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Chapter Text

                The oppressive heat of the sun in Meereen seemed appropriate for a city that had, until recently, been home and prison to half a million slaves. That appropriateness did not make it any more pleasant for Robb Stark as he was marched through the streets, his pale northern complexion crisping at an alarming pace. Even in his loose linen shirt, sweat was pouring down his back, and he had to squint to avoid being blinded by the glare coming off the paved streets. He thought of White Harbour, with its packed earth streets and squat buildings of stone and wood, and wondered if the Meereenese would consider it a city at all. Then his captors took him through a plaza where the rusting detritus of slavery lay piled, collars and branding irons and leg shackles, and he found himself less concerned with what the Meereenese thought.

                Robb’s own situation was not currently much better than that of a slave. After barely escaping the Red Wedding with his life, he had fled across the Narrow Sea like many defeated rebels before him, clinging to a faint hope that he could somehow enlist the aid of the Golden Company and return to Westeros, supporting some distant Blackfyre claimant. Instead he had almost immediately been seized by these men, and dragged halfway around the world to Slaver’s Bay. From what little of their conversations he understood, it seemed that they had an idea to win the favour of Daenerys Targaryen by handing him over to her.

                The silver queen, the most beautiful woman in the world, the last Targaryen. Robb had heard rumours about Daenerys as far west as the Crag, but the further east he came, the more he heard about her. Depending on who was telling the stories she was a liberator, a tyrant or both. But then Robb had heard the stories people told about him, including that he was a skinchanger who feasted on human flesh and that he led an army of direwolves, so he doubted everything he heard, particularly when it came to dragons.

                The men marching Robb towards the enormous pyramid that loomed over Meereen like a mountain didn’t seem to know any more about Daenerys than he did. They were not from Meereen; most of them seemed to be Braavosi. As far as he could tell, they knew only that Starks and Targaryens were enemies, and therefore presumed that Daenerys would reward them for bringing him to her. Maybe she would, he had no idea. Maybe she would burn him alive, as her father had his grandfather.

                Stepping into the pyramid’s shade was such a relief that Robb felt a rush of gratitude towards whichever self-aggrandising slaver had ordered its construction. It wasn’t even that it was cool in the shade, he was still warm, he just wasn’t sizzling like bacon in a pan. The closer they got to the pyramid, the more he grasped just how big it was. Its sides of multicoloured brick sloped up and up, far higher than even the tallest towers of Winterfell. He only realised he had stopped to gape when a sharp shove between his shoulders got him moving again.

                At the pyramid’s main doors there was a somewhat agitated discussion between Robb’s captors and the guards before they were finally allowed inside. The gloomy interior with its inwards-sloping walls and long corridors stretching away into the darkness might have seemed foreboding if it wasn’t so blessedly cool. Robb closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the relief of it to wash over him, but he didn’t have time to truly savour it. Up and up and up the stairs they went, until he was hot and sweating all over again. When they finally reached wherever they were going, he was glad that they were made to wait in an antechamber. It gave him time to catch his breath, and one of his captors shared a waterskin with him, for which he was grateful.

                Eventually the antechamber doors were opened, and stone-faced guards with spiked caps led them through into a grand hall lined with tall pillars of purple marble. Robb was stunned by how cold it was compared to the blistering heat outside, but that thought was driven aside when he looked up the marble steps to the dais above. His chest tightened the moment he saw her, in a loose gown of pale silk, with braided silver hair and an imperious air that made him want to go down on his knees.

                Helpfully, a hand between Robb’s shoulder blades shoved him down, and the leader of his captors began making a bombastic speech, weaving a fantastical tale of Robb’s capture, studded with praise for Daenerys. She listened patiently at first, but as the man went on and on, she abruptly interrupted him. “Thank you for the gift, my friend.” Her voice was a little deeper than Robb had anticipated, and even with a polite smile on her lips that didn’t reach her eyes, it commanded obedience. He envied her that, not that it mattered now. She gestured, and a young, dark-skinned woman beside her leaned down while Daenerys whispered in her ear, then straightened up and descended the steps, wearing a similar smile. “Missandei will see that you are properly rewarded for this great service you have done me,” Daenerys announced.

                As Missandei led Robb’s captors out of the hall, he glanced at the men beside her. The older one looked Westerosi, perhaps some exiled knight who had refused to bend the knee to Robert, while the younger one was maybe from the Free Cities. The older one was studying him carefully, while the younger one looked only mildly interested.

                “Are you really who they say you are?” Robb’s attention snapped back to Daenerys the moment she spoke. She was looking at him with an air of detached interest now.

                “Aye, your grace.” It clearly surprised her that he used the proper form of address, and it surprised him too. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it just came out, as naturally as air. As if it fitted her, far better than it had ever fitted him.

                “Then they were right to say that you are my enemy, Robb Stark?” The way she said his name made it sound like a death sentence, and an unpleasant feeling crawled slowly up his spine.

                “Have I ever harmed you, your grace?”

                “Your father rebelled against mine. My family was slaughtered, and I was driven into exile.” She was taut now with tightly controlled outrage.

                “Do you know what your father did to my grandfather and uncle?” Robb shot back, more spitefully than he meant to.

                Daenerys softened almost imperceptibly, but she was still looking down at him like she wanted him dead, and he was acutely aware that this was very much within her power. “I am not my father.”

                “And I am not mine.”

                “No.” Daenerys’ eyes narrowed slightly. “But you have your own treasons. I’m told you tried to steal two kingdoms that are rightfully mine. Do you deny it?”

                Robb had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “I was acclaimed King in the North and King of the Trident by my bannermen, after the Lannisters killed my father. Would you prefer I had bent the knee to them, your grace?”

                “I would prefer you had bent the knee to me,” Daenerys retorted at once. “Your ancestor, Torrhen Stark, had the good sense to kneel for Aegon the Conqueror. He swore fealty, for himself and all his heirs, in perpetuity. Your father broke that oath, but you had a chance to regain your family’s honour. You could have raised the dragon banner, sent ships to bring me home.” She was clearly getting worked up, venting long-held and deeply felt frustrations, but Robb thought her heard her voice crack slightly on the word ‘home’. “Instead, you chose to compound your father’s treachery. The penalty for treason is death.”

                Robb raised his head, bracing himself for her judgement. “But…” The barest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I am not my father.” She glanced over her shoulder at the older man beside her. “I reserve my judgement. You will remain my prisoner, until such time as I decide what to do with you.”

                Robb expected to be marched down to some dank dungeon, all the worse for being in this wretched heat, but to his surprise and relief he was escorted to a pleasant enough room. It was windowless, lit only by candles and torches, and he reckoned it was deep within the pyramid, but that meant it was blessedly cool. He sat down on the bed and found it comfortably soft. He didn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper bed. Probably before… well, a long time ago, so he kicked off his weathered boots and laid down, staring up at the sloped ceiling.

                Daenerys Targaryen. She wasn’t what he had expected. The singers claimed she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and he had assumed they exaggerated, but having seen her now, it was hard to deny. It wasn’t just the way she looked, it was the way she held herself, the way she looked at him. Like he was nothing, and she was everything. He thought of Talisa, the way she’d looked at him when they met, and guilt clawed at his stomach.

                Captivity was boring. Robb alternated for what felt like a whole night and day – impossible to tell in this windowless place – between pacing his room and lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Either way, he was tormented by his own mind. His mother, Talisa, Dacey, Smalljon, Donnel, the images of their last moments were seared into his brain like a brand that never cooled. The only way he could stop replaying that night in his mind was to think about those who were still out there, somewhere. Jon, alone at the wall, Arya and Sansa, hostages in King’s Landing, Uncle Edmure, most likely dead, but a prisoner of the fucking Freys otherwise. Theon…

                The door opened, and Robb jerked upright on the bed. The sight of Daenerys was a relief after all the waking nightmares chasing one another around his head, doubly so now that he saw her up close. Her white dress was at once reserved and alluring in the way it subtly followed her curves, and the ornate silver dragon coiling around her neck was a potent reminder of her power. Not that any was needed; the way she held herself as she sat down in a chair without invitation projected authority in a way that he knew he never had.

                Taking a seat opposite her with a glance over his shoulder at her strange guards who stood there like statues, Robb found himself at a loss for what to say, so it was both a relief and a surprise when she suddenly spoke. “If you were in my position, if I was your prisoner, what would you do with me?”

                It wasn’t a question Robb had considered at all, and it took him several uncomfortable seconds just to wrap his head around the idea of her, a prisoner in Riverrun or Winterfell. “You’re not my enemy, I wouldn’t keep you as a prisoner,” he finally said. It was true, he had no quarrel with her. Though as far as he could tell, she had none with him either, and that clearly didn’t stop her from holding him captive.

                “But if you did,” Daenerys replied levelly, giving Robb no hint as to what answer would be acceptable if not the one he just gave.

                Trying to come up with another answer, Robb idly scratched at his jaw. His beard had grown long and curly during his captivity, and it itched. “I suppose I would try to ransom you.” That was the done thing with noble prisoners, after all.

                “There’s no-one who would pay for me, just as there’s no-one who’ll pay for you,” Daenerys said coldly, and Robb felt a spike of ice in his chest. “I… I mean to say that ransom is not an option,” she added more gently, but he was irritated now by her and by this meaningless questioning.

                Leaning back, Robb let out a breath, knowing that he shouldn’t let his anger get the better of him. Maybe she hadn’t meant to prick him, but she had managed to all the same. “What’s the point of this, your grace?” he asked shortly.

                “I wish to know what kind of man you are.” Daenerys had barely moved, but there was a menace to her voice that hadn’t been there before, and a dangerous look in her eyes that made his heart beat faster.

                “Then maybe you should stop refusing to accept my answers.” It would be nice to be able to blame his frustration for the way he needled her despite good sense telling him not to, but there was a thrill to seeing her angry.

                Obligingly, violet eyes flashed with anger. It was controlled, but still it was more threatening than a shadowcat. “An insolent man, it seems.”

                For some reason that made Robb think of Arya, who had always seemed to learn manners specifically in order to be as insolent as possible, and the memory of how she had made the septas howl made him laugh, his frustrations evaporating. “If you think I’m bad you should meet my sister.” At first Daenerys looked stunned, but then he thought he saw a smile briefly flit across her face. He’d said it without much thought, but now that the idea was in his mind, he imagined how Arya would react if she ever met this conquering queen to whom cities knelt. “I think she’d like you.”

                “What’s her name?” Daenerys asked, and Robb was grateful for the gentleness in her voice.

                “Arya.” It had been so long since he’d said her name out loud. Even longer since he’d addressed her. It seemed a lifetime ago, the day his father set out for King’s Landing, never to return.

                “Perhaps you could advise me on a problem I have,” Daenerys asked. The gentleness was gone from her voice, but so was the threat.

                Robb pushed melancholy thoughts aside, sitting up in his chair. “I can try.”

                “One of the Great Masters – the former rulers of this city, before I came – has murdered a freedman, a former slave. He did it because that freedman raped and murdered his daughter. The freedmen of the city call for his execution. The Masters call for clemency on account of his motive. What would you do?”

                At once, sitting in judgement over a certain prominent murderer came to mind. It wasn’t the same, his crime was far less excusable, but it had been a choice with no right answer as Daenerys’ choice seemed to be. “I was faced with a similar problem. An important lord…” Robb began, and then caught himself. He shouldn’t hide behind abstractions, not when discussing a man he had killed. “Lord Rickard Karstark, of Karhold, murdered two Lannister boys who were my prisoners. And the two men guarding their cell. The boys had done nothing to him, but Jaime Lannister had killed his sons.” Torrhen and Eddard, their deaths were his to bear too. He hadn’t killed them, but it had been his orders that put them in the Kingslayer’s path. The Whispering Wood was his choice. The war was his choice. He’d called the banners, marched south with an army. Torrhen and Eddard, Willem and Tion, Delp and Elwood, Rickard Karstark, his mother, Talisa, Dacey, Bran, Rickon, Ser Rodrik, thousands more, how many of them would still be alive if he’d just gone to King’s Landing and bent the knee? Would his father be among them?

                “What did you do?” The question broke Robb out of his guilt, and he was grateful for Daenerys’ gentle tone.

                “Everyone counseled mercy. As long as Lord Karstark was my prisoner, his men would remain loyal. But I kept thinking about the loyal men he murdered, the boys.” As Robb spoke his lips twisted in a bitter smile that was almost a snarl, and he clenched his fist, picturing Lord Karstark’s neck, or maybe it was Theon’s. “So I cut off his head.” He remembered the way the rain had drummed down, fat droplets splattering against the block. He remembered throwing down his sword in the soaked grass once it was done. He remembered Lord Karstark’s curse, and clenched his fist tighter.

                “Yourself?”

                Robb looked up, having almost forgotten that Daenerys was there. His surprise made him forget his anger, and he nodded. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. It’s the northern way. My father always did that duty, though he hated it.” Maybe it would have felt more right with Ice in his hands. He pictured Daenerys trying to heft that ungainly monster of a sword, and had to suppress a smirk.

                “Do you regret it?”

                Robb was a creature of regret and little else these days. But of all his mistakes, all his failings… that wasn’t one of them. He regretted that he had let it get to that point. Regretted that he had put Torrhen and Eddard in danger, had robbed Lord Rickard of his sons. But a man who murdered children, innocent children, could not have been spared justice for political gain. “No, your grace. He deserved to die. I looked him in the eyes and heard his final words. If I hadn’t been sure, I couldn’t have swung the sword.” Somehow it was a relief saying it out loud.

                “So you’d advise me to execute the man who murdered the freedman?” For the first time since Robb had met her, Daenerys looked unsure.

                The one silver lining to Robb’s whole world collapsing around him had been that no-one’s life rested on his word any more. He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I don’t know. It’s not the same crime, and I know nothing of this city or its people.”

                Daenerys stood, and Robb couldn’t help enjoying the sight although it made him fear he’d said something wrong. There was something about the way she moved, like a lioness, regal, graceful, and yet coiled with power. Not physical strength, she was a small woman, but she carried herself like everyone she laid eyes on could die if she wished. “Nevertheless, I thank you for speaking with me.”

                As Daenerys swept past him, Robb hastily stood. “Wait, your grace,” he called after her, and for a moment he thought she was going to ignore him. But then she stopped, turning her head just far enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye. “Have you decided what my fate will be?”

                “No.” And then she was gone, leaving Robb staring at the door as it closed behind her with a thud.

Chapter Text

                As the latest petitioner was led from the hall, Daenerys shifted on her stupid wooden bench, trying to stop her backside from going numb, and not for the first time regretting that she didn’t at least choose something with a backrest. After sitting there for hours a day, her back ached and her neck was always stiff.

                Once for blood and once for gold and once for love. Which one had Ser Jorah been? He had claimed to love her, but how could she believe him, knowing what she now knew? She wanted to stop thinking about him, but in every quiet moment his betrayal clawed its way back into her mind.

                Missandei was whispering urgently with one of the attendants, and as she ascended the steps there was an odd look on her face. Daenerys tilted her head curiously, flashing her favourite advisor a smile, but Missandei’s smile in return only lasted for a moment. As Missandei leaned down to whisper in her ear, she understood. Eddard Stark’s eldest son in chains, here in Meereen. The former King in the North. A great and yet defeated conqueror. A shapechanger who had commanded an army of direwolves, according to certain outlandish tales. But she of all people could not discount outlandish tales about legendary beasts.

                When Robb Stark was led in, Daenerys identified him at once, pale-skinned with curly auburn hair, quite distinctive among his tanned, dark haired captives, though not at all what she had imagined. She had expected a man like Ser Jorah, broad and bristly, not a youth with bright blue eyes and a strong, stubbled jaw and… she caught herself, turning her attention to the leader of the men, who showered her with verbose praise before reciting the tale of Robb Stark’s capture with the air of a mummer. ‘The Young Wolf,’ the man called him, and she kept glancing at the kneeling figure at the base of the dais despite herself.

                Daenerys listened for as long as she could, but the bench was getting uncomfortable again and the man showed no sign of getting to the end of his story, so she cut him off, politely but firmly, and had Missandei escort him and his men out to be handsomely rewarded. Though not too handsomely. It was encouraging that men were bringing her enemies to her from so far afield, but she didn’t want every mercenary in the Free Cities to start kidnapping Westerosi and bringing them to Meereen in hopes of reward.

                Violet eyes studied Robb, and Daenerys was grateful for the distance between them, to help disguise just how interested she was. She maintained her regal poise, but the sight of a handsome man on his knees… Seven Hells, what had got into her? “Are you really who you say you are?” she blurted out.

                “Aye, your grace.” Such unexpected respect, with the first words out of his mouth, in a gentle voice that belied his rough accent, made her heart flutter.

                “Then they were right to say that you are my enemy, Robb Stark?” she asked coldly, trying to reassert herself, hoping he hadn’t noticed the effect he was having on her.

                “Have I ever harmed you, your grace?” There was a sharp edge to his tone, a rebuke that bit at a sore spot inside her, and suddenly he did make her think of Ser Jorah.

                “Your father rebelled against mine. My family was slaughtered, and I was driven into exile.” Long-nurtured anger bubbled up inside her with every word she spoke, and she surprised herself with the venom in her voice.

                “Do you know what your father did to my grandfather and uncle?”

                How dare he throw her father’s crimes at her feet? For a moment Daenerys wanted to sweep down the stairs and strangle him, but she mastered herself, and let out a breath. It was unfair of him, but it had been unfair of her first. “I am not my father.”

                “And I am not mine.”

                “No.” But that didn’t make them friends. He had not committed his father’s treason, but he hadn’t made it right, either. Instead, he’d placed a crown on his own head, compounding it. “But you have your own treasons. I’m told you tried to steal two kingdoms that are rightfully mine. Do you deny it?”

                “I was acclaimed King in the North and King of the Trident by my bannermen, after the Lannisters killed my father. Would you prefer I had bent the knee to them, your grace?” Robb replied with infuriating condescension.

                “I would prefer you had bent the knee to me,” Daenerys snapped. “Your ancestor, Torrhen Stark, had the good sense to kneel for Aegon the Conqueror. He swore fealty, for himself and all his heirs, in perpetuity. Your father broke that oath, but you had a chance to regain your family’s honour. You could have raised the dragon banner, sent ships to bring me home.” How different things could have been, she thought. Ships might have arrived in Qarth, with the dragon and the wolf fluttering from their masts, and she might never have been troubled by Slaver’s Bay and all its evils. An army could have been waiting for her in Westeros, with a handsome lord at its head. “Instead, you chose to compound your father’s treachery. The penalty for treason is death.” Robb refused to be cowed, and she couldn’t help admiring his bravery. For all her anger, she didn’t want to kill him.

                “But…” Mercy is not a weakness, Daenerys told herself. “I am not my father.” She remembered what Ser Barristan had told her about her father, and she glanced over her shoulder at him. His face was impassive, but his eyes approved. “I reserve my judgement. You will remain my prisoner, until such time as I decide what to do with you.” In all honestly, she couldn’t say it was a wise decision. It was the girl who wanted Robb alive, not the queen.

                At Daenerys’ command, Robb was imprisoned not in the Great Pyramid’s dungeons but in a room close to the pyramid’s heart. He was under guard, but it didn’t truly seem necessary. Even if he escaped the pyramid, where would he go?

                That evening, Daenerys took her supper with Missandei in her apartments at the pyramid’s peak. In the warm, golden light of the seting sun, they ate fish, bread and olives, and spoke on the day’s events. Inevitably, their conversation turned to Robb. “He’s very handsome,” Missandei observed innocently, with a twinkle in her eyes.

                “He is,” Daenerys replied as neutrally as she could manage.

                “And he called you ‘your grace.’”

                “He did.”

                “What are you going to do with him?”

                Daenerys tapped her finger on the table, looking out at the orange sky. “I should have him killed. I can’t trust him.”

                “You don’t kill everyone you don’t trust.” Missandei didn’t have to say Ser Jorah’s name for Daenerys to know she was talking about him.

                “Maybe I should learn my lesson.” Obviously Daenerys couldn’t kill everyone she didn’t trust. That included the vast majority of Meereen’s population. But Robb Stark was her enemy. Wasn’t he? She didn’t want him dead, she wanted… stop it. Stop being a stupid girl.

                With her hands clasped primly in front of her, Missandei leaned forwards a little across the table. “He could be useful.” Of course, she didn’t mean the kind of use Daenerys was thinking about, but it still made her blush slightly. “Did he not win battles in Westeros?”

                “Won battles, and lost the war.” Not on the battlefield though, according to what they had heard. A slaughter at a wedding. A murdered wife. Daenerys wondered what Drogo would have done had she been murdered at their wedding. Died of an infected cut, probably. “I would be a fool to hand my army over to him,” she said, more bitterly than she intended.

                “He could still advise you without commanding your army,” Missandei persisted. “Not just here, but in Westeros. He could be very useful there.”

                Missandei seemed very keen on having Robb around, and Daenerys felt a pang of jealousy that she quickly smothered. She was absolutely not going to allow a man to come between them. “He could also whisper poison into my ear.”

                “What would he gain from your defeat?”

                It was a fair point. Daenerys could offer Robb a lot. Revenge against his enemies, return to his home, perhaps more. He would not be the first man she had won to her cause, nor even the first enemy. But if she was destroyed, he would still be stranded in Slaver’s Bay. The Masters would hardly be his friends. But in the Seven Kingdoms, things could be different. Alternatively, she might trust him by then. “When Aegon conquered the Seven Kingdoms,” she mused, “the daughter of his enemy was brought to Orys Baratheon, naked and in chains. He raised her up and wrapped his cloak around her shoulders.”

                “I thought the Baratheons were your enemies.”

                “They are, but our ancestors were brothers.” It was an apt reminder that the son was not the father. If Aerys Targaryen and Robert Baratheon had been enemies despite the ties of blood between them, could not Daenerys Targaryen and Robb Stark be friends despite the hostility between their fathers? It seemed reasonable, but she kept wondering if the real reason she wanted to spare him was baser. “Could you accept the son of a slaver?”

                “There are many slavers and slavers’ sons, living and free within Meereen,” Missandei replied. There was no rebuke in her voice, but Daenerys heard it anyway. And it was a fair point; she had forgiven the Great Masters of Meereen, most of them anyway, of far worse crimes than Ned Stark had committed, let alone Robb.

                “I’ll speak with him tomorrow,” Daenerys decided. There was no harm in speaking with a captive. But as she lay in bed that night, she couldn’t get that handsome face or those thoughtful blue eyes out of her mind.

                All the next morning, Daenerys was distracted. There were advisors to meet with, reports to review, petitioners to receive, but whenever she allowed her mind to wander it always found its way back to curly auburn hair. When she finally found the time for Robb, she was angry with him for driving her to such distraction. As she entered the room he was being held in, he rose from the bed where he was seated, and the look of innocent interest in his blue eyes made her want to strangle him again.

                Restraining herself, Daenerys sat down in a chair, straight-backed with her hands folded in her lap, hoping that she projected authority and not this infuriating girlish obsession. Looking unsure, Robb sat down too, shooting a glance over at her Unsullied guards in the doorway. “If you were in my position, if I was your prisoner, what would you do with me?” she asked abruptly.

                The question clearly caught Robb by surprise, and there were several seconds of silence before he replied. “You’re not my enemy, I wouldn’t keep you as a prisoner.”

                It was an exasperatingly reasonable answer, made all the more annoying by the lack of reproach in his tone. This would all have been so much easier if he was hostile to her, but he insisted on being polite. “But if you did.”

                Robb scratched his beard. It was a very nice beard, if a little unkempt. Daenerys made a mental note to have a shaving kit brought to him. “I suppose I would try to ransom you.”

                “There’s no-one who would pay for me, just as there’s no-one who’ll pay for you.” He flinched at that, his eyes hardening subtly, and she regretted saying it at once. It was hard enough for her, how much harder for him, with the wound still fresh? “I… I mean to say that ransom is not an option.”

                Robb sighed, sitting back in his chair. “What’s the point of this, your grace?”

                Anger flared in Daenerys’ chest at his impudence, and when she spoke her voice was taut. “I wish to know what kind of man you are.”

                “Then maybe you should stop refusing to accept my answers.”

                Daenerys clenched her hands in her lap, unable to hide the way her jaw tightened. “An insolent man, it seems.”

                To her surprise, Robb laughed at that. “If you think I’m bad you should meet my sister.” It was such an honest laugh that she found her anger ebbing away as quickly as it had come, and a small smile briefly touched her lips. “I think she’d like you,” he added after a moment, and Daenerys felt a twinge of sympathy at the sadness in his voice.

                “What’s her name?”

                “Arya.”

                It was hard enough to hate him before – easy to be angry, but hard to hate. A man who loved his sister, that was so much worse. “Perhaps you could advise me on a problem I have,” she said, trying to get back to the original purpose of the discussion.

                “I can try.”

                “One of the Great Masters – the former rulers of this city, before I came – has murdered a freedman, a former slave. He did it because that freedman raped and murdered his daughter. The freedmen of the city call for his execution. The Masters call for clemency on account of his motive. What would you do?” It was a problem that vexed Daenerys terribly. The man had taken the law into his own hands, committed murder by any measure, but it was hard to hate a man who loved his daughter too.

                Robb stroked his beard, looking down as if reminiscing about something. “I was faced with a similar problem. An important lord… Lord Rickard Karstark, of Karhold, murdered two Lannister boys who were my prisoners. And the two men guarding their cell. The boys had done nothing to him, but Jaime Lannister had killed his sons.”

                Listening to him speak, Daenerys was struck by the thought that he might be the one person in the world who could understand. There was such a weight on his words, the weight of responsibility for the lives of thousands on the shoulders of a man barely beyond boyhood. It was a weight she felt every day. “What did you do?” she asked softly.

                A bitter, mirthless smile bared Robb’s teeth. “Everyone counseled mercy. As long as Lord Karstark was my prisoner, his men would remain loyal. But I kept thinking about the loyal men he murdered, the boys.” His fist clenched. “So I cut off his head.”

                “Yourself?” Daenerys asked, struggling to imagine Robb killing a defenceless man.

                Robb nodded. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. It’s the northern way. My father always did that duty, though he hated it.”

                Daenerys thought of her family, killed in Ned Stark’s war, but not by Ned Stark’s own hand. She thought of the deaths she had ordered. Not one killed by her hand, and yet thousands dead by her will. A deep, dark part of her regretted that she’d never experienced it herself, never watched the light go out of someone’s eyes, and she had to suppress a shudder as a chill ran up her spine. “Do you regret it?” she asked, as much to distract herself from such twisted thoughts as anything.

                “No, your grace. He deserved to die. I looked him in the eyes and heard his final words. If I hadn’t been sure, I couldn’t have swung the sword.” It was a wise, honest answer, but Daenerys couldn’t help being distracted by the way her heart fluttered when he called her ‘your grace’ again. He wasn’t the only one to address her that way of course, even if the Meereenese didn’t like it, but it was different coming from him. Maybe because he’d done it without being told to. Maybe because he, better than anyone, knew what it meant.

                “So you’d advise me to execute the man who murdered the freedman?” Daenerys asked. She knew it was wrong, but part of her hoped he would make the decision for her and take the weight of it off her shoulders.

                “I don’t know. It’s not the same crime, and I know nothing of this city or its people.” It was a disappointing answer, but she couldn’t blame him for it. He seemed tired, and she was afraid that if she talked to him for much longer she would forget who his father was, so she rose from her chair, trying not to be too pleased by the way his eyes followed her.

                “Nevertheless, I thank you for speaking with me.” As Daenerys made to leave, Robb rose from his chair behind her.

                “Wait, your grace.” Poised, Daenerys stopped, looking back over her shoulder. “Have you decided what my fate will be?”

                “No,” Daenerys answered, and left him alone.

Chapter Text

                “Tell me about Eddard Stark, Ser Barristan.”

                The old knight’s posture shifted subtly, as if he felt the weight of his years all at once. He was not the advisor Daenerys trusted the most, that was Missandei, but he was the one whose insight she valued most highly, and he could tell her more about the Seven Kingdoms than the rest of her council put together, especially with Ser Jorah gone. He reminded her in some ways of Ser Willem Darry, and she had missed having such a man in her life.

                “Ned Stark was an honourable man, your grace.”

                “How can a rebel and a traitor be an honourable man?” Daenerys was doing her best to be open-minded, but she couldn’t quite keep the sharp edge from her tongue.

                “He was no older than you are now when your father killed his father and brother. I was there.”

                “I know.” He had told her, and it had been a hard thing to hear. Viserys had told her what a wise and just king their father was since she was old enough to understand the words. To think of him as a tyrant was not easy. But she had burned Mirri Maz Duur alive, massacred the Good Masters, crucified the Great Masters, and taken pleasure in all of it. Ser Barristan said she was not like her father, but perhaps he was wrong. “My father… may have deserved what happened to him, but I did not. Elia and her children did not.”

                “Ned Stark had no part in any of that.”

                Daenerys was already getting tired of the excuses, doubly so because she couldn’t see any way to argue with them. “And what of the assassin sent to kill me in Vaes Dothrak? Was Ned Stark not Hand of the King at the time?”

                “He refused to countenance it. Resigned his handship in protest.”

                Daenerys sighed, fiddling unhappily with a braid. The sun emerged from behind a cloud, flooding the council chamber with warm light, and the feeling of its caress on her bare shoulders was a relief. She didn’t dare ask about Robert Baratheon for fear that he would turn out to be even more noble than Eddard Stark. “And what of Robb?” she asked instead.

                “Him I know only by reputation, your grace.” Your grace. Ser Barristan said it often, and with respect, but it wasn’t the same as when Robb said it. The old man, by his own admission, had served three bad kings, and presumably addressed them all just as respectfully as he addressed her.

                “Then tell me of his reputation.”

                “They called him the Young Wolf. He outfoxed Tywin Lannister, captured the Kingslayer, won great victories at Riverrun and Oxcross. He also broke his betrothal oath to House Frey in order to marry for love.” There was a wistful edge to Ser Barristan’s voice, a note of regret, so subtle that Daenerys barely caught it.

                “So he is an oathbreaker, like his father.” It wasn’t much of a reason to dislike Robb, not if he truly had broken his oath for love, but it was something, so Daenerys seized upon it with both hands.

                “As is Daario Naharis,” Ser Barristan replied, with thinly-veiled disapproval.

                “We’re not discussing Daario.” If the Tyroshi sellsword knew what Daenerys was thinking about Robb, no doubt he would be violently jealous. She tried not to be too pleased by the thought. “Tell me, what do you think I should do with Robb?”

                “I served Robert Baratheon for seventeen years, your grace. And yet you accepted my service, for which you know you have my gratitude. Robb Stark never served your enemies, as I did. Will you condemn him for who his father was?”

                Whether the question had been intended to be quite so piercing as it was, Daenerys didn’t know, but it certainly lodged itself deep in her chest. If Robb Stark was guilty of the sins of his father, then she was surely just as guilty of the sins of hers. She had spent her whole life in fear of Robert Baratheon’s assassins, who pursued her because of who her father was. It was an injustice that Ser Barristan had been complicit in, and yet she had forgiven him, even given him a trusted place as her Queensguard. No matter how she grappled with it, and she spent all day trying, she couldn’t find a way to justify treating Robb with less clemency.

                They had only spoken twice, and yet she ached to open her heart to him, to pour out all her troubles to the one person who could truly understand, the one person who knew what it felt like to have thousands of lives resting on your every decision. The longing for it drove her mad; no matter where she tried to turn her mind, there he was. What would Robb think about how she handled that merchant? What would Robb do about the rising price of grain? Would Robb understand why she declined to aid that goatherd? The more he refused to leave her mind, the angrier with him she got, and the angrier she got the more she thought about him, imagined him on his knees, imagined forcing him to…

                With great difficulty she shoved that image to the back of her mind, but still the thought wouldn’t go away. She could do it. He was in her power, a prisoner. Many men, if she was their prisoner, would not have hesitated to force themselves on her. If the Sons of the Harpy ever had her in their clutches, she was in no doubt about how they would treat her. Robb didn’t seem to have such cruelty in him, but she reminded herself that she barely knew him. He seemed gentle and respectful, but Ser Jorah had seemed respectful too. And then there was that defiant streak in him, the one that lit a fire in her every time he let it show. How far might he go to defy her, given the chance? How far did she want him to go? Suddenly the image in her head was of Daenerys on her knees, and she pressed her thighs together.

                “Your grace?”

                Daenerys started, remembering where she was and what she was doing. Missandei was giving her a concerned look across the table. “My mind wandered,” Daenerys smiled apologetically. “Please, you were saying?”

                Missandei was a master at not saying what she was thinking, but Daenerys knew her well enough by now to recognise the primly disapproving and yet knowing look in her eyes. “The Shavepate has again implored you to execute hostages in response to these attacks by the Sons of the Harpy.”

                “No.” Daenerys shook her head even more firmly than usual, remembering the contemptuous way Robb had spoken of a man who killed innocent children as proxies for the true culprits. “Skahaz is a nobleman of this city, he should not require such barbaric methods to pacify it.” The sun had long since set, and the candles were burning low. Daenerys was tired, and she wanted to be alone with her thoughts and her fingers. “That will be all. Good night, Missandei.”

                Missandei took her leave with a delicate bow, and Daenerys retired to her bedchamber to surrender to her own imagination.

                Attending to herself gave Daenerys little relief from thoughts of Robb Stark, and when she awoke she quickly gave up any notions of ignoring him, even for one more day. A decision about his fate needed to be made. Truthfully she had made it already. In the morning she discharged those tasks that could not be delayed, and then she bathed before putting on one of her bolder dresses, a gown of gathered white silk that was held up only by a bronze collar and matching belt, baring her arms, back and shoulders.

                Thus armoured, Daenerys made her way to Robb’s chamber, suppressing the urge to smile when she laid eyes on him, with his jaw freshly shaved. “Come,” she commanded sternly. Her Unsullied escort made the question of whether he would obey quite moot, and she kept her eyes ahead as they marched down to the base of the pyramid, determined not to grace him with so much as a glance over her shoulder.

                The weighty iron doors were opened, and they descended into the darkness of the pit beneath the pyramid. Despite the shelter from the sunlight it was warm, the very air shimmering subtly. Daenerys had her escort wait at the entrance and walked with Robb down into the darkness.

                She stopped, and he got a few steps ahead of her before looking back. She kept her face impassive, and then there was a screech that echoed out of the darkness and snapped his head back to the front.

                Daenerys watched Robb staring into the darkness, and then the darkness moved. A monstrous, scaled face loomed out of it with a rattling of heavy chains, and her lips curled in a satisfied smirk at the way he blanched. “Have you ever seen a dragon before?” she asked, as calmly as if she was discussing the weather. Nostrils as big as hands flared, and she was both impressed and irritated that Robb didn’t take so much as a single step back.

                “No,” Robb replied. At least his voice was gratifyingly taut with fear.

                Daenerys paced behind him as a second draconic face emerged from the gloom, two pairs of slitted eyes studying the intruder. “It was dragons that made your ancestors bend the knee. Not just for Aegon, but for Rhaenyra too.” The only woman who had ever sat the Iron Throne as queen. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned from her alliance with the Starks. “With dragons I will reclaim my birthright, and all who seek to defy me will die screaming.” She stopped behind him, so close she could see the droplets of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. It was intoxicating, the power she had over him in this moment. The fear she could see in every inch of his body. “I have watched men die in dragonfire,” she said softly, her voice dripping with menace as she drew closer still. “I have commanded it. It is a slow, agonising death.” She was so close behind him now that her lips almost touched his ear. “If you ever betray me, Robb Stark, I will burn you alive.”

                Daenerys turned on her heel and strode from the pit, and smiled to herself when she heard Robb’s footsteps hurrying after her. At the entrance to the pit she stopped and turned, so abruptly that Robb nearly walked into her. She smiled up at him wickedly, pleased by the fear in his eyes. “You are no longer my prisoner. You will sit on my council and advise me.” She half-expected him to say something insolent, but he only nodded. Seeing him so cowed had a powerful effect on her, and rather than leave it at that as she had planned, she ordered her guards to wait outside.

                With gleeful triumph making Daenerys’ heart swell, she fixed Robb with a violet glare. “Kneel.” He obeyed her, and her eyes flashed with excitement. Taking hold of the silk skirts of her dress, she parted the folds, exposing her leg. She was wearing her riding boots of grey-brown suede, and she presented him with one of them. “Show that you’re willing to submit to me.” Her gaze flickered between him and her boot, and despite her best efforts to maintain an imperious air, there was a hint of neediness in her eyes. “Kiss it.” Her heart thudded against her ribs, and she was terrified that he would refuse, but then he lowered his head and kissed her foot, and she had to bite back a gasp of delight.

                Right then and there she very nearly took him, but she couldn’t, not here. Before another word could be said she turned and hurried away as fast as dignity would allow, feeling his eyes on her bare back even long after she was out of sight.

                Once for blood and once for gold and once for love. Daenerys turned the warlocks’ words over in her mind as she made the climb back to her chambers at the pyramid’s peak. This feeling in her, this heat between her thighs, it wasn’t love, it was simple desire. Lust. She wanted him, with his curly hair and his gentle eyes and his lips on her boot.

                In her chambers she poured a glass of wine to the brim and drained it in one go before pouring another. It was the height of foolishness to trust Robb just because she desired him, she knew that. He was her enemy, allowed into her confidence he could betray her in a thousand ways. And yet he had knelt, and kissed her foot.

                Daenerys stepped out onto the balcony, looking out over Meereen and the bay beyond. Far beyond that distant horizon was Westeros. Again she thought of how different things might have been if Robb had declared for her instead of placing a crown on his own head. She would have overflowed with gratitude. For such an act she might have chosen him as her consort. It would have made political sense. But here in Meereen, he had less political use than the poorest freedman. He knew no-one. Even Ser Barristan had never met him. She could rationalise it, say that she wanted his military mind, the talents of a man who had won every battle he ever fought. But the truth was that she wanted to wrap her legs around his head and make him worship her. To pull on those auburn curls while he…

                Some time alone in her bedroom relieved the worst of Daenerys’ lusts, but for the rest of the day she kept having to press her thighs together. To her own consternation she seriously considered acquiring a… well, not a bed slave, but someone who could serve that same purpose, to lick her wherever and whenever she wanted. Her handmaidens sometimes helped, but that was not their real duty, only an additional service they did her. Then it occurred to her that Robb, lacking much other use to her, might have an actual purpose in such a position, devoted to her pleasure, and the thought made her smile to herself.

                The next day a council meeting was held, and every time Daenerys heard footsteps coming up the stairs she found herself looking hopefully towards the door, always disappointed to see Grey Worm or Ser Barristan or even Daario. He flashed her a roguish smile, but it seemed colourless and empty compared to the way Robb looked at her.

                Robb was the last to arrive, glancing around at the other members of the council, clearly unsure of his place. Daenerys was gratified when his eyes fell upon her, wearing an even more salacious dress than yesterday’s. Straps of soft blue velvet crossed her torso and held up skirts of pleated light grey silk, with a band of the same silk wrapped around her chest, fashioned to resemble dragon scales. It was a dress that bared much of her upper body, and she could feel Daario’s eyes wandering, but it was Robb’s eyes she watched as his gaze flickered down to her navel and back up to her chest. She watched him catch himself, and had to suppress a girlish smile.

                Hizdahr zo Loraq shot Daenerys a questioning look, and she composed herself, doing her best to set aside the girl for now in favour of the queen. “Lord Stark will be joining this council. He is an experienced commander from an ancient and storied house.”

                Ser Barristan rose from his seat. “Allow me to properly introduce myself, Lord Stark. I am Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Queensguard. I had the honour to know your father, and if you are half the man he was then her grace will be glad of your service.”

                “Thank you, Ser Barristan.” Robb nodded respectfully at the old knight as both of them took their seats around the table, and Daenerys wondered what was going on behind those thoughtful blue eyes.

                The council meeting progressed much as they usually did these days. More attacks by the Sons of the Harpy, more requests for compromise from Hizdahr, more demands for harshness from Mossador and the Shavepate. “There will be no executions of hostages,” Daenerys found herself saying for what felt like the hundredth time, and caught a look in Robb’s expression that made her curious.

                Robb himself stayed almost completely silent, listening attentively to everything that was said. The only time he spoke up, it was to make a minor logistical suggestion to Grey Worm, which was readily accepted. At the end of the meeting he rose to leave, but Daenerys bade him stay, earning her a meaningful glance from Missandei and a jealous one from Daario.

                Once they were alone, standing on opposite sides of the table, Daenerys felt her lusts returning in full force. Robb’s sleeves were rolled up and his loose linen shirt was unlaced at the neck, and she couldn’t stop her eyes from exploring. “Your grace-” he started, but she cut him off.

                “Yesterday… I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to humiliate you.” There was a quietly amused look quirking his eyebrow slightly in the most arousingly infuriating way imaginable. “I need to know you won’t challenge me. That you’re willing to serve.” She hated how unsure of herself she sounded, when she wanted him, more than anyone, to see her as confident, but she needed him to understand.

                “And? Were you satisfied yesterday?” As Robb slowly circled around the table towards Daenerys, there was an outrageously suggestive undertone to his voice. He was almost on top of her before she recovered, holding out a hand to stop him. Her hand found his chest, and through the thin linen she could feel his heart thumping.

                “No.” Daenerys’ voice carried more assurance than she felt, but she was pleased by the subtle shift in his eyes from leading to following. “Get down on your knees, where you belong.”

                Robb sank to his knees on the smooth stone floor, and Daenerys’ heart fluttered. He probably expected to be commanded to kiss her foot again, but she had something else in mind. Looking down imperiously at him, she slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders and it simply fell away, pooling around her feet. Her breath quickened to be seen like this by him, naked but for her boots, and then she saw his eyes widen in surprise and delight and it made her heart beat all the faster.

                Turning around, Daenerys leaned over the table, resting her hands on it and arching her back subtly to present her ass to him. “Kiss your Queen.”

                The sensation of warm, soft lips on the pale curve of her ass sent a thrill through Daenerys’ whole body that ended between her legs. She bit her bottom lip, grateful that Robb couldn’t see the look on her face. “That’s it…” she gasped, feeling his stubble against her skin as he kissed her ass all over, moving from cheek to cheek with such smoothness that she started to suspect he’d done this before. Gripping the edge of the table tightly, she pushed herself back against his lips, closing her eyes and letting tingles of pleasure make their way slowly up her spine until she couldn’t bear it any more.

                “That’s enough,” Daenerys said, trying to sound stern, but the breathless excitement in her voice betrayed her. Slowly she turned to face him again, still gripping the table behind her, and the look in his eyes made her heart skip a beat. It wasn’t just that he wanted her, half the men she met looked at her like they wanted her. It wasn’t even that he enjoyed being in her power. It was the way his gaze searched hers. He wanted her to want him just as much as she wanted him to want her, and she couldn’t think of any other man she’d ever known who cared what she wanted like that. “Tell me who you serve,” she said, but rather than a demand it came out like a plea.

                “I serve the most beautiful woman in the world. I serve Daenerys Stormborn. I serve you.” Robb’s voice was like fingers stroking her spine, and she couldn’t resist any longer. Taking him by the hand, she practically dragged him into her bedchamber and threw him down onto her bed. He laughed, and then she was on him, smothering his laugh between her thighs.

                “You dare laugh at your queen?” Daenerys pretended to be offended, squeezing her thighs around his head, but then he stuck his tongue out and she couldn’t pretend anything. He dragged his wet tongue slowly across her folds and she shuddered on top of him, tangling her fingers in his auburn curls. “Robb…” she gasped as he put his hands on her hips and delved under her hood, the tip of his tongue probing her clit. She was on top of him, pinning him down in her bed, and yet she felt like he was the one in control and all she could do was let him devour her. In her mind she had pictured giving him commands, teasing him, but he had needed no instruction. With Drogo it had been hard work just to convince him to let her be on top, but Robb was already working his tongue inside her and she was coming apart like a flower in a storm.

                “Fuck…” Daenerys moaned, squeezing her thighs tighter and tighter around Robb’s head, but the tighter she squeezed the more eagerly he licked her, and the more eagerly he licked her the tighter she squeezed. “Stop, stop!”

                Robb stopped at once, releasing his grip on her hips, and with a grateful sigh Daenerys relaxed her thighs and raised herself just a fraction off his face. His lips glistened with her arousal, but his eyes were full of concern. “Your grace? Did I hurt you?”

                Even now, with her cunt barely an inch from his lips, he called her ‘your grace’. “No,” Daenerys panted, her chest heaving as she grinned down at him. “You were wonderful. You are wonderful.” For a second she was tempted to just sit back down and let him go back to pleasuring her, but then she swung herself off him, taking a moment to lie on the soft, cool sheets and catch her breath. “Take your clothes off.”

                Robb did as he was told, which was becoming a pattern Daenerys could get used to. She watched, drinking in the sight of his arms flexing as he pulled off his shirt, exposing a muscled body marked with small scars. As he kicked off his boots and removed his breeches she tried to keep her expression level, but her violet eyes glowed with approval.

                “Lie back down,” Daenerys commanded, and Robb climbed into her bed beside her. His hand found her hip, but she caught it before it could wander, giving him a small shake of her head with a playful curl of her lips. “I told you to lie down.”

                With a grin Robb lay back, and Daenerys’ hand drifted across his chest, feeling it rise and fall, feeling his racing heartbeat. “Good boy.” Again she straddled his face, but this time she was facing down his body. His tongue found her cunt again and she sank her weight onto him, looking down at his stubbled chin moving between her legs. She would’ve happily sat there and let him lick her until she was a shuddering mess, but he deserved a reward for being such a devoted servant to his Queen.

                Slowly running her hands down Robb’s body, Daenerys followed them, leaning down until she was looking directly at his gratifyingly hard cock. It was good to know just how much he enjoyed having her sitting on his face. She traced a finger along his shaft, smirking at the way it twitched, the way he tensed subtly beneath her. Then her hot tongue traced the same course, and he tensed much more noticeably, gasping into her pussy. He tasted of masculinity and sweat, and she wrapped her lips around him as he redoubled the lashing of his tongue inside her.

                Daenerys ground her hips against Robb’s face, feeling the hardness of his stubbled jawline, as she sucked and slurped and drooled on his cock, rolling her tongue against it and caving in her cheeks. He put his hands on her hips again, and she moaned around his cock, feeling him trembling beneath her. There was no power play to what she was doing any more, she just wanted to please him the way that he was pleasing her. Her silver hair brushed against his body as she sucked, treating him to long, slow movements that lingered on his leaking cockhead. She savoured the salty taste of his excitement, playfully tracing a single nail between his balls, watching them twitch.

