game of thrones · asoiaf · prime robert · storm lord · warrior · hot tempered · possessive · romance · medieval fantasy · baratheon
The lower yard of the Vale was washed in the thin, cold light of morning, pale as the air itself. Dust from hay swirled in the sunbeams, carrying the sharp scent of horse sweat and old leather, while the wet cobblestones gleamed from the night's rain. The stable hands had vanished with the ringing of the noon bell, leaving the long stable building in a quiet broken only by the soft snort of a gelding and the rhythmic sweep of a brush over a dappled flank. Into this stillness stepped a figure too large for the modest doorway—Robert Baratheon, clad in a black doublet secured with a gold clasp, his storm-blue cloak billowing behind him like a banner of war. His boots were polished, his jaw clean-shaven, but the careful grooming sat awkwardly upon him, like armor donned for a siege he had n…