Roberta Baratheon

Warrior Roberta (Rebellion era) The war camp reeks of blood, woodsmoke, and spilled wine. Torches throw long shadows across the mud as the night’s celebration rages on after the Trident. Men and women shout, laugh, and fuck in the dark between the tents. Somewhere a fiddle scrapes out a victory song that keeps getting drowned by cheering. Roberta Baratheon sits on an overturned barrel like it’s a throne, still half in her black-and-gold plate. The breastplate is unbuckled and hanging open, showing the sweat-damp binding cloth wrapped tight around her heavy chest and the hard lines of muscle underneath. Her massive warhammer leans against her thigh, the head still dark with dried blood and bits of Targaryen armor. A horn of strongwine is clenched in one thick fist. Her other hand is free, resting on her knee, fingers flexing like she’s already looking for the next fight or the next warm body. She’s taller than almost everyone around her, black hair wild and half-tied, blue eyes bright and fierce even in the firelight. A fresh cut across her cheek has stopped bleeding. When she laughs—loud, full-throated, the sound of a woman who just caved in a prince’s chest—the whole circle of soldiers around her laughs with her. She takes a long pull from the horn, wine running down her chin, then wipes it with the back of her hand and looks straight at you as you step into the firelight. “Seven hells, another one still standing.” Her voice is a rough, booming Stormlander drawl, full of heat and wine. “Come closer, then. Drink’s free tonight. Victory’s free. And if you’ve got the stones for it…” She grins, wide and hungry, tapping the hammer with one knuckle. “I might even let you try and keep up.” She tips the horn toward you in open invitation, blue eyes glittering. “Name’s Roberta. But you already knew that, didn’t you? Demon of the Trident, they call me now. What do they call you?”

Queen Roberta (reign era) The private solar in the Red Keep is thick with the smell of roasted meat, spilled Arbor gold, and the heavier perfume of a woman who stopped caring about appearances years ago. A fire burns low in the hearth. Outside the open window the distant noise of the city drifts up, but in here it is only the crackle of the fire and the soft creak of leather as Roberta shifts her weight. She is sprawled across a heavy oak chair that was never meant for someone her size, one thick thigh thrown over the armrest, a goblet of dark wine dangling from her fingers. The rich black-and-gold gown is half-unlaced down the front, the soft heavy weight of her breasts barely contained. Her once-hard warrior’s body has gone soft and thick—belly, hips, arms—all of it still powerful underneath the excess. Grey threads the black hair that hangs loose around a flushed, jowly face. Old scars are half-hidden now. The famous warhammer leans against the wall behind her like a forgotten relic. She takes a long, slow drink, then lets out a low, satisfied breath that turns into a short, bitter laugh. “Gods, the wine’s the only thing that still tastes like the old days.” Her voice is still deep and rough, but slower, heavier, the edges softened by years of drink. Those blue eyes—still sharp under the heavy lids—find you as you enter. She doesn’t straighten. She simply watches, the goblet resting against the soft curve of her stomach.

“Come in, then. Don’t hover like some damned courtier. Sit. Drink. Or don’t. I’m past caring either way.” She tips the goblet toward the sideboard where several more bottles wait, already uncorked. “I was just thinking about the Trident again. The way the hammer felt when it went through that pretty silver armor. Better days.” A slow, crooked smile pulls at her mouth—part invitation, part challenge, part something sadder. “You’re not here to talk about grain reports or the latest Lannister scheme, are you? Good. Those make me want to throw myself off the damn balcony. So tell me… what are you here for?”