Chapter 194 – A Great Gift Demands a Great Sacrifice
"Seven save us…"
The aged—if somewhat excitable—voice echoed through the bedchamber.
Maester Cressen stood to one side, his blue-grey eyes, clouded by age, fixed unblinking on his lord.
"Once you put that armor on, you look exactly like your father did in his youth," he said softly.
"And your grandfather as well… he wore armor just like this, long ago."
Before a mirror as tall as a man, several attendants worked briskly, tightening the final thick leather straps on Robert's astonishingly heavy plate armor.
With each pull of the cords, the steel plates slid snugly into place, hugging Robert Baratheon's massive frame as though forged for no other body.
Next, the servants carefully lifted a helmet.
At its crown rose a pair of enormous antlers, wrought from dark steel, thrusting upward like spears toward the ceiling.
When the helm was lowered onto Robert's head, he studied his reflection with clear satisfaction.
Handsome. Powerful.
A figure worthy of being the dream of every noble maiden in the Seven Kingdoms.
A smile tugged at his lips.
Yet in the mirror's edge, he caught sight of Maester Cressen's eyes—eyes filled not with pride, but with sorrow and quiet mourning.
"Seven bloody hells!"
Robert's good mood vanished at once.
He spun around and jabbed a finger at the old maester, roaring,
"Wipe that damned look off your face, Cressen! You look like you're staring at a corpse!"
"Stop looking at me like a dead man!"
"I'm going out to duel. A duel, do you understand?"
"And if it's a duel, then that means I still have a chance—so long as my hammer is fast enough and heavy enough!"
Cressen hurriedly wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, forcing his voice to steady.
"Yes—yes, of course! You will win, Robert. I believe that with all my heart!"
"I watched you grow up alongside Stannis. Truly… you were always more childish than him, but in strength and build, you surpassed both your father and your grandfather…"
"Do you remember, ten years ago, when you pinned Stannis to the ground and beat on him just to see if you could make him cry? And that stubborn boy didn't make a sound…"
The old maester rambled on, lost in memory.
He had served House Baratheon since Robert's grandfather's day—
three generations, at least.
Perhaps soon, four.
But as he muttered on like an old man drifting into the past, he failed to notice the shadow creeping across Robert's face.
Damn the old fool.
He'd always favored Stannis.
As if that cold, joyless face of his had ever been worth liking.
"Out! All of you, get out!"
"Do the Seven Hells have room for your ears or not? Get out, all of you!"
With a furious sweep of his arms, Robert drove every servant—and Maester Cressen with them—out of the chamber.
Bang!
The door slammed shut, sealing off the world beyond.
Only then did Robert let out a long breath.
Silence.
At last.
He stood alone, his massive frame unmoving, as though nailed to the floor.
The fury that had just burned through him seemed to drain away what little strength he had left, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion he could no longer deny.
The armor felt heavier now.
After a few breaths, he finally began to move.
His heavy steps carried him across the chamber, iron-shod boots striking the cold stone floor with dull, rhythmic clang—clang sounds, monotonous and weighty.
At last, Robert reached the side of his broad bed and dropped down heavily. He raised both arms, strained a little, and pulled the helmet from his head, tossing it carelessly onto the mattress.
Thick, curly black hair clung messily to his brow. Bloodshot veins webbed his eyes—no trace remained of the usual clarity and easy charm.
He rolled his stiff neck, then lifted his gaze once more to the tall mirror across the room.
The knight reflected there was solid, powerful—strong enough that even a night with ten whores would hardly trouble him.
His massive hand clenched into a fist before his eyes.
It was trembling.
He was afraid.
Yes—Robert Baratheon, the Lord of Storm's End, feared.
A bone-deep chill crept from the soles of his feet straight up to his skull.
In every battle before, even against bears and boars, brute strength and fearless charge had always been enough.
But this time, the opponent was—
Lance Lot.
That thing wasn't human.
He ground his teeth as memories flooded back: the tourney at King's Landing, the moment he had been cleanly lifted from his saddle by a single thrust.
Worse still were the stories now spreading through the Stormlands—each more exaggerated than the last:
Black-and-white swords wreathed in fire.
A single swing summoning a rain of flames.
A blade cleaving a galloping horse in two.
A dragon in the sky.
One man smashing through a hundred soldiers alone.
Some even claimed lightning burst from his arse.
At first, Robert had scoffed.
