The milk of poppy took effect, and the king closed his eyes knowing that he had left his kingdom far worse than when he had first claimed it. He had been so stuck in his grief and anger over the loss of his love that he had become too stubborn to see what he was doing to himself and the realm he had won. It was Ned who helped him realize what he had become. Hells, Ned was the only one who had the balls to call him fat; his one and true friend. He could finally see that if he had just listened to those around him who were better at this ruling thing, he might have managed to be a decent king, not just a strong one. Gods bless Ned, if only he had him as his hand sooner. Now, it was far too late.
His mind drifted to the gods. Robert hated the gods, damning them for the hollow victory they had given him. It was a girl he had prayed for then, but instead they gave him a crown. And look where that got everyone. But now he prayed once more, he prayed that Ned could fix his mistakes, that he could sort out his son, and hopefully save that dragonspawn… no… that Targaryen lass from his fury. What did hatred of his formerly royal kin win him? Nothing but pain.
He knew that his time had finally come. His breaths were coming in shallower and shallower, and soon they would stop all together. One last breath and he would be dead, surely bound for the seven hells for all the good he had done in his life. He just hoped and prayed that perhaps he would get a glimpse of his beloved Lyanna before he was sentenced to an eternity of suffering.
No. A voice called out to him. His eyes shot open, and he found himself standing on a windswept grassy field, a towering weirwood tree larger than any he had ever seen with hundreds of faces of all kinds carved into its trunk. Above him, dark clouds roiled and flashed with lightning. The voice itself seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It was not a single voice, however. It was a terrible amalgamation of tones as wild as the wind and as soft as the rustling leaves.
"What?" was all he could muster. Even that was impressive given his current circumstances.
No, the voice repeated. You will not see Lyanna of House Stark, daughter of Winterfell before judgment is passed on you.
"Oh, so I suppose this is the start of my eternal torture then," the dead king stated with a grim sort of courage. He was not entirely sure where it came from, though. He guessed it was born of the resignation that this was indeed justice for a life squandered. "Though I am confused as to why the gods took this form. My house has followed the seven since Ormund Durandon, third of his name, cast aside the worship of the old gods," Robert stated, surprised that he remembered such a detail, he knew that old Cressen did his best to teach them the history of his house, but those lessons never tended to stick before. Maybe death had a way of making things clearer.
"Yes, that is why they have called me as well. You died in our realm where the old gods hold little sway," said a strong, new voice that echoed with power. It belonged to a bearded man with a stern and strong face, dressed in simple but immaculate white robes. He had appeared suddenly, as if materializing out of the air. "Despite your ancestor's best efforts to distance themselves from it, the alliance between the children and the storm kings sworn before the old gods is not so easily dissolved. I recognize the old gods' demand for this meeting to be just and fair." The figure of the man shimmered and shrank before coming back into focus as a withered crone holding a lantern. "Even if their claim on you is tenuous at best, I can't help but feel that this meeting will be a waste of effort." She turned to the tree and continued. "The prince who was promised already lives. I can see that he will lead the realms of man to victory. Humanity will survive the long night." A moment later and the crone was once again replaced by the father. "Release your hold on him and let him be judged in my court."
The son of the She-Wolf of Winterfell and the dragon is a broken boy who will have to go through much more pain and suffering before he can lead the fight against the darkness, the voices cried out with a varying tone of anger and sorrow. He may survive his trials and grow into the man who will in the end be victorious, but at what cost? We need a new champion, or at least one who can truly raise the boy to be who he was meant to be.
Robert was stunned by this. Lyanna had no son. Ned would have told him, wouldn't he have? The former conquering king felt the fury of the Baratheons building in him. Gods be damned if he stood here and let his beloved Lyanna be dishonored in such a way. "You will not speak of Lyanna that way! She had no son! It's bad enough that she was taken by that rapist, but she would never let herself carry that damned dragon's child!"
There was silence for a moment as he stood there beneath the gaze of the gods old and new, his wrath abating and transforming into dread as he realized that he had just yelled at the gods. A few moments stretched on into eternity before the haunting voices of the old gods spoke up.
Would the Stark in Winterfell have told you of his existence? Suddenly Robert found himself standing in the throne room of the red keep, small bodies wrapped in red. He could hear himself speaking with one word echoing in his ears. 'Dragonspawn.' The scene faded, and he was once again standing in the endless field before the terrifying white tree; and the voice continued, Would he have presented you with yet another child to dash against the wall? No, he cast away his honor to save his blood, and in so doing sentenced a child to a life of misery and mockery. Yes, he loved the child as his own, but to the world Jon was simply a mistake, a stain on his otherwise perfect honor. He suffered for it, and now the world must suffer more because of it.
