Part 16 – A Stag Falters and Limps
Robert (V) - December 4.
The bleary eyed, bloated Stag rolled over, sheets fighting him, resisting him (the nerve!) the entire way. At least the bed felt dry this morning. Was it morning or had he slept the day away again? Some grey light flitted through where the drapes hadn't been pulled together tightly. Probably some worthless, cowardly page or squire, too afraid to prod him awake come the new dawn, had arranged to leave it open just enough so the sun would do the blasted job for him. Robert petulantly flung his shield arm over his eyes. His body felt tired and not at all well, his belly rumbled with gas and his stomach threatened to unleash vile, bile laden belches. Probably too much wine, again; he grudgingly admitted to himself.
He despised admitting truths of himself. He flushed with resentment, but found he lacked the strength to physically lash out his frustration. Instead he lay still and tried to take stock of his body's many betrayals. Sweat clung all clammy to him. His pulse raced. He looked bloated. The flab lay heavy upon his frame, drowning the muscle beneath. What muscle? He felt weak. He panted when he exerted himself. He raised the arm off his eyes and clenched a fist, imagining that he strangled his woes. He trembled from the effort. His hand appeared splotchy and yellow. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and thought of nothing.
'Strange,' his bladder didn't feel full. With a meaty hand Robert patted blindly about at the twisted, recalcitrant sheets. Hhmmn, dry. He couldn't remember getting up in the night to piss. He rolled back over in the other direction, kicking at the Gods damned sheets like a little boy throwing a tantrum. At least no frightened doe lay in his way as he lurched and fought toward the edge of the bed. That hadn't gone well the other night. She'd been a sweet looking serving chit, catching his eye with a devilishly saucy, yet oh I'm an innocent maid look. He'd shared some oysters and Arbor gold with her, and got her giggling happy enough with his japes and flirting. For the first time since THAT had happened, he'd hardly thought of HER. He'd finally felt a stirring, but once the girl was flung on the bed, NOTHING. His proud antler deserted him. HIM! "Fuck!" he cursed, damning his wilted horn with the very action it could no longer seem to perform.
He reached the edge of the matress and peered down. No, the slop bucket looked stone dry. Whatever. There was more to worry about. Dark wings, dark words. If the accursed raven yesterday was correct, badgering, hidebound Stannis would arrive today on the afternoon tide. His dour, flinty brother would offer him no joy, only hector him about duty and work. The need to be active. Blah, blah, blah. The Stag sighed. Maybe he could fall back asleep. He rolled over again. He floated.
"You were always an oaf, Robert," said the head propped next to him, a blade from the Iron Throne running through the neck and out an eyeball. "Strong enough to win a crown, stupid enough to piss it all away in wine and whores."
"Stop nagging me woman," he answered out of habit. He had never understood how anyone could be so beautiful and yet so revolting.
"You've killed me, foresworn your children. And for what? So that Stannis can be King after you drink yourself to death? You must be proud." Blood dribbled out of the corner of her mouth, dabbing her lips Lannister crimson with every word.
"Still time. New wife. Respectable wife. Sprogs," he muttered, confused. She should have bled out by now. This much blood wasn't natural.
"A Stark wife? And Stark brats? Is that what your dear Ned whispers to you?"
"Your Grace? Your Grace?"
His eyes flickered open. Some brown haired, pimply owl from Mistwood stood at the foot of the bed. "What?!" he demanded harshly.
"Lord Stannis' ship has been spied from the keep wall, your Grace. Ser Selmy wonders if you would like to greet your brother when he docks?" the backwoods cousin of House Mertyns asked with a visible shiver of nerves.
The King sighed loudly. His belly rumbled, empty. "Bring me a capon. Roast with leeks, capers, and lemon. And be quick with it. Then, while I'm eating, find me something … regal to wear. Understand?"
"Yes, your Grace."
"Then go!"
The silly tit buggered off with another tremulous, "Yes, your Grace."
The Stag rubbed his eyes, scrapped his patchy tongue across his teeth, and with a groan heaved himself upright. His body craved something more than food. He blinked and looked around. 'Ahhhh,' he thought . An unsealed flagon sat on a table bedside his bed. Cheerily he humped his massive buttocks across the mattress to reach the promised bounty. His body quivered in anticipation. He craved the release he knew would come. Up went the flagon to his lips, a sour smelling Arbor golden rolled over the rim and into his mouth.
"Gah!" he choked, throwing down the pitcher of piss in a rage. That was where he'd made his water!