                Robb groaned into her pussy and his balls clenched in front of her eyes, his cock throbbing between her lips. His hands gripped her hips tightly as he came into her mouth, her tongue milking him for every drop while he moaned something unintelligible into her. She half-expected him to stop licking her now that he was satisfied, but he kept going, a little shaky but no less enthusiastic.

                Swallowing Robb’s hot, gooey cum made Daenerys shudder with sinful delight, and with a gasp her own orgasm ambushed her, suddenly flooding his mouth as she cried out wordlessly. The sounds of coughing and spluttering coming from between her legs were music to her ears, and she wished she had more to give him, but all too soon her quakes of pleasure subsided.

                With a sigh of tired satisfaction, Daenerys lifted her weight off Robb’s face and turned herself around to lie on top of him, resting her chin on his chest. His face glistened wetly as she smiled at her, and she smiled back, feeling happier than she had felt in such a long time. “Such a good and willing servant, for the King in the North.”

                “It never suited me,” Robb said, and his smile turned a little sad, making Daenerys feel a twinge of guilt. “The crown, I mean,” he added quickly, and the sadness was gone from his expression just as quickly as it had arrived.

                “Oh? Then I’m not the first woman you’ve served?”

                “I was married, your grace.”

                Of course. Such a stupid thing for her to say. “As was I.” And yet, though Drogo had loved her and she had loved him, he had never treated her the way Robb did. He had loved her, but she was his. With Robb, it almost felt the other way around. He was hers. His arms wrapped gently around her waist, and she closed her eyes, feeling his heartbeat beneath her chin, slowed now.

                There was a comfortable silence between them, both basking in the afterglow of their first lovemaking, and it was only when Daenerys’ mind drifted back to how anxiously she had waited for him at the council meeting that her eyes opened and she spoke. “Do you disapprove of me sparing the hostages?”

                Robb looked at her for a long time, tilting his head. “No, your grace.”

                “At the meeting it seemed to trouble you.”

                With a sigh, Robb looked over at the window. “After Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion against King Robert, my father took Theon Greyjoy as a hostage.” Part of Daenerys wanted to reprimand him for calling the usurper king, but she held her tongue. “We grew up together. He was my closest friend. I was always scared my father would kill him one day.” She could sympathise with that. How many nights had she lain awake in Pentos or Volantis or Myr, fearing that their hosts would murder her and deliver her head to Robert Baratheon? “When the war with the Lannisters began, I sent Theon to treat with his father. I thought we could be allies. The next I heard of him, he had taken Winterfell and murdered my little brothers, Bran and Rickon.” With every word out of his mouth his voice grew thicker with emotion, and his arms tightened slightly around her waist.

                “I’m sorry,” Daenerys said softly.

                “Thank you, your grace,” Robb smiled sadly at her.

                Looking into his eyes, Daenerys felt more sure than ever that Robb was the one person in the world who could understand. They had both known such grief, such betrayal. She never wanted him to let her go. There was another long silence between them, and again it was her who broke it. “Will you come to me again, when… if I ask?”

                Robb ran a gentle hand through her hair, playing with her braids and sending a tingle down her spine. “I will, your grace.”

Chapter Text

                A servant brought Robb a fine shaving kit and told him it was a gift from the Queen. As he turned the ivory-handled brush over in his hand, he wondered what slaver had owned it before. How many lashes of the whip had gone into its manufacture? He remembered when his father had taught him and Jon and Theon to shave, how proud he had been of the wisps of hair protruding from his jaw. He had been sure he was a man at last. That delusion had lasted until they put a crown on his head. He had been a boy king, and none knew it better than him. He wondered if Daenerys had ever been so awkward with power as him. She wore it so well, it was hard to imagine anything else.

                That wasn’t the only thing she wore well. Talisa had never been very interested in fine dresses, and he had loved that about her. He would never forget the first time he had laid eyes on her at Oxcross, with her bloody white apron, kneeling in the mud to help a Lannister.

                No, not a Lannister. A peasant boy, some poor boy pressed into service, dragged from his home to replace the army Robb had destroyed at Riverrun. Robb’s hand twitched, and he put down the razor, looking at himself in the small glass mirror. The Lannisters had killed his father. Theon killed his brothers. And how many fathers and brothers had he killed, how many sons, how many uncles and cousins and friends? He sat down, sinking his head in his hands. Jaime Lannister had offered him single combat after the Whispering Wood. He could have accepted. He could have won. The Kingslayer was worn out, battered. He could have won, or he could have died. Either way, he could have spared thousands of lives, Bran, Rickon and his mother included.

                Grey Wind would’ve been nuzzling at him now, and he would run his fingers through his wolf’s rough fur. But Grey Wind was gone. Talisa was gone. And he was already betraying her in his mind. He hadn’t meant to. It wasn’t like he came here pursuing Daenerys. He didn’t choose to think about her, she had just lodged herself in his mind, looking at him with those violet eyes like she owned him. The way her hips had moved beneath that white dress had him in a stranglehold.

                Eventually Robb managed to finish shaving, and as he examined himself in the mirror, running his fingers along his jaw, he recognised some of his old self, from before King Robert ever came to Winterfell, when his biggest problem was Jon beating him in the practice yard.

                It was impossible to keep track of time in the sunless depths of the pyramid, and Robb had no idea how long it had been when Daenerys came to him again. He rose hurriedly from a chair, his chest tightening at the sight of her, looking at him like he was beneath her. The flattering but modest dress she had worn before was gone, and he had to fight not to let his eyes wander across her bare shoulders. “Come,” she commanded him, and he would not have dreamed of disobeying.

                The halls and stairways of the pyramid were lit by high windows allowing in the sunlight, and Robb had to squint as his eyes adjusted. It was afternoon, he reckoned, and the heat was a pleasant change after days without daylight. The Unsullied marching either side of him kept their eyes straight ahead like living statues, and he allowed himself to enjoy the sight of Daenerys’ bare back as she walked in front of him, drinking in the contours of her body, the slight movements of her shoulderblades beneath her smooth skin.

                Down and down Daenerys led Robb, all the way to the base of the pyramid, out and around it to where steps led down to a pair of tall iron doors. They were opened with a grinding of metal against stone, and she descended the steps without gracing him with so much as a look, only a command to her guards to wait. He followed her down into the thin strip of light that the open doors allowed in, and was struck by the heat. He had expected it to be cool, such a large, high-ceilinged space, below ground and in darkness, but it was hotter here than it was out in the daylight.

                The further Daenerys led Robb into the pit, the more anxiously he peered into the darkness, his imagination conjuring all kinds of things she might have hidden down here, jackals or snake pits or… He realised that she had stopped a few paces back, and looked over his shoulder at her, but then a screech echoed out of the darkness and chilled him to the bone.

                Robb’s heart thumped in his chest as he scanned the darkness, grasping at his hip for a sword that wasn’t there. In truth he knew what it was already, though he prayed to the old gods and the new that he was wrong. He wished he had Grey Wind with him, but even a direwolf would be no match for what lurked below the Great Pyramid.

                A monstrous head loomed from the blackness, bigger than Grey Wind’s had ever been, its slitted, reptilian eyes burning with hate. Robb’s mouth felt as dry as a desert, and it took every ounce of will he possessed not to turn and run screaming. He was sure this was the end, that Daenerys was going to feed him to her dragons, but he refused to die like a coward. He stared the dragon down with his eyes as wide as plates and his face as pale as snow.

                “Have you ever seen a dragon?” Daenerys’ voice would’ve made Robb jump if he wasn’t frozen with fear. She said it with such calmness she sounded almost bored.

                “No,” Robb managed to force himself to reply, feeling sweat trickling down his sides. The dragon’s nostrils flared, and in spite of his fear he was reminded of Grey Wind. In the darkness the crest of spikes around the dragon’s head almost looked like the direwolf’s mane of shaggy grey fur. Then a second dragon emerged from the shadows, and he decided he would much prefer to be facing down two direwolves.

                “It was dragons that made your ancestors bend the knee. Not just for Aegon, but for Rhaenyra too.” Robb could hear Daenerys’ voice behind him, still calm and yet laced with menace. “With dragons I will reclaim my birthright, and all who seek to defy me will die screaming.” He could feel her getting closer and closer behind him, her eyes boring into the back of his head. “I have watched men die in dragonfire. I have commanded it. It is a slow, agonising death.” Her voice was getting softer and softer as she drew nearer to him, and she sounded almost aroused. “If you ever betray me, Robb Stark, I will burn you alive.” He felt her whispered breath against his ear, and a tremor ran down his spine.

                Robb felt Daenerys turn away before he heard her footsteps, and a small part of him was disappointed. Mostly though, he was relieved, and he hurried after her, not daring to look back over his shoulder for fear that he would see a dragon’s jaws descending. He was so concerned about the dragons that he barely noticed that she had stopped at the entrance in time to prevent himself from colliding with her, pulling up short so close they were almost touching.

                Before Robb could back away, Daenerys smiled at him, and it was a smile full of cruel satisfaction that did nothing to slow the beating of his heart. “You are no longer my prisoner. You will sit on my council and advise me.” It wasn’t a request. It was barely even a command. It was just a statement of fact, and all he could do was nod.

                An odd look passed briefly through Daenerys’ eyes, and she turned to her guards, curtly ordering them away. It was the first time Robb had seen her give a command with even the slightest hesitation. But then she turned her attention back to him, and the look in her violet eyes would have driven him to his knees even without instruction. “Kneel,” she commanded, and his knees hit the ground almost before the word had left her lips.

                Robb watched as Daenerys pulled back her dress from one leg, and he had to remember to breathe. His eyes slowly traced down her smooth, shapely thigh, across her knee, to where her shin disappeared into a well-worn and yet elegant riding boot. “Show that you’re willing to submit to me.” He looked up at her, and her eyes guided his gaze forcefully down to her boot. “Kiss it.”

                In that moment Robb would’ve happily kissed every inch of her leg, from the heel of her boot all the way up to her thigh, and he barely hesitated before he lowered his head and placed his lips to the soft suede, just above where a reinforcing strap wrapped around her ankle.

                Nervously Robb raised his head, unsure of what his submission truly meant to Daenerys, but their eyes only met for a moment before she turned and walked away, leaving him kneeling there alone.

                New rooms were provided for Robb at the pyramid’s side, and he was grateful to no longer be buried in its sunless heart. Here he had light and fresh air, and there were no guards on his door.

                Robb should have been able to enjoy his newfound freedom, to walk the streets of Meereen, to feel the pleasant heat of late afternoon, smell the scents of the city, but all he could think about was Daenerys, kissing her foot and how right it had felt. Not in some high-minded way, like she was born to rule, though he was more sure than ever that power suited her as it had never suited him. No, it had felt right in a far more base way, and that was much harder to ignore.

                If Robb had known three years ago what he knew now, what effect Daenerys would have on him, he wondered if he would have raised her banner at Riverrun alongside his own. Would he have been right to do so, or would he have been allowing himself to be led by his lusts? Would his lords even have accepted it? How would she have seen him then, when he was Lord of Winterfell? Would he ever have met Talisa? Fallen in love with her?

                That night, Robb dreamed of the Twins. Of Uncle Edmure smiling, of dancing with Talisa to the awful music, and then the nightmare. In his dream he pulled his murdered child from Talisa’s mutilated belly, and watched as the Freys paraded his decapitated body with Grey Wind’s head sewn to the stump.

                All morning that cursed fucking song wouldn’t leave Robb’s mind. He even caught himself humming it once or twice. So he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Castamere. If Olyvar and Perwyn hadn’t been there, he would have died in that hall. For a long time he wished that he had. When he fled into the Free Cities, he told himself that there was still hope, that he could take up the cause of the Golden Company and return to Westeros. For Sansa and Arya’s sake, if not his own. But that was a lie he told himself. Only now, with Daenerys, did he see a way to take vengeance on his enemies and free his sisters at last. More than that, Daenerys was someone to live for. Even in his delusion he had not thought about a life beyond rescuing Sansa and Arya, other than a vague notion of joining Jon at the Wall. But serving Daenerys, in whatever ways she wanted him to serve, that thought made him feel alive for the first time in a long time.

                A messenger informed Robb that a council meeting was to be held that afternoon, and he was to attend. Though he didn’t know what he could offer as a stranger in these lands, he was glad of the chance to be useful, and to see Daenerys again. As he ascended the steps to the top of the pyramid, he wondered what his father would think of him, serving the daughter of the man who murdered his father and brother. Somehow Robb thought he would understand.

                At the top of the stairs Robb stepped out into an open, airy chamber, well-lit by an open balcony, and with a round table at its centre. He glanced about, noting the advisors who sat around the table, a seemingly eclectic mix, but mostly Essossi. Then his eyes fell upon Daenerys, and he forgot about everyone but her. She could not have been wearing such a dress by accident, one that bared so much of her upper body he was sure the septas back home would have fainted at the sight of it. And when her gaze found his he could tell that she wanted him to look.

                But it would not be wise to leer openly at Daenerys in front of her council, and so Robb looked away. “Lord Stark will be joining this council. He is an experienced commander from an ancient and storied house,” Daenerys said, with no hint in her voice of what he had seen in her eyes.

                The old, light-skinned man Robb had seen by Daenerys’ side when he was first brought before her rose from his seat. “Allow me to properly introduce myself, Lord Stark. I am Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Queensguard.” So this was Ser Barristan the Bold. No wonder Daenerys kept him close. Robb looked him up and down with renewed interest. “I had the honour to know your father, and if you are half the man he was then her grace will be glad of your service.”

                Ser Barristan had done far more than just know Robb’s father, but Robb was not in much of a position to bring up shifting loyalties, nor would it be a gracious way to begin his membership of Daenerys’ council or his relationship with the old knight. “Thank you, Ser Barristan,” he simply said with a nod, and the two of them took their seats.

                As Robb had anticipated he had little to say at the council meeting, though he listened carefully, wishing to learn all he could of Meereen and its troubles so that he might become more than a glorified seatwarmer. There was some discussion of executions of hostages in retaliation for attacks on Daenerys’ men, but she shut it down firmly. Robb wondered if his father could have killed Theon had the Ironborn risen against King Robert again. He wondered if he could have done it himself, had they attacked before he sent Theon back to them.

                After the meeting Robb made to leave, but then, “Lord Stark, wait a moment.” Daenerys said it so innocently, almost off-handed, and yet her voice made his heart flutter. He lingered until they were alone, facing her across the table. She was avoiding his gaze, and he was both glad and disappointed not to be fixed with those piercing violet eyes.

                “Your grace-” Robb started to say, but Daenerys cut him off.

                “Yesterday… I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to humiliate you.” Robb hadn’t expected contrition, not from her. If only she knew how she had made him feel. “I need to know you won’t challenge me. That you’re willing to serve.”

                If Robb had learned one thing from all that had happened to him, it was not to waste the time that he had. He couldn’t be much of an advisor to Daenerys, but he could serve her in other ways, if she wanted him to. Gods, he hoped she wanted him to. “And? Were you satisfied yesterday?” He took one step, and then another, slowly circling the table towards her. Each step made his heart beat faster, and when she finally put out a hand to stop him it beat faster still.

                The way Daenerys was looking at Robb made him think she wanted to be bent over the table, but then the look in her eyes hardened, as did her voice. “No. Get down on your knees, where you belong.”

                That hit Robb like a bolt of lightning. Obediently he knelt before her, expecting her to lift her dress and spread her legs for him, as Talisa had liked. Thinking about Talisa sent a stab of guilt through him, and he pushed her out of his mind.

                Daenerys wasn’t looking at him like a trembling maiden any more. She was looking down at him like she owned him, and that look sent blood rushing downwards. Without a word she reached to each of her shoulders in turn, pushing the straps of her dress from them slowly, allowing it to fall away. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of her naked body, so achingly beautiful, and his lips parted as he stared in awe, scarcely remembering to breathe. She turned, and at first he thought she wanted him to see all of her, but then she leaned over the table and arched her back enticingly. “Kiss your Queen.”

                It wasn’t a request and Robb didn’t want it to be. He leaned in and kissed her, right in the middle of her cheek. It was hard to keep his hands to himself as his lips moved, kissing her ass again and again. She was soft and warm, and she smelled of cedarwood. From every angle she was an unfairly gorgeous woman, but from this angle in particular she was magnificent, and that thought made his lips curl in a smile as he worshipped her. “That’s it…” she gasped, and knowing that she was enjoying it made him all the more eager to please her as she pushed back into his face. He kissed and kissed and kissed, feeling her body responding to his lips until it seemed she couldn’t bear it for another second. “That’s enough!” she said breathlessly, and reluctantly he sat back on his heels.

                Daenerys turned slowly, gripping the table as if she would fall without its support. Robb found an anxious smile dancing across his face, and he looked up into those eyes the colour of sunrise, searching for approval. “Tell me who you serve,” she said, and her voice quivered.

                “I serve the most beautiful woman in the world,” Robb replied, struggling to keep his own voice steady. “I serve Daenerys Stormborn. I serve you.” His tone was heavy with desire, but it was more than that. Looking at her, he understood why Torrhen Stark had knelt.

                Something flashed in Daenerys’ eyes, and then she was pulling Robb to his feet, leading him through a door and into an expansive bedchamber. He had just enough time to register how much bigger it was than any such room at Winterfell or Riverrun, and then she was pushing him down into the silk sheets.

                Robb laughed as Daenerys climbed on top of him and straddled his face, all his fears and anxieties forgotten. He wanted her and she wanted him, and that was all that mattered. “You dare laugh at your queen?” she asked playfully, squeezing his head between her soft, luxurious thighs.

                With her thighs squeezing him and her pussy right there, it was almost a reflex for Robb to stick out his tongue and draw it slowly up her folds and then back down again, tasting the tang of her excitement. He felt her shuddering on top of him, her hands pulling his hair, and he never wanted her to stop. “Robb…” The sound of his name spilling from her lips was like music, urging him on. His tongue worked back up as his hands found the curve of her hips, and he explored her eagerly, gently pulling her onto his willing mouth while his tongue wiggled beneath her hood to attend to her button. “Fuck…” she moaned, her thighs trembling and then tightening around his head as her muscles tensed. He could feel them flexing beneath her smooth, pale skin, and his tongue moved lower, probing between her folds as she squeezed and squeezed. “Stop, stop!”

                Immediately Robb let go of her hips and ceased his worship of her pussy, anxiety rushing back in. Had he done something wrong? “Your grace? Did I hurt you?”

                The pressure of Daenerys’ thighs against the sides of Robb’s head eased, and she raised herself just a fraction off his face. Her body moved steadily above him in time with heavy breaths, and the guileless grin on her face banished most of his worries. “No. You were wonderful. You are wonderful.” For a long moment they remained there, their eyes locked together, both panting, and then she rolled off him, lying back on the silk sheets. He was afraid she would dismiss him, but her next command sent the last of his doubts on their way. “Take your clothes off.”

                Robb rose from the bed and stood by the side of it as he disrobed, enjoying the way Daenerys’ eyes followed his movements. He took his time for her sake, letting her relish the show just as she had made removing her dress a show for him. When he was naked, he drew himself up, allowing himself a rakish grin at the way she was admiring him.

                It seemed Daenerys didn’t have the patience to just look for long. “Lie back down,” she told Robb, and he climbed into her bed beside her. He reached for her hip, beginning to run his hand along the curve of her, but her fingers curled around his wrist. She shook her head, with a sinful smirk curling her perfect lips. “I told you to lie down.”

                Robb grinned back. It seemed a little disobedience, now and then, was a good way to make her be firm with him. But for now he did as he was told, lying back on the cool silk of her bed. “Good boy.” She rose and swung her leg over his head, not even looking at him this time. Her ass filled his vision, but that was a more than welcome sight, and he stuck his tongue out again without needing to be told, delving into her drooling pussy as she lowered her weight onto his face.

                Lapping enthusiastically at Daenerys’ pussy, Robb felt her weight shift on top of him as her hands ran slowly across his chest and down his stomach, sending a thrill twisting up his spine even before he felt her touch his cock. It was a light, teasing touch, but it made him tense beneath her. He thought she might tease him with such treatment, but then he felt her tongue on him and he gasped with barely restrained pleasure, every nerve in his body tingling.

                Daenerys’ tongue was soon joined by her lips, and Robb moaned into her, more determined than ever to worship her as she deserved to be worshipped. It felt wrong to have her pleasuring him this way, lowering herself to suck his cock, but it also felt so very, very right.

                She was good at it too. No fumbling maiden who didn’t know what to do with her tongue, her mouth felt better than any Winter Town whore’s. She ground her hips into his face as she sucked, and he put his hands on them, wanting to feel every movement of her body that he could. Her wicked moan vibrated around his shaft, making him shudder as she struggled to control himself. He could feel her hair tickling his bare skin, threatening to tip him over the edge.

                Robb was barely holding himself back when he felt Daenerys trace a nail between his balls. It was too much for him, a tiny motion that unleashed the avalanche. He groaned into her, the way his eyes crossed mercifully unseen beneath her ass, and his caress of her hips became clinging to them as his cock twitched and throbbed in her mouth, pumping his cum onto her eager tongue.

                With some effort, Robb kept licking as his orgasm shuddered through him, and afterwards. His body trembled, but his tongue worked dutifully, or at least as dutifully as he could manage. Luckily he didn’t have to keep going for long, and soon he heard her squeal in delight as her pussy clamped down on his tongue and her pleasure filled his mouth, making him cough and splutter, struggling to swallow.

                The tremors running through Daenerys’ body subsided, and Robb took a deep breath as she lifted her weight off his face. She turned and laid herself across him with her chin on his heaving chest, and though her weight was more evenly distributed now he enjoyed it almost as much, sharing a satisfied smile with her.

                “Such a good and willing servant, for the King in the North,” Daenerys purred.

                The King Who Lost the North. “It never suited me.” Daenerys was born to rule, but he wasn’t. He wished he’d known sooner what a real ruler looked like. “The crown, I mean,” he added. Serving her suited him very well.

                “Oh? Then I’m not the first woman you’ve served?” Daenerys asked, and Robb wondered how much of her jealousy was feigned.

                “I was married, your grace,” he pointed out gently.

                “As was I.”

                Robb knew that should bother him. Noble ladies were meant to come to their marriage bed as maidens. A woman who had lain with another man was spoiled goods, supposedly. What a stupid fucking idea. He slipped his arms around her waist in a wordless gesture of understanding, and the trusting way she closed her eyes made his heart swell.

                For a long time they just lay there. Robb knew he should close his eyes too, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Daenerys, lying there in his arms. She looked perfect. Eventually she opened her eyes, and he was surprised to see a flicker of self-doubt. “Do you disapprove of me sparing the hostages?”

                Whatever Robb had expected her to say, that wasn’t it. And it troubled him that he didn’t have an answer ready for her. If his father had killed Theon… no. No matter what Theon had done since, he was glad his father had never harmed him. “No, your grace.”

                “At the meeting it seemed to trouble you.”

                Robb didn’t want Daenerys to see the hurt in his eyes, so he looked away from her, over towards the window, where the golden sunlight of late afternoon was rolling lazily in. “After Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion against King Robert, my father took Theon Greyjoy as a hostage. We grew up together. He was my closest friend. I was always scared my father would kill him one day.” Theon and Jon had both been outsiders at Winterfell, and Robb had always hated that. If things had been different, maybe they would both have fought by his side throughout the war. Maybe the worst day of his life would never have happened. “When the war with the Lannisters began, I sent Theon to treat with his father. I thought we could be allies. The next I heard of him, he had taken Winterfell and murdered my little brothers, Bran and Rickon.” He held her a little tighter, fighting not to let his grief master him.

                “I’m sorry,” Daenerys said quietly, and Robb felt a rush of gratitude that made him want to kneel for her all over again.

                “Thank you, your grace.” He turned his head to look at her again, and did his best to smile. For a long time neither of them spoke, and they didn’t need to.

                “Will you come to me again, when… if I ask?” Daenerys finally spoke again, her voice soft.

                Robb was surprised she had to ask. He ran a hand through her silky silver hair, coiling a braid around his fingers. He was hers, for as long as she wanted him to be. “I will, your grace.”

Chapter Text

                Meereenese politics was a mess, and the more Robb learned about it the less he understood. Freedmen and shavepates and Great Masters and Sons of the Harpy, it was nothing at all like anything he had known in Westeros. It made him long for the simplicity of Nothern lords and their Riverlander peers. The wider politics of Slaver’s Bay at least was brutally simple, once news arrived of the fall of Astapor. Everyone out there wanted to kill them. An alliance of cities Robb had never heard of marched with a rattling of chains and a cracking of whips. They would be slow, he knew, a lumbering, unwieldy parade snaking its way across the countryside. But there was no body of cavalry he could use to take advantage, only an unhappy wait behind Meereen’s walls, with the Sons of the Harpy as a dagger at their backs.

                It felt good to carry a sword again, at least. Robb’s hand rested on the smooth bronze pommel as he stood on the walls, looking out over the dusty plain. It was even a straight Westerosi sword that had apparently once belonged to one of the Stormcrows, a gift from Daario Naharis. Gift or not, Robb didn’t much like the Tyroshi. Ben Plumm, the captain of the Second Sons, seemed trustworthy, but Daario Naharis had a sly air about him. And Robb didn’t like the way he looked at Daenerys.

                Ah, Daenerys. Robb’s very own Queen of Love and Beauty. It was the dragons we knelt to, he remembered the Greatjon saying, and now he understood why. If he’d known then that she was here on the other side of the world… if, if, if. There were many things he would’ve done differently if he’d known things he didn’t.

                “They don’t know an Andal from a First Man here, and they don’t care to be educated on the distinction,” Ser Barristan said. The old knight had offered to show Robb around the fortifications. It was true, the distinction that had meant so much in the Seven Kingdoms mattered little here. But Robb had more qualms than just that.

                “Perhaps you should teach them about honour instead,” Robb said coolly, and was gratified by the guilty look he got in return.

                Ser Barristan leaned against the battlements, looking south towards Yunkai. “I served three bad kings, I don’t deny it, but I swore oaths to all of them, Lord Stark. Keeping an oath is not dishonourable.”

                “My father was Hand of the King.”

                “But not King. It is the Kingsguard, not the Handsguard.”

                “So you watched him die, just as you watched my grandfather and uncle die.”

                “Yes,” Ser Barristan said quietly. “Bad kings.”

                It was a mean-spirited thought, born of anger, but Robb found himself wondering how things might have been different if the Kingsguard had a few less Barristan Selmys and a few more Jaime Lannisters. He bore no love for the Kingslayer, but the man had at least not hidden who he was. “Do you think my father regretted that King Robert spared you, at the end?”

                “No.”

                Irritatingly, Robb had to admit that Ser Barristan was probably right. His father had not been a man to hold grudges.

                “I do, sometimes.”

                Robb blinked.

                “I might have died with honour on the Trident, fighting beside Rhaegar. Instead I lingered and grew old, serving lesser men. Scant few years remain to me now to make it right.”

                It was hard not to relent at that. Robb sighed and leaned back against the battlements, running a hand through his curls. He knew all too well what it felt like to outlive the end of hope. “First we have to survive the slavers.”

                Barristan looked sideways at Robb and smiled slightly. “We have the Young Wolf on our side.”

                “I know how to use lance and sword and spear and axe. I know how to lead knights and men-at-arms. These Unsullied…” Robb shook his head. “The push of pike is foreign to me.”

                “There is more to warfare than weapons.”

                “That depends on the weapon. If Daenerys were to unleash her dragons, these slavers might remember why they bent the knee to Old Valyria.”

                “‘If’ and ‘might’ are dangerous words.” Ser Barristan straightened. “I would put your trust in steel and stone, not monsters. Come, there is more of the walls yet to see.”

                The next meeting of Daenerys’ council was fraught, to put it mildly. The Shavepate argued with Hizdahr zo Loraq, the Green Grace argued with Ser Barristan, Reznak mo Reznak argued with Mossador. Sue for peace, execute prisoners, take the Great Masters hostage, flee the city, unleash the dragons, kill the dragons, march out with the army, remain behind the walls, all these proposals and more flew back and forth across the round table, accompanied by accusations of cowardice and treachery, sometimes veiled, sometimes open. Robb said little, thinking that Daenerys could do with a man like the Blackfish or the Greatjon to cow her advisors on her behalf.

                “We cannot withstand a siege when we have an enemy in our midst,” said the Shavepate.

                “If you do not think yourself up to the task, perhaps you should hand your Brazen Beasts over to a more capable man,” Hizdahr shot back.

                “A man loyal to you, you mean,” the Shavepate snapped.

                “Enough!” Daenerys’ voice cut through the bickering. For such a small woman, she had a talent for commanding attention. Her eyes found Robb, and he quailed a little under her cold gaze. Perhaps she didn’t need her own Blackfish after all; yet another reason power suited her better than him. “Lord Stark, I did not appoint you to this council for no reason. You are a military man and we are faced with war. Speak.”

                It tugged at Robb’s chest to think that he had disappointed her, but he resisted the urge to say something at once, considering his words carefully first. “As a matter of strategy, I recommend the Second Sons and the Stormcrows be dispatched as scouts to shadow the Yunkish army along its line of march. We must have more information about their movements, numbers and composition. If possible, their lines of communication should be harassed.”

                “Go on,” Daenerys said, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly.

                Robb hesitated to continue. What he had to say next would have far graver consequences than what he had just said, he had no illusions about that, but he knew just how fatal the alternative could be. “An enemy without is dangerous, your grace. An enemy within is… is ten times worse.” The look in Daenerys’ eyes softened almost impercebtibly, and he could tell she knew exactly where he had learned that bitter lesson. “Meereen should be purged. The Great Masters cannot be trusted.”

                “I am told that even among your own people, you Starks are considered barbarians. Now I understand why,” Hizdahr said venomously. Robb looked at him and said nothing, and was pleased to see him waver.

                “Surely some of the great houses of the city have proven their loyalty,” said the Shavepate. For once, Hizdahr and Reznak mo Reznak were in vocal agreement with him.

                “Sons of the Harpy attacks do not stop,” said Mossador. “Lord Stark speaks wisely. The Masters are your enemies, Great Queen. You should kill them all.”

                The representatives of the Great Masters around the table erupted into further outrage at that, howling and spitting like dogs. Robb looked at Daenerys, and recognised what he saw in her eyes. No doubt he’d had the same look in his eyes when he split his army at the Twins, and when he condemned Rickard Karstark to death. Power was a terrible burden on the soul, and he was glad to be rid of it.

                “Very well.” Daenerys’ voice again cut through the noise like a scythe. “Skahaz, Mossador, you will draw up a list of all those Great Masters who you believe cannot be trusted.” She glanced over her shoulder to where her handmaiden stood, silent and watchful. “Missandei will help you.”

                “Your worship!” Hizdahr started to protest, but Daenerys fixed him with a glare and he quailed into silence.

                “The noble houses have had their chance to establish peace in Meereen. They have failed. They will reap the consequences. No-one will leave the Great Pyramid until the list is complete.” She nodded at Grey Worm and he rose from his seat, presumably to seal the pyramid. “That is all. This council is dismissed.”

                Robb thought Daenerys might ask him to stay again, but the moment she finished speaking she rose from her seat and turned her back on them all, walking over to her balcony. Her dress didn’t bare her back today, but still his gaze lingered. No doubt she was wrestling with her decision. He certainly was. His father would never have countenanced such a purge, he knew, but his father had been betrayed to his death. The thought of losing Daenerys the way he had lost Talisa filled him with a thousand times the fear he had felt at the Whispering Wood, when he’d had to squeeze the hilt of his sword to stop his hand from shaking. He would personally take the head of every master in Meereen if that was what it took to keep her safe. But for now he turned, and left her alone.

                The sun was setting as Robb stepped out onto a terrace lower down the Great Pyramid, and he was glad of it. Meereen’s heat was tolerable in the pyramid’s shaded interior, but for a man used to the North’s summer snows night was far preferable to day here. Ben Plumm stepped out behind him, resting both hands on the pommel of his sword. The grizzled captain could be surprisingly quiet when he wanted to be; Robb hadn’t realised he was being followed.

                “Are all Westerosi so ruthless? I thought it was just our dragon queen has a thirst for blood, but you seem to match her,” Brown Ben said.

                “You’re as Westerosi as I am. I fought your family before I ever crossed the Narrow Sea,” Robb replied.

                Brown Ben scratched his beard. “The Plumms of Plumm Hall, or whatever the bloody castle’s called? Can’t say I’ve ever met any of them.”

                “What about Freys? Plenty of second sons in that family.” Robb didn’t really know why he asked. If any Freys had an alibi for what they’d done, it would be men who had been here on the other side of the world, and he was not quite so vengeful as to strike at those who he knew to be blameless.

                “None by that name that I know of.”

                That was probably for the best. Alibi or not, Robb doubted he would be able to trust a Frey again. Olyvar and Perwyn, perhaps. “The Freys betrayed me. Murdered my wife, my unborn child, my mother. Thousands of my men.” His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword as he spoke. “And they taught me a lesson. Allies who can’t be trusted are worse than any enemy.” He turned to face Brown Ben, and the man met his gaze steadily. “The masters, here in Meereen and in Yunkai too, have proved that they have no intention of making any accomodation with the Queen. The masters of Yunkai we will defeat in battle. But the masters of Meereen must first be destroyed, lest they become a dagger at our back.”

                “Well I’m glad me and mine will have no part of it. Scouting sounds a more decent task.” Brown Ben sounded quite unperturbed, in spite of his comments.

                “I’m sure the Queen can rely on you. But keep an eye on that Tyroshi. I don’t trust him.”

                Ben smiled knowingly. “I will, my lord.”

                With the pyramid sealed, Robb turned to pacing the halls. Unsullied guarded all the entrances in numbers, and he had no doubts about their loyalty to Daenerys. No amount of bribery or threats would move them, and so the pyramid would remain sealed until she wished it otherwise. Presumably Hizdahr and Reznak and even the Green Grace would like nothing more than to leave, both to preserve their own heads and to warn their friends and family. That was, of course, why Daenerys had ordered the pyramid sealed.

                The halls of brick were a maze, and Robb allowed himself to get lost, turning at random this way and that. Sometimes he emerged unexpectedly onto a balcony or terrace, or stumbled upon a disused chamber coated in dust. Mostly he just kept walking, turning down hallway after hallway. Casterly Rock was supposedly like this, a labyrinth sunk deep into the rock. Perhaps one day Daenerys would fill those twisting galleries with dragonfire, just as Tywin Lannister had filled the halls of Castamere with water.

                Robb smiled at the thought, but then his mind turned back to Tywin Lannister. Killed by the Imp, supposedly. The news had arrived in Meereen not long after he did. He had known Tyrion Lannister only briefly, but he hadn’t seemed like a kinslayer. Not that Robb had proved to be much of a judge of character. It wasn’t Tyrion that bothered him though; Tywin had been the iron band holding the Lannisters together, and with him gone they would be weakened. He should be glad, but it chafed to be robbed of his revenge. With Daenerys he could return home, help her claim the Iron Throne, and to all those who had wronged him, serve fire and blood. But not if they all died before he got there. Still he derived some satisfaction from the tales that claimed Tywin had died on the privy. Such an undignified death was the least he deserved.

                Joffrey had died badly too, by all accounts. Choked to death at his own wedding. Divine punishment perhaps, a wedding for a wedding. That one was blamed on Tyrion too, which Robb found easier to believe. Even in their brief time at Winterfell it had been obvious that the Imp bore no love for his nephew.

                Winter is Coming. Easy to forget in such a hot and dusty place. Easy to forget that Robb had more tasks than revenge too. Sansa and Arya needed to be rescued. And the ravens the Night’s Watch had sent out… Jon might need rescuing too. But first they had to win in Slaver’s Bay, and for that the masters had to die.

                The sun was rising by the time a messenger found Robb dozing in a chair to summon him back to the Queen’s chambers. The weight of what he had set in motion grew heavier and heavier on him as he ascended the steps, and there was a grim atmosphere around the table. Even Daario Naharis seemed unable to find anything to smile about, and Reznak mo Reznak looked distinctly green.

                “I have reviewed the list of names,” Daenerys began, touching a parchment that was face down on the table, “and made those adjustments I deemed appropriate.” Robb wondered if she had struck names off or added them.

                “Your radiance, I must once again protest-” Hizdahr zo Loraq began, but Daenerys silenced him with a withering look.

                “You have assured me time and again that you would bring the Sons of the Harpy under control, my lord Loraq. And yet they still terrorise my city. The time for patience, if there ever was one, is over.” Daenerys turned her gaze on Robb, and though there was no hostility in her eyes, there was no gentleness either. “Lord Stark, you told me that in the North it is said the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Come here.”

                With an uneasy glance across the table at Brown Ben, Robb rose from his seat and walked around the table to stand at Daenerys’ side. Without a word, she turned over the parchment so that only he could see, and her finger guided his eyes to the very bottom of the list, where two names had been added in a different hand to the rest. His gaze flickered from the names to her eyes and back again, and he flexed his hand on the hilt of his sword, his chest tightening.

                “Your magnificence? What-” Hizdahr zo Loraq never finished his question. Robb’s sword cleared its sheath in a flash, and the blade passed through flesh and bone and flesh again. Hizdahr looked up at him, eyes wide, and then his head tumbled from his shoulders and his body sagged forwards onto the table with the stump of his neck pumping blood across it. Shouts erupted as Daenerys snatched the parchment out of the way of the rapidly growing pool of blood, and Robb was already moving, striding around the table. His sword rose and fell, hacking through a raised forearm and biting deep into a shoulder. Reznak mo Reznak’s shriek turned to a gurgle as he stared for a moment at the severed stump of his arm, before crumpling to the floor.

                Robb had hardly exerted himself, but still his chest was heaving as he turned to look at Daenerys. The dark delight he saw in her violet eyes both pleased and troubled him, but there was no time to dwell on it. Ser Barristan, Brown Ben and Daario Naharis were on their feet, looking between Robb and Daenerys. Grey Worm, Mossador and the Shavepate hadn’t moved from their seats, and Robb presumed that they had known what Daenerys planned. The Green Grace hadn’t moved either, just steepled her hands and watched, and Robb had to admire her composure considering she was the obvious next target. But her name wasn’t on the list.

                “Lord Stark advised me well,” Daenerys said, and the satisfied purr to her voice reminded Robb distinctly of how she had sounded after he laid with her. “There are those within Meereen who I cannot trust, not with an enemy marching on us. Now they are two fewer.”

                “Had you proof they were traitors, your grace?” Ser Barristan asked. Robb wondered if he had ever asked the same question of the Mad King.

                Daenerys looked at him coldly. “They were either traitors or they were fools who failed their Queen. Grey Worm.” She turned her gaze upon the Unsullied, who stood. “Your men are to seal the city. Close the gates and block access to the harbour. Skahaz mo Kandaq.” She held up the parchment and the Shavepate took it, rising from his seat. “Kill them all.”

Chapter Text

                It was hard for Daenerys not to order Robb into her bed every night. Very, very hard. She knew how happy he’d be to obey, that was the worst part. After so long as a pretty thing to be fucked, she finally had a man who didn’t see her as a conquest or a bedwarmer but as a partner, and it made her desperate for more. One taste of his cock and she was already addicted, she thought with a rueful smile.

                But now was not a time to indulge in addiction, nor did she trust herself to be temperate. So she kept him at arm’s length, though it wounded her. News of the fall of Astapor had cast a pall over Meereen, though she was sure the Great Masters were rejoicing in the privacy of their pyramids. If I look back, I am lost. There was nothing to be done for Astapor now, but Meereen could still be saved. Must still be saved. She owed it to the freedmen, to the Unsullied, to everyone who followed her. And she was scared of what the Wise Masters would do to her if they took her alive. She wanted Robb to hold her in his strong arms, to stroke her hair and let her be scared, but there was no time for weakness like that, not now.

                Meereen had to be prepared for a second siege. The walls had to be inspected, food taken in, wells and storehouses placed under guard, the sewers secured, and a thousand other tasks besides. Most of it needed no input from Daenerys, her men knew what they were about better than she did, but she had to be seen orchestrating it all, so she went back and forth across the city endlessly.

                Daenerys’ council bickered like stray cats squabbling over a fish. They always had, but now it dug into her skull, driving her closer and closer to insanity with every polite but petty insult. She found herself wondering if the gods had waited until now to flip her coin. A week ago she could have easily put up with it, but now it was all just so horrifically grating, it made her want to chew through her own teeth.

                Why couldn’t Robb do it? He knew how to hold council, how to be soft, how to be firm. Oh, how very soft and firm he could be. But he was just sitting there, saying nothing. Useless.

                “Enough!” Daenerys finally snapped, looking around the table and glaring at each of her quarrelsome councilors in turn, until her eyes settled on Robb. “Lord Stark, I did not appoint you to this council for no reason. You are a military man and we are faced with war. Speak,” she said, and Robb had the decency to look guilty.

                “As a matter of strategy,” Robb began slowly, “I recommend the Second Sons and the Stormcrows be dispatched as scouts to shadow the Yunkish army along its line of march. We must have more information about their movements, numbers and composition. If possible, their lines of communication should be harassed.”

                It seemed sage advice, if not particularly brilliant. But Daenerys got the sense Robb was holding something back. “Go on,” she prompted him.

                Robb’s blue eyes flitted about uncomfortably and his shoulders dipped a little. “An enemy without is dangerous, your grace. An enemy within is… is ten times worse,” he said. Once for blood and once for gold and once for love. Daenerys knew he was right, and she knew how much it had cost him to learn it. “Meereen should be purged. The Great Masters cannot be trusted.”

                “I am told that even among your own people, you Starks are considered barbarians. Now I understand why,” said Hizdahr. Daenerys could see that he was trying to give Robb a withering look, but Robb just stared right back at him and she had to suppress a smirk at how quickly he gave up.

                “Surely some of the great houses of the city have proven their loyalty,” said the Shavepate, rescuing Hizdahr who quickly agreed. Some, Daenerys thought. Not many.

                “Sons of the Harpy attacks do not stop,” said Mossador. Daenerys could tell he was grateful for Robb’s proposal. “Lord Stark speaks wisely. The Masters are your enemies, Great Queen. You should kill them all.”

                The quarreling resumed, infused with fresh energy at the outrage of a freedman calling for the deaths of the Great Masters. Daenerys had killed all the Good Masters in Astapor, and spared the Wise Masters at Yunkai. Neither choice had ended well. At Meereen she had killed one hundred and sixty-three of the  Great Masters and spared the rest, and they had responded by waging war against her from the shadows. How many more massacres would it take to get her home? If I look back, I am lost.

                “Very well,” Daenerys said sharply, silencing the raised voices. “Skahaz, Mossador, you will draw up a list of all those Great Masters who you believe cannot be trusted.” Skahaz mo Kandaq was one of the Masters, and he knew them as only one of their own could. Mossador was a freedman, and he knew the Masters as only a slave could. She trusted them both to be thorough, but perhaps an outside perspective might be useful. There was no-one suitable around the table, but she looked over her shoulder to where Missandei stood. Their eyes met, and they shared an almost invisible smile. “Missandei will help you.”

                “Your worship!” Hizdahr started, but Daenerys was in no mood for further discussion and she silenced him with a look.

                “The noble houses have had their chance to establish peace in Meereen. They have failed. They will reap the consequences. No-one will leave the Great Pyramid until the list is complete.” There was no doubt in her mind that someone would warn the Masters if they got the chance, and she had no wish to give them time to prepare. All it took was a nod at Grey Worm to ensure that her will would be enforced. “That is all. This council is dismissed.”

                Before anyone could say anything else to her, before Robb or Daario could catch her eye, Daenerys rose from her seat and turned away from the table, walking out onto her balcony. She needed the cool breeze on her skin, and the silence. She watched the sun setting over the water and wished she hadn’t sent Missandei away. A friend was what she needed right now. Robb would understand, not just why she did it but what it felt like to make such a decision, but wrapped up in his arms she would soften, she would melt, she would relent. The Great Masters had to die, he was right, and she had to hold to that certainty until it was done. Missandei would have helped her hold to it, Missandei who knew far better than her what evils they were capable of. She had to be her father’s daughter tonight, and she couldn’t be that with Robb.

                The bricks of the smaller pyramids that clustered around the Great Pyramid gleamed dully as the sun sank below the horizon and darkness fell across Meereen. There were lights far below in the streets, and Daenerys wondered what the people down there would think of her decision. No, she didn’t have to wonder, she knew. The freedmen, in their hundreds of thousands, would cheer to see their oppressors slain. And it would feel wonderful.

                Daenerys closed her eyes, remembering Yunkai. Mhysa! Mhysa! Mhysa! Thousands upon thousands of voices, calling out to her, lifting her up. She loved how it felt to be adored, and she loved how it felt to hurt the wicked too, in a different way. Her hands grasped the stone balcony in front of her, and she opened her eyes again. To lose herself in such thoughts was… unwise. She needed someone to talk to, someone to keep her mind on other things. Not Robb, not Hizdahr or Reznak or Galazza, who would no doubt make every attempt to convince her to change her mind. There was one man in her court who was very good at distracting her, though the thought of indulging in his company caused a stab of guilt in her stomach. She had made no promise of fidelity to Robb, but she still struggled to put him out of her mind as she descended the steps in search of Daario Naharis.

                When Daenerys found Daario he was seated at the foot of the dais in the great hall, sharpening his knife. He sheathed it and rose as she approached, wearing a winning smile that betrayed but a glimmer of concern. “The Stormcrows are at your disposal, as always. As am I.”

                “I know,” Daenerys replied. “You will do as Lord Stark said, scout the enemy as they advance, along with the Second Sons. But not tonight. Tonight, I…” Before Robb came, this was easy. She told Daario what she wanted and he did it. Now though, the words caught in her throat.

                Daario’s smile softened, and he took Daenerys’ hand. If he had been no more than what he appeared, a dashing rogue who inspired lust and nothing else, there would have been no issue, but he had this soft side, a side he showed only her, and that made it so much worse. She led him to a bedchamber, not hers and not his either, and there she tried to forget everything but him.

                As always, Daario was a dutiful, attentive lover who did everything Daenerys asked of him. But that was the problem, he was dutiful. She could spread her legs and put his face between them, and he would attend to her skilfully, making her moan and grasp his dark hair, but it wasn’t the same as with Robb, it didn’t make her heart sing. It was sex, and that was it. It wasn’t his fault, that was all it needed to be. But Daario pleasured her at her command, because he wished to be pleasured in turn. Robb pleasured her because it pleased him, and that made all the difference in the world.

                Not that this stopped her from doing her best to lose herself in Daario’s arms and other parts of his body. She was a queen, after all, and could do as she wanted. On top of him, underneath him, on her knees, on his face, they twisted and turned and tangled together for as long as they could draw it out, until sweat soaked the sheets and he was thoroughly emptied.

