ROBERT POV
The thunder of hooves echoed painfully through his skull. He could see but little; and that spotty at best for his visor must be down. A dull ache throbbed in his chest. A weight pressed into his gut. And his legs were twisted beneath him; intertwined and trapped with something. Had he been struck? Fallen off his horse? His brain was foggy, foggy, foggy.
He couldn't remember. Where was he? Who was he fighting?
His sword hand twitched. He grasped something thick in it … at least he had not lost his warhammer.
The fight was not lost. He could still show the bastards who the King was.
In a minute … so tired … his arms felt leaden by his side.
Panic suddenly swept him. Was this death?
How many puny fucks had he taken with him? He must know. He must.
Tongue flicked out from parched mouth to run over his lips as he prepared for the final struggle. His shield arm rose; wobbling, though he held no shield in it. His hand reached near his face and touched … silk, not steel.
Fingers tore away to reveal in the light of morning … a lady's small clothes.
He was in his bed.
How much had he drunk last … "What's this?" he thought. The lumps between his legs and the hammer he had thought he clutched was a woman. The swirl of her thick ebon tresses splayed across his hairy belly. "Big poonts." He released his grip to reveal a mass of milky white flesh topped by a wide red areola. "Huge poonts!" He quickly reassessed.
Again he tried to remember, but failed. His head still pounded something fierce.
From this angle, he didn't recognize her. "Wonder who this one is?" he thought irritably. Why was she still here? His Esquires were supposed to see the sluts out before he awoke. And Robert could fucking well see day light streaming in through the windows of his privy sleep chamber and past the curtains hanging down from the four posters of the bed.
If he could recollect which pair were supposed to be on duty, he would have sworn an oath to kick their miserable arses later on the training ground. As it was, he'd make the lives of all fourteen of them miserable instead; as soon as he could think up a fitting punishment. For Robert positively loathed when the hussies sneaked a chance to say "good-bye" to him. Be they ladies or actual whores or any sort of saucy tart in-between they all invariably wept and said such annoying words. "Oh, don't make me leave. Oh, I love you Robert. Oh, when will I see you again? Oh, what if I'm pregnant? Oh, I'm so sorry for you for the Queen."
Blah, blah, blah. He wondered why he even bothered bedding the emotional little morts. He could feel himself starting to twitch already in anticipation of this one's coming removal and inevitable display of tears … of pitiful words. If these disturbing scenes happened any more frequently, it would seriously make him consider taking a vow to only fuck Silent Sisters … if attractive ones could actually be found underneath those drab, neutering grey robes and cowls they perpetually wore.
He then pondered stealthily wriggling away himself. He could armor up and go hammer away his frustration on whichever deserving miscreant of an Esquire put him in this position. But then Ned would find him. Why his friend refused to have a dram of fun, Robert did not understand.
Or he could have a page fetch him Lord Josmyn. It was, after all, the Master of Revels job to keep him entertained. But he wasn't in the mood for Harys the Harp or Moonboy or whatever same old shit the Stormlander called for when unprepared. Sadly, it was early yet for some serious drinking; unless Thoros was around. Could always count on the red priest being ready at a moment's notice for a good binge or a brawl.
But then Ned would find him. Give him that look. Blast his frigid Northern soul. The man should be happy now that word had come of his son Bran waking up and having his wits about him; if not his legs. "Why is the Red Keep suddenly so small when the Eyrie was always so big?" he barked angrily; smashing a fist down onto the bed in frustration.
"Your awake," a sultry voice announced from beneath a mound of sheets and pillows to his side; and, not from the head of black hair resting near his cock.
"What?" Robert erupted in surprise. How many more strumpets might be hidden in ambush about his kingly sized bed?
"Don't tell me you forgot about Esmerelda?" a delicious red head asked, pushing her naked body out of the mass surrounding her.