The entire Small Council met for the first time since before Jon Arryn took ill. Thoughts of his mentor and old Hand took him back to simpler days, when as fosterlings he and Ned had eaten and jested and drank at Jon's table high up in the Eyrie. Here and now, Ned, Stannis, and Barristan rattled on about the need to send an army to the Riverlands to avenge Lord Dondarrion's party and assist the Tully's in wiping out the Lannister raiders. Normally talk of war would perk his interest, but not today. He hadn't had a sip since the coach ride down to the docks and he felt parched. To keep Stannis from needlessly berating him on the ride back to the Red Keep, he'd had his pimple faced squire take the wine sack away from him. Unfortunately he'd stepped out of the wheelhouse and straight into council. The reassuring, belly warming, skull soothing essence of the grape had long since passed out of his system.
His skull throbbed. The debate currently skittered between sending off what Crownland levies had already arrived at the Tourney grounds, ordering the knights of the Vale to ride straight for Riverrun, waiting for the Stormlands' banners in order to move in overwhelming force, and seeing what the Roman sellswords could accomplish. Stannis invariably ground his teeth in opposition to every proposal. Robert occasionally nodded his head with a sage look to pretend he was following along with the discussion. Gods he felt hot. He rolled his tongue around inside his dry, gummy mouth. He looked about the room with longing. What fool hadn't thought to leave in a single bottle in the hall. He supposed he couldn't blame Stannis for that. Probably Ned or Barristan he grumbled to himself; the pair were continually hounding him to cut back on his drinking.
"Ahem."
The talking suddenly stopped. All eyes turned to look toward him expectantly.
Somewhere in the Outer Yard of the keep a song bird's enchanting mating call cut through the usual noise.
"What?" the Stag muttered.
"You cleared your throat, your Grace," Ned answered. "By your look, I, we thought you had reached a decision."
Robert pursed his lips and stroked the beard on his chubby face to gain a moment to think. "Yeeesssssss." He tried remembering what each man had said. The room tilted back and forth on him. He drew a deep breath. "Lord Hoster has ever been a loyal friend to me. We must move quickly to reassure him and his banners that the Iron Throne has not forgotten them, nor approves of Lannister treachery."
A hint of a smile curled on Ned's face.
'Good,' the Stag thought.
"So your Grace wishes to send what Crownland knights, mounted men-at-arms, and freeriders are now mustered outside the walls?" his Hand asked.
The Stag scanned the faces in the room; passing quickly over the intent appearing temporary Grand Maester, the inscrutable eunuch, the bored Littlefinger. Renly showed an eagerness. Barristan displayed his usual stiffness. Stannis bristled with disapproval. And Ned seemed pleased. "Yes," he replied firmly.
Stannis slapped the council table in frustration. "And what if the Lannister's army is already marching full on into the Riverlands!? You'll be letting him chew us up in penny packets," his brother fumed.
Anger coursed through his veins at being questioned. He slammed the table too. "In that case I'll let you, Stannis, lead the next and bigger army to bugger that gold shitting scoundrel. But until I, your King, say other, my word is law. Understand!?" he thundered.
That pinched, lemon sucking look he knew so well settled on Stannis dour mug. Through the corner of his eye he saw Renly and Littlefinger gloating as was their want in the past anytime he publicly berated Stannis. Over niggling, boring council issues was one thing, but this was talk of war; their attitudes didn't sit well with the Stag.
"Renly!" he barked. "Isn't it about time you took your sorry arse off to Storm's End to oversee the gathering of my banners?!"
His youngest brother blinked in surprise.
"Baelish!" he shouted. "War costs money. Men need weapons, food, and supplies. I don't want to hear my Hand complaining about shortages, for anything!"
Amusement slid off Littlefinger's too smooth face.
"Ned?!"
"Yes, your Grace?"
"Dondarrion was a disaster. You better pick a man this time who can actually lead. Hear me?!"
A wide grin had broken out on his friend's face. "Yes, your Grace. Perfectly."
"See to it!" He stood up abruptly. It felt good to get the blood flowing a bit. "Now off with you all!" he ordered bellicosely. He smiled as they all scurried to do his will, even fucking Stannis. Now he could go in search of a drink.
