enough to take hold of the situation fell quickly flat. The battle line was well and truly lost; Robert was not even sure of where either side of the river started, or where its deepest point was, anymore.  

He looked left, then right, then left again. Knights astride tall and proud destriers, small and swift coursers or hulking chargers and bearing all sorts of weapons: morningstars, longswords, lances, and warhammers were at his side in droves. Some were fresh on the scene, polished armour gleaming. Others were dented and bruised. Some without gauntlets or helms, and some with a river of blood flowing freely from gaping wounds.  

One thing was common across all these valiant men assembled before him: a determination to beat bloody whatever threat lay ahead. They all looked to Robert for an order, whatever it may be.  

Robert Baratheon took one long last look at the scene around him. The carnage wrought across a once peaceful crossing was incomprehensible, the titanic battle that would decide this damnable war unfathomable in its sheer size.  Without a second thought, he spurred the charger on once more, the rest following suit wordlessly.   

“RHAEGAR!” He called out with a mighty shout. “COME AND MEET YOUR DOOM!”   

He knew the prince had heard it. The way his great helm tilted ever so slightly to face Robert, how his shoulders moved to match, and how he slowed the horse beneath him to a halt, all evidence of his attention. The Kingsguard at his side stopped as well. 

Rhaegar paid the knight no mind, breaking off from the group, meandering between the reserves on the riverbank and then into the muddy waters. His companions hastily followed, reforming around him, all exchanging glances.  

Robert raised the visor of his greathelm then, leering at his opponent as they drew ever nearer.  

Rhaegar raised his own, violet eyes unmistakable, even at this distance, expression plain as a white sheet.  

There was no tilt of the head in acknowledgement, no pause to eye each other up, nor any wave of a weapon. There was no courtesy here, no respect owed, and certainly no quarter to be given. Fire and fury would meet today in ruthless battle. What should’ve been ended at Harrenhal would end today. 

Images of that fateful day appeared once again. He saw himself seated in the stands, Brandon Stark, Elia Martell, King Aerys Targaryen, Ned, Rhaegar. And then, sweet Lyanna, the laurel crown of blue roses laid in her lap. 

Neither awaited the men at their side as they lowered the visors of their great helms and sent their mounts charging across the battle line. Footmen scrambled out of their paths as they dashed across the dozen remaining yards–not that the two men paid them any mind anyhow.  

A sense of serenity took hold as Robert closed the remaining distance, warhammer ready at his side, poised to spring out. It ends now. The sounds of battle faded away into nothingness, replaced by a low hum and the throbbing of his beating heart. Whatever wounds inflicted on him, whether past or present, no longer gave him any grief, his body but a vessel to annihilate this fucking cunt.    

The scenes around them froze as they crossed the threshold. Both had only one thought in mind. Robert dared not look away for they were but a few yards apart, and he knew that what was to come would make or break his cause.   

This was an image to be burned into his mind forever. Rhaegar’s sword was raised high in the air, and Robert’s warhammer was halfway past the saddle stirrups now. A black cape whipped out behind his foe, billowing out in such a way the whole figure was set against it.   

Warrior give me strength, he quietly prayed. 

A deafening screech rang out as the edge of the blade connected with the handle of the warhammer like the tides rushing to meet the rocks. Each of them was sent reeling back from the respective blows. Like two raging storms, they met again with a furious crash, sending out a flurry of strikes and blows, deftly met each time.  

A screaming, white-hot pain erupted in his left arm as the edge of Rhaegar’s blade bit into his vambrace and further. It sliced into his forearm, then was ripped away without a moment’s respite. The wound had him seeing red, responding with a lightning-quick blow that connected with Rhaegar’s thigh, who let out an agonised howl in response. He speaks, at last.  

The blade again barely missed him the next time, glancing off the horn of his saddle with a high-pitched shriek as iron met steel. Robert stood up in the stirrups to strike from above with the warhammer, arm cocked at the elbow and taut as a bowstring. He released it with a great roar as Rhaegar came within striking distance, the spike embedding itself into the other man’s saddle as the weapon was swung outwards, oh so tantalisingly close.  

Their horses moved so tightly they might as well have been joined at the hip, rubbing against each other, neither willing to give more than an inch. When he could not land a blow, he resorted to kicking at Rhaegar’s greaves with all his might, leaving both horse and rider bruised and battered.  

With steeds screaming and whining to the heavens above, the duel lost any sense of cohesion. Robert hollered at Rhaegar such profanities you’d think him a sorcerer most foul, cursing him to every hell that existed as he battered away at the man’s defences. Bloodthirsty as a vampire bat, Robert felt. Today would be the reckoning of House Targaryen. Today its favourite son was to meet his end–no matter the cost.  

With swift riposte his opponent's blade found its way through his defences, leaving deep gashes across Robert’s forearms and stabbing him once through the thigh. Though all it achieved was firing Robert up further, his blood beyond boiling. He was more a raging storm than man now.  

For a few seconds, they drew away to circle each other again, crimson-red waters lapping at the legs of their mounts, men darting to and fro around them. Robert was the first to resume, roaring as he charged standing tall in the stirrups straight at Rhaegar, sending the warhammer underarm right at the prince’s midsection. Rhaegar was quick to respond, sending the destrier at an odd angle, the head of the hammer just grazing his left arm.  

Before he had the time to react, the blade was arched high then low across Robert’s side, cutting straight through his armour to leave a nasty gash running from his hip to thigh. White spots appeared in his peripheral vision as the pain took hold, the blade then nicking the leather strap holding Robert’s left stirrup, which fell into the waters below.   

Suddenly, all feeling returned to Robert without mercy. Every inch of him was aching, his wounds crying out for relief. In a fury, Robert lashed out in response with his left wrist, the gauntlet connecting with the man’s ribs, Rhaegar struggling to stay in the saddle with the force of it.  

Each of them dashed away from the scene to recover, halting many yards from each other in a clearing that had formed for them, swinging their steeds to face the other. Robert resettled himself into his saddle, which now threatened to slip off the horse's back, Rhaegar leaning forward, still reeling from the blow, chest heaving.  

He touched an armoured hand to his side, wincing as it came back coated in blood.  

“Cunt”, Robert spat out, a thick glob of blood following.   

Sweat stung his eyes as it dripped from his forehead, his body about ready to give in, screaming as blood flowed from him like a rushing river. Rhaegar’s sword was held loose in his right hand, now levelled at Robert’s head as the man corrected himself in the saddle, sitting tall.  

Beneath him, the charger grew restless, shaking.  Come on then, let’s end this.   

Simultaneously, they began their respective charges, a torrential wave of water sent outwards as they got up to speed. Robert was forced to sit low. Meanwhile, Rhaegar lifted himself high in anticipation. He gripped the warhammer tightly, keeping it low, predicting a high swing straight at his head.  

Within seconds they were nearly upon each other. Rhaegar’s sword was raised high in the air, just as Robert had anticipated, the movement slow and cumbersome. Blinking away blood and sweat, Robert began to swing the hammer forward with every ounce of strength left in him, aiming right for the prince’s chest, no longer in the mood to deflect. He aimed to kill, here and now. You’re mine, you miserable cunt.   

He saw the whites of Rhaegar’s eyes, cold. Loud and terrible as a thunderclap, the spike of the warhammer crashed into his opponent's chest. Rhaegar’s ribcage swallowed the spike whole as it violently embedded itself within and was flung from the saddle with such momentum, you’d think he was bird. Robert struggled to keep a grip on his weapon, wrenching it free at the last second.   

It was all over in the blink of an eye. Rhaegar hadn’t sensed the danger when his sword was not positioned properly, unable to be brought down quick enough to block the incoming blow. Soaring through the air, destrier racing away in a panic, Robert wondered what was on his foes mind now. His sword landed far away as it flew out from his hand, lost in the Trident amidst a clump of corpses. Those ugly rubies adorning his chest plate were sent flying as well, all of them glistening in the sunlight, little, scattered treasures.  

Around the scene men had paused to watch in awe. Some roared with approval, others sank to their knees in despair. Robert brought the charger to a halt, feeling lightheaded and dizzy. He dismounted as it stopped, morbidly curious to admire his handiwork, no longer worried about the pain tormenting his body. 

Before he might even approach, the prince’s body was swarmed by looters, who’d all already forgotten the battle raging around them.  

Raising his free hand to his greathelm, he found himself struggling to take it off, fingers sore and head a ringing mess. He looked right, grimacing as he sighted the beaten and bloody corpse of a knight swathed in white resting nearby. To his left were those brave boys of Darry, each corpse a few yards away from the other, Ser Edric and other knights of House Fell standing above them.  

Dark blots crowded his peripheral visions as he edged closer to the body. Just the effort of walking was torturous as his legs failed him, every limb sluggish and heavy. Knights crowded at his side as he trudged through the ruined shallows, each offering an arm to hold or shoulder to lean on, and all were pushed away. Robert shoved his way through the looters, the cretins cowering in fear as he neared, scrambling out of his way as they felt his presence.  

In a trance, Robert finally arrived at his destination, standing tall above the munted corpse of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. He lay in a pool of viscera and sludge, unbefitting of a royal. Certainly, befitting such a man as he, however. His chest plate bore a gaping hole where the armour had stoved in, a bright red sore beneath from which blood erupted like puss from a scar. The helmet he wore was gone, and cold, dead eyes stared right back at Robert as he observed this achievement of his. 

  You killed him, Robert noted to himself, somewhat in disbelief.

The light-headedness truly took hold then as the fruits of his labour were on full display, his legs giving out beneath him. The knights trailing him were quick to catch up and assist, two arms under each of his own, the presence of a third man felt at his back.  

 You really did it.   

Robert tried to say something, anything, but the words were not forthcoming. He sputtered out nonsensical nothings as a coughing fit took hold of him with a mouth full of blood and gods knows what else.  

 Lyanna...  

She was there now, watching in a pretty white dress. The battle did not bother her, clothes still pristine as she came to look upon Roberts works. 

I did it...   

It all faded to black quite quickly.  

Chapter Text

King’s Landing     

The city soon revealed itself as Robert rattled and banged his way down the kingsroad. With the sun hanging low in the west, its outline was set against a purple sky, hazy , it seemed. Standing proud above all was the Red Keep. It’s many towers soared high to the heavens, mean and lean. Somewhere in there was King Aerys, and soon, a throne Robert was to sit upon.  

A cold chill had suddenly seized the air. Spring was only just blossoming from the dredges of winter, the latter dragging its heel all the while. Robert hugged his furs closer and signalled to Gyles to hasten the pace of the wagon.  

Radiating around the city was an orange glow. Perhaps its rotten splendour on display, right before Robert was to set it all right. He’d only been here a few times—always with father—and it had only gotten worse in his absence, it appeared. A nest of vipers, through and through. And somewhere in that horror show is Ned. Gods, I hope he’s okay.    

With Robert far too injured to ride even a horse, Ned had been sent with the vanguard of the army to secure the approaches instead. They’d gotten one letter, when they passed from the Riverlands to those sworn to the city. It spoke of despair.  

Cresting the last hilltop, the city revealed itself in its entirety. Thick, black smoke was unfurling like a snake. A cancerous growth wafting out across the sky, surely the source of the haziness.  It all congealed into a monstrous dark cloud right above the centre of the city, its tendrils planting themselves far and wide.  Look upon the works of  House Targaryen, and despair.    

Normally, men spoke of King’s Landing as a city that stank of shit. Now though, as they bumbled down the slope, Robert could smell something far worse. Decadence. Decay. Death . Rancid scents assaulted his nostrils, and when he opened his mouth, that terrible taste was on his tongue. At each side of the kingsroad were corpses, almost all smallfolk: old men and woman, craftsmen, labourers, gods , even children. There were Gold Cloaks, the city’s guardsmen, as well, and the last vestiges of Rhaegar’s army that had escaped the Trident. All looked up to Robert, eyes hollow, judging him as he passed.  

He saw Rhaegar Targaryen in every one of them, from the young no taller than a sword, to the crooked elders with backs still hunched. All cried out to him in despair. “ You did this!” They wailed and raised stumps and bloody fingers to point at him. All that and more pooled in his stomach, toxic, nauseous. Robert looked behind him for relief but found no peace in the sea of iron that followed.  

The wagon continued its pace through all this carnage. Some of the knights dismounted to clear a path ahead, many covered their faces. Jon rode right up next to him, a sky-blue cape fluttering behind him in the evening breeze.  

“Robert,” he called as he reined up next to him. Warm blue eyes looked to him. “You ought to armour up. Ought to have been done when you woke up.”   

Robert shrugged. “They’ve hardly got any resistance to throw up now do they?”   

Jon raised his hand to the walls of King’s Landing, where crimson red banners flapping proudly. In the centre, a roaring lion proudly sat, coloured gold. “This is Lord Tywin Lannister’s work–curse his blackened soul. We’ll need to be prepared.”   

House Lannister is here? Ned didn’t speak of that in his letters. Lord Tywin Lannister had not roused himself for the entire duration of the war. An old, if estranged, friend of King Aerys, they’d thanked their lucky stars he hadn’t, assuming it would be in favour of the Targaryens. This sight told otherwise, and Robert simply thanked the gods House Lannister had seen sense.  

“Then House Lannister has done the work for us. A morbid gift, sure. But he won’t have done this just to slam the door in our faces.”   

Jon tsked at the response, shaking his head. “It’s not a battle we’re preparing for; you’d do well to ride looking ready for battle, armoured head to toe. As a king-to-be ought to look. As Lord Tywin Lannister expects .”   

Ah, all that pageantry bullshit. As if pageantry mattered in the face of this. “I’m dressed just fine in these old silks. All I’m missing is the jewellery and crown–one of which will be sorted out soon enough, I’m sure.” He gestured behind him, to where Justin Massy rode on his palfrey, Robert’s charger tied to the saddle. “Let me ride in and I’ll be just fine.”  

With a sigh, Jon stepped off the saddle and into the wagon. “There’s a king to make of you yet, Robert, and it starts here and now.”   

“I’m not stopping in the middle of the road and getting into my armour! Not when the city’s that close.” And not with them, right there .  Robert leaned closer to the man, mind racing. “And what if she's in there?”  

What if she’s that woman I am passing right now? “Well, I best get there as quick as I can, don’t you think?”  

“Just get into your armour, now .”  

For a moment, Robert thought to argue that he was king now, and was not to be ordered around as so. But this was Jon Arryn, and he relented. “Massey!” He hollered, stepping out of the seat to join Jon.  

Before his squire could even respond, Jon raised a hand. “I’ll do it,” he announced.  

Rather bemused by the prospects, Robert acquiesced with a simple shrug. The effort was over rather quickly–the procedure so common you’d think Robert did it more than pissing. When all was done, he turned to face Jon proudly, finding him holding the antlered greathelm in both hands.  

“You don’t need to put it on for this—though you ought to have it at your side.”   

“Yes, I know. They’ll need to see my face and all that.”  

How many bothersome lessons Jon had frantically taught him since Riverrun had been maddening. By the gods, he’d just been married to Lady Lysa Tully, Hoster’s second daughter, and his main concern had been Robert! At the very least, he’d enjoyed the festivities on the day. A double wedding of two great lords wasn’t so common these days.  

Humming in vague approval, Jon looked him up and down. “Well, you certainly look the part. Now, for your horse.”   

With a whistle, the charger was brought forth. The scars of war were hidden beneath a caparison coloured with the gold of House Baratheon and streaked with black as dark as maester’s ink. It looked more ready for a mummer's troupe than a march through a sacked and broken city if Robert were being honest. The poor thing looked as poncy as a jouster's destrier. Perfume on a pig.    

But there was no time to argue. Robert was quick to take to the saddle, wincing as he did. And s oon, the principal nobility of the rebel army fell in behind them: Tully, Royce, Swann, Mallister, Belmore, Waynwood, Bracken, Staedmon, Blackwood, both Vance’s, Piper, Butterwell, Mertyns, Peasebury, Ruthermont, Corbray, Fell, Estermont. They all were lined up behind with their banners proudly flapping in the wind, a dozen and more knights escorting each one. All that was missing was the northmen who had gone with Ned in the van.  

Their procession was bold, fit to burst at the seams. Robert saw every colour of the rainbow and then some around him. There was Ser Lyn Corbray flashing Lady Forlorn about; he’d slain Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard on the Trident. Brynden Tully rode abreast with his brother Lord Hoster, still wearing his black trout on his breast. Brus and Borys jested with Leowyn Templeton and Hugh Redfort. By the gods, they even had Ser Barristan Selmy with them!  

Wounded at the battle, Robert could not fault him for his bravery. Some gaunt lord had argued for his death. But Robert could not stomach the thought. A fearsome fighter, even in his middle years, who’d slain Maelys the Monstrous and nicknamed “the Bold” for good reason. The first of Robert’s new Kingsguard then—and from the Stormlands to boot!  

There should’ve been more amongst them. Denys Arryn and Richard Lonmouth were the first that came to mind. The latter had been missing from the very start, and Robert wondered if he’d been there at the Trident; a friend of Rhaegar’s before he was every associated with Robert—dark thoughts took hold then. Then there was Jon Cafferen, Harwin Fell, Dickon Morrigen, lords who had laid down their lives for Robert’s cause. Tenfold more brave scions of the houses as well, and all before Riverrun.  

Who knew how many others had been lost in that mess at the Trident. Reports were still coming in of bodies washing ashore as far south as Maidenpool, almost all unrecognisable.   

Then there was Brandon Stark and all those who rode with him: Elbert Arryn, Kyle Royce, Jeffory Mallister. Rickard Stark as well, who had so bravely ridden south when summoned, intent on getting redress for the men’s imprisonment. Somewhere in that city, they’d heard that Ethan Glover remained captive, all that was left of those noble few.  

Far too many. And so, as Robert arrived before the Gate of the Gods, justice was the only thing left on his mind. Justice for all those fallen. It began when Robert slew Prince Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident, and it would finish now when King Aerys would be dealt the same hand.  

A welcoming party awaited them, Robert saw. There were two standard bearers in this little group: one bearing the banner of House Lannister on Robert’s left, the other with the banner of House Stark on Robert’s right.  

The air was thick, heavy, and hot. The atmosphere was none too dissimilar from a graveyard, and a nauseating black smoke poured through the top of the gate obscuring the watchtower above, stinging Robert’s eyes. More of a crowd then a mere escort, it seemed. Robert could see footmen lining up on the streets behind the group, and a knight appeared in the middle astride a chestnut destrier. His pauldrons were fashioned in the heads of Lions, and his cape crimson red.   

Whoever it was, they approached quite confidently, a swagger in the horse’s step as it pranced over.   

“King Robert! ” The man called, voice high and sweet. “Your crown awaits you, Your Grace!”    

He’d been called that many times already, but it hadn’t gotten any easier. Sometimes he thought there was another king in the room.  

“Who am I speaking to?” Robert cautiously called out in return.   

The knight reined in his horse a few yards in front of the procession, removing his helm. They were met by a shock of golden curls tumbling down to the knight’s shoulders, and lively green eyes looked right at Robert’s. His face was lithe yet full of life, a white smile stretching from ear to ear.   

“Ser Gerion Lannister!” He obliged. “Youngest brother of Lord Tywin.”   

Robert raised a hand to halt the column. Younger brother? Ser Gerion did not cease smiling as Robert trotted over, dipping his head when they were face to face.  

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting, Ser Gerion.” Robert offered with a hand to shake on.  

Accepting quite excitedly, Gerion’s face lit up more than Robert thought possible. “I don’t believe so," h e said as he took the hand. “My brother has sent me to escort you to the Red Keep through all this carnage–it's all been carefully constructed just for you, Your Grace.”  

Adding the last part with a wink, Gerion turned his horse and made to lead them. A shiver went down his spine at the brashness of this man. Death was all around them; this was no time for smiles!  

Once again, the kingsroad rumbled with the movement of a thousand hooves and thousands more boots as Robert made to follow. Through the Gate of the Gods they went. Many raised an arm to shield their mouths and noses from the smoke. Already sweating up a storm, the heat was so intense, Robert wondered for half a moment if he’d ended up in the seven hells.  

Worse, entering King’s Landing, you’d be forgiven for thinking the world was ending. As far as the eye could see, the Stranger ruled King’s Landing with an iron fist. Crimson soldiers marched back and forth through the alleys and streets, cruel minions of fate as they set about their duties. Though the peak of the violence had surely ended some time ago now, these men still seemed hell-bent on tearing the city down to its very foundations and then some.  

“Where’s Lord Stark?” Robert asked. Though he spoke firmly, the sights were not doing much for his waning confidence.   

“Fear not, Your Grace. Lord Stark is with my brother, up in the Red Keep.”  

“And King Aerys?”  

Gerion looked over his shoulder, flashing a grin. “Oh, you’ll love this one. King Aerys is dead, slain by none other than Ser Jaime Lannister, my nephew!”  

For half a moment, Robert was in heaven. At Ser Jaime’s hand? He was a knight of the Kingsguard! All Robert could do was laugh at the thought, wiping a tear from his eye as he did.  

Those around him were less impressed. But Gerion seemed not to care for their opinions, enthusing Robert further. “I couldn’t quite believe it myself! Though, how surprising is it that King Scab couldn't command the confidence of the sworn brothers?  

Ser Barristan made a timely appearance then, Lord Arryn at his side. “Are you serious, Ser Gerion?”  

“Quite serious, good ser.”  

The knight made to say something, but was quieted by a look from Jon. Without another word, his head hung in shame, the knight retreated some ways. Gods, was he really going to complain about it? King Aerys had forsaken his duties as king; why should the Kingsguard bother with their oaths?  

If only the news could’ve truly distracted him. Alas, the barbarity around commanded all his attention. Robert had to focus on the Red Keep as to avoid vomiting, the streets lined foulness. He looked to the great cavernous Dragonpit atop The Hill of Rhaenys, its great roof caved in. This time, it looked haunted almost, swallowed in shadow, not a single light to reveal its detail.  

He looked to the Great Sept of Baelor as well atop Visenya’s Hill yet was unable to find solace in the palace of the gods. Its white marble was too garish amongst just destruction, too pure and pious, and he turned back again to the Red Keep and Aegon’s Hill. The seven massive drum towers that flanked it were ever foreboding, and they looked to be bleeding.   

On the final approach now, the hill rising to meet them, Robert distantly wondered how Brandon felt when he made this approach all that time ago. Did he regret it, in the end? Was he afforded a moment of reflection? Robert had had a whole year’s worth of it and still could not come to any conclusions.  

“Your Grace!” A knight hailed as they approached the main gate of the castle, bowing his head. He was a squat man with a hook nose and beady eyes wearing a sand-yellow cape, the clasps at his shoulders fashioned to look like seashells. House Westerling.   

“Ser,” Robert replied with a curt nod. “To whom of House Westerling do I owe the pleasure?”   

“Ser Elys Westerling,” the knight replied. “My men secured the throne room of this castle.”   

“A fine feat.”  

 Making no further comment, the knight turned around. “Open the gates!” He cried out. “Make way for your King!”   

With a tortured groan , the gatehouse doors were winched slowly open, grumbling their complaints the entire way. Too impatient for any more dawdling, Robert rode straight through, the rest soon at his heels. At once he was greeted by the sight of a dozen knights and lords all waiting. They lined the way to the Great Hall of the Red Keep, which sat in its lower bailey. A noticeable split was present, with the westermen on Robert’s left, and northmen on Robert’s right.  

Uncaring for the crown at this moment, he immediately took to looking for Ned. His friend was closer than he thought, no less. Dressed in black leathers, Ned Stark strode over without hesitation. About to cry out to Ned, Robert saw at once the man was not pleased. Brows knitted together, a mix of a scowl and a frown on his lips. What’s got him in a mood?  

“ Robert!” Ned hissed as he arrived. “ Robert! They’ve killed children , Robert, children!”  

Ned's expression turned worried, then furious, then tormented. “Rhaegar’s children! Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys! Gods, they’ve even killed his wife!”  

A feeling Robert could not place swelled within. It was venomous, foul, one he had not though possible. Rhaegar’s children , he clarified to himself. Rhaegar’s.  

Was he supposed to weep, to howl to the heavens about the cruelty of it all? Prince Rhaegar had killed Denys Arryn and so many more! An eye for an eye it was, as foul as it may be. House Targaryen brought this on themselves. For the death of Brandon, Aegon had been killed, and for the theft of Lyanna, Rhaenys killed—an eye for an eye.  

About to respond, Robert felt bile boil up in his throat. No matter how he thought on the matter, a visceral sense of disgust deep within him had taken hold. Foul scenes played out in his head. Robert remained quiet, and looked away from Ned to the Great Hall, where the Iron Throne awaited.  

Ned was gripping Robert’s saddle now, and he slammed a fist into it. “Robert! We must do something! Please Robert!  

With eyes glazed over, Robert looked down to Ned once more. “Who did it?” He thought he asked, mind wandering.  

“Tywin’s men!” Ned whisper shouted. “That beast of a man in his service! I don’t know the other one, but I heard they scaled the walls! They, they-”   

Cutting himself off, his friend looked around frantically. Unable to meet Robert’s gaze any longer, Ned cursed himself and gripped the saddle tighter. “Children! Babes at the breast!  

 The price of my crown…    

“Oh,” was all he could offer.  

Suddenly snapping his head to Robert, Ned’s expression was laced with fury. “ Robert ! They killed children! Brutalised them! I heard they raped Elia! Its savagery Robert, savagery !”  

He could see her elegant face now. Back in the stands of Harrenhal, the poor woman had remained still as a statue and just as quiet as it all unfolded.  

No more words were forthcoming from Robert, a thousand and one things bouncing around his skull he could not make sense of. But that’s… that’s just war, isn’t it? How much have we lost to get to this very moment?    

“They’re dead Robert! Murdered ! Please Robert! Do something! You’re king now!”  

What if they’d taken up the cause? Those were the worries of a king now. Robert croaked something out that not even he knew the meaning. Too frenzied to notice, Ned marched off in a huff, straight to Jon Arryn.  

They’re… claimants. Claimants, dragonspawn…    

“Please Jon! Listen to me! They’ve murdered them!” Ned cried out somewhere behind Robert.   

Rhaegar… Rhaegar forfeited their lives! Why didn’t they leave?    

“Jon, they raped her! Her head’s been smashed in!”   

That’s war Ned!    

“Tywin's men! I'm sure of it!”   

 They weren’t my men!    

“Listen to me! You need to come see it! I, I can’t-”   

They’re already dead! Just stop… just stop your bleating! They’re already dead!    

Jon had the sense to put that to rest. “ Calm yourself, Ned!” He hissed, and that was that.  

A sudden eeriness fell upon the courtyard. Robert could see that Ned’s northmen were eying up the westermen who stood lazily to one side, entirely unconcerned with what was going on. Behind him, Robert heard mutterings from some of his lords and turned to see those at the front shifting uncomfortably in their saddles. They looked everywhere but him. Royce Estermont gave him something of a pointed look, then motioned to the Great Hall with a nod of the head. Jon Arryn did much the same when he looked to him for support.  Right. Let’s get to it then.    

Robert took a deep breathe. When his boots met gravel, he worried for a moment that he might tip over. Holding back a cough as the soot-ridden air choked his lungs and burned his throat raw, he dismounted and made his way to the Great Hall. Justin Massey was still there, a few paces behind, and the rest fell in behind in turn.  

There was a burning sensation at the back of his head. Never before had Robert felt such a profound sense of shame—that he couldn’t even meet Ned’s gaze anymore had him sick to his stomach.  

Looming at the end of the courtyard was the Great Hall. It was dark at this hour, little light emanating from its thin windows, and Robert could feel the presence of the throne beyond its walls. He looked up and to the left, where Maegor’s Holdfast lay behind another set of walls. That was to be his private residence soon—not that the thought brought him much excitement anymore, uncomforting, even.  

With the doors flung wide open, Robert could already see the base of the Iron Throne. Striding through the antechamber, more and more of it was slowly revealed. When he’d been a young lad, when father had taken him to court, the carpet that ran the length of the throne room was plush and new. Now, it was tattered, fraught at the ends, dirtied with mud, blood. Gods, some of it was even charred .  

It was only the footfalls of the hundreds of men behind Robert that urged him on further. He could not disappoint them now, not after all this time. He liked to imagine Denys in stride with him, mother and father just behind him. They encouraged him further, until at last, the Iron Throne was revealed to him.  

He heard the footfalls of a dozen men behind him, the butts of spears banging out as some were tapped against the floor, all here to seat their new king. The Iron Throne seemed to call to him as he waited, anxious for this new conqueror to take his rightful place.    

It was a monstrous seat. With an asymmetrical shape, forged from the blades of those who had stood against Aegon the Conqueror, the throne was unnerving in every which way you put it. The blades still had a deadly edge to them after all this time, more and more added with each new war that the realm had experienced, and like quills of a porcupine they all frilled out. They shimmered in the fading twilight, the flames of torches flickering in the reflection.  

Twisting this way and that, bulging at the seams, and meaner than anything. This was the Iron Throne. A grotesque, hideous monument to Aegon’s crowning achievement. And it was to be Robert’s seat now. Here I am, Aegon, come to take your ghoulish throne from these cretins who claim descent of your bold blood.     

Robert looked away. Up and to the sides of the hall his gaze went. Hung between each of the columns, was a worse sight: dragon skulls, those of the Targaryens of old. He saw Balerion the Black Dread’s colossal skull; Meraxes, slain in Dorne; Vhagar, the last of the largest; Vermithor the Bronze Fury. There were so many of the damned things, some so small they were afforded but a small table, nameless and pitiful. All of them seemed to stare at him. They judged this newcomer, pondering if he was worthy of the throne or not.  

That was to be his second act as king, after pardoning Barristan Selmy: replacing those awful skulls. Dragonslayer that I am, I ought to have you all cast into the flames from which you were born.    

Lowering his gaze back to the dais, Robert was greeted with a worse sight. There, standing tall, dignified, arrogant, was Lord Tywin Lannister himself. The Lord of Casterly Rock cast a shadow that stretched out into the courtyard, and to his right was Ser Jaime Lannister in his white armour. It’d been a year or so since Robert had last seen him, and the lad had grown a fair bit.  

Many years ago, Steffon had taken Robert and Stannis to King’s Landing. Their father had official business here and had wanted to introduce them both to court life. “You’ll both spend much time here,” he had promised. Robert wondered if father had ever foreseen this being the reason.  

They’d been young then, and when they’d come into this very throne room, the two brothers had marvelled at the king sitting proudly above the throne—Stannis might’ve even smiled! The king looked as noble as a dragon was terrifying, and it had instilled a sense of awe in both.  

Later, they’d learnt King Aerys had been absent from court for the day, and so it had been his Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, who sat atop the throne in the King’s place.   

Tywin wore similar armour to that of Gerion, what with those lion heads. But this time, the armour was golden, and the brilliant crimson cape clasped at his shoulders with lion claws graced the stone floor. In one hand was a greathelm fashioned in the shape of a lion’s head, roaring, and the sword in his scabbard studded with rubies.  

“Your Grace,”  Tywin hailed coolly. “The city has been subdued for you, and your throne is ready and waiting.”   

Was such even necessary? Robert stepped up to them, meeting Lord Tywin’s gaze. With his eyes coloured green, flecked with gold, they danced in the torchlight, an unplaceable expression. That mane of hair had had once sported was gone now, the only evidence of it left the golden whiskers on his face. Weathered and worn, his features were fearsome all the same.  

“Indeed, it has,” Robert replied, and strode past the two of them. He had no time to converse with Lord Tywin, who had left a butchered city for Robert. What a gift...  

When Robert placed his foot on the first step of the Iron Throne, he had been only a claimant to it. Lord of only Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, never in his wildest dreams had he imagined this moment. When both feet graced the throne, then, was he transformed to King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.   

At least, that’s what everyone else in the room saw.   

Each step he took was heavy; his body was weighed down by a thousand and more ceaseless thoughts and worries. No battle had made him this nervous, not when it all had looked hopeless on the flight form Ashford, not when he had marched out half-naked in the bowels of Stoney Sept. What the fuck was happening to him? All those doubts pooled in his stomach, gnawing at its edges. It was an effort to keep his shoulders straight.  

“Hold yourself proud,” Jon’s voice echoed in his thoughts, a beacon in stormy seas. “Y ou are a King now!”  

Careful not to place his hands on the sides of the throne, Robert looked up to where he needed to be. He willed himself onwards with thoughts of what was to come: setting the realm right, all his friends at his side, Lyanna , at his side.  Queen Lyanna Stark! What a grand idea!  

Arriving at the penultimate step, it was something far more callous that pushed him to take that final, harrowing step. I have taken your birthright, Rhaegar Targaryen, just as you took what was mine by rights.    

Triumphantly, Robert turned to face the crowd now gathered before him and took his rightful seat on the Iron Throne.   

Jon Arryn strode forth from the crown, up to the dais, and turned to face them all. " Hail King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men! Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm! Hail your new King!”    

His voice boomed across the hall, loud as a falcon’s cry. A crowning with the High Septon would be needed, but none could deny the power of this moment.  

“ Hail King Robert Baratheon!” The lords cried out in unison, raising their swords high in the air and pumping fists. “ Hail King Robert Baratheon!”    

Swelling with pride with each round of cheers, Robert found some modicum of peace. For a moment, he was not haunted by his ghosts, not worried about what lay beyond these walls. Robert was alive , just as he was in battle.  Eventually, he raised a hand again to quieten them, delighted when all dutifully obeyed.    

“To a new era!” Robert bellowed. “To House Baratheon!”   

Another rousing cheer went up. Robert looked to Jon for what to do next. His old guardian simply smiled, and Robert realised that it was now his prerogative to do as he pleased. Set a good example, why not?  

“My lords, honourable knights, and all else assembled! There is much to be done!” Gesturing to the city beyond as he spoke, Robert stood proud. “Return order to this city, to this castle!”  

A chorus of voices rang out in agreement: lords of the Stormlands, Vale, North, Riverlands, Westerlands. Knights and squires from all as well, along with the soldiers that had managed to squeeze into a place. Marching out and back to the city, Robert found it a glorious affair, to have so many at his command. It breathed new life into him, his heart racing, wounds forgotten and legs finally steady.  

Soon, all that remained were the architects of this mighty achievement: Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, Hoster Tully, Tywin Lannister, and the other few they kept close at hand. Together, they must just get it right this time.  

Such musings were cut short soon enough. Drawing up to the dais, it was Lord Tywin who spoke first with a sombre expression about him. “Before we begin Your Grace, there is something you must see–tokens of House Lannister’s fealty.”   

The lord snapped his fingers, and a knight emerged from behind one of the columns on the dais, in his hands a red bundle oddly shaped.   

“I present to you—”  

The knight now stood right in front of the throne, lowering himself to one knee.  What’s he got for me now?    

“—Prince Aegon Targaryen.”   

No, not like–    

“And Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”    

He can’t be serious! The bundle was unbound at the base of the Iron Throne, the knight quick to step away and back into the shadows.  Mother, have mercy upon my soul.    

There, sprawled out on a crimson blanket, was a sight Robert could only be described as harrowing. He could not tell where the blood ended and the blanket began, what was gore and what wasn’t. Nor could he make out where the little boy's head had once been–a faceless horror of bone and gore–, or just how many wounds the little girl had suffered, her body a mess of red welts and holes.   

This was worse than anything he had ever seen. Worse than the crow cages at Stoney Sept. Worse than those swollen, bloated corpses after the Trident. So much blood...  

Every part of him screamed out in revulsion as the realisation really began to kick in. Here before him was savagery at its finest, two little babes butchered, and for what purpose? The reality of the moment was so unsettling, Robert found himself unable to speak. His mind warred with itself as he tried to make sense of it all. It could’ve happened to Mya! It could still happen to Renly!    

Ned was the first to act when this ghastly gift was unveiled, storming his way to the dais and pointing an accusatory finger at Lord Tywin. “This was your doing! You ordered this!”   

Lord Tywin did not flinch at the accusation. “I had no part in this, Lord Stark.”   

Looking back to Robert, Tywin was as calm as ever. “It’s a black thought to believe I would order such… brutality,” he argued, sneering at the mere thought. “This was the work of men gone rogue, eager to see your reign unplagued by claimants such as Rhaegar’s children. We came across the bodies when we took the Holdfast, and no one has stepped forward to claim responsibility.  

Claimants indeed.  

“It was an unfortunate accident. But it will serve you well: without the possibility of a figurehead to organise behind, you can expect a stabler reign–fools as they may be to revolt against you, Your Grace.”   

The cost of not only a crown but a reign that might last the year's end…    

Ned was entirely unconvinced, standing just before the bodies. His friend regarded them with a sorrowful gaze before he looked back to the throne. “Robert, you cannot let this be the start of your reign! Bring these murderers to justice! We cannot have innocent babes butchered like this, not without repercussions!”   

Spawn of that cunt from the seven hells, they were, dragonspawn.    

Jon approached, cautious, nonetheless, authoritative. “We need to figure out exactly what happened first—”    

“What more evidence do you need?!”   

Rhaegar brought this on them! He put them in danger when he stole Lyanna from me, let his father murder Brandon and Rickard!  

“It's unspeakable Ned! We can’t just accuse—”   

Little Mya could have been butchered like this, Renly too…    

“Accuse?! I know it was on his orders! What about Princess Elia–”   

He despoiled Lyanna! An eye for an eye!  What had Rhaegar expected when he stole Robert’s rights, fled the capital, left his father to burn those poor men alive? The realm to cheer for him, to praise his name to the heaves, deify him  

But then, what did Princess Elia do? What did these children do? They had no part in the sins of their father...  

Tywin cut through the incessant bickering, commanding the attention of the entire hall. “My lords! I regret what has happened, but it was completely out of my control! We should be grateful that at least the threat of another revolt has been quashed early, House Targaryen and all its supporters surely cowed by such a tragedy.”   

And then, the lord returned his full attention to Robert, speaking only to him. “And we must focus on seeing to the realm first before we get lost in the weeds of the conduct of war.”   

War indeed.  

Of course, Ned was incredulous, whilst Jon was a tad concerned, and Tywin quite complacent. All three raised their gaze to Robert for judgment, to their new king. Everyone else in the room looked on as well, gauging the foundations upon which this realm was to be built, the only sound the wind howling outside.  

I need time to think! More eyes were looking at him than just these few assembled in the throne room before him, and a dozen ears as well were waiting to hear the result. He could not ponder this, nor pass it on to a later date.   

“It was war, Ned,” Robert proclaimed definitively.   

His friend looked about ready to march up the steps of the throne and strike Robert. “ War?! Just war?!”  

“They were dragonspawn Ned! Rhaegar brought this fate upon him when he murdered your brother! And your father!” A rage was uncoiling inside him, snapping at through his mouth, the notion that Ned disagreed with him here outrageous. “He brought this upon his whole house when he kidnapped Lyanna!”   

Ned was furious, shaking his head in dismay. “You don’t get to use the strife of House Stark to justify such barbarity! How dare you sully our tragedies with this...this despicable act! They suffered cruel punishments at the whim of black-hearted men, and we are not about to unleash the same upon the realm!”   

After all we’ve been through in the last year? After everything?    

Robert was now poised forward in the Iron Throne, glaring down at this challenge. “It’s already been unleashed! Do you want me to resurrect them before your eyes? Do you want me to turn back time and prevent this all from happening?”   

“I want you to hold those murderers accountable! I want men to remember this for the day when King Robert Baratheon saw justice brought to the deaths of innocent little babes butchered so barbarically! Justice brought to an innocent women raped and murdered!”   

“It was an unfortunate happening, just as Lord Tywin said!” Robert rasped out, irritated beyond belief. “They were our enemy, Ned! They would never hold any love for us!”  

“Who cares if they loved us! Why must that be the measure? They were innocent Robert! Innocent!”  

“Their blood matters! Their claim matters! Their whole rotting house matters! Do you think it's honour that’ll keep the rest in line? It's fear Ned! It's fear that’ll keep them in line! Fear! We’re too far gone now to act so childishly, so naive!”  

“You’re a knight of the seven Robert, anointed! Is this what the septons preach, is this that they intended for you to do? Must honour be forsaken for this throne?”  

“ WHAT I DID?” Robert roared. “ YOU THINK I DID THIS NED?”  

Ned was unmoved by such passion. He shrunk away from the throne, and even from this height, Robert could feel the judgment in his gaze.  

“I thought better of you Robert; my friend, my brother,” Ned announced. Quick as it had all come crashing down, he then turned tail and marched off from the throne room, head held high. “I’m off to finish your war Robert, whilst you sit on your throne drenched in the blood of innocents!”   

The room was spinning, his heart ready to leap out of from his chest. Robert stood up, bristling with rage, and called out to Ned. “Come back here Ned! That is an order!” Robert spat out. The words left his mouth before he could think them through, and at once, he was awash with shame.  

This new power vested within had been aching for release, childish and wanton. Ned did not even acknowledge him, uncaring as he marched right out of the Great Hall and into the cold night. Robert had been abandoned to this awful city, this terrible throne.  

An uneasy silence followed, Robert returning to his seat in a huff, an effort ensuing to not hold his head in his hands and despair. At first, he tapped his foot uneasily, then thought better of it as those eyes continued to watch him. His eyes glazed over, and limbs went rigid. Robert Baratheon was but an extension of this cursed seat now.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.    

“Your Grace,” Jon called from below. Suddenly, Robert felt a man grown, no longer the youth he was when he left Gulltown. “Don’t worry about Ned, he’ll have it under control. But we need to move forward, for there is a realm to set right, and it begins here and now.”    

Time became but a blur from then on. Robert recalled descending the Iron Throne, whisked away into the chambers of the Small Council. He recalled how alone he felt sitting there, listening to a dozen ideas spat out at him in a slurry of words he could hardly digest.    

So much had to be organised, so much to be considered, things he’d never even considered. Demands had to be sent to Sunspear and Highgarden who had yet to yield. Aerys’ wife Queen Rhaella was on Dragonstone with little Viserys, Ser Jaime informed, and the whole royal fleet with them. Royalist lords were unaccounted for, and those that were had to be ransomed, punished as well. Five members of the Kingsguard were dead or unaccounted for. Tenfold more court positions had to be filled, and already they had begun to discuss the prospects of Lyanna being dead .  

Robert was too exhausted to even argue, to tell them that she would be just fine. He was slumped in his chair, drowning his sorrows in wine, listening on as they spoke of pardoning other men who could serve the realm ably. When it was all over, he made way with haste to the holdfast, needing either a drink or an eternal sleep—whatever came first.  

If these walls could talk, they’d tell him it was over before it had already begun. Put to rest those idealistic, lofty ambitions, the seed of which had not come from his own mind but that of another’s.   

And so, the drink had flowed from the moment the other lords and knights returned from the city, entrusting orders to their serjeants and soldiers. The life he possessed now felt rotten, and even a mere second spent considering it left him too depressed to even move. So, he japed as joyously as he could, sang bawdy tunes, danced the night away in the claustrophobic halls of the castle.  

But nothing set him straight. What plagued his thoughts always returned with a vengeance each time, soon enough. The night spiralled into a cacophony of chaos, the hours blurring into one and another, and all the while Robert was too delirious to see what was slipping out from his grasp.  

Drunkenly, he and a dozen of his men scoured his new home for all its little secrets, tearing down dull statues of old kings and claiming abandoned treasures for their safekeeping. They’d been to the depths of the Black Cells to lament those who’d died down here, then raced to the very tops of Maegor’s holdfast, revelling in the city that was to be theirs, the realm that was to be theirs. The castle sat overlooking where the Blackwater Rush spilled out into the bay, and for half a moment, Robert lost himself in the sights.  

But Ned was not with him. Nor Denys or Lonmouth. When he turned away from the dark waters, he saw Grance slumped in the corner, and so many other corpses he could not even name anymore. “ Please!” Robert pleaded in desperation, promising all his world wealth to free him of this torment.  

They did not oblige. Mother and father were standing there now, and Robert fled back downstairs.  

~~  

Morning struck with a vengeance, the few men who made it through the whole night now passed out in what were to be Robert’s new chambers. Stumbling out onto the balcony, Robert revelled in the blast of cool, fresh air. It woke his bones, only to arouse his mind with further misery as his mind and heart followed suit.    

King’s Landing stretched on and on beneath him, a mess of red and orange roofs with no apparent organisation. The plumes of smoke were still present, though smaller and under control, and he could already see men atop the battlements in neat little formations.   

His gaze wandered south of King’s Landing to the kingsroad, and just beyond that on the horizon, the lush green carpet that was the kingswood. Way beyond that was Storm’s End, and something stirred inside him. Little Renly is still there, and Stannis. What if Lord Tyrell fights on?  

“There is a realm to set right!” Jon’s firm voice echoed in his head. Robert’s mind travelled even further south of Storm’s End, across the Red Mountains and into Dorne. " And it begins here and now!”    

There was much to do here, he knew. There was also so much more to do out there. What am I doing?    

Robert marched back into the chamber without a second thought. He roused Edric Fell, who was passed out and mumbling to himself in the corner. The knight awoke with a start, cursing Robert all the while. Robert did not wait though, and went over to Cortnay Penrose, kicking his feet, then over to Ser Damon Morrigen, shaking him by the shoulders.    

“With me, now,” King Robert Baratheon commanded. “We’re leaving, and I want us out of this damned city within the hour.”   

Chapter Text

Storm’s End.    

Starvation was never pretty sight; Robert despised it more than he did a rotting corpse. At least the latter found some sweet release, where the former was condemned to a limbo, teetering back and forth. He’d seen it at scarcely, most recently at Riverrun, when survivors of a skirmish near Tumbleton returned home at long last. Skin paper thin, ready to tear, its hue sickening; hair brittle, falling out in clumps; bones protruding outwards like tent poles.  

So, when his two brothers marched out through the gates of Storm’s End, proud in stature despite their skeletal disposition, Robert was sick to his stomach. He'd deemed it torture then, and he deemed it torture now. Just two more victims of King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar, this time, Lord Mace Tyrell their vicious hound.  

Robert had not been ignorant to the risks when he had left this castle a year ago. War was war, battles were battles, and sieges were sieges. He’d been hopeful all the same: these walls were impenetrable, resisting even the wrath of the gods. Each stone of the smooth, circular walls was slotted in perfectly, the massive drum tower racing up to the heavens like a fist, and the cliffs were at its far eastern side, commanding the whole bay. Pride swelled within each time he saw it—yet now, his mood had soured.  

Stannis was leading little Renly by the hand, and Robert found he was gaunter than he ever thought possible. His brother’s eyes had always been slightly sunken, but now, they were at the bottom of a well. The high cheekbones were no longer noble, sickly instead. His coal-black hair was always kept cropped. Now, Stannis probably would never need a barber again, already balding, it appeared. At least there was width to him still, those broad shoulders of a Baratheon.  

