The wind lashed against Robert Baratheon's face as he led his men through the barren mountains of Dorne. His large, imposing figure atop a black steed was a vision of fury and brute force. Around him, a handful of his most loyal men accompanied him, seasoned warriors from the rebellion that had just ended. But today was unlike any other day.
"The Tower of Joy..." he whispered, his gaze locked on the distant peaks cutting across the horizon. It had been months since he had started hunting Rhaegar Targaryen, the damned dragon prince who had dared to steal what was rightfully his. Lyanna Stark. Robert tightened his grip on his warhammer, his knuckles turning white with tension. Rhaegar had died under his hammer at the Battle of the Trident, but the victory brought no peace. There was still an emptiness, a void. Lyanna. Where was she ? What had that snake of a Targaryen done to her ?
"Lyanna..." he murmured, his breath heavy, blending with the dry wind. The name rolled in his throat like a dark prayer, a vow of vengeance. Around him stood a few of his most faithful men. Robert's Rebellion was over. He had wrested the crown from Aerys, crushed it into the mud with the weight of his hammer. Rhaegar Targaryen lay at the bottom of the Trident, his armor shattered, his skull crushed. But despite the resounding victory, Robert felt that nothing had truly been accomplished. As long as Lyanna remained out of his reach as long as he had not seen what had been taken from him, his rage would continue to burn.
Ahead of them, like white statues under the Dornish sun, stood the knights of the Kingsguard. Three men, motionless, in shining armor. But even beneath those white armors, Robert could sense death. He called for it.
"Step aside !" he roared, his voice splitting the air like thunder.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stepped forward. His face was stern, but his eyes sharp. His hands clenched around the hilt of Dawn, the legendary sword, its blade bright as the first light of dawn. Behind him, Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent did not move. They all knew what was coming.
"You will not pass, Robert" Dayne's voice was calm, as cold as a sharpened blade. But Robert saw none of it.
Only his hammer guided him now.
"I'm done with your oaths and false honor!" he spat, stepping forward. "Lyanna is behind you, and I will take her back, whether you like it or not !"
Without waiting, Robert swung his arm. His hammer rose with inhuman strength, the muscles in his arms bulging with tension. And the battle erupted in a clash of metal and cries.
Robert was a storm of fury.
His hammer cut through the air, whistling from left to right, like thunder crashing down upon the earth. The first blow he landed on Ser Oswell Whent's shield was so forceful that it shattered the wood into pieces, sending shards flying around them. Whent narrowly dodged the hammer's head, but his armor rang with the impact. Robert gave him no respite. He swung again, his weapon raised high, and this time the hammer found its mark. The steel crashed into Whent's helmet with a sickening crunch. The knight staggered, blood seeping from beneath his visor, before collapsing to the ground with a dull thud.
But Robert had no time to savor the victory. Ser Gerold Hightower was already upon him, sword raised. Hightower's strikes were precise, each blow aimed to pierce Robert's armor, but he was too slow to face the beast he was fighting. Robert parried one of the strikes with the shaft of his hammer, twisting the weapon with such brutality that it nearly disarmed the Lord Commander. Spinning on his heels, Robert let out a cry of rage, his hammer smashing into Hightower's side, sending him flying several feet. He crashed heavily to the ground, his armor dented, and a dark patch of blood already spreading across the dusty ground.
The ground was stained with red. Blood everywhere. But it wasn't over.
Ser Arthur Dayne still stood, sword in hand. Robert knew this man was different. Not like the others too slow, too weak to stop him.
"Come then !" Robert bellowed, gripping his hammer tightly. "Come die like the rest !"
Dayne stepped forward. Slowly. Each movement seemed calculated, every step a study in grace and precision.
Robert didn't wait. He charged, his hammer swinging in a wide arc. But Dayne was already gone. Dawn flashed through the air, faster than lightning. The blade bit into Robert's armor, cutting a deep gash into his side. Blood trickled down his ribs.
