Robert

Robert was experiencing a strange dream.

He was in the Kingswood, taller and stronger than ever - but everything was eerily quiet; only the rustling of a nearby brook could be heard.

But across it, there was a war camp - fit for an army of thousands. The Baratheon Stag was flapping proudly, above the tents above milling Stormlanders, going about their duties.

Smiths hammering, soldiers sparring... the sights and sounds of war were like music to his soul - but then a sentry saw him. For some Gods-forsaken reason, he began babbling something unintelligible -

Robert knew he had to run, or fight, and he'd never run from a fight - but then everything became a blur of motion, and then he woke up to a thatched ceiling. Seven Hells, this fucking headache...

Odd dream, that. More vivid than even the Trident - still, it was just a dream.

Reality was his son sitting on Robert's rightful throne.

Joffrey's blood was tainted by madness, same as the Targaryens; no boy of eight would disembowel a cat for fun, not even a bloody Bolton. He was the Mad King come again; and Robert had vowed that no more lunatics would sit on the Iron Throne.

He had failed his oath. He had failed the whole damned realm. Not only with his indifference - but because he became…

Soft. Fat. Lazy.

Having an open hand was a virtue, but truly, he'd aided his enemies instead. The Bitch did as she wished, even from their wedding night - Robert Baratheon, Demon of the Trident, tamed by a woman... gods, what a fucking disgrace!

Robert reached for the nearby mug and took a swig of ale - his only real company as of late. Caster had been busy helping Sherra, while the other villagers were too pissy to talk to their King.

He spent most of his time on a small hill by the fringes of the village, with a splendid Weirwood tree growing atop. The place oddly reminded him of the Heart Tree at Storm's End, its boughs whistling in the wind.

Robert wasn't the pensive type, but now he couldn't ignore reality any longer. The Kingdoms were in turmoil, and it was his fault -

Gods, he was a shit King.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, the sounds broke Robert out of his reverie. Horses! He could hear horses coming from the treeline. Where's my hammer?!

Robert saw no banner, and the soldiers wore mismatched bits - no livery he could identify. Gods, if these are deserters... they'd get round to sacking the place quick enough. Where's my fucking hammer?!

But there was a familiar face in the bunch; blonde hair, green eyes, the confused look of a lost fish - Lancel?! His squire didn't appear to be in chains. As the group approached, Robert spotted a man in dirtied - but still recognizable enameled armour. Barristan Selmy!

He broke into a run, as Barristan hastily dismounted from his horse. "Y-your Grace!" He kneeled before him.

"Gods, Selmy," Robert patted his shoulder, "Get up, get up, man!" Barristan stayed where he was, his shoulders shaking.

"I am a failure," he said, and Robert had never seen him look so despondent. "When His Grace needed me the most, I failed in my duty - yet another war has begun which I could have ended in its cradle! My King - I am truly sorry..."

Robert stared at him, and burst out laughing. Barristan, the old man, finally looked up - somehow managing to look scandalized through his tears.

"Kingsguard, look around you," he gestured about the hilltop. "Do you see anyone here? Loyal knights? My brothers in blood? No," he laughed once more, "You've been the most leal of men since the Trident - now's not the time to doubt yourself."

"Your Grace..." if anything, Barristan had become even weepier, "Thank you - you're truly a generous man -"

"That I am!" Robert roared. He turned towards his squire, "Lumpy! I'm glad you're still whole and healthy!"

The boy smiled, "Thank you, your Grace. I succeeded in my mission, if you wish -"

"Aye, aye," Robert recognised some acquaintances in the bunch, "Thoros, you drunken madman!"

The Red Priest laughed and clapped the King's shoulder, "Your Grace! The grave could not hold you, then?"

Robert just laughed in response, but stopped when he saw who stood beside him - it was Beric Dondarrion, the Lightning Lord. "Good to see you well, Lord Beric," Robert greeted him. "Let us get off this hill, and then we'll talk."

Robert had to go through the whole rigamarole of calming down the villagers, and invoking his Royal authority - not having much success at it, if truth be told. Thankfully, Sherra offered her hearth as a meeting place, and it was there Robert spoke with the men who had sought him for so long.

"Your Grace," Barristan sat alongside him and Lumpy, "I understand your squire was sent out to scout, and keep you informed."

Robert nodded, "Aye. When Lumpy was last here, the Royal children were all he could speak of."

Barristan rubbed his beard, and nodded. "Shortly after your disappearance Lord Stark ordered me to assemble a searching party, while he and Lord Renly took control of the capital."

Ha, good for Ned! His brother in all but blood had always had his back. "How's he doing then? Is King's Landing safe again?"

Barristan's expression was unreadable, "Your Grace..."

He was met with an uneasy silence, "Come on, man! Speak, your King commands it!" Barristan broke eye contact for a moment and took a deep breath.

"Your Grace... I am truly sorry. Lord Stark is dead. Jaime Lannister dealt him a fatal wound." No.

No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-

"I WILL TEAR THE PRICK'S LIMBS APART, ONE BY ONE. HE WILL SCREAM - OH, HOW HE WILL SCREAM!"

Hands were on him. It's all my fault.

"THE SEVEN HEAVENS WILL BE TORN APART BY THE WAILS! THE BITCH WILL SUFFER THE SAME FATE, AND I WILL SAVOUR EVERY MOMENT!"

They tried to hold him back. I brought Ned south.

