Chapter Text
The dinghy hit the sandy shores of Dragonstone with a thump. Each soldier held their breath as they looked upon the decrepit castle, eyeing the skies warily in case a dragon -or three- decided to descend upon them without warning. Robb’s heart thrummed anxiously in his chest, but he maintained a cool disposition for the sake of his men. He couldn’t show weakness or doubt now, not when nearly every man in his service advised him against coming here.
With Joffrey cowering behind the walls of the Red Keep and his grandfather hidden away in the capital with the Tyrell forces, an alliance was the surest way to ensure the end of his rule.
As much as Robb would prefer to stay out of Southron politics and return home to let the lions and dragons have it out for the throne, he had to see this through for his father’s memory. Until his family had their justice in the form of Joffrey’s head on a spike, this war would never end.
Ser Donnel squared his jaw as he leapt over the side of the boat, tugging on the thick rope at its end so that they could settle on the beaches of the small island.
Now that Stannis Baratheon had been deposed of and a Targaryen had named herself the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, it seemed that there was another dimension to this war now; what weight would the Baratheon name even carry now that the Mad King’s daughter was here with an army of over forty-thousand at her back? Some reports claimed that her army was even larger, the phrase ‘a hundred-thousand’ uttered at some point during his last war council on the matter.
A Dothraki horde of such a size riding into battle was the stuff of legends and fairy stories.
They would make as formidable an ally as they would be a dangerous enemy; all he could hope for was that he wouldn’t be on the opposing side of their wrath once it came to combat on an open field. With all the enemies he had already managed to accumulate, the last thing he needed was an army of horse lords raiding and roving their way through the North and the Riverlands.
The Tyrells were guarding the blond shit on the throne, the Lannisters were hiding away in the capital, and the Boltons were wreaking havoc in the west with his own uncle as a hostage.
It seemed that the tides of this war hadn’t turned in his favor.
“Ready?” Dacey asked from his side, her eyes hardened as if she expected to die as soon as their feet touched the shore. She remained unyielding as she stared at the castle, as loyal as she had always been. There wasn’t a single battle that she didn’t fight at his side, slaughtering their enemies with the strength of ten men.
“As I’ll ever be,” Robb murmured, the corners of his lips tilting upwards despite the churning in his gut. Would he meet the same end as the uncle and grandfather he had never met? There was nothing stopping the Dragon Queen from setting him aflame the moment he stepped foot in her halls. He wondered if she hoped to take the Seven Kingdoms with fire and blood as Aegon the Conqueror had once done and dared to hope that he would leave this island with his life.
Sansa would never let him hear the end of it if he died here. She would likely dive into the seven hells herself and yank him out just to give him an earful about how he should have listened to her and not gone to treat with the woman whose family annihilated half a generation of Starks. Mayhaps he would prove her right and die here, if fortune didn’t fall as he hoped.
His legs wobbled a bit from disuse as he got used to the feeling of sand underneath his boots.
It was a strange sensation compared to the dewy marshes of the Riverlands, or the powdery snow of the North. This place was windier than he thought it would be, reminding him a tad of how Theon described the Iron Islands once when they were a great deal younger, when they were still summer children living in a pure world. He recalled a time when he was worlds younger and caught snowflakes on his tongue in hopes that it would somehow taste better than drinking water.
He could see his childhood as clear as day: Theon laughing boisterously as he encouraged Jon to hoist Arya off the ground just to drop her onto a pile of snow, Bran spluttering in horror when Sansa hurled a snowball right at his face, Rickon gurgling from where Mother was bouncing him on her lap, Father watching on with mild amusement from the battlements…
The dream vanished as soon as he let it worm itself in his mind.
Kings had little time to dream or wonder or hope for the future. It was just duty after duty at this point, though Robb had resigned himself to this fate the moment Joffrey put his father to the sword. He would be a creature of duty for as long as the North required it of him.
And this would be just another one of them.
He hoped to present Daenerys with the same agreement he once hoped to broker with Renly Baratheon; he would help her take the throne in return for his country’s independence. Hopefully she wouldn’t die as soon as she agreed to it as the first king he forged an alliance with had.
Robb looked around his surroundings to size up a small garrison of armored men with spears, none of them looking particularly like they planned on staging an assassination just yet. A small bearded man stood before them all. He looked worse for wear but was recognizable all the same.
“The Young Wolf,” Tyrion clapped his hands together, stepping forward as Robb’s companions eyed the Dragon Queen’s soldiers with ill ease. “It’s been far too long.”
Not long enough, Robb thought to himself but didn’t dare say it out loud. Insulting the man in his own home was one thing but doing it on foreign territory was another. If the man truly was the Targaryen Queen’s Hand, she wouldn’t take kindly to hostility so early into peace talks. Self-restraint would be his harshest challenge during negotiations, that much was evident already.
“Lord Tyrion,” he nodded curtly, hand unconsciously flying to the pommel of his sword as his men settled behind him, ready for an attack where Robb was at ease. He eyed the man’s facial injuries with just a hint of haughtiness. “Good to see you in one piece.”
“Clever. I see you haven’t lost your sparkling wit.” The man cracked a smile at the turn of phrase, a hand shooting up to trace along his own scar as if he had forgotten it was there. He eyed Robb with a curiosity that spoke more to his thoughts than any of his false words or sardonic compliments did. “I don’t suppose you’re still wondering if my father really does shit gold?”
This time it was Robb’s turn to suppress a smile.
It seemed like it was just yesterday that he was threatening Tywin Lannister to a quaking messenger, leading the man’s son to fall right into his trap at the Whispering Wood. The Kingslayer was still rotting in Riverrun’s dungeons, nearly five years later, and the war wasn’t even close to being won. He might have his sisters back but so long as that sniveling little shit, Joffrey, sat upon the Iron Throne, his campaign persisted.
