Bab 161: Robert 5
The King of Westeros rolled in his odious empty sheets. A rare occurrence for the man, but one that was, for tonight at least, a mixed blessing.
Not that it made him like that damnable Norvosi-woman anymore, leading him on as if he couldn't tell what was happening, he had danced that dance too many times to count. See if he gave her people any aid from the crown once they got back to Westeros. Let her dragon-loving husband take care of her.
Not that he was bitter or anything.
No, for it was a blessing tonight at least. He needed to think, to clear his head of these blasted memories before the next battle.
Yet even as he did so, he felt her name come unbidden to his lips.
"Lyanna…"
For every time he thought of this foe, of yet another ducking dragon prince come to challenge him, he found himself back at the trident again, facing that jumped-up-scholar in his fancy jeweled armor.
And when he thought of that basted Rhaegar, he could not help but think of her as well, of his wonderful stag. Of how her long hair fell over her shoulders, of the vibrance in her eyes. Even of how she had turned him down, the first time he had ever been rejected that way.
It had only made him desire her more.
And indeed, his heart ached still, for he had won his crown, shattered a centuries-old dynasty just to reclaim her, but in the end, she had slipped through his grasp, some last poison of the dragons to ensure that he would never be happy again.
He grit his teeth, pressing a hand against his forehead. Feeling his anger surge at the idea that those blasted wyrms still thought to make a mockery of him, had brought themselves back from the dead even just to torment him further.
It was unacceptable. Entirely unacceptable.
He rose from his bedsheets, though it was too dark to see properly, probably four in the morning or something of the like, and stood to his feet, fumbling about to find a candle, lighting it on the torch before his tent.
He wanted nothing more than to down some ale, wine, anything to dull the memories, but he wouldn't, not the night before a battle. He had been drinking far less on the campaign as it was, and he had already gotten over most of the withdrawal. He had even taken to drinking watered-down wine to keep his senses sharper.
Him, Robert Baratheon, watered-down wine! If you had told such a thing to himself before the war had started he would have laughed his assistant off, then had you kicked out of the red keep with a boot up your arse.
He turned back towards the bed, to sit and think awhile, or perhaps to write. He didn't much enjoy writing, but there was always more of it to do and it took his mind off of more unpleasant subjects.
Before he made it to the ink though, he found himself caught in the mirror. His reflection dull, but still obvious in the warm orange light.
He found it almost hard to recognize, though he had seen it many times in recent days. For by all accounts, even tired as he was now, he did not look like the sad old king he felt inside. No, the rigors of campaigning for near on six months had taken his gut off of him, and his face was clean-shaven as the day he had won the trident.
He was a few years older sure, no longer the model of youth, but his appearance was still vigorous, powerful, he looked like a king should look, not like the fat wreck he had quickly been becoming. 'I should cut my hair back shorter…' he grumbled, his hand tracing the reflection.
No, he did look as a king should look, but then why could he not feel as a king should feel? Why shouldn't he be powerful, commanding, noble within himself? What was the point of all this blasted introspection anyway?
Ned never seemed to have problems this way, indeed it seemed that nobody did, save for him.
'Well, if they can do it, why shouldn't I?' He thought, chuckling.
'After all, I shouldn't let all those fancy titles be for nothing.'
He began recounting them all in his head and was laughing by the end of it.
"Yes… yes-I am not some worthless poet to sit here in sadness or foolish sorrow. Lyanna, sweet as even her name may sound at my ear, she is no noose to tie about my neck, but my dearly beloved now lost." He reached for his hammer, feeling it's weight in his hands. "By her memory, I shall pile the corpses of the blasted dragons to the heavens themselves, not sit here whining to myself like some misbegotten sot. They will speak of that love to the ends of the earth when I'm done with them."
Robert felt hot breath and vigor shoot through him at speaking such words aloud. Why he wasn't even that old just yet. He was only Thirty-One by the Seven. He had years left in him to crush skulls in her name.
"Justin," Robert shouted, causing a shout from the next tent over as his squire no doubt was uncomfortably awoken, despite the hour. "Get your gear together. We are going to train."
"Yo'-Your Grace, it is much too late for-"
"Did I stutter?" Robert said, half laughing as the squire rushed over half undressed. "I've got skulls to crush tomorrow, and I can't sleep, so you're going to get me warmed up for it."
If the look of shock on the boy's face was anything to go by, he was not looking forward to it.
'Well tough shite, he shouldn't have squired for a king if he wanted a reasonable master.'
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone