Author's note: Thanks for the fifteen power stone.
----------------------------------
The labor had been long, agonizing. Lyanna, my she-wolf, had faced it with a defiance that both terrified and filled me with pride. Hours had dragged into a day, her screams echoing through the thick stone walls of Storm's End, each one a dagger in my gut. I paced the courtyard like a caged beast, tearing at my hair, roaring at any man foolish enough to approach too close. My maester, old Cressen, tried to calm me, muttering about women's strength, but what did he know of watching the woman you love endure such torment?
Then, finally, the cry. A thin, reedy wail, but it was there. A sound that cut through the fear and agony, silencing my own anxieties. The maester emerged.
"A boy, my Lord! A strong, healthy boy!", he said looking weary but triumphant.
I stormed past him, ignoring his protests, bursting into our chambers. Lyanna lay pale and exhausted against the pillows, sweat plastering dark strands of hair to her forehead, but her eyes, those beautiful, fierce grey eyes, were alight. In her arms, a small bundle squirmed, letting out another tiny cry.
"Robert," she whispered, her voice hoarse, a tired smile grating her lips. "Our son."
I knelt beside the bed, my massive hand trembling as I reached out. He was so small, impossibly so, yet bundled tight, with a shock of dark, thick hair. But it wasn't just my hair I saw. He had the unmistakable strong jaw and broad brow of my own father, Steffon, a man who stood two meters and ten centimeters tall and had been famed for his giant-like strength, striking beauty, and charming wit.
And then he opened his eyes. Not the deep blue of my own, nor the stormy grey of Lyanna's, but a peculiar, piercing shade of violet, the very hue that had graced the eyes of my grandmother, Rhaelle Targaryen. A flicker of something, a slight, almost imperceptible disappointment that they aren't the vibrant blue of a Baratheon, touched me.
But it was fleeting, instantly eclipsed by the overwhelming sight of my son staring back at me. This was my boy, a perfect copy of my regretted Lord Steffon Baratheon, with my grandmother's eyes.
My gaze immediately found Lyanna's, her face pale but radiant with maternal joy. The sight of her, and this tiny life in my arms, swept away all other thoughts in an overwhelming surge of protectiveness and profound happiness.
"Ragnar," I rumbled, the name rolling off my tongue. Lyanna had chosen it, a strong, ancient name from the North. "Ragnar Baratheon."
My son. My heir. The sound of it filled me with a deeper joy than any victory in battle or any women bedded before my lyanna.
This was the greatest blessing in the world.
Me, my wife and my heir.
To celebrate his arrival, I immediately declared a seven-day tourney, a week of feasting, jousting, and melees, to mark the birth of Ragnar Baratheon. This wouldn't be the last, I bellowed to the assembled lords and smallfolk; every future nameday would see a similar celebration, grander each time!
Storm's End roared with revelry, its gloom of my parents death banished by the sounds of triumph and the promise of new life.
During the grand banquets on the fourth night, ale flowed freely, and the hall buzzed with cheer. With Ragnar, swaddled and sleeping soundly in Lyanna's arms at the high table.
"Look upon him, my lords and ladies! My son, Ragnar! He's got my dark hair, my strong frame, a true Baratheon through and through!" , I bellowed having risen from my seat.
A wave of murmurs rippled through the hall, of agreement and compliments.
Then, Lord Estermont, an old, grizzled stag with eyes that had seen three generations of Baratheons, raised his goblet.
"Aye, Lord Robert, he has your father's strong features, it's plain as day. And those eyes..." He paused, a fond smile spreading across his face.
"Those are the very eyes of our late Lady Rhaelle, your own grandmother, Lord Robert. A beautiful boy, truly, the spitting image of Lord Steffon and with the eyes of his mother's kin!", he said with nostalgia.
Other older lords murmured in agreement, their heads nodding.
I threw back my head and laughed, a hearty, proud sound.
"He does, doesn't he?" I boomed, gesturing to Ragnar.
