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asoiaf/got fic: His Was the Fury
Title: His Was the Fury
Characters: Robert Baratheon, Ned Stark, Jon Arryn
Rating: PG13
Words: ~3,400
Summary: Years later, men would talk about love and honor, would whisper about Lyanna's beauty in a tone that bordered on awe, but right then, as Ned's shaking fingers closed around his wrist, the long shadows in the hallway twisting over his solemn face, the only thing Robert knew -- the only thing he understood -- was the sudden ache in his chest, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, the furious and consuming need to see Rhaegar Targaryen's blood on his hands.
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lit_chick08, who wanted to know what Robert was thinking when he started the Rebellion.
His Was the Fury
The kitchen wench was called Merla or Derla, or perhaps Dena -- Robert never could remember their names. She was a few years older than Robert, with crooked teeth and a broad, flat nose that eclipsed her common face, but her teats were large and round and full, and she laughed warmly when Robert tugged on the strings of her blouse, sighed and arched into his touch.
Robert fucked her in one of the Eyrie's chilly, forgotten storage rooms, hitching her legs around his waist as he drew up her skirts and pushed her back against the wall, dust curling into his nose and a barrel of salt pork bumping his hip. She whimpered and gasped and called him Lord Robert, the way kitchen girls always did, and he went back upstairs with his breeches badly laced and a pleasant ache in his legs and back, the marks from her fingernails still stinging his skin.
He found Ned waiting outside his chambers, his head bowed and a letter clutched in his hand.
"What is it?"
"Lyanna," Ned said quietly, his eyes wide and hollow and dark. "She is -- Rhaegar has taken her."
Years later, men would talk about love and honor, would whisper about Lyanna's beauty in a tone that bordered on awe, but right then, as Ned's shaking fingers closed around his wrist, the long shadows in the hallway twisting over his solemn face, the only thing Robert knew -- the only thing he understood -- was the sudden ache in his chest, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, the furious and consuming need to see Rhaegar Targaryen's blood on his hands.
+
The days crawled by, one blurring and fading into the next, the sun rising and setting as Alyssa's Tears spilled down the Giant's Lance. The familiar halls of the Eyrie felt like a prison; ravens wheeled between Winterfell and Riverrun and the Vale, flew too slowly for the livid, restless itch under Robert's skin, carried news that only sharpened the pain in Robert's chest.
...against my advice, Brandon has ridden for King's Landing to demand that Prince Rhaegar account for his actions.
...while I understand the grave insult that has been done to House Stark, and to young Lord Robert, I still believe patience is the best course.
...sent out several scouting parties, but as of yet, they have been unable to retake Lyanna on the road.
Ned retreated to the Eyrie's sparse, rocky excuse for a godswood, kneeling there for hours, his eyes closed and his fists clenched in his lap, praying to gods lost to him by distance and time, the same gods who had forgotten to protect Lyanna in the first place. Robert shouted until he was hoarse and kicked a hole in the door to his bed chamber; he punched a wall hard enough to break three of his fingers, slapped a serving wench who teased him too far, left a dark, shiny bruise on her cheek that watched him like an accusation.
He rarely slept, lying awake for long, horrible stretches, staring up at the ceiling until exhaustion burned his eyes and pulled at his skin, then started bringing wine to bed, half-empty skins slipping from his hands to stain the furs when he finally nodded off. He saw Rhaegar in his dreams, silver hair and cold, violet eyes and a crown of winter roses in his hand, woke shaking and snarling and furious, unable to breathe.
"We will get her back," Jon said firmly, sifting through the letters and maps piled on his writing desk.
Robert wanted Lyanna back. He also wanted Rhaegar dead.
+
"I am afraid it will come to war," Jon said, a map spread out before him, the corners held with daggers and gauntlets. He looked tired and frayed, older than his years, his face worn down to hard lines and angles. "The King will not rest until he has your heads, not after Brandon publicly threatened Rhaegar."
"Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna!" Robert roared, hurling his wine cup against the wall. It shattered with a noise that set his teeth on edge. "He has likely raped her fifty times by now! Perhaps a hundred times, and I--"
"Robert," Ned said, his voice barely a whisper.
"Brandon demanded the Crown Prince's head in the Street of Sisters. He acted foolishly," Jon said, a frown pulling at the corners of his thin mouth, "and now Aerys is acting foolishly in turn. He has grown madder by the day since that business in Duskendale. He sees enemies in every shadow."