Arriving before Robert, the thin man nudged Renly forward, and dipped his head in greeting. Robert looked down to the lad who had always been a bouncing bundle of joy and found he had been cowed by this experience. Renly shrank away at the all the men crowding him. Those blue eyes shifted as they looked to Robert, and slowly, the boy padded over to him. At once, Renly hugged his leg fiercely, burying his head in Robert’s hip, and there he remained.  

“Stannis,” Robert finally greeted.  

“Robert,” Stannis replied, curt as ever.  

Idly, he weaved his fingers through Renly’s soft curls. “You held.”   

“Twas my duty.”   

A cold chill blew by. “Are you alright?”   

Nodding solemnly, Stannis averted his gaze. Robert peered behind him to see that there were scarcely more than twenty men who’d escorted them out here. The garrison he’d left had been small sure—but this? And where was the master-at-arms? And what about their cousins? Maester Cressen?  

“Where’s Ser Gawen Wylde?”   

“Dead.” Stannis’ jaw was clenched. “Tried to surrender.”   

That was not the Gawen he had remembered, strong and proud.  

“Ser Ellyn and his son?”   

“Ellyn died of starvation. Armond was struck by an arrow–the wound festered.”   

He recalled their faces when he’d left, fresh and eager, honoured to serve, and ready to defend Storm’s End if it came to it.  

“Cressen?”   

Stannis jerked a thumb back at the castle in response, and an ounce of relief washed over Robert.   

Nails dug into his thighs, so sharp they could even draw blood. Looking down, Renly was vying for his attentions. With tear-stained cheeks and a trembling lip, Robert’s heart broke, just a little. The boy wanted the affections only a mother could give, he realised. Robert froze, incapable of such, yet could not will himself to nudge his little brother away.  

Grass crunched beneath Stannis’ boots as he walked over, the wind whistling all around. A hand was placed on Renly’s shoulder. Seconds passed. At last, the boy relented and fled back to the safety of Stannis. He clutched the young man’s hand desperately, then looked far away from it all.  

There was nothing more to say. As Robert was left to stew in thoughts, forever left to wonder if he ought to have stayed, his heart began to race. A loud thumping in his ears, a painful throbbing in his chest. “ Look how they’ve mocked you,” some distant voice cried.  

Behind him, back by the kingsroad, were the remains of the “siege” lines. Great, grandiose pavilions far more fit for a tourney had yet to be dismantled. Mock tilts and sparring yards as well. Flying proudly above it all was the golden rose of Highgarden, a dozen other heraldries flanking it. And in front of them all was that fat oaf of Highgarden Lord Mace Tyrell. He stood merrily amongst a group of northmen—Ned’s men—as if there was nothing to worry about, and a mere oath would fix all this.  

Over two weeks had been spent riding this way. Half of that spent with a man who now refused to talk with Robert. Every one of those nights was spent worrying about what state he would the castle in—crimson dreams of Stannis and Renly, and now Lord Tyrell seemed to think all was swell.  

He took on great step forward. And then another. Quickly, he was striding across at great pace another. Robert balled his fists as he drew neared to that plump fool, who did not seem to grasp the severity of the situation just yet. Upon the man in mere seconds, a curled fist was sent cracking across the Lord of Highgarden’s noble cheek. Hardly satiated as he felt the man’s teeth shatter against his knuckles, Robert hungered for more .  

“YOU FUCKING COWARD!”  

Blow after blow was sent at the lord without pause, only infuriated further as Lord Tyrell was reduced to a snivelling mess of cries and yelps. His long brown locks were spattered with blood, and it dribbled down to stain his once clean and green doublet. Tyrell began to crawl away when Robert stepped back for a moment, running a bloodied hand through his hair. Loading a leg back as far as he could, Robert’s boot was sent flying out quick as lightning, the toe of it colliding with Tyrell’s gut.  

“Mercy!” He cried. “Mercy! Mercy!”  

After another hard clout across the ear for good measure, arms were suddenly at his side, restraining him. It was Ned, accompanied by some mountain of a man nearly as tall as Robert was. He knew him from Harrenhal. Both men laced their arms around Robert’s elbows, huffing and heaving as they worked to tug Robert away from the scene. With one final curse, he spat at Lord Tyrell’s red, puffy face.  

“What the fuck was that, Robert?” Ned interrogated at once.   

Robert shrugged them off as he rounded on him. “He fucking starved them, Ned! Look at them!” A hand was thrown in the direction of the scrappy Baratheon's watching on in earnest to emphasise his meaning.   

Ser Edric swept across the field at the same time as this was all unfolding, coming to a stop before Robert and throwing his hands in the air. “Are you trying to start another bloody war, Robert?”   

Refusing to dignify that absurd assertion with an answer, Robert preferred to growl out his disapproval. Pointing an accusatory finger at Lord Tyrell, he snarled in disgust at the sight. “Get that lout out of here, now! Or I’ll finish the damn job!”   

Expressions of mortification crossed with indignation did not cow Robert. Eventually, they relented. Off Ned went to go deal with that miserable fat shit, whilst Edric remained, not daring to take an eye off Robert.   

Fuck the both of you, Robert thought. There was burning sensation at his neck, and Robert looked away, to the west. There awaited the “pride” of the Reach, a while city's worth of them scrambling about like ants. Already, some atop horseback were racing to the scene. Scowling as the striding huntsmen of House Tarly was raised aloft by one of them, Robert marched towards them, drawing his warhammer. What a farce.  

“If you come one step nearer, I’m going to rip your fucking head off!” Robert bellowed out for all to hear, levelling the hammer’s spike right at Lord Randyll Tarly’s ugly head. “I already killed your damned prince! Don’t think I won’t hesitate to usher you to him, Tarly!”   

The lord stopped his horse dead in his tracks at once, then drew a shimmering sword from its scabbard on his back. He held it firm at one side. Wearing no helm, from here his bald head shone just as brightly as that sword.  

“If you mean to strike my liege again, Lord Baratheon, I’ll be left with no choice but to gut you from groin to throat,” Tarly called out in return.  

Robert stifled a laugh. “That’s King Robert Baratheon to you, you monotonous cunt! And if you mean to threaten me, I suggest you make good on it or sod off!”   

The seconds excruciatingly drew on. The horse beneath Lord Tarly shifted. So too did the knights who had accompanied him. Was this all the Reach could offer? Was it? It’d been a minute now, and Randyll Tarly remained stiff as stone. A pitiful cry was heard as someone prodded at Lord Tyrell’s wounds.  

Robert had no time for this mummer’s farce, and when no answer was forthcoming, marched off in disgust, heading straight back to his brothers. What they thought of that moment was undiscernible. But Robert thought he might’ve seen something of a smile on Stannis’ lips, and Renly had stopped his crying, no longer clutching his brother's hand. There’s a man to make of you yet.  

“We’re going back to the castle,” Robert announced for all to hear. Motioning now to the present northmen, he felt a need to clarify. “ All of us.”   

~~   

“Eat.”   

Stannis was glaring at the plate of food before him like it’d struck him across the temple. He levelled a look at Robert that screamed umbrage, so offended by the thought of basic bodily needs.   

“You’ve been starved, dammit! Eat.”  

Robert had even gone so far as to save the best cuts for him, straight from the looted stores of Lord Mace Tyrell–Lord Rowan had some rather prime venison as well! A cup of wine sat at his brother’s right, as well, untouched. Haughty lemon water was preferred to some fine Arbor Red, and Robert wondered how in the seven hells they were related at all.  

Meanwhile, Renly had already wolfed down two plates laden with roast pork, drowned in gravy, a side of good hot mash. Already, he called for a third. Maester Cressen had quietly asked Robert to call the boy off. “He’ll just throw it all up in an hour Robert!” In the end, Robert relented, if only out of appreciation for Cressen’s long and leal service to House Baratheon through thick and thin.   

“Stannis, you’ve hardly touched a thing on your plate!”   

In protest, his brother simply pushed said plate aside. All his attention was focused on Renly who was eyeing up the leftovers with greedy little eyes. Stannis made a move to send the plate Renly’s way, only to think better of it when Cressen laid a hand on his shoulder.   

The maester had quite the despondent look in his eyes as he turned to Stannis, pushing the plate back beneath him. “Your brother is right, Stannis. Please, you’ve got to eat something at least, it’s been many moons since your last good meal.”    

“I’m fine,” Stannis ground out.  

Robert threw his hands up in resignation, returning to his guests instead of entertaining this any longer. If Stannis wanted to be a pain, so be it.   

The others all seemed to be enjoying themselves, oblivious to the argument ongoing. Robert had dragged a singer up from Tyrell’s camp who strummed a happy tune, and an ample distraction from the tension between the three brothers. Edric had been seated at his right and Cortnay at his left. Across and at Stannis’ left was Damon, and to his left was man of the north called Martyn Cassel who Robert had briefly met at Riverrun. Next to him was Ethan Glover, Brandon’s squire, who looked rather well despite his recent stint in captivity. Clearly enjoying the fresh air, Glover had already gorged himself into an early sleep, it appeared.  

Then there was Lord William Dustin of Barrowtown, who sat in quiet conversation at the far end with Mark Ryswell, and just before them, was that mammoth of a man, who hailed from the northern clans and was called Theo Wull. A lad of quite the opposite stature sat across from Wull. He was called Howland Reed, a crannogman, thin as a reed, and Robert swore he’d seen him before.  

Sitting where his father once sat many years ago and with his mother’s chair occupied by a knight, Robert didn’t quite feel he fit the part. Even if they all called him Your Grace, the title went in one ear and right out the other . He wondered what Steffon would say if he heard his son was king now. Would he be proud? When he learned the cost of that crown, would he still grab him by the shoulder, and say, “You’ve done well”?  

Steffon Baratheon had been rather close to King Aerys, back when Aerys was still a man and not a raving lunatic. Lord Tywin rounded out their little trio, and they had all very nearly set the realm on a path of prosperity. Well, Robert still had one of them around—perhaps father wouldn’t be too troubled.  

Deep in his musings, when Robert came back to the reality of the table, he regrettably found that his appetites had disappeared. He pushed his plate away, over to Morrigen, who’d been eyeing it up for the last ten minutes. Grabbing the cup at his right, finishing the last of his wine with a slow swallow, he made sure to savour every drop. Who knew when they’d next get as good vintage as this. As the last dribbles ran down to his tongue, it suddenly tasted quite sour.  

Stannis had been tracking him all night with those studious eyes of his. Robert had failed to return the favour, unable to look upon the work of Lord Tyrell, the way he had ruined his brother. He looked to his Stannis at last, really looked at him. Both quickly averting their eyes as their gazes met, drowned by some sense of shame neither could decipher. Trapped in this little bubble only they could see, together, they suffered alone. Too distant to comfort the other, too close to go uncaring.  

Soon enough, the rest had finished and were waiting on their king for a final word. Tired from their long journey, and surely dreading what was to come, Robert didn’t intend to keep them any longer, but his mind was too far away to act upon it. He must’ve said something, in the end, for they all began to depart after a short while to their chambers for the night.  

It had all been a bit of a blur thus far. Not even Ned lingered long, leaving Robert aching for those cold nights in the Eyrie when they’d stay up well past the hour of the wolf drinking spiced wine and ale by the barrel (Robert did the drinking, and Ned did the talking, one of the rare occasions when he did).   

Ryswell was the last to depart. He offered his sympathies to all of them with soft words but took it no further. Pausing by the doorway, the knight seemed desperate to say something more. The moment passed, and the Baratheon brothers and their maester were left to wallow in despair.  

Storm’s End itself had not suffered much in the siege. Its spirit thought, was gone, the joy that had once graced these halls a distant memory.    

Cressen clapped his hands together gently to call the servants back into the room–how few were left. “Gyles, Jaremy,” Cressen then called out softly. “Would you see Renly to his room? I think he’s nodded off.”   

Sure enough, the youngest Baratheon had fallen fast asleep in his chair, head lolling dangerously to one side. It elicited a soft chuckle form Robert, fondly recalling those old times, warmed by the innocent moment. Nothing in this world was to last, though. As the two guardsmen hauled Renly up and away, a frown crept its way onto his lips, and Robert looked down to his empty cup.    

Some shutter banged to and fro as the wind howled and screamed outside. The tides beat furiously against the cliffs below Storm’s End, thrashing it with all their might as they always did, every day, every night. Robert saw himself up there on the battlements. In his cup, a storm brewed, a ship thrown about the red seas, crashing into its smooth, golden side.  

“How long do you intend to stay, Robert?” Cressen asked, drawing him out from his mind.  

Robert did not look at the man as he spoke. “One night only. Tomorrow, we ride out in search of Lyanna Stark.”   

The maester nodded, his eyes just barely squinted. “Where will you start?”   

He shrugged. “She’s been stowed away in the Reach no doubt. A hotbed of Targaryen sympathies,” Robert spat out that the last part, nose curling in disgust as he muttered that accursed family’s name.  

Cressen raised an eyebrow. “Lord Stark seemed to think she was in Dorne?”    

Robert snapped his full attention to Cressen. “When did he tell you this?”   

The older man seemed a bit taken aback, placing a hand near his chest. “You haven’t talked to Lord Stark about it?”    

“We haven’t talked since King’s Landing,” Robert lamented, crossing his arms in a huff as he spoke. “We caught up to them in the kingswood. But he had no interest in talking then, and his companions followed suit.”   

Cressen looked crestfallen, moved by the revelation. “I see,” he began, trailing off. Rubbing at his chin in thought, Robert took note of just how grey the old maester had gotten. His skin was too far off from the grey robes all maester’s wore. All the metal links of his chain, each representing an area of expertise, looked faded.  

“Might I ask, Robert,” he finally continued. “ What’s happened? Lord Arryn wrote that you two were as close as brothers...”   

Stannis frowned further than Robert thought possible at the comment.    

Robert scowled and turned away from them all. “There was a disagreement over the handling of the deaths of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, and their mother, Princess Elia.” Need he say any more on the matter? It had been beaten to death already—and still plagued his dreams anyhow!  

The maester nodded again, retreating into contemplation for a moment. At least he would be wise to withhold any judgment of his. Certainly, more loyal than Ned Stark seemed to be.  

 “And how do you feel about it, Robert?”   

Bristling at such a question, Robert felt about ready to head for bed. He glanced once at Cressen. Then twice. Then thrice, and found that the softness in his gaze remained.  

“It was war.”   

“Is that you believe?”   

Last question you’ll ask tonight. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t believe it.”   

Cressen was scrutinising him now, as he did in those bothersome lessons about history. “You can tell me the truth, Robert,” the maester offered.  

“What truth ? That they were dragonspawn? The accursed product of that cunts seed? There’s nothing more to it!”  

“Princess Elia wasn’t a Targaryen,” Cressen challenged.  

The crimson in his cup leaped up at Robert. It drowned his face, and only when he was able to look away did the colour retreat. Robert found relief in the faint slivers of moonlight peeking through the crack of the shutters. No more on Elia.  

But how could he ignore it any longer? Every night he saw them, and every morning he recalled how Lord Tywin had seemed to sneak in a soft smile when the bodies were presented. He had not shrunk away in disgust when the cloth was unwrapped. It was the savagery of man on full display, and Tywin’s own brother seemed to have revelled in such.  

Robert’s head was pounding, his limbs throbbing, and his muscles pulled taught. A thousand terrible thoughts were about to pour forth from his lips. Not an ounce of control did Robert possess over anything now . Without another word, he stormed off from the dining room, sending his father's chair tumbling backwards as he did with a loud crash.  

He heard the maester call out softly behind him in vain protest before he left, but he paid it no mind. Ignoring even the scrutiny of Stannis, he had no more patience with being judged. The rest had done enough of that already.  

Up the spiral steps he went. His feet took him the entire way without pause, each step still familiar, and he found some solace as he ran a hand over the stone walls. At this hour the candles had begun to wane. They cast a dim orange glow in the halls that flickered to and fro, and shadows leaping out at him with every step. He used to try and scare Renly with shadows. That had been quite fun, hadn’t it?  

Arriving finally at the lord's floor, Robert paused just a moment. It was second to the top, Cressen’s chambers and the rookery just above. There, at the end of the hallway, as it always was, the old weirwood door to the chamber waited.  Clack, clack, clack, went his boots as he made with haste.  

Without second thought, he burst through the door, at the last moment catching it before it flew into the wall. The solar was just as he had left it a year ago. At the right wall was an ornately carved wooden desk his father used to write at. No new letters were there, and gods, that ink pot he spilt hadn’t been cleaned yet either. The old Myrish carpet was still there, yet not as regal as he remembered it. Hardly a home anymore.  

Robert did not linger long here, for the ghosts of a sweeter time were hiding in the shadows, ready to leap out at any moment and grab him by the throat.    

Opening the door to the bedchamber with much more care this time, he found it warm and well-lit in comparison. The candlesticks were new, the fireplace stoked high with kindling, and the bed was made ready for a king. With windows tightly shuttered, not a peep could be heard from the outside. For a brief time, Robert thought he might at last get a good night's sleep.   

Off behind a privacy curtain wisps of steam rose.  Pacing over to that side, he found the servants had run him a hot bath, and without hesitation, cast off his garments. Gods, when was the last good bath he had had? Riverrun? He plunged in, wincing at the temperature, water sent flying all around. It took some time to settle, letting the water rise to his chin, and Robert raised his feet onto the sides of the bronze tub.   

Whatever calming sensation he had hoped for did not arrive. Before long he was shifting this way and that. It was too hot, and then not hot enough. The steam did little to cleanse him, leaving him hot and bothered instead. A thin sheen of sweat clung to him. The scents were at first non-existent, and then suddenly nauseating.  

In less than a few minutes he was out and drying himself with a fresh towel. Of course, he found that his hair was so drenched it refused to comply with his efforts, and then his whole body worked itself up into a fresh storm of sweat. Robert even tried in vain to massage out the knots in his tensed and cramped muscles.   

All his endeavours for relaxation ended up futile. By the end of it, Robert was in more discomfort than when he had started. Finally, Robert looked to the well-made bed, trusting that at least sleep would not desert him. Settling himself under the warm furs and sheets, Robert squeezed his eyes shut at once, and did his best to will away the crimson creeping in.  

~~   

It was well past the hour of the bat when Robert started off to the battlements atop the drum tower of Storm’s End. Storming out of the chamber when sleep refused to take him into its sweet embrace, he’d cast himself out into the cold night as if he were a jilted paramour.   

Wrapping himself in a heavy fur cloak brought back from the Vale some years ago, a gift from Yohn Royce when he’d turned six and ten. Robert found that where it once dragged on the floor, now it only just reached to his knees. The leather boots he wore were a gift as well. He’d worn them all campaign, a gift from Jon before they departed the Eyrie for the tourney at Harrenhal. They’d seen almost every important event in his life from the past year.  

Each step he took was an effort, worn down by exhaustion. Heavy footfalls echoed off the stone tomb Robert wound his way upwards, embarking up the spiral staircase after a short pause, and tucking both hands under his armpits. A chill wind had infiltrated the castle, meaning the door above must’ve been left open. Guards, as always.  

Another pause as he reached the penultimate floor. Cressen’s chambers were just to his right. Robert drew closer, wondering if he ought to knock, finally confide in someone all these terrible issues. The scene played out in his head, and Robert instead continued his journey.  

Pale moonlight illuminated the final stairs, and just as he had expected, the door at the top had been left wide open. Stepping out, he found that there was not a cloud in sight. High up above hung the moon in quiet observation, full and beautiful. Thousands of shimmering stars, bright as diamonds, were its company and a streak of purple haze running across the middle of the night sky. The view was simply not the same at King’s Landing, he’d found.  

Robert looked over the battlements before he continued, a displeasing sight awaiting. There, out on the bay, sat the Redwyne Fleet. Scowling as he registered its presence, he took some small ounce of pride in knowing this castle could not even be cowed by one of the largest fleets the realm had ever seen. Lord Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor was hiding away in there, waiting his turn to be called upon.  

Turning back now, Robert struck out to the other side of the space, to where he could look south, towards the red mountains of Dorne. Halfway across now, Robert halted. There, right where he intended to be, was a figure he knew at once. Ned had already noticed his presence. He looked over his shoulder at Robert, heat rising in his neck. The Lord of Winterfell made no motion to leave though and returned his attention out to the south.  

Unsure of what to do, it took some time before Robert could muster up the courage and take a quiet place next to him. Robert did not greet his friend as he joined him, nor did he even look south. Back out to the east he looked upon Shipbreaker Bay, tracing the outline of all the jagged cliffs that surrounded it. Counting all the little warships bobbing in the distance, he could just see the arms of House Redwyne: a burgundy bunch of grapes on blue. Back and forth they rocked gently with the calmed tides.   

Long ago, father had taken him up here with Cressen. The two had pointed out where every point of relevance lay to the castles east. There were the Free Cities Myr and Tyrosh who squabbled over anything, directly east. Looking slightly more to the south, the dreaded Stepstones lay in wait, the isles a den of pirates and slave. Further south from that was Lys. He’d never been, though his men often told him how brilliant it was, and that Robert would love it. A city of love and passion—not too bad. If he looked to his northeast, Pentos was in that vague direction, and even further north, looking overland now, would be Braavos and its hundreds of canals.  

“Out there lies so much more than you can ever comprehend, Robert.”     

So much out there across the Narrow Sea, and Robert wondered if he’d lost the chance to see it all now.  

That was the life of a sellsword: they’d not got worries about adventure. They wore their wealth on their hands and necks, fight who they wanted and fuck all the pretty women at hand. Ribald songs were still sung of the best from long ago. Certainly, the tales told were far mor interesting than that of kings.  

That was a life for Robert. Right now, he felt more than sure he wanted to strike out across at once, abandon this folly that he’d been looped into. Damn Jon Arryn, damn his honeyed words. And damn Prince Rhaegar! Damn all before him that had set him on this path!  

Robert cast his gaze down, away from the Free Cities. His eye found those dreaded rocks at once. They never left, so why did he still bristle at their presence? They mocked him, every time he came up here, and he tried to ignore them. It was too late. Robert could see Steffon standing there in his brilliant raiment's. With a hand cast outward to the sea, there was little Robert by his side, leaning against the parapets.  

“I mean to take you there one day,” Steffon announced, a twinkle in his eye.     

“Why not now?”  

His father shook his head. “This is official business. And we might be away for a long time. I need you boys to stay here and rule in my name.”    

I rule the whole realm now, father. Are you proud? I won’t get to cross the sea anymore, but I’m sure that makes up for it, doesn’t it?  

Robert's parents had died there, on that outcrop of rocks. Cressen had taken all three of them up to watch as their parents’ ship, Windproud , returned from its voyage. Though their letters spoke of little success in their assigned mission, they seemed jubilant all the same. Robert watched as Renly was lifted on his shoulders to see better, and Cressen muttered something about the wind and rain, Stannis nodding in agreement.  

It was all over quite quickly. The ship had been dashed against the rocks by a furious storm that rocked the whole castle. The heavens had split open that, and from them poured forth a torrential flood. The sky had been grey as iron the past week–even the stableboys knew what was in store.  

But of course, Robert hadn’t even begun to think such was remotely possible. None of them had.  

“Be safe, boys,” were the last words from Cassana he heard. Oh, her smile, how it had calmed them all.  

Hundreds had drowned alongside his parents in the dark waters of the bay. For weeks, bodies had washed ashore across the entire coast, from Massey’s Hook to Cape Wrath. Not Steffon and Cassana though. No, that would be too kind, for the gods were cruel.  

Sometimes, Robert heard their voices call out to him from across the waters. He could see them now; ethereal apparitions bathed in white. They danced atop the waves like they used to in the Round Hall all night long, skittering across with such grace you’d think them heaven-sent. The moonlight followed them, illuminating the dangers, and they skirted the rocks with ease.   

And of course, there had been nothing to show for their efforts. there was no Valyrian bride they’d found on their voyage, and the gifts they brought back instead were lost at the bottom of the sea. There’d been one survivor: a fool from Volantis who they called Patchface for the tattoos on his face. Patterned with squares of green and red motley, he might’ve been rather amusing once. He’d lost his wits after three days and three nights in the water. The gods could not even let them keep a sane fool. Ha.    

Robert tapped his fingers against the parapets impatiently, nails scratching against the cold stone. He heard Ned shift at his side and turned to face him. Grey eyes garbed in fog met him. They stood there entranced in each other's gaze for a time, the world around them fading into nothingness.   

“I didn’t want them to die, Ned.”   

Ned shook his head. “Yet you’ve done nothing about it, Robert.”   

Nothing swelled up inside him. No gnawing rage, nor irritation. “What do you want me to do Ned?” Robert asked, timid as a squire.   

“I’ve told you already.”  

“They aren’t my men, Ned!”   

“You’re their King Robert! You can do as you like now!”   

Robert leaned down on the stone with his elbows, bowing his head. “I can’t turn on Lord Tywin like that: he took the city for me! His son killed King Aerys!”   

“He gifted you a city in ruins on a funeral pyre, Robert! Jaime Lannister broke his oaths and murdered his king!” Ned was exasperated and grabbed Robert by the hand. “Do you know how I found him? Sitting on your throne like he was a bloody god! He was smiling , and he’d just committed a crime with a worse punishment than the Wall! House Lannister doesn’t care for you, Robert!”  

“You don’t care about me either!” Robert cried, brushing the hand aside. “You left me in that rotting city to deal with the fallout! Jon Arryn and the rest of them pestering me all night about this and that and all the other bullshit the Targaryen's got us into! And I’m stuck worrying if Lyanna is dead or not, Ned! And now , the maester tells me you know where she is? You hid that from me Ned, and you know how much I care about her! She’s to be my wife!”  

Ned bristled at the words, and Robert’s eyes narrowed in return. The man paused for a while; expression taught with tension. Then at last, he opened his mouth.  

“I left because I saw a monster on that throne Robert! I left, because how can I trust Lyanna with you when you act like this? Do you think she’d like to sit near that awful throne, when she knows what it cost?”  

Robert slammed a fist into the stone, rounding on Ned with an accusatory finger. “You think I’d treat her like Rhaegar has, don’t you?”  

“No, I don’t, Robert! But the man who stands before me now is not the one I knew in the Vale!” Ned’s gaze softened then, and he looked on the verge of tears, mystifying Robert. “I care about you, Robert, and that is why I am telling you here and now something’s gone terribly wrong in the last year! I hardly recognise you anymore!”   

Robert felt his heart stutter, a sword driven right through it.   

“You’re nearly all I have left Robert! Father and Brandon are dead, Lyanna may very well be dead as well, and Benjen’s been left in Winterfell on his own! I’ve been strapped with my dead brother’s bride, and Jon’s grown distant, refusing to hear me out about the children!”  

Ned drew closer then, grasping his hand once again. “ Please, Robert. I can’t lose you as well, not to that damned throne!”   

He went quiet then, swallowing back the lump in his throat, then turned back out to the bay.   

Robert took a step back. His heart lurched, thump, thump, thump in both ears. He tried to look away, up to the moon. All he saw was Renly and Stannis swaddled in crimson cloth, savaged. Their faces morphed into Aegon and Rhaenys’ and then back again.  

Squeezing his eyes shut, it was Lyanna who appeared before him as she had that first night at Harrenhal. He saw her in the holdfast now, suddenly replaced Princess Elia, and grew wroth at the scene. His head was pounding, an ear-splitting noise all around that drove him mad. Cries of dozens: men dying at the Trident, the smallfolk on the road to King’s Landing, Rhaegar’s children.  

Lyanna Stark’s screams could be heard above them all.  

Suddenly, Robert was back atop the Iron Throne. Both his hands bore fingernails longer than talons, matted hair bad as a bird's nest fell to his knees, and every bone in his body creaked and cracked as he moved.  Below was Lord Rickard Stark, writhing and screaming as he was burned atop a pyre. Brandon was reaching for his sword, the other hand at his neck as he struggled against a noose that tightened with each movement.  

Robert was cackling, cackling, slapping his knees like a giddy child, eyes wide. The flames were red tinged with an orange, then suddenly, as they burst high from the pyre to lick the walls, they turned a sickly green.   

The horror, oh, the horror! He fled through the walls of the Red Keep as they closed in on him. When at last he found a room to hide in, he found Steffon and Cassana awaiting him. Jon was there as well, a worried look about him, and Cressen too, gentle eyes watching Robert. Yet they all judged him in their own way, cruel, their eyes now black as ink. He screamed out to them, pleading for but a moment of compassion, craving the warmth he had missed for so long. He wanted to be held, to be coddled, to have never been in this damned situation in the first place!  

They were back in the lord’s chamber now, just Robert and his parents. Father was regaling him with tales of court whilst mother brushed his hair, and Robert was giddy as could be as he thought about fine debauchery and other childish things.  

A hazy red light emanated behind the wooden shutter, and blood was slowly seeping down the stones and onto the floorboards, drip, drip, drip. The moment was fading, and desperately he reached out to them, trying t o hold them close, if only for a few seconds. But they disappeared before his eye, leaving Robert alone in his room, curled up like a craven. The void returned to swallow it all whole, and all that was left before him was a crimson cloth, bleeding .  

“You want them put to death?” Robert finally asked.  

“I want the integrity of the realm restored,” Ned said quite firmly. Then quietly, as if speaking only to the wind, he whispered, “I just want my brother back.”   

Chapter Text

The Red Mountains of Dorne   

On each side of the Prince’s Pass, great mountain ranges painted in broad strokes of vibrant reds and oranges soared high. Their peaks grasped with great talons towards the heavens, and on and on they ran, from the Sunset Sea in the west, to the Narrow Sea in the east. Dividing the rest of the realm from Dorne, every quiet summit, every cave, every abandoned way castle, carried some story of battle. How many wars had been fought across these ranges, Robert could not say. Ancient, abandoned holdfasts cropped up here and there, surely more beneath the sands and rock. Bones, most like. 

The Young Dragon, King Daeron, had tried his luck here and had fallen, just as those had before him. Even Aegon the Conqueror had failed to subdue this sizzling shithole.  

It was here, in these treacherous lands, that Prince Rhaegar had seen fit to hide Lyanna Stark. When Ethan Glover regaled the tale—from a source he would not disclose—Robert had scoffed. Dorne? The Prince’s Pass, no less? Was he mad? Ser Gerold Hightower had been south to find the prince, Ser Barristan had informed, and Ser Jaime supplemented. Yet only the prince returned to King’s Landing. Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard were also still missing, and Glover had been quite sure both had accompanied Rhaegar from the very beginning. 

The revelation was worrying. Robert was not ignorant to how quick one could perish in these elements, nor ignorant to the prowess at arms those three men possessed. Days here were scorching hot and the nights freezing cold. More than just vipers and scorpions hid amongst the sands: bandits, raiders, thugs, all manner of miscreants. The Dornish feigned ignorance when they tread north into the marches, and if pressed, simply said they were too hard to control. 

Wary eyes had been scanning the horizon ever since they left Nightsong. Lord Byren Caron had graciously provided them with slim sand steeds, accustomed to the heat and lightning quick. It did little to calm their nerves; what was a fast horse to a hell storm of arrows and bolts? 

Worse, if the Dornish meant to submit as the Reach had (after some strained negotiations that had left all unhappy) was unknown to Robert. Perhaps they had. Perhaps they hadn’t. Had they gotten word of Princess Elia, the Prince of Dorne’s sister? Would Doran Martell rouse himself when ten thousand of his men had been captured or killed on the Trident, lords, knights, and heirs now hostages of the crown? Or would it be that infamous brother of his, Oberyn, that rallied the rest of the cretins to continue that doomed fight? 

Dragonstone remained in the Targaryen control, Robert reminded himself, a whole fleet still at their disposal. 

Neither Lord Caron nor Lord Harmon Dondarrion at Blackhaven spoke of any forces amassing at either of the passes. He ought to trust them. Them, who had grown up on stories of marcher feuds that ran thicker than blood. Those men lived and breathed the red mountains and the flatlands that sprawled out from their foothills. But one could never be too sure. Strike out before dawn. Find cover at midday and rest. Rise again well past twilight. That had been the procedure thus far, and that it would remain. 

No one had come across their small party just yet, so it seemed to have worked. Robert figured if the Dornish meant to continue the war, they’d all be dead already. All the same, he prayed for guidance every morning and every night, tucking in a short wish of safety for them all after his longer one for Lyanna. 

A shrill cry rang out above. All were roused from slumping in the saddle, eyes darting across the clear blue sky. Crossing the sun, a vulture, black as night, revealed itself. And then another. And then two more. They cried and they cried, and they cried, bloodthirsty, wretched things. Scowling, Robert returned his attention to the path ahead. 

Soon , he muttered. Soon, Lyanna. We’re nearly there.  

~~  

High noon had come and gone without much fanfare. Two abreast they rode, passing waterskins between them, dampening the clothes wrapped around helms. Edric with his keen eyes was the first to spot it, calling out from the back of the pack. There, in the distance, rose a squat tower, almost on a lean. Glover took one look at it, and said it had to be it.  

“That’s how they described it: a short tower, on a cliff that looks like the bow of a ship.” 

“What’s it called?” Cassel inquired. 

Glover shrugged. “Names lost to time I’m told.” 

“Wonder if they’ve named it themselves,” Morrigen enthused. 

“Something stupid,” Robert muttered. Scanning the surroundings now, he found little of note it. Cliffs, cave, crevices, and more cliffs. 

It took a moment to find, but eventually, a path that zigzagged up the side revealed itself. Precarious, of course. Quick to dismount, and quick to armour, the men began the climb within minutes. Certainly, a roundabout route, Robert felt as though they’d doubled back on themselves many times before they reached what they thought to be halfway. 

A rest was soon needed. They were quite high up already, their mounts but little dots below, and from here you had quite the commanding view of the pass. Robert took a moment to inspect his warhammer. He traced his finger over every little dent, wondering which man had been felled by what part of it. 

“Kingsgrave is some leagues that way,” Morrigen pointed out. Robert followed his hand, looking south to where the seat of House Manwoody lay. Nothing revealed itself but more sand and rock.  

Cassel stroked his chin in thought. “Didn’t Lord Manwoody fall at the Trident?” 

“No, that was his cousin, Ser Dagos,” Lord William corrected, peering over the rockface as he spoke. 

“Isn’t it Lord Dagos Manwoody?” 

“Your uncle is called Martyn, Martyn.” 

“Aye. And he’s a strong one.” 

Soon enough they were back at it again. They’d only made some hundred yards before Edric called out again. He was gesturing up above, concern about him. There, standing at the top of cliffs, was a man swathed in black cloth. Whoever it was, they disappeared quick enough, and their climb swiftly resumed. 

“Reckon they’ll pummel us with rocks?” Wull asked. 

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Robert replied. Consorted with poisons and sorcerers, it was said of the Dornish. Perhaps the tales were coloured by a marcher lords' perspective—but the poison part was true. 

One eye was kept upwards, and on they pressed. Finally, when the sun hung just above the mountains in the west, they arrived at the top. Just as it had looked from below, the tower was rather unremarkable. Only two stories, with what looked to be only a few windows. It looked old.  

Robert paused for a breath. Calm his racing heart and mind as well. She’s close!  

Sure enough, three knights armoured in white awaited by the entrance to the tower, accompanied by three more of unremarkable stature. He did not call out to them or even think long on their presence. Robert’s eyes went back to one of the windows. Lyanna was right there . Heart racing, mind barely at ease, only when he felt Ned’s presence at his side did Robert began his march. He refused to let it be his last. 

Standing proud in the centre with his soiled cloak was, unmistakably, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. Bull chested, broad of shoulder, he looked formidable even in his older age. The clasp of his cloak bore an image of the Hightower, and the sword in his hands shimmered in the sun.  

To his left and sat atop a rock was Ser Oswell Whent. In one hand was his sword, its hilt in the shape of a bat’s wings, and in the other was a whetstone. So was the white greathelm he wore emblazoned with a great black bat, its wings spread outward.  

At Hightower’s right and towering above them all, was Ser Arthur Dayne. A full and chiselled face looked right back to Robert, long black hair cascading around. Twin falling stars were the clasps that held up his cape. Pretty, and soiled all the same. In his scabbard was that fabled sword of Valyrian Steel, Dawn. One had to be deemed more than honourable to wield it; Robert wondered if Dorne had a different interpretation of the word. 

Cold gazes were not enough to deter Robert, and onwards he marched till he’d closed half the distance. Oswell finally raised his gaze, discarding himself of the whetstone, and stood to join his brothers. Those other three knights who bore simple arms of House Targaryen closed ranks as well. Intimidation was not their strong point, Robert mused. Pitiful. 

“I looked for you on the Trident, o’ great knights of the realm,” Robert greeted, scowling all the while. 

“We were not there,” answered Ser Gerold.  

“Woe to you, Usurper, if we had been,” said Ser Oswell.  

No last chance to submit to your new king, then.  

Robert swung his weapon lazily, back and forth. “Where were you, when I slew your prince with this warhammer?” 

“Defending our prince’s charge,” replied Ser Oswell. “Make no mistake Usurper, for else your corpse would feed the fishes.” 

“Was Prince Rhaegar as confident about my defeat?”  

Ser Oswell fell quiet then, and Ned stepped forward. “When King’s Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.”  

“Far away,” Ser Gerold said. “Or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells.”  

Robert narrowed his eyes. “When I lifted the siege of my home, Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners with ease. We were certain you’d be amongst such cretins.”  

“Our knees do not bend easily,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, tightly gripping Dawn's handle.  

Ned briefly raised his attention to the window. “Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him.”  

“Ser Willem is a good man and true,” said Ser Oswell.   

“But not of the Kingsguard,” Ser Gerold pointed out. “The Kingsguard does not flee.”   

“Then or now,” said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.   

“We swore a vow,” explained old Ser Gerold.   

“And now it begins,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.  

“No. Now it ends,” Ned whispered sadly. 

Give me the strength, Warrior. Give me the strength to set right these wrongs.   

With one step forward, Robert broke the monotony of the moment, bounding across the short distance to meet the challenge head-on. One final and great leap brought him face to face with Ser Arthur. Together, the two men unleashed all that they had upon each other. Brutal. Fast. Efficient. A torrent of hefty blows and swift strikes followed, the day roaring to life with the clash of steel and iron.   

Dayne had been a close friend of Rhaegar’s. Robert saw them now back at Harrenhal. Put the pair of them down, what a fine thought. 

Robert did not dare let up his vicious assault. But each blow was deftly met by the radiant edge of, the knight drawing away from Robert each time. Back and forth, back and forth, Robert just warded off with the tip of his foe’s blade, and Dayne likewise giving the warhammer a wide berth. Two steps forward, two steps back. Two to one side, two to the other. Robert knew he had to close the gap, to maul Dayne where he stood, and that the knight was keenly aware of. 

If he intended to wear Robert down, he’d find himself sorely disappointed. The iron spike met the blade in a glancing blow as Robert unleashed it in a wide arc. And then another. Then he swung downwards, right at Dayne’s arms. The knight withdrew, and in seconds, steel bit down into Robert’s hand. A well of blood spurted out as it was quickly pulled away. White-hot pain shot up his arm, and Robert roared his disapproval.  

Closer, Robert knew. Get closer! Another leap achieved such, and in a fit of fury, Robert’s shoulder collided with Dayne’s. Sending him stumbling back, Robert struck Dawn with the butt of his hammer, scowling as it achieved little. “ Come here!’ Robert thundered and thrust the spike of the weapon out like a lance. A shout of distress had Robert grinning, staring at the gash in Dayne’s armour, right above his thigh. 

No time was wasted by other. A shriek rang out as iron met steel once again, the two dancing about each other as they looked for an opening. Still, Dayne would not give, always on the defence. Robert merely struck out once again. Bowling forward, mad as a bull, he feigned left, then again made to boulder the knight over. Pauldron met Pauldron. Robert slammed his free fist down once. Twice. Dayne struck him across the temple with his hilt, and Robert kicked his calf. 

From the tower, he heard a woman scream in agony.  

“ YOU’RE A DEAD MAN DAYNE!” Robert bellowed. 

Robert stepped back in a flash and bashed at Dayne with his warhammer. All but one of his attempts was parried away. But it was enough. The flat edge connected with Dayne’s shoulder, the armour crunching as it did. Dayne did not howl in pain, yet he faltered, for just a second, and Robert tried once again. 

His next attempt went wide. But that the shaft connected was enough, and Robert grinned as Dawn was quickly passed from right hand to left. One down . Dayne drew away, intent on resuming this feverish dance of theirs. They circled each other slowly, Dawn snapping out at Robert much as an enraged viper would. Just as impatient as I am. They both tried to fake the other out, prancing there and stepping here. Sword was thrust ahead, warhammer met it, and then vice-versa. 

Another cry rang out across the battlefield. Robert could not tell how it was, and it served only to fuel him further.  

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glint. He was quick to raise his left arm and bring his weapon around, but not quick enough. Dayne’s was faster than him. Pain erupted on his left shoulder as the blade was struck down, then sliced back. To no avail, he desperately grabbed at the blade to wrench it from him whilst he had the chance. Immediately, bloodthirsty fangs were unleashed upon Robert, piercing right through his gorget, cutting a deep gash far too close to his neck. 

Red, red, red, was all he could see and feel. His blood was beyond boiling, too much time wasted here already.  

“I WILL BREAK YOU DAYNE!   

Like drawing blood from a stone, it was for nought, for the man remained as quiet as a mouse.  

Robert fell upon him once again with murderous intent before he could recover. Headbutting him seemed to do the trick. Unleashing a fist aimed at Dayne’s left shoulder, the strike was savage and well placed. The arm spasmed. Robert dared to dream. A mailed fist hit Robert’s gut, the wind bashed out of him, and Robert stumbled away. 

The wounds on his left side were beyond agonising, a searing pain bubbling up around the wound. Complementing such, Robert’s eyes were met with the furious glare of the sun, still peeking out above the red mountains. For a few, unbearably long seconds, they remained in this standoff. Both were ready to collapse, almost double over and breathing heavily. What mercy was there to be today? None, both knew. 

Taking at first one cautious step forward, then a second great one, Dayne’s sword was now poised to strike at Robert’s arm. A last-ditch effort to disarm. Robert met him with a furore, smashing the head of the hammer down into the blade to deflect the blow. Pouncing upon him Dayne as the sword was forced aside, Robert mauled him with all that was left, sending blow after blow with fists, elbows, knees; anything he could muster. 

Dayne was clearly exhausted. Resistance could not be offered much longer. Robert saw an opening: the man had placed one foot out wide to step away into space, his attention in its entirety on Robert’s hammer. Quick as lightning he sent a leg out, sweeping the knight out from under.  

Any trace of indecision dissipated in an instant as the man was sent sprawling on the ground with a thud . It was relief that swelled through Robert, not pride, as he stepped over his foe. Dawn was raised in meek defence, all for nought.  Robert raised the warhammer aloft to the heavens for all the gods and more to witness. And with all his remaining energy, swung the warhammer down to the earth, intent on shattering it whole.  

The knight cried out something indecipherable, those few fleeting moments spent surely in regret, violet eyes wide with terror.   

Sweet music graced Robert as the iron spike drove right into the Sword of the Morning’s head. It was a glorious chorus of wailing and screeching as Dayne found his voice in the face of death, then was silenced as his great and final lament ripped apart his great helm and the flesh beneath.  

Robert stumbled backwards, then swayed this way and that. Everything burned , and a throbbing ache ran down to his heart. Looking down at his right hand he saw it was coated in a slick wash of blood, unable to distinguish where the wound ended and the gauntlet he wore began.  

Something flashed before his eyes as he absorbed himself in the mutilation. Crimson. In the dust and dirt Dawn lay, and beneath the gore and muck that coated it, the blade still shone bright as a star. The fading light of the sun as it dipped below the mountains rippled off the steel. For a fleeting moment, he felt the need to hold it, feel the power that coursed throughout its elegant length.  

Robert thought better of it and recalled that there were others present.  

Turning around, the scene he found before him was carnage. Close at hand were Mark and Edric, and beneath them lay the corpse of Oswell, a blade driven through his neck. His hands were still clutching its sides, even in death. Gerold lay dead some yards away, a blade protruding from where his black heart lay. At his side lay William Dustin and Martyn Cassel.  

It was not lost on Robert that Ned could be face down somewhere around him as well, and he cast his gaze further in search of him.  

Robert then saw Wull was sat down, doubled over and holding his stomach. The giant man’s lower half was a sickly red, and next to him was Glover, inspecting the wound, all the while looking around to check they were safe. Just before them lay one of the others who’d accompanied the three tarnished knights, staring straight up into the sky with arms outstretched.   

Fear took hold then as still he could not find Ned. Robert turned frantically this way and that. First, he found Morrigen with his head resting on a stone, Penrose attending to a gaping hole torn in his greaves. In front of them lay the last of the two nameless knights in a pool of blood that had congealed with the sand and dust.  

Robert was already picturing poor Ned’s corpse. “ Please,” be begged the gods. With all his heart he pleaded for his life. 

Fast to answer, he heard boots crunching in dirt. Robert spun around, and there was Ned. Bloodied, his leathers torn, mail falling off, he stood. His face was dirty and bruised, shoulders slumped. Robert strode over, and Ned closed the gap. Pausing for just a moment, they swept each other up in a hug, and Robert held his brother fiercely, one hand on the back of his head. 

“It’s not over,” Ned whispered as Robert mumbled something incoherent, cutting the moment short. 

Without hesitation, both bound across to the tower.  

“Lyanna!” Ned cried out as he burst through the door, frantically looking this way and that. “ Lyanna!”   

Quick on the other man’s heels, Robert entered to find the tower was just as cramped and old as it looked. Dust danced in the stale air and drifted on the beams of sunlight. Sand had blown in, lining the edges of the ground floor and the air was thick and heavy as Robert waded through. Ned was already bounding up the stairs that lay at the right. And though Robert tried to make with haste, he was already doubled over, catching his breath, one hand at his neck. 

Lyanna’s up there , Robert though. He took one step, then two, then three, and before long, with all his might, was trudging up the stairs. Halfway up now, Robert cried out to his betrothed. “Lyanna!” He called. “We're here Lyanna!”  

Ned leapt from the top of the stairs out onto the first floor, racing out of sight. There was a clattering behind them as one of the men hustled himself inside, calling out to them, but Robert did not stop to see who it was.  

Struggling up the final few stairs, he had to pause again as he coughed up blood, splattering all over the stairs. Placing a hand on the wall for support, Robert’s whole chest was heaving, legs shaking. After a short moment, he gathered his wits and pressed ahead, determined not to falter now. Not when his love was so tantalisingly close. 

At last, he arrived at the final floor. First, he looked left and found nothing. Then, he looked right, and his stomach dropped. 