He appraised the man in his scaled doublet and golden hand-shaped pin, a little put off by the sight of it. Tyrion Lannister was a turncloak no matter what excuses came pouring out of his twisted mouth; betraying an unworthy king after contributing so heavily to his rule seemed to contradict the very purpose of switching sides. Did he only choose Daenerys Targaryen because he wagered that she would be the winning side?
Robb could never respect such a man.
Whatever his motivations were, they wouldn’t be able to excuse abandoning his own family, not after all he had already done to protect them. It was as shameless as it was dishonorable.
Robb cleared his throat and glanced around him restlessly, hoping to just get this over and done with. “Why do you think I came here in the first place, Lord Tyrion?”
“Right to business then,” Tyrion chuckled mostly to himself. “I wouldn’t expect any less from the King in the North. Welcome to Dragonstone,” he gestured at the sandy wasteland around them as if he were making some grand jape that no one understood but himself, appearing to be slightly drunk in his actions. “If you wouldn’t mind handing over your weapons.”
He could practically hear the frown in Olyvar’s voice when he responded to the request in Robb’s stead, the disdain in his voice clear to anyone with ears. “Why should we? We’d rather keep our weapons. As long as they’re armed, we’re not putting our swords down.”
The unmoving soldiers surrounding them didn’t waver. Robb watched them curiously, wondering what kind of sellswords they were that they behaved in such a way.
They didn’t look like a Dothraki khalasar, with their heavy armor and encasing helmets. The Unsullied then. She was said to have thousands of them at her command, if reports were to be believed.
“Aye,” Dacey voiced her agreement with the squire, sneering all the while. “We don’t know your queen. You’ll have better chances at pulling my teeth than you will taking my sword, my lord.”
“Rest assured,” Tyrion sounded affronted at the insinuation that the Dragon Queen would harm them without cause. Though Robb wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, she had no reputation for him to put his faith in. “-our queen does not make a habit of breaking guest right.”
“Where’s the bread and salt then?” Dacey piped up again, immune to his reassurances. “She hasn’t offered us her hospitality yet as far as I can tell. By all means, correct me if I’m wrong.”
Tyrion narrowed his eyes at her and exchanged a glance with a soldier– one of high ranking, Robb assumed by their familiarity– before sighing, long and deep. He ignored Dacey in favor of addressing Robb directly, as if expecting him to yield instantly. “Your Grace, please.”
Robb locked eyes with him, knowing full well that refusing to disarm themselves now could set a dangerous tone for these negotiations. Could they truly trust that they wouldn’t be executed as soon as they laid their weapons to the side, though? He didn’t turn when he addressed his men, keeping his stare fixed on Tyrion. “Dacey, Patrek, with me. The rest of you will remain here until I command otherwise, keep watch of our weapons while we treat with their queen.”
He almost grinned at how Tyrion’s shoulders slumped the slightest bit, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as if Robb were the greatest bane of his existence. He nodded begrudgingly, so Robb removed his sword from its scabbard first, handing it to Olyvar as gently as he could.
Two blades, a bow, a hatchet, and two longswords later, his group of three were unarmed and vulnerable as could be. If it was trust the Dragon Queen wanted, it was trust she would receive.
Owen gestured for the two remaining members of Robb’s battle guard to follow him back to the dinghy, stiff as he left his king’s side to the coast once more. I hope you know what you’re doing, his expression seemed to say though he would never undermine Robb out loud.
“The direwolf stays,” Tyrion’s voice was flat as he caught sight of Grey Wind padding beside Robb, loyal and obedient as no Lannister could hope to be to anyone but themselves and whatever passing fad aligned with their interests. Robb reached forward to scratch the back of his ear absentmindedly, disregarding the Hand of the Queen’s command as soon as it was dealt.
“He comes with me,” Robb snapped, “unless you propose to keep him out yourself.”
Tyrion raised a brow at him but faltered when Grey Wind bared his teeth at him and snarled, somehow suspecting that Robb wouldn’t stop his wolf if it reduced Tyrion into a light snack.
“Please, this way.” Tyrion gestured to the winding path to Dragonstone, the ruins of the castle grim as much as they were mystifying. Robb followed suit, glancing once at his companions to ensure that they were ready to go before he got on with it, unimpressed with their reception.
Dragonlords of old built this place, Robb recalled all the stories about the Targaryens that he pored over with Jon when they were younger, both of them lost in their daydreams about being great knights someday, and they forged this castle, stone by stone, with the magic of Old Valyria.
A screech sounded from the sky and Robb could only watch on as a yellow-winged dragon swooped through the air with a goat in its mouth, being chased by a green one as if they were dancing. The wind seemed to blow wherever the dragons willed it, a harsh gust of air nearly knocking the entire group of them to the ground while the creatures flew about in the air.
He could hardly believe his eyes, unable to fathom that he was awake and not lost in a fever dream of some sort; though the missive his sister showed him nearly two moons ago said that Daenerys Targaryen had dragons, it had never really sunk in until now.
Gods, they were gorgeous.
They were frightening and monstrous, just like how he imagined the dragons from storybooks, but they seemed to shine under the faint sunlight peeking through the storm clouds above them.
Robb’s jaw slackened as he stared up at the creatures, trying to memorize the smooth way they glided through the sky and the harsh beating of their wings.
Though Dacey flinched at the sight of them and Patrek stumbled backward with shock at the proximity that the lot of them had to the beasts, Robb stayed rooted in his spot. He would not show fear for the beasts, least of all with so many eyes on him.