                Daario returned to the bed with a pitcher of wine and two cups, and Daenerys drank deep. He watched her, lying on his side with his head propped up on his hand. “Will you truly do as the Stark boy said?” he eventually asked, sounding more curious than anything.

                Daenerys swallowed a mouthful of wine. “It’s not that I want to. I wanted to be Meereen’s queen, not its butcher.”

                Daario laughed softly at that. “All rulers are either butchers or meat. He learned that the hard way. You should take advantage.”

                “You think I should take advantage of him?” Daenerys asked, raising an eyebrow playfully. If she was honest with herself she was trying to make Daario jealous, but he just grinned at her.

                “I have known many women, and learned their ways. Don’t think I’m blind to the way you look at him.”

                Daenerys sat up, unbalanced by how easily he had seen through her. “You don’t mind?”

                Daario lay back with a sigh, resting his head on his arm. “As a lover I have no equal. I’ll still be here after he disappoints you.”

                Daenerys smiled, but her stomach clenched. Daario’s cockiness was part of his charm, but if she was forced to choose between the two of them she already knew who she would pick.

                When the pre-dawn light began to emerge across the horizon, Daenerys’ little list-writing committee found her alone in her chambers once more, unable to sleep and unable to bear idle company. It brought both relief and a sense of dread to her mind as Missandei handed her a roll of parchment. The three of them stood around the room, looking as restless and ill-at-ease as Daenerys felt. Even Mossador, who had been the plan’s most vocal supporter, looked pale.

                Without a word, Daenerys read the list carefully, taking the time to ensure she didn’t miss or misread a single name. Some of them she recognised, some she didn’t, but those would hardly be the first strangers to die at her command. Once she was done, she looked up at the Shavepate. “You’re confident in these names?”

                “I am, your grace.”

                “Is there anyone you have left off that I should know about?”

                “No, your grace.”

                Daenerys looked at Missandei, who shook her head. “You know these people, my lord Kandaq,” she said, turning her attention back to the Shavepate. “Do you truly believe that they should die? That they must die?” Part of her hoped he would give her some excuse to stay her hand. Another, darker part hoped he wouldn’t.

                “They are the old world, your grace,” Skahaz said without so much as a whisper of doubt in his voice. “Four times your ancestors defeated Old Ghis, and four times the Harpy rose to challenge them again. The fifth time, Valyria razed Old Ghis to the ground, and the Harpy rose no more.”

                “And you?” Daenerys turned her gaze upon Mossador, who raised his chin. “Do you have anything to add?”

                “In Meereen, before Daenerys Stormborn, they own us. So we learn much about them, or we do not live long. They teach me what they are. Your mercy means nothing to them. All they understand is blood.” He met Daenerys’ eyes as she spoke, and his jaw tensed with anger.

                Daenerys’ gaze fell upon Missandei at last, whose voice she trusted above all. She didn’t have to say anything for Missandei to understand what she was being asked. She met Daenerys’ gaze, and her eyes were cold. “Valar morghulis.”

                That was it then. Daenerys could find no reason not to go forward, though she did not blame any of the three, least of all Missandei. She was the Queen, she was the one who chose. Life and death rested on her tongue. She sat down at the table, and with quill and ink added two names to the bottom of the list. The three of them peered at the parchment, and she heard sharp intakes of breath from all of them. “Do you trust them?” she asked each in turn, and each in turn shook their head.

                Messengers were sent to find and bring back the other members of the council, and Daenerys waited as one by one they trickled in, each as drawn and anxious as the last. Robb was the very last, and Daenerys was grateful for his presence, though she didn’t dare look him in the eyes as he took his seat.

                “I have reviewed the list of names, and made those adjustments I deemed appropriate,” Daenerys announced, looking around the table with her heart racing.

                “Your radiance, I must once again protest-” Hizdahr zo Loraq started, but Daenerys glared at him and he fell silent, mercifully.

                “You have assured me time and again that you would bring the Sons of the Harpy under control, my lord Loraq. And yet they still terrorise my city. The time for patience, if there ever was one, is over.” The contempt on Daenerys’ tongue was sincerely felt. Hizdahr, for all his promises, had proved to be worth less to her than a single Unsullied, and it was too late to geld him.

                Turning her gaze on Robb, Daenerys had to fight to maintain her stern expression. “Lord Stark, you told me that in the North it is said the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Come here.” He had served her in bed, and now it was time for him to serve her in war.

                Robb glanced at Brown Ben Plumm, which made Daenerys’ eyes narrow slightly, and did as he was told. Wordlessly, trying not to think about how he towered over her, Daenerys turned over the parchment, careful to shield it from the view of all others, and laid her finger at the end of the list, on the two names she had added. He looked at her, and she looked back at him, her violet eyes giving a silent command.

                “Your magnificence? What-” Daenerys was glad she would never have to hear that whining voice again. She felt the rush of air as Robb’s sword whipped out, felt a slight splatter of wetness on her cheek as it cut cleanly. Hizdahr zo Loraq died with a stupid, cowardly look on his face, and watching his head and body fall in opposite directions lit a fire deep in Daenerys’ stomach. She moved the parchment out of the way of the blood pumping from the stump of his neck as half her council leapt to their feet, shouting in confusion.

                Robb ignored them, descending upon Reznak mo Reznak with a brutal swordstroke that severed the man’s arm and split his shoulder. The man squealed, and choked on his own blood, and then fell silent, a pile of meat on the floor.

                Standing over the body with blood dripping from his blade, Robb looked at Daenerys, and she looked back. She had desired him before, obsessed over him, craved him, but now her lust for him was like an animal inside her, trying to claw its way out. He had killed for her, and all it had taken was a look.

                Of those who hadn’t known this was coming only Galazza Galare remained seated. Ser Barristan, Brown Ben and Daario Naharis were on their feet, looking to Daenerys for an explanation with hands straying to their swordbelts. “Lord Stark advised me well,” Daenerys said to them, struggling to keep the excitement out of her voice. “There are those within Meereen who I cannot trust, not with an enemy marching on us. Now they are two fewer.”

                “Had you proof they were traitors, your grace?” Ser Barristan asked.

                Daenerys fixed him with a stern look. To ask that, he of all people. “They were either traitors or they were fools who failed their Queen.”

                Turning to Grey Worm, Daenerys softened her expression slightly. “Grey Worm. Your men are to seal the city. Close the gates and block access to the harbour. Skahaz mo Kandaq.” Skahaz rose, and took the parchment she held out for him. “Kill them all.”

Chapter Text

                Kill the Masters. The old slogan had returned as the Brazen Beasts went about their bloody work, chanted in the streets by riotous crowds, daubed on the walls in a dozen languages. But this was no spontaneous mass killing, this was controlled, methodical. The heads piling up outside the pyramids were only those whose names were on the list. Daenerys had no desire to sit on a throne of skulls. In Astapor she had been indiscriminate, and where now was Astapor?

                Unsullied kept the crowds at bay while the Brazen Beasts worked their way down the list. Ser Barristan had advised Daenerys to remain in the Great Pyramid until it was done, but she refused to shy away from the bloodshed she had ordered. She stood in the street, in a white dress with a silver dragon coiled around her neck, and watched the piles of heads growing higher. It wasn’t just responsibility that brought her out to watch, if she was honest. There was a catharsis to overseeing the demise of her enemies, a catharsis she tried not to enjoy too much.

                Amidst the spectacle of the purge, a ship entered Meereen’s harbour almost unnoticed. A fat, ugly cog with a striped sail, tattered as if it had been feasted upon by giant moths, it drew up to the docks carrying tin and iron, wool and lace, Myrish carpets and two men. No-one stopped them as they made their way through the streets, up to the Great Pyramid, where they joined the throng of petitioners waiting to see the Dragon Queen. It was a long wait that day, and by the time Daenerys returned to the pyramid she had even less appetite for it than usual after a sleepless night and a bloody morning, but it was her duty, she knew.

                The two men got worryingly close to the audience hall before one of the Unsullied recognised Ser Jorah Mormont. The efforts of the other, shorter man to talk them out of the problem only resulted in both of them being dragged out of the line and marched down to the dungeon. When Daenerys was informed with a whisper in her ear, her stomach felt like it was turning inside-out. She sat on her bench like a statue, with her hands clasped in her lap as petitioner after petitioner came and went, forcing herself to focus on her subjects and not the man who had betrayed her.

                When the last of the petitioners had finally been seen, Daenerys ordered the prisoners brought to her. She wanted to surround herself with people she trusted, Barristan and Robb and Missandei most of all, but she would not hide behind them, not in front of Jorah. When he was brought in with his diminutive companion, only Missandei stood at her side, and two Unsullied at the foot of her dais. Otherwise the hall was empty.

                Jorah didn’t look well. He was unshaven, and even at a distance he seemed tired and haggard. Daenerys felt a pang of pity for him that she swiftly crushed. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you, Jorah Mormont?” she asked, her voice as taut as a drawn browstring.

                “Yes, Khaleesi,” Jorah replied with his head down. At least he had the decency to sound ashamed, though Daenerys thought he didn’t seem nearly ashamed enough, not after what he had done. And here he was, spitting on the mercy she had shown him.

                “Did you come back to Meereen to die, then?”

                Jorah looked up with a desperation in his eyes that was almost animal. “I brought you a gift, Khaleesi.”

                The man beside him took a step forward. “Though I’m told men can no longer be given as gifts since you came to Meereen, your grace.”

                Daenerys turned her burning gaze away from Jorah to look the man up and down. He didn’t look like much of a gift. “Who are you?”

                “It’s a pleasure to meet you, your grace,” the man said with a bow, though Daenerys detected a mocking edge to his tone that she didn’t care for. “My name is Tyrion Lannister.”

                “Khaleesi, I-”

                “You will not speak,” Daenerys cut Jorah off without looking at him. Her attention was on the man claiming to be Tyrion Lannister now. His shaggy hair and unkempt beard were blonde enough. But a malformed dwarf with a missing nose was not the great enemy she had imagined slaying. “How do I know you are who you say you are?” she asked the dwarf.

                “If only I were otherwise,” he replied drily.

                “If you are Tyrion Lannister, why should I not kill you? To pay your family back for what it did to mine.”

                “You want revenge against the Lannisters? I killed my mother, Joanna Lannister, on the day I was born. I killed my father, Tywin Lannister, with a bolt to the heart. I am the greatest Lannister-killer of our time, and I do not mean to stop at two,” said Tyrion, and there was a bile on his tongue that inclined Daenerys to believe him. But that didn’t mean she should trust him.

                “So I should welcome you into my service because you’re a kinslayer?”

                “Into your service? Your grace, we have only just met. It’s too soon to know if you deserve my service.”

                “I had more than a thousand people killed today. Would you prefer your head to be added to the pile?”

                To Daenerys’ surprise, Tyrion seemed not at all put off by that. “Neither of us is here by choice. We are both exiles, driven from Westeros for crimes we did not commit.”

                “This makes us friends, does it?”

                “No. It gives us a common enemy.”

                Daenerys had to admit there was a point there. Like Robb’s father, Tyrion’s father had broken his oaths and destroyed her family. And like Robb, he had fled across the Narrow Sea. She had trusted Robb, and not regretted it. He wanted to kill Lannisters just as much as her, if not more. Tyrion claimed the same motivation. “So you want an alliance? I must have missed your armies.”

                “I have none,” Tyrion admitted after a pause, and Daenerys’ lips curled.

                “Do you have anything to offer me at all, besides insolence?”

                “I have my mind, your grace. It happens to be quite sharp. I served as Hand of the King and Master of Coin in King’s Landing.”

                “‘Served,’” Daenerys repeated. “Very well, Tyrion Lannister. I offer you a choice. Bend the knee and serve me. Or refuse, and I will send your head back to your family as a gift.”

                Daenerys could tell it rankled, but Tyrion knelt awkwardly. “I choose service, your grace.”

                “A wise choice,” Daenerys said coldly, turning her gaze back to Jorah. He had been standing there silently, denying her an excuse to punish him, not that she needed more than what he had already given her. “To you I offer no choice, Jorah Mormont. Your gift has bought you my mercy, so I will not throw your head into Slaver’s Bay as I promised. But I will not suffer traitors in my city. You remain banished. Do not test my patience a second time.”

                Without waiting for another word from either of them, Daenerys rose and turned her back on them, departing the hall for her chambers and the long-overdue oblivion of sleep.

                When Daenerys awoke it was still dark, with only the faintest suggestion of pre-dawn light coming through the windows. Lying alone in her bed, as naked as the night of her birth, she thought about that storm she had come from. How different might her world be if there had been no rebellion? Rhaegar would surely be king now. Robb would be the eligible young son of the Lord of Winterfell, a fitting husband for the king’s sister. He might ride in a tourney and ask for her favour, and all the other women at court would be beside themselves with jealousy.

                Jorah might have accompanied Robb to King’s Landing. She would feel his eyes on her, and he would call her ‘princess’ in a voice that sounded uncomfortably like a caress. Or perhaps his Hightower wife would be happy in the capital, and he would be happy with her.

                And where would Tyrion be? If he had spoken the truth about his experience, perhaps he would be Rhaegar’s Master of Coin. How strange it was, to think of them all knowing one another at court. What other connections had she been denied? Perhaps there would have been many men like Robb, for her to pick her favourite from. Or she might have been married to Viserys, as he had often told her she would have been. Despite everything he had done, the thought of him still living made her sad, even as the thought of sharing his bed made her skin crawl. He hadn’t always been the man he became. There had been times when he’d made her laugh.

                She was distracting herself, she knew. Indulging in fantasies and memories to avoid the darker thoughts that weighed on her mind, the piles of heads she had left in the street. It was necessary to make Meereen safe. She wondered if her father had told himself that as he watched Robb’s grandfather burn and his uncle choke.

                As the sun finally split the horizon, Daenerys rose from her bed and padded over to the window, looking, as she had many times before, towards the west. The Great Pyramid cast a long shadow across the city that reached all the way to the water’s edge, but her violet eyes looked beyond the shadow. There was a life for her there, a thousand leagues distant, and it had been taken away. Stolen from her by men she had never met, for reasons that had nothing to do with her, crimes other men had committed. Instead of growing up as a princess at court, she had grown up as a beggar on the run, until her brother chose to sell her. But now she had the power to take things back, and those who tried to oppose her, well… the Great Masters had learned the consequences.

                Meereen had one master now. Or mistress. Daenerys preferred that one. Queen, mistress, khaleesi, there was something about titles that reminded men of her femininity as well as her power that she enjoyed. The way it sat ill with them to bend the knee to a woman. Most of them, but not all, and those were the men she trusted, at least as much as she trusted any man. After Jorah, it was hard not to doubt. Once for blood and once for gold and once for love.

                Tyrion Lannister she did not trust at all. He was a self-admitted kinslayer, cursed in the eyes of gods and men alike, and he was a stranger, from a house that had ruined hers. Some of those men she trusted knew more of him than she did, and what was the point of having them around if not to advise her on such matters?

                Ser Barristan she went to first. He had been at court with Tyrion under the Usurper, and surely knew him best. “An intelligent man, your grace, there’s no doubt about that,” the old knight mused as they walked along the harbour wall, with the sea breeze tugging at Daenerys’ dress of dark, grey-blue velvet, and Unsullied marching ahead and behind. “And always an outsider among his own family, all but the Kingslayer. There was little love lost with his father and sister, and Joffrey and he despised one another.”

                “Then he may truly wish to see his family destroyed?”

                “Perhaps. When I knew him he was interested in little but wine and whores.” Barristan scoffed, making no effort to hide his disdain. Daenerys supposed that after more than a decade of courtly politeness he had plenty of built-up animosity for the Lannisters.

                “That gives me a way to motivate him, at least.”

                Barristan frowned, stroking his beard. “If he served on the small council, as he claims, it was after my time. But your grace, I must advise you not to bring him into your counsel. No man is so accursed as the kinslayer.”

                “Tywin Lannister was my enemy,” Daenerys said stiffly. She might not have killed Viserys, but she had enjoyed watching him die, far more than she knew she should. It was not a great leap of her imagination to picture taking his life herself, and so she found it hard to judge Tyrion too harshly.

                “Enemy or not, there are things the gods do not countenance.”

                Daenerys stopped abruptly, fixing Barristan with a steely look. “The gods countenanced the ruin of my house. They countenanced my brother selling me like a brood mare. I think they can overlook the murder of the man who ordered my good-sister raped and murdered with her children.” That put something of a final note on their conversation, and they spoke no more of Tyrion Lannister.

                Seeking out Robb made Daenerys more anxious than it should have. She could have just sent a messenger to find him, commanding his presence, but she didn’t want to rub her power in his face like that, not when he had submitted to her so willingly. There were maybe other things she wanted to rub in his face, but that would have to wait. She found him in a courtyard, stripped to the waist and swinging a blunted practice sword at a battered straw dummy. It was close to midday, with the hot sun high in the sky, and sweat ran in rivulets down his body, tracing the contours of his rippling muscles. To say that the sight had an effect on Daenerys would be an understatement. He must have heard the sound of her approach, for he turned, and she watched his chest heaving as he bowed his head and put the point of his sword to the ground. “Your grace.”

                “Lord Stark.” Daenerys hoped her smile told him what formality hid. There were others in the training yard, and she could not take him in her arms and kiss him as she would have liked. She had to appear above and apart. If she were a man and Robb were a woman, no-one would care, but they weren’t. “Has word reached you of Meereen’s latest arrival?” He shook his head, and she thought that intrigue was evidently not his strong suit. A point in his favour, really. “Tyrion Lannister sailed into the harbour yesterday.”

                “The Imp?” Robb wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, and Daenerys was unable to resist watching his bicep bulge. “Does every exile from Westeros find his way to Meereen?”

                “What can you tell me of him?” Daenerys asked, doing her very best to remain focused.

                Robb shrugged. “Little and less. I only met him twice, and the second time was not long after the first. He had a quick tongue, I remember that.” A small, sad smile tugged at his lips, and his voice softened slightly. “He was kind to my brother.”

                “Could he be useful to me?” Daenerys asked, smothering the pang of jealousy she felt towards Robb for having a brother he could love without complexity.

                “Here in Meereen, I don’t know. But once you… once we return to the Seven Kingdoms, it would be useful to know things about the Lannisters, I think.”

                “That’s something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about,” Daenerys said, trying very hard to seem like her heartbeat hadn’t just accelerated. “When we return to the Seven Kingdoms… what will you do?” Robb’s eyes searched hers, and it took an effort not to look away.

                “What would you have me do?”

                Oh, a million things, and one. But she didn’t dare speak it aloud. “Could you bring me the North?” she asked instead.

                Robb nodded slowly, as if he sensed that wasn’t all she wanted from him. “House Stark has ruled the North since before your ancestors tamed dragons, your grace.” There was no disrespect in his tone, though she did detect a hint of pride. “I’ll make it yours. We’ll have to fight for it; against the Ironborn, against the Boltons, against whoever else opposes us. But once we’ve killed them all, it’s yours, from the Wall to the Neck.”

                Daenerys couldn’t resist a grateful smile. She wanted to give him far more than that, but she resisted. “Your loyalty will be rewarded.”

                Robb bowed his head, and Daenerys could have sworn she spied a smirk on his lips just before they were hidden from her sight. “Thank you, your grace.”

                “But that’s not all you’ll do, is it?”

                Robb raised his head and shot her a thoughtful look. “No,” he admitted slowly. “My sisters… the Lannisters have held them hostage for years now. I have to get them back.” There was a desperation to his voice, as if he’d said those words many times and each time believed them a little less.

                “You will. We will,” Daenerys said, gripped by the need to comfort him. “I swear to you, if it’s within my power to free your sisters I will do it.”

                “Thank you, your grace,” Robb said again, and this time there was no smirk to be seen.

                Daenerys opened her mouth to say her farewells and take her leave, but then an idea occurred to her. “I want you to speak with him,” she said suddenly. “Tyrion Lannister. Get the measure of him. I want to see him through your eyes.”

                “Am I looking for anything specific?”

                Daenerys raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Whether I should trust him, or kill him.”

                While Robb went off to fulfil her command, Daenerys flitted about, not knowing what to do with herself. She had more allies than ever, but fewer friends. With Jorah gone and Daario scouting with the Stormcrows, all she had left was Missandei, and Missandei was busy, dealing with the sudden shortage of Great Masters.

                Missandei, and now Robb. But Robb wasn’t really her friend, she supposed. She didn’t know him well enough for that. Oh, her heart fluttered whenever she thought about him, but infatuation and friendship were not the same thing. That was something to be rectified, when she got the chance. She wanted to know more about what went on behind those thoughtful blue eyes.

                Robb’s return, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, had Daenerys on her feet the moment he entered her chambers, with an anxious smile on her lips. “Well?”

                Robb smiled back, with the look of a man who had mixed feelings. “His tongue is as sharp as ever, though when I knew him he still had a nose.”

                Daenerys pursed her lips, trying not to laugh. It would be a cruel thing, to laugh at a man’s disfigurement, and yet she wanted to laugh just because it had been Robb who said it. “I could have his tongue removed.”

                Robb shook his head, and Daenerys wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. “He’d not be much use to you without it.”

                “You think I should take him into my counsel then?”

                There was a pause, and then Robb nodded slowly. “I do, your grace. He is an intelligent man, and he knows your enemies in the Seven Kingdoms better than I do. I think he speaks truly about hating his family too.”

                “Strange to have that be a point in his favour.”

                “They’re a family that’s easy to hate.”

                Perhaps that was true. Tyrion was the first Lannister she had met, but neither he, nor Robb, nor Barristan seemed to think very highly of them. Viserys had taught her to hate them for what they did, but he had taught her to hate the Starks too. “Thank you for your advice. I will think on it,” she said. “Now I have another task for you,” she added, her lips curling as she turned and walked into her bedchamber with a sway of her hips.

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                Robb took no more part in the purge, for which he was grateful. He would have killed a hundred men if Daenerys had asked, severed a hundred heads from a hundred necks and watched the blood pumping out, but she didn’t. There was more to it than just loyalty or gratitude. He wanted her approval, craved it, and it troubled him. He had killed two unarmed men for her approval. What else might he do for her?

                But there was more to his actions than just the most beautiful woman in the world. It would be easy to blame her, a temptress driving him to madness, but he had been the one to propose the purge in the first place, and he had taken a savage joy in the killing. That was new, he had never enjoyed killing at the Whispering Wood or Oxcross, and the Lannister men he killed had weapons in their hands. He knew exactly where the change had happened. Walder Frey had burdened him with many things, and among them was a simmering rage. He hadn’t been fully aware of it until the moment he drew his sword and hacked Hizdahr zo Loraq’s head off, but in that moment a dark delight had taken hold of him. He wondered if his father had felt like this during the Rebellion, picturing every foe he killed as Aerys the Mad. But his father had never murdered anyone. That was what he had done, murder, and he found it less of a weight than he should have. He had fought with honour against the Lannisters, and honour had won him nothing but blood and tears. He would kill all of them with a knife in the back if that was what it took, Walder Frey and Roose Bolton and Jaime Lannister, and every other scum bastard who had so much as known what was going to happen.

                Purge or not, Robb needed to hit something. Killing Hizdahr and Reznak had fed the fire in him, not quenched it, and sitting around thinking about Walder Frey and Roose Bolton and Tywin Lannister would drive him insane. He found a training yard and stripped down to his breeches before going at a straw dummy with a blunted sword, until his shoulders ached, until thirst scraped at his throat and his hands were so slippery with sweat he could barely grasp the hilt. With every blow he pictured a different face: Roose Bolton, Tywin Lannister, Walder Frey, Theon, Joffrey, the Kingslayer. He killed them over and over, but they refused to die no matter how hard he swung the sword, even the ones who were already dead.

                Footsteps made Robb turn, and it was a balm to his heart to see Daenerys approaching, practically glowing in the sunlight. Her layered dress of dark grey-blue velvet didn’t flatter her figure as much as some she wore, but she was no less beautiful in Robb’s eyes. It was hard for him to imagine looking at her and not seeing perfection. “Your grace,” he greeted her, bowing his head and resting the point of his sword on the ground with his hands on the pommel.

                “Lord Stark,” Daenerys smiled, though he could tell there was something on her mind. Probably many somethings. “Has word reached you of Meereen’s latest arrival?” Robb shook his head, and her lips twisted slightly. “Tyrion Lannister sailed into the harbour yesterday.”

                “The Imp?” There was a trickle of sweat running down Robb’s brow, and he wiped it away with his arm, frowning. Of all the cities in all the world, Tyrion Lannister was in Meereen. He didn’t know how he felt about that. Tyrion might well have been involved in planning the Freys’ betrayal, or he might not. “Does every exile from Westeros find his way to Meereen?” he asked, keeping his voice level.

                “What can you tell me of him?”

                Robb shrugged. “Little and less. I only met him twice, and the second time was not long after the first. He had a quick tongue, I remember that.” The second time he had all but accused Tyrion of pushing Bran from the tower, he remembered. He had regretted it when Tyrion showed his design for a harness that would allow Bran to ride. He had been so happy. “He was kind to my brother.” And later they had learned it had been the Kingslayer who pushed him.

                “Could he be useful to me?” Daenerys asked, seeming oddly unhappy with that answer.

                As useful as Robb, perhaps, a stranger in a strange land. “Here in Meereen, I don’t know. But once you… once we return to the Seven Kingdoms, it would be useful to know things about the Lannisters, I think.” If Tyrion spoke honestly, it would be an advantage that Robb would be loath to throw away.

                “That’s something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about,” Daenerys said, with a slight tension to her voice that hadn’t been there before. “When we return to the Seven Kingdoms… what will you do?” She met his gaze, and he could see doubt in her violet eyes that surprised him. He hadn’t thought his future was in question.

                “What would you have me do?” Robb asked. He had submitted to her will, and meant it.

                “Could you bring me the North?”

                What was the North now? Robb supposed Roose Bolton ruled, but he didn’t know for sure. It would not be the place he had left, but it was still the land his father had ruled, and winter was coming. “House Stark has ruled the North since before your ancestors tamed dragons, your grace. I’ll make it yours. We’ll have to fight for it; against the Ironborn, against the Boltons, against whoever else opposes us. But once we’ve killed them all, it’s yours, from the Wall to the Neck.” The thought of his enemies dying in dragonfire brought him some measure of comfort. And for her he would happily be a second King who Knelt.

                “Your loyalty will be rewarded,” Daenerys smiled gratefully.

                Robb could picture a number of very enjoyable rewards, and he bowed his head so that she wouldn’t see the look on his face. “Thank you, your grace.”

                “But that’s not all you’ll do, is it?” There was a challenge to Daenerys’ voice that reminded Robb why she was feared as well as loved, and he raised his head, his smirk vanished.

                “No. My sisters… the Lannisters have held them hostage for years now. I have to get them back.” He remembered when his mother had said that, after the raven came to bring news of his father’s death. Get the girls back, and then kill them all. It had seemed so very possible at the time. With Daenerys it seemed possible again.

                “You will. We will,” Daenerys said, and now he was reminded why she was loved. “I swear to you, if it’s within my power to free your sisters I will do it.”

                “Thank you, your grace,” Robb said again, softer and much more sincerely.

                Daenerys seemed as though she was about to leave, but then a candle was lit behind her eyes. “I want you to speak with him,” she said suddenly. “Tyrion Lannister. Get the measure of him. I want to see him through your eyes.”

                “Am I looking for anything specific?”

                Daenerys raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Whether I should trust him, or kill him.”

                Robb found Tyrion in the very same room he had been held in, and for a moment he wondered if there would be an endless cycle of each new exile interrogating the next in this sunless chamber at the pyramid’s heart. Tyrion was mostly as Robb remembered him, though his clothes were far less fine, his hair and beard were in need of a trim, and he was absent a nose. He put down a book as Robb entered, with a look of surprise and something Robb didn’t much like lighting up his mutilated face.

                “The Young Wolf! What an unexpected pleasure. Please, sit down. I would offer you wine, but my hosts have denied me it thus far. Poor hospitality, I must say.” Robb sat down, studying Tyrion, who leaned forwards in his chair, smirking. “I would bow, but you’re not a king anymore, are you?”

                “I prefer it.” Robb said coolly. “People expected more of me after they put a crown on my head.”

                “What fools we are, to expect things of our kings. I was very surprised to learn that you beat me here, and further surprised to learn that the Mad King’s daughter let you keep your head.”

                “It’s your own head that should concern you,” Robb said. It rankled that Tyrion had learned of his presence before he learned of Tyrion’s, and some of his frustration crept into his voice.

                “Oh indeed it does, ugly thing though it is,” Tyrion grinned. “Are you here to bring me news on that front?”

                “Her grace asked me to speak with you. To get the measure of you.”

                “She trusts a Stark to judge my character? Not a wise queen then, I wager.”

                “King Robert trusted my father.”

                “And how did that end for them both?” Tyrion’s hands tapped the armrests of his chair lightly, and Robb remembered what Roose Bolton had said to him, right before Olyvar intervened to save his life. Jaime Lannister sends his regards.

                “If you think her grace should be more suspicious, I’ll tell her. I don’t think that will end well for you.”

                “Not at all.” Tyrion was infuriatingly good-humoured, and with every word that passed his lips Robb wanted to strangle him a little more. “I merely suggest that she should know her servants’ strengths. You, for instance, are an excellent commander and an abysmal politician. You should be out leading her armies, not speaking to me.”

                “You think you’re the great politician who should be advising her, do you?”

                “Just so. If you could tell her that, I would be most grateful. I would even let you rub my head for luck. The gods know you need some of it.”

                “You and I are both exiles on the edge of the world, Imp.”

                Anger flashed in Tyrion’s eyes, just for an instant, so fast Robb couldn’t even be sure it had been there. “The difference is that I didn’t bring my family down with me.”

                “Did you know?” Robb couldn’t hold the question in any longer. It escaped through his clenched teeth with a spiteful life of its own.

                The grin faded from Tyrion’s face. If it hadn’t, Robb might have killed him bare-handed. “No. My father played that one very close to his chest. I found out when you did. Well…” his lips twitched, “shortly after you did.”

                Robb tolerated that, barely. “Did he tell you anything else about it?”

                “Oh, he was very smug about it. Very pleased with himself. Right up until the moment I put a crossbow bolt in his bowels.” Tyrion was smiling again, but it was a smile devoid of mirth. “No doubt you wanted to slay him yourself. Imagined it many times, I should think. How would you have done it? With that great big sword of your father’s? Sorry to tell you, but my father melted it down.” Robb’s jaw clenched, and Tyrion smirked. “He lost your sister too, by the way.” Robb leaned forwards, gripping the arms of his chair tightly. “While we’re on the subject of your family and mine. The younger one, Arya. Well, it was my sister who lost her, in truth.”

                “What do you mean, ‘lost her’?” Robb demanded through gritted teeth.

                Tyrion gestured airily, as if he’d forgotten to relay some trivial message. “Oh, she ran off, the day Robert died and your father made a fool of himself. No-one’s seen her since.”

                Robb’s stomach twisted itself into a tangled mess, and he gripped the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white. To think of Arya as a hostage in King’s Landing was bad enough, but missing, and for so long at that? It was hard to hope that she might even still be alive, though he clung to what hope there was.

                “Sansa disappeared as well, right after that whole business with Joffrey’s wedding,” Tyrion added casually.

                “What?” A vein throbbed on Robb’s forehead, and he had to restrain himself from beating answers out of Tyrion’s smug little face.

                “Vanished into the aether,” Tyrion shrugged. “And not even a word to her husband. I was most hurt.”

                Taking a deep breath, Robb sat back in his chair, his eyes alight with fury. The fucking Lannisters had not only held his sisters hostage, they’d lost them too. He wanted to scream, but he kept his jaw clenched, levelling his gaze at Tyrion. “Do you know what I promised my mother, the day the raven came with a letter, telling me that the Lannisters cut off my father’s head? I promised her I would kill you all,” he said harshly, and was gratified to see an unsettled look on Tyrion’s face. “She said we had to get my sisters back first. But unless you’re lying to me, they’re no longer in any danger from any of you.”

                “I’m already ahead of you on that count. I am a great Lannister-slayer, though not as great as they say. I killed my father, but Joffrey was not my doing,” Tyrion said quickly. “I can help you kill the rest, but not if you remove my head.” There was a pause before he continued, speaking more slowly. “And for what it’s worth, I was not in King’s Landing when they killed your father. Had I been, I would have tried to stop it. It was a stupid decision.” There was an honest sympathy in his eyes that eased Robb’s anger.

                “I believed you killed Joffrey more than I believed you killed Tywin,” Robb said, relaxing his jaw.

                Tyrion smiled wryly. “I don’t believe you ever met my father. Had you done, you might understand why I did it. As for my nephew, I admit, I was glad to see him die. Vile cunt that he was. But I had no part in it.”

                “I might like you more if you had,” Robb said, and found himself smiling a little too. Tyrion was an annoyingly easy man to like. Or maybe it was just shared hatred of Joffrey. “Do you know who killed him, then?”

                “Would I have allowed myself to be scapegoated for it if I could point out the real culprit, sitting smugly across the room?” Tyrion shook his head. Robb got the feeling that though he might not know, he had his suspicions. “They blamed your sister too, you know. She had more motive than most, I admit, but I suspect her even less than I suspect myself.”

                “My sister, or your wife?” Robb’s tone was level, but the smile was gone from his lips, and he enjoyed the way Tyrion’s evaporated too.

                “I know what you’re thinking. But it wasn’t my idea, in fact I protested it, quite vigorously. Nor did I ever take my marriage rights.” Tyrion winced at his own choice of words the moment they left his mouth.

                “Your rights?” Robb’s voice dropped low now, low and menacing. “What right do you have to Sansa?”

                “None at all,” Tyrion agreed emphatically. “I only meant that I never laid a finger on her.”

                Robb let out a slow breath, allowing himself to be satisfied with that answer. The Imp could be lying of course, about everything, but his gift to Bran had been honest enough. “That had best be true, for your sake.” One day, one day soon, he would ask Sansa himself. Wherever she was. Her and Arya both, he would find them, and bring them back home to Winterfell, and kill everyone who had harmed them.

                “She’s a sweet girl, and doesn’t deserve any of what has happened to her,” Tyrion said. Robb rose from his chair, and Tyrion’s eyes followed him. “What will you tell your queen about me?”

                Robb grinned, baring his teeth. “She’s your queen now, Lannister.” With that he swept from the room, and the door boomed shut behind him.

                As satisfying as it was to get the last word in with Tyrion Lannister, there had been an actual purpose to the conversation, and Robb ascended the steps towards Daenerys’ chambers with a feeling in his chest that was becoming pleasantly familiar. The sight of her as he entered doubled that feeling’s intensity, and it took some restraint not to fall to his knees in front of her.

                “Well?” she asked, with a small, hesitant smile.

                Robb returned her smile, though he wasn’t quite sure himself what conclusions he had drawn. He was leaning one way, but only leaning. “His tongue is as sharp as ever, though when I knew him he still had a nose,” he said, avoiding a definitive answer.

                Daenerys’ pretty lips pursed, and Robb could tell she was trying not to laugh, which pleased him more than he could say. “I could have his tongue removed.”

                “He’d not be much use to you without it,” Robb shook his head.

                “You think I should take him into my counsel then?”

                There was no avoiding an answer any longer, but Robb still hesitated. His judgement could save or condemn more than just Tyrion, and yet the Imp had not spoken false when he called Starks poor judges of character. “I do, your grace,” he said slowly. “He is an intelligent man, and he knows your enemies in the Seven Kingdoms better than I do. I think he speaks truly about hating his family too.”

                “Strange to have that be a point in his favour.”

                “They’re a family that’s easy to hate.” Robb wondered for a moment if there were any who might say the same of his family. Theon, perhaps.

                Daenerys was silent for a moment, and Robb could see an intention forming in her eyes. “Thank you for your advice. I will think on it,” she said. “Now I have another task for you.” The look on her face and the way her hips moved promised it would be a much more enjoyable task than the last, and Robb followed her eagerly into her bedchamber.

Chapter Text

               Daenerys might have lacked a throne in Meereen, but Robb’s face made for a very pleasing substitute. And she did so very much enjoy the sight of him squished between her thighs. It wasn’t the handsome, dignified, lightly rugged appearance he usually had, the one that had caught her eye in the first place, but that was part of its charm. He gave up his dignity for her, so that she could sit on his face and moan like a whore, and that was worth more to her than a strong jawline. Though the strength of that jaw did have its advantages.

               Since she purged the Great Masters, Daenerys had a lot of time to enjoy Robb’s company. The Yunkish army crawled along the coastal road, watched by the Stormcrows and the Second Sons, and Meereen was ready to meet them, as ready as it could be at any rate. Daario was out leading the Stormcrows, and so Daenerys was freed from having to decide who should share her bed, at least for now. She still had petitioners to receive, and Robb had to train, but they both had plenty of time for other pursuits. And she worked him just as hard as he worked in the training yard.

               Where Robb lacked experience – the only area in which he lacked experience, as far as Daenerys could tell – was in sieges. He had defeated his enemies in the field, and taken some of their castles, but he had never held one. It was Tyrion Lannister, much to her surprise, who had filled this gap. He claimed to have defended King’s Landing from Stannis Baratheon. Perhaps it was true, perhaps it wasn’t, but all the military men around her seemed impressed by his grasp of the subtleties. Though she had refused his suggestion to round up all the known thieves and hang them. One purge was enough.

               Tyrion Lannister fled from Daenerys’ thoughts as Robb’s teeth grazed her clit, and she looked down at him with a soft gasp. She was trying to look stern, but the mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes dragged a smile to her lips. “You should beware,” she teased, playing with his auburn curls. “Dragons have a stronger bite than wolves, and-ahh…” Whatever else she had been about to say dissolved into soft whimpering as he put his tongue back to work. He knew how she liked it by now, where she was most sensitive, which movements of his tongue would make her quiver on top of him, and he was quite merciless in using this knowledge against her. Her weight might be on him, but it was him who had her unravelling, curling and coiling and twisting his tongue inside her.

               This was not right at all, Daenerys thought petulantly as her whole body thrummed with delight. Robb had submitted to her, and she couldn’t let him conquer her from below. She rolled onto her back, dragging him with her between her thighs. With her back against a pile of pillows and a smirk on her lips she stretched her legs out, crossing her ankles and squeezing him. Trapped between her thighs he looked up at her, and she was pleased to see excitement in his eyes. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” she reminded him with an arched eyebrow, and he eagerly delved his tongue back inside her, drawing a breathy sigh from within her chest.

               Robb put his hands on Daenerys’ gently squeezing thighs, stroking them as he devoured her drooling pussy. Gods, the way he touched her always sent the best feeling twisting up her spine. Always worshipful, never possessive, with a warm, wet tongue that he wielded as skilfully as his sword. He made her feel like a queen. Sometimes she thought he was born to be a pillow slave, not a lord.

               But a lord he was, and a queen should reward her loyal lords. Daenerys uncrossed her ankles, releasing the grip of her thighs on his head, and with gentle tugs on his curly hair she raised his face from her pussy. He flashed her a wet grin, and she smiled back, her violet eyes bright with lustful intent. “Take me.” She tried to make it sound like a purr, but it came out too breathless and eager for that. She pulled on Robb’s curls, guiding him to crawl on top of her, their eyes locked together the whole time, blue and violet. Like dawn as the sun begins to escape the horizon. She opened her mouth to speak another command, but he captured her lips with a kiss, and then her back arched, her hips pushing back against his as he filled her.

               Daenerys’ spine twisted against the silk bedsheets as she whimpered into Robb’s mouth, tasting the tang of her own arousal on his tongue, smelling it on his face. His naked body moved against hers; she could feel the softness of his chest hair, the flexing of toned muscles, the warm breath coming from his nose as he kissed her like it was his last night among the living. She had never been fucked like this, not ever. Not by Drogo and not by Daario. He was disobeying her, she realised. He wasn’t taking her, as she had commanded, he wasn’t claiming her. He was on top of her, his weight pinning her to the bed beneath him, and his cock was moving inside her, but his every movement was alive with devotion to her. She had been Drogo’s bride and Daario’s prize, but she was Robb’s Queen, in every sense of the word. If this was what making love felt like, then she never wanted to go back to mere fucking.

               Robb’s lips pulled away from Daenerys’ and she groaned in ecstatic frustration. Her arms wrapped around his back and her legs around his waist, refusing to allow him to abandon her in this state, but she needn’t have worried. His lips moved downwards, across her cheek, tracing along the line of her jaw and the side of her neck down to her collarbone. Every kiss made her whine and hold him tighter. Her heels pressed against the small of his back, pushing him into her. “Yes…” she gasped. It was the only word she could form. “Yes!” Her nails scraped across the muscles of his back in the throes of her delight, and she felt him hiss as he kissed her breasts. Her thighs squeezed his waist and she felt his cock throb inside her, so she squeezed tighter and felt it swell.

               “Daenerys!” Robb groaned her name breathlessly, raising his head from her chest with a pleading look in his eyes. She took his head in her hands and smiled a smile of lustful joy.

               “Come for me,” Daenerys commanded, and he did, his handsome face contorting and his powerful body shuddering as he erupted inside her. She bit her bottom lip so hard it hurt as her own climax took her, making her soaking pussy clench around his throbbing cock and milk him dry. She pulled his face to hers and kissed him as both of them trembled through their orgasms, and felt a wetness on his cheeks that she realised was her own tears.

               Daenerys’ orgasm began to subside and she broke the kiss, seeing concern in Robb’s eyes as he beheld her tears that made her want to make love to him all over again. Laughing, she wiped them away and kissed him again, but the feeling of his hands gently tangling in her silver curls brought fresh tears of joy to her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been this happy, not even in Braavos.

               This was love. Daenerys had been afraid to admit it to herself before, and she still didn’t dare say it out loud, but she was falling in love with Robb. He was strong and brave and fierce and gentle and kind and oh, she could go on forever about his virtues, but there was no need. She knew how she felt. She wasn’t quite sure where it had started, perhaps when he knelt and kissed her boot, perhaps the very moment she laid eyes on him, like in a song. He seemed like he was straight out of the songs, a handsome lord come to fight for her. And she was thinking all this while staring at him with the silliest smile on her face, still holding his head while he looked at her in bemusement.

               “What?” Robb asked, and Daenerys laughed again, letting go of him and falling back to the pillows with a sigh. After a moment he laid down beside her, coiling a lock of silver hair around his fingers.

               There was silence between them for a long time before Daenerys finally stopped basking in her own happiness and found herself able to form words again. “If you could fuck any Targaryen in history, who would you choose?” she asked, rolling onto her side to look at him with her head on her hand. She was too worn out for more sex right now, so she turned to imagination to sate herself.

               Robb cocked his head a little, and his lips curled. “You think I’ll fall for such an obvious trick question? I choose you, of course.”

               “But if you couldn’t choose me,” Daenerys insisted with a pout. “Answer, I command you.”

               Robb shook his head, chuckling, and his fingers toyed with her hair as he pondered the question. “Rhaenyra,” he finally said.

               Now it was Daenerys’ turn to cock her head. “You wouldn’t have minded being her consort while she ruled as Queen?”

               “You asked me who I’d fuck, not who I’d marry,” Robb reminded her, and she blushed, realising that her feelings had carried her away. “But no,” he continued after a moment, “I wouldn’t have minded. I have worn a crown, your grace, and I didn’t much care for it.”

               “But you wouldn’t have felt… less of a man, somehow?” Daenerys asked. She was being painfully unsubtle, she was well-aware, and it was making her cheeks heat up, but she had to know.

               Robb laughed. “Any man who thinks sharing a beautiful queen’s bed makes him less of a man should put on a jingly hat, because he must be a great fool.”

               “Many men don’t like to take commands from a woman.”

               “In your experience, have I had any trouble taking commands from a woman, your grace?” Robb asked with his eyes twinkling.

               Daenerys gave his shoulder a playful shove. “No,” she admitted. “You don’t have to call me ‘your grace.’ Not when we’re alone like this,” she added after a short pause.

               “I know,” Robb smiled. “But you like it, don’t you?” Daenerys didn’t have to say anything for him to know the answer.

               That night Robb slept in Daenerys’ bed for the first time, and when she awoke in the morning it was to the sight of his thoughtful blue eyes watching her. She smiled lazily and kissed him, but much as she would have liked more she had duties. Meereen had a thousand new demands each day and she knew that allowing them to fester would make everything worse, so she resisted the temptations of her handome lordling and left him in her bed.

               As Daenerys descended the steps from her chambers with the white silk of her dress brushing quietly against the stone, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs towards her. Quite rapidly. She paused, and a messenger rounded the steps in front of her, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of her. “Your worship,” he panted, his cheeks red. “Ill news from the coastal road. The Second Sons turned their cloaks and scattered the Stormcrows. Some survivors just reached the city.”

               Daenerys wanted to scream in frustration, but she kept her composure. She had to claw and scrape to gather what scant forces she could get, and every time they fell back through her fingers like water. “And Daario Naharis?” she asked, her voice betraying barely a hint of the tension in her chest.

               “No-one knows, your worship. He was last seen fighting the Second Sons.”

               He might be alive. Daenerys had to cling to that. That she had been amusing herself with Robb while Daario fought for her, fought for his life, clutched at her stomach, but this was not the time to wallow in guilt. “Summon my councillors,” she told the messenger, and he hurried off at once to do her bidding.

               The council gathered quickly. Daenerys was grateful for their haste, but she almost wished they had waited just a little longer, so that she could have spent a few more minutes in Robb’s arms, being a girl for once instead of a queen. Just his presence at the table gave her strength still, and she shared a slight smile with him as Grey Worm rose to speak. “Meereen is prepared for a siege, Daenerys Stormborn. Unsullied can resist ten times our number from within the walls. Second Sons make no difference.”

               Grey Worm sat down, and Tyrion leaned forwards. “The slavers will have no need to storm the walls. Their men can surround us, their ships blockade the harbour, and they may simply wait for us to starve. I suggest the Unsullied meet them outside the walls.”

               “I agree,” said Robb. “We should sally out and take them while they’re still on the march, flush with their victory.”

               “A victory you gave them,” Daenerys said coldly. The way Robb recoiled made part of her want to take back her words, but she needed someone to blame. She already knew she would make it up to him later, but here and now her anger needed an outlet. “You advised me to send my mercenaries out, and now my mercenaries are gone. I will not make the same mistake twice.” She turned to Tyrion, fixing him with a commanding glare. “When you defended King’s Landing against Stannis Baratheon, how did you do it?”

               Tyrion sat back, and Daenerys could tell a lot of memories were running through his mind. “Wildfire. I destroyed half his fleet with it.”

