The Warrior Mage of Westeros

As the door to Lord Stark's solar creaked open, Harry, Jon, and Dany entered, their faces serious. Behind them, Dany cast a series of quick privacy charms, ensuring that their conversation would remain safe from prying ears. The flickering glow of the hearth cast long shadows across the room as the four figures stepped into the tense space. At the far end, Robb and Ned Stark were already seated, their faces a picture of grim anticipation.

Ned's keen gaze settled on the trio as they took their places. His heavy brow furrowed slightly, his expression unreadable. "Did you uncover anything about Lord Arryn's death?" he asked, his voice deep with the weight of his concern.

Harry exchanged a brief glance with Dany, both understanding the gravity of what they were about to reveal. After a moment of silence, Harry spoke, his voice measured but heavy with truth.

"We've learned that none here at Winterfell were involved in Jon Arryn's demise," he began, his words cutting through the thick air. "However, we discovered something far more dangerous from the queen's thoughts. Jon Arryn had uncovered a secret—a terrible truth about the royal children."

Ned's eyes narrowed slightly, his instincts telling him this was no simple matter. "What secret?" he asked, his tone low but filled with palpable concern.

Harry's gaze hardened, and Dany took a step forward, her presence radiating strength and conviction as she spoke, her French accent barely noticeable yet still adding weight to her words. "Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are not Robert Baratheon's trueborn children. They are the product of incest between Queen Cersei and her uncles, Kevan and Tygett Lannister."

A heavy silence fell over the room, the implications of Dany's words crashing down on them all. Robb's eyes went wide, disbelief flashing across his face before it quickly shifted to anger. Ned, however, had already begun processing the gravity of the revelation, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the weight of the news.

Dany nodded in agreement, her expression unwavering. "Jon Arryn discovered the truth about the Lannisters' betrayal, and it was that knowledge that led to his untimely death. Cersei and her brothers have been passing off their children as Robert's in order to solidify their claim to the throne."

Robb shot to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. "Father, we cannot allow Sansa to marry Joffrey," he said, his voice resolute, yet tinged with the fury of a son who would protect his sister at all costs. "Not after what we've learned."

Ned's face darkened, his gaze cold as stone. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, the weight of leadership pulling his shoulders down. "You're right, Robb. But rejecting the king's offer without exposing the truth of Cersei's treachery would put us in an even more perilous position." His voice lowered further, barely above a whisper. "We must proceed carefully. The consequences of this knowledge are far-reaching, and we cannot act rashly."

Harry's expression remained unchanged, his eyes burning with quiet intensity. "Revealing the truth without solid proof would be reckless. We must gather evidence before we do anything that could be seen as an attack against the Lannisters. The last thing we want is to provoke a civil war with nothing but rumors."

Dany, standing beside Harry, her presence a calming force in the tense room, spoke again, her tone firm and unwavering. "Harry and I are committed to seeing justice done," she said, her eyes meeting Ned's. "We will find a way to annul Sansa's betrothal and expose Cersei's lies. The truth must be revealed, and we will not rest until it is."

Ned looked at her, his face unreadable for a moment before he gave a sharp nod. "Very well," he said, his voice filled with determination. "I will accept the position of Hand of the King. But we will uncover the truth behind Jon Arryn's death, and those responsible will answer for it."

Harry leaned forward, the firelight catching the edges of his expression. "Is there anyone in King's Landing whom you trust, someone who could assist us and make our task easier?"

Ned rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his mind turning over the question as he considered his options. "Catelyn suggested Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin. He's an old childhood friend of hers and, by her account, trustworthy. He might be able to help us navigate the complexities of King's Landing."

A look of clear disdain crossed Harry's face, his expression hardening as he spoke. "Trustworthy?" His voice was laced with skepticism. "Baelish is a man of questionable morals. We've used Legilimency on various members of the king's entourage, and from what we've learned, Baelish has been spreading vile rumors to advance his own position."

Dany's lips pressed into a thin line as she added, "He's been boasting about his conquests in disturbing detail. Whispers say he claims to have had intimate relations with both Lady Stark and Lady Arryn. It's a scandalous boast meant to elevate his own standing while diminishing the honor of the women he speaks of."