The blood. Gods, the blood. It was everywhere: soaking the once white sheets maroon, dripping down onto the floorboards. Lyanna was lying atop sodden silks, thick blood pooling around her midsection. Her hair was a dishevelled mess, splayed out across the pillows, and her chest shook as it rosed up and down. From here he could hear her strained breaths, throat rattling as a dying man’s did. 

Even here, as her body lay ravaged, twisted and torn, she looked beautiful.  

Ned was already kneeling by the bedside and clutching her hand like there was no tomorrow. She did not rouse herself as Ned whispered something to her, stroking her arm. Her eyes were wide open where his were squeezed tightly shut. On the other side of the bed, Robert realised there was another woman present, and in her hands—no. No, by the gods, it can’t be... 

The woman shied away from him as Robert laid eyes upon her, hugging the–please, it had to be some cruel jape! One final, cruel trick! 

Whatever joy he had felt when he entered the room to find his betrothed at last, whatever sadness had tugged at his heart when he saw her suffering, was swept away in an instant. The rage he felt at the Trident coursed through his veins, thick and heavy. His mind was captured with terrible thoughts, and something washed over his head, down and to his eyes, narrowed and dark. 

Robert took a step forward, the floorboard creaking beneath him, gaze darting back and forth between the other woman and Lyanna. His betrothed noticed him then, raising her head from the pillow. Her eyes went wide, looking to the woman once, then back on Robert. 

Rhaegar deserved another thousand deaths upon the Trident. If only he had joined him in death, so that he might chase him through all seven hells and unleash what that cunt truly deserved. Words caught in his throat, too many trying to escape at once. His breath hitched, his fists curled, and all the while, Lyanna looked petrified. 

“Robert, please you must–”  

The sentence was never finished, for Ned had stood up in a fury and marched right up to Robert.   

“What the fuck is this Ned?” Robert roared in outrage. 

Ned’s lips curled in anger, but his voice was hushed. “I swear to you Robert if you touch that boy, I’ll–”  

“ A boy?” He bellowed in exasperation. “It’s a bloody boy ?”  

Behind them a creak as heard, drawing all their attention. Mark Ryswell was at the top of the stairs, eyes wide.  

“ Get down there, now!” Ned shouted. “Not another soul up here, you hear me?” 

The knight of the Rills obliged at once, racing back down the stairs without protest. 

Robert didn’t wait for him to get far though. “ It’s a fucking boy Ned?”   

“I don’t care what he is, Robert! You’re not laying a hand on him!”  

Beneath them, they heard the door slam shut.  

“He’s gotten her with child, and it’s a fucking boy! ”  

“What are you going to do Robert?” Ned cried out in exasperation, looking ready to bite his head off. “He’s Lyanna’s son!”  

“And he’s also Rhaegar’s—” 

Sharp as a knife, Lyanna’s voice cut through the noise. “Robert Baratheon!”   

The two of them froze, faces still contorted in confusion and angst.   

“ Look. At. Me , Robert!”  

And he did.  

Robert turned his head slowly as he obeyed her. He saw that Lyanna was sitting up, lips curled disgust. She was holding the child now, tightly, shielding its face with her hands.   

That dreadful night at Harrenhal replayed in his mind. “And who are you to judge me?”  

“Here. Now,” she commanded. 

And he obeyed.  

In what could be these last moments with her, Robert could not, and would not, find the strength to deny her. Robert made his way over, each stop slow and measure, till he was at her side. She never took her eyes off him, narrowed. Hateful , even. 

“Sit.”   

And he sat.  

She inched away from him as he took a seat on the dirtied bedsheets, clutching the child even closer. Robert looked away in shame. Crimson was what he saw, no longer surprised. 

“Robert, you are going to listen to me. For the love that I know you bear for me, because you are my—” Lyanna caught herself, and Robert turned back, “—betrothed.” 

She looked ashamed to put it into words; a dagger sent straight at his heart. “He is my son, Robert, and I swear to you, I will leap from this window if you place a single finger upon him.”  

The child cried out. Tiny little hands reached out from the bundle, pink, tiny. Robert could not see his face, and did not wish to. Gods, the bundle was stained red as well. Murder a child? Are you mad, Robert?  

“Swear to me Robert! Swear to me you won’t!”  

What else could he do? So many things were racing through his mind that he could not grasp, his whole life flashing before his eyes. He saw himself running through the halls of the Eyrie with little Mya on his shoulders. Then, she was playing in her first snow, tossing it at the statue of Alyssa Arryn in the godswood. The scene changed, the Eyrie drifting far away. Robert was back in the courtyard of Harrenhal, Lyanna storming away from him. He cried out another apology as she left, more sincere than he had ever been in his life. 

A hundred other things passed before his eyes: the brothel at Stoney Sept, Rhaegar’s corpse, Aegon and Rhaenys, Elia Martell, Stannis and little Renly. And finally, Steffon standing proud on the battlements, pointing out across the sea. Cassana had come up to retrieve them, chuckling at her husband’s boasting. 

He looked up to her, meets those grey eyes garbed in mystery.  

“I swear to you Lyanna.”   

There was a ghostly presence behind him, a phantom hand placed upon his shoulder he couldn’t see. Robert felt its warmth, though.  

Lyanna regarded him with suspicion as the words were digested. Nothing was said for a while. Still, Robert remained at her side, their eyes locked. Soon she somewhat acquiesced, shuffling a tad closer to Robert. Her body still shook dreadfully–though less than before–and for a moment, Robert dared to hope that it wasn’t as bad as it looked.  

He prayed to any god that would listen for mercy, prayed for them to let her live. 

Ned reached out and held her hand. “But you know that the boy, cannot...” he began, trailing off.  

Lyanna blinked away tears, resting her chin atop the child’s head, holding him closer. “I know.”  

“What do you mean?” Robert asked, looking to Ned. 

Lyanna closed her eyes again, and a guttural sob escaped her. 

Ned clutched her hand with both of his, still looking at Robert. “You said it yourself. He’s still Prince Rhaegar’s.”  

She sobbed again, loudly, the tears free-flowing. Ned tried to calm her, but it was futile. Lyanna held her son so tightly to her chest, Robert thought she might crush him. Without thinking, he placed a hand on her leg. A hiss escaped her, and the leg was withdrawn. Her eyes were wild and frightened. Robert did not remove his hand from the bed, though did no more than that. Trust me , he hoped his gaze said. 

They held each other's gazes for a long time. Robert mouthed a “Sorry,” to her. Slowly, her leg slid back out. Robert placed his hand on it once again, now caressing it gently, and found that her skin was smooth. Gods, he wanted to hold her forever. She was boiling hot as well, and the hairs there stood on end. But her attention was far away now, gazing out the window. Jittery breaths were the only sound. 

“What about the others?” Robert finally asked. He was anxious now, replacing the anger that had been 

Ned contemplated it for a moment. “Ryswell won’t speak of it.”  

“How can we trust him?”  

“He’s a good man,” Ned promised. “And you have my word.”  

“No one can keep secrets. Not for long, anyhow.”  

“They did,” Ned replied, nodding to where the bodies lay.  

Robert pondered it for a moment. White cloaks, white armour. Tarnished, but surely there’s a chance? 

 “I can name him.”  

“To the Kingsguard?”  

“He’s a knight, a fine one at that. They are sworn to secrecy, to obey my word.” 

Ned furrowing his brow in thought. “Will he accept it, though?”  

A coughing fit cut them all off, panicking when they saw blood spattered on the sheets. Ned was quick at Lyanna's side, wrapping an arm around her, and Robert tried to think of some other way to help. This other woman who had clearly aided the birth was doing her best, a wet cloth in hand, and Robert felt hopeless as he had to place all his trust in someone he’d never met. 

“She’ll need to rest here for the night,” the woman announced, and both men agreed. 

~~  

It was the dead of night when Ryswell was called back into the tower. The other men were setting up camp for the night and had not voiced any complaints that they were barred from entering. Outside, a bone-chilling wind was at play, yet still they did not complain. They’d slept rough long enough. What was one more night? 

A fire had been lit downstairs, for, in their wisdom, the builders had not thought to put a hearth upstairs. So ancient was the chimney, that smoke was sneaking through the cracks in the brickwork, permeating the whole interior. A window had to be left open below, and the chill crept up the stairs.  

Ryswell was standing at the top of the stairs, watching Robert. Waiting. If only he’d been able to talk with him at Harrenhal, understand him better, enthuse him. The knight was quiet, unassuming, a shadow. Something else to add to the list of lost chances and fucks up—it was growing quite long. 

“Ser Mark Ryswell.”  

“Your Grace.” His voice was soft as silk, quieter than a mouse. 

Tall and broad-shouldered, chest tapering out into a lean stomach, he was certainly fit enough for the task. Ryswell walked with grace wherever he went, kept his black hair well-groomed and washed, never letting it past the ears. Clean shaven usually, though they’d forgotten to bring a razor from Nightsong. 

“You’ve served Lord Stark and myself well.”  

“Such is my duty, Your Grace.”  

Would his mind be fit, however? Ryswell was a bit older than Ned and Robert, and a distant cousin of the current Lord Ryswell–a man Robert could not put a name to. Not only that, but he was also one of the few north of the Neck who took to the Faith. A gallant knight as well, brimming with tempered chivalry. Bowing for every lord and lady, he would treat all others with the same courtesy. 

That was what Ned had told him, at least 

“You saw the child?”  

Ryswell briefly glanced to one side where Ned stood leaning against the wall, quietly observing, who nodded his encouragement.  

“Yes, Your Grace,” the knight watched Lyanna as he spoke. Before Robert could press further, he continued. “You wish for my silence on the matter?”  

“The boy is a bastard, and a claimant, nonetheless. It would serve not only me well, but the whole realm if the matter was quietly forgotten.”  

Ryswell nodded slowly. “Then you shall have my silence, Your Grace, and the matter will be gone with the wind. I swear it on my honour as a knight, and before the Seven Who Are One.”  

A stillness took hold of the room, no one was quite sure what to do next. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lyanna stir, shifting to get a better view with that half-open eye. She thought they were oblivious to her spying. Ned had said she was mighty curious once in the Eyrie, and Robert could see that plain as day now. 

“Will you require anything else of me, Your Grace?”  

Robert stepped closer to the knight, eying him up and down one last time before he made his final decision.   

“I do. You’ll know that we’re missing a few Kingsguard. You slew one as well, I’m told,” Robert added with a half smirk, to which Ryswell chuckled nervously.   

“Do you mean to–”  

“Yes.”  

At once, Ser Mark Ryswell knelt on one knee before Robert, bowing his head before him. “Then I would be most honoured to serve you, Your Grace.”  

Robert paused, unprepared for such eagerness. Some men scoffed at the idea, for forsaking lordship, lands, women and wealth was not the easiest. Robert agreed and thought them wise. But Ryswell was a true knight, unconcerned with those things for reasons Robert was not entirely sure of.  

He unsheathed the shortsword he kept at his belt. Donal Noye had made it before he had the warhammer, saying Robert ought to learn how to swing a blade before a monstrous weapon such as the one he wielded now. Some great things, his craftmanship had now witnessed. 

Robert suddenly realised he could hardly recall the oaths a Kingsguard needed to swear. Only two occasions he had witnessed it: Ser Gwayne Gaunt when his father had taken him to court once, and Ser Jaime Lannister—he'd been fucking drunk for the latter. 

After a moment’s hesitation he tapped the knight on the shoulder with the flat of his blade, holding it there. “Ser Mark Ryswell, do you swear to protect the King, to obey his every command, to keep his every secret?”  

“I swear it.”  

“Do you swear to counsel the King when required, and hold your tongue where else?”  

“I swear it.”  

“Do you swear to take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children?”  

“I swear it.”  

“Do you swear all this before the Seven who are one above?”  

“I solemnly swear it.”  

“Then rise, Ser Mark Ryswell of the Kingsguard.” The blade was tapped on his other shoulder then, then once on his head, and finally, was withdraw. 

Ser Mark Ryswell rose to both feet, and though he spoke nothing else, his face was lined with muted pleasure, lips quirked upwards. Just a tad.    

Neither man knew quite what to do then, and Robert quickly realised Ser Mark intended to begin right away without pause, no matter that the white cloak was absent from his shoulders, or that he lacked the appropriate armour.  

“You need not hold vigil tonight, Ser. Rest, you’ll need it.”  

If Ryswell meant to protest already, they would be in for a long ride. But tonight, despite his clear misgivings, he relented. 

“Then I bid you goodnight, Your Grace.”  

~~  

The hours passed slowly as he sat there, watching over the room. Eventually, Ned had ventured downstairs to go check on the men.  He remained outside, standing vigil by the door, apparently alright with the thought of his sister and bothersome friend alone in a room, together. Robert was appreciative his friend trusted him enough, as he’d not exactly given Ned much to rely on as of late. 

Feeling about as awake as he would ever be, he scanned the chamber once more as he had a hundred times already. A watchful presence was felt at his left. Lyanna looking right at him. She lay on her side, and did not shy away as he turned to face her.  

“You came for me,” he heard her whisper. 

He only nodded; tongue caught in his throat. 

“And you’re... king, now.”  

Robert winced as the words passed from her lips. “Was never my intention, in truth.”  

Lyanna raised her head from the pillow. “I’m to be your... queen, then? 

“You still want to go through with the betrothal?”  

By the gods, he wanted it more than ever, needed it. Ned could always say otherwise, though. He was Lord of Winterfell now. Robert could argue all he wanted if Ned did (and he hated to admit that there would be good reason for it), but that would surely just tear them apart once more.  

She paused, her lips just barely apart. “Yes,” she finally said, and his heart soared. “I’ve done enough—no, never mind. Yes, it will go through.” 

Lyanna grew quiet and lay her head back down on the pillow. Robert wondered what had been left unspoken, misliking what he thought it might’ve meant. 

“He... said he wanted to make me queen. Somehow,” she continued. Immediately realising the weight of her words, her eyes went wide. “Sorry,” Lyanna mumbled, turning her head away from him.  

Shifting in his seat, Robert idly tapped his knee. “It’s fine.”  He ignored his thumping heart and the throbbing pain in his skull.

Movement caught his attention. Robert looked down, and saw her hand was reached out to him. Her skin was illuminated by pale moonlight, glowing. Gently, Robert joined their hands together, stroking her knuckles gently. She squeezed his a little tighter. Harrenhal was on his mind. Now though, it wasn’t near as sorrowful.  

How many wounds did they both bear now? Bleeding as one. And how long would the scars remain visible?  

Her eyes were wide again. Curious like Renly’s were. “Will I be a good queen, Robert?”  

“I don’t even know if I’ll be a good king,” He remarked, sombrely.  

~~  

As the sun hung low in a sky tinged red and orange, a passing traveller would find an ancient, deserted watchtower that sat upon a small plateau. It stood in quiet vigil over the Prince’s Pass, as it always had. Eight mounds of dirt marked with wood were laid before it, graves for the fallen. Bloody sheets lay within the tower as well.  

If they’d have arrived any earlier, they’d have watched a young man carry a woman in his arms, cradling her like a child, her head nestled in his shoulder. And if they dared follow them as they set out north on the kingsroad, a small group trailing them, they’d have seen the two astride a lean horse.  

The man kept his eyes forward on the road, wary of any ne'er-do-wells. The woman looked this way and that: sometimes she followed the man’s gaze, and other times she looked behind her, to whence they had come.  

The red mountains of Dorne loomed on each side. Slowly, they petered out the further north the group got, finally relinquishing their grasp upon the party as the plains of the marches began. The mountains’ long shadow loomed over them for quite some time, the traveller unsure just how long it might remain with them. 

Chapter Text

Appendix

The new King of the Iron Throne and his Great Lords in the year 283 after Aegon’s Conquest.

HOUSE BARATHEON

The youngest of the Great Houses, born during the Wars of Conquest. Its founder, Orys Baratheon, was rumoured to be Aegon the Dragon’s bastard brother. Orys rose through the ranks to become one of Aegon’s finest commanders. When he defeated and slew Argilac the Arrogant, the last Storm King, Aegon rewarded him with Argilac’s castle, lands, and daughter. Orys took the girl to bride, and adopted the banner, honours, and words of her line. The Baratheon sigil is a Crowned Stag, black, on a golden field. Their words are Ours is the Fury .

KING ROBERT BARATHEON, The First of His name, Lord of Storm’s End, 

• his bastard daughter, MYA STONE, left in the Vale at the outbreak of the Rebellion,

• his betrothed, LADY LYANNA, of House Stark,
• his brothers:
  - STANNIS BARATHEON, knight, and Castellan of Storm’s End,
  - RENLY BARATHEON, a boy of seven,
• his small council:
  - GRAND MAESTER PYCELLE,
  - LORD JON ARRYN, hand of the king, Warden of the East, foster father of King Robert and Lord Eddard,
  - LORD TYWIN LANNISTER, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West,
  - LORD HOSTER TULLY, master of laws, good father to Lord Eddard,
  - LORD ROYCE ESTERMONT, grandfather to King Robert,
  - VARYS, a eunuch, called THE SPIDER, master of whisperers,
• his court and retainers of King’s Landing:
  - SER EDRIC FELL, sworn shield to King Robert,
  - SER DAMON MORRIGEN, sworn shield to King Robert,
  - SER CORTNAY PENROSE, heir to Parchments,
  - SER ELDON ESTERMONT, son of Lord Royce, uncle to King Robert,
  - SER TYGETT LANNISTER, brother to Lord Tywin,
  - SER GERION LANNISTER, brother to Lord Tywin,
• his Kingsguard:
  - SER BARRISTAN SELMY, called THE BOLD
  - SER JAIME LANNISTER, formerly called the YOUNG LION, called the KINGSLAYER,
  - SER MARK RYSWELL,
• His court and retainers of Storm’s End:
  - SER STANNIS, Castellan of Storm’s End,
  - MAESTER CRESSEN, counselor, healer, tutor, and father figure for the Baratheon brothers,
  - [SER GAWEN], of House Wylde, master-at-arms, died in the cells of Storm’s End during its siege,
  - DONAL NOYE, castle smith, forged King Robert’s warhammer,
  - GYLES, a guardsman of Storm’s End,
  - [GRANCE], a guardsman of Storm’s End, died in the Battle of the Bells,
  - [SER ELLYN], of House Estermont, cousin of King Robert, died in the Siege of Storm’s End,
    - his only son, [SER ARMOND], captain of guards, died in the Siege of Storm’s End,

The principal houses sworn to King’s Landing are Rykker, Rosby, Stokeworth, Staunton, Hayford, Celtigar, Velaryon, Massey, and Bar Emmon.

The principal houses sworn to Storm’s End are Selmy, Wylde, Trant, Connington, Penrose, Errol, Estermont, Tarth, Swann, Dondarrion, Caron, Fell, Morrigen.

HOUSE STARK

The Starks trace their descent from Brandon the Builder and ancient Kings of Winter. For thousands of years, they ruled from Winterfell as Kings in the North, until Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, chose to swear fealty to Aegon the Dragon rather than give battle. Their blazon is a grey direwolf on an ice-white field. The Stark words are Winter is Coming.

EDDARD STARK, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North,

• his wife, LADY CATELYN STARK, of House Tully, formerly betrothed to Brandon,
• his bastard son, BRANDON SNOW, a newborn,
• his siblings:
  - [BRANDON], his elder brother, murdered by the command of Aerys II Targaryen,
  - Lyanna, his younger sister, betrothed to King Robert,
  - Benjen, his younger brother.
• His household:
  - MAESTER LUWIN, a counselor, healer, and tutor,
  - GUNTHOR POOLE, steward of Winterfell,
    - his only son and heir, VAYON,
  - [MARTYN CASSEL], captain of the guard, slain by Ser Gerold in the mountains of Dorne.
    - JORY CASSEL, his only living son,
  - SER RODRIK CASSEL, master-at-arms, Martyn’s brother,
  - FARLEN, kennelmaster,
  - OLD NAN, a storyteller, once a wet nurse,
    - HODOR, her great-grandson, a boy of two,
  - GAGE, the cook,
  - MIKKEN, smith and armorer,

The principal houses sworn to Winterfell are Karstark, Umber, Ryswell, Mormont, Hornwood, Cerwyn, Reed, Manderly, Glover, Tallhart, Bolton.

HOUSE LANNISTER

Fair-haired, tall, and handsome, the Lannisters are the blood of Andal adventurers who carved out a mighty kingdom in the western hills and valleys. Through the female line they boast of descent from Lann the Clever, the legendary trickster of the Age of Heroes. The gold of Casterly Rock and the Golden Tooth has made them the wealthiest of the Great Houses. Their sigil is a golden lion upon a crimson field. The Lannister words are Hear Me Roar!

TYWIN LANNISTER, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport,

• his wife, [LADY JOANNA], a cousin, died in childbed,
• their children:
  - SER JAIME, formerly called the YOUNG LION, called the KINGSLAYER, heir to Casterly Rock, twin to Cersei,
  - LADY CERSEI, twin to Jaime,
  - TYRION, Lord Tywin’s dwarven son, a boy of eleven.
• his siblings:
  - SER KEVAN, his eldest brother,
    - his wife, DORNA, of House Swyft
  - GENNA, his sister, wed to Ser Emmon Frey,
    - their son, CLEOS FREY, a boy of 9,
  - SER TYGETT, his second brother,
    - his wife, DARLESSA, of House Marbrand,
  - SER GERION, his youngest brother,
• their cousin, SER STAFFORD LANNISTER, brother to the late Joanna,
  - his wife, MYRANDA, of House Lefford,
    -  their son, DAVEN LANNISTER, a boy of 12,
    - their daughters, CERENNA and MYRIELLE,
• his counselor, MAESTER CREYLEN.
• his chief knights:
  - SER GREGOR CLEGANE, the Mountain That Rides, rumoured to have raped Princess Elia and murdered Prince Aegon,
  - SER AMORY LORCH, rumoured to have murdered Princess Rhaenys,

The principal houses sworn to Casterly Rock are Payne, Swyft, Marbrand, Lydden, Banefort, Lefford, Crakehall, Serrett, Farman, Clegane, Prester, and Westerling.

HOUSE ARRYN

The Arryns are descended from the Kings of Mountain and Vale, one of the oldest and purest lines of Andal nobility. Their sigil is the moon-and-falcon, white, upon a sky blue field. The Arryn words are As High As Honour.

JON ARRYN, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, Hand of the King, foster father to King Robert and Lord Eddard,

• his first wife, [LADY JEYNE, of House Royce], died in childbed, her daughter stillborn,
• his second wife, [LADY ROWENA, of House Arryn], his cousin, died of a winter chill, childless,
• his third wife, LADY LYSA, of House Tully, sister to Lady Catelyn,
• their retainers and household:
  - MAESTER COLEMON, counselor, healer, and tutor,
  - SER VARDIS EGEN, captain of the guard,
  - SER BRYNDEN TULLY, called the Blackfish, uncle to Lady Lysa, her sworn shield.
  - LORD NESTOR ROYCE, High Steward of the Vale,
    - SER ALBAR ROYCE, his son,
  - SER LYN CORBARY, slayed Prince Lewyn Martell in the Battle of the Trident, heir to Heart’s Home, wielder of Lady Forlorn.
  - LADY ANYA WAYNWOOD, a widow,
    - SER MORTON WAYNWOOD, her firstborn son,
    - SER DONNEL WAYNWOOD, her second son,
  - MYA STONE, the bastard daughter of Robert Baratheon, a girl of 5,

The principal houses sworn to the Eyrie are Royce, Baelish, Egen, Waynwood, Hunter, Redfort, Corbray, Belmore, Melcolm, and Hersy.

HOUSE TULLY

The Tullys never reigned as kings, though they held rich lands and the great castle at Riverrun for a thousand years. During the Wars of Conquest, the riverlands belonged to Harren the Black, King of the Isles. Harren’s grandfather, King Harwyn Hardhand, had taken the Trident from Arrec the Storm King, whose ancestors had conquered all the way to the Neck three hundred years earlier, slaying the last of the old River Kings. A vain and bloody tyrant, Harren the Black was little loved by those he ruled, and many of the river lords deserted him to join Aegon’s host. First among them was Edmyn Tully of Riverrun. When Harren and his line perished in the burning of Harrenhal, Aegon rewarded House Tully by raising Lord Edmyn to dominion over the lands of the Trident and requiring the other river lords to swear him fealty. The Tully sigil is a leaping trout, silver, on a field of rippling blue and red. The Tully words are Family, Duty, Honour.

HOSTER TULLY, Lord of Riverrun,

• His wife, [LADY MINISA], of House Whent, died in childbirth,
• Their children:
  - CATELYN, the eldest daughter, formerly betrothed to Brandon Stark, wed to Lord Eddard Stark after the Battle of the Bells,
  - LYSA, the younger daughter, wed to Lord Jon Arryn after the Battle of the Bells,
  - EDMURE, heir to Riverrun,
• His brother, SER BRYNDEN TULLY, called BLACKFISH, 
• His household:
  - MAESTER VYMAN, counselor, healer, and tutor,
  - SER DESMOND GRELL, master-at-arms,
  - SER ROBIN RYGER, captain of the guard,
  - UTHERYDES WAYN, steward of Riverrun,
  - MARQ PIPER, heir to Pinkamiden, a ward of Lord Hoster,
  - RONALD VANCE, heir to Atranta, and his brother, HUGO VANCE, wards of Lord Hoster,

The principal houses sworn to Riverrun include Darry, Frey, Mallister, Bracken, Blackwood, Whent, Ryger, Piper, Vance.

HOUSE TYRELL

The Tyrells rose to power as stewards to the Kings of the Reach, whose domain included the fertile plains of the southwest from the Dornish marches and Blackwater Rush to the shores of the Sunset Sea. Through the female line, they claim descent from Garth Greenhand, gardener king of the First Men, who wore a crown of vines and flowers and made the land bloom. When King Mern, last of the old line, perished on the Field of Fire, his steward Harlan Tyrell surrendered Highgarden to Aegon Targaryen, pledging fealty. Aegon granted him the castle and dominion over the Reach. The Tyrell sigil is a golden rose on a grass-golden field. Their words are Growing Strong .

MACE TYRELL, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach,

• his wife, LADY ALERIA, of House Hightower of Oldtown,
• their children:
  - WILLAS, their eldest son, heir to Highgarden,
  - GARLAN, their second son,
  - LORAS, their youngest son,
  - MARGAERY, their daughter,
• his widowed mother, LADY OLENNA of House Redwyne, called THE QUEEN OF THORNS,
• his sisters:
  - MINA, wed to Lord Paxter Redwyne,
  - JANNA, wed to Ser Jon Fossoway,
• his uncles:
  - GARTH, called THE GROSS, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden,
    - his bastard sons, GARSE and GARRETT FLOWERS,
  - SER MORYN, Lord Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown,
  - MAESTER GORMON, a scholar of the Citadel,
• his household:
  - MAESTER LOMYS, counselor, healer, and tutor,
  - IGON VYRWEL, captain of the guard,
  - SER VORTIMER CRANE, master-at-arms,

The principal houses sworn to Highgarden are Vyrwel, Florent, Oakheart, Hightower, Crane, Tarly, Redwyne, Rowan, Fossoway, and Caswell.

HOUSE GREYJOY

The Greyjoys of Pyke claim descent from the Grey King of the Age of Heroes. Legend says the Grey King ruled not only the western isles but the sea itself, and took a mermaid to wife.

For thousands of raiders from the Islands–called “iron-men” by those they plundered–were the terrors of the seas, sailing as far as the Port of Ibben and the Summer Isles. They prided themselves on their fierceness in battle and their sacred freedoms. Each island had its own “salt king” and “rock king”. The High King of the Isles was chosen from among their number, until King Urron made the throne hereditary by murdering the other kings when they assembled for a choosing. Urron’s own line was extinguished a thousand years later when the Andals swept over the islands. The Greyjoys, like other island lords, intermarried with the conquerors.

The Iron Kings extended their rule beyond the isles themselves, carving kingdoms out of the mainland with fire and sword. King Qhored could truthfully boast that his writ ran “wherever men can smell salt water or hear the crash of waves”. In later centuries, Qhored’s descendants lost the Abor, Oldtown, Bear Island, and much of the western shore. Still, come the Wars of Conquest, King Harren the Black ruled all the lands between the mountains, past the Neck to the Blackwater Rush. When Harren and his sons perished in the fall of Harrenhal, Aegon Targaryen granted the riverlands to House Tully, and allowed the surviving lords of the Iron Islands to revive their ancient custom and chose who should have primacy among them. They chose Lord Vickon Greyjoy of Pyke.

The Greyjoy Sigil is a golden Kraken upon a black field. Their words are We Do Not Sow .

[QUELLON GREYJOY], recently slain in a battle at the Mander’s mouth, Lord of the Iron Islands, Lord Reaper of Pyke,

• his first wife, [LADY KATHRYN], of House Stonetree, died of a sudden chill, 
• [HARLON], their eldest son, died of grayscale as a youth, and their second and third sons, [QUENTON], and [DONNEL], died as infants,
• his second wife, [LADY JEYNE], of House Sunderly,
• their children:
  - BALON GREYJOY, the new Lord of the Iron Islands, Lord Reaper of Pyke their eldest son,
    - his wife, LADY ALANNYS, of House Harlaw,
    - their children:
      - RODRIK, their eldest son, a boy of 10
      - MARON, their second son, a boy of 8
      - ASHA, their eldest daughter, a girl of 7
      - THEON, their youngest son, a boy of 4
  - EURON, their second son,
  - VICTARION, their third son,
  - [URRIGON], their fourth son, died of an infection,
  - AERON, their youngest son,
• his third wife, LADY BETHANY, of House Piper,
  - their only son, ROBIN, a babe,

The principal houses sworn to Pyke include Harlaw, Stonehouse, Merlyn, Sunderly, Botley, Tawney, Wynch, Goodbrother.

HOUSE MARTELL

Nymeria, the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, brought her ten thousand ships to land in Dorne, the southernmost of the Seven Kingdoms, and took Lord Mors Martell to husband. With her help, he vanquished his rivals to rule all Dorne. The Rhoynar influence remains strong. Thus, Dornish rulers style themselves “Prince” rather than “King”. Under Dornish law, lands and titles pass to the eldest child, not the eldest male. Dorne, alone of the Seven Kingdoms, was never conquered by Aegon the Dragon. It was not permanently joined to the realm until two hundred years later, and then by marriage and treaty, not the sword. Peaceable King Daeron II succeeded where the warriors had failed by wedding the Dornish princess Myriah and giving his own sister in marriage to the reigning Prince of Dorne. The Martell Banner is a red sun pierced by a golden spear. Their words are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken .

DORAN NYMEROS MARTELL, Lord of Sunspear, Prince of Dorne,

• his wife, MELLARIO, of the Free City of Norvos,
• their children:
  - PRINCESS ARIANNE, their eldest daughter, heir to Sunspear,
  - PRINCE QUENTYN, their elder son,
  - PRINCE TRYSTANE, their younger son,
• his siblings:
  - his sister, [PRINCESS ELIA], wed to Prince Rhaegar, slain during the Sack of King’s Landing,
  - their children:
    - [PRINCESS RHAENYS], a young girl, slain during the Sack of King’s Landing,
    - [PRINCE AEGON], a babe, slain during the Sack of King’s Landing,
  - his brother, PRINCE OBERYN, called THE RED VIPER,
• his household:
  - AREO HOTAH, a Norvoshi sellsword, captain of guards,
  - MAESTER CALEOTTE, counselor, healer, and tutor,

The principal houses sworn to Sunspear include Jordayne, Santagar, Allyrion, Toland, Yronwood, Wyl, Fowler, and Dayne.

The Old Dynasty

HOUSE TARGARYEN

The Targaryens are the blood of the dragon, descended from the high lords of the ancient Freehold of Valyria, their heritage proclaimed in a striking (some say inhuman) beauty, with lilac or indigo or violet eyes and hair of silver-gold or platinum white.

Aegon the Dragon’s ancestors escaped the Doom of Valyria and the chaos and slaughter that followed to settle on Dragonstone, a rocky island in the Narrow Sea. It was from there that Aegon and his sisters Visenya and Rhaenys sailed to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. To preserve the blood royal and keep it pure, House Targaryen has often followed the Valyrian custom of wedding brother to sister. Aegon himself took both his sisters to wife, and fathered sons on each. The Targaryen banner is a three-headed dragon, red on black, the three reads representing Aegon and his sisters. The Targaryen words are Fire and Blood .

THE TARGARYEN SUCCESSION

Dated by years after Aegon’s Landing

1-37
    Aegon I Aegon the Conqueror, Aegon the Dragon,

37-42
      Aenys I son of Aegon and Rhaenys, 

42-48

      Maegor I Maegor the Cruel, son of Aegon and Visenya, 

48-103

       Jaehaerys I the Old King, the Conciliator, Aenys’ son, 

103-129

        Viserys I grandson to Jaehaerys, 

129-131 

        Aegon II eldest son of Viserys, 

• [Aegon II’s ascent was disputed by his sister Rhaenyra, a year his elder. Both perished in the war between them, called by singers the Dance of the Dragons.] 

131-157 

        Aegon III the Dragonbane, Rhaenyra’s son, 

• [The last of the Targaryen dragons died during the reign of Aegon III.] 

157-161 

        Daeron I the Young Dragon, the Boy King, eldest son of Aegon III, 

• [Daeron conquered Dorne, but was unable to hold it, and died young.] 

161-171

        Baelor I the Beloved, the Blessed, septon and king, second son of Aegon III, 

171-172 

        Viserys II, younger brother of Aegon III,

172-184 

        Aegon IV the Unworthy, eldest son of Viserys, 

• [His younger brother, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, was champion and some say lover to Queen Naerys.] 

184-209

        Daeron II Queen Naerys’ son, by Aegon or Aemon, 

• [Daeron brought Dorne into the realm by wedding the Dornish princess Myriah.]

209-221 

        Aerys I second son to Daeron II (left no issue),

221-233 

        Maekar I fourth son of Daeron II, 

233-259 

        Aegon V the Unlikely, Maekar’s fourth son, 

259-262 

        Jaehaerys II  second son of Aegon the Unlikely, 

262-283 Aerys II the Mad King, only son to Jaehaerys

Therein the line of the dragon kings ended, when Aerys II was dethroned and killed, along with his heir, the crown prince Rhaegar Targaryen, slain by Robert Baratheon on the Trident. 

THE LAST TARGARYENS 

[KING AERYS TARGARYEN], the Second of His Name, slain by Jaime Lannister during the Sack of King’s Landing,

• his sister and wife, QUEEN RHAELLA of House Targaryen, fled to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys, 
• their children: [PRINCE RHAEGAR], heir to the Iron Throne, slain by Robert Baratheon on the Trident,
  - his wife, [PRINCESS ELIA] of House Martell, slain during the Sack of King’s Landing, —
    - their children:
      - [PRINCESS RHAENYS], a young girl, slain during the sack of King’s Landing,
      - [PRINCE AEGON], a babe, slain during the sack of King’s Landing,
  - PRINCE VISERYS, styling himself Viserys, the Third of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Chapter Text

An old man's lament  

“Oh, gods it was so long ago now,” Robert coughed out. “Aye, another man’s life.”   

A sharp pain crept up his back, blossoming out to his shoulders, scaling his neck till his whole head was aflame. Robert’s hands flailed about, searching for a pillow, anything to support him. He craved her body against his, most of all.  

Cortnay was quick to obliged him. A pillow plump with goose feathers was eased beneath his back, then two behind his shoulders. Robert glanced around the room. Not as many at this hour.  

“Where’s…” Robert’s mind wandered. He was trying to recognise any of the faces in his peripherals, unsettled when little came to mind. “Where’s... Ronnal?”   

“He’s on a ship from Gulltown, father,” Mya informed. “A raven was sent as soon as we–,” she suddenly paused, and Cortnay wrapped an arm around her. Her head was swiftly buried in his shoulder, and Robert was left dazed and confused as he tried to discern for what reason. A hand went out. “Mya?’ He called. The hand was taken, the life squeezed out of it.  

Gulltown? Laying his head back down, Robert thought to that bustling city. Didn’t stick near as bad as this one. A gateway to the many wonders of the Vale—King's Landing was a gateway to the seven hells.  

That was where his ship had pulled into port, when Steffon had sent him north to foster with Lord Jon Arryn. He remembered when he first saw the foothills peeking out behind the city. They rolled on, and on, and on, far out to the west. Lush forests crowned them, green as emeralds. “Just wait till you get inland, boy,” the captain had commented  

Little time had spent in Gulltown. Jon had intended to meet him there but had found himself up in the Fingers on other business. Instead, he’d sent a younger Ser Vardis Egen with his falcon-winged helm to escort Robert alongside a dozen other knights. All the little routes and waypoints had been pointed out to him by Vardis as they meandered their way east. The foothills began to rise sharply, the forests grew denser, the rivers wilder by the minute. Gods, and the colour! Blue as diamonds, their source in the Mountains of Moon, a guard had said.  

Robert was impatient. Foothills gave way to towering mountains crowned with snow, verdant valleys carving spots of refuge amongst it all. Waterfalls cascaded off the sides of cliffs, down to shimmering pools or wide, rapid rivers. Little stone holdfasts were carved into the sides, overlooking the road, wooden watchtowers further up. “Good hunting that way,” Vardis said as they passed a humble little village.  

So, when at last, the Eyrie was in sight, Robert raced ahead at once. That fabled castle sat atop the Giant’s Lance, the tallest mountain Robert had ever seen, a great spear hurtling up to the heavens. It was made of white marble that shimmered in the afternoon sun. Seven slim white towers adorned it, challenging the mountains pride. It called to Robert.  

“Be patient, Robert!” Vardis had called out. But it was too late. The wind had whipped furiously at his side as he sent his horse hurtling to towards it.  

Ah, Ronnal must love it there. He’d sent letters down that Robert could hardly recall the contents of now—something about his friends and their merry adventures.  

A smile had graced his lips as he envisioned his boy there now, wild and free. He saw himself there once more, Ned and Denys at his side as they went off to hunt. They’d go all the way up to the Lynder and spent a fortnight there. Maybe to Heart’s Home or Strongsong, the Snakewood or Runestone. Sometimes, Denys would lead them deep into the mountains, where few had dared venture, the maps unfinished.  

Something pricked his eye.  

Robert could not bear to dream of those times any longer. He opened his eyes once more and watched as a figure approached cautiously from the far wall at his right, draped in heavy grey robes. The heavy chain around his neck clinked as he walked, encumbered by its many rings and pendants. They whispered something to another. Then, they sidled up behind Cortnay and looked down up Robert. Crooked and lean, his eyes were grey as slate, giving away nothing.  

“Who else is here,” Robert grumbled.  

“Just the maester, father,” Cortnay replied.  

Wrinkling his nose in suspicion, Robert wondered which antidote this one was going to offer. He leaned forward, squinting, unable to discern even the features of his face.  

The chamber was quiet now, save for his pained breathing and the crackling of the hearth. It was not right. With her, this chamber had been an epicentre of life: cries of joy, cries of pleasure, cries of pain, and cries of sorrow. Everything, and then some. He remembered huddling together in this very bed in the midst of winter, drifting to sleep as she read to them all a fine story from north of the Neck.  

This whole damned castle had come to life with her. Free-spirited, unable to be cowed by even the sternest septas and most loathsome lords. A northern queen no less, had one ever graced court? Paired with a king from Storm’s End, no less, they had certainly been a fearsome couple.  

In another life, they’d have been more worldly, and the singers and poets would tell tall tales of the pair from the Arbor to Asshai.    

He heard Cortnay’s sweet voice, barely above a whisper. “She never… spoke about him. ”   

Too old to do much but complain, Robert did. “And neither will I. Let his forsaken spirit rot.”   

Of course, that could never satisfy the prince, and he pressed on. “He’s been dead decades now, father.”   

Robert huffed as a wave of annoyance washed over him. “And your questions won’t change that. Ask the bloody maester if you want all that dribble! What was his name again… Otho?”   

“Otto, father.”   

“Otho! Are you here?”   

He heard a stutter as Cortnay made to protest. “No father just-”   

Robert’s eyes fluttered open as he heard a shuffling to his right, and the grey ghost from before ambled out into the light, clink, clink.  

“Yes, Your Grace?” Came a voice slick as oil.   

“Do you know anything about Rhaegar Targaryen?” He rasped, bearing a yellow grin.   

“The Citadel keeps much on the reign of the Mad King and his heir.”   

Oh, shut it about the damned Citadel!    

“I asked what–” His throat was torn a new one as the cough hit him like a charging aurochs. Robert’s whole body heaved as the fit took hold, and another damp cloth was draped across his forehead, whilst a glass of clear liquid was thrust at his mouth. One small sip was taken before he slapped it away. Fucking lemon water? Is my brother hiding in this room?    

“Bring-” Robert gasped out between coughs. “Bring me wine dammit! I’m not about to die drinking sweet water!”   

Off in his periphery he saw someone dash out of the room. Cortnay shuffled closer to him on the bed and wrapped a strong arm around his shoulder. The fit hit its fever-pitch, and Robert found himself unwilling and unable to resist the coddling. It died soon enough, though terribly slow, yet lingered thereafter, rising to punish him if he spoke too long.   

“–I asked if you had tales, dammit.”   

Otto paused what he was doing at this very moment–which appeared to be collecting oils and tonics—and crept back across to the bedside. Lowering his chin as he retreated into contemplation, after some time, he raised his gaze to Robert. “I never met the prince, nor did the others take too kindly to him when they heard the news.”   

Robert raised a to the maester, looking to Cortnay. “See? Not even they want to talk about him .”   

The prince simply sighed and looked to Mya in resignation. He’ll not get any more out of me on that matter. Cunt’s dead and buried as far as I’m concerned.    

“Well, tell us about what happened after.”   

“All that monotonous political bullshit?” He asked, narrowing his eyes.   

Cortnay stuttered as he made to respond, and Mya chuckled, placing a soft hand on his cheek. “No, father. What happened to you and Lyanna.”   

A smile played at his lips at the thought, and Robert felt a bubble of warmth creep up inside him. “You just want the whole life story, don’t you?”   

Both nodded, a bit sheepish,   

He mulled it over. How many times have I relieved it over, and over, and over again since she passed? Robert wasn’t even sure if he could retell it faithfully. But they were both waiting on him, and so, Robert supposed he might as well indulge them—dear and near to his heart as they were.  

“Fine. But get me that wine first!”  

Chapter Text

Griffin’s Roost   

Waves roared a deafening challenge at both sides, furious and frenzied at the king’s presence. Robert advanced up the griffin’s throat undeterred. Mercilessly, the wind beat against him, whipping long grass at his legs when it could not halt him. He’d suffered through the Dornish sun too long to be cowed by his own elements. Nor did his gaze stray from his target. 

No wonder House Connington had made this their seat. At the very end of a crag that jutted out into Shipbreaker Bay from its wester shores, the trip to the castle was beyond treacherous: at each side was a sheer drop down to the rocks and tides below, no fencing to protect you, and a dozen redoubts were hidden amongst the bluffs and outcrops. 

Halfway between him and the small, proud castle, waited a small party of red cloaked men in studded white surcoats. They could not number more than ten. Behind them sat a small stone watchtower, and Robert was sure he spied the bobbing heads of crossbowmen behind the battlements. Cut me down, see what happens.  

Robert had brought only Mark Ryswell and Edric Fell with him, a token of his goodwill. As if these ten louts could hope to stand up to just him alone.  

The wait for this moment had been most irritating, gnawing at his gut. He’d yet to see to the punishment of House Connington, traitors as they were. Considering it on his way south from Storm’s End, he and Ned knew there was no more time to waste, nor was the house near as important to see to as the might of the Reach. So, they’d pressed on, giving these lands a wide berth. 

Jon Connington was far away across the sea now anyhow, and whoever ruled now was not near as threatening as that one. He possessed a unique temper and energy few could match. Exiled for his failure at Stoney Sept, and what a poetic end that was. To be cast aside by the cause he had thrown his all in behind, when Robert would’ve taken him with open arms just as he had with the others. Jon would have a lot to think upon across the sea. 

Ronald Connington, Jon’s cousin, was Lord of Griffin’s Roost now. Lord of nothing, really. Their men had been beaten first at Stoney Sept, then at the Trident, and finally, annihilated at King’s Landing. Some of their best knights—what few remained—had been sent to the Wall as well by Lord Tywin, forced at sword point. Their lands were no doubt already plundered by their neighbours: Houses Morrigen, Trant, and Mertyns. Swann might’ve as well if he weren’t so hesitant. 

There the lord was now, striking out from his escort, head already bowed. His long red hair was not near as fiery as his cousin, his posture not as proud, nor his shoulders and chest as broad. 

“Your Grace,” he called out, mournfully. “House Connington awaits its punishment.” And with that, he took one knee. 

“Lord Ronald.” Robert cast his gaze downwards, studying this one intently. Was he still in common cause with that one across the sea? Was he writing letters to Dragonstone? To Dorne, perhaps? 

Ronald looked up at Robert, resignation in his eyes. “Might I make one last plea, Your Grace?”  

Robert scoffed but nodded anyhow. This one hadn’t led the men, remaining at the castle as its castellan the whole war.  

“House Connington has served House Baratheon loyally for centuries, Your Grace,” Ronald began, composed. “Let this not be the end of our noble line, not for my cousin’s errs, numerous as they are. Punish us however you please, King Robert, but please , I promise you, we are already your loyal servants once more.” 

“If only your cousin had the same sense as you, Lord Ronald,” Robert mused aloud.  

The lord made no comment, and Robert raised his gaze to the castle before him. Squinting as he scanned it, he tried to recall the last time he was here, and little came to mind. 

If Jon Arryn were here, he’d know exactly what to do. If father were here, he would’ve as well. It was one thing to punish your lords as but a lord during war. And it was another as king, now with the whole realm watching. This was to be his latest test of kingship, for still, a dozen more lords awaited at King’s Landing for their turn, and surely more would need to be discussed with the lords of the Reach. Gods, and then Dorne. Whatever precedent he set now would be binding.  

If only Jon Arryn was here. 

With his own right hand, Robert could have Ronald Connington cast over the side of these cliffs. With a single word, Robert could have Mark and Edric slay the rest of the party. With a single raven, Robert could have ships and men brought down if the household refused him. With a single day, Robert could have Griffin’s Roost torn apart, and all that it ever was thrown to the sea.  

House Connington could die here, its fate firmly in the palm of his hand.   

Robert saw himself in Stoney Sept once again. He saw Grance slumped against the door, his men in the hallway. All the cowards Jon Connington had brought with him. Dead men were everywhere. Hoster was limping past him, and now, Denys. Denys was lain before him, beautiful and noble. It was Jon Connington who had slain him, Robert had learned. 

