The Grind (And Helping Heather Potter) [Book 2]

"Way hay and up she rises,

"Way hay and up she rises,

"Way hay and up she rises~, Earl-eye in the morning~!"

Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, and all of the other damned titles sang as he rode along the King's Road. His voice was surprisingly on-key, rumbling low in his chest. And more surprisingly, clear and sober. It always was these days. Not a drop of drink survived his new stormy blood.

Oh, how he wished it would. And didn't at the same time. The past year had allowed him to take a step back from himself. The booze no longer clouded his every waking moment as it had for so long. Since the rebellion… Since Lyanna's death… He'd seen how far downward he'd spiraled since. Hell, he'd felt it. Without the wine, the jiggle of his belly and the exertion of his limbs with every movement were impossible to ignore.

"What shall we do with a drunken royal?

"What shall we do with a drunken royal?

"What shall we do with a drunken royal~? Earl-eye in the morning~!"

He'd drunk himself halfway to an early grave. Jon was gone and Robert had been posed to follow him soon after. He'd grown fat, lazy, fat, hedonistic, and FAT! Good gods, he'd barely recognized himself when he first awoke from his long drunken fugue! It was like he'd been thrown forward in time to an obesely damned future. Like the last thing he could remember was crushing the damn Squids with Ned! And even that was fuzzy…

The world he'd awoken to was one he hardly recognized. Jon still lived then, thankfully. Robert couldn't imagine navigating those first few moons without him. The damned royal court was the same as ever, full of slimy snakes, simpering simpletons, and a selfish sow of a wife beyond.

"Put him in the Black Cells till he's sober,

"Put him in the Black Cells till he's sober,

"Put him in the Black Cells till he's sober~, Earl-eye in the morning~!"

Gods, Cersei… Robert should have told Tywin to shove his daughter up his own ass all those years ago. Seven knows the sun didn't shine on her black heart anyway. And damn the consequences! So what if he'd been practically alone in a recently taken city with a weary army behind him and a fresh one in front?! Ned had stood by him then. Maybe if they'd stood up to the Old Lion together, the climax of the rebellion wouldn't have been so bittersweet…

But the Lannisters had held the reins. It wasn't Robert's men who took King's Landing from the Mad King. It was Tywin's. And they'd done no fighting to wear them down. Not like Robert, Ned, and Jon's forces. Blood would have filled the Blackwater if they clashed there. The city had already seen enough. His men had seen enough. Hells, Robert had seen enough.

So when Tywin welcomed them, even bearing 'gifts' — wretched, sick, and twisted gifts — that cemented Robert's claim, he'd been given no real choice in the matter. He forced himself to smile and disavow the murdered Princess and her babes as 'Dragonspawn'. What choice did he have else he wished to wage war with the Westerlands immediately after defeating the crown? What recourse did he have when Tywin claimed his brutal actions to be in Robert's name?

The monstrous Lion had done it on purpose, Robert knew. Tywin had backed him into a corner after sitting out the whole damned war. It might have been Robert's Rebellion, but it was Tywin's victory. Not to mention how Tywin's actions made peace with Dorne impossible or how he'd cost Robert three good hostages. And kin beyond…

Robert's singing and the lyrics he sang changed with his thoughts, growing a touch melancholic, "I've been a wild rover for many a year,

"And I spent all me money on whiskey and beer,

"But now I'm returning with gold in great store,

"And I never will play the wild rover no more~,

"And it's no, nay, never; no, nay, never, no more~!

"Will I play the wild rover~? No, never, no more~…"

Part of his drinking had been to forget. Most of it. All… Forget the war and all that'd been lost. Forget duties and responsibilities, now his to call. Forget the Princess and her babes and the sack of King's Landing. Forget Lyanna and the grief that stalled him in place for so long.

Princess Elia didn't deserve that fate. Robert held no grudge against her. Only the damned Dragon who'd abandoned his duties to her just as he abandoned his duties as Prince. Even pragmatically, the Princess and her children would have been more valuable as hostages against Dorne's good behavior. Sentimentally, they were still kin. Not even that distant. And personally, Robert knew the wedge that one act in three parts had forced between him and Ned. But there was nothing to be done, at the time or after. Tywin only knew of power in savage cruelty and he'd held all the cards, no matter how some thought otherwise.