He stared at her two delicate nubbin of tits sporting very erect, very pointy rose coloured nipples. He licked his lips, wishing for a spot of wine. "Esmerelda, I promise I could never forget you, lass," he practically purred.
A wide, cock sucking grin spread across ruby, cock sucking lips. "I hope you and Tati didn't get started without me," she giggled seductively; and began stalking like a lio … a panther across the feather mattress towards the mighty stag.
"Tati? Esmerelda?" They must be whores, for the names did nor ring a bell in his tender noggin and the red head's pretty face was certainly not familiar. "No love. I must have warn her out," he boasted with boyish charm.
"You were a beast," Esmerelda agreed and threw herself the last bit of distance at him.
Robert's arms shot out to catch her and draw her in to his lips. His tongue thrust into her mouth. She ran her fingers through his hair, clutching their faces tighter together. He could hear her pant. Instantly, the lethargy began draining away from his body and a surge of blood flowed to his horn. He'd soon have a tine ready to pierce the ravishing minx.
"No fair. You started without me," Tati, it must be Tati, complained from down below; stirring and shifting between Robert's legs – her bountiful dugs stroking his hips.
The stag pulled the red headed panther off his lips to laugh, "There's more than enough of me for the two of you."
"Oh, yes," the ebon haired temptress between his legs agreed; placing her hands about his growing cockstand to slide them up and down and up and down.
"Oh, yes," Robert agreed as well right before sinking back into Esmerelda's wine-coloured lips. This was oh so much more fun than being nagged by Ned.
The door to the sleeping chamber opened and instead of an esquire, a groom, a squire, or even a lowly page bearing more food and drink; in swept a whistling Renly. "Hello, lovelies," his brother drawled with a lecherous grin of his mouth and a pointed waggling of his eyebrows upon spying Robert breaking fast at table with the half-clad Tati and Esmerelda perched on either knee.
Robert pulled the goblet away from his lips to point out, "You're up early." The last dalliance between the three of them had been at the surprisingly unexpected time of not yet an hour past dawn. Normally he did not wake for at least another two hours after that.
"I am yet to bed," Renly admitted, before quipping, "And no doubt you've been up several times yourself, if I am any judge, brother." A pause and another purposeful grin. "Or should these naughty does be roundly spanked for merely teasing the royal stag instead of rutting with him?"
"Oh, we've been naughty alright, milord," Tati agreed and reached in between the folds of Robert's robe to clutch and stroke at Robert's well satiated cock.
"I never say no to a hard rutting … or a spanking, when the mood suits me, milord," the red head concurred salaciously.
"My, my, you've outdone yourself this time, Robert," Renly stated with envy, coming to a stop beside the table. His brother reached out and fondled one of Esmerelda's slim, taut breasts; pinching a nipple to bring a brief squeal from her. Then he bobbed a slight bow at the much more bosomy whore sitting on his other knee and said, "I beg your pardon Lady … ?"
"Tati," the raven haired harlot answered.
"Lady Tati, but really, I fear anything more than a handful is a waste," his brother explained apologetically, while not relinquishing his hold on the other's modest nubbin.
In defense of her big titted friend, Esmerelda's hand shout out to the crotch of Renly's hunter green embroidered velvet pants and proclaimed, "Then you've no fear of being wasteful either, milord."
Both Robert and Renly immediately started to roar with mirth at the jab.
Renly recovered first and declared, "Hohoho, I like this one, Robert. May I keep her?"
"Didn't dip your cock last night, did you?" Robert teased.
"It got wet enough," Renly smirked back.
"You might find me a bit … stretched for your needs, milord," the fiery haired whore continued with her verbal onslaught.
Renly assuredly laughed all the more for the blow at his manhood and slipped a ring off his finger. "Here, you impudent wench," he announced, handing the gold trinket to her. "Go find a page who will take you to my apartments. I would speak with my brother alone."
Esmerelda looked up at him questioningly. Robert nodded his head once. She eagerly leapt up, vigorously pressed her sweet lips against his once, and then scurried off to evidently seek a bit more of her clothing.