With fists curled, Robert took one deep breathe. 

He thought back to the old Lord Armond Connington, Jon’s father. He thought of the many dinners him and Steffon had held together. They’d exchanged wise words and wine, hunted as oft as they could, and attended court side by side sometimes. Steffon knew when to reward loyal men, and when to turn the other cheek. When scorn and wrath was appropriate, and when an open palm was preferred. 

There was a hand on his shoulder, and Robert stepped forward. “Lord Ronald.”  

At once, the man looked up. 

“Lord Jon Connington made a grave err when he fought for the Mad King, set out to kill his own lord, and slaughtered his former friends and allies without quarter. He made himself an enemy of the Stormlands, and I’m sure at this very moment, its lords call for blood. Or worse,” Robert continued. 

Something flashed across Ronald’s face as he spoke: concern, anguish, acceptance. 

“But you are not Lord Jon Connington. I did not see you on the battlefield. And aye, you speak wisely: perhaps in time, House Connington might once again find the favour of Storm’s End.” Robert paused a moment, chewing his cheeks as he thought. “So, rise, Ronald Connington, no longer as the Lord of Griffin’s Roost, but the knight of it. Your lands will be parcelled out, your gold forfeited, your sons and daughters ours. But House Connington shall survive this day.” 

Robert sniffed at the air and snarled as he looked back down to the knight. “Best not waste this mercy then, or a wrath worse than that of the gods will follow.” 

Ronald Connington nodded eagerly along. “Yes, Your Grace,” he replied, relief barely contained. “House Connington is honoured by your mercy.” 

Robert drew closer. “Then rise, Ronal Connington, as the Knight of Griffin’s Roost, and no more.” 

At once the man obeyed, rising on shaky legs, mustering all his strength for a pitiful show of strength. Connington made to say more, but Robert had none of it. He pointed to the castle, scowling, and his escort stepped forward likewise. “Get back to your castle. You’ll keep your head today, but I will suffer its presence no longer,” Robert ordered. “Out of my sight, now.” 

Mercy had cost him his mood. He saw Denys lying there in a pool of blood and hoped for a moment he could still march across and cut the knight down where he stood. Aye, he was not Jon Connington. But the sight of griffin’s would forever rouse his anger. 

Watching as Ser Ronald nodded hurriedly, then raced back to his escort, Robert wondered if this had been the right judgment. A pariah of the lands they would remain for some time—perhaps that was enough punishment. Now, Robert had to think on how much to take, and who to give it to. 

House Morrigen first and foremost, he knew. Damon had served him ably, Lord Dickon had fallen in leal service, and its new Lord, Lester, had suffered in captivity.  

But thinking any further than that was strain. Anxiety gnawed relentlessly at Robert’s mind. For some time, he remained there, ruminating on it all, watching as the men finally returned to the castle, and the bobbing heads retreated. If Jon Arryn were to accost him for this decision, so be it. Besides, Robert did not wish to think on this matter any longer, lest his dreams be haunted by more than just dead children and princesses.  

Gods, was it always going to be this bothersome? If only he was still a lord.  

Robert looked east, past the castle. The Stepstones lay out there, rife with opportunity for plunder and glory. Fishermen’s vessels lay in anchor nearby, he knew, in the dozens of scattered settlements dotting the coast there. With one little detour he could be far away from here.  Coward . 

He set out, back to his party. It was not as numerous as before: Ned had elected to head south, to return Dawn to Starfall. He’d taken the child with him before sunrise, and for some reason, brought Howland Reed along with him as well. What a feat it had been to calm Robert down then, furious at the idea more knew of this damned secret. 
 
Then, Damon Morrigen had returned to Crow’s Nest as they’d passed it. There were lands to see to, a brother to help with ruling, men to train. And, above all, a well-deserved rest desperately. Robert wondered when he’d next see Ser Damon who had stood by his side from the very start. Too many had been lost already, and he dreaded the thought that many would become a stranger to King’s Landing. 

Robert saw Lyanna Stark awaiting him atop his horse. Her hands were firmly on the reins, and she was looking out, past the castle, to the grey and turbulent sea that lay beyond. Following her gaze, he idly wondered if she’d like to flee the realm, just as he did in the depths of despair. Myr, mayhaps? Perhaps, Pentos? The world was their oyster. 

Durran’s Grove   

Robert was unable to sleep for the second night in a row. Too many dreams he failed to decipher, too many doubts drowning his mind. Worst of all, Lyanna would not speak to him. 

They were camped halfway between Griffin’s Roost and Storm’s End in a place called ‘Durran’s Grove’. It was a small, ancient, and verdant forest carpeted with thick moss and blanketed with thicker mist. Some said this was where the river Slayne drew its might from—not that Robert had even been able to find a brook or spring. Sunlight could scarcely penetrate the thick canopy, nor did the moon grace them with its ethereal glow. What they did have was a roaring campfire in the middle of the clearing, its smoky haze permeating the whole site.  

Shadows danced to and fro around them on the trees and bushes, and for a time, Ser Ethan Glover–knighted by Robert near Nightsong for his bravery–had played puppets with such, fingers casting grand illusions. A curious fellow that one was, and Robert found traces of Brandon in him every so often.  

It was late at night now, and only Robert remained by the fire. Somewhere out there was Ser Mark on the prowl, making his nightly rounds. Always the first to volunteer for such duty. He’d even gone so far as to scrounge around for white armour at Nightsong. That had turned up only some old, dented plate armour, that he had set to polishing at once. A cape that might’ve been white once had been found at Stonehelm, and much the same, at every creek they stopped by, there was Mark, scrubbing it till it shone. 

A fine knight indeed. Ned was right about him.  

If only the realm could be scrubbed clean as Mark did his armour. Wouldn’t that be swell? 

Robert looked behind him. There, their tent awaited, and he wondered if Lyanna was up at this hour as well. Ever since Dorne, any and all conversation between them was scarce. Never in the mood to talk, not even to the other northmen, it had been quite depressing. Robert had tried to enthuse her, and each time found her snappy, or simply just sad. So, he’d tried to assure her or entertain her. He’d failed miserably each time, and by the time they got to Blackhaven, had given up on the effort entirely. Let’s just get to Storm’s End, see what happens.  

Gods, she would not even sleep in the same lodgings as him when given the chance. At each holdfast or inn, it was a separate room that was demanded. Tonight had been the first night that she’d occupied the same tent as him, and even then, it had been awful, glaring daggers at him all evening. And for what? Lyanna had not called off the betrothal nor had Ned. They ought to at least get to know each other a little better, Robert thought. 

Aye he could drink much and been with some women—but where was the issue in that? They were not married, yet , and Mya had been before he’d had an inkling of who she was. Nor did he endanger himself or others when deep in his cups like some other morons would. Robert thought himself a rather fine drunk, even! These were his rights, dammit, and now she had gone and had a bastard herself! 

Who cares for bastards? All men had them, and all women bore them. Septons might preach against their tainted blood, and though Robert was a faithful man, he found himself caring little and less for it anymore. But a product of passion they were. He knew Lord Rickard had probably had them, Brandon as well, and no doubt there was some man or woman running about claiming to be Robert’s half-brother. If they were more creative, he might’ve even claimed he was Ormund’s. 

Robert found himself missing Mya. He’d gifted her some toy he’d already forgotten the description of when he’d left and promised Dalla he’d be quick about it. He had no love for the serving girl anymore—but a youthful fling—yet he might as well do right by here. Some gold there, a visit here. Perhaps Mya could be brought to court, he thought, uncaring about the “scandal” it might cause. And then he’d just think about that night in Harrenhal, and sour on the idea quickly. 

He could see Lyanna’s silhouette now in the dim light, sitting up. Even now, he could see her beauty, even now, tormented and lamenting that they could not even talk. Robert wanted to hold her, to tell it would all be alright, that surely, together, they might just persevere. Perhaps that was what bothered her, having now found out that she was not just be a lady, but a queen. Certainly, the rise in station had been getting to Robert. 

But then he thought back to that awful night once more. It loomed over him still, one of the many things that plagued him in the realm of sleep. “Figure it out!” She had cried, and still, Robert did not feel any closer to that. 

Robert wished Damon was still here with his singing. Or Ned, just for a quiet word—he should’ve asked him when they were still together. Honourable Ned had found himself an honourable quest to partake in, and Robert was left to wonder what was worth more to his friend: his own sisters wellbeing, or the tarnished honour of a dead knight who’d aided that foul cause. Lyanna had begged him to stay, just for one night. Tearfully, Ned had refused. Just another reason why she was such a recluse now—what a horrid mess they were all in. 

Gods, he even wished Richard Lonmouth as here, just so they might drink the night away and forget all about these damned worries. They’d been close to visiting Loversgrave, Robert desperate to know the truth. It lay on the road from Blackhaven to Stonehelm, and he’d never been before. But then, the truth still scared Robert. He knew, deep in his heart, that Richard had betrayed him, gone over to Rhaegar’s side. It wounded Robert. So why did he still wish to see him? 

He ran a hand through his hair. It had grown long in the last year, down to his shoulders. Many times, Royce hounded him to cut it, and every time he’d brushed the thought side. A magnificent mane it was getting to be now—if only it was easy to care for.  

At his right, a branch snapped, and he turned to see an owl swoop down. It caught the mouse within seconds, and off it flew back into the treetops. Edric spoke of ghosts in these woods. Penrose had even agreed. But he saw the smirk on their lips. If there were ghosts here, they could keep to themselves; Robert had enough of his own already. 

Behind him, Robert heard another rustle and turned to see who the next victim to the bird of prey would be. Close enough . 

Lyanna Stark was standing there. No longer in the soiled silks from Dorne, now, she wore simple riding leathers, a tunic, and boots. Lady Caron had offered her dresses at Nightsong, and to one’s surprise, that had been refused. With hair tucked behind her ears and in a braid, Robert thought she looked ready for a hunt. Mayhaps even a squire. Tomboyish was the word, and though many men would prefer their ladies in lace or satin—and Robert did indeed like the thought—he found himself preferring this. 

Her beauty was wild and untamed, and that was how Robert would always remember her. 

“Can’t sleep?” He asked quietly. 

“Mhm,” came a half-hearted mumble.  

Neither knew quite what to say. Robert turned back to the fire, unable to find the hope that anything would come of this. But then, he heard the crunch of leaves, and before he could react, she had taken a seat on the other end of the log. Robert looked to her, but she did not look back. Nothing came to mind of what to say, for all his usual charms had fallen flat. Rejected, even.  

“Lyanna,” he eventually started, nonetheless. 

Looking to him, there was nothing about her expression. She nodded once, then turned to the fire again. 

“Do you… like, the Stormlands?” An odd question; but the silence was unbearable! 

Ever since he’d first heard about Lyanna Stark, Robert knew he wanted to take her everywhere. Across the realm, across the sea. From the Wall to Dorne, from Crackclaw point to the Arbor. As far she desired. Ned spoke of adventure and riding horses, and perhaps it was that Robert had first fallen in love with, a woman just as unbound as he were. More than all of that, Robert wanted to show her his home. Well, here they were now, and yet, no time to explore. King’s Landing awaited, much to their shared displeasure. 

Lyanna paused and took to scrutinising him as he sat there. Robert bristled under her gaze and grew worried she was about to shout at him, just as she had yesterday when’d her asked her a question about what had happened. 

“Please,” Robert silently begged. “ Just let me in, just this once.”  

When she spoke at last, it was quiet. A sweet voice all the same, and Robert's heart leaped. “It reminds me of home,” she began. “The wolfswood and the northern mountains.” 

“Not nearly as cold, though,” Lyanna added, and Robert swore she smiled. 

Humming in approval, he dared to try for more. “I mean to show you all of it, when we find the time.”  

She regarded him with curiosity then. “You do?”  

Shrugging, Robert looked around him as he spoke. “It’s my home, and you ought to know it as I have. Ned told me once,” Robert then continued before he could think on it. “About how you liked to ride, that you were the bane of Rickard Stark, never where you needed to be. Me and Ned... gods, we used to disappear into the forests quite often. Well, I dragged Ned along with me, but he always enjoyed it.” 

There was more to say. But Ned had probably told her all that already. And realising he had begun to ramble, Robert grew quiet. He wanted to hear her speak, not more about those times which now only brought sorrow. 

She didn’t seem quite sure of what to say. Lyanna looked up him and down. Biting her lip, he was delighted to hear a soft chuckle escape her lips. One step closer . 

“He spoke true: I used to take a horse before dawn, ride as far as it could take me. And when I returned, well, that was an earful” Suddenly, those grey eyes were alive with life. She was grinning, ever so softly, and continued. “But I had to see it all. Brandon got to ride wherever he pleased, and so, I did as well. Took Benjen with me sometimes. That got to Brandon, said he ought to be in the yard.” 

Lyanna laughed then at the memory, and gods, if the noise didn’t drive him wild. “And when father knew he couldn’t stop me, he bought me a bigger and faster horse. ‘You’ll be safe, at least’, he’d said. ‘Can’t have my daughter riding around on an old palfrey either’.”   

But the moment suddenly soured. Before Robert had a chance to respond, a dark cloud crossed her face. He thought it was anger. Then, she sobbed. The tears came quickly, the floodgates opened wide, and Lyanna threw her head in her hands. 

“I didn’t...” She began, voice muffled. “I didn’t mean for it to happen! I-I heard the news and I couldn’t stop crying!”  

“Every waking hour I see them, Robert! And in my dreams, they haunt me, telling me it's my fault, they, they—!” 

With each guttural cry her body heaved. Her legs and arms shook as well. The tears snuck past her hands, falling into her lap. Robert couldn’t bear it. The urge was overwhelming. At once, he moved over to her and considered if it was worth taking that final risk. 

Lyanna looked to him, her face moist with tears. “He told me they’d be safe, Robert! He took them from me!” Sorrow quickly turned to anger. Then, it flushed away like the tides, and sorrow returned. The words got caught in her throat, the sobs relentless, cruel. “ He stole them from me!”  

Robert took that final leap and reach out to her holding her hand tightly. Just as before, Lyanna's skin was soft. Hot to the touch, now. Suddenly a sharp pain erupted on his face. Lyanna lashed out at him, quick as lightning, the flat of her palm connecting with the right side of his face. 

“Don’t, you fucking touch me,” she hissed.  

“I just-”  

“I. Don’t. Care.”   

“I'm only trying to help!” 

She had no response to that, a savage look about her. Robert realised then that she was not only furious, but frightened, eyes wide; right now, Lyanna Stark looked ready to bolt. He wanted to scream and shout, to wake the whole forest and heavens. Lyanna was his now, dammit!  

But his wroth was doused. She was frightened of him. Robert withdrew, shoulders slumping. 

“Please Lyanna, I didn’t mean anything by it I-”  

“ Stop! Please!” Venom no longer laced her words, only desperation. 

Robert grew quiet. She did as well and turned away. Though she did well to hide it, the tears did not pause, and Robert watched in agony as her body continued to shudder. Why couldn’t he even comfort her right? 

There was more to this than dead kin, more to it than just the anxiety of responsibility, of being queen. He had an inkling now of what unfolded and knew to stay his hand in the future. Worse than that, he knew that she did not trust him. And what exactly had Robert done to assuage her fears? Turned to drink most nights, fuck some damned whore in the war? That sense of shame Robert could not place reared to life. She had put it there, terrible and unnatural. 

Yet, it was what Lyanna seemed to need of him. Robert mustered the courage to speak again, and though he wasn’t quite convicted of what he said, he felt as though it were his last chance. Take it! A voice cried. You fool!  

“Lyanna,” Robert began, quietly. Cautiously, she looked over her shoulder at him, and he found the fury of before was gone. 

“I... I’ve been trying to change, alright? Every day since, I’ve been thinking about Harrenhal, what you said, I—,” Robert paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m trying, ok? I’m... trying. Not just for you, but for me. You don’t trust me, I know, but I’m trying .” 

“I want to comfort you, hold you. Gods , my heart breaks when I see you like this. You can’t do this alone, I know that. So please,” Robert begged with all his heart. “Trust me, just this one night. Don’t suffer alone, please .” 

Lyanna’s eyes flickered with the flames. Misty. Hard as stone. Misty again. Clear as crystal. Slowly, she turned to face him. Robert did not say anything more. He did know if he had gotten through to her, bungled as the attempt likely was. So, he waited, praying to the gods, as he had every night, that this rift between them could be repaired. 

“It was Ser Gerold,” she finally began. Lyanna looked away as she spoke, back to the fire. “The others wouldn’t tell, he , certainly wouldn’t. I didn’t want them to die,” she repeated to the forest. 

Robert took his time digesting the words. There was a meaning behind what she said he couldn’t quite grasp, and it worried him all the same, 

“No one could’ve ever known,” was all he could offer. 

“I heard Jaime Lannister drove his sword through King Aerys,” she rasped, glaring at the flames. “ Good .” 

Robert nodded. For a moment, he saw them once more the floor of the throne room. 

“Ned said you killed Prince Rhaegar. Is that true?” Lyanna asked, raising her gaze to him.  

“I did,” he answered. In the shadows of the grove, he saw the prince’s corpse. It was standing to attention, despite the gaping wound in its gut, violet eyes mocking him. 

Lyanna nodded, something flashing across her face. Relief? He didn’t know. But he continued his tale, looking down at his lap. “Sent him flying across the waters with my hammer. He didn’t stand a chance.”   

“They all… scrambled, around the riverbed for the rubies on his breastplate. He wasn’t scared when he died. I could see his eyes. Seemed to think he was about to triumph, and that he would stand proudly above my rotting corpse by the end of it.” 

Robert wondered where the body was now. Targaryens normally burnt their dead. None on his side had stopped for such of course, and the following morning it had disappeared.  

“Killed some of his friends as well: Myles Mooton at Stoney Sept. Sent Lord Connington fleeing as well. Arthur Dayne at… at the tower. Mark killed Ser Oswell as well, and Ned, Ser Gerold.”   

Lyanna was listening intently know and had drawn closer to Robert. Her lips parted to say something, then were quickly shut.  

“What about Ser Richard Lonmouth?” She asked finally, quiet as a mouse. “He was... there, that day.” 

Ah.    

Betrayal was one thing. To even think that Lonmouth had gone that far... Robert stopped himself before he lost himself in despair. His energy was spent, nor did he have that much passion left to spare. But why? He lamented. What had either of us done to deserve all this?  

He took too long to answer. The log creaked, and Lyanna shifted closer. “He was a friend of yours, was he not?” 

“Would a friend do that?” Robert asked no one in particular, scowling. “I don’t know.” The softened, now a frown, and Robert shook his head. “A friend would’ve stuck by me. Would’ve put an end to that terrible plot.”  

Gods, what a farce. Lyanna nodded her agreement. “And Ser Lucifer Celtigar?”  

“Lucifer Celtigar?” He could hardly even recall who their lord was 

“Mhm,” she mumbled.  

Robert shook his head. “I’ve got no clue.” But that was another name to the list, he supposed. 

“Desmond Darry?” 

Those three boys of Darry he saw once again in the shallows. He didn’t know a single one of them. “Who? 

“Ser Jonothor’s cousin.” 

“Edric Fell got him, I think.” 

Blue eyes met grey. There was something comforting in hers. Soft, kind, not something he had seen before. 

“So many dead,” Robert said as he stoked the fire.  

“Mhm.” 

A stillness fell upon them. Robert looked to the space between then, wishful for a moment. Like a dream come true, she was soon sitting there. He reached out to hold her hand. She took his own, and the silence was now theirs. The flames continued to flicker, shadows dancing all around. The corpse was gone, and Ser Mark returned, observing the two from afar. A smile was on his lips, then he turned away to rouse Wull.   

Would Lyanna love Robert as he loved her? That question had lingered all throughout the last year, his fanciful ideas about what could be dashed at Harrenhal. Must he work for her affections? For any semblance of normalcy? For what purpose? Why ? 

But was that so hard? A quieter voice said. Was that so wrong?  

Right now, Robert was just grateful she was still here. They retired to the tent soon enough as Wull made off on his rounds. Even the forest was asleep at this hour.  

“You weren’t lying before?” She’d asked. “I mean to take you up on that offer.” 

“Would I ever lie to you, Lynna?” Now that was a good question.  

She had no answer. “What about the realm?” 

“You think I’d keep you cooped up in the Red Keep?”  

Humming, Lyanna shook her head.  

Robert was the first to doze off, Lyanna presumably shortly thereafter–if she even slept anymore. For the first time in many long months, there were no terrors that plagued his dreams. Crimson did not sweep across his vision, waking him with a start. Robert only saw her in his dreams, pretty as could be. They were happy. At least, he hoped they were. 

Chapter Text

Storm’s End   

Rain poured forth from the heavens with relentless ferocity as they began on the final league to Storm’s End. A heavy mist carpeted the lands around, and to Robert’s right, the edge of the road plunged down to the tumultuous bay. Thick clouds grey as iron blotted out the sky whilst it was lashed by lighting, and thunder rolled ceaselessly all around. 

Lyanna shivered against him, and Robert wrapped the fur cloak around them tighter. Clutching the reins, he had placed all his faith in her to lead the remaining way, all his energy spent on navigation. Barely breaking through the mist were flickering lights, tiny glimpses of orange that swayed with the wind. Lightning illuminated the world around. Storm’s End revealed itself, ever so briefly, a monstrous black shadow, and Robert hollered to any who could hear that they’d nearly arrived. 

Water infiltrated every pore of his skin. It had left his hair sodden, now clinging to his skin, and emptying his boots became a futile effort some hours ago. Robert pressed his chest against her back, hoping to warm her. Damn it all if she struck him again. 

He looked left and saw the broken carcasses of siege weapons, husks of pavilions and tents. A Tyrell banner had been abandoned just ahead. Already half-hidden in the mud, the horse trotted over it, drowning it further.  

“The King is here! King Robert’s returned!” Someone cried from the battlements. A lantern disappeared down below, and soon the great gates were groaning their complaints.  

Under the open jaws of the iron portcullis they went, at last free from the wrath of the storm god. Mud was all around, little rivers running through the ruts in the road. Robert raised his gaze to guards awaiting them. “Who’s in command?” He called, shrugging off his hood. 

“Your Grace,” hailed a gruff voice. It was familiar. “Was wondering when you’d say hullo.”  

A bear of a man revealed stepped forward from them all, clad in black wool and old mail. One sleeve was pinned at the shoulder, an arm missing, and Donal Noye looked a tad worse for wear. But he wore a proud grin. This was the smith who had forged Robert’s great warhammer—and probably all the other arms of this castle.  

“Might be I was avoiding you.” Another dreadful lesson about treating your weapon right had been a constant terror. “Where’s your bloody arm gone, man?” 

Donal glanced down at the stump and scoffed. “Fucking axeman got me good. Only time they tried scaling the walls though!” He spat out a fat glob of phlegm as he continued. “But the bastard hurried right back on down before I got the chance to return the favour!”  

Robert’s body shook with laughter at that. He dismounted at once, mud splashing all around as he landed with a wet slosh . Donal Noye was waiting for him; grey eyebrows couched in delight. Was he really commanding? 

“What are you doing down here in the muck then?”  

“Hm? Oh. Your brother and Cressen thought I might replace Ser Gawen. Said I had a way with the men, and since I can no longer, well...” slate eyes were tinged with sadness as he spoke, and Robert pressed him no further. 

“Ah, I see.” Ought to give him a rest, most like!  

Donal brushed all that off, headed straight for Lyanna. A pat to the back of his liege as he did, Robert relieved at the casualness. 

“A pleasure, my Lady,” the new captain of guards greeted. “I see Robert’s finally learned some chivalry. Twas his favourite cloak you’ve got on there. I see he’s only halfway there, unfortunately,” Donal added with a pointed look to Robert. 

Before she might respond, Donal whistled, and a man raced past them with a step stool. Soon placed at the horse’s side, Lyanna peered down to it. “Well met, Donal Noye,” she replied, softly. 

The courtesy landed astray, however, her lips set in a thin line. Lyanna was quick off the horse. But she was cornered just like that, Noye’s remaining arm offered her way. Too embarrassed to reject a cripple, she hesitantly took it, then cautiously cast it off her boots met the earth. 

Now standing next to Robert, and not knowing what to do next, Lyanna remained dead silent. Donal took a moment to eye her up. She stared right back at him, bristling with defiance. The captain squinted, unsure. Finally, he relented and ushered them towards the castle after offering brief courtesies to the rest of their companions. Another shrill whistle rang out, and a fresh group of stableboys Robert had never seen before were trotted out. “See the horses to the stables, won’t you lads?” Donal asked. Though commanded, really. 

Rain pelted them once again as they crossed the courtyard. Robert held the cloak above both of them, a bit miffed when he found she was wearing another scowl. He turned his attentions left and right, to where the courtyard curved around the drum tower. Far more men were present now: knights with squires, guards making their rounds, servants and the like. Back and forth they all scurried across the mire. Robert saw familiar heraldry amongst some of them in the gloom and wondered who’d come to visit. 

Delightful sounds of revelling could be heard through the main door, thrown wide open, and Robert’s spirits were quickly lifted, the irritated presence at his side forgotten. As they made up the steps, the rain petered out to a measly dribble. The noise rose to a rapturous clamouring: the clinking of cups, roars of laughter, bawdy tunes, and hearty cries for “More!” 

Clack, clack, clack went the guards behind them. Never had they been this disciplined, each step lockstep, rhythmic. Donal? Stannis? Or had Royce made his way south? 

Robert rubbed Lyanna’s arm as a servant relived them of the soaked cloak. She looked up to him. At first, she was indignant. Robert relented. But she did not flee, and walked in timing with him as he led them to the Round Hall. 

Beaming broadly ear to ear, Robert’s thoughts were drowned out as they entered. Thunderous applause, stamping feet, cheerful clapping, and wide smiles greeted the couple. All in attendance were at attention. As Robert looked around, waving, he found that the hall was fit to burst. He saw Lady Mary Mertyns close at hand, sons and nephews in tow. Robert pressed a kiss to her hand and shook hands in turn. Very distant cousin, Ser Lucos Wensington was already offering him wine, and Lord Ralph Buckler of Bronzegate, Borys close at hand, took up a similar cause. Lord Evander Trant was there with his slouched brother Meryn, and soon, Robert was lost in the sea of familiar faces. 

It was clear those in attendance were those who could not remain at King’s Landing long, their lands far flung and unruly. But others who were sure to remain at Robert’s side were present as well. He saw Sers Cortnay Caron, Ronnal and Cleos Cole, Brus Bolling and his lordly uncle. Penrose had already gone off to find his father, who did not oft make trips from Parchments anymore. 

Lyanna shivered once more. Robert saw that the hearths were roaring, and he cast a worried eye to her. “What’s the matter?” He mouthed. But she did not catch it, and Robert gave up on the third attempt. 

Robert turned his attention to the high table, grinning at the sight. Stannis was up there, as was Renly. For once, they’d gone to the effort to dress up for the affair: Stannis wore a golden silk shirt, a black sash draped across him, and his belt was studded with topaz and garnets. Black woollen pants fastened with an ancient leather belt led down to an old pair of worn-out boots. It seemed whoever got him into the occasion had only half succeeded in convincing him.  

Renly been made to look like the royal that he was now: gold and black satin, a ruffled collar, a thin gold chain around the neck. His belt was new, and so were his boots. 

The Estermonts were all up there as well. Royce was dressed in his emerald best, thinning grey hair combed out. Robert’s uncle Eldon was just next to him, wife Mary on his arm, and they too had ventured to the depths of their wardrobe: a fine doublet for him, finer dress for her. Sashes. caps, hairnets, golden jewellery all around. Age had not deterred any of them from making a good showing. Lomas was here as well, though seated far from his brother, and had his son Andrew stand proudly before him. 

Renly of course was bubbling with excitement, bouncing in his chair as they strode into the hall. “She’s pretty!” the little boy cried out as Lyanna appeared. “What’s her name?”  

Stannis leant across and shushed his brother. Sitting stiff and straight as an arrow, Stannis bowed his head apologetically. And when he spoke it was just as stifled. “Your Grace.” Stranger words, still.   “Lady Lyanna. We thought it best to welcome you back with a feast.”   

“A brilliant idea, brother,” Robert called in return. That “we” would be a mere formality. Turning now to all those in attendance, he hoped Lyanna could grasp just how appreciated her presence was. “And welcome! All of you! It has been long since we’ve feasted beneath this roof, and what a fantastic occasion for it!” Robert roared. “For Lady Lyanna Stark has been saved!”  

Boisterous cheers followed. The high table called to him. Robert wanted nothing more than to dig in, to finally sit back and relax after all this trouble. Just one night. One night to savour the sweetness before he was back on that pointy throne. He struck out at once, pulling Lyanna with him. 

She would not follow, rooted to the floor. Robert froze. Turning, he found her eyes wide as dinnerplates. Every part of her was tense. The guests began to catch on, closing in around them, peering to get a better look at who this had all been for. Mayhaps she just needs a bit of encouragement? How daunting it must be was not lost on Robert.  

Standing before Lyanna, Robert worried he might appear a tad tough around the edges. But it was not him that terrified her. Robert watched as her eyes darted this way and that, focusing in on everyone around her. Something had to happen, and fast. 

“But you must excuse us! I know you have all come out in your best, but we’ve had to slog through that awful rain,” his eyes were only for her as he spoke. “So, forgive us as we go and get changed. What better way to enjoy this feast than warm and dry at last!”  

All around nodded sagely, none protesting the quick excuse. Some turned away to resume the revelling, but all at the high table regarded the couple with curiosity. Well, except Renly, who crossed his arms in a huff, pouting.   

Only a tad of tension left her at that. Shoulders relaxed somewhat. Attention returned to Robert. Fists unclenched. Lyanna thread her arm in his and started before he could even speak to lead them out from the hall. Lucky enough to land on the right exit, only Ser Mark followed them. But once they were around the corner, the affection fled. Lyanna marched ahead without so much as a word. 

Left to point the way up, Robert narrowed his eyes as he watched her begin up the spiral stairwell. He looked once to his knight. Ryswell’s eyes were sad, and he offered no sage counsel. 

The sounds of the feast faded. Stamping of boots ensued, and the pitter-patter of rain as it melted against the shutters. Lyanna was slipping out of his gaze, skipping two steps at a time. Robert raced to match. “Wait!” He called out, and only slightly did she slow her pace. By the time they were at the lord’s level, Robert was short of breath and found no time to recuperate as she marched off to the chamber. He was only halfway down the hall when the door was slammed. 

Robert paused for a moment outside, wiping sweat from his brow. Ryswell did not betray any such exhaustion with posture, though could not hide the short sharp breaths. 

“You don’t need to follow us everywhere, you know?”  

“I believe that's my duty, Your Grace.”  

“Then I command you to go enjoy yourself?” Robert ordered with little confidence.  

Ser Mark gave him a bit of a look. “I need not go in, Your Grace.”  

“No, I know that. Just go down there and enjoy the feast.” Robert looked the knight up and down, grimacing at the sorry state of his armour. “Or at least go see yourself fitted. I’m sure there’s some white armour down there.”  

The knight bowed his head. “At once, Your Grace.” And off he went. 

Robert only afforded himself one more minute to catch his breath before pushing ahead. Entering to find Lyanna was sitting cross-legged by the hearth, Robert watched her from the door. She did not register his presence. All her attention focused on the fire, hands outstretched. Slowly treading over to her, Robert waited at her side to see if he might be allowed to sit, a moment of calm before the storm of celebrations. No such invitation was forthcoming. Nor did she even look up to him. Peering over, Robert found that her face spoke of nothing.  

“Lyanna?” 

No response. Backing away cautiously, for there was still a phantom pain at his cheek, he distracted himself from her mood by heading off to find some fresh clothes. Surely the moths had not gotten to his collection yet! First, he set out to find Lyanna a dress from his mother’s collection. What first sprung out to him was a high collared, emerald-green dress, frilled collars and cuffs, and long houppelandes of white. Regal, maybe. Too garish for Lyanna. 

The next thing he found was a fine silk dress that was as light as a feather, dyed green again, though this time with a low-cut collar and… gods, was this something she’d have worn just for father? He felt ready to vomit at the thought as he began to inspect, and knew in an instant Lyanna would rip it to shreds if he presented it to her.  

Third time’s the charm. Robert found a simple dress coloured the gold of House Baratheon with a small collar that curved from one shoulder to the other. Not too much, not too little. The sleeves were black, soft as fine fur, and when he held out it, saw that it might just fit. Happy with his selection, he carefully carried it over to her, placing it on the bed behind her. He dared to smile at his initiative and waited patiently. 

Lyanna did not react, and he coughed lightly to draw her attention. Still, nothing. Standing there like a bit of a fool, he thought he’d be best to leave her to it and went back to find something for himself to put on.  

Immediately at hand was a fine black doublet made of purple velvet so dark you’d think it black. The golden stag of his house was woven into its breast, and little vines sprouted from the antlers and hooves. Distantly, Robert recalled having it tailored in Gulltown some time ago. To match were a pair of black fur gloves he’d gotten from Lord Eon Hunter. At first, he thought they were a bit over the top, only to fall in love with them the more time was spent in the Vale’s icy evenings.   

Before he dressed, Robert peeked inside an old box of his fathers. It was polished pine, with little carvings all about it, and he knew there to still be some jewellery inside. As a younger lad he’d not seen the point, only for Ned to have done it one day, and then Denys did it as well, and suddenly, Robert felt like he’d been left in the dust. Slipping on a few rings, he did it in such a manner you’d think him a thief.  

Quick to undress and redress behind the privacy screen, his gaze lowered to his hands as he walked out, tightening his cuffs. Lyanna was standing now, staring at the dress, a hand trailing across it. She looked up to him when he approached. Not quite angry, not quite sad either, but somewhere in between.  

“None of my clothes would’ve fit you,” he offered.  

“Where did you get this?”  

“Twas my mothers.”  

“Oh.”  

Running the fabric between her fingers, she frowned. Her mouth opened to say something, then her lips were sealed, and she returned to the fire.  

“I can leave if-”  

“I’m not going.”  

Robert frowned, drawing closer. “Are you sure?”  

“ Yes, Robert. I’m quite sure.” Her voice was cold as ice. 

He furrowed his brow. What would the others think? “You need only stay an-”  

“ Shut. Up.”  

“What will the-”  

“I just told you to shut up!” she cried out. 

A cold snap took hold of the chamber. Spinning around to face him, Lyanna’s face was contorted in fury. Robert stood his ground. Her hair was a mess, eyes frenzied. “You’re not making me go! Or I’ll march straight out of this castle right now, and head straight back to Winterfell!”  

You don’t have to be so bloody rude about it! I only asked!   

Robert had only been trying to help, and now he was being shouted at? This was what was expected of them! And what was wrong with a little relaxation, time spent with friends? Gods, he wanted to shout and scream. All this effort, just so she could sit alone by the hearth all night, just so he had to head back down, alone?  

“Fine,” how hard it was not to let the facade slip! “I apologise for the offer. I’ll leave you to it then.” And with that, he left in a huff, careful not to slam the chamber door shut behind him. The second door was not as lucky. Down the hall he charged. His boots slammed down on each step, threatening to crush each one. Curse Prince Rhaegar and his arrogance! Curse Lyanna Stark and her temper! 

His blood was boiling, thoughts and vision clouded. How simple it would’ve been if Prince Rhaegar had kept his rotten hands to himself! How simple it would be if Lyanna could just stomach one night playing at being a lady! What did she expect? Did she think they would remain betrothed forever, that Robert would have to do everything?  Strapped now with a woman he fought tooth and nail for yet recoiled at an innocent touch!  What more time could he offer her? Moons? Years? Decades? When might Robert finally be able to hold and cherish Lyanna Stark? 

He cut his hand on a jagged piece of stone as he rounded the corner. Sucking at the wound, he tried, to no avail, to find the culprit. A sourness was on his tongue and lips now. Cursing as he continued to the Round Hall and nearly tripping just as he strode out into it., Robert did his best to make a showing of it was he entered. “ Our new king!” they all cried out, raising tankards and cups in the air. “To our new king!” His fears were swept away at once. The freezing bedchamber was forgotten for the warmth of the feast. Up to the high table he went to take his rightful seat, brimming with relief 

Awaiting him were venison steaks bleeding just as he liked, garnished with fried red onions and piping hot jacket potatoes. Dollops of melted butt was oozing over the steaming pile, his mouth already watering. There were slices of pork drizzled in hot gravy, plates of crisply carrots and honeyed chicken, cheese and onion pies, mushrooms drowned in a cream sauce. This could be every night as king! 

With a horn of ale and a selection of fine wines at his side, Robert let the last of his worries slide away.  

“To House Baratheon!” Robert toasted, wine splashing from his cup as he raised it high. 

“To House Baratheon!” They all cheered, and within seconds the feast had truly begun.  

As Robert began to wolf down his meal, Stannis leaned over. “Where’s Lady Lyanna?” He quietly probed, expression plain.  

“What’s the worry Stannis? She’s fine! Tired is all.”  

Stannis chewed on his cheeks, then nodded, returning his attention to Renly and Cressen.  

All night long men and women would come up to the dais to wish him well, missing the chance at King’s Landing. First was Benedict Staedmon, his lordly brother still at the capital. He’d brought with him a pair of fine destriers, pride of the late Lord Rykker, abandoned in the city when the sack began. Then came Ser Percy Peasebury, two of his companions carrying an old chest of Merryweather gold they’d found in King’s Landing, left there when the last hand had fled. Old Lord Jon Penrose ambled over with a pair of fine swords he’d brought from Myr, Cortnay carrying them. 

More and more kept coming forth with gifts and offers: more gold, more horses, more clothes, more caskets of drink, and more treasures of all delight from all over. Squires, wards, knights and advisors were all on the table as well, and Robert considered each one best he could, making some promises he’d have forgotten by dawn.  

At some point Renly was led away by Cressen to his room. Robert looked around the room and leant over to Stannis. “Where’s Lord Grandison?” That one had every right to retire for a long while. “Stayed in the city?”  

Stannis paused his chewing and slowly swallowed. “Lord Grandison returned to Grandview. He’s dying, Robert.” 

Robert leant back in his chair, grim thoughts souring his mood. Grandison had taken a nasty wound at the Trident, he recalled, and the scene played out before him without a moment’s hesitancy.  

Another swig of ale. Drink after drink, Robert pressed onwards into the night. He rid himself of those thoughts as another plate of food was placed before him: roast duck with red cabbage, a dozen trenchers to accompany the sauce he’d been served as well. More and more followed thereafter, from savoury to sweet, and Robert raised many a toast to those who had fallen. 

The Round Hall started to spin. So many more appeared from the woodwork as the night progressed. He saw knights from Blackhaven and Harvest Hall, men of Sapphire Isle and Redwatch, their respective lords nowhere to be seen.  It was as the night began to wane that his grandfather thought it finally appropriate to talk with Robert. Grim faced as always, he leant over, holding him firmly by the arm.  

“You know, you ought to sort out that lady of yours. You didn’t bloody fight all this just for her to be like that.”   

“What do you mean?” Robert asked, blinking as he tried to wet his eyes. 

Royce grumbled. “Couldn’t greet any of us! We all fought for her return, and she walks in like we’re all strangers!” Leaning back and scoffing, his grandfather returned to his food. “I’m telling you Robert, you’ve got to set her straight.”  

Robert shrunk away from the man in quiet contemplation. Everything before him was a blur. Absent-mindedly he began to sip at his wine, his mind dark and dreary. Back to the bedchamber it went, and Robert snapped himself out of it at once. Back to that tower and all the blood. What was he doing? The wine tasted like vinegar now, and he pushed the cup away. 

It was not enough. He needed space. He needed peace and quiet. He needed her. Pushing himself away from the table, Robert made to leave. Stannis’ face was crossed with concern, as was Eldon’s, suddenly at his side, having wanted to talk. 

“You alright?” His nuncle asked. 

He brushed them both off with a wave, stumbling down the dais.   

“Where are you going?” Edric called out from afar. “We’re only just starting!”  

Paying his friend no mind, Robert continued, mumbling about a sore stomach.   

The way Royce had spoken was sending shivers down his spine. All he could think about was Lyanna in that cold chamber, miserable. Robert ought to have stayed with her then, even if holding her was off the cards. She’d have appreciated companionship then, even if it was distant. Oh Ned, I’m a fucking fool, aren’t I?   

Some raised curious glances to him as he bristly walked across the Round Hall. Like Edric, a few called out to him, wondering where he was off to, and all got the same response. Or lack thereof. Out through the stone archway he went, and when out of sight, began to jog to the great staircase once again.  

Up! Up Robert! Up! That was all that was left to do, and so up he went. On and on the stairs continued for an eternity, and Robert must’ve passed half his household. One poor man he bowled over, and Robert muttered a curse as he lent a hand to him.  

“In a rush,” was the lame excuse he offered.  

The man looked up at him, frightened. “Not a worry my-Your Grace!” He sputtered out, brown eyes darting back and forth.   

Robert saw that he had a weathered face, and was dressed in a pale blue tunic, paired with black leather gloves, an old sword belt, and older boots. A rough look, same as his brown hair, and Robert helped him by the shoulder, inspecting him. Where’s this one come from?   

Catching Robert’s gaze, the man hurriedly spoke. “I’m a friend—” He caught himself. “I’m in the service of your brother, Ser Stannis.”  

Robert couldn’t tell if he was lying and leaned closer. “He hired your service?”  

“Eh, he knighted me, Your Grace.”  

“For?”  

“Oh, um, smuggling, Your Grace.”   

A smuggler in Storm’s End? Has Stannis finally lost his wits?   

“My brother hired a smuggler?”  

“I snuck past the blockade. Got the castle food,” this “knight” thrust his left hand out, pulling the glove off. “He took my fingers for it as well.”   

Sure enough, the man was missing the first joints from all the fingers and on his left hand. If he was lying, he had a damned good cover story to match, and Robert found he didn’t have the patience to see if treachery was afoot here.  

“Ah, I see that. I must thank you then, Ser?”  

“Davos. Davos Seaworth.”  

Odd name. “My thanks, Davos Seaworth. You did House Baratheon a fine service.”  

Both stood there unsure what came next, and Ser Davos was the first to move, bowing his head. “It was nothing, Your Grace.” Then, quick as that, he had fled back down the stairs.  

Robert only had one care in the world at this moment: Lyanna Stark. There was no time to ruminate on whatever that was. Up! Up he went once more and soon was at the door.  He didn’t knock at the first door and tip-toed over to the next one. Slowly, he inched it open, peering through it when it was open ajar. Darker in here than the hallway and solar, Robert's eyes took a moment to adjust. When they did, he found not just her waiting for him, but a second figure.  

There, by the fireplace, playing with a toy whilst Lyanna read to him, was little Renly. The damned boy was laughing like an idiot, a wooden horse in his hands. How’d he even gets up here? Neither of them took notice of his sudden appearance, and Robert pushed the door open further. Creeping into the room, Robert wondered why he didn’t just announce his presence, and his drunken mind didn’t provide an answer. He sat quietly on the bed some ways from them. 

They continued their little playdate, and Robert picked up every few words of what she was saying. Some northern tale Ned had never told him before. Sometimes Renly was laughing, sometimes shocked, and other times, shrunk away in terror, only to be drawn right back with the next part. Robert stirred when he saw that Lyanna was smiling, giggling along with every one of Renly’s gasps and gulps.  

Nothing nice lasted, as always, and when she turned to make a shadow puppet with the glow of the fire, her eye caught him. She froze. Renly noticed as well, and opted to run right at Robert, laughing his head off. “Robert’s here! Robert’s here!”  

The boy leaped at his leg, hugging it tightly. “Are you going to tell me a story?!”  

Nothing came to mind as Renly began to regale him with the tall tales that Lyanna had left him awestruck with. His attention was on her. Lyanna’s gaze was flickering between the two brothers, then finally landed on Robert, and he couldn’t decipher what exactly she was feeling or thinking. 

Like a chittering, incessant, and annoying parrot, Renly continued to ramble, breaking through the static to Robert when he started on about how he’d been ignored for too long. Not breaking eye contact with Lyanna, Robert slowly leaned to pick the boy up, sitting him on his knee. Sparkling blue eyes looked to him, as did a pair of grey ones that were garbed in mystery. 

“What story would you like?” Robert finally asked to shut the boy up.  

“The one about the Green Queen!”  

“About Durwald the Fat?”  

“Yes!” He cried out, giggling like a girl at the epithet.  

“Sure.” In all honesty, Robert could not remember much from it and spent a moment recalling what details he could. 

“Long ago, before Aegon the Dragon came and made the realm, there was a king called Durwald the Fat.” Another giggle at that one. “And many a time did his vessels rise in rebellion.” Robert lowered his voice as he spoke, holding the boy tightly. “And there was even a woods witch on the Cape that raised her own rebellion, holding the Rainwood for many long and terrible years.”  

When Robert spoke, Renly drew away, nose wrinkling. Careful to mask the smell of the wine and ale as best he could, he continued. 

“Her rule was cruel,” he warned. “And she would throw men out to sea if they dared look at her!” At that, he poked a finger into Renly’s side, who squealed as Robert let the words roll off his tongue. “Now, Durwald had a son,” Robert let his voice raise at this. “Called Tristan. Ser Tristan was a great knight, winning many a tourney and many a maiden's heart, and he could not stand for this cruelty!”  

The boy oohed and aahed as he spoke, eyes gleaming. What happened next?”  

He gave the boy a look, relenting when he pouted at the pause. “Ser Tristan wasn’t given leave to fight by his father. Nonetheless, he rode out in the dead of night with his faithful companions to vanquish the Green Queen.” Renly had gone silent as a mouse now, enthralled. “After many long nights, fighting against the witches' foul demons, he arrived at her seat, challenging her to a duel. She cackled away at his offer, accepting it with glee, for she had many foul tricks up her sleeve-”  

“-Like what?”  

“If you keep interrupting me,” Robert warned, tickling the boy. “The Green Queen will come and take you in your sleep!”  

“Ok! Ok!” Renly wailed. He stopped, and the boy kept quiet this time. “They fought! She had the trees twist their branches to trap him, set wolves and other frightful beasts upon him, willed the birds to swoop down to blind him! She even had the bushes grow ten feet tall when he got too close! But through it all Ser Tristan persevered, deftly defeating all that came too close.”  

Renly’s eyes were wide, mouth agape. “Then, when at least he came upon her, hiding away in the treetops, Ser Tristan offered her mercy. The singers say she brought down the whole Rainwood on him then, and he had no choice but to end the threat once and for all, finally freeing Cape Wrath of her terror.”  

Lyanna had followed along the whole time. She was sitting on the far end of the bed, no less, but well away from him. As Renly began to ask a dozen more questions Robert lacked the improvisation skills to answer, he brought his gaze to her, and their eyes met. Her lips were parted just a bit. Lyanna was looking at him as she had that night in Dorne.  