Dark clouds tinted his memories from that point on. Ned was gone back home, Jon was always busy cleaning up Robert's own messes, and Robert himself was drunk, drunk, drunk! Drink did not make for a sound mind and reasonable judgment, Robert knew. He knew better than most. But only in hindsight. The past decade was clear to him through the drunken din. And he hardly recognized the man who called himself King…

"I'll go back to me parents, confess what I've done,

"And I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son,

"And if they embrace me as oft' times before,

"Then I never will play the wild rover no more~…"

Mother, Father, would they even recognize him…? Gods, the world had fallen apart while he was 'gone'. Robert had sprogs of his own now. And he didn't remember conceiving one of them. What a man was he when even his bastards' conceptions sat clearer in his mind than his trueborn sons and daughter? Years and years of fatherhood, all of it gone to drink. Only now was he trying to put that to rights.

For Joffery, that was no loss, Robert scoffed internally. His fucking firstborn was a fucking twisted fuck. Even drunk, Robert had been able to acknowledge that. Wrong in the head, that one. But Myrcella and Tommen were good kids. He'd never known a girl as sweet as Myrcella. Just about a woman grown already, she was gentle, kind, and blessedly nothing like her mother. And Tommen cared only for his cats but what was the harm? He was young yet. Robert was just thankful he liked his cats whole and hale, unlike the demonic older shitling…

Robert's song changed again, going low and mournful, "Of all the money that e'er I spent,

"I've spent it in good company,

"And all the harm that ever I did,

"Alas, it was to none but me,

"And all I've done for want of wit,

"To memory now, I can't recall,

"So fill to me the parting glass,

"Good night and joy be with you all~…"

A send-off for Jon and all the old Falcon had done. The words didn't all apply, but they brought memories to mind all the same. Memories of the Eyrie and Vale. Memories of taverns and carefree nights. Memories of lectures unheeded and fond exasperation sighed aloud. Memories of the old man holding it all together, as he always did.

And now, magic returned. Even Jon struggled to maintain course through this newest storm. Had the stress been the death of him? Robert could never know. But in a way, he was thankful for the new storm. Only magic could have pulled him back from his drunken well. Only magic could lift the fog and pique his interest. Most importantly, only magic could hope to keep him sober after so long…

"Oh, all the comrades that e'er I had,

"They're sorry for my going away,

"And all the sweethearts that e'er I had,

"They'd wish me one more day to stay,

"But since it falls unto my lot,

"That I should rise and you should not,

"I'll gently rise and softly call,

"Good night and joy be with you all~…"

Somber and sweet, his baritone rolled to an end as if a rock settling at the bottom of a hill. It helped, Robert found, to sing. It helped, Robert found, to feel again. It helped, Robert found, to live once more after so long. It was just a shame it took literal magic and the death of his foster father to make him find that much, Robert mused as he rode along the King's Road with his party.

Two rounds of applause — one polite and dainty, another childishly enthusiastic — came from the wheelhouse beside him. Despite it all, a small smile did manage to crack open on Robert's face. They were good kids, even if their mother was a cunt of the highest order and their older brother was a sadistic little shitling.

"Thank you, Father. That was very pleasant," Myrcella smiled softly at him from the propped open window.

"How'd you get your voice to go all low and clear like that? Every time I try, my throat just goes all…" Tommen's face scrunched up in confused concentration. "RAAaaGgH~!"

"You'll get there, my boy," Robert nodded encouragingly at the adorably poor attempt. "I didn't learn all of my drinking songs overnight, even if I was a natural with a mug of grog in my hand. Fat lot of good they do me now, of course."

"Oh," Tommen cocked his head to the side. "Well, I like you better like this anyway, Da."

"Be more respectful of our Royal Father, Tommen," Myrcella chided gently.