"And what of me, milord?" Tati pouted visibly; the hand massaging his horn coming to a stop.
"Oh, here comes the scene," Robert predicted to himself.
"And what of you, sweetling?" Renly challenged back breezily. "Isn't an evening … and morning, pleasant spent its own reward?"
"T'was more than passably fun," she agreed with a hint of hesitation.
"Then remember it well when you are buying yourself something pretty, alright?" Renly said and tossed a small jingly pouch at Tati and her tits.
Her hand flew out of his robe to help catch her payment as fast as a greedy smile broached her plump lips.
"Now begone, wench. The King has business with his younger, more handsome brother."
And off too she flew from Robert's lap. He enjoyed watching her ample arse and teats bend and sway in retrieving her garments and then exiting the chamber hand-in-hand with her friend.
Alone at last with him, Renly let out a large exhale and complained, "Seriously, Robert, I fail to understand your enthusiasm for quim built like wet nurses. I find all the accompanying jiggling a distraction from the hard business at hand."
"Ha. Limit yourself that way and some night that's all you'll be left with Renly, your hand."
His brother gave an exaggerated shiver and answered, "Gods forfend that fate."
Robert couldn't help chuckling at his amusing brother. "I've a mind to arrange a betrothal for you to …"
"Stop!" Renly cried in mock horror.
Grinning, he took pity and acquiesced. Instead, he picked up the goblet for another draught.
Renly picked the half empty bottle up off the polished cedar to look at the label. "Bah, I had better last night," he complained, but nevertheless poured himself some into an empty glass already used by one of the departed tarts.
"So where did you go?" Robert asked. He was curious. His current circumstances had not permitted him even one of his usual sprees into the city. "It would look poorly on you," Ned had chastised him. And him just back from six Gods forsaken months to and back from the North.
"Oh, Blind Cryer's for dice. Came out a few stags short after being a dozen dragons up thanks to a damned Lyseni who had the most unbelievable run of luck. Next it was on to the Cockpit. We didn't stay long. Old Feor even admitted he had an uninspiring lot of beasts lined up to fight. Ha! Robar got slapped in the street by a whore on our way to Drunk Dunk's. After several rounds the lads were feeling a bit randy, so we went off to The Orchid Petal."
"Not The Blue Pearl?" Robert asked. Of course he knew of the Petal, but the Pearl was well known as Renly's favorite haunt for flesh sport.
"Littlefinger suggested it."
Robert's eyebrows rose in surprise at that.
Renly shrugged. "Littlefinger's an even more droll and obliging a fellow when drunk than I could have imaged," he said with a low chuckle. "He is fitting in surprisingly well with my herd of bucks."
"He doesn't own the Petal, does he?" That his Master of Coin was the enterprising owner of many brothels was a well-known and accepted fact.
Another soft laugh. "No. Claimed he would never take any of us to one of his establishments for fear what we'd do to him if any of us got accidentally poxed."
Robert snickered at the truth of that as Renly waved a hand to indicate he was continuing his night's tale of drink and debauchery. "Anyway, Petyr said the Petal had recently gotten a pair of sisters, twins supposedly, from Yi Ti. But more important, as we were all a bit in our cups by that point, it was a much shorter stumble from Dunk's."
"Were you sorry lot more drunk or more horny?" Robert snickered.
"Both. And quite a lot," Renly agreed with a laugh.
"And were they twins?"
"How could you tell?" his brother tittered. "Yi Ti all look alike, don't they?"
"Were their slits slanted?" Robert asked with serious curiosity. He'd never slept with a Yi Ti lass before. He wondered how tilting a passage like that would feel on his cock.
"Alas, I did not find out," Renly said sadly.
"What!?" Robert bellowed in vast disappointment.
"They were such exotic creatures each of us wanted one."
"Don't tell me you diced for them," Robert groaned.