"My father's face, my grandmother's eyes... it reminds us all of our ancient blood, doesn't it? A proper Baratheon, through and through, with a touch of the Dragon's fire in his gaze, just as old Rhaelle had!", I said with immense pride.
Our marriage had been, in truth, an arrangement, a grand political alliance between the Stormlands and the North. But from the moment I first saw Lyanna, all wild beauty and untamed spirit, I knew she was meant for me. She chafed at the conventions, yes, and her temper could rival a summer storm.
We argued, we laughed, we wrestled like bear cubs, and in the quiet of our chambers, she met my passion with a fire that consumed me. She was no meek flower, no simpering court lady. She was a warrior queen, and she chose me. Or perhaps, I chose her with such love, she had no choice but to choose me back. She was my Lyanna. And now, she had given me a son.
Ragnar grew quickly, faster than any babe I'd seen. By the time he was a year old, he was already sturdy on his feet, his little fists surprisingly strong, and by two, he was bigger and stronger than any child his age. He wasn't like other babes. Most were content to gurgle and drool. Not Ragnar. He was a spirited boy, always quick to grab at my hammer or roar when I lifted him high.
Maester Cressen, bless his dusty old heart, would often babble on about how Ragnar's eyes seemed to take everything in, and how he spoke in clear, thoughtful sentences that astounded him. I just grinned. He was a Baratheon, after all. What else would you expect?
"Dad," he'd said one morning, barely two years old, pointing at a map of Westeros spread across my table.
"Why does the Kingswood look like a green beard on the Dragon's Head?" He'd traced the shape with a tiny finger. I stared at the map, then back at my boy, and let out a hearty laugh.
A green beard on a dragon's head!
Only my Ragnar would think of such a thing. Cressen, of course, was practically frothing with excitement, going on and on about the boy's keen mind. Lyanna just smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes.
"He takes after you, Robert. Always seeing the bigger picture." She said it with a sly smirk, knowing full well I preferred smashing the bigger picture to contemplating it.
But Ragnar, my son, he was indeed extraordinary. He had my dark hair, my broad frame, Lyanna's fierce spirit, and a mind that already seemed sharper than any acolytes, so Cressen claimed.
He is my masterpiece.
My father, Steffon Baratheon, would have been bursting with pride to see him.
My parents, Steffon and Cassana, had died in 278 AC, lost at sea returning from their journey to Essos. Their deaths had occurred a year before Ragnar's birth, and we had been waiting for their return to finalize the wedding invitations for Lyanna and me.
Their deaths had plunged Storm's End into grief, but even amidst that profound sorrow, I couldn't bear to reschedule the wedding. I couldn't stand being just Lyanna's betrothed, not when I could make her my wife and solidify our bond. The wedding had happened swiftly after, a quiet affair compared to what it might have been, but no less binding.
For Ragnar's first nameday, I threw a tourney at Storm's End. Seven days of feasting, jousting, and melees!
The Stormlands rallied, banners of Errol, Dondarrion, Swann, and Morrigen fluttering from every tower. The Great Hall of Storm's End buzzed with anticipation during our morning meal.
At the high table, beside Lyanna and me, sat Lord Jon Arryn, my foster father, with Ned, Brandon, and young Benjen Stark. My brothers, Stannis and Renly, were there too, looking grim and cheerful respectively. The Northern lords filled the tables below, their presence a testament to our new kinship.
I stood, thumping my goblet on the high table.
"My lords and ladies, loyal friends!" I roared, my voice carrying over the clatter of plates.
"I have a special announcement! For my son Ragnar's first nameday, and to set the tone for the greatest tourney Storm's End has ever seen, Lady Lyanna will be gracing the lists herself in the joust, and I, myself, will be participating in both the joust and the melee!"
A stunned silence fell over the hall, quickly replaced by a low, uneasy murmur from the Stormlander tables. Old Lord Swann cleared his throat, rising hesitantly.
