GOT: Wolf Becomes Stag

As the King had just returned, a feast was held in the Throne room, right in front of the Iron Throne. It was a sizable feast with only the lords and ladies in attendance, especially the Tyrells who were still living inside the Red Keep. Since the road between King's Landing and the Highgarden wasn't as treacherous, the Tyrells had made multiple trips back and forth throughout his campaign in the North.

But surprisingly, Margaery had remained inside King's Landing. Even more surprising was the trace of animosity that Robert sensed between Margaery on one side and Sansa and Myrcella on the other.

"I've heard of your deeds in the North, Your Grace. A fine answer to those Ironborn rats. Let us raise a toast to your triumph!" Mace Tyrell wasted no time groveling. Buttering up kings was all the man was good for.

"Where is Olenna?" Robert asked.

"She will be returning very soon, Your Grace. At her age, it's best to take things slow. But worry not, I am here, should you wish to speak of anything, I am at your service." Mace Tyrell said, his gaze lingering on his daughter with an all-too-obvious interest.

Robert just nodded and looked to his right where Margaery was sitting. It was a deliberate seating plan so he could have the two Tyrells on his side each.

"How was your stay in the King's Landing, Margaery?"

Margaery smiled giddily. "I must confess, Your Grace, I have found great delight in my time here, wandering through every street the city has to offer. Yet, the Throne Room—oh, it has always seemed so empty without you. Now that you are back, I cannot help but think my stay will become all the more... pleasurable."

Such a sly mouth.

"Let's pick up where we left off. I'm certain you've much to say." Robert gave her a hint and focused on the dinner.

The feast wasn't the place to plot his rise. He wanted to feel at peace.

Sadly, it was nowhere to be found. Sansa and Myrcella on the side were mimicking Margaery and making fun of her. Jon Snow was at the edge of the table, silently eating his food. Stannis wasn't even there.

He had no family of his own while those he felt connected to couldn't be called his own.

With small talk, music, and food, the feast continued for hours. But Robert finished his meal fast and excused himself from the feast, leaving Tyrion to entertain the guests as the Hand of the King.

Robert made his way deeper into the castle and followed his Kingsguards into a secluded chamber. As soon as he entered, he smelled a scent he'd grown tired of. The Red Woman was in the room along with Stannis.

"I asked to meet alone, Stannis."

"She already knows what you intend to say, Your Grace," Stannis replied, "Melisandre insists on being included. She offers aid to our cause."

"How? By sacrificing newborns?" Robert scoffed at the woman's face and took his seat at the small table.

Melisandre stepped forward from behind Stannis' seat and bowed her head. "I have been seeing visions of you in the Lord's flames, Your Grace. The Lord has shown me the path you seek, and I can guide you towards it."

"By the gods, woman, the path I seek is simple—it's you shutting that damn mouth of yours!" Robert snapped and stared at his brother. "I've learned something about the Lannisters that could serve us well. But it'll take careful planning."

Let's see if you're truly loyal to me, Stannis. Robert stopped caring about Melisandre. He didn't care if the Lannister's secret became known across the seven kingdoms. No matter what happened, it would be his victory.

Stannis, with his never-changing face, leaned forward on the table. "I'm here to listen, Your Grace."

"The Lannisters are running out of gold, Stannis. Those mines have been bled dry for a thousand years, and there's naught left to dig. Tywin took out a loan from the Iron Bank during the Rebellion, and then he's borrowed again—against you and Renly. That Golden Lion ain't golden anymore, boy. It's a bloody farce, meant to make him look strong. A gamble, hoping he'll come out on top and pay off his debts in the end."

For a moment, Stannis revealed a frown. But then the man looked at his Red Priestess and became calm. "If the word of it gets out…"

"Hard to believe," Robert replied, "It's better to work in the shade. One of us, maybe you, will head to Braavos soon to talk about another loan for the crown. But make no mistake, the true reason for the visit isn't that. We don't need gold. What we need is for the Bank to gamble on us, on the fall of the Lannisters."

"I shall depart for Braavos, as you command, Your Grace. But tell me this—will the Iron Bank's coin suffice? Dorne and the Ironborn remain thorns in our side."

"That's why we need a sharper thorn to prick them. I've set my sights on the Tyrells—see if they're worth a damn." Robert indirectly hinted at his next steps. It felt shameful to say it outright.

"You will marry the girl?" Stannis questioned.

"He has no need of such trifles," Melisandre interrupted suddenly, eyeing Robert like a prized possession. "His Grace holds the fire of kings within him, a power that bends the will of any woman he chooses. All that remains is for him to surrender to the flame of his desire."

Disgusted, Robert stared at her face for a good silent moment. "Woman, do you hear yourself speaking? Stannis, if you let her join again, I won't bother with words the next time."

Robert stood up with that and decided to head to his bedchamber.

"I will do what needs to be done."

"Your Grace!" Melisandre still didn't stop speaking and raised her voice at Robert's fleeting back. "Keep your gaze sharp and your soul attuned, for the signs shall soon manifest themselves. Many gods reach out to you, but the one who shall mold your path wears many faces. Your fate will lead you, unerringly, to the destiny that awaits."

Shaking his head, Robert left the secluded chamber. He knew Stannis was lost to Melisandre's magic and cunt, so he didn't bother taking her seriously.

Rather, he felt more perturbed by what was to come that night.

####

Arriving inside his bedchamber, Robert walked up to change into some loose, comfortable tunic and pants to sleep. Normally, Robert would have had a few pretty servants disrobe and dress him up.

But this wasn't Robert.

Nor was it Eddard.

As he picked up a loose tunic to put on, he looked at himself in the mirror. He had gotten used to the sight of Robert appearing in it. Rather, he looked at his body which he'd been carving slowly for more than two years.

He didn't drink or dine too much. The results he could see clearly—a massive six and a half feet tall frame of muscle and mass. Arms thick enough to be a common warrior's legs, shoulders wide enough to vanish even the likes of fat Genna Lannister underneath his shadow. Hair slightly shorter than ear-length, beard trimmed thin, his belly although still there, no longer could be called fat.

But more than anything, he looked at the spotless but hairy skin of his chest and back. There was no wound, no mark left. In the recent battles, he'd fought like a mad beast who felt no pain and received wounds enough to kill ten men.

"Here I stand, stronger than I've ever been." Robert clenched his fist, feeling like he could lift an elephant if he wanted.

With a rustle of his sleeves, he donned his loose tunic. Then, with a quick tug at the edges, he was ready to rest.

But for the last time, he looked at himself in the mirror and nodded.

"Whatever beast or burden comes my way, I'll face it—and damn the cost!"

That was one reasoning he had come to accept. Ever since he returned to that body, all he hoped was to bring peace across the realm and end all wars. To bring justice at all costs.

But what did he get?

"Dorne stirs, the Ironborn rebel, the Westerlands want my head, the North bleeds, the Riverlands are leaderless, and the Vale's not far behind," Robert summarized his current predicament. "All I have is Crownlands and The Reach selling me its prized flower."

During his campaign in the North, Robert had found his answer. He had to get his hands dirty if he didn't want to end up like the old Robert. He had to play the game the same way others did.

Knock! Knock!

Robert exhaled a lengthy breath. "Whatever it takes…"

He walked over to his bed chamber's door and waited for the Kingsguard's response.

"Your Grace, Lady Margaery seeks an audience."

An audience in the King's bedchamber? Not even being subtle now?

"Let her in." Robert eased back and waited.

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