Through the years Robert had always struggled to find the memory completely blissful. It had never – not even once, not even in the true present of it – been a wholly happy moment.
Aye, the battle in the Trident had been one of the most prideful moments of his long life and he had forever remember the sweet taste of winning a titan's battle – they had been true giants that day, masters of steel and death.
The memory of it still bathed his mind in glory and tapestries and portrayals and songs had been created in its honor, in his honor, The King.
Robert was born a rebel and even with gold around his head and a throne to sit on, he was still a rebel.
A tamed one, though.
Seven Hells, he missed the old Robert – his unrivaled strength, his steel, his hunger. Those were the days when he danced trough fields and fields of red, ever victor, ever mighty, ever furious, destroying each and every one the Targaryen armies.
Now, he was a pale shadow of what he had once been - the unwanted crown they placed on his head had turned him into a fat tired and old version of the young ferocious stag born at Storm's End – and even if he was still hungry for conquest there was nothing else to conquer, no golden battles left to fight, no mad Kings to slay, no people to save. Westeros was his – and Robert had never wished it; his rebellion had grown with a different purpose than what the songs sang and tapestries depicted.
He had not raised steel against the fire of the Targaryens for the Iron Throne, it was never his heart's desire; he had rose against the Targaryens for vengeance and his thirst for it had never been entirely satisfied, the seven kingdoms could never suffice, the crown on his head and the gold in his pocket would never be enough for neither of it was what he prayed for.
He had fought all those battles, bled rivers of blood and faced dances of steel and death, not for the bloody Seven Kingdoms, but for a woman, for his woman, for Lyanna.
And what infuriated him the most was his own memory, filled with these golden victories and stranger's faces but not hers. He barely remembered her – her face was a blur, cascades of brown hair and silver eyes, and he could see her name written on his own reflection, could feel her sweet gentle touch in the spring winds and her beauty in rivers and roses, he could even sense her aroma in the snow of the North but it was all tainted in black, forever cursed and unattainable.
She would never be his – and all the battles and blood and death had meant nothing -, Robert was empty and angry as he had been before all of it. He had killed Rhaegar – and still draw spears and swords into his black heart every night – but Lyanna…she had died too.
And now, Robert was alone, surrounded by enemies and poison and greed, haunted by indistinct memories and untasteful victories, consumed with hunger for vengeance and for love, and his only prayer had been despised, his years wasted, his heart forever shattered.
Lyanna.
Her name burned him crueler than vivid flames would, cursing through his tongue and into him.
All of those battles won, all of the steel mastered, all of those deaths conquered, all of those songs sang and she wasn't his.
Rhaegar Targaryen had won.