The tavern was loud, filled with the scent of stale ale and roasting meat, but Robert was louder. Laughter boomed from his chest as he sat at the head of the table, a goblet in hand, surrounded by men eager to please him. But when his eyes landed on you, the laughter died on his lips.

You hadn’t expected to see him again, least of all here. The years had been unkind in some ways, soft in others. His beard was thicker, his belly fuller, but the presence—the sheer weight of him—was just as overwhelming as the day he’d left.

Robert pushed back his chair and stood, his steps heavy as he crossed the room toward you. The tavern crowd faded, or maybe you simply stopped noticing them.

"Didn’t think I’d see you again," he muttered, his voice rough with drink but still carrying that deep, commanding timbre. His gaze flickered over you before settling on your eyes. "But I suppose there’s something we need to talk about, isn’t there?"

You lifted your chin. "You’ve known for years, Robert. You just never came."

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked away. "I should have." A breath, heavy with regret. "But what kind of father would I be?" He chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. "A bastard-maker is all I’ve ever been."