Chapter Text
THE PROLOGUE: THE STAG AND THE BOAR
298 AC - Spring is ending
The soft light of day spilled across the stone floor inlaid with marble patterns, while the sunshine, fractured by the arched windows, cast their shapes upon the pavement. White and gold curtains swayed, fluttering with the wind as if caught in a slow, silent dance. Yet the most striking vision within the room was that of a woman.
Seated at the table, her back turned to the door, she faced the windows. Her hands rested upon the polished surface, one gently folded over the other. The light caught her eyebs, igniting the vivid gleam of emerald within them. Her long hair fell in soft waves across her shoulders, framing a composure that seemed both effortless and eternal. She was graceful, angelic—the very incarnation of beauty and sovereign majesty. To behold her was to know that no word but queen could suffice. It seemed as though she had been destined from her very birth to bear the crown.
But few knew how different her soul was from the beauty it concealed. Few could imagine the weight of sins and vices she hid beneath that serene exterior. And that day, one more man came to learn her secret. Her cousin, leaving her chambers with trembling hands, wrestled with what he must do. His only strength lay in his thirst for freedom, his hunger for vengeance after long years of abuse. Yet within him stirred a reluctant pity, for the end awaiting him would be unworthy of a warrior. Still, he knew: a warrior without war was nothing more than a man among men.
When he departed, the woman rose and composed herself, preparing to face the king—her husband. Before his end came, she longed to cast from her heart the questions that had haunted her for seventeen years. And she knew, with the clarity of one who stands at the edge of time, that her chance for answers was quickly slipping away.
The imposing king sat at a windowsill, only a dark wooden table between him and her. The empty room filled with laughter, a laughter born of the irony of life. Their marriage, so full of hatred and riddled with fractures, had somehow managed to hold together an entire kingdom. The biggest joke was that the only thing they had in common was the pain their marriage had caused them both. The greatest jest of all was that the only bond they shared was the pain their union had inflicted upon them both. For even though each knew the other was the only soul alive who truly understood that pain, it had never been enough to kindle love.
“Ah so here we sit, 17 years later holding it all together, don’t you get tired” the king asked the queen.
“Every day”
“How long hate can hate hold a thing together..”
“Well, 17 years is quite a long time” Seventeen years of rejection, of being haunted by the shadow of a dead woman; seventeen years of enduring, of being little more than another body to warm his bed. God, those years had been long—stolen from her by life itself. And her husband had robbed her of the chance for happiness.
“yes, it is” the king says.
“yes, it is” the queen repeats slowly. And in her heart, she swore that it would not remain so.
They toasted to this and both tasted their wine in silence. Then Cersei, gathering her courage, gave voice to the question that had burned within her for years.
“What was she likes?” She didn't need to say her name; her presence, or rather, absence, was a constant shadow in their relationship. The only woman he'd ever loved, the woman whose name he whispered in her ear even when bed.
“You never asked about her, not once. Why now?” the suspicion in his eyes was evident.
“At first just saying her name, even in private, felt like I was breathing life back into her. I thought if I didn’t talk about her, she’d just fade away for you.”. But now she just accepted that she was always more alive in his heart, she will never fade away. “When I realized that wasn’t going to happen, I refused to ask out of spite. I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of thinking I cared enough to ask. Eventually it became that my spite didn’t mean anything to you. As far I could tell you actually enjoyed it”. But now she would give him this satisfaction as the last gift for him, after all he was her husband for 17 years, a long time too long for there to be only hatred and regret between them.
The king looked at her. He didn't know why such a cunning woman was opening to him now, why she was making herself appear so fragile and vulnerable. “Why now?”
“What harm could Lyanna Stark’s ghost do to either of us, we haven’t done to each other a hundred times”. she answered. She needed to know, before the end, what kind of woman Lyanna had truly been—to inspire so much ruin, to leave a man incapable of love. Lyanna, whom she had never known, yet who had taken everything. When Cersei was young, with the crown still Targaryen’s, her father had sought to wed her to Rhaegar—and she had wanted him too. But the king had humiliated them both. Then came the abduction of Lyanna, rebellion, blood, and the fall of a dynasty—all for her. Who was this woman, that men would burn kingdoms for her? Who was she, why was everyone so ready to choose her?
