Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Daenerys was out on a hunt with her dragons when the Martells arrived at Dragonstone.

Arianne Martell had a curious aura to her, all sneaky smiles and eyes that flitted from one person to another as if she was gauging them for what their secrets were worth. With silks befitting a princess and a guard of almost a dozen men flanking her, her presence was difficult to ignore. In a matter of hours, the Dornish made Dragonstone their own, settling in with far more ease than Robb’s entourage had. With the way they acted, it was like the castle belonged to them.

He first met her on his way to dinner, with Rodrik and Olyvar debating the merits of different battle horses on either side of him. While the squire favored a destrier, the lordling made a case for some other type of warhorse, though Robb couldn’t be bothered to join in the debate.

A horse was a horse as far as he was concerned, and he had a tendency to get attached to them regardless of any skills seasoned horseriders looked for when purchasing their steeds for battle.

Smirking as she passed him in the hall, Arianne’s black hair swung behind her with each step she took, and her skirts seemed to flow underneath her as if they were flames licking at the ground beneath her. Though he had never seen a viper before, he wagered that it would probably move as the princess did. 

“King Stark,” she acknowledged with a nod of her head though she didn’t stop to exchange pleasantries.

She strode forward with intention as if he was dirt on the ground and she was the highborn who had the misfortune of stepping in it. She put on airs, that was for certain, acting like she had an audience cheering her on for her every move. He barely had time to stumble over a response when she rounded the corner confidently, two armored men following closely behind her.

“That’s the princess of Dorne?” Rodrik’s voice was hoarse, as if he didn’t already have a girl of his own waiting for him to come back from the war so they could be wed. From what Robb knew of the betrothal, theirs was a love match. “She’s a bloody vision.”

“Easy now,” Robb cautioned his friend with a rough clap to his shoulder, jesting with him lightly though he knew good and well where his loyalties were. Forresters were unfailingly loyal, even in the worst of circumstances. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of switching sides.”

“Now that you mention it…” Rodrik started with a wry look before the trio dissolved into laughter, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the hallway.

He had nicked some miniature sponge cakes from the kitchens, much like he and his siblings used to do as young children, though it didn’t quite hold the same excitement for him now that it did then without the everpresent threat of getting caught. They were too stale for him to fully enjoy and so he found himself tossing them into the air for Grey Wind, whooping each time the direwolf caught one in his mouth with a satisfying chomp.

Was it pitiful that this was the only way he could manage to amuse himself?

As he tossed the fifth cake into Grey Wind’s mouth, he heard a throat clear behind him.

Robb stiffened, a little embarrassed to be caught mucking around. If it was one of his companions, they would likely just mock him for a couple hours and be done with it, but he doubted that Tyrion Lannister would let him live it down if he happened to be the one who intruded upon Robb. He'd likely have to bribe the man for his silence unless he wanted half a dozen bards singing songs of the Sponge King from the North.

He turned around sheepishly and felt a flush creep at the back of his neck at the sight of Daenerys standing before him, merriment coloring her features. Despite the entertainment she was taking at Robb’s expense, she stepped forward hesitantly. Her eyes were locked on Grey Wind munching on his prize as if fascinated by the sight of a wolf that large.

She hadn't displayed such hesitance when she first met him in the throne room, though Robb supposed she might have been putting on a brave face for him as he had when one of her dragons swooped over him as if it meant to pluck him from the ground on his way up to the castle.

“Are you afraid?” He teased her, grinning now that the power dynamic had shifted somewhat.

Daenerys shot him an unimpressed look and as if motivated purely by spite and a determination to prove him wrong, she marched forward and knelt on the ground beside the direwolf. She didn't seem to know what to do then, likely never having even interacted with a dog during her time at Essos. She must have seen a hound of some breed before, right?

For a woman who rode dragons as if she had no fear that the slightest jostle could throw her hundreds of feet to the ground, she seemed to be taking her sweet time in approaching a mere wolf, her fingers flexing at her side as if she was deciding on whether or not to chance touching him.

“Go ahead,” he said, addressing Grey Wind more than Daenerys, and the wolf leaned over the slightest bit to sniff at the Dragon Queen’s face. He had never misbehaved in a dangerous sense before, so Robb didn't see the harm in his wolf familiarizing himself with her scent. He only acted in the face of certain danger, and Daenerys had made herself more vulnerable than ever by even approaching the wolf in the first place. If that wasn't trust, he wasn't sure what was.

She inhaled sharply at the proximity that they shared, closing her eyes briefly when Grey Wind’s wet nose brushed across her cheek.

Robb crouched beside her then in an act that he hoped would bring her some comfort that he wouldn’t let his furry friend make a meal of her. He repressed the urge to reach out to calm her with his touch, instead letting their shoulders brush in a way that was almost excruciating to feel, not that she took notice of his turmoil. She likely didn't know how deeply every look they shared seemed to cut him.

She shot him a grateful look when Grey Wind all but ignored her in favor of practically mauling Robb with excitement.

On the battlefield, the direwolf was as deadly as they came, but off it he still acted like the pup Robb found at the clearing as a boy of sixteen. He couldn’t help but laugh aloud as he fell back into the sand, pieces of it getting caught in between his hair and into his tunic, his direwolf slurping at his face as if he hadn’t been paid proper attention in years, the massive liar. He was spoiled off all the attention Robb had given him but had the gall to pretend he had been neglected.

When Robb glanced at Daenerys in between wheezes of surprised laughter, Grey Wind still nipping at his face like a true fiend, practically coating his face with slobber. Though the saliva probably made for a rather unattractive sight, he found that he didn’t mind it as soon as he caught her eye.

They were alight with amusement, the corners of her lips upturned as if the action had absolutely endeared him to her. She held his gaze as if daring him to break it himself, something palpable sparking between them, something that he couldn't write off as imagined or a product of his own wishful thinking. He felt tethered to her, unable to look away even if he wanted to. She could thaw through his heart with naught but a smile, which was equally torturous as it was relieving. 

In a strange sense, he felt a kinship to her and her dragons; everyone seemed to fear Grey Wind to some extent -even his own mother- but him.

Fire-breathing dragons likely had a disposition that only a mother could love.

There was something else in her expression though, an unmistakable affection that swirled around the blues and violets of her eyes; she looked at him as if he alone had commanded the sun to rise in the morn and set in the afternoon.  Like he could mean something to her.

Once he pushed himself back up, his direwolf ran towards the sea like the little idiot he was, and whatever Robb thought he saw in her eyes was long gone.

“You’ve always followed her then?” Robb asked, looking out over the ramparts as he spoke. He was awaiting entry into the tower so that they could get whatever meeting Tyrion had conceived for them out of the way. Missandei delivered the formal missive to him herself, and though his second week was coming to an end, he still felt as though he had just arrived here. Hot anxiety burst inside of him at the thought of returning to Riverrun empty-handed and being forced to tell his men that he had wasted their time and resources in entertaining an alliance that would never come to fruition. Worse yet, that he had made an enemy.

“Only since Astapor, Your Grace,” she responded courteously, offering Robb the smallest of smiles as she looked out at the setting sun. It seemed that there was something on her mind, but she didn’t seem to be the type of person to voice it aloud to a stranger. In a strange sense, she reminded him of his eldest sister. “Though I suppose that was quite some time ago now. I don’t know where I would be without her.”

Her love for her queen didn’t seem to ring false, but he had to wonder what Daenerys could have possibly done to inspire such loyalty among so many non-Westerosi. It couldn’t be her name, and she didn’t seem to have bought their services based on what he had found out from her and her servants. They spoke about her as if she was a goddess come to life rather than a mortal queen that they hoped to instill on a throne… perhaps it was just the dragons.

She turned to him with a knowing look on her face as if he had voiced his train of thought aloud. “All of us who came with her from Essos, we believe in her. It may be difficult for an outsider to understand, but she is the queen we chose. I would choose none other than Daenerys Stormborn until the end of my days.”

“Why?” He couldn’t help but ask the question that had been weighing on him since the first night that Daenerys truly felt like a friend to him rather than a grudging ally-to-be. Mayhaps if he knew what drew so many men and women to the queen, he would be able to make sense of his own pull towards her.

“Those who were with her from the beginning saw firsthand her journey as their Khaleesi. Everyone expected her to crumble with Khal Drogo’s death,” Missandei spoke slowly as if she was an oracle telling a legend from the storybooks. “Instead she rose from his funeral pyre, unburnt, with three dragons at her side. Those who followed her saw her for her strength and passion, and they were willing to die in her service simply because of their love for her. It was unconditional. Many died for her, starved for her... they saw her at her weakest and they saw her at her most powerful, as have I.”

“She took Qarth for its wealth and liberated Astapor for justice. She could have ordered the Unsullied to follow her as their new master, as was her right, but she cast their whip aside and offered them a choice. She offered us all a choice,” Missandei paused. “No one had ever done that for any of us before, least of all someone so magical as Queen Daenerys. Dragons were revived simply because she willed them to be. We were free simply because she willed us to be.”

