Robert Baratheon sat on a plush chair that was not quite a throne and tried very hard not to look like a man being propped up.
Maester Walys had insisted Robert keep his legs stretched, insisted he drink water instead of wine, and insisted he let the burns breathe. Robert had gone along with the demands out of acquiescence, not agreement.
He could move now. Not well, and not without feeling fire under his skin. Standing was possible if he did it slowly and pretended it did not hurt. Walking was a series of bargains with his own body.
Sitting still while men knelt and swore him fealty was even worse.
A line of lords and knights filed past, one after the other, kneeling in the trampled rushes. They offered swords and prayers and fine words. Robert nodded when Jon nodded. He grunted when Jon asked for approval. He listened with half an ear while his mind wandered off like a bored hound.
King. The word still didn't fit him. It chafed like new armor.
He never wanted the throne. He'd wanted to ride hard and laugh harder, drink until the world blurred, and wake up with bruises he'd earned. He'd wanted to stand beside Ned and Jon and bash skulls until the realm remembered what valor was.
He'd wanted Lyanna.
Now he had burns, boring protocol to follow, and a claim by blood that everyone insisted made him "right." As if rightness came from his dead grandmother and not his deeds.
Robert watched another man kneel. Someone from the Stormlands, maybe. Or the Vale. His vision was still blurry from poppy milk. He couldn't remember their names after they rose either. He didn't even remember what they promised. Grain. Men. Gold. Loyalty. All sounded the same when you had just seen ten thousand corpses float down a river.
His eyes drifted to his hands. They were still his hands. Big, scarred, steady. They could still lift a hammer. They could still kill.
But his body beneath the belt felt like a stranger's. Blistered, bruised, tender as a wound that would never stop aching.
What will Lyanna see when she looks at me now, he wondered, and hated himself for wondering. He didn't want a maiden's pity, Lyanna's least of all.
He had been good enough for her once. He'd been strong. He'd been handsome. He'd been whole.
Now he was weak, wounded, and stuck in this blasted tent with no wine.
A shout rose near the tent flap. The line of kneeling men faltered. Jon Arryn's head lifted, alert in a way Robert could not fake.
Two soldiers dragged a man inside in chains.
Barristan Selmy walked between them like the chains were an inconvenience, not a humiliation. His white cloak was gone, and his white hair was damp with sweat and river water. His face held bruises, but his posture was still a straight line, the posture of a man who had never knelt unless he chose to.
Robert's heart kicked with excitement. This was a name he knew. This was a blade the realm had respected before Robert had ever lifted a hammer. He regretted they didn't cross paths during the battle. It would have been a duel for the ages.
Barristan stopped at the center and bowed his head. Not towards the King, or the Hand. It seemed to Robert that he bent towards duty itself.
"Your Grace," Jon Arryn said, voice even. "Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold. It took several of the Vale's finest to subdue him."
Robert stared at him. Memories flashed: Selmy's lance at Harrenhal striking Mormont too hard, and the man's apology after. The way he dived into the Vale infantry line like a man who didn't believe in defeat.
"Did you fight for the mad king," Robert demanded, "or for your vows."
Barristan lifted his gaze. His eyes were tired. Not afraid.
"For my vows," he said. "And for the realm, insofar as a knight can serve it."
Robert's mouth twisted. "The realm. Everyone speaks of it like it's a god you can pray to."
Barristan said nothing. He didn't argue. He simply stood and waited for judgment.
Robert could feel Jon's attention on him, steady as a hand on his shoulder. He could feel Ned's too, a quiet support. He wanted to make them proud.
He thought of Rhaegar's body. Thought of the rubies bursting like blood. The prince deserved it for getting good men killed.
Then he looked at Barristan Selmy and saw a man who had fought valiantly, even when his king had not.
Robert lifted his hand. The gesture pulled at his burns and made him grit his teeth. He did it anyway.
"Take the chains off him," Robert said.
A murmur ran through the tent. One of the soldiers hesitated, then obeyed. The iron clattered to the ground.
Barristan straightened. If he felt relief, he did not show it.
Robert leaned forward, voice rough. "I don't need more courtiers, Selmy. I've only just become a king and there are already too many sycophants scuttling around. I need men who know what real battle is and don't talk in circles."
Ser Barristan's expression flickered in surprise.
"I pardon you," Robert said. "And I name you Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
Barristan went to one knee then, finally showing allegiance. "Your Grace honors me."
"Don't strain your knees," Robert muttered. "Just do the job."
He paused, then couldn't help himself. "And when I'm back on my feet, you'll give me a proper spar. I need to remember what it feels like to be hit by a man who knows how."
A faint smile tugged at Barristan's mouth. It was gone as quickly as it came. "Gladly, Your Grace. When you are healed enough to enjoy it."
Robert barked a laugh. It hurt. He didn't care.
