Robert III

The body of the Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East and Hand of the King greeted Robert as he entered the Great Sept. With a wave of his hand, for Robert did not trust his voice not to waver, he dismissed the Silent Sisters that were preparing him for his last journey to the Vale. In a moment he was sitting before the bier, his legs offering as much support as a Valeman would offer to the Mountain Clans. Tears flowed down his face as all thoughts—his own and the ones that he did not think were his—abandoned him.

Jon looked so…..small, lying there with the two stones shaped like eyes, put on top of his real eyes that would never open again. He looked his age of eighty and five, in a way he had never looked in life. Robert groped for something to dry his eyes on even as fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. His foster father had never been still; even if his body was, his sharp gaze was ever restless. It was the reason why he had never scolded Robert for his antics, or so he had told him one evening when the wine had flowed freely. A young Jon Arryn had been much the same, perhaps not to the extent that Robert was, but he had lived to work as Robert had lived to fight. Robert wiped his face as he arranged Jon's hand—Jon would be wroth to see anything out of place, even at his funeral—and pushed the memories of their time together from his mind. Why do these damned memories keep playing in my head, taunting me with the fact that he's gone, prodding at the wound formed first by the storm in Shipbreaker Bay?

Pycelle had given his condolences with the utmost zeal while pouring him some Arbour Gold, reminding him that it was a fever no man could stop, that once Jon had gone to sleep it would not have been possible to wake him up. Only the day before, Jon had been hale and healthy, having too many arguments with Florent and Stannis perhaps, but not this ill. The reminders were made with almost too much zeal, and that whoreson Pycelle had served the dragons, had he not? The Targaryen boy was soon to reach his majority, these two years are the time any loyalist would strike—

Robert stopped his train of thought right there, and he could almost hear the scolding his father or foster father would give at him seeing poisoners in every shadow. That was how Aerys started too, and for all his faults, Robert was not a mad king.

Why could he not stay angry? Why wasn't there anyone for him to blame, to beat into pulp for this? They were all minor questions compared to the one he had been distracting himself from: why did Jon have to die? Robert wanted him to come back to life, to help him rule and scold him when he fell asleep in Small Council meetings. He wanted Jon to see Elyana be married to the Tyrell boy, to see Edwin be married to Ned's daughter, to see Myrcella marry Jon's own son. His foster father deserved that surely, he deserved to see his grandchildren be born and see the succession of the Vale be secured, if not for the service he did to the realm, then as payment for all the little graves he had to dig with his two earlier wives.

Robert had known grief before. He had mourned a mother, a father, a love, and a son, each harder than the last. The loss of his foster father had not hallowed out his world in the same way the loss of his parents had, but he felt it just as hard. Robert forced himself to stand up, to dry his eyes and look at his father-in-all-but-name for the last time. He deserves a better send-off than a grown man and king crying like a child who had smashed his finger. Forcing some jovialness into his words, Robert spoke his farewell to the man who had raised him. "The Seven Heavens needed a loyal and capable Hand more than I did, it seems. But you deserve more than having to work in death after having worked yourself to death, Jon. Tell the Father Above that I'll kick his holy arse if he tries to make you work any more, until…...until I see you again," he said, voice breaking at the last words. Robert walked up the steps to the great door, looking back foolishly in the hopes that Jon would have arisen. He did not, and Robert felt another wave of grief coming to drown him. He wanted to send all the Silent Sisters away, to spend all his time in this room till the Seven brought Jon back. But he had a kingdom to run and a friend to visit.

The Silent Sisters that had been standing outside hurried in just as he left, with curtsies he forced himself to nod at. The reason for their rush to escape came up to him a moment later, a panicked expression on her face and red eyes on her companion's that spoke of crying. "I'm sorry, Uncle Robert, I hadn't known you would be here. I just thought to….ask the Silent Sister about how they work. For when I join them," Celaena said before he raised a hand for her to stop. He made a point to be nicer towards the three Targaryens in his care than he was inclined to be, if only because it was foolish to step on a viper you couldn't crush. It was hard to bear anger or resentment against a little girl who called you 'father' and one who always sought to please everyone.

"You and Aenyra can visit Jon as soon as the Sisters are done, I know he could not help but become a parent to any child he came across more than once," he assured his wards. "But, I do except you to be better next time, Celaena."

"Do what better, Uncle?" Her perplexed but determined face reminded him of Elyana's when she could not reach a toy he held over his head, still as determined to try as any Baratheon would be, and the remembrance made him feel kinder towards his wards.

"Be better at lying to my face," he told her with a ruffle of her hair while she gave him an impish smile.

"Your Grace, Celaena would never dream of lying to you," the other girl said. "It is a capital offense to lie to a king," she added with a nudge of her elbows that would be quite painful to Celaena's ribs, if he was any judge. Robert felt the familiar situation of japing with Celaena turn into awkwardness and took the one route that had never failed him: changing the subject to make his escape.

"We'll have a progress to the North soon, all the way to Winterfell, once the….once the mourning period is over," he said, trying to sound like his usual self. From the pitying look Aenyra gave him, he had probably failed. That brought out a slight surge of anger in a way only a Targaryen could but Robert swallowed it down. She's not a Targaryen, not truly, she reasoned to himself. Her sister is better at hunting and drinking than my own son and she is a good friend to Elyana. A Targaryen wouldn't be any of that. Yes, he thought with growing conviction, only the boy has the taint of dragonblood and even then, Edwin beats him in all their spars.

