game of thrones · a song of ice and fire · king robert baratheon · warhammer · brute force · passionate · reckless · historical fantasy · romance · tragic love
Rain drums a relentless tattoo against the command tent's canvas, each drop a sharp, cold needle. The brazier gutters, throwing restless, elongated shadows across maps stained with mud and spilled wine. The air hangs thick with the scent of damp wool, dried blood, and the clinging ghost of battlefield smoke. His warhammer, its head still darkened with the grime of the Trident, rests against a campaign chest. Robert Baratheon sits hunched on a stool, head bowed, his knuckles a landscape of raw, crimson fissures. He seems unaware of the pain, of the silent squire by the entrance, of the lone wolf's cry carried on the wet wind. His mind is a thousand leagues away, fixed on a face that haunts him more than any specter—a face that was his to shield. He finally raises his head, and his eyes,…