“You want to know the horrible truth, I can’t even remember what she looked like. I only know she was the only one thing I ever wanted. Someone took her away from me. And Seven Kingdoms couldn’t fill the hole she left behind.”
Her heart flooded with contempt. What a pathetic man, she thought. All the realm knew his flaws, but he was famed for his memory. Even now he could recall every man he had killed—yet not the face of the woman he claimed as his greatest love. And to think she… “I felt something for you once, you know”
“I know.” He replied looking at his hand, maybe with the faintest flicker of regret or guilt.
“Even after we lost our first boy, for quite a while. Was it ever possible for us, was ever a time, ever moment?” she asked, her mind was filled with memory with moments of her hope, the day of their wedding. When he, a new king, a victorious man, the one who killed the ones who shamed her. Great future had seemed to lie before them both.
“No.” he simply responded. She drank her wine, as if it might dull the bitterness on her tongue. “Does that make you feel better or worse?” he asked.
“It doesn’t make me feel anything.” And it was true. His answer had stripped the meaning from all her suffering. Yet that, too, was liberation. With her children, a better life awaited her. A life in which she could be queen in truth.
She rose, set down her wine, and moved toward the garden. Another conversation awaited her there—with another man who did not have long left in this world. A small, cruel irony struck her then: Lyanna’s death had marked him as well. Robert had drowned in drink and bloat, while Ned Stark had taken up his burden, returning to the North with a bastard in tow. Her brother. The one man the king had sought out in person. The only man who, in seventeen years, had ever brought Robert true happiness—simply by existing.
The king, meanwhile, poured himself more wine, a feeling in his heart that there was a doom hanging over him.
The royal hunt was a frequent event, thanks to Robert's commands, and the servants were now highly skilled at preparing the event in short order. Expert hunters, with their dogs and falcons, were summoned to court. Horses were kept ready for the nobles and the king's use. Some animals were released into the forest to ensure the camp had sufficient prey.
The king, with the help of the other servants, was dressing and preparing for the hunt.
“Your Grace,” came a voice behind him. It was Lancel Lannister, golden and clean-shaven, far too pretty for the dirt of the woods. He held a wineskin as reverently as a sword. “Thought you might be thirsty.”
Robert snatched it without saying a word. No questions. No second thought. He drank deep, wine spilling down his chin. It was strong—stronger than it should have been.
“That’s better,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But the forest spun slightly when he looked up. He blinked it away. No matter. He wanted to be numb. That was the point. That day was supposed to be dedicated to this, to forgetting this, to feeling better without any burdens weighing him down.
The stag did not want to remember it was a king. He laughed, loud and wild, as he pushed his horse deeper into the trees.
Riding, he spoke to the nobles accompanying him on the hunt. "Let's make this day memorable. Let's hunt enough prey to fill feasts for days to come," he shouted, half drunk and half enthusiastic.
As if frightened by his cries, a small grunt rose from the leaves of the bushes. Fearless, his mind clouded by alcohol, Robert leaped off the horse. He ordered the others to stand back and stay still. And he approached alone, already savoring victory.
The wild boar, rubbing itself against an oak tree, was startled by the sudden cry. It spun around and saw the hooves of a horse and a giant man on top. The boar shivered as he looked into the man's gaze, his ancient survival instincts boiling his blood. The man leaped from his horse. The wild boar lunged at him, hoping to escape. The man, in turn, rushed at the animal, fully armed, hoping to kill the fat prey. But beyond the adrenaline, a sweet and potent wine also flows in his blood. His feet become more unsteady, his mind slower, his body more limp. It almost seemed as if it were fate, the animal ripping through him like a knife tearing through a curtain. Death was closing in to take the king. But not before the man made sure that he had company. He plunged his sword into the animal's skull. He was soaked in blood, his own and his prey's.
The king lay dying, his body torn by the tusks of a wild boar. He exhaled his final breaths with more wine than blood in his veins. His clothes were soaked red. The man who had torn kingdoms apart, who had slaughtered armies with his warhammer, now died in a hunt—helpless and broken.
