Who: Robert Baratheon [Narrative] What: 'You were in my dreams' is not something Robert's ever been fond of hearing. When: Thursday Where: Los Angeles Rating: PG Status: Complete
Being told that he'd appeared in somebody's dreams never felt like the compliment it was supposed to be, not to Robert. Not even at the height of his career when the whole world knew his face and there were people left and right falling over themselves to bend backwards just to please him. Although, he'd be lying if he claimed not to have enjoyed taking advantage of all the boot-lickers and accepting the offers they made.
Touch him, claim him, project onto him all your desires - he'll be whatever you want him to be for a night, a week, a month - until you grow tired of loving an illusion and he grows tired of looking into your vacant eyes sitting in your empty face. Scream and shout and cry; sell your story to the tabloids - he won't mind or care. Might even be happy for you that you got something out of this lukewarm affair born from boredom, for that is more substantial than what he's given you (a broken dream).
What people tended to conveniently forget was that Robert Baratheon was nothing like the men he breathed life into on the silver screen. All the words falling from his lips during interviews were sweet poisonous lies. Lying, he was good at. Lying was how he earned his money. So what compelled anyone in their right mind to believe even a single word he said?
When people told him they dreamt about this moment, about meeting him, about how they had seen all his movies and read all the interviews and had posters of him on their walls, he would duck his head and smile, claiming that they were too kind. What he meant was: take your dreams and shove them up your arse. The starry-eyed looks were hard to stomach especially on those days when Robert couldn't stand the sight of himself.
Alcohol helped, as did the drugs and all the countless meaningless encounters between cool sheets, the back of obscenely large cars, and dark alleys. Dulling the senses was the name of the game and so easy to play he'd become an expert at it in no time.
LA by night is as ugly as it is by day. Home to the soulless. The place where dreams come to die and be reborn in the shape of grotesque imitations of their former selves immortalised in light and shadow.
Ned's dreams, Jaime's dreams - Robert doesn't dream. All his dreams are back in England where he's left them when he came to America.