At least that bitch Cersei canâ€™t take away the fun of hunting.
She had seemed to take away everything else, of course, driving him away from her, into the comforts of fine foods and even finer women. Of course, when compared to Cersei, his wife of fifteen years, any maiden was preferable, as the many bastards he had sired clearly shows, at least, the ones that escaped Cerseiâ€™s lethal wrath. Let the Others take her, he swore silently to himself, grabbing another skin of wine from a nearby servant, and drowing the draught in three mighty gulps. Anything to escape the thought of being married to to that wench. Why, he would rather fuck a silent sister or even that ugly daughter of Selwyn Tarth he so often like to snicker about behind his back, rather than spend a single moment with his Lannister bride.
â€œBring me another skin of the same, and my bow!â€ he muttered, spotting a boar in the distance, a likely target that would make a good meal for tonightâ€™s feast. He never ate or hunted for venison. It reminded him too much of his own mortality.
A different servant, this time clothed in Lannister crimson, red as a funeral pyre and bearing the lion that Robert had grown to hate over his many years of marriage, rode up to his side, handing over the his hunting crossbow, already wound and nocked with a bolt, along with the leather phial of liquor he requested.
Taking a mighty swig from the flask, and dismounting, his thoughts nevertheless drifted to his least favorite subject, how the hell he ended up married to such a bitch. At least he was content in the knowledge that she was never his first choice. No, that would have been Lyanna, Nedâ€™s sister. At least, until that Targaryen bastard Rhaegar kidnapped her away from him. Even the thought of Rhaegar, though dead at Robertâ€™s hand long ago, still managed to infuriate him, turning the sweet wine in his mouth bitter with his rage.
â€œRhaegar you bastard!â€ Robert cried out, raising his mighty war hammer above his head. His rage seemed to multiply his strength, for though he had grown portly and weak in recent years, he was amazed at how light his weapon seemed, almost as if he was in the prime of his youth again.
Alerted by his cry, Rhaegar charged at Robert, armored in his black plate, bedazzled with rubies, which seemed to sparkle in the glimpses of the sun through the fading trees.
Yes, thought Robert, this was exactly how it happened, sprinting to meet Rhaegar on the ford of the Trident, his greaves caked with the blood of his fallen enemies.
The two warriors came together, yet before they met, Robert knew what would happen, for he had seen it many times in his dreams. His great hammer would connect with Rhaegar, throwing him to the ground, in a glorious crescendo of shattering steel, snapping ribs, and the chime of fracturing rubies, floating for a second in the air in a beautiful bloodshot mist.
â€œLyanna!â€ Robert screamed out, just before the two met, just as it was the last time, though this time, there came no identical battle cry from his opponent, as Rhaegar had yelled as well at the Trident, in a cruel imitation meant to mock Robertâ€™s passion . The expected pinnacle of sound he should have heard upon seeing his war hammer strike his foe was just as absent.
In fact, what he did hear sounded just like the splintering of wood, accompanied by a the weak snapping of a once-taut cord, and the angry snort of an enraged beast.
The flowers below Robert were red. Ruby red, and growing more and more scarlet the longer he looked at them.
No, no, This wasnâ€™t right. This wasnâ€™t right at all.
Lyanna loved blue flowers.