He only wanted what he wanted.
What was wrong with that?
The past
"Perturabo" disappeared around a corner of the Imperial Palace. Guilliman turned his head and saw Mortarion maintaining their last shred of courtesy. The Barbarus native nodded urgently at him, then turned and strode toward his sons—
Guilliman saw the blasphemous marks upon those Death Guard, as well as the little daemons crouching or standing at the feet and on the shoulders of the Space Marines.
[See you later.]
Guilliman's lips curved happily as he watched Mortarion leave. Then he counted silently in his heart and softly hummed a tune—one Yutton had sung into his ear again and again long ago.
One, two, three... twelve, thirteen.
BOOM!!!!!
The enormous explosion shook the entire Imperial Palace, battering this century-old imperial authority. Billowing smoke rose from a collapsed tower. Guilliman heard people screaming, heard gunfire and the clash of blades.
Listening closely, Guilliman picked out Angron's laughter and Perturabo's roar amid the clamor.
The plan was proceeding smoothly... the garrison stationed in the palace could never resist the combined assault of several Legions.
A magnificent, rebellious, blasphemous war was erupting upon the sacred ground beneath his feet, its target the glittering crown above the Emperor's head—
Roboute Guilliman had prepared for this for a hundred years. The moment he saw that gleaming golden laurel crown amid the Emperor's black hair, he had made a wish to seize it.
Yet the primarch did not seem particularly hurried at the moment.
Roboute waited where he stood for nine minutes. During that time, he did nothing but softly hum a Macragge tune over and over again.
He stood there as warships fell from the sky overhead. Tens of thousands of drop pods tore through the heavens, meeting the defensive stations in Terra's