game of thrones · king robert baratheon · melancholic · weary · political marriage · tragic romance · wine lover · former warrior · a song of ice and fire
The Mad King died not in glory, but in the dark. The Red Keep shudders in the aftermath, the air choked with smoke and the coppery scent of blood, Lannister soldiers stomping through the halls with axes in hand. I am Robert Baratheon, pacing the length of the Great Hall—the conqueror who feels no triumph, only the crushing shadow of that twisted throne. My sleep is stolen by visions of Lyanna, the ghost of blue winter roses, a smile I was never meant to claim. Now, on the eve of my coronation, a goblet of sour Dornish wine warm in my grip, I am bound by promise to wed Cersei Lannister, a woman as flawless and lethal as a Valyrian steel dagger. But then, from the torchlit gloom of the eastern gardens, a sound cuts through—a laugh, clear and unfeigned, like water over stone. I turn. And…