"But 'Cella!" Tommen insisted with an innocence that should be protected in this cruel world. "He's actually around now!"

"No, no, he's right," Myrcella winced but Robert cut her off with a chuckle, even as self-aware pain stabbed at his heart and conscience. "I'd gladly trade the drink and the songs for you two sprogs."

Tommen beamed a grin at that and Mycella blushed as a smile fluttered on her lips. Behind them, Cersei just about sneered, the expression clear in her eyes but not quite reaching her face.

"Shouldn't you be out front, riding with the men, Robert?"

"I'll spend my time where I damn well please, woman," The gall! The absolute, fucking gall!

"Your firstborn is out front, you know," Cersei reminded, changing tacts as they at least tried to play civil around their children.

"Aye, I can see him struggling in the saddle from here," Robert grunted.

Cersei exhaled pointedly through her nose, "Then go. Help him. Robert. I'll not have my golden prince struggling because you refused to teach him."

A huff of air to match Cersei's exploded from Robert, "If he hasn't learned yet, he's a lost cause. My attention's much better spent with the pair of our spawn who actually show some promise."

"It's fine, Mother. We're enjoying Father's company. Joffery's likely busy with Uncle Jaime anyway," Myrcella's blush deepened but Robert didn't ignore how she worried at her lip at the same time.

Cersei's eyes narrowed at her daughter. The cuntish cunt didn't approve of Myrcella standing up for herself one bit, Robert knew and scowled internally. Not when that spine was shown against her. She didn't say anything more though. Just hummed as Robert stared her down, daring her to gainsay him again, "Hmm."

"If you object so much, you're always free to ride with your son. And your brother. Oh, and your other brother. I know how much you appreciate the Imp's company," Robert said, his tone unimpeachably casual. He was sniping at her. Cersei Cunting Lannister would never lower herself to riding outside a wheelhouse if she didn't have to, to say less about her willingly spending time with her hated Imp of a brother.

"Hmph," Cersei huffed daintily. Ha, 'dainty' Robert's fat fucking ass! "Do as you will. Just don't go teaching the children base and crude songs below their station. They don't need to turn out as drunks like you. If I have my way, they'll never see the inside of any infernal tavern."

Robert honestly laughed at that, at Cersei's cunt-stuck face, "Haha! I think that calls for another song! What do you say, lad? And you, 'Cella? Up for a crude and base song to bring you closer to your old man?"

Myrcella looked for the world as if she wanted to accept. She did love him. Shit drunk of a father that he'd been, Robert had made up a lot of time over the past sober year or so. But she loved her mother as well. So she just worried at her lip some more, her gaze darting between him and Cersei. Immediately, Robert felt bad for including her in her parents' feud — more consideration than Cersei would ever give her. A sweet girl like Myrcella deserved peace at home, not… whatever the fuck Robert and Cersei had.

Tommen — little Tommy — was still too young to consider such things, "Yeah!"

Robert pushed his regret to the side. He'd make it up to Myrcella by making her laugh that sweet giggle that was a balm to his royally weary soul. It was a victory over Cersei but Robert didn't treat it as such. No, he just grinned a wide grin and sucked in a belly-swelling breath.

"Robert, you wouldn't dare-!" Cersei warned.

"Follow along with me, my children!" Robert belted, his voice booming loud enough to scare birds from nearby trees. "Ooooooooh~…

"There were seven, seven constipated men!

"Of the heavens, of the heavens!

"There were seven, seven constipated men!

"In the holy books of Seven!"

The children looked at him with open-gaping mouths, not believing their ears. Cersei looked aghast. Apoplectic. Vexed by false outrage, for Robert knew the cunt was even less religious than him! And damned sheltered as well. Even the most devout of Smallfolk knew the song. For what were scriptures if you couldn't make fun of them when you were deep in your cups?

