Chapter Text
If there were but one word that could encapsulate the very essence of popularity, it would undoubtedly be inextricably linked to a single name: Robert Baratheon.
Wherever he went—whether in a bustling classroom, an elegant social gathering, or a lively get-together among friends—his presence rose above the crowd like an inescapable beacon, radiating a magnetic energy that drew everyone into his orbit.
Born into an upper-middle-class family that owned a vast trading empire spanning the entire country, Robert was the primary heir to his parents’ legacy, destined from birth to take the reins of a dynasty built on success and prestige. Raised with an iron hand and under strict discipline that forged his character from an early age, he embodied old-fashioned values: brave, determined, and possessing an innate ferocity that manifested in every aspect of his life. He was a man of immense courage, unwaveringly loyal to those who earned his trust, and his emotions ran as deep as they were intense—tightly intertwined with a pride that was both his greatest strength and his fatal flaw. When angered, his rage became a blind storm that swept away everything in its path, unchecked and unfiltered. But when he loved, he did so with open arms, no emotional armor to shield him, no barriers to hold him back. He gave his heart completely, without reservation or fear.
And that love, that feeling which consumed him entirely, already belonged to one person: the fierce and enigmatic Lyanna Stark.
Lyanna came from the same social circle, though she had moved to the city from the snow-covered, wild landscapes of Canada—a land where winter ruled with an iron fist and nature demanded the utmost respect. Her family owned a successful construction company responsible for erecting buildings and bridges that stood as symbols of solidity and endurance. They were known for their pure hearts and unwavering values of honor and honesty. Robert knew this better than anyone, for Lyanna’s older brother, Eddard, was a man of unshakeable integrity, just as loyal and honorable as his sister. It was Eddard who had served as the bridge that allowed Robert to meet the love of his life. Edd was his best friend, his partner in adventures and confidences, always by his side. Being introduced to Lyanna through him felt like the greatest prize imaginable—a gift from destiny that gave Robert yet another reason to smile and believe life was truly wonderful. Every time he thought of her, a rush of emotion surged through his body, a feeling of pure happiness that made everything he had achieved and everything that lay ahead feel meaningful. Because she was there, safe within his heart, forever.
Robert had promised to show them around the city. Edd already knew the place well, but seemed excited for his sister to experience it too. Yet during their tour, Lyanna suggested they invite both Eddard and Robert to one of the most famous and prestigious casinos in the area—a venue that glittered with dazzling luxury, which she had recently discovered through a newly launched promotional app. But beyond the simple desire to show them this dreamlike space, there was a deeper reason: their grandfather had been one of the key architects involved in designing the building years ago, leaving his mark on every corner of its structure and every detail of its design. For Lyanna, bringing them here was an honor; she wanted Robert to admire not only the magnificence of the place but also the legacy her family had left within its walls.
Upon arrival, the casino enveloped them in an atmosphere of glamour and excitement: bright lights dancing everywhere, the constant hum of slot machines, and the laughter and animated conversations of patrons blending into a vibrant chorus. While Eddard stood calmly observing one of the table games, Lyanna, driven by her restless and curious spirit, wandered a short distance away to explore the venue, leaving Robert watching her intently as she disappeared into the crowd.
Minutes passed, and concern began to mix with impatience in Robert’s chest. He couldn't shake the feeling that he needed her within his line of sight; her presence was like an anchor that kept him grounded. So he started searching for her, walking with quick, determined steps, scanning left and right until finally, his eyes landed on her in a secluded corner near a poker table.
But what he saw made his blood boil instantly, and a wave of searing jealousy washed over him. Lyanna was talking to a man, and the closeness between them felt unbearable. Without thinking of the consequences, Robert approached with a threatening stride, his body tense and his gaze filled with fury, ready to confront whoever dared occupy the place he believed belonged only to him. Reaching her side, he stepped firmly between Lyanna and the stranger, fists clenched and breathing ragged, poised to start what seemed like an inevitable fight.
But before he could utter a word, Lyanna stopped him, placing a firm hand on his arm and looking into his eyes with a calm yet resolute expression.
“There’s nothing for you to worry about, my love. I must introduce you!” she said, her voice soft but carrying a tone that brooked no argument. “This is an old friend—we’ve known each other for years. Our parents were close for a long time, and we grew up together. This is Rhaegar. Rhaegar Targaryen.”
Rhaegar Targaryen.
The surname sounded familiar; he had heard it mentioned a few times before.
