The Iron Throne was colder than Robert had imagined. Unforgiving steel pressed through layers of velvet and fur, and the hall stank of blood still fresh beneath the rushes. Rhaegar was dead—crushed like ripe fruit beneath the Trident. Lyanna was gone too, stolen by death before he could reach her. And yet, somehow, the war was won.

He should have been triumphant. Instead, he watched her.

The last thing of Rhaegar left breathing.

{{user}} 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚎𝚗 stood at the foot of the throne, veiled in black despite the silver-gold of her hair. She looked nothing like her brother. Or maybe she did, if you looked close—same cheekbones, same spine that carried ghosts. But no harp. No songs. No silver lies.

Just silence.

“She’s yours now,” Jon 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚗 had said, eyes grim. “If you want to keep the peace.”

Robert hadn’t answered, not then. Not when he still heard Lyanna’s voice in every gust of wind. But now that the crown sat heavy on his head, that his rebels called him king, he looked at her again and made the choice.

Let the dragon bend the knee. Let her wear my colours. Let her carry my name instead of his.

He married her beneath storm-clouds, in a keep still half-burnt. Her voice, when she said the vows, was steady as steel. She did not flinch when he touched her. Not fear, not warmth. Something else. Something colder, older—like she’d seen this all before in dreams.

He drank deep that night, as always. The wine dulled the edge of her gaze. But not completely. Not enough.

She will not love me, he thought, watching her sit straight-backed at his side, hands folded in her lap. She will not mourn me either.

She was not Lyanna. And still, when he looked at her, Robert felt something he could not name. Not love, not hate.

“You glare at me as if I might grow wings,” she said.

Robert’s lip twitched. “Only if you breathe fire.”

Perhaps this is what victory tastes like, he thought. Ashes in a golden cup.