"The Eyrie is impregnable," Denys said confidently. He resembled Jon in the cheeks and chin, had darker hair and a longer nose. "The King cannot touch us here."
Jon shook his head slowly. "Aerys will not sit by and wait, not without Rhaegar in King's Landing to temper his judgment. He will send men to set fire to the Mountains of the Moon, and if that does not stir me, he will march on Winterfell and Storm's End and put Stark and Baratheon smallfolk to the sword." He sighed quietly, rubbing at his jaw. "Our only choice is to meet him in the field."
"We do not have the men for open battle," Denys argued.
"Not as things stand," Jon said, resting his hand on the map, hiding the shadows and whorls that made up the Vale. "Too many of my own bannermen have sided with the King."
"How?" Robert demanded, a knot twisting in his throat, burning sharp and tight. "Do they not see what Aerys is? What Rhaegar is?"
"They know exactly what Aerys is, and it frightens them," Jon said calmly. "The manner of Rickard Stark's death is no secret. They would not have the same happen to them, or to their sons and daughters."
Robert slammed his fist on the table. "Cravens!"
"There is a vast difference between caution and cowardice, Robert," Jon said, narrowing his eyes, "and if you do not learn it, and soon, you will follow Brandon into an early grave."
"Robert," Ned whispered, catching his sleeve. "Robert, enough."
Robert waved them both away with a snarl, his hands shaking as he poured a new cup of wine.
"You will both need to return to your own lands," Jon continued, sliding one hand down to Storm's End, reaching the other up toward Winterfell. "Benjen has already called the northern banners; I have sent a raven to Stannis, asking him to do the same."
"Benjen is just a boy," Ned said, pushing his hand through his hair.
"Benjen is the Lord of Winterfell in your absence, and his age does not excuse him from his duty," Jon replied, his tone firm but kind. He tapped the map again, drawing his finger along the rocky shore bordering the Vale. "Lord Grafton's current attitude means Gulltown is closed to you."
Ned considered this for a moment. "If I can reach the Neck, Howland Reed will see me through the marshes."
"If," Jon stressed. "A fishing boat past the Fingers might be quicker and safer."
"How many men?" Ned asked quietly, his jaw a hard, tight line. "How many of my father's -- of my men have answered?"
"All but the Umbers at last count, but your lord father was well loved at the Last Hearth. I am sure it is no slight," Jon said. "The Night's Watch has been troubled by wildlings of late; it is likely Lord Umber took a small force to the Wall and has not yet heard Benjen's summons."
"What of the Stormlands?" Robert asked.
Jon paused to pour a cup of wine. "Only half, which is why you must return to Storm's End quickly. I believe a summons from you will hold more weight. Your brother is not well liked, and it is not his head Aerys is demanding."
The sky was heavy and dark, stained the color of an old bruise, and fog slowly rolled in to blanket the Vale, the chill evening air creeping into Jon's solar through the window. Robert shivered; he was exhausted, the long stretch of sleepless nights pressing on his neck and shoulders, pulling at his skin.
"After your men are assembled, head for Stoney Sept. It would be best if you avoid the Kingsroad; once Aerys learns you are on the move, he will likely put a guard on the bridge over the Wendwater. I will take my own host to Riverrun," Jon said, turning toward Ned, "where you and your men will meet me."
Ned cleared his throat. "Riverrun?"
"Your brother was betrothed to Catelyn Tully."
"You think I should marry her before we march?" Ned asked, his words edged with disbelief. "She cared for Brandon deeply, and I -- can it not wait until she has had time to grieve?"
"No, it cannot," Jon said, taking a long swallow of wine. "We need Hoster Tully's men now."
+
Robert marched west from Storm's End on the heels of a rainstorm, trudging through rivers of thick, reddish mud as the clouds broke and scuddered toward the Reach, his men bowing and scraping at every turn, pouring his wine and sanding his mail and calling him Your Grace in tones that made his skin crawl. The constant ache in his chest had become a restless, living thing; he could still see Stannis' frown, his eyes disapproving and cold, could still hear Renly's childish laughter, warm and easy and bright, as if Robert was just heading out for a hunt, just riding off to win another tourney.
He wanted to hit something, wanted to kill something, wanted to feel his hammer connect with muscle and bone.
"If we remove Aerys from the Iron Throne, we will need to replace him," Jon had said, his horse snorting and stamping outside the Gates of the Moon. "You have the best claim."