"My Lord Robert," he began,
"with all due respect, for a lady to participate in the joust... it is most unconventional. No lady as ever done so, even less a lady of the stormlands.", Lord Swann said.
"Unconventional?!" I bellowed, slamming my fist on the table.
"My wife is a she-wolf, not some simpering flower! And I am a Baratheon! Are you questioning my wife's prowess? Or my own judgment, Lord Swann?" , I said full of rage
My eyes swept across the fidgeting Stormlanders, daring them to speak.
"Silence! The decision is made!", I barked full of rage.
Before the silence could settle, a booming voice cut through.
"Aye, let her ride!" It was Lord Umber, a burly Northern bear of a man, rising from his seat, a wide grin on his face.
"She's a Stark, Lord Robert, and a warrior born! If she wishes to prove herself, let her ride in the joust!", he loudly said
Beside him, Lady Mormont nodded in firm agreement.
"Many a northern woman can handle steel, Lord Robert," Lady Mormont said, her voice quiet but firm.
"If Lady Lyanna wishes to prove herself, she has our full support!", she added.
Then, Lord Jon Arryn, ever the calm voice of reason, spoke from his seat beside me, his expression grave but diplomatic.
"Lord Robert, Lady Lyanna," he said, his voice measured, cutting through the rising tension.
"While I admire Lady Lyanna's spirit and prowess for the joust, and your own intent to participate, a tourney is a brutal affair. Even the most skilled can suffer grievous injury from a chance fall, a splintered lance, a rogue blow. Your lands needs its Lord Paramount. And Lady Lyanna is now the mother of your heir. Such risks for a matter of sport are... ill-advised, for you both.", he finished With this.
Next to him, Stannis, grim-faced as ever, spoke up.
"Lord Arryn speaks wisely, Robert. You are Lord of Storm's End. Your life is not your own to risk so carelessly in sport, whether in the joust or the melee. And Lady Lyanna's life is even more vital, now, with the heir. It is a matter of duty, not personal glory for either of you." , his voice devoid of emotion.
My own brother and the man I see as a second father had spoken against Lyanna's desire, and I felt the frustration surge within me. My jaw tightened, but before I could retort, Ned and Brandon Stark, from their seats at the high table, addressed Lyanna directly. Ned, ever the calmer of the two, spoke first, his voice gentle but firm.
"Sister, we know your skill with a lance and on horseback. But the joust... it is a perilous sport. There are heavily armored knights, powerful charges. Your safety, and the future of your lands, is too precious. The risks are simply too great, even for one as skilled as you.", he by this.
Brandon, more blunt, but his worry was plain.
"Lyanna, don't be a fool. You're strong, but you're not made of stone. Think of Ragnar. What if something happened during a charge?", he tried to advise her.
I watched Lyanna's face, a storm brewing in her eyes. The fire that had shone so brightly when she declared her intent now flickered, warring with the very real concern in her brothers' voices. The arguments pressed in, not about outdated customs, but about genuine danger, about a warrior's misplaced confidence in a world full of hard steel and harder luck.
They were right, damn them. I knew it, and I could see Lyanna knew it too. The frustration was a bitter taste in my mouth, the anger a knot in my gut. My own desire for her to shine in the lists was clashing with the brutal truth of their words.
I turned to Lyanna, hating the words that came out of my mouth, my voice gruff.
"Lyanna... perhaps... perhaps they are right. It might be better if... if you didn't ride in the joust." Her eyes, usually bright with fire, seemed to dull, a flicker of wounded pride and betrayal passing through them.
My words, my own words, had struck her.
Before I could say another word, Lyanna drew herself up. Her face was a mask, perfectly composed, devoid of the fury that had moments ago been battling inside her. Her voice, when it came, was flat, emotionless.
"No," she said, clear for all to hear.
"I will not participate in the joust." She offered no further explanation, no hint of the displeasure I knew burned within her.
