Hey all, it's been a while, isn't it?

Finally I've found the time again to continue the story, university has been a pain as of late. I will try to not let this story hiatus for such a long time again, so no worries!

As always, feedback is like dopamine for me. Write yout thoughts in the comments!

Robert

"Bring me a pint, good man." Robert sat himself on a creaky barstool, the wood groaning under his weight. This poor chair is on its last legs. Memories of grand feasts in the Red Keep flickered in his mind, a stark contrast to this humble setting.

The innkeeper sighed, "You lot are going to drain me dry tonight, the Father be merciful..." His tone carried the weight of weary resignation, one Robert knew all too well.

The man filled a mug with the amber ambrosia, and Robert drank greedily. Fresh and pungent - the Riverlanders have good ale, even if their inns are lacking. He always had to watch out for his head, the doorframes mocking his height.

After gulping the last drop, Robert took his leave. Rubbing shoulders with men that could care less if he were king or farmer, Robert made his way up the creaking stairs, to a faded green door. Every time, it's like the first time all over again. The weight of duty, heavier than his warhammer, pressed upon him. He knocked.

It was the Braavosi, Syrio, who opened the door this time. "Good evening, your Grace." He seemed expectant, which made Robert feel even more unsure of himself.

Robert put his brave face on. "I've come to see the girls and... my son." Syrio nodded courteously, stepping aside. There was a time when Robert would have barged into any room, unannounced and unapologetic. But that was a lifetime ago.

Sansa and Arya were arguing in hushed tones, while Gendry stared broodingly at his bull helm. They looked up at his approach and bowed their heads - Arya less willingly. And back to being King, Robert thought with a sigh. The crown was a circlet of lead, not gold.

"The lodgings are to your liking?" he asked, his voice echoing with the authority he seldom felt.

"Yes, your Grace," Sansa answered, "Your generosity is truly without bounds." Her words were bare courtesy - Robert had heard them plenty from the Bitch Queen. He sighed, the sound more of a soldier weary from battle than a king on his throne.

"The Vale of Arryn is but a ferry and a few days' hard ride away. Once the Eyrie is in hand, the pair of you'll be off to your brother, Robb." He did his best to keep the smug smile off his face.

Sansa started crying, and Robert immediately felt a little less smug. "The Riverlands are crawling with Lannister men right now," he continued. "A boat from Gulltown to White Harbour - well, barring a winter storm," he grimaced, "you'll be home soon enough." The words tasted like ash - promises in a world where words were as fragile as glass.

"Why?" Of course it was little Arya. "Is our brother not a traitor?"

"Your father would haunt me if I didn't," Robert laughed, a sound that felt foreign in his throat. "Syrio here, and your sworn sword, Jory, will protect you - though I can't imagine you'll have much need of it in the North." Syrio bowed, a gesture of respect Robert wasn't sure he deserved. "They loved your father - still do, I expect."

"And you, my son," he gestured to Gendry, "Tomorrow morning I wish for you to ride by my side." The lad looked somewhat troubled, though Robert had no idea why.

Robert woke in the middle of the night, his heart pounding like the drums of war. A solitary candle on the bedside table cast a muted glow across his quarters. The bed was large, but the straw mattress and woolen blankets had seen better days. No silk or velvet here, just the rough embrace of reality.

Robert approached a wooden desk at the far wall, bearing a basin of water and a small looking-glass. I look… gaunt. Not something people would ever think of the old fat King. The Gods were cruel on men who… lingered. Too many questions, and no answers.

Fuck, I need to shit.

The damned chamber pot somehow managed to be as uncomfortable as the Iron Throne. Bow, bow, you shits! Robert roared from his mighty throne, as the courtiers argued about how each one of them was the better man to clean it up. He chuckled, a hollow sound echoing in the dim room.

Somewhere in the distance, a horn blew. His heart skipped a beat - the sound of war, a call he knew all too well.

He got to his feet and dashed for the window, codpiece forgotten. Shadowy figures were climbing the wooden walls, torch and sword in hand. Seven bloody hells!

"BARRISTAN!" He shouted, but no one came. "PATE! PAAAAAATEE!" Robert roared, the sound fierce like the war cries of his youth.

Thankfully for the Kingsguard squire, the lad was fast. "Yer Grace! Bandits are raiding the village!"

"Well, I'm not bloody blind!" Robert grumbled, the anger in his voice masking the thrill of battle rising within him. "GO FETCH THE BREASTPLATE, NOW! AND MY PANTS!"

Pate scurried back, while Robert grabbed his warhammer. Villains that strike in the night… I'll have their heads!

First, the children. "Syrio! Open the bloody door!" His voice was a battering ram, demanding and unyielding.

There was some noise inside, furniture being moved. Finally, the door opened a hairsbreadth, and the Braavosi's eye peeked out.

"Keep them safe, Syrio," he commanded. "Let none enter, on pain of death. I will return." His words were a king's decree, a promise as solid as the walls of Storm's End.

The eye glimmered in assent, and Robert charged off. "Stay by my side, Pate," he ordered, not looking back to see if the squire was keeping up. "Watch my back." Let's see how he handles himself.