Robert barely remembered his grandmother; she had died of wasting sickness shortly before his fifth nameday. From his father's memories, he knew Rhaelle Targaryen had been quiet and kind, had enjoyed music and poetry and books, had greatly resembled her family in looks, had doted on Stannis until she had grown too weak to carry him in her arms. The largest banner in the feasting hall at Storm's End had been sewn by her small, pale hands, carefully stitched thread-of-gold on expensive green and black silks, but she had also been a dragon, had shared the same blood as Aerys and Rhaegar, the same blood that could soon make him a king.
"Our scouts have returned with a prisoner, Your Grace," Denys said, pushing through the flaps of Robert's tent. "Lord Grandison has reached Summerhall. He awaits Lord Fell and Lord Caffren -- they intend to block your passage to King's Landing."
Robert sat up and reached for the surcoat at the end of his pallet; the whore beside him murmured sleepily and burrowed deeper into the furs. "How many men?"
"Together, they outnumber us four to one."
"Then we had best not let them find each other," Robert said, scratching his side. "Where is Lord Fell?"
"Camped a few leagues ahead of us, north and east."
"And Lord Caffren?"
"Half a day behind us, and still ahorse."
"Sound the horns," Robert said, holding his unlaced breeches at his hip as he poured a cup of wine. "We ride out to meet Lord Fell as soon as we are assembled."
"Lord Fell?" Denys asked uncertainly. "Your Grace, if I may -- Lord Caffren is still moving."
"The Others take Lord Caffren," Robert barked, draining his wine in one long swallow. "If we turn back now, we give Lord Fell a chance to join up with Lord Grandison, and we will be outnumbered again, if not as badly. If we take Lord Fell's host in the rear now, we can ride south to deal with Lord Caffren, then march for Summerhall with nothing at our backs but the wind."
"As you say, your Grace."
"Don't call me that," Robert growled, tossing his wine cup aside. "I am not a fucking king."
Robert would kill Aerys if he must, but the only death he truly wanted was Rhaegar's. Aerys' judgment belonged to Ned and the men from the North, to Rickard's ashes and Brandon's shade.
+
"Does it pain you terribly, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice soft and blurred with wine.
Robert rubbed his hand over the bandage on his thigh, where an arrow from one of Connington's outriders had speared him like a boar. It had hurt like all seven hells while it festered, had smelled like death or worse, but was healing cleanly, if slower than Robert would like.
"Only if I move too quickly," Robert admitted with a wink. "Luckily for me, you like to be on top as much as I like having you there."
She smiled brightly, showing the straightest, whitest teeth Robert had ever seen on a whore. He thought her name was Cait or Cari or Cami; she had dark, curly hair and smooth skin dotted with freckles, and she laughed warmly as Robert pulled her into his lap.
"You are a wicked man, Your Grace," she said, pushing playfully at his chest. "The septons say you need more rest."
"What do septons know about anything but prayers?"
She laughed again, curling her fingers in his hair, pressing closer as he drew her shift up to her waist. He brushed his hands over her thighs, cursing and digging his fingers into her skin as a loud crash sounded outside the Peach.
"Up, up!" Robert barked, slapping her hip like a horse. "Find my breeches."
"Have they come for you, Your Grace?"
A woman screamed outside the window, shrill and sharp and terrified; Robert heard the heavy thud of hooves on packed dirt, the harsh creak of an axe splintering a door.
"Yes," Robert roared, struggling to stand. A sudden, searing pain shot through his thigh, spreading down into his knee, and he grunted as he stepped into his breeches. "My boots, wench. I need my boots."
She knelt at his feet, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the buckles and straps. "Will they kill you, Your Grace?"
"Not if I kill them first," he snapped. "Where is the passage?"
"I don't know what you mean, Your Grace."
Robert grabbed her arm, twisted his fingers until she gasped. "Yes, you do. Every whorehouse has a passage, so the merchants and lordlings can buy fresh cunts without shaming their wives." He tightened his grip, shaking her when she didn't answer. "Where is it?"
There was another scream -- higher and sharper, like a child -- and the window sash rattled as a horse galloped down the alley.
"Tell me!"
"The kitchen, Your Grace. It's in the kitchen," she whispered, her eyes wide and wet. "It comes out in the market square, in the shed behind the chandlery."
"STARK! STARK! STARK!"
Robert pushed her away and smiled. "Ned."
The bells at the sept began to toll, the sound clamoring and bright, rolling through the air like thunder.
+
In the end, dragons died the same as other men, were still flesh and muscle and bone under their armor, did not breathe smoke or fire.
