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 trees in search of something to hunt. The smell of wood, the sound of the flowing river - this was better than any kingly crown; far better than breathing in that shit-pile of a city. The crown be damned, this was what he was born for!

Fighting, hunting and fucking. A man could have only those three things, and be the happiest creature on earth. Nothing could fill his belly more than some roast haunch; that, and the blood of his enemies. Not much of that to be found anymore.

His wineskin was near empty. Lumpy Lancel, the dim-witted lion, had finally dropped his balls, and served him a stronger wine this time. As if that'd slow me down. Fucking Lannisters!

Other than his squire, Ser Mandon Moore and three other retainers accompanied him, of which he didn't even know their names. Barristan's absence was keenly felt - the venerable knight always made for good company on every hunt, but for some reason, Renly's dragged him off somewhere today. His brother wished to talk with the Bold, about what Robert did not know.

Probably to plot. Everyone in this bloody city loves to plot!

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 walking corpse, with sullen cheekbones and thin lips. Still, nobody doubted his strength at arms - the knight did wield sword and lance with exceeding proficiency, but he was certainly no leader of men.

Huh, no good hunting around. The hounds had long lost any scent, but he knew something was around here, and it wasn't his drunken stupor playing tricks. The nearby bushes were scattered, as if something big had barrelled by.

The Baratheon smiled. I will bloody find it, he thought. He usually would hunt in the Kingswood, but this was a special occasion. The peasants spoke of a white stag, roaming the forest near Rosby and Robert would not let such a legendary beast slip his grasp. This must surely be a sign from the Gods, thanking him for getting rid of those damned dragons - he'd have the hide in pride of place, in front of his throne.

Robert took another swig, but his wineskin was empty.

"WINE!" He bellowed.

"Yes, your Grace!" The puny Lannister sprung like a march hare, passing a new wineskin to the 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.

To his left was the largest boar he had ever seen - it could feed half a feast on its own! Hale and vigorous in its old age - the years must've only sharpened its cunning. He would gift its pelt to Ned, his friend deserved a present for the work he's doing.

"Spear." He ordered one of his retainers.

"Your Grace, but-"

"I SAID SPEAR!" The King roared.

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... in this moment of moments, nothing could rob him of his glory.

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

He tossed the rock, hitting the animal square in the eye. It squealed in pain and charged, half-blind - directly onto his spear; the shaft near-splitting from the sheer weight of the charge.

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

"Fucking... DIE already!" The boar had the strength of four men, even as its own stubbornness split apart its sides with every step taken. His addled senses didn't help either - fuck, he was starting to lose his balance.

Then, it snapped.

Gods, I am 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 sabre, ready to slash the beast. The boar suddenly redirected in a sideward slash of its tusks, 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, carving through the beast's insides. Moore finished it off then, with a 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 cowards to stand up - he wasn't that far gone.

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

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

Well, at least he showed some humour - though it was about as unnatural as seeing a fish smile.

Lumpy was shaking - probably near to pissing himself. Gods! That pissant's not getting a knighthood - not if I can bloody help it!

Fucking blonde 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. Even his children bore the smirking face of the Kingslayer, by virtue of his bitch twin. 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? Fucker already has his vaunted legacy!

A silence reigned in the small clearing, as everyone stared at the King. "Well, what are you waiting for?!" Robert lost his patience. "I had enough of hunting for today. 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 surcoat 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 have to wait.…

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 if it came under 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 on it overmuch, 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, and alongside Ned Stark, we made short work of the rest of those fuckers! 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.

Ned had been a blessing as of late, a familiar face the shithole that was his court. Yet he was worried 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 spawned a brood of mad dragonspawn howling for their kingdoms back - it would be the Blackfyres all over again. 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 would gather a great navy from whichever Free City would see advantage in having a grateful ruler in their pockets, and pour thousands of horse-fucking idiots below their gates. Yes, the barbarians 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 imagine 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. I will rot in a shallow grave before I ever let it happen.

A dagger will do. If the girl dies, Viserys would lose his last piece in the Game. Or mayhaps, that Khal, Drogo, could be disposed of. Without their leader, the Dothraki will break into thousands of warring tribes again... Aye, this could work.

At the other end of the bridge, figures emerged from the trees - bandits, probably. Mismatched clothes, topped off with crude leather paddings - improvised weapons, and some small round shields. All in all, a good warmup.

One - seemingly the leader - stepped forward, a grin on his face, "Ah, lovely day! We finally found you... usurper."

Ser Mandon had already drawn his weapon, but they were outnumbered - badly. Hah! Robert grasped the hilt of his sabre, and narrowed his eyes. "In the name of the King, give us your names, sers. From what hole did ye appear?"

The leader chuckled, "It matters not, Baratheon. I was bid to pass you a message!" His retainers were already pissing their breeches - faugh! Cowards, the pair of them.

Robert laughed in their faces - and laughed even harder, as they cowered, almost by instinct. "Speak your piece, then."

"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 on fat stag tonight!" And they charged.

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. Lancel the Lump stood back, and watched.

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 Cyvasse pieces for him, everyone is!"

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

The man on his right moved to gut his squire, who seemed to know terror for the first time today, as if he didn't expect to die.

Yet...

Robert didn't know what made him act. Irrationality, sadness, compassion... he couldn't describe what he felt in that moment. 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.