"We did. I thought my roll of three and one would hold, but Ser Jae and Lord Franklyn each bested my throw."
"Brother, never gamble when quim is at stake," Robert cautioned him. Then laughed, "No wonder you were forced to rely on your hand."
"Fear not for what crevice my seed fell, brother," Renly responded. "But as we waited for Madame Blossom to bring out a line of ravishing creatures for us hard luck losers to choose from, I heard the most curious song. The tune went something like this," and his brother began whistling the same notes Robert recognized that Renly had been humming when he entered the room.
The melody was catchy enough, Robert supposed; but failed to see why his brother was bothering. When Renly looked at him inquisitively, he simply shrugged to show his indifference.
Apparently undeterred, his brother said, "The song is called 'The Cubs in Golden Fleece.' The words go something like this." And Renly began to sing.
Robert hummed the chorus as he descended the single level of the circular Alysanne's Stairs from his Withdrawing Rooms. Ser Mandon alone stalked silently behind him. A short bark had left the usual accompanying riffraff behind with an order to continue amusing themselves in the Inner Audience Chamber until his return. The Serjeant of the Privy Chambers had then duly taken station at the top step to insure no knave gainsaid him.
"And the three who were none
In their fleeces of gold
Played and grew bold
While the Sentinel sat dumb"
He had not yet been on her floor of Maegor's Holdfast in the three and ten days since returning. But according to his Chamberlain, the children should still be in their apartment despite the morning's lessons with the Maester of Scrolls having already ended. Or had it been with old Pycelle?
He was no longer certain. His head hurt. Being King was complicated. Everyone bothering him for something or about something. Ned was turning out to be the worst of the lot; wanting to remove half the court. He could scarcely think properly or drink in peace through the uproar. Flunkies constantly petitioning him to keep their sinecures. His Esquires, instead of focusing on his entertainment, pestered him on behalf of their friends. And of his Esquires, Ned only seemed to care for Ser Ryman Portman; a Northman naturally.
Well, regardless, Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella bloody well better be there. It was Lord Willem Bogg's damned duty to know these things so Robert didn't have to bother. Why else did Littlefinger dole out all that blasted silver to the pages, ushers, grooms, and clerks reporting to the Chamberlain; or, for that matter to that mirthless prick of a Steward of his, Lord Harwin, either? He didn't intend to tromp his royal arse over the whole Red Keep looking for his own sprogs.
The Red Cloak standing proper guard at the bottom of Alysanne's Stairs smartly saluted the unexpected arrival of his King. The edge of Robert's eye barely registered the page or usher further down the corridor who immediately rushed off to inform the other household in Maegor's of his presence.
He avoided the most direct route to the children's apartment suite. That entrance was opposite a door to her privy chambers; always insistent on keeping the blonde haired darlings chokingly close.
"And Crook-mauler slinked in
His yellowbelly low to the glade
Whilst the Sentinel patrolled away
Sun-face lusting him again."
Robert ended the verse and chuckled to himself; nothing more amusing than a song about a cuckold.
"Your Grace. How may I help you?" Ser Tybolt inquired. The sneaky lion having stepped out a door just ahead of Robert; bringing him to a stop in the maze of passageways the fucking Targs had loved littering the Keep with.
"I've come to see my children," he commanded her maternal uncle and household Chamberlain.
"Of course. Prince Tommen is in the nursery."
Nursery! The boy was seven for Gods' sake! At seven Robert had spent each day out of Storm's End riding and hawking when not inside it on the training sand sparring against the noble born pages fostered to his father. "And Joffrey," he growled.
"Escorting Lady Sansa about the Keep."
Well ... Robert decided he couldn't get angry about that. Ned's girl was as fine a looking she-cub in auburn that a Stag of any colour could desire. The lad just better keep his hands to himself if he knew what was good for him.
"And Princess Myrcella is praying with Septa Lelia, your Grace," Tybolt Lannister tacked on.
