"Your Grace, may I?"
Right when it seemed all hope was lost, Qyburn stepped forward with a nervous look on his face.
Robert glared at the man. "You can save her, Qyburn?"
"If it pleases Your Grace, I might be of some assistance. My studies… though unconventional… have touched deeply on the workings of the body. But I must see the injury before I can speak to its nature—or offer a remedy," Qyburn said, pretty much requesting to see the Westerosi queen's cunt. While it was normal for Maesters, Qyburn wasn't really a Maester.
Robert didn't give a damn about that, though. "I'll go with you."
The two men pushed open the door and entered the queen's birthing chamber. They found Margaery on the bed in her birthing gown, blood-soaked between her legs by then. Her eyes were barely open, tears filled, face pale as a wraith.
"Margaery." Robert walked to the side of her bed to comfort her. "Stay awake. You'll be well."
She didn't look well, however. The midwives seemed to have wasted a lot of time. Margaery was barely responsive, even when he called her name. Her eyes were hazy, and her pulse was faint.
Qyburn quickly got to work and completely tore apart the gown that covered the legs. At his order, a Kingsguard rushed to his chamber and brought over all the necessary tools. Moments later, Qyburn was using the said tools on Margaery.
"Your Grace, the babe born was large. I fear there are lacerations within. I will try to seal the wounds but…"
"Spit it out, Qyburn, gods damn it! I've no time for your bloody mumbling!" Robert bellowed.
"The wounds seem grave. She will not conceive again, I'm afraid—nor be able to comfort you as a wife," Qyburn stated clearly.
Robert didn't understand much about healing. He just gave a nod to Qyburn and held Margaery's hand. "Doesn't matter a damn. She's given me two fine heirs. She's the bloody queen and mother of the next king—what more do you need? Do whatever it takes, just don't let her die!"
Qyburn nodded and got to work. It didn't look clean; there was a lot of blood involved. But eventually, Qyburn did stop the bleeding somehow. Beyond that point, it was left to the gods if they would save the queen. She had already lost a lot of blood, and her consciousness was barely there.
"We'll give her the medicine she needs. Rest and proper feeding—that's what will set her right." Qyburn said in the end. "I'll station myself in the room next door, Your Grace—day and night, I'll be there to attend."
Robert nodded, eyeing Margaery, looking so fragile on the bed. It was hard to feel emotional like a lover, but as a man who still prioritized duty, he hoped for Margaery to live. She didn't have any living family left, and clearly, his second son would inherit Highgarden of the Tyrells. He wanted Margaery to live long enough to see both her sons proudly take their seats.
"You've done well, Qyburn."
Giving Margaery one last glance, Robert walked out of the chamber and took the newborn babe back in his arms from the midwife. He checked the babe, and indeed, he was born chunky. With bright blue eyes like his own, and hair a lighter shade of brown like his mother's.
"Alester Baratheon, heir to Highgarden." Robert declared the name of the newborn. All understood the meaning. It was the name of House Tyrell's founder.
"Big lad in the making. You can see it already," Stannis commented from the side.
Robert nodded and eyed the men nearby. "Stannis, you're riding North. Help the Starks bash those bloody wildlings. I'll catch up once I'm sure Margaery isn't dying on me. Keep your damn eyes peeled for the Ironborn. If you can stomach it, hold your ground, and don't go charging in until I'm there. The realm's soaked in blood as it is."
"Understood, Your Grace." Stannis took his orders and left right away.
"Ser Davos, get the royal fleet moving. Patrol Blackwater like the sea owes us gold. Send a few ships up to the Three Sisters, full of food and steel for the North and our boys. Tyrion, rouse the Lannister fleet—no lounging in the docks. Keep them watching those salt-soaked bastards. And send a raven to Redwyn—tell him I said to do the same. I'll have no more blood spilled. No more sons and daughters for the Stranger."
The two men heeded his command and left to fulfill it. The Crown was in its most stable state since the Targaryen dynasty's heyday. The coffers were overflowing, and the power was once again centralized on the King's throne. Dorne had given in, Lannisters were tamed, and the Tyrells were over. All the major power holders had vanished; the only one to remain was Robert Baratheon.
Yet, Robert wasn't finished.
Holding the baby tight in his mighty arms, Robert sighed and looked back at the chamber's door. It was a bittersweet day.
Rest is in the Seven's hands.
####
Although tired, Robert spent that night in his solar, reading some ravens from across the realm. Announcing betrothals between houses, conflicts between houses, or something else. It was usually nonsense that the Hand managed.
Tyrion, being unmarried, was also receiving many offers of marriage now since the man was now Lord of Casterly Rock. But Robert left that decision to Tyrion, as long as it was a decent woman.
Then there were some marriage offers for Tommen, even though he was a bastard. But he refused them all since the boy was already swooning over the girl from House Mormont. Finally, there were marriage offers for Myrcella. Those, he ignored since the girl wasn't interested in any.
He mainly gave more focus to the letters from across the sea. Slaver's Bay had fallen back into the hands of the slave masters. It was bound to happen with how weak of a foundation Daenerys had created there.