Ned's face darkened, the anger rising in his chest like a storm ready to burst. His hand clenched into a fist. "If Baelish has spoken of my wife and Jon Arryn's widow in such a manner, he is beyond redemption," he growled, his voice thick with fury. "I will not involve such a man in our plans."

Jon, ever watchful, stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "We need allies we can trust, not men who spread lies for their own gain," he said, his voice cold but steady, as if speaking from the depth of his own hard-earned wisdom.

Robb's expression mirrored his father's. He, too, felt the weight of betrayal and dishonor. "Mother has always believed in Baelish," he said, his tone grim, "but if he's as dishonorable as you say, then we must reconsider. We cannot risk Sansa's future—or our family's—by allowing a man like Baelish to get close to us."

Ned exhaled sharply, his jaw set. "We will find another way. Our plans must proceed without the involvement of those who cannot be trusted."

There was a long pause, the air thick with the tension of decisions yet to come. Finally, Ned stood, his posture unwavering, the weight of his duty as Lord of Winterfell pressing down upon him. "Very well. We move forward without Baelish. And together, we will uncover the truth—no matter the cost."

Harry, Jon, Dany, and Robb exchanged resolute looks, each of them knowing that the road ahead would be fraught with peril. But there was no turning back now. The truth would come to light, and they would ensure justice for those who had been wronged.

As Ned turned to leave, the cold air from outside sweeping into the room, Dany's soft voice echoed in the silence, her words steady but filled with conviction. "We will bring the truth to King's Landing, and no matter how dark the path, we will walk it together."

Ned paused for a moment, his back still to them, and then gave a curt nod. "Indeed," he said, his voice gruff but determined. "Together."

—

A sharp knock at the door cut through the tension in the room. Ned exchanged a brief, knowing glance with Harry before speaking, his voice calm yet firm.

"Enter," he commanded.

The door creaked open, and Maester Luwin stepped inside, his robes rustling softly. "My lord, your brother Benjen has returned from Castle Black," he announced, his eyes scanning the room before resting on Ned. "Shall I return later, or...?"

Ned's expression flickered with surprise, though his demeanor remained as composed as ever. "No, Maester Luwin, bring him in."

Maester Luwin gave a slight bow and retreated. A moment later, the door opened fully, revealing Benjen Stark. His heavy cloak was dusted with the chill of the North, his dark hair slightly tousled from the wind. His stern face softened upon seeing his brother, and he moved forward with purpose.

"Ned," Benjen greeted gruffly, clasping his brother's arm in a firm embrace. "It's good to see you. How is Winterfell? How are things here?"

Ned returned the embrace, his voice low but warm. "It's good to see you, Benjen. Winterfell endures. We have much to discuss, especially with what has transpired since you've been gone. How fares Castle Black?"

Benjen's face grew serious as he pulled back, his gaze steady. "As somber as ever. The Wall is no place for joy, but it's a necessary one. But I've come not only to pay my respects, but also because there's something I need to discuss with you. The deserter you executed... there's more to his story than I think you realize."

Ned's face darkened as he motioned for Benjen to sit. "The man spoke of madness—raving about White Walkers and the dead. His mind was lost. What do you know of this, Benjen?"

Benjen's gaze sharpened as he sat, his voice low and filled with concern. "I feared as much. The man's story wasn't a ravings of a madman. He spoke truth, Ned. There are stirrings beyond the Wall—wildlings moving, and the dead... something's happening. Will saw something. I can feel it in my bones. We cannot dismiss these warnings."

Ned's frown deepened, and he looked to Robb and Jon, who were now listening intently. "We will discuss this in detail soon, Benjen. For now, join us, there is much unfolding here that you need to be aware of."

Benjen nodded gravely, rising from his seat to embrace his nephews. "Robb, Jon," he said warmly, pulling them both into a tight hug. "It's good to see you both, though I wish the circumstances were better." He then turned his attention to Harry, a rare smile breaking through his normally stoic expression. "Hadrian, it's a pleasure. How have you fared?"