“So you think her to be some sort of god?” Robb frowned, wondering if zealotry was the true reason for why she had gained such traction as a leader. It wouldn’t come as a surprise after all he had heard about Stannis Baratheon’s red woman and all the horror she caused. What good had the dark arts served him when Daenerys and her dragons came after him? The blood relation they supposedly shared was so minuscule that it could hardly be considered kinslaying, though Robb had to wonder how long a siege could have possibly taken with the skewed odds of the battle. It likely took less than a day's time.

He supposed it didn't matter anymore seeing that Stannis Baratheon was dead now. 

“Some think of her as a prophet,” Missandei admitted as if it was a subject she would rather not speak about. “Others see her as a savior, as a mother, an idol. Her rule of Meereen was… tenuous,” Robb recalled Daenerys saying something similarly vague to him the first night that they supped together, something about harpies with golden masks staging an assassination attempt on her. She had enthusiastically confided in him her plans to cultivate ties with the two regions, and to break the wheel of rule in order to bring prosperity and peace to all.

It was a respectable dream, though Robb couldn’t be sure how realistic it was.

“But our support for her has never wavered,” she continued with a proud smile. “We follow her out of the love we bear her, and the Dothraki follow her for her strength. I’m sure that it isn’t much different for the Westerosi when the time comes to choose kings, is it, Your Grace?”

Robb opened his mouth to respond when the door burst open, Tyrion Lannister standing at the entrance expectantly.

“The King in the North!” He announced jovially as if he had been drinking rather than discussing diplomacy in the room. “Whenever you’re ready.”

A doctrine listing Daenerys Targaryen’s terms was placed in front of him as soon as he sat at the table in Tyrion’s quarters. There was a slight draft in the room but otherwise wasn’t the worst place to be; after years on end from one tent to another, luxury was hardly his greatest concern.

He braced himself for what was to come as he struggled not to squirm in the uncomfortable wooden seat that creaked underneath his weight. He loathed politics and as fond as he had grown of Daenerys, he would not betray the North for her. He had proclaimed that they would be an independent kingdom to all his bannermen and in doing so, had taken on the duties that came with leading them into battle and keeping them fighting for him there for nearly five years.

His passing fancies would not influence his decision.

Robb recalled his sister’s sad voice chiming in his ear, just wanting to see him smile for true- what would make you happy, Robb?

Even with her queenly front on, his heart lurched at the twinkle in Daenerys’ eyes. Her smile tormented him in his dreams, in his mind, and in his heart simultaneously. He wanted nothing but to make her smile, though he couldn’t admit such a thing aloud on account of his station.

It was madness, to feel such passion for a woman he had known for scarce but half a moon, but preventing it seemed impossible now.

He had never felt so close to anyone as he did when Daenerys would lock eyes with him in meetings and meals alike, offering him a humorous little smile as if she was as tired of all of the pomp and circumstance as he was. Deep within their souls, it felt like they were one in the same.

Tyrion had already begun speaking by the time he had a mind to pay attention to the conversation. “-the terms of which are in your favor, though for the sake of transparency, I have to warn you-”

Gods, this was just a massive waste of time, wasn’t it?

He cut Tyrion off abruptly in an effort to just save them the trouble of drawing out this conversation any longer than it had to be. “I won’t bend the knee.”

Daenerys leaned back in her chair, lips pursed, though she didn’t seem half as surprised as her Hand of the Queen did. Tyrion’s eyebrows shot upwards as if he thought Robb was the stupidest man on the planet, and perhaps he was— but he would not bend unless there was no other option.

“Of course not,” she replied dryly, sounding more than just a bit put out. The sound of what almost resembled bitterness from her lips was entirely unfamiliar to his ears. “I’ll admit, Lord Tyrion, you may have had a point about Northern men and their pride. Perhaps I gave him too much credit.”

He reeled at her words, a bit indignant at the dismissal of his position as a matter of pride. Surely she knew him better than that, didn’t she?

Did she truly think this was a matter of his pride? That he was refraining from swearing himself to her as a matter of stubbornness and not for the country rallying behind him? 

“He’s just like his father in that regard, I’m afraid,” Tyrion Lannister’s eyes danced with mirth but he had the decency not to smirk openly at him, though that did little to stop Robb’s temper from flaring. “All honor and no sense of self-preservation. Or sense, for that matter.”

Grey Worm scoffed from his spot as the pair’s only guard for the evening, though he had no way of understanding the meaning of the dig at Robb's late father. Not when ‘Eddard Stark’ was a name that seemed to be all but forgotten in the war for the Iron Throne.

Who was he to make light of a man he had never known?

“Mind your tongue, Lannister,” Robb snarled, so low that it was a wonder that he could even hear him at all. Tyrion blinked, opening his mouth to respond but thinking better of it. The Hand looked to his queen, who folded her hands in front of her on the table, looking at Robb as if she hadn’t spent the better part of the past two weeks attempting to get closer to him. As if she hadn't spent days on end opening her heart to him and encouraging him to do the same.

“You will address my Hand with respect, King Stark,” Daenerys snapped at him, her gaze detached in a way completely foreign to how she had been looking at him just moments prior. Had he done something to anger her? What prompted her sudden hostility toward him? 

“It’s King Stark now?” Robb bit back venomously without thinking it all the way through and caught himself just as the last word left his mouth. Daenerys arched a brow while Tyrion cocked his head with confusion, eyes flicking between the pair of them with skepticism, as if he had figured out the depth of Robb’s fondness for her. As if he didn’t know it for himself. “What is it that your Hand meant then, Queen Targaryen? Surely he wasn’t referring to my late father earlier?”

“I meant no disrespect,” Tyrion responded diplomatically, dodging the consequences of making such an insult with all the tact of a garden snake lurking through the grass. Was it all just a grand joke to him? “My apologies if it came off the wrong way.”

“As it still stands, we need to come to an understanding,” Daenerys shifted the subject back to their alliance artfully, her coldness ever-present for reasons he couldn't begin to understand. “I would have you bend the knee, and you still refuse to do so. I am no Joffrey Baratheon, Your Grace, but I cannot allow the Seven Kingdoms to dissolve. You say that you want peace for the realm as much as I do. What it is that prevents you from swearing yourself to me, if not your pride?”

“Over my stay here, I’ve come to respect you as a leader in your own right,” he phrased himself as carefully as he could, not wanting anything to get misconstrued in his denial of her request. “I would gladly support your claim to the Iron Throne, Your Grace, but I cannot subject the North to another Southron overlord.”

“The North chose me as your people have chosen you,” Robb asserted, his voice as impassioned as it had been the night that the Lannister representative had come to hear his terms of peace, back when the war had first begun. He hadn't been fighting for five years to sacrifice the North's integrity now. “I ask that you respect that choice to remain as an independent kingdom. Winter will come soon, and you will need the North’s support if you hope to survive it. We remember, Your Grace” 

“Ah, the famous words,” Tyrion clicked his tongue impishly. “The North remembers.”

“Aye,” Robb tried not to let his temper get the better of him, no matter how irritating his company happened to be. Daenerys sighed, deeply disappointed in the turn the conversation had taken. She made a face as if she couldn’t care less about secondary house words. It was unsurprising, considering she had never lived through a winter before. She didn't know the meaning behind the words, even at a surface level. “We do.”

“Then surely they remember what happened the last time a Targaryen brought dragons northward,” Tyrion bit back with the same argument Daenerys had presented Robb with days ago, though he seemed more pleading now that he was actually saying the words out loud. “I am begging you to reconsider, Your Grace. Bend the knee and unite the Seven Kingdoms once more, under a good and just queen. You said that all you wanted for Westeros was a worthy leader. She is sitting before you, right now. Just bend the knee, Your Grace, and be done with it.”

If Robb did it, surely Theon would follow. Being a warden would be a blow to his pride for certain, but that wasn’t why he was so staunchly refusing to entertain the idea. The North was not a token to be passed around or bartered with. It was what his men and women had bled for, for years on end.

They would never accept a Southroner’s rule, least of all a Targaryen after what her father and brother had done to their liege lord's family. He couldn’t just hand his home over to another, even if they were the worthiest ruler there was; it was about more than just him, and Daenerys Targaryen, and Tyrion Lannister, and any lord or lady who meant to subjugate the North.

It was about the smallfolk and the farmers, and the highborn maids waiting for their fathers to return from the war, and the lowborn girls who tended their family's fields and farms in their husbands' absences, and the youth who chased each other through the winter town whenever it snowed, and the elders telling tales of the winters past. They were the very heart of the North. 

As he had thought many a time since arriving at Dragonstone, the North was not his to give.

Steeling his gaze, Robb pushed the unsigned doctrine to the other side of the table. “I cannot.”

“Your Grace,” Robb called out as soon as he crossed the threshold into the dim stone hall, looking around him frantically in search of Daenerys before she could disappear back into her chambers. He caught sight of her fine silver hair rounding the corner, three of her companions halting at the sound of his voice.

They stared at him with owlish eyes as if they had no clue whether to address or ignore him now that he was taking some initiative. 

Daenerys sighed, long and deep, as if the mere thought of entertaining a conversation with him was exhausting. He felt put out at the clear picture of annoyance on her face, unsure as to how to proceed now that he had her attention, however impatient she seemed about it. “What is it?”

Robb’s mouth suddenly felt dry, as if every word he had ever spoken before in his life was a foreign tongue to him now. She raised an expectant brow, making no move to cross the distance between them and all her maids flanking her with all the devotion of trained guards.