Around them, some of the Knights laughed. Some didn't as well. Some sticks couldn't be removed from asses, Robert well knew. Summer Knights — so quick to take offense where it wasn't given, where it didn't matter. The real world wasn't so devout and holy and clean. From the smallest of Smallfolk to the noblest of Kingsguard — don't think Robert didn't notice you humming along Ser Barristan! — people would always jape and jest and make merry. Best for the young ones to learn that while they still could, before the courts and noble politics swallowed them whole.

"The first, first constipated man,

"He was Baelor. He wasn't blessed.

"The first, first constipated man~!

"He was Baelor! He wasn't blessed~!"

Tommen and Myrcella's jaws were steadily dropping lower as Robert sang and the bolder Knightly guards joined in. Robert made sure to note those bold Knights. If he could still drink, he would have shared a few with them. As it was, they could share stories instead. Stories of humor in the face of reality.

"And the second, second constipated man,

"His name was Hugor. He shat a hill.

"And the second, second constipated man~!

"His name was Hugor! He shat a hill~!"

Besmirching the founder of the Andal Faith in such a crude and vulgar manner was enough to finally break 'Cella and Tommy. Myrcella let out an 'unladylike' snort. Though she looked ashamed at the noise coming from her lips, she couldn't stop the giggles that followed. Tommen laughed too, the giddy joy of a boy being taught his first crass shanty. And in that moment, even with Cersei trying to glare a hole through him, everything was right and good in Robert's world.

IIIII

Hours later, a storm of blood pounded in Robert's ears. Like wind whipping at open windows and archways, the storm within screamed. He hadn't been quick to anger since awakening his bloodline and sobering dramatically. But now, the fury had certainly been roused good and proper. And it was his. Theirs. 'Ours'.

The noises around him were such that he hadn't heard in years. Nigh on a decade now. The bloody racket of battle. The cacophony of true combat. The sounds of steel against steel. The screams of men and horses alike. Only he couldn't relish it. Because he had no part in it. He was only caught up in the middle.

The battle had nothing on Robert's past. It didn't have the rising storm from the Taking of Gulltown, that spark that started a rebellion. It didn't have the weight of hopelessness turned to victory from the Battle of the Bells. It didn't have the rage, conquest, and scale of the Battle of the Trident. It was just a petty feud that'd somehow been escalated under his nose so men could die in droves over it.

But over the sheer pointlessness of it and the audacity of catching the gods-damn King in the middle, these feuding fucks endangered Myrcella and Tommen. So Robert raged. His fury bellowed like a thunderstorm in his mind. It was all he could do to see to defenses first before indulging the very literal lightning in his blood. But see to them, he did.

He set the Hound as a guard dog for his firstborn. Robert didn't like the glint in Joffery's eyes as he watched men die for the first time. The little shit should have been at least somewhat disturbed but instead, he reveled in the death and screams, not just the combat. Terrible to impose that upon the Hound but the big burnt bastard would keep the shitling prince safe.

The wheelhouses were circled with the womanfolk, servants, and children at the center. The Knights and Lannister Red Cloaks held the outer line. The Imp actually stepped up there, clambering atop one of the wheelhouses so he could get a good view and direct the immediate defense. Not the worst of the Lannisters, that one. Lacking in body but certainly not in spirit.

Ser Jaime was tasked with protecting his sister, Myrcella, and Tommen. He had the larger half of the Kingsguard to do so with. He could be trusted with that much while Robert took the three remaining Kingsguard — Greenfield, Oakheart, and Barristan the Fucking Bold — on a charge to disrupt both battle lines.

If he wasn't so damn incensed, Robert might have called it a battle for the ages! The battle lines pressed practically right up against the royal party as if they were putting on a tourney instead of waging war. Alas, he was incensed. He was fucking smoking. So Robert charged into the fray, his warhammer lashing out at everyone in reach.

Immediately, Robert was glad to notice something. While he couldn't get drunk off drink, he could still get drunk off battle. His blood ran hot, wet, and furious like the fat, pounding droplets of a summer thunderstorm. He didn't have to focus to call upon his magic like in the training yard. It sprung out of him practically without warning like the lightning it was.