Robert smashed his hammer into Rhaegar's chest with an arrow in his shoulder and his feet sinking into the thick mud on the banks of the Green Fork. Rhaegar grunted as he collapsed, his knees buckling and his sword slipping from his hands; the Trident eddied around him, rushing in to greet him, and men from both armies dove for the glittering rubies flaking away from his breastplate.
The sky was blue and bright and perfectly clear.
Robert stood there, his thigh aching and water seeping into his boots, laughing as he watched Rhaegar Targaryen bleed.
+
"Tell me, Robert. Now that we are alone, tell me it wasn't murder."
The tiny chamber off the throne room was little better than a closet. Robert was sweating in his leathers, still had blood and dirt on his hands and face; Ned's angry voice grated Robert's ears, cracked the thick, dusty air like a whip.
"It was war," Robert insisted.
"Dragging a little girl from her bed is not war," Ned said sharply, "nor is snatching a babe from his mother's breast."
"Dragonspawn," Robert growled, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. "What would you have done with them, Ned? Packed them off to Dragonstone to scheme against me with Ser Derry and Aerys' widow?"
"They could have been exiled."
"Where would I have sent them? To the Free Cities?" Robert asked, the gritty taste of battle still in his mouth. "Some pox-ridden Braavosi Sealord would've had an army at Aegon's back before he was old enough to carry a sword."
"They could have been fostered," Ned pressed, a long streak of blood framing the line of his jaw. "They could have been taken as wards by men you trust."
"Who would that be?" Robert demanded shortly. "Who would I have trusted with two trueborn Targaryen children?"
Ned was silent for a moment. "I hope you would have trusted me."
"Seven hells, Ned. This isn't about you, or your fucking Northern honor," Robert shouted, his voice echoing loudly off the walls. "The gods know I trust you with my life. Do you expect me to trust your men as well?"
"I trust my men. As you should -- enough of them died for you."
"Do you trust your whole household?" Robert asked, pushing a handful of sweaty hair from his face, his blood pounding in his ears. "Does Winterfell pay its armorers and kitchen girls enough that none would have been tempted? That none would've seen the gold to be had in leaving a gate unlatched, or dropping a key in a rain barrel?"
Ned narrowed his eyes, his mouth tight and his hands clenched at his sides. Robert barely recognized him as the boy who had become his brother at the Eyrie; the war had whittled him down to skin and bones, and he still carried Brandon and Rickard's ghosts close to his chest.
"You may not like it, but it was better this way," Robert said, as calmly as he could. "If Rhaegar's children lived, we would've been fighting again in twenty years time -- this war would've been for nothing."
"Which war?" Ned asked, his voice low and dark and quiet. "The war for your crown, or the war for my sister?"
"Don't you dare--"
Ned pushed past Robert and reached for the door; Robert caught his arm, his fingers twisting in his sleeve.
"Where the fuck are you going?"
"By your leave, Your Grace, I am taking my men south," Ned growled, shrugging off Robert's hand. "I intend to lift the siege on Storm's End before Stannis' garrison starves to death."
+
"Your Grace," Jon said, waiting in the doorway of Robert's solar. "We've just received a raven from the south."
"I've asked you not to call me that in private," Robert complained, sighing as he leaned back in his chair. It was less uncomfortable than the Iron Throne, but not by much. "Who sent it? Stannis, again?"
Jon closed the door and approached Robert's writing desk, his chain of office glittering brightly on his deep blue surcoat. "Howland Reed sent it."
"The crannogman lord?"
"Yes," Jon said, setting the letter on the desk. "He writes that Ned took a grievous injury while storming Rhaegar's stronghold in Dorne. He will live, but it was a close thing."
"What of Lyanna?"
Jon paused for a moment, looked uncertain for the first time since Robert had known him. "Lyanna is dead."
Robert felt hollow and cold.
Lyanna had been beautiful at Harrenhal, her long hair loose in the Northern fashion, her dress the same ice-blue as the crown of winter roses Rhaegar had laid in her lap. Robert had danced with her that last night, his arm around her narrow waist and her small hand disappearing into his; she had smiled and kissed him on the cheek, and her bright laughter had sounded like bells.
Slowly, Robert rose from the writing desk and walked over to the low breakfast table under the window. The ache in his chest was as sharp and sudden as a wound taken in battle, ragged and gaping and bloody, and his hands shook as he filled two wine cups to the brim.