The pain only fueled his anger. Robert swung again, the force behind his hammer titanic, but Dayne sidestepped, barely avoiding the blow. Each strike from Robert was like a battering ram against a door, but the Sword of the Morning moved like a shadow, his sword whistling through the air with deadly precision.
And then, a moment of weakness.
Dayne overcommitted, his confidence in his speed betraying him. Robert saw the opening, a fleeting chance, and seized it. He twisted, his hammer smashing into Dayne's side with devastating force. The steel bent under the impact, and a cry of pain escaped the knight's lips. The blow was so powerful that Dawn slipped from Dayne's grasp and fell to the ground.
Dayne dropped to his knees, gasping for breath, one hand pressed against his broken side. Robert stood over him, panting heavily, his blood mingling with the dust of the mountains. He said nothing. There was nothing left to say. He lifted his hammer one last time, his eyes burning with hatred and vengeance.
The hammer came down, shattering Dayne's skull with a gruesome crack.
Blood splattered the stones beneath their feet, and the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne was no more than a lifeless body.
Silence fell. Around him, the corpses of the Kingsguard knights littered the ground, their armor shattered, their blood staining the barren Dornish land.
Robert, drenched in blood, stood at the foot of the tower. He had killed no, he had slaughteredthose who stood in his way. But there was no satisfaction. No glory in the carnage. His mind still roared, as furious as the blows he had dealt with his hammer.
The dying screams had faded. Now, only the wind rose above the mountains, howling in its loneliness, echoing the tumult in Robert's soul. He had won. He was always the last one standing. Always the one whose enemies fell before him. This was what it meant to be a king, a tru king. And yet, the crown had never felt so distant, so bitter.
He needed to see her. Lyanna. More than ever. The image of her that had haunted him throughout the rebellion, that he had partly conjured in his mind, burned inside him like poison. She was the reason for all of this. She was at the heart of every drop of blood spilled in this war. Lyanna Stark, beautiful, wild, and yet untouchable.
The one who should have been his.
Even now, at the door of this cursed tower, he couldn't say if he truly knew her. It didn't matter. She was his. She belonged to him, and Rhaegar the damned had stolen her. That crown-stealing, princess-seducing traitor to his own name.
Robert placed a hand on the shoulder of one of his men. It was Harbert, a veteran of his house, loyal to the bone. The man was panting, his arm wounded, but still standing.
"My lord..." Harbert could barely whisper, his lips cracked from the relentless sun.
"Should we... go in ?"
Robert stared at him. His gaze was hard, his mind a bottomless abyss. He raised a trembling hand, still caked in blood and dust.
"No," he growled. "Stay here. I go alone."
His men exchanged uncertain glances, but no one dared challenge the order. Robert didn't need them for what was about to come. This confrontation was his battle. Not a matter of loyalty, but a matter of right. The right to reclaim what had been taken from him, the right to what was rightfully his.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door.
It groaned under the pressure, as if it hadn't been opened in years. The air inside the tower was thick, heavy with dust, humidity, and the stench of decay. Robert, though accustomed to the smells of war and death, felt his stomach twist slightly.
The narrow stairs spiraled upward. He climbed them with heavy steps, his boots echoing against the cold stone like a funeral drum.
His warhammer dragged behind him, each step more laborious, each movement heavier. His thoughts grew darker with every stride.
The images of Rhaegar and Lyanna intertwined in his mind. Lyanna kidnapped. Lyanna crying. Or perhaps... Lyanna in the arms of the dragon prince ? No that thought made his blood boil. She couldn't have loved him. Not that coward, that weak and effeminate dreamer. Robert quickened his pace, each thought driving him closer to the moment of truth. His thoughts were racing, his fists tightening around the handle of his hammer. His breath came in ragged bursts.
The light dimmed as he neared the top. Only a few slivers of sunlight pierced through narrow slits in the walls, casting rays of dust dancing in the air. He could almost hear whispers. His own breath grew heavier, and it wasn't from exhaustion. The truth awaited him here.