The line of oaths continued after that, but Robert's attention had frayed. When the last petitioner was sent away, Jon Arryn waved the guards back and drew Ned and Hoster Tully to the table at the rear of the tent. A "small council," Jon called it, though it was only four men, a map smeared with mud, and an inkpot that had been knocked over twice already.
Hoster Tully looked pleased with himself in the way river lords did when they thought they'd arranged the current to their liking. Robert could see it. He could also see the strain in the older man's eyes. The lord had dealt out much bargains and bloodshed in the last few weeks.
Jon spoke first. "We have troubling news from King's Landing."
Robert's head snapped up. "Good. I was worried today might end without any more excitement."
Jon ignored him. "Jaime Lannister killed Aerys. Then proclaimed his sister Cersei queen."
For a moment Robert saw red.
"Golden-haired little—" The words broke into a growl. He slapped the table hard enough to make the inkpot jump. Pain stabbed up his legs and he bit it back.
"I'll bash his pretty head in," Robert bellowed. "And Tywin's too."
"You can't," Jon said calmly.
Robert stared at him. "What do you mean I can't."
"King's Landing has forty thousand soldiers inside its walls," Jon replied. "Some loyal to Tywin out of fear, some loyal to the lion out of profit, but the city is purged of dragons. We are battered. The Reach is still in the field. We cannot throw ourselves at those walls when there may be another way."
"Blatant avarice," Robert spat. "He's extorting me for my own city."
Jon leaned in. "We can use diplomacy. Tywin wants his blood on the throne through Cersei's womb. Your marriage can make the city open its gates without losing half our host on the walls."
Robert's mouth twisted. "I am not giving up on Lyanna. I fought this war for her."
"Your Grace, I know how important it is for you to join your house with the Starks. Perhaps your firstborn son could marry a future daughter of Ned's?" Lord Tully suggested diplomatically.
Robert stared down at the map, at the neat little drawing of King's Landing like a child's toy. He wanted to tear it.
Instead he waved a hand, dismissive and exhausted. "Fine. You run the realm Jon. You've been doing it since I called the banners anyway."
Jon's mouth tightened. He did not deny it.
Ned spoke then, quiet but firm. "I need to go to Dorne."
Jon's head turned sharply. "No."
"My sister is there," Ned said. "Varys claims she left the city with Princess Elia. If that's true—"
"It may not be," Jon cut in. "And even if it is, we cannot spare you. We cannot spare the men it would take to reach Dorne through hostile land with the Reach still in the field."
Ned didn't flinch. "I won't take an army. I can leave the host with Greatjon Umber. I'll go with Lord Reed. We'll move quietly."
Robert couldn't help it. A grin cracked his face. "Aye, Umber is a fine northman," he said. "Greatjon's got more spine than the Black Dread. He'll keep the soldiers in line."
Jon shot him a look. Robert ignored it.
Ned turned slightly toward Robert, and something in his gaze softened. "Robert. Listen to me."
Robert leaned in, and Ned continued. "You do not need to marry Lyanna for us to be brothers. Not in all the ways that matter."
Robert's breath caught. "Ned—"
Ned drew a knife and cut his own palm without ceremony. Blood welled, dark and sure.
"What in seven hells—"
"Do it," Ned said.
Robert didn't think. He cut his own palm, grimacing. Then Ned seized his hand, pressing the cuts together. Blood mingled, and warmth spread through their grip.
Ned held his gaze. "Chase your happiness," he said, voice low. "Let Jon run the realm. You took up arms to protect me and Lyanna. Marriage to my house or not, we are more than allies, and I will always be there for you."
A tear slid down Robert's cheek before he could stop it. He hated his weakness, but he let it fall anyway.
Robert swallowed hard. His throat felt thick. "I wish I could go with you," he admitted, and the truth of it hurt worse than any burn. "I'm tired of chairs and talk."
"You'll be swinging your hammer again soon," Ned said warmly. "Just not today."
Ned released him and wrapped his own hand in linen, then shoved a strip at Robert. "Keep pressure on it," he muttered, suddenly all serious again.
Ned turned to Jon. "I leave at first light."
Jon Arryn looked as if he wanted to argue. Then he looked at their bloody hands, at the map, and he sighed with the resignation of a disappointed father.
"Very well," Jon said. "But stay hidden. And come back alive Ned. The North needs you."
Stark nodded once. Robert reached for a waterskin and took a resigned sip. He really wanted some Arbor Gold.
"Do your diplomacy," he told Jon, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Make the lions purr. Make the realm behave. Just… don't expect me to enjoy any of it."
Jon's gaze held him. "Those who seek power are least suited for it. By that measure, you are more worthy than you think."
Robert looked past them, out through the tent flap where the day was grey and the river flowed past. He was going to miss Ned. His brother.
Robert lifted his waterskin in a toast. "To family."