Harry smiled back, his tone light despite the heavy atmosphere. "Good to see you, Benjen. I've been... well, managing, all things considered." He then gestured to Dany, who was standing beside him. "Benjen, this is my wife, Fleur."

Dany, with a soft, welcoming smile, stepped forward, extending her hand gracefully. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Benjen," she said, her French accent soft and melodic.

Benjen blinked in pleasant surprise, his eyes widening as he looked between Harry and Dany. "Your wife? Congratulations, Hadrian," he said, his deep voice sincere. "I didn't expect such news, but I'm glad to hear it."

Harry's grin widened as he clapped Benjen on the shoulder. "Thank you, Benjen. We made it official just last week."

Benjen chuckled heartily, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. Congratulations to both of you." He looked at Dany, a warm smile lighting up his rugged face. "And welcome to the family, Fleur. May your union bring much joy to both of you."

Dany smiled brightly, though there was a hint of shyness in her expression. "Thank you, Benjen. It means a lot to us."

Ned, Robb, and Jon exchanged looks, their solemnity momentarily lifted by the warmth of Benjen's embrace and the joy that followed. It was clear that, despite the weight of their duties, family remained a cornerstone in their lives.

Benjen's voice shifted back to a more serious tone as he addressed the room. "Now, I'm here not only to catch up, but to discuss matters of greater importance. As much as I'd like to spend time with all of you, the North is not far from peril, and I fear our focus on politics might blind us to the growing danger we face."

Ned nodded slowly, his face grim as he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. "Indeed, Benjen. We will discuss all in due time. For now, you are among family, and I am glad of it."

The mood shifted slightly—though the threat beyond the Wall loomed large, the presence of family and the warmth of Benjen's return gave them a brief respite from the weight of the world.

—

Jon leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint lighting up his dark eyes. "Well, Uncle Benjen," he began with a playful smirk, "you've arrived just in time. Tomorrow morning, you'll get the pleasure of watching Harry give Ser Jaime Lannister a lesson he won't forget."

Ned froze mid-sip of his wine, his brows shooting up in surprise. Robb's jaw dropped as he shot a quick glance at his younger brother. Dany, standing by Harry's side, stifled a laugh behind her hand, her lips curving upward in amusement. Harry himself raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a grin at Jon's bold proclamation.

Benjen's eyes sparkled with mischief, his lips twitching upward as he turned his gaze to Jon. "Is that so, Jon?" he asked, his voice rich with amusement. "I look forward to it. It should be quite the spectacle, I imagine."

Jon's grin grew wider, clearly relishing in the chaos that was about to unfold. "Oh, it will be, Uncle. You won't want to miss it."

Ned sighed, his shoulders slumping in resignation. He rubbed his temple, his patience tested but not yet broken. "Harry," he said, his tone weary yet firm, "couldn't you delay your mischief for a single day?"

Harry held up his hands defensively, feigning innocence. "It wasn't my doing, Lord Stark. The 'Golden-haired cunt' made the challenge, not me." He glanced toward Robb, who was biting his lip to keep from laughing, and then back at Lord Stark, his expression as serious as he could muster.

At that, Dany couldn't hold back her laughter anymore, her melodious chuckle filling the room. Jon, Robb, and Benjen burst into hearty laughter too, each of them unable to suppress their amusement at Harry's bold response. Benjen's laugh was the loudest, his deep voice carrying throughout the room and causing Maester Luwin, who had been quietly observing, to shake his head with a small, knowing smile.

Ned's exasperation softened in the face of his family's mirth. He let out a long breath, his weary eyes flicking over his sons and the woman who had so quickly become a part of their family. His lips twitched upward into a reluctant smile. "It seems I've lost all control here," he muttered, his tone dry but affectionate. "A duel, a challenge. Winterfell will be a circus before long."

Benjen's laughter finally subsided, though a smile lingered on his lips. He leaned back in his chair, clearly amused by the entire situation. "Well, it seems Winterfell will have some excitement after all. Who could have predicted that we'd see a duel between Harry and the 'Golden-haired cunt' right here on our doorstep?" He turned to Harry, his grin widening. "Should be interesting. Don't disappoint us, Hadrian."