I felt a fresh wave of frustration. If Lyanna, my she-wolf, couldn't joust, then I wouldn't either. The thought of riding in the lists without her, a spectacle of my own without her glorious presence, suddenly felt hollow. My jousting ambitions vanished. The only solace would be smashing heads in the melee.
The tourney went on. I abandoned the joust, but I entered the melee, and I won it, crushing all opposition with my hammer.
Just a few days after Ragnar's nameday, as the last of the celebratory ale was being drunk, an unexpected party arrived at Storm's End.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, accompanied by Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, arrived not to participate in any remaining festivities, but to speak with me. !Lord Jon Arryn, Lord Hoster Tully (who had arrived a few days prior for the nameday, hoping to talk ), and Brandon Stark, the hot-headed heir to Winterfell, were also present for the meeting in my solar. Rhaegar's violet eyes, so unlike my son's, held a grave intensity.
"Lord Robert," he began,
"and Lords. I apologize for the interruption to your celebration, but there is a matter of great import that cannot wait. The tourney at Harrenhal. It is more than just a display of prowess.
Lord Whent has spent a fortune, and it will draw the entire continent. It is crucial that the great houses are present. Not merely for the merriment of the lists, but for... the future of the Seven Kingdoms." He glanced pointedly at Lord Arryn and Lord Tully, then back at me.
I snorted. "The future of the Seven Kingdoms? Rhaegar, it's a tourney! The greatest in generations, by the sound of it! I'm going for the glory, the smashing of lances and heads!" I grinned.
Arthur Dayne, ever quiet, gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Lord Arryn, however, nodded.
"The Prince speaks with foresight, Robert. Such a gathering, with all the great lords in one place... opportunities arise. Conversations can be had that cannot otherwise be. It is vital we are there, and that we approach it not just as knights seeking glory, but as leaders concerned for the stability of Westeros.", added Jon arryn.
Brandon, ever eager for a good fight, grumble "Sounds like a waste of a good tourney to me, if we're just going to talk." But Rhaegar's gaze was firm.
"The Seven Kingdoms face challenges, Lord Brandon. Harrenhal will be a place where we might begin to address them." He spoke with a quiet intensity that, despite my own simple desires for the tourney, couldn't be entirely dismissed.
The road north was long, filled with the usual petty annoyances of travel, but my spirits remained high.
Beside me, Lyanna rode with Ragnar in her arms, and I found my gaze often drawn to my son. He was now two years old, and he wasn't just growing; he was thriving, already a sturdy little terror with an endless store of questions and an unsettling keenness in those violet eyes of his.
My son. He was a true Baratheon, full of fire and boundless energy. I couldn't wait to see him grow strong, to perhaps wield a hammer like his father, and to truly be the Lord of Storm's End. He was the future of my lands, and every swing of my hammer felt like I was forging a stronger world for him.
In truth, all the wild passions of my youth, the chasing of skirts and the endless nights of ale, had lost their appeal since Lyanna gave me my perfect heir. There was a deeper satisfaction in this life, a purpose that no fleeting pleasure could match.
Harrenhal.
The very name still sent a thrill through me, a place cursed and grand, now promising the greatest tourney of the century.
I could already picture the roar of the crowd, the clash of steel, the thunder of hooves. It was a spectacle no true warrior would miss, and I intended to prove myself the greatest there. It would be good to have Ned there, my brother in all but blood, and old Jon Arryn, my foster father, by my side. Though gods know they had too much honor in them, always quiet, always with their quills when a hammer was needed.
As for Prince Rhaegar and his endless talks of the 'future of the Seven Kingdoms'? That was for Jon Arryn. Let the Prince and my foster father bore each other with their grand ideas.
My place was in the lists and the melee, fighting for glory and the cheer of the crowds. Lyanna, riding beside me, kept her eyes fixed on those distant, brooding giants. She was my she-wolf, and her presence would make the greatest tourney of the century even grander.