Crackling arcs coated his hammer and leaped like eager hounds at every inch of enemy steel. The air itself smelled burnt, and Robert barely noticed. The men he crushed beneath his hammer didn't even have the chance to scream, and Robert barely noticed. Thunder boomed with his swinging arm as chainmail, flesh, bone, and the world itself shattered before his steel, and Robert barely noticed… He was back in his prime as if he'd never left, and yet all Robert knew was that his sweet 'Cella and little Tommy were in danger because of these fucking feuding fucks!

With Ser Barristan at his back, the two lines crumbled before Robert like buttery pastry in his fatter years. The thought almost made Robert snort and it dulled some of the roaring whirlwind in his ears. It was fucking good to be fucking back but now wasn't the fucking time to fucking indulge. Instead, he climbed atop one of the circled wheelhouses and glared down the whole world as he imagined Durran Godsgrief would have glared down the Storm God.

He held his hammer high and roared as lightning struck it, "SIT DOWN, SHUT UP, AND CEASE YOUR PETTY FECKIN' SQUABBLES AS YOUR KING COMMANDS, YOU LACK-WITTED, PUS-BRAINED, MILK-DRINKING, PIG-THUMPING SHITHEELS!"

For an instant, not one man on the battlefield moved. Then like a spreading wave, the men closest to Robert's roared rage set down their arms and raised hands in surrender. Robert dropped his hammer with yet more thunder and hopped down after it. He roared into the two frozen armies one more time.

"BLACKWOOD! BRACKEN! MALLISTER! PIPER! I SEE THOSE DAMNED BANNERS! GET YOUR TREASONOUS, SHIT-SENSED ASSES DOWN HERE AND PRESENT THEM TO YOUR KING!"

Robert doubted he'd ever seen a group of men part for their lieges faster…

In mere minutes, Robert was staring at a group of four young men. Heirs. All of them, Robert recognized. Not even full Lords and they'd summoned men to feud against each other like the fucking children they were. Even now, they took sides and shot side-eyed glares at each other. Ignorant fucks couldn't even look past their youthful and familial grievances when they stood in front of the King of the realm.

"You two," Robert grunted gruffly at the lead conspirators of this treasonous battle. "Start talking."

They did. At the same time. Bracken and Blackwood puffed themselves up almost identically and released identical bullshit from their stupid fucking mouths and gods-above Robert was already about at his wit's end…

"It's all Bracken's/Blackwood's fault!"

"Oh, you stupid, stupid fucks!" Robert groaned. "You never come straight out the get singing like a bird! You've gotta build up to it! Build, you gormless fools! Build!"

His blunt admonishment brought both of them up short, and again, they responded in eerie synchronism, "Uh… Sorry, Your Grace…"

Robert chuffed, "Alright, I'd have your names, boys. At least let me know who I'm yelling at."

"Lucas Blackwood, My King. The second son of Lord Tytos Blackwood," The Blackwood boy was dark-haired, tall, and thin. A damn spitting image of Tytos, Robert noted. But at 18 at most, the boy still had a long way to go to match the Lord of Raventree Hall. He'd get there, Robert was sure, especially if he was already leading men into battle. Though Robert rather wished he wasn't in the current circumstance…

"… Harry Rivers, Your Grace. Bastard son of Lord Jonos Bracken," The Bracken boy was a bastard, handsome little fucker though he was. Something to keep in mind. Technically, Lord Bracken could claim he acted on his own because of that. But Robert knew that the Brackens had been cursed with a deluge of daughters, and so Jonos had taken to claiming his bastard as his heir. And it was impossible to ignore that the men Harry Rivers had gathered were undoubtedly Bracken men.

"Marq Piper, Your Grace," The Piper boy flicked his blond hair like a comely wench. Robert scowled at the sight. A pretty fop with nothing between the ears then. Likely a follower too, if he'd thrown his lot in with the Bracken bastard.

"Patrek Mallister, Your Grace," The Mallister boy was the only one Robert knew already. He was the oldest of them, by a fair margin. Well into his twenties that one. It was strange to see him here with the Blackwood spare instead of living it up with Hoster's boy Edmure.