“If I’ve done something to offend you-” He started uncertainly, voice embarrassingly hoarse from disuse when he spoke.

“You haven’t.” Her response was as curt as it was piercing, her eyes revealing nothing about how she felt. She remained, however, where she could have simply spun on her feet and left. If she truly wanted nothing to do with him, there was nothing stopping her from leaving him to his thoughts.

He strode forward, paying the small gasp Irri let out no mind when he faced Daenerys Targaryen, not a king before a rival queen, but a man before someone he cared for dearly, no matter how ill-advised his infatuation with her was. He couldn't help his feelings any more than she could help her apparent anger with him.

“I bid you to let me know if I have, Your Grace.” He paused the words just on the tip of his tongue, a bit too bold and yet, not enough to convey just how ardently he felt. “My heart would die to lose your confidence now.”

Daenerys’ jaw slackened somewhat at his turn of phrase, though she maintained her cool façade otherwise, stepping forward to match his intensity. Were they still playing this game of challenges and power?

Her eyes flitted down to his lips and back up, so quickly that he wasn’t entirely sure that it had happened at all.

“You presume too much,” she murmured, so close that he could see the very flecks of purple dancing in her eyes. The corners of her lips tilted upward for a moment —a moment too long and too short, all at once— before she backed away, turning away from him resolutely. “Your Grace.”

She didn’t look back at him as she left.

Midway through his nineteenth day at Dragonstone, another war council was called, seemingly of the utmost importance. He had been sparring with Olyvar on the beach when Rakharo approached him with a grim expression on his face and indifference in his tone. Khaleesi urges you to come, he had grunted as if Robb was the last person that he wanted to waste his time speaking to. It was disappointing, considering Robb's awe at the man's weaponry and build.

He appraised the short-haired man with interest, smirking at the sight of his crescent-shaped weapon -the history books had gotten something right, after all- trying to get a sense of the man’s outfit. Was he not cold in his rags, likely made from leathers and the flimsiest wool he had ever seen in his life?

Perhaps if they managed to form an alliance through all of this, he could use furs as a bartering tool; winter was coming, after all, and the cold would come with it.

When Robb’s companions filed into the room behind him, the meeting was already underway, though the Princess of Dorne was noticeably absent. Unlike his comrades who began speculating why she might not be there amongst themselves, Robb dismissed their conspiracies immediately. Arianne Martell was the kind of woman who relished in taking her sweet time to get from one location to the next, reveling in keeping people waiting.

Varys was standing at the forefront of the room —because of course he was— with Daenerys speaking with her audience in an urgent tone.

She was at the head of the table clad in her queenly regalia, and both of her hands rested on the cool stone of the painted war map as if she couldn’t bear the stress of whatever situation was being spoken about.

The room was more scattered than it had been in the meetings prior to this, a few gaps on the sidelines where some of her advisors and allies had failed to make an entrance yet. Most of Arianne Martell’s entourage was present, though her Kingsguard companion and one of the Sand Snakes had yet to make an appearance; all the queen’s counselors were there, though some had broken off into their own conversations as if the woman they served wasn’t addressing the room.

Although Daenerys hadn’t sent for him since their failed negotiations a few days prior, he longed to reach out to her and see what it was that was ailing her so dearly. If it was something that he did on the day they spent at the beach, he would prefer to know it rather than play at her mind games.

“My Lord,” Varys called as if Robb’s presence was all that he was waiting for, calling him by the wrong title undoubtedly to curry favor with his queen. “It’s good to see you here. There have been rather… grievous tidings from the west that would benefit from your expertise.”

Robb furrowed his brows, mind immediately jumping to the worst things that could have happened. Was Edmure dead? Riverrun ambushed in the night? More of the west flayed to the bone by Roose Bolton's rabid army? Each thought made him dread whatever was about to be said. “What is it?”

“We were discussing Roose Bolton’s forces in the West,” Daenerys filled in the blanks after a quick glance at her Hand, who was off to the side arguing in hushed whispers with Ser Barristan as if it were a matter of life or death. “They’ve become a threat to the stability of the realm.”

“You don’t say,” Robb responded flatly, his anger at being shunned manifesting in sarcasm. It was all he had been saying for the past few weeks but now it mattered. Now it was a threat to the stability of the realm.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes at him but continued speaking nonetheless, her tone as unfazed as it was before his commentary. “They’ve been pillaging the Westerlands and flaying the smallfolk despite their presumed alliance with the Lannisters, according to Lord Varys’ reports. If they're truly acting without reason, it's well past time that we reevaluate our approach to dealing with them. We cannot risk the possibility of underestimating an enemy.”

“I’m of the mind that we should deal with them swiftly,” Tyrion gave his input as if he had been listening raptly the entire time, cutting Barristan Selmy off mid-sentence. “We root them out and dispose of them before they prove to be a problem. It will undoubtedly sway the westermen to your cause, especially with my father’s inaction. They’ve all but abandoned the west in favor of holding the capital, my queen. They're as vulnerable as ever.”

“Why would Tywin Lannister allow his own ally to ravage his land?” Ser Barristan cut in, grinding his teeth in an indication that this was what the root of his quarrel with Tyrion was about. “Think about it, Your Grace. They want to turn our attention to the west so that they can ambush us. It's a tactic as old as time. They’ll catch us by surprise and deplete our forces before we can take the capital.”

“Selmy is right,” Grey Worm agreed with the man gruffly. “It’s a trap for certain, Queen Daenerys.”

“We haven’t heard from the capital in moons on end, Your Grace,” Tyrion murmured as if speaking just to Daenerys, whose impassive expression gave nothing away as to which direction she was leaning toward. “My father’s influence is weak. This isn’t a plot, I’m sure of it. This is our chance to overwhelm his forces and take the Westerlands back. They won't have any choice but to support your claim once you've freed them from the monsters occupying their land.”

“Your father is notorious for his tactical brilliance-” Ser Barristan cut in, bewildered by Tyrion’s dismissal of the very thought that Tywin Lannister was just biding his time in King’s Landing. Even Robb had to grant that it seemed an unlikely option.

“My father has lost every battle against a man of twenty and two,” Tyrion gestured to Robb as if he were nothing but a pawn in a discussion that would involve his own men if Roose Bolton managed to cross the border into the Riverlands. “His mind isn’t what it once was. This is an opportunity, my queen.”

“Your Grace,” the knight pled with Daenerys. “Do not underestimate him. It is a sure way to ensure that we lose footing in the battles to come. We cannot risk it.”

Tyrion met his eyes across the table. Robb nodded in kind, seemingly the only person here save for the Dornish who thought that putting the madmen westward down was a good idea. Though it might come at a cost to Daenerys if treachery was involved, it would save his own men and the rivermen from the slaughter that would ensue if the Boltons attempted a siege of Riverrun. Nevertheless, the Boltons were unstable— leaving them alive would only greaten the risk of them destroying Westeros.

If she hoped for the Riverlords to swear fealty to her at the end of this, they were as much her problem as they were his. 

Tyrion licked his lips, setting his shoulders back as if knowing that he had support emboldened him somewhat. He didn’t get the chance to speak however, as Jorah Mormont cut in next, only having eyes for Daenerys as per usual. “What do you mean to do, Khaleesi?”

She didn’t look up from the war table when she shook her head. “Nothing.”

He felt Dacey flinch behind him where the rest of his men seemed to stiffen in their spots. Robb’s heart dropped to the very bottom of his stomach at the adamant look on her face that indicated that her decision was made. The Sand Snakes were sneaking sour looks at each other, clearly unhappy with the suggestion as well. The only ones who seemed pleased were her own advisors, all of whom were probably just glad that there was nothing at risk for them without an attack.

What was the point of him coming here if all it did was yield an unsuccessful series of talks, and leave his army defenseless? The realm would bleed if they all just left the Bolton army to their own devices, all because no one cared enough for the enemy’s bannermen to intervene.

His men would be skinned to the bone if he spent any more time here.

“We will deal with the Boltons once I have taken King’s Landing,” Daenerys swore, her oath rather meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Thousands would be dead by the time Joffrey was rotting in a grave somewhere. “Ser Barristan is right. I will not endanger my men for a plot to lure me away from King’s Landing. I assure you that they will not escape justice for the wrongs that they have caused, my lords, my ladies, but we cannot lose sight of what is most important.”

Tyrion was gaping at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “Your Grace—”

“This meeting is adjourned,” Daenerys fixed him with a glare as if to warn him not to undermine her in front of a council of people, but allowed for some room to compromise. “We will reconvene on the morrow. My decision is not final yet, so rest assured, my lord, you will be heard.”

Before ten seconds had passed, men and women were crossing the room to exit, many of them debating the situation amongst themselves as if their opinions would make a difference at all. Daenerys was stubborn enough that Robb was half certain that she wouldn't change her mind no matter what was said. Tyrion was the last to leave the room, though Robb remained rooted in his spot, hoping to get a moment along with Daenerys to get a sense for where her head was in all of this.

Admittedly, he was upset.

This was his bannerman and his people who would come to harm, and Daenerys seemed to base her decision entirely on the potential ramifications it could take on her own army rather than the lives that would be lost every moment that they waited for the turncloaks to show up on their doorstep. The problem would only spiral out of control if it was left alone, and the smallfolk would suffer for it.