So long as Grey Wind wasn’t threatened by the beasts, Robb knew he had nothing to fear.
The dragons seemed preoccupied as it was, fighting over an animal carcass without a care for crowns or titles or politics. If Robb could sprout wings and become a dragon himself, perhaps he would enjoy gallivanting and swooping around the sky, as well.
He would die happy if he could just return to Winterfell and solve minor squabbles between his vassals like his father had before the war had broken out.
For years he wondered why Lord Eddard never fostered him or Bran with a neighboring house or region, or why he put off betrothing his children for so long when most lords had them promised far earlier on in their lives, or why he hesitated to ever leave Winterfell even temporarily.
Now Robb understood.
His wolf merely scampered ahead of them, tail swishing happily as if he hadn’t even noticed the pair of dragons above them. Robb followed ahead, ignoring all of Tyrion’s chatter about how pleased his queen was to hear from him until he got the hint to shut his mouth.
They might end the evening as allies, but Robb would be damned if this man ever became his friend. None of them knew the truth behind the assassin sent to kill Bran in his sleep but his mother had been convinced that it was this man’s doing. If that was the case…
The Lannisters wouldn’t be the only ones who paid their debts.
Soon enough, two heavy stone doors were wrenched open to reveal a gloomy, poorly lit hall lined with soldiers. He could practically smell the dust in the air, though a little effort had been made to restore the place to its former glory. Dragonstone had been long neglected, it seemed.
A silver-haired woman sat on a jagged throne atop a dais, staring down at him as if he were an insect that she meant to beat down and squash rather than a king come to offer her an alliance.
The light streaming in from behind Daenerys Targaryen caught in her bells woven into her braids, reflecting a kaleidoscope of color onto her throne room, beautiful despite the fact that she could easily order his death if she so willed it; the Essosi weren’t beholden to upholding guest right as the Westerosi were, no matter what empty promises Tyrion Lannister made, and the woman before him had spent little time in the land she hoped to conquer.
She could dispose of him now if she so wished it.
His lips parted at the look of her, marveling at her beauty as subtly as he could manage without openly gawking. She was every inch the warrior princess that Arya would fantasize that Queen Visenya was in the time of a hundred kingdoms and the murmured words of Fire and Blood. She had a look to her—the one that western sailors warned their crewmates about when recounting their tall tales about mermaids and sirens, luring men to their deaths.
Suddenly her abundance of inexplicable allies made sense; she looked to be the kind of woman who men would follow into battle without a second thought, even if it meant certain death.
Did the realm burn as harshly under Aegon’s dragonfire as Robb did now?
His legs felt heavier as he trudged forward.
The soft padding of Grey Wind’s feet on the stone ground was all he heard as the youngest of the Lannister family stopped directly beside the throne, standing as proudly as his siblings did. Even in chains, Jaime Lannister maintained an arrogance that could rival even the smuggest of men.
Gods, did Robb hate that family and their blasted dynasty of treachery and incest.
A faint ringing settled itself in his ears as soon as his eyes met the Dragon Queen’s, blue against violet, ice against fire. There was a masked rage in her gaze, something Robb could only ever recall seeing on the battlefield before this on men who hoped to end the war with a single swing of their sword. She hated him without so much as a word shared between them.
"You stand in the presence of Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name,” A woman with curly dark hair announced crisply from the queen’s other side, drawing Robb out of his stupor in the process. The titles seemed to go on and on. “Rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the Queen of Meereen and the Bay of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, the Mother of Dragons."
Robb’s eyes had shot up to the sky by the time it was done. The Dragon Queen’s plump lips were pulled into a smirk by the end of the introduction as if preening under the attention, probably fancying that she had managed to intimidate him without even speaking.
Did she think that much of herself that this was how she meant to receive the lords of Westeros?
His instant attraction to the woman was all but quelled now that she was looking at him with that thinly veiled resentment from earlier, proving to him that a pretty face didn’t make a woman beautiful, no matter how much she looked like a goddess plucked from the myths of old.
He couldn’t help but make a comparison between this queen and his Queen in the North, the woman he was meant to spend his life with but had known for scarce but a couple of moons.
Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes were cold where Roslin’s were warm, her smile sharp where Roslin’s were soft, her hair light where Roslin’s was dark. She was as terrifying as she was gorgeous, but she was a Targaryen, the last Targaryen, and their reputation for volatility was not something that he planned on overlooking. He would not trade one mad tyrant for another.
He thought of his little wife hidden away in Winterfell, trying to remember what her voice sounded like to no avail. It was light and sweet, he recalled, though he couldn’t quite get the sound of it right. He imagined that it sounded the way honey would taste, as pretty as her smile.
Once more expectant eyes found him, he straightened under the pressure and steeled his gaze.
He didn’t need a servant to announce him to her.
“My name’s Robb Stark, Your Grace. I’m the King in the North and the Trident. With me are Dacey Mormont and Patrek Mallister, here to treat with you and welcome you to Westeros.”
A smile quirked at the woman’s lips as if she regarded him with little more esteem than a jester.
“The King in the North,” she repeated, her voice infuriatingly lovely even as she cut him down with naught but her words. Perhaps she had more in common with the lords and ladies of Joffrey’s court than he initially thought. “It seems to me that every man in Westeros has styled himself a king in some manner or another. How many is it now, Lord Tyrion? Five or six?”
Robb tried not to grind his teeth when Tyrion bit back a smile. “Six, Your Grace.”
“Six,” Daenerys confirmed a smidge too smug for Robb’s comfort. “And how many remain?”