"I WILL TEAR THE HINGES OF THE ROCK'S GATES WITH HIS BARE HANDS AND TEAR IT APART, BRICK BY BRICK!"

HE WOULD NOT BE HELD BACK! To be killed by the Kingslayer -

He got his hands round the throat of the fucking Kingslayer, and squeezed, and squeezed.

"-your Grace..."

I deserved to die, not Ned.

"ROBERT!"

Not Ned!

Someone broke something on his head, and Robert finally looked up.

Beric and Thoros had one of his arms, and Barristan was - futilely - trying to remove his other hand from the fucking Kingslayer's throat -

No -

No, that's not him. It's just Lumpy.

Barristan finally got his hand away from Lumpy's throat. His squire's throat was purple - his eyes bloodshot. He was choking on air.

They all looked at him as if he was a -

"STOP!" Robert roared - and they did. "Help my squire up."

It was Beric who finally moved off him, and dragged the Lannister to a nearby chair. Robert did not look at him again.

Instead, he addressed the other men in his room - men who still looked at him as if he might turn on them any moment.

"This... mockery of my wife's must end. You and your men, Lord Commander," Robert addressed everyone in the dwelling, "I trust. You have followed your duty, even when reason bid you otherwise."

He held their gazes - Selmy, Dondarrion, the Red Priest, till they all lowered their eyes. "Now tell me, who is fighting?"

"Nearly everyone," Barristan said, eager to keep Robert moving. "Your brother Stannis has declared himself King, and his forces breached the southern Crownlands. I expect King's Landing to be under siege soon, but it will be a bloody affair."

Stannis... fighting for his presumed birthright, instead of his family. "And Renly? What is he doing?"

Barristan shrugged, "I know not, your Grace - it's as if he disappeared without a trace. Some believe him dead." Robert grimaced.

Barristan continued, "Then, there's the North. Lord Eddard's death did not go down well with the Northern Lords, and they - and the Riverlords - have declared young Robb King in the North. He has yet to lose a battle, but the war continues."

Now that did bring laughter into his heart again. "HAH! My namesake does exactly what I did!" For did not Jon Arryn declare him King, when Mad Aerys called for his head?

And look how well that has gone. Robert's mirth disappeared, as if it had never been.

"Yet his rule is at grave risk," Beric took up the account. "Word of more woe to come, from the Far North; the Wildlings are mustering again, and they've crowned another King Beyond the Wall."

Hells, the Wall is barely manned!

"Lastly, the Iron Islands have rebelled - again," Barristan completed, "Balon Greyjoy has crowned himself - again - and raids the North with near-impunity, what with most of its fighting men below the Neck."

Fuck, that's where mercy gets you. "I should've chopped his bloody head off..." Robert swore. "What of the ward?"

Barristan answered, "King Robb spared him - and the boy has declared himself King, in defiance of his father!"

Others take me. Five new Kings - nay, six! If you counted the dregs beyond the Wall.

"And then there's me. Stranded in this village. Forgotten by the Gods." Robert mumbled.

Fuck it. "Barristan, prepare the men. Come dawn, we ride."

"As you will it, your Grace," Barristan - finally - smiled. "Where are we headed?"

"Antlers," Robert spoke to his rag-tag little group. "Lord Buckwell is a loyal man, and I know him well. Let us meet him, and then decide how our fates will unfold."

"This is Gendry, your Grace," Barristan said, indicating the scrawny youth he dragged before Robert - who was dumbstruck, as he gazed at someone that could have walked out of the mists of time. That's me from the Eyrie… no.

The knight backed out and closed the door, abandoning him with a truly sticky situation. Prick.

Robert approached the boy. He touched his face, tracing down the jawline. "Look at me."

Gendry huffed, staring deep into his eyes. Gods, it's uncanny. "How old are you, lad?"

"Five and ten, your Grace." One of the first.

"Tell me about your mother." He ordered.

"I don't remember much, your Grace." Gendry answered, "But I recall her long, blond hair - she sang to me when I was a baby too. She died shortly after, and Master Mott took care of me."

Varys was tasked with keeping his bastards safe, and provided for. Robert had never asked after the ones in King's Landing - to do so, would have drawn the eyes of the Bitch. Fifteen years ago, blonde hair...

Gods - Bessie! Of the Big Tits!

"Your mother was a good woman, lad." Robert smiled, "Her voice was sweet, pleasing to the ears. I remember it like yesterday."

Gendry looked more confused than before, and Robert sighed. "Boy, you've never wondered about your father?"

He frowned, "Aye, your Grace. He abandoned my mother, and I still don't know why."

Robert felt as if he had been stabbed. He'd sired bastards left and right - only Mya truly remained in his mind, for to acknowledge them was to draw the Bitch's wrath upon them. So, he drowned himself in wine - and forgot they ever existed.

"Boy, there's something you need to know." Robert gulped, "I - I am your father."

Gendry did not seem to comprehend what he heard. "What?"

"I -" Robert's voice failed him. Do I have any right to claim this boy? I've failed to raise him - him and so many others I never acknowledged, fearing for their lives.

T'was Gendry who broke the silence first. "Why?"

His heart must've yet remained craven, for no words came. Why indeed?

Why is my son an orphan, despite his father being hale?

Why is my wife the most evil of women?

Why is the man I would call brother dead?

It's you. It's your fault.

Robert wept.

Oh boy, another trauma to add in Robert's PTSD list!

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know what you liked in the comments!