“Now,” he said, setting the boy down on the floor. “Run off to bed, or Cr–the Green Queen will get you!”  

Laughing madly, Renly dashed off in a race against time, taking the words to heart.  

They were alone now. Robert could hear her soft breaths, watched as her small chest rose and fell slowly. Calm. The fire was crackling as it died down, the room dimmed. Somehow, grey eyes sparkled in the light, the mystery slowly unravelling. Robert turned himself towards her on the bed but made no move to get closer. Slowly, she turned as well, sitting cross-legged in his old tunic and woollen pants. 

“I didn’t mean to push you, earlier. I’m sorry.”  

She bit her lip, nodding. “It’s alright.”  

“Is it?”  

A sigh escaped. “I don’t know.”  

The rain returned with a vengeance. 

“But you came back. And you apologised.” 

Robert took a deep breath, let the warm air pool in his lungs. Her words had already soothed him.   

“Would you like me to find a room?” He asked, pre-empting what he knew was coming.  

“That would be preferable.”  

“Would you like a bath as well?”  

Lyanna froze, and Robert quickly clarified. “Without me, obviously.”  

Her face flushed red, embarrassed that was the conclusion she had reached. “I would like that. Thanks.”   

The moment hung there, quiet, peaceful, companionship all that was needed. He felt an urge to remain, and he very nearly did. But all the same, he was soon shuffling out of the room to go find a washerwoman. If only it was as simple as the stories. Lingering outside the chambers only brought grief, fearful that at any moment he might spoil all whatever this was .  

Off he went into the night when it had all been sorted. There was much to talk about anyway. Perhaps this smuggler-knight, or what to spend all this gold on. 

Chapter Text

The kingswood   

They’d risen before the sun today, and just as the sky was tinged with orange, they’d crossed the roaring and swollen Wendwater. It was where the Stormlands ended, and the personal domains of King’s Landing began. A warm welcome it was when they’d found the forest floor around had turned to slush, an endless bog hidden by the underbrush.  

Lord Martyn Fell had warned them of such the night before at Felwood. “ The rains have not ceased for a week now!” Urged caution as they were, Edric was confident he knew the roads well enough, that there’d be no issue but for where they would camp. Little of the kingsroad, which had been poorly maintained this far south, and ran right through the tributaries of the river. Game trails, shortcuts through hidden villages or to abandoned holdfasts choked by ivy. What a perfect way to introduce Lyanna to the beauty of these lands. Robert could tell how it pained her to withhold asking for another detour, and feasted upon her delight when he tried his best anyway—much to Edric’s chagrin 

Robert had appreciated the swift departure from Felwood anyhow: the lord did not seem quite over his father’s death just yet, and almost anxious at the prospect that Robert would be visiting often as king. A guarded tongue and flickering gaze spoke more than words every could. How did Edric turn out so different? Their lands lay deep within the kingswood, so the lord ought to swallow his pride and get used to it!  

From Felwood they had pressed onwards with little delay. As the sun hung high in the sky, beating down upon them with wrathful rays, they found themselves in a quiet part of the kingswood on a game trail that ran parallel to the kingsroad. It was overrun with thorny brambles, course ivy stronger than stone, and bent backed trees with branches held low. All around, wherever Robert looked, verdant sights awaited him and was a good refuge from the throngs of people making their way in or out of King’s Landing. 

What brilliant stories this forest held as well! If she was in the mood, Robert would regale her with some, and Edric might supply something more. The most famous of course was the brotherhood, and what a shame it meant referring to that tarnished knight. Ser Arthur Dayne lead the effort to quash that banditry, accompanied by a dozen knights of the Blackwater lords and westerlands, when Lord Tywin had still been in the good graces of King Aerys. 

Apparently, he’d been quite the motivator: gallant, generous, and chivalrous, none of which Robert could glean from his other conduct. Abduction, abandoning one's king, and forsaking the new one, what strife they must have been in to justify it all. 

Ser Jaime Lannister had earned his spurs here as well. A fine feat for such a young man, and Robert would be glad to have Lannister in his service, even if others wouldn’t. One who understood what was necessary, and shirked oaths for good reason. Robert wondered how it came to be that Dayne had so thoroughly soiled his cloak and the honour of his sworn brothers, and Ser Jaime had forsaken his oaths to slay his own king, when not so long ago, Steffon had been singing their praises.  

But that was all history now, and there was little Robert might gather from thinking back to such. Dayne was dead and Lannister had secured Robert his crown–what more was there to say?  

Edric sidled up to Robert, drawing him out from his musings. There were some letters in his hand, and peeking out from beneath his fingers, Robert could see a pristine and sky-blue wax seal.  

“Your brother sent these to Felwood.” Good gods, more politics no doubt. “Though I thought you might prefer to see them afterwards.” 

“Jon Arryn?” Robert asked as he took them to see for himself, slowing his horse down as he paused to inspect. They had to be, for who else would’ve stamped the wax with a falcon in flight.   

Edric nodded, then fell away to the rear of the party. Quietly hoping that if he merely ignored them, whatever issue they spoke of might fade away, Robert looked away. He could slip them into his saddlebag and forget all about it. Thrown them down to the road to be lost in the mud. Or maybe just get another to read them for it, lessen the impact of what growling awaited him. 

As if that’d spare him anything but a few days respite. Dreading all the different possibilities as thumbed over the one on top, Robert tentatively opened the first, fearful his foster father might even leap out from inside and tear him a new one for his tardiness.   

“Robert,” it read. “Your flight in the night has left the capital in less-than-ideal circumstances. Your presence is required here. Turn back.”   

Grunting his disapproval at the words, Robert opened the next. Much the same as before, more grumbling about his abrupt departure. This one though, was longer. And of course, he could sense the anger in the man’s hands at this section: “ I've been told you struck Lord Tyrell when you went to relieve Storm’s End. Are you mad Robert?  

Even the paper looked angry, crinkles glaring daggers at him. “What will Dorne think of this? There are whispers of continued conflict, and now you’ve given such a fire further fuel!”   

Only one response to that accusation formulated in his mind: Lord Tyrell deserved it, and Lord Redwyne would’ve been treated to the same if he was presented before Robert, instead of hiding away with his fleet.   

The last one was short and spoke of only one thing, that Queen Rhaella still resided on the isle of Dragonstone with the Royal Fleet, her son Viserys with her. Apparently, now styled as Viserys, the Third of His Name. Dark thoughts were plenty apparent as he considered the issue. Wrath coiled in his gut, seeped out to his limbs. Though they surely had no armies left, those ships presented enough of an issue, one of the largest fleets of the realm. The lands of the bay and rush had been untouched by the war, and how would a recovering King’s Landing fare in the face of a blockade? What if the fleet went north, or gods forbid, south? 

And which lords were they still in collusion with? Who else would Robert have to fight? When had war gotten to be so bothersome...  

At least, this meant that Lord Selwyn Tarth might rouse himself from his castle at last. The man knew the sea better than any man in the Stormlands and surely would take no issue with being called upon now, preferring to let his knights see to the realm’s affairs so far. The Evenstar was loyal, at least, allowing him safe passage when Robert had sailed down from Gulltown. Surely, he could be trusted again.  

Running a hand through his hair, he was already dreading the long and stifling discussions the council needed to have. He’d not even filled the council yet! Nor had Jon spoken of doing such himself, as they’d only had one night to consider it. And then of course there was Dorne. But Robert had plenty more suspicions about the news: if they intended to continue conflict, then where had they been at the Prince’s Pass? Lord Caron nor Lord Dondarrion had sent any word of hosts amassed, and some Prince Doran’s best men were captive beneath the Red Keep.  

Mayhaps twas all a ruse. But what for?  

Were they biding their time? Did they think they could squeeze concessions from him? Paralysed by the news of the sack that had no doubt reached him?  

Had they captured Ned? If they lay one finger on him, Robert swore to himself that he’d be the one to finally conquer Dorne. Ravage it from end to end, and then some. Craven poisoners wouldn’t last long against his hammer, nor the might of the realm against them. They’d been beaten the Trident and would surely be beaten again if they crept north once more. Storm’s End stood proud once more. They could ask Ser Ronald what happened to traitors on the way. 

With that “threat” in mind, and thoughts of Dragonstone, Robert turned in the saddle to look behind. Might as well take some precaution. 

“Cortnay!” he bellowed. The knight rode at the head of a column of squires and knights Robert had apparently taken on. “Might you mind riding back to Storm’s End?”  

Cortnay regarded him darkly, narrowing his eyes. “What for, Robert?”  

“Get Stannis! He can name another Castellan for all I care. I need him at King’s Landing, urgently!”   

The heir to parchments nodded. “By myself?”  

“Take a few with you! Ser Ronnal and the other Cortnay,” he then pointed out the two of them. “There’s a Dornish plot afoot. See to your lands and spread the word. We will not be caught unawares.”  

The three nodded, quickly saying their goodbyes before they turned around, kicking up dust as they thundered their way back down south. Good men, he thought. Pays to have such loyalty. “And the Estermonts!” Robert called out after them, and Penrose raised a hand in acknowledgment, before disappearing around a bend in the road.  

Just as he were about to see Lyanna, one of the presumed squires who had been with them then rode up to join Robert. He was a thin young lad with a mean look about him. “Pardons, Your Grace. Might I have a word?”  

The lad’s face marred by pock marks and scars, with short black hair framing his features. Robert looked down to his arms threaded on the grey surcoat he wore, three grey moths. A Horpe man, but who? He’d only seen this one on the fringes of their entourage after Storm’s End and wondered which man he’d passed this one of to. 

“Who might you be?”  

“Richard Horpe.”  

“You one of Edric’s?” Robert inquired, shifting in the saddle to face the front again.  

Richard Horpe replied without hesitation. “My father has sent me north to serve House Baratheon at King’s Landing.”  

“As a squire?”  

“That is my hope, Your Grace.”  

Growing a bit impatient, Robert craned his neck to see how Lyanna was doing. Ah, bugger it, he can ask just one thing. 

“Well, what’s your question, Richard?”  

“You spoke of a Dornish plot. Will there be battle?”  

Now that, intrigued him, and he slowed his horse so that the lad’s palfrey might keep up. “It’s a taste of blood you want, isn’t it?” Had this one even bloodied his sword yet? 

Richard shrunk away, clearly found out. “To serve House Baratheon in the wars to come would be an honour, Your Grace.”  

The boy was quick thinking, if nothing else. “Well, you’re heading the wrong way if you want battle,” Robert replied, gesturing to the south with a lazy wave.  

Following the hand, Horpe frowned. “I see.” And with that, he made no further comment, letting his horse trail off to join the others at the back. Robert was left a bit miffed, unsure what exactly the lad intended to do when he arrived in the capital, about three or more months too late for all that. At the very least, there were plenty knights for him to serve under now. Gods, Jon might’ve even withheld some squires and other lads so that they might be knighted personally by the king. All about favours, wasn’t it? 

Robert took a deep breathe, let the earthy scents calm him, thought of what days would be spent here in the future. Damp was the taste on his tongue. If the price of the opulence of kingship was this monotony, perhaps he could persevere. Venture out every few weeks here, get a new falcon, a new bow and spear. The kennels had been rather impressive at the Red Keep as well. 

 He turned his attention ahead, taking note of a little waystone close by. It was overgrown with moss and other gunk, and he could not read the inscription. Further on, he saw Lyanna was quite far ahead and on her own. Her long brown hair was glowing in the warm light of the sun and swayed lazily back and forth as she scanned their surroundings, head moving back and forth as she looked around the dense forest. She hadn’t been exactly happier as of late, but at least, she wasn’t any worse. And, by the gods, they were talking! 

Not that it was simple or perfect. Was anything these days? But it was conversation all the same, sweet and comforting. He now knew about the time she’d be found gotten lost in the wolfswood for a night, and how all of Winterfell and its garrison had been roused to find her. Lyanna had been red-faced as she explained, smiling all the while, and Robert thought for a moment all would be alright. 

The next day she’d been quiet, and didn’t talk much. But she didn’t push him away either. 

Now, Robert was missing her presence entirely. He rode up quietly to see her. Lyanna didn’t seem all that surprised when he appeared at her side. Her long face was set in something sorrowful and seemed to be in the process of brushing out her hair. “Good morning, Robert,” she greeted softly.  

“Morning. How are you?”  

Lyanna looked around her as she spoke. “As well as one can be.” Then, she shifted in the saddle to face him better. “And what about you?”  

Robert shrugged. “Dreading what’s to come.”  

“Oh?”  

A scowl took hold. “I’ve hardly ruled Storm’s End, and now they want me to rule the whole realm? Gods, what a farce.”  

Lyanna fell silent, drifting slowly away from him. A few paces they rode like this, and he fell into a short spell of despair as Robert realised he might’ve already bored her with mundane politics. Desperately, he thought of something more interesting to say. I forgot to ask about Benjen! Only, he turned to see all her attention on him, nodding at him to continue.  

“I didn’t listen to a lot of what Jon and Coleman taught me. The Eyrie, the Vale, oh, it was so wonderful Lyanna. And your brother and I certainly cared more for seeing all that there was to see, and long afternoons spent in the yard, than boring old lessons from Jon.” He frowned at the memory. “Well, I did, at least.”  

It was all coming back to him now. How central to him, and so far, removed from where he was now. Gods, he felt old . “I miss it, often. I think Ned does as well.  

“And when I came back to Storm’s End, well, Cressen and old nuncle Harbert had sorted most of it out for me.” Robert sniffed at the air. There was something floral to the air, the forest around tad more vibrant. He drank in the warmth of the strips of sunlight. “I was young, nor was I made for all this. That’s all I can really say.”  

He was still there, back on the Trident, reliving that moment over, and over, and over again. In his dreams he slew Prince Rhaegar a thousand times and more, and when he awoke, the miserable cunt and his family haunted him to no discernible end. Now, he could not even take pleasure in the thought of further fighting. It seemed like more of a chore suddenly. 

But he was still with those battles, and all those tales of battle he’d grown up with. Sometimes, he wondered what if he was at the Stepstones when his grandfather had been slain. Other times, he wondered how he'd fare in old Lord Lyonel’s short-lived rebellion. Once upon a time, he was wishing he had stories to tell of the Kingswood brotherhood, fighting side by side with the Kingsguard to defeat the Smiling Knight and all his foul ilk.   

Lyanna drew nearer. “Did you ever think about refusing it?” she let the words roll slowly off her tongue as she spoke.  

“You’ve got no idea.” 

“So why don’t you?”  

She was very close now, not a breath between the stirrups, horses trotting in tandem, Robert drank her in, still dressed like a squire. Pretty. Gods, she was pretty. Beautiful. All that he ever wanted. He wanted to end all this terrible talk and take her right then and there. Why, wouldn’t that be fine!  

Robert’s mind wandered back to her question. Did he even know the answer himself? Something had bound him here to these lands, something he struggled to place. When he found himself looking out across the sea, that something weighed him down. He’d tried to convince himself how easy it might be to slip away on a fisherman’s boat, or a fat bottomed cog headed for Tyrosh. Could even captain the ship himself. Robert could win it in a wager, or with some good drink and fine conversation the captain might even abdicate his position. Or with his hammer he could claim such himself.   

Yet, as the waves had lapped at his feet, and as he dared approach what might be his way out, the sand dragged him down, sucking at his feet. The wind screamed at him, forcing him to turn back. Mayhaps those were quick excuses, for never had mere sand and wind stopped him before.  

“I don’t know.” 

Did he owe it to someone? To Stannis and Renly, to Jon Arryn, to Ned Stark? Certainly. How could he forsake what his parents had given him? They’d put it all on him. Though that seat brought him pain when it should bring joy, what kind of man was he if he abandoned it? So many different anchors. 

There was her, too. She wouldn’t run away from all this, abandoning her family and friends. How much she had been through, just to be right here at Robert’s side, even if distant.  If Lyanna could persevere without her son, with the loss of Rickard and Brandon, then Robert could persevere as well.  

Was it fear then, of being a coward? All Robert knew was that she was braver than him.   

“What I do know is that the Gods have set me on a path I cannot neglect,” Robert offered, lowering his gaze to the earth.  

“You place a lot of faith in them.” 

“What else is there to place faith in?” Except you, that is.   

He looked behind them. Robert loved her too madly, too boldly, and right now he wanted to profess to her all of it. How suddenly the world felt right with her nearby, how never had his mind been so full of wondrous musings. Who else could he talk so freely with? Not even Ned pressed him often. He could fuck a thousand whores, all little distractions, little snacks, and what were they compared to the feast he craved every waking hour. What did they mean to her? 

The kingswood thickened around, drawing them with in its verdant embrace. Above, the canopy blotted out the sun, left to filter in through the dozens of miniscule gaps. In this dim light, she looked pretty. Pretty as the bubbling brooks and little creeks that weaved a path all around. Pretty as the blue flowers blooming from that mossy tree. Pretty as the birds singing their sweet song. 

Beautiful, gorgeous, dashing. Words could not describe it, certainly not words Robert knew. Now, as she sat in man’s clothing with his old boots on, Robert was sure she’d cast some spell upon, playing some cruel game, toying with his love. And what was the man who loved her? Bah, a thief by all accounts, stealing her from the heavens. Was this their reward then? An apology? 

Lyanna caught him staring, and a blush crept up her neck, prompting her to turn away. The horse nudged closer, and Robert contented himself with that fleeting moment. There was something there, at least, and he must build upon that. With all his body, mind, heart, soul , he had to seize this with both hands. This , he could not let escape him.  

“Race you to the next waystone,” she challenged abruptly.  

A distraction. I know your games. Robert grinned, gripping the reins a little tighter. “You’re on.”  

And with that they were off. Over twisted thick roots the horses leapt, and under low branches choked with vines they ducked. Around sharp corners marked by old elms and through sparse clearings they raced without pause. Getting up to some real speed as the path flattened out, Robert swore he heard Lyanna laugh. Boisterous and bold, yet sweet as a songbird, music to his poor ears.   

In time she pulled ahead, the horse and her moving as one. A natural. Robert was left in the dust soon enough, laughing all the while like a madman as she peeled away from him.  They met again by the bank of a stream. Pebbles and little rocks coated with moss and grime. Her destrier was greedily gulping down whatever water it could, and fishes swam well clear of its tongue.  

Sidling up to them, he found a cocksure grin on her lips, grey eyes sparkling as the water did. Robert dismounted and rested his hands on his hips. “Next time, I’ll get you,” he challenged. There’d be a next time, he was sure of it, more than anything. Would he win? Bah, unlikely. But the way she closed her eyes as she revelled in the victory, grinning ear to ear, Robert thought losing wasn’t that bad.  

She’d bewitched him. What was a life across the sea compared to this? What was all the world on his hands to this? Robert was happier than he ever thought possible in that moment. That wild lady he’d been first entranced by was before him. If only he could hold her.  

Chapter Text

King’s Landing    

The sea called beyond the pines as afternoon began. Robert heard it long before the smell of the city assaulted his nose, and all his companions sensed their proximity as well. How the roads grew thicker, the patrols of Gold Cloaks, and the dozen merchants pitching fanciful wares to all. Robert could feel its tendrils slipping through the trees, ensnaring his body and mind. Lyanna sensed it do, heart falling as he watched a faint hint of fear, trepidation, cross her features. It’s here her ghosts reside.  

Soon, the towering Red Keep was peeking out above treetops. Its great towers glittered in the afternoon sun windows glittering in the sunlight and stood vigil across that stinking city. They saw Robert through a break in the canopy and bent down to observe. And as the kingswood gave way to the banks of the Blackwater and the bay’s many coves, the great walls of King’s Landing appeared as well. Beneath them lay the city's harbour, teeming with a hundred quays and far too many fish markets, the River Gate hiding behind the colourful stalls and ramshackle huts that clung to the city walls here like barnacles.   

Shallow draft ships and pole barges were wiggling their way all around the mouth of the Blackwater, intermingling with sail ships from all over the Narrow Sea and beyond. He watched as deckhands darted up and down the ships and quays, bronzed by long days in the sun, all the while gruff-voiced and leather-faced captains barked out sharp orders. The Targaryens have hesitated, then?  

As the entourage made their way down to the bank, Robert wondered who’d planned King’s Landing. There was no bridge across the Blackwater to connect the southern portion of the kingsroad with the city. Instead, one had to rely on ferries to cross the wide section here. All who travelled these parts knew how long that could take. Unless you were the king, which he just so happened to be. Such a realisation had dawned on him when the Gold Cloak patrols on this side of the river had sent riders north, and now, they swarmed both sides of the crossing. A captain was already securing a boat of them, whilst another set to organising the throngs of smallfolk. Heads were bowed and spears held firmly at their side, all the while, muck-covered faces peered up at him behind ringmail spaulders and golden cloaks.  

The collective attention left him rather uneasy. Robert saw far too many cripples amongst them, and for every missing arm there were a dozen older folk bent backed and coughing. All of them had been in the city then, Robert knew, and he wondered if the guards around him had been as well. They all looked young, except for their captain, who’s mail was old and beaten, the leather beneath cracked and stained. Yet, proud above the rest he stood. He took one knee as Robert reined in his horse before the wharf on this side.   

“Manfryd Marsdale, at your service,” he greeted. “I’ve secured a pole barge for you to cross into the city.” And as the captain finished, he stood back up and marched right over to the end of a long pier, boots loudly slapping against the wet wood.    

Robert spied the barge in question, its owner frozen in place as they carefully tread up the wharf on unsettled horses. Only when the captain slammed the butt of his spear onto the deck did the pilot correct himself, having his one deckhand loosen the ropes and check all was right on board. Across the narrow gangway they all went. When she felt confident, Lyanna swung down from the saddle to hold her horses head, quietly whispering something to its ear.  Looking down to his own charger, he swore the damned thing looked up at him expecting the same. He ignored it first. But then it nudged his ear. Lyanna was watching with a smirk, and slowly, Robert indulged the horse.  

Within a minute they had cast off. The whole city seemed aware of his arrival, for around them ships yielded without complaint as the barge forged a path through the chaos, and, as they passed the halfway point, he saw that a small crowd had already gathered to welcome them. There were Gold Cloaks, household knights, petty lords and merchants alike in fine garb.  

Oh, and of course, there stood Jon Arryn in his blue surcoat amidst a dozen other knights of the Vale. Their armour was pristine, glowing, putting all those around to shame, and all were clean shaven and well groomed. To top it all off, Lord Arryn sat astride a mighty white charger, the rest of them on other assorted warhorses. The group towered above the rest of the crowd. This was the pageantry Jon spoke of. How pretentious.  

His expression was clear to Robert even from here: stern-faced, frustrated, disappointed. Robert shied away under the watchful gaze, then thought better of it as the sounds of the crowd began to pick up the call. “The King is here! He’s returned!”  

When at last they landed, Robert was the first to disembark, hardly waiting for the gangway to be laid out, and shoving through the watchmen before they’d managed to clear a path. Smallfolk made way for him with no complaint, far too occupied with his mere presence than to make any issue about it, and Jon had already trotted up to meet him, flanked by two knights in white. Selmy and Lannister, one far too attentive, the other not attentive enough.  

Faintly, a voice from nowhere told him to push right past him, refusing to let the Lord of the Eyrie lead a king. Rationality persevered, and Robert reined up at Jon’s side. He met the disappointed disposition with a shrug. Before his foster-father had even greeted Robert, Jon was looking to Lyanna, who he regarded with a mournful look.  

It didn’t last long. Politicking always won out with Jon, in the end. “You’re needed back at the Red Keep, Your Grace.”   

The reserved words that left his lips was a noble façade. “Of course, my Lord.”   

“Order up!” A new captain of the Gold Cloaks cried out as the party turned on their steeds and made for the River Gate, carving a path through the swollen crowds with but a look.  The cries of fishmongers and whores were silenced as their king passed by, and atop the battlements stood a dozen men at attention, wielding golden and black banners adorned with a crowned stag. At the gate itself was a similar assortment, and one even held a piece of brass in his hand. Its noble call announcing to all around still unawares of the procession.   

The proud knights of the Vale took up the flank, bright blue plumes swaying in the breeze, the chequered patterns of their horses' caparisons dazzling. There was dashing Ser Lyn Corbray, steely Vardis Egen, Leowyn and Hugh, the twin brothers of Lady Anya Waynwood, and then some of Belmore’s brood. Robert’s entourage fell into a neat column between, knights of all vibrant colours from the Stormlands poured through the gates with great efficacy, looking fresh as the day they were born with pretty banners held aloft.   

“Make way for your King!” The captain hollered . One of the knights returned the call. “Make way for your King! Hail his name, King Robert Baratheon!”    

All around was a rainbow of rich reds, sun kissed yellows, lush greens, ocean blues. and royal purples. Their march was clearly drilled for, letting Robert assume the lead, thrust into the spotlight as they wound a slow path up Aegon’s high hill.  He was not quite sure whether he ought to be in awe of the display or sickened that he’d been reduced to such pedantic procedure.    

Through Fishmonger’s Square they went, then past River Row which lined the southeastern walls, patrons pouring forth from the dozen dingy inns and taverns to observe the spectacle. A hundred and more spearmen lined the streets. Mixed amongst them were more of his own men or those of his lords. Their efforts combined could not hope to quell the swell of the crowds, barely contained as they surged forth to catch but a glimpse of their new king.  

Despite the destruction from the sack that lingered in the city like a bad cough, the mood was almost jubilant. Hopeful, maybe.    

Off to his left, crowned with seven crystal towers, was the white marble beast of Baelor’s Sept atop Visenya’s Hill. Its great bronze bells tolled seven times as the procession passed beneath its holy gaze. Up the Hook to the Red Keep they went, curving straight from the square to the top of the hill, and Robert saw the red and black banners once draped on the castle's walls had been replaced with his own: great gold monstrosities swaying lazily with the breeze.  Past the great manses they went, King’s Landing’s rich denizens leaning from windows and balconies, or quietly watching from street corners.    

Before the castle swallowed them whole, Robert took a long look out on the city. The day was warm, the sky clear, the wind cool, refreshing. The bustle of the city was loud as ever.  

Arriving at the small courtyard before the main gate, its bronze doors flung upon, Robert felt an uneasiness pass over him. The sea called to him from here with the cries of its birds and the roaring of the waves as they bashed against the rocks. But there was no way to flee now. Passing beneath the great brick arch now, the escort peeled off to line the whole courtyard or dart up to the walls.  

“To the Small Council chambers. If you would, Your Grace,” Jon almost ordered.   

Robert assented with a slow nod, eyes narrowed. Suddenly, a mop of flaxen hair was at his side. Justin Massey. Robert was meant to simply pass the reins to him, he knew, but before the lad might go off and do his duty, Robert grabbed him by the shoulder. Acknowledging him with a grin and a pat on the back, it was enough to have the lad grinning ear to ear.  

The three kingsguard were quick at Robert’s side, and Ryswell looked similar enough to the other two with his white cloak. Barristan paused when his new sworn brother arrived with a curious look. Unsure what to say, he only looked between Robert and Mark, whilst Jaime kept his eyes forward, distant. All manner of knights joined them as they made their way across, the colourful assortment a worthy challenge of a rainbow.  

Once again, the twisted figure of the Iron Throne grimly regarded Robert as they entered the Great Gall, the feeling mutual. Those damned dragon skulls still stalked him with their hollow and horrid sockets, and he was certain now he wanted them gone. Knights and guards were lined up at every column within the throne room, and it was here that the Lannister’s finally made their appearance: red cloaks matched the long and new carpet that spanned the length of the floor, flashing golden accessories as garish as their hair.  

Behind the Iron Throne lay a small passageway to the chambers of the Small Council. Rich Myrish carpet met muddy boots. Ser Barristan opened the door for them, nodding to Ser Jaime to stand vigil outside, then motioned to Ser Mark for what must be a quiet word for clarification on the matter. Already, he acted with the authority of the brotherhood's Lord Commander and probably was now on Jon’s orders. What else had more happened in his absence?  

The other members of the council and advisers were already in attendance, standing around the long-carved table. Tywin Lannister, Hoster Tully, Gulian Swann, Yohn Royce. Grand Maester Pycelle with his long, grey, and finely combed beard looked to be sleeping, and then there was the perfumed eunuch with a head as balder than Tarly’s, Varys. He was Aerys’ master of whisperers. Robert misliked the powdered man of the Free Cities swathed in layers of silk to hide the fat beneath. Was he a tool of Aerys? Or an invaluable asset, as Jon seemed to believe?  

They all bowed as he took up at the head, and took their seats as he took his, all looking to him for the cue to begin. Jon elected to stand behind Robert’s right side, and he looked to his Hand first.  “What’s the situation?”   

Jon pursed his lips, thinking on what to say. “Much, Robert. First and foremost, Queen Rhaella has fled to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys and the Royal Fleet and has crowned him as King Viserys.” His voice grew weary. “And Ser Jaime informed us she was pregnant when she fled.”  

Robert was already about to storm off from the room? Pregnant? What was she to gift House Targaryen: another son to claim the throne, or a daughter to be married off to some cunt? He needed wine and found there was none, mind already soured on this session.  

“Sunspear has not replied to any of my letters either. We think they have gotten word about the children and Princess Elia, and rumours have spread of Prince Oberyn Martell is fanning the flames of war.”    

Swann seemed perturbed at the information, but before he might make a comment, was cut off.  

“What about the children and Princess Elia?” Lyanna interrogated.  

All looked to her, and no one dared to respond. Robert was resolute at first, exhausted by the prospect of reliving that horror once more, only to wither under Lyanna’s gaze. “Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys were… killed, in the sack of the city, as was their mother, Princess Elia.”   

She grew irritated. “By whom? ”    

Robert swore Lannister sneered the words. “We’re not sure, Lyanna.”   

“Not even their house? The lord or knight they were in service of?”   

The words were caught in Robert’s throat, and Jon spoke for him. “The matter is being investigated, my lady, we assure you.”   

Lannister looked even more unimpressed, muttering something to himself, refusing to even acknowledge her presence. Heat ran up Robert’s neck, rising over his head, washed down to his brow. His betrothed fell quiet, still looking right to him. He tried to mouth “We’ll talk about it later,” though he feared she did not catch his meaning.   

“Then,” Jon resumed after some time, eager to move on. “There is the matter of Highgarden. You and Ned may have gotten their submission, but that little stunt of yours has ensured there remains a large chasm between our shaky alliance and the region.”  

“We’ve got need of four new knights of the Kingsguard, a new fleet to retake Dragonstone since Lord Redwyne has already set off for home. And then there is the Ironborn, who have turned around from the Mander to head home.”   

Robert rose from his slouching. “What about the Ironborn?”  

“Lord Quellon Greyjoy sailed from the Iron Islands for our cause after the Trident but made meagre gains in the Reach. He died at sea in a battle near the mouth Mander. His son Balon succeeds him, a man none of us have any bearings on.”   

Lord Tywin leant forward then. “If I may, Your Grace. Lord Balon’s reputation is familiar in the Westerlands. He bore no love for his father’s wise ways. Stubborn to a fault, eager for glory. I advise we keep a watchful eye on the situation.”   

Great, some cunt kraken to deal with now.    

“Lord Lannister is wise,” Jon said with a nod. “I suggest we send an envoy to Lordsport, and then Pyke.”  

No one spoke. Robert looked around, and realised they were waiting on him. “Sure,” he said, trusting in their counsel.   

“There are a few other matters as well,” Jon continued, briefly glancing down to Robert with concern. “Many court positions are yet to be filled, the punishment for the lords who held steadfast to Aerys has yet to be decided, and the city needs much investment. Not just gold is need,” he added, staring right at the culprit. “But manpower as well, with so many of the knights in service to Aerys sent to the Wall, the smallfolk in no better shape either.”  

“I’ve already seen to House Connington,” Robert mentioned casually. “And the others of my lands will be left as is. Who else then?”   

“You’ve seen to House Connington already?” Jon questioned, raising an eyebrow.  

“They’re a knightly house now, and most their lands are to be divided. Morrigen and Trant, most like.”   

Lord Hoster spoke then; features tinged with concern. “Is that to be the standard for all lords, Your Grace?”   

He shrugged. “You can see to your own lords, as will Jon, and as have I.”   

“What about the Reach and Dorne?”   

So many damn questions! “Dorne can wait until they’ve come to their senses, and I haven't a clue about the Reach.”  

The Lord of Riverrun didn’t seem exactly satisfied with that, but all the same, cautiously assented with a curt dip of his head.   

“Now,” he grumbled, already chafing in his clothes and the heat of this chamber. “My brother is riding up from Storm’s End at this moment, and hopefully my grandfather Lord Royce Estermont and his son, Ser Eldon, as well I’ll write to Lord Selwyn Tarth as well. All will be brought here as well and will see to Dragonstone.” Robert stifled a yawn. “Perhaps we can flush out the rats once and for all.”   

Yohn spoke last, commanding. “Might be we can see to taking some of Lord Grafton’s ships for the matter?”   

Jon thought on that a moment. “I shall see about such.”   

“If I may, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan then spoke up when a lull fell upon them. He appeared from one corner of the room, bathed in shadow. “What about the Kingsguard?”   

“You’ve got one new brother already.”   

“Ser Mark? So he said. But I have other concerns.”   

The Hand narrowed his eyes. “We spoke about this already, Ser.”    

To that, Selmy made an aborted attempt to refute such, only acquiescing when he saw that Lord Tywin regarded him with suspicion as well. Robert caught their meaning at once. “Ser Jaime stays, Ser Barristan. And I assume Lord Jon has been keen to appoint you to the position of Lord Commander?”    

“Yes, Your Grace,” the knight replied, sheepish.   

“So be it,” Robert grumbled. “We’ll see to others soon enough.”   

“Of course, Your Grace.”  

“Now there is—” Gods, just let it end already. “—S till the matters of court and city to consider.”   

Robert scratched his chin. “What needs to be filled at court besides the Council?”   

“Captain of the guards, officials and wardens of all nature,” announced Tywin.   

“Envoys, ladies in waiting, Commander of the Gold Cloaks,” added Hoster.   

“Admirals and captains of the new fleet you plan,” Jon reminded.   

Rubbing at his temples, he had no idea where to even begin with that. Some of those wasn’t even his bloody job! “Alright. Well, are there any suggestions?”   

Of course, it was Lord Tywin who was the first to oblige him. “When I served as Hand to Aerys, long ago, I offered my brother, Tygett, to be the new master-of-arms. with Ser Willem Darry fled to Dragonstone, such an offer is on the table again.”   

What could be the issue with that? Briefly, he considered turning to Jon for the final say, as he once did back in the Vale. Yet, the whole table waited for an answer from him. Jon was no longer his guardian, now but an extension of Robert’s will, and he misliked this turn of events.   

“It is done,” he said, and was already stewing in doubt.    

“Might I make another suggestion, Your Grace,” Lannister then asked, self-assured.   

“And that might be?”   

“Whoever you intend to name your master of coin can surely see to the appointment of lower officials within that… area.”   

Now, he had to give into that childish craving, and looked to Jon for a word, the man already massaging his brow as he considered the proposal. Lannsiter simply leaned back in his seat, never taking an eye off the two of them.  

“We’ll think on the matter, Lord Tywin,” Jon finally assured him.  

Only a few more hours of this. And then the day after that, and so on, and so forth.    

~~   

Such frivolous, monotonous discussions extended on well into the evening, and as it was, such had been organised: Lord Tywin Lannister was to be the master of coin, the master of ships was to be decided upon the conclusion of Dragonstone, Lord Hoster Tully was to be named as the Lord justiciar as it had always been with the master of laws.   

Then: Ser Edric Fell was to serve as the captain of Robert’s guards, Ser Tygett Lannister was to be the master-at-arms, Lord Selwyn Tarth was to be offered an admiralty role within the new fleet, the great houses would choose their own envoys to go back and forth between their lands and the capital. Not only that, but Lords Yohn, Royce, and Swann, were to be advisors in the Council if they liked, and in the meanwhile, Jon would look for other important men who might serve a similar role.   

With Ser Barristan’s appointment as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, he was tasked with keeping an eye out for new sworn brothers whilst Jon and Robert went on their own search. Selmy had quietly been asked to investigate the matter of a Commander of the City Watch as well. The last, Manly Stokeworth, was killed in the sack, and Jon, lenient as he was with the Lannister's, seemed a tad concerned about this appointment.  

Few wanting to upset the precarious balance of power in the realm, and so the wardens were to stay as is, the Reach would be dealt with a careful hand–much to Robert’s eternal grumblings—and for the meantime, letters would continue to be sent to Sunspear until something could be arranged. There was so much more that had been settled, Robert forgetting all those bothersome minutiae, and what a pain it was to be unable to drink throughout it.   

Growing antsy with each passing hour as Lyanna continued to scrutinise him from across the chamber, and not willing to miss out on dinner for all this, Robert had adjourned them quite suddenly. So now, here they were, crossing the middle bailey of the Red Keep, led by Ser Barristan Selmy and flanked by Sers Mark and Jaime. To his left, he spied the kennels with none of its hounds to be seen, and at his right, loomed the twisted Tower of the Hand, nestled up against the middle wall.  

It was quiet up here, the only sound heard was the shuffling of feet as a dozen septons and septas crossed paths with them. The sept lay just ahead, but it was not their destination, peaceful as it was.  The godswood to the right of it, and through the archway he spotted the lone, white, oak, its branches weighed down by smokeberry vines. A poor man's attempt at a weirwood. Lyanna spotted it as well, and bristled at the sight, lowering her gaze to the ground.   

Down the dreaded Serpentine Stairs that hugged the eastern wall now, this treacherous trail the woe of many an older man with a crooked walk and crooked cane. Clack clack he heard as they snaked their way down it, a dozen city watchmen making their rounds. Ser Barristan addressed all of them as they passed. Nearing the bottom, Robert looked off to his right. The orange glow of the city stretching on, far beneath him now. The night was cool, refreshing, and he could see spots of pink on the horizon. But the stars were hidden by long grey clouds that stretched from east to west, and he could not find the moon.  

Every step wore him down just a little more than the last. No relief was found as they stepped into the lower courtyard before Maegor’s Holdfast, no moment that made it all seem right. This was to be his home. With little enthusiasm as he looked back up at this castle built with blood, Robert frowned; Harrenhal and the Red Keep shared some strange things in common. Perhaps he ought to be grateful at least for Maegor the Cruel’s paranoia, getting one thing right on account of it: this castle within a castle was surely a pain in the arse to storm, what with its dry moat, thick walls. A drawbridge always attended to by one knight of the Kingsguard, or so Selmy desired.  The iron spikes driven into the edge of the moat were a foreboding omen, at least.    

Lyanna misliked the look of it as well, her gaze misty and distant, hands held under armpits as she fought off a chill.  

The antechamber one first entered was grandiose, deserving just as much attention as the rest of the castle. Ornately carved wood pillars hid the brick behind, a dozen different dragons and other fantastical things etched into the stained oak. Tapestries that were gods knows how old had been draped from the walls—one he thought even looked like a depiction of the Stormlands—and a dozen mailed guardsmen in yellow brigandines and iron halfhelms stood to attention.  

It was not warm here. Torches were alight in their sconces, hearths roaring. Yet it was cold, so cold.  

Eventually, they arrived at the level that contained the royal apartments, a dark oak door wrapped with iron bands awaiting them, attended to by more guardsmen. Ser Barristan waved them away with a hand, and pointed Ser Mark to stand at one side, while he himself took up the other, gently pushing open the door for the two of them.   

Always the first to do anything it seemed, Robert turned once in the room to find Lyanna still carefully tiptoeing in, perhaps thinking one wrong step might send her tumbling through the floor. She took a moment to look around. When the door gently clicked shut behind her, Lyanna found her confidence once more. And of course, that meant she walked right up to him with an accusatory finger.   

“What happened to Elia and her children?”  

Did they really have to do this now?   “Ned thinks that Lord Tywin’s men killed them on his orders.”   

A storm was brewing in her head clearly, features darkened. “And where are these men?”   

“I don’t know! I left the morning after I arrived to go and find you!”   

“ Who are they Robert?”    

Robert rubbed his temples in frustration, scrunching his nose. “Ned said Lord Tywin's men. But I don’t know Lyanna!”   

“Well, what’s being done about it?” Lyanna pressed.   

Robert breathed in, inching closer. “ Look ,” he began, lowering his voice. “I made a promise to Ned to investigate it, and I mean to. I’ve only just gotten here though!”   

He wasn’t quite sure she believed him. She bit her lip as she mulling it over, and eventually, after throwing her hands down in a huff, she marched off to see about the room.    

“You better!” She then called out always one to get the last word in. “There’s enough blood in this castle, and I won’t let it be forgotten!  

Robert held his tongue as he tried not to argue the point further: he already dreaded the terrors that would come tonight, and didn’t need any further stress! She has a son somewhere out there to fear for, was the only thought that calmed his mind. Of course their deaths get to her!  

Eager to move on, he pressed further into his bedchamber. At least the beds comfier, he observed as he inspected the room. He found it much more to his liking then he first thought, one of only two silver linings to this cursed castle. The bed itself was double canopied with so many duvets and clothes you could withstand the worst winters in it! Both hearths had been lit, and the doors out to the balcony were shut with the drapes left open for the view. It was where his betrothed now stood, looking out across the city and bay.   

“I don’t like this castle,” Lyanna Stark announced. “And I don’t like this city.”   

“Neither do I.” Well, I like this room…    

Turning to face Robert, her expression was taut with thought. “What do you mean?”   

He shrugged. “What? I don’t like it either.”   

“Oh,” was all she could say, then returned to the window.   

Wise enough not to push the matter any further, Robert instead hoped to offer some relief. “You want me to go see if Ser Barristan knows where you might sleep then?”   

“I don’t want to sleep anywhere in this castle.”   

She spoke of the Red Keep and its horrors, but Robert knew it wasn’t just her ghosts that had her on edge. “And you think I do?”   

“No! I just... fine! Go see what the man knows.”   

If Robert stayed any longer, he knew an argument might start, and so off Robert went back to the door. Robert heard shuffling. He’d only gotten halfway across when a calloused, yet soft hand graced his arm. Halting on the spot, his breath hitched.   

Lyanna was right there. Her gaze was mournful, almost apologetic. “It’s not your fault Robert, it’s just….” she trailed off, and squeezed her eyes closed.  

It probably was his fault. “You don’t need to say it, Lyanna.”   

She nodded quickly, drawing short breaths to calm herself. They stood like that for a while, and Robert’s body and heart cried out for him to cradle her, help her through this turmoil. His mind and sense of self-preservation warned otherwise.  

After a while, she spoke again, quietly. “And I’m trying to trust you, Robert. But I haven’t forgotten the stories about you.”   

Another dagger through the heart was a splendid way to finish his evening. Why must it all be so complicated?    

Robert opted to make no response, letting the moment fester. In no mood to think about this supposed “shame” of his that all partook in, Robert wished to drop it right then and there. She’d had her child with that cunt of a price, and he’d had his with a servant at the Eyrie: why couldn’t they all just move on! He was young! Gods, was he supposed to be as pious as Baelor from birth?  

She continued without his answer, and Robert’s fury was sapped away. “Though… you’ve given me no cause for suspicion thus far, Robert.”   

“Oh…” he replied, trailing off into quiet thought. A sentiment he vaguely understood and somewhat appreciated. It didn’t help his heart that much, however.   

Why must he take all this talk? Grandfather’s words echoed in his head as that question swept across his mind, and an anger was born inside him. He turned to her, wanting to stand up for himself. But then, Robert saw the way she looked at him and quickly swept those foul thoughts aside, senses not yet departed.   

“Robert?”   

“Hm?”   

“Did you hear me?”   

“Oh. Yes. Yes, that’s… fine.”   

She hummed quietly at that, and he knew she wanted to say something more: the way her lip curled, how she looked him up and down, the lump swallowed in her throat. Unwilling to enthuse this sham any further, Robert remained silent. He didn’t want her to go. Alas, if this was how it was going to go, he’d much rather spent the night alone with some Arbor Gold.    

Eventually, she went off elsewhere, flashing him a look of concern as she did. Robert found that at once he was sore from the departure of her touch. Unsurprising. His gaze followed her as she backed away, then headed off to explore further. Could they ever make this work? When? How long must he wait?    

Maybe, just maybe, in her world, it was progressing quite well. Robert was not so sure about it from his perspective, and he just wished that Ned was here right now to help him. He’d even take Brandon’s advice now if he were still here!   

Chapter Text

King’s Landing    

The putrid gaze of Dragonstone haunted Robert from across the bay. Though hidden by a blue horizon and sea, he could imagine it now: a great monstrous fist of black stone rising from the sea. Smoke billowing forth from the restless dragonmont, and he was sure he could taste something foul and sulphurous on his tongue. It burned .  

That daunting citadel, fearsome as the heart of that damned king, continued to defy him. It was there the Targaryens were to make their final stand. They would not last long. No, they could not outlast his wrath. No great expanse of water could protect them, and even if the council forbid him from personally leading the effort, Stannis was there to take up the mantle.  

None of that would be possible without a fleet, however, something that Stannis had already been seeing to. In Robert’s initial absence, the council had begun work on it. Yet, without a master of ships, and with so many other issues to resolve, little had been achieved. At the very least, the shipwrights had been busy with their planning, sailors impressed, forests identified for felling, and the numbers necessary finally known.  

At this moment, standing on the docks of King’s Landing, they were waiting for Lord Selwyn Tarth, the Evenstar, to arrive. To all's frustration, he had been unable to take a ship all the way around Massey’s Hook, what with the Royal Fleet beginning its blockade of the Gullet. Scouts had been sent to Crackclaw Point in the north, though had yet to return, and the true extent of the effort was unknown.   

Instead, Tarth had docked at Parchments on the eastern shores of the Stormlands, ridden overland to the Wendwater, and from there, caught a barge out into the Blackwater Bay to King’s Landing. Loath as he was to leave his prized warship, Sapphire’s Delight, at Parchments,  Robert was sure such served to fuel his frustrations, and therefore, their efforts.  

Royce and Eldon were meant to be here as well but had taken leave to Estermont first. They were to return to the capital in the coming weeks, and hopefully, would return with more men.  

“There’s his ship,” Stannis remarked plainly. He nodded towards the southeast, and Robert looked to see a barge hugging the coast. It was flanked by two river galleys that had braved the bay today–probably of House Farring– and slowly meandered its way in and around the many coves of the bay. Ser Barristan set about ordering the Gold Cloaks to form up along the sides of the quay, shouting orders from horseback. Up and down the quay he went to make sure all was in order.  