“Is there something you wanted?” Her voice broke the stiff silence from where she was busying herself with moving a single wooden piece around the board, hovering over the Goldroad as if she intended to put it down before she changed her mind and put it back to its previous spot.

She wasn’t even looking at him.

“You would truly let all those men die?” Robb asked, truly perplexed. The west meant little to him but even the thought of a mountain of lowborn corpses being left there was enough to make him want to take up his blade to protect them with his life. “He’ll reach the Riverlands before long. He already has my uncle and hundreds of my men. They’ll die if we don’t intervene, Daenerys. The Boltons will skin them to the bone and leave them to rot.”

How would it be any different from what she told him of the Great Masters of Meereen, tying people to crosses and torturing them until they were begging for the Stranger’s kiss? Only punishing the Boltons once it was convenient for her wouldn't make for any kind of justice, especially not when they could prevent it now.

This time, Daenerys matched his stare evenly. “It isn’t personal, Robb.”

Robb? It was only ‘King Stark’ a few days ago, and now she was calling him Robb?

He glanced back down at the map markers, his stomach coiling at the sight of all the flayed men advancing towards Riverrun. His mother’s family seat would be the first to fall if the Boltons managed to get there before his own forces did. Arya was still there. If she died for an alliance that he couldn’t even manage to secure, he didn’t think he could live with himself. He would rather die than see his sister hurt, especially not if it was because of him that she perished.

The smallfolk in the Westerlands were neither of their responsibilities on paper, but he couldn’t abide by the thought that their negligence could cause them further suffering.

And at the hand of a Lannister puppet, no less.

If he were there, he would have sent for Theon’s fleet and met them on the battlefield as soon as they began flaying people, no matter who those people belonged to. Tywin Lannister’s smallfolk were worth no less than the smallfolk in the Riverlands, the North, or Dorne for all he cared.

After Daenerys had shaped so many of her strategies around saving the smallfolk in the capital, how could she just allow a mutual enemy of theirs to commit such a massacre when their combined forces could defeat them?

“How is it not personal?” Robb questioned, a newfound sense of urgency pulsing through him. He had been here instead of Riverrun, instead of preparing his men for an attack, and it might all be worth nothing but flayed corpses and broken promises. It was not just about him, but about the innocents crushed under the very wheel Dany had spoken to him about breaking. “Daenerys, please.”

Her eyes looked unspeakably sad, though they were connected for a moment that seemed to suspend in the air around them before she turned from him again, breaking the spell that seemed to bind him to her. He still wouldn’t leave these chambers, not even if she commanded it of him.

If they joined forces to defeat the Boltons... and then joined forces once more to take the the capital for her... 

“I cannot.” Her voice was hard and unfeeling as if she truly was the Dragon Queen once more and not the woman he had come to know; it was a drastic change from the laughing girl he cared for with wine-stained lips and sparkling eyes. It was as if she didn’t care about him at all, like their endless conversations about life and its wonders were nothing. Like he was nothing to her.

Had he been played for a fool?

Negotiations aside, he wasn’t sure what he had done to prompt such coldness.

“Why?” Robb probed, his heart burning in his chest. It ached as though she had stabbed him herself and twisted the dagger to ensure that it hurt. It seemed that the ice behind her words was meant more for Robb than simply for the King in the North

“If my men are slaughtered fighting your war, I’ll have no armies to take the Iron Throne with,” she stated matter-of-factly as if she wasn’t the reason for why he had left the Riverlands in the first place. Gods, perhaps he truly was as stupid as Tyrion Lannister seemed to think him. “Roose Bolton is your bannerman and I am not beholden to deal with your men, just as you are not bound to protect mine. You must understand that what you’re asking of me is unreasonable.”

“He was my bannerman,” Robb corrected, voice rising as he spoke. He was Tywin Lannister’s puppet now, and leaving him to his own devices would only ensure that the casualties would increase tenfold. “He’s torturing smallfolk, Daenerys. He isn’t killing my men nor is he killing yours, but we could stop him together. Isn’t this what we spoke about just nights earlier? About being a king and queen to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves? They’re innocents, not soldiers.”

At that, she seemed to swallow her words. Who was she if not a champion for those who could not protect themselves? They couldn’t just sit back and allow for a massacre when it was in their power to stop it.

One attack -one glimpse of her dragons and their combined forces- and the Boltons would be done for. The Lannisters would be done for.

“I cannot save everyone,” Daenerys reasoned with him though she sounded unconvinced of her own words. Perhaps he was chipping away at her, slowly but surely. “My counselors are right. I need to focus my energies first on taking the throne, and then on bringing peace to the kingdoms. If I spread my armies too thin, we’ll crumble.”

Desperation clawed at his throat. “We’ll help you take the throne, Daenerys, I swear it.”

She gave him a pitying look as she shook her head. “You haven't bent the knee.”

“Then let me be your ally,” Robb insisted, trying to get as close to a compromise as he could manage. He took a hesitant step toward her, the room barely lit at all save for the torches that burned on the chamber walls. Her face was half-illuminated by the fire, half cloaked in darkness and yet, her eyes crackled with defiance that burned twice as bright as any flame. “We'll work together as a king and a queen, and we'll rid the realm of Joffrey, together. The Tyrells will be nothing compared to our combined forces- your Dothraki, the Unsullied, the Martells, the Northerners, the Rivermen, the ironborn. We would win the war for you if you wished it, as long as you helped us now where we need it most."

Daenerys lifted her chin, melancholy and longing mingling as one in her gaze. “I thought this was about the smallfolk in the Westerlands. Not about the future it holds for your forces in the Riverlands.”

Robb’s breathing deepened. “My sister’s at Riverrun. If we fight them alone, I could die and she...” he swallowed. “The things they’ve done to their prisoners are unspeakable.”

”So you want me to risk my neck to fight alongside you, not for you?” Daenerys affirmed, sounding unconvinced that such a plan would benefit her in any way.

Perhaps he would need to clarify further.

”You need a fleet,” Robb started, recalling the scuffle over getting the rest of her soldiers to Westeros. “My goodbrother has the most impressive one Westeros has to offer. If you mean to stage a siege, you need more ships than what you have. The Lannisters outnumber you four to one. If you don’t mean to burn their city to the ground, you stand as much a chance of losing to them as you do winning. If you have us backing you, if you have us take the capital in your name, you’ll even the odds and ensure your men are more safe. We don’t need to bend the knee to fight for you, Daenerys. Let us fight together.”

She paused, genuinely seeming to think it through for a moment. It wasn’t a bad deal; they fight for her and she fights for them, and casualties would be minimized l. Daenerys pursed her lips. “I would be a fool to agree to such terms.”

The dam of self-control broke within Robb then, allowing for a flood of unresolved, half-written thoughts to break loose. Was she so obsessed with that horrid iron chair of hers that she would allow for thousands to die in order to get it? She had never even been to the North. How could it be worth the trouble when he knew for a fact that she would prefer to languish in the South even if the North was hers?

Was a crown all she cared about?

“You would let them all die, then? The smallfolk, the men, the women, the children?” He demanded, anger creeping into his tone as he tried to make sense of what was going through her head. Her face revealed nothing, because it never did, and all he could even begin to want from her was an explanation. “How could you just…" Robb pled with her, unable to make peace with leaving the westermen to die. The Riverlands would be wrecked once more before long, and then the Boltons would inflict their reign of terror upon the crownlands. This wasn't just one person's problem. "It’s our duty to help them, Daenerys. Please.”

“You’ve never been a prisoner here,” Daenerys responded callously as if they hadn’t spent evening after evening baring their souls to one another. “Return home if that’s what you wish.”

“Return to die, you mean.” He corrected flatly, his nostrils flaring as the lump in his throat expanded to twice its size. She didn’t care if he lived or died by the sound of it, and he had just been another idiot to think that he meant more to a woman than he truly did; like Florian the Fool from Sansa’s favorite story, ever a gullible idiot where his lover was concerned, even if his devotion killed him.

All men are fools, he thought hatefully as Daenerys straightened before him, a queen facing the idiot who had fallen for her. And all men are knights.

She said nothing.

“Have we become enemies then?” Robb continued, his voice raw and the pieces of his shattered heart jagged as if made from tempered glass.

To his fury, Daenerys averted her gaze then, staring at the stonework on the walls as if it was a masterpiece and not just charred rubble.

Why wouldn’t she just look at him?

“Do you hate me so much, Daenerys, that you would allow me to walk into certain death despite this alliance being to our mutual benefit-”

“What would you have me do?” Daenerys spun on her feet and shouted in turn, her carefully crafted mask of indifference cracking into fragments. Her eyes blazed where they once froze over, and Robb’s own jaw slackened at the sight of her wrath. “Fall right into their trap and kill my own men in the process? To agree to an alliance where I have no power over you? That I would trust that you would uphold an agreement to fight beside me with no way to ensure accountability? I have no choice!”

“We don’t know that it’s a trap,” Robb rationalized, trying to summon up any of Tyrion’s eloquence when he spoke on the issue, however unsuccessful it was. “And I would not break a promise to you.”