“Three,” Tyrion answered immediately as if they had rehearsed this part of their conversation behind closed doors, seemingly a method to try to humiliate him into submission. “My nephew Joffrey and Theon Greyjoy still live, my queen. And of course, the King in the North.”
Robb bristled noticeably then, not wanting any of this woman’s wrath directed at his best mate.
Though the ironborn placed a crown upon his head, he had only gone to reclaim his family seat on Robb’s command, to solidify a long overdue union between their houses once and for all (and to make up for shagging his sister, but that was a matter of its own).
Would any of it be worth it in the end if they were burned alive before the year was up?
“I make no claims to the Iron Throne,” Robb spoke up, unwilling to let his intentions be skewed before he had a chance to defend himself. “Theon doesn’t either. Neither of us named ourselves kings like the others did—we were chosen to rule by our own people.” The Dragon Queen’s interest was piqued as she straightened in her seat, surprised that he was being so forthright with her. “All I want is Joffrey’s head, and to return to a free and independent North, Your Grace.”
“The King in the North,” Dacey murmured from his side, nodding in time with his words as Grey Wind settled at Robb’s feet protectively, tail whipping back and forth as he stared up at the queen who seemed to be more mildly fascinated by the direwolf than frightened, though he supposed someone who rode dragons wouldn’t be that fazed by a giant dog.
“The King in the North,” Patrek echoed her as loyally as he always did.
“And who would you see on the Iron Throne?” Daenerys narrowed her eyes at him, as if expecting him to name the little girl she had deposited in her dungeons when she took the island.
The only reason he had even agreed to come here was that he had been assured that this queen had merely taken Shireen Baratheon prisoner over putting her to the sword like any of the other kings Westeros had would have. Robert Baratheon would have seen Daenerys herself dead and yet, she spared his niece a terrible death that Joffrey would have relished in.
Perhaps she wasn’t like the rest of them after all.
Robb didn’t hesitate for a moment, already having prepared this response. “Someone worthy.”
As if understanding his meaning, Daenerys leaned back in her seat contemplatively, exchanging an unreadable glance with Tyrion. “Then I assume you’re not here to bend the knee.”
“No, Your Grace,” Robb responded, trying to gauge the temperament of this woman for himself. It would do no good if he threw his support behind someone who would abuse the very same power that had driven so many kings mad, especially if madness already ran through her veins, just waiting to be set off as it had been for so many Targaryens before her. “I’m not.”
“What a shame,” Daenerys sighed though she didn’t seem to expect him to yield to her so easily. Perhaps Tyrion gave her forewarning that Northmen were unbelievably stubborn, or she simply assumed the worst from the moment she received his missive. “The Seven Kingdoms are my birthright, Robb Stark. All seven kingdoms. That includes the North and the Iron Islands. I cannot abide by a division of these kingdoms, especially without some assurance that you won’t challenge my claim the moment I take the throne for myself.”
“On my honor as a Stark, I can guarantee that the Iron Throne does not interest me.” Robb furrowed his brows, wondering what she could possibly expect of him other than a pledge of fealty. Perhaps that was just it; she wanted him to bend the knee for her in lieu of an alliance.
Would she threaten him with her dragons if he refused any further?
Though he understood why the kings of old had knelt for the Targaryens, he couldn’t reconcile the thought of kneeling for a leader who would rather see the world burn than live by their own rule. What kind of ruler would choose to sit upon a throne of ash and bone if there was another alternative? Would he truly be saving the North by kneeling if she had such a bloodlust in her?
“Forgive me for saying so, but a Stark’s honor means little to me,” Daenerys retorted, her hands clasped together on her lap, something ferocious building in her eyes. “The Starks usurped my family from our rightful seat and drove me from this country when I was still in my mother’s womb. My late brother raised me on the streets of Essos, where assassins and rapers tried every day to see my family meet its end. We spent years fleeing from city to city, without a home, without a family, without anything in the world but the hope that we may someday return to Westeros and restore our house to what it once was.”
She rose from her seat, intimidating beyond her years. “Forgive me if I do not put my faith in your family’s honor, but you are but a stranger to me no matter what I’ve heard about a Stark’s honor. After all, a queen who trusts blindly is as foolish as a queen who trusts no one.”
Robb wet his lips as they stared at each other on uneven planes, fury crackling between them at the unspoken - or had it been spoken now? - challenge. “With all due respect, your father was overthrown because he burned my grandfather and uncle for sport. Your brother abducted, raped, and murdered my aunt Lyanna, a girl of fifteen,” he stepped forward, impassioned by the thought of the relatives that he had never known. How could she question the deposition of her family from the country after what they had done here? “Your family killed half a generation of Starks, so you’ll have to excuse me for not being overeager to hand our country into your hands. As you said yourself, you are a stranger to me. And your family’s reputation precedes you. I defied all of my counselors in even considering to treat with the Mad King’s daughter.”
Silence consumed the room for an unbearable moment.
Daenerys stepped down from her dais carefully, each movement as graceful and controlled as if she herself was a dragon coming to devour him. Every step prompted a raucous pounding of drums in his head, and he found it quite difficult to breathe under the intensity of her gaze.
He remained fixed in place, unwilling to yield to this woman if she meant to intimidate him.
She stopped directly before Robb, surprisingly short as she tilted her head up to meet his eyes. Grey Wind stirred, cocking his head with curiosity at her rather than growling like he typically did with enemies. If the direwolf didn’t hate her, perhaps he had some hope for an alliance yet; he had chewed the Greatjon’s finger of at the mere threat of an attack and so, Robb trusted his direwolf’s judgment more than he did with most men.