Finally, he reached the last step. Before him stood a smaller wooden door, worn with age, and beyond it, an eerie silence. He pushed the door open gently, and this time, it gave way without resistance.
Inside, the chamber was dark, miserable, and cold. The stone walls dripped with moisture. At the center of the room was a stone bed. And on that bed lay Lyanna Stark. Pale as a ghost, almost lost in the crumpled sheets, her frail body barely visible beneath the thin blanket.
Robert's heart clenched, but his fury refused to die., he wasn't here to mourn. He wasn't here to repent. He wanted answers.
He approached, each step echoing in the small chamber. He notice the red stains on the sheets around Lyanna. Blood. His heart pounded harder. Time seemed to slow as he neared her. He saw her eyes open. Wide, blue eyes that struggled to focus on him, as though she barely recognized him.
"Lyanna..." he said, his voice no longer a roar, but a hoarse whisper, caught between anger and something he hadn't yet identified
She turned her head, her dry lips trying to form words.
But it wasn't the smile of a woman glad to see him, nor the warmth of a lover reunited after months of separation. There was something else in her eyes. A mix of exhaustion, sorrow, and something deeper a truth that still eluded him.
"Robert ?" she finally murmured, her voice barely a whisper, almost broken.
Hearing his name from her lips was like a cold blade through Robert's heart. She didn't say it with the love he expected, nor with any passion. It was more a resigned acceptance.
"I found you, Lyanna." He knelt beside the bed, his eyes searching hers for any reaction, any hint of recognition. His hand rested heavily on the stone bed. "I found you, and I'll bring you home."
But Lyanna shook her head weakly, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, into a space he couldn't reach.
"No, Robert... it's too late..." Her words barely made it past her dry lips.
Robert clenched his teeth, refusing to understand. He had fought, he had bled, he had killed for her. Too late ? No, he couldn't accept that. Not after everything he had been through.
"No, Lyanna, you don't understand..." His voice was rough, almost trembling, but not from weakness from barely contained rage. "I came for you, nothing is too late, not for us."
But the look she gave him was nothing like what he had hoped for. There was no recognition, no relief, no joy in being found. It was a melancholy, a sadness that he couldn't grasp. Or perhaps refused to grasp.
"Robert..." she whispered again, each syllable fainter than the last. "I'm sorry."
Sorry ? The word stuck in Robert's mind like a thorn. She didn't have to be sorry. She was his. Everything she had done, everything that had happened, could be forgiven. He could forgive her.
The gods knew he wasn't a perfect man. He had his flaws, he knew that—his temper, his impulsiveness, sometimes even cruelty. But he loved her or, at least, that's what he had always believed.
He shoved those dark thoughts aside with a brutal sweep of his mind. None of that mattered. What mattered was bringing her back. Having her at his side, finally possessing her as he had always wanted. Rhaegar was gone, no longer there to stand in the way. Everything was finally possible.
"Don't worry. You have nothing to fear now, Lyanna." He straightened slightly, his hand resting heavily on the edge of the bed. "I'm going to take you home, to the North, or to Storm's End, wherever you want to go. But you're coming with me."
She turned her gaze away, staring at some point beyond him. Her breath was shallow, each breath seeming to cost her more than the last. She opened her mouth to speak again, but no sound came out.
Her body, once full of life and fire, was now nothing more than a fragile shell.
Robert's eyes drifted to the blood soaking the sheets around her. In his rush to reach her, he hadn't realized how severe her condition was. She wasn't just weak she was dying. The reality hit him like a hammer to the chest. He had lost her before he even found her.
"What did they do to you ?" he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice thick with bitterness and rage. His hand tightened around the handle of his hammer, and for the first time, fear crept into his heart. Not fear of men, or swords, or battles, but fear of losing her of facing something he couldn't fight.
"Robert... it's not what you think..." Lyanna murmured, trying to raise her hand to his, but she had no strength left.