But as bad news arrived one after another, those cold, brutal facts hammered his confidence into pieces.
The name Lance Lot had become a nightmare, tightening around his heart like a noose.
"Damn it… damn it all!"
He pounded the bed uselessly, despair thick in the air.
There was no path—no strategy—no way to defeat him.
"Are you going to war, Robert?"
A clear, small voice came from the corner.
Robert jolted, spinning around—then exhaled sharply in relief.
A small figure stood there.
The boy wore a neatly cut but modest dark-blue velvet coat. Soft, slightly curled black hair framed a young face, and bright green eyes—pure Baratheon—stared up at him without blinking.
"Renly?" Robert said. "Seven hells—you scared me."
"What are you doing here?"
Renly stepped closer, barely reaching Robert's knee.
"I came in with Maester Cressen. I wanted to see you in your new armor."
"He didn't notice me. His eyes are getting bad."
"Stannis says old people's eyes get cloudy, like there's fog in them."
Robert laughed and rubbed Renly's head hard, mussing his hair.
"That's right, little Renly! That half-blind old fool should've been buried years ago. He'll be reporting to the Stranger any day now!"
He laughed again—some of the weight lifting, if only briefly.
But then the question came again.
"Are you going to war?"
The small voice was steady.
Renly pointed. "You look really good in armor."
Robert froze.
He turned back toward the mirror, staring at the worn, hollow face staring back at him.
The room seemed thick with the scent of death.
"Yes," he said at last, voice low.
He adjusted his pauldron. Metal clinked softly.
"I… am going to war."
"Is the enemy very strong?" Renly asked. "You sighed."
Robert thought of the man who had shattered armies with eight hundred riders, broken three cities in a single day, beheaded Jon Connington, and crushed six thousand soldiers head-on.
"Very strong," he said honestly, gripping Renly's small shoulders.
"Stronger than anyone you've ever seen—or can imagine."
Renly thought hard, then straightened his tiny back.
"But the strongest person I've ever seen is you, Robert!"
Robert went completely still.
The child's face—bright and sincere—cut through the darkness like morning sunlight.
He swallowed, slowly turning to look at Renly again.
"Yes! You!" Renly insisted.
"You can lift that huge hammer! Even Stannis can't!"
He spread his arms wide, trying to show how impossibly heavy it was.
"Robert!" Renly declared, fists clenched.
"You're going to win!"
Before Robert could react, Renly rose on his toes and kissed his cheek.
Then he turned and walked out.
Robert stood frozen.
His fingers touched the place on his face. His mouth twitched into a smile.
"Brat," he muttered.
Then—soft footsteps.
Different from a servant's. Slower. Almost… rhythmic.
From behind the mirror, a woman emerged.
She was beautiful—unearthly so. Pale skin almost translucent, blue veins visible beneath. Her features were perfect, distant, inhuman.
Despite the deep winter, she wore only a thin red silk gown, nearly transparent, clinging to her body. Long red hair spilled down her back like flame.
Bare feet stepped onto the cold stone—unaffected by the chill.
"You still haven't decided, my lord?" she asked softly.
Her voice crackled like embers in wind.
"Time never stops flowing. The sacred flame guides all who wander."
"Hesitation allows the night to swallow the stag's antlers."
Robert's blood ran cold.
"Is there really only one way?" he demanded through clenched teeth.
"Blood sacrifice… for that'champion of light' power?"
She stepped closer, crimson eyes steady.
"A great gift demands a great sacrifice."
She gestured to the hearth.
"Those who beg flame to banish endless night must offer their dearest wick."
The words coiled around his soul.
Then—
"Bullshit."
Her calm shattered.
Robert inhaled deeply. Fear vanished from his eyes, replaced by iron resolve.
"The Lord of Storm's End will never trade his family's lives for victory!"
His back straightened. The Baratheon blood roared again.
"It's just Lance Lot."
He seized her, kissed her fiercely, hands rough and possessive. When he finally pulled away, he laughed.
"Damn, woman—you're impressive."
Grabbing his warhammer, he strode for the door.
"Oh—one thing," he said, turning back with a grin.
"It has to be Renly?"
She shrugged. "Any Baratheon blood will do."
"But Stannis isn't here."
Robert laughed loudly.
"Figures. That bastard's luck is always better."
Then he marched out.
Behind him, the woman stood unmoving.
Red eyes burning once more.