When the room emptied, his hapless new squire, the pimpled and stupidly named Murton Mertyns, stepped in to check on the King's wants. The obligatory inquiry immediately set off a hunt for a bottle, which, in Robert's parched opinion, took the frightful blighter far, far too long to accomplish. The red from Lys, when it did arrive, at least went down easily enough. Each thirsty quaff of fermented grape added to the Stag's calm; even soothing the minor trembles in his hands. Eventually the crown, which he wasn't actually wearing, started to rest lighter on his brow. He felt in a tingle of excitement for he sniffed the scent of battle clinging to the Seven Kingdoms. Robert smiled cruelly. If the Old Lion dared stick his mangy neck out of his rocky den, why he'd gut the beast and skin the pelt off the crushed corpse. He stood up, invigorated. It was time to do something. He looked out the window at the lowering sun. His stomach rumbled. 'Time for dinner,' he thought. The King strode out of the meeting room, his bodyguard and squire promptly trailing in his wake as he proceeded out the Small Council Hall and on to the hard packed grounds of the Outer Yard. The brisk air of December and the clang of steel filled his senses. Life was good, he decided. He looked about him.
Robert sighed. Like a bad case of the Dornish pox, Stannis never disappeared for long. Had the dull ox gone off to his suite in the Red Keep? Or seen after the quartering of the thousand some odd bannermen he'd brought along in his little flotilla of war galleys from Dragonstone? No and no. There his barely tolerable brother stood, smack dab in the middle of the Outer Yard, leaving the Stag no choice if he wanted to eat but to walk past him, acknowledge him. Hadn't Robert acknowledging him enough already? Wasn't Stannis now his heir? The King snuck a glimpse over at the Great Hall, maybe he could slither off there unnoticed? He looked over his shoulder at the blank expression of Mandon Moore. Ha, he thought, fat chance of furtively going anywhere with a white caped shadow following him about. He returned his gaze to the Great Hall anyway, contemplating the Iron Throne within. Did Stannis have to be his heir? He wondered what little Edric would look like all grown up and sitting amongst the sharp blades. Both Renly and Ser Cortnay had only great things to say about the lad. Robert sighed again. No, Ned hadn't approved at all when he'd raised the idea with his friend, his Hand. Maybe if that Florent chit was still unmarried something could have been worked out. She'd been a jolly bounce, he remembered; helping him inaugurate Stannis and jug eared Selyse's nuptial bed.
The memory of the scandal cheered the King, and he used it to gird his loins before stomping off toward the back of his brother's bald head. Stannis currently stood beside a pair of Romans, towering over the doughty, grizzled Titus Sidonius and the slender rock thrower turned Valyrian translator, Polites. Being raised only at Storm's End, as well as ruling Dragonstone for over a decade, both ports, of course Stannis spoke the gibberish of the Free Cities fluently. Well, at least the killjoy seemed happily intent on observing many … what did the Romans call them? Oh yes, 'contuberniums'? 'contubernae'? Blasted ridiculous language the sell swords spoke, worse than that fucking Essosi muck.
"Oh well struck," he muttered. Two groups, each comprised of two, forty man a line formations, practiced in that unique, ultra disciplined Roman style against each other. One … centurum? … centuria? had clearly placed their best men on one flank and were starting to turn their comrades' end.
A whistle blew and the junior officer refereeing the bout pointed a flag at a man, who promptly accepted his fate by dropping to the earth.
Some incomprehensible, brief command rattled out and the front row of the group looking near to break shouted and took a unified, vigorous step forward. The rear line immediately broke into segments and formed a 'U'. And then just as quickly the counterattack ended and the front line funneled itself backward into the top of the 'U', distributing themselves to ultimately face the world as a double walled square.
Titus Sidonius wailed on his whistle and the controlled melee came to a stop, but the centurion's part had only just begun. Immediately the salt and pepper haired man started berating the officer in charge of the Romans who'd been winning. For though a few more of the box makers had fallen, the leader of the Second Cohort clearly felt they never should have gotten the chance to form a square.
"Titus Sidonius is a right pleasure to watch," Robert said, as way of announcing his presence to Stannis.
The bald head quickly swiveled around and offered the Stag a brief nod in royal deference. "Your Grace," his heir uttered.
"These sellswords fight like none I've ever seen. Maybe your eyes are telling you now that their contract wasn't so 'frivolous,'" the King proudly exclaimed, remembering the word, or at least one of the words his brother had chastised him with earlier.
The lemon sucking look returned to Stannis, but after he cleared his throat, the Master of the Ship simply uttered, "These men obey."
Robert blinked in surprise. High praise indeed from his brother. 'Wait until you find out they whore and drink too, though,' he thought. "Then I'll let you get to know them better. We'll talk in the morning, brother." And with that the Stag nodded and started walking again toward the gate into the Middle Bailey, only slowing briefly to give a wink at the eighty men being brow beaten by Titus Sidonius.