Robert turned to look at the man Lyanna was speaking with, and for a moment, he was left breathless. Rhaegar was a wealthy young man who radiated extraordinary beauty. He had pale silver hair that fell in soft waves over his shoulders, and eyes of an intense violet hue that seemed to glow with an inner light—features that made him undeniably striking at first glance. His face was perfectly proportioned, with delicate yet defined features, and his bearing was elegant and distinguished, as if he belonged to a different world entirely, like a prince straight out of a fairy tale.
However, beyond his appearance, what left Robert bewildered was the strange sensation that overcame him as he watched the other man. He couldn't understand why anyone would look so effeminate, moving with a grace and softness that clashed violently with everything Robert had been taught to consider masculine. Raised in a family steeped in traditional values, shaped by a deeply machismo and homophobic mindset, Robert had been brought up to view anything deviating from the rigid gender stereotypes imposed by his environment as odd or abnormal. To him, a man ought to be strong, rugged, and possess an appearance that left no doubt regarding his masculinity. Seeing someone like Rhaegar sparked profound confusion within him, mixed with an instinctive sense of revulsion. The man seemed anything like the kind of person he should respect or wish to know.
His gaze fixed on Rhaegar, a mixture of threat and repulsion in his eyes. Watching how comfortable Lyanna seemed in his company—talking and smiling as if nothing were out of the ordinary—left a bitter taste in Robert’s mouth. It wasn't just jealousy over seeing the woman he loved with another man; it was also the discomfort of seeing her so close to someone who, in his mind, represented everything he could not comprehend or accept. In that moment, Robert felt his world shift beneath him: caught between the rage fueled by Rhaegar’s presence, the confusion of his own feelings, and the frustration of not understanding why something so "different" affected him so deeply.
He knew it likely stemmed from how he had been raised—taught to reject whatever was unlike himself. And this man, his girlfriend’s friend, was nothing like him.
“The Roulette is about to start!”
Lyanna’s voice pulled him sharply from his thoughts. She stepped away with a bright smile lighting up her face, her eyes sparkling with childlike, contagious excitement as she spotted the large roulette wheel rising from the center of the room, spinning in a smooth, hypnotic motion that seemed to call to her from afar. Without another word, she hurried off, her dark hair flowing behind her like a flag of freedom, and vanished into the crowd gathering around the table.
This left Robert and Rhaegar standing face-to-face in a silence that grew thick, heavy, and charged with a latent hostility so tangible it felt almost physical.
In that instant, the noise of the casino—the clatter of gaming machines, the laughter of players, the constant murmur of conversation—seemed to fade into the background, becoming nothing more than a distant hum as the two men stared each other down. Their gazes clashed like swords in a silent duel, each waiting for the other to make the first move, both harboring a mix of anger, disdain, and deep discomfort at the other’s presence. Though neither understood why; they had only just met.
Robert was the first to break the oppressive silence, doing so with a twisted, false smile dripping with sarcasm—one that never reached his dark eyes, which remained locked on Rhaegar with utter contempt. He scanned the other man from head to toe: from the silver hair falling with exaggerated grace over his shoulders to the designer clothes that looked chosen with meticulous care. Letting out a scoff of disapproval, he spoke in a passive-aggressive tone, sharp as a knife but wrapped in a veneer of false politeness that fooled no one.
“I suppose I haven't properly introduced myself. I’m Robert Baratheon. And I’m Lyanna’s partner, in case you hadn't noticed…” he said, leaning forward slightly as if sharing a secret, though his voice dripped with venom. “Your father owns this entire establishment, doesn't he? You’re a Targaryen. Well, that explains quite a lot.” He looked the other man up and down, judging every inch of him—a look that clearly unsettled Rhaegar.
Rhaegar met his gaze with those violet eyes, now cold and distant, as if he were looking at something not worth his time. He responded in a soft but cutting tone, every word carefully chosen to wound, every syllable carrying a cruelty that contrasted sharply with his delicate appearance. Adjusting the collar of his shirt with a slow, elegant movement—as if Robert’s presence were an annoyance, a smudge on an otherwise perfect painting—he let out a low, humorless laugh that resonated in the narrow space between them.
“And you are only here because she brought you,” Rhaegar replied, lowering his voice to a whisper far more threatening than any shout. “Without Lyanna, you wouldn't have a foot in this place, nor anywhere else that claims to be elegant. At least I belong to this world by right of birth, unlike some second-rate guest who clearly doesn't fit in—like a dog wandering into a ballroom uninvited. So you would do well to watch your tongue.”
Robert clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white, his anger flaring visibly on his face as it flushed bright red. He took a step forward, invading Rhaegar’s personal space, and glared at him with pure hatred, his words spilling out in a raw, aggressive tone with no filter whatsoever.