Robert shook his head, unwilling to listen. Not what he thought ? How could she say that ? Every fiber of his being demanded vengeance, even after Rhaegar's death. He would have resurrected that cursed dragon prince just to kill him again, for what he had done. For what he had stolen from him. He had taken everything from Robert.
The door behind him creaked open, breaking the heavy atmosphere. One of his men, Harbert, entered in a hurry, his face pale, fear etched into his eyes.
"My lord !" he almost gasped, struggling to catch his breath. "There is... there is a child !"
A deathly silence fell over the room. Robert froze, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of fury and confusion. A child? The news slammed into his mind with violent force. Slowly he turned back to Lyanna, searching her face for answers, but she avoided his gaze her face stricken with pain.
"What is he talking about ?" Robert spat, his voice suddenly harsh. He rose to his feet, hammer in hand, his blazing eyes fixed on Lyanna. "What child ?!"
Lyanna didn't answer immediately. A tear rolled down her pale cheek, and in that moment, Robert saw something in her he had never seen before. A sadness, yes, but also a deep regret an emotion he couldn't comprehend or didn't want to.
"It's... it's my son, Robert" she finally whispered, her voice trembling. "The son of..."
She didn't need to finish the sentence.
Robert's hand slipped from his hammer's handle as he stumbled back, as if struck by an invisible blow. Rhaegar's son. The realization snaked through his mind like a venomous viper, twisting and biting. A black fire burned inside him, hotter than anything he had ever felt.
"No..." he murmured, his voice sinking lower, becoming more menacing. No.
His mind refused to accept it. Lyanna couldn't have borne that man's child. She belonged to him Robert. That bastard dragon had taken everything, and now he had left behind a legacy ? No Robert wouldn't allow it.
"Where is he ?!" he roared, his hands trembling with rage "Where is Rhaegar's bastard ?!"
Lyanna shook her head weakly, despair in her eyes. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, as if speaking was draining the last of her strength.
"Robert... please... don't hurt him... he's innocent..."
But Robert wasn't listening anymore. His fury had consumed him. This child represented everything that had been stolen from him. Lyanna, the war, his throne... Rhaegar had destroyed it all, and now this child was the last remnant of that destruction. He had to die.
"Tell me where he is !" Robert demanded, stepping closer to the bed, the veins in his neck bulging with rage.
"Please... Robert... promise me..." Lyanna's frail hand clung weakly to Robert's arm, her fingers as light as feathers on his massive arm but she no longer had the strength to fight him. Her gaze was distant, unfocused.
Robert shook her violently, unable to contain his fury. "WHERE IS HE ?!"
But Lyanna didn't respond. Her lips moved one last time, forming words he couldn't hear. Then, her body went still, and her hand fell limply onto the bed.
Robert froze. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the sound of his own uneven breathing.
He stared down at Lyanna, still leaning over her, his mind struggling to grasp what had just happened. She didn't move.
She was gone.
The silence became unbearable, almost tangible in the small, dark room. Robert remained motionless, hovering over the lifeless body of Lyanna Stark, the woman he had searched for so long. His thoughts whirled in chaos, an internal storm as violent as any he had unleashed on the battlefield.
She was dead. Dead. And yet none of the emotions he had imagined feeling upon finding her stirred within him. There was no relief, no closure only a cold emptiness, a cruel absence that spread through him like ice. Everything he had done, every life he had taken all of it had led him to this moment and for what ?
A failure
But there was no time for Robert to dwell on this loss, Rhaegar Targaryen's bastard still lived.
The thought of Rhaegar's bastard slithered into Robert's mind like poison, corrupting every corner of his being. The child still lived a living reminder of everything that had been taken from him, everything that had been broken. The last trace of the Targaryens, the bloodline he had sworn to wipe out. The child had to die, he had to be erased from the world just like his father.
