Robert Baratheon’s warhammer roared through the air, a thunderous sound that seemed to echo across the battlefield at the Trident. The clash of steel and the cries of men filled the air as Robert’s massive form surged forward, his eyes locked on his quarry. Before him stood Rhaegar Targaryen, the silver-haired prince who had become the symbol of everything Robert despised. This was the moment he had dreamed of, the chance to end the man who had wronged his beloved Lyanna and ignited the fires of rebellion.
The prince, clad in the shining armor of the Targaryen house, moved with a grace that belied his regal appearance. His long hair flowed behind him, a silver banner in the chaos of war. As Robert swung his warhammer with all his might, Rhaegar parried with his sword, a blade that gleamed with a cold, ruthless light. The force of the impact sent a jolt up Robert’s arms, but he pressed on, driven by a mixture of rage and determination.
But even as Robert's focus remained fixed on Rhaegar, another figure emerged from the fray. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, his armor adorned with the emblem of the Kingsguard, intervened with a speed that seemed almost supernatural. Dayne’s blade was a blur of motion, intercepting Robert’s hammer with an ease that spoke of both skill and experience. The two men locked eyes, the weight of their histories and reputations hanging heavy in the space between them.
“Baratheon!” Dayne’s voice cut through the din, a challenging bark that matched the intensity of his strikes. “You will not have the prince today.”
Robert grunted, forcing his warhammer to connect with Dayne’s sword. The clash of metal rang out with a sharp, resounding clang, the shockwaves of their battle sending ripples through the surrounding combatants. Dayne’s movements were fluid and precise, each strike calculated to keep Robert on the defensive. Despite the brutal force behind Robert’s attacks, Dayne countered with a deadly elegance that seemed almost effortless.
The fight was brutal, an intricate dance of aggression and defense. Robert’s swings were heavy and powerful, each one fueled by the anger and betrayal that had driven him to this moment. Dayne, in turn, moved with the grace of a dancer, his blade deflecting Robert’s attacks with a finesse that was almost mesmerizing. The two warriors clashed and countered, their weapons singing a grim symphony of war.
As the battle between Robert and Dayne raged on, Robert began to feel a strange, throbbing pain in his side. It started as a dull ache, barely noticeable over the roar of the fight and the adrenaline surging through his veins. But as he continued to exchange blows with Dayne, the pain intensified, growing sharper with each passing moment. Robert’s breath came in ragged gasps, his movements growing more erratic as he tried to push through the discomfort.
The pain became more pronounced, a relentless ache that seemed to radiate from his abdomen. Robert’s vision began to blur, the edges of his sight darkening as if the world were slowly being swallowed by shadows. He tried to turn his head, to see what was causing this sudden and intense suffering, but the weight of his armor and the ferocity of his fight with Dayne made movement difficult.
Then, amidst the chaos of the battle, Robert saw him—Rhaegar Targaryen, his silver hair gleaming like a beacon in the tumult. The prince’s eyes were cold and unfeeling, a stark contrast to the fiery rage that had driven Robert to this confrontation. Rhaegar stood behind Robert, his presence a silent promise of the betrayal that was about to unfold.
Robert’s heart sank as he realized what was happening. The pain in his side flared to excruciating heights as he felt a sudden and sharp sensation. The prince’s expression remained impassive, a mask of icy detachment as he delivered the decisive blow. The shock of the wound caused Robert to stumble, his body betraying him as he tried to make sense of the betrayal. His strength faltered, the weight of his armor suddenly feeling like an anchor dragging him down. The world seemed to tilt and spin, the sounds of battle fading into a distant murmur as darkness began to close in.
Robert turned his head, his vision narrowing as he saw Rhaegar standing behind him, the prince’s gaze unwavering. Robert tried to lift his warhammer, to continue the fight, but his limbs felt leaden and unresponsive. The pain was overwhelming, a relentless torrent that surged through him with each heartbeat.
The world around Robert began to dissolve, the battlefield and the combatants fading into a blur of motion and sound. The icy river of the Trident loomed before him, its waters rushing and churning with a cruel indifference. Robert’s vision grew darker, the edges of his sight blurring as he fell, his body collapsing forward into the river’s embrace.