Harry chuckled, his eyes glinting with a mixture of humor and mischief. "I wouldn't dream of it, Uncle Benjen."

Robb, unable to stop himself, slapped Jon on the back, his voice teasing. "Looks like the Lannister will be getting more than he bargained for. I'd pay to see that fight."

Jon shot Robb a sly grin. "Oh, I'm sure you would. But if you're looking for a good view, maybe you should stand by me tomorrow."

Dany, her eyes sparkling with amusement, shook her head. "You men are all the same. I never thought I'd see Winterfell turned into such a... a playground for all your games."

Benjen gave a chuckle, looking at Dany with an appraising glance. "Well, my lady, it seems this place is far more lively than I expected. It's good to see such joy here, especially when there's so much darkness looming beyond our walls."

Ned, his grin fading but still with a trace of amusement, looked around at his family. Despite the burdens of leadership, despite the weight of the winter that threatened the North, there was warmth here. Moments like this, however fleeting, reminded him that his family was his anchor.

"Benjen," he said, his tone softening, "you're right. But we can only afford to laugh for so long. There are darker days ahead, and I fear the worst is yet to come."

Benjen nodded, his expression growing somber, though there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes. "I know, Ned. I know. But even in the darkest of times, family is everything. It's what keeps us strong." He looked at the group around the table—his brother, his nephews, the man who was like a brother to his nephews, and the woman who had clearly captured that man's heart—and he smiled again. "For now, let's enjoy this moment. Tomorrow can wait."

Maester Luwin, ever the quiet observer, finally spoke, his voice calm and measured. "There's wisdom in that, Lord Benjen. Even in troubled times, a moment of levity can be a balm to the spirit."

The room fell silent for a brief moment, the laughter fading but the warmth remaining. Ned leaned back in his chair, a contented sigh escaping his lips as he surveyed the room. Though the shadows of the world outside pressed against Winterfell's walls, within these walls, there was still light. And for that, he was grateful.

—

Jaime Lannister stood sentinel outside Queen Cersei's chambers, a position he had held countless times before, though this night felt heavier than most. The long, cold stone hallways of Winterfell were eerily silent, save for the occasional scuffle of boots echoing from distant corridors or the soft murmur of guards passing by. It was in the quiet of these moments, when he had nothing but his thoughts and the weight of his duty to keep him company, that the discomfort crept in. The discomfort of being so close, yet so far from Cersei—his twin, his queen, his tormentor.

He stood perfectly still, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, eyes trained ahead, trying to ignore the ever-present tension gnawing at him. His heart had grown weary of the games she played—games he could never win, no matter how many times he turned her away. Cersei had made it clear, over the years, that no rejection would stop her from trying to pull him into her web.

And tonight, she was in full force.

From within the room, he could hear her voice—soft, velvety, but laced with a hunger he knew too well. "Jaime," she purred, her tone like a snake coiling, teasing, and drawing him in despite himself. "Come in. The night is young. What harm could there be in one moment of peace?"

Jaime exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to resist the pull of her words, the siren call that always threatened to tear him apart. He stood rooted in place, but his hands, cold against the hilt of his sword, betrayed his unease. The door remained closed, but the invitation was clear. And yet, he would not enter. Not tonight.

"Not this time, Cersei," he muttered to himself, though it felt like a hollow promise.

But then the silence broke again, this time with a faint click—the sound of the door handle turning, only just enough for Cersei to slip her voice through, her breath now audible against the thick oak of the door.

"Why do you fight me, Jaime? We are bound by blood, by fate," she whispered, her voice like silk against stone. "You know what I need. What we both need."

Jaime's jaw tightened. He had heard those words before—too many times. Every time he rejected her, she used her words like a blade to carve at his resolve, and every time, he resisted. But it was growing harder.

"Stop," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, though the command held more weight than anything else he could say.

But Cersei had learned long ago that Jaime's resistance only made the game more thrilling for her. She was a woman who thrived on power, on control, and in their twisted, unspoken battle, she would not back down.