Tears were now streaming from Robert's eyes as rage and sorrow warred in his heart. He could not stop it; he had not cried like this since he watched his parents die in the storm. Jon Snow was not Ned's bastard, but Lyanna's. That monster Rhaegar had forced his betrothed to carry his child. He thought back to that day in the Red Keep. If Ned had presented the babe to him, would he have killed what was left of her? He wants to say no, but in his heart, he knows that his rage would most likely have spilled over, and he could have easily done something terrible in that moment. Yet another time Ned had saved him from himself.
"I see, this is all part of my punishment, isn't it? I must spend an eternity knowing that prince rapist took away the child that should have been mine? That he forced my Lyanna to bear his child?"
"Your Lyanna? Forced? No, she went willingly," the voice of a young maiden called out. Robert gazed upon the beautiful, innocent young maiden who had replaced the crone. She looked upon him with a sad smile. "She was wed to Rhaegar in my sight, perhaps without full understanding of what that meant, but the vows were true nonetheless. She doubted your ability to be faithful after marriage, and Rhaegar promised her freedom and love in exchange for giving him a child. His honeyed words and lofty promises convinced her to run from her duty to you." The maiden paused and sighed. Robert felt his anger returning. Yes, it was all that Dragon's fault. He deceived his Lyanna and stole her. But before he could voice his displeasure, she continued, "Though do not think yourself blameless. At no point did you do or say anything to assuage her fears or convince her of your ability to honor your marriage vows. You thought her yours once Lord Rickard agreed to the proposal. She was NEVER yours; you did not win her heart, but you assumed she would run to you like all the other maidens you dishonored." The Maiden's voice, though sounding sweet to the ear, was clearly laced with admonition.
Despite wanting to object with all his will, Robert knew it to be true. How well did he actually know Lyanna? True, there were the stories Ned had told him during their time in the Eyrie. He loved hearing of her fierce spirit and love of riding. What he wouldn't give for a wife who he could take on the hunt, or just ride with freely across the fields of the Stormlands. But no, he was stuck with Cersei Lannister, the biggest conniving bitch there could be. Cersei, who looked down on him for not being a vicious cunt like the rest of her family. He tried to shake that vile woman from his thoughts and return to the matter at hand.
Now that he looked back upon that memory, when he had first met Lyanna at Harrenhal, it was true that he had treated her as if she was already his. He told her of how the people of Storm's End would love her, of how she would make the perfect lady for his court. But he had failed to actually ask her what she wanted. Failed to explain what he truly wanted from their marriage. He thought back to those conversations, and in the clarity of death and without the haze of the copious amount of wine he had consumed, he now saw the strained smile and the curt nods she replied with. He could see the fear in her eyes. Fear of being caged to a man who would dishonor her time and time again. The memory truly broke him, and the tears turned into terrible sobs.
Enough of this; we are getting away from the goal of this intervention, The voices of the old gods called out again. This man before us has flowing in his veins the blood of the First Men, the Andals, and even that of Old Valyria. We see in him greatness and the potential to be the champion and king we need to end the threat of the Others for good and to push back the Long Night.
Robert was stunned. Greatness? He was not even a mediocre king, and frankly, if the past six and ten years taught him anything, it was that he was a shit ruler. And what of this madness of the Others and long night, and what did it all matter anyway? He was dead.
"This man's sins are many, and yet you still see potential in him?" The god had once again taken the form of the father and spoke with a skeptical tone. The form shifted into that of a beautiful older woman, the pinnacle of motherhood. She spoke, "I can be merciful and forgive his many sins, but all crimes must still be punished. Plus, I fear what he would do with such mercy. Would he be any better than before? Would it not be more merciful to him to allow him to move on now? Let others take up this burden"
You should know that even a poorly forged blade once shattered can be remade into the most glorious of weapons. As for the punishment of his crimes, not everyone's fate can be altered. Let that pain be his, the old gods responded. After a few moments standing there with a thoughtful expression, the form of the Mother shifted again into that of a massive man wearing a leather apron and wielding a heavy hammer. He looked at Robert with an appraising eye.
"It is true that he has the potential to be reforged into a peerless champion, but the crucible of death is not an easy one to pass through. It could break him further." His form shifted once again into that of a knight in gleaming plate. "He was a warrior without equal in his youth; some said he was me incarnate. There is no doubt that his leadership in the great war would be invaluable to the forces of life. And if he could learn to apply even a portion of the zeal he displayed on the battlefield to ruling, he might actually turn out to be a good king."
"Yes, and perhaps while he's at it he can keep yet another heathen god from taking root in Westeros. It is bad enough we have to deal with that shambling corpse of a drowned god and you bloodthirsty trees," cackled the voice of the crone who had now replaced the warrior. Winds rushed and thunder pealed, demonstrating the ire of the old gods, and the crone lifted her hands in a placating gesture. "Yes, yes, I jest of course. You have made your point as to the man's value, but why is it so important to you? Is this some ploy for you to spread your influence into my domain, to take our supplicants? You do not have the power to send him back, and if things go the way I see them going, your power will become even more diminished while my followers will once again grow in number."
