Of White Trees and Blue Roses
I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.
Okay, so the general consensus is that you want a Robert POV. This was going to be a Ned chapter, but the readers have spoken...
~X~
Chapter Nineteen – A Year in Westeros, Part 2 – The Vale
Riding alongside Lord Arryn, Robert looked over his shoulder to see Ned still dawdling behind them, looking as if his mind was elsewhere.
Robert smiled to himself, hazarding a guess at where that might be. He was a dark horse, Ned Stark. Not only did his attention drift on a regular basis, his cheeks blushing, but at Harrenhal he'd heard whispers. Ashara Dayne had been seen going into the godswood with a Stark, she'd been seen sneaking into a Stark's quarters, and she wore a direwolf broach at the neck of her cloak.
Ned denied it of course. When Robert had asked him, using a vulgar gesture that he often used to punctuate tales of his own conquests, Ned's face had glowed like a slapped backside. He didn't know what Robb was talking about, he would never dishonour a lady in that way, and various other protestations of innocence.
That was just like Ned—too bloody honourable for his own good. At first, Robb had thought his friend finally becoming a man might loosen him up a little, but he was as uptight as ever. Jon Arryn had taught him well.
Robb looked across at his mentor. The journey home was going to be a dull one; the Lord of the Vale was keeping him on the same short leash he had been on since the final joust.
No more than one cup of ale with his meal, and Jon by his side almost every waking moment of the day. He was scared his wayward ward might find himself in his cups and let out what he truly felt about the crown prince's behaviour.
Something bubbled up inside Robert, and he wished he was back in the melee with his hammer, not halfway back to the Eeyrie.
He'd been impressive, some had said. He had skill—a fierce warrior in the making. The compliments meant nothing to the young Lord Baratheon.
The real reason he'd performed the way he had wasn't just because he was unusually sober, but because every man he came up against had worn the face of Rhaegar Targaryen in his mind. Swinging his war hammer in their direction had felt good, unleashing the fury he felt within.
There was no doubt about it, Lyanna truly was the queen of love and beauty of the tourney, but if it had been any other man that had handed the woman Robert loved that crown, he would have killed him on the spot. But it was the king's son, first in line to the throne, so instead Robert had to keep his mouth shut and bear it.
Lord Arryn was right, Robert accepted, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with. There would be no opportunity for Robert to let it all out until he was back at the roof of the world, with leagues and leagues separating him from the source of his anger.
"This man will be your king someday. A good lord knows when to let a royal slight wash over him, lest he find his head decorating a spike in King's Landing," Jon said. He was right—he was always right.
Robb couldn't help but play the moment over again in his mind. At least Lyanna had flushed and not simpered like most girls would have. She had seemed embarrassed by it.
It had always seemed to Robert that Rhaegar must have prefer the company of males—what with his harp, his company of well-spoken friends who were a little too clean and well-dressed to be true men, and the way he was faithful to his waif of a wife when almost every girl in the kingdom's eyes twinkled when he walked by.
Well, now Robert knew otherwise. One thing was for certain, not for all the gold and land in the kingdom would he be taking Lyanna to King's Landing once they were married.
Holier than thou Prince Rhaegar had tarnished his image—maybe he was less the knight in shining armour everyone held him up to be, and more like his father once it came to it. The king had his knives out for the Starks, that was for sure. Even Robert had been able to see that, the way he looked when Benjen and Lyanna had been accused.
Lyanna as the Knight of the Laughing Tree...Robert had his usual physical response to the idea.
Imprisoned in his room of a night, Robert had spent too many hours imagining Lyanna, naked underneath the patchwork armour. Later the armour had become polished bronze, and much more form fitting, but Lyanna's state of undress beneath it was the same.
When he got back to the Vale, Robert had already decided that he was going to find himself a brunette whore, and take some armour with him to dress her up in. Otherwise, every time he heard the word jousting and mystery knight, he'd look as if he was concealing a lance in his pants.
~X~
If ever Robb wanted to torture a man to death, he would without a doubt send him to Lord Arryn. He wanted a piece of writing, at least a full length of parchment, on whatever subject his wards chose.
Robert couldn't see the point—when he finally took his place at Storm's End he'd have a maester to do this for him. Still, Jon would find some way to explain why this was absolutely necessary, and sometimes it was less painful to comply than face the lecture.
With a loud sigh, Robert looked at the few paragraphs he'd written on the fighting style of the dothraki horselords across the sea. What he had done so far seemed short compared to the length of parchment remaining.
"Psst," he hissed to Ned across the table, whispering even though Lord Arryn had long since left the room. Ned looked up.
Robert nodded in the direction of his friend's parchment. "What are you writing about?"
"Never you mind," was the reply.
Smiling, Robert pulled the sheet out from under Ned's quill to look for himself. Getting to his feet immediately, Robb backed away, predicting correctly that Ned would do the same.
"What do we have here? I didn't know you were a poet, Ned."
"Give it here." Ned tried to make a grab for his work, but Robert held it away from him, before turning his back and trying to read a snippet more.
"Lips of palest pink and violet eyes, from my love's mouth weeps the slightest of sighs..."
"Robb..." Ned said sternly and tried for his parchment once more.
"I didn't think you had it in you. She put her hand where?" Robert said mischievously, and then held the poem high in the air, to keep it just out of Ned's reach.
Frustrated, Ned and Robb tussled, until Rob turned suddenly and felt the parchment torn from his grasp. Looking around, he saw that a short spear now pinned the poem to a wooden door.
"Seven hells," Robb cursed, and breathing heavily he looked back at his friend who was doing the same, standing by a rack of ornamental spears.
After a few moments of intense eye contact, Robert laughed. "Here, you can have it back. It isn't worth getting skewered over." He indicated the parchment with a tilt of his head. "Written from experience, is it?"
Ned grinned quietly, and the two of them were pulling the spear from the wood when Jon Arryn returned. For a moment, he gave them a look of exasperation, before walking over to join them.
"There's been a raven. Ned, your family has left Winterfell. They'll send word when they reach the Twins, and then we'll set off to join them in Riverrun." Jon looked up at the poem pinned against the wood. "I take it that means you are both done?"
Robb looked at his feet while Ned shook his head. Finally retrieving his work, the Stark boy went back to the table, and Robert reluctantly joined him, trying his hardest to concentrate on how dothraki would fare against Westerosi knights and castles.