Robert

Robert could hear the Lord Hand downstairs in the main room, arguing fiercely with the buxom wench who was harboring him. "—already searched a dozen times here!" Elayne was snapping. "And yer soldiers is usin' my girls without pay each time. You can't fool me, m'lord, we all know 'tis an excuse to use my girls."

Robert pumped harder into the little blonde, grunting softly to drown out the unwelcome sound below.

Rhaegar was probably doing the same to Lyanna right now—no, he corrected himself, Lyanna is no whore. He's raping her, raping her, raping her. The girl beneath him began to whimper at the fury of his thrusts. The sound sickened him; he would almost rather hear Connington argue with the brothel's matron below, as tiresome as that was. Robert pulled out and pushed the whore's head roughly down so she could tend to his twitching member. He was still half-armored in his mail tunic and boiled leather jerkin, and his iron gauntlet tangled in the whore's pretty blonde hair as he forced himself deeper.

Connington said something Robert could not quite distinguish, and a door downstairs slammed loudly. There came the soft noise of slippered feet on the stairs, and Elayne poked her homely head into the room. "The bugger's gone, m'lord," she said, ignoring the little whore who was choking on his cock.

After he had finished with the girl, Robert sent her down to fetch him his supper. He wasn't allowed to go downstairs, or even leave the room. "Sit tight," the septon of Stony Sept had told him. "The wolves and trouts will be here soon."

Robert Baratheon, he thought bitterly. Lord of Storm's End and doe in distress.

Confinement did not suit Robert well. He could cross his room in five strides, and it was even worse whenever Connington's men came to search the brothel or whore around. Then, Robert was shoved unceremoniously into the small closet hidden behind an erotic tapestry, barely able to move a muscle. Worst of all, he knew that if he was found all of Stony Sept would pay.

So Robert spent his days in the room with the curtains tightly shut, with nothing to do but sit and wait for news. At least he had chosen to hide in a brothel rather than a sept; the entertainment here was rather better than praying. Three or more times each day he called in a different girl to tend to his needs, but he took no joy from the encounters. "Lyanna," he whispered each time he came.

There was a timid rap on the door, and the blonde whore poked her head into the room. "I—I have your supper, m'lord," she stammered. Robert beckoned her in. She set down the tray of food, still naked, and for a moment he considered having her again before he ate. He was about to pull her onto his lap when he noticed with a pang of guilt that her breasts and stomach were bruised from the weight of his chainmail against her. He sent her away.

There had been news from Storm's End that morning. Rarely did a raven make it past the siege lines, so its arrival was welcome—even if the news it bore was not. "No food. Butchering horses and dogs. Send help." The terse words were Stannis's, though the writing belonged to Maester Cressen.

Not for the first time, Robert wondered what would happen if Storm's End fell, if he lost his birthright and his brothers on account of the rebellion he'd started. Renly was still a child, and Stannis… Stannis hadn't wanted to go to war in the first place. He did so only out of duty, and not before trying to dissuade Robert from the treason.

"I know that he took your bride from you," Stannis had said. "It's a slight, an insult, but is it worth treason? Is your pride worth enough to go to war?"

Robert gave him a strange look. "It's not pride I went to war for, " he told his brother. "It's the girl."