His guards rushed to him, desperate to save their sovereign. They bore his failing body back to King’s Landing, but the gods had already carved his fate in stone. In those last, fading moments, Robert finally understood what regret truly meant.
Lyanna. Her face haunted his thoughts. The one constant in his life. The love he never truly loved. He could never forgive himself. He had let her be taken. He should have done more. She had been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—his betrothed. His queen, stolen before she could wear a crown.
He had been king, the most powerful man in Westeros, yet even that power could not erase the scars. He had spent a lifetime grieving her memory… and not once had he truly seen her. If only he had a second chance. He would not mourn her—he would fight for her. He would earn her. He would make sure that no one ever stood between them again. The guards shouted for the maesters for help. The maesters take the lead and tried everything they could do.
The chamber was thick with the scent of blood and crushed herbs. The air clung to the skin like sweat before a storm. Robert Baratheon, once a mountain of flesh and fury, now lay broken on a silken bed that reeked of death.
Ned Stark, who was called, stood at his side, pale and stone-faced, yet his eyes burned with something unspoken—grief, perhaps, or guilt. He knew something that the king did not. Something fundamental, a matter that concerned his offspring.
“Gods,” Robert rasped, each breath a knife. “They got me good, Ned. Boar did what no man could.”
Ned tried to speak, but Robert waved a trembling hand. “Save your breath. I’ve not much time... and too much to say.”
A silence stretched between them. A silence weighted with years—of war, of loss, of friendship strained thin by crowns and duty.
“Tell me,” Robert muttered, blinking against the blur, “when did we become old men?”
“We’re not old,” Ned said, his voice rough.
Robert gave a weak chuckle, that turned into a cough. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. “Speak for yourself. I was never meant to be king. Meant to swing hammers, drink wine, chase skirts… not sit a damn throne. Believe me, that throne is cursed, it sucks all our will of life.”
His gaze turned distant. “Lyanna… I dreamt of her, Ned. Just now. She was smiling. Wearing flowers in her hair. I thought… maybe she’d forgive me.”. It hurts him, the realization of how faint memory she became.
Ned looked away. “She’d want you to rest, Robert.”
“Rest…” Robert echoed. “I’ve earned little of it.”
A long pause. Then:
“You’ll write it down?” Robert asked, turning his eyes back to his friend. “My will. My last command.”
Ned nodded.
“Joffrey... he’s not ready. None of them are. You must rule in my stead, Ned. As Lord Regent, until my son comes of age.”
“If it is your will,” Ned replied slowly, already doubting the truth of those words.
“Aye. My will.” Robert’s grip tightened on Ned’s arm, the last of his strength burning through. “Promise me, Ned. For the good of the realm. Promise me.”
Ned nodded again, more to the man than to the words.
Robert sank back, breath rattling in his chest. “We were good once, weren’t we?”
“We were brothers,” Ned whispered.
“Then let the world remember us so. Not as king and Hand… but as Robert and Ned.”
And with that, the king of the Seven Kingdoms closed his eyes -blaming the gods for taking everything from him and giving him all the things he never wanted.
He had lived like a storm—loud, fierce, and unrelenting. His youth had been fire and fury, his victories sung in every hall from Dorne to the Wall. He had laughed with his men, loved too many women, drunk oceans of wine, and swung his warhammer with the strength of ten. He had taken a crown not for power, but because it seemed the right reward for the war he had bled for.
And yet… what had it all amounted to?
A kingdom slipping through his fingers like sand. A wife he could never love. Children he couldn’t understand. A throne that chained him more than any dungeon. He had chased ghosts—Lyanna’s face, Ned’s loyalty, the man he used to be—and had lost them all to time and silence.
He thought of his brothers, dead and scattered. Of Jon Arryn, the only man who ever tried to guide him. Of battles won, and peace squandered. Of laughter that no longer came, and feasts that tasted like ash.
Was this what kingship truly was? A slow surrender to regret?