Making excuses about needing to work and arrange the trip, Robert managed to leave before any courtier could offer him false commiserations. Any that tried…well, the look on his face was enough to scare them away. Taking two bottles of wine while ignoring the Blackfish's slightly disapproving look, Robert locked himself in his appartements and resolved to get drunk.

He did just that, before passing out on his bed without bothering to take off his clothes. That night, he fell in the stream as he had many nights before, but Robert had not had these dreams for years. They had stopped a month after Edwin's birth, when the joy of having a son was lessened by the loss of his father. His muscles protested slightly at doing an action he hadn't done for years and strangely, his mind seemed to offer some feeble resistance. Still, Robert continued to swim as the current of the stream dictated, as his father had taught him to do long ago and listened for his advice. None came though, and Robert woke up feeling like he had just been given a test.

The king of the Seven Kingdoms emerged from his rooms to find that Robar Royce had replaced Ser Brynden in the nightly vigil of the Kingsguard and collected him with a glance. Setting off for the training yard, Robert told the Lannister boy to bring him his sword. It was his warhammer that had forged a kingdom, but if he used that in spars against his Kingsguard, he wouldn't have many White Swords left. The light of the training yard left like sour lemon had been squirted into his eyes and a spear thrust into his skull. Gods, he hated hangovers as much as he loved to drink.

"Royce, get yourself a sword. Let's see if you have as many balls as your mother," he told the white knight. From his grin, Ser Robar preferred this to standing around like a gloried sentry. The first few swings were to test the defences of his Kingsguard, to find and exploit any weaknesses in his defense. He found none, and went on the offensive. Royce let him, remaining on the defensive until he tired out. The greater fool he, Robert thought to himself as he feigned tiring and started deflecting his hits more that absorbing them. Robar, ever eager to boast of beating the King, brought it and started attacking with greater fervour, leaving his own self defenceless. When the tightening of his opponent's hand signalled his intent, Robert absorbed the blow and set on striking, the White Cloak barely covering his surprise and stepping back to give himself room to recover. Robert did not let him, and in another moment, his sword was at the younger man's chin.

"You're a bigger idiot than Lancel if you thought you could tire me out in a single spar, Royce. I may be getting old, but any veteran will have greater endurance than a green knight," he told him, as much a scolding as a lesson. "And, try not to tighten your sword hand before you start striking. It signals your designs to all and sundry."

"Perhaps you should choose better opponents to train against, Your Grace," the Blackfish drawled, seemingly having woken up from sleep after the night shift. "Maybe even this old man, veteran to veteran?"

Robert gave a chuckle and waved off the glass of watered-wine Lyonel—or perhaps it was Lancel?— was bringing to him. "Whichever one of us wins, it seems one old man will be put into the dirt. Mayhaps my daughter would give me her favour?" He said, addressing his words to the gallery he knew Elyana would be standing at to watch. She didn't even give him a nod before running—as well as she could run in a gown—down the stairs towards the training yard. Reaching him so fast that Robert wondered if she'd been planning this, his daughter tied a black and gold ribbon on his wrist before standing away to watch.

"I suppose it's a bachelor's lot to have no fair maidens offering him their favour," Ser Brynden spoke even as he took his position to duel.

"I gave you my favour in your last bout, Ser Brynden," his daughter shouted in mock indignation. "It wouldn't be fair to give it to you again."

The words were barely spoken before the Kingsguard pounced on Robert, his sword as strong and swift as it would have been fifty years earlier. The match was over before it had started, with Robert tired from his last bout and not entirely free of his hangover. The Demon of the Trident was not himself without his hammer and Ser Brynden's counter riposte ended his last attempts to salvage the fight.

"You didn't know that move the last time we fought," Robert said. "What was it they said about old dogs and new tricks?"

"Ser Barristan and I were practicing the other day so I suppose I'm not so old a dog after all," the Kingsguard replied.

"But it was not the move that bested me," he announced loudly. "I was fighting with Princess Elyana's favour, was I not?"

Ser Robar, catching on to his game, hummed in agreement and the Blackfish added, "Wasn't it the Princess' favour I was wearing the day His Grace beat me in our duel? Yes, I think it was."

"On the other hand," Lancel said, "I won a bout over Tyrek the day I fought with Princess Myrcella's favour."

His daughter had been reddening over the last few sentences and the mentioned of her sister tipped her anger over the edge. His two daughters, one a Baratheon and one a Lannister, had always gotten along about as well as their parents had. "Shut it, Lancel! My favour is not cursed."

Robert turned to his squire and gave him a glare that frightened men twice his age. "Oh, you like teasing my daughter, do you?"

"No, no—my apologies, Your Grace," the boy said. "It was a poor jape."

"You do not like your king's joke?"

Elyana's smile widened at that and Robert took the goblet of wine his squire was holding up. The two knights in his company were giving pitying looks to the Lannister so Robert gave him an excuse to run like he wanted to. "Go, inform that cousin of yours that we'll be leaving for Winterfell in a month. Sooner, if possible."