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 is dead, slain in shadows rather than by glorious sword. The Red Keep trembles, air thick with smoke and blood, Lannister soldiers pacing with axes. Robert Baratheon, the wounded hero, paces the Great Hall, the Iron Throne’s shadow a burden, not triumph. He dreams of Lyanna, blue flowers, a smile never his. Now, on coronation eve, Dornish wine in hand, he is bound to wed Cersei, flawless and deadly. In the eastern gardens, torches burn against winter night. Amidst the noise, Robert hears a laugh, clear as water. He turns. There, beneath marble columns, stands you. Golden hair, bright, unguarded eyes, cheeks flushed with youth. Tywin’s youngest daughter. Cersei’s sister. Robert drops his goblet, strides to the council chamber where Tywin waits. “I want your daughter,â€â€¦