The cold water engulfed him, a merciless contrast to the heat of battle that had consumed him moments before. The river’s current tugged at his body, dragging him further from the world of combat and glory. The icy grip of the Trident was a harsh reminder of his impending fate, the water’s chill seeping into his bones as he sank deeper.
Robert’s face met the water with a splutter, the river’s surface closing over him as he descended into the depths. The battle sounds were a distant echo, the roar of combat fading into a haunting silence. His mind was a whirl of confusion and pain, the betrayal and anger that had driven him now mingling with the icy embrace of the river.
As the darkness closed in around him, Robert’s thoughts were a tumultuous storm. Memories of Lyanna, the dreams of vengeance, and the hopes for a future that would never come—all swirled together in a chaotic haze. The river’s current pulled him deeper, the icy waters a stark reminder of the life and battles he was leaving behind. The Trident’s waters enveloped him, and as his consciousness slipped away, the last thing Robert Baratheon felt was the cold, unforgiving embrace of the river that had claimed him.
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Robert Baratheon gasped as consciousness returned, his lungs burning as they struggled to expel the water that had filled them. He coughed violently, spitting out blood and river water, the taste of iron and mud clinging to his tongue. His body ached, and his head throbbed, but he was alive. The memory of the fight with Rhaegar Targaryen and Arthur Dayne flashed through his mind, followed by the searing pain of the sword that had pierced his side. Yet, as he blinked and looked around, the world was eerily still.
The sounds of battle, the clang of steel on steel, the cries of the dying—all were gone. The river, once choked with the bodies of men and horses, now flowed clear and untroubled, as if no war had ever been fought here. The only sound was the gentle rush of water and the distant call of a bird.
Robert pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky beneath him. The river water clung to his clothes and armor, making him feel heavy and sluggish. He staggered a few steps, his boots sinking into the soft mud of the riverbank. He looked down at his body, expecting to see the wound that had felled him, but there was nothing. His stomach was unmarked, his skin whole. He was certain he had been stabbed—Rhaegar’s sword had run him through, yet there was no sign of injury.
“What in the seven hells…” Robert muttered, his voice hoarse from the water he had inhaled. He touched his abdomen, feeling the solid muscle beneath his hand. There was no blood, no pain, nothing to indicate that he had been mortally wounded just moments ago.
His eyes narrowed as he surveyed his surroundings. This was the Trident, he was sure of it. The same river where he had faced Rhaegar and Dayne, where the rebellion had come to its bloody climax. But something was wrong—terribly wrong. There was no sign of the battle, no bodies, no broken weapons. The land around him was untouched, as if the clash that had determined the fate of the Seven Kingdoms had never happened.
Cautious now, Robert waded back into the river, his eyes scanning the water for any sign of his warhammer. The weapon had been with him when he fell—he was sure of it. He took slow, deliberate steps, feeling the riverbed with his boots until his foot struck something solid. Bending down, he plunged his hand into the water and grasped the familiar handle. With a grunt, he pulled the warhammer from the river’s depths, the heavy weapon rising up in his hand as if it had never left him.
He turned the warhammer over, examining it closely. It was the same weapon he had wielded in the battle, the same one that had shattered Rhaegar’s armor. There were no signs of damage, no rust from its time in the water. It was as if the river had preserved it, untouched by time.
“Strange,” Robert murmured, hefting the warhammer onto his shoulder. His instincts, honed by years of battle, told him to be on guard. Something was not right here. He wasn’t a religious man, and he didn’t put much stock in old tales of gods and magic, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something beyond his understanding was at work.
Looking around once more, Robert tried to orient himself. The land seemed familiar, yet different. The trees were taller, the undergrowth thicker, as if untouched by the march of armies. He could still hear the river behind him, its gentle flow a far cry from the battlefield it had once been.
Determined to find out what had happened, Robert began to walk, his warhammer in hand. He needed answers, and the best place to find them was a settlement. There had to be people nearby—farmers, villagers, someone who could tell him where he was and what had happened.
It didn’t take long for Robert to find a small village nestled in the valley beyond the river. The houses were simple, thatched-roof cottages with smoke rising from the chimneys. Chickens scratched in the dirt, and children played in the streets. It was a peaceful scene, a far cry from the war-torn land he had expected.