Robert stood in awe and disbelief; the gods were arguing before him. They were arguing over him. And what did they mean for him to be sent back? He was dead, wasn't he? There should be nothing but an eternity of paying for his sins in his future. He thought that this must be some sort of fever dream brought on by the milk of poppy; he must still be clinging on to life, and this was all a terrible nightmare. He then noticed that the clouds grew lighter, the wind stilled, and the branches of the great tree almost sag in defeat. Before long, the old gods spoke again, quieter than before.
Yes, it is not truly in my power to bring this one back. That is why I come to you. We are the gods of nature, of lake and stream, of tree and flower. You are the god of mankind; their souls are reflections of your nature. It is to you who the spirits of men truly belong, and even if the men and women who worship us give themselves to us to be taken into the earth and trees to be one with us, they do not truly belong with us. If you would work with us to forge a better future we would give up our claim on those who sleep in our embrace. And perhaps through this one, men can live in a world where the old gods and new are not at war with each other, and we can all be worshiped as equals.
The slain king was by no means a theologian nor a great philosopher, and so he struggled to understand what the old gods truly spoke of. But he did know that something truly unique was happening here. Could the two religions truly coincide? The Andal invasions would indicate otherwise. And he still didn't understand what they meant by 'bring him back'? A shiver ran through him as he watched the crone's form shift and change once again. Terror ran through him, as he now gazed upon the black cloaked figure of the Stranger. The hood obscured its face, almost as if it were simply a dark void. Its voice was cold and raspy, the voice of death itself.
"You are right. His soul belongs to me, as do all men's, and it is my prerogative what is to be done with them. You wish for me to hand him over to you? You must understand this goes against my very nature. I am the final end of all men, even those across the narrow sea can only say 'not today' so many times before they enter my embrace. As for those you have hidden away from me, I am patient. Your powers are waning, and they will be mine eventually."
We do not wish to keep him from your embrace Stranger, the old gods replied. What is yours will be given to you when his time once again comes. But you must know that all souls who fall into the icy grasp of the great Other and his avatar are forever lost to power his undead creations. If you do not act now, how many more souls will be stolen from you?
Robert sighed in relief as the form of the Stranger faded and shifted into that of the Father. "Your offer is fair and just; I believe I can work with you in this." His form shifted again this time into that of the Mother, whose smile warmed the king's heart. "Perhaps my followers were too zealous in their pursuit of spreading my name and worship. As you say, our domains are different and not wholly incompatible." Her form shifted once more into the Warrior and he turned his gaze upon Robert, "He will fight for mankind and the lands that sustain them or die trying." Robert was stunned by the rapidly shifting form of the seven who are one. The warrior blurred and, in his place, stood the Smith. "He will be reforged, and in turn he must set right the world of men." The Smith was quickly replaced by the far more diminutive form of the maiden. "Perhaps this time he will learn to protect and cherish the women in his life." The Maiden gave way to the hunched form of the Crone. "Maybe he will learn from his mistakes and be wiser for it." Then the moment Robert hadn't realized he was dreading arrived as the Stranger once again took form and turned its invisible gaze upon him. "Yes, perhaps all of this will come to pass. But the future is a shifting river with only one true end. Should he succeed or should he fail, his soul will belong to me and there will NOT be another chance."
Slowly, inexorably, the stranger advanced on him. Every instinct within Robert told him to flee, but he was paralyzed in fear. He heard the voices of the old gods call out to him.
You will be returned to your past. In five and twenty years, the long night will fall across the world, and the Night's King will stride forth with the dead at his command. You must do all you can to ensure that mankind is ready. We give you wisdom and a warning. It is not the name Targaryen that dragons bow to, but the blood of the dragonlords. This blood flows strongly in your veins. Do not judge a family by its members but judge its members by their actions. Finally, know that not all fates can be changed; you must endure in spite of this.
As the voices of the old gods started to fade, the Stranger finally stood looming in front of the former king. Before Robert could do or say anything, the god reached out with a skeletal hand and picked him up by the throat. Before running his other hand up his belly where he had been gored by the boar. Robert tried to scream as he felt a burning pain almost worse than when that damned beast first got him, but all that came out were strangled gasps as he dangled in the god's iron grip.
"A reminder of your past failures and possible future should you make less than wise decisions going forward," the god whispered in its raspy voice before letting him go. Robert felt himself fall and fall. Seemingly falling forever. And with a terrifying jolt, he awoke in a distantly familiar room. His whole body ached, and even opening and closing his eyes felt like a torturous task. The first thing he noticed was the lack of fat on his body, something he couldn't help but release a soft chuckle at. An action he immediately regretted, as he was rewarded by a wave of new pain. His slow inspection of his eight and ten year old body was interrupted by a terrified scream coming from the direction of the door. Robert winced as he jerked his head in that direction just in time to see a servant girl dropping what she was carrying and bolting out the door and down the hallway. Confused, he looked down and blanched as he saw his stomach and clothes covered in sticky dark red blood.