"Fine, fine," Robert muttered. Bloody praying. He couldn't interrupt that; t'would be sacrilegious and unknightly of him.
"Allow me to announce you to Prince Tommen," the oversized lady's bodice stuffed with suet instead of a lion pronounced.
A grin spread across Robert's lips. He clapped Ser Tybolt heavily on the shoulder and easily moved the smaller man aside as he declared, "I'll announce myself."
"This isn't so bad," Robert thought with relief upon first glimpse inside the nursery. He stood and silently watched his son play a while.
"Poppa!" Tommen squealed in delight on finally looking up to spy him in the doorway.
His youngest jumped up, knocking over several of the toy knights, horses, and men-at-arms painted in many different houses colours that were lined-up around a small fort of blocks, and ran at him. Robert clasped the boy in his big hands and, to much laughing, twirled him up and about his head like a warhammer.
"I missed you," his son professed between giggles.
"I missed you too," he said, setting the boy down and ruffling his mane of blond hair. Then, pointing at the groups of soldiers, he asked, "How goes the battle?"
"Badly, I fear. The Dragons have the hero trapped."
He pretended to frown. Those toys surrounding the improvised castle of blocks did mainly wear surcoats of red and black. "That does sound horrible. But can he not escape or win the fray by killing the enemies' warlord?"
Tommen solemnly shook his head no.
"Why not? He's the hero isn't he? That's what heroes do."
His son nibbled his lower lip. "It's not what you did here, poppa."
"I didn't?" Robert asked loudly; quite perplexed by his son's statement.
"No. Your friends saved you. Come, see," Tommen insisted, pulling on Robert's hand to draw him closer to the painted figures strewn across the floor. "Look over the hill," the boy urged him, pointing at a sizeable group hidden behind a couple of pillows on the floor. "It's the Lords Hands. Both of them. Old Lord Jon and new Lord Ned," he explained.
"Ahhhh," Robert drawled in recognition. Though it had actually been Hoster Tully instead of Jon at the Battle of the Bells. Only the Vale's van, under Denys Arryn, had made it far enough into the Riverlands to help with the counterattack to free him from the trap. He licked his lips and suddenly he was there again; hidden by the whores of the Peach as Connington's bastards scoured Stoney Sept's cellars and attics for him. The cries from those caged and those tortured to give him up ringing through the long night and into the overcast morning echoed again in his ears. Coming out of the momentary trance, he agreed, "You're right, Tommen. Even a hero needs friends."
"Help me, poppa. Let's defeat the evil prince together," his son begged.
He didn't have the heart to tell the boy that Rhaegar hadn't been there either. Only the Griffin, who cut open Hoster's sword arm and buried an axe in poor Denys' chest before Robert could smash his way through the crowd to drive his traitorous banner lord off. "Alright, I will," he cheerily agreed, climbing down to his knees.
"Good. Now you play the evil prince," Tommen commanded.
Robert blinked in surprise. "I …" he began to protest and then swallowed his words at the boy's pleading look. So the Demon of the Trident began methodically pushing around the Targaryen coloured cloaks as they searched; periodically upending one of the blocks that lay in a circle about the middle block. His powerful hands only purposefully crushed one of the red and black knights out of long lingering spite.
"Don't get too close," Tommen chastised him once, worried that Robert might knock the toy representing himself off his feet atop the very middle block – visible to all; which Robert very much had not been until near the end of the nasty brawl.
Robert smiled and started humming Renly's tune again. He had never ridden into battle without a little wine and a song on his lips. But at the Bells, he had run screaming to the fight stone cold sober while reeking of fermented grape fumes; for sweet little Pansy had hidden him in a smuggler's false bottom of a giant hogshead vat half full of piss sour Dornish red. After the war, he had heard she'd born a black haired doe that resembled him more than a little.
"What's that song, Poppa?"