“My father was an evil man,” Daenerys spoke, her words firm yet soft. Robb felt his resolve crumbling as she anchored him to reality with her eyes, an odd blend of blues and purples swirling as if to beckon him forward. “I don’t intend to rule as he did. I have come here to rid Westeros of its tyrants, not become one of them. I suspect you want the same thing, my lord.”
“I do,” he confirmed, unable to look away from her now. If she deemed to call him by the wrong title, that was her prerogative. Could she be trusted or was she just another snake in the grass, saying all the right things in hopes of pulling one over on him? He thought of Sansa as the woman appraised him, trying to think on the stories she told him about Southron court. They’re all liars, Robb, he could hear her voice as clear as day, grounding him to reality.
“Then perhaps we should extend negotiations past today,” Daenerys held a hand out to him, not as a promise but as an offering. “I recognize that you are fighting a war, Robb Stark, but if you hope to broker an alliance between our forces, I would have you stay a little longer.”
“How much longer are you suggesting, Your Grace?” Tyrion asked from far behind her, a little peeved to have been all forgotten in the conversation. Or was it that she hadn’t consulted him before making the proposal for herself? “Time is of the essence with Joffrey still on the throne. He’s been made aware of our presence by now. We can’t let this get away from us, my queen.”
“A few weeks at the most.” Daenerys spoke with conviction, “it seems that it would benefit us both to get to know one another before we discuss fealty any further, wouldn’t you agree?”
“A reasonable assessment,” Tyrion chimed in though it seemed his breath was wasted on throwing his opinion into the mix. Neither Daenerys nor Robb were paying him much mind, instead sizing each other up as if they were sparring in a training yard rather than discussing the groundwork for an alliance. Agreeing seemed like an obvious enough choice with the war in mind, but the notion of treading carelessly and falling into a trap plagued his mind.
Could he trust her not to waste his time and leave his armies vulnerable for an attack?
If spending a little longer here was what it took to keep the North from going up in flames, he would take it, no matter the risks it came at. Robb reached over to grasp her arm with his in the old way, a shiver running along his skin as soon as she squeezed it in return.
He swallowed heavily as Daenerys offered him her first true smile of the meeting, a sight too bright to look away from, too blinding, too beautiful. It was a wonder his legs didn’t give out from underneath him when she looked up at him as if she knew his every thought, his every weakness. What had come over him that he was melting under her gaze like a green boy who had just had his first kiss? He was a king, not a child frothing at the mouth after the girl he fancied.
“Then it’s settled,” he heard himself saying, voice a little huskier than usual. If Dacey Mormont threw him a strange look at the way he said it, he pretended not to notice. “My men will need to be accommodated while we’re here. There are only seven of us.”
When she released him, Robb felt himself release a breath that he didn’t know he was holding.
“Of course,” Daenerys swiveled on her feet, her vibrant red cape swishing behind her before she addressed Robb once more, as if speaking an afterthought. “I hope that our houses may come to an accord in the negotiations to come. Together, we would be quite difficult to defeat.”
Robb could only nod at her when she nodded once in dismissal and returned to Tyrion’s side, whispering something to him that he couldn’t make out. The other man didn’t look angry, per say, but had a look of uncertainty on his face as his eyes flicked back to Robb every few seconds.
He felt a hand clap at his shoulder and turned to Patrek, who was smiling at him supportively, seeming entirely oblivious to Dacey’s disapproval. “You did well, Robb.”
“Probably would’ve done better if you weren’t gawking at her like a blushing maid,” Dacey hissed, decidedly unimpressed now that Daenerys was well out of hearing distance. He glanced back at the silver queen, watching on with curiosity as a well-adorned member of her guard communicated something to her and her Hand of the Queen. “The fuck happened back there?”
“You’re seeing things that aren’t there, Mormont,” Robb defended himself. The queen was attractive, it was true. He’d have to be blind not to notice that, but he wasn’t so weak-willed that he would fall to his knees before the first beautiful woman he saw. He was here out of the duty he bore for the North, for his wife, for his family, “I’m not sure what to make of her, that’s all.”
“If you say so,” Dacey rolled her eyes as they made to leave the hall and retrieve their weapons.
Olyvar tapped his foot against the leg of the table nervously as he picked at the meat on his plate, the sound of his fork scraping against the table driving Robb up the wall. He meant no harm but the tension in his actions set an uncomfortable tone for the first meal that they had in this castle.
It wasn’t the most appetizing meal they had ever eaten, but it was better than the turnip stew or potato broth that his war camps typically had to offer. Roasted seagull was better than nothing.
Robb shoveled the blackened meat into his mouth and washed it down heartily with some of the ale that the queen’s servants had to offer. It wasn’t so bad now that he was getting used to it.
“Eat up, little lad,” Owen Norrey grinned, a bit of lettuce sticking out of his teeth like a clover on an ashen field. “S’not so bad if you give it a chance. You’ve had worse at the Twins, I reckon.”
The squire flushed, chuckling under his breath. “Aye, I have.”
“What’s the worst you ever had?” Donnel prodded, keeping the air around them light despite the circumstances. None of them expected to be here for longer than a day, all anticipating a quick rejection so they could be on their way, but they found themselves here nonetheless.
“Once, Father served us fish brains on rye,” Olyvar scrunched his nose up. “The smell of it’s something I’ll never forget. Some bloke from the Summer Isles told him it was a delicacy and the old fool believed it, fed it to us all before he took a gander at it himself. I vomited it all out before twenty minutes were up. I’ll never forget the way it squished when I bit into it.”
“I don’t mean any disrespect,” Owen cut in, “but your father’s a bit of a cunt, mate.”
Dacey burst out laughing, raising her tankard in agreement. “I’ll toast to that.”
