Hello all, welcome to my new story!

Today I bring you a plot bunny that troubled me for some time. It poses a simple question: what if Robert didn't die at the hunt?

The base idea may sound unfeasible, as Robert's death is the moving plot point for all the events. But with enough thinking, I came around with this...

For those who are worried about Dark Nights, Fallen Stars, well, don't... worry. I will update it still, figured out that I may need a bit of variety in what I write.

Have a good read!

Robert

"Gods! Those were the days!"

King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, walked through the dense woods in search of something to hunt. The smell of the wood, the sound of the flowing river... it reinvigorated him. The crown be damned, this was what he was born for!

Fighting, hunting and fucking. A man could live with only those and be the happiest creature on the earth. Nothing could fill his belly more than some hunted boars and the blood of his enemies, even if lately it's more of the former than the latter.

Robert took another swing of his wineskin, which was nearly empty. Lumpy Lancel finally dropped his balls and served him a stronger wine this time, not that he didn't enjoy it. The King considered it a challenge, and wouldn't lose against a dim-witted Lannister.

Other than his squire, Ser Mandon Moore and three other retainers accompanied him, of which he didn't even know their names. Robert felt the absence of Barristan, the knight always made good company in every hunt, but he was now attending Renly. His brother wished to talk with the Bold, about what Robert did not know. Probably some plot. Everyone in this bloody city loves to.

Moore was the most unnerving man he had ever met. His fishy, dead eyes don't aid his cadaveric personality, theorising he had one. His white armour made him look like a fucking corpse, with sullen cheekbones and thin lips. But Robert must admit the knight was an excellent warrior, wielding sword and lance with great proficiency, but he was not one men would follow.

Robert looked around but still hadn't found any sign of wildlife. The hunting dogs had long lost their scent, but he was sure something was around here, and it wasn't his drunken stupor playing tricks. The nearby bushes were partly damaged, as if a big animal had just passed by.

The Baratheon smiled. I will find it, he thought. He usually would hunt in the Kingswood, but this was a special occasion. Rumours of a white stag roaming the forest near Rosby reached his ears, and Robert would not let such an occasion slip. He will hunt it and have the hide of the legendary beast decorate his chambers. This must surely be a sign from the Gods, a way to thank him for getting rid of those damned dragons.

Robert took another swing of his wineskin, but it was empty.

"WINE!" He bellowed.

"Yes, your Grace!" The puny Lannister answered his order, passing a new wineskin to his King.

Robert drank greedily, trying to fill the emptiness in his soul. But it was a bottomless pit, nothing could do it.

"As I was saying, there was that time in the Rebel-"

He stopped. Robert turned to his left and saw the largest boar he had ever seen. An old thing, but still hale and vigorous. It could feed half a feast on its own, it was massive.

"Spear." He ordered one of his retainers.

"Your Grace, but-"

"I SAID SPEAR!" The King shouted.

A trembling hand passed him the hunting weapon. Robert revealed himself, a small rock in hand. The boar looked at him suspiciously and lowered his head, threatening the hunter. An ordinary man would've asked for help, but not Robert Baratheon. In all his drunken stupor, nothing could steal him from the stage.

He tossed the rock, hitting the animal square in the eye.

It squealed in pain and blindly charged Robert.

The King managed to impale the beast... yet it was still trying to gore his bowels, only the Gods know how.

"Fucking... die already!" Robert cursed. The boar fought with the strength of four men, even on the verge of death. He had never encountered one so stubborn before. His addled senses didn't help either... he was starting to lose his balance.

Then, it snapped.

Gods, he was fucked.

The boar charged, the speartip still embedded in its sternum. It should've hit the lungs, how in the Seven Hells is the bloody pig still breathing?!

The Baratheon fumbled to the ground. He successfully avoided the first charge and drew his hunting sabre, ready to slash the beast. The boar suddenly redirected its attack, but thankfully Robert kept his distance, crawling away as the boar missed him a second time and clumsily fell to the side. Regaining his bearings, Robert swung his blade, cutting the beast's thick hide. Moore then finished it off, stabbing it with his spear in the eye.

Robert panted, short of breath. He felt the hands of the two retainers steadying him, but he swatted them off. He didn't need the help of pissants to stand up.

"Your Grace! Are you well?" Moore asked, his face even paler than usual.

"Aye, Moore." Robert grumbled, "Good work, Ser. This will be written in the White Book."

Well, at least he showed a shred of a smile. Robert would've guessed the Valeman wasn't capable of doing so.

Lumpy was shaking, probably near to pissing himself. Gods! And I would need to knight him in the future!

Blonde-haired Lannisters, all around him. Every corner he turned, one of them would come to lick his shoes. It will not be long till he finds Jaime Lannister inside his privy, waiting for his chaste cock to be sucked. When he looks at his children, he always sees the smirking face of the Kingslayer or that bitch of his wife. Why have the Gods cursed him with so many of the bastards? Was that Tywin's revenge for not releasing his firstborn from the Kingsguard?

Everyone looked at the King, a silence reigning in the small clearing. "Well, what are you waiting for?!" Robert lost his patience. "I had enough of hunting for today. Bring me to the camp!"