A soft rustling came from within, the unmistakable sound of her shifting on the bed, followed by a low chuckle, one of those throaty laughs that Jaime had once found so intoxicating. "You think you can escape this, Jaime?" she teased. "You know you want it. You've always wanted it. You just pretend not to."

Jaime clenched his fists around the sword, his knuckles pale. But before he could steady his breathing, another voice cut through the quiet.

"Careful, my niece," came a deep, gravelly voice. Kevan Lannister. "The guards will hear you."

The heavy door creaked open slightly, just enough for the weight of Kevan's presence to make itself known. Jaime's eyes narrowed as he recognized the voice—not one of the men he'd ever expected to hear in Cersei's chambers. Kevan's booming laughter, followed by his low murmurs, echoed in the hallway. It was all too familiar—Cersei's manipulation had reached its inevitable end. She had finally turned to her uncles once again to punish Jaime for his rejection.

The sickening sounds of fabric rustling and the unmistakable creak of the bed frame as Kevan settled in beside Cersei made Jaime's stomach twist with disgust. He hated this—hated that he had to endure it, that his own flesh and blood had become complicit in this depraved mockery of family.

As the sounds of their movements grew more pronounced, another voice entered the fray—this one lighter, smoother, and perhaps even more dangerous than Kevan's deep tones. Tygett Lannister. Jaime had known this was coming. Tygett had always been a more willing participant in Cersei's games, and tonight, he had joined his brother in Jaime's place.

"You should be more careful, Cersei," Tygett murmured, his voice filled with a quiet mockery. "You never know when someone might be listening."

Jaime's blood boiled at the sound of his uncle's voice. He had once looked up to Tygett, but over the years, it had become clear that his uncles were just as corrupt as Cersei. They had no compunction about using their power, and Jaime could only imagine the sickening image of Cersei smirking at him from across the bed while Tygett's hands roamed her body.

His mind flashed with memories of previous nights—when he had stood outside, helplessly listening to his sister and her uncles in moments of twisted intimacy. The sounds of passion and dominance—Cersei's breathless moans, the gruff voices of Kevan and Tygett—that were the echoes of a family falling apart. He would never escape this nightmare. He could never unhear the things that happened behind that door.

His chest tightened, but his duty remained unbroken. He was a Kingsguard. He could not leave his post, could not show weakness. So he stood, gritting his teeth and listening as his family fractured further inside that room. The muffled sounds grew louder, harsher. The bed creaked violently beneath them, and Cersei's breath became more erratic. The air around Jaime thickened with the sound of their twisted indulgence.

Jaime's mind screamed, but his body refused to move, refusing to give in to the violent need to flee. He forced himself to stand straight, blocking out the sounds that gnawed at his soul. There was no escape.

Finally as the cacophony within the room began to fade, Jaime's breath came out in a long drawn out exhale. He had survived another night, but at what cost? Cersei would never stop. And neither, it seemed, would their uncles.

He could only wait until the next time. Until the next time she turned her attention back to him.

—

Inside the lavish chambers, Cersei lay on her back, her body entwined with her uncles', a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips. The dimly lit room exuded a sense of satisfaction, the air thick with the aftereffects of their indulgence. Tygett and Kevan lay on either side of her, their hands absentmindedly tracing patterns on the silk sheets as they exchanged soft words, as though the weight of their actions had not even occurred to them.

Cersei's gaze, however, drifted toward the door, the faint sound of Jaime's heavy boots echoing faintly in the hallway. A small, almost imperceptible smile played at her lips. She had been careful—so careful—to make sure he heard.

Tygett's voice broke the silence, low and soothing. "It's strange," he said, his hand resting lightly on Cersei's waist. "How easily the things we do can fade away in the passage of time. But the feelings... those remain, don't they, dear niece?"

Cersei's fingers lightly brushed Tygett's arm, a playful glance in his direction. "Oh, you're right. The body forgets. But the heart, the heart doesn't forget, does it, uncle Kevan?"

Kevan, who had been silent for a while, cleared his throat, his voice now softer than usual. "No. No, it doesn't. It stays with you."