               “We have no wildfire,” Galazza Galare pointed out.

               “No,” said Tyrion, meeting Daenerys’ gaze, and the force of it faltered. “We have something even better.”

               Dragons. There was no need to say it aloud, everyone knew what he meant. Rhaegal and Viserion were still chained beneath the Great Pyramid. If she could command them, the slavers could be destroyed just as Valyria had destroyed Old Ghis. But she couldn’t command them. The dragonlore had been lost, her family had been lost. It was just her, and she didn’t know what to do. All she knew was that if she unleashed her dragons they would be as likely to burn Meereen as her enemies. “That’s not an option,” she said, trying to sound final.

               It must not have worked, because Tyrion kept going. “House Targaryen didn’t conquer the Seven Kingdoms by being cautious with dragonfire, your grace.”

               “House Targaryen ruled for as long without dragons as they did with them,” Ser Barristan interjected, and Daenerys was grateful for his wisdom. “There were no dragons when we defeated the Ninepenny Kings.”

               “If we had all Seven Kingdoms united behind us as you did, Ser Barristan, I would be less concerned,” Tyrion shot back, and Ser Barristan bristled. “Alas, we do not.”

               “We have ten thousand Unsullied and another five thousand Brazen Beasts,” the Shavepate pointed out.

               “Mayhaps you should cut the cocks off your Brazen Beasts to make them better soldiers,” Tyrion said acidly.

               “This council will not fall to bickering,” Daenerys said coolly, before any of them could say anything else unhelpful. “Grey Worm, you say Meereen is ready to defend itself, and I trust your judgement. Ser Barristan, you have fought many wars. You have overall command of the defences. Skahaz mo Kandaq, until the danger has passed it is vital that order be maintained in the streets. Do what you can to strengthen the defences, but do not neglect your other duties.” Turning to Robb and Tyrion, her two latecomers, she showed them no hint of girlishness. “Lord Lannister, you will advise and assist Ser Barristan in commanding the city’s defence. Lord Stark, since you have little experience in siegecraft, you will stay close to me, as my protector.” There was another reason she wanted him close, of course, but it didn’t need to be said. “You have your tasks. See to them.” Daenerys rose and turned on her heel, striding out onto the balcony as her council dispersed. There they couldn’t see the look on her face as she looked out over her city and imagined its fall.

               When the slavers came, they came in glory, carrying their banners before them along the dusty road in a riot of shapes and colours, their legions marching behind, snaking back for miles and miles across the horizon. Men from Yunkai and New Ghis and Qarth, Volantis and Mantarys and Elyria, from the Dothraki Sea and the Narrow Sea and the Jade Sea. Daenerys stood on the walls, flanked by Robb and Ser Barristan, and watched them march, spreading out in a circle around Meereen as they came on. They would raze Meereen to the ground if they could, and bury beneath its bones any thought of freedom for the next thousand years. Daenerys knew that she would survive, but not out of mercy. They would parade her, naked and in chains, and show the world what happened to those that defied them. No doubt every master in that army had some twisted fantasy of how he would punish her for what she had done to them. She would be subjected to every indignity imaginable, and some that she could never have conceived, if they took her alive. The thought made her stomach churn, and she leaned against the parapet, breathing the warm air deeply.

               As the slaver army spread out across the Valley, Daenerys saw in her mind’s eye three dragons falling upon them. Clouds of arrows flew, and fell back to the earth as fire and claws rent great screaming gashes in the ranks of soldiers, who turned and fled in terror, throwing down their fluttering banners, now black with ash and smoke. If only her dragons would obey her, she would remind the Ghiscari why they had bent the knee to her ancestors. But she didn’t know how to make them obey her.

               “Your eyes are younger than mine, Lord Stark,” Ser Barristan said, and Daenerys didn’t much like the grim tone of his voice. “How many, do you think?”

               “Fifty thousand at the least,” Robb replied.

               “More than either I or your father marched with to the Trident.”

               “More than Stannis Baratheon brought to King’s Landing,” Tyrion spoke up from a little further along the parapet. He turned his head to look at Daenerys, and she saw real fear in his expression. “It took wildfire to defeat him.”

               “Meereen is not King’s Landing, our enemies are not Stannis Baratheon, and I am not you,” Daenerys said with a lot more confidence than she felt. “They will break upon the walls.”

               “Numbers alone don’t win battles,” said Robb, and Daenerys was grateful for his reassurance. “The army I destroyed at Oxcross was twice the size of my own. They may carry bright banners, but be green boys beneath their armour.”

               “My father dismissed you as a green boy,” Tyrion pointed out.

               “Your father had no Unsullied.”

               “Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell with a mere handful of Ironborn raiders.”

               Without even looking at Robb, Daenerys could feel the way he tensed. “Winterfell was not expecting to be attacked. We are,” he said, his voice taut, and Tyrion wisely fell silent.

               For hours the ring of men around Meereen grew and grew, and on the water ships could be seen. They lingered at the horizon, drawing no closer, but they were many in number and no-one doubted their intentions. The city was surrounded, isolated, cut off. Alone.

               From out of the ranks, a group emerged, approaching the walls until they were just out of ballista range. One of them was pushed to his knees, and even at such a distance Daenerys recognised Daario as her heart leapt into her mouth. She gripped the parapet so hard her knuckles turned white as another man stepped forwards to speak. “No quarter shall be given to the enemies of order and civilisation!” he declared, his words faint but clear in accented Valyrian. “No mercy shall be shown to those who betrayed their masters! No pleas will stir the hearts of we who have resolved to end the false rule of Khal Drogo’s whore! She has brought to these lands the scourges of war, famine, pestilence and insurrection! The Wise Masters of Yunkai and their noble allies will have justice and peace! May the whore drown in piss!” He gestured, and another man stepped forwards, hefting a long and broad-bladed sword upon his shoulder. Daenerys’ heart felt like it was trying to choke her, but there was nothing she could do as the blade flashed down and Daario Naharis’ head rolled in the dirt.

               A roar went up from the slaver army, and Daenerys turned her back on them, fighting back tears. If I look back I am lost. Daario had fought for her, killed for her, bled for her. He had shared her bed, given her counsel, been a comfort on long and lonely nights. She had not loved him, but she had cared for him, and he had cared for her. And they had killed him. She would never see his roguish smile again, or hear his soothing voice, or feel his skilful touch. She was going to kill them all for that.

Chapter Text

               Talisa. Her name was the first thing in Robb’s mind when he formed a thought, and the last thing he heard in his dreams. Talisa, his queen. What would she think of him now? He told himself that she would want him to live, to be happy, to go on and not be dragged down with her into her grave. But every time Daenerys summoned him to her bed, guilt twisted his stomach. Every time he pleasured her with the tricks he had learned with Talisa, he saw her, heard her gasps and moans.

               They would have liked each other. Robb wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. They were both strong women who spoke their minds, it was one of the many reasons he had been drawn to both of them in the first place. And they both hated slavery. On occasion he imagined sharing a bed with the two of them at once, and was shamed by the thought. Talisa was dead. Killed because of him. If he’d just left her alone, she would still breathe air, drink wine, dance, live. It wasn’t right to resurrect her image just to arouse himself.

               But she haunted him all the same, punishing him for betraying her with Daenerys. Replacing her. Still he kept doing it. He could have refused Daenerys, she would have accepted that. Probably. But he didn’t refuse her. All she had to do was give him a certain look and he was following at her heels like a dog, serving her in whatever ways she wanted to be served, and then thinking of Talisa afterwards.

               Tonight was no different. Daenerys had quickly assumed her favourite position, seated comfortably on Robb’s face. He had to admit to some pride that she enjoyed it so much, and some satisfaction, not least because he enjoyed it almost as much as she did. It hadn’t taken him long to adjust to her body, her sensitivities, and now that he knew what she most enjoyed it was easy to give her what she wanted. Her thighs were soft and warm, shifting slightly against his cheeks as her body tensed and relaxed over and over. He could have spent a lifetime between those wonderful thighs and been happy for every moment of it.

               Robb’s teeth found Daenerys’ clit and nipped gently, making her gasp like a siren and look down at him with a reproachful smile curling her perfect lips. “You should beware,” she warned him, tangling her fingers in his hair, “Dragons have a stronger bite than wolves, and-ahh…” He cut her off by plunging back into her cunt with all the need of a man dying of thirst. But it wasn’t exactly a desert between her legs. He was drowning beneath her, lapping and licking and using his tongue in every way he knew, every way he had learned that made her whimper. She was all but vibrating on top of him, grasping his hair not to control him but just to hold on while he pleasured her.

               The grip that Daenerys’ thighs had on Robb tightened, and suddenly he was moving, trapped between them as she rolled onto her back, forcing him onto his front. It was quite disorienting, and by the time he got his bearings and looked up at her she was reclining against her pillows, silver hair splayed out like a halo, and the sight made his cock stiffen against the silk sheets. He could feel the powerful muscles beneath her soft skin flexing, her thighs squeezing him tighter still, and it was a feeling that got his cock leaking. She looked down at him, arching her eyebrow in an expression of queenly lust. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” she said, and even before she had finished speaking his tongue was back at its task, worshipping his queen the way she deserved to be worshipped. He put his hands on her thighs, feeling the tension within them as she squeezed him, stroking them with long, slow strokes from her hips to her knees and back again. He could be bounded between her thighs and count himself a king of infinite space, were it not that he had bad dreams.

               It was a disappointment when the pressure on Robb’s head eased, though he was so devoted to Daenerys’ pussy that it took him a few seconds to even notice. She pulled his head up and he grinned at her as her delight dripped from his chin. She smiled back, and it was only then that he saw the look in her violet eyes, the desperate, overwhelming need. “Take me,” she begged him, tugging weakly on his hair. He crawled on top of her, entranced by that look, and as she parted her lips to speak again he kissed her. His tongue found hers, and in that moment he entered her, feeling her whole body move beneath him as if struck by lightning.

               The way that Daenerys writhed beneath Robb was so urgent that he would have feared he was hurting her if she wasn’t kissing him hungrily, practically devouring his tongue. He poured everything he felt for her into his movements, delighting in the sensation of her body against his, her softness, her warmth. He had to remember to breathe through his nose, so fixated was his mind on making love to her.

               Robb tore his lips away from Daenerys’, and a shudder of ecstasy ran through him as she wrapped herself around him, clinging fervently to his body. But she needn’t have worried, because all he wanted to do was kiss her some more. He kissed her cheek, her neck, her chest, every part of her he could reach while she held him close, and each time he felt like his lips were meeting heaven. Sweat trickled down his spine, the muscles in his back flexing with every deep, powerful thrust of his hips. His arms, holding his weight up, were trembling with the effort, but the feeling of her legs wrapped around his waist was worth far more than a little exercise.

               “Yes…” Daenerys cried out as Robb kissed her breasts, her nails clawing blindly at his back and drawing a hiss of both pain and pleasure from him. “Yes!” In a thousand years he couldn’t have explained how good it felt to hear her squealing that word while he moved inside her. He wanted to please her so badly it hurt, and he was pleasing her, and it felt incredible. He wanted to make her feel what she was feeling right now a thousand times over, every day, every hour, he never wanted to stop.

               Alas, sweet fruits are the hardest to savour, and Robb knew he couldn’t last much longer. He tried, he really tried. With everything he had, every trick he knew, he tried to keep his climax at bay, but with Daenerys moaning and writhing and squeezing he couldn’t stop it. “Daenerys!” he moaned, looking down at her, desperately trying to apologise when the only word he could form was her name.

               Daenerys took Robb’s head in her trembling hands, with the most wonderful smile he had ever seen lighting up her face. She had never looked more beautiful. “Come for me,” she commanded him, and the dam broke. He held onto her, struggling to breathe as waves of pleasure washed over him, and she pulled his head down with a soft cry of her own, drawing his lips to hers, kissing him gently while her pussy squeezed every drop of seed from him.

               As both their bodies began to relax again and the eruption of pleasure eased, Daenerys’ lips drew away from Robbs. He opened his eyes and was shocked to see tears on her cheeks. For a terrible moment he thought he had done something wrong, but then she laughed and their mouths met again. He kissed her ardently, seeking comfort and reassurance, stroking her silky hair and sighing in relief.

               Daenerys broke the kiss for a second time and held Robb’s head inches from her own, smiling, her eyes aglow with happiness. Her hair was a mess and her cheeks were stained with tears, and he would have paid any price to have her look at him like that every day. But he didn’t know what he had done to deserve it. It wasn’t the first time they’d made love, and he had been more subservient on other occasions. This time he had been almost selfish by comparison. “What?” he asked her, trying to understand, but she just laughed and let go of him, relaxing against the pillows. That got him no closer to understanding, but as long as she was happy he supposed it didn’t really matter. He laid down beside her, still out of breath, playing with her hair.

               A long, comfortable silence gave both of them a chance to catch their breath, and at last Daenerys rolled over to face Robb. “If you could fuck any Targaryen in history, who would you choose?” she asked.

               That was not what Robb had expected, but he had learned how to answer such questions back in Winter Town. “You think I’ll fall for such an obvious trick question? I choose you, of course.”

               Daenerys pouted. “But if you couldn’t choose me. Answer, I command you.”

               That petulant little pout made Robb chuckle, twisting a lock of her hair between his fingers. If she wanted a real answer, then the question merited some thought. There were many beautiful Targaryens in history. The first Rhaenys and the second, Shiera Seastar, Viserra, Naerys, Daena the Defiant. Daena was said to be bold and daring, and to be better than many men with a bow and a lance. He would have liked her, he thought, but perhaps he was just thinking of Dacey. Larra Rogare occurred to him too, but he was certain that was just because she was from the Free Cities like Talisa, and besides she wasn’t a Targaryen except by marriage.

               Only one Targaryen made Robb think of Daenerys. The only woman who had ever sat the Iron Throne, a dragon rider, the Realm’s Delight. Her he would’ve liked to have known. “Rhaenyra,” he said.

               Daenerys tilted her head. “You wouldn’t have minded being her consort while she ruled as Queen?”

               “You asked me who I’d fuck, not who I’d marry.” Though it wasn’t difficult to understand why Daenerys would ask such a thing. Difficult to fully accept the implications, but not difficult to understand. “But no, I wouldn’t have minded. I have worn a crown, your grace, and I didn’t much care for it.” A heavy iron thing, with sharp points.

               “But you wouldn’t have felt… less of a man, somehow?”

               Robb laughed at that. He had never felt more of a man, more himself, than in Daenerys’ bed. “Any man who thinks sharing a beautiful queen’s bed makes him less of a man should put on a jingly hat, because he must be a great fool.”

               “Many men don’t like to take commands from a woman,” Daenerys pointed out.

               She wasn’t wrong, but Robb wasn’t many men. “In your experience, have I had any trouble taking commands from a woman, your grace?” he asked mischievously.

               Daenerys shoved his shoulder playfully. “No,” she conceded. “You don’t have to call me ‘your grace.’ Not when we’re alone like this,” she added, more softly.

               Robb grinned. “I know. But you like it, don’t you?” Daenerys’ cheeks turned pink, and it amused Robb that the woman who had demanded he kneel and kiss her ass was embarrassed to admit she enjoyed his deference.

               It had been the way of things for Robb to leave Daenerys’ bed as night drew in, but tonight as he rose to leave she pulled him back. “Stay,” she murmured, and he would never have dreamed of disobeying her. In the morning he woke before her, watching her as the morning light illuminated her beauty. A twinge of guilt stabbed at his stomach, the memory of watching Talisa sleep in much the same way turning over in his head. Then her eyes fluttered open, and he smiled at her, pushing those thoughts aside.

               To begin his morning with a kiss from the most beautiful woman in the world was a great privilege, and Robb would have done anything Daenerys wanted to thank her for it, but she, with obvious reluctance, rose from her bed and dressed herself while he watched. He helped her with her hair, though he was sure Missandei would’ve done a far better job, and she left him to rise at his leisure while she attended to her royal duties.

               But Robb scarcely had time to dress himself before Daenerys returned, throwing herself into his arms. She clung to him, her cheek pressed to his chest, and he held her, unsure if he wanted to hear whatever news had put her in such a state. “The Second Sons,” she finally said, still holding him tightly. “They betrayed me, turned their cloaks and joined the Masters. The Stormcrows are scattered. Daario… no-one knows what happened to Daario.”

               The Second Sons… that meant Ben Plumm must have been behind it. Robb had trusted him and doubted Daario Naharis, and been wrong. There was a lesson there, not to put too much value on a man’s name.

               “I have summoned my council,” Daenerys said, releasing Robb at last. “We should be ready for them.”

               Mossador was the first to arrive, and Robb acted as though he had only just beaten the freedman there. It wasn’t exactly a secret, what was happening between him and Daenerys, but nor was it known. He didn’t know what it was, in truth. The other councillors swiftly followed, with Galazza Galare the last, and once they were all seated around the table Grey Worm rose. ““Meereen is prepared for a siege, Daenerys Stormborn,” he said. “Unsullied can resist ten times our number from within the walls. Second Sons make no difference.”

               Grey Worm had barely sat down before Tyrion offered his opinion. “The slavers will have no need to storm the walls. Their men can surround us, their ships blockade the harbour, and they may simply wait for us to starve. I suggest the Unsullied meet them outside the walls.”

               Robb was inclined to agree, and he said as much. “We should sally out and take them while they’re still on the march, flush with their victory.” In his experience a triumphant enemy was a careless one.

               “A victory you gave them,” Daenerys replied, cutting Robb to the bone in an instant. He looked at her in shock, and she looked back at him with no hint of what he had seen in her bed. “You advised me to send my mercenaries out, and now my mercenaries are gone. I will not make the same mistake twice.” He wanted to defend himself, but she had a point, and he was still reeling from the sharpness of her tone. Before he could say anything she turned her attention to Tyrion. “When you defended King’s Landing against Stannis Baratheon, how did you do it?” she asked him.

               “Wildfire. I destroyed half his fleet with it,” said Tyrion.

               “We have no wildfire,” Galazza Galare observed.

               Tyrion looked meaningfully at Daenerys. “No. We have something even better.”

               Robb suppressed a shudder. The memory of that day when Daenerys took him down into the pit beneath the Great Pyramid was still vivid in his mind, and not just because of how it had ended. He had never been so afraid as when face-to-face with her dragons. And he had seen what Balerion had done to Harrenhal.

               “That’s not an option,” said Daenerys, and Robb felt a rush of relief.

               “House Targaryen didn’t conquer the Seven Kingdoms by being cautious with dragonfire, your grace,” Tyrion replied at once. That might have been true, but Robb wasn’t keen on anyone being incautious with dragonfire.

               Ser Barristan spoke up, and Robb was glad that someone was speaking against Tyrion’s advice. “House Targaryen ruled for as long without dragons as they did with them. There were no dragons when we defeated the Ninepenny Kings.”

               Tyrion didn’t seem to take being disagreed with very well. “If we had all Seven Kingdoms united behind us as you did, Ser Barristan, I would be less concerned. Alas, we do not.”

               “We have ten thousand Unsullied and another five thousand Brazen Beasts,” Skahaz mo Kandaq noted. Hardly the match of the assembled might of the Seven Kingdoms, Robb thought.

               “Mayhaps you should cut the cocks off your Brazen Beasts to make them better soldiers,” Tyrion retorted. Robb had always known him to be sharp-tongued, but not quite so acerbic as he was being.

               “This council will not fall to bickering,” Daenerys interjected, silencing them. “Grey Worm, you say Meereen is ready to defend itself, and I trust your judgement. Ser Barristan, you have fought many wars. You have overall command of the defences. Skahaz mo Kandaq, until the danger has passed it is vital that order be maintained in the streets. Do what you can to strengthen the defences, but do not neglect your other duties.” She turned to Robb and Tyrion, with such a stern look that he wondered for half a second if he had dreamed sharing her bed. “Lord Lannister, you will advise and assist Ser Barristan in commanding the city’s defence. Lord Stark, since you have little experience in siegecraft, you will stay close to me, as my protector. You have your tasks. See to them.” With that, Daenerys rose and turned on her heel, stalking out onto the balcony. Robb watched her, wishing he could do more than just watch. He knew it made sense for him to protect her, wanted to do it even, but it still felt like a rebuke.

               Daenerys insisted on watching the slaver army from the walls when it arrived, and Robb had to admit to some curiosity. He had seen her Unsullied and Brazen Beasts, but other than that the warriors of the east were unknown to him. Standing at her side on the walls, he watched as they streamed out of the hills. There wasn’t exactly much detail he could make out at this distance, though he was struck by how, absent such detail, there was little to distinguish the army from a Westerosi one. They carried fluttering banners and a cloud of dust rose in their wake. He was sure that up close their armour and devices would be strange, alien to his eyes, but from here they were nothing he hadn’t seen before. Nothing he hadn’t beaten before. He gripped the hilt of his sword, the one Daario Naharis had given him with its bronze pommel, and wondered if the Tyroshi still breathed. It surpised him how affected Daenerys was by the man’s loss, but he supposed there was much he didn’t know about what had happened in Slaver’s Bay before he arrived.

               “Your eyes are younger than mine, Lord Stark,” said Ser Barristan, without turning his gaze away from the advancing army as it spread out around Meereen. “How many, do you think?”

               Robb’s blue eyes flickered across the army under its shroud of dust. There were more of them than he had faced at the Whispering Wood or Oxcross. “Fifty thousand at the least.” A large army, to be sure, but not insurmountably so. Daenerys’ ancestors had defeated a similarly sized army at the Field of Fire. Of course, they had three tame dragons. As tame as dragons could ever be.

               “More than either I or your father marched with to the Trident,” Ser Barristan said. Evidently he was comparing armies in his mind too.

               “More than Stannis Baratheon brought to King’s Landing,” Tyrion added, looking at Daenerys from further away. “It took wildfire to defeat him.” How would the war have gone if Stannis had won that day, Robb wondered. Or if the Baratheon brothers had not fought amongst themselves. He believed Tyrion when he claimed not to know anything of the Freys’ plot, but still the man was responsible, in a way.

               “Meereen is not King’s Landing, our enemies are not Stannis Baratheon, and I am not you. They will break upon the walls,” Daenerys said firmly. Her confidence made the tension in Robb’s chest ease a little. He was glad she was the ruler here and not him.

               “Numbers alone don’t win battles. The army I destroyed at Oxcross was twice the size of my own. They may carry bright banners, but be green boys beneath their armour,” Robb pointed out, wanting to support Daenerys. Oxcross was where he met Talisa.

               “My father dismissed you as a green boy,” Tyrion said.

               “Your father had no Unsullied,” Robb replied, trying not to be too smug about his past victories. Though there was still something sweet in the knowledge that he had bested Tywin Lannister.

               “Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell with a mere handful of Ironborn raiders.”

               That wiped away Robb’s smugness in an instant, and he flexed his hand on the hilt of his sword, seeing Theon’s face in his mind, swearing eternal brotherhood. “Winterfell was not expecting to be attacked. We are.” He was mentally braced for some grating witticism in response, but Tyrion mercifully kept his mouth shut.

               They all fell back to silence as the slaver army encircled the city. You didn’t have to be a master of siegecraft to understand what they were doing. Surrounding Meereen, cutting them all off, so there could be no escape. A dangerous thing, to give your opponent no choice but to fight, Robb had learned. They were out on the water too, a fleet of ships standing off at a distance. It made Robb think of the alliance he had proposed with Balon Greyjoy. Together they might have encircled Lannisport in such a manner. Instead the Ironborn had attacked the North and killed his brothers. He hoped they and the Lannisters were tearing each other bloody right now.

               Men emerged from the army, about ten of them Robb reckoned, approaching the walls but staying out of range. One of their number was shoved to his knees in the dirt, and Robb glanced at Daenerys as she leaned over the parapet, almost looking like she intended to leap over it and rush to intervene. One of the other men, with a fancy striped cloak and a horsehair-crest helmet, stepped forwards from the others. He began to speak, and Robb strained to hear, only to realise that the man was speaking Valyrian. Daenerys understood it, and from her reaction it wasn’t very pleasant. Just posturing, he assumed. Then another man stepped forward, tall and broad, with a sword to match. He swung it like a butcher, burying the point in the dirt, and taking the kneeling man’s head off in the process.

               It took Daenerys’ reaction, turning away with tears in her eyes, for Robb to realise whose death he had just witnessed, and he felt a stab of guilt in his stomach. He had not known Daario Naharis well, and had not much liked him, and it was only now, too late, that he recognised the man had been nothing but decent to him, and was obviously dear to Daenerys. Tyrion had observed that Starks were poor judges of character, and Robb was inclined to agree with him. But worse than misjudging Daario, it was Robb’s advice to Daenerys, to use her mercenaries as scouts, that had sent the man to his death. Quietly, Robb swore to himself that the killing of Daario Naharis would be avenged.

Chapter Text

               Robb had never been in a city under siege, and he didn’t much care for it. It was difficult to breathe, as though the encircling army was also encircling his chest, and his eyes kept darting to the walls, expecting an attack at any moment. Of course, there was no way an attack could be launched so soon, the slavers would have to build siege works first, but that didn’t stop the feeling twisting inside him. Waiting was always the worst part of battle, even worse than the aftermath, and he was learning that a siege was nothing but waiting.

               As the sun sank across the bay, silhouetting the ships on the horizon, Daenerys retired to the Great Pyramid and Robb went with her. He would have given her comfort if she asked, but she didn’t. It was Missandei’s company she wanted this evening, which he didn’t begrudge her. He would have found relief in Dacey’s company if he could, or Jon’s. Someone who understood his gut, rather than his head or his heart. But Dacey was dead and Jon was at the Wall. Probably.

               Daenerys and Missandei were on one of the Great Pyramid’s terraces with a jug of wine, and Robb paced the corridor on the other side of the door, unable to stand still. Normally there would have been Unsullied guarding the door, but the Unsullied were all at the walls, so the task had been given to Brazen Beasts, men selected personally by the Shavepate. Their masks hid their faces, but Robb assumed they were watching him pace back and forth. Something to amuse them, at least.

               Mid-step, Robb stopped, his ears pricking up, his hand on the hilt of his sword. There was a strange sound, from below? No, from without. Like the distant sound of an army on the charge…

               “Robb!” he heard Daenerys call for him, and with his heart in his mouth he threw open the doors and stepped out onto the terrace with the two Brazen Beasts behind him. There was no danger out here, to his relief, but the sound was louder and clearer now, coming from the southern gate, near to where the walls met the sea, and he could see too much light coming from that direction.

               “Seven fucking hells!” Robb cursed. There was no way the slavers could have breached the gate so fast. Betrayal, again. But this time he had a sword at his side, and he would not permit Daenerys to suffer Talisa’s fate, not if every bastard slaver from Lorath to Qarth was pouring through that gate. “Go to your chambers and stay there,” he ordered her, gesturing for the Brazen Beasts to go with her. It was not very respectful, but this was not the time to stand on ceremony.

               As Daenerys went one way Robb went the other, descending the Great Pyramid and striding out into the warm night. The streets were in a state of pandemonium, full of panicked crowds and confused Brazen Beasts. Robb gathered up all of the latter he could find as he made his way southwards, pushing a path through the crowds fleeing in the opposite direction. The crowds grew denser and more panicked as he got closer to the gate, and he had to draw his sword to make them part for him. The sounds grew louder too, the familiar roar of battle, the clash of metal on metal, of men’s voices shouting, of screams and butchery.

               There was a square near the gate, and as Robb approached with his motley band of Brazen Beasts in tow he could see a line of Unsullied over the crowd, holding the near entrance to the square against the enemy. He would be little use to them coming up behind, and so he ducked into a side-street, gesturing with his sword for the Brazen Beasts to follow him. It was dark in that narrow street, without the light of flickering torches to illuminate it.

               Rounding a corner Robb nearly collided with a man coming the other way. For a moment they stared at one another. The man was shorter than Robb, tanned and dark-haired, wearing lamellar and carrying a curved sword. He was no Unsullied, nor a Brazen Beast, and there were a dozen men of similar appearance behind him. Yunkish, Robb thought. He spat something in a language Robb didn’t understand, and the frozen moment passed. Robb brought up his sword to meet the slaver’s, and the street erupted into chaos as the two bodies of men clashed.

               At first Robb was driven back, parrying blow after blow from the slaver in front of him, but then he knocked the man’s sword aside and he stumbled forward, carried on by his own momentum. Before he could recover Robb brought his sword down in a savage arc, and the man screamed as his arm was severed at the elbow. His scream was cut off when Robb’s backswing opened his throat, and he fell to the cobblestones with a gurgle.

               Killing ignited a fierce joy in Robb, the same one he had felt when he cut off Hizdahr zo Loraq’s head. He threw himself into the fight with a howl, hewing left and right with his sword, driving the Yunkish back down the street. Robb and his men burst out into the square, where bodies lay hewn and rent, and more slavers pressed against the wall of Unsullied holding them back.

               “Daenerys!” Robb screamed her name as a war cry, and his men bellowed it too as he led them to fall on the Yunkish flank. Released from the pressure, the Unsullied began to advance in lockstep, stepping over fallen corpses, driving the Yunkish back with their bloody spearpoints. They were like a machine, each body moving like a gear, impelled by a windmill or water wheel. Robb had seen them in training, but not in battle, and he was amazed by their iron discipline.

               Caught between Robb and the Unsullied, the Yunkish unravelled, many of them cut down as the fled the square. Blood dripped from the blade of Robb’s sword as he stopped to catch his breath and take stock. The square had been momentarily cleared, but slavers had already poured through its other exits, those that hadn’t been held by the Unsullied. More were already spreading out through the city via other streets; he could hear the shouts and the sounds of battle all around.

               The captain of the Unsullied approached Robb, his face as impassive as the masks of the Brazen Beasts. “We were betrayed from within,” he said matter-of-factly, in thickly-accented Common. “Sons of the Harpy opened the gate.”

               “You’re sure?” Robb asked. The man nodded, and Robb swore inwardly. The Sons of the Harpy were supposed to be crushed, had seemed crushed. No-one had seen or heard anything of them since the purge. That was the whole point of the purge. If it had failed, then he had stained his honour with a massacre for nothing. Another failure for the King Who Lost the North. “Stay here,” he ordered the Unsullied. “Hold the square.” How long they might hold it for he did not know. They would not be the first men he had condemned to die fighting. With his Brazen Beasts he set off eastwards, hurrying through the streets towards the sound of fresh combat. If the slavers took the south-east gate the flow of invaders into Meereen would become a flood, and he was determined to prevent that.

               In this part of the city, in the shadow of the walls, the streets were mostly narrow, with buildings of three levels or more leaning over from both sides, in some places outright meeting in the middle. Even inexperienced in sieges as he was, Robb could see that it would have been very easy to defend, if they had been prepared. But all their attention had been focused outside the walls, not within. He clung to the knowledge that the slavers had launched their attack straight off the march. Their army had to be tired, and would tire further as the night bled on.

               Arriving at a junction, Robb and his men paused. There was fighting both to the left and right, but ahead the street was clear. He could have split his men, but there were few enough of them already, and doing so would risk diluting their strength down to nothing. Holding the south-east gate was what mattered, and so with lingering glances to his left and right he forged onwards, offering a silent prayer for forgiveness to the old gods and the new.

               After a hurried advance down the street, Robb turned a bend and beheld a sight that was both fearful and a relief. Standing atop a makeshift barricade constructed from overturned carts and bales of hay, Barristan the Bold held the street in the shadow of the wall. His sword flickered like forged lightning, cutting down every man who dared try to pass him with contemptuous ease. Even Uncle Brynden had never put on such a display of martial brilliance, and Robb was reduced to watching in awe.

               But Ser Barristan was just one man, and the press of Yunkish soldiers filled the street. It seemed the bulk of them had hugged the wall, racing directly east from the southern gate in hopes of taking the south-eastern, just as Robb had feared. He could see more of them up on the wall, where a grim line of Unsullied held them at bay. Down below, though no man who got within Ser Barristan’s reach lived, some were managing to edge around him to engage the smattering of Brazen Beasts behind the barricade. “Daenerys!” Robb bellowed, leading his own men into the fray.

               Falling upon the Yunkish flank drove them back, and Robb’s sword cut deep, flashing crimson in the torchlight, but unlike at the square they didn’t come apart, merely drew back down the road to regroup. In the moment of respite they had bought, Robb climbed up onto the barricade beside Barristan, while his Brazen Beasts joined their fellows behind it.

               “You’re a welcome sight, young Stark,” Ser Barristan said, eyeing the massed slavers warily as their officers reformed them. “I was north of here when the southern gate fell. By the time I reached this gate, it was all I could do to hold it.” He was barely even out of breath.

               “The southern gate didn’t fall,” Robb replied grimly. “It was opened from within. So the Unsullied holding the streets nearby told me.”

               The old knight nodded. “I suspected as much. No army could have forced it so quickly.” Robb silently noted he had the grace not to point out he had spoken against the purge of the Masters.

               “Holding this gate will stem the tide, but we won’t stop it until we retake the southern gate,” said Robb.

               “One thing at a time,” Barristan said, and then there was no more time for talking. The slavers surged again, and the two Westerosi stood side-by-side on the barricade against them. Most looked like the ones Robb had already fought, wearing lamellar and carrying curved blades, but some had a different look, with scaled armour and tattooed cheeks, brandishing straight stabbing swords.

               Regrettably Robb was not in a position to indulge his curiosity about which slavers came from where. He kicked a man in the face as he tried to scale the barricade, and then opened another’s throat with a swing of his sword, sending him tumbling back into the press of bodies. A sword hacked at his legs and he parried it, but he had no time to respond before another blow came at him, forcing him to sway aside. Barristan had made it look easy, but it was one of the hardest things Robb had ever done. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears and his throat was as dry as the dusty plain outside the walls as he fought desperately, fending off the unending tide until his arms ached and his sword felt like a bar of lead in his hands. He gashed a man’s face and teeth clattered against the barricade, the sound drowned out by the noise of the crowd and the clash of steel.

               Beneath such a racket it was small wonder that Robb didn’t hear the distant roars or far-off screams away to the south. What he did hear was the ululating howls from down the road as Daenerys’ Dothraki burst from the side streets into the flank of the slavers. Unlike Robb’s arrival, this fresh attack caused the slavers to waver, the whole mass of man seeming to shudder and convulse, and then they shattered, streaming back towards the southern gate, trampling over one another in their panic as the Dothraki pursued them, singing their war songs and showing no mercy.

               At the time Robb didn’t know the reason why the slavers had broken, but whatever it was he was beyond grateful. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a thousand years, but the battle was not over. This, the moment of seeming triumph, was one of the most dangerous in any battle, and he knew he had to see things through to the bitter end. “I’ll hold this gate, Lord Stark,” Ser Barristan said raspily. The old knight’s face was red, and what hair he had was plastered to his scalp by sweat. “Take half the Brazen Beasts and go to the southern gate. See that it’s shut.”

               Robb didn’t have the breath in his lungs to reply, so he just nodded. Mercifully, one of the Brazen Beasts’ officers was close enough to hear, and he relayed Ser Barristan’s order, gathering up his men to follow Robb.

               Around the barricade the bodies were piled high, so thickly that Robb had no choice but to step on them. A few bodies groaned when stepped on, and the Brazen Beasts showed no compunction about finishing them off. Buildings had been set ablaze, whether by accident or deliberately Robb didn’t know, nor did he know who had done it. Meereen was mostly a city of bricks and so the fire spread slowly, but the heat made the air uncomfortable for already agitated lungs, though the light at least illuminated the night more clearly than torches, albeit limited by the sooty smoke.

               There was a fountain behind the southern gate, and as Robb and his men approached it he could see that it had been smashed. Water burbled out from broken pipes onto the flagstones of the small plaza, mixing with the blood that stained them. A thin line of Unsullied were crossing the plaza, splitting up to go around the fountain. Robb thought they were the same ones from the square to the north, but marching in lockstep it was hard to tell one Unsullied from the next. Ahead of them the Dothraki were driving the slavers back through the gate, and those few they missed died upon the spearpoints of the Unsullied.

               Robb was about to order his Brazen Beasts to reclaim the gatehouse and close the gates when a force of Unsullied appeared out of the smoke and the gloom within the archway. No, not Unsullied. They were armed and armoured almost identically, but they were taller and broader, with neat beards beneath their helmets, and horsehair crests marked out their officers. The Dothraki fell back from them in confusion, and the slowest of them were speared as they turned to run. Robb remembered the Shavepate telling him something of the iron legions of New Ghis, free men who fought in the manner of the Unsullied. These new foes could only be them, and flexing his hand on the hilt of his sword he hastily drew up what forces he had to meet them, holding the Brazen Beasts and Dothraki back while the Unsullied reformed their thin line in front of the fountain.

               The Ghiscari met the Unsullied with remarkable unhurriedness. There was no charge, no bellowed war cry. They simply marched forwards until the lines met, and when they did the struggle was as much about weight of bodies as points of spears. The line of Unsullied bent back around the fountain, pushed by the superior numbers of the Ghiscari, who were coming on in a dense column through the gate.

               Fortunately this was just what Robb had been hoping for. Once the Ghiscari were engaged with the Unsullied he led his motley band of Dothraki and Brazen Beasts forward with a hoarse yell, surging into the right flank of the Ghiscari.

               But the Ghiscari turned.

               The Dothraki and the Brazen Beasts couldn’t have done it. No army of Andals or Rhoynar or First Men could have done it. It required instant, blind obedience to a counterintuitive order. Turn away from the enemy in front of you. But the Ghiscari did it, their whole right flank turning as one and presenting shields and spears. Robb’s sword bounced off a shield and he barely recovered in time to avoid a jabbing spear. Others were not so lucky, carried by the momentum of their charge directly onto sharp spearpoints. In a frustrated fury Robb hacked at the impenetrable shield wall, seized by a desperate need not to fail again.

               They had been so close. A few more minutes and they could have closed the gate and saved the city. Now the Ghiscari were a block of iron wedged resolutely in the way, and though he tried with all his might Robb could not so much as budge them. “Back!” a ragged voice called out, and it took him an instant to realise it was his own. “Fall back!”

               The Brazen Beasts and Dothraki melted away from the Ghiscari as quickly as they had come on, leaving many of their number dead or dying on the flagstones. The Unsullied shielded their retreat as they fled northwards, splashing through the fountain’s water towards the nearby square. Briefly Robb paused, thinking to order the Unsullied back with them, but he could see by the grim looks on their faces that they had already determined to die on this spot. Offering a silent prayer to the Warrior on their behalf, he turned and fled, leaving them to their fate.

               The small square to the north was strangely quiet. The sounds of battle and the crackle of flames could be heard all around, but the square was an islet of calm, albeit an islet littered with corpses. The Brazen Beasts and Dothraki stood around, catching their breath and nursing wounds. Robb could tell just from the way they stood that they had little more fight left in them. He knew how they felt. Every muscle in his body was demanding rest, and even in his heart, a part of him wanted to give up. He had been fighting for so long, and no matter how hard he fought, at every turn fate denied him victory. A man can only endure so many defeats.

               Robb closed his eyes and thought of Jon, declaring himself to be Aemon the Dragonknight as they fought in the yard. He thought of Sansa chasing Arya around with mud in her hair. He thought of Daenerys with the sun on her skin and his name on her lips.

               A distant but deafening shriek made Robb’s eyes snap open. It was followed by another, and then an answering roar from the opposite direction, from south, beyond the walls. There was a sound of displaced air, a beat of leathery wings, and then he saw it, blazing gold in the firelight, a monster from another age, soaring through the smoky sky. A dragon.

               The dragon swooped low with another ear-splitting screech, and the men around Robb threw down their weapons to cover their ears. Robb thought it was coming straight for him with its jaws open, intent on devouring him, but just above the rooftops it pulled up and belched fire.

               It was the plaza before the gate that the dragon had struck, and even at a distance Robb felt the rush of heat. Through the roar of the fire he could hear the screams too, worse than any he had heard at Oxcross or the Whispering Wood. Choking, bubbling, agonised screams. Men came stumbling blindly down the street towards them, blazing like torches, their skin sloughing off as they clutched at their burning bodies and then collapsed, still alight. Beneath the flames, it was impossible to tell friend from foe, not that it mattered. The fire claimed them all.

               The dragon circled and swooped again, this time scouring the wall with fire. Robb watched men leap from the battlements to escape the flames, many of them burning as they fell. Through the smoke and the darkness, he made out another dragon, and then a third, turning this way and that over the city. If they could even tell who was a slaver and who was not, they didn’t seem to be trying very hard to be discriminate, and the flames were spreading rapidly now, spread by dragonfire.

               “Back,” Robb croaked through his dry throat, tasting smoke on his tongue. “To the Great Pyramid, go!” His men needed no encouragement; some of them had already turned tail and run. Robb loped through the streets, clutching the sweat-soaked hilt of his sword. He wanted dearly to rid himself of its weight, but he doubted that the time for swords was over.

               How had the dragons got loose? Had some slavers penetrated deep into the city to set them free? The Sons of the Harpy, perhaps? Robb didn’t think they would free the dragons by design, but it could have come about by accident during an attempt to kill them.

               Of course he already knew, he just didn’t want to admit it to himself. Daenerys. Whether out of rage or desperation he didn’t know, but she was their mother. No-one else could have done it. No-one else would have been foolish enough to even try. And the third dragon, Drogon, he must have followed the slaver army. Or he had felt his mother’s need somehow, and come to her defence. Whatever the truth of it was, they were unleashed now, and there was nothing he could do.

               At the entrance to the Great Pyramid Robb paused, taking a moment to catch his breath, and then ducked as a rush of hot air signalled a dragon passing by overhead. But the dragon showed no interest in him or his men, instead it descended towards the harbour, where it brought death, leaving an orange trail in its wake. But Robb’s eyes were drawn beyond the harbour, out onto the water. There a great fleet was drawing closer to Meereen, only it wasn’t one fleet but two. It was hard to see through the smoke and the darkness, but there were clouds of arrows flying, grapnels flung, men with axes in their hands leaping from ship to ship. And fluttering at the mastheads of the ships that seemed to be winning was a sigil of black and gold.

               Robb spat a foul curse on every worm that had ever borne the name Greyjoy, but there was no time to dwell on why they were there. Lighting a torch he hurried through the pyramid’s great doors, passing into the shadows.

               It was no small feat to climb the Great Pyramid from base to peak at the best of times, even less when Robb could barely force his legs to move, but the thought of Daenerys kept him going as he ascended stair after stair. Several times he stumbled and fell, cursing and clattering, leaving sweaty handprints on the steps and earning himself bruises, but each time he picked himself up and made himself keep going, up and up and up for what felt like a hundred years.

               It caught Robb by surprise when he finally stumbled out into Daenerys’ outer chamber, and he nearly pitched forwards before he caught himself and stood up straight, wiping an ocean of sweat from his brow. Tyrion was sitting at the council table with his head in his hands, beside an older man who Robb didn’t recognise, though he looked Westerosi. Tyrion didn’t react to Robb’s arrival in the slightest, though the older man gave him a curious look. Missandei was a few seats over, and she met Robb’s gaze with a grim, sorrowful expression. For an awful instant he feared the worst, but then she looked over to the balcony and he followed her gaze, feeling relief blossoming deep within his chest at the sight of Daenerys standing out there.

               It was only then that Robb noticed the body of Galazza Galare, lying on the floor beside the table. There was no blood to be seen, but as he stepped over her to get to Daenerys he saw purple welts on her neck.

               The sound of Robb’s footsteps made Daenerys turn, and though her purple eyes were red with tears her face lit up at the sight of him. She threw herself into his arms before he could think, clinging to him tightly as his exhausted body wavered. “Oh, Robb,” she said, burying her face in his neck. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had to.”

Chapter Text

               The shadows lengthened, and Daenerys was assured that there would be no attack that day. Hard enough to launch an attack off the march, her wise advisors told her, harder still with only a few hours of daylight remaining. Tomorrow. Robb’s wise advice had killed Daario, and in a deep, bitter part of herself she couldn’t help wondering if it had been deliberate. Had he known? Had jealousy motivated him? He didn’t seem capable of such machinations, but she hadn’t thought Jorah capable of betraying her either. He had come to Meereen and found his way into her confidence and her bed remarkably quickly. He had been eager to serve her too, for a man who had worn a crown. The thought that he might not be the man she believed him to be further gnawed at her gut as she paced a terrace with a wineglass in her hand.

               “You should rest, your grace,” said Missandei, seated on a chair, as prim as ever. Daenerys knew she must be terrified of what the army outside the walls would do to her if they ever got inside the walls, and there were not words to describe her gratitude that Missandei stayed strong for her sake.

               “You should rest. Don’t worry about me.” Daenerys smiled, and Missandei smiled back, and both of them were obviously forcing it.

               “Neither of us can help what troubles our thoughts.”

               Daenerys swigged her wine. “That’s just the problem. I keep seeing it, over and over.” She couldn’t bear to say it out loud, but Missandei knew what she meant.

               “You should sleep.”

               “I can’t.” Daenerys smiled helplessly. “There’s too much.” She touched her wine goblet to her forehead, taking some relief from its coolness. “I can barely breathe.”

               “I felt that way after the slavers took me from Naath. My brothers couldn’t stop me from crying, until they were taken away to be made Unsullied. Afterwards I had to teach myself how not to cry.” Missandei was speaking as though she was reciting a history, but Daenerys’ heart still broke for her.

               “I hate that they might win.”

               Missandei met Daenerys’ gaze, and there was such strength in her eyes that Daenerys briefly wondered which of them was the real dragon. “They will not. You are the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. They will not win.”

               “But if they do-” Daenerys started to say, and then a roar split the night.

               For an instant Daenerys thought that somehow Rhaegal and Viserion had got loose from beneath the pyramid, but this was no animal roar. It was the roar of men, many men, with blood in their nostrils, and it was coming from the southern gate. Leaning against the terrace’s stone railing, both she and Missandei peered in that direction, but they could see nothing more than the gatehouse’s silhouette. No, that wasn’t true, there was movement. Flickering torchlight, far more than seemed normal. Daenerys’ eyes widened as terrible realisation dawned. The gate was open.

               “Robb!” Daenerys called out, and he came at once from within the pyramid, with two Brazen Beasts in tow, hands on their swords. He looked at her, and then past her, out towards the southern gate, and his eyes widened too.

               “Seven fucking hells!” Robb cursed viciously. “Go to your chambers and stay there,” he told Daenerys. It would have been impertinent at any other time, but this was not any other time and his tone brooked no disobedience. She was halfway up the steps before disobedience even occurred to her.