Rodrik Forrester snickered as their cups clanked together, loose droplets of ale dripping onto the table. “To Walder fookin’ Frey and his band of shithead sons! You’re the best of ‘em, Oly.”
Olyvar was about to respond when a woman flounced into the room urgently, the door practically swinging open with her entrance. Her lips were curved up into a pleasant smile as soon as they turned to look at her, not seeming half as rushed as her arrival made her seem.
This was one of the queen’s handmaidens- it was simple enough to guess after one look at the black-and-red garb she was wearing. He could have sworn that he saw her in the hall earlier, one of the only non-warrior companions that the Dragon Queen seemed to keep by her side.
After only having spent a few hours at Dragonstone, it was a wonder that he even knew how to navigate the Northerner’s section of the castle, let alone began learning everyone’s names. As a king, it had always been important to him to get to know the lowest as well as the highest, and so he was resolved to make an effort for anyone who tended to them or prepared them meals.
So far, he had identified Missandei and Strong Belwas among the queen’s entourage but otherwise had not been formally introduced to any of her band of advisors and protectors. This girl had a sweet look to her face, her long black hair shimmering under the light.
Gods, he swore he heard one of the guards refer to her by name at least once. Jasmin? No, that wasn’t it. Jeyne was too Westerosi-sounding for this girl, likely brought along with the khalasar or freed from one of the cities of Slaver’s Bay as the queen’s right-hand woman had been.
“King Stark?” She tested the words out, beaming when everyone turned their heads towards Robb as he was halfway through chewing his last bite of seagull, dread curling inside of him at the thought of having to think on his feet again. “Our queen would like to speak with you.”
He sighed resignedly and stood, wondering if he would ever get to live a quiet life away from politics and the mummery that came with it. Probably not. “Of course.”
Grey Wind remained with his men, goaded into staying by the burnt gull wing that Dacey slipped to him under the table. Robb followed the girl out of the castle, climbing up the stairs of the stony holdfast as they wandered about. He sincerely hoped that she knew where she was going, as all of the castle and its towers looked much the same to him at this point.
They didn’t waste any time with the mindless prattle he had to entertain from time to time, instead shuffling forward in awkward silence. She understood bits and pieces of the Common Tongue, he was sure, but she made no attempt to speak with him beyond commenting on how chilly it had gotten. For anyone in Essos, Dragonstone was likely the coldest place they had ever seen; he couldn’t imagine how they would fare in the cold of the North.
If only he had sent one of the Dothraki warriors to fetch him rather than a handmaiden, mayhaps they would have actually had something to speak about.
Since his childhood, he had long wondered how the great khals across the sea carried themselves and if they truly did fight with the arakhs that the history books described; all he had seen of them was a shoddily-drawn crescent-shaped blade in the corner of one of the books his grandfather had purchased for his uncle Brandon nearly three decades ago.
He wanted to know what made the Dothraki tick, how they trained, and most of all, why they had risked everything to travel across the Narrow Sea for Daenerys Targaryen when they had never followed a woman before in their history. What made her so special that they abandoned everything they knew for her, including their very livelihood and land, and overlooked the prejudices against women that had long been ingrained in their culture?
Even Westeros had yet to fully embrace a woman as anything but the king’s most prized possession. Women were as capable as men, if not more so, as Mother and Sansa had proved to him time and time again; not everyone had a mind that women were fit to rule though, so he had to wonder what it was about this queen that inspired so many people to fight for her.
When they found their way to the battlements overlooking the sea, Daenerys Targaryen’s back was facing them, staring at the sea as if she longed to jump in and swim about like a fish would.
A storm was brewing, clear by the dashes of green and grey in the sky.
It would rain before long, but it didn’t seem to worry her in the slightest. What was a little rain to a woman who could supposedly emerge through fire unscathed? If even half the stories about her were true, she had nothing to fear from the likes of lions or roses or wolves or stags.
“The Northern King, Khaleesi,” the Essosi girl announced, smiling brightly as the woman who summoned him turned around, hair whipping in front of her as the winds picked up. She no longer wore the bells in her hair from earlier, though her braids were wrapped and threaded through each other even more elaborately than before. He knew from his lessons as a child that the Dothraki wore bells in their hair as a demonstration of strength, and that they never cut their hair unless defeated in battle. Perhaps she wore them only in diplomatic situations.
Daenerys responded in a foreign tongue, her voice warming as if she truly loved the girl. The black-haired servant murmured something in the same language before leaving, head held high and a spring to her step. Her eyes caught on Robb next and she gestured for him to join her.
He stepped forward hesitantly, uncertain as to what she could want from him.
“Your Grace,” he rested his elbows on the cool stone and opted to stare at the view ahead of them. “What is it that you wanted to talk about?”
Daenerys glanced at him before following suit, returning to her spot several feet away from him with a heaving sigh. Her dragons were circling over the castle, all three of them seeming to get some sort of stimulus from spreading their wings and chasing one another about. She watched them like his mother would watch Bran and Arya horse around in the mud outside, back before Robert Baratheon had come to Winterfell to tear his family apart.
“Tyrion thinks that negotiating with you is pointless,” Daenerys spoke evenly, calm despite the stiffness she carried herself with. It was if every word was a performance for his benefit, a pretense that Robb was well acquainted with. She smiled though her eyes did not. “That you have no intention of ceding the North to me no matter what I might do or say.”
“I don’t,” Robb cracked a smile of his own, not bothering to lie to her when he had made his intentions clear from the first. “I was hoping you’d change your mind, if I’m being honest. I don’t want to be your enemy in the wars to come. It’s why I came here at all.”