"Have a drink, Jon," Robert commanded, because there was nothing else left to say.
Characters: Robert Baratheon, Ned Stark, Jon Arryn
Rating: PG13
Words: ~3,400
Summary: Years later, men would talk about love and honor, would whisper about Lyanna's beauty in a tone that bordered on awe, but right then, as Ned's shaking fingers closed around his wrist, the long shadows in the hallway twisting over his solemn face, the only thing Robert knew -- the only thing he understood -- was the sudden ache in his chest, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, the furious and consuming need to see Rhaegar Targaryen's blood on his hands.
Notes: For
lit_chick08, who wanted to know what Robert was thinking when he started the Rebellion. The kitchen wench was called Merla or Derla, or perhaps Dena -- Robert never could remember their names. She was a few years older than Robert, with crooked teeth and a broad, flat nose that eclipsed her common face, but her teats were large and round and full, and she laughed warmly when Robert tugged on the strings of her blouse, sighed and arched into his touch.
Robert fucked her in one of the Eyrie's chilly, forgotten storage rooms, hitching her legs around his waist as he drew up her skirts and pushed her back against the wall, dust curling into his nose and a barrel of salt pork bumping his hip. She whimpered and gasped and called him Lord Robert, the way kitchen girls always did, and he went back upstairs with his breeches badly laced and a pleasant ache in his legs and back, the marks from her fingernails still stinging his skin.
He found Ned waiting outside his chambers, his head bowed and a letter clutched in his hand.
"What is it?"
"Lyanna," Ned said quietly, his eyes wide and hollow and dark. "She is -- Rhaegar has taken her."
Years later, men would talk about love and honor, would whisper about Lyanna's beauty in a tone that bordered on awe, but right then, as Ned's shaking fingers closed around his wrist, the long shadows in the hallway twisting over his solemn face, the only thing Robert knew -- the only thing he understood -- was the sudden ache in his chest, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, the furious and consuming need to see Rhaegar Targaryen's blood on his hands.
+
The days crawled by, one blurring and fading into the next, the sun rising and setting as Alyssa's Tears spilled down the Giant's Lance. The familiar halls of the Eyrie felt like a prison; ravens wheeled between Winterfell and Riverrun and the Vale, flew too slowly for the livid, restless itch under Robert's skin, carried news that only sharpened the pain in Robert's chest.
...against my advice, Brandon has ridden for King's Landing to demand that Prince Rhaegar account for his actions.
...while I understand the grave insult that has been done to House Stark, and to young Lord Robert, I still believe patience is the best course.
...sent out several scouting parties, but as of yet, they have been unable to retake Lyanna on the road.
Ned retreated to the Eyrie's sparse, rocky excuse for a godswood, kneeling there for hours, his eyes closed and his fists clenched in his lap, praying to gods lost to him by distance and time, the same gods who had forgotten to protect Lyanna in the first place. Robert shouted until he was hoarse and kicked a hole in the door to his bed chamber; he punched a wall hard enough to break three of his fingers, slapped a serving wench who teased him too far, left a dark, shiny bruise on her cheek that watched him like an accusation.
He rarely slept, lying awake for long, horrible stretches, staring up at the ceiling until exhaustion burned his eyes and pulled at his skin, then started bringing wine to bed, half-empty skins slipping from his hands to stain the furs when he finally nodded off. He saw Rhaegar in his dreams, silver hair and cold, violet eyes and a crown of winter roses in his hand, woke shaking and snarling and furious, unable to breathe.
"We will get her back," Jon said firmly, sifting through the letters and maps piled on his writing desk.
Robert wanted Lyanna back. He also wanted Rhaegar dead.
+
"I am afraid it will come to war," Jon said, a map spread out before him, the corners held with daggers and gauntlets. He looked tired and frayed, older than his years, his face worn down to hard lines and angles. "The King will not rest until he has your heads, not after Brandon publicly threatened Rhaegar."
"Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna!" Robert roared, hurling his wine cup against the wall. It shattered with a noise that set his teeth on edge. "He has likely raped her fifty times by now! Perhaps a hundred times, and I--"
"Robert," Ned said, his voice barely a whisper.
"Brandon demanded the Crown Prince's head in the Street of Sisters. He acted foolishly," Jon said, a frown pulling at the corners of his thin mouth, "and now Aerys is acting foolishly in turn. He has grown madder by the day since that business in Duskendale. He sees enemies in every shadow."
