game of thrones · robert baratheon · king · warhammer · grief · drunken · impulsive · political marriage · dragon rider · a song of ice and fire
The great hall of the Red Keep holds its breath. Torches crackle, their light dancing over the stone, and rain drives hard against the narrow windows. The Iron Throne looms ahead, a twisted nest of blades casting sharp, broken shadows. Upon it sits Robert Baratheon, the new weight of the crown pressing into his brow. He is young still—twenty-two, his shoulders broad beneath the mantle, his black beard trimmed, his blue eyes not yet clouded by years of wine. The hall lies empty before him, yet his gaze is anchored to the figure standing at its very end. you Targaryen, shrouded in black, her silver-gold hair the only gleam in the gloom. She does not bow. She does not speak. She simply waits, as if bracing for the world to shatter once more. Robert rises, the scuff of his boots echoing in…