Robert ate dinner alone in his apartment, except for muck it up Murton and a trio of gangly pages to keep his plate and goblet full. It had been almost a week since he commanded no more wenches were to serve him. He still enjoyed the sight of a well curved buttock swaying and the bobbing of a nice pair of apples in a bodice, but from a distance. Since THAT night, he could no longer trust himself, believe in himself, if one of them, Gods damn all women, came close enough to fondle and nuzzle. He sighed. He wasn't sure he knew himself anymore. 'What an odd thing to think,' he thought curiously. He shook his head to dislodge the unexpected introspection and lifted his chalice. 'Ahhhhh,' the sweet of the plum wine went well with the brine and sour pickling of the pork. 'Now an Arbor gold would have …' his stomach rumbled in disagreement. He wondered how long before the idea of an Arbor gold wouldn't turn his stomach.
"Your Grace?" the Mertyns owl warbled from the doorway.
"What?" he answered in an aggrieved tone.
"His lordship the Hand and the Lord Commander have wish to speak with you, your Grace," his squire hooted.
"Alright, show them in. And see if they'll have something to drink with their King," he commanded.
Two noble, concerned, yet tentative faces entered the room. He knew that look; disappointing, disturbing news, but not catastrophic. 'Gods, what is it this time?' "Don't tell me Ned," Robert barked, raising a sweaty hand in a stop gesture. "First, a drink. You too Ser Barristan."
The pair exchanged a glance, Ned working hard not to keep his face from pinching in disapproval. Selmy, very well-seasoned after a lifetime in King's Landing, needed no effort to guard his face.
He gently shook the flagon. "It's just a simple plum. What's his name," and he jabbed a finger at moldy Murton, "can get you something else if you want. No? All right then." This squire plunked two fresh glasses in front of the Stag and Robert obligingly poured. He leaned forward and put a glass on either side of the length of the table running away from him. "Sit, sit," he said amiably.
The harbingers of ill news sat and then each took a small sip.
Stifling a grumble, the King swilled what was left in his cup. "Tell me," he commanded.
"Your Grace, word has arrived that Tommen and Myrcella Waters have reached the Westerlands," said Ned softly.
Robert exhaled heavily. His hand clamped hard around his goblet, leaving indentations in the pewter. Anger and pain both swirled inside him. A deep flush rose up along his neck. "Unfortunate," he managed to choke out. He breathed deeply. "What will that old fart do now?" the Stag asked ominously.
"Send them into exile, someplace safe," his Hand said reasonably.
"Or war," Robert countered sternly.
Ned slowly nodded his head in agreement. "Or war," he agreed.
The Stag raised a hand above the table and made a mighty fist. But instead of smashing it down, he dropped it with a thud. "Then we'll just have to smash'em, won't we Ned."
"Yes, your Grace." Ned parroted.
Something in his friend's eyes Robert found unsettling. He was too … honest, untainted by the stench of the Red Keep, to hide the truth. He pointed a pudgy finger down at Ned's leg, still bound in plaster. "You gonna be able to lead a charge with that?"
Doubt crept into the northerner's face. "I, I will … try, your Grace."
Too honest by far, damn him. The words Cersei whispered at night about his friend were lies, all lies. Could he be honest? Could he lead a charge? His guts rumbled and he farted. Ned and Barristan politely pretended not to notice. He squeezed his hand in and out of a fist, imagining the feel of his hammer. He sighed. "Stannis can lead. I promised him anyway, didn't I, this afternoon. He's a strong war leader," the King grudgingly admitted.
A slight, kind smile split Ned's lips and Barristan nodded sagely. The truth of their looks wounded his pride, even if he'd suspected it about himself first; they didn't think he could lead either. He felt tired. He just wanted to drink. Alone.
"Well, go see to things, Ned. Light a fire under Renly. I want him gone and back to the Stormlands sooner rather than later. My House's banners better make a strong showing if there is war. I know your boys will, even if they've thrice as far to come."
Ned and Barristan both stood at the dismissal.
"Good night, your Grace," his Kingsguard Commander said.
"Good night, your Grace," his Hand repeated.
He simply waived a hand at them and watched them head toward the door. Then a thought niggled at him. "Oh Ned," he called. The Hand paused and looked back. "You sent Balon Swann after … them." He tried hard not to remember how his two sweet children looked. "He's a good knight; better with bow and morning star, than lance and sword, but still a strong, brave warrior. How was it he and his expedition couldn't stop twenty some odd red cloaks?"
Ned frowned at the question. "At the fording of the Blackwater on the Gold Road, Ser Balon was defeated in single combat."
Robert nodded knowingly. "Vylarr carries a sly blade," he acknowledged. "I remember the …"
"No," interrupted Ned. "It wasn't the Lannister captain. It was Lancel."
"Lumpy?!" the King burst out in surprise.