"Why its …" he paused. Most songs Robert enjoyed really weren't right for a young boy. "It's about three cubs being raised by a watchdog who thinks he sired them by a wolf dame, when they are really fully wolf."
"Funny," Tommen laughed and returned to moving his troops out for the attack.
"Better hurry, the dragons are getting close," he warned with a hiss, pretending not to notice the knights arraying in perfect order a top their mounts to charge down on the "unsuspecting" Targaryen men-at-arms.
There had been little in the way of cavalry charges at Stoney Sept. A town not being conducive to the standard knightly maneuver in war. It had simply been uncoordinated masses of men slugging it out in streets, in buildings, where ever a modicum of shelter could be found to defend stoutly, or when one hodgepodge group of banners trapped an outnumbered number of the foe.
Nor had it been a particularly cat laden battle, Robert recalled; his attention distracted to watch in rapt fascination as a yellow tabby stealthily crossed the matted floor, slinking from concealing table leg to chest to pillow – tail up and quivering in excitement.
"Tommen …" he started to warn.
The tabby pounced in a streak of gold.
Much of his son's order of battle flew through the air or was knocked over.
"Ser Lionfur, nooooooo!" his son wailed. Tears forming.
Robert shook his head in annoyance; his youngest was more pussy than stag.
Myrcella gently placed a plain, narrow bladed dagger on the small alter alongside the statue of the Warrior and then knelt on a Myrish rug. Head tilted downward, so that her golden hair draped forward to hid her features, she began to pray, "You are not a woman's god, Ser Lord; but I pray that you join with the Mother and the Father to guard mother and Uncle Jaime." Voice quivering a bit, her words came to a stop.
Robert had already watched her finish her prayers, both spoken and silent, in front of the Chrone. Of the table and sculpture pairings in each of the seven corners of the Queen's Privy Sept, six of them now bore offerings. Only the Stranger yet stood ungifted. "Would she?" Robert wondered uncomfortably; ignoring any thoughts of his own on that question over the last forty days.
After the long silent pause, she continued on, but, again, only briefly, "Place courage in their hearts and strike fear in those of their tormentors; smiting the evil villains with the sword of justice."
Despite being only eight name days old, his daughter looked just like her mother. And just as fierce too. But, praise the Maiden, with a much, much sweeter temperament. He repressed a snicker on realizing that all but a few of the many brutish men he had slain over the years, ironborn mostly – the heathen scum, would also have proven sweeter than her.
"And help free the righteous so that they might come home safely to me or … gain solace by ascending to the SevenHeavens … from which to watch down and guard over me."
Righteous. A word, like sweet, that Robert did not associate with her either. Oh, like him, she attended the Royal Sept or Baelor's when ceremony or practicality for the sake of the Iron Throne demanded it. But had he ever heard of her spending any time in this privy sept? No. She probably only did so when he went off to war … or to hunt. "Doubt she was praying for me to come home safely," he thought unattractively.
"And watch down over poor Tommen."
The boy was fine. Not that he couldn't do with a little watching over and sprucing up from the Warrior. But by her? She coddled him near bad enough as Lysa did that milk sop runt Robyn; Gods help the Vale.
"And father."
Ha! Robert knew what he wanted that frigid lioness watching over … his bed. And all the willing quim he left satisfied and would continue to leave satisfied in it. How he even had as many as three children with the bitch, he could barely guess. Like sticking his cock in a sausage maker's grinder.
"And … and Joffrey too."
"Hhhhmmmn, better go find the lad," Robert quickly decided at mention of his eldest. So before Myrcella could raise off the floor and go over to the statue of the Stranger … or not, he slipped out of the shadows around the door of the Sept and back into her private solar.
Without a word to the waiting Ser Tytos, Robert left; Ser Mandon silently following behind at his wordless command as always. Once off her dreary floor in Maegor's and heading for the drawbridge, his mood improved. And he began humming parts of that new song again.