"Well met," Robert grunted — because he had to. "Now, what in the name of good drink and good whores are you boys doing?!"

The bellow that followed his grunt cowed all four of the boys. They shied away from him. Still buried in the ground by his side, Robert's hammer stirred to life with white lightning. A very physical and prominent reminder of how Robert and Robert alone — well, Ser Barristan had helped… — had broken both of their armies.

"Why, feuding as Brackens and Blackwoods are wont to do, of course. Isn't it obvious, Your Grace?" The Imp said as he waddled over to join the surrender with his brother.

Behind them, Cersei sneered at her disfigured brother's back and the princes and princess watched their father with varied expressions. Young Tommen looked at Robert with stars in his eyes, as if Robert was a god and then some. His sister gave Robert awed and thankful eyes. But any pride Robert felt from their reactions was dimmed by the vicious glee in his firstborn's eyes. The damned boy looked as if he would start kicking the dead if he wasn't being watched. The expression only lasted for a moment but Robert sure as the Seven Hells saw it. And he saw the way Joffery returned to the picture-perfect prince quick as a whip as well.

"Aye, I've seen that much," Robert scowled, pushing his firstborn's failings to the back of his mind for the moment. "What I want to know is what drove them to break their King's peace and then catch that very same King in the middle of it all!"

Exchanging a pair of glares, Harry and Lucas drew themselves up independently and identically, "I was keeping the King's peace!"

"You were doing the exact fucking opposite!" Robert roared.

Finally, the star-crossed rivals broke their tellingly identical routines. Lucas defended himself, insisting, "I was, Your Grace! This bastard reaches above his station! He thinks himself a warlord! A petty king of the Trident! He believes magic gives him the right! I was merely putting him down in your name, My King."

"The spare lies!" Harry claimed. "The truth swings in the opposite way, My King! Lucas Blackwood is the one who fashions himself a warlord! Like his ancestors, he aims to usurp his rightful liege! And he claims unholy magic to do so, Your Grace! I was merely maintaining the rightful order of things."

Perhaps they hadn't broken their identical routines… "Where the Hell did you two get these ideas into your heads?"

"He mounts his claim on magic alone, Your Grace," Harry reported deferentially, only a few steps away from the simpering Robert hated so. "Sinful, wicked magic granted by the dead Old Gods his kin worship."

"Don't bring up the Hearttree that your kin killed, bastard!" Lucas snapped back before scoffing. "As if you don't claim the same. The first hint of power, and the bastard rises up against his betters. What a surprise."

"From where I stood, it looked like the two of you were equally matched in magic," Tyrion noted casually.

"Is this what we're arguing about now?" Jaime drawled 'lazily' with his usual smug arrogance. "Magic? Really? Is that what makes your claim to a crown? What, oh what, has the world come to~?"

"The world's fucked," Robert scoffed. "That's not new to magic's return. If the septons and maesters had their way, all of us who've shown the gift — and I dare someone to call my Storm a curse! — would be dead and buried-… no, burned. That doesn't make magic alone a good claim though."

He glared and the two lead boys jolted as if struck by lightning, "You two fucking fuckers fucked the fuck up. And you didn't answer my question. Who put these braindead ideas in your heads?"

"N-No one, My King," Both Lucas and Harry shrunk in on themselves but Lucas was the one to speak. "Maester Kean of Raventree Hall reported that the bastard was gathering a host to himself to rule the lands from the Goldtooth to the God's Eye. Father and my brothers couldn't act but I saw the danger being posed to the realm. I took it upon myself to defend the sovereignty of your reign."

"You gathered a host first!" Harry shot back. "Maester Edam brought the report to my father directly! And now, your lies tell, spare. You claim me the villain but I only reacted in my father's name."

"So you both acted alone," Robert recounted damningly. "In doing so, you undermined not only my authority and that of Hoster Tully… but your fathers' as well. Wool-headed nits! You even dragged two more heirs into your stupid fucking feud!"