Cersei gave a small laugh, her tone light but laced with a hint of something far colder. "Jaime's so quick to claim that he understands me. To believe that he knows what's best." She shifted slightly, resting her head on Tygett's chest, her fingers drawing slow circles against his skin. "But he never truly sees me, does he? He only sees what he wants to see."

Tygett chuckled softly, a wry smile on his lips. "He never does."

"And that," Cersei continued, her voice quieter now, almost contemplative, "is why he can't have me." Her gaze flickered toward the door again, as if imagining her twin outside, waiting, as always, in his place of duty. "He thinks he's protecting me, but it's just another way for him to control me."

Kevan's lips twisted into a thin line, his eyes distant as though pondering something that troubled him. "He may think he's doing what's right."

Cersei's smile widened, the sharpness of it cutting through the comfortable silence. "But he's wrong." She leaned forward, her voice dropping even lower, more intimate, as if she were sharing a secret with her uncles. "He doesn't realize that the things he's tried to protect me from are the very things that make me feel alive."

A small, almost imperceptible shiver passed through Tygett's body, and Cersei rested a hand lightly on his chest. Her gaze softened, her tone turning affectionate, though it was laced with quiet venom. "It's always been that way. Ever since we were children, hasn't it? Jaime, trying to save me from the world, and me... always one step ahead."

Kevan let out a low sigh. "And what does that mean for him?"

Cersei gave a slow, deliberate shrug. "It means he'll never truly possess me." Her fingers stroked the side of Tygett's face, a softness to her touch that contrasted with the dangerous gleam in her eyes. "He can guard the door, he can listen, he can stand outside all night, but he will never understand."

She turned back to Kevan and Tygett, her expression growing pensive, as though contemplating her own power. "He'll never be enough. Not for me."

Tygett's voice was low, a hint of concern creeping into it. "You're playing a dangerous game, Cersei."

Cersei's lips curled into a smile, though there was no warmth in it. "Oh, Tygett, darling, I've been playing this game my entire life."

The words hung in the air, sharp and final, as though there was no possibility of a different outcome. The cold satisfaction in Cersei's eyes, as she gazed at her uncles, was evident. The power she held over them, and over Jaime, was something she would never relinquish. It was her greatest weapon.

From the outside, Jaime stood silent, a mixture of frustration and confusion simmering beneath the surface. His heart pounded in his chest as he strained to hear what was happening within, but the only sounds that reached him were the muffled voices of those who had betrayed him, mingled with a faint but unmistakable laughter.

Cersei's words echoed in his mind, each one more painful than the last. He was not blind to her cruelty. But in his heart, he knew there would always be a part of him that longed to reclaim what they once shared.

Yet, Cersei was beyond reclaiming.

Inside, Cersei's laughter floated like a ghost between her uncles. A cruel, calculated sound that held a promise she was determined to fulfill.

—

Robert Baratheon sat heavily in the corner of his chamber, the oversized chair creaking under his weight as he slouched into it. A tankard of wine—more accurately, a jug—was in his hand, the deep red liquid sloshing about with every careless movement he made. His fingers gripped the handle tightly, knuckles white from the force, though his gaze was unfocused, lost in the swirling depths of the wine, as if it could offer him some kind of solace. His face was flushed, the effect of the drink more pronounced tonight, and his eyes were bloodshot, glazed over with the haze of too much indulgence.

Across from him, Ros leaned casually against the cold stone wall of Winterfell's fortress-like chambers. Her pale skin and fiery red hair seemed almost too vibrant for the grim, muted surroundings. She had been brought here by Ser Meryn Trant, who had suggested, perhaps with a knowing smirk, that Robert could use some entertainment after a long and tiresome day. Ros had played her part countless times before, though the North, with its colder and more severe atmosphere, always seemed to put a slight edge on the men who lived here. They were rougher, less polished, and while she had no doubt Robert Baratheon could break even the hardest of men with a few heavy words or a well-timed slap, she also knew the weight of the crown had made him a different kind of beast.

"Another drink, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice soft yet teasing, a hint of an accent lingering in her words. She approached him with practiced ease, the long flowing red of her hair swaying with each step, and set down the jug of wine at his side, close enough that he could reach it if he wanted more.