“Careful what you say, pretty boy,” he spat, his voice shaking with rage. “I could smash that pretty face you love so much in a second, and your father wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. Stay away from Lyanna—she’d never look at… someone like you…”
Rhaegar did not step back, nor did he even blink at the threat. On the contrary, he leaned in even closer, his violet eyes blazing with cold, calculated intensity, and smiled—a cruel, emotionless expression revealing his perfect white teeth. His voice dropped even lower, more menacing now, each word a dart piercing Robert’s chest, every phrase a reminder of the vast divide between them—not just in social class, but in character, worldview, and way of life.
“Try it,” Rhaegar whispered, his breath cold against Robert’s skin. “Lay a single finger on me, and you’ll be thrown out of here forever, and Lyanna won’t be able to save you. I own this place; I decide who enters and who leaves. You are nothing but an intruder who doesn't belong here. She puts up with you for now, but even she must see you’re nothing more than a loud brute—an animal that doesn't belong in polite society.”
Every word exchanged was a blow, direct and cruel, no explanations or arguments—just the raw, unadulterated hatred that had sparked between them in a matter of minutes. A hatred fueled by their differences, their prejudices, and wounded pride, growing stronger with every passing second. Meanwhile, Lyanna, completely unaware of the battle unfolding behind her, remained excitedly watching the roulette wheel spin round and round, oblivious to the fact that two men were waging a silent war that could change everything she knew.
With a sharp, abrupt motion, Rhaegar turned away and strode off, putting distance between them as if Robert carried some contagious disease. His elegant figure disappeared into the crowd without looking back even once. Robert stood frozen in place, his body tense as a stretched rope about to snap, fury boiling in his veins like molten lava. His fists remained clenched so hard his nails dug into his palms, leaving deep marks he barely felt through the intensity of his rage.
It didn't take long for Lyanna to notice something was wrong. Turning around to see Rhaegar walking away and Robert standing there with a face twisted by unbridled fury, her smile faded instantly. Without hesitation, she rushed toward him, calling his name in a voice thick with concern.
“Robert? What happened?” she asked, trying to catch up as he kept walking, seemingly deaf to her words.
Eddard joined them as well, approaching Robert with a calm yet firm stride. Lyanna reached for his arm, but he pulled away roughly, forcing her to stop in her tracks.
Robert said nothing in response to Ned and Lyanna’s questioning looks. He simply ground his teeth, his expression dark and bitter. Throughout his life, the opinions or criticisms of others had never bothered him. So now, he couldn't understand why he felt so deeply wounded by the words of a stranger. Someone who didn't know him, and had no right to look at him with such hatred and disgust.
“Let’s go,” he muttered, refusing to meet their eyes. “I don't want to stay here another second.” His voice dripping with resentment as he marched toward the exit.
For the next three days, Robert remained trapped in a state of constant rage—a burning anger that felt endless and consumed him from within. Everything he once enjoyed now seemed dull or irritating. He couldn't get Rhaegar out of his head: his cold, distant violet eyes, his cruel smile, and that delicate appearance Robert found so unbearable. Even in his dreams, his mind betrayed him, replaying every moment, every word spoken, every glance exchanged. It left him with a hollow ache in his chest, a strange weight that blended his hatred with deep confusion. He loathed the man with every fiber of his being—hated who he was, hated what Robert viewed as weakness disguised as elegance, and most of all, hated that Lyanna claimed to feel comfortable around him, that they had been friends for so long. Her words echoed in his mind again and again like a cursed refrain, fueling his hatred even more, though he couldn't fully explain why such a simple statement affected him so deeply.
But what finally pushed him over the edge happened a few days later. They were at the Stark residence, preparing for a grand celebration being organized in Lyanna’s honor—an event meant to be filled with joy and happiness for everyone. Robert was helping Ned review some details when, by chance, his eyes fell upon the guest list lying on the table. There, written in bold letters, was a name that sent a fresh wave of fury coursing through his veins: Rhaegar Targaryen. Worse still, the name appeared higher than his own, in a position of prominence that felt like a personal insult, one he simply could not tolerate. His face turned scarlet instantly, and his hands shook as he gripped the paper, half-tempted to tear it into shreds. Unable to contain himself any longer, he turned to Ned standing beside him and asked in a voice he tried—and failed—to keep calm.
“Ned… who the hell is Rhaegar?”
Eddard looked at him calmly, with that serene expression that defined him, and answered simply, completely unaware of the storm brewing in his friend’s heart.
“Rhaegar has always been invited to family gatherings, Robert. He and Lyanna have always been very good friends, quite close, since they were children. Our parents knew each other for years, so it’s only natural he’s here. And his name is listed prominently because he is very important to us. He’s a kind man.”
