King Robert Baratheon sits upon the Iron Throne. He is alone in the room. No servants, no guards, no Hand of the King Jon Arryn. The burly man tries to sit a little straighter in the Iron Throne. He has never needed to be so mindful of nearby swords. At least the crown protects his head.
Everything has been completed. The Targaryen Dynasty has been demolished. That bastard Prince Rhaegar is dead and rotting in the earth, and Lyanna Stark has been avenged. Robert freezes for a moment. Lyanna Stark. Intelligent, beautiful, and strong. The precious sister of his best friend, Eddard Stark. His beloved She has been dead for some time now.
Robert opens and closes his hand. It feels so empty without his warhammer, the worthy tool he had used to decimate Rhaegar. He thinks about getting off the Iron Throne and arranging a hunt and hefting a spear, but he suddenly realizes that he is in no such mood. He wearily rubs the crown on his head.
"So here I am," Robert says tonelessly to the air, "I'm King. I'm the King of all the Seven Kingdoms. Who could have known I would come this far? I would never have dreamed of it." The Baratheon leans forward in the Iron Throne, looking straight down at the hands in his lap. "Still, I may be King and rule over all these people, and all this land, but…" He no longer cares that he is talking to himself. "I don't think I really want it."
An image of Lyanna Stark flashes through his mind. What a woman. Intelligent, beautiful, and strong. "I...I just want to be back in Storm's End and marry Lyanna, take her into my bed, share a drink with her and...who knows, share a drink with her and Jon and Ned. Father some good children."
A moment passes, then the King lets out a sigh. "It's not going to happen, I know. It's true. The grass is always greener, and you don't truly know what you have until it's gone…"
Intelligent.
"Gone…"
Beautiful.
"Gone…"
King Robert Baratheon puts his face in his hands.