"Eyes which see yet still are blind
For ebon fur breeds not a fleece of gold
No matter how long the Sentinel beholds
Lies are told so he seeks naught to find"
Nothing funnier than a stupid cuckold.
"I made the right choice," he declared, well pleased, to the breeze crossing over the curtain wall of the Red Keep and the near mute Ser Mandon. Anything else with ears was fifty feet to his left, fifty feet to his right, or fifty feet below him.
The usual rabble had swarmed him has he began crossing the dry moat out of Maegor's. Thankfully no sign of Ned. So to annoy the tiresome lot of flunkies and work off the dull throb in his belly, he had decided to search for sign of Joffrey and his betrothed from on high.
The Rookery was the nearest external facing tower to the holdfast, so he'd made old Pycelle near shit himself with surprise and worry by entering it – the very rarest of occurrences; but only to use its stairs to reach the top of the wall. Then a stroll half way around the entire Keep: past the White Sword Tower – a nod to a curious Ser Barristan, the Dungeon Tower – where even muter Ser Ilyn came to stare at him, the Steward's Tower – and a brief chat of memories of the Vale with Lord Harwin, and lastly the Exchequer Tower – where he japed with Littlefinger on what he had heard of his night's exploits with Renly.
He hadn't understood half the complaints Ned was quietly telling him in private about Baelish; such an entertaining lordling. Besides, Jon had trusted him for years to find the dragons and stags needed; and no one else had complained about the Master of Coin, as far as he had ever heard.
Now, Varys, there was a fleece – "fleece", ha! the Spider was bald – of a different colour. Of course no lord dared complain openly about the Master of Whisperers; for fear he would sic his little birds to discover the lord's secrets. They all had secrets; the Eunuch had proven that to Robert long ago.
Regardless of that fact, Robert could care less whether Ned had Payne shorten the mincing perfume ball a neck. If only his friend would cease badgering him about all the other changes to the Iron Throne he wanted to make. Shut up or be done with it. Robert didn't care which.
His stroll had ended on sighting the grey furred Lady parting the crowd in the Outer Yard. Not that blonde haired Joffrey or red haired Sansa or the scar faced Hound accompanying her weren't distinctive in their own rights. But a fucking direwolf, now that caught the eye. No doubt about it.
Since Winterfell, Robert had, on occasion, pondered what might have been if Lya had had such a magnificent beast by her side. Rhaegar and Dayne and Whent would have thought twice about grabbing her; and would have been lucky to have escaped with their wretched balls, if not their lives, if they'd dared tried.
And finally the two houses – wolf and stag – were at last to be joined as they ought to have been sixteen years ago. Robert took great pleasure in watching Joffrey and Sansa together. A handsome pair. She-cub and Stag-kid. He enjoyed watching them together, like now. His eldest acting the proper gallant to the maid; and not the bully he took after from her.
At least the rightness of this betrothal was something that he and his friend could agree on. Of course Sansa and her older brother didn't have the true colouring of a Stark wolf, like his Lya had had. Mud red Trout instead of the proper black-grey of a wolf. Though Ned had the other two, and his bastard, who had the look and the colouring to prove Catelyn hadn't snuck any hanky panky behind Ned's back, like in the song. Ha!
Staring down fondly at Joffrey and Sansa, he wondered which parent their children would take more after. If he had married Lya, they'd have had more than three nippers. He knew that much. And each one's hair would have been dark as night.
But instead of a wolf, he had married a bitch lion; and she had given him three golden haired …
Wait.
Robert rapidly ran through the lyrics of Renly's song in his head.
"Wolf" wasn't ever said. Neither was "sheep" for that matter, though the use of "fleece" was suggestive.
But what other creature would a Sentinel guard a herd against?
And what other predator than a "wolf" gave birth to "cubs?"
"Cubs" with "golden fleece?"
Let alone three?
A towering rage to match near anything he'd ever felt before swarmed up from a place he'd forgotten still dwelled inside him.
