Chapter Text
Robert was moving completely on instinct as he pressed the attack. The only emotions he felt were fury and annoyance at his foe’s continued resistance. Robert intuitively knew that the fight should have been won by now. His attacks were crisp and powerful, not a single wasted movement. If not for the lighter hammer, the prince would have long ago been crushed beneath him. Robert’s hammer moved like a blur; it was a testament to the prince’s training that he could keep up with him at all. Rhaegar even managed to deflect a backhanded swing enough to land a counterstrike to the lesser protected part of Robert’s knee. Pain bloomed, but Robert ignored it. Whoever was maintaining the prince’s weapon must have been doing a shit job, as a strike like that should have drawn blood. Too bad for the rapist. Robert surged forward and slammed his shield into the prince, knocking Rhaegar off balance. The man was no doubt caught off guard by Robert’s disregard for his injuries. Though Rhaegar managed to stay on his feet, he was left open for another punishing swing from Robert’s hammer. It was a powerful overhand strike that finally buckled the prince’s shield with a satisfying crack followed by a cry of pain as the head of the hammer carried on and struck the prince’s pauldron. A blindingly quick follow-up broke Rhaegar’s hasty guard, driving the man to his knees. Robert had the prince in his hands. The next strike would be the killing blow. Rhaegar would be dead; he would march on King’s Landing to take the throne and give Lyanna a real crown, one far better than what the prince gave her at Harrenhal.
That small thought was just the opening that his mind needed to slip past the madness that had overtaken him. Lyanna’s cries finally broke through, and his eyes fixed on her. She looked terrified as she screamed his name. Finally, the illusion was dispelled, and the Ruby Ford was replaced by the tourney grounds of Harrenhal.
Robert was just about to bring his hammer down when the veil was lifted, and he faltered. That single moment of hesitation was all Rhaegar needed to recover and lash out with a kick towards Robert’s leg. Robert instinctually stepped back from the attack, giving the prince time to stand up and launch a desperate assault. Robert managed to parry or block the first several attacks easily enough since Rhaegar seemed to be struggling with an injured shield arm. But as his mind fought to make sense of the jarring shift in perceptions, his body began to rebel. Without the focusing power of his unmitigated rage, his heart began to race, and every ache and pain he had ignored bloomed in full. He could barely bear weight on his knee, and his head ached so fiercely he began to feel increasingly nauseous. His breaths came shallower and faster, and soon, he felt a sense of panic grow as he took in more and more of the increasingly stale air within his great helm. His arms refused to move as quickly as physical and mental exhaustion took their toll. He fought on, but Rhaegar was beginning to slip even more hits past his guard, worsening the already dire situation. Doing his best to focus through the increasing pain, Robert saw an opportunity to step into a clinch with the prince and possibly take his opponent to the ground with a hip throw. If Robert were in true form, he would have seen the trap for what it was, but in his eagerness to end the fight he committed to the attack, and the prince punished him for it. In moments, Robert once again found himself face down in the dirt, disarmed and defeated.
It was over. Robert’s world spun as he rolled over onto his back. The prince held out his sword, and Robert heard Rhaegar yell something at him but could not make it out over the sound of his own shuddering breaths and heartbeat. Robert tried to focus again, and he could just make out the prince commanding him.
“Yield!” The prince’s shout sounded as if it were miles away.
Even now, Robert wanted to shout ‘no,’ scramble for his hammer, and continue the fight, but he knew that he was spent. He had yet to even regain control of his breathing. Nevertheless, despite how emotionally and physically drained he was, his pride would not allow him to utter the damnable word. Robert simply raised his hand in answer. It was a defeat that tasted as bitter as his victory at the Trident tasted sweet.
He slowly sat up, working hard not to show his weakness in front of the kingdom. He would not give the dragon the pleasure of seeing the stag laid low. However, before he could force himself up, he felt a set of strong hands holding him down while another worked at removing his helm. Freed from the prison of metal, he took great gulps of fresh air for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He was blinded for a moment by the bright sun, and it took a moment for his eyes to readjust. When they did, he was met by the angelic visage of his betrothed. Her eyes were red with unshed tears, and she wore an expression of profound worry. Robert felt a deep sense of shame grow in his stomach. He had failed her.
