Robert 1

293AC

Robert Baratheon, first of his name, king of the Andals, the First Men, the Rhoynar, Protector of the Realm and the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was all a load of horse dung. A song the dickless courtiers sung to get him to show them his favor.

If they wanted to fellate him so much they should have been whores. Those did a better job of it at least.

No, Robert Baratheon had spent himself in the rebellion that made him a king, or at least that was what it felt like at times. His belly grew fat with wine and game, his armor barely fit, and his Warhammer felt heavier than it ought to in his hand.

His wife was a Lannister whore who didn't know her place. His heir was a monster and a moron besides. He had seen it himself in the guts of those lifeless unborn kittens strewn across the floor of the boy's chamber. As mad as Aerys he was. Had he been in his cups at the time he would have killed the boy, but now the sight of Joffrey just brought an emptiness to him. His own son's deficiencies brought into stark contrast with his Brother's precocious little brat of a son. The difference between the types of arrogance that both Prince's possessed was clear as day.

Stannis hated him or at least held the grudge of Dragonstone far longer than he ought to. Yes, it wasn't the Stormlands, but Robert Needed him there couldn't he see? Everyone else in the thrice-damned court except Jon was a schemer or a fool. Even Renly, who spent all his time with his knightly friends, wasn't reliable further than you could throw him. Stannis was the only one he could give Dragonstone to and expect to keep it.

But for his brother, that didn't change that it was a miserable rock, and he had very nearly lost his brother's loyalty for it he feared. Only duty had held Stannis to him, and perhaps duty was all that kept him there. It was part of why he had let Stannis leave the fleet for a while, even though he was needed there, to mourn his son. The one who had gone chasing pirates at twelve with his wedding fleet, and probably died, died just like their father. He knew that pain, he had felt it alongside Stannis before, and he didn't begrudge him his time to mourn now.

Renly he didn't think had ever loved him, not really. He hadn't been born until Robert was nearly a man, and Renly had grown up alone as a result. He was his brother, true, and his loyalty was there, but past that?

Robert couldn't say.

As always, that left him Jon and Ned, the only men that truly cared about him, and in some ways the only ones he cared about.

There had been Lyanna once, but now she was gone, and worse he could never be sure if she loved him back.

Stolen away by the fucking Dragons.

Robert Baratheon ran a razor through his beard. Most days he had a barber trim his beard in the morning, but not today. Today would be war.

He could see the lines of age running down his face. They hadn't been there at the Trident. They hadn't been there when Rhaegar had crumpled like a damp rag. Cast into the trident with one blow.

They hadn't been there when he had taken the throne. Or when the whelps that now dared send Assassins after his nephew had fled with their ruddy tails between their legs from Stannis Fleet.

No, none of it had been there, none of the manacles and chains that dragged him down had been present when he had smashed the greatest dynasty in the history of the world for the woman he loved, only for her to die before he could hold her.

He had been strong then. Stronger than he was now.

But as the beard fell away, and he lifted his old helmet over it'd head, it still fit. His eyes were still the eyes of Robert Baratheon. They were Wiser, Older, and shackled to a hundred clutching fools, but they were still his. His hammer might be heavier, but it was still his to lift where a normal man might struggle. His arms might be weaker, but they were still the arms that had slain a Dragon alone.

He clamped his visor down, and he could almost imagine he was at the Trident again.

Then it came back up, and he was the fat old king again, stuck with a stupid, pointy throne that he had never really wanted to begin with.

'Gods… I might die out there.' Even clean-shaven, he was still an older man now. If it were the Robert of today would he have managed what he did at the Trident? He doubted it. Though the beggar prince who had traveled Essos so long, even once been sold as a slave, would he be a match for Rhaegar, all bedecked in his fancy shiny plate?

He doubted that too.

No. This would be no Trident. He would March across the sea with Ned and Renly too this time. His brother would get to see a real war after all, and he would put down the last of the fucking Dragons. The last vestiges of the Targaryen legacy.

This wasn't a grand battle. This would be cleaning up, not glorious conquest.

He hefted his Warhammer up onto his shoulder, one-handed like he used to, and his Kingsguard followed as he made his way to his son's room.

He didn't care what his Lannister whore of a wife said. If Stannis' son could go chasing Ironborn kinslayers off the coast of Dorne and risk his life and limb for the good of the realm, then the spawn of his loins would be coming to war as well, albeit only to watch from camp. Just let her try to stop him. She didn't even know he was planning to take the boy, and he would be leaving as soon as he got him. He had even had her kingslaying brother guarding her, unaware of the plan, so he would not be able to tell her if he wanted to.

He opened the door to Joffrey's chamber and immediately felt his blood temperature spike. The boy was beating his servant. Typical.

Robert breathed hard as the boy turned to him, looking such a Lannister in the red clothing his mother dressed him in.

"Father? Why are you here? And in armor?"

"I am about to leave for war, Joffrey." He said, even his idiot son ought to know that.

"Oh… but why are you here then?"

He reached out and grabbed the boys arm with perhaps a little more force than was entirely necessary.

Robert Baratheon glared down at his son, who had dropped the wicker cane he had been holding and squealed in shock. Like a spoiled fucking pig.

He felt his nostrils flare, the idea of one of his own ilk being so fragile. Oh, there would be changes in the future.

As he towered over his son he must have looked just the demon he was at the Trident, it made him almost want to laugh as he pulled the boy out of the room. "Because you are coming with me."