Robert muttered in his sleep, tossing and turning, sweat seeping out his every pore; the dark dreams chasing him fueled by the copious wine he'd swilled once Ned had left him in a state of befuddlement. "No, no!" he frequently called out as the crimson lion with Lancel's face chased the antlered deer through the murky woods.
As the evening had unfolded into night and bottle followed bottle, the Stag's bewilderment faded, replaced by a rage as red as the wine he kept drowning himself in. Ultimately the King quietly, unsteadily left the dining table to retrieve his favorite warhammer, the one used on Rhaegar Targaryen to christen the Ruby Ford. Upon returning, the mayhem began. Muddled Mertyns and the pages had run screaming as he flayed about with the hard mallet; smashing, Smashing, SMASHING! Ser Loras, blade drawn, rushed his pretty boy self into the apartment to defend his liege and keep his Kingsguard vows, only to stop short, mouth agape as the drunken Stag single handedly beat back the offending chairs, tables, and cabinets. He missed as often as he struck. The sloppiness of his strikes enraged him further, made Robert swing all the harder. Soon his arms and shoulder stung from the effort. He sucked down air in loud, raspy gulps. At last too tired to raise the twenty pound steel head and wallop away any more of his subconscious frustrations, Robert simply dropped the hammer where he stood. He blinked stupidly at the white cloak. "Goin' ta bed," he wheezed and off he staggered to his sleeping chamber, leaving the perplexed Kingsguard the only thing left standing in the shattered room. The King found his bed and fell into its softness. Within a minute stentorian snores rattled the rafters.
He stepped over a fallen tree trunk and crouched, peering about the gloomy forest. The echo of the lion's roar sounded in the distance. He felt relief. Ahead the underbrush thinned and the mist, as it swirled among the roots of well-spaced towering trees, appeared to be slowly dissipating. He moved forward. The ground became rocky and then littered with flagstones. Shafts of light lanced down from the sky. The gigantic oaks and elms turned to pillars. He knew this place, the Throne Room. He knew this dream, "Cersei," he muttered with contempt and relief.
"Come for my protection, Robert?" she derided him. "Is the Stag afraid of the lion cub?"
"Did you have him too?" he accused.
Her lips and cheeks tugged against the metal barbs plunged through her face to display an amused smile. "If he did, I'd have given me more pleasure than I ever I got from you. Squeeze my tits. Grab my ass. Flip up my dress and prod me with your mighty … antler," Cersei said scornfully. "Ahh … ahhh … yes, oh yes," she squealed lustily, only to abruptly stop and then continue in a flat monotone, "I remember all your touches, my lord." And to emphasize the point more blood welled up out of her."
He squinted his eyes at her as he stepped up to the foot of the Iron Throne. "I'm tired of you Cersei," he declared.
"Gods!" She laughed. "The times I thought that of you! Pumping your seed in me and then instantly falling asleep, crushing me under your fat, wine sodden body."
"Then go already. I've had enough of you." The King's last words came out almost a sigh.
Arms waived helplessly, her entire body a pincushion for the blades of Aegon's cruel throne. "Don't you think I would if I could?! But who trapped me here, hmmmn? You! You unthinking, drunken ox!" Cersei screamed hysterically.
Robert sluggishly climbed up the throne steps, his muscles heavy and laden. Reaching the seat, he stared down at her piercing green eyes. They really were quite brilliant.
"What?" she shouted nervously as he placed his hands on her. "Robert!" She shrieked. "What are you doing?!"
He tugged and pulled at her. Gallons and gallons of blood pumped out of her. She bellowed in pain and yelled at him to stop, but he labored on, even as he sliced himself on Aegon's barbs. And at last she came free. He lifted her over his head and bent his knees.
"You can't! The Iron Throne's mine. Mine!"
He paid her no heed. She lied in life. She lied in death. She lied with her mouth and with her cunt. He flung her as far as he could. Out between the columns of the Throne Room she flew. Out into the mist and murk of the forest she tumbled, caterwauling the entire way. He could no longer see Cersei, but she landed with a very satisfying bone snapping crunch. The beasts of the dark places snorted and howled their appreciation at his offering. The nattering of teeth and grinding of jaws soon put an end to the soul tearing sound of her shrill, harpy voice.
"Good," he uttered.
His hands and arms hurt. He looked at them, horribly shredded by the effort of removing his queen.
"I've been hurt worse," he decided.
The Stag's breathing evened out. He still sweated, but not nearly so much. He turned in bed, but not fitfully. As night sped towards dawn he dreamed again, several times; but this time it was of the Eyrie, of bar maids, of tourneys, of Lyanna, of jolly songs sung with friends over casks of ale, and Robert dreamed of War. When the first rays of sunlight snuck between the drapes to flit across the King's splotchy, chubby face; it uncovered a tidy, pleasant little smile.