“I… I a…” He tried speaking through ragged breaths.
“Don’t speak, just breath.” She spoke, though her voice was nearly drowned out by the fanatic cheers of the crowd. Robert did as she bid and finally managed to regain control, though as he managed to maintain a steady flow of air into his lungs, he felt his hands beginning to shake. Lyanna seemed to notice, too, and took hold of them, granting Robert a measure of strength he was not sure he had at the moment.
“You were magnificent,” she said, staring straight into his eyes and pouring as much warmth and affection as she could into those few words. They were all he needed to hear.
“Help me up,” Robert said with a tired smile.
“Come on then, it’s not like you’d listen to me if I told you to stay down,” Eddard said from behind him, as the hands he had felt holding him down were soon helping him to his feet. He made it upright just in time for the crowds to finally heed the herald’s trumpet calls.
“Your grace, King Aerys of House Targaryen, second of his name, king of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. We present to you, Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Champion of the Tourney of Harrenhal!” The crowd once again went wild at the announcement. If he had not been so burnt out, Robert’s anger would have once again raged at those words. Still, it did not sit well with him, and frustration gripped his heart like a vice. The look on the king’s face signified he was not alone in his disappointment.
The crowd quieted down as the prince bade them to let him speak. Robert grimaced, not particularly interested in hearing what the prince had to say about his victory. If his knee wasn’t in so much pain, he would have already left. It would not do to be seen hobbling away from the tourney grounds like a whipped dog. He would stride out with purpose once he was able.
“My good people, I dedicate this victory to one who sought not laurels or personal glory but to seek justice for wrongdoings. A truer knight I have not seen in many years. May all knights aspire to the honor and daring shown by that lowly mystery knight.” The prince’s gaze fell on Lyanna for a mere moment, but it was enough for Robert’s blood to begin boiling once again.
He began to take a step forward but felt Ned’s grip on his arm tighten as Lyanna interlaced her fingers with his. He looked at her and saw that she had taken on the icy visage perfected by the Starks. The prince moved to the grandstand, where he was to collect the crown of blue roses from the young lady Whent. Robert couldn’t help but feel a grim sense of satisfaction as the prince struggled to lift his shied arm to collect the crown. At least the man would know how close to death he truly was. That sense of satisfaction evaporated as it was time for Rhaegar to crown a new queen of love and beauty. Robert’s heart quickened. Would the Prince have the gall to crown Lyanna in front of him after vowing to stay away from her?
“Despite my victory being dedicated to a knight, I still must crown a queen of love and beauty.” Robert gritted his teeth as he watched the prince pause. For a brief moment, it looked as if the man might turn towards Lyanna. But Rhaegar, it seemed, chose to follow a different path this time as he moved towards the royal box where his wife was seated. There, he crowned Princess Elia to the elation of the crowds. The laughter most definitely did not die this time, and Robert let out a breath he did not know he was holding. He honestly didn’t know what to feel in the moment. Of course, he was relieved that the prince chose not to cause an uproar by crowning Lyanna, but that speech about the knight of the laughing tree was still unsettling. It was clear that Rhaegar was trying to win favor with his fiancé, but if the look on Lyanna’s face was anything to go by, it was not working. Robert was feeling far too many emotions and was in no state to deal with them. After watching the royal party leave the tourney grounds in silence, Robert let out a tired chuckle.
“I think you were right,” Robert muttered to Lyanna.
“What are you talking about?” She responded.
“Winter roses don’t suit her,” Robert said, gesturing to Princess Elia, who was smiling and waving to the crowd.
“It was said in jest, Robert; after everything that just happened, that is all you have to say?” Lyanna said with a mirthless laugh.