The word “close” left Ned’s lips like a dagger straight through Robert’s heart. His rage intensified, his chest tightening with a pressure that threatened to explode at any moment. He wanted to scream, to tell Ned that it couldn't be true—that the man didn't deserve to be near Lyanna, that he wasn't worthy of her friendship. But he held back, forcing himself to remain composed, to hide what he was feeling, even as he felt like he was burning alive inside. He nodded without speaking, though his dark, hate-filled gaze betrayed just how deeply those words had wounded him. He knew right then and there that things between him and Rhaegar were only going to get worse.
Days flew by, and soon the night of the celebration arrived. The Stark household was filled with light and music, guests arriving one after another—all family friends—smiling and chatting, creating an atmosphere of joy and festivity that permeated every corner. Lyanna appeared shortly after, radiant and beaming with happiness upon realizing the whole evening was dedicated to her, making her feel like the heroine of her own story. Her smile lit up the entire room. When Robert saw her, he felt a mix of love and pride tangled with an unexplainable sense of unease. But that unease quickly turned into something far darker and more painful when he saw who was walking in beside her: Rhaegar Targaryen. He moved with that same infuriating elegance, looking as though he belonged there more than anyone else, as if he had every right to be at the side of the woman Robert loved.
Robert felt his heart clench painfully in his chest seeing them together—so close, so comfortable in each other’s presence. He had to fight hard to keep his composure in front of everyone. But what finally shattered his restraint and made him lose all control was his younger brother Renly. Renly, always cheerful and prone to joking, began openly praising Rhaegar’s beauty, making comments that to Robert’s ears sounded absolutely repulsive and disgusting.
“Have you seen him? He’s stunning. Look at that hair, those eyes… I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful…” Renly went on and on, gushing over the other man’s violet eyes, silver hair, and graceful bearing, speaking about him as if he were a woman or something less than a real man. This made Robert’s blood boil.
“Have you no shame, you idiot?” Robert shouted, storming over to his brother, his eyes blazing with fury. “Margaery is standing right there listening! Do you not have even the slightest respect for your own girlfriend?”
Renly simply laughed—a light, carefree sound that seemed to mock Robert’s rage. He glanced over at Margaery, who blinked in surprise at her brother-in-law’s outburst, then looked away as if wanting nothing to do with the argument. And as Robert turned away, seething and determined to leave, he heard both Renly and Margaery burst into laughter behind him, as if everything he’d said had been nothing but a joke. He had never understood their relationship, nor did he ever want to.
Consumed by visceral anger, Robert stepped away from the group, walking quickly toward a quieter corner of the ballroom where he could be alone and try to calm down. Watching Rhaegar move through the crowd with such ease, so comfortable among the guests, so close to Lyanna, filled him with a terrible fear—a deep dread that turned his blood cold. He was afraid of losing her, afraid she would realize he wasn't enough, afraid she would decide that this “different” man was somehow better than him. But there was more to it than that; Renly’s words had stirred a profound disgust within him, a revulsion he couldn't explain. He kept asking himself over and over why his brother spoke of Rhaegar that way, why he found him so beautiful, so admirable, when to Robert he was nothing more than a doll—a weak, effeminate creature who didn't deserve a single positive word.
Amidst all this rage and confusion, Robert was forced to admit—if only to himself, and though he would sooner die than say it out loud—that over the past few days he had researched absolutely everything there was to know about Rhaegar. He had stalked his social media profiles, searching out every photo, every post, every comment the man had ever shared. He had even gone so far as to gain access to his private accounts—spaces meant only for a select few. He felt like a madman, an obsessive who couldn't control his impulses. He didn't understand why he was doing this, why this man affected him so deeply, why he couldn't get him out of his mind, even for a single second. It was a strange sensation: a mix of hatred, curiosity, fear, and something else he couldn't quite name. And the fact that he felt this way made him even angrier at himself—an anger that was always pure and burning, with nothing to soothe it.
But he could never speak of it.
Would he look like a fool if he did?
Robert leaned against one of the mansion’s cold stone walls, the sounds of the party fading into a dull hum in his mind. His thoughts raced, crashing into one another like waves against a cliffside. He felt completely overwhelmed, as if everything he knew and believed in was crumbling apart around him. He felt threatened—not just by Rhaegar’s presence, by the way Lyanna looked at him, by how everyone seemed to admire him, but by something much deeper, something coming from within himself, something he could neither control nor understand.