Ned’s hand was in his, his voice a quiet anchor for the soul slipping away. Eternal sleep was demanding his exitance. Perhaps, in this final journey, he would find peace—though his soul was heavy with unfulfilled desires. He looked at Ned one last time and let his eyes fall shut. His consciousness was fading slowly; his body was losing his warmth.
……………
He was surrounded by the void. His body was lying on his back, motionless. From the black stone beneath him, tendrils of shadow rose—twisting, reaching, grasping. They curled upward, like smoke turned to claws, striving to drag him down.
A sudden brightness overwhelmed his sight; he tried to blink. His muscles were rigid, he was helpless, immobile in nothingness. Still, he fought to raise his hand, shield his eyes, cry out. But the light held him still.
The light didn’t permit Robert to see anything. Unexpectedly a strange and gigantic hand emerged from the inhuman glow. The hand was made of small and medium black stones, both smooth and jagged, fused like ancient masonry. In the index finger there was a ring made of bone. Sluggishly the hand was drawing closer, Robert forces his body to move unsuccessfully. The index stopped a few inches from his forehead. He heard a voice inside his mind.
“The beloved, untouched by the love that waited in shadows.
You sang of a love that never bloomed—
a cherished one, deaf to the whisper of devotion.
I offer you a chance.
Not to be a better king, but a better man.
Save your soul, or fall once more into disgrace.
In return, offer me your devotion.
Pray to me. Serve me in the realm of the living.”
The voice rumbled like an ancient stone cracking. Who this presence was, Robert didn’t know. Gods – people always talked about them and their kindness and power. They have many aspects and many name - he Faith of the Seven, the Old Gods of the Forest, the Drowned God and the Lord of Light R’hllor. He never really believed in any of them. Ceremonies were just noises. Prayers, empty rituals. Was this real? Is this some type of illusion, or maybe a cruel joke.
“What are you saying? A second chance... Why?”
“My reason are beyond you, your finite mind can’t see what I can. Your death started a war, so many lives ended. Only because few people were so ready to play king and queen. I don’t ask you to become anyone, just try being a better person. Go and live.” Just as soon as this presence stopped talking the light grew brighter, impossibly, unbearably so. It was no longer sight, but sensation. Like drowning in flame.
“Who are you?”
“You will know…” The divine voice echoed and dissolved. Then silence.
--- --- --- --- ---
Darkness followed, but not the cruel void of death — rather, a strange warmth. It wrapped around him like a shroud of breathless silence. For a moment, there was peace. Then, faint and uncertain, came a heartbeat. It pulsed through the nothingness, slow but steady, as if the world were beginning again.
Faint. Fragile. But real. It echoed in the vastness, like the first drumbeat of a forgotten song.
In a chamber deep within the stone walls of Storm’s End, a child was born. Blood, heat, and the sour tang of sweat filled the air. The midwife lifted the boy in her arms and announced the birth with surprise at the strength of his lungs. “A boy!” she exclaimed, half in awe. “Stubborn little one. Already screaming like he owns the place.”
He didn’t. Not yet. But the gods — or whatever power whispered beyond the veil — had marked him.
No one saw the flicker behind those newborn eyes. A glint. A shadow of thought, buried deep, wrapped in confusion. There were no memories. Not truly.
Only the aching ghost of a name. The echo of a war hammer crashing through flesh and time. Somewhere far from this cradle, a stag had died. And somewhere deeper still, a soul had been unmoored… and reborn. Now he lay swaddled in wool and blood, trembling against the cold air of the world. His cries filled the halls of Storm’s End, and the wind outside beat like drums against the stone.
The boy would be named Robert. But this was not the same Robert who had once worn a crown and drowned his grief in wine. This Robert — this beginning — was something new. A blank slate... almost.
In the great hall of Storm’s End, bells rang to celebrate the heir’s arrival. Servants toasted, nobles sent ravens, and his house rejoiced. None of them knew that the boy they swaddled in wolf-fur and storm light was simply not a baby.
Yet in the quiet, beneath the surface, the soul stirred. No one knew. Not yet. That somewhere within that infant’s heart, a king still wept. And perhaps, in time, he would remember why.
For now, he was a newborn, helpless, cold, and screaming. But something ancient lingered beneath the surface.