Daenerys smiled at him as if he truly was the fool from his little sister’s stories. “Don’t we?”

Robb drew in a haggard breath. “I would fight for you if you did this, with every breath I draw. I would fight for you as you would fight for me, as your ally, as your friend, as your-” he broke the word off before he could utter it like the dimwit he now knew himself to be, unable to take a rejection now. He didn't think he would be able to hold his heart together if she broke it now, and gods, how couldn't she have realized by now that he cared for her more than he should?

“Then bend the knee,” she pled with him, striding forward as if a closer proximity would help her chances of getting him to yield, as if he was so weak-willed as the other men in her service. He would think the action manipulative if she wasn’t on the brink of tears herself. It was simply... desperate. “Please.”

He shook his head immediately, unable to even consider it. “No. I cannot.”

“You can but you choose not to,” Daenerys accused him angrily, her voice cracking as she jabbed a finger forward, not quite managing to touch him but getting close enough that it caused something else to snap within him. She convinced herself to think that it was his choice to do this; she would believe anything but the truth. “It’s your choice, Robb.”

There it was again. His name on her lips, though it was marked with her fury.

“What do you know of my choices?” He advanced on her as Grey Wind did in the heat of battle. “What do you know of my heart? I haven’t chosen anything for myself since this damned war started! It’s all duty and death, and I didn’t ask for any of it. You know nothing of what I’ve had to do for my kingdom, for my sisters, and my father. I don’t have a choice. I’ve never had a choice.”

Daenerys squared her jaw. “You can choose to do the right thing-”

“There is no right thing!” Robb bellowed, eyes leaking with tears that he hadn’t realized he’d begun to shed. “I made a promise to my people and you would see me suffer for it. You would see me die for having the nerve not to bow before you. An alliance would only mean that we were equals, not that you would be fighting my war. I should not have to be subjugated to you for you to put your faith in me.”

“You couldn’t possibly understand the position I’m in,” Daenerys countered, only a step away from him, her brows furrowed and chest heaving with every frenzied breath she drew. Did she truly think that? Her brows were drawn together with concentration as she met his stare evenly with her own. It was as if her eyes were a direct gateway to her soul, filled to the brim with the uncertainty and fear that came with the burden of being a queen. Choosing who lived and who died was a curse that came with wearing a crown, and now it could tear their kingdoms apart with just a command.

“I’m the only one who can,” Robb’s voice broke, both of them twisted, agonized reflections of one another.

What creatures had power and rule turned them into?

Even the most gallant of kings and queens had a pile of corpses propping up their throne; there would never be a right choice, or a pure climb to influence. He would trade his crown for a lifetime in the countryside without a second thought, if it didn’t mean that he would be abandoning a country of people who put their very livelihood in his hands. There was only wrong and less wrong when it came to being a king or queen, and inaction was as much a choice as diving headfirst into battle. There was no happiness for a king; no happiness, no peace, no solace...

Her eyes dipped to his lips and for a moment, everything was still.

His heart was mangled, beaten, burnt, but it still managed to beat if only for her to look at him a little longer.

Before he could do so much as gather the pieces of his shattered heart, her lips were on his, rough and desperate, and unlike anything he had ever felt before.

Her hands grabbed his face, scratching at his cheeks with all the restraint of a wild animal, and she licked into his mouth as if it had been all she dreamt of doing since he first appeared before her, like she had been restraining herself from wanting him just as he had been from the moment they first met in the castle's throne room. His own hands clutched at her hips, unable to conceive that this wasn’t a dream.

She pushed up against him, yearning, angry, and impassioned. Her waist was soft to the touch and she smelled like the sweetest smelling flowers on the planet, beautiful and ethereal as if she were half goddess and half woman, come to earth specifically to drive him mad.

We shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, we shouldn’t.

It was the mantra that he repeated to himself as she whimpered into his mouth, but he couldn’t summon up the strength to say it aloud. He should have pushed her away— an honorable man would have done so and left the island without further delay, valuing his integrity over his desires.

For all that he had tried to uphold his duties, he had failed in this trial of restraint.

He gripped her tighter against him, all of his thoughts about his honor and responsibilities dissipating with the touch of her lips against his.

In this room, there was no one but the two of them; there were no arranged marriages, no wars that lasted years without end, no kingdoms or loyalties to tear them apart, no complications… there was no one in the world but them, Robb Stark and Daenerys Targaryen, together. 

He chased her lips the moment she paused to breathe, needing her touch to ground him to the earth beneath them. He craved her touch more than air itself, needing her, wanting her. He had never felt like this in his life, not with any of the women he had known before Daenerys. One had only loved him for however long his coppers could buy her affections for, another loved him for the promise of a simple life together, one that he could never have led in the first place, and the last, his wife, wedded him out of mere duty with no love in either of their futures together.

None of it could even begin to compare to how he felt now, with hands clawing at his jerkin and honeyed lips pressing against his with an urgency that his body returned as if second nature to him. She was trying to get him naked. He assisted her in unfastening his own attire clumsily, the jacket flying open though she only just managed to get one sleeve off before he was backing her into the war table.

He would adore her even in death if the gods allowed it.

Robb couldn’t get a good look the clasps of her gown but couldn’t be bothered to try when she was pressed against him, her hand sliding from his face into his hair, tangling his curls carelessly as she perched herself on the corner of the table, dragging him to stand between her legs.

His wandering hands reached for her backside, squeezing at her arse as he pushed against her. He gasped into her lips when she rolled her hips against his hardness, the sensation of the fire she left on his body too hot for him to take. She made him burn. Their lips parted for the first time in what could have been five minutes or two hours as she fumbled to unlace his breeches in the desperation of their shared affections.

Eyeing the surface behind her, he reached over to wipe at the map markers of ships and war pieces —lions, stags, roses, wolves, trouts, dragons, none of them mattered now— so that the war table was clear enough for their use. What was a war compared to this woman’s love?

She scooted back, her battle strategies all but forgotten now as she hiked her dress up to her hips and discarding what Robb could only assume were her smallclothes to the ground, likely tearing them in the process of taking them off as she reached for him again. Every movement felt like time had been slowed for their benefit. His hands settled at her calves, rubbing and grasping for any skin he could find, her touch scalding him as if she were truly a dragon herself.

Before long, he followed her onto the table, praying to every god that it wouldn’t break under their combined weight. He couldn't handle it if they were separated for even a moment. Her nimble fingers freed him from the constraints of his breeches, yanking them down to his thighs fluidly before he was upon her again, hungry for more.

Her lips molded against his and her hands were in his hair, fingers kneading at his scalp as they moved against each other. He peppered hot kisses to her neck as she grasped at his cock with her hand, adjusting him so that he was right against her entrance. He longed to feel her heat, to feel himself inside of her, but languished at squandering his one chance to worship her as she deserved. He wanted her so much that he might die if she left him now.

He wanted to sob with relief at the feeling of himself sinking into her, his semi-bare chest pressed against her clothed one.

He searched for her lips as he got lost in her touch, their kiss searing as he began thrusting into her, a hand grazing her stomach on its way to palm at her breasts wantonly. She moaned into his ear while arching against him, her jaw slack as they established a sort of rhythm.

Her feet dug into his back as he rutted into her, her hands clawing so hard at his shoulders that she had surely drawn blood.

Dany's fingers scratched at him as she swiveled her hips forward, needing him as he needed her, understanding him as no one ever had before. 

He couldn’t think or feel anything other than her.

“More, Robb, more,” she chanted, and he pushed himself up above her so as to rub at her pearl furiously with his spare hand, trying to match the ministrations with his thrusts. She cried out at the sudden pressure, gripping harder at him as he fucked her on top of her war table.

The stone surface of table was cool underneath his palm, and the dips and curves in the map likely dug into Daenerys' back, but she didn't appear to mind it much as she tightened her legs around him. 

His hand quivered over her clit, speeding up in its motions so as to try to bring her to a peak. His thrusting slowed, his pacing growing more unpredictable as he distracted himself with pleasuring her. Daenerys nipped at his lips, her head lolling back as her expression contorted with delight.

The feeling was hot and slick, and then she was clenching around him, pulsating in a way he had never felt with a woman before.

He pushed deeper into her, harder, continuing for a moment or perhaps it was a lifetime, before he spilled his seed into her. It was harsh and messy, and far more uncomfortable than it would have been on a bed, but it was unlike anything he had ever allowed himself to feel in his life. 

Once he pulled his leaking member out of her, he wasn't sure what his next course of action was. Would she want him to leave? To pretend it hadn't happened at all? To hold her in his arms? To assure her that it was merely a product of tension built up between them rather than genuine affection on his part?

She locked eyes with him in the moments of silence afterward, the moments in which they realized what they had done, and what line they had crossed.

He was about to pull away when soft hands reached up to cradle his cheeks. Her touch was as tender as a lover's and he supposed that was what she now was to him. Her eyes seemed to glisten under the firelight, a wave of emotion washing through them as if she might care as much for him as he did for her.

All of his insecurities rose to the surface, bubbling and boiling within him as he waited to see how she would twist his heart next.

Robb looked down at her, raw and vulnerable, but she didn’t have any words for him. She leaned up to connect their lips in a kiss. This one wasn’t rough or angry or driven by some bizarre need to establish dominance, though; it was sweet and loving, and he couldn’t help but abandon all sense and reason to sink further into it.