His mind drifted back to the night before, to that shameful, private moment in his bedroom when darkness surrounded him and he had given in to his basest instincts. He remembered touching himself, hands sweaty and trembling, moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm as he chased that quick, carnal release only he knew. He had tried desperately to focus on Lyanna—on her smile, her body, the love she claimed to feel for him. She had sent him photos just hours earlier, images he had saved like precious treasures, pictures that belonged only to him, which he had been looking at right before lust took over. But then, something twisted and unsettling happened. As he closed his eyes, Lyanna’s image slowly faded away, like a light being switched off. And in her place, the photos of Rhaegar appeared. Instead of the woman he claimed to love dominating his heated imagination, he found himself staring at the Targaryen’s face: those violet eyes looking back with disdain, the silver hair falling over his shoulders, that cruel yet elegant smile that stirred feelings within him he did not want to acknowledge.
Worst of all, when he checked his phone’s gallery afterward, he realized it was filled with nothing but images of Rhaegar. Without even noticing, without meaning to, he had filled that private space with pictures of the man. Photos he’d saved from social media, images he’d found online—all collected together to form a mosaic of someone he claimed to hate, yet who had occupied every corner of his mind and his life ever since they’d met nearly a month ago.
Robert felt utterly confused, lost in a labyrinth of conflicting emotions he had no idea how to navigate.
How could it be that in the most intimate, shameful moment of his life, when he should have been thinking only of the woman he loved, his mind betrayed him and conjured up the face of the man he had detested from the very first second?
How could his gallery be overflowing with pictures of him? How could he have spent days investigating every detail of Rhaegar’s life, stalking his accounts, digging into every corner of his existence like some kind of obsessed fanatic?
He understood nothing. He didn't know why he felt this way, why Rhaegar held such power over him, why his mind and body reacted in ways that went against everything he believed himself to be, everything his family and society had taught him a man should be. He felt dirty, alien, like a stranger in his own skin. And that feeling terrified him—far more than any anger he had ever felt before.
Robert forced himself to straighten up, running a hand roughly through his hair as if trying to physically wipe away those cursed images and the disgusting feelings eating away at him. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air, and made up his mind to return to the party, pretending everything was fine, that he was still the same old Robert: strong, confident, unshakable. But he had barely taken a few steps back toward the center of the room when his eyes locked onto Rhaegar once more. He watched as the other man headed toward the main entrance and stepped out into the garden, illuminated by soft outdoor lights.
Without stopping to think, some strange force drove Robert to follow him. He moved silently across the grass, keeping his distance but never taking his eyes off him for even a moment.
Rhaegar stopped in front of a luxury car, opened the rear door, and leaned inside to retrieve several elegantly wrapped packages—undoubtedly the gifts he had brought for Lyanna. Seeing him being so thoughtful, so devoted to her, reignited Robert’s rage with even greater intensity than before. He marched toward him with heavy, threatening strides, his boots thudding against the ground to announce his arrival. He stopped directly in front of Rhaegar, blocking his path, body tense and fists clenched, staring him down with an expression of pure fury and defiance that brooked no argument.
“What are your intentions with Lyanna?” Robert shouted, his voice ringing out through the quiet night, cutting through the distant hum of music and laughter. “What do you want from her? Why don't you just stay away from her once and for all?”
Rhaegar straightened up abruptly, clutching the gifts against his chest, genuine confusion shining in his violet eyes. He couldn't understand why Robert was attacking him so aggressively, seemingly out of nowhere. True, they had clashed before, but he had never imagined their dispute ran so deep or personal.
“I mean her no harm, Baratheon,” Rhaegar replied, his voice calm yet firm, doing his best to remain composed in the face of Robert’s rage. “She is my friend—one of the most important people in the world to me. And I know full well that you two are together…”
But before he could finish speaking, Robert lost all control. His hand shot out with blinding speed, fingers clamping violently around Rhaegar’s throat and squeezing hard, cutting off his air supply as he shoved him back against the car’s bodywork with a heavy, metallic thud. The presents tumbled to the ground, rolling across the grass, completely forgotten in that moment of brutal tension.
“You think I’m not good enough?” Robert spat, his face flushed crimson, eyes bloodshot as he loomed over him, refusing to let him speak another word. “You think you’re better than me? That you’re more of a man, more worthy of standing beside her? Answer me!”
But then, something strange happened. While he held Rhaegar trapped in his grip, feeling the smoothness of the other man’s skin beneath his fingers, the softness of his neck, and the desperate force with which he tried to breathe, Robert felt a sudden sharp pang in his chest. An unfamiliar, searing heat spread rapidly through his entire body, traveling from his hands down to his stomach and lower still. It was a violent, confusing sensation—a mix of the rage still boiling in his veins and something else, something he could not name, something that sent a shiver through him having nothing to do with the cold night air. His fingers, already squeezing tight, seemed to want to hold on even harder rather than let go. And his gaze, which had been filled with pure hatred, suddenly found itself trapped in Rhaegar’s violet eyes, staring back at him with an intensity that completely disarmed him. That strange warmth left him paralyzed for a moment, unable to understand what was happening to him, why his body reacted this way toward the man he claimed to despise with every fiber of his being.