"The Eyrie is impregnable," Denys said confidently. He resembled Jon in the cheeks and chin, had darker hair and a longer nose. "The King cannot touch us here."
Jon shook his head slowly. "Aerys will not sit by and wait, not without Rhaegar in King's Landing to temper his judgment. He will send men to set fire to the Mountains of the Moon, and if that does not stir me, he will march on Winterfell and Storm's End and put Stark and Baratheon smallfolk to the sword." He sighed quietly, rubbing at his jaw. "Our only choice is to meet him in the field."
"We do not have the men for open battle," Denys argued.
"Not as things stand," Jon said, resting his hand on the map, hiding the shadows and whorls that made up the Vale. "Too many of my own bannermen have sided with the King."
"How?" Robert demanded, a knot twisting in his throat, burning sharp and tight. "Do they not see what Aerys is? What Rhaegar is?"
"They know exactly what Aerys is, and it frightens them," Jon said calmly. "The manner of Rickard Stark's death is no secret. They would not have the same happen to them, or to their sons and daughters."
Robert slammed his fist on the table. "Cravens!"
"There is a vast difference between caution and cowardice, Robert," Jon said, narrowing his eyes, "and if you do not learn it, and soon, you will follow Brandon into an early grave."
"Robert," Ned whispered, catching his sleeve. "Robert, enough."
Robert waved them both away with a snarl, his hands shaking as he poured a new cup of wine.
"You will both need to return to your own lands," Jon continued, sliding one hand down to Storm's End, reaching the other up toward Winterfell. "Benjen has already called the northern banners; I have sent a raven to Stannis, asking him to do the same."
"Benjen is just a boy," Ned said, pushing his hand through his hair.
"Benjen is the Lord of Winterfell in your absence, and his age does not excuse him from his duty," Jon replied, his tone firm but kind. He tapped the map again, drawing his finger along the rocky shore bordering the Vale. "Lord Grafton's current attitude means Gulltown is closed to you."
Ned considered this for a moment. "If I can reach the Neck, Howland Reed will see me through the marshes."
"If," Jon stressed. "A fishing boat past the Fingers might be quicker and safer."
"How many men?" Ned asked quietly, his jaw a hard, tight line. "How many of my father's -- of my men have answered?"
"All but the Umbers at last count, but your lord father was well loved at the Last Hearth. I am sure it is no slight," Jon said. "The Night's Watch has been troubled by wildlings of late; it is likely Lord Umber took a small force to the Wall and has not yet heard Benjen's summons."
"What of the Stormlands?" Robert asked.
Jon paused to pour a cup of wine. "Only half, which is why you must return to Storm's End quickly. I believe a summons from you will hold more weight. Your brother is not well liked, and it is not his head Aerys is demanding."
The sky was heavy and dark, stained the color of an old bruise, and fog slowly rolled in to blanket the Vale, the chill evening air creeping into Jon's solar through the window. Robert shivered; he was exhausted, the long stretch of sleepless nights pressing on his neck and shoulders, pulling at his skin.
"After your men are assembled, head for Stoney Sept. It would be best if you avoid the Kingsroad; once Aerys learns you are on the move, he will likely put a guard on the bridge over the Wendwater. I will take my own host to Riverrun," Jon said, turning toward Ned, "where you and your men will meet me."
Ned cleared his throat. "Riverrun?"
"Your brother was betrothed to Catelyn Tully."
"You think I should marry her before we march?" Ned asked, his words edged with disbelief. "She cared for Brandon deeply, and I -- can it not wait until she has had time to grieve?"
"No, it cannot," Jon said, taking a long swallow of wine. "We need Hoster Tully's men now."
+
Robert marched west from Storm's End on the heels of a rainstorm, trudging through rivers of thick, reddish mud as the clouds broke and scuddered toward the Reach, his men bowing and scraping at every turn, pouring his wine and sanding his mail and calling him Your Grace in tones that made his skin crawl. The constant ache in his chest had become a restless, living thing; he could still see Stannis' frown, his eyes disapproving and cold, could still hear Renly's childish laughter, warm and easy and bright, as if Robert was just heading out for a hunt, just riding off to win another tourney.
He wanted to hit something, wanted to kill something, wanted to feel his hammer connect with muscle and bone.
"If we remove Aerys from the Iron Throne, we will need to replace him," Jon had said, his horse snorting and stamping outside the Gates of the Moon. "You have the best claim."