What was one more sin to burden his guilty conscience with now?

He returned to his chambers alone, numb on his feet and his mind racing. There was no explaining what had just happened between him and Daenerys, nor was there any excusing it. The act of making love spoke for itself, didn't it?

He slept with her.

For years, he had upheld his father’s legacy; he bled for the North, fought for Father’s memory, and endeavored to ensure the safety of his wife, mother, and sisters. Now, he had all but spat on it. What would Roslin think if she was here, him with another woman’s perfume still clinging to his skin?

She would understand, Robb tried to talk himself down as he stirred under his covers, eventually kicking them off with frustration. He grew more restless when he couldn't even recall what she looked like aside from the generic features his mind conjured up for him. She was forced into this marriage as much as I was.

Though he hadn’t seen her in nearly half a year, she was still his wife. Would she scorn him if she knew what he had done? Would she curse the gods for binding her to an unfaithful man? How would he even be able to share her bed again, after all that had happened between him and Daenerys? Robb could scarcely even close his eyes without his new lover consuming his thoughts. He couldn’t see a future without her in it, no matter how ill-advised their dalliance was. Did she feel the same way that he did? Would it happen again, or were they just swept up in the moment?

He squirmed from one side of his bed to the other, unable to chase his anxious thoughts away now that they had decided on plaguing him. Gods, there was no going back now. Even if Daenerys decided that she never wanted to see Robb’s face again in her lifetime, he couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else ever again; she was… everything, and more. How would he be able to share a bed with his wife again if his heart belonged to another?

For all that he had betrayed his vows to Roslin, he would not shame her by forcing her to lay with him ever again, not after what he had done. Their marriage would be unhappy, but at least it would not be built on lies. He would not betray his love in word or deed.

I’ll speak to her when the war is over, he decided though he couldn’t foresee the conversation going over very well. Perhaps she would want to return to the Twins or visit new countries that she hadn’t yet seen, or mayhaps she would want something else. I’m getting ahead of myself.

Mother would wring his neck, that much was certain. Seven hells, she would hate him for this, wouldn’t she?

After what Father had done when he brought Jon home from the war, practically announcing to the entire realm that he had betrayed his wife, that she for some reason, was not worth as much to him as whichever woman had birthed Jon… Robb hadn’t ever imagined that he would do such a thing himself.

How would he be able to live with himself?

Three short raps at his door sounded.

He shot up from where he was laying on the bed, hair twisting in different directions and beard in desperate need of a trimming. He didn’t waste any time in getting off the matress, not even bothering to pull a shirt on when he swung the door open, his heart chirping with anticipation at who it could be.

A part of him knew that only one person would visit him so late at night, but he didn't dare hope that it was her until he could see her with his own eyes. The hall was dark with not a soul to see his exchange with the late-night guest who had been unable to stay away from him for more than a few hours now that they had abandoned all protocol and sense just to be with one another. 

Daenerys stood barefoot before him, clad in only a white nightgown with her hair loose in a way that framed her face like a halo.

She was the most beautiful woman in the world, even without her elaborate braids and finery. Especially without them. She was not so otherworldly when stripped down to her shift, but rather retained a beauty that only he had the fortune of seeing. Despite his inner struggle over the choices he had made today, he couldn't help but want to gather her in his arms and hold her until time reached its end. How could any of what he felt for her be wrong? 

It was a risk for her to be walking around looking like this when anyone could stumble upon her.

He cracked the door open to let her in and before long, his knees were backed against the edge of the mattress once more, devotion on his lips as they lost themselves in one another.

“Maybe this was your plan all along,” Robb theorized as he nestled his head further into his feathered pillow, his chest still heaving with exhaustion as Daenerys curled at his side. She cocked her head at him with curiosity, an amused smirk already playing at her lips as if she knew precisely where this was headed. He pulled her to him swiftly to kiss her hair carelessly before continuing, unable to keep his hands off her. “Seduce me so you could trick me into doing your bidding.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, her pink lips popping open into an ‘o’ shape as he voiced his conspiracy theory aloud. The morning light streamed in from behind her as she tried to stifle a laugh, looking like a vision in the nude. She was soaked with sweat, though it did nothing but make her more breathtaking.

Would he think everything she did was beautiful? Probably.

Her eyes crinkled at the edges as she beamed down at him, swooping forward to place a featherlight kiss to his nose before settling back into his arms. Her hair brushed against his nose, and he inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of her, and the feeling of being so close to her. It felt like a miracle, for her to care for him even a fraction as much as he cared for her. It would be a crime to deny himself this happiness after all he had been through already.

“You asked to come here!” Daenerys pointed out, not quite managing to grumble as she intended.

He enjoyed seeing her like this, hair undone and carefree. He yearned to see her dancing blissfully in the wolfswood, laughing and singing like the nymphs in his favorite childhood songs. For the longest time, he had convinced himself that he would marry a woman given to him from the moon while Theon fancied he would follow in the Grey King's footsteps and take a mermaid for a wife. The woman in his bed exceeded everything he could have possibly conceived of in his youth.

In a better world, they could leave it all behind for his deepest fantasies of a life without responsibilities. In that life, Bran could be the king after him, and Robb could become like one of those wildlings Jon befriended at the wall, hunting his own game and traveling far and wide with his lover at his side. They could make a new life together and fill whatever home they fancied with a hundred screaming babes who would never have to worry about thrones or wars.

Gods, they had only made love a handful of times and he was already fantasizing about a future they could never have together. 

“And look at me now,” he murmured back at her ardently, reaching forward to skim his thumb along her cheekbone. “Completely at your mercy.”

Her eyelashes fluttered as a breeze fanned over them. It smelled like the sea, all saltwater and brine. He could stay here forever if his duties would allow it. His smile dimmed as he drank her in, wondering how long this affair between them could possibly last. He would return to the North and she would take her position as the monarch in the South; maintaining such a relationship was only something that people did in storybooks and poems, but never in real life.

“Will you marry once you’ve taken the throne?” He asked, watching raptly as the wind took a few strands of her white hair in its embrace, blowing it around her as she let her eyes slide shut. Daenerys barely stirred, humming to herself as she cuddled closer to him, her arms winding around his bare torso thoughtlessly.

“If I need to,” she sighed after a few moments of quiet. She sounded like she was remembering something when she said the words, an almost sardonic quirk to her lips. “The best way to make alliances is with marriage, so I suppose it's possible. It depends on how I'm received once I take the throne.” He didn’t even realize that his face had fallen until he felt a warm hand cupping his cheek, troubled eyes staring back at him. “Don’t make that face at me.”

He embraced the circumstances that they found themselves in and jutted his lower lip out. 

“Do you expect me to wilt away, old and alone, pining after a boy I’ve known for a moon’s turn?” Daenerys asked humorously, her chin perched on his clavicle as she gazed up at him. For a conversation about her future marital prospects, she didn’t seem too worried about their position. If someone caught them in bed together, it would be the talk of all of Westeros and could ruin alliances just as quickly as it would take to build them. The King in the North and the Dragon Queen.

It has a nice ring to it, Robb thought traitorously, wishing that there was a simple way for them to be together save for sneaking around in one another’s chambers. What he wouldn’t give to hold her publicly as a husband would hold his wife, to give her a lifetime of happiness and love and babes, and choose her -choose love- over all of the duties he had given his life for.

“That’s right,” he grinned at her broadly, laughing when she snickered against his collarbone, winding his arms around his lover to pull her even closer to her. In her presence, nothing seemed too bleak. The war had taken nearly five years from him; it could wait a few hours, couldn’t it?

“Tell me about her,” Daenerys shifted on top of him, her leg hitched over his hips. “Your wife.”

His stomach flipped on itself at the question, his mood dropping somewhat. The last thing he wanted to speak about with Daenerys was Roslin, out of awkwardness more than anything, but also out of respect for both women. They didn't deserve to be pitted against one another. What was proper decorum when it came to speaking to his lover about his wife? It wasn’t the same thing, he supposed, when he barely even knew his wife, let alone loved her. “What?”

“I want to know.” When he didn’t answer immediately, she continued as if to let him know that it was alright to speak about her. “I was married once too. It feels like a lifetime ago now.”

“To the horse lord,” Robb finished, recalling the tales he heard of the lost princess and her brother, the Beggar King, across the Narrow Sea. He hadn’t thought much of it back then. At the time that his father wrote to him about the situation with Robert Baratheon being cross with him over her fate, all he knew of it was that a khalasar had never crossed the Narrow Sea before, not in their entire history. Never until her.

“Drogo,” she whispered as he carded his hand through her loose curls, leaning into his touch like an affectionate cat would. “There was a time when I thought that he was the only man I would ever love. I wonder now if it was all a delusion of my own creation, a way to make the best of my circumstances when my brother sold me to him. We couldn’t even speak the same language for the longest time and he was twice my age. At the time, I had no other choice.”

Robb smoothed her tangled hair back as she spoke, immensely sad for her though he wasn't sure if expressing his condolences was appropriate when they were laying together. She had merely been a girl when she had been sold to her husband, like livestock. But was it any more savage than what was done in Westeros? Roslin had no say in her marriage to him, and she was a highborn woman in civilized society. How would an alliance or a bridge ever compare to falling in love?