Overwhelmed by this confusion and the heat coursing through him, Robert lost all sense of control. Instead of releasing him, instead of stepping away and leaving him in peace, he moved even closer, invading every inch of Rhaegar’s personal space until their bodies collided with heavy force. And then, without thinking, without reason, without even realizing what he was doing, his lips crashed brutally against Rhaegar’s. It was a rough, desperate, and filthy kiss—as if he wanted to devour him, mark him, expel all the rage and turmoil inside him through his mouth. He bit hard at Rhaegar’s lips, sucking them with unrestrained, dirty lust, caring for nothing in that moment but the feeling of having him there—under his hands, beneath his mouth.
But what made Robert feel even more disgusted, even more lost, was Rhaegar’s reaction. At first, the Targaryen tried to pull away, his body tense, hands pushing against Robert’s chest as if he couldn't believe what was happening, as if the contact repulsed him. Then, in a second that felt like an eternity, the resistance vanished. Rhaegar stopped fighting. Instead, his hands gripped Robert’s shoulders, and he began to match the rough rhythm, returning the kiss with equal intensity and vulgarity—biting and sucking right back—as if he had been waiting for this all along, as if this violence was exactly what he needed to finally let go.
Robert felt like his whole world was turning upside down. He felt dirty, alien, like he was committing an unforgivable sin. Yet, he couldn't pull away, couldn't stop kissing him, couldn't shake the mixture of hatred and desire that was consuming him alive. Seeing Rhaegar accept his kiss, seeing him give in, stirred conflicting emotions he couldn't explain. On one hand, it disgusted him; it seemed to confirm everything he thought about the man—about his “weakness,” about his way of being that deviated from what Robert considered normal. On the other hand, that surrender awakened something nameless within him, something that made him want more, made him want to hold on even tighter, as if this kiss was the only real thing amidst all the chaos in his head.
He could hold back no longer. Robert grabbed Rhaegar’s arm with brutal strength, fingers digging into his skin like claws, and yanked him backward so roughly that Rhaegar nearly lost his footing, stumbling across the grass past the scattered gifts. The noise from the party faded rapidly, becoming nothing more than a distant murmur. Robert dragged him without mercy across the garden until they reached a narrow, dark alley separating the Stark estate from the neighboring property. It was a forgotten corner, shrouded in deep shadows and silence, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing and the crunch of dry leaves under their boots. Giving Rhaegar no time to react or speak, Robert slammed him hard against the cold stone wall. The impact echoed sharply in the quiet air. He pressed his large, strong body against him, blocking any escape, eyes glowing in the darkness with a mix of unhinged fury and a lust he could no longer hide or suppress.
“What’s the matter, pretty boy?” he spat directly into Rhaegar’s face, his voice rough and thick with raw, dirty desire, hot breath washing over the other man’s skin. “Is this what you wanted all along? What you were waiting for, huh? Is that why you didn't leave? Why you stood there staring at me like you actually liked what you saw? Tell me! Answer me!”
Rhaegar was utterly confused, his mind spinning like a whirlwind, unable to process the reality of what was happening. But in that moment, surrounded by suffocating darkness and pinned by Robert’s overwhelming presence, his body reacted on instinct, disregarding all logic and reason. He said nothing. He simply surrendered, letting himself be swept away by this violence that suddenly felt like the only real, tangible thing in the world. His hands clutched desperately at Robert’s shirt, crumpling the fabric. And when Robert kissed him again, with that same savage roughness as before, Rhaegar responded with matching intensity—biting and sucking his lips with desperate urgency, as if trying to consume him, as if this kiss alone could quench the strange thirst burning through his veins.
Amidst wet, messy kisses and strangled gasps, Robert began groping him hurriedly and roughly, his large, coarse hands roaming over Rhaegar’s body with obscene urgency. He grabbed the elegant silk shirt, which clung to Rhaegar’s frame in a way Robert found infuriatingly delicate, and ripped it open, popping buttons that clattered softly to the ground, unnoticed in the silence. He pulled the fabric apart, exposing Rhaegar’s pale chest to the chill night air and Robert’s eager touch. His palms roamed over the smooth skin, squeezing and caressing with that consuming blend of hate and desire, relishing the warmth radiating from beneath. His thumbs brushed hard over Rhaegar’s nipples, pinching the sensitive pink buds until Rhaegar let out a muffled moan against his mouth, arching his body forward to seek more contact.