Robert barely remembered his grandmother; she had died of wasting sickness shortly before his fifth nameday. From his father's memories, he knew Rhaelle Targaryen had been quiet and kind, had enjoyed music and poetry and books, had greatly resembled her family in looks, had doted on Stannis until she had grown too weak to carry him in her arms. The largest banner in the feasting hall at Storm's End had been sewn by her small, pale hands, carefully stitched thread-of-gold on expensive green and black silks, but she had also been a dragon, had shared the same blood as Aerys and Rhaegar, the same blood that could soon make him a king.
"Our scouts have returned with a prisoner, Your Grace," Denys said, pushing through the flaps of Robert's tent. "Lord Grandison has reached Summerhall. He awaits Lord Fell and Lord Caffren -- they intend to block your passage to King's Landing."
Robert sat up and reached for the surcoat at the end of his pallet; the whore beside him murmured sleepily and burrowed deeper into the furs. "How many men?"
"Together, they outnumber us four to one."
"Then we had best not let them find each other," Robert said, scratching his side. "Where is Lord Fell?"
"Camped a few leagues ahead of us, north and east."
"And Lord Caffren?"
"Half a day behind us, and still ahorse."
"Sound the horns," Robert said, holding his unlaced breeches at his hip as he poured a cup of wine. "We ride out to meet Lord Fell as soon as we are assembled."
"Lord Fell?" Denys asked uncertainly. "Your Grace, if I may -- Lord Caffren is still moving."
"The Others take Lord Caffren," Robert barked, draining his wine in one long swallow. "If we turn back now, we give Lord Fell a chance to join up with Lord Grandison, and we will be outnumbered again, if not as badly. If we take Lord Fell's host in the rear now, we can ride south to deal with Lord Caffren, then march for Summerhall with nothing at our backs but the wind."
"As you say, your Grace."
"Don't call me that," Robert growled, tossing his wine cup aside. "I am not a fucking king."
Robert would kill Aerys if he must, but the only death he truly wanted was Rhaegar's. Aerys' judgment belonged to Ned and the men from the North, to Rickard's ashes and Brandon's shade.
+
"Does it pain you terribly, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice soft and blurred with wine.
Robert rubbed his hand over the bandage on his thigh, where an arrow from one of Connington's outriders had speared him like a boar. It had hurt like all seven hells while it festered, had smelled like death or worse, but was healing cleanly, if slower than Robert would like.
"Only if I move too quickly," Robert admitted with a wink. "Luckily for me, you like to be on top as much as I like having you there."
She smiled brightly, showing the straightest, whitest teeth Robert had ever seen on a whore. He thought her name was Cait or Cari or Cami; she had dark, curly hair and smooth skin dotted with freckles, and she laughed warmly as Robert pulled her into his lap.
"You are a wicked man, Your Grace," she said, pushing playfully at his chest. "The septons say you need more rest."
"What do septons know about anything but prayers?"
She laughed again, curling her fingers in his hair, pressing closer as he drew her shift up to her waist. He brushed his hands over her thighs, cursing and digging his fingers into her skin as a loud crash sounded outside the Peach.
"Up, up!" Robert barked, slapping her hip like a horse. "Find my breeches."
"Have they come for you, Your Grace?"
A woman screamed outside the window, shrill and sharp and terrified; Robert heard the heavy thud of hooves on packed dirt, the harsh creak of an axe splintering a door.
"Yes," Robert roared, struggling to stand. A sudden, searing pain shot through his thigh, spreading down into his knee, and he grunted as he stepped into his breeches. "My boots, wench. I need my boots."
She knelt at his feet, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the buckles and straps. "Will they kill you, Your Grace?"
"Not if I kill them first," he snapped. "Where is the passage?"
"I don't know what you mean, Your Grace."
Robert grabbed her arm, twisted his fingers until she gasped. "Yes, you do. Every whorehouse has a passage, so the merchants and lordlings can buy fresh cunts without shaming their wives." He tightened his grip, shaking her when she didn't answer. "Where is it?"
There was another scream -- higher and sharper, like a child -- and the window sash rattled as a horse galloped down the alley.
"Tell me!"
"The kitchen, Your Grace. It's in the kitchen," she whispered, her eyes wide and wet. "It comes out in the market square, in the shed behind the chandlery."
"STARK! STARK! STARK!"
Robert pushed her away and smiled. "Ned."
The bells at the sept began to toll, the sound clamoring and bright, rolling through the air like thunder.
+
In the end, dragons died the same as other men, were still flesh and muscle and bone under their armor, did not breathe smoke or fire.