"FUCK ME!" He bellowed with such a roar that every living creature in the Outer Yard below jerked to a stop and looked up to where the scream came from.
HE WAS NOT A CUCKOLD!
And Robert would be damned to the darkest recesses of the SevenHells if he would let anyone get away with suggesting it.
"I'M GOING TO KILL THAT BARD!" His promise thundered to the skies. No one mocked Robert Baratheon and fucking lived to tell about it.
"Why hasn't the singer been found!" he yelled at Slynt.
The man's jowls and piggy eyes quivered at Robert's rage. But at least the cunt who commanded his Gold Cloaks had the stones to not piss himself and answer.
"Your Grace, the patrol has barely returned from the Orchid Petal with word that the singer is neither there nor at the hovel the whore house owner claims he lives in."
"From my experience its too early for song to enhance a man's humors and too late from a bard to still be a bed, no matter how late he works," Littlefinger said casually.
"Shut your face before I bash it in Baelish!" Robert threatened. "Its your fault Slynt's men got such a piss poor description of this treacherous singer."
"His hands and eyes were both rather occupied last night, if I remember, Robert," his brother quipped. "All of ours were, to be honest. It was a brothel."
"I'm going to smash you first, Renly," he promised. "You weren't so busy you didn't memorize the damned song. And think to come sing it to me."
"I never realized," his brother said, the picture of innocence.
"You're fucking useless."
"Robert, is this really necessary," Ned protested.
"Damned straight it is. No one makes a fool of me."
"And perhaps no one did," Ned suggested; too clearly trying to soothe his anger.
"Lord Stannis once suggested arresting all the whores in King's Landing, your Grace," Littlefinger interjected.
"Arse," Robert murmured.
"Why not simply arrest all the singers," the short man continued.
"There far fewer singers than whores," Slynt agreed quite seriously.
"WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING HERE!" Robert bawled at the fool.
"Your pardon, your Grace," he squeaked and quickly backed away to the door of the Small Council chamber.
"Your Grace," another voice entered the mix from the now unbarred entrance.
"What is it Pycelle!?" He snapped. "Have you of all of us miraculously found this damned minstrel trying to make a fool of me?"
"No, your Grace. I have another message from Darry, your Grace."
"What of it?" Robert snarled. He was busy. And Tywin sent a fucking useless raven every day. Besides, he'd already drunk the only bottle anyone had been clever, but not clever enough cause it was now empty without a replacement to be seen, to bring to him.
"I fear you must read this one, your Grace. Dark wings, dark words," the Grand Maester promised.
"WHAT!?" he shouted in surprise, thrusting himself out of his chair which promptly fell over. He kicked it out of his way and rushed over to the doddering busybody. The slight parchment was snatched from aging, trembling hands.
To Robert Baratheon; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; and, Protector of the Realm:
Your Grace, it pains me beyond words to tell you that the bodies of my beloved daughter, your dutiful wife, Cersei, and my beloved son, Jaime, were recovered from where they had been most cruelly slain, laden down with rocks, and sunk deep in the Trident. But of the fiends who have committed this heinous act, frustratingly, there is still no sign nor clue.
On the morrow, I shall begin the sad procession of returning their bones to King's Landing so that my children may be blessed on their journey to the SevenHeavens by the High Septon. And to honor them as devoted off-spring of Casterly Rock, immediately after the ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor, House Lannister will, with your royal permission, host and pay for a four day Funerary Tourney to celebrate these magnificent lives cut horribly short
Your most obedient banner,
Lord Tywin Lannister; Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West
The Stranger had decided after all.
Reading the words, Robert wasn't sure of what he felt.
Relief?
Sadness?
A hollow kind of emptiness somewhere deep inside, certainly.
And a vague sense of interest.
Could a man truly be considered a cuckold with a dead wife?
Hhhmmmnnn.
Robert's mind moved on.
A funeral tourney? What a blasted grand idea! Why hadn't anyone ever thought that up before?