Robert's lips twisted into a lazy, drunken grin as he looked up at her through half-lidded eyes. He held up his tankard with a flourish that lacked all grace but a certain swagger, like a lion too full of drink to remember its own strength. "Aye, bring it, bring it, sweet Ros. You know me too well." His voice was thick, each word slurred slightly, the wine working its magic on his judgment. He took another swig, the amber liquid staining his lips, before setting the tankard down with a thud that reverberated through the room.

Ros raised an eyebrow but didn't press. Instead, she settled onto the chair beside him, her posture relaxed, though her sharp eyes missed little. "You know," she said with a sly smile, "one would think a king would have more pressing matters than drinking himself to sleep in the North with a whore at his side."

Robert let out a loud, boisterous laugh that echoed off the stone walls. He slammed the tankard down again, spilling some of the wine onto the floor, but it hardly seemed to bother him. "Oh, aye, Ros, my pressing matters. I've got them piled higher than Winterfell's damn walls, and here I am, drunk as a dog and wallowing in my own misery. What good is a crown when every bastard's got a knife pointed at your back?" He looked at her with a sort of twisted grin, his lips curling into something that was half-defiant, half-self-loathing. "I've fought wars for that crown, loved and killed for it. And now? Now it's nothing more than a weight on my neck. But tonight? Tonight, I'll drown it all. What's one more drink in a kingdom that's falling apart at the seams?"

Ros's gaze softened as she reached for the jug and poured more wine into his tankard, though she kept her movements slow and deliberate. She didn't push him to speak, but she didn't let him drink himself into oblivion either. It was a delicate balance, this game she played with men like Robert Baratheon—men who ruled and yet were utterly undone by their own desires, their own weaknesses.

"You're not alone in this, Your Grace," she said quietly, her voice low and almost conspiratorial. "You've got your lords, your family. You don't have to do it all alone."

Robert's expression faltered for a moment, a fleeting moment of vulnerability cracking through his usually imposing façade. He glanced at her, as if seeing her for the first time. "Family?" His voice was thick with disbelief, a bitter laugh following quickly. "My family... Aye, I've got a wife who'd rather see me dead than warm her bed, and children I barely know." He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, his fingers tugging at the strands in frustration. "And my damn brother Renly, prancing about, thinking he's fit to rule." He paused, his gaze darkening. "The throne ain't the only thing that's broken."

Ros stayed silent, sensing the shift in Robert's mood. His words were no longer the drunken ramblings of a man lost in his own self-pity. There was something raw in his tone, something deeper than the surface. He wasn't just lamenting his lost power—he was lamenting the man he had become. She knew, too well, the weight that men like Robert carried. They wore their titles as if it were a shield, but behind it, there were cracks.

"Sometimes," she said softly, her eyes meeting his, "all we need is a little peace. A moment to stop, breathe, and forget the world for a while."

Robert let out another hollow laugh, louder this time. "Peace?" His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, a gleam of something dangerous in his gaze, though whether it was the wine or the man beneath the king, Ros couldn't be sure. "You think I can have peace? Not while I've got enemies breathing down my neck, while my own men plot behind my back. Not while every damn soul in this court wants me dead."

Ros leaned closer, placing a hand on his knee, her touch light but steady. "Not every fight needs to be won with a sword, Your Grace. Sometimes, you can win by simply being here. By surviving. You've survived this far, haven't you?"

For a moment, Robert stared at her, the weight of his thoughts pressing against his temples. His chest rose and fell with heavy, weary breaths. Finally, he took the tankard from the table, his hands trembling just slightly as he held it up to her.

"To surviving, then," he muttered, his voice heavy with the ghosts of his past.

Ros raised her own glass, meeting his gaze with a knowing look. "To surviving," she echoed.

The two of them sat in silence for a while, the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth and the clinking of glass the only sounds that filled the room. Robert, lost in his thoughts, drank in silence. Ros watched him, her expression unreadable, as she sipped her own wine, waiting for him to find whatever peace he could in the moment.

The moment stretched on, as time seemed to bend around them. The weight of Robert's burdens hung heavy in the air, but for the briefest of moments, it seemed as though he could, just maybe, forget it all.

---

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