Then finally, a letter from the Iron Bank requested permission to open a major branch in King's Landing. Robert was inclined to accept, but knowing how vengeful the Iron Bank was, he felt worried for the future generation. So, he refused them, not wanting any third party's influence in the King's court.
One by one, the large bundles of paper were reduced to nothing. By then, the night had reached the hour of the owl. It was late, but he still didn't feel the need to sleep. It was a common occurrence for him now. Day by day, it was getting hard to feel like a human.
Thud!
"Fuck!"
Suddenly, as Robert tried to relax back and stretched his arms, his leg mistakenly smashed into the table's right leg. The table's leg got smashed apart, its nails came off, and the entire thing slanted to one side.
He annoyedly got up and knelt beside the table to fix it. At that point, he could easily punch in nails with a simple press of his thumb.
"At this rate, they'll need to make my furniture with fucking steel," Robert grunted and easily lifted the massive table with one arm and used the other to put the leg back in its place.
Click!
"Hm?" He heard a noise from underneath the table. "What's in there?"
He lifted the table even higher to get a look. It was all flat, but as he shook the table, he could hear something sliding inside. There couldn't be anything on top, and the drawers had keys. And it clearly wasn't the sound of keys.
"Hidden storage?"
Knock, knock, knock…
He gently knocked on the flat surface under the table and eventually found the hollow spot. And right there was a tiny keyhole, barely visible in the dark.
Being an impatient man and not knowing of any key, he simply clawed his thick fingers into the wood and chipped it apart, pulling out the flat board that hid the compartment.
Thud!
A book fell out. It wasn't thick, nor did it look expensive. It had a simple leather cover with no words on it. But it looked old, the yellow hue on it apparent.
Robert placed the table down and grabbed the book. "A journal?"
He recognized the handwriting from the very first page. It was his own, or the Robert that once lived. Curious as to why Robert, known to be unashamed and brash, would hide a journal, he gave it a quick read.
Fuck, it's just a list of bastards he sired.
The names of the women and the possible location of his bastards were written in it. In fact, the details were too many. Robert had written in elaborate words how he fucked each woman who sired him a babe. From the very first one in the Vale to the whore in King's Landing.
"I rammed her against the wall. Gods, among the finest cunts I've had the pleasure of feasting on…"
Robert sighed, reading the sexual exploits of the old him. He kept turning pages, reading about not just the women Robert fucked, but also the women Robert wanted to fuck. And surprisingly, there were some indecent thoughts about Catelyn Stark's tits as well. No wonder Robert kept the journal hidden.
And he felt conflicted. Should he feel aroused or enraged by old Robert's thoughts? But then it appeared that Robert was just a horndog. The man also wanted to bed a septa, a lifelong fantasy of his.
Great, I've fulfilled it.
Continuing forward, there was mention of Targaryens. Robert, in his own words, claimed that although madness was in their blood, there was also beauty. Too bad he didn't get to savor a Targaryen cunt before the last of them vanished.
Page after page, finally, something caught his eye. The writings seemed rushed, as if written with high emotions.
"What have I turned into? Jon's gone, and the realm's rotting like a boar's carcass in the sun. The stench in this city—gods, it clings to me like guilt. I pissed away my glory, drowning in whores, wine, and whatever filth kept me numb. My wife? Hah. She's a snake in silk, and I've given her every reason to be. I've barely touched her, not that she ever wanted my touch. She hates me—can't stand the sight of me—and I don't blame her. I can't stand it either. Gods, I was strong back then… not this bloated fat piece of shit.
I betrayed everything: my name, my men, the godsdamned Seven Kingdoms. That boy Joffrey—gods, he's no boy of mine. Madder than the Targaryens ever were, and not a drop of Baratheon blood in him. None of those brats are mine. Hair like spun gold, soft like kittens. I sired warriors, not that! Once might be misfortune. Three? It's mockery. I'm a laughing stock, a pathetic creature.
Lyanna… what would she say, seeing me now? She was fire, she was fierce. She was mine. Not this cold bitch with Lannister gold in her cunt. Should've been Lyanna. Was always meant to be her.
Ah, fuck it. A few jugs of wine and a couple of sweet lips between my legs—that's the only peace left to me. Damned be the realm. Damned be that whore. The realm can rot. The gods don't listen, never have. If they did, I'd be dead already.
Ned. He'll fix it. He's still good. Still whole. I'll make him Hand, whether he wants it or not, and let his honor patch this broken kingdom. Better him than me…"
From there, it was mostly gibberish about how much he despised the Lannisters and the rest of the nobles in his court.
What left him confused and shocked was how accurate the ending part was. Ned did end up fixing the realm, but not as Eddard Stark, but in the body of Robert Baratheon himself. A magical combination of both their minds did it, creating a third creature.
A few pages later, the entries stopped. The last entry was Robert furiously cursing Ned for refusing to kill Daenerys across the sea.
"You were never one for crowns and councils," Robert grumbled, snapping the book shut. He lumbered to the hearth and tossed it in with a grunt. "You were fire and fury, aye, but only while there was blood to spill. Once the killing stopped, so did your purpose. There was no place left for you once we cut down the Mad King and…"
Robert prodded the burning book and sighed. "Nor do I belong here."
______________________
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