December 5.
His tongue clove to the top of his dry, scratchy mouth. The girth of his belly weighed down his middle, making him sluggish. His head ached from too much wine, again. Yet Robert felt better somehow. He slid out of bed, thick feet slapping the plush Volantine rug next to his giant four poster mahogany bed. He stared down at the intricate pattern woven into the colorful wool. It seemed different somehow. He shrugged, more important business pressed on him; his bladder felt neigh to bursting.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh," he sighed, pissing like a warhorse. After the initial gush, the Stag swirled circles in the slop bucket to amuse himself as he went and went and went and went. Finally, he clinched his buttocks and shivered to force out one last squirt. He tapped, he pulled up his pants, and adjusted himself, all the while proclaiming, "Well at least you can still do that able enough ya traitorous, little worm. Treat me any more ill and I'll cut you clean as Varys. How'd you like that ya little bugger? No? Yeah, I didn't think you would."
He looked around. Sunlight. Not too bright. No sign of a squire or a page. But he heard a scrapping sound from outside his bed chamber. 'What in seven hells?' he wondered. He strode to the door and flung it open.
Several squires and pages where rearranging the furniture in his dining area.
"Hey! Knock off!" he bellowed.
Half a dozen youths froze an instant and then dropped low bows. "Your Grace," they all muttered.
"Get up, get up," he nattered, irritated by their extreme deference.
They promptly stood back up, passively looking at his feet, not at him.
He gazed at them, not recognizing a one. "Where's Moldy?" he asked gruffly.
"Your Grace?" responded the oldest, a solid enough built lad no more than fifteen or sixteen years old.
"The owl. Murton. Where is he?" the Stag repeated unhappily.
"Ummmmm, he worked late last night, your Grace. Ser Selmy thought perhaps your squire might need assistance today and sent for me," the black haired sprog spouted without trembling too badly.
"Who are you then?" he accused.
"Mikel Staedmon, your Grace."
"Oh, Pennylover's boy?" Robert asked, pleased to have another Stormlands' scion about; and hopefully one not as hapless as Moldy Mertyns.
A small smile. "Lord Alesander's nephew, your Grace."
"Right then. Clear this noisy lot out and find me some breakfast, I'm starved," he declared while walking over to an ironwood dining table. 'Strange,' the Stag thought, for he saw his Rhaegar slaying hammer sitting atop an ironwood dining table, neither of which he remembered from yesterday.
"What would your Grace care for?"
Robert rubbed the shiny steel head of the killing mallet. "Oatmeal with raisins and apples. And mug of dark, Riverland ale to wash it down with," he answered distractedly. The lad muttered something in response and excused himself. The King hardly heard the boy leave to fetch the very meal the Stag had eaten the morning before he slew the Last Dragon at the Trident. He plunked himself down in a chair and grabbed the haft of the heavy weapon. He caressed the hammer, deep in thought, until his breakfast arrived.
"Anything else, your Grace?"
"Yes, Steady. Go to my war closet, I'm gonna pay Ned a little visit after I've eaten."
"Shall I send word of your visit to his Lord Hand, your Grace."
Robert picked up the mug and smiled lightly before taking a sip. "No. Let it be a surprise."
"Very good, your Grace. Then what may I bring you from your war closet?"
The Stag gazed, with pursed lips, above the squire morbidly contemplating the truth of his gargantuan size. The King sighed. "Bring a leather padded doublet, a hauberk, a septon's mantle and mailed coif, chausses, greaves, and the leather boots with steel plates sewn into them. Yes. That should do."
"Yes, your Grace. Any weapons, your Grace?" the lad asked.
Keeping the ale in one hand, Robert lifted his warhammer with the other. "No. This is what I need." And he shook the mallet fiercely, not spilling a drop out of his cup.
Arys Oakheart followed the King across the bridge spanning the moat around Maegor's Holdfast. The pair crossed the Lower Bailey and descended the Dragontail Stairs past the main barracks, the Maidenvault, and the armory. By the time Robert's feet slapped onto the Middle Bailey, sweat stuck the doublet to his heaving, breath starved torso. He stared hard up at the Tower of the Hand. "No fucking way," he muttered to himself. The Stag knew the long climb up to Ned's chambers would kill him. So Robert altered his trajectory and aimed for the raised portcullis pointing the way to the Outer Yard. "I've changed my mind, Ser Arys," Robert announced. "We'll go to the Small Hall and ask Lord Stark to attend me there."
