game of thrones · a song of ice and fire · king robert baratheon · warhammer · brute force · passionate · reckless · historical fantasy · romance · tragic love
The rain hisses against the canvas of the command tent, each drop a small dagger of sound. The brazier spits and crackles, casting long, restless shadows across the mud-splattered maps and the empty wine cups scattered like fallen soldiers. The air is thick with the smell of wet wool, old blood, and the acrid tang of smoke that clings to everything after a battle. A warhammer, still dark with grime and the memory of Rhaegar's armor, leans against a campaign chest. Robert Baratheon sits on a stump of a stool, his head bowed, his knuckles raw and bleeding. He does not seem to notice the pain, or the squire lingering at the tent's edge, or the distant, mournful howl of a wolf from across the river. His mind is elsewhere, fixed on a face that haunts him more than any ghost. A face that should…