“Fuck all if I know what else to do right now besides crawl into a bed and sleep for the next three days,” Robert growled, his frustration over the tourney’s conclusion bubbling over. He caught himself and made ready to give an apology for his behavior, but the look on Lyanna’s face told him that she understood and did not take offense.
“I know, but do not think you can run away from talking about what happened during the duel or what you discussed with the prince earlier.” She warned him gently
“No running away,” Robert replied with a tired smile he hoped hid his apprehension.
“Well then,” Eddard cut in. “I think we’d best get you to your tent. We can get you sorted out, and then we can talk all we want.”
As reasonable as the statement was, Robert was still not looking forward to it. Robert tested putting more weight on his leg and made sure that he would not be hobbling off the tiltyard before they all began to make their way towards the Baratheon camp. They hadn’t made it very far when a voice called out.
“Lord Baratheon, his grace requires your presence.” Ser Darry of the Kingsguard said in a tone that brooks no disobedience.
“Surely the king would be merciful enough to grant Lord Baratheon some time to recover from his bout,” Eddard replied with steel in his voice.
“The king is indeed merciful; however, his mercy has its limit. Allow me to clarify, my Lord Baratheon; the king demands your presence. Immediately.” The knight said with a finality that sent a shiver down Robert’s spine. What in all the god’s names did the Mad King want now? Regardless, he could not ignore such a direct order from the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.
“As the king wishes. If you’ll give me a moment to bid my companions farewell, I’ll be along shortly.
He felt Lyanna’s grip on his hand tighten and turned to see a determined look on her face.
“We’ll be along he means, good ser,” She said, adopting the mask she had been developing under the tutelage of her aunt over the past sennight.
“Lyanna…” Robert started but was cut off by his betrothed.
“Robert,” She interrupted defiantly. In no way did Robert want to expose the young lady to the king’s madness, but it seemed as if she was determined to throw herself into harm's way. It was as endearing as it was infuriating. As their standoff progressed, he hazarded a glance at the kingsguard and saw that the man was growing increasingly impatient. The knight probably did not appreciate being used as a glorified messenger. Fortunately, Eddard stepped in.
“Come Lyanna, the king did not summon you. It would be unwise to unduly test the king’s patience,” His voice was stern. Far sterner than he normally was with his sister. She obviously wanted to argue but withered under his stony visage.
“I won't be gone long,” Robert said quietly before gently bringing her hand up to his lips and placing a kiss on her knuckles. He let her go and began limping towards Ser Derry, not daring to look back lest his will falter. He fought hard to mask the pain he was feeling and was not looking forward to the long walk to wherever the king was staying now. Fortunately, his squire once again came through for him.
“Your mount, my lord,” Walder said quietly. The boy had brought around his loyal warhorse so that he could mount up with his good leg. Once again Robert’s mind drifted back to his ordeal in Winterfell and decided that the harrowing experience was well worth it to save this boy’s mind. Robert focused his thoughts, as he had a different kind of monster to face down now.
Robert was glad to see that he was being led to a tent not far away from the tourney grounds instead of one of the towers where the king was most likely spending his nights, knowing full well he was in no shape to climb the stairs of one of those monstrous towers. He couldn’t help but feel a pit of anxiety grow in his core as he saw the Targaryen banner waving languidly over the tent in the cool breeze that swept across the castle grounds. Robert closed his eyes and took a breath; he lifted a silent prayer to The Seven asking for wisdom in dealing with the challenge before him. As he prayed he felt the chill of the wind on his face and with it came a sense of calm that untangled the knot that had grown in his stomach.
He dismounted, lifted his head high, and strode forward. Even if he could not help but show a limp, he would be damned if he were to project an image of anything other than a conquering lord. The tent flap was pulled aside, and he was ushered into the king’s presence. The horrible man was seated at a table brooding over a cup of wine guarded, as always, by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. When Robert was announced by the king’s servant, Aerys looked up at him with a manic smile.
“Ah, Robert, my boy, so good of you to come so soon after your bout.” The madman’s voice seemed genuinely paternal; it made Robert’s blood boil.
