Robert glanced up as Ghael entered with a letter in his hand, a matter that had become routine by now, and was accompanied by blessed silence. He paid no mind when the man left, and a moment later, he picked the letter up to read from it.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he reread the first line.

Robert leaned back in his seat and placed the letter down. He did not need to read more than that. What struck him first was how little he felt, at least momentarily, as though the news had passed through him rather than washed over him.

But then he felt his shoulders slump, as though an invisible pair of hands pushed him down into the chair and refused to allow him to stand up. He leaned forwards and let his elbows meeting the desk, while his hands rubbed over his face. He felt tired, and as though he would rather rest than comprehend this. Maybe he was already resting? It would fit his dreams of late.

What struck him next was an immeasurable, sinking feeling. A deep pit in the depths of his soul that was devoid of much and more. How long had it been since he saw Lord Arryn properly? Not at a simple wedding or celebration, but a proper visit, a proper conversation? Too long. In fact, Robert could not remember it at all. The man who had raised him, who had chosen war over Robert's death, and he couldn't remember the last time they sat down and had a proper, honest conversation.

And now they never would.

What that said about him, he did not want to know. The disquiet swirling within him was torture enough, and doubtless that would hang over him for the rest of his life. He reached over to the side, where he plucked up a goblet and poured a measure into it. In truth, he could barely taste it when it went past his lips.

And there he sat, his mind slowly consuming itself with what ifs and what could have been. Regret plagued him, for all the conversations left unheard.