“It seems that we’re at an impasse,” Daenerys murmured, her tone light in spite of the subject-matter. At that, Robb turned slightly to get a look at her. Her lips were upturned, her brow lifted upward as if she found the situation rather amusing. “Neither of us are willing to yield to the other and yet, we both insist on keeping up the façade of negotiating an alliance.”
“Aye,” he grinned, unable to help but find humor in the situation now. “That sounds about right.”
Daenerys tilted her gaze to meet his and suddenly, Robb felt as though every move he made was being scrutinized. “And what do you suggest we do about it?”
He huffed another laugh, more nervous this time now that she was watching him as carefully as a hawk would with its prey. “Try to talk each other out of it, I reckon.”
In truth, he wasn’t sure what to do. Could he abandon this pursuit now and risk letting the North get razed to the ground? Even in the stories he had been told as a child, her ancestors had been hailed for forcing Westeros to kneel with dragons at their back; the Targaryen conquerors of old were still heroes no matter how many houses burned in their wake. What was the line between greatness and evil when the historians seemed to decide the distinction amongst themselves?
There was nothing keeping her from burning them all or at the very least, making an example of someone to force the others to bend and yet, she made no attempt to even take the capital with force. He had no doubt in his mind that Stannis Baratheon wouldn’t have hesitated to use dragons to take the city if they were at his disposal, given the whispers of how he dabbled in the dark arts and blood magic with the foreign priestess he kept by his side.
What had even become of the woman now that her liege lord was dead? Mayhaps she had fled before the battle, or chose to die with the king that she proclaimed to be the realm’s savior.
“I suppose we have ample time for it,” she mused, looking back at her dragons above them as if in a world of her own. “You’ve been at war for nearly five years. You must wish it was over.”
“Every day,” Robb admitted, seeing no bright side to continuing with his battles and strategies. Some men lusted for war but Robb cared not for the barbarity of it; every day he fought on the battlefield was another day that he risked leaving his family vulnerable to attack. He had to keep fighting for them if not for anyone else. “What I want doesn’t matter much, though, does it?”
“Such is the life of a leader,” she murmured her agreement and he felt an odd kinship between them. A mutual understanding despite their differences. “Our lives will never truly belong to us.”
Robb glanced back at her, not quite comprehending the troubled look on her face. What did she know of loss and war? The woman was a mystery to him, an enigma to Westerosi politics for nearly her entire life, and now she was here with every chance at ousting the current king.
Neither of them spoke. The only sound he could make out was the gentle waves crashing against the rocks and sand below them, a cool breeze washing over them as they stood upon the wall, two young rulers with the world at their fingertips. She would either be his greatest ally, he knew, or she could be the very storm that returned his country to the dirt.
In a matter of days, he would know which she would prove to become.
“It’s time that I retire for the night, I’m afraid.” Daenerys spared one last look at her pets before withdrawing from her spot on the edge of the battlements, making to leave as two of her dragons tussled with one another in the sky. “I appreciate your candor, my lord, truly I do.”
She turned but not before he called out to her, as confused as he was relieved. “Tomorrow then?”
Daenerys tilted her head to the side, her lips quirked upward as she nodded affirmatively. “Tomorrow. I advise that you get your rest while you can. We have much to discuss.”
He watched her leave, his heart hammering frantically in his chest as the black dragon swooped over the battlements with a high-pitched screech.
Almost everything in his quarters were caked with dust. Even the candles were grimy with disuse, seeming to have been abandoned for years on end before he had occupied it.
Robb had to wonder who was housed here before him; it was larger than the lodgings of a minor noble for certain, though its state led him to believe Stannis hadn’t done so much as touched it when this castle was his. There were only a few reasons that he could think such once-luxurious chambers would be neglected, and most of them were rooted in ghost stories and superstitions.
Perhaps it belonged to Princess Elia or her daughter before the horrors that befell their family. The Lannisters had slaughtered them as well as the young prince as savagely as they would with livestock. How many lives and houses would their family trample over before they were finally brought to justice? Even he had turned positively green when Old Nan told him, Jon, and Theon the tale of Gregor Clegane and what he had done to the princess’ family, all for the Lannisters.
But Tywin Lannister had only done it for Robert Baratheon, hadn’t he? It was no wonder that Stannis Baratheon couldn’t bear to look at the chambers considering the role his family had taken in the deaths of the infants. It was probably a nightmare come to life for him when the very woman whose mother and brother he failed to capture came back to kill him herself.
The thought made Robb’s insides turn and so he tried to chase it from his head.
The room wasn’t much, but it was considerably more comfortable than huddling under some furs in a tent. He hadn’t had a bed of his own since he and Roslin first wed, nearly… gods, was it nearing eight moons already? Had it truly been so long since his oath to Walder Frey was fulfilled? That meant it had been four moons since he had touched her, kissed her, felt her.
He missed a woman’s touch and the sound of laughter, though it was proving difficult to recall the exact sound of Roslin’s with the wind rustling against his closed windows. She was his wife in the eyes of the gods, and so he tried to think of her as often as he could. It didn’t help that he barely knew a thing about her save that she favored the colors green and yellow.
Robb closed his eyes, recalling her face as well as he could. He started with her wide brown doe eyes and continued to her bow-shaped lips. He could begin to picture it now- the angular slopes of her face, her loose chestnut hair splayed out over the pillows, her blinding smile when he nipped at her neck just right, her long legs hitched over his waist, the bouncing of her pert breasts when she would finally let her sense of propriety go and allow herself to enjoy his touch…
He took himself in his hand as he thought of his little wife – the wife who carried his son or daughter inside of her, the wife he tried tirelessly to love as she deserved, the wife he barely knew – and jerked his cock to thoughts of her face, and her body, and her smile, and breasts.