Robert smashed his hammer into Rhaegar's chest with an arrow in his shoulder and his feet sinking into the thick mud on the banks of the Green Fork. Rhaegar grunted as he collapsed, his knees buckling and his sword slipping from his hands; the Trident eddied around him, rushing in to greet him, and men from both armies dove for the glittering rubies flaking away from his breastplate.
The sky was blue and bright and perfectly clear.
Robert stood there, his thigh aching and water seeping into his boots, laughing as he watched Rhaegar Targaryen bleed.
+
"Tell me, Robert. Now that we are alone, tell me it wasn't murder."
The tiny chamber off the throne room was little better than a closet. Robert was sweating in his leathers, still had blood and dirt on his hands and face; Ned's angry voice grated Robert's ears, cracked the thick, dusty air like a whip.
"It was war," Robert insisted.
"Dragging a little girl from her bed is not war," Ned said sharply, "nor is snatching a babe from his mother's breast."
"Dragonspawn," Robert growled, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. "What would you have done with them, Ned? Packed them off to Dragonstone to scheme against me with Ser Derry and Aerys' widow?"
"They could have been exiled."
"Where would I have sent them? To the Free Cities?" Robert asked, the gritty taste of battle still in his mouth. "Some pox-ridden Braavosi Sealord would've had an army at Aegon's back before he was old enough to carry a sword."
"They could have been fostered," Ned pressed, a long streak of blood framing the line of his jaw. "They could have been taken as wards by men you trust."
"Who would that be?" Robert demanded shortly. "Who would I have trusted with two trueborn Targaryen children?"
Ned was silent for a moment. "I hope you would have trusted me."
"Seven hells, Ned. This isn't about you, or your fucking Northern honor," Robert shouted, his voice echoing loudly off the walls. "The gods know I trust you with my life. Do you expect me to trust your men as well?"
"I trust my men. As you should -- enough of them died for you."
"Do you trust your whole household?" Robert asked, pushing a handful of sweaty hair from his face, his blood pounding in his ears. "Does Winterfell pay its armorers and kitchen girls enough that none would have been tempted? That none would've seen the gold to be had in leaving a gate unlatched, or dropping a key in a rain barrel?"
Ned narrowed his eyes, his mouth tight and his hands clenched at his sides. Robert barely recognized him as the boy who had become his brother at the Eyrie; the war had whittled him down to skin and bones, and he still carried Brandon and Rickard's ghosts close to his chest.
"You may not like it, but it was better this way," Robert said, as calmly as he could. "If Rhaegar's children lived, we would've been fighting again in twenty years time -- this war would've been for nothing."
"Which war?" Ned asked, his voice low and dark and quiet. "The war for your crown, or the war for my sister?"
"Don't you dare--"
Ned pushed past Robert and reached for the door; Robert caught his arm, his fingers twisting in his sleeve.
"Where the fuck are you going?"
"By your leave, Your Grace, I am taking my men south," Ned growled, shrugging off Robert's hand. "I intend to lift the siege on Storm's End before Stannis' garrison starves to death."
+
"Your Grace," Jon said, waiting in the doorway of Robert's solar. "We've just received a raven from the south."
"I've asked you not to call me that in private," Robert complained, sighing as he leaned back in his chair. It was less uncomfortable than the Iron Throne, but not by much. "Who sent it? Stannis, again?"
Jon closed the door and approached Robert's writing desk, his chain of office glittering brightly on his deep blue surcoat. "Howland Reed sent it."
"The crannogman lord?"
"Yes," Jon said, setting the letter on the desk. "He writes that Ned took a grievous injury while storming Rhaegar's stronghold in Dorne. He will live, but it was a close thing."
"What of Lyanna?"
Jon paused for a moment, looked uncertain for the first time since Robert had known him. "Lyanna is dead."
Robert felt hollow and cold.
Lyanna had been beautiful at Harrenhal, her long hair loose in the Northern fashion, her dress the same ice-blue as the crown of winter roses Rhaegar had laid in her lap. Robert had danced with her that last night, his arm around her narrow waist and her small hand disappearing into his; she had smiled and kissed him on the cheek, and her bright laughter had sounded like bells.
Slowly, Robert rose from the writing desk and walked over to the low breakfast table under the window. The ache in his chest was as sharp and sudden as a wound taken in battle, ragged and gaping and bloody, and his hands shook as he filled two wine cups to the brim.
"Have a drink, Jon," Robert commanded, because there was nothing else left to say.