“Did I love him because he was the man I chose or because I had no other choice? Did he love me for who I am or who I tried to become in order to please him?” Daenerys questioned as if praying for all of the answers to suddenly come to her, seemingly at peace with his death despite the weight of her words. “Once, I called him my sun and stars. Now, I can hardly remember what he looked like.”

He held her through her words, somehow feeling like he was imposing on a memory that didn’t belong to him. When she sighed and buried herself back into his embrace, he exhaled slowly. Robb let a silvery strand of hair slip through his fingertips. “Roslin will make a good queen.”

She was beautiful and kind and doting, and gods, did he try to love her. Daenerys didn’t bristle at his choice of word, and merely met his eyes with a blend of sympathy and introspection. She pressed absentminded kisses to his chest and he felt such affection for her that he might burst.

“And yet…” the words didn’t need to be said for him to understand.

And yet you’re here with me.

As much as the guilt gnawed at him, he wanted to be here with Daenerys. He would choose this over anything, be it emerging from a battle victorious, or enjoying his favorite meal, or running along the coast of a shimmering sea somewhere with no worries in the world.

“It’s all just duty,” the words felt heavy in his mouth as his thumb traced along her hip, rubbing at her skin softly. “None of it’s real with her. She would have done her duty to whoever her father gave her to, whether I was the King in the North or some hedge night from the Reach. She tried for me and I tried for her but… love was never meant for us, for me and Roslin. Gods, she wouldn’t even call me by my name ‘til three moons into the marriage. It was always ‘Your Grace’ or ‘my king’ when all I wanted was to hear was...”

“Robb,” Daenerys finished for him as if they truly were one in the same. She wore an expression that he hadn’t seen her use around anyone before. “I know what you mean.”

“Do you?” Robb returned her smile, unable to help but melt under her stare. Not many people understood what he had to endure as a king; sometimes he still felt like a little boy playing with swords and crowns. She was of an age with him, not quite twenty-and-three and yet was responsible for the rise and fall of kingdoms. Every life lost weighed on his conscience like an anvil; only Daenerys understood his heart. “Tell me.”

“Who would ever dare to love a dragon?” Daenerys murmured back to him and he burned once more under her gaze. He would fall to his feet before her if he was any other man. He would scream is love for her from mountaintops if his kingship allowed him to love her openly, even if it ripped his heart out in the process.

Inexplicably, he thought of the Prince of Dragonflies and his commoner wife, a woman he loved so dearly that he cast everything aside for her; his claim, his titles, his future… Duncan and Jenny had loved each other so truly that love songs were written about them for decades to come. He gave everything up for love.

Were it that Robb could do the same.

In another life, he imagined that he would gladly lay his crown and sword at her feet, proclamations of love and devotion on his lips for all to see. He would crown her a Queen of Love and Beauty like tourney nights did, laying a wreath of purple roses on her head. She would allow him to sweep her off her feet and they would marry under the stars before a weirwood tree for the gods to smile down upon.

He couldn’t bite his tongue at the look in her eyes. “I dare.”

She didn’t look surprised at the admission. All he could comprehend was the small smirk on her face and then she was mounting him again, looking every inch like a goddess rising from the sea. The covers spilled around her as she tipped her head back, every movement captivating him.

“Robb,” she breathed into the open air and he crumbled. He never had a chance.

Robb had never been particularly religious in his youth. He kept to the Old Gods and the New, as it pleased his parents for him to do so. He hadn’t really questioned any of it as a child, though the concept of that sort of devotion had always been lost on him. Septas and Septons, the Silent Sisters, the Night’s Watch… all those lifelong commitments had long eluded him. It was difficult to imagine someone being so committed to religion that they would devote their lives to it. What could the gods possibly offer someone that they would give their life for?

In Daenerys, he found his salvation.

His head was buried between her thighs, savoring each breathless sigh that escaped her lips and every moan that he managed to coax from her as her fingers twined through his hair. I love you, his tongue swirled the words into her quim as he feasted on her over and over again, I love you, I love you, I love you.

He couldn’t fathom worshiping any deity other than the woman writhing beneath him, each of her gasps a symphony to his ears.

All he knew of love was the curve of her smile, the specks of blue blended with purple in her eyes, the slope of her nose, the feel of her skin against his when they came together as one… she was all he knew and all he loved, from now until the end of time no matter what anyone said of their union. How could he love anyone else when his world seemed to tilt on its axis every time she did so much as breathe out his name?

If loving her doomed him to an eternity in the seven hells, he would gladly burn.

She peaked with a cry, for possibly the hundredth time since they had first slept together, legs tightening around his neck and riding her orgasm out like a woman possessed. He lapped at her eagerly, drinking her in for all that she could give until her hands were pushing at his scalp. She cherished him with equal fervor, chasing his lips as soon as she clambered over to where he was sitting, hands roving over his chest as if all she deigned to do for the remainder of the day was to memorize each curve and dip in his body. 

"I think I might love you," Daenerys breathed against his mouth, hair fanning around her with the wind that rushed in through the opened windows. Her laughter was melodic as she hooked her arms around his neck and straddled his lap. Robb's hands rubbed comfortingly up and down her bare back as they basked in each other's mutual affection. "Tell me, Robb, am I a fool for feeling this way?"  

"Undoubtedly," he affirmed, pressing two stray kisses against the swell of her bare breast. "I've been a fool for you since the moment we met."

She spared only a giggle for him before swallowing his words up once more, the pair of them falling against the soft mattress like summer children.

Rather than lay his crown at her feet, all he had to offer her was the mangled heart within his chest. He had little use for it when all it seemed to do was thrum for her, relentless in its devotion, heavy in his chest. Once the sun rose, they would again be resigned to their roles as a king and queen whose interests would never align. For the time being though, he wouldn't have to put a kingly masquerade on for anyone. All that mattered were two fools in love with kingdoms at their fingertips and crowns upon their heads.

At the feast, he could barely keep his eyes off her.

The Martells had insisted on some sort of celebration to boost morale and so they all chewed at their burnt seagull and pretended that it was a delicacy.

There was a woman singing some Dornish folk song or another, but he had eyes for no one but his love. She was laughing with her handmaidens, clearly deep in her cups now that the festivities were well underway. Her silver curls bounced as she contributed to the conversation, a warm grin spreading across her face.

Dacey jabbed him in the thigh with her fork, to which Robb shot her a glare and rubbed at his minor wound huffily. Olyvar was giving him an uneasy look from Dacey’s other side, apparently having made his own assumptions about the cow eyes that Robb was giving the Dragon Queen.

Is he wrong, though?

Guilt wracked at him at the realization that his favorite squire was watching his sister’s husband gawk at another woman with all the subtlety of a brick.

Robb determinedly stared down at his meal when neither of his companions spoke a word. Did they think him to merely be infatuated with Daenerys or did they know that they were lovers? No matter what assumptions they made, the damage was done. It had been done several times over, no matter how much guilt he felt over the matter now. He loved Dany as he had loved no other woman, her name seeming to sing through his veins even when they were apart.

He couldn’t help but shoot a last glance at Daenerys, who was already watching him with affection blooming in her gaze like a rose grown from a block of ice.

Daenerys was laying on her stomach as Robb penned her a poem, her chin resting in the palm of her hand while she kicked her legs up in the air. Clad in only her smallclothes, she made for a tantalizing sight, though that wouldn’t distract him from the mess he was making of each line. He was a horrid poet though he supposed that made the situation all the more hilarious. What good was serious poetry anyhow, when it had no personality nor true feelings behind it?

He was halfway through a brilliant line likening her arse to a peach when she interrupted him, hair cascading over one shoulder from her spot on her bed.

“You’ll never bend the knee to me.”

Robb paused, looking up from his verse to gauge whether she was cross with him or not. “Yes.”

He loved her but he could not. He would not turn his back on the North, not after all they had sacrificed to avenge his father and save his sisters. Bending for her was never an option. She lowered her gaze, her breathing shallow when she spoke. “I won’t force you.”

Then she lifted them up and all he could find in them was vulnerability and fright, as if she was scared that he would throw her trust back into her face. As if he could ever hurt her, intentional or not. She could make him bend to her with a simple threat that he was sure had been at the tip of her tongue for weeks.

But she wouldn’t.

“I know,” he breathed out, unable to quite put into words how much he loved her.

His love for Talisa was the love that a boy felt for the first girl who paid him notice, all hopes and dreams with nothing grounding them. His love for Roslin was that of a companion, a friend, but never a lover. His love for Daenerys was consuming and ardent, seemingly fused into his very being.

Wetness threatened to spill from his eyes as he tucked a strand of her whitened hair behind her ear, fingers gentle against her warm skin. In less than a month she had managed to capture his heart, but he had already long overstayed his welcome here; he was needed elsewhere, even if every inch of his being shouted at him to stay with her and warm her bed no matter the consequences of such a decision.

If he was free to follow his heart, he would never leave her side.

But he was not.

He belonged to the North above all else, no matter how he loved the woman splayed out on his bed. Duty was all he had known for the years that he had been king. It was a second nature to him now, and not one that he could let go simply because of his heart’s desires. “I have to go, Daenerys.”

She said nothing for a few moments, as if saying her goodbyes would make them true. “I won’t ask the North to bend for me.”

His breathing stilled, scared that he was imagining this and would wake up at any moment.

Daenerys continued, her eyes distant with concentration. It seemed as if she had been wanting to say these words for quite some time but knew that once they were out in the open, there was no way of turning back. “I want to meet the other king for myself on neutral soil if he hopes to aid us in the wars to come. I need his fleet, and I need the numbers. The risk of losing my men to the Lannisters outweighs that of the crimes being committed westward. I would join you, Robb, so long as you promise to stand beside me when we take the capital from the pretender.” 

“Truly?” He breathed out, the very picture of disbelief. “What convinced you?”

She cocked her head, seeming to think her answer through. “I know what kind of queen I want to be, Robb. I won’t allow more people to die on account of my pride or yours.” Daenerys peeked up at him. “I’ll need your consent to the alliance in writing.”

He was certain Tyrion would expect nothing less. “I would gladly sign whatever you need to trust that we won’t betray you.” He thought of Theon and the Riverlands, wondering where else the country would fall in rule. “Daenerys, I need to tell you-”

Her answering smile was radiant when she cut him off. “I will fight for you, Robb Stark, so long as you fight for me.”

Robb had busied himself for the better part of an afternoon in writing letters to his family, warning them of what was to come with specific orders on how to proceed next. Glancing at the finished letters on his rickety desk, he counted them to himself: Mother, Sansa, Theon, Jon, the Blackfish.

All they needed was his seal before they were ready to be sent out.

Arya would be escorted out of Riverrun as soon as possible so that she was safely out of the crossfire by the time the Boltons got close enough to pose an actual threat to Riverrun's safety. He would rest easier knowing that his little sister was safely hidden away at Winterfell rather than trapped at a potential battlefield. Sansa being out and about was stressful though it eased Robb’s worries somewhat to know that she had made some progress with getting Aunt Lysa’s forces on their side. Though nothing was official yet, he couldn’t help his optimism about the matter.

The war would be all but won if they managed to unite the entire realm against the Lannisters.

Robb hesitated over his last letter, the one that he had begun writing to Roslin. Should he ask after their child? Could it have been born already? Was it even his right to ask after a child that had been a dot in its mother’s stomach the last time that he saw it?

He set his quill down after struggling for a moment.

Robb couldn’t in good conscience pretend with her. She deserved better than his lies.

He would speak to her once this was all done and explain everything, no matter how difficult it would be to admit his betrayal to her face. He would offer his apologies as well as anything she might want from him. Their child would still stand to inherit the North, so perhaps he ought to ask after it?

Gods, how would he even begin speaking to his estranged wife, though?

Robb shoved the unfinished letter beneath a pile of them before adding a footnote to the one addressed to his mother—Please let me know how my heir fares. Give Roslin my best wishes.

Tyrion’s company was unwelcome, but Robb couldn’t find it in him to shoo the man away.

With the fragile peace their forces had come to, it would have been inappropriate to insult the man to his face.

They merely stood in the center of Dragonstone’s throne room, resolutely not talking to each other until Tyrion cleared his throat and ruined the brief silence Robb had been taking solace in. “Your sister,” he started. “Sansa. I’ve heard that she’s recently become a queen.”

“Aye,” He tried not to let his irritation show, his jaw ticking as he responded. “She has.”

“Theon Greyjoy isn't the partner I would have chosen for her, but I suppose she could have done worse.” Tyrion commented as if his opinion mattered at all.

Robb simply hummed, silently praying that he would soon find someone else to bother.

Mother was certain that Tyrion had orchestrated the attack on Bran after his fall and though his judgment served no purpose but to muddy Westerosi affairs further, he couldn’t afford to trust him even a smidgen of a bit. He respected the man as the Hand of the Queen that Daenerys chose, but he would not spend any more time than he had to with him. Trusting a Lannister would be folly after all their family had done to his.

“She would have made Joffrey a good queen,” Tyrion granted, prolonging the conversation for no reason but to torture them both. “She was stronger than she seemed. Soft-spoken from what I remember, but I always suspected that she had a clever head on her shoulders.”

“I didn’t ask,” Robb responded gruffly, coughing once an awkward silence took over.

Perhaps he should have just humored him.

He recalled greeting him at Winterfell years ago, when he was merely a boy playing at being a lord, before his father’s head was taken from his shoulders. I’m not your boy, Lannister, he had said to him once. Robb wagered that their relationship hadn’t changed much since then, no matter how they pretended otherwise.

“Perhaps it isn’t my place,” Tyrion started, though he was going to voice his thoughts regardless of what Robb said. He was staring at him queerly, though Robb fought to keep his mask of indifference up, not wanting to give the other man the satisfaction of reacting. “But I must warn you from experience, Your Grace. Love can tear kingdoms apart if one isn’t careful.”

”So you’re a poet then, are you?” Robb mocked the man, not knowing how else to respond to such an underhanded confrontation. What was he playing at? "I could have sworn I've heard a bard sing that line at every tavern I've ever been to."

“Of course,” Tyrion chucked under the guise of humoring Robb’s insult, instead just responding as if they were sparring and not speaking. “The whores sing songs from Winterfell to Dorne about my prowess with a quill and some parchment. A half man with poetry twice as sweet as his tongue, lust on his lips and a cock worth a thousand sonnets.” 

“I’m sure they do,” Robb responded flatly, no clever rebuttal coming to him then. What was he even supposed to say to something like that?

”As our queen well knows,” Tyrion narrowed his eyes at Robb meaningfully. “Alliances are fragile. It would be such a shame if ours were ruined by... misunderstandings of any sort. Or quarrels. Historically speaking, lovers have never been known to make good allies.”

Two seconds away from telling him to shove it, Robb was interrupted mid-thought by the spymaster ambling into the room. “I hoped I might find you here, Lord Tyrion,” Lord Varys announced his presence, wearing the same style of robes that he always did.

Seeing his opportunity to leave, Robb didn’t hesitate to take it, bowing once for Tyrion and Varys both before practically sprinting from the room.

Preparations to make for Harrenhal didn’t take long. His men were anxious to leave the island now that they had dawdled here for nearly a moon’s turn, Dacey and Rodrik most of all. Robb thought about Joffrey. He had to leave to put the little prick’s head on a spike if for nothing else, and to feel Ice in his hands once more. The greatsword belonged in the North, just as every Stark did. It wouldn’t be long before the Lannisters would be forced to face them for true, especially with a siege in question.

It had taken long enough.

Grey Wind rushed ahead of Robb toward the dinghy, excited to leave the island for the Riverlands once more. The direwolf hadn’t taken to the climate there as well as he had with the North, but far preferred it to the dreary offerings of Dragonstone. At least there were forests in the Riverlands, and far more prey to hunt than the animals native to an island. Gods did Robb miss the taste of bacon and freshly-killed boar.

Dragonstone would still remain under guard, but the bulk of Daenerys’ armies would follow her to Harrenhal in anticipation of the battles ahead of them, the Martells following closely behind under the guise of being Tully bannermen so as to not draw attention to themselves.

The sea was surrounded with newly docked ships, most of them bearing the Targaryen sigil while a few had a speared sun emblazoned on the front.

It wouldn’t be nearly enough to lay siege to the city, so Robb could only hope that Theon would use that to his advantage during negotiations. Control of the Iron Fleet had to mean something, didn’t it?

“Robb,” Rodrik was staring pointedly behind him, a hint of judgment in his eyes though he didn’t dare voice his feelings aloud.

He moved on before Robb could react, heading toward their boat where the rest of Robb’s entourage were waiting for him. Olyvar's eyes seemed to prickle at his skin dangerously as he turned, as if daring him to just ignore the call and prove that the brewing rumors of an affair between Robb and Daenerys were nothing but sensationalist gossip. It pained him to realize the faith that his squire had put in his integrity, as if he didn't doubt his honor for a second.

Daenerys was approaching him, clad in some chainmail that he had never seen before. She looks like a warrior, Robb smiled to himself, looking like a proper idiot on the middle of the beach as he shuffled around in the sand when she approached. Within a few weeks time, they would either be dead or victorious, the possibility of anything else seeming to die with their freshly-forged alliance. As unlikely as it had been, it was ratified and signed by both parties on parchment.

“Travel safe, Your Grace,” he murmured to her as they stared one another down.

He noticed her fingers thrum at her side, wanting to reach out to hold him as much as he longed to do the same. They were being watched, as it seemed half the occupants of the beach were waiting for one of them to start the march to Harrenhal. Instead of retreating, she took both of his hands in her own, the action a tad too familiar for mere allies but not so much that it was overtly inappropriate. “You as well, Robb.”

There was something hot brewing beneath the surface of her stare, something that made him long to kiss her until neither of them could breathe anymore. If they hadn't had an audience, he would do it without hesitation; she was his and he was hers in all but name now.

But she was a queen, and he was a king, and soft courtly kisses weren’t meant for them.

Robb squeezed her hands once before dropping them, retreating towards his boat with a meaningful look and the silent promise to think of her in the days to come. If he died, it would be with her name on his lips.