It was out of determination to be a loyal husband that he rid other thoughts of women from his mind. He had… struggled with Talisa, it was true, but everyone assured him that love came easily once given a chance. What was passion compared to stability?
Roslin was pretty, she was lovely, she was kind, she was perfect. He had no reason not to worship the ground she stood on. And yet…
No, Robb pressed on, willing himself to conjure a clearer image of the woman in his head as he kept at it, speeding his movements up so as to up the ante. Think of her lips, her eyes, her smile.
He groaned to himself, twisting his hand back and forth as his ministrations grew more frantic, more desperate, more needy. He needed something that he couldn’t quite get and yet, the thought of needing anything else made him feel like he was the worst of men. She should have been enough for him. Why wasn’t any of it enough for him?
When he spilled his seed, he caught sight of a flash of violet where it should have been brown.
He felt a lump lodge itself into his throat when he found his release, his mind taking him in a treacherous direction when he found that he could no longer temper it.
The guilt he had been harboring for moons on end ran hotter than ever before, scalding his heart in the process of coursing through his body. Moments passed as he settled against the feather pillow, staring up at the ceiling above him and trying to convince himself that he had not just gotten off to the thought of a woman as different from his wife as the moon was from the sun.
Stone by stone, he reminded himself of his mother’s words as he always tried to do on nights like these, when he couldn’t picture a life at home with the stranger he had traded his life to in exchange for a bridge. Love didn’t just happen to us, Robb. Time is all you need to love her.
What would his father think of him if he could see him now, lusting after a woman he had just met when he should have been thinking of the girl he pledged his heart and life to? He had attempted to fulfil his responsibilities as best as he could in other regards but hadn’t focused nearly enough on the marriage he was whisked into with naught but a moon’s notice.
Walder Frey had been happy enough with the rushed nuptials, but Robb wished he had been given a little more time with Roslin before he swore his life to her before a Septon.
He wanted more than anything to love her in the way he had seen Father love Mother, the way he witnessed Theon love Sansa no matter how bizarre the notion of Theon and Sansa was.
The tender way that Theon peppered her face with kisses as they danced at the wedding was enough to send Robb deep into his cups for the night, yearning for even a fraction of the love and devotion that they shared with one another. From the time that he was a boy, all he had wanted from a marriage was to love and be loved in return; though Roslin tried to love him as he tried with her, he suspected that what they had would never quite break a surface-level fondness.
It made him uncomfortable on principle to live with the knowledge that his best mate was bedding his little sister, but he couldn’t help the envy that simmered underneath his skin when they acted so enamored with each other that the rest of the world seemed to trickle away.
Even on the battlefield with a crazed fire in his eyes, Theon fought like a man possessed, jewelry spilling out of his pockets as if he had come to fight a war simply to claim some spoils for Sansa. It was odd to see Theon, who had always unquestionably been his friend, so devoted to a girl he had japed at the expense of regularly when they were children. He was happy for them but…
Was it so wrong that he wanted a love like that for himself?
He had gone to his mother once, well on his way to being properly drunk, blubbering about true love and duty and babes until she shut him up and sent him to bed. They hadn’t spoken about the matter again save for Mother lecturing him about how love didn’t come at once, as if she trusted that his heart would be able to steer him in the right direction no matter what it craved.
How much longer would it take for him to fall madly in love with his wife? To think about her when he closed his eyes, to love her as she deserved to be loved, to yearn for her touch rather than dread the thought of bedding her while she laid there in quiet submission, unable to tell whether she liked what he was doing or not…
He wanted a partner in life and love, and above all else, he wanted a wife, not a servant.
She had shared so much with him- her smiles, her bed, her life, but she never once divulged her real feelings on anything to him. He couldn’t tell what lurked behind her eyes, whether it was loathing, love, or indifference, and he doubted she would ever open her heart enough to tell him.
Seven hells, they barely had anything in common as it was. How were they supposed to make a home together with a child and a true family like his parents had done when he could barely look at her without wondering if she even liked him, let alone truly wanted him as her husband?
Stone by stone, his mother had said. All he needed was some more time.
The food tasted no better in the morning than it did the night before. Robb tore into the tough strips of meat on his plate, betting that it had been sitting in their stores for weeks before it was served. It wasn’t spoiled, so he supposed that was all he could ask for. The eggs weren’t half bad so he shoveled as much of it as he could manage into his mouth and washed it down with water.
His men broke their fast with him, all as tense as they were exhausted. Judging by the circles under Owen’s eyes, he hadn’t gotten a nick of sleep the night before either.
The Dragon Queen wouldn’t have assassins murder them in their beds, he was certain of it.
Her position was precarious enough here that she couldn’t afford it; she would sooner try to persuade them to bend the knee than have them executed for it. If Robb died, he had two brothers to take the mantle up for him, not to mention another kingdom that would go to war on his behalf through his sister. If she cut the head off of one beast, two more would sprout in its place.
Robb had nothing to fear from this place, at least not for the time being.
“I’d give my left arm for some jam on toast about now,” Rodrik grumbled, not bothering to close his mouth as he chewed. “Gods be good, it’s been years since I’ve had a decent meal.”
“Quit your whining,” Donnel griped as he stirred his oats around in his bowl. “Least they’re giving us food to eat instead of letting us fend for ourselves. It’s better than nothing.”
“Shut your hole,” Rodrik shot back though there was no malice in his tone. “S’not like you’d know a decent meal if it hit you in the face. You Lockes eat about as well as pigs.”
“I’ll make bacon out of you yet, boy-”
“Can’t a man just enjoy one meal without your bickering?” Robb cut in, water dribbling down his beard as he took another swig of his drink. “Gods, you’re worse than my sisters.”