The tension between them was unbearable, heavy with days of repressed emotion, things said and unsaid, and all the conflicting feelings that had tormented them both. Robert ground his hips against Rhaegar’s, their bodies colliding with rough force. He could feel the hardness of them both, their cocks rubbing together—undeniable proof of what was happening, of what their bodies were screaming for, despite everything they believed and everything they had been taught. Without stopping the kiss or his wandering hands, Robert moved quickly to prepare them. He fumbled roughly with Rhaegar’s trousers, yanking them open. One hand cupped Rhaegar’s ass, squeezing the firm cheeks and pulling them apart, while two fingers rubbed against his tight entrance. He could feel the slickness already there, proof of the desire consuming them both, enough for what was coming—something they could no longer stop. While his mouth left a trail of bites and marks along Rhaegar’s neck, his fingers worked to stretch and open him, claiming the body of the man who was now his lover.
When he could wait no longer, when the need became too great to deny, Robert positioned Rhaegar with his back pressed firmly against the wall. Gripping his hips tight, he pushed forward with one heavy, decisive thrust, burying himself deep inside and shattering whatever barrier remained between them. Rhaegar cried out, writhing between broken moans and panting breaths, tears spilling from his eyes. Robert couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear, though he masked it with fierceness.
“Does it hurt, doll?” Robert asked, his voice falsely soft, as if stroking a wild animal he had just tamed. His hand slid down deliberately, large rough fingers tracing the pale skin of Rhaegar’s lower abdomen, feeling the heat radiating from him in the dim light. A wicked smirk spread across Robert’s lips as his fingers brushed against a distinct, strange bulge—the shape of his own cock, deep inside him, pressing outward against the skin. The clarity of it surprised him; it was tangible evidence that he was there, inside him, marking him in a way that could never be erased. But stronger than surprise was the delicious, obscene pleasure that flooded Robert’s mind at realizing his size and strength had left such a visible mark on the Targaryen’s body.
“Rhaegar,” he murmured, speaking the name as if it tasted sweet and bitter all at once, as if saying it meant claiming something that now belonged entirely to him.
“I’m fine…” Rhaegar whispered back softly, his voice breathless, words escaping between swollen, bitten lips. His breathing was ragged, and a faint, betraying smile played on his face—lost in a haze of pleasure, cheeks flushed feverishly hot. That expression deepened when Robert wasted no time and began thrusting again with renewed, savage force. The sound of their sweaty skin slapping together was violent and rhythmic, wet and filthy, echoing through the empty alleyway. Within seconds, Rhaegar had turned into a trembling mess, cries of pleasure and need tearing from his throat uncontrollably, growing louder and more desperate as Robert pushed him to the edge over and over again.
“Quiet down, whore,” Robert muttered low and threateningly against Rhaegar’s ear, hot breath scorching the sensitive skin there. “Or do you want everyone at the party to come out and see me fucking you? Watch you moan like the little bitch you are? Do you want Lyanna to see you like this—spread open and ready just for me?”
“That would turn me on even more,” Rhaegar replied, his voice a rough whisper filled with a raw obscenity that knocked the breath right out of Robert, like a punch to the gut.
That unexpected answer fused Robert’s rage and lust into one explosive force. He dug his fingers harder into Rhaegar’s hips, leaving marks he intended to last forever, and drove deeper, hitting that sensitive spot that made Rhaegar writhe violently against the wall, arching his back as another wave of pleasure crashed through him from head to toe.
“Would it, you damned bastard?” Robert whispered, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and perverse admiration. “You’re dirtier than I thought, aren't you?”
“You’re irresistible. Your ass grips me tighter than any cunt,” Rhaegar breathed, speaking with raw, unfiltered vulgarity—voicing exactly what his body craved despite everything his mind had ever been taught. The words sent a jolt straight through Robert’s instincts. He felt a fresh wave of arousal as his free hand wrapped around Rhaegar’s hard, pulsing cock, gripping it firmly.
Robert couldn't help but notice how well-endowed Rhaegar was. The size surprised him, but instead of provoking jealousy, it drew a low, filthy laugh from his throat—a sound of perverse satisfaction. Keeping the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, Robert began moving his hand up and down Rhaegar’s length, jerking him off with the same rough force he used to fuck him. He felt the skin slide easily beneath his palm as precum began to leak, making the strokes slicker and wetter. It was only a matter of minutes—time that felt like an eternity yet passed in a blink—before Robert felt his hand become completely soaked as Rhaegar cried out, convulsing in overwhelming pleasure as he came hard. At that exact moment, Robert felt his own body tighten to its breaking point, and he spilled his hot, thick seed deep inside the Targaryen, marking him from within.