"As you command," the Kingsguard answered smoothly.
Gold Cloaks bobbed their heads in salute when the King trudged through the archway separating the Middle Bailey from the Outer Yard. He barely noticed them, his concentration narrowly focused on not staggering.
Out from beneath the spiked, metal grille of the portcullis, a turn to the left, and fifty feet more effort brought the Stag to the back stairs leading into the Small Hall. A man wearing the grey livery of the Hand stood by the door, awaiting the royal presence. Robert paused and dabbed with one hand at the perspiration spread across his brow. "Hot day for December," he declared.
"Yes, your Grace." Oakheart chirped in reply like a well-trained bird.
The Stag adjusted the weight of the Warhammer resting on his shoulder then took the ten steps up. "I'm here to see Lord Stark," he announced.
The man bobbed a bow. "Welcome, your Grace. Word has been sent for his lordship, the Hand. Alas, he is about the Red Keep at the moment, in conference with the Roman captain Lucius."
"I'll just wait for him then," the Stag replied and proceeded ahead, entering the kitchen area of the Small Hall. Cooks, kitchen maids, and scullery maids scurried about, making something that smelled smart enough, but they all bowed promptly and properly upon spotting the King.
Entering the main hall, Robert spotted the form of Ned's Steward descending the stairs off the walkway which connected the Small Hall with the Tower of the Hand. Tired as he was from his jaunt, the Stag didn't wait for the little man's appearance. He just plonked himself in the nearest chair and slid the warhammer off his shoulder and on to the table next to him. The King stifled a sighed at how good it felt to rest.
"Your Grace," the steward fluttered. "My Lord Stark is on his way. May I offer you some wine while you wait?"
The Stag's tongue snuck out from between his lips, his palate already tasting what had merely been offered. "Ye .. ah .. uhhh, ale," stuttered out of his mouth.
"Yes, your Grace," Vayon Poole obliged.
"A small one, mind you," the Stag choked.
"Certainly, your Grace."
A glass, not all that modest in size, appeared quickly. Robert nursed it a long time, but eventually drained it. Robert fiddled with the empty cup while, contemplating another. Then finally the door swung open. The Stag hopped to his feet. "Ned," he called.
"Your Grace," his friend replied, some concern evident in his tone and look as he looked his friend up and down, all dressed in warrior's garb. "Is all well?"
"Of course it is, of course it is," the King answered with nervous energy. "Thought I'd come have word with you. Easier starting the day talking with you, then staring at Stannis' sour face."
A slight smile washed a bit of Ned's unease away.
"Made a choice yet?" Robert asked jumpily. "On who'll go to the Riverlands and your goodfather?"
Ned nodded slowly. "Lord Royce has not yet returned to the Vale to aide Lady Lysa in summoning her host. He is not of the Crownlands, but I …"
"Oh piss on the Crownlands," the Stag interjected with a peevish tone. "Not one of'em could lead a charge into a whorehouse. Bronze Yohn is a fine choice, a fine choice. He'll knock anybody's head who don't listen to him."
"Robert," Ned whispered. "Are you well? Truly?"
The King looked about. A few were too close, could listen in. "Leave us!" he commanded sternly. The interlopers departed for the kitchen or the far side of the hall. Robert rubbed his beard. He swallowed. "Ned, I'd beg a favor of you," he allowed.
"What, Robert?"
"Train me need," he gasped. "Just look at me, I'm a Gods damned joke. I couldn't lead a charge into a whorehouse either. Help me … please," the Stag rasped in equal parts anger and despair.
"I … there's a lot … to do, Robert," his friend answered with a pained, shamed look.
The Stag laughed ruefully. "I'm a shitten King, Ned, no denying it; and right thankful I am you're here to carry the load. But war's in the air. And if I have to die, I'll do it bravely, not hiding fat behind a wall. Help me Ned, please," he pleaded.
The Hand gave a frustrated slap to the plaster cast on his leg. "I can't Robert. The Maester says this must stay on another two weeks at least. And even then I'd be no good for you." He jerked his head in Arys Oakheart's direction. "Can't you ask one of them?"
"Gods no," the King hissed. "The number of times I've said I could thump them? No, I couldn't live with the shame."
"Even Ser Barristan?"
"Aye, him too."
"Others take your pride, you stubborn fool," Ned scowled.
Robert laughed and smiled encouragingly, knowing that look; the Stark display of displeasure before the inevitable caving in to his friend's wishes. "So you'll do it then. We'll be a right mismatched pair, Ned. We can practice right here, clear out the tables, keep away prying eyes. How's that sound? Hmnn?"