Here, Robert was pleasantly surprised when Patrek Mallister stood his ground, "I only acted as I saw best, My Liege. Lucas made a convincing case that the bastard was in fact rising above his station. That he intended to take lands that weren't his to take. I was mistaken, I see, but I don't believe I was purposefully misled. Even still, I shall accept whatever punishment you deem fit."

Of course, Marq Piper couldn't let himself be shown up after that, declaring dramatically, "And I, My King! I lay myself before your mercy, despite having done no intentional wrong. My blood ran hot, yet there is only myself to blame."

Robert gave Patrek a grudging nod — pointedly ignoring Marq's foppish dramatics — and returned his glaring focus on the two idiots behind this all. There, he was not so impressed. Lucas at least partially stood his ground, though his spine was as weak as he was young. Even 'Cella stood with more dignity than this boy did. Harry Rivers… He looked as if he was just about to flee-…

And there he went. Robert wasn't even surprised when the bastard turned tail and dashed back to his horse. He mounted up and galloped off at speed before anyone could stop him. Understandable, if shameful, from a bastard with no official protection.

He called backward as he fled, "I shall bring proof, My King! Proof that I only acted in your best interest!"

Unfortunately, the Blackwood spare wasn't far behind him. What good sense he had — if he had any in the first place — left him at seeing his family's ancient rival flee. He charged back to his horse as well and was off after the fleeing Harry with a shout.

"Face justice, craven!"

"You've gotta face justice too, you fat-kidneyed fucking cunt!" Robert roared after them both.

"Want us to go catch them for you?" A new voice asked from behind and slightly above Robert.

Robert snorted before he'd even turned, "No, let 'em go. I need an actual fight if I want my blood to settle enough that I don't kill the fools outright."

Then he finished turning… and paused. Noises rang out from all around. Surprised shouts from the men. Gasps from the women and children. The rasp of unsheathed steel as well. Robert held up a hand to stay any wayward steel, not that it would have reached their new guests anyway unless some moron threw his sword… He cocked his head in blatant confusion and a small amount of awe.

"Who the Hells are you lot then?"

If he didn't know any better, Robert would have thought he was drunk again. Or maybe suffering under too many of a maester's exotic herbs… Men didn't fly. Neither did maidens. Yet Robert's ever-sober mind couldn't deny what he was seeing. Their new guests were a party of four. Three young women and a young man not much older. They sat astride straight cuttings of wood with bristles-… Brooms? Brooms?! Like the most ridiculous hedge witch stories come to life!

The man was the one who'd spoken. He was handsome — almost pretty in a way that wasn't quite delicate — tall and decently muscled with the type of lean frame that always packed more power than it seemed. A strange white wood — Weirwood? — staff with a Dragonglass blade was slung across his back. A glaive of some kind? Or a mage's staff in truth perhaps…

A young maiden sat in front of him on… the broom… as if riding two to a horse. She was a pretty young thing, likely only just finished growing. She was slender but not skinny by any means. Even sitting still, she was practically bursting with energy and good cheer. Her white hair threw Robert for a moment, but it was white. Not Valyrian silver. Still, the sight was enough to stir the mixed regret and rage that was always in the back of his mind.

To the pair's right, a young woman bore a familial resemblance to the first girl. In features and body, at least. In expression, they couldn't be more different. The second maiden held herself like a Lady and bore a deadened mask that looked as if it was carved from ice. And though she had black hair to the first's white, there was no mistaking them for anything other than sisters.

The last young woman had dark, untamable hair and vivid green eyes. They seemed to stare into one's soul, not helped at all by the foxlike, vixen's smirk that seemed to be her resting facial expression. She was even smaller than the first girl but much 'bigger' at the same time. She was properly voluptuous, putting even the most well-bosomed wench of Robert's past to shame. Good gods, if Robert had any real say in the Faith, he would have every statue of the Maiden carved in her body's image!