“You called and I answered, your grace.” He responded in as neutral a tone as he could manage. The king barely seemed to acknowledge his response.
“And what a battle it was! The strength and ferocity you exhibited were unlike anything seen upon the tourney fields before. Even Ser Hightower commented on how he would hesitate to face you on the battlefield. Isn’t that right?” The king said turning to his guardian.
“Lord Baratheon demonstrated a strength that could carry the day on almost any battlefield, let alone a tourney meant simply for winning the applause of the people.” The Lord Commander said in a tone that carried no small amount of chastisement. The king simply laughed.
“You had my son in your grasp and yet you let him go.” The king’s kind smile suddenly turned perilous, his eyes darkening. “Why?”
The question was simple, yet as dangerous as a dagger in the dark. Robert took a moment to respond, deciding that telling the truth, or as close to the truth as he dared was most likely the safest path forward.
“The prince’s blow in the final tilt addled my mind, your grace. I truly believed that I was in a real battle for some time. Fortunately, my senses returned to me before I could do anything to stain the honor of the tourney.” Robert said in a matter-of-fact tone.
The king stared at Robert silently for an unbearably long time before frowning. Surprisingly, it was not anger in the mad king’s eyes. Even more terrifying, there was something almost akin to familial disappointment in the king’s expression.
“Robert, my dearest cousin’s son. You need not lie to me. You may tell whatever truth you wish to the rest of the rabble, but I would have you give me the real reason you let my son win.”
Robert was at a loss; the king truly was living in his own world completely divorced from reality. He felt his mouth drop open out of sheer disbelief but tightened his jaw to prevent himself from looking like a fool in front of the king. He needed time to think of something, anything to get him through this situation. The truth, apparently, did not matter to the king, so a lie would have to suffice.
“Yes, I let the prince win.” He said in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone. The king’s eyes seemed to shine with manic excitement, his cruel smile triumphant, and his posture practically begging Robert to continue.
“That is, I let the people think that the prince won, your grace.” Robert continued, pausing for both effect and to give him the time to come up with something the king would accept.
“Yes, yes, that much is obvious,” Aerys nearly shouted clearly eager to hear whatever Robert managed to come up with.
“Of course, your grace, I mean to say that the prince is well trained and would know when he was beaten. He knows I let him win, he knows I am the superior warrior.” Robert said proudly, trying to mask his wavering nerves.
The king stared at him silently demanding that he get to the point. Robert cursed the man’s mad pride. If the king hadn’t already decided what the truth was, he wouldn’t be stuck in this situation. That thought, however, triggered a cascade in Roberts's mind that showed him a possible way through this morass of a conversation.
“I let your son win to let the people know that you and House Targaryen are still strong while making sure the prince knew that his victory was hollow. Should he defy you, he knows who he will have to face.” Robert said confidently, though the words sickened him to the core.
There were a few moments of intense silence as the king’s pale purple eyes bore into Robert before the man broke out into deranged laughter. Knowing the mercurial nature of the mad king, Robert refused to let down his guard.
“Good, good, I knew I had chosen wisely. It is decided. I will not wait any longer for you to take up the post of Hand of the King. You will accompany me back to Kings Landing where you will take your rightful place by my side, the place your father was supposed to stand before he was murdered.”
Robert was stunned. He had only said he would accept the position of Hand of the King Rhaegar out of panic. He did not truly seek the position, frankly he had hoped the king had forgotten about making a Lord who had yet to see his twentieth name day the second most powerful man in the realm.
“Yes, my king” was all he could say as he bowed his head as was expected.
“Now, go on, you may spend the night celebrating your achievements with your house and those barbarians you seem so taken with. We leave midday tomorrow, make sure you are not late.”
Robert bowed at the dismissal and left without a word. There was nothing left to say, and his mind was a squall of competing thoughts and emotions. Walder was waiting for him with his mount as he left the tent, and he mounted up without a word, riding into a future that was more uncertain than ever before.