Ned shook his head slowly. "No," he said solemnly.
The anticipation fell from the King's face like a child crushed at receiving no presents on his name day.
"But come here tomorrow at mid-day if you dare," Ned added. "Good day, your Grace." And with that the Hand left his friend, alone and with little hope.
December 6.
Publius Postumius stood alone in the Small Hall, clad only in segmented chest armor and greaves, a modest satchel hanging over a should. No sword hung by his side, only a wooden baton held lightly in one hand. "Rex late," the sellsword proclaimed loudly.
"What is this?" the Stag growled, looking about the room for signs of anyone else.
"Rex fat. Rex slow. Train. Make Rex soldier again."
Robert puffed out his chest. "And how do you propose to do that you weasely little foreigner."
The Legion's Senior Watch Commander swept his baton to encompass the room. "Move tables, chairs. Go now."
"Not bloody likely," the King snarled.
Publius Postumius stepped close to the Stag "No?"
"No!"
The Roman nodded his head and slid that baton into a loop on his belt. Then the weather beaten veteran reached into the bag on his shoulder and pulled out a bottle of wine and a knife. "Here," he said, offering the items to the King. "Drink. Kill self. Legion go find smart Rex, strong Rex. Rex not afraid work hard. Here."
Rage boiled inside the Stag. He gripped his Warhammer tightly and lifted it off his shoulder, wanting to smash the sellsword's face in with it.
Publius Postumius stepped in even closer and smiled broadly. "Work first? Then kill? Kill red cloaks?"
The King stared at the smaller man a very long time, all the time drawing ragged breaths as he tried to calm his murderous rage. At last the warhammer turned weighty in his hand and he lowered his arm, resting the heavy steel head on the ground.
The Roman took a step back. "Good." He set the bottle of sweet red down. "No more wine. Beer only." The Watch Commander gestured at the bottle.
Robert stared at the man stupidly.
"Go," the sellsword said, and mimicked striking down with the hammer.
The King now looked at the bottle for a very long time, a sadness welling up in his soul. Suddenly he jerked up the hammer and dropped it on the top of the bottle, shattering the glass and spreading a pool of sweet, sweet red pointlessly on the floor.
"Good," Publius Postumius said. He took himself over to the nearest chair and sat down. "Move tables, chairs. Then practice."
Robert nodded his head. It turned out to be a very long, tiring afternoon in the Small Hall.
December 7.
"Your Grace!" Boros Blount's gravelly voice shouted out through a small gap in the main door to the Small Hall.
"What?" the King called back laboriously.
"Visitors, your Grace; Lord Stannis, Lord Renly, and that sellsword general."
He muttered a question at his companion, and then answered, "Send them in."
The Kingsguard pushed the doors open all the way and stood aside to let the trio enter. They found their sovereign standing in a large empty space made in the middle of the Small Hall; all the tables, benches, and chairs pushed off against the walls. Beside him stood the sinewy Roman Watch Commander, Publius Postumius.
"You've not attended the Small Council the past two days, your Grace," Stannis stated, sounding accusatory. "You might not have heard that the rest of the Legion army is now approaching the Blackwater Rush."
"I heard," the Stag answered, sounding churlish.
"Gods Robert, you look dreadful," Renly pronounced, taking in his sweaty, red faced brother dressed no finer than a common man-at-arms. "Take a break from whatever you're doing and have some wine. You'll feel better."
The suggestion of grape fed temptation into his blood. He licked his lips. "No," he said hollowly. "Beer will do." To prove the point, he trudged toward a table on which rested a pitcher in a bowl of ice shavings.
"One cup," his trainer announced loudly.
Stannis gave Publius Postumius a searching look before speaking up again. "We thought you might want to greet the Legion's Legate …"
"Cassius Lartius Mucianus," the Tribune Lucius piped up at the large, bald man's prompt.
"when he steps off on the docks. I can have the wheel house readied for you."
"No," Robert barked, displeased at the hint he couldn't rid horse as far as King's Landing's walls. "I'm busy. Tell Legate Cassius I'll have him and his senior officers up for dinner once his men are settled. Now leave me be. I'm busy."
"Don't need to tell me twice," laughed Renly, turning about.
The Legate Lucius snapped a salute to the Rex.
"Yes, of course, your Grace," Stannis answered, trying to keep an unhappy, suspicious eye on his brother's new keeper.
When the door closed on the intruders, the Stag asked the Watch Commander. "What now?"
"Run. Ten times. Back and forth. Go!" And Publius Postumius pointed his callused index finger between the two far walls.
With a groan, Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and Undisputed Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, set down his mug of beer and started a lumbering jog.