               When she reached her chambers Daenerys raced over to the balcony with Missandei at her heels, nearly pitching herself over the stone railing in her haste to see what was happening. At such a distance, and in the darkness of night, it was impossible to make out any details, but the glow of torchlight in the streets near the southern gate told a story of men streaming into Meereen, while the faint cries of alarm and screams of terror gave the story a bitter texture. She watched, gripping the railing, as the torchlight spread through the city, met here and there by thin bands of torchlight coming from within the walls, men hastening to the defence in hurriedly assembled groups that were all too small.

               “Your grace.” Daenerys spun on her heel to see Tyrion standing there, red-faced and puffing.

               “You told me that they couldn’t make an assault for days at the least!” Daenerys said with accusation in her voice, fixing Tyrion with a fearsome glare. “You, who claimed to be an expert on sieges, told me that we still had time! What other lies have you told me?!”

               Tyrion blanched but held his ground. “I am no liar. Someone must have opened the gates to them, it’s the only possible explanation.”

               “So there is a traitor in our midst? And why should I not suspect the son of Tywin Lannister?”

               “Do you think the Wise Masters care who my father is?” Tyrion replied, his jaw tightening. “I would gain nothing from betraying you. Who would?”

               As much as Daenerys wanted to keep venting her anger onto Tyrion, she had to admit that he had a point. He would have to be possessed of a suicidal hatred of her to orchestrate this, and considering they had only met barely the span of weeks ago this seemed unlikely. But she had slain the snakes in her court. Hizdahr and Reznak were dead, the Sons of the Harpy slaughtered in their pyramids. Once for blood and once for gold and once for love.

               Who? The question darted around Daenerys’ mind, refusing all her efforts to grasp it. Was Robb trying to steal her crown? Had Skahaz mo Kandaq made a deal to steal Meereen out from under her? Was Tyrion somehow working for his family’s interests? Who?

               “Tell me what’s happening,” Daenerys demanded, as taut as a drawn bowstring. “How is my city being defended?”

               “I don’t know,” Tyrion admitted. “I was in the Great Pyramid, working out watch schedules. Ser Barristan is somewhere in the city, he went to discuss the enemy’s disposition with the Unsullied. Where’s the Young Wolf?”

               Something about that name in that moment raised Daenerys’ hackles, and she had to restrain herself from lashing out. “He went to fight.”

               “Where?” Tyrion asked, and his demanding tone made Daenerys’ anger spill its banks.

               “I don’t know! I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t know where anyone is! I don’t know!” Not since the Red Waste had she felt so powerless, and she hated it. It was as if she’d made no progress at all since she stood outside the walls of Qarth, as if she wasn’t Queen of Meereen at all.

               Tyrion didn’t say anything at first, just closed his fists and opened them again. Staring into the hole where his nose once sat, Daenerys felt a sudden rush of revulsion that turned her stomach over. When he finally spoke the sound of his voice made her want to strangle him. “If there was ever a time for rash action, this is it. You have one weapon still available to you.”

               Daenerys turned her back to Tyrion with a scoff, but the idea lingered. What she had imagined on the walls before they murdered Daario came back to her, the image of Rhaegal and Viserion falling on the slavers and turning their grand army to ash blowing in the wind. From the balcony she could see the shifting columns of torchlight spreading throughout Meereen like the tentacles of some giant squid come to throttle her, and the clouds of smoke rising like black ink as the invaders turned their torches on the buildings. The greatest column followed the line of the walls, reaching out from the southern gate to the south-eastern gate, but others flowed in all directions, some faster than others. The ones coming towards the pyramids were the most frightening of all, and the more she tried not to think about what they would do if they broke into the Great Pyramid, the more her imagination ran wild, dragging her along unwillingly. “You’ve never seen them loosed. You don’t know what they’re like,” she said bitterly, and thought of blackened little bones.

               “You want to conquer Westeros, don’t you? Loosed dragons conquered Westeros, not chained ones.” Daenerys still had her back to Tyrion, but she didn’t need to see his face to know how frustrated he looked.

               “We’re not in Westeros.”

               “No. We’re in Slaver’s Bay. Where men call you the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

               Daenerys closed her eyes and gripped the stone railing of the balcony, though orange fire still danced under her eyelids. Before she could say anything, rasping, wizened laughter made her open her eyes and turn around. Standing there by the council table, with one hand on the back of a chair, Galazza Galare was watching them with her veil down and her teeth bared in a disturbing grin.

               Missandei and Tyrion were watching Galazza too, but it was Daenerys her eyes were fixed on. Daenerys had always thought they were sad eyes, but now they seemed an unpleasant, bilious green. “Is it not a great and terrible sight, to see an army invading your city, come to tear down all that you hold dear? I am glad you had a good view.”

               At Daenerys’ side Missandei tensed perceptibly, and Tyrion reached to his belt for a knife that wasn’t there. “Green Grace, what are you saying?” he asked.

               Galazza grinned so widely that for a moment it seemed her jaw would unhinge like a snake’s. “It’s me,” she hissed triumphantly. “It has been me since the moment you set foot in my city, with your grotesque pretensions of nobility. I have been moving against you at every turn, preparing for the day when your false rule comes to an end. And at last the day has come. I am the Harpy, you dragonspawn slut. And these…” she raised a hand, gesturing towards the doorway behind her, “…are my Sons.”

               As if on cue, shouts erupted from the stairwell, followed swiftly by the clash of steel. Daenerys stood frozen on the spot, so rigid she could barely breathe. They were coming for her, and she was helpless. Robb, where are you? You have to save me! But Robb was far away, or maybe he was dead already, a far better fate than what she could expect. “I will make a true grace of you, all in red,” Galazza gloated. “Every man in the army will have his turn, and then all the horses, and then all the dogs that follow and feast on the scraps.”

               The din of metal on metal ended with a final bubbling groan, the sound of a man drowning in his own blood. Galazza drew herself up to her full height and Daenerys took a trembling step back, feeling the blood drain from her face.

               A man stepped through the doorway with red dripping from his straight sword onto the stone floor. There was more red splattered across his chest, across the loose linen shirt he wore and across his skin where it was partially unlaced. His face was haggard, his cheeks sunken, his beard ragged and unkempt. But all the same, Daenerys recognised Ser Jorah Mormont at once. He stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, and the moment she saw the look in his eyes she forgave him of everything. “Jorah!” she cried out, nearly overwhelmed by relief.

               Galazza turned, recoiling in shock at the sight of him. Jorah looked from Daenerys, to her, and then back again, a silent offer which Daenerys understood at once. But there was a fury in her now, a blazing desire to hurt the one who had made her so afraid. She shook her head and approached Galazza, with a vicious smile slowly spreading across her face. “This means nothing,” Galazza spat. “Your rule is still at an end, and your fate is already set.”

               “Mayhaps. But you will not live to see it.” Daenerys reached up, grasping Galazza’s decrepit neck with both hands, and squeezed. She was not a woman blessed with great strength, but Galazza was old and frail, for all her spite. Daenerys took great pleasure in the way the crone’s hands clutched at hers, the way her eyes bulged and her face turned red as Daenerys squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, pouring all of her rage into the act. She bore Galazza’s spasming body down to the ground just as a sudden burst of strength seized her, but Daenerys put her weight on top of the Green Grace and her strength fled as quickly as it had come. Galazza’s tongue lolled from her shrivelled lips and the corners of her mouth foamed as her eyes turned red and bloodshot while her skin went from red through purple to blue, but Daenerys did not loosen her grip, not until she felt the bitch go limp beneath her with a final, pathetic rattle.

               Trembling, Daenerys rose to her feet, looking down at the corpse on the floor, a small, shrunken thing. It was the first life she had ever taken with her own hands, and it felt good. She wanted to shout, to sing, to kiss someone. If only Robb was there.

               The Harpy was dead at last. It was a time for dragons now. With every inch of her body alight with life, Daenerys turned to Tyrion, who was watching her warily. “You were right,” she said, with terrifying serenity. “It’s time my enemies learned why their ancestors bent the knee to mine.”

               Daenerys’ steps were purposeful as she led her little party down through the pyramid once more. On the steps outside her chambers lay the corpses of the two Brazen Beasts who had been guarding her, and half a dozen Sons of the Harpy. The steps were red and slick with blood, and she had to step carefully as she made her way past them. More infiltrators could well be lurking elsewhere in the pyramid, and indeed down the long, echoing hallways she heard the sounds of fighting. But with Jorah at her side she felt a measure of safety, and her heart burned with an eager flame that carried her through her fear. Tyrion and Missandei hurried along behind them, staying close as the shadowy walls loomed in overhead.

               Passing out through the great doors at the base of the pyramid, Daenerys half-expected to walk into a battle, but the fighting hadn’t penetrated so deep into Meereen yet, not counting the Sons of the Harpy. Still it was close, she knew, and drawing closer with every second that passed. Let them come. The jaws are about to close.

               It was a short distance to the pit’s entrance, and taking a torch from a sconce Daenerys descended into the blackness. Tyrion followed unflinchingly, Jorah and Missandei with but a little hesitation. Their loyalty to her was beyond doubt. She would not have thought that of Jorah before today, but it had been a day of many changed thoughts. If it were not for him, she and Missandei would be…

               Daenerys turned that thought around and fed it to the furnace blazing in her heart, the one she was about to unleash on those who wished to defile her. “Rhaegal. Viserion.” She called their names into the darkness, and out of it they emerged, shadows falling from their scales and torchlight flickering in their eyes. Her sons. Her dragons. Her weapons. They had been chained in the depths for too long, far too long. She should not have chained them, any more than chained herself. If they were angry with her they were right to be. She would be angry too, if someone she loved had chained her.

               Holding her head high, Daenerys met the slitted gazes of her dragons without betraying so much as a glimmer of the way her heart was pounding. For a long instant that seemed to stretch out towards eternity, they stared back, unblinking. And then, at last, they bowed their heads. First was Viserion, then Rhaegal a few moments later, lowering their gaze and their snouts to the floor. Slowly Daenerys released a breath, with her chest so taut it hurt, and took a step forwards, setting her torch down on the floor. Rhaegal’s nostrils twitched, but both dragons kept their heads bowed, and Daenerys approached them, her confidence growing with every step she took until she stood between them. Reaching out, she touched their brows, running her hands gently across their warm scales, and regretted everything she had done to them. It was no fate for a dragon, to be chained beneath the earth.

               Daenerys’ hands travelled up, over her dragons’ heads, to the heavy iron collars that weighed on their necks. Hot air escaped from Viserion’s snout, and Tyrion jumped, but Daenerys didn’t so much as blink. With a grinding of metal on metal she drew out the enormous bolts that held the collars in place. First Rhaegal’s, then Viserion’s, the collars hit the floor with two resounding clangs that shuddered through every bone in Daenerys’ body and echoed in the depths of the pit.

               The dragons stretched, shaking out their long-chained necks. The scales that had been beneath their collars were worn and scratched, and Daenerys stroked them apologetically, remembering at last how it felt to be their mother. “Issa qrinuntys emagon māzigon syt issa. Zirȳdaor ry zālaza,” she purred, and Viserion responded with a shriek. My enemies have come for me. Burn them all.

               Clawed footfalls shook the pit as Rhaegal and Viserion loped towards the open doorway. Missandei, Jorah and Tyrion hurriedly got out of the way as the dragons picked up speed, hissing and growling in excitement. Their talons rent deep scratches in the stone as they scrabbled eagerly out through the doorway, jostling one another in their haste to be free of the pit at last.

               In the warm night air Rhaegal and Viserion could finally spread their wings and raised their mouths to the sky. Together they screeched their freedom, and from the south an answering screech could be heard that made Daenerys’ heart leap. Emerging from the pit, she was nearly buffeted back into it as heavy wingbeats drove air downwards, propelling her dragons up into the sky, shrieking and roaring. They circled one another and then plunged southwards, towards the orange glow lighting up the night.

               “Your grace!” Daenerys heard Tyrion call, but she was already running, watching the shapes of her dragons as they cut through the darkness. She wanted to see it all, to see them destroy her enemies and make them scream, and there was only one place in Meereen where she could get a view like that. Back into the Great Pyramid and up the stairs she raced, heedless of the voices behind her calling for her to wait. With sweat on her brow and her chest heaving she leapt over Galazza Galare’s corpse and burst onto the balcony, to a vision out of her dreams.

               Above Meereen three dragons wheeled and swooped, black, green and gold, their colours illuminated by the inferno raging beneath them. No longer was this the orange glow of thousands of torches, but the bright light of a city on fire. Burning men fell like glittering teardrops from the walls, and sturdy stone buildings collapsed in on themselves while Daenerys’ enemies ran in terror, helpless to defend themselves. She had never seen anything so magnificent. If she had been a painter she would have been falling over herself to set up her easel and capture it forever. But in truth there was no capturing it. Its beauty was in its motion, the way the flames shifted and sparks rose into the air as they devoured building after building, the grace of her dragons soaring in the sky where they belonged, the sight of men fleeing everywhere. She hoped the men who killed Daario were among them.

               And Drogon had returned to her. In her hour of need, he had come back to her. Now that she had remembered who she was, he was there to save her. Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, stood atop the Great Pyramid and smiled as Meereen burned.

               Missandei appeared at the balcony beside Daenerys, who turned to her, hoping to share her joy, but Missandei was not smiling. The look of horror on her face pulled back a veil from Daenerys’ eyes, and now, when she turned and looked out over her city again, all she could see was the nightmare. The blazing inferno that was swallowing men by the thousands, not just men but women and children, cowering in their homes as the flames engulfed them. Robb was out there somewhere, and Ser Barristan, and Grey Worm, and everyone who was loyal to her, all the Unsullied who had followed her from Astapor, all the freedmen from across Slaver’s Bay. They were dying, because of her. All at once, tears were flowing down Daenerys’ cheeks as the horror and the guilt settled deep in the pit of her stomach. She was helpless once more, unable to do anything but watch as the dragons destroyed Meereen, as the flames consumed everything. Briefly she had deluded herself into thinking that she controlled the dragons, but now she understood that they were like fire itself. Once unleashed, they could not be held back.

               Missandei turned away, evidently unable to bear the awful sight any longer, but Daenerys couldn’t do the same. She would have liked to think it was a matter of principle, that she refused to look away from what she had done, but the truth was that the inferno compelled her, in all its beauty and all its horror. She didn’t know how long she stood there, watching Meereen die, but at last the sound of heavy footsteps and ragged breathing made her turn.

               Missandei, Jorah and Tyrion were seated at the council table, looking exhausted, but when Daenerys saw who it was coming towards her she forgot all about everyone else. She ran to Robb, throwing herself into his arms, feeling like a vice had been released from around her heart. “Oh, Robb,” she sobbed, nuzzling desperately into his neck, never wanting to let go. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had to.”

Chapter Text

               When the sun rose, Meereen was no more. There was still a thing where it had once stood, but it was no longer a city, merely a corpse, a blackened husk, a living thing reduced to charred bones by the power of dragonfire. Smoke rose in towering columns, and ash fell from the sky like the first snowfall Slaver’s Bay had ever known. Outside the walls, smouldering bodies blanketed the ground with dogs and carrion birds picking at the remains, giving a wide berth to the three dragons who sat among the wreckage with their nostrils smoking.

               The power of the slavers was shattered, their armies burned to ash. And all it had cost was everything. Everything Daenerys had been trying so hard to build, everything she had sacrificed for in Meereen, it was all gone. Now at last she understood why the Freehold had ruled, and it was a bitter lesson to learn.

               Daenerys had been wrong to think even a part of her destiny lay here, in raising up something new. She was not made to build or to grow. She was made to rule, and to destroy everything that opposed her, she understood that now. Since the storm that birthed her, she had walked with destruction, though it had taken her a long time to realise it. It was time to live up to her name.

               The round, soft little man with his hands tucked into his sleeves was truly a master of the art of simpering. Daenerys had received him in the grand hall, seated on her wooden bench. What a pointless gesture that had been. The only reason she didn’t replace it now was that she was about to leave it all behind. Her dress of pure white silk was almost featureless, as was the white cloak across her shoulders, but the silver dragon coiled around her neck was finely wrought in intricate detail. It got the message across well enough for now, as did the bodies in the corridors, those Sons of the Harpy who had died in the pyramid. She had ordered that they be left where they were, so that the man could see.

               “Your grace,” he began, and his voice was so soft that it made Daenerys’ skin crawl. “I bring you greetings from the rightful Lord of the Iron Islands and Lord Reaper of Pyke, Asha Greyjoy.”

               Daenerys felt Robb tense at her side. Neither Ser Barristan nor Ser Jorah seemed happy to hear the name either, but Robb she knew was holding himself back. She understood his anger, better than most she understood, but the fleet in the harbour didn’t belong to her, not yet. She could destroy it, set her dragons on it, but a destroyed fleet was no benefit to her, especially when she wanted to sail away. Between the captured slaver ships and the ships that had done the capturing there were enough to transport everyone who remained. And so she had to deny Robb what she wanted to give him. “We are a long way from the Iron Islands, and you do not look much like a raider,” she said.

               “His name is Varys. He was Master of Whisperers for your father and for Robert Baratheon. Men call him the Spider.” Ser Barristan’s tone was level, but he didn’t hide the contempt in his voice.

               Varys inclined his head towards the old knight, not seeming the least bit offended. “Just so. I am also a friend of Illyrio Mopatis, among other things.”

               Daenerys’ jaw tightened. “The man who sold me.”

               “The man who protected you.”

               “As I recall, when another man tried to murder me in Vaes Dothrak he claimed you had ordered it.”

               Varys bowed lower. “At the time it seemed for the benefit of the realm.”

               “You don’t deny it?” Daenerys asked, raising an eyebrow.

               “I sought to prevent a war, I would not deny that.”

               There was something admirable in his honesty, Daenerys had to admit. In a way it reminded her of how Robb had defended himself when first brought before her. “And now you come to me with a fleet. Are you here to try again?”

               Varys raised his head, looking up at Daenerys. Even at such a distance she didn’t like how familiar his gaze seemed, though at least he had only two eyes and not eight. “I and my ironborn friends have come here to take you home, your grace.”

               Daenerys had learned long ago that no-one gave anything freely. She had to remind herself of that when the possibility of the homecoming she had long yearned for was dangled in front of her. “And what do you and your ironborn friends expect in return?”

               “Vengeance against Euron Greyjoy, who has usurped Pyke and now calls himself King of the Iron Islands.” Varys’ gaze turned to Robb. “And a guarantee that they will not suffer retribution for conflicts past.” Daenerys could practically hear Robb’s hand gripping the hilt of his sword as Varys turned his gaze back to her. “In exchange, we offer fealty and service, if you desire it. The Iron Fleet, and my little birds.” It was not difficult to discern that ‘little birds’ meant spies.

               “And Theon Greyjoy?” Daenerys asked. “Which side has he taken, that of Asha, or Euron?” Considering Robb’s personal enmity towards him, it made sense to find out which side he was on.

               “Theon supports his sister, Asha,” Varys replied. Daenerys rather wished he hadn’t. It would have been easier if Theon was Asha’s enemy. “Both of them await aboard ship for your invitation to speak personally.” That was even less helpful. If Theon was here right now, Robb would need a lot of persuasion.

               “Tell them they are summoned.” Daenerys paused, glancing at Robb in her mind’s eye. “And tell them that the crimes for which they seek amnesty are not unknown to me.”

               With a truly obsequious bow Varys took his leave, and Daenerys retired to her chambers with Robb in tow. The moment he crossed the threshold behind her he exploded, seething with fury. “I’ll kill him!” he spat, pacing across the room. “I’ll kill every fucking ironborn cunt that gets off those ships!”

               Daenerys wished she could kill Robb’s enemies for him as he had killed hers, but her life was rarely so easy. “Robb, I need their fleet,” she said, as apologetically as she could manage.

               Robb rounded on her, his eyes ablaze and his jaw set. “He killed my brothers! They were boys! They grew up with him, and he killed them! He betrayed me!”

               At first Daenerys took a step back, but she quickly recovered and approached Robb. “I need you to accept this.” She tried to put her hands on his shoulders, but he pushed her away and turned his back on her, shuddering with rage and grief.

               “He was my brother! I loved him! And he… he betrayed me.” Robb’s voice was taut with anguish, and his shoulders shook. His hand grasped the back of a chair, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned as white as Daenerys’ dress.

               “Do you think I have not also known betrayal?” Daenerys asked, with an edge of frustration creeping into her voice. Robb, of all people, should not need to be persuaded to obey her.

               Robb looked down. “No, I… I know you have. But my brothers-”

               “My brother held a blade to my stomach and threatened to carve my child from my womb,” Daenerys interrupted. “I understand what you’ve lost, Robb,” she added, more gently. “Better than anyone, I understand. We’re both exiles at the far side of the world, without family, without home.” As she spoke she put a hand on his shoulder again, and this time he didn’t pull away. “This is the best chance I have ever had to go home, but I need their ships to do it. And I need you. We can go home together.” Her fingers squeezed his shoulder, and he put his hand on hers.

               “I’m sorry for shouting at you,” Robb said, half turning his head. “You didn’t deserve that.”

               “No,” Daenerys replied, drawing close behind him and softly kissing the side of his neck, feeling him relax just a little. “But I forgive you.”

               Robb sighed. “You don’t know how many times I’ve killed Theon in my dreams.”

               “What’s he like?”

               “I don’t know. I thought I did, but… the man I knew could never have hurt Bran and Rickon.”

               “And his sister?”

               “I don’t know. I never met her.”

               “You don’t have to be with me when they come.”

               Robb shook his head. “I’ll not run from them. If they want their crimes wiped away I’ll hear them say why. And if this is some trick…” At last he turned and looked at her, with the shadow of a smile on his lips, “…I’ll be the first to draw steel, I promise you that.”

               When the ironborn arrived for their audience Daenerys made sure the hall was lined with Unsullied from end to end. If she had to deal with them, then she would start those dealings off with a demonstration of her power. The moment she laid eyes on them it was easy to see why Asha was the one in charge, and not Theon. She swaggered into the hall with him scurrying along behind her, looking somewhere between a wet rat and a beaten dog. Even at a distance he visibly blanched when he saw Robb, standing beside Daenerys with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

               At the foot of the dais, Asha looked up at Daenerys and smirked. “You’re smaller than I expected.”

               “It is customary to kneel before your queen,” Daenerys said coldly.

               Still wearing that irritating smirk, Asha went down on one knee and Theon quickly followed suit. “We meant no disrespect, of course. But killing your enemies for you has left us a little stiff.” Asha’s head was raised, still looking up at Daenerys, but Theon’s was bowed.

               “An act for which I am grateful,” Daenerys allowed. “But one good turn does not permit you to forget your place, though it has earned you my ear. Speak.”

               Asha looked at Theon. “Tell them.”

               Theon raised his head, looking up at Robb rather than Daenerys, and she felt a flash of irritation that she swiftly crushed. “They’re not dead,” he said, and she had to admit he sounded genuinely contrite, to the point of desperation. “Bran and Rickon. They ran away, I couldn’t find them. So I killed the two boys from the mill by Acorn Water, and burned their bodies so no-one could tell the difference.”

               Robb barely moved. Out of the corner of her eye, Daenerys could see his hand flexing on the hilt of his sword, but she resisted the temptation to turn and look at him. “If you’re lying…” he finally said, his voice as uneven as she had ever heard it.

               “I’m not,” Theon insisted. “I know what you must think of me, but I swear on every god from the Iron Islands to Asshai, I didn’t kill them.”

               Daenerys didn’t know if Robb believed it. She didn’t know if she believed it herself. She hoped it was true, both for Robb’s sake and her own; it would make dealing with the ironborn much easier. “You still want absolution for your other crimes, I take it?” she asked, turning her gaze back on Asha.

               “I wouldn’t call them crimes, exactly. We were at war,” Asha replied. “But yes, we would like to… start anew.”

               Those sounded like someone else’s words coming out of her mouth, Daenerys thought. Varys’ perhaps. “Your ancestors bent the knee to House Targaryen. It was Aegon himself who made you Lords of the Iron Islands. Swear fealty to me, here and now, and I will restore you to that lordship under my protection and my rule.”

               Asha took a deep breath, drawing her shoulders back and looking up at Daenerys with what looked suspiciously like respect in her eyes. “I, Asha Greyjoy, daughter of Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands and Lord Reaper of Pyke,” she began, “with the Drowned God as my witness, do swear everlasting fealty, obedience and service to you, Queen Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, and to your heirs. May the sea take me, should these words prove false.”

               Daenerys allowed herself a small smile. It wasn’t just receiving an oath of fealty, though that was always pleasurable. She had a fleet now. She was going home.

               How long had Daenerys dreamed of a ship? Of standing on the swaying deck and watching the western horizon come closer? How many nights had she spent alone in the dark, imagining the day she began her journey home? The sea air smelled so good. It was cold on her lips, but it brought an irresistible smile to them, a smile she felt deep within her heart. She was going home. After so long, after so much heartache and suffering and cruelty, she was going home. With an army and a fleet and three dragons, she was going home.

               Meereen had to be abandoned, but there was little of it left. What treasure remained had been loaded onto the ships, along with the Unsullied, her Dothraki, and every man, woman and child who wished to follow their queen to the west. The holds were full to bursting, the ships riding low in the water, but she had refused to leave anyone behind. It was a good thing the slaver fleet had been captured more or less intact, or she would have had no choice in the matter. The ironborn had assigned prize crews to the many captured ships, and liberated galley slaves assisted them alongside freedmen eager to learn the ways of the sea.

               The ironborn had not enjoyed Daenerys’ command to free the galley slaves. They had enjoyed giving up their thralls even less. But she reminded Asha of the oath she had sworn, and the dragons wheeling overhead convinced those that honour could not.

               Taking a last deep lungful of the salty sea air, Daenerys turned away from the prow, passed the crew and their wandering eyes, and ducked into the cabin where her council awaited her. It was quite the motley band, old knights and freed slaves, ironborn raiders and perfumed eunuchs, nobles from the Seven Kingdoms and Slaver’s Bay, and the man who had been King in the North. All hers to command. “You wished to speak on the state of affairs in the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Varys?” she said, and all eyes turned to the Spider.

               “Indeed, your grace. Much has changed these past years, even since many around this table left those shores. Robert Baratheon is dead, as is his eldest son, Joffrey.”

               “Not his true son,” Robb interjected.

               Varys inclined his head towards Robb. “Quite correct. Joffrey was a bastard born of incest between Jaime Lannister and Cersei Lannister, as are his two siblings, Tommen and Myrcella. Nevertheless, it is Tommen who now sits on the Iron Throne, with House Lannister behind him, and his mother as Queen Regent.”

               “And the other great houses?” Ser Barristan asked.

               “House Tyrell did support Tommen, but conflicts between Lannister and Tyrell escalated. Cersei struck a blow against them by destroying the Great Sept of Baelor at what was meant to be her trial for adultery, an act that killed the High Septon, Lord Mace Tyrell, Ser Loras Tyrell and Tommen’s wife, Queen Margaery Tyrell, among many others. However, in so doing she drove the remaining Tyrells, Lady Olenna, Lord Willas and Ser Garlan, into the arms of their old enemies, House Martell. The Tyrells and Martells have proclaimed Myrcella to be the rightful queen, with the support of the Faith. Renewed war rages across the south. And it seems that Jaime Lannister has turned his back on his sister, taking many Lannister bannermen with him.”

               “Only fools would expect loyalty from the Kingslayer,” Daenerys said, already picturing Drogon’s jaws snapping shut around him. “Has he sided with the Tyrells and Martells?”

               “No, your grace,” Varys replied. “It seems he is content to wait out their conflict at Casterly Rock. The Boltons, who took the North with Lannister support after Lord Stark’s defeat, similarly have made no moves to aid their allies, even after defeating an attempt to depose them by Stannis Baratheon. The Freys, who supplanted the Tullys in the Riverlands, remain loyal to Cersei, but the Riverlands have been ravaged by war and many of their bannermen bear them no love. With Stannis gone, the Stormlands are divided, some supporting Cersei, some her enemies, and others remaining within their keeps.”

               “What about the Arryns?” asked Robb.

               “The Arryns remain unmoving beyond the Mountains of the Moon, despite Cersei’s attempts to court them with the aid of Petyr Baelish.”

               Robb’s eyes met Daenerys’. “Lysa Arryn is my aunt, but she refused to support me. If you could convince her to join us now, the armies of the Vale would add much strength to our cause.”

               Arryn, Stark, Tully. These were the houses that had risen against Daenerys’ father, the houses that had driven her into exile. And now they were her best hope of reclaiming her birthright. In a way it made sense. They had deposed her father because he was a tyrant, and now they needed her to deliver them from a new tyranny. The Tyrells and Martells had supported the Targaryens in the War of the Usurper, but what had they done for her since? Little and less.

               “We’ve had a War of Five Kings,” Tyrion commented. “Now it seems we shall have a War of Three Queens.”

               Asha smiled a lopsided smile, catching Daenerys’ eye. “I like the sound of that. If you want to take the Vale we could land at Gulltown.”

               “Lord Grafton was loyal to your father,” Ser Barristan pointed out. “And nearby Runestone is the seat of House Royce, friends to House Stark.”

               “No,” said Daenerys. On this matter she needed no counsel, her mind was made up. “If the Vale has remained aloof from the fighting all this time, it will remain so a while longer. We will sail past Gulltown and the Fingers, and land at White Harbour.” Her eyes met Robb’s, and she smiled. “It has been too long since there were dragons in the North.”

Chapter Text

               Fire and Blood. Robb finally understood what those words really meant. Though in his recent experience, bodies consumed by dragonfire left no blood. It was boiled away, he supposed. So a more accurate wording might be Fire or Blood. By one means or another, the Targaryens delivered death to their enemies. Looking out over the ruin that Daenerys’ dragons had reduced Meereen to in a single night, it was hard not to second-guess his desire to see them turned on his enemies. Would he regain Winterfell as a second Harrenhal?

               The day Robb met Talisa kept working its way back into his head. Sawing off a Lannister soldier’s leg while Robb held him down. “The boy was lucky you were here,” he had said.

               “He was unlucky that you were,” Talisa had replied.

               How many people would be in the wrong place at the wrong time when Robb returned home? When Daenerys unleashed her dragons? All so that they could take back what had been stolen from them. When did the killing become a worse evil than the injustice? He had no answer, and it troubled him. In all the lessons his father had taught it had seemed so simple. Vassals obeyed their lords, and lords obeyed their kings. But his father had overthrown a king. Daenerys’ father. If she was the rightful queen, had his father been in the wrong? A perpetrator of injustice? If not when he overthrew the Mad King, then when he put Robert Baratheon on the Iron Throne and drove Daenerys across the Narrow Sea?

               No small part of Daenerys’ appeal to Robb was that he could let her wrestle with these thoughts, while all he had to do was serve her. But when he watched the sun rise over what was once Meereen, he couldn’t ignore his doubts, and they only intensified when she received an envoy under a kraken banner instead of turning her dragons on the ships in the harbour.

               “Your grace. I bring you greetings from the rightful Lord of the Iron Islands and Lord Reaper of Pyke, Asha Greyjoy.” Robb had never met him, but the fat little bald man with the simpering voice was easy enough to recognise by reputation. Varys the Spider, who always seemed to survive events that brought down kings. How he had found his way into the service of the Greyjoys, Robb had no idea, but if the Spider wanted to die with them he had no objections.

               “We are a long way from the Iron Islands, and you do not look much like a raider,” Daenerys said. Mere hours before she had been sobbing in Robb’s arms, and now she sounded like a queen again.

               Barristan spoke before anyone else could, confirming Robb’s guess. “His name is Varys. He was Master of Whisperers for your father and for Robert Baratheon. Men call him the Spider.”

               “Just so. I am also a friend of Illyrio Mopatis, among other things,” Varys agreed.

               “The man who sold me,” Daenerys said, and Robb recognised the warning signs in her voice.

               “The man who protected you.” It was admittedly impressive that Varys stood his ground. Robb had expected him to prostrate himself and beg for forgiveness, but he showed more spine than his reputation would suggest.

               “As I recall, when another man tried to murder me in Vaes Dothrak he claimed you had ordered it.”

               “At the time it seemed for the benefit of the realm.” Varys bowed more deeply, the only hint of any contrition from him.

               “You don’t deny it?”

               “I sought to prevent a war, I would not deny that.”

               “And now you come to me with a fleet. Are you here to try again?” Robb knew it was selfish, but he deeply hoped Daenerys was right, and that the Greyjoys had come to Meereen as her enemies. He would take great pleasure in killing them for her.

               “I and my ironborn friends have come here to take you home, your grace,” Varys said, looking directly at Daenerys.

               “And what do you and your ironborn friends expect in return?” Daenerys replied.

               “Vengeance against Euron Greyjoy, who has usurped Pyke and now calls himself King of the Iron Islands. And a guarantee that they will not suffer retribution for conflicts past.” Robb gripped the hilt of his sword tightly as Varys looked up at him. Vengeance, oh yes, there would be vengeance to be sure. “In exchange, we offer fealty and service, if you desire it. The Iron Fleet, and my little birds.”

               “And Theon Greyjoy?” Daenerys asked. Just the name made Robb want to tear something. “Which side has he taken, that of Asha, or Euron?”

               “Theon supports his sister, Asha.” Robb might have warned Asha to sleep with a dagger under her pillow if he would have been at all upset over her death. “Both of them await aboard ship for your invitation to speak personally.”

               “Tell them they are summoned. And tell them that the crimes for which they seek amnesty are not unknown to me,” Daenerys said. Varys bowed so low his head nearly touched the floor, and took his leave.

               Fury had been boiling hotter and hotter within Robb for every moment that he had to consider the Greyjoys as anything but enemies, and no sooner had he climbed the steps to Daenerys’ chambers with her than it exploded out of him. “I’ll kill him!” he raged, striding past her. “I’ll kill every fucking ironborn cunt that gets off those ships!” One by one, with his bare hands if he had to.

               “Robb, I need their fleet,” Daenerys said, and the hatred in Robb’s chest lashed out at her.

               “He killed my brothers! They were boys! They grew up with him, and he killed them! He betrayed me!”

               The way Daenerys backed away made guilt twist in Robb’s stomach, but his anger was stronger. “I need you to accept this,” she said, putting her hands on his shoulders, but he turned away from her, struggling to control himself, clutching at the back of a chair as if he could tear it apart with his bare hands.

               “He was my brother! I loved him! And he… he betrayed me.” Am I your brother, now and always? The words echoed in Robb’s ears. With all his heart he had believed Theon his brother, just as much as Jon, Bran or Rickon. They were going to fight side-by-side, just like their father and Robert Baratheon. And then he had sent Theon home. Had it always been a lie?

               “Do you think I have not also known betrayal?”

               It was subtle, but Robb could hear the reprimand in Daenerys’ voice. “No, I… I know you have. But my brothers-”

               “My brother held a blade to my stomach and threatened to carve my child from my womb,” Daenerys interrupted. “I understand what you’ve lost, Robb. Better than anyone, I understand. We’re both exiles at the far side of the world, without family, without home.” Robb felt her gentle hand on his shoulder, and cursed himself for turning his anger on her. “This is the best chance I have ever had to go home, but I need their ships to do it. And I need you. We can go home together.”

               Robb put his hand on Daenerys’, turning his head slightly. “I’m sorry for shouting at you. You didn’t deserve that.”

               “No,” said Daenerys. Robb felt the closeness of her body behind him, and then the softness of her lips on his neck, easing the tension that gripped him. “But I forgive you.”

               Robb sighed. “You don’t know how many times I’ve killed Theon in my dreams.” And yet he never died.

               “What’s he like?”

               “I don’t know.” Arrogant, but brave and loyal, he would have said once. He had not believed himself blind to Theon’s faults, but he had never known the real Theon. “I thought I did, but… the man I knew could never have hurt Bran and Rickon.”

               “And his sister?”

               “I don’t know. I never met her.” She was his enemy, that was enough.

               “You don’t have to be with me when they come.”

               The thought of hiding from Theon fucking Greyjoy made Robb’s stomach churn, and he shook his head. “I’ll not run from them. If they want their crimes wiped away I’ll hear them say why. And if this is some trick…” He turned and faced Daenerys, feeling the familiar stirrings of a savage joy. “…I’ll be the first to draw steel, I promise you that.”

               The moment Theon set foot in the audience hall, Robb’s eyes were on him, and his hand was on the hilt of his sword. Any reason, any at all, a single word from Daenerys was all it would take, a single look. Theon looked like shit, which was something. Like he’d been fished out of the sea and wrung out.

               Asha was different. If Robb didn’t hate her, he might have liked her. The man’s clothes she was wearing made him think of Dacey, but Dacey had been no cowardly raider. It wasn’t hard to see the resemblance to Theon in the way she carried herself, though someone seemed to have beaten the arrogance out of Theon himself. Whoever it had been, Robb silently thanked them.

               Watched by dozens of impassive Unsullied, Asha stopped at the base of the dais. “You’re smaller than I expected,” she said to Daenerys.

               “It is customary to kneel before your queen,” Daenerys replied, and Robb could feel the chill.

               “We meant no disrespect, of course. But killing your enemies for you has left us a little stiff,” Asha said, kneeling. Beside her, Theon had hit the floor so fast it had probably hurt his knee.

               “An act for which I am grateful. But one good turn does not permit you to forget your place, though it has earned you my ear. Speak,” Daenerys commanded.

               Asha looked at Theon. “Tell them.”

               As if he had to shift a boulder to do it, Theon raised his head, and what Robb saw in his face was uncomfortably familiar. The same feeling that clawed in his guts when the nights closed in and he thought of his family was written across Theon’s features. “They’re not dead,” he said, and the words hit Robb like a hammer blow, driving the air from his lungs. “Bran and Rickon. They ran away, I couldn’t find them. So I killed the two boys from the mill by Acorn Water, and burned their bodies so no-one could tell the difference.”

               Robb’s hand twisted on the hilt of his sword, as if he was trying to strangle it. Not dead. Alive. Living. Breathing. Cold. Alone. Lost, somewhere in the North, or the gods knew where. “If you’re lying…” he hissed, finally remembering to breathe.

               “I’m not. I know what you must think of me, but I swear on every god from the Iron Islands to Asshai, I didn’t kill them.” Theon sounded like Robb felt. It was the only reason he believed it for even a moment. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, and a vein pulsed on his neck as he stared down at Theon.

               “You still want absolution for your other crimes, I take it?” Daenerys asked, sparing Robb from having to say anything.

               “I wouldn’t call them crimes, exactly. We were at war,” Asha replied. If Robb hadn’t been so focused on Theon he might have responded to that. “But yes, we would like to… start anew.”

               “Your ancestors bent the knee to House Targaryen. It was Aegon himself who made you Lords of the Iron Islands. Swear fealty to me, here and now, and I will restore you to that lordship under my protection and my rule.”

               “I, Asha Greyjoy, daughter of Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands and Lord Reaper of Pyke,” Asha intoned, “with the Drowned God as my witness, do swear everlasting fealty, obedience and service to you, Queen Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, and to your heirs. May the sea take me, should these words prove false.”

               Robb heard none of it. All that he cared about in that moment was his brothers.

               Aboard ship, Robb kept his hand close to his sword. The ironborn may have bent the knee to Daenerys, and in truth he could see no reason for them to be false, not once they were out on the open water, but he would never forget what they were. Still, his hatred had been softened a little. Theon had still betrayed him, but his brothers yet lived, somewhere. The Lannisters had lost his sisters and Theon had lost his brothers. It made it all the more galling that he had been defeated by such bumbling oafs.

               There was some relief to be taken from the fact that Robb was returning to Westeros with an army, at least. An army, a queen, and three dragons. If he couldn’t take revenge on the ironborn, there were still the Boltons, Lannisters and Freys. He would not rest until they were all rotting in the ground, every last one. If Jaime Lannister thought he could sit apart, he would learn his folly, as would the Boltons. He had half a mind to flay Roose when they caught him.

               But it would be wise not to think too much on the future and neglect the present, Robb thought as Daenerys strode into the cabin where her assembled councillors were gathered around a table. She looked as happy as he had ever seen her, and for her sake at least he could let his hatred of the ironborn lie. Her violet eyes passed over him with a wordless acknowledgement before settling on the eunuch beside him. “You wished to speak on the state of affairs in the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Varys?” she said.

               “Indeed, your grace. Much has changed these past years, even since many around this table left those shores. Robert Baratheon is dead, as is his eldest son, Joffrey.”

               “Not his true son,” Robb pointed out. It didn’t really matter if he was dead, but he didn’t want it to be forgotten.

               Varys glanced at Robb. “Quite correct. Joffrey was a bastard born of incest between Jaime Lannister and Cersei Lannister, as are his two siblings, Tommen and Myrcella. Nevertheless, it is Tommen who now sits on the Iron Throne, with House Lannister behind him, and his mother as Queen Regent.”

               “And the other great houses?” Ser Barristan asked.

               “House Tyrell did support Tommen, but conflicts between Lannister and Tyrell escalated. Cersei struck a blow against them by destroying the Great Sept of Baelor at what was meant to be her trial for adultery, an act that killed the High Septon, Lord Mace Tyrell, Ser Loras Tyrell and Tommen’s wife, Queen Margaery Tyrell, among many others. However, in so doing she drove the remaining Tyrells, Lady Olenna, Lord Willas and Ser Garlan, into the arms of their old enemies, House Martell. The Tyrells and Martells have proclaimed Myrcella to be the rightful queen, with the support of the Faith. Renewed war rages across the south. And it seems that Jaime Lannister has turned his back on his sister, taking many Lannister bannermen with him.”

               This news clearly pleased Daenerys. “Only fools would expect loyalty from the Kingslayer,” she gloated. “Has he sided with the Tyrells and Martells?”

               “No, your grace,” Varys replied. “It seems he is content to wait out their conflict at Casterly Rock. The Boltons, who took the North with Lannister support after Lord Stark’s defeat, similarly have made no moves to aid their allies, even after defeating an attempt to depose them by Stannis Baratheon.” Robb fidgeted with the hilt of his sword, remembering the look in Roose Bolton’s eyes. Jaime Lannister sends his regards. It was oddly appropriate that both of them had proved as disloyal to the Lannisters as they had the kings they betrayed. “The Freys, who supplanted the Tullys in the Riverlands, remain loyal to Cersei, but the Riverlands have been ravaged by war and many of their bannermen bear them no love. With Stannis gone, the Stormlands are divided, some supporting Cersei, some her enemies, and some remaining within their keeps.”

               “What about the Arryns?” Robb asked.

               “The Arryns remain unmoving beyond the Mountains of the Moon, despite Cersei’s attempts to court them with the aid of Petyr Baelish,” Varys replied.

               Robb looked at Daenerys. “Lysa Arryn is my aunt, but she refused to support me. If you could convince her to join us now, the armies of the Vale would add much strength to our cause.” Or they could depose her and put someone less cowardly in her place, but he left that part unsaid. As much as it would please him to see his aunt pay for abandoning her family in their hour of need, there were far more severe debts to settle.

               “We’ve had a War of Five Kings,” Tyrion commented. “Now it seems we shall have a War of Three Queens.”

               “I like the sound of that,” Asha smirked. “If you want to take the Vale we could land at Gulltown.”

               “Lord Grafton was loyal to your father,” Ser Barristan pointed out. “And nearby Runestone is the seat of House Royce, friends to House Stark.” Not such good friends that they came to our aid, Robb thought. He had met Yohn Royce only once, when he brought his son north to take the black. The old lord had seemed much like his father, though Waymar was an arrogant sort. He would not have relied on them for much if the choice was his.

               “No,” Daenerys said quickly. “If the Vale has remained aloof from the fighting all this time, it will remain so a while longer. We will sail past Gulltown and the Fingers, and land at White Harbour.” She found Robb’s gaze, and her smile made his heart sing. “It has been too long since there were dragons in the North.”

Chapter Text

               The wooden walls of the ship’s cabin did very little to muffle sound, Missandei politely informed Daenerys. Daenerys thanked her for this information, but since they were on a long voyage with very little to do, she quickly decided that it didn’t matter. Let the ironborn listen, just as long as they obeyed. The only real concern she had was that she might squash Robb’s handsome face flat if she sat on it too often. He didn’t seem too worried about this possibility though, not if the way his blue eyes lit up every time she climbed on was any indication.

               Those auburn curls were just perfect for pulling on, Daenerys thought as she gripped them tightly, grinding her weight down against Robb’s lips and letting out a long, low groan of satisfaction as she felt his eager tongue delve into her. Let whatever bastard claimant wanted to sit on the Iron Throne for now, she had a very enjoyable substitute beneath her. Her knees stretched out across the bed and she sank as low as she could, pleasure coiling deep within her stomach at the way he took her weight. It wasn’t just his tongue she loved, though it was a wonderful tongue. There was no purer expression of her power and his submission than this. She had the son of her enemy between her thighs, bringing her base pleasure. The thought was as satisfying as it was arousing. She twisted his hair between her fingers, not because he had done anything wrong, just because she could, biting her bottom lip and crying out sinfully.

               Robb’s tongue moved upwards to worship Daenerys’ clit, and her thighs came together, squeezing his head between them and squealing in delight. She wanted to hurt him, to break him, to make him her slave, and at the same time she wanted to cherish him, to honour him, to pleasure him as he was pleasuring her. But he made it so very easy to be selfish. More than once she had taken him to her bed with the intention of getting down on her knees for him, and had still found herself straddling his face. Gods, he knew how to use his mouth. The way he kissed and licked and sucked at her clit had her a whimpering mess, drooling all over his face.

               Unable to bear it any longer, Daenerys lifted herself up off Robb’s face, giving him a chance to gasp for breath. The aftershocks of pleasure still ran through her body as he looked up at her, panting, with his mouth glistening and a grin that made her want to sit right back down. “Am I your queen, Robb Stark?” she asked breathlessly.

               “You are. You’re my beautiful, powerful queen,” he replied, still stroking her thighs gently.

               It wasn’t as though his answer was in any doubt, she just liked to hear him say it. Speaking of which: “Say my name.”

               “Daenerys.”

               “Louder.”

               “Daenerys!”

               Having her name on his lips was almost as good as her pussy. And he said it with such devotion. “You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”

               “Anything.”

               “I want you to kiss me here,” Daenerys said, placing a finger on her inner thigh. Obediently, Robb turned his head and planted a gentle kiss that sent a tremor twisting up her spine. “And here,” she said, pointing to her other thigh, which Robb kissed in turn. She shuffled down his body a little and leaned forwards, presenting him with her stomach. “And here.” His lips were soft on her skin, making her bite her bottom lip as she shuffled down further. “And here.” On her breasts he lingered, and she closed her eyes as he planted a row of kisses down one breast and up the other, breathing deeply before shuffling down again, bringing her face-to-face with him. “And here,” she said, touching her lip. He smiled a sweet smile and kissed her, and she could taste herself on his tongue.