In lieu of having no commander of the City Watch, such duties had fallen to the Lord Commander and was perhaps a good distraction from his worries about the Kingsguard. Really, his concerns about Jaime. Selmy had been quiet enough about it so far, though all knew the wound had festered.   

“A troubling thought,” he’d labelled it, honeying his words. “He broke his oaths!”   

The entire court had joined this excursion down to the docks today: the whole small council huddled around in quiet conversation, lords from across the alliance, knights and their squires with nothing better to do today, ladies in their little circles, gossiping away. Stormy, sour-faced Ser Tygett Lannister had joined them as well. The new master-at-arms flicked his long golden locks in clear annoyance and looked everywhere but his two brothers.  

Also standing nearby, and flexing his new metal was Ser Justin Massey, the triple spiral proudly of his house displayed on his surcoat. Giddily grinning as he enthused a clearly disinterested Richard Horpe about gods knows what—probably women—his former squire had taken on a new life. Not a trace of timidness was left in him. Robert wasn’t surprised: being knighted on the steps to Baelor’s Sept by the king himself was worth at least a year of boasting. A gaggle of other young squires and knights were crowding around the two, and he guessed that Massey would be telling them war stories.  

All that was left that would impress Lord Selwyn was Lyanna at Robert’s side as queen. Ever a man charmed by courtesy and pageantry, Robert had no issues indulging him: golden silks dashed with black, silver about his hands and neck, antlered crown sitting proudly atop his locks. Lyanna was quite the opposite, unsurprisingly. She was up in the godswood at this very moment, where she spent most of her time now, even if it could not compare to that of Winterfell.  

Some weeks had spent sleeping apart with no talk at all of marriage had left Robert anxious, to say the least. It curdled in his veins, raced to his head far too often. The only positive thing he might glean from this time was that the awkwardness between them had been slowly sapped away. All their dinners were had together–not that she ate much—and some quiet nights were spent in his study as he looked through letters he pretended to care about, and she browsed old maps of the realm and stared wistfully out at the city and beyond.   

The investigation had begun into the murders as well. Such had pleased her—if one could ever be happy about the situation. But little had been turned up, and the cracks were beginning to appear when Robert had nothing new for her each time she asked. Better than nothing, they both understood, at least.  

So, as the barge slowly slotted into the quay, Robert hoped Lord would find a court eager and ready. Tall, grinning ear to ear, strutting out like a peacock, and flaunting fine silks from across the sea, the Evenstar cut a regal, handsome figure. The silver rings he wore about him matched his long hair, combed to perfection, and you could spy every colour of the rainbow in his raiment's.  

Robert had met him only sparingly, and at first thought he’d loath a man who dressed as pretty as a girl–especially one near his father’s age. Yet, after every trip of Selwyn’s to Storm’s End, or Robert to Evenfall Hall, he’d not had any complaint.  He strode out to meet the man, whose eyes lit up as he saw his approach. An outstretched hand was neglected, and Robert trapped him in a tight embrace.  

“Well look at you Robert! You’re a king now!” Tarth greeted.  

“Don’t start with that,” Robert grumbled. “Everyone keeps bloody reminding me.”   

“Oh, I see.” The Evenstar’s blue eyes sparkled as he spoke. “The many worries of a king! Your Grace must be so stressed.” A wink accompanied his words, and Robert laughed through gritted teeth.   

He took him by the shoulder and walked him back towards the River Gate. The whole court fell in behind them, and Selwyn regarded the affair with much curiosity. “Seems you’ve brought the whole city out to welcome me? Never in my years did I dream I would be treated so!”   

“You and my brother have an important task ahead of you.” And the only two unconcerned with this network of favours that was strangling Robert. “It was the least we could do.” And by we, Robert really meant Jon Arryn.   

“Indeed,” he agreed, and waved to Lord Swann. “If you told me a year ago that I’d be needed to give battle to the Royal Fleet and take Dragonstone, well, I’d probably laugh at you.”   

“And what better men to do such than you and Stannis.”  

The Evenstar shrugged, “Lord Redwyne I suppose. Heard he turned tail and ran back to the Arbor, so perhaps not.” he added, scoffing.   

“I’d take the damned Ironborn before Paxter Redwyne.” Robert called for their horses, quickly obliged. “That one’s just an extension of that fat oaf in Highgarden.”  

Selwyn made no comment and instead thanked one of stableboys. Robert let the other man mount up first, following only when he’d checked all was well elsewhere. Jon had thought they might bring a carriage down for them, and Robert had only needed to give him a look to put an end to that. Who needed a bloody carriage to get around? Not Robert Baratheon!  

Barristan was quick to strike out in front, Jaime and Mark at the rear, and up the Hook bend they went. Behind, a captain of the Gold Cloaks barked out orders, and soon knights and golden cloaks were all around. There was less fanfare this time, the interest of the smallfolk petering out with each visit Robert made to the city. But many still crowded the streets. “It’s the Evenstar!” He heard some well-informed and well-travelled people comment.  

They entered the lower bailey with no issue, and Selwyn slowed his horse so he might admire the castle around. “It's been a long time since I was last here.”   

“It’s all a bit stifling,” Robert remarked, shifting in the saddle.   

“Perhaps in Aerys’ time. But the court seems more… lively, now.” He gestured to Edric’s men who were crowding the walls and courtyard, the brilliant knights all around. “Everyone appears a bit happier, wouldn't you say?”  

Robert shrugged and made no comment. Trotting out into the centre, they were greeted by two young lads: Robert’s new squires. Leading the pair was young Daven Lannister, some son of a cousin of Tywin’s, thrust into his service by Jon as a favour to the house. Organised when Robert had been away, of course. This one had short yellow hair cropped at the side and a pug nose; none of the fairness of his cousins, though all the pride to match. Close at the lad's heels was Andrew Estermont. Not near as boisterous as his companion, he was still a lively youth. With curly chestnut hair and a plain face, he looked much like his fair father, Lomas.  

Daven eagerly took the reins from Robert as he dismounted, whilst Andrew trudged off to Selwyn. A bit saddened he couldn’t take the king's horse, Andrew was cheered up when the Evenstar greeted him warmly. “You must’ve been at my knees last time I saw you, Andrew! The lord said, beaming. “Oh, it’s been too long since I visited Greenstone.”   

“Two squires?” Selwyn observed as the two led the horses away. “I’d think you’d be too busy to even have one?”   

“If I’m not careful, Jon might double their number until I’ve got a little army on my coattails.”   

“Favours, favours, and more favours.”  

Robert sighed. “Stannis lucked out with just the one. Lester’s son, Ralph, I think. But he’s taken young Matthis Cafferen as a ward.”  

“Who rules in Fawnton then?”   

“The boy's mother and uncle.”   

The courtyard was quiet at this hour, and there was no scream of steel as they trudged up into the middle bailey. But guardsmen were all around: blues, yellows, reds, a splash of green.  

“A lot of Lannister men here,” Selwyn commented when they’d passed them all.  

“Can’t refuse them. They took the damn city for us. Jon says more are on the way: Crakehalls and Marbrands, I think.”   

The lord nodded, then went quiet as he inspected the castle for the umpteenth time. It was not until they finished descending the Serpentine Stairs that he spoke again. “Say, when this whole affair has been dealt with, what say I bring my boy Galladon to court?”   

Gods, when was the last time he’d seen that little troublemaker? “I’d be pleased to have him,” Robert began. “But you’d bring more than just him though?”   

The Evenstar had an insatiable appetite for women and took a new one as a mistress every year. Exotic beauties from across the Narrow Sea most often.  

“Ah well, I don’t like to keep my women around too long, else they might think they ought to stay permanently!”   

Robert laughed heartily at that. That was all he needed to know he’d made the right choice, that there were still men in the realm unconcerned with all this other bullshit. Doubts slipped away with the breeze.  

Once they’d arrived inside the castle, Robert pointed Selwyn to one of the stairwells. “The guards upstairs will show you to your chambers. I’d come and have a drink with you.” Robert frowned as he continued. “But Jon’s got me doing too many bloody things. It’s like I’m a damned errand boy now!”   

Selwyn offered his condolences with a sympathetic smile. “Fear not, Your Grace. I’ll get a hold of you for such eventually.”   

“I’m holding you to it,” he said, clasping the man by the shoulder. “I’d lose my damn head in here if I didn’t get a break every now and then.”   

The Evenstar nodded in sage agreement. And as he made off to his rooms, Robert called out after him. “There’s a flagon of fine Gold waiting for you! Don’t finish it too quick!” There was also a new riding cloak and gloves for the man, but that could remain a surprise.  

His mood had already soured as he marched back out into the lower courtyard. Not even the sun’s warm kiss could draw him out from such, not when there was still so much to worry about. Jon had said something about the City Watch needing to be dealt with, quite firm in his request Robert come to see him immediately.  Gods, he wasn’t a ward anymore! It was already punishment enough to live in this stinking city, surrounded of ambitious lords and ladies. To be ordered around as if he were still a ward was just another bit added to the ever-increasing list of complaints.  

Edric had become his permanent shadow, and right now, was atop the northern wall. When Robert looked the other way, saw the flowing red cape of Ser Gerion, the new captain of Tywin’s guards. Robert wondered when the two might start to argue about who got to oversee which parade. They already argued over guard rotations, what about when he had to go on tour? Every day, Robert was getting closer to banging them both together by the head: he could damn well deal with any ne'er-do-wells himself if he pleased!   

Both disappeared as he entered the Great Hall. At the very least, there weren’t any dragon skulls to continue the two knights’ work, replaced by great tapestries that had been collecting dust.  

Only Jon and Ser Barristan were present in the Small Council chambers today. Surely then, there would be some respite from the endless dribble the rest had? Gods, he used to like Yohn Royce, only for him to be just as irritating as Tywin and Hoster. Ambitions all around, even if they were well-intentioned.  

“Alright, what is it then,” he said, slumping down into his seat. Gulian’s young daughter Johanna was at side at once, pouring him a cup of wine that was half finished within seconds.  

“We’ve got a proposal for the Commander of the City Watch Robert, and two new knights for the Kingsguard.”   

“Oh?” Robert asked, scarcely interested.  

Jon hummed, then nodded to the Lord Commander to begin.   

“I’ve found two men for the City Watch, Your Grace. The first is the captain of the Lion Gate, Hal Kerwood, who’s served for about a decade now. The other is the captain of the Iron Gate, Janos Slynt, who’s served for half that time, but is known to be quite popular with the men.”  

“And what about these Kingsguard proposals.” The wine was finished as he spoke. Jon forgot his place and tried to stare down Johanna. The second cup was a lot nicer: bold, fruity. Johanna knew his tastes.  

“The first,” Jon announced. “Is Ser Mandon Moore.”   

A deadly knight, to be sure. Robert had watched him train in the yard of the Eyrie with Ser Vardis Egen. A favourite of Jon’s to call upon for any martial task. A bit too sullen for his liking—though perhaps that would be preferred for this position.  

“And the other is Ser Perwyn Piper, who was brought to my attention by Lord Hoster.”   

“Another reward then, is it?”   

Jon frowned. “He’s brother to Lord Clement Piper, yes. But he distinguished himself on the Trident. Killed two knights of House Goodbrook, and took Lord Symeon Darry prisoner.”   

Robert glared at the swirling red wine, wondering why it was taking so long to have an effect. “Is he here in the city now?”   

“Lord Hoster has invited him to be his sworn shield.”   

“And what say you, my new Lord Commander?”   

Ser Barristan paused in thought, beginning quite cautiously. “I trust Lord Arryn’s judgment, and I still have yet to find any other knights up to the task.”   

Leaning back in faux thought, Robert’s mind wandered. Do I even need a Kingsguard? Did he really need more knights around him he scarcely knew? 

“Go on then, see to their appointment, then bring them before me.”  

The Lord Commander bowed his head. “It shall be done, Your Grace.”   

Robert was about to sit up and leave, only for Jon to cough. Ahem . “And about the City Watch, Robert?”  

“I don’t know… I’ve met neither of them!”   

“Well then, I’m sure Ser Barristan will be happy to bring them before you.”   

“Do you have an opinion on either, Jon?”    

“They mean about the same to me.”   

“Fine,” Robert grumbled, finishing his cup. “Bring me to them on the morrow and I’ll see about it.”   

Jon narrowed his eyes at Robert. “You may return to your duties Ser Barristan. Ser Jaime can watch us.”   

The Lord Commander bowed and marched off out of the room without another word . Click went the door as it was softly shut, and with some amount of privacy, Jon’s face turned a tad too serious for Robert’s liking. His Hand drew closer, and Johanna was sent away with the wave of a hand.  

“Are you taking this seriously , Robert?”   

Frowning, Robert thought to call the girl back in. “What do you mean?”   

“You know exactly what I mean.”   

Do I? “I’m playing the part, aren’t I?”   

Jon's nostrils were flared. That same sternness to him from the Eyrie was there, looking upon Robert as if he was just an insolent child. “You aren’t playing a part Robert. You are the part! This isn’t a mummer’s troupe, this is kingship.”   

Oh, here we go. “I am being king!”  

“Are you? Because all I can see is that you’ve left everything to the council! I watch you up on that throne, and you look like you’re about to nod off every minute of it!”  

“I went and welcomed Lord Tarth, didn't I? I agree with your proposals, ask you for advice, and at least I’m sitting on that damn throne!”  

Jon pinched his nose, taking in a deep breathe. “That’s not how this works Robert! You don’t just hope I have every solution to every problem!”   

Every word that left Arryn’s mouth in the last month had served only to upset him. Gods, he needed Ned by his side, now . He needed Lyanna in this room, to support him through these incessant tirades! Why was he having to do this all alone, whilst Ned got to go see about some fucking sword and no doubt a woman he lay with, and Lyanna got to laze about in the godswood all day, every day!  

Rising from his seat, Robert glared at the man. “I didn’t fucking ask for this did I? To be king? You put me in this bloody seat! You told me to take it! Would you rather be king, is that it? Take it! Just fucking take it from me and be done with it!”   

Or maybe he wanted Ned there. Maybe he thought Robert was just another Denys, someone to shape in his image.  

Jon pursed his lips, stepping closer to Robert. “You made that choice, Robert Baratheon, not , me .”  

“You may as well have!”   

For a moment, Robert wanted him to rise to the occasion, to order him around once more. He wanted to scream in Arryn’s face that this was already ruining him, that whatever sorry dreams he had had of kingship were not coming true. Cooped up in court all day, this was not at all how he imagined it!  

“I see you cannot be talked down from this,” Jon finally began.” So, I will make a simple, suggestion, to you, Robert, since you so clearly take issue when I inform you of what is the right choice. What the realm needs is normalcy, and for that it needs more than a king. It also needs a queen.”   

“You know exactly what she’s going to say if I force the issue!” Robert roared. He wanted to clout him across the ear for that transgression. Instead, he grew despondent at the thought and slumped down to his chair.  

“I don’t care Robert! You two should’ve been married the moment you returned.” Jon was leaning over him now, just as he did in the Eyrie when Robert had misbehaved. “Everyone’s taken notice of it, Robert! I’ll have Lord Tywin in my ear soon about his daughter, Lady Cersei! What went down there Robert? What’s with the delay? You told us all how much you loved her, so get to it!”  

It was that very love he bore for Lyanna Stark that had caused this delay! But Robert couldn’t say that. Then there’d be a dozen more questions asked, and then he might find out about that fucking bastard of hers.  

“What do you mean about Lord Tywin?” Robert growled instead. Did he intent for Robert to put aside Lyanna? What a horrid thought!  

“That’s irrelevant to the matter at hand Robert. What is relevant, is that you talk to Lady Lyanna and sort this out at once.”  

Robert rubbed his temples. He looked away from Jon. Perhaps if he looked away long enough, the kinder man from the Eyrie would return.  

“Do I have a choice?” He finally muttered when another dream of his was dashed.  

“You’re the king,” Jon said plainly. “I can’t command you to do anything.”   

Already he could see how the conversation would go down, and it would probably end with him heading off to some whorehouse, the one thing he’d been desperately trying to avoid since he first arrived. Perhaps he could stall until Ned returned: surely, he might have some brotherly wisdom to impart upon?  

“Alright. I’ll figure it out,” was the sorry answer he gave.  

“Good,” Jon said, a hint of a smile appearing. “Then I will leave you to it. I know it’s frustrating, but we don’t have a choice here Robert. It’s for the best.”  

The older man sat down, right next to Robert. Their gazes met, but Robert could not find that fatherly love in there. Jon Arryn was no longer his father, picking up where Steffon had left off. No, he was Hand of the King, and they were all the worse for it. Jon said something about Lord Yohn wanting to see him, and rubbed his shoulder, as if that would help Robert move on from all this.  

He didn’t know when Jon left the chamber, only that when he looked back up, he was all alone. Sitting there, stewing in misery, Robert felt lethargic. He cursed as he struggled to stand back up, gripping the table for support. It was only two cups, what was the matter? Cooped up this damn castle too long: why hadn’t he been out for a hunt yet, what about a good, long ride?  

Running his hand over the long oaken table as he walked by, Robert wondered who might be sitting in these seats in a year's time. Probably not him. Opening the door to find Jaime patiently waiting, Robert took a moment to study the young knight. Though the greathelm hid most of his features, long golden curls had escaped here and there, and cat-green eyes looked right back at him through the visor. Robert was lucky the handsome man was sworn to chastity—a real competition for any maiden’s attention would’ve surely ensued otherwise.  

“Your father wants to me marry Cersei if this betrothal falls through,” Robert began with. “Good brothers? I don’t know if I can see it.” Oh, but he could. What fun they could’ve had, two men of martial talent, ready to take matters into their own hands!  

But Jaime offered no answer. What happened to the Young Lion that Steffon had once raved about? He tried another angle. “What about that, eh? Lord Tywin, from being spurned by King Aerys, to good father of the king?”   

“A great step indeed,” the knight finally offered after a moment’s silence.  

Robert had forgotten that Lannister was younger than him, and just as disinterested in the politicking as Robert was. Just another reason they would've gotten on splendidly in different circumstances. Silence took hold as they passed out into the throne room. But Robert just had to break it, ever curious. “Was it there that you killed the Mad King?”   

Ser Jaime was hesitant to reply, and Robert saw something flash across his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace. It was… there.”    

The knight’s tone betrayed a frightening melancholy, and it greatly disturbing Robert: where was the pride in such a fine feat?  

“Have some more confidence, dammit! I only wish I’d been the one to do it. You stole all the glory!” Robert added in jest, clasping the man’s cold pauldron. Once again, he remained unmoved. You could probably find more emotion in a rotting corpse.  

Lamenting that Ser Jaime had yet to break free of his shell, Robert left him to his quiet musings. He had a lady to see, a beautiful one at that, and there was no time for this monotony. He led them up to the godswood where he knew her to surely be.  

Arriving at the entrance, Robert stopped. Anxiety gnawed at his stomach like never before. He didn’t want to do this, even if he wanted this marriage. If he went in there now, and even just casually mentioned it, she’d probably turn tail and flee. And Robert was not about to have Ser Jaime go and play fetch. She seemed to fear so many things, not just about all these new responsibilities that came with court life, but him. What a terrible tragedy.  

Robert peered through the stone archway and into the lush godswood. Flowers in full bloom were all around with spring well under way, a sweet scent that drew him in. Robert took one step in, and then another. Pausing again to look left, then right, then left again, Robert found not trade of Lyanna. Robert took another few cautious steps forward until he was halfway to the oak that served as the weirwood.  

The Red Keep’s godswood was only an acre large, and not nearly as impressive as the other lords. It only sported only elms, alders, and cottonwood, and though dragon’s breath red as a ruby grew around the roots of the carved oak to give the appearance of a weirwood’s blood red leaves, it all fell well short of its intention.  

At least the birds seemed to like it. A hundred of them were all hopping about the branches, singing their love songs for all’s pleasure. In the far wall, where little windows had been carved out, he spied the bay, a dozen ships with full sails darting across the gap. A sea breeze wafted through, the salt stinging Robert’s nose.  

Not too sure what he ought to do next, Robert came to stand beneath the great oak, taking a seat on its twisted and gnarled roots. Ser Jaime stood to attention at the far gate, a strong wind blowing green and red leaves across his face. Robert had to chuckle as the knight swatted at them, moving around in vain to find a spot of respite.   

One could at least see the appeal in the spot, even if it paled in comparison to that of Storm’s End’s or Winterfell’s. Quiet, tucked away from the chaos of court and the hustle and bustle of the city streets from the miserable chaos. He closed his eyes. Even the cries of Tygett, Edric, and Gerion, were lost here.   

A quiet voice drew him from his comfort. “ Robert,” it whispered.  

Robert opened an eye, looking left and right to find nothing. He closed his eyes once more, thinking he was just going mad, only for to hear it once more. “Robert.”    

Gods, he must be going mad. Wherever it was coming from, he could not discern, and one final time, he leant back. This time, he heard it right behind him, a ghostly call. “Robert.”    

“Who the fuck is that?” He cried out, sitting straight up. “Where are you?”   

Frantically searching now for whoever this prankster was, Robert was incensed. He darted this way and that and had caught the attention of Jaime. Waving the knight away, Robert scanned the whole area, inspected every nook and cranny of the roots and trunk. When his search bore no fruit, he raised attention up into the treetops, and of course, there was–   

“Hello Robert,” called Lyanna from one of the branches. Grey eyes peered straight down at him. “Come to join me?”   

Wearing in a dress for once, white as snow, she appeared in a somewhat happier mood. Her hair was woven in a long braid that swung lazily with the breeze.   

“Yes actually. I was looking for you.”   

Robert tried in vain to not let his attentions wonder. But his gaze had betrayed him already, giving all his desires as it found the soft curve of her breasts, a slim waist that gave way to strong hips and legs.  

Lyanna hummed, drawing Robert back to reality. She was looking out across the tops of the walls. “One can see quite far from here.”   

“Sure.”   

“So,” she said, moving to sit on the branch. “What did you come to see me about?”   

“Well I...”  

A thousand possibilities played out before his mind. Each one was worse than the lost. His cheek stung where she had slapped him, and his silence earned the attention of Lyanna. Scrutinising him, Robert withered under her gaze. No. Not today, not like this.  

“I wanted to see if you might come for a ride with me, tomorrow.”   

Before he had time to say any more, she had landed with a soft thud right next to Robert, scaring the shit out of him. A soft giggle graced his ears as she revelled in that. “Out of the city? Where to?”   

“The kingswood, I thought.”   

Her interest was thoroughly piqued, but she didn't seem quite pleased. “We’ve just been there?”   

“Was there somewhere else, you wanted to go?”   

She hummed in thought at that, chewing her lip. “What about North?”   

What? Like Winterfell? “North of King’s Landing?”   

“Yes?”   

Fucking idiot. “Sure.”   

“We ought to leave early then,” Lyanna continued, looking him up and down.  

“Jon’s got me seeing about the commander of the Gold Cloaks on the morrow. I’ll see what I can do.”   

“Ok.”   

Was that all she was going to give him? No further ideas? At least it was something, something to give him an escape from all this.  

“Would you like to head back inside?”   

She fell quiet for a moment. Who would want to leave her for the castle?    

“Sure,” she suddenly said, taking Robert by surprise.  

Then, always the one wanting to be in charge, she started off quite quickly. Robert had to jog to catch up, and by the time they arrived back at the holdfast, Jaime and Robert had sweated up a storm. At least the former got to be relieved by Mark at the drawbridge. To the king’s bedchamber they went, and once inside, off Lyanna went to the balcony. Not before swiping a book from Robert’s desk, though.    

As he watched her head out there, taking a precarious seat on the stone railing, Robert didn’t quite know what to feel. Without Ned here, he was all but lost on what to do. A vague hope they were headed in the right direction was all that brought him some relief. Lyanna’s scars ran deep, as did his. He knew he had to stomach the requests for patience, but all the same, Robert desperately needed more . Once again, Robert was left thinking back to his father and what he would’ve done.  

Hoping to distract himself, Robert heeded Jon's advice for once and sat down to read through the same old boring reports from the Council and lords of the realm.  Every now and then, he’d raise his attention to Lyanna. Sometimes, she was looking right back. Behind the fluttering linen curtains, Robert thought she looked ethereal. Her skirts were hitched up by her knees, long, muscled legs resting on the stone. She’d taken her long hair out of the braid, now flowing gracefully with the wind, and her skin looked as soft as a fine feather. And oh, how he wished to be able to reach out and touch her now.   

If he had any talent at penmanship, Robert might’ve written a sappy poem about it. That he even thought of such had him reeling. What in the seven hells was he turning into? He did not miss her soft chuckle when she took note of whatever had him red-faced and fixing his collar.  

Soon,  he knew. Soon .  

Chapter Text

King’s Landing    

“Get him up,” Robert ordered.  

They were in the barracks of the Iron Gate, up at the arse-crack of dawn to see this captain Barristan had found before Robert rode out north. Passed out, stinking of shit and filth, drunker than a sailor, was this Janos Slynt. A balding head was peeking up from under the covers. Robert wanted to punch it.  

And the fucking snoring , loud enough to wake the whole city. “I said. Get. Him. Up.”  

Jaime prodded the man’s shoulder with his pommel, and Slynt mumbled something foul between snores.   

“For gods sake,” Robert cried out.  

Pushing the knight aside, Robert placed both hands on the fool’s shoulders. Violently, he shook him and the whole bed. Within seconds, Slynt was retching up something rotten on the floor. It splattered on Robert’s boots, and his nose wrinkled in disgust. Janos Slynt might’ve been saying “Fuck off”, but Robert shut him up quick as that. One clout across the ear sent Slynt reeling away. Finally sat up, to Robert’s astonishment, the idiot only mumbled out “Who the fuck do you think you are?”  

A lazy hand swatted at Robert’s chest. Slynt cried in pain as Robert crushed it in his fist and shoved the man back down to his bed without another word. Barristan was stuttering out an apology as Robert marched out from the room. Gods, he should have that insolent captain hung from the battlements! No dignity to even greet his king, let alone wake up on time!  

“ Quiet!” Robert commanded when Barristan appeared at his side. “Let's see this Kerwood fellow. Best hope this one is awake.”  

As they crested the cramped stairwell, venturing out onto the city walls, the wide expanse of the bay awaited them. At this hour, the sea was tranquil, a shimmering mirror. No waves were in sight, and not even the birds were awake to pester them for food. Far off on the horizon was a thin glimpse of orange. They ought to be beyond these walls now and making their way north.  

The Iron Gate sat right on the eastern end of the city, and terribly, the Lion Gate on the exact opposite end in the southwestern corner where the gold road began. Off to Robert’s left loomed the ruins of the Dragonpit. He sniffed the air, hoping for something pleasant, only to get a whiff of Flea Bottom which lay on the other side of the Hill of Rhaenys. Mayhaps this was what drove Aerys mad. It was not often Robert had been able to rouse himself this early, so what a waste it was to be spending it doing this. Now, if he’d already been on the Rosby Road, then he’d have no complaint. Instead, he was marching away from Lyanna Stark, who no doubt was ready to leave without him.  

Robert pinched his nose. What a farce. Time was slipping in away. The moon that still hung in the western sky was quickly disappearing, the once star laden sky was losing its twinkle, and the deep blue so dark it could be purple was giving way to a pastel blue.  

The people of King's Landing seemed to be habitual early risers, however. As Robert glanced out to the city, he saw carts fit to burst with all sorts of foodstuffs and wares trundling down the cobbled lanes. Old women were already bleating and haggling away with every merchant who passed their dingy little hovel. Little packs of Gold Cloaks were weaving their way around the streets as well looking out for any signs of trouble. Robert even thought he spied a familiar man on the Street of Silk which ran down from the Hill of Rhaenys. Massey? Gods, he’d taught him well: that was an expensive looking whore.  

Over the Old Gate in the middle of the northern walls now, and then the Gate of the Goods at the north-western corner. The cobbled Kingsroad stretched far out into the rolling hills and fields. How long till he next got to use it?  

The Great Sept tolled its bronze bells as the hour turned, and as Robert looked back to the east, saw that the sun had already begun to rise. Vibrant shades of red and orange swirled with faint clouds stretching out across the sky, and at last night yielded to the day. Almost jogging now, the party finally reached the Lion Gate as dawn wound down. Robert was heading straight down before Ser Barristan got the chance to announce his arrival, wishing this man were also fast asleep so it might be over and done with.   

“Hal Kerwood!” Robert called as he descended into the barracks. To his pleasant surprise, he found the whole room wide awake already, and the watchmen present were quick to bow, not even one of them half-dressed.   

“Where’s Kerwood?” He asked the nearest man, who pointed him further on into the next room.   

Passing into that one, pushing aside empty hammocks and clothes hung out to dry, the men seemed about to start their rounds. Robert saw who he presumed to be the captain, busy in talks with another. “Are you Kerwood?” he asked, striding over to the centre of the room, towering over them all as he arrived.  

The man spun on his heels at once, and when he saw who it was, took to one knee at once. “Yes, Your Grace. I’m Hal Kerwood, captain of the Lion Gate.”   

“Good. At least you're ready.” Kerwood cocked his head, unsure what Robert meant. “Go on! Up you get!”   

The captain, confused as he was, obeyed quickly. He wore old ringmail with little leather beneath, and a plain face hid behind a dented iron helm, eyes brown as oak looking back to Robert. It was not hard to take the measure of him: Kerwood did not falter under his gaze, held himself proud—even though he was a head shorter—and the men around him were similarly disciplined.  

“Alright, you’ll do,” he announced. “You’ll be the new Commander, so I suggest you see to finding your replacement at this gate.”   

Kerwood’s brow raised ever so slightly, and Robert saw yellow teeth as his lips parted. “Commander of the City Watch, Your Grace?”   

“Yes. Wow don’t make me regret it. Good men have recommended you. But the other candidate threw up all over my boots, so your competition was rather pitiful.”  

The new commander nodded slowly, digesting the words. “Of course, Your Grace. I won’t disappoint.”   

Robert smiled at that. With his mind already wandering back at the Red Keep, hoping Lyanna hadn’t ridden off without him, he simply gave the man a quick pat on the shoulder, and turned to head home. His escort seemed just as confused as the captain had been. “Tygett,” Robert hailed. “See that he’ll be well armed.”  

“Yes, Your Grace,” the master-at-arms obeyed, ducking his head between the hammocks and washing lines as he went off to see Kerwood.   

“Barristan!” Robert then roared, and the Lord Commander was quick to attention. “Get him sorted out. I’m off.”  

“Your Grace,” Selmy began to protest to no avail. Robert was already making his way down to the city streets. He'd had Andrew shadow him with Mark Ryswell, refusing to let any second go to waste with what was at stake. By the time he’d mounted his horse, the morning sun had already cleared the horizon. Resisting the urge to go and give Janos a walloping for wasting precious time, Robert started off and back to the Red Keep. Lyanna Stark awaited him, and she was not a woman to disappoint.  

Smuggler’s Point    

The spot they found to rest after their ride was a windswept bluff jutting out into the sea, a short drop down to a stony beach on both sides. Choking the whole area were old elms with bent trunks and limbs, and once inside the grove of trees, the roar of the tides had dimmed to a dulcet lullaby. Robert dismounted his horse as the undergrowth thickened. Quaint , he though as he hitched the reins.  

Robert and Lyanna had left the escort that neither of them desired some ways off on the trail back to Rosby. Apparently, it was not up for discussion that they simply head back to the city without them, and so this was the best compromise. Three Kingsguard was already quite a lot, but the addition of a guard Edric had insisted upon incessantly, and, himself, was quite something.   

Still, it was better than remaining in that city.  

Clearing a path through the tangled roots and vines with his boots, Robert turned to watch Lyanna. Far more graceful than he was, she was dancing through the vegetation on her tiptoes. Silently they crept out towards the end of the point, and all the while she kept stooping down to pick up all the little flowers–especially the blue ones. With a fistful of the vibrant florets, she began to work at a crown of such, not a care in the world for where she was headed.    

Low hanging branches and leaves gave way to a small clearing, and at the end of such was a window to the sea framed by thick ivy. The Narrow Sea was as blue as a sapphire today. Few whitecaps to be seen on such a calm day, the breeze refreshing. One could even forget there was a fleet out there, waiting to pray upon any ships that dared pass the Gullet.  

She struck out to the middle of the clearing, settled in amongst the soft grass, and continued her work. Robert ventured over to the green window, peering through it. Following the coastline out and to his left, he wondered what it was like that way. He looked straight across, to where the kingswood encroached upon the southern cost of the bay. Tiny little fishing vessels dotted the waters. Robert finally looked right, and smiled when he found King’s Landing was not in sight.  

The point was not frequented by many, they’d been informed, and was not one Robert had ever heard of. But when old Lord Gyles Rosby had met the entourage beneath the walls of his castle and was “oh so charmed by young love” (his own words), had set them on the right path to it. Edric had mentioned its name, Smuggler’s Point, far too often for Robert’s liking, as if that would somehow deter either of them. Fell’s new duties suddenly creating an odd sense of anxiety in the man.  

And to his chagrin, Robert and Lyanna were still resolute in their wishes to proceed, and thanked Lord Rosby for his advice, who simply bowed his head, waving them off with a warm smile.   

As she continued to twist the flowers into little knots, Robert walked around the edge of the clearing. Looking this way and that for any other signs of life, Robert cursed that he’d forgotten to bring his spear him. Fine hunting this way, all had said, yet now he’d need to wait some time before he might indulge in it. Whatever critters and creatures occupied the grove were good at hiding anyhow.  

With that mission bearing no fruit, Robert went to join Lyanna in the grass. How peaceful she looked, fiddling away. Finally fitted with the right clothes—a cross of a man’s and woman’s, of course—Robert found it impossible to look away. She’d just finished her little floral headpiece and placed it carefully atop her head. Perfect  

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” Robert asked as he sat down.  

She didn’t seem surprised. “When have you not.”  

Lyanna didn’t always take well to his compliments. Gods, the glares he got if he did it at the wrong time! But how could he refrain from praising her beauty? And the occasional blush he might get, how she tried to pretend it had no effect.  

“So, worth the effort?”   

“Mhm,” she agreed, nodding. “Good to be out of the city. Not to mention, it’s quite pretty, isn’t it?”   

“Sure.”  

Lyanna squinted her eyes at him. “Sure?”   

“Well, it’s not as pretty as you.”  

This time, she could not escape the redness. A hum of vague agreement followed, as if it were said in jest, and Robert frowned.  

“So,” he started again when she fell quiet. “Is there some place you’d like to see afterwards?”   

“That depends.”   

“Depends on what?”   

“If you’re up for it,” Lyanna replied. There was an inquisitive look about her, challenging at the same time.  

‘If I’m up for it’? “You think you’d tire me out with one ride?”   

Lyanna smirked. “I said nothing of the sort.”   

“Sure.”   

“Sure?”   

“Sure.”   

Lyanna shifted closer to him, tinkering with her crown as she did. “Would you be up for it then?”   

“No reason not to continue on.” Though really, he wanted to spend an eternity here with her. "But I must admit, the lands are unknown to me any further on.”   

She nodded at that, then returned to picking at the flowers again. This time daisies and daffodils. He leant back on his hands, raising his gaze to the canopy above. Sunlight streamed through the little breaks in the leaves, reaching down to kiss his skin, and Robert closed his eyes.  

He thought of how busy the road had been out to Rosby. So busy in fact, that Robert had opted to lead them off on game trails to avoid all the looks they were getting. Streams of folk of all types were headed into the city, far fewer heading out, and he considered it something of a good omen. At last, that part seemed to be ticking along well: the people. Slowly but surely, King’s Landing was getting back into working order, and what a wonder it would be when that was put to rest. Slowly, they were chipping away at all these worries.  

But musings on ruling didn’t bring much joy. Jon’s words had been fresh on his mind ever since, as had all his different requests and suggestions. “ It’s for the best!” How in the seven hells was he supposed to ask her about that? “ I haven’t forgotten the stories”. And somehow, Robert was supposed to prove to her something he never should need to! If the gods were kind–which they weren’t–then no little black-haired boy or girl would end up in the city within the next few months. But then he needed to restrain himself, and only the thought of marriage had stayed his hand thus far.  

He was desperate to make some headway at least. Robert would rather verbal sparring than a mind in limbo.  

“What did you mean, when you spoke of the ‘stories’ about me?”    

Lyanna frowned at that, hands retreating to her lap. For a moment she hesitated, till finally she met his gaze. “When Ned told me of our betrothal, I asked him about you.”   

“And what did he say?”   

“Many things: he told me how handsome you were, how strong you were, how charming you could be when you wanted, that you two would spend weeks riding around the Vale.” Lyanna paused, brushing aside stray hair to curl it behind her ear. “But I knew there was more to it. Ned told me you had an appetite for women that he swore you could tame. And then he told me about your daughter.”   

“We weren’t betrothed then I–”   

She raised a hand to silence him. “I know that we weren’t betrothed, but what difference does it make?”   

“I was a young man, then.”   

“You still are.”   

“You know what I mean!”   

“Do I?”   

Robert scrunched his nose, fingers tightening as they weaved between the blades of grass. “I haven’t visited another woman's bed in a long time.”   

It wasn’t the whole truth, but he didn’t exactly feel like ruining an already soured moment. The answer didn’t exactly impress her either. But it didn’t anger her as it once had before. “That’s not the only thing I’m concerned about, Robert.”   

“What else is there?” He was growing quite frustrated now, feeling as if this were about to be Harrenhal all over again.   

“I see the way you look at me, when you think I’m not aware.”   

“You’re a beautiful woman. What else is there to do?”   

Lyanna put on a faux showing of umbrage, narrowing her eyes. Then a blush crept up her neck, soft, pale cheeks reddening ever so slightly.   

“Well, you haven’t tried anything. Yet.”    

Gods be good! “We’re not even married, Lyanna! It's not like I can do anything.”   

“As if that would stop you,” she replied. At once, she realised the weight of her words and fell silent.  

Sitting right back up at that, he shifted to face her fully. “What is that supposed to mean?”   

Lyanna drew away from him. “Nothing. A silly comment, nothing more.”    

“No,” Robert intoned, more than irritated now. “What does it mean?”  

Lyanna huffed, averting her attention. “I just told you.”   

Before he began on a birdbrained tirade, Robert took a moment to collect his thoughts. Cool air pooled in his lungs as he thought over every word. But nothing came to him. Left to fester on those words, Robert turned away and tried to think of happier times to distract himself.  

Lyanna had the right of it, of course. Even now he dreamed of taking her here, letting their pleasures rock the earth beneath. He’d treat her right, lead her slow and gentle, and her cries would be heard far and wide. He’d kiss every inch of her and hold her hand or carry her where she pleased. He could be a good husband, was damn sure of it, and just as good a lover.   

“I didn’t mean it.”  

Shaking his head, he didn’t argue the point. “Just leave it. I brought it upon myself.”    

Lyanna cocked her head to one side. Surprised? Robert shrugged, which did little to assuage her anxiety unfortunately.   

The companionship they had enjoyed so far was starting to fray at the edges, and Robert wished he’d never spoken at all. Yet, it was not like they could simply laze about in silence and hope that some way to sort all this out might appear before them. So, he dared to jest, wanting to lift their spirits, to make something of this. “Although, I can be as chaste as a septon when required.”    

A smirk sealed the deal, and she couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Right. And I’m Jonquil.”   

“Could be,” he said, chewing on a piece of grass. “I dare a man to say otherwise.”   

“Stop it,” she groaned, slapping his arm, and the blush crept further up. Lyanna gave him an odd look, curiosity in those grey eyes.   

Robert grinned, a bit cocksure, and leaned back on his hands, never taking his eyes off her now. She did not shy away from such, as some women did. Instead, her attention returned to the ground, and within seconds she was making another crown of flowers, this time blue.   

“Who’s that for?”    

No answer came, and she redirected the conversation. “For what it’s worth Robert, Ned didn’t lie to me.”   

“Honourable Ned would rather die than let a lie pass from his lips. But what didn’t he lie about?”   

Lyanna didn’t respond, continuing to thread the greens into little knots and bows. Soon, she returned her attention to him as the word was finished, holding the crown out to him. “Here.”   

“Me?”   

“Who else could it be for?” She drawled, rolling her eyes.   

Robert shrugged, lowering his head so she might place the flowers atop his head. Ever so gently she did, and when he sat back up, there was a look in her eyes he couldn’t place, biting her lip.   

“You’re alright, Robert.”   

“I’m alright?”   

“Mhm,” she hummed, absentmindedly.   

As the waves continued to drum out their melody, Robert thought perhaps they were on their way to working something out. Away from that stinking city with clear heads, he hoped this could be considered some sort of conclusion to the whole affair–or at least, a crucial step to reaching such. Still, he could not grasp her fears. He’d not slept with a woman in some time now, hadn’t been drinking as much either. And now, Ned was dragging around some bastard son of Rhaegar’s he’d reared upon her. If she could have hers, then he ought to be given a pass for whatever this “issue” was.   

“So,” Lyanna started as the sun crested the heights of the clear blue sky. “Are you sure about the kingship now?”   

“What a question,” he remarked. Always wanting to think about the Iron Throne! Shooting her a look, she simply pretended to wipe a tear from her cheek.   

“I ought to know if you're serious about this,” she continued, lying down in the grass.   

“Can’t exactly turn back now, can I?”   

“I suppose,” Lyanna agreed, propping her chin up with her hands. “There’s a difference between merely accepting it and taking charge.”   

“You speak like Jon Arryn.”   

“Is that a bad thing?”   

“Sometimes.”   

Grinning at that, she pursed her lips, pondering what to say next. “What’s the answer, then,” was the eventual follow up. Suddenly, all those worries flocked to his mind. They drowned him in doubt, swallowed his heart, and curdled in his veins. All his hairs were standing on edge as crimson crept up on him.  

“I’m sure that I’ll fuck it up at any moment!” Robert cried in exasperation. “There! Does that make you happy?” That had only upset her more, and Robert bowed his head. “Sorry,” he offered, truly regretful.  

“You’re anxious,” she said, matter-of-factly    

“How could you tell?”  

“Ned said he’d never seen you fret about anything.”   

“We didn’t have anything to worry about, back then.”   

“True,” she stated, thinking on it. “Nor did I, not too long ago.”   

“The last year has been… something,” Robert said, sighing as he did.   

“Mhm.”   

Time passed quickly, and the sun had now passed on, early evening soon to follow. In this little spot of theirs, the elements had little power. Robert watched as the trees by the cliffside swayed this way and that, and heard leaves rustle loudly around, grateful to find that the warmth here remained.   

“Are you adjusting well to court-life?”   

Lyanna frowned. “I don’t know.”   

“Would you like to… talk about it?” Not that he was any good at such. He could talk for hours upon hours about a variety of things. But this? No, never.   

“What is there to say? Father and Brandon died there. So did the Princess and her children. He lived there.” She let each word linger, as if still digesting it all. Her eyes were glistening and wet, fingers tight in the blades of grass. “The ladies all ask me what happened, and I worry that I’ll slip up soon.”  

“Is there anything I can do?” Was the first thing that left his lips, for her sorrow brought him more discomfort than any wound.   

Chuckling at that sadly, her gaze met his. “I’m not sure what can help. You took me out here, the best thing to be done, I suppose.”   

I could take you even further. They could sneak away to Gulltown in the dead of night, dress as common folk. That bothersome fleet had not spread itself that far north. They could buy passage to any city they want, start a new life, far away from all this. Temper yourself an authoritative voice intoned. Robert’s thoughts quietened. All the same, he wanted to help.  

“We can spend the night out here, if you’d like,” Robert blurted out without thinking.   

Lyanna sat up with a start. “Are you serious?” She inquired, hopeful.  

Was that the right thing to say? “Yes?”   

“You’d do that?”  

“Yes?”   

“Then it’s a deal!” Lyanna affirmed, grinning ear to ear. “Me and Benjen used to sleep beneath the stars when it was warm enough! It drove father mad.” Again, he cursed Prince Rhaegar to the seven hells, for the way a queasy gloom took hold of her at what should be a fun memory was maddening.    

Grief was a commonality of theirs, always powerless to stop it, and not a chance to ever recover.  Tentatively, he let his hand wander closer to her. He let it come to a rest just beside her, palm flat against the grass.  Lyanna took note of it. Her breath hitched. Robert closed his eyes, then opened them again when a heavenly sensation graced his hand, hers now resting atop his.  

Sure, he had said they could ride further on. Nevertheless, time didn’t stop for them, and as the sun dipped low in the sky, painting the horizon a lush pink, Robert wandered back out to their horses. Signalling for Ser Barristan to approach, the knight trotted across the field astride a broad warhorse, removing his helm as he neared. “What is it, Your Grace?”   

“Lyanna and I will stay here for the night,” he announced, proudly.   

Selmy had a cautious look about him. “Are you sure?”   

“Bah, what’s the worst that can happen? In don’t think we’ll find any Dornishmen up here. Besides, I can deal with any ne’re-do-wells.” Robert gestured to the warhammer tied to his saddle as he spoke and flashed the knight a toothy grin.   

He thought some protest would be forthcoming. Instead, Ser Barristan dipped his head obediently. “As you wish, Your Grace.” Quick as that, he rode back to the little camp the men had set up, shouting something out to them all that was lost to the wind. Better than Edric would’ve taken it.    

“You’re sure?” Robert inquired again as he returned to her.   

Lyanna nodded, already searching for an appropriate area to sleep in. Under the shade of an ancient elm, it seemed.   

Beneath a starry sky they slept that night, just the two of them. The night was cool, the grass was soft as feathers, and the trees served to protect them from the wind. And as she drifted off to sleep, Lyanna shifted closer to him. He turned his head, watching as a slight shiver ran down her figure. Sometime later, she shifted closer again, until her head was on his chest.  

“She can’t complain. It’s cold out,” he argued to himself as he wrapped an arm around her.   

Together, they slept beneath a starry sky. For a few hours, they were unburdened by what was to come. The city was far away, the crown at home, and the Kingsguard nowhere to be seen.    

Just as Robert felt sleep round the corner, he pressed a soft kiss to her hair. Gods, the smell was intoxicating. Lyanna mumbled something and tucked herself in further. In another life, this would’ve never been a challenge.   

Chapter Text

King’s Landing    

Another week of wandering about the Red Keep had not brought Robert any more solace about the troubles of kingship. Peace was on the horizon, the wounds of the realm were slowly healing, and Robert still sat on the Iron Throne. But how much of that had been him? Was he the king he aspired to be, or merely a vessel for others?  

Did the difference even matter anymore?  

Gods, and where in the seven hells was Ned? He ought to have sent word by now, and Robert found himself closer and closer every day to riding south once more. Lyanna had grown nervous as well. She’d come to him in the dead of night. “Have you any word from him? Even an inkling of an idea where he is?” His betrothed asked, misty eyed.  