Robert pulled away with a wet, obscene sound that rang in the silence. He pumped the last of his load over Rhaegar’s ass, staining the pale skin and leaving a visible mark for anyone who might see. Robert’s strong hands caught Rhaegar before he could collapse, a cruel and triumphant grin stretching across his face—the look of a man who had just won a battle he hadn't even known he was fighting.
“Let’s go to my truck,” Robert whispered into Rhaegar’s ear, his voice still rough from exertion and pleasure.
Rhaegar, looking dazed and wearing a foolish, blissful smile, simply nodded, docile as a puppet obeying its master’s command.
With trembling, clumsy hands, they pulled their trousers back up, doing little to restore their previous elegance, and walked toward Robert’s vehicle with unsteady steps, as if their legs could barely hold their weight. Rhaegar climbed awkwardly into the tinted truck. When Robert sat behind the wheel, he pushed the seat back to create more space, then grabbed Rhaegar roughly by the arm and forced him to drop his pants again, exposing him completely once more. Before Rhaegar could react, Robert hauled him onto his lap, freed his cock—which was already hardening again, hungry for more.
“Move. Ride me like you’re riding a horse, whore,” he commanded sharply, voice thick with authority and lust.
Rhaegar offered no resistance, as if those were the only words he wanted to hear. He took Robert’s heavy length in his hands, feeling the heat and hardness of it, and lined it up against his entrance—still tight, sensitive, and slick from what they’d just done. He lowered himself slowly at first, gasping as his body accepted the intrusion once more, stretching to accommodate the size. The feeling of being filled made him close his eyes and sigh in relief.
“Look at you… made for this… made to take me exactly like this,” Robert murmured, his large hands gripping Rhaegar’s hips hard, guiding his movements and setting the pace.
Rhaegar began to move, starting with slow, deep rolls of his hips. But soon, the need for more took over, and he began to bounce—hard, fast, driving himself down until Robert’s cock hit him deep, ensuring every inch was swallowed, leaving nothing out. They lost themselves in the frenzy, amidst wet kisses and sharp bites to lips and necks. Rhaegar cried out loudly as Robert’s mouth moved lower, devouring his nipples, sucking hard and pulling at them with his teeth, sending electric waves of pleasure straight down his spine.
“Robert! Robert!” Rhaegar moaned, sounding exactly like a whore enjoying every second, never breaking the frantic rhythm. His hands clutched desperately at Robert’s broad shoulders for support.
Suddenly, a violent spasm shook Rhaegar’s entire body as he came again, spilling his release all over Robert’s chest and his own skin. At the exact same moment, Robert felt his own climax crash over him, flooding Rhaegar’s insides once more with hot cum, sealing this moment in a way that could never be undone.
Rhaegar’s heart hammered against his ribs, threatening to burst from his chest. He slumped heavily against Robert’s heaving torso, completely spent, trembling in the aftermath of pleasure. His hands shook as they gripped Robert’s shirt. He felt large hands gently stroke his silver hair—a surprisingly tender gesture that contrasted sharply with all the violence and filth of what had just occurred.
“I have to admit… you’ve surprised me, doll,” Robert whispered, his voice low and filled with a confusing mix of emotions he couldn't name.
He shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable, but froze when he looked down. Rhaegar had fallen fast asleep against him, breathing soft and steady against his chest, his face relaxed and stripped of that mask of elegance and distance he always wore. A strange, lopsided smile tugged at Robert’s lips—he wasn't sure if it was satisfaction, confusion, or something else entirely. He let out a heavy sigh, weighed down by everything that had happened, and leaned back against the seat, holding Rhaegar close.
His gaze drifted upward, and he blinked as his eyes landed on the small security camera mounted above the dashboard. A low, wicked chuckle escaped his throat, almost involuntary. Careful not to wake the sleeping man in his arms, Robert leaned forward slightly. With hands still trembling faintly, he reached into his pants—still slung low around his thighs—and retrieved his phone. He opened the app connected to the truck’s security feed, launching it quickly.
Robert’s eyes went wide as the screen lit up. A loud, triumphant laugh bubbled up, which he stifled so as not to wake Rhaegar. Everything. Absolutely everything they had done inside the truck had been recorded. Every movement, every moan, every filthy word was captured in crystal clear video.
“Fuck, Rhaegar…” Robert murmured, glancing from the screen back to the peaceful face resting against him, his voice dripping with dark, dangerous satisfaction.
“Now, you definitely belong to me.”