Robert straightened slowly, his eyes still fixed on Lyanna's lifeless body, but his heart had already turned elsewhere. His rage, his hatethey were now all aimed at the one who still remained. The heir of the dragon, Rhaegar's son.
He tightened his grip on the hammer, its familiar weight grounding him in the midst of his spiraling emotions. His jaw clenched, and his muscles tensed as if preparing for battle once more. The storm that had driven him through countless battles still raged within him, now focused on a new target.
"Where is the child ?" Robert growled, his voice low and cold, devoid of mercy. He didn't need to shout anymore. The intent was clear he would not stop until the child was dead.
Harbert, still standing at the doorway, his face pale, seemed to tremble under the weight of Robert's words. He had seen the devastation Robert could unleash, and the fury in his lord's eyes now was unlike any he had ever witnessed. He hesitated for a brief moment, torn between his loyalty and the innocence of a mere babe.
"Lord... Robert" Harbert stammered, his voice weak "he's just a baby... he doesn't know... he's done nothing"
Robert turned slowly, his eyes locking onto Harbert's and in them, Harbert saw only cold, unrelenting fury.
"He carries the blood of Rhaegar Targaryen, that's enough. His existence is an insult to everything we've fought for."
He took a menacing step toward Harbert, his hammer raised slightly, the threat clear in his stance. "Tell me where he is. Now"
Harbert swallowed hard, his throat dry, but he couldn't defy his lord. He had fought by Robert's side, seen him tear down entire armies, but this was different. There was no battlefield here, no enemy to challenge, just a helpless child. Yet, he knew Robert would not be swayed.
"He's... in the next room," Harbert finally whispered, his voice barely audible. "The child is in the nursery."
Without a word, Robert pushed past him, his heavy boots thudding against the cold stone as he stormed down the narrow corridor. The air in the tower felt suffocating now, thick with the weight of what he was about to do. His mind was singularly focused, his body thrumming with purpose. His grip tightened around the hammer's shaft as he reached the door of the nursery.
He kicked it open.
Inside, the room was dimly lit by the faint light filtering through narrow windows. In the center of the small room stood a simple wooden cradle. It was carved with care, clearly meant to be a safe, loving place for an infant. And there, swaddled in soft blankets, lay the child. The baby was peaceful, sleeping soundly, his tiny hands curled into fists, his chest rising and falling gently with each breath.
Robert approached the cradle, his breath heavy, his mind racing. It would be so easy. A single strike of his hammer, and it would be over. The blood of the Targaryens would be wiped out for good. No heir, no threat to the Iron Throne. No one to remind him of Rhaegar's betrayal, of Lyanna's death.
He stood over the cradle, his shadow falling across the sleeping infant. His hand trembled slightly as he raised the hammer, preparing to bring it down, one strike. That was all it would take.
But then, as he stood there, something began to shift inside him. It wasn't pity—he felt no pity for the child of his enemy but a question gnawed at the edges of his mind, something that hadn't occurred to him in the heat of his rage.
Why ?
Why kill this child, who knew nothing of the world, who hadn't chosen the blood that ran through his veins ? This baby didn't know about the war, didn't know about the hatred that had consumed Robert's life. It was innocent, untouched by the violence that had scarred the land.
Robert's hammer hung in the air, suspended above the child's head. His heart raced, his muscles tensed, but for the first time in his life, his anger faltered. He heard Lyanna's voice in his mind, her last, broken words pleading with him. "Don't hurt him... he's innocent."
His hammer dropped, but not onto the child. It fell heavily to the floor, the clang of metal on stone echoing through the small room. Robert stood there, staring down at the child, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his mind swirling in confusion.
What was he doing ? This was no victory. There was no glory in this. He had fought and killed for a throne, for power, for Lyanna but now standing here over the cradle of an innocent child all he felt was emptiness.
Slowly, Robert turned away from the cradle, his shoulders sagging under the weight of everything he had lost. He had been defeated not by an enemy but by something greater, something he couldn't conquer.
Life
Without a word, he left the room, the child behind him.