Lyanna had slept in his chambers that night, unwilling to make the return journey. Perhaps she just needed company, and Robert was more than glad to provide that.  

At this moment, he was preoccupying himself with other mundane affairs. That meant observing Tygett Lannister at work; one of the only blonde-haired cunts he could stand at this moment. Lord Tywin’s brother was more than just attentive and enthusiastic when it came to his duties: the fruits of his labour were evident all around. Gold Cloaks sporting flash new dirks, swords and spears. The household guards looked fit to be knights of the seven, armour polished to perfection, their leathers new, rusted ringmail a relic of the past.  

Better than that, it appeared the master-at-arms held little love for his brothers. Stormy Tygett Lannister hardly had anything pleasant to say about either of them—or that one Kevan back at Casterly Rock—and had preferred the company of Robert’s men to those that Lord Tywin had brought with him. Clearly someone he ought to be close with.  

There were a few of them crowded into Tygett’s little chamber that perched above the castle’s armoury. Ser Perwyn Piper needed new armour, the last measurements bungled by whichever smith they’d commissioned. Robert could relate, as some just didn’t quite grasp how broad one’s shoulders could be. Edric had shown up as well for some unknown reason (apparently his new hobby was annoying the master-at-arms), and Brus and Borys were coming and going as they lamented how quickly they were going through swords and morningstars.  

“Yes, I understand that Piper,” Tygett muttered as the knight went on and on about how tight the straps had been.  

“And please Tygett, by the gods, the greaves were too short as well! Where did you find this smith anyhow?”  

Lannister was tight-lipped. Robert leaned forward, grinning as he watched a whole range of emotions cross the poor man’s face.  

“Did you note that about the straps?” Edric asked, leaning forward as well.  

“Yes! The straps!” Piper parroted.  

A fist was clenched. Robert stepped back, stifling a laugh as Tygett looked ready to scream at them all. A second passed. Then some more. Tygett turned back to his work, scribbling something down. “Of course, Ser.”  

“That should be it then,” the knight concluded, clasping his hands. “And I must be off. The Lord Commander has need of me at the White Sword Tower. My thanks, Ser Tygett.”  

Bowing deeply to Robert as Perwyn passed by, Robert cast a look over his shoulder, tracking him. Watching as the man flicked his red hair about and fiddled with his armour, he wondered if Perwyn might’ve made a splendid seamstress in another life  

A loud scraping assaulted his ears as Tygett pushed his chair out from the desk. “I swear to you Fell,” he began, pointing a finger. “I’ll fucking—” Robert had returned his attention to them, and Tygett paused.  

“What, pray tell, will you do Lannister?” Edric drawled.  

Looking between the two men, Tygett closed his eyes as he took in a deep breathe. “Just leave off. I’ve got work to do.”  

“I hear we’ve got a rogue leatherworker on our hands.”  

There was an ecstasy of fumbling as Tygett shot up from the chair and rounded on Edric, Robert stepping between the two.  

“Take it the yard, why don’t you!” Robert cried and pushed them away. “You two have been eye fucking each other across the yard all week. I swear, if I must hear another argument about whether or not Gerion’s men got the better boots, I might throw both of you from the walls!”  

The two of them eyed each other up and down.  

“Sure,” Edric agreed. “What say you, Lannister?”   

Lannister scowled and looked mournfully back to his desk. “Go ask Ser Lyn. I’m sure he’s up for his hundredth duel of the day.”   

“I sent Ser Lyn tumbling down to the ground this morning.”   

That got Tygett’s attention again. “No, you didn’t.”   

“Yes, I did.”   

Gods be good. Robert interjected before they got into it any further. “Ser Lyn’s been too busy down in the city for all that. Brothels, I’m told,” he clarified.    

And what a waste of his talents. That man had slain a knight of the Kingsguard at the Trident, Prince Lewyn Martell, and after picking up the family's sword from his dying father’s hands, no less! Corbray had been a favourite at the Eyrie when he still frequented it. Off he went to Gulltown sometime later, and there they had found him on the walls when they’d assaulted it. The knight had been more than happy to serve a better cause, and now, here he was.  

Yet, Ser Lyn Corbray had the same tastes as Robert. They were handsome men with the whole word before them A mirror image—if it was women Corbray was interested in.  

“Yeah, and of that kind,” the master-at-arms mumbled to himself.   

Edric shrugged. “Well, will you spar with me or not?”   

“If you can get your men in order maybe. Their clamour keeps me up all night.”   

“Would you spar with me?” Robert suddenly asked. He’d been itching for a real challenge for a while now: the knights from the Vale he’d already fought for years now, same as his men from Storm’s End. Brus and Borys were too brutish to learn much from, Edric not near his equal, and Cortnay was splitting his time between Parchments and the King's Landing. Damon Morrigen could prove a worthy opponent—if he ever returned.  

Tygett Lannister paused in thought, and suddenly, his face was alight with excitement. “It would be an honour, Your Grace.” The change in him was night and day. “Now?”   

“What better time than the present,” Edric mused.  

Out they all marched from Tygett’s and into the yard. They found Andrew lazing about, chatting the day away with some Crakehall lad who’d arrived in the last few days. Both stood up to attention at once, brushed themselves off, and bowed.  

“Where’s Daven,” Robert asked, headed to the armoury.  

“With Ser Jaime,” Andrew replied, and turned to follow.  

Snorting, Robert entered the armour and pointed to what he needed. His squire was quick to obey, and Robert took his seat, watching his opponent. The Crakehall boy was on Lannister’s heels. Built like a boar, that one was, towering over Andrew, and already sported light stubble.  

“Lyle,” Tygett called sharply. “My sword. ” Robert saw that the squire had an axe in hand, one of the only weapons the master-at-arms shunned. Perhaps as slow as a boar as well.   

Soon enough, the day came alive with the scream of steel. Trading powerful blows, they danced all around the courtyard, great entertainment for all out and about at this hour. Robert’s mind was at his peace, in tune with his weapon. As one, they had their foe on the backfoot, flowing as gracefully as water.  

Where Tygett was nimble with his blade, darting back and forth, quick as lightning, Robert bulled towards him, mighty as a charging aurochs. From the moment had first picked up a weapon, Robert had found that with one mere lunge he could threaten his foe into submission. Broad Strokes. Broader steps. A hulking mass of steel and iron, unrelenting.  

Like all those who came before Robert, Tygett craved for space that would not be given. And at last, when he’d closed the gap just as he had with Dayne, towering above the master-at-arm and shunting him off with one shoulder, the man yielded. Removing their helms, both were plastered in a thin sheen of sweat and grime. Basking in the sunlight and applause as Lannister made his way back to the armoury, Robert scanned the crowds for Lyanna.  

Nothing. Robert’s heart sunk. He turned back to the armoury, a little less proud, and sat side by side with Tygett. “A shame you did not fight in the war,” Robert began, wiping the sweat from his brow.  

Tygett nodded, gulping in air. “If it went on any longer, I’d have ridden out eventually.” A waterskin was passed to the knight then, and within seconds he’d drunk it all down. “You remind me of the fighters I saw at Volantis, Your Grace. Monstrous men brought from the fighting pits at Meereen. Yet they struck quick as a viper.”  

Robert shrugged. He’d not crossed the Narrow Sea, and the Free City of Volantis was certainly not on his list. “I’ll just have to trust you on that one.”   

Edric arrived, cocking his head to one side. “Could’ve done that myself.” Another glare from Tygett had the captain grinning like a fool, and he took to leaning on the wall next to them.   

Andrew returned with a wineskin and was awarded a pat on the back. It was rich, smooth on the tongue, and Robert must’ve already been halfway through it by the time he’d been relieved of his stinking armour. The sun had calmed its efforts now, a light breeze swirling all around. Slowly, the crowds dispersed, until it was just them in the courtyard—and some guards garbed in yellow and green Edric was hollering to.  

This was Robert’s favourite part of the castle so far, and most likely the only place he would ever love. Whilst it could not compare to battle, it reminded him of the Eyrie. Gods, how one could waste a day out here with only a friend and a sword. An invaluable escape from all that awful politicking. It had become customary that a knight was not welcome here if they did not take to the yard with Robert, and thus far, no one had disappointed.  

But Robert felt it only a gilded cage. The middle bailey was sunken, hidden away behind red, menacing walls, and he could not see the city, nor the surrounding countryside. On all sides were merely more reminders of kingship. Robert raised his gaze to the Tower of the Hand across the yard. Perched up there on that dreaded tower, you were offered the most commanding view of the city. How many cunts had built their nest up there? He was sure he could see Arryn up there now, leaning out the window, no doubt dredging up some new duty for Robert too do. A falcon, ready to swoop down on its prey.  

Jaime finally made his awaited appearance not too long after. As Andrew had said, Daven was on his coattails and bothering him with half a hundred questions. The little shit didn’t notice Robert at first, not until Andrew tapped him on the shoulder. With a start, the squire retreated, only to back into Jaime, and was slowly urged forward with a gentle hand.  

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Daven mumbled.  

Andrew snickered. “You missed out on the best part!”  

Chuckling himself, Robert beckoned the lad closer. “Polish my armour in there and I’ll forget all about it.”  

Dutifully, Daven obeyed, though not before shooting his peer a look.  

“And you’re needed in the sept afterwards!” Robert called out after him. “The Septon has a lesson for you.”  

“What about Andrew?” He cried, incredulous.  

“Andrew was there this morning. Now, get to it!”  

Settling back into his seat, Robert closed his eyes. The sun’s embrace warmed his skin, the breeze found its way beneath his fabrics, and the wine was settling well in his stomach.  

 “Where were you lad?” He heard Tygett inquire.  

“The Lord Commander had me showing Ser Mandon around the city.”  

Morose Mandon Moore would've been at his lord’s side since they first arrived. Nor was he a man remotely interested in the hustle and bustle of the capital, or even just a quiet drink with friends. Fashioned for duty and battle. Just as Jon’s captain of guards Vardis Egen was, the only man you might say was associated with him. Great instructors for when Robert bothered with the sword, and simultaneously the worst company any other time.  

“And?”  

Robert heard plates of armour scrape. “He was quiet. He was a quicker learner. I had no issues.”  

“Your Grace,” the knight suddenly said. Robert opened his eyes and raised a hand to shield himself from the glare.  

“What?”  

“Lady Lyanna asked I might send word for you.”   

Robert was on his feet at once. “Where is she?”  

“Same as always, Your Grace.”  

Taking one last gulp from the wineskin and handing it back to Andrew, Robert was off to her without hesitation. It was not often she sought him out like this. His heart was racing, mind boiling over with thoughts on what it was. Something joyous, he hoped. Soon he was standing in the middle of the godswood, right by the carved oak. Where is she? He raised his gaze upwards. Nothing.  

“Where the bloody—” Robert began, only for a figure to leap out from behind the twisted trunk. Leaves were thrown in his face, and Robert protested with a shout. “Bugger off!”  

The sweet sound of her voice had him calmed but scowled all the same as she was revealed to him. Giggling madly with a hand over her mouth, Lyanna seemed the happiest he had ever seen.  

“Look!” She gleefully cried. A letter was thrust to him. “From Ned!”  

“When?” Robert exclaimed, the prior prank forgotten. Excitement, relief, jubilation; it was all bubbling up from within. “Is he ok? Where is he now? What’s he been up to?”  

Stumbling over to him, a hand on her mouth as she came down from the high, Robert saw her grey eye were alive, dancing. Waving the letter in front around, Robert clutched it with both hands. “Dawn has been returned to Starfall, and there was no trouble on the roads,” it read. “Howland and I have just passed Tumbleton.”     

Tumbleton was the last major stop on the roseroad as it ran north to King’s Landing. A humble little town ruled by House Footly, it lay close to the source of the Mander. Robert had crept around its western outskirts on his flight north from Ashford. Once upon a time he thought it would be nice to visit, and Donal Noye had wanted to take him once, needed to see to some iron sourced in the surrounding hills. That was a distant memory mow.  

“He sent this when?”   

Lyanna hummed in thought. “A week ago, I’d guess.” Catching onto his meaning, her lips quirked up in a grin. “He must be close then?”    

“Ned might even be within a day’s ride of the city,” Robert dreamt aloud.  

“Let’s ride out then!”  

The words tumbled from her without second thought, and any trace of her past depression had dissipated. He hadn’t realised she was clutching his arm fiercely, nor had she, until this moment. Robert drew closer.  

“What are we waiting for then?”  

Lyanna was dragging him across the godswood and out to the stables before he’d had a chance to think on it further. Who cared? Ned would be here soon! They found squires and stableboys mucking about when they arrived, and Robert gave them one good glare. Gone with the wind.  

“Was that necessary?” His betrothed interrogated, hands on her hips.  

“Of course,” he replied. Robert was about to go and find their horses when he found himself staring down an annoyed Daven. Gods, what could he want now?  

“You’re meant to be at the sept, Daven,” Robert intoned, brushing past the boy.  

“You said that we’d train today!” He protested.   

“If you listen to me then it might still happen,” Robert snapped. Glancing over his shoulder, his squire had forgotten his place and remained rooted to the floor. “Off with you! Now!”  

His charger was peering out from the stable at the whole affair. Was it grinning? Robert paid it no mind and led it out, but as he turned back around, found Lyanna standing next to the source of his current grief.   

“He can join us, Robert,” Lyanna announced. She did not care for his rebuttal, already looking back to Daven, and spoke to him softly. “We’re headed out to meet my brother, the Lord of Winterfell.”   

“I’ll get my horse!”   

Smirking, Lyanna struck out to her own destrier. Pausing next to Robert, she trailed her hand on his arm. “Ned also said you weren’t the best with your squires.”   

“I did just fine with Massey!”   

“I’m sure,” she drawled.  

“Can’t we be alone?” He mournfully asked when Daven was out of earshot.  

Clicking her tongue, Lyanna shook her head.  

Trotting out into the courtyard, at least they were of the same mind three was plenty company. Hoping to outfox any of the Kingsguard lurking about, they skirted the edges of the courtyard, a wary eye kept to the walls and gates. Passing beneath the iron jaws of the portcullis, Robert felt a watchful presence from behind. He turned in the saddle. Of course. There was Edric atop the walls, looking down at them with eyes narrowed. Dressed now in his best greens and mail, Robert was reminded he was just another swept up by the demands of court life.  

It was too late to interfere, and the moment they were free of the castle, all three were racing down and to the Lion Gate. River Row was packed at this hour as fishermen returned from their voyages (not like they could go too far anymore), and their charge slowed down to a mere meander, weaving around carts and ducking hanging signs. People had begun to take note of the royal presence. “Is that the king?” Some asked, whilst others were already hollering that indeed it was.  

Gold Cloaks eyed them up with much curiosity, and though they tried to organise something of an escort, the three were well beyond their clutches by the time they’d even pushed back the swelling crowds. And the guards on the walls took note as well. More green cloaks.  

Gods, it reeked down here. Robert pinched his nostrils as the stink of salt and fish rose up to him. By the time they’d made it to the gates, Robert was ready to retch, and gulped in all the fresh air he could as they started on the goldroad. Really racing ahead now, Robert guessed they were looking for where the Rush ran low, where they might cross without needing to wait on a ferry, avoid all that bothersome attention.  

It was some time before they found somewhere appropriate. Rushes and reeds raced up to meet them, brushing their legs as they went off the road. Robert could hear the bubbling of a slow river, the quacks of ducks and high-pitched calls of other birds. On the other side lay the start of the kingswood, not near as dense as the other parts, and hardly hinting at what was to come. When their horses arrived at the slow waters, he paused. Lyanna was already scouting the best point to cross. In the warm light of the afternoon sun, Lyanna glowed. White was the blouse she wore, little frills, and her trousers were already worn, boots muddied and beaten.  

As he drew up next to her, his gaze crept shamefully about her. To her waist, hips, legs. Then up to her chest, neck, and finally, her face. She’d caught him long ago. Robert’s face went red, but she didn’t say a thing. Blushing as well, Lyanna held his gaze, before plunging into the cold waters, lest he ruin the moment. Following her without protest, it was Daven who complained instead, for he only had a poor palfrey, and the water was at his knees.  

But both struggled, in the end. The mud sucked at the horse’s hooves, the waters grew fiercer in the centre, and all the while, Lyanna was watching them from the other bank. Bemused, he thought, a cocksure grin on her lips. Robert didn’t care for the judgment now. He looked to where the dampness clung to her blouse, unashamed. If she would not protest, he would not hesitate to indulge.  

Again, she caught his attention. Robert remained firm. He took it all in, the hints of what lay beneath, until his horse settled up before her on the bank, and he met her gaze.  

“Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are, my lady?” Robert asked, though stated, really.  

Oh, how he needed her in this moment. Why must she have let Daven come along with? Passion coursed through his veins to its inevitable destination, and the horse shuffled even closer, sensing Robert’s want. He wanted to say he loved her again. To tell her that she was all he ever needed. Wild, gorgeous, free-spirited Lyanna Stark. So close. But so far. What were his charms to this image of the fair Maiden?  

And then she laughed. Gods, she laughed. Music to disgraced ears. He drank it in, let it pool in his lung, in his stomach. It prickled his skin and left goosebumps in its wake. It captured his heart and mind, filling him with fanciful thoughts of what could be.  

“Careful, Robert, or I might think you’re serious.” She turned to lead, but her attention lingered on him. He saw it, the quick flash when her eyes crept south. “Want me as I want you” , Robert prayed to any of the Seven who might listen.  

Lyanna Stark was not one to let herself be known for too long. She clicked her tongue and once again they were off and away from the Blackwater Rush. Daven was still complaining, though Robert could hardly hear it. “I am serious, my lady,” he called out after her.  

Slowing her horse as the riverside ended and the forest began, the Maiden glanced over her shoulder, and how delightful it was when there was no scorn upon her face. “We’ll see,” she said, and Robert took the advice to heart.  

The fringes of the kingswood enveloped them, the little saplings and bushes giving way to towering trees crowned with green and thick canopies, great vast nets that caught any trace of sunlight. From the thick trunks sprouted mushrooms of all sort and flowers. Lyanna stopped to pick a few. Robert looked around and saw a stag watching him from afar. Its antlers stood proud, black discs tracking him as he came to a halt. Daven saw it to and asked if Robert wanted his bow.  

“Another time,” he answers, and made to follow his guiding light once more.  

Soon they were upon the kingsroad, and only for a short while. They passed traders, woodsmen, hunters, more Gold Cloaks, and even a party of knights bearing the banners of House Farring: split half white and purple, two knights in combat of the opposite colour on each. “Your Grace,” all of them greeted in turn. Robert tried to spy if their lord was amongst them but found nothing.  

“We were summoned by the Hand of the King,” one answered for him.  

“What for?” Robert asked and wondered what else was still in play without his knowledge.  

“Captains for the fleet, Your Grace,” another informed.  

“And for the City Watch,” the first one added.  

“Aye, well, on your way then.”  

When they arrived at the roseroad, Robert found it quite underwhelming as always. It was framed by thick and twisted branches that formed an archway overhead, and a stone marker told of what was beyond. But the entrance way was infringed upon by troublesome roots, hanging ivy, and the cobbles were frayed and cracked. When was the last time it had been maintained? Would Lord Tyrell keep to a cause who could not even care for his roads?  

If Robert were to follow this cobbled road, he’d pass by almost all the pride of the Reach: Tumbleton, Bitterbridge, Longtable, Cider Hall, Highgarden, and then finally, Oldtown. It hugged the mighty Mander at some points, and Robert was vaguely curious what it looked like. One heard tall tales from every damned knight and bard about its beauty, the life source of the largest kingdom in the realm.  

Vineyards encroached upon the road, he’d been told, kept at by only by low stone walls choked by flowers. That was about all that intrigued him now. His one and only time in the region had been the march to, and flight from, Ashford, and if he were to venture that way again, it best be for a good purpose. Lord Tyrell’s presence was felt well beyond the borders of his lands. Robert’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and they dismounted.  

It was there that they patiently waited for Ned, hitching their horses to the nearby trees. Robert took a seat at the base of an old, overgrown oak, and Lyanna stood on its roots, gaze kept to the southwest. Daven got bored of course, as Robert had expected. He asked what he might do, and Robert gave him leave to explore, on the condition he came back with any news about the game in the area.  

A dreaded question crept up to the back of his throat. It was choking him, thick and heavy, and Robert loosened his collar for relief.  Why must it have been forced upon him? And what a wonder that was, for not too long ago, Robert would’ve eagerly pressed the opportunity. The woman he loved was not like that, he’d learned, and his love meant he had to be patience. And gods, how that wore him down. Robert had passed by the Street of Silk many times on his dreadful rounds with Ser Barristan. “We need to ensure the gates are well armed,” the Lord Commander argued.  

Expensive looking whores swathed in silk or barely anything at all would always be leaning out the doorways and windows. He tried to avert his eyes. What a failure he felt like when eventually was found himself relishing in their naked skin. Selmy judged him as well, quiet as it was.    

“Lyanna,” he called gently.  

“Robert?”   

He tried to hide his frown as he spoke and took a moment to muster the courage needed. “There’s a matter, we ought to discuss.”   

“Is it what I think it is?” Lyanna replied at once.  

“What do you think it is?” Robert probed, mind steeped with curiosity and terror.  

It was all he ever wanted. To have a woman at his side just like him, beautiful, wild and free, uncaring for the ways of court and realm that chained him down. What a dreadful process it had been to get here.   

Lyanna bit her lip, then revealed all. “Ser Mark told me that Lord Arryn wants to see us wed soon.”   

That man needs to recall his vows. “Ryswell told you?” Mayhaps Ser Barristan was correct about doing it all properly. “How did he even find out?”   

Hesitation took hold, Lyanna mulling it over, already realising she might’ve given away too much. Eventually, she relented with a saddened sigh. “He said found out from a servant and felt that he must relay such to me. He said that Lord Arryn was quite adamant about such,” she continued. Then she looked to him, investigative. “Yet, he also said you were not?”  

Robert swallowed the lump in his throat, sucking on his lips as he did. “Ser Mark only spoke half the truth.” That drew her closer. “I want this Lyanna, more than anything in the world, I want this. But how can I force it upon you? ‘My rights’ is what I first thought. What did I expect? I fell in love with Ned’s stories, and I should’ve learned from them. How can I tie a woman like you down? How can I force something like that upon you?”  

He was fidgeting far too much. A stillness took hold as he thought on what to say, an excruciating, unbearable stillness. A thousand and one thoughts bounced around his skull, and none brought him any closer to truly speaking his mind. What did his thoughts on it even matter? He knew the real question.  

“Do you want this, Lyanna?”  

Silence returned with a vengeance. Nothing at all was spoken in response. He looked away when she took too long, heart already taking one beating too many. Robert knew it from the moment they spoke at Harrenhal. Before that even, when his name was spoken like a foul curse, a plague upon her mind. The breeze lulled, the sun hidden behind the crowded canopy. At one side, his horse pawed impatiently at the forest floor.   

“Robert,” he heard her call. At once he turned. “I... I don’t know. You’ve been good to me, in your own way. I thought you might hold me down. I saw how the other lords in the north treated their wives, how they were just things to parade about. And when Ned told me of your... ways, I feared the same.”  

“Ned said you loved me, but how long would that last? I asked him if it would tame and I’m still unsure of his answer. I know now that you aren’t like those other lords; that you might even see me as an equal.” She was so much more than that—a goddess to a blind beggar. “But I fear so much more Robert, you know that.”  

“How long before you find warmth in another’s bed? How long till I’m just an accessory of yours? When will you cast me aside at last when I’ve grown old, when my beauty fades?” She shook her head. “I know you Robert, and I know it will not last.”   

Robert stood up at once. His heart racing, every inch of him in torment. “You don’t know that! I can be good Lyanna, I know that.” Robert had repeated that mantra in his head for so long, desperate that it was the truth. “I know I’m not the best to you but I’m trying! I’ve stayed my hand; I’ve remained loyal only to you! I don’t know how, but it shames me now, to think I had even lain with another! Before I even knew you!”  

“Ever since that night in Harrenhal, every time I closed my eyes, I saw you ! I thought I was going mad! You told me to figure it out myself, and I know it now! I was taking it all for granted!”  

The quiet life in the Eyrie. The friends around him. Jon’s love and affection. Ned’s loyalty. In the last years, gods, long before that, all that he held onto was under siege, and yet he had pretended like it was all ok for far too long.  

Robert drew as close as he dared and took her hands in hers. “Please, Lyanna. Don’t make me beg. I will if I must but please.”  

“And how can I trust you?” Her eyes were cold as ice, steely and reserved.  

“Because I’m not a fool anymore, Lyanna! I know I cannot waste this chance that I have! You’re all that I’ve got in that damned castle! It changed everyone I know, I’m surrounded by blonde haired cunts and friends who let their ambitions run to far! How could I betray you when you’re all that I’ve got?”  

“I swear that to you! On the Seven above, on my brothers! I swear it by my parent's watery graves, Lyanna! I have never been surer of anything in my life. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now! I fought a year for you, lost more sleep than I thought possible over you, I’ve lost friends for you, family even! But now I fear I’m about to lose you too! I nearly lost Ned, and I can’t let this happen, not now, not after all this.”  

Robert didn’t realise how firmly he was clutching her hands and quickly released his hold of them. He looked everywhere but her, so ashamed that he had to plead with her. Ashamed that this was what it took to be a better man.  

“I have nought to give but these words,” Robert continued, quieter now. “I love you, Lyanna Stark.”  

She had his heart in the palm of her hand. She, who had bewitched him like in the stories all that time ago. She, who could get through to him where others failed. Lyanna Stark, the one he faced death with a smile upon his face for.   

“Do you really love me, Robert Baratheon?” Lyanna asked. The steely glare was gone, but the mist had returned.  

“More than anything in this life. More than battle, more than my hammer, more than Storm’s End, more than anything else I’ve heard near and dear to my heart.”  

Something clicked in his head. Lyanna Stark needed more than assurances, but the truth, the whole truth.  

“I know that when I first asked your father for your hand in marriage, I didn’t know you. I knew only tales and ideas in my head. I know better now. You’re not just my betrothed or my wife to be. You’re Lady Lyanna of House Stark. Lyanna Stark, bold and proud. Lyanna Stark, who has the courage to speak out against me. Lyanna Stark, who I cannot take for granted, who I must change for, who I’ve tried to change for . And it is you that I desire above all, everything about you.”   

“I’m a fool I know. I know that I’ve hurt you, and I suffer for it every day. If I could take it all back, I would and start anew. And though I can’t do that, I want to save what’s left of us. I-I don’t know if an us exists, but I’m damn well going to try! I don’t want your forgiveness. I don’t think I’ll ever get it. What I want is for this to work, with my whole body, my heart, my soul. ”   

Robert had nothing left to give. His throat was dry, his mind captured by fear. Lyanna’s expression did not change. Gods, it would never be enough, would it? And how could he ever hope to win the favour of a woman such as her? What a rotten fool he was for this.  

He needed to flee. Turn tail and run. He needed a cask of wine and something to unleash his sorrow upon. The horse was close; he could mount it right now and get away from her. There was a coin purse in the saddle; how far could he go?  

So close to giving in to that craven desire, Robert felt something soft grace his weathered hands. Lyanna had both his in hers and drew him closer. Her eyes were soft, welcoming. Robert’s heart dared to leap.  

“Then,” she began, slowly. “Perhaps I can learn to love you.”  

Within seconds, his wicked bones were warmed, his terrible heart burst with joy, and his horrid mind dared once more to dream. In this little place where the roseroad began, Robert swore to himself, to the Seven above, to Steffon and Cassana, to all who had fallen to get him here, that he must hold onto this. Let him be cast down to an early grave if he failed. A chance he’d been given, that chance he would grasp with both hands.   

“You’re serious?”   

Lyanna smiled, ever so softly. “Don’t prove me wrong, Robert.”   

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”  

~~  

Some hours later, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, rode up the roseroad with a Howland Reed by his side. A babe was in his arms, and his head was awash with fears of what was he to find. Had poor Lyanna fled north? Had Robert fucked it all as he still despaired? What about their promises on the battlements of Storm’s End, had he kept to those?  

And then, he saw the most brilliant sight he thought possible. There they were. Robert was leaning against an old oak, and Lyanna was resting her head against his shoulder. Some little blonde-haired boy was tapping his foot impatiently nearby, but who cared for that. Little Brandon Snow’s hands reached out as they neared, and Ned held the boy closer to his chest.   

Lyanna and Robert looked happy. Blushing like maidens, jesting like old friends, holding each other close like partners. Ned approached cautiously, smiling at the sight, and wondered what on earth his dear friend had done to get Lyanna to laugh again. Robert had always surprised him.  

Twas a sweet thing to see, and Ned had a feeling it all might be alright.  

Chapter Text

Appendix

The King of the Iron Throne and his Great Lords in the year 283 after Aegon’s Conquest.

HOUSE BARATHEON

The youngest of the Great Houses, born during the Wars of Conquest. Its founder, Orys Baratheon, was rumoured to be Aegon the Dragon’s bastard brother. Orys rose through the ranks to become one of Aegon’s finest commanders. When he defeated and slew Argilac the Arrogant, the last Storm King, Aegon rewarded him with Argilac’s castle, lands, and daughter. Orys took the girl to bride, and adopted the banner, honours, and words of her line. The Baratheon sigil is a Crowned Stag, black, on a golden field. Their words are Ours is the Fury .

KING ROBERT BARATHEON, The First of His Name, Lord of Storm’s End, 

• his bastard daughters, MYA STONE, in the Eyrie, BELLA RIVERS, at Stoney Sept, the latter unknown to King Robert,

• his betrothed, LADY LYANNA, of House Stark,
• his brothers:
  - SER STANNIS BARATHEON,
  - RENLY BARATHEON, a boy of 8,
• His other close kin:
  - LORD ROYCE ESTERMONT, grandfather, m. Lady Larrissa Tudbury,
    - SER ELDON, uncle, m. Lady Mary Meadows,
      - SER AEMON, cousin, m. Lady Elenda Mertyns,
        - their son, SER ALYN,
    - SER LOMAS, uncle, m. Lady Jocelyn Staedmon,
        - their son ANDREW, squire to King Robert,
    - [LADY CASSANDRA], King Robert’s mother, died at sea,

• his small council:
  - GRAND MAESTER PYCELLE,
  - LORD JON ARRYN, hand of the king, Warden of the East, foster father of King Robert and Lord Eddard,
  - LORD TYWIN LANNISTER, master of coin, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West,
  - LORD HOSTER TULLY, master of laws, good father to Lord Eddard,
  - VARYS, a eunuch, called THE SPIDER, master of whisperers,
  - LORD ROYCE ESTERMONT, LORD ‘BRONZE’ YOHN ROYCE, LORD GULIAN SWANN, counselors,
  
  
• his lords and ladies at court:
  - LORD BARTIMUS BELMORE, LORD ROLAND CRAKEHALL, LORD EON HUNTER, LORD DAMON MARBRAND, LORD CLEMENT PIPER, LORD HORTON REDFORT, LORD ALESANDER STAEDMON, called PENNYLOVER, LORD SELWYN TARTH, called THE EVENSTAR, LORD EDDARD STARK,
  - LADY CERSEI LANNISTER, twin to Ser Jaime, LADY DARLESSA MARBRAND,
  
  
• His knights, squires, and other retainers at court:
  - SER BRUS BOLLING, SER BORYS BUCKLER, SER CLEOS COLE, SER LYN CORBRAY, SER VARDIS EGEN, SER ELDON ESTERMONT, SER AEMON ESTERMONT, SER GILBERT FARRING, SER EDRIC FELL, captain of guards, SER TYGETT LANNISTER, master-at-arms, SER GERION LANNISTER, captain of the Red Cloaks, SER ADDAM MARBRAND, SER JUSTIN MASSEY, SER CORTNAY PENROSE, SER LEOWYN TEMPLETON, SER HUGH REDFORT, and other knights of the rebel alliance.
  - Robert’s squires, ANDREW ESTERMONT, DAVEN LANNISTER,
  - RICHARD HORPE, squire to Ser Edric,
  - LYLE CRAKEHALL, squire to Ser Tygett,
  
  
• his Kingsguard:
  - LORD COMMANDER BARRISTAN SELMY, called THE BOLD,
  - SER JAIME LANNISTER, twin of Lady Cersei, called THE KINGSLAYER,
  - SER MARK RYSWELL,
  - SER MANDON MOORE,
  - SER PERWYN PIPER,

• the people of King’s Landing:
  - THE HIGH SEPTON, Father of the Faithful, Voice of the Seven on Earth, a grossly overweight man, called THE FAT ONE,
    - SEPTON TORBERT, SEPTON RAYNARD SEPTON OSSIFER, SEPTON OLLIDOR, of the Most Devout, serving the Seven at the Great Sept of Baelor,
    - SEPTA MOELLE, SEPTA AGLANTINE, SEPTA HELICENT, SEPTA UNELLA, of the Most Devout, serving the Seven at the Great Sept of Baelor,
  - CHATAYA, proprietor of an expensive brothel,
  - TOBHO MOTT, a master of armourer, forged Ser Mark’s armour,
  - HAL KERWOOD, Commander of the City Watch, former Captain of the Lion Gate,
    - JANOS SLYNT, Captain of the Iron Gate,
    - SER HARROLD STAUNTON, Captain of the Dragon Gate,
    - HARLAN STONE, Captain of the Old Gate, recent appointment of Lord Jon,
    - SER GROVER VANCE, Captain of the Gate of the Gods, recent appointment of Lord Hoster,
    - HARMON WATERS, Captain of the Lion Gate,
    - SER ALARIC SUNGLASS, Captain of the King’s Gate, recent appointment of Lord Commander Barristan Selmy,
    - MANFRYD MARSDALE, Captain of the River Gate,
  
  

• his court and retainers of Storm’s End:
  - MAESTER CRESSEN, counselor, healer, tutor, and father figure for the Baratheon brothers,
  - DONAL NOYE, castellan of Storm’s End,
  - GYLES, captain of guards,
  - SER RONNAL COLE, SER CORTNAY CARON, SER LOMAS ESTERMONT, SER DAVOS SEAWORTH, former smuggler, called THE ONION KNIGHT,
  - RENLY BARATHEON, King Robert’s youngest brother, a boy of 8,

The principal houses sworn to King’s Landing are Rykker, Rosby, Stokeworth, Staunton, Hayford, Celtigar, Velaryon, Massey, and Bar Emmon.

The principal houses sworn to Storm’s End are Selmy, Wylde, Trant, Connington, Penrose, Errol, Estermont, Tarth, Swann, Dondarrion, Caron, Fell, Morrigen, Mertyns, Staedmon, and Rogers.

HOUSE STARK

The Starks trace their descent from Brandon the Builder and ancient Kings of Winter. For thousands of years, they ruled from Winterfell as Kings in the North, until Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, chose to swear fealty to Aegon the Dragon rather than give battle. Their blazon is a grey direwolf on an ice-white field. The Stark words are Winter is Coming.

EDDARD STARK, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North,

• his wife, LADY CATELYN STARK, of House Tully, formerly betrothed to Brandon,
• their son and heir, ROBB STARK, a babe at the breast,
• his bastard son, BRANDON SNOW,
• his siblings:
  - [BRANDON], his elder brother, murdered by the command of Aerys II Targaryen, originally betrothed to Lady Catelyn,
  - LYANNA, his younger sister, betrothed to King Robert,
  - BENJEN, his younger brother.
• His household:
  - MAESTER LUWIN, a counselor, healer, and tutor,
  - GUNTHOR POOLE, steward of Winterfell,
    - his only son and heir, VAYON,
  - THEO, of House Wull, companion of Lord Eddard, called BUCKETS,
  - SER ETHAN GLOVER, companion of Lord Eddard,
  - SER RODRIK CASSEL, master-at-arms, castellan of Winterfell,
  - JORY CASSEL,
  - FARLEN, kennelmaster,
  - OLD NAN, a storyteller, once a wet nurse,
    - HODOR, her great-grandson, a boy of 2,
  - GAGE, the cook,
  - MIKKEN, smith and armorer,

The principal houses sworn to Winterfell are Karstark, Umber, Ryswell, Mormont, Hornwood, Cerwyn, Reed, Manderly, Glover, Tallhart, Bolton.

HOUSE LANNISTER

Fair-haired, tall, and handsome, the Lannisters are the blood of Andal adventurers who carved out a mighty kingdom in the western hills and valleys. Through the female line they boast of descent from Lann the Clever, the legendary trickster of the Age of Heroes. The gold of Casterly Rock and the Golden Tooth has made them the wealthiest of the Great Houses. Their sigil is a golden lion upon a crimson field. The Lannister words are Hear Me Roar!

TYWIN LANNISTER, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport,

• his wife, [LADY JOANNA], a cousin, died in childbed,
• their children:
  - SER JAIME, known as the Kingslayer, heir to Casterly Rock, twin to Cersei,
  - LADY CERSEI, twin to Jaime,
  - TYRION, Lord Tywin’s dwarven son, a boy of 12.
• his siblings:
  - SER KEVAN, his eldest brother, m. Lady Dorna Swyft,
  - LADY GENNA, his sister, m. Ser Emmon Frey,
    - their son, CLEOS FREY, a boy of 10, 
  - SER TYGETT, his second brother, m. Lady Darlessa Marbrand,
  - SER GERION, his youngest brother,
  
  
• His other close kin:
  - SER STAFFORD LANNISTER, cousin to Lord Tywin, brother to Lady Joanna, m. MYRANDA, of House Lefford,
    - their daughters, CERENNA and MYRIELLE,
    -  their son, DAVEN LANNISTER, a boy of 13, squire to King Robert,
  - SER DAMION LANNISTER, cousin to Lord Tywin, m. Lady Shiera, Crakehall,
    - their son, LUCION,
    - their daughter, LANNA,
  - LADY MARGOT, a cousin, m. Lord Titus Peake,
  
  
• The household at Casterly Rock:
  -  MAESTER CREYLEN, healer, tutor, and counselor,
  - VYLARR, captain of guards,
  - SER BENEDICT BROOM, master-at-arms,
  - SANDOR CLEGANE,

The principal houses sworn to Casterly Rock are Payne, Swyft, Marbrand, Lydden, Banefort, Lefford, Crakehall, Serrett, Farman, Clegane, Prester, and Westerling.

HOUSE ARRYN

The Arryns are descended from the Kings of Mountain and Vale, one of the oldest and purest lines of Andal nobility. Their sigil is the moon-and-falcon, white, upon a sky blue field. The Arryn words are As High As Honour.

JON ARRYN, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, Hand of the King, foster father to King Robert and Lord Eddard,

• his first wife, [LADY JEYNE, of House Royce], died in childbed, her daughter stillborn,
• his second wife, [LADY ROWENA, of House Arryn], his cousin, died of a winter chill, childless,
• his third wife, LADY LYSA, of House Tully, sister to Lady Catelyn,
• their retainers and household:
  - MAESTER COLEMON, counselor, healer, and tutor,
  - SER VARDIS EGEN, captain of the guards,
  - SER BRYNDEN TULLY, called BLACKFISH, uncle to Lady Lysa, her sworn shield.
  - LORD NESTOR ROYCE, High Steward of the Vale,
    - SER ALBAR ROYCE, his son,
  - SER LYN CORBARY, slayed Prince Lewyn Martell in the Battle of the Trident, heir to Heart’s Home, wielder of Lady Forlorn.
  - LADY ANYA WAYNWOOD, a widow,
    - Anya’s sons, SER MORTON, SER DONNEL,
  - MYA STONE, the bastard daughter of Robert Baratheon, a girl of six,

The principal houses sworn to the Eyrie are Royce, Baelish, Egen, Waynwood, Hunter, Redfort, Corbray, Belmore, Melcolm, and Hersy.

HOUSE TULLY

The Tullys never reigned as kings, though they held rich lands and the great castle at Riverrun for a thousand years. During the Wars of Conquest, the riverlands belonged to Harren the Black, King of the Isles. Harren’s grandfather, King Harwyn Hardhand, had taken the Trident from Arrec the Storm King, whose ancestors had conquered all the way to the Neck three hundred years earlier, slaying the last of the old River Kings. A vain and bloody tyrant, Harren the Black was little loved by those he ruled, and many of the river lords deserted him to join Aegon’s host. First among them was Edmyn Tully of Riverrun. When Harren and his line perished in the burning of Harrenhal, Aegon rewarded House Tully by raising Lord Edmyn to dominion over the lands of the Trident and requiring the other river lords to swear him fealty. The Tully sigil is a leaping trout, silver, on a field of rippling blue and red. The Tully words are Family, Duty, Honour.

HOSTER TULLY, Lord of Riverrun,

• His wife, [LADY MINISA, of House Whent], died in childbirth,
• Their children:
  - CATELYN, the eldest daughter, formerly betrothed to Brandon Stark, m. Lord Eddard Stark,
    - her son, ROBB STARK, a babe at the breast,
  - LYSA, the younger daughter, m. Lord Jon Arryn
  - EDMURE, heir to Riverrun,
• His brother, SER BRYNDEN TULLY, called BLACKFISH, 
• His household:
  - MAESTER VYMAN, counselor, healer, and tutor,
  - SER DESMOND GRELL, master-at-arms,
  - SER ROBIN RYGER, captain of the guards,
  - UTHERYDES WAYN, steward of Riverrun,
  - MARQ PIPER, heir to Pinkamiden, a ward of Lord Hoster,
  - RONALD VANCE, heir to Atranta, and his brother, HUGO VANCE, wards of Lord Hoster,

The principal houses sworn to Riverrun include Darry, Frey, Mallister, Bracken, Blackwood, Whent, Ryger, Piper, Vance.

HOUSE TYRELL

The Tyrells rose to power as stewards to the Kings of the Reach, whose domain included the fertile plains of the southwest from the Dornish marches and Blackwater Rush to the shores of the Sunset Sea. Through the female line, they claim descent from Garth Greenhand, gardener king of the First Men, who wore a crown of vines and flowers and made the land bloom. When King Mern, last of the old line, perished on the Field of Fire, his steward Harlan Tyrell surrendered Highgarden to Aegon Targaryen, pledging fealty. Aegon granted him the castle and dominion over the Reach. The Tyrell sigil is a golden rose on a grass-golden field. Their words are Growing Strong .

MACE TYRELL, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach,

• his wife, LADY ALERIA, of House Hightower of Oldtown,
• their children:
  - WILLAS, their eldest son, heir to Highgarden,
  - GARLAN, their second son,
  - LORAS, their youngest son,
  - MARGAERY, their daughter,
• his widowed mother, LADY OLENNA of House Redwyne, called THE QUEEN OF THORNS,
• his sisters:
  - MINA, m. Lord Paxter Redwyne,
  - JANNA, m. to Ser Jon Fossoway,
• his uncles:
  - GARTH, called THE GROSS, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden,
    - his bastard sons, GARSE and GARRETT FLOWERS,
  - SER MORYN, Lord Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown,
  - MAESTER GORMON, a scholar of the Citadel,
• his household:
  - MAESTER LOMYS, counselor, healer, and tutor,
  - IGON VYRWEL, captain of the guards,
  - SER VORTIMER CRANE, master-at-arms,

The principal houses sworn to Highgarden are Vyrwel, Florent, Oakheart, Hightower, Crane, Tarly, Redwyne, Rowan, Fossoway, and Caswell.

HOUSE GREYJOY

The Greyjoys of Pyke claim descent from the Grey King of the Age of Heroes. Legend says the Grey King ruled not only the western isles but the sea itself, and took a mermaid to wife.

For thousands of raiders from the Islands–called “iron-men” by those they plundered–were the terrors of the seas, sailing as far as the Port of Ibben and the Summer Isles. They prided themselves on their fierceness in battle and their sacred freedoms. Each island had its own “salt king” and “rock king”. The High King of the Isles was chosen from among their number, until King Urron made the throne hereditary by murdering the other kings when they assembled for a choosing. Urron’s own line was extinguished a thousand years later when the Andals swept over the islands. The Greyjoys, like other island lords, intermarried with the conquerors.

The Iron Kings extended their rule beyond the isles themselves, carving kingdoms out of the mainland with fire and sword. King Qhored could truthfully boast that his writ ran “wherever men can smell salt water or hear the crash of waves”. In later centuries, Qhored’s descendants lost the Abor, Oldtown, Bear Island, and much of the western shore. Still, come the Wars of Conquest, King Harren the Black ruled all the lands between the mountains, past the Neck to the Blackwater Rush. When Harren and his sons perished in the fall of Harrenhal, Aegon Targaryen granted the riverlands to House Tully, and allowed the surviving lords of the Iron Islands to revive their ancient custom and chose who should have primacy among them. They chose Lord Vickon Greyjoy of Pyke.

The Greyjoy Sigil is a golden Kraken upon a black field. Their words are We Do Not Sow .

BALON GREYJOY, the new Lord of the Iron Islands, Lord Reaper of Pyke,

• his wife, LADY ALANNYS, of House Harlaw,
    - their children:
      - RODRIK, their eldest son, a boy of 11,
      - MARON, their second son, a boy of 9,
      - ASHA, their eldest daughter, a girl of 8
      - THEON, their youngest son, a boy of 5,
• his siblings:
  - EURON,
  - VICTARION,
  - [URRIGON], died of an infection,
  - AERON,
  - [ROBIN], half brother, died in the cradle,

The principal houses sworn to Pyke include Harlaw, Stonehouse, Merlyn, Sunderly, Botley, Tawney, Wynch, Goodbrother.

HOUSE MARTELL

Nymeria, the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, brought her ten thousand ships to land in Dorne, the southernmost of the Seven Kingdoms, and took Lord Mors Martell to husband. With her help, he vanquished his rivals to rule all Dorne. The Rhoynar influence remains strong. Thus, Dornish rulers style themselves “Prince” rather than “King”. Under Dornish law, lands and titles pass to the eldest child, not the eldest male. Dorne, alone of the Seven Kingdoms, was never conquered by Aegon the Dragon. It was not permanently joined to the realm until two hundred years later, and then by marriage and treaty, not the sword. Peaceable King Daeron II succeeded where the warriors had failed by wedding the Dornish princess Myriah and giving his own sister in marriage to the reigning Prince of Dorne. The Martell Banner is a red sun pierced by a golden spear. Their words are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken .

DORAN NYMEROS MARTELL, Lord of Sunspear, Prince of Dorne,

• his wife, MELLARIO, of the Free City of Norvos,
• their children:
  - PRINCESS ARIANNE, their eldest daughter, heir to Sunspear,
  - PRINCE QUENTYN, their elder son,
  - PRINCE TRYSTANE, their younger son,
• his siblings:
  - his sister, [PRINCESS ELIA], wed to Prince Rhaegar, slain during the Sack of King’s Landing,
  - their children:
    - [PRINCESS RHAENYS], a young girl, slain during the Sack of King’s Landing,
    - [PRINCE AEGON], a babe, slain during the Sack of King’s Landing,
  - his brother, PRINCE OBERYN, called THE RED VIPER,
• his household:
  - AREO HOTAH, a Norvoshi sellsword, captain of guards,
  - MAESTER CALEOTTE, counselor, healer, and tutor,

The principal houses sworn to Sunspear include Jordayne, Santagar, Allyrion, Toland, Yronwood, Wyl, Fowler, and Dayne.

The Old Dynasty

HOUSE TARGARYEN

The Targaryens are the blood of the dragon, descended from the high lords of the ancient Freehold of Valyria, their heritage proclaimed in a striking (some say inhuman) beauty, with lilac or indigo or violet eyes and hair of silver-gold or platinum white.

Aegon the Dragon’s ancestors escaped the Doom of Valyria and the chaos and slaughter that followed to settle on Dragonstone, a rocky island in the Narrow Sea. It was from there that Aegon and his sisters Visenya and Rhaenys sailed to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. To preserve the blood royal and keep it pure, House Targaryen has often followed the Valyrian custom of wedding brother to sister. Aegon himself took both his sisters to wife, and fathered sons on each. The Targaryen banner is a three-headed dragon, red on black, the three reads representing Aegon and his sisters. The Targaryen words are Fire and Blood .

THE TARGARYEN SUCCESSION

Dated by years after Aegon’s Landing

1-37
    Aegon I, Aegon the Conqueror, Aegon the Dragon,

37-42
      Aenys I, son of Aegon and Rhaenys, 

42-48

      Maegor I, Maegor the Cruel, son of Aegon and Visenya, 

48-103

       Jaehaerys I, the Old King, the Conciliator, Aenys’ son, 

103-129

        Viserys I, grandson to Jaehaerys, 

129-131 

        Aegon II eldest son of Viserys, 

• [Aegon II’s ascent was disputed by his sister Rhaenyra, a year his elder. Both perished in the war between them, called by singers the Dance of the Dragons.] 

131-157 

        Aegon III, the Dragonbane, Rhaenyra’s son, 

• [The last of the Targaryen dragons died during the reign of Aegon III.] 

157-161 

        Daeron I,  the Young Dragon, the Boy King, eldest son of Aegon III, 

• [Daeron conquered Dorne, but was unable to hold it, and died young.] 

161-171

        Baelor I, the Beloved, the Blessed, septon and king, second son of Aegon III, 

171-172 

        Viserys II, younger brother of Aegon III,

172-184 

        Aegon IV, the Unworthy, eldest son of Viserys, 

• [His younger brother, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, was champion and some say lover to Queen Naerys.] 

184-209

        Daeron II, Queen Naerys’ son, by Aegon or Aemon, 

• [Daeron brought Dorne into the realm by wedding the Dornish princess Myriah.]

209-221 

        Aerys I, second son to Daeron II (left no issue),

221-233 

        Maekar I, fourth son of Daeron II, 

233-259 

        Aegon V, the Unlikely, Maekar’s fourth son, 

259-262 

        Jaehaerys II, second son of Aegon the Unlikely, 

262-283 Aerys II, the Mad King, only son to Jaehaerys

Therein the line of the dragon kings ended, when Aerys II was dethroned and killed, along with his heir, the crown prince Rhaegar Targaryen, slain by Robert Baratheon on the Trident. 

THE LAST TARGARYENS 

[KING AERYS TARGARYEN], the Second of His Name, slain by Jaime Lannister during the Sack of King’s Landing,

• his sister and wife, QUEEN RHAELLA of House Targaryen, fled to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys, pregnant with King Aerys’ child, 
• their children: [PRINCE RHAEGAR], heir to the Iron Throne, slain by Robert Baratheon on the Trident,
  - his wife, [PRINCESS ELIA] of House Martell, slain during the Sack of King’s Landing, —
    - their children:
      - [PRINCESS RHAENYS], a young girl, slain during the sack of King’s Landing,
      - [PRINCE AEGON], a babe, slain during the sack of King’s Landing,
  - ‘KING’ VISERYS, the Third of His Name…

Chapter Text

Distant memories, distant relations

Warm water caressed his old and sore muscles as he lazed about in the bath, steam washing over him in refreshing waves. He’d closed his eyes now as Mya washed his forehead with damp cloth, and let his tired body relax at last. 

“I didn’t know you were so adamant about my presence, father,” Mya hummed after a period of silence. 

“What else was I supposed to do? Never would’ve let a single soul keep us apart,” he grumbled, confused at her own wonderment. 

She was one of the few people left now from his time in the Eyrie, and more than ever he had come to appreciate her steadfast presence. When Otto had suggested a wash might clear his mind, she’d been the one to take him into her charge, dismissing the servants with a wave of the hand.  

Always good counsel from here. Great fun, too, for even sweet Lyanna had come to adore Mya and her wildness—could've been sisters if they were closer in age. 

“Not many lords keep their bastards close at hand,” his little girl continued as she took to scrubbing at his arm, “certainly not with their wives around.” 

“Bunch of cunts, those ones.” He thought me might comment that honorable Ned did the same—but kept his lips tight, for he was not about to spoil that secret now and throw the realm into chaos. 

Mya flicked water at him in jest, chuckling when he threw his hands up in faux protest. "It’s a wonder you were raised by old Arryn with that mouth of yours.” 

Ah, what a delight it had been to annoy the old man with such speech! “It’s not courtly!” had been the common complaint. Even a few, “your lord father would’ve never!” if Robert had been especially obtuse—not that it had ever really gotten through to him. 

“He taught me plenty—but that , would be a step too far.” 

“Sure.” 

Mya left him to his ruminations as she finished her work with the cloth, then took to idly racing patterns in the water when that was all done. Cleanliness was of little concern in these twilight hours of his—but the effort was appreciated. Robert opened his eyes at the light swishing, narrowing them so he might focus better. 

The Baratheon look was certainly there; short, coal-black hair that she’d eventually let grow out longer, with blazing blue eyes and a strong face. Taller than most the ladies at court, and strong to match, he’d loved to take her out for hunts as she grew older, just as able, if not more, than the knights and sons who oft lounged around at court come spring and summer. 

Quite the young woman she’d grown into, the envy of many a suitor despite her “taint”. At twenty he’d “cleansed” her of such—much to the lament of whatever High Septon it had been then—, for she was just a true Baratheon as Cortnay was, in his eyes. 

Robert couldn’t remember though who had taken her hand in marriage—well, really, which man she took the hand of, for such a willful and wild woman would never have submitted herself so. 

My girl...  

“Father?” 

“Mhm,” he mumbled. Turning back to look at his feet, he let the steam clear his stuffed nose as he took a long breath. 

“Do you really speak the truth?” 

“About what?” Robert returned his attention to her, bemused. 

“Well, I just can’t see King Robert Baratheon so humbled by a woman.” 

“Have you met Lyanna Stark?” he replied with a smirk. 

“Of course.” 

“Then why’d you ask?” 

She rolled her eyes at the answer, clearly not satisfied, “you must’ve loved her quite dearly then.” 

“More than you’ll ever know, my sweet girl.” 

Robert closed his eyes again then, lying down further in the water, letting it crest his chest. There were hot springs just like this back in the Eyrie, nestled deep in the foothills of the mountains, hidden in old and forgotten overgrown groves. 

As he thought of Lyanna in such bliss, he thought back to a time long ago... hah, best not think of that now.  

There was one time, when Robert had first gotten to the Eyrie, Ned to follow shortly afterwards, that dashing Denys had taken him down the Giant’s Lance, then ridden north to the Corbray lands upon the river Lynder. There were hot springs all around there, and it was Robert’s first experience with one. It was only his first moon in the Vale, and he already knew this wondrous land was the place for him. 

Oh Denys... taken too soon.  

He wondered if Ronnal was enjoying it just as he had. The boy was the worst of both he and Lyanna in this regard; as strong willed as the two of them and then some, with a wanderlust ten-fold as compelling as each of theirs. It was a wonder anyone had managed to get a hold of him to come down and see Robert—like he’d even get there in time. 

Robert Baratheon was not long for this world now, the fever only worsening as the days drew on.  

At least the water was nice and hot, the wine spiced, and each dish he was served liable to burn your tongue.  

There came a knock at the door then to draw the two from their musings, and Mya flicked her gaze up to it, “who is it?” 

No answer. 

Mya scoffed to herself, the set off to see who it was, holding the door ajar as she peered around it. “My lord,” Robert heard next, and he sat up to get a good look at who it was. 

A tall man entered, broad-shoulder, and Robert squinted as he tried to make out who it was. 

“I’ll leave you to two to it,” Mya called from the door, slinking out without another word. 

“Who’s this?” Robert called out, grunting as he leaned forward. 

“Evening, brother,” Stannis replied curtly, taking a seat on a stool by the tub. 

Robert leaned back again, only a tad relieved, “Oh, tis you.” 

“Indeed.” 

The brothers sat in awkward silence then, such not even interrupted by the routine grinding of the other’s teeth. He and Stannis had never been as close as brother's ought to be, and they’d certainly not made it any easier for themselves. 

“So,” Robert began, “when did you hear?” 

“The raven arrived not more than two days ago; I set sail as quick I could.” 

Ever loyal, at least. “ Maester says I haven’t got more than a moons turn left in me—Cortnay thought I was out of earshot, but that’s the one part that hasn’t failed me yet,” Robert chuckled at the last part, pitifully coughing thereafter. 

“Oh,” his brother acknowledged, and Robert could see how his weight shifted, ever uncomfortable. 

“Aye, well; don’t know what else I expected.” 

He’d cut down on the drink best he could, and Lyanna had kept him ever active. Yet, old habits die hard, and whilst old Jon lived to be eighty and something with balanced humors, Robert was not even sixty, brought to ruin by a lifestyle he still didn’t quite regret.  

“Are you...” Stannis paused midway through his sentence, and he saw how the man’s face twisted and turned, “...alright?” 

What a grand, intoxicating question.  

Robert quieted at such, chewing on his cheeks in thought. What a waste it would be if he went to the grave with regrets, and though some anxieties crowded his mind, Robert took comfort knowing he’d aspired for all that ever could be, eagerly grasping it with both hands. 

“I’m alright, Stannis.” 

This bout of silence was not near as strained as before, and he knew it was probably the best he could hope for. Nonetheless, in a moment of desperation, for he needed some amount of solace—knowledge, that they were still brothers—, Robert laid a hand on the side of the tub, reaching out to Stannis. 

Stannis observed it quietly in thought, and then, grasped it firmly with his own calloused hand. 

I’m alright , Robert thought to himself as weariness took hold, and he felt on the verge of slipping into sweet sleep. 

Chapter Text

King’s Landing  

Robert’s been waiting about an hour now for Ned and Lyanna, tapping his foot against the cold stone as they talk about who knows what in the quiet acre of the Red Keep’s godswood. He peers around the corner of the stone archway, muttering to himself about how he ought to be with them; what could they possibly be talking about that doesn’t concern him? 

Daven’s gone off by now, grumbling about how boring the day had been and expressing a need for some good food. In his place is Ser Tygett—a Lannister for a Lannister—, sharpening his sword with a whetstone, much the same as Whent had that fateful day.  

“Good riding?” Lannsiter inquires as he finished with his piece, thoroughly inspecting it in the dim twilight. 

“Aye—still fucking river water in my boots though.” 

“A pain, to be sure,” the master-at-arms replied, threatening to smile. 

Raising his gaze to the walls, he saw for once that Edric wasn’t shadowing him. However, he’d been replaced by Ser Barristan, who looked to be sending Ser Mandon Moore down to them now. 

“Lord Stark’s brought a bastard with him?”  

“Apparently—not that’ll tell me who the mother is,” Robert replied. He keeps his gaze on the two Kingsguard above, worried he might give it all away if he so much as looks at the other man. 

Tygett shrugged, “a noblewoman most like. Lord Stark wants to protect her ‘honour’, no doubt.” 

Close enough.  

Jon Arryn had asked as well at the River Gate about this babe in Ned’s care, the two of them having a quiet discussion when there. Robert wasn’t sure what the ruse they were going with was yet; mayhaps that lady from Harrenhal.  

“I would’ve had her dressed in silks and silver, brought to live with me,” Robert said to no one, raising his gaze to the night-sky. He wondered how Dalla was doing at this time, and if she was still in Jon’s service 

“No wonder you mislike my brother then.” 

“Which one?” he said, flashing the man a grin. 

“Very funny; who do you think?” 

“Lord Tywin.” 

The master-at-arms nodded, “he hates mistresses and other whores. Our father kept one after mother died, and none like the story to tell about that one too much.” 

“Paraded through Lannisport, weren’t she?” Jon had told he and Ned the story once, over dinner, after a short lesson on the westerlands from Maester Coleman.  

“Mhm; naked, exiled thereafter.” 

“Your brother mislikes passion.” 

“Mhm,” he agreed. 

Robert rolled his shoulders, a cramp oncoming. “Would you have had done the same?”  

Tygett shrugged, “she’d have kept her clothes, at least. 

These fucking Lannister's.  

Robert didn’t push the matter further, once again peering around the corner to see if those two were any closer to finishing. Hearing the crunch of gravel, he thought they were coming closer, only to turn and see it was just Ser Mandon, expression dourer than Stannis’ best. 

“Ser Mandon,” Lannister greeted. 

“Ser Tygett, Your Grace,” the knight of the Kingsguard replied, bowing. He then took up a position not too far from them, hollow eyes ceaseless in their searching. 

The master-at-arms turned his attention back to Robert. “Lord Stark will keep the child then?” 

“Most like; his new wife won’t like it one bit—though she’ll get over it, I’m sure.” 

“From one brother to the next, and now a bastard to boot; Lady Catelyn will learn quickly, no doubt.” 

Robert narrowed his eyes at the stars, turning back to the man, “I don’t suppose your lady wife would like it if you brought one home?” 

“Ha, now what a thought that would be—and her Lordly cousin would have a right fit about it.” Tygett scrunched his nose then, “never liked Lord Damon one bit.” 

“How so?” he queried, perhaps the first Lannister to speak plainly with him. 

“He likes my brother—what more is there to say?” 

“Aye,” Robert said with a low nod, glancing over to Ser Mandon as they spoke. 

“His son’s alright I suppose. A good friend of Jaime’s, so can’t be that bad.” 

Robert had oft seen Ser Addam Marbrand in the training yard, copper hair rippling in the sun. He supposed he was good with a sword, and the ladies certainly seemed to adore his charms. Ser Jaime had perked up with his presence, and when he was not being worked like a dog by Selmy, there was with young Marbrand. 

Over in the west, the sub dipped below the castle walls, the evening sky pink, fluffy clouds lazily wafting by.  

This time, when he heard the rustle of leaves underfoot and hushed whispers, he found that at last Ned and Lyanna were returning from whatever it was they must discuss in solitude. Turning to face the both of them, Robert found he still couldn’t get over the day's affairs, in a bit of disbelief this all may work out. He found himself entranced then, for Lyanna Stark was beautiful in this light, the last vestiges of the sun’s rays lighting up her pale skin. 

“Lord Stark,” Tygett addressed with a curt, bow, “Lady Stark,” he then added with a deeper bow and an attempt at a smile. 

Ned regarded the Lannister with little joy, grey eyes hard as stone, whilst Lyanna nodded her head. His friend then saw Ser Mandon, this time smiling softly, “Ser Mandon.” 

“Lord Stark, Lady Stark,” the knight replied, bowing deeply—though his eyes gave away nothing. 

“Now,” Robert began, the courtesies finally over, “you owe me dinner, Ned.” 

His friend gave him a dark look, and Robert chuckled at that. Looking back to his sister, Ned’s gaze had softened, and Lyanna laid a hand on his arm, mouthing what looked like an “it’s okay” to him. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Robert concluded, grabbing Ned by the arm and dragging him off. “I bid you goodnight, Lannister,” he said, passing the man. 

“And to you, Your Grace.” And with that, the master-at-arms marched off to his quarters, Ser Mandon then taking up a position behind the pair. 

He’d not made it more than two steps when he realised what he’d forgotten, and turned sheepishly to face Lyanna again, who’s arms were crossed. At least Ser Mandon gets a show tonight, and he won’t gossip about it like Ser Mark. 

“Would you like dinner, Lyanna?’ Robert asked. 

Her lips were set in a thin line. “No.” 

Why the bloody hell are you looking at me like that?  

“You don’t need to eat, Lya,” Ned sagely offered. 

She thought on that one a moment, relenting only when Robert mouthed an “I’m sorry”, a well-placed frown sealing the deal. “I’ll join you two, at least”. The words were sweet music to his ears, and the grin he bore at least had her smiling again. 

When she arrived at his side, Robert forgot all about Ned, and offered his arm out to her, still beaming ear to ear like he’d just struck gold. Lyanna glared at him for a moment, but when she saw that he was truthful in his offer, laid hers on his, and that was that. Ned elbowed Robert rather pointedly as they made their way to Maegor’s Holdfast, and he didn’t dignify that with any attention. 

Few were out at this time, another gaggle of septons and septas on their way to their nightly prayers, the day’s guards rotating out for the night’s guards. 

Robert saw as they came upon the upper courtyard, that finally, Ser Barristan had found his man for the drawbridge, Ser Perwyn standing vigil at its far end, bowing to all as they passed by. Robert wondered if it was really a duty of a brother of the Kingsguard to stand out in the cold all night when there were plenty other guardsmen to do such mundane tasks, choosing not to ponder the Lord Commander’s experience for once. 

The Red Keep was quiet at this hour, the only sound the crackling of the torches in their sconces that lined the thick walls and the shuffling of feet as a dozen servants saw to their chores and guardsmen made their rounds. More décor from Storm’s End and the Eyrie had slowly wound its way here; great tapestries and fine carpets; exotic pots and other wares from as far as Slaver’s Bay; old weapons and armour from as far back as the Durrandon’s of old; and other fine things Jon Arryn had studiously seen to fitting out the halls and corridors with. 

He’d argued to no avail that those busts of the old line needed to go. Jon spoke of “tradition” and “normalcy” as oft as he must piss, and so every now and then some Targaryen king would be staring right at him with hollow marble eyes. 

It was Ser Mark and Ser Jaime at the door to his—, no, their —chambers tonight, swords shimmering in the warm light, faces hidden behind white greathelms. Ser Mandon peeled off at that, back to doing whatever else it was he did when not guarding Robert. 

When it came to entering, Ned took a moment to shake hands with Ser Mark, the two quickly lost in discussions, leaving Robert and Lyanna to quietly enter. Robert paused once inside, holding the door open to make sure no scuffle was about to ensure when Ned laid eyes upon Ser Jaime, relieved when after a short spell his friend entered without issue, contenting himself with a simple scowl. 

“We’ll be having seafood tonight,” Robert announced, near drooling at the thought of the oysters, crayfish, and other dishes he’d instructed the kitchens to prepare. He ought to have a steward appointed for such soon, talks of the position lost in the chaos of preparing the realm for the future, and repairing all else. I swear if it's another Lannister I need appoint...  

Ned didn’t seem quite delighted at that, frowning—but Lyanna was all ears, looking back to Robert, “I’ve never had it before; what’s it like?” 

“Slimy and gross,” Ned bemoaned, already off to inspect the chamber. 

Robert snorted his disapproval, then enthused Lyanna with the prospect, “the oysters maybe ; but the kitchen will drown the crayfish and crabs in butter and a dozen herbs, and there’ll be fried fish with other spices you’ve never even heard of Lyanna!” 

He was about to continue, only to think that perhaps this talk would simply bore her. Racking his mind with thoughts of another topic, he instead found that she was still looking to him—excited even. “I uh, don’t know what else they’ll do; but it’ll be good, I promise you.” 

“If you say so, Robert,” Lyanna drawled, smirking. He thought she might go off to her musings as she oft did these nights, delighted to find she was still clinging to his arm.  

Looking around the room, he decided to lead her over to the sofas that faced the great window out to the city, letting Lyanna take a seat before he joined her at her side. If he’d had some wine in him, he might’ve wrapped an arm around her, instead thinking it might be best to just leave a hand between them and hope she might take it. 

“So, Ned,” Robert began to take his mind off a racing heart, “how fared Dorne?” 

Ned drew his attention back from the desk, putting down the letters he’d been inspecting. “Fine; I returned Dawn to Starfall, I was not troubled on the road, and now I’m back here to find you two have come to an agreement.” 

Lyanna chuckled at that, and Robert felt a blush creep up his neck. 

“But how was it really , Ned? What was Starfall like?” She grabbed his hand then, the sensation enchanting. 

His friend quieted at that, looking away from the two of them. “Twas alright.” 

“Oh, don’t hamstring me, Ned; what about that Lady you danced with at Harrenhal? What was her name?” 

As he tried to remember that day, he felt Lyanna’s nails dig into his hand, and he realised perhaps he ought not to bring up that night too much—bad memories for all. 

“Lady Ashara,” Ned replied, voice tinged with sorrow. 

“She spurned you? Ah, well, her brother died, I can’t blame her.” 

This time her nails almost drew blood, and he snapped his head to Lyanna, exasperated, “what?” 

Lyanna wasn’t angry, he found; but her expression was panicked, eyes wide. Before she might explain whatever the issue was that she had, Ned spoke up again. 

“She um... she died, Robert, the night I left.” 

Oh fuck . “Shit I’m sorry Ned I-I should’ve known I-,” 

“No, it’s alright, Robert.” Ned strode over to the sofa then, eyes misty, “let's just, talk about something else, shall we?” 

They both nodded at that, and Ned tried to calm them with a tired smile, taking a seat opposite them. 

“I see that Ser Stannis is here,” Ned started after an awkward silence. 

“Him and Lord Selwyn are building my new fleet, to be aided by my grandfather and uncle when they finally arrive. When’s that done, I’m confident Dragonstone will fall rather quickly.” 

“They’re still on Dragonstone?’ his friend asked, a great curiosity about him. 

“Since Queen Rhaella fled, yes. They’ve got the Royal Fleet with them, and Viserys is being styled as ‘King’ now; it won’t last, I assure you that.” 

A servant poked their head through the door then—a thin man with greying hair—and he entered only when Robert acknowledged him. “The food is on its way, Your Grace.” 

“Good man,” Robert replied, waving him off. When the door clicked shut, he realised he ought to have asked him for some wine to be brought up, grumbling to himself when he knew Lyanna wouldn’t like it anyhow. 

“And how is court, Robert?’  

“Tis fine; it’s almost full already, only one seat on the small council left, and two positions within the Kingsguard.” 

“Awfully quick; I’d have thought it would take many moons.” 

“Aye. Well, I’ve let those on the council to see to that beneath them, and Jon’s being doing a lot of work.” 

Ned nodded, “and who’s on the council?” 

“Lord Tywin as—” and of course he frowned at that, “the master of coin. Lord Hoster is the master of laws, Lord Varys—” quite your scowling! “—is still the master of whisperers and can’t change Grand Maester Pycelle either. Ser Barristan is the new Lord Commander, leaving only the master of ships to choose now.” 

A thought dawned on him then, and he blurted out the question before he even got the chance to think it over. “Say Ned? I know you’re not a sailor; but what about you stay here on the council—I'm sure we can shuffle it around anyhow and find something that suits? It’s been so dreary without you, and Jon’s been awfully fucking demanding!” 

Lyanna squeezed his hand—gently, this time—at the suggestion, and he found she was grinning at the prospect, eagerly nodding to Ned.  To both their disheartened dismay, Ned shook his head, not rising to meet either of their searching, pained gazes. “It's worrisome enough that I’ve been absent from Winterfell this long; my lords have already returned to their lands. And Benjen cannot hope to rule any longer in my stead—he's too young, and it's not fair on him.” 

“But he’s got Maester Luwin and Gunthor Poole at his side; he’ll be fine Ned!” Lyanna’s protested at once, though it was clearly unconvincing, her brothers jaw firmly set. She continued anyway, a furore to her words now, “the lords love you and they’ll love him! Please Ned; you’ve only just gotten here.” 

It went unspoken between them all that she wanted little Snow to stay at court as long as he possibly could as well, his friend glancing to Robert knowingly at her desperation. Robert would have happily seen the boy sent back to Winterfell, but apparently, the cost of such was Ned, much to his mislike. 

And when still, Ned was unsure, Lyanna made her final plea to her brother, speech rushed, now squeezing the life out of Robert’s poor hand. “Won’t you at least stay for another moons turn? Or two?” 

Ned ran a hand through his hair, averting his gaze to the great window where the city lay, still only half-lit. “I’ll stay for the wedding; will that suffice?” 

Lyanna nodded at that, shoulders losing their tension—though the frown remained, and Ned seemed rather crestfallen. 

“How about this,” he said, leaning forward, “our aunt, Branda, she married a knight of yours, Robert: Ser Harrold Rogers. I can send them a letter, see if they can’t take up residence here? I know it's not the same,” he remarked sadly, “but there’ll be a Stark in King’s Landing, and father was fond of Ser Harrold.” 

Robert vaguely knew the man; he’d spent some time at Storm’s End when Steffon was alive—not that he’d brought his wife with him—, and he couldn’t think of any reason to disapprove of him. Still, it was not Ned, and his friend’s refusal stung. 

“I’ve never met Aunt Branda,” Lyanna commented, fiddling with her skirts, “have you?” 

“Once. I was young, and she’d come up to visit Winterfell.” 

It was better than nothing though, and as a line of servants entered the chamber, arms laden with steaming pots and other colourful plates, Robert assented to the suggestion. At least the food would take his mind off things. Ah, but this court life was nothing like he first thought it would be; Ned spoke of his distrust of the Lannister's, and Robert grasped it now as well. Yet, Ned was going to flee again!  

What an odd set of worries that must be racing around his head, all in contradiction with the last; honour of a soiled knight—yet not his sister. Honour to Winterfell and his brother—the situation tenable—yet not his dear friend and foster father, trapped in this pit of vipers. Such worries all but melted away from his mind when boiled lobster served with butter and herbs and a heap of mussels in a creamy sauce was placed before him, mouthwatering, succulent smells rising with the seam. 

Robert could have another talk with Ned before the wedding anyhow, see if something can’t be sorted out. And, if he and Lyanna planned out their approach, well, he’d hardly be able to resist them! 

Roast corn dripping with butter, salad tossed with dressing, and steaks of kingfish lathered with spices had him drooling. He looked to see Lyanna’s eyes were the size of dinner plates, not sure where exactly to start. It was not often that she’d eat much, preferring to pick at her plate much as Stannis would. Now, with Neds return, her old self was finally returning, and Robert was rather glad to know she might share the same appetites as he. 

This is what makes it all worth it, in the end.  

Ned, of course, frowned at the course laid before them, electing to go for some thin slices of beef and other simple roast vegetables that Robert had begrudgingly ordered, knowing his friend's preferences. 

It was not long before they were all stuffed and wiping oily hands on white cloths, and Robert leaned back into the softness of the sofa, content to fall asleep right then and there. Lyanna hadn’t fancied the oysters, as expected, but she had seemed rather pleased with the rest, now licking the remnants of the sweetened and spicy sauces from her fingers.  Smiling at the sight, he did his best to ignore that still his mind wandered to lewd notions in a quiet bedchamber. 

She looked to him then, eyes narrowed, scrutinising him as she oft did. “What?” he mouthed, worried for a moment she could read his mind. 

“Nothing,” was her silent reply, turning her attention back to her brother, who was looking back and forth between them. 

When the last servant departed, finished clearing the dishes, Ned leaned forward, the serious look that Robert misliked about him. Always business, never able to enjoy the finer things. “We ought to talk about the boy,” he began, flicking a mournful gaze to his sister. 

Expecting this from the very start, Robert hid the scowl bubbling up as he thought on that whole mess. “What about him?” 

“I’ve told Jon that Brandon’s mine—said it was the wetnurse.” 

Lyanna shied away from them both at the words, gaze clouded. Robert looked to her, worried, then looked back to an even more worried Ned, “and he’s definitely going to Winterfell?” 

They both heard the sniffle at the same time, and when Robert went to comfort her as he now could, she was already fleeing the room, stamping her feet as she did.  Ned sighed at such, head in his hands, and Robert rubbed his temples, groaning.  

“What a fucking mess,” Robert eventually lamented, breaking the awkward silence. 

“Indeed,” his friend agreed, closing his eyes in thought, “but what else can be done? I don’t know... I’ll go talk to her later.” 

Why had they talked about the boy? Was the rest not enough? Where even was that damned child now—probably fast asleep with not a worry in the world! Robert looked over his shoulder back to the door, face screwed up with worry, “I’d rather go see her now.” 

“Are you sure? She likes to be left alone when she’s upset.” 

“I know—and a lot of good it did the both of us.”  

Ned didn’t catch his meaning, cocking his head when Robert abruptly stood up to go find her. All the same, he was quick at his side, of the same mind that it couldn’t wait as he might’ve first though, “at the godswood, you think?” 

“It’s where she always goes.” 

So, brushing past the two knights at the door without a word, off Ned and Robert went to find dear Lyanna. He gave both Ser Mark and Jaime a look when he heard the clack of their armour as they kept pace, finding that this time neither of them were cowed. Selmy’s gotten to them at last.  

Past Piper they swept into the night, the castle illuminated by the glow of a full moon, the knight regarding them all curiously. Then, swiftly down the Serpentine Stairs they hurried, almost jogging across the upper courtyard to the godswood. An owl hooted somewhere out there in one of the towers, and Robert raised his gaze to find the sky had cleared, dotted with thousands of little bright lights. At least here, at the godswood, did the knights take up their positions at the stone archway, and it was just the two of them that ventured inside, splitting off to find her. 

Instinctively, Robert went straight to the carved oak, careful this time to not crush any of the vines and berries underfoot, whilst Ned began a sweep of the perimeter. It was cold out here, and Robert hugged his cloak tighter to him as a chilly breeze swept overhead and down into the godswood, brushing aside fallen leaves and other debris. 

Alas, there was no one lazing up above in the tall treetops, no sing-song voice to call down to him and sooth his anxieties. He peered around its trunk, and was not met with a whirlwind of leaves, nor did Ned come up with anything when he finished his slow loop around. 

Robert was unconvinced, pushing further on into the godswood, looking high and low, whether she be burrowed beneath or nestled above.  

Still, nothing; no pretty face behind the red leaves. Ned was at Robert’s side then, one hand on his hip, “where else does she go?” 

“I’ve not a clue.” The thought dawned on him that she might’ve fled in her panic, as she had threatened to do before.  

“What about the guards?” 

Already ahead of Ned, for they’d know if she’s snuck away—or perhaps caught her in the attempt—he was marching off to the barracks of the Gold Cloaks within the keep where he knew Edric to be at this hour—if not fast asleep in his quarters. Robert paused as he looked back out across the middle bailey, scanning the battlements themselves in case she had not decided to hide away such. 

Much to his dismal dismay, no figure was dancing between the parapets, the slow sway of dim lanterns undisturbed. Robert was already out and across the yard then, rasping on the door to the barracks, and as he awaited a response, looked to Ser Jaime, green eyes peering out at him. “Go and get the Lord Commander, see if he doesn’t have a clue about where’s she gotten to.” 

The knight obliged, marching off to the White Sword Tower which overlooked the Blackwater Bay. At that, the door to the barracks creaked open, and a leathery face loomed ahead in the dim light. 

“Y’Grace?” the watchmen called out unnerved, nodding his head. 

“Where’s Ser Edric?’ 

“Making his rounds in t’lower bailey.” 

Cursing, he set off at once for the set of stairs lining the eastern wall, skipping stairs as he went. Many pardons were mumbled out and apologies shouted as the three now hurried on down to the lower bailey's battlements, passing by many a bewildered guardsmen curious as to their liege's presence at this late hour. 

The city appeared then, glowing in the night. Vibrant as it was, the scars of the sack were still visible, and he worried that it was taking far too long to see to such. The treasury was fat, and Lord Tywin’s gold was flowing into the city now—so what was with the lack of progress? 

Robert shrugged off such worries as looked off to his right where’d they ridden this morning, to the pitch-black paddocks, the only sound from that direction the crickets. How had it gone so wrong in such a short while?  

It had only gotten colder in these last few minutes, and he began to worry Lyanna'd be freezing if she was still out here. Ned was ahead of Robert now, far fitter than he was, tapping a man looking out between the parapets on the shoulder, “is Ser Edric Fell ahead?” 

“Yes m’lord.” 

A pat on the back had the man doing a double take at the three who hurried past him, a hasty bow to accompany when he realised who it was. 

Passing by where the stables straddled the inner wall now, the thought dawned on Robert that she might’ve taken her horse and fled in the night—gods be good if that’d happened. With his worries now at a fever-pitch, and threatening to boil over, at last they found Ser Edric talking with some of his captains above the main gate. 

“Has Lyanna been through here?” Robert half-shouted, interrupting the conversation. 

Ser Edric looked between them all in mild confusion, “what? On the walls?” 

“No! I mean down there, you idiot!” 

Edric muttered something foul under his breath, regarding Robert with a glare. Ned stepped forward then, desiring to move on with haste, “she’s not ridden out through the main gate or snuck out the postern?” 

“No? What! Why?” 

Robert waved a hand in frustration, already making his way back whence they came, grumbling when he heard Ned apologise. Ser Mark held out a hand as to stop him, saying something about needing a word, and Robert shouldered right past him, not in the mood for some odd northern wisdom right now. 

Once again, looking down to the middle bailey, he wondered if he ought to check the stables; where else could she possibly be? With his mind then made up, down the stone stairs that led down to the middle bailey he went, tucked away behind one of the towers. The others were slow behind him, taking their time as they looked all around for her—though Robert knew that if she was not here, then she may as well never be found. 

Trudging across the yard and to the stable doors, he offered a silent prayer to the gods that they could catch Lyanna before she fled, then barged through without a care in the world for anyone else but her who might be present. 

“Lyanna!” Robert roared, the stables awaking with a start. 

No answer, and he dashed across into the middle, cursing as he stepped in horse shit. 

“Lyanna!” 

Pushing ahead, Robert checked each and every pen, making sure she was not hiding behind any of the horses—most of which were eying him up in annoyance, their sleep thoroughly disturbed. When all that came to nought, Robert fell into despair, pulling out hairs as he ran his hands through it too harshly.  

With heavy steps, and a heavier heart, he eventually made his way back out in the cool night, unsurprised to hear that no one else had any good news for him. 

“The Lord Commander doesn’t have a clue,” Ser Jaime said, in a bit of a puff. 

“I made sure with Ser Edric to turn her around,” Ned continued, biting his lip in frustration. 

In that moment, he didn’t quite know what to think. There was a pit in his stomach, endless, gnawing at the edges, and Robert had a need to fill it, somehow. Thundering past them all, their cries falling on deaf ears, he headed back to Maegor’s Holdfast, a buzzing in his ears that was driving him up the wall. Drink was what he needed to sooth the dull ache in his head. 

Where could she be? Robert had not an inkling of an idea, far too frustrated to even begin to think. Though it was not exactly his fault, her threat still rang in his ears, that she might be halfway up to Winterfell by now, and he was never to see her again. Piper was ignored as he passed the drawbridge, as was Moore who was heading out to relieve the former.  

The halls were deathly quiet at this late hour now, few guardsmen out, and a smattering of servants seeing to their final duties of the night. Old kings watched him as he passed, cursing them all to the seven-hells. 

Frustratingly, as he got closer to his chambers, there were no servants to call upon for wine, and the timid little daughter of Swann’s who’d been his cupbearer was nowhere to be found. If he could just have a stiff drink, then perhaps by morning this would all be worked out, and Lyanna would have returned to the Red Keep after whatever little escapade this was. 

Being in such a fury, Robert found that he’d ended up on the wrong floor, cursing when he abruptly found himself lost, unable to navigate these treacherous and twisted corridors. Stamping past all the different chambers, their occupant's unknown to him, his thought on what all these new guests would think when they saw that Robert had already bungled it. 

Thankfully, no one was on the prowl at this hour. But, as he rounded one corner, he was brought to heel by the sound of faint talking just ahead. They were ladies, no doubt, and he saw that they must be in one of these apartments, one door ajar at the end of, light spilling out. 

He inched closer, unable to recognise who it was, the voices somewhat muffled.  

“Oh well it sounds wonderful!” a high-pitched voice called out, certainly a woman. 

Robert was now at the door, pressing an ear to it. 

“When it snows it’s just—” 

That’s her, isn’t it?  

Far too impatient to even knock, Robert shouldered through the door, remembering at the last moment to catch it before it slammed into the wall. Standing in the entrance, to his great relief, he found Lyanna in that pretty white dress, sitting on the end of a bed. She was facing away from the doorway, and long hair was being braided by another woman.  

This one was tall, dignified, with copper hair and wearing a long grey gown, and it was her who noticed Robert first, looking over in shock. “Your Grace!” the lady stuttered out. 

Lyanna turned then, seemingly a tad mortified she’d been found at last. “Robert,” she greeted, sadly, only mustering a half-wave. A redness was about her cheeks and neck, and Robert wondered if it was shame. 

“Why, Lady Stark was just telling me about Winterfell,” the other lady clarified, sitting up from the bed and dipping her skirts. 

Robert narrowed his eyes, then remembered his courtesies, dipping his head, “I didn’t intend to intrude. And who might you be, my Lady?’ he then inquired further, stepping into the warm chamber. 

“Lady Darlessa Lannister,” the copper haired woman replied, stopping before him, “Ser Tygett’s wife, and cousin of Lord Damon Marbrand.” 

“Ah,” he thought, knowing Tygett must count himself lucky to have married such a fine woman. “So, this is who must put up with Ser Tygett’s moods,” he japed, hoping to lighten the mood, “and might I say, it seems he’s married above his station.” 

Lady Darlessa chuckled at that, holding her palm to her mouth. Lyanna scowled at him in turn, angrily flopping the braid over her shoulder and finishing it herself. 

“My husband can be quite the man when you get to know him,” Darlessa the continued. 

“Oh, I know; a shame it has taken me this long to meet him.” 

“Well, it is good to make your acquaintance, King Robert,” the lady said, offering a hand, and Robert bent to plant a light kiss to it. 

He’d made the mistake of looking to Lyanna as he did this, whose nostrils were flared, so perturbed at what were mere courtesies he began to wonder what exactly it was she’d been doing at Winterfell before all this. Catching such tension, Darlessa retreated from Robert, smiling all the way, and again she bowed her head. 

“I won’t keep you two any longer though; I’m sure you’re desperate to have a quiet night with Lady Lyanna.” 

This one knows her trade well . “My thanks, Lady Darlessa.” 

Lyanna was quick at his side then, uncaring for the unfished braid, and he bid Tygett’s wife goodnight, as she tugged him along and back out in the hall. As the door closed behind them, those sharp nails were digging into his hand once again, and he turned to her perplexed.  

“What? Was I supposed to order her away?” 

“Don’t fucking start, Robert,” she replied coldly, dragging him back to their chamber now, too his surprise, familiar with the castle already. 

“It was a simple courtesy!” 

Lyanna shook her head. “I warned you already!” 

“Look, I’m sorry!” he screeched to a halt as he spoke, having her turn to face him with a tug on her hand. 

Spinning on her heels in a huff, Robert prepared for a strike when angry eyes met his, accepting his fate.  Thankfully, this she-wolf of his had relaxed, and she offered him an apologetic look.  

“It’s not your fault I’m just... well, you know.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Can we just, go back to the room now? I need something to distract myself with. I can’t go and see him; it’ll only raise suspicions.” She was fiddling with the braid as she spoke, and looking everywhere but Robert 

Nodding slowly at that, he was not quite sure what the worry was; as far as the court was concerned, little Brandon Snow was her nephew, and it was not like many were up at this time anyhow. He didn’t reply, instead, leading her to where he knew Ned’s chambers were, slowly remembering the snaking hallways of this damned castle.  The boy was sure to be there, and it wasn’t a long walk, on the same level they were on now. 

Lyanna seemed to understand at once what he was doing. “What if someone sees Robert!” she whisper-shouted in a panic at him, still clutching his hand. 

“So what?” 

That didn’t satisfy her one bit, but she relented nonetheless, a faint smile on her lips as they made the final approach to Ned’s chamber.  Slinking their way in, the Lord of Winterfell was not here yet—probably still off trying to find where Robert had gotten to—, and as he softly shut the door behind them, she was already off to the cradle in the corner of the room. 

Quick as that, the child was scooped up in her arms, and Lyanna held the bundle of cloth to her chest tightly, resting her chin atop the boy's head. Robert didn’t approach any further, not wishing to lay another eye on that spawn of Rhaegar’s—even if it was Lyanna’s as well. She could dislike Mya Stone for all he cared, and he could dislike Brandon Snow in turn. 

Taking a seat in one of the chairs in the room, he closed his eyes as she sang her son a quiet lullaby, rocking him gently back and forth. The boy did not stir, and Robert’s jaw clenched as he thought how it ought to be their child she was cradling so. 

His final victory—one death wasn’t enough.  

Minutes passed slowly as Lyanna took her sweet time, and towards the end of it, when she’d placed the boy back in the cradle, Robert watched as she stood above it, his heart torn as she couldn’t find the strength to depart. The chair creaked as he stood up, but neither stirred as he strode over. At Lyanna's side, Robert hesitated, looking her up and down, taking in her beautiful figure in the orange glow of the chamber. There were tears on her cheeks, and the only noise he heard was her quiet sniffling, one hand wiping her nose.  

Without hesitation, Robert snaked an arm around her waist for support. Bristling at his touch at first, Lyanna nonetheless made no complaint, looking to him with wet eyes. 

“I can see Brandon in him,” she whispered, looking back down. 

“Sure,” he agreed, daring to look upon the child's long face, faint tufts of brown hair a good sign little suspicion could be raised. 

Some more time passed, and the pit in his stomach slowly evaporated, finally vanquished when she rested her head against his shoulder. At that, he led her out from the chamber, suddenly worried a wetnurse or bed maid might appear and spoil the moment. Lyanna did not protest—although her gaze never left the cradle till they were out of the room—, and it was then, standing in the windowless hall, that she leant up to him on her toes. 

There was a soft sensation at his cheek, like that of a butterfly's wings, and ever delightful, as she placed a soft, sweet kiss there. It was the same cheek she’d slapped at Durran’s Grove, and he let out a sigh he did not know he’d been holding as her lips lingered, warm breath fuzzy against his skin. 

“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. 

Placing a hand to his cheek, he did his best to suppress the dozen emotions threatening to pour fourth. “Twas no worry; I didn’t lie this morning.” 

“No, you haven’t,” Lyanna agreed, falling back down to the flats of her feet. 

She rubbed his arm, tracing a pattern in the sleeve of his doublet. Weaving her arm around his then, Robert led the two back to his bedchambers. A quiet night was needed, and for once, he was rather happy his cupbearer was absent. 

Chapter Text

King’s Landing  

Shadows danced around the corners of the throne room as courtesans and nobles made their way between the towering pillars. Some peered curiously around at the king atop his deformed throne, whilst others cursed to themselves as they retreated from a failed petition. 

Robert watched them all with a wary eye, wondering who amongst them would be the first to raise a blade in defiance, and suddenly all their hard work would be torn down.  

Idly, he ran a hand along the side of his new crown; gold, crusted with black diamonds and yellow topazes, and wrought with weaving branches, culminating in a stag’s antlers at its front. A fine thing he supposed he would enjoy wearing, a gift from Jon Arryn of course. 

It’d been like this most of the morning. First, had been a collection of lords of the Blackwater Bay, curious for the umpteenth time as to whether any compensation would be forthcoming for the dozens of young men Lord Tywin had sent to the Wall. 

“Ser Alliser was my right-hand man!” old Lord Thorne had begged, asking that Robert may reverse a sworn oath of the Night’s Watch. 

“Ser Ryman did nought but his duties as a sworn knight of the king,” Lord Staunton had raised. 

“Ser Jaremy’s all I’ve got left, Your Grace!’ the new Lord Rykker had cried, the son of the very Lord Rykker Robert had slain on the Trident. 

For all who had come before the throne today with such an endeavour to see the men returned home, the same answer was given: it was war, and Lord Tywin had been well within his rights to order such of men in service to a king who had abdicated his duties. Even Lord Hoster, ever timid to involve himself in these grand questions, spoke up, well within his rights as the master of laws to defend Lord Tywin’s actions. 

After that, it had been the same old same old; smallfolk, merchants, guild masters, and other tradesmen come to ask if more was to be done for the ailing city, the path to recovery long and rugged. More coin and investments had been promised, as were new lanes, streets and squares, all under the supervision of the same man who had overseen the sack of the city.  

A just outcome, and a just punishment, Robert and Jon supposed. Almost all who lived within the walls of the city had been utterly petrified of the master of coin, shrinking away from him if he ever ventured down into the city. Lord Tywin cared little and less for them, but Jon was adamant something must be done to remedy the situation, or else face a riot within Robert’s first year. 

The men and woman before Robert now, however, were something quite new. With the news spreading of the grand wedding that was to take place within the moons turn, lords and ladies of all stripes and cloth had flocked to the city in droves.  

Yesterday, it had been mostly rivermen and men of the Vale. Today, many of the Reach Lords had come out in force, and Robert was careful to recall each and every one of them, eager to see if they would take to their new king. Damn the others to their wallowing; irrelevant, pissant lords in Robert's mind who clung to the beggard coattails of a dead dynasty. 

“I am Lord Edmund Meadows!” an older man, large of figure and louder of voice, called out to Robert, bowing pompously. “Woe was I to send my men against you. I now bring gifts to you from my fertile lands, to apologise for that foolish err of mine.” 

Robert leaned forward, almost forgetting not to place his hand on the old blades. “I welcome you, Lord Meadows,” he boomed for all to hear. “It warms my heart that you wish to begin anew with House Baratheon; you will find much in our bosom.” 

Trained in such Robert now was, Jon ever incessant he must build upon this charm of his; “You convinced Lord Grandison and Lord Cafferen of your cause, Robert! Broke bread and salt with them, drank wine with them, and they are now counted amongst your most leal allies!”  

“Such warms my heart, Your Grace. I look forward to our future together.”  

After Lord Meadows was a tall and slender man, pointed beard as pale as he. “Greetings, Your Grace. I am Lord Alester Florent, of Brightwater Keep.” 

Florent took to one knee as he spoke, holding a hand to his heart as he continued. “Lord Edmund spoke true, and much the same, I regret the offence of taking up the cause of the Mad King and his ilk. It is ever my desire that House Florent may soon be counted as one House Baratheon’s loyal servants.” 

“Rise, Lord Florent,” Robert commanded, smiling at the words, “it is a new day for the realm, and House Florent shall share such a place with all else at my side.”