Still, he noticed the way she looked at the man when he spoke again. Robert was many things. But never a wife-stealing cuckolder. Never consciously at least. Hells, he'd gone to war over that same sin once. If he was honest with himself, he could be convinced to do it again… Cuckoldry was the lowest of scummy lows. Fucking Rhaegar…

Robert did his best to not show his Rhaegar-related scowl as the man introduced himself and his companions, "Atlas Black, Heather Potter, and Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, Your Grace. Of Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?" Robert's face scrunched up in confusion. "Ned and Manderly's pet mage Citadel project?"

"We resent that. Your Grace," Lady Daphne deadpanned, her voice matching her icy expression exactly. "We're cooperating with the North, Starks, and Manderlys but we're hardly anyone's pets. Plus, you might know us from other things."

"Like Hogwarts, A History!" Lady Heather cut in.

For some reason, Cersei and Myrcella both gasped at that. Additionally, Myrcella blushed brighter than Robert had ever seen and even Cersei (Cersei!) got an appreciative glint in her eyes. And some of the men laughed awkwardly, seeming not to know where to look. Certainly not at the broom-mounted men and women though…

"… I'm missing something here. What am I missing?" Robert asked.

Tyrion the Imp chuckled to himself, "It's something to experience for yourself, Your Grace. I recommend reading 'Hogwarts, A History' for yourself. It even has pictures."

"Oh, fuck off, Imp," Robert snorted a laugh of good humor at that but didn't take any real offense. "Now, didn't I make all of your lot nobles or something at Ned's request? Or restore your nobility? That was on the tail end of my drunkenness so it's still somewhat fuzzy."

"You did," Lord Atlas nodded. "And since we were in the area and saw your predicament, we thought we might return the favor and lend a hand."

"You won't find better counsel when it comes to magic than a Witch or Wizard," Heather grinned. "Your Grace~…"

Robert scoffed, "This bullshit barely has anything to do with magic."

"Doesn't it?" Atlas raised an eyebrow. "The Bracken and Blackwood boys have awoken pretty hard counters to your lightning-based bloodline."

"Bullshit!" Robert declared.

Atlas shrugged, "Not really. Magnetism and electricity, they're both related. The electromagnetic spectrum and all. I can't speak to your individual potencies but theoretically, their magical magnetism would somewhat trump your lightning. Not the physical portion of your strength though, of course."

Robert blinked, "… What in all Seven Hells are you talking about?!"

"Meg-ne-tism…?" Tyrion perked up with interest. "And what is that? Does it have something to do with the Bracken and Blackwood boys' natures as living lodestones? And how does that relate at all to lightning? What secrets do you know, Wizard…?"

Cersei huffed and sneered, "As if you understood a word of that, Imp."

"Big words aside!" Lady Astoria chimed cheerfully — something Robert could certainly get behind! — Before frowning slightly and going off on a brief tangent. "And they're not even the fun big words… Like 'grandiloquent!' and 'discombolulate!'…"

She shook herself back on track, "Anyway! It sounds like you're in need of some magical advice! You're in luck, Mr. King! Capital luck, my Father would say! Because here we are, ready and willing to help you crush some treasonous dumbshits~!"

Daphne sighed in exasperation, her expression not moving an inch, "Dammit, Story…"

Robert just laughed, genuine and earnest, "Hahaha! I like the cut of your jib, my Lady!"

Astoria grinned at him, "Thank you! My jib was cut by my Father! I'm very proud of how it turned out."

In the background, Atlas exchanged a knowing glance with the deadpan Daphne, "Well, at least she's always quick to make new friends..."

IIIII

[AN: Just some quick notes. Myrcella in this story is older than in canon. Around Sansa's age (who is also older). They're both 14-ish, compared to Robb, Jon, and Joffrey's 16-17. I think I'm likely looking toward a Robb/Myrcella pairing for this story and a Jon/Sansa one as well, so the age change just makes that more natural. Also, both Myrcella and Cersei have awakened their bloodlines, but not Joffrey or Tommen. That'll be introduced more in the next chapter. And finally, while Robert could likely get drunk on magical alcohols like Fire Whiskey, I doubt I'm going to go much in that direction. I think sober Robert is something worth exploring. So at most, it'd be an infrequent thing if it's mentioned at all.]