Robert motioned back to where they came from, but he stumbled and almost fell to the ground. Only Ser Mandon prevented that from happening, who grabbed his linen tunic just in time. Gods... when did I become so weak...?

He had to rely on the Kingsguard on the road. Robert's legs were wobbly, and the muddy terrain of the forest didn't help either. Nine years ago, I would've just shrugged it off and resumed hunting, he thought. Gods, he was strong then. The white stag would need to wait another day...

The group reached the bridge. The Rutstead Rill was undoubtedly smaller than the Blackwater, but still an important regional river, especially for Rosby. Most of the food came from here, and the castle was a vital hub of supply for King's Landing when under the threat of siege. Fishing vessels were a regular sight, but oddly there weren't any today. Lord Gyles probably mandated a temporary stop for any fishing activity, mayhaps due to an excessive surplus of fish.

Robert didn't dwell much on it, he was too busy talking of his exploits during his stay at the Vale.

"-It was a clansman. The bastard thought he could split me top to bottom with that crude axe of his, but he was very wrong. First, I broke his right leg. The man had overextended himself, lowering his guard. He crumbled to the ground, then I crushed his head with a swing of my warhammer. The rush of battle completely overtook me, and alongside Ned Stark, we finished off the remaining raiders. By the Seven, I love that man."

The retainers were hanging at every word while Lancel, the walking pussy, was wholly distracted, observing his surroundings. The damned Lannister couldn't even pay attention to the King he was squiring for. What a bloody disaster he was.

Robert thought about his best friend. Ned had been a blessing as of late, a familiar face in court. Yet he was worried that the Northman was too honourable to manage the plotters of King's Landing, the debacle with the Targaryen girl was proof. The whore was pregnant, it wouldn't take long until she created a progeny full of madness-afflicted dragonspawn ready to knock on his door. And a gigantic Dothraki Khalasar of one hundred thousand screamers, that was troubling by itself, even if the accursed savages never crossed the Narrow Sea. The dragons could gather a great navy composed of supporting Free Cities and pour thousands of horse-fucking idiots below their gates. Yes, the shitheads didn't know how to build a damned trebuchet, but what of the smallfolk? The villages at the fringe of their lands? Only the Mad King would abandon them to their fate. Robert could see the vast plains of the Reach in flames, the towns of the Riverlands sacked and put to the torch...

No... Westeros won't be another Sarnor. He will be rotting in a grave before it comes to that.

A dagger will do. If the girl dies, Viserys won't have a piece to marry off for alliances. Or mayhaps, that Khal Drogo could be disposed of. Without their leader, the Dothraki will break into thousands of warring tribes again. Yes... both will do.

They reached the end of the bridge. But then, there were some figures emerging from the trees. Bandits, Robert figured. They wore mismatched clothes, topped off with crude leather paddings. Eight were armed with improvised weapons, and some with small round shields.

What appeared to be the leader stepped forward, a grin plastered on his face, "AHHH LOVELY! We finally found you... Usurper."

Ser Mandon had already drawn his weapon, but the two retainers were poorly equipped, carrying only two boar spears. Robert grasped the hilt of his hunting sabre and narrowed his eyes, "Who... are you?"

The chief chuckled, "It matters not, Baratheon. But I was asked to tell you one thing..."

"...Viserys Targaryen sends his regards."

Robert's face reddened in fury. The Targaryens... curse them all in the deepest pit of the Seven Hells!

"Come on, boys! We'll dine boar meat tonight!"

The men charged. It's now or never.

Robert faced off against a young boy, eager to cut him down. Hungry for glory, the kid tried to bury his handaxe in the King's chest, but Robert deflected the blow and cut open the immature bandit's bowels. Unlike all those times he killed someone in the rebellion, Robert felt no pride in felling his enemy.

Yet, his companions didn't fare well. The nameless retainers were cut down like pigs, while Ser Mandon managed to finish off three of them. It wasn't enough, as the chief cut his throat open. The dogs were butchered, the poor hounds were not used to fight against bare steel.

In all of this, Lancel stood back. Oddly enough, the Lannister wasn't pissing his breeches as the events unfolded.

Robert backed off near the wooden bridge's railings, near Lancel. "You know you won't survive after this!" Robert shouted, "Whatever the Beggar King promised you is a lie! You're all canon fodder for him, everyone is!"

"You know nothing, Baratheon." The leader answered, "And now, we must take care of a certain witness..."

Robert didn't understand what the man meant by that, but when his right-hand man moved against his squire...

Terror was evident in his eyes, as if Lancel didn't expect to be unceremoniously murdered in cold blood.

Yet...

Robert didn't know what made him act. Irrationality, sadness, compassion... his feelings couldn't be described normally. It was a mess of emotions, all who'd been prisoners inside his locked-up heart.

Robert shielded Lancel with his own body, taking the sword across his back, near his left shoulder. He roared in pain and threw himself off the railings, clutching Lancel in the fall.

They hit the water safely, and the river carried them afar.

Robert fought to keep his eyes open. He couldn't die here, not now...

But it was useless.

Slumber claimed him. While drifting in the currents, something came by the shore...

...A white stag.