               “You could make me do a lot worse than that,” Robb murmured against Daenerys’ lips.

               “I know. But I don’t want to, not today.” She could feel his chest rising and falling with her breasts pressed against it, and when she shifted her thigh between his legs she could feel his cock, hard and warm against her flesh. With a wicked smile she applied a little pressure, enjoying the way his body tensed beneath her. “Tell me, is there anywhere else you’d like to kiss me?”

               Robb grinned. “Everywhere. Every inch of you. All you ever have to do is ask. Or command.”

               “And is there anywhere you’d like me to kiss you?” Daenerys asked, rubbing her thigh gently against his cock.

               “There might be one or two places. Maybe three.”

               “Only three?” Daenerys traced a fingertip across Robb’s lips. “But there are so many more places I want to kiss.”

               “I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

               “How gallant. It’s a wonder that no-one has ever knighted you.”

               “There are few knights in the North,” Robb said, and Daenerys’ spine tingled as he ran a strong hand slowly along her side, following the curve of her waist down to her hip. “Southerners say we’re too wild and savage for it.”

               Daenerys thought of Drogo and his forty-thousand Dothraki screamers. They were too wild and savage for knighthood. If she had ever spoken to them of their duty to protect maidens they would have laughed. She had loved Drogo, but even after she won his affections in return he had never treated her the way Robb did. Though he had been capable of surprising gentleness, she had always belonged to him. “You are no savage,” she said softly, closing her eyes and letting Robb’s tender touch reverberate through her whole body. “You are the least savage man I’ve ever met.” Even if at times she wished he would be just a little more savage with her.

               Opening her eyes, Daenerys traced a finger along Robb’s jaw. “I could make you a knight, if you wish it,” she said, watching his thoughtful blue gaze.

               Robb was silent for a few moments. “Let the Southerners keep their sers. I serve you, that’s enough for me.”

               “Oh, enough, is it?” Daenerys grinned playfully, already knowing how she wanted to thank him for making her heart swell like that. “That’s a shame. I was about to reward your loyal service. But if you have no need for it…”

               Robb’s hand tightened on Daenerys’ hip, sending a jolt of excitement through her. “Did I not say that I would not refuse you?” he smirked.

               “So you did.” Daenerys lifted her thigh off Robb’s cock and crawled backwards, down to between his legs. “It must take great fortitude, to allow me to have my wicked way with you.” Resting her weight on her forearms, she kissed his stiff shaft, and he pleased her by tensing, looking down at her with such anxious desire. Oh, Robb. Too selfless for your own good.

               A line of kisses down Robb’s shaft ended at his balls, and Daenerys kissed them too. She parted her lips and drew her wet tongue across his sack, looking up at him while she debased herself for his pleasure. He had done enough of it for her, it was only right that she return the favour. If he had asked it of her, or worse, demanded it, she would have denied him. But that wasn’t Robb. Robb only ever did what she wanted, and that was precisely what made her want to pleasure him.

               Daenerys dragged her tongue back up Robb’s shaft, drawing a groan from him that went dancing down her spine. With a sinful smile and a wiggle of her raised hips she wrapped her lips around his cock and slid them down, her tongue pulling him into her mouth. Slowly, carefully, she slid her lips up and down, tasting the salty precum that oozed onto her tongue. His stomach flexed, his muscles tightening and relaxing with each shallow breath he took. Reaching over his leg with barely a missed beat, she took hold of his hand and guided it to the back of her head, shooting him a sultry look from beneath her long eyelashes.

               For once, Daenerys wanted Robb to be selfish. To use her face the way she so often used his. She wanted to feel weak, helpless, the way Drogo and Daario had sometimes made her feel. She wanted to forget being the queen and let someone else take charge for once, even if only for a few minutes. But he remained frustratingly gentle, resting his hand lightly on the back of her head, doing no more than stroking her hair.

               Hoping to goad Robb into letting go of himself, Daenerys paused with her lips wrapped around the tip of his cock, took a deep breath, and then plunged down, controlling her gag reflex as she felt his hardness fill her throat. She managed to push herself all the way down, to where his patch of auburn tickled her nose, and hold herself there. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she could feel her nose starting to run while her body trembled slightly with the effort. Then she pulled back, a gag running through her as his cock cleared her throat, allowing her to take another deep breath.

               With her lips against the tip of Robb’s cock, Daenerys looked up at him with a smile, a little embarrassed by her own behaviour, but pleased with her performance, and more than a little aroused by it. There was nothing quite like swallowing cock, nothing like struggling just so a man could use her face for his own base enjoyment. Sometimes she wished she had a cock of her own, so she could enjoy it from the other side. Robb would surely oblige.

               If only he would be more obliging when she wanted him to be the one using her. Wiping the tear from her cheek, she swallowed him again, finding it a little easier now that his cock was glistening and slick with her spit. It wasn’t easy to move her limbs while she was concentrating on not gagging, but she managed to put her hand on his where it rested on the back of her head, and push. The sensation sent a low whine through her, making her more eager than ever to feel him take control, but when she released the pressure so did he.

               Pulling back with another gag that made her eyelashes flutter and left her panting, Daenerys pouted up at Robb. “Are you really going to make me beg?”

               With his cheeks flushed, Robb tilted his head. “Beg for what?”

               Daenerys just stared at him for a second. It really should not have been so difficult to get a man to use a willing woman. Or just to understand what she wanted. “…For… for you to make me choke on your cock, you fool!”

               Robb’s eyebrows went up. “That’s what you want?”

               Daenerys could no longer contain her exasperation. “Yes!”

               “Well… why didn’t you just ask?”

               “…Wha-glurk!” A powerful thrill pulsed through Daenerys’ body as Robb suddenly gripped her head and pushed her down hard. Grasping her silver braids tightly with both hands, he bounced her face up and down on his cock, making sure her lips wrapped around the base each time. He was a little clumsy, clearly not as practiced at this as he was with his tongue, but she was enjoying herself far too much to care. With him controlling her head she could reach down between her legs, playing with her clit while he played with her throat.

               “Gluck glurk gluck glack glchk!” The sounds emanating from Daenerys’ throat filled the wooden cabin and bounced back into her ears. She hadn’t realised quite how much she had missed that sound until she heard it again. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her snot and spit made a mess of Robb’s crotch, and she couldn’t breathe, not even when he pulled her head up; he just wasn’t giving her a chance.

               All too soon though, Robb gave Daenerys a break, holding her head up and looking down at her with a rather apologetic smile. “Are you-”

               “Don’t stop!” Daenerys whimpered, biting her bottom lip as her fingers worked furiously between her thighs. “Use me like a wh-hlggk!”

               As obedient as ever, Robb put her face back to work before she could even finish begging for it. She wanted him to be worse, to spit insults into her ears along with the wet sounds of her degradation, but that was something she would have to work on another time.

               All thoughts other than pleasure were rapidly fading from Daenerys’ mind. She sank two fingers into herself up to her knuckles, working them desperately and frantically rubbing her clit with the ball of her hand. A choked, gurgling moan vibrated up her throat around Robb’s cock as her pussy clamped down, drenching her hand. Her whole body shuddered, her tear-filled eyes rolling back as her climax rocked through her.

               Whether Robb did it out of concern for Daenerys or selfish lust, he pulled her face off his cock just in time for it to erupt, painting her already messy face with a hot, gooey load while he groaned and bucked his hips. Gasping for breath, she closed her eyes, feeling the warm evidence of his satisfaction clinging to her skin.

               Still shaking slightly, Daenerys withdrew her fingers from between her thighs and wiped her hand across her face, bringing it to her mouth so that she could taste the mixture of her fluids and his, tears and spit and cum and more, all over her. If her subjects could see her now.

               Opening her eyes, Daenerys saw Robb watching her open-mouthed, with something like awed surprise across his handsome features. With a breathless laugh she fell on top of him, resting her sticky face on his chest. His hands found her hair again, stroking gently once more. “You took to that better than I expected,” she murmured once she had caught at least some of her breath.

               “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

               “I did. I enjoyed it a great deal.” Daenerys lifted her head, resting her chin on Robb’s chest and looking up at him with playful sternness. “But I trust you will not forget which one of us serves the other.”

               “I won’t,” Robb smiled. “Though I will always welcome a reminder.”

               Washing aboard ship wasn’t the easiest thing, and Daenerys missed her copper tub in Meereen that was always filled with hot water whenever she needed it. The wooden tub she had here was a poor substitute, and the water was uncomfortably cold. Robb’s hands were warm at least, rubbing soap into her skin, and he held her close to help her dry, offering her the heat of his body. Considering that it was his seed that she had needed to wash off her face, it was really the least he could do.

               Robb helped Daenerys dress too, and then she stepped out onto the deck. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on them mercilessly. To reach Westeros from Slaver’s Bay meant sailing around the ruins of Old Valyria, and that required sailing far to the south, to where the world knew nothing but heat. Most of the sailors were stripped to the waist, and a few muttered unsubtly to their fellows that they would like to see her similarly undressed. She ignored them. Let them look, let them imagine, as long as they remember their place.

               Missandei was leaning against the gunwale, looking south across the water, and Daenerys joined her, envying her complexion that was more suited to the climate. “Naath is that way,” Missandei said, nodding towards the southern horizon.

               Daenerys followed her gaze, trying to imagine what Naath must look like, with its butterflies and green hills. Longing for a lost home was a feeling she knew all too well. “I could spare a ship to take you there, if you like.”

               Missandei looked at Daenerys, smiling one of those wise smiles of hers. “There is nothing for me there. Here I have a queen I am proud to serve.”

               Daenerys smiled back. Missandei’s loyalty meant more to her than all the ironborn in the world. “Then I would have you share some of your wisdom with me. Many men have sought my hand, and more will seek it in the Seven Kingdoms. Should I look for a strong match, or refrain from choosing?”

               The knowing look Missandei shot Daenerys made her already warm cheeks heat up further, and she had to resist a sudden urge to check her face for any remaining sign of Robb’s claim. “It might be to your advantage to remain unwed,” Missandei said slowly. “If the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms are allowed to hope that they might win you, they could be better motivated to serve you.” It was sound logic, though nothing Daenerys hadn’t already considered. “Alternatively, binding a suitable man to you so closely would strengthen your personal position, and make you less reliant on lords with their own ambitions.”

               Daenerys could tell that Missandei was trying to suppress a smirk. Of course they were both thinking about a particular man. A loyal, brave, and very handsome man. But if she came to the Seven Kingdoms as Robb Stark’s betrothed, would it be her return or his? He had been the King in the North, and she had not set foot in Westeros since before she could crawl. She was not returning home just to be a bride, she was returning to take the Iron Throne, and she wanted no doubts on that subject.

               How would they even wed? Daenerys had never laid eyes on a heart tree, and only once had she seen a sept in the hills of Andalos, old, crumbling, attended only by a few wizened zealots. There were Valyrian traditions that her brother had spoken of, but she had not wanted to listen. The ceremonies she was most familiar with were the Dothraki ones, but somehow she doubted either she or Robb would want a Dothraki wedding. It occurred to her that she might ask Robb how he was married to his Volantene bride, but she was still hesitant to broach that subject. Even what little she knew of Talisa Maegyr had been learned from Ser Barristan, Tyrion and Varys, not Robb. It was beyond petty, she knew, to be jealous of a dead woman, and yet it bothered her that the man she loved had loved another. Would she always be a subsitute, a second choice? Robb had devoted himself to her in a way that no other man ever had, and yet doubts refused to stop slithering through her mind.

               The strangest part of it was that Daenerys wanted to avenge Talisa too. When she learned what the Freys had done, carving the poor woman’s unborn child from her womb, it had a lit a rage inside her. She would gladly give Robb the vengeance he no doubt sought, in fact it was a wonder to her that he was not constantly boiling with anger. First she would give him the North and deliver the Boltons to him, and then they would march across the Neck and bring fire and blood to House Frey.

               Robb had promised Daenerys the North, and yet it seemed that she was going to deliver it to him, not the other way around. It was her army, her ships, her dragons. And once the North was his, what then? Would the fierce Northern lords who had rebelled against her father bend the knee to her? Would they whisper in his ear about independence? She told herself that he would never betray her, but she had been wrong before. Once for blood and once for gold and once for love. The warm wind blew, carrying Daenerys onwards towards the home she had never known, and treachery consumed her thoughts.

Chapter Text

               There wasn’t much for Robb to do aboard ship, so he was grateful that Daenerys kept him busy. Fortunately she provided him with a very enjoyable way to express his gratitude. The only problem was that she looked so good from such a low angle that he kept getting distracted by her beauty, looking up at her seated on top of him when he should have been staring at her stomach and concentrating on making her feel good. But she was so very beautiful, with her round face and her silver braids and those perfect lips. And of course there were those parts of her that it was less polite to admire, but which he was permitted to admire very often, especially when she dropped them on his face.

               Daenerys pressed her weight down on Robb, spreading her knees across the bed so that she could apply as much pressure as possible, and he responded the way he always did, by devouring her royal pussy with redoubled enthusiasm while his cock throbbed. He wanted to touch himself, but her needs were more important to him than his own, so he stroked her soft thighs and neglected his cock. It was funny, he had heard some men say that they felt less like men when a woman was on top of them, but he never felt more secure in his manhood than when he had a beautiful woman sitting on his face, pulling his hair and whimpering. The way Daenerys’ sweet pussy drooled over his face was more proof to him of his worth than his crown ever had been.

               With Talisa, Robb had been no less eager to please. Ever since that first meeting at Oxcross he had burned with a need to please her. What troubled him was that it suited Daenerys better. Not that Talisa hadn’t enjoyed riding his face on many occasions, but for her it had only ever been sex. Good sex, loving sex, but still just sex. Daenerys looked down at him like he belonged beneath her, she mounted his face like she owned it, and she never asked, only ever commanded. So when Robb worshipped her pussy and felt things he had never felt with Talisa, it was like betraying her. He couldn’t help wondering, if he had met Daenerys while Talisa yet lived, would he have stayed true to her and the vows he had sworn? It would not have been the first vow he ever broke.

               Insistent fingers pulled on Robb’s hair, hard enough to hurt, and he drew his tongue upwards to Daenerys’ swollen clit, lavishing it with attention. She rewarded him by squeezing his head between her pillowy thighs and whimpering as he worked her over, using everything he had learned about pleasuring women to make her sing.

               Daenerys’ moans got louder and more fervent, filling the room, and Robb prepared himself for her climax, but instead she lifted her weight off his face, raising her pussy out of his reach. Both of them were out of breath, and the look on her face made him grin. “Am I your queen, Robb Stark?” she asked him.

               “You are. You’re my beautiful, powerful queen,” he replied. He wasn’t just saying it to make her happy, he meant every word. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and every time he beheld her he felt a compelling urge to bend the knee.

               “Say my name,” Daenerys commanded.

               “Daenerys.”

               “Louder.”

               “Daenerys!” It was as if she tore it from his lips.

               “You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” Daenerys purred, violet eyes burning as though some daring hand had seized the light of the sun and placed it in them.

               “Anything,” Robb said, with no small amount of awe.

               “I want you to kiss me here,” Daenerys said, placing a finger on her inner thigh. It was not difficult for Robb to obey her, pressing his lips against the softness of her skin. “And here,” she said, pointing to her other thigh, and he turned his head to kiss her there too. She moved on top of him, shifting her weight in a manner than sent excitement snaking downwards through him, and leaned forwards with her stomach over his face. “And here.” If she wanted him to spend all day kissing every inch of her body he would do it happily. He kissed her just below her navel, feeling wetness on his chest. “And here.” Temptation got the better of him when she presented her breasts, and he felt them swell against his face as she breathed deeply while his lips lingered, caressing the swell of them. Eventually she moved down further, bringing them face-to face. “And here,” she said, touching her lip. He smiled and kissed her, deeply but tenderly, breathing in the mingled smell of her perfume and sweat.

               “You could make me do a lot worse than that,” Robb murmured as Daenerys raised her head just a little. Gods, the things he would do to make this woman happy, if only she asked.

               “I know. But I don’t want to, not today.” Somewhere in the back of Robb’s mind, he thought that he should annoy her in some small way, just so that she would make him pay for it. Maybe another day, he thought, and then she shifted her thigh between his legs and he stopped thinking about anything but her, and how good it felt to have her pressing down on his cock. “Tell me, is there anywhere else you’d like to kiss me?” she asked with a wicked smirk.

               That was easy to answer. “Everywhere. Every inch of you. All you ever have to do is ask. Or command.”

               “And is there anywhere you’d like me to kiss you?” From the way Daenerys’ thigh was rubbing against Robb’s cock, he suspected she had certain places in mind.

               “There might be one or two places. Maybe three.”

               “Only three?” she hummed, running her finger across his mouth. “But there are so many more places I want to kiss.”

               “I wouldn’t dream of stopping you,” Robb said, wondering how many places there could be.

               “How gallant. It’s a wonder that no-one has ever knighted you.”

               “There are few knights in the North,” Robb said, slowly tracing the curve of her waist with his hand, down to her wonderful hip. “Southerners say we’re too wild and savage for it.”

               “You are no savage,” Daenerys said softly, pleasing Robb in the way she closed her eyes and quivered at his touch. “You are the least savage man I’ve ever met.” Her eyes opened, violet and piercing, fixed on his as if she could see into his heart. “I could make you a knight, if you wish it.”

               Robb thought about Bran, who had always wanted to be a knight, and Ser Jaime Lannister, who had pushed him from the broken tower. He thought about Ser Gregor Clegane, raping and pillaging across the Riverlands on the orders of Tywin Lannister, a knight himself. He thought about Ser Barristan the Bold, who had watched his grandfather and uncle die, and the Lannisters slaughter his father’s household. "Let the Southerners keep their sers," he said. "I serve you, that's enough for me."

               “Oh, enough, is it?” The sinful way Daenerys grinned banished the melancholy from Robb’s heart as quickly as it had come. “That’s a shame. I was about to reward your loyal service. But if you have no need for it…”

               Robb squeezed her hip. “Did I not say that I would not refuse you?”

               “So you did.” The momentary disappointment of Daenerys raising her thigh from Robb’s cock faded just as rapidly when she worked her way down the bed, onto her elbows and knees between his legs. “It must take great fortitude, to allow me to have my wicked way with you.” She kissed him, and his whole body tensed as a bolt of pleasure ran up his spine. He wanted what she was offering, wanted it badly, and yet it seemed wrong to want it. She was his queen, he was supposed to serve her, not the other way around.

               And yet Robb made no move to stop Daenerys as her kisses descended downwards to his balls. How could he stop her? He was hers to do with as she pleased, and she was making him feel so very, very good. Gazing down into her eyes while she licked his balls, wearing the most sinful smirk imaginable across her perfect lips, he was transfixed. Her hot tongue drew back up his shaft and a helpless groan spilled from his mouth as though she had pulled it out of him.

               Looking irresistibly wicked, Daenerys wiggled her hips, but Robb barely noticed, entranced by the sight of her face as she wrapped her lips around him and made him her eternal prisoner. He tensed, working very hard to control himself and half-expecting to feel molten brain leaking from his ears. Gods, he wished she could do this forever. He wished he could endure it forever, but surely no man could last long under such ardent attentions.

               In a motion so smooth Robb scarcely saw it, Daenerys took his hand and brought it to the back of her head, with his cock still in her mouth and a look in her eyes that nearly unmoored him. He stroked her silver hair, following the contours of her braids with his fingertips, trying to convey his gratitude in the only way he could. It wasn’t the first time he had experienced such attentions, the Winter Town whores had always been eager to please Lord Stark’s heir, and Talisa had rewarded him on occasion. But it was different when it was his queen. A woman who could make him do anything.

               Daenerys paused in her rhythmic motions up and down Robb’s cock, but he barely had time to take a breath before her head descended and he felt himself swallowed into the tight confines of her throat. His free hand clutched at the sheets, and for several long seconds he forgot to breathe at all, staring down at her in awe. With her soft lips wrapped around the base of his cock, her tongue trembling against his shaft, and the leaking tip deep down her throat, pleasure rippled through him unrelentingly.

               After what felt like both an age and not nearly long enough, Daenerys raised her head, and Robb felt her throat muscles contract around the tip of his cock as she gagged on it, her naked body shuddering. Her eyes were wet as she looked up at him, breathing heavily and wearing an incongruously sweet, almost shy smile. Wiping a tear from her cheek, she sniffled and then swallowed his cock again, working her lips all the way back down to the base. The tension in her body was visible as she held herself there between his legs, and she looked distinctly uncomfortable, which made it all the more impressive to Robb when she put her hand on his and pushed. The extra pressure of her face against his groin sent tingles rippling outwards, and the low, muffled whine she let out vibrated through him wonderfully.

               Again Daenerys raised her head, and again she gagged on the way up, leaving Robb buzzing from his head to his toes. To his surprise though, her expression now was neither sweet nor sultry, but rather petulant. “Are you really going to make me beg?” she pouted.

               If either of them should have been begging, Robb thought it was him, and he tilted his head in confusion. “Beg for what?”

               There was a moment in which Daenerys stared at him as though he was the dumbest man alive, and when she replied she seemed to be struggling to articulate something so obvious. “…For… for you to make me choke on your cock, you fool!”

               Whatever Robb had been expecting, that certainly wasn’t it. “That’s what you want?”

               “Yes!”

               “Well… why didn’t you just ask?” How many men had asked that same question of a woman, Robb thought in the back of his mind. The front of his mind was busy acclimatising to the notion of treating his queen with far less respect than he owed her. It didn’t take long.

               “…Wha-glurk!” Those beautiful violet eyes widened most satisfyingly as Robb gripped Daenerys’ braids firmly and pushed. It wasn’t his instinct to be ungenerous, and he had to concentrate, but all the same there was something very pleasing about bouncing such a beautiful face up and down on his cock, in a deeply base sort of way. It helped that Daenerys made very enjoyable noises while her choking throat clenched around his stiff shaft, and that the way she plunged a hand between her thighs reassured him that she was enjoying herself, in spite of the pained look contorting her features and the tears streaming down her cheeks.

               Playing with herself or not, Robb still didn’t want to be too rough with Daenerys. Still holding her tight by her braids, he lifted her face off his cock, giving her a chance to breathe. “Are you-” he started to ask, but she didn’t let him finish.

               “Don’t stop!” Daenerys whined frantically, not so much as slowing down the passionate movements of her hand between her thighs. “Use me like a wh-hlggk!”

               If that was what she wanted, Robb would just have to selflessly give it to her. And he did, vigorously. Though as vigorous as he was with her head, she was no less vigorous with her hand, delving her fingers into herself as though she was trying to find something down there. Perhaps she did find it, because with an incomprehensible moan of ecstatic delight that reverberated up her throat she orgasmed, long eyelashes fluttering and beautiful eyes rolling back in her head.

               The feeling of Daenerys’ throat spasming around Robb’s cock and the sight of her body trembling in the throes of orgasm finally overcame Robb’s self control. With a hazy notion in his mind to let her breathe, he lifted her head up, and no sooner had his cock passed from her lips than his own climax hit him. Hot cum spat from his cock straight into her gasping face, his hips jerking and his spine shaking against the bedsheets as he made even more of a mess of her.

               Shuddering through the aftershocks of his climax, Robb watched as Daenerys, with her eyes closed, took her sticky fingers from between her legs and wiped them across her equally sticky face, bringing them to her lips to taste the mixture of their bodily fluids. He had never seen anything quite so gracefully sordid as the way she licked his cum from her fingers, and in spite of the mess he had made of her face he felt a familiar sense of wonderment that she had chosen him to share her bed.

               Daenerys’ eyes opened, as beautiful as ever, and with a contented laugh she collapsed onto Robb’s chest. He stroked her hair gently, finding it much more natural than his previous rough grip, as both of them took deep, worn out breaths.

               You took to that better than I expected,” Daenerys finally said quietly.

               “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Robb replied. He would not have expected it of her, but then there was much about her that he had not expected.

               “I did. I enjoyed it a great deal.” Daenerys raiseded her head, resting her chin on Robb’s chest and giving him a queenly look that was somewhat undermined by the ropes of his cum splattered across her face. “But I trust you will not forget which one of us serves the other.”

               “I won’t,” Robb smiled. “Though I will always welcome a reminder.”

               It wasn’t quite the reminder Robb had in mind, but Daenerys had him help her to wash herself. He was more than happy to do so, to serve her gently, to remind both of them who he really was. And rubbing soap into her smooth skin could never be anything but pleasing. Once she was washed and dried he washed himself as well, though he was in less need of it than her. Still he had worked up quite a sweat, especially in this warm, southern climate. The sea eased the worst of it, but they were even further south than they had been in Meereen, and as Robb stepped out onto the deck he had to squint. The sun beat down with ruthless force, and it was a wonder the shirtless sailors weren’t crisping where they stood.

               Below decks there was some respite from the sun’s oppression, though the crowded bodies weren’t much better, and Robb could feel ironborn eyes on his back that made his hair stand on end. He made his way deeper, down into the hold, where the only light was that of lanterns and it was both quiet and cool.

               Unfortunately, Robb was not the only one who had sought the solitude of the hold. Just as he sat down on a crate, he heard a rustling sound. His hand went to his sword, and out of the darkness shuffled Theon Greyjoy. Robb’s hand stayed on the hilt of his sword. Theon looked just about as miserable as Robb could imagine him looking, but he had little sympathy. The only reason he had any at all was Theon’s claim that Bran and Rickon yet lived.

               For a long moment neither of them said anything. Once, Robb would have thought that they knew each other well enough to not need words. But the Theon he knew would never have betrayed him. “Robb, I…” Theon started, and quickly trailed off.

               “If you’re about to apologise to me, save your breath,” Robb said venomously. “There’s nothing you can say that will change what you did.”

               Somehow, Theon managed to look even more miserable than before. “I… I just want to explain-”

               “Explain?!” Robb exploded, and was gratified to see Theon flinch. “Yes, explain to me why you betrayed me! Explain to me why you murdered Ser Rodrik! Explain to me why you took away my home! Explain, Theon!”

               Theon’s back hit a stack of crates, and his face contorted as if he was struggling to control it. Refusing to meet Robb’s eyes, he sank down against the crates, breathing deep and raggedly. “When you sent me to my father…” he began slowly, his voice taut to the point of breaking, “it wasn’t what I thought it would be like. He didn’t want me.”

               Robb listened in stony silence, glaring down at Theon, still gripping the hilt of his sword. How many times had he imagined separating Theon’s treacherous head from his shoulders? But in his mind Theon had always been wearing that smug smirk of his, not snivelling like a beaten dog. It was hard to picture the Theon in front of him ever smirking.

               “I should’ve just left,” Theon continued. “I know that now. I should’ve come back to you, warned you what they intended. Every night I regret that I chose them over you.”

               “Then why did you do it?” Robb asked, and Theon finally looked up at him. The tears he saw in Theon’s eyes were enough to make him loosen his grip on his sword’s hilt, just a little.

               “Because I wanted what you had, Robb. To be my father’s son and heir.” An edge of bitterness was creeping into Theon’s voice now. “I thought if I could make him proud, he’d treat me the way your father treated you.” He paused, wiping at his eyes. “Ned Stark was more of a father to me than Balon Greyjoy ever was. Even Ser Rodrik…” Theon’s face contorted again, and he turned his head away.

               “Did you think I spoke idly when I said you were my brother?” Robb asked.

               “No,” Theon replied thickly. “It was the proudest moment of my life. I don’t think I ever stopped believing in you. It was myself I doubted.”

               Robb’s grip on his sword loosened further. “I wish you’d told me.”

               “So do I.” Theon turned his head back to look at Robb, his eyes shining. “I’m sorry for all of it. For everything.”

               Robb had clung to his hate for so long that it was a difficult thing to let go of. Some nights it had been all that sustained him. Perhaps that he had so many people to hate made it easier to let go of one of them. That, and the fact that Theon had been his friend first. He had murder in him now, as Hizdahr zo Loraq and Reznak mo Reznak had learned, but traitor or no he had truly not spoken idly when he called Theon his brother, even if it seemed like a lifetime ago. With a sigh, he let go of his sword and sank down against the crates opposite Theon, allowing himself an unhappy smile. “Rickard Kartstark killed two Lannister boys we took prisoner. Everyone counseled me to let him live, but I remember sitting there and thinking that I would never show mercy to you for killing Bran and Rickon. So how could I treat Lord Karstark differently?” Gods, the way the rain had drummed down. He would never forget it.

               “It wasn’t Bran and Rickon, but I killed two boys all the same,” Theon said quietly.

               “Did I know them?”

               Theon shrugged, working his jaw. “They were orphans from Winter Town. Bran sent them to help the miller who lived by Acorn Water. I killed the miller too, and his wife, to keep them silent.”

               Robb remembered the miller, though not well. As much as the man and his wife had deserved better, he found it hard to pass judgement. The heads had piled high in the streets of Meereen on his word, and he had done murder in the Great Pyramid. If Theon had shown neither shame nor regret, like Rickard Karstark, he thought he would have felt differently, but Theon seemed to be composed of little else now. “What were their names?”

               “I don’t know.” The admission audibly pained Theon. “I remember their faces though.”

               Robb knew that feeling all too well. “In Meereen I heard half-a-hundred preachers offering absolution at the altar of one god or another. Black gods and white gods and red gods, gods of many colours and no colours at all. It’s not hard to see the appeal.”

               Theon laughed without joy. “The Drowned God offers absolution. You die, and are born anew. They did it to me when I returned to the Iron Islands, but it was a lie. It washed away nothing. My father went on hating me because he was too weak to stop me from being taken away.”

               Robb wondered what it would be like to have some reminder of the worst day of his life returned to him. Olyvar Frey squiring for him once more, perhaps. He didn’t think it would make much difference; it was never far from his thoughts anyway. “I wish you’d returned to me,” he said. Theon presence might have made no difference at all, or it might have made all the difference in the world. Either way, he would have had one less enemy and one more friend.

               “So do I,” Theon replied.

Chapter Text

               The first time in his life that Robb saw White Harbour it had seemed monstrously, absurdly large, a beast with a million eyes and a million ears. But he had been a small child at the time, accompanying his father on a visit to the wealthiest and most loyal of their vassals. Now that he had seen Meereen it seemed tiny, as if some giant had plucked the city that once sat at the mouth of the White Knife and dropped Winter Town in its place. He hoped that Meereen’s fate would not befall it, and that Wyman Manderly was as true a man as his father had always said. One thing that was not unimpressive about White Harbour was its defences, the stout stone walls and two castles, one by the water, dark and weathered, the other atop the hill, pale and proud. Most imposing of all was the spear of rock that commanded the bay, and even at a distance Robb could see it bristling with sharp steel.

               Iron Fleet or not, Robb would not have wished to challenge those defences in an attack from the sea. An attack from the sky, on the other hand… well, there was not a fortress in Westeros built to resist such a thing. The thought made Robb look to where Daenerys stood at his side, watching White Harbour approach. She was as pale and proud as that castle, and far more beautiful. Even now he could scarcely believe such perfection existed in the world. In Braavos she had acquired a fur-lined gown of fine green wool, though he wasn’t sure how well it would stand the Northern cold.

               Above them, twin banners snapped in the salty wind, the dragon and the wolf side by side. The Greyjoy kraken was nowhere to be seen, a choice both wise and satisfying to Robb. His fellow northmen would not take kindly to the arrival of the ironborn, nor did he want them to. Many debts had yet to be settled.

               What Robb wasn’t sure about was how his own arrival would be received. He had led thousands of men south who had never returned home, Lord Wyman’s son Ser Wendel among them. Wendel had died defending Robb at the Twins, because he had chosen Talisa over his honour, his duty and his oath. It seemed unlikely Lord Wyman would thank him for that, and his eldest son, Ser Wylis, had been a captive of the Lannisters. If they still held him, would his father risk his safety for the King Who Lost the North?

               It was a strange sort of homecoming, standing there on the deck of an ironborn ship, beside the Mad King’s daughter, watching a city he had once ruled inching closer while his stomach twisted itself into tangled knots. Perhaps they should have landed at Gulltown after all, where Lord Grafton could expect his loyalty to Daenerys’ father to be rewarded if he welcomed them. The cold grey sky offered little comfort, and the cries of a thousand gulls reminded Robb of the screams of burning men.

               As the fleet drew steadily closer and closer to White Harbour, Robb could make out sea-green banners flying from the towers and battlements, flying high though the wind seemed to be trying to pull them down. The chill made him pull his cloak about himself, and then he saw a sight that could have burned any cold away. White banners were raised beside the green, and alongside the merman of House Manderly ran the direwolf of Stark, as it had for a thousand years. Even at a distance he could hear the cheer that went up from the walls and the rattling of spears against shields. He would have granted a castle to every man standing beneath those flags if he could. Home. He was coming home.

               The ships filled the harbour as they came in with their motley crews, and the people of the city lined the wharves, jostling and craning to get a better view. Black Wind tied up by the old castle, the Wolf’s Den if Robb remembered correctly. Long ago it had been a Stark castle, and as he looked up at its dark, timeworn walls he wondered what his ancestors would think to see him now.

               There was a rush of air and a screech, and every eye in the city turned upwards as Viserion wheeled overhead, riding the air currents. Well, almost every eye. Daenerys was looking directly ahead, straight-backed as she strode up the steps towards the castle atop the hill. Robb hastened to follow her, and she graced him with a glance as he fell in beside her, letting him see the corner of her mouth curling slightly. This was the first time he had really seen her dragons like this, flying freely above her. In Meereen they had been captive until the very end, and then they had been set on her enemies. At sea there had been no-one but the fleet to see them, though mayhaps some passing ships had spotted them and steered well clear. Now they were on display, a controlled but terrifying symbol of her power, and he could tell she enjoyed it.

               Manderly men flanked the clean, white stone steps with tridents in their hands, maintaining disciplined stillness as Daenerys and her eclectic entourage ascended towards the castle. Robb would not have blamed them for indulging curiosity, but they remained almost as still as statues. At the top of the steps, in front of open gates, stood a man that he had not seen in a very long time, and yet he cut an unmistakably spherical figure.

               “Your grace!” Wyman Manderly boomed, throwing his arms out wide. “Welcome to White Harbour! Forgive me, I would kneel, but I fear I should not be able to rise.”

               It didn’t escape Robb’s notice that Lord Wyman was addressing him, not Daenerys, and if he had seen the difference then she definitely had. Before any sharp words could be exchanged he stepped forwards. “I thank you for receiving us so warmly, my Lord Manderly. My lord father always told me that you were the truest of all our bannermen, and your sons were among my most trusted companions. Ser Wendel’s loss grieves me still.”

               “I thank the gods that Wylis has been returned to us alive and well,” Lord Manderly replied.

               With a small nod, Robb turned to Daenerys. “May I present to you Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the first of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. Your grace, this is Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossesed and Lord Marshal of the Mander.”

               To Lord Manderly’s credit, only a curious glance betrayed any surprise before he turned his attention to Daenerys, bowing as deeply as he could manage. “Your grace. My castle and my city are yours, of course, and I am your humble servant.” He gestured, and actual servants brought forward wooden bowls. “Please, take bread and salt, and then perhaps we may go inside out of the cold, if your grace pleases.”

               “That would please me,” Daenerys said as coldly as the air. “Unlike you and Lord Stark I am unused to such weather as this. Once we are inside I will accept your oath of fealty, and then we shall talk.” She finished with a small smile that carried no more warmth than her voice. Robb took a mouthful of bread and salt, remembering the last time he had done so. If Lord Manderly planned treachery then his city would burn, though the thought brought Robb less comfort than he expected.

               But Robb need not have worried; in fact he felt some guilt for doubting Lord Wyman. The merman lord led them to his hall with its fishing nets and painted sea monsters, where he swore himself to Daenerys as his queen, with only a handful of sidelong glances at Robb. More oaths were sworn by lesser lords and knights, most of whom did an admirable job of pretending that this was how they had expected their day to go. Seated upon Lord Wyman’s throne, Daenerys equally betrayed no hint that this outcome had ever been in doubt, though Robb could see the thrill that passed behind her eyes every time a man knelt before her.

               Once a hundred oaths had been sworn, Lord Wyman retired with Robb and Daenerys to his solar. The maritime trappings were less ubiquitous here, though still notable, with twin carved mermen framing the hearth and crossed tridents on the wall. He offered his stout, leather-clad chair to Daenerys, but she declined, preferring to stand by the fire. The chair groaned under his weight as he settled into it, looking from Daenerys to Robb and back again. “I confess, Lord Stark, I had not thought to see you again, less still under these circumstances,” he said.

               “As my servant, you mean,” Daenerys said before Robb could reply.

               Wyman inclined his head. “Indeed, your grace. And with an army that seems drawn from the four corners of the earth. Quite remarkable.”

               “No doubt you thought you had seen your last Targaryen banner after you helped to overthrow my father.” For an uncomfortable moment Daenerys fixed Wyman with her best imperious glare, and then a sly smile curled her lips. Robb tried not to be distracted. “But I am not here to avenge my father, nor even my brother. The Iron Throne is mine by right, and I will take it. Any man who bends the knee is welcome in my service, no matter which side of the War of the Usurper he fought on.”

               “That is most gracious of you,” said Wyman. “Would I be correct to assume that, having landed here, you intend to campaign against House Bolton and secure the North before turning your attention southwards?” he asked, with a glance at Robb.

               “You would,” Daenerys replied.

               “Then I can furnish you with five hundred men to join your ranks, more given time. Further, I can tell you which lords are loyal to House Stark, and which are false.”

               Jaime Lannister sends his regards. Robb could still hear the words ringing in his ears. The thought that any Northerner would throw their lot in with Roose Bolton made his fist clench. “Tell us, then,” he said.

               “The Dustins and Ryswells were the first to support House Bolton. House Karstark too stands behind them.” That was perhaps not a surprise, considering what Robb had done to Lord Rickard, though he did not regret it. “House Umber was split, but it was the traitors led by Hother Whoresbane who won out. The Greatjon remains a captive of the accursed Freys, and I do not for a moment doubt his loyalty.”

               “Nor do I,” said Robb. Even roaring drunk, the Greatjon had fought like a giant at the Twins.

               “The Mormonts are as steadfast as ever,” Wyman continued, “as are the mountain clans, though they committed many men to Stannis Baratheon’s campaign who perished. The Glovers and Tallharts hold true to House Stark as well. The Lockes and Flints may not be my vassals, but they will go where I lead. The Cerwyns, so close to Winterfell, have had little choice but to bend the knee to Roose, but I believe they can be counted on when the time comes. And of course House Reed would never turn their cloaks.”

               Daenerys looked to Robb. “Will it be enough?”

               Robb scratched his stubbled jaw. Umber and Karstark, Ryswell and Dustin, these were among the strongest houses in the North, and many of the loyal houses had suffered terribly during his war in the south. If he was relying on them alone, it would be difficult, but he wasn’t. Still, it would be better to avoid spilling more Northern blood than was necessary. The lords might be traitors, but he was confident their men would fight for him under different lords. “With the forces we have brought with us, yes, it will be enough,” he said slowly. “But we should force a confrontation quickly. Crush the Boltons before winter comes, so that we can go south without bleeding away our strength.”

               “Roose has made Winterfell his seat,” Wyman said. “You could follow the White Knife northwards, march on Winterfell, and drag him out. Or go north-east through the Hornwood, take Hornwood castle, and go on to the Dreadfort. He might meet you to defend his home.” He looked to Daenerys, but she looked to Robb.

               “These are your lands,” she said. “In your judgement, which course should we take?”

               To Robb’s mind, where Roose Bolton was, that was where they should go. And he was loathe to leave Winterfell in the traitor’s grasp. “Winterfell,” he said firmly. “Take Winterfell back, and we take the North.”

               “Winterfell then,” Daenerys nodded, with a dark smile. “I confess, I’m curious to see it.”

               “It’s not in its proper state, even discounting the infestation of vermin,” Wyman said with a scowl. “The Boltons put it about that Theon Greyjoy burned it out rather than let it be retaken, but I have an ironborn who says it was the Boltons themselves, and I’m inclined to believe him.”

               Robb remembered the story blaming Theon, a story told to him by Lothar Frey. Theon had told him a rather different story since then, one that lined up with what Wyman said. For now he thought it best not to bring Theon up; they had sprung enough surprises on Wyman for one day. “Fire doesn’t burn stone. Not natural fire, at any rate,” he said with a glance at Daenerys. “The damage can be repaired.”

               “Aye, my lord,” Wyman nodded. “Once the vermin are cleared out.”

               “Stannis Baratheon,” Daenerys said suddenly. “What became of him? How did the Boltons defeat him?”

               Wyman sighed, scratching his chin. “I was not there, and cannot say for sure. Supposedly it was the cold that defeated him, a fierce snowstorm that sapped his army’s strength and half froze them to death before the Boltons smashed him near Winterfell. But I have heard rumours of treachery, of Karstarks playing him false.”

               Daenerys looked to Robb. “I know little of the North and its houses, but from the name I would have thought House Karstark should be more loyal to you.”

               “They should be,” Robb said grimly. The blood of the First Men flows through my veins as much as yours, boy. We are kin, Stark and Karstark. Lord Rickard had wanted those words to haunt Robb to the end of his days, and it seemed he would get his wish. “The Dreadfort will need a new lord when this is done, and perhaps Karhold will as well.”

               “Hornwood too,” Wyman pointed out. “Mayhaps Barrowton. Many new banners will fly in the North, I think.”

               “Northern lordships are a matter for Northern lords,” Daenerys said with a polite smile. “I will take my leave of you, my lords. We have been a long time at sea, and I am eager for a warm bath.”

               “Of course, your grace,” Wyman said, rising from his chair with some effort. “I hope my chambers and my baths are to your satisfaction.”

               “As do I,” Daenerys replied, sweeping from the room.

               The door swung shut behind her, and Wyman sat back down, arching an eyebrow at Robb. “The Mad King’s daughter, eh?”

               “As much a surprise to me as it is to you.”

               “She certainly acts like she was born to rule. Should I fear for my head?”

               “Not if you serve her loyally.” Even as Robb said it, he wasn’t sure it was quite true. Hizdahr and Reznak’s disloyalty had not been proven, before he killed them or afterwards.

               “On the subject of loyalty, what do you know of the Freys’ version of events at the Twins?”

               Robb snorted. “I doubt it bears much resemblance to the truth.”

               “They claim you and your men turned to wolves and attacked them. That after they fought you off, you used dark magic to spirit yourself away. I thought they were concealing that they had killed you.”

               “It was they who turned on us, them and the Boltons.” Robb didn’t much care to discuss the worst day of his life, but Wyman had lost a son that day, and honesty was the least he was owed.

               “So I have heard from men who survived. How did you escape them?”

               “Not all Freys are false. Ser Perwyn and my squire, Olyvar, saved my life.”

               “And somehow you found your way into Daenerys Targaryen’s service.”

               That was a rather more pleasant memory, and Robb grinned wryly. “I fled across the Narrow Sea, where Essosi sellswords took me captive to sell to her. And you, my lord? How have you survived Bolton rule?”

               Wyman made a face. “Mummery. If they can practice it, why not I? But do not mistake me, I know which debts I owe, and to who. My Wendel came to the Twins a guest. He ate Lord Walder's bread and salt, and hung his sword upon the wall to feast with friends. And they murdered him. Murdered, I say, and may the Freys choke upon their fables. I drink with Jared, jape with Symond, promise Rhaegar the hand of my own beloved granddaughter. But never think that means I have forgotten. The North remembers, my lord. The North remembers, and the mummer's farce is almost done. My son is home. And now, so too is my king.”

               Feeling a swell of gratitude within his breast for such loyalty, Robb nevertheless shook his head. “I wear no crown, and welcome the lightness of my head. Daenerys Stormborn is my queen now, and yours. We have both given our word.”

               “Aye, but there’s what a man says, and what he knows in his bones. Crown or not, you remain the King in the North, and I’m far from the only man who knows it. My own granddaughter Wylla,” he said, breaking into a proud smile, “you should hear her, defending your name. The North remembers, your grace.”

               Robb had to fight back a smile of his own, for as much as he wanted to hug this most rotund and loyal of lords, such talk was dangerous. “I would not have thought you a man to swear an idle oath,” he said.

               “Nor am I. I’ll serve your dragon queen for as long as you do. But should the day ever come that I must choose between the two of you, it’s Stark banners I’ll fly, be sure of that.”

Chapter Text

               Daenerys had not believed she would ever miss Meereen, but the Northern cold had her longing for its languid warmth. And she wasn’t even in the North yet, though she drew closer by the minute. Either the fur collar of her dress was worth very little, or she would have to keep it on all the time to avoid freezing to death.

               White Harbour did not look like it would provide much shelter from the cold, even crowned as it was by columns of smoke rising from a thousand hearths. Daenerys had not been expecting grand pyramids, but still the North’s great city was underwhelming. She had known Qarth and Pentos, Braavos and Volantis, and compared to them it was barely a city at all. Robb stood at her side, tall and handsome as ever, and she wondered how he would react if she voiced her first impressions. Would he take offence? No, she didn’t think so. He wasn’t the kind of man who would deny an obvious truth simply because it wounded his pride. White Harbour was no Meereen, but then there were no slave markets in White Harbour, so perhaps she should not be so quick to judge it.

               Coming home did not feel how Daenerys had always imagined it. Rather than the joy she had expected to swell in her breast, she felt much as she had in the Garden of Bones before the gates of Qarth, waiting for strangers to decide whether she lived or died. In her mind it had not been White Harbour she sailed into, but King’s Landing. The North had scarcely entered her mind except as the land of her enemy, Eddard Stark, at least until his son had knelt before her. But there it was, Westeros, rising in front of her, the home she had been driven from. She was returning with an army and three dragons, ready to bring Fire and Blood to her enemies, only they were all dead. Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister, Hoster Tully, Gregor Clegane, Amory Lorch, even Stannis Baratheon who had chased her and Viserys from Dragonstone, they were all rotting in the ground. There was no-one to take revenge on, and the Iron Throne was half a continent away. Well, almost no-one. The Kingslayer yet lived, but he was as far away as the Iron Throne.

               It was the colour, Daenerys decided. In her imagination Westeros had been a green and pleasant land of rolling hills and open plains. But White Harbour was timber-brown and stone-grey, and the lands around it, though green, were so dark under the cloudy sky they were almost black, while the sea was as grey as slate, not blue and bright.

               There was some fragile bright colour on the battlements atop the city walls, sea-green banners flying proudly in the chill wind. A distant cheer drew Daenerys’ gaze to them as more banners were raised by their side, white banners: Stark banners. Her eyes scanned the walls from end to end, searching every scrap of cloth, yet nowhere was there so much as a hint of black and red. Her dragons circled overhead, shadows within the clouds, but no dragons flew from the walls of White Harbour, only Robb’s direwolves. She looked at him, and the joy on his face twisted in her stomach.