Robert approached the village cautiously, his presence drawing the attention of the villagers. They looked at him with wide eyes, whispering to one another as he strode into the center of the settlement. A few of the braver men stepped forward, their eyes flicking nervously to the massive warhammer resting on his shoulder.
“Who’s in charge here?” Robert demanded, his voice gruff and authoritative. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries—he needed information, and he needed it now.
An older man stepped forward, his weathered face etched with lines of age and worry. He wore simple clothes, but there was an air of authority about him that marked him as the village leader.
“That would be me, m’lord,” the man said, bowing slightly. “Name’s Harwin. What brings you to our village?”
“Where am I?” Robert asked, cutting straight to the point. “And what do you know of the rebellion?”
The villagers exchanged confused glances, their brows furrowing in puzzlement. Harwin cleared his throat, his eyes flicking nervously to Robert’s warhammer.
“Rebellion, m’lord?” Harwin asked, his voice cautious. “I don’t know of any rebellion.”
Robert frowned, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve never heard of Robert’s Rebellion? The fight against the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen? The Battle of the Trident?”
The villagers shook their heads, murmuring among themselves. Harwin looked genuinely baffled.
“No, m’lord,” he said slowly. “There’s been no rebellion here. The only king we know is King Viserys, may he reign long. And Prince Daemon, of course. The Queen, too—Queen Aemma Arryn. But no rebellion.”
Robert’s frown deepened. King Viserys? Prince Daemon? Queen Aemma Arryn? These were names from history, long before his time. Jon Arryn had taught him well, drilling the names of kings and queens into his head, but these names belonged to the era of the Dance of the Dragons, a time when Targaryens had fought one another in a bloody civil war.
“How… how long has Viserys been king?” Robert asked, his voice low and controlled, though he could feel a growing sense of unease gnawing at him.
Harwin looked at him as if he’d asked the most obvious question in the world. “Why, it’s been some years now, m’lord. Viserys the First, long may he reign. There’s been peace in the realm, save for some trouble between the prince and his brother.”
Robert took a step back, his mind racing. This couldn’t be right. He knew the history—Viserys I Targaryen had ruled nearly two centuries before his own time. The Dance of the Dragons had been a brutal conflict that had torn the realm apart and marked the beginning of the end for the Targaryen dynasty. If these people were speaking of Viserys as if he were their current king…
He was in the past.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. Somehow, impossibly, he had been transported back in time—back to an era when the Targaryens still ruled with dragons and the Seven Kingdoms were whole. The rebellion, his fight with Rhaegar, all of it was in the future. But how? How could this have happened?
Robert clenched his fists, struggling to make sense of it all. He wasn’t a man given to flights of fancy, and he didn’t believe in magic, but there was no denying what was right in front of him. He was in a time where the names of Viserys and Daemon still held sway, where the Dance of the Dragons had yet to fully play out.
“What year is it?” Robert asked, his voice tight.
Harwin gave him a puzzled look. “It’s the year 110 after Aegon’s Conquest, m’lord. Though… are you quite well? You seem troubled.
“110 AC,” Robert repeated under his breath. That confirmed it. He was in the time of the Dance of the Dragons, nearly two hundred years before his own birth.
This was a dangerous time, a time when the realm was on the brink of civil war. The Targaryen dynasty, though powerful, was divided. The peace Harwin spoke of was fragile, and Robert knew that soon, blood would be spilled as rival factions fought for the Iron Throne.
He needed to think, to figure out what to do next. The implications of his presence here were staggering. If he had truly been sent back in time, then his knowledge of future events could be a powerful weapon—or a deadly curse.
But first, he needed more information. He couldn’t afford to act blindly in a world that was both familiar and foreign to him. He needed to learn about this time, its people, and its politics. Only then could he decide his next move.
“Thank you for the information,” Robert said, his voice gruff. He forced himself to relax, though his mind was still racing. “I’ll be on my way now.”
Harwin nodded, though he still looked concerned. “Safe travels, m’lord. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Robert gave a curt nod and turned away, his warhammer still resting on his shoulder