The inn was in chaos. Men gripped their weapons nervously or made themselves busy setting up makeshift barricades out of rickety furniture. He recognized one of his captains hard at work organizing the rabble - Ser Glendon Bolling, second son of Herbert Bolling, Lord of the Grief.

"Glendon!" Robert shouted, his voice cutting through the din like a sword through air.

The man saw him, and his eyes widened. "Your Grace! Thank the Gods!"

"Thank the Gods once this mess is over." Robert spat, the taste of iron and anger on his tongue. "Who's raiding the village?"

"The Bloody Mummers," he said in disgust, "Those zorses are distinctive. Vargo Hoat and his butchers aim to turn this town into an abattoir."

Robert ground his teeth - a habit he had picked up in his older, more irritable years. Gods, that's where Stannis gets it from! "As you were, Ser. Barristan - and Lancel - will rally our men, and we'll push the bastards back!" His voice was a war horn, calling men to arms.

Robert addressed his soldiers. "Listen here, you shits! Keep your weapons close! Make no mummer enter, give 'em a bloody beating!" The men cheered.

It's been too long, he thought. Gods, he was made for this. The thrill of battle, the call of war - it was the music of his soul.

He could hear the distant beating of feet against stone. The bastards were coming, armed to the teeth. His grip tightened around the handle of his Warhammer - an old, familiar friend.

There was an echoing bang against the door. A battering ram! "Form up! The man who brings me the most heads gets a free round at the whorehouse!"

"Long live Robert!" One of the men bellowed, "For every man, a whore!"

In the face of death, men laughed, and each throat took up their warcry. "FOR EVERY MAN, A WHORE!"

The door wouldn't hold much longer. "Get ready, you bastards!" Robert roared, his voice thundering above the fray. "Here they come!"

The entrance shattered and the Mummers flooded in, lusting for gold and death. A copper-skinned thug engaged Robert, thinking to match rapier to warhammer. Robert did not accept the invitation - he dodged, and the Essosi managed to get his curved sword lodged in the floorboards.

He kicked the thug down to the floor. After such a showing, a hammer to the spine was… merciful. "Bring me another!" he bellowed, his voice a rallying cry in the tumult of battle.

A Dothraki horse-shagger charged him, arakh glinting in the dim light. Most unfortunately for him, Robert's breastplate skived his blow off the edge. He gave the fool a crushed chest for his trouble, the lamellar collapsing with a resounding crunch. Ribs like butter.

A Norvoshi with a long, forked beard came next, wielding a massive axe. To the fool's credit, the axe held up against his hammer - and so Robert swiftly knocked it back, the haft flying back into his own skull.

The Norvoshi dropped to the floor like dead weight. One by one, the Brave Companions were being slaughtered.

The once pristine wooden floor of the inn was tainted red. Woe unto the poor soul who would have to clean up the blood and the corpses.

Pate the squire nearly met his end against a Qohori spearman. He was saved by a short, stout figure who expertly disabled the spearman with a swift cut to his legs.

Is that an Ibbenese? A rare sight in these Kingdoms; the man fought ferociously, his axe a blur.

"Push them back!" Robert roared, "I'll gut the Goat myself!"

Alas, Lumpy had beaten him to the punch - and Robert could not be prouder of his squire for it.

Robert ought to have knighted the boy on the spot, when he showed up with the goatfucker's head, but he desisted. Bit selfish of me - but he didn't want to lose his best squire.

Around them, the inn was alive with revelry, the innkeeper celebrating his unscathed establishment with a veritable flood of drink. The men cheered with a fervor to match their earlier cries for blood, their voices resounding off the rough wooden walls and rafters.

And Lancel had found some interesting company, too; a drunken septon with a truly fine sword, almost a cousin to Valyrian steel.

The Ibbenese who had saved Pate's was just as odd, in his own way. The man's beard put Robert's to shame: a wild, unruly thing. His accent was rough and guttural - more used to sailing turgid waters than puddles of blood, but he had struck it hard and fast with Syrio and Thoros.

Arya, the scamp, her curiosity piqued, watched them closely - or rather, the tankards in their hands. The Ibbenese noticed, with a mischievous grin, offered her his own - laughing as she spat out the drink in disgust. "Why do you drink this? It's horrible!" Her high and reedy voice echoed, and the men erupted in laughter.

Thoros' eyes twinkled with amusement. "A good tankard of ale warms the soul, little wolf. It's been far too long since I've savoured its comfort. Another round, if you please, innkeep!"

Robert intercepted the newly filled mug, taking a hearty gulp. "Gods, this is what life's about! Good mead after a hard-won skirmish... there's nothing better!"

Thoros muttered something vaguely uncomplimentary, while Robert turned his attention to the man of Ib. "You're a long way from Ibben, friend. What brings you to such a forsaken corner of the world?"

"Aye, that's a tale," Doros Dorund - a wandering nobleman, by his bearing - slurred, the ale having loosened his tongue. "I was once the First Thain of Ibben. Two decades fighting against the Dothraki and other dregs, and you start yearning for something... different. The Great Will be damned, I longed for more."

"And so, you got here," Robert hummed.

"Aye," Doros answered, "One day I might return - if the Shadow Council screams loud enough."

He offered his hand, lifting the man to his feet. "So, what do you think? Up for more?"

Doros' bushy eyebrows furrowed in deep pondering - but Robert already knew how he would answer.