               As the ships drew one by one into the harbour and Black Wind tied up in the shadow of a wizened old castle, Daenerys knew she should be pleased. They had friends in Westeros, a safe port, a foothold before they even set foot on dry land. But they were Robb’s friends, not hers, and she couldn’t bring herself to look up to see the direwolves flying from the castle’s towers. Even when Viserion screeched overhead, the rush of air from his wings making her dress swirl about her legs, she kept her eyes ahead, though she did take some satisfaction in the way everyone around her cowered.

               Striding up white steps flanked by Manderly men who were so rigid they could almost have been Unsullied, Daenerys saw Robb fall into step beside her out of the corner of her eye. She thought of how he had looked when he knelt before her to kiss her boot, and smiled. It was a memory she often returned to, for one reason or another.

               At the top of the steps, in front of the open gates of a castle much more pleasing to behold than the one at their base, waited a man who for a moment had Daenerys remembering how it felt to stand at the foot of another set of steps while the Spice King made a fool of her. But the Spice King was long dead, and this man if anything made him look slender by comparison. “Your grace!” the man said, spreading his arms wide, and for a cruel instant Daenerys didn’t notice that he was looking at Robb, not her. “Welcome to White Harbour! Forgive me, I would kneel, but I fear I should not be able to rise.”

               Anger tightened Daenerys’ chest, but before she could educate the fat man Robb stepped forwards. “I thank you for receiving us so warmly, my Lord Manderly. My lord father always told me that you were the truest of all our bannermen, and your sons were among my most trusted companions. Ser Wendel’s loss grieves me still,” he said, and at once Daenerys resented that she didn’t fully understand what he was talking about.

               “I thank the gods that Wylis has been returned to us alive and well,” the fat man who was apparently Lord Manderly replied.

               Robb turned to Daenerys, and it was lucky for him that he had been quick about it. “May I present to you Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the first of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons,” he said. “Your grace, this is Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossesed and Lord Marshal of the Mander.”

               Wyman Manderly had almost as many titles as Daenerys, though she doubted he had earned them as she had. He bowed deeply enough that she was concerned for his stability, but he managed to right himself. “Your grace. My castle and my city are yours, of course, and I am your humble servant.” At least this time he addressed the right person, she thought as his servants came forwards with wooden bowls. “Please, take bread and salt, and then perhaps we may go inside out of the cold, if your grace pleases.”

               “That would please me,” Daenerys said sternly. “Unlike you and Lord Stark I am unused to such weather as this. Once we are inside I will accept your oath of fealty, and then we shall talk.”

               It was quite strange, stepping into a Westerosi castle for the first time. Unlike the manses of the Free Cities or the pyramids of Slaver’s Bay it was a stronghold as much as a home, and the thick walls were decorated with weapons as well as tapestries. Lord Wyman led them to his hall, and the wooden panelling with its maritime décor surprised her with how much it improved her mood. There was a passion to it that went beyond mere display, a pride that gave it a remarkably homely feel for such a large hall. The wooden throne piled with cushions was not the one forged by Aegon the Conqueror, but as she sat down on it she thought that it was probably the more comfortable of the two.

               Lord Wyman was the first to swear his fealty to Daenerys, then his son, Ser Wylis, then Lord Woolfield of Ramsgate and half a dozen other lords, followed by so many knights that Daenerys lost count. Not that she objected to so many men kneeling before her, of course. On the contrary she enjoyed herself immensely, though she maintained a proper regal bearing no matter how much a smug grin tried to fight its way onto her face. It markedly improved her mood, and by the time the last knight had pledged himself to her she had stopped trying to think of ways to punish Robb later.

               With the formalities over, Lord Wyman showed Daenerys and Robb to his solar, where she was grateful for the fire crackling in the merman-flanked hearth, choosing it over his chair when he offered it to her. She had been sitting for long enough, and he probably needed it more than she did anyway. “I confess, Lord Stark, I had not thought to see you again, less still under these circumstances,” he said as he sat down.

               “As my servant, you mean,” Daenerys said sharply. She wanted no doubt in anyone’s mind about who they all served.

               Wyman inclined his head. “Indeed, your grace. And with an army that seems drawn from the four corners of the earth. Quite remarkable.”

               “No doubt you thought you had seen your last Targaryen banner after you helped to overthrow my father.” Daenerys enjoyed the look that passed across Wyman’s face at that. She was ready to forgive men like him, men who had done their duty to their liege lords, but she would not let them think she had forgotten. ““But I am not here to avenge my father, nor even my brother,” she continued, watching Wyman let out a breath. “The Iron Throne is mine by right, and I will take it. Any man who bends the knee is welcome in my service, no matter which side of the War of the Usurper he fought on.”

               “That is most gracious of you,” said Wyman, accurately. “Would I be correct to assume that, having landed here, you intend to campaign against House Bolton and secure the North before turning your attention southwards?” he asked, with a glance at Robb.

               “You would,” Daenerys replied before Robb could say anything.

               “Then I can furnish you with five hundred men to join your ranks, more given time. Further, I can tell you which lords are loyal to House Stark, and which are false.”

               Loyal to House Stark, not House Targaryen. Viserys had always told her they had secret supporters in the Seven Kingdoms, men who would rise to fight for them when they returned. After he died she had dismissed such notions as desperate fantasies, but here it seemed there were secret supporters after all, only their hidden banners bore direwolves, not dragons. “Tell us, then,” Robb said, with a tautness to his tone that caught Daenerys’ ear.

               “The Dustins and Ryswells were the first to support House Bolton. House Karstark too stands behind them. House Umber was split, but it was the traitors led by Hother Whoresbane who won out. The Greatjon remains a captive of the accursed Freys, and I do not for a moment doubt his loyalty.”

               “Nor do I,” said Robb.

               “The Mormonts are as steadfast as ever,” Wyman continued, “as are the mountain clans, though they committed many men to Stannis Baratheon’s campaign who perished. The Glovers and Tallharts hold true to House Stark as well. The Lockes and Flints may not be my vassals, but they will go where I lead. The Cerwyns, so close to Winterfell, have had little choice but to bend the knee to Roose, but I believe they can be counted on when the time comes. And of course House Reed would never turn their cloaks.”

               Daenerys had little idea who any of these people were. Robb had told her some, and Varys had spoken to her of the Northern lords as well, but they were just names to her. She looked to Robb, who had been their king. “Will it be enough?” she asked.

               Robb took a moment to respond, and when he did he spoke slowly. “With the forces we have brought with us, yes, it will be enough. But we should force a confrontation quickly. Crush the Boltons before winter comes, so that we can go south without bleeding away our strength.” That seemed wise to Daenerys. South was where the real war was, and the real prize.

               “Roose has made Winterfell his seat,” Wyman said. “You could follow the White Knife northwards, march on Winterfell, and drag him out. Or go north-east through the Hornwood, take Hornwood castle, and go on to the Dreadfort. He might meet you to defend his home.” This time it was Daenerys he was looking to, much to her gratification, but admittedly Robb knew better than her what course they should take.

               “These are your lands. In your judgement, which course should we take?” she asked him.

               Robb was quick to answer that one. “Winterfell. Take Winterfell back, and we take the North.”

               “Winterfell then,” Daenerys nodded, pleased to have a plan, and an enemy to fight. “I confess, I’m curious to see it.” Viserys had spoken much of Dragonstone and King’s Landing, but little of other parts of the Seven Kingdoms, still less of the North. What manner of place could produce a man like Robb? A man so unlike any other she had ever known.

               “It’s not in its proper state, even discounting the infestation of vermin,” Wyman said. Daenerys was starting to warm up to him. He was reminding her less of the Spice King now, and more of Ser Willem Darry. “The Boltons put it about that Theon Greyjoy burned it out rather than let it be retaken, but I have an ironborn who says it was the Boltons themselves, and I’m inclined to believe him.”

               “Fire doesn’t burn stone,” Robb said. Not strictly true, Daenerys thought, remembering what had been left of Meereen. “Not natural fire, at any rate,” he added with a glance at her, evidently thinking the same thing. “The damage can be repaired.”

               “Aye, my lord,” Wyman nodded. “Once the vermin are cleared out.”

               It occurred to Daenerys that they would not be the first to march on Winterfell intending to clear out the Boltons, and it seemed sensible to try to learn why the last attempt had failed. “Stannis Baratheon, what became of him? How did the Boltons defeat him?” she asked.

               Wyman sighed, scratching his collection of chins. “I was not there, and cannot say for sure. Supposedly it was the cold that defeated him, a fierce snowstorm that sapped his army’s strength and half froze them to death before the Boltons smashed him near Winterfell. But I have heard rumours of treachery, of Karstarks playing him false.”

               Treachery. An appropriate ending for one of the Usurper’s dogs, Daenerys thought. At least the allegiance of the Karstarks was known now, though it seemed odd. “I know little of the North and its houses,” she said, turning to Robb, “but from the name I would have thought House Karstark should be more loyal to you.”

               “They should be,” Robb said, and Daenerys recognised what she heard in his voice. It was a feeling she knew all too well. “The Dreadfort will need a new lord when this is done, and perhaps Karhold will as well.”

               “Hornwood too,” Wyman pointed out. “Mayhaps Barrowton. Many new banners will fly in the North, I think.”

               “Northern lordships are a matter for Northern lords,” Daenerys said before they could start down another list of names she barely knew. “I will take my leave of you, my lords. We have been a long time at sea, and I am eager for a warm bath.”

               “Of course, your grace,” Wyman said, rising from his creaking chair. “I hope my chambers and my baths are to your satisfaction.”

               “As do I,” Daenerys replied, feeling the cold catch up to her as she stepped away from the fire and strode from the room.

               In a place such as White Harbour, a city that was barely a city, Daenerys didn’t expect much from Lord Wyman’s baths, but she was very pleased to be mistaken. Servants showed her to a square room that was big enough to be comfortable and small enough to be cosy, and where most of the space was taken up by a stone pool of steaming water. Eagerly stripping off, she slipped beneath the surface, momentarily closing her eyes as the heat washed the chill from her bones. The pool was deep enough that standing upright the water came up to her chin, but she found a stone step where she could sit without drowning herself.

               In the water’s warm embrace, Daenerys allowed herself to relax, to forget wars and lords, thrones and dragons. Resting her head against the pool’s edge, she closed her eyes and let herself be a woman enjoying a pleasant bath, dragging her hands lazily across the surface, breathing the humid air deeply. Was this how Jonquil had felt? If the opportunity arose, she resolved to visit Maidenpool and see how the baths there compared.

               Somehow she doubted Winterfell had warm baths like this. She imagined a cold, grim place, with thick walls of dark grey stone, and snow crowning every tower even at the height of summer. But then she had imagined Stark men as cold and grim too, but Robb was warm and kind and gentle, so maybe she was wrong about Winterfell. She wished she could come to it in different circumstances, on a royal progress, visiting the dashing son of a great lord who had charmed her at a King’s Landing tourney. That Daenerys might have been the Lady of Winterfell, and brought light to the grim North.

               But she was not that Daenerys. She was Daenerys Stormborn, and she would not be content to be any lord’s wife. No, the lords would have to beg to be her husband, down on their knees while she was seated on the Iron Throne, where she belonged.

               It still had not fully sunk in how close she was. The girl who had once stumbled across the Red Waste on the other side of the world was in Westeros at last, and she had brought with her an army, a fleet and three fearsome dragons. Let her enemies tremble, she thought, smiling to herself. The Iron Throne was finally within her reach, and she would not let anyone stop her from taking it.

Chapter Text

               When Daenerys’ army marched out of White Harbour, Manderly men were in the van, with Ser Marlon Manderly at their head. They knew the land, and it seemed wise to massage their pride, even if she trusted them far less than her Unsullied. Not that she thought them false, but no man could be as loyal as her ten thousand. Fewer than ten thousand now, of course. Bled away across Slaver’s Bay. So she needed these Westerosi lords, even the ones who had fought against her father.

               Not for the first time, Daenerys had to remind herself that her father had been a tyrant. Viserys had always told her that the rebels were traitors, that the tales of their father’s atrocities were lies, and it wasn’t easy to forget it. She believed what she had been told since, by Ser Barristan and others, but still her instincts made her wary of any man who had fought for the Usurper. At least Stannis Baratheon was dead. She didn’t know if she had it in her to forgive the man who had chased her from her home.

               Wyman Manderly had fought for the Usurper too, but he had done no harm to any Targaryen, and he had been following his liege lord. Daenerys glanced over to where his current liege lord rode nearby, the man who not so long ago he had called king. If Eddard Stark’s son rose against Aerys Targaryen’s daughter, it seemed unlikely that Lord Wyman would choose his queen.

               But why should Robb rise? He seemed to enjoy being beneath Daenerys as much as she enjoyed having him there. He was brave and true, and she… she could see no reason why they might ever be at odds. Certainly she did not intend anything like what her father had done to his family. And yet the thought still gnawed at her as the army made its way along the left bank of the White Knife, every step towards Winterfell strengthening Robb’s position. More men joined them as they marched, Lockes and Flints, Tallharts and Glovers, even a few crannogmen. It was Robb they came to fight for.

               There was a bridge where the Hoarwine flowed into the White Knife from the west, and the army crossed that bridge, following the Hoarwine’s left bank now north-westwards. Every day that passed without sight of any Bolton army marching to meet them frayed Daenerys’ nerves a little more. Her dragons soared overhead, but she knew better than to give in to overconfidence. What schemes might the Boltons be hatching, to snatch away her birthright when it was so close?

               The answer, when it came, was not what anyone was expecting. Scouts who approached to within eyesight of Winterfell returned with reports that it was already under siege. Daenerys would have been suspicious that no-one had mentioned any other enemies of the Boltons if Ser Marlon hadn’t been as surprised as anyone, harrumphing into his beard. The scouts reported that the besiegers flew a banner they didn’t recognise, a burning heart on a red field. Someone observed a similarity to the banner of Stannis Baratheon, but the scouts insisted that this one lacked the crowned stag – though there was argument over whether the heart was plain, or bore a white wolf.

               Hoping that enemies of Bolton were friends of Stark, the army pressed onwards, sending messengers ahead in hopes of a warm reception. When they returned, they had the look of men who had seen murder.

               “They’re burning prisoners, your grace,” said Rodrik Forrester, the chief messenger. Even crowded with bodies and lit by braziers, Daenerys’ pavilion was cold, and she wished she had a heavy fur cloak like the northern lords to keep out the night’s chill. “Sacrifices to their foreign fire god.”

               “They’re an army from Essos?” Ser Jorah asked.

               Rodrik shook his head. “Wildlings mostly. The gods know how they got so far south of the wall, but they had men in black cloaks among them.”

               “Deserters from the Watch?” Lord Woolfield wondered aloud. Daenerys glanced at Missandei, who looked as cold as she felt. Wildlings and the Night’s Watch, these men discussed such matters as if they were born knowing of them. For her this land was as alien as Slaver’s Bay had been.

               “Mayhaps,” Rodrik replied.

               “Any man may put on a black cloak,” Robett Glover pointed out.

               “Aye, but few could pass the wall without help, especially in such numbers,” said Ser Marlon.

               “We spoke with a priestess in red,” Rodrik continued. “She offered to receive you as a guest in their camp, your grace.”

               Fire gods and priests in red. Daenerys knew the followers of R’hllor by description, though her personal experience of them was limited. If an army of fanatics lay before them, at least fire worshippers might be more amenable to the Mother of Dragons than most. “Did she tell you what they want? Why they have laid siege to Winterfell?” she asked Rodrik.

               “She said only that the Boltons are enemies of her god, your grace.”

               “Speak your mind,” Daenerys instructed, observing how Rodrik fidgeted.

               “She… I would not trust her, your grace. I cannot name the cause of my suspicion, but being in her presence raised my hackles, that I know.”

               “There were tales of a foreign fire priestess in the service of Stannis Baratheon,” said Robett. “It may be that this is she.”

               “Then who does she serve now?” Tyrion asked.

               “I will accept her invitation, and find out for myself,” Daenerys said, catching Robb’s eyes and noting the troubled look in them. “Meanwhile, the army will continue to march to Winterfell, and be ready to fight when it arrives. That will be all, my lords.”

               The pavilion emptied, which did nothing to help the chill. Robb remained, and though Daenerys wanted to fall into his warm embrace there were yet words to be exchanged. “We spoke of your home, and you said nothing,” she observed.

               “I haven’t been to Winterfell in half a decade.” Daenerys could hear the weight on Robb’s words, and she wondered if she would long for Dragonstone and the Red Keep more if she remembered them. “I know nothing of fire gods. Ask me how to lay siege to the castle and I will tell you. But diplomacy is your strength, not mine, your grace.”

               Daenerys’ lips curled, and a tingle ran up her spine. Your grace. She never tired of hearing those two little words from Robb’s lips. “Believe me, it’s easier with dragons. Tell me of the wildlings at least.”

               Robb pulled his cloak about himself. “I’ve never been to the Wall, let alone beyond it. My uncle, Benjen, or my brother, Jon, could tell you more.” He paused, gazing into a brazier’s burning depths. “They’re savages who live beyond the Wall, and do not bend the knee to any man – or woman – south of it. Often they raid across the Wall, but they fight among themselves as often as they do with us, and the Night’s Watch mostly keeps them at bay.”

               “Do they have a king?”

               “The King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder. So men say, at least.”

               “Men say many things. Do you know what gods they keep?”

               “The old gods, I think. I’ve never heard of any fire worshippers among them.”

               “This land is cold enough, I would have thought fire worshippers would be common,” Daenerys said, wrapping her arms around herself.

               With a playful smile, Robb took Daenerys gently by the shoulders and pulled her closer to him, giving her the warmth of his body and the brazier both. “I brought a fire goddess with me,” he said, and she felt his rough stubble against her skin as he kissed her cheek. From another man it would have sounded like obvious flattery, but Robb had worshipped Daenerys many times, and it warmed her as much as the fire to hear him name her his goddess.

               “R’hllor is their god,” Daenerys said, looking into the flames. “They call him the Lord of Light.” And yet their reputation was dark. How could it not be? Better than most, Daenerys knew the power of fire, and its terrible temptation. The beauty and the horror. The ruins of Meereen were testament to that.

               “I don’t care what gods a man keeps,” Robb said. “But burning prisoners-”

               “I have burned prisoners,” Daenerys said sharply, turning in his arms to face him.

               “As did your father,” Robb replied.

               Daenerys had to resist the urge to hit him. How many times would her father’s crimes be laid at her feet? She wasn’t even born when Jaime Lannister stabbed him in the back. “Whereas the northern way of hacking their heads off is much more civilised,” she retorted.

               “I’m not trying to argue with you, your grace,” Robb said, with a set to his jaw that suggested he was putting considerable effort into not arguing.

               “That’s wise. Testing my patience rarely ends well.”

               Robb’s arms released Daenerys, and she tried to ignore the sudden chill. “Forgive me, your grace.” He bowed, not very deeply. “I will not disturb you further.”

               Watching him go, Daenerys bit her lip, swallowing a command for him to stay. She could have handled that better, she knew, but sometimes he had a way of pricking her pride. From the very first time he had knelt before her he had been able to get under her skin like no-one else.

               If Daenerys was just a girl she could spend all her waking hours thinking of Robb Stark, with his curly auburn hair and thoughtful blue eyes. But she was not just a girl. She was a queen, and she had a war to fight, a throne to win. Tomorrow she would meet with these fire worshippers and win them to her cause, one way or another. They had common enemies and common interests. Defeat the Boltons, take Winterfell, take the North.

               And then south. Lannister, Arryn, Tyrell, Martell. They would bend the knee or die screaming, and the rightful queen would sit the Iron Throne. Daenerys hoped they would bend the knee. Women should not tear the realm apart over power; that wasn’t the kind of queen she wanted to be. Myrcella Lannister, Lysa Arryn, Olenna Tyrell, even Cersei Lannister, they were not her enemies. They had not stolen her throne, chased her from her home, sent assassins to hound her across the world. Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, Tywin Lannister, they were gone to dust and memory. Only one man remained who had to die. The Kingslayer.

               The sun was high in the sky when Daenerys first beheld Winterfell, gleaming off the autumn snow. It looked much as she had imagined it, grey and grim, though its towers were curiously free of snow. There was certainly no mistaking it, for a fortress of such imposing size could only be the ancient seat of the Kings of Winter. As the scouts had reported it was ringed by blazing bonfires amidst entrenched siege lines, and as Daenerys and her party rode closer she caught the familiar scent of burning flesh on the air.

               “Not much of a siege,” Ser Barristan grumbled. “Amateur work.” Daenerys took his word for it.

               The men who came out from the siege lines to meet them looked savage enough to be wildlings, though there were northmen in her army whose appearance was little different. One stood out, and not just because she was a woman: her dress was as red as her hair, and far too thin for such weather. This had to be the fire priestess.

               “Queen Daenerys,” the priestess said in perfect Valyrian, though with an accent Daenerys had never heard before. “I was a slave once. Bought and sold, scourged and branded. It is an honour to meet the Breaker of Chains.” As if on cue, Rhaegal screeched overhead, and the priestess looked up, lips curling in a smile that seemed unpleasantly knowing. “Not to mention the Mother of Dragons.”

               “I had not looked to find a priestess of R’hllor in this place,” Daenerys replied in Valyrian. “What is your name?”

               “I am called Melisandre.”

               “Melisandre,” Daenerys repeated, mostly so that those of her entourage who did not speak Valyrian – which was most of them – would not miss it.

               “Stannis Baratheon’s infamous red woman,” said Tyrion in Westerosi. “Not the type to go down with the ship, it seems.”

               “I serve as the Lord of Light wills,” Melisandre responded in Westerosi, still with that curious accent.

               “The Lord of Light doesn’t like House Bolton?” Tyrion asked sardonically.

               Melisandre smiled again, just as unsettlingly as before. “Few do, in my experience. But I am not here for House Bolton, I am here serving the Lord’s chosen.”

               “I thought Stannis was the Lord’s chosen.”

               This time Daenerys detected a flicker of annoyance at Tyrion’s impudence beneath the smile. “Will you accompany me, your grace?” Melisandre asked, turning her attention back to Daenerys. “You can meet him yourself.”

               Whatever prophet or charlatan might lead this ragtag army, the sooner Daenerys met him and got the measure of him, the better. “Very well,” she said. “Lead on.”

               Melisandre turned and walked back the way she had come, and Daenerys followed with her entourage, the breath of their horses turning to steam in the chill air in spite of the fires. If this was Winterfell in autumn, what must it be like in the depths of winter?

               Before a rugged tent of animal skins draped with furs, Melisandre halted. “Only two may enter,” she said.

               “Your grace-” Ser Jorah started, but Daenerys held up a hand and looked at Robb. The two of them dismounted, and together strode into the tent.

               It was dark inside, a single firepit burning low and casting the walls of the tent in shifting shadows. The smoky air pricked at Daenerys’ eyes, making them water. A figure crouched by the firepit with his back to them, a heavy black cloak draped over his shoulders. With an odd rasping sound he stood and turned, and for a moment Daenerys thought she beheld a ghost, he was so pale. His eyes were so dark they were almost as black as his hair, curly like Robb’s, but longer. In fact, the longer Daenerys looked, the more of Robb she saw in him.

               The resemblance was heightened when Daenerys looked to Robb beside her and saw that the colour had drained from his face. With only the colour of their hair and eyes to tell them apart, the two men could have been brothers. “Jon?” Robb breathed.

               “Robb,” the man said raspily. “And you’re Daenerys Targaryen,” he added to her, as if she didn’t know.

               Daenerys looked to Robb. “You know him?”

               “He’s my brother.” His brother? She had been more right than she knew. This must be the bastard brother from the Night’s Watch. “Jon… I… I wasn’t even sure you were still alive.”

               “I was killed,” Jon said flatly. “I crossed over to the other side, and hunted in a realm of forest and snow.”

               “You… were killed?” Daenerys was as stunned by that statement as Robb sounded.

               “By my brothers in the Night’s Watch. I paid them back in blood.” For a moment the fire turned Jon’s dark eyes red, and his bared teeth gleamed. “I piled their heads at Castle Black. When I’m done here, the heads of Roose and Ramsay Bolton will join them.”

               Revenge Daenerys could understand, but he had skipped over some important details. “If you died, how are you standing here, speaking to us?” she asked.

               “Melisandre says I am her Lord’s chosen. Azor Ahai reborn, the prince that was promised. But if I am the messenger of a god, I have received no message. I hear no voice from an outer world. I have only Ghost.” Something stirred in a dark corner and Daenerys drew closer to Robb, her heart beating faster. Out of the gloom came an enormous wolf, its fur as white as snow, its eyes pinkish-red. It stared at her, but made no move to approach past the fire. Robb seemed to relax at the sight of it, so she trusted his knowledge over her own instincts, though she stayed close to him.

               “Not any more,” Robb said, putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I’m here. We’re going to take Winterfell back together. Get revenge together. We’re going to get the girls back, get Bran and Rickon back.”

               Jon stared at Robb, then he shrugged Robb’s hand off his shoulder and walked over to Ghost, scratching the direwolf behind the ears. “I thought you were dead too. I looked for you on the other side, but you weren’t there. Father wasn’t there either.”

               “I never died, Jon. I’ve been across the Narrow Sea.”

               “And you returned for vengeance.”

               “He returned in my service,” Daenerys corrected Jon. Robb had bent the knee and offered her the North, that was why they were there. “And I am here to take back my birthright.”

               Jon looked at Daenerys, and she didn’t much like the way he examined her. “The Iron Throne.” He smiled again, baring his teeth. “The game of thrones is not my concern. My enemy is to the north, not the south.”

               Daenerys was about to say something sharp, but Robb got his words out first. “What enemy?”

               “It wasn’t wildlings the Wall was raised to protect us against,” Jon replied.

               “The Others?” Robb asked. Daenerys had no idea what either of them was talking about, but she heard the shock and fear in Robb’s voice, and saw the look on his face, as though he had felt cold fingers on his spine.

               “They’re coming. Marching south with an army of corpses,” said Jon. “And if we do not stop them, we are all going to die.”

               “Then what are you doing here, at Winterfell?” Robb asked. Daenerys was more concerned with this army of corpses, but she resisted the urge to speak up. For now, she let Robb do the talking, on a subject he clearly knew more of than her.

               “The Boltons chose to be my enemies,” Jon said. “In this fight, I can tolerate no enemies south of the Wall. I came south to root them out, and the free folk came with me. The Boltons marched to meet us, and in the Wolfswood we fell upon them, set them fleeing back to Winterfell.”

               “And once you’re done-” Robb started, but Jon interrupted him before he could finish.

               “Once I’m done with the Boltons I will return to Castle Black to prepare for what’s coming.”

               “You will leave Winterfell in our hands?” Daenerys asked. Whatever these Others were, they were on the other side of the Wall. Winterfell was what she had come for.

               Jon looked at her blankly. “It’s Robb’s castle.”

               “It’s ours, Jon,” Robb replied. “You’re my brother.”

               “My brothers murdered me.”

               Admittedly, Daenerys had not met very many murdered people, but she didn’t think they were usually so conversational. “I still don’t understand, if they killed you, how are you alive?” she asked.

               “Ask the red woman.”

               That seemed like the quality of answer Daenerys could expect from Jon Snow. Part of her hesitated to leave Robb alone with him and that beast of a wolf, but the wolf at least was looking at him like it knew him, and they were brothers after all. Stepping out of the tent, she found Melisandre there waiting for her, and the rest of her entourage dismounted, standing around. They looked gratifyingly pleased to see her unharmed, but she held up a hand to stay their questions, turning to Melisandre instead. “A curious man to choose for your leader,” she commented.

               Melisandre turned to walk through the snow, and Daenerys fell into step beside her. “The Lord chose him, not I,” the red woman said.

               “Was it also your lord who brought him back from the grave?”

               Melisandre smiled knowingly. “He had no grave. The Night’s Watch put him in an ice cellar beneath the Wall.”

               “A difficult place for a fire god’s power to reach.”

               “You, the Mother of Dragons, should know not to underestimate fire.”

               Daenerys looked to a nearby bonfire. There was no sign of charred corpses, but the smell of burnt flesh lingered. “The prisoners you burned, who were they?”

               “Captured Bolton men. Infidels.”

               “I don’t worship your Lord of Light. Am I an infidel to be burned?”

               “You are the Mother of Dragons, and dragons are fire made flesh. The Lord loves you, Daenerys Stormborn, whether you yet worship him or not.”

               “What about my followers? I have an army, composed of worshippers of a dozen different gods.”

               “If they serve you, then they serve the Lord.” Melisandre stopped, looking towards the bonfire. “Even now, He has brought you here for a purpose.” Daenerys cocked her head and said nothing. “We have no siege weapons. It would have taken us a long time to starve the Boltons out of Winterfell. But the Boltons should be grateful, for you have brought us fire, and death by fire is the purest death.” Drogon roared among the clouds, and Daenerys smiled.

Chapter Text

               It sat ill with Robb to leave Theon in White Harbour, for many reasons, but he utterly refused to join the army on its march to Winterfell. Guilt was some of it, he could tell, but he had never seen Theon so afraid. When next they spoke, they would discuss it further, he had resolved. For now the ironborn and their ships would remain in White Harbour, where the Manderlys and the freedmen sailors would watch them. Oaths of fealty or not, Robb was not fool enough to trust them.

               Daenerys seemed to trust Varys, who had spied on her for King Robert. She definitely trusted Ser Jorah Mormont, who had been one of those spies. It was odd to think that Ser Jorah had once sworn fealty to his father as Lord of Bear Island. He reminded Robb of Maege more than Dacey, weathered and tough like old leather.

               “Is it as strange for you as it is for me?” Ser Jorah asked, riding beside Robb as the army made its way northwards along the White Knife. “Being here in the North after so long?”

               Since Robb had left the North, his father had been killed, as had his mother. He had gained and lost a crown, and a wife. He had known war on two continents, and betrayal and loss beyond measure. Strange did not begin to describe how it felt. “It is,” he said.

               “I never expected to return,” said Ser Jorah. “It’s colder than I remember.”

               “When I first came to Slaver’s Bay, I felt like I had stepped into a furnace,” Robb replied.

               Ser Jorah chuckled. “I didn’t know men could live in such heat. When I was a young man I thought Oldtown was uncomfortably hot, but I would’ve killed to feel that cool when we were crossing the red waste.”

               “You’d think men born to be lords would know more of the world,” Robb mused. Maester Luwin had been a diligent teacher, but had taught little of the lands across the Narrow Sea, still less of what lay beyond the Free Cities.

               “They’re as ignorant of us as we are of them,” Jorah replied. “They called me Jorah the Andal.”

               Robb allowed himself a small smile. “You never tried to correct them?”

               “Oh, I did. But eventually I saw the futility of it. And when you’re deep in the Dothraki Sea, the distinction between Andals and First Men doesn’t mean much.”

               The Dothraki were not a people Robb knew much about, even now. He knew Daenerys’ first husband had been a Dothraki lord, that her title, Khaleesi, was Dothraki. She had a few dozen Dothraki followers remaining, but of them he knew little more than that they were brave and fierce. “What brought you to the Dothraki Sea?” he asked.

               Jorah looked grim. “Selling my sword. It was all I had left, in my exile.” Robb had been tactfully avoiding that subject, but Jorah seemed like he wanted to talk about it. “Your father was an honourable man, and a just lord. I never believed the stories that he plotted to take the Iron Throne. And I would not have wished his fate upon him.”

               Though Robb had never met Jeor Mormont, he knew that his death must weigh heavily on Jorah. It was odd to think that they shared that, but in a way it seemed fitting. Daenerys was an orphan too, as were her Unsullied. They were an army of orphans, led by the Mother of Dragons. “My father brought me with him,” he said slowly. “To Bear Island. I was a boy of ten.” Ned Stark had wanted his son to know what justice looked like.

               “I’m not proud that I fled,” said Jorah. “But I confess, I prefer my head attached to my shoulders. I hope I didn’t disappoint you.”

               Robb shook his head. “I was relieved. And I enjoyed sparring with Dacey instead.”

               Jorah smiled. “Gods, Dacey was still a girl when I left. She will be a woman grown know.”

               Robb’s stomach twisted bitterly. “She’s dead. She died fighting for me, at the Twins.” After that they rode in silence.

               The closer the army got to Winterfell, the more Robb dreaded their arrival. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Roose Bolton, sitting in his father’s chair. Jaime Lannister sends his regards. He would sooner raze Winterfell to the ground than leave it in the grasp of that cunt. But the idea of battering down the gates that had once felt like safety seemed akin to fighting naked.

               When the scouts returned with news that Winterfell was already under siege it was a source of both consternation and relief to Robb. Whoever these other enemies of Roose Bolton were, they had saved him from laying siege to his home. But the scouts reported that they flew a banner no-one recognised, and he did not like knowing there was a mysterious army ready to sack Winterfell.

               Daenerys sent messengers to treat with the besiegers, and when they returned her captains gathered in her tent. Rodrik Forrester was the chief messenger, and his face was pale beneath his scars. “They’re burning prisoners, your grace,” he reported. “Sacrifices to their foreign fire god.”

               “They’re an army from Essos?” Ser Jorah asked. Why he would assume that, Robb didn’t know, but Jorah knew more than him of the lands across the Narrow Sea.

               Rodrik shook his head. “Wildlings mostly. The gods know how they got so far south of the wall, but they had men in black cloaks among them.” The last wildlings Robb knew of that had crossed the wall in force and come far south had been the army of Raymun Redbeard, almost a century ago.

               “Deserters from the Watch?” Lord Woolfield suggested.

               “Mayhaps,” Rodrik replied. Robb remembered the deserter his father had executed. Gods, that felt like it had happened a lifetime ago. That was the day they found the direwolf pups. The day Grey Wind was given to him.

               “Any man may put on a black cloak,” Robett Glover pointed out. But it was not unheard of for men of the Night’s Watch to go over to the wildlings, Robb thought.

               “Aye, but few could pass the wall without help, especially in such numbers,” said Ser Marlon.

               “We spoke with a priestess in red,” Rodrik continued. “She offered to receive you as a guest in their camp, your grace.”

               “Did she tell you what they want? Why they have laid siege to Winterfell?” Daenerys asked.

               “She said only that the Boltons are enemies of her god, your grace,” Rodrik replied, but he looked unsettled, never meeting her gaze for long.

               “Speak your mind,” Daenerys told Rodrik, presumably having seen what Robb had.

               “She… I would not trust her, your grace. I cannot name the cause of my suspicion, but being in her presence raised my hackles, that I know.”

               “There were tales of a foreign fire priestess in the service of Stannis Baratheon,” said Robett. “It may be that this is she.”

               “Then who does she serve now?” Tyrion asked.

               “I will accept her invitation, and find out for myself,” Daenerys said, glancing at Robb. He knew well how she must feel, burdened with the expectation to make quick decisions, and the knowledge that a single misstep could be disastrous. “Meanwhile, the army will continue to march to Winterfell, and be ready to fight when it arrives. That will be all, my lords.”

               The lords took their leave, and only once the last of them was gone did Daenerys turn her full gaze upon Robb. “We spoke of your home, and you said nothing,” she said.

               His home. The place whose ceilings had grown closer with every passing year. The place he had been warm and safe, with his father and mother, with Theon and Jon, with Sansa and Arya and Bran and little Rickon. No, his home was gone. “I haven’t been to Winterfell in half a decade. I know nothing of fire gods. Ask me how to lay siege to the castle and I will tell you. But diplomacy is your strength, not mine, your grace.”

               Daenerys smiled distractingly. “Believe me, it’s easier with dragons. Tell me of the wildlings at least.”

               Thinking about what it must be like north of the Wall sent a chill through Robb, and he pulled his cloak about himself, looking to a brazier for warmth. “I’ve never been to the Wall, let alone beyond it. My uncle, Benjen, or my brother, Jon, could tell you more.” If they were even still alive. Orange sparks rose from the brazier’s flames, but the heart of the fire was as white as snow. “They’re savages who live beyond the Wall, and do not bend the knee to any man – or woman – south of it. Often they raid across the Wall, but they fight among themselves as often as they do with us, and the Night’s Watch mostly keeps them at bay.”

               “Do they have a king?”

               “The King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder. So men say, at least.” Robb wondered which of them Mance was more like, as a ruler.

               “Men say many things. Do you know what gods they keep?”

               “The old gods, I think. I’ve never heard of any fire worshippers among them.”

               “This land is cold enough, I would have thought fire worshippers would be common,” Daenerys said, wrapping her arms around herself.

               Robb’s troubled thoughts melted away at the sight of Daenerys trying to keep out the cold. With a smile he took her shoulders and pulled her closer to him, pulling her back against him and wrapping his arms around her. “I brought a fire goddess with me,” he said, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. She was small for a goddess, but he knew better than most how beautiful and terrible she truly was.

               “R’hllor is their god,” Daenerys said quietly, looking into the brazier’s flames. “They call him the Lord of Light.”

               That sounded vaguely familiar, stirring memories in Robb of Jory’s tales of the Siege of Pyke. He had spoken of burning swords, not men. “I don’t care what gods a man keeps,” he said. “But burning prisoners-”

               “I have burned prisoners,” Daenerys said, and if the rebuke wasn’t evident in her tone then it was obvious in the way she turned around to glare at Robb.

               “As did your father,” he replied. Daenerys looked like she wanted to hit him.

               “Whereas the northern way of hacking their heads off is much more civilised,” she snapped instead.

               “I’m not trying to argue with you, your grace,” Robb said. He knew a ruler had to draw a line between honest advice and disrespect, but still it frustrated him how quick she was to take offence.

               “That’s wise. Testing my patience rarely ends well.”

               Robb released Daenerys, stepping back from her. “Forgive me, your grace,” he said, with as much of a bow as he could muster. “I will not disturb you further.” Better to walk away now, before either of them said something foolish. But as he strode away from her, he wondered what she would have done in her father’s place, and none of the answers he came to gave him much comfort.

               Everything always seemed so simple at first, Robb thought as he sat alone that night. They had marched out of White Harbour to crush Roose Bolton and retake Winterfell. And five years ago he had marched out of Winterfell to crush the Lannisters and free his father. Then problem had piled on problem, his aunt, the Freys, Jaime Lannister, Talisa.

               Talisa. She had never seen Winterfell, never played with their child in the snow, never walked with him in the godswood. I am hers and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days. That was the vow he had taken before a heart tree, in the eyes of the old gods and the new. Not until the end of her days, until the end of his. Every time he looked at Daenerys he betrayed her. Even now, just the thought of his silver queen threatened to unravel him. Plunging his glove into the snow, he pulled out a handful and crushed it in his fist. He had broken one oath to marry Talisa, and broken that oath in turn. What man – or woman – could trust an oathbreaker? How could he ever stand before a heart tree again? Loosening his grip, he let the snow fall from his hand.

               His father had strayed. Jon was living proof that Ned Stark had broken his wedding vows. And King Robert had been notorious for it. Even his brief visit to Winterfell had been very profitable for the Winter Town whores. But neither his mother, nor Cersei Lannister, had been murdered, at least not when their husbands strayed. Robb had watched Talisa die before his eyes, and known that he was to blame. She died because he broke his oath. In his dreams he saw her with her bloody womb, her lifeless eyes staring at him. A tear ran down his cheek and fell into the snow.

               As they approached Winterfell, the land became more and more familiar to Robb. Here he recognised a hill, there a wood, there a field. Jon had fallen down that bank. Theon had jumped that stream on his horse. Arya and Bran had raced to climb that tree. The closer they got, the more his stomach twisted, the more he wanted to turn and ride the other way, and never see Winterfell again. But he would not pile cowardice on top of failure, no matter how dread crawled up his spine.

               They came to a hill that Robb knew well, a hill he had ridden over a thousand times, probably more. They were marching on the kingsroad now, and it led up and over that hill. As he walked his horse up the slope his chest felt like it was crushing his heart.

               And then he cleared the crest of the hill and saw it. The mighty castle of grey granite that had once been the centre of his world. Winterfell. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, he remembered his father saying. Another failure.

               The sun shone down, making the autumn snow seem to glitter gold. Winterfell’s roots ran too deep to be reached by the frost, but with a glance upwards at a winged shape in the sky, Robb wondered what effect dragonfire might have. He had seen Harrenhal. Winter Town was half-buried in the snow, and from the looks of what he could see it had not been in good shape beforehand. The siege lines that ringed the castle were studded with large bonfires, and seemed strongest facing the southern wall. That was where Robb would’ve focused his force too, though Winterfell had no true weak points, only places of lesser strength.

               “Not much of a siege,” Ser Barristan grumbled. “Amateur work.” Robb’s experience was limited, but he was inclined to agree. The castle was surrounded, and some trenches had been dug, but little more than that. If the besiegers were wildlings then it made sense; there were no castles north of the Wall.

               A party emerged from the siege lines, shaggy men in furs and skins for the most part. They reminded Robb of the wildlings who had tried to take Bran hostage. For a moment he wondered what had happened to Osha, but then his attention was drawn by the figure at the centre of the party, a woman dressed all in red. Her hair was the same shade as her dress, which looked thin enough that she should have been shivering, but she was serene.

               The red woman said something in Valyrian, but the only word Robb caught was ‘Daenerys.’ One of the dragons screeched in the sky, and the woman looked up with an unsettling smile. Daenerys said something in Valyrian back to her, and the woman responded in kind. Daenerys repeated a word: “Melisandre.”

               It meant nothing to Robb, but evidently Tyrion recognised it. “Stannis Baratheon’s infamous red woman,” he said. “Not the type to go down with the ship, it seems.” Ah, so this was Stannis’ foreign sorceress. He remembered his mother speaking of her, and now that he thought about it the name sounded familiar.

               “I serve as the Lord of Light wills,” said Melisandre.

               “The Lord of Light doesn’t like House Bolton?” Tyrion asked sardonically.

               Melisandre smiled again. “Few do, in my experience. But I am not here for House Bolton, I am here serving the Lord’s chosen.”

               “I thought Stannis was the Lord’s chosen.”

               Melisandre ignored Tyrion’s jibes, turning her attention back to Daenerys. “Will you accompany me, your grace? You can meet him yourself.”

               “Very well,” Daenerys replied. “Lead on.”

               As they followed Melisandre back into the siege lines, Robb had to admit his curiosity was piqued. Who might this Lord’s chosen be? Mance Rayder, perhaps? That would explain the wildlings. And he remembered what his mother had told him of Renly Baratheon’s death, of the shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon. Had that been Melisandre’s doing?

               Before a rugged tent of animal skins draped with furs which faced the First Keep, Melisandre halted. “Only two may enter,” she said.

               “Your grace-” Ser Jorah started, but Daenerys held up a hand and looked at Robb. She didn’t have to say anything for him to understand, and dismounting, he followed her into the tent.

               Inside it was dark, the air rich with smoke from a firepit that was glowing more than burning. Shadows moved across the walls, setting the hairs on the back of Robb’s neck on end. Again he remembered what had befallen Renly Baratheon.

               Someone was crouched by the fire, his shape hidden by a heavy black cloak. With a sound like a low wind blowing through leafless winter trees, he rose to his feet and turned to face them, and Robb’s heart stopped.

               Jon Snow stared back at him, unblinking. Had his eyes always been so dark? His skin certainly had not been so pale. It lived up to his name. Robb would have stepped forward and hugged his brother, but something gave him pause. There was nothing in those dark eyes. No love, no happiness, not even surprise. Jon looked at him like he was just another man. “Jon?” he breathed.

               “Robb.” Jon’s voice was a rasp that sounded like he was pulling air through his lungs. “And you’re Daenerys Targaryen,” he said, turning to her.

               Daenerys looked to Robb. “You know him?”

               “He’s my brother.” Robb’s chest felt as though it was about to burst, and yet when Jon turned his head to look at him again it was purely mechanical, as though there was some hidden pulley controlling his movements. “Jon… I… I wasn’t even sure you were still alive.”

               “I was killed,” Jon said, as though it was the most mundane thing imaginable. “I crossed over to the other side, and hunted in a realm of forest and snow.”

               “You… were killed?”

               “By my brothers in the Night’s Watch. I paid them back in blood.” The firelight flickered in Jon’s eyes, and a feral grin split his face. “I piled their heads at Castle Black. When I’m done here, the heads of Roose and Ramsay Bolton will join them.” Robb knew the purity of that feeling. Vengeance, it seemed, had brought them both home.

               “If you died, how are you standing here, speaking to us?” Daenerys asked.

               “Melisandre says I am her Lord’s chosen. Azor Ahai reborn, the prince that was promised. But if I am the messenger of a god, I have received no message. I hear no voice from an outer world. I have only Ghost.” A dark shape stirred in a corner of the tent, and Robb’s hand went to his sword, but the shape padded into the light and he saw Jon’s direwolf, fur as pale as his skin.

               At last Robb stepped closer, putting his hand on Jon’s shoulder. His brother looked at him as though he was a stranger. “Not any more,” Robb said, desperate to believe it. “I’m here. We’re going to take Winterfell back together. Get revenge together. We’re going to get the girls back, get Bran and Rickon back.” We have to get the girls back. And then we will kill them all.

               For a moment Jon stared and said nothing, then he shrugged Robb’s hand off his shoulder and walked over to Ghost, scratching the direwolf behind the ears. “I thought you were dead too. I looked for you on the other side, but you weren’t there. Father wasn’t there either.”

               “I never died, Jon. I’ve been across the Narrow Sea.”

               “And you returned for vengeance.”

               “He returned in my service,” Daenerys interjected. “And I am here to take back my birthright.”

               Jon looked at Daenerys, and for the first time he seemed to actually see her. “The Iron Throne.” His mouth twisted wolfishly. “The game of thrones is not my concern. My enemy is to the north, not the south.”

               Robb could see Daenerys bristling, so he spoke up before she could. “What enemy?”

               “It wasn’t wildlings the Wall was raised to protect us against,” Jon replied.

               Instinctively, Robb’s hand went to the hilt of his sword as he struggled to digest what Jon meant. “The Others?” But they were just monsters out of Old Nan’s stories. Like dragons. He glanced at Daenerys, who was looking to him in confusion.

               “They’re coming. Marching south with an army of corpses,” said Jon. “And if we do not stop them, we are all going to die.”

               “Then what are you doing here, at Winterfell?” Robb asked, wishing he had something to sit down on.

               Jon seemed irritated by the question. “The Boltons chose to be my enemies. In this fight, I can tolerate no enemies south of the Wall. I came south to root them out, and the free folk came with me. The Boltons marched to meet us, and in the Wolfswood we fell upon them, set them fleeing back to Winterfell.”

               Just like that. After all Robb’s worries about fighting this campaign, Jon had already done half of it for him. Not for the first time he wished Jon had come south with him. It would have been good to have had at least one person he could rely on completely. But then he had thought he could rely on Theon and his mother, and both of them betrayed him. And Jon wasn’t looking at him like a brother. “And once you’re done-”

               “Once I’m done with the Boltons I will return to Castle Black to prepare for what’s coming.”

               “You will leave Winterfell in our hands?” Daenerys asked.

               Jon looked at her. “It’s Robb’s castle,” he said flatly.

               “It’s ours, Jon,” Robb replied. “You’re my brother.”

               “My brothers murdered me.”

               Robb didn’t know what to say to that. Fortunately Daenerys spoke up. “I still don’t understand, if they killed you, how are you alive?”

               “Ask the red woman.”

               With a lingering look at Robb, Daenerys ducked out of the tent, leaving him alone with his brother and Ghost. “Do I truly mean so little to you?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.

               Jon stared at him with those dark eyes like pits. “You’re Robb Stark. You’ll help me take this castle, and save me the trouble of deciding what to do with it afterwards.”

               “That’s it?” Robb stepped closer, feeling a lump forming in his throat. Ghost padded around the fire to nuzzle at his side, and Robb ran his fingers through the direwolf’s fur, grateful that one of them at least remembered. “Jon, it’s me. Why don’t you care?”

               Jon shrugged. “Winter is coming.”

Chapter Text

               Not all of Jon’s followers were wildlings. He had mountain clansmen with him as well, and men from the Night’s Watch. There were even a few from the Umber and Karstark lands, defectors who didn’t want to fight for House Bolton. But it was the wildlings who believed in him. They hung on his every word like he truly was speaking for a god, and when they couldn’t get anything out of him they turned to Melisandre.

               Prophecies meant little to Robb, but Jon was changed, there was no doubting that. It was as if he was some other man who just happened to look identical to Jon. If he really had been killed as he said, maybe he never woke up, Robb thought to himself, staring into the white depths of a fire. Maybe there was a demon wearing his brother’s face. But it had been so long since he had seen Jon, since he had seen any of his family, so he clung to hope that something would change. That Jon would be the man he had been, before he rode away with Uncle Benjen.

               There were other problems. Daenerys wanted to unleash her dragons on Winterfell, and so, it seemed, did everyone else. Melisandre, Jon, Tyrion, even Grey Worm. Neither Ser Barristan nor Ser Jorah would gainsay her. Only Robb had opposed it, promising to deliver her the castle without making of it another Harrenhal, another Meereen. So now he had to figure out how to take a fortress that could be held by fifty men against an army. That wasn’t all he wanted though. Hatred burned in his chest, as hot as the fire in front of him, plaguing his every waking thought. Roose fucking Bolton was behind those walls, the traitor. The man who had stood at his side, advised him in council, and plotted with his enemies to take everything from him. For that man, he might make an exception to his scruples about burning prisoners.

               First Roose Bolton had to be taken prisoner, but Winterfell had no weaknesses, none that Robb knew, and he had been its lord. Those grey granite walls might as well have been seven hundred feet tall, for all the good trying to storm them would do. Not that he would even get that far; he was confident that if he proposed a direct assault to Daenerys she would simply set her dragons on his home.

               Boots crunched in the snow, and Robb looked up to see Tyrion approaching him. “You received me here as lord, once,” Tyrion said, holding out gloved hands to the fire’s warmth.

               “I remember.” Those seemed like better days now, but at the time he had barely been holding himself together. Bran crippled, Father and the girls gone, an assassin within the walls, Mother half-mad with worry and then gone too. Theon and Maester Luwin had been who he had to depend on, but Luwin was dead and Theon was not the man he had been.

               “Lord Bolton is a less gracious host than you were,” Tyrion said.

               Robb smiled thinly. “Add it to the list of his crimes.”

               The cocksure smile on Tyrion’s mangled face faded. “I know I already said it, but I had nothing to do with-”

               “I know.” Robb cut him off. “I believe you.” And he did, though he had little reason to trust Tyrion. Only a special saddle and the man’s word.

               There was silence between them for a moment, and then Tyrion spoke again. “I don’t suppose Winterfell has some secret tunnel known only to House Stark, through which cunning warriors might strike into the castle in the dead of night?”

               Robb smiled again and shook his head. “My father always said that five hundred men could hold Winterfell against ten thousand, and Roose Bolton has more than five hundred men.”

               “My father said that I was too much a fool to trust with anything but Casterly Rock’s drains and sewers. If it were the Rock before us, I could tell you half-a-hundred ways to slip behind the walls. Alas that your father valued you more than mine did me.”

               Robb may not have been given responsibility for Winterfell’s drainage, but he knew how it worked and had already considered the possibility. “Winterfell’s drains run deep beneath the earth,” he explained. “Flowing downwards, the waste water helps pump the water from the hot springs upwards, and flows out into an underground river. One man alone could not use that route without learning how to breathe as a fish and climb like a spider, let alone a company of men.”

               “Pity,” Tyrion sighed.

               “What if it was Casterly Rock?” Robb asked after a pause. “Would you show us how to take it?”

               Tyrion frowned. “Cersei doesn’t hold Casterly Rock, Jaime does. It’s King’s Landing we must take, when we go south.”

               “And when Daenerys sits on the Iron Throne, your brother will bend the knee?” Robb raised an eyebrow. “Even if he does, do you really think she will let him?”

               Tyrion turned from the fire to meet Robb’s gaze, looking troubled. “She accepted me into her service.”

               “You didn’t kill her father.”

               “The Mad King. Do you know what he did to your grandfather and uncle?”

               “I know. But I’m not the one who will judge him.” And maybe if it had been Robb’s decision, he might’ve let the Kingslayer exchange his white cloak for a black one. But then again… Jaime Lannister sends his regards.

               The sounds of a commotion coming from the outer edge of the camp raised both men’s heads, and with a shared glance they set off to investigate. It wasn’t difficult to follow the raised voices, and as they got closer Robb was sure he recognised one voice, a gruff, barking tone like an old dog defending its stick.

               Emerging from the tents, Robb’s feet came to an abrupt stop in the snow. There was a group of men standing in a gap in the palisade that ringed the camp, Ser Barristan with a pair of unhappy sentries, who were enduring a sharp beration from the most grizzled old warrior Robb had ever laid eyes on, a man he had never thought to lay eyes on again. “Uncle Brynden!”

               There was a moment of cold breath in the air, and then Ser Brynden Tully shoved aside one of the sentries and marched past him, almost running to meet Robb coming the other way. They embraced, and Robb did not think his own mother had ever held him so fiercely. “My boy!” Brynden said in Robb’s ear, shocking him with the emotion in his voice. “My boy… Praise your bloody gods for keeping you safe. I thought you were dead!”

               Robb held his uncle as tightly as he was being held, feeling hot tears on his cheeks. “The Twins… I thought the same of you!”

               At last, each of them released the other, though when Robb drew back his uncle’s hands remained on his shoulders. “I fought clear of those Frey bastards. Got back to Riverrun and held it for as long as I could. Gods above, lad, it’s good to see you again!” Indeed, Robb had never seen such a smile on Brynden’s face, though he was never a man given to smiling.

               “Olyvar and Perwyn saved my life. I got out, fled across the Narrow Sea.” Over Brynden’s shoulder, Robb spied Daenerys, flanked by Ser Jorah and Missandei. “In Slaver’s Bay I bent my knee to her.”

               Brynden turned, following Robb’s gaze. “So it’s true,” he said. “The Mad King’s daughter. Seven Hells.”

               To say that Daenerys welcomed the Blackfish less warmly than Robb would be understating it. She was positively frosty, holding her chin high and insisting on receiving him formally in her pavilion, where she glared at him as if she were not half his size. Robb got the sense his uncle was impressed, which was probably for the best. It might make him less abrasive.

               “Ser Brynden Tully, brother of Lord Hoster Tully,” Daenerys said coldly. “You fought for my grandfather against the Band of Nine, and then against my father for Robert Baratheon.”

               “I did. As did Ser Jorah Mormont there,” Brynden replied, nodding at Ser Jorah standing beside her. “Ser Barristan Selmy turned that fine white cloak of his as well, once the fighting was done.”

               Daenerys didn’t look like she appreciated having this pointed out. “Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah have proved their loyalty to me. You have not,” she said.

               “Ser Brynden is my mother’s uncle,” Robb said before the Blackfish could say something else that would offend her, taking a step forward. “He fought for me, and I trust him with my life.”

               Daenerys fixed Robb with that icy glare until he stepped back again. “And what has your mother’s uncle been doing since then?” she asked, turning her gaze back to Brynden.

               “Fighting still. I held Riverrun against my enemies.”

               “‘Held’. You hold it no longer?”

               Brynden ground his jaw. “My nephew is the rightful lord of Riverrun. Lord Edmure Tully. He surrendered it. I escaped.”

               Daenerys glanced at Robb, though not long enough for him to see what she was thinking. “Why would he do that?”

               “Jaime Lannister threatened his infant son.”

               Robb did not even know that Edmure had a son. Who was the mother? Surely not Roslin Frey.

               “And where is Lord Edmure now?” Daenerys asked.

               “A hostage of the Lannisters, or the Freys.”

               At least he was alive, Robb thought. First Jon, now the Blackfish, he was beginning to put what was left of his family back together.

               “Then what brought you north? Surely when you set out, news could not have reached you yet of our arrival,” said Daenerys.

               “No. I thought to take the black. I only learned of your presence here a few days ago. Even then I hardly believed it until I saw a dragon in the sky.”

               Daenerys smiled coolly. “Quite a sight, are they not?”

               “Quite a fright for the shepherds,” the Blackfish replied, and Daenerys’ smile faded.

               “Do you wish to enter my service, Ser Brynden, or would you like a closer look at my dragons?”

               Brynden looked at Robb, who did his best to nod subtly. “Aye,” he said, turning his gaze back to Daenerys. “If Robb fights for you, then I trust him. My sword is yours, for all the good another old knight will do you.”

               Daenerys was wearing that not-quite-smile that tended to be followed by executions, but then Ser Barristan leaned down and whispered something in her ear, and her expression softened by a hair. “Then I will accept your oath of fealty now. And afterwards, you may ask your grand-nephew how I serve traitors.”

               Brynden may have been an old knight, but he had no trouble kneeling before Daenerys and swearing his fealty to her. It occurred to Robb that, given how many kings he had known, he was probably quite used to it by now.

               Long into the night, Robb and Brynden sat and talked. Robb spoke of his journey to Meereen, of the war in Slaver’s Bay, of bending the knee to Daenerys Stormborn. Brynden spoke of holding Riverrun, and escaping it. Always the conversation circled around the last time they had seen one another, each of them hoping the other would poke the bear first. At last Robb could bear it no longer. “My mother tried to save me,” he forced himself to say. “She promised Walder Frey that we would take no vengeance.”

               Brynden barked out a mirthless laugh, and then looked like he regretted it. “What did the old cunt say to that?”

               Robb clenched his fist. “He laughed, and told Black Walder to cut her throat.” What his mother had done to Joyeuse Erenford first, he left out, as well as what she had done to her own face. There was no need to burden his uncle with those details.

               “They’ve been hanging Freys across the Riverlands ever since,” the Blackfish said with grim satisfaction. “They swing from the trees like rotten fruit. I hanged a few myself, when they entered Riverrun to parley.”

               In spite of everything, Robb was surprised. Not by the desire for revenge, that he well understood, but that Brynden was willing to breach the sanctity of negotiations. “You killed them under a banner of truce?”

               “Truce?” Brynden scoffed. “You and I ate bread and salt beneath Walder Frey’s roof. Send a Rykker to my hall, a Marbrand, even a fucking Lannister, and I’ll treat with him honestly. But a Frey has no rights, no sacred protections. I will kill every last one I get my hands on, and take great pleasure in it.”

               “As will I, every Frey and every Bolton,” Robb replied. “Save Olyvar and Perwyn.” If there were any left by the time he got down to the Twins. It was a source of savage joy for him to know that their treachery had not gone unpunished, that men in the Riverlands were not allowing it to go unpunished.

               “Is that why you bent the knee to your Targaryen princess? For revenge?”

               Robb looked at his uncle. “No. She has promised it to me, but that’s not why I serve her. I never wanted the crown. I was grateful to my bannermen, and the river lords, for putting it on my head, but it weighed heavy on me. Daenerys… power fits her better than me.”

               “That’s either very wise, or very stupid. For now I’ll trust your judgement. But her grandfather once said that every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin, and the world holds its breath to see if that coin lands on greatness, or madness. And at one time her father seemed like he would be a great king.”

               His uncle’s words sat uneasy with Robb as the siege wore on. He had seen for himself that Daenerys had it in her to be harsh, cruel even. For as much as he was willing to die for her, he couldn’t shake the thought that she might sit the Iron Throne no better than her father had. And her father had been without dragons. Not since Maegor the Cruel had a tyrant sat the throne with such power.

               But Brynden didn’t know Daenerys, Robb decided. He did. He had shared her counsel, and her bed, and in both cases he found her easy to serve. More than easy, enjoyable. She could be harsh, yes, but sometimes that was required of a ruler. And, well, it could be enjoyable too.

               The sky remained cloudy, but lighter than it had been for some time, on the day that Drogon launched himself into the sky over the encampment. This was not an unusual occurrence, but the sight of Daenerys seated upon his back was not. Robb only got a brief glimpse, a flash of silver, but he knew what he had seen. He watched, trapped upon the ground, as she rose in the sky, circled Winterfell with all three of her dragons, and then descended upon it.

               Robb expected fire and screams, and when he didn’t get them he didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. For a moment it had seemed that Daenerys had run out of patience and chosen to unleash her dragons, but if that wasn’t what she was doing then she had placed herself in great danger, with only her dragons for protection. Only her dragons, as if they were nothing, but the mere possibility of losing her to the Boltons had Robb breaking out in a cold sweat. Barely remembering to gather up a party of men to accompany him, he set off across the open snow between the camp and the walls, heedless of any risk from archers. The deep snow felt like quicksand around his legs, making every step an effort.

               By the time Robb reached the southern gate not so much as a single arrow had been loosed from the walls. Standing before that gate of thick, reinforced wood with his heat hammering in his chest, he stared at it, wondering what in all the world he had been intending to do once he got here. Then, with a creaking and rumbling, the gate swung open, and men with a horse’s head sewn on their surcoats stood aside to let him pass.

               Increasingly certain he was dreaming, Robb Stark walked through the gates of Winterfell for the first time in five years and saw a great black dragon in the courtyard, with a beautiful silver-haired queen seated upon his back. The garrison had laid down their arms, and he looked up to see Bolton banners falling from the walls. He wanted to kneel, to kiss the ground, but he couldn’t, not in front of them. He was home. Daenerys had given him back his home, and he loved her for it.

               Love and hate. It was curious how often those two feelings coincided. Robb walked through the great hall with Bolton banners tumbling like ribbons all around him. How many times had he broken his fast in this room, chased Bran and Arya around it, sat beside his father in that old, carved chair? That chair had been his throne, when he was King in the North, but he had never sat in it. Daenerys took it now, seating herself upon it as if it had always been hers, and Robb stood beside her as they brought Roose fucking Bolton in.

               There was some satisfaction to be had in the fact that it was Roose’s own men who brought him before them, though Robb had not forgotten that it was not Roose alone who had butchered his men at the Twins. If it had been up to him, he would have hanged every man wearing Bolton colours, but Daenerys had offered them life in exchange for their surrender and he would not make a liar of her. At least Drogon had killed Ramsay.

               Roose himself looked as cold and unfeeling as he had always done, meeting Robb’s glare with detachment. “I would apologise for what happened to your queen,” he said, “but it seems you found a better one.”

               Robb’s gloved hand twisted on the hilt of his sword as he stepped down off the dais. Even with hate burning in his chest, he knew that Roose was deliberately trying to rile him, and he also knew that it was working. “I would show you your son’s body,” he responded, hatred dripping like venom from his tongue, “were he not already turning to shit in the bowels of a dragon.” He only wished Theon had been there to see it.

               “I have seen many corpses,” Roose said without emotion. “Your wife’s and your mother’s among them.”

               Unwilling to let Roose see the effect he was having, Robb turned, looking up at Daenerys. The sympathy in her beautiful violet eyes was a source of comfort for him, as well as guilt. There was no punishment ever devised that would sate his rage at the shitstain that called himself Roose Bolton, but he could not bear to grant the man a quick death, not after all he had done. “My father taught me to kill cleanly,” he said, still looking at Daenerys. Aye, but the Targaryens had their traditions too. “But my father is dead. I am Lord of Winterfell now.” He looked to Jon, and saw none of the sympathy in his brother’s eyes that there was in Daenerys’. He was as emotionless as Roose. It twisted in Robb’s chest like a dagger, but it wasn’t sympathy he needed from Jon. “Build a fire,” he said.

               Roose Bolton’s pyre took a long time to burn in the cold. Robb refused to let him die in Winterfell, so he burned outside the walls. Robb watched, feeling the heat of the flames wash over him, as the flat expression on Roose’s face finally gave way to a look of pain, and his wails began to sound over the crackle of burning wood. Watching him struggle against his bonds, watching his skin bubble and boil, watching his hair burn, watching his eyes burst in their sockets and their pus fry upon his cheeks, Robb began to understand Aerys the Mad.

Chapter Text

               You could always tell where one of the dragons had been lying. The grass was flattened, of course, but more obviously there was a great big gap in the snow. Meltwater trickled around Daenerys’ boots as she ran a hand along the white scales of Viserion’s neck. Steam rose from his nostrils with a deep, contented sigh. At least he was relaxed, sated after returning from his hunt. It would probably make her feel much better, Daenerys thought, to rip someone apart. Or perhaps to choke the life from someone. She had not forgotten how it felt to squeeze Galazza Galare’s neck with her hands.

               Here they were, back in Westeros, where Daenerys had spent her whole life trying to reach, and they were stumped almost at the first hurdle. Well, not truly stumped, but that was what made it so frustrating. Roose Bolton could be dead in minutes if Daenerys unleashed her dragons, but Robb wouldn’t let her. She understood why, perhaps better than most; she would not have liked to see the house with the red door razed, the lemon tree burned to ash. But with every day they delayed, her enemies had another day to prepare. And it was not Robb’s place to tell her what to do.

               There Winterfell sat, grey granite rising from white snow, and there beside Daenerys was the means to smash it asunder. Restraint, she had to remind herself, was a virtue, especially for a queen. She had not come to Westeros just to burn it to the ground and be queen of the ashes. Viserys would have thought differently, she didn’t doubt. Many times he had cursed Ned Stark’s name, and promised to tear his castle down stone by stone. The thought that her brother would have acted differently from her reassured her that she was taking the right course.

               Still, the North was a land made by grim gods for grim people, and Daenerys did not want to endure it for longer than she had to. Leaving Viserion to his rest, she returned to her pavilion, which had been set up in the heart of the camp. Jon Snow had advised, in that unsettlingly blank tone of his, that her army encamp separately from the wildlings, and she had taken his advice, positioning her Unsullied closest to them, but still at a distance. They would be disciplined enough to ignore provocation, but still it would be better if provocation could be avoided altogether.

               Even with the fires blazing in braziers within Daenerys’ tent, she was loath to take off her cloak. Robb had told her of the hot springs that warmed Winterfell, of the warm pools in its godswood and its glass gardens, another reason to not want to delay in taking it. Missandei looked even more uncomfortable, which was hardly surprising for someone who had lived her whole life so far south.

               “A messenger came from the pickets,” Missandei said as Daenerys took a seat, pouring herself a cup of wine. At least the cold kept it cool. “He said they had stopped a man alone, a man claiming to be a knight, a particular knight. Ser Barristan Selmy went back with the messenger, to learn if this man is who he claims to be.”

               One knight seemed unlikely to make much difference to Daenerys. “Thank you,” she said. “Is there any other news?”

               Missandei shook her head, taking the seat next to Daenerys’. “Not since Lord Flint arrived this morning.”

               Lord Flint of Flint’s Finger. He had arrived with three hundred men, few of them all that impressive to behold. And it had been Robb he bent his knee to first, before being corrected. Everywhere Daenerys went in the North, all anyone cared about was Robb. She was their rightful queen, the Mother of Dragons, and yet they hardly saw her until she was pointed out to them. Of course it made sense, they knew Robb, had fought by his side, while she was a stranger to them, but still it rankled.

               The tent’s flap rustled and Jorah stepped inside. There was one northman Daenerys could rely on, at least. “It seems there’s a commotion at the palisade, your grace,” he informed her. “Nothing to worry about, most like, but I thought you would wish to know.”

               Daenerys put down her wine cup and stood. Just as she was starting to get warm.

               The snow on frequently-trodden paths through the encampment turned to brown slush every day with the passage of hundreds of feet, and then every night the slush froze and a fresh layer of snow fell on top of it. Daenerys could feel it soaking through her riding boots as she made her way to the palisade with Jorah and Missandei in tow.

               Rounding a tent that had once been red-and-yellow, Daenerys came upon a sight that did nothing to improve her mood. Robb was there, embracing a tall man with a mane of grey hair. The two of them broke apart as she watched, and it was obvious that they were overjoyed to see one another. Of course. Every other person they came across seemed to be Robb’s friend or ally.

               At last Robb noticed her watching, and said something to the man, who turned and looked at her. “So it’s true,” he said. “The Mad King’s daughter. Seven Hells.”

               Daenerys’ eyes narrowed. Robb was welcomed home with open arms, and what did she get? ‘The Mad King’s daughter.’ It was beginning to get under her skin.

               Robb tried to introduce the man, but Daenerys cut him off. If he wanted to meet his queen, they would do it properly. As they walked back to her pavilion, Ser Barristan fell in beside her. “Apologies for the circumstance, your grace,” he said quietly. “I wanted to be certain that this man was who he claimed to be.”

               “And who does he claim to be?” Daenerys asked without turning her head.

               “Ser Brynden Tully, who men call the Blackfish. He is a prickly sort, quick to anger, but I fought beside him on the Stepstones for your grandfather, and I know him to be a fearsome warrior.”

               “And in the War of the Usurper? Who did he fight for then?”

               “House Tully fought for Robert Baratheon, your grace. Ser Brynden’s brother was Lord Stark’s grandfather, Lord Hoster.”

               When Viserys spoke of their return home, the Starks and Tullys had always been their enemies, to be punished for their treason. Daenerys wondered what he would think, to see her surrounded by them. Though thinking had never been his strong suit. If he knew what she did with Robb… well, she doubted he would understand the victory in it. Most likely he would call her a whore.

               There was no throne in Daenerys’ pavilion, so she stood in the centre of it, facing Ser Brynden Tully, and noted how Robb stood at his shoulder, not hers. “Ser Brynden Tully, brother of Lord Hoster Tully,” she said. “You fought for my grandfather against the Band of Nine, and then against my father for Robert Baratheon.” He was not alone in that, but people needed to remember that there was a difference between forgiving and forgetting.

               “I did. As did Ser Jorah Mormont there,” the Blackfish retorted. “Ser Barristan Selmy turned that fine white cloak of his as well, once the fighting was done.”

               “Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah have proved their loyalty to me. You have not,” said Daenerys.

               “Ser Brynden is my mother’s uncle,” Robb interjected, stepping forward. “He fought for me, and I trust him with my life.”

               Daenerys glared at Robb until he stepped back again. Did he have brothers and uncles under every rock in Westeros? Where were the Targaryens waiting to embrace her and welcome her home? “And what has your mother’s uncle been doing since then?” she asked, turning her attention back to Ser Brynden.

               “Fighting still. I held Riverrun against my enemies.”

               “‘Held’. You hold it no longer?” Daenerys asked, and was gratified by how the question visibly irritated him.

               “My nephew is the rightful lord of Riverrun. Lord Edmure Tully. He surrendered it. I escaped.”

               Daenerys glanced at Robb. Another living relative. “Why would he do that?”

               “Jaime Lannister threatened his infant son.”

               “And where is Lord Edmure now?” Daenerys asked, trying to ignore the pang of sympathy she felt.

               “A hostage of the Lannisters, or the Freys.”

               “Then what brought you north? Surely when you set out, news could not have reached you yet of our arrival.”

               “No. I thought to take the black. I only learned of your presence here a few days ago. Even then I hardly believed it until I saw a dragon in the sky.”

               “Quite a sight, are they not?” Daenerys smiled proudly.

               “Quite a fright for the shepherds,” the Blackfish replied, and Daenerys’ smile faded.

               “Do you wish to enter my service, Ser Brynden, or would you like a closer look at my dragons?” she asked, more sharply than he deserved.

               Brynden looked at Robb for a moment. “Aye,” he said, turning his gaze back to Daenerys. “If Robb fights for you, then I trust him. My sword is yours, for all the good another old knight will do you.”

               No, not for Robb’s sake, Daenerys thought. She didn’t think she could stomach another man bending the knee to her only because she had Robb Stark beside her. She was their rightful queen, the last true heir of Aegon the Conqueror. That was why they should bend the knee. “Ser Brynden is not an easy man to like, your grace,” Ser Barristan whispered in her ear. “But no-one has ever regretted having him in their service.”

               As much as Daenerys would have enjoyed refusing the Blackfish’s fealty, reason went before selfish feelings. “Then I will accept your oath of fealty now,” she said. “And afterwards, you may ask your grand-nephew how I serve traitors.”

               It wasn’t fair, Daenerys thought to herself that night, alone in her bed of furs. All her life she had dreamed of her return to Westeros, and now she was finally here, Robb was the one who got to enjoy it. Stark banners were raised, Stark bannermen welcomed him home, and his family was here to greet him. It was only a small relief that no-one but her knew these petulant thoughts that filled her mind. After everything he had endured, she knew that she should not begrudge him some happiness. And truly it didn’t matter if all these people were fighting for him, not her; he was fighting for her, and she didn’t doubt his devotion.

               But it had been easy to think little of the King in the North when they were in Meereen, on the far side of the world. It was a title that meant nothing there. Now they were in the North, and it mattered, it mattered more than the whole list of titles she carried with her. What was the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea in an ocean of snow?

               Things would be different when they moved south, she told herself. When they were no longer in the North, when she sat on the Iron Throne, then there would be no doubt about who ruled. Of course, when they did move south, they would first have to march through the Riverlands. Robb had been king there too, and those were the lands of his mother’s family.

               Five of the great houses had rebelled against Daenerys’ father and driven her into exile, and of those five, three were kin to Robb. He was a Stark, his mother was a Tully, and his aunt was an Arryn, by marriage at least. Strictly speaking, his sister was a Lannister by marriage too. Her father had been a tyrant, she reminded herself, but she was not even born when he was killed, and still they chased her across the Narrow Sea. Vengeance had always been part of the dream of returning, but how could she avenge herself against the family of the man who made her heart flutter every time she thought of him?

               No answer came to Daenerys before sleep claimed her, and in her dreams she sat beside her brother as his queen while the lords of the Seven Kingdoms burned.

               Still the siege dragged on, and every day they were stuck outside the walls was a day in which their enemies could grow stronger. Fire and Blood. The words kept returning unbidden to Daenerys’ mind. She was a Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons. She was born to destroy her enemies, not wait them out. But for Robb’s sake she ignored her instincts, sitting by a fire with Lady Melisandre. From where they were it was possible to make out movement on the walls, but no more than that.

               Pulling her cloak about herself, Daenerys looked at Melisandre in that thin red gown with no small amount of jealousy. “Are you not cold?”

               “The Lord of Light warms me, your grace,” Melisandre replied with a smile.

               “Only you.”

               “Winterfell has its hot springs. Take it, and you may be as warm as you like.”

               Daenerys laughed, without much mirth. “As easy as that.”

               “And when Winterfell falls, where will you go?” Melisandre asked.

               “South. To King’s Landing, and the Iron Throne.” The route was likely to be more complex than that, but Daenerys was disinclined to share her strategies with the priestess.

               “That would be a mistake. You should go north, with Jon Snow. The true war is there.” Melisandre said it with such certainty Daenerys might have believed her, if she hadn’t heard such certainty before from so many men and women who turned out to be wrong.

               “War with grumkins and snarks? Even if you’re right, we would be leaving an enemy in our rear. Jon Snow came here because he couldn’t hold the Wall with the Boltons behind him. How do you expect us to hold the North with the Lannisters behind us?”

               “The Neck has protected the North for thousands of years. And it will avail you nothing to win in the south if you lose in the north. The enemy that is coming is not one that can be bargained with.”

               “The Others and their army of the dead.” Daenerys was still sceptical, but she was after all the Mother of Dragons. She knew better than to dismiss the fantastical out of hand. But she also knew better than to take a stranger’s word for it. “Is that not what the Wall was built for?”

               “Defences are nothing without men to hold them, and Jon Snow does not have enough men.”

               “Then he shall have them.” It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but if the threat was so dire, Daenerys supposed she could spare a few men, as long as she had her dragons. “Once we have Winterfell, he shall have a thousand men to take back with him to Castle Black.”

               Melisandre turned to look at Winterfell, as grimly imposing as ever. “And when will that be?”

               When indeed? Daenerys had waited for her return all her life, and she was already sick to her stomach of staring at those grey walls. “Now,” she said, rising abruptly from her chair and striding through the snow towards where Drogon was curled up outside the palisade. Ser Jorah hurried after her, but she waved him back. Her dragons were her weapon, and it was past time she used them. For Robb’s sake she would spare Winterfell, but the men on those battlements didn’t know that.

               Drogon grumbled as Daenerys clambered up his side to find her seat behind his shoulders, but all it took was a word for his wings to beat, kicking up last night’s snow as he rose into the chill air. At another word he lunged forwards, calling his siblings to him with a shrill cry. The cold air snatched at Daenerys as he flew in a loop around the castle, drawing water from her eyes even as the thrill made her laugh. She had forgotten how good it felt to fly.

               Up in the sky, Daenerys had to shout for Drogon to hear her, but hear her he did, and suddenly he was descending, Winterfell growing larger and larger, rushing up to meet them, until he spread his wings wide and her stomach lurched.

               With an impact that shook the earth, Drogon came down in Winterfell’s largest courtyard, crushing a few tents that had been put up there. Viserion and Rhaegal landed on rooftops overlooking the courtyard, their claws slicing through tiles like paper. All around Drogon, strange faces stared up at Daenerys, hastily drawn weapons clutched in white-knuckled hands. That terror was a sight she would always relish.

               They should have fought her, of course. Unleashed a hail of arrows, charged in bravely, with war cries on their lips. But who wanted to be the first one to draw the ire of a dragon? That shock wouldn’t last forever, but it was Daenerys’ chance. “Listen to me!” she roared. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, and I am offering you life! Any man who lays down his arms and bends the knee will be spared! Any who refuses this generous gift will be food for my dragons! And the man who brings me Roose Bolton or his son will be rewarded!”

               A ripple passed around the courtyard and the walls above it, not so much of voices as of thoughts, of fearful glances and shuffling feet. For weeks the dragons had been circling the castle, poised, for all the garrison knew, to strike at any moment. Daenerys was using that fear, and giving them a way out of it. What loyalty could they truly have to men like the Boltons?

               “Are you all fucking cowards?!” A voice called across the courtyard, and Daenerys looked to see a young man with dark hair and a strong jaw step out of a building and walk across the courtyard as if there weren’t a dragon in the middle of it. “She’s right there!” he shouted, stopping and looking up at Daenerys. “Kill the fucking dragon, drag her off it, and let’s have some fun!”

               Ramsay Bolton drew his sword, but Daenerys snapped a command to Drogon, and before he could use it the dragon’s fearsome jaws came down. The first bite didn’t finish him off, so Drogon shook him, and Daenerys couldn’t resist a smile at his muffled screams or the comical way his legs kicked. Up and down, side to side, Drogon shook him quite thoroughly until the screaming stopped, then spat him out upon the ground. As his men watched, the dragon belched fire upon the mangled corpse and then snapped it up again, swallowing it in just a few bites.

               A spear hit the ground, then an axe, then a sword. One by one, then in pairs, then groups, then en masse, the soldiers laid down their weapons, and Daenerys’ smile turned to a triumphant grin. Winterfell was hers.

               In the great hall, Daenerys sat on the ancient seat of the Kings of Winter while Roose Bolton was brought before her by his own men. Robb stood at her side, and she could feel the hatred radiating from his body.

               For his part, Roose Bolton looked as unperturbed as any man arrested by his own soldiers in what he thought was his own castle could be, regarding both Daenerys and Robb with cold eyes. “I would apologise for what happened to your queen,” he said to Robb, “but it seems you found a better one.”

               Robb stepped down off the dais. Gods forgive her, but she liked it when he was angry. “I would show you your son’s body,” he hissed, “were he not already turning to shit in the bowels of a dragon.”

               “I have seen many corpses,” Bolton replied flatly. “Your wife’s and your mother’s among them.”

               Turning his back on Bolton, Robb looked up at Daenerys. She could see how deep fury had its claws in him, and despite her personal tastes she did her best to ease his pain with her eyes. “My father taught me to kill cleanly,” he said, as much to her as to Bolton. “But my father is dead. I am Lord of Winterfell now.” He turned his gaze to Jon Snow. “Build a fire.”

               Despite his best efforts, Roose Bolton did not die well. He climbed the pyre bravely enough, but once the flames started to coil around his legs he could only contain his cries for so long. Watching him burn, Daenerys thought of Mirri Maz Duur, and the night she died. That vengeance started her on the road to where she stood now. There was a purity to it, a savage sense of release, like breathing cool, clean air after too long in some stuffy place. And she thought too of the red priestess’ words. Death by fire is the purest death. Listening to Roose Bolton scream, she doubted it.

Chapter Text

               Winterfell’s godswood was aptly named. After the long march from White Harbour, and then the longer siege, the chance to relax and forget it all among the calling birds and the softly rustling trees was a gift from the gods. It was warm too, all of Winterfell was. Daenerys knew about the hot springs, but she had not expected the effect to be so stark. It was not as warm as Meereen, of course, but compared to how cold it was outside the walls this was a marked improvement.

               The heart tree was odd. Daenerys had seen a few of them since her arrival in the North, though none so large. Red sap was weeping from its carven eyes, and she wondered who its bloody tears were for. Robb was kneeling before the tree with his head bowed in prayer, and she waited in silence for him to finish. When at last he rose, and turned to her with a smile on his lips, she couldn’t help but smile back. With the worries of the siege behind them, she remembered now why he meant so much to her. “Do your gods speak to you?” she asked half-seriously.

               Robb chuckled. “It doesn’t work like that, your grace.”

               “I confess, I know little of the Seven, less still of your Northern gods.”

               “My father held to the old gods, my mother to the new,” Robb explained. “I know both well, but I’ve always preferred the godswood over the sept.”

               “My brother didn’t teach me much of either.”

               “The old gods dwell in the trees,” Robb said, gesturing widely at the godswood around them. “And in the streams and rivers, the hills and dells. And through the weirwoods they watch us. And judge us.”

               Daenerys looked again at the heart tree’s face, and wondered what the old gods thought of her. She had taken Winterfell with hardly a drop of blood spilled, with an act of daring. Did they approve, or was she just some foreign conqueror? “I don’t like being a stranger in my own country,” she said. There were few people she would have admitted that feeling to, but Robb she trusted with it. “It should feel like coming home, but it doesn’t. It’s like going to Slaver’s Bay all over again.”

               Robb took her hand gently. “Then you should become better acquainted with your country.” Leading her by the hand, he walked with her beneath the trees, and she felt, for the first time in her life, like a girl in love. She had not been sold to Robb, he had not pursued her. It was entirely her choice to be here with him, unable to stop smiling as he led her to where steam rose from three small pools beneath a stone wall at the edge of the godswood. Letting go of her hand, he unfastened his cloak and kicked off his boots.

               “What are you doing?” Daenerys asked, perplexed. If he wanted to bed her, then she wanted an actual bed, not a patch of dirt. Besides, it was not warm enough.

               “The hot springs feed these pools,” Robb grinned, removing his jerkin and beginning to unlace his tunic. “I’m going to bathe.”

               Daenerys looked at the water curiously. That would explain the steam, and it did look clear and clean. Robb removed his tunic and his undershirt, and for a moment she was distracted. It seemed awfully tempting to get into that nice warm pool, especially if he would be in it. As he unlaced his breeches, she unfastened her bodice, and naked he slipped into the water while she hurried to follow him. Once she was out of her clothes the air was cold enough to bite, and she plunged eagerly into the pool. Its warmth engulfed her up to her shoulders, and all at once her doubts were washed away. She laughed at how foolish she had been to question this.

               “It’s good, isn’t it?” Robb asked, still grinning.

               “Better than good. Thank you,” Daenerys said sincerely. “You’re a gracious host, Lord Stark,” she added with a twist of her lips.

               “What kind of a lord would I be, if I hid this from my queen?”

               His queen. Daenerys liked that. She wanted to be Robb’s queen, in every possible sense. “A very bad lord,” she said, drifting closer to him in the water. “Your queen would have to punish you.”

               Robb’s grin widened. “But since I’m being a very good lord…”

               Daenerys’ hand found what she was seeking beneath the water, and she enjoyed the way he tensed. “Good lords do as they’re told. Like dogs.”

               “Then tell me what to do, your grace.”

               Daenerys toyed with his cock for a moment before releasing it and putting her other hand on top of his head. “Kneel,” she commanded, pushing down. Robb did as she bid, allowing her to push him beneath the water’s surface and hold him there. Distorted by the pool’s ripples, she could see him looking up at her, patiently awaiting permission to rise from his queen. The very air in his lungs was hers to do with as she pleased, and right now it pleased her to drown him.

               Only briefly though. Before long, Daenerys allowed Robb to rise and take a deep breath as water cascaded across the contours of his shoulders, and then with a wicked smile she pushed him back under. This time she held him down a little longer, imagining how he must feel, denied the air he needed. And the way he looked up at her… after so many men had tried to control her, having a man who accepted her control, welcomed it even, made her want to do far more to him than just play like this.

               She raised him up and let him breathe again, then pushed him down once more, holding him beneath the water for longer still, applying a firm, demanding pressure. There was something about taking a man’s breath away, the slowness of it, the intimacy, that had her breathing hard herself.

               A fourth time Daenerys raised Robb up and pushed him back down, and now her cheeks were almost as flushed as his, and it wasn’t just the hot spring creating warmth between her legs. When she raised him up again with his curls soaked to his scalp and water dripping from his eyelashes, her hand returned to his cock, and she grinned in sinful delight to find him as hard as iron for her.

               “You’re going to fuck me now,” she told him as she drew close, pressing her naked body against his. “Right here in this pool.” Her grip tightened, drawing a soft gasp from his lips. “Your queen commands you.”

               A breath escaped Daenerys’ own lips when she felt Robb’s fingers trace across the curve of her hips beneath the water, his hands drifting around to the small of her back. For all her talk, her heart still fluttered to be held by him like this, to feel his strong arms around her waist, pulling her tighter against him. His lips came down to meet hers as her hand guided him between her legs, and she gasped into his mouth as he filled her.

               In all honestly it wasn’t the best sex Daenerys had ever had. The water made it easier, but it was still a challenge to fuck standing up. Robb held her tightly, and the sensation of his tensed biceps pressed against her back was no small thrill, nor were the hot, quick breaths she felt on her neck as he kissed her there. Still she was putting too much effort into retaining her balance to be able to enjoy the way he moved in her as she did when they were in bed. But she didn’t really care. She was in a beautiful place, and a brave, kind, handsome man was making love to her at her command. She loved him, and he loved her. He must have done: he was kissing her so ardently it was impossible to believe otherwise. With their bodies so tight together she could feel his heartbeat almost as if it were her own; they blurred together, and truly she could not tell which was which.

               Clinging to the wet hair on Robb’s chest, Daenerys closed her eyes, trusting him to hold her while she let every sensation wash over her. The sunlight shining through the trees, the chill breeze on the air, the warm water lapping at her body, the steam in her hair, the smell of water and damp earth and damp skin, the chirping of birds, the way Robb grunted, the way he was fucking her, soft and hard all at once. This gloriously, wondrously imperfect moment brought her more joy than a thousand fantasies, and she tried to fix it in her mind, to carve it into her memory.

               Robb’s grip on Daenerys tightened, and she felt him throb and swell inside of her. Opening her eyes, she took his head in her hands and made him look at her as he came. Gods, she could have devoured him in that moment, and he looked like he would have let her. This was what she had always needed, for a strong man to choose to be weak for her, though she hadn’t known she needed it until he knelt at her feet and gave it to her. His grip eased as he came down from his climax, panting, but hers did not. “Finished so soon, Lord Stark?” she smirked. “Surely your queen comes first.”

               “I… forgive me, your grace,” Robb replied, his chest rising and falling.

               “I will.” Daenerys paused for effect. “Once you prove how sorry you are.” By now she was confident that he understood exactly what sort of apology she had in mind, and she was right. He helped her out of the pool, and helped her back into her dress. It was uncomfortable, putting it on over wet skin, but it wasn’t going to stay on for very long. Once they were dressed he led her out of the godswood, across the courtyard and into the great keep. A few spiral staircases up and they were in a large bedchamber. The hearth was cold and dark, but it was still warm; those wonderful hot springs again, she assumed.

               As hurriedly as they had dressed, Daenerys and Robb stripped again twice as quickly. Their bodies were still damp as she fell back on the bed, laden with furs. Robb made to join her, but she stopped him with a look. “On your knees.” That was the proper place for a lord seeking his queen’s forgiveness, and she would never tire of how those words felt in her chest, nor how Robb looked kneeling before her. She put her legs on his shoulders, casually hooking one calf behind his neck and applying pressure.

               Whatever further commands Daenerys had been thinking of issuing were unnecessary. Robb bent his head between her thighs, and she felt his warm breath, followed swiftly by his hot tongue. With a keening sigh she fell back upon the furs, her wet hair splayed out, her thighs tightening around Robb’s head as he kissed and licked and sucked and worshipped her clit. She had to bite her bottom lip to keep from moaning too loudly. That would be too much of a reward, and quite inappropriate for a stern ruler disciplining her subject. It would be easier to keep up proper appearances if her subject’s mouth wasn’t quite so practiced though.

               “Don’t stop,” Daenerys groaned, her spine twisting upon the furs. “Keep doing that.” Ever obedient, Robb lavished her clit with attention, twisting his tongue around it, licking circles fast and slow and fast again, up and down, suckling it between his lips. She knew every trick he had by now, and she wanted them all. If she could have done she would have had him on his knees every waking moment of every day. Not for the first time she thought he would have made a wonderful pillow slave. Her legs tightened further, wrapped around his head, and she tangled her fingers in his soft auburn curls. It wasn’t his fault, but in the pool her pussy had been quite full while her clit had been neglected, and now she wanted that balance restored.

               “Robb!” Daenerys whimpered, her cheeks flushing, grateful for the thick stone walls of the keep that hopefully kept such a cry private. She felt him slow a fraction and clamped her legs tight, keeping him right where he belonged. “Don’t stop! Don’t you dare stop!” His instant, eager obedience rolled through her like a thunderclap, and her orgasm hit her without warning, arching her back on the furs and viciously tightening her legs. Pure pleasure cascaded through her from her pussy to her head and back again, and there was no stifling her cries of delight. Bright light seemed to flash behind her closed eyes, and she felt Robb bury his tongue in her pussy just in time for it to clench and flood his mouth, while his upper lip still rubbed against her clit.

               Daenerys’ climax reached its peak far too soon, but she waited for it to recede entirely before she released Robb from the iron grip of her legs, propping herself up on her elbows to look down at him. He was wearing a sheepish grin, his face wet with her pleasure, and she could not have stayed angry at him even if she had actually been angry in the first place. “You’re forgiven,” she sighed, smiling down at him. “For that, I’d forgive just about anything.”

               Robb climbed into the bed beside Daenerys, and this time she didn’t stop him. “Winterfell isn’t what I imagined,” she said idly, gazing up at the dark wooden beams of the ceiling while her fingertips wandered his chest.

               “What did you imagine?”

               “Winter, I suppose. Everything stern and grey and cold.” Daenerys turned her head to look at Robb, and smiled. “But it’s warm, and soft, and as welcoming as an embrace. In another life, perhaps… perhaps I might have been your lady here, and been happy.”

               That idea seemed to surprise Robb, and it took him some time to answer. “In another life we might never have met,” he said eventually.

               “But we did.” Daenerys rolled onto her side, cupping Robb’s cheek with her hand, feeling the hair on his jaw under her palm, just long enough to be soft. “This isn’t some diversion for me, I don’t…” Why was this so hard? He was devoted to her, a blind idiot could have seen that. He served her, he obeyed her, he worshipped her, he was looking at her with those thoughtful blue eyes like she was the axis upon which his world turned, and yet the words she wanted him to hear caught in her throat. “I’m the Queen, and you’re the Lord of Winterfell,” she forced herself to say, though her chest tightened like a vice. “We could… if you wish… we could… I mean, it would be appropriate…” No matter how hard she tried, Daenerys couldn’t finish the sentence, and the way Robb’s brow furrowed made her want to be sick. Where was the smile that made her heart flutter? She needed that smile, not this, not this look that told her she should have kept her mouth shut.

               “We… have a war to win, your grace.” Robb sat up, showing Daenerys his back. She wished she had a knife in her hand, though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to plunge it into his back or her own chest. “I should help with the preparations.” He rose, and dressed without looking at her, and she was too much of a coward to order him to stay. She lay back on the bed, on the furs that were still warm where he had been lying, and listened to the heavy door shutting behind him.

               Robb did not return to Daenerys’ bed that night, or the following night, or the night after that. She told herself that he was simply busy, overseeing the restoration of his home and preparing for their march south. But doubt burrowed its way into her stomach and stayed there, twisting and writhing incessantly. It wasn’t even that he was avoiding her, she saw him during the days. But their eyes hardly met, and he spoke to her only of practical matters, provisions and manpower, marching orders and command hierarchies. Every now and then she started to work up the nerve to say something more, but it always died in her throat.

               A week passed, and Daenerys found herself staring into the fires of a hearth, imagining she could see Meereen burning in the flames. She remembered how Robb had held her that night, how it had felt like his presence was all that kept her sane amidst the horror that she had unleashed. Going on without him… it didn’t seem possible. What was the honour and glory and legacy of House Targaryen next to his gentle love?

               No, Daenerys thought, as the firelight flickered in her purple eyes. She was Daenerys Stormborn. She had crossed the red waste without Robb Stark by her side, sacked Astapor, conquered Meereen, and freed a million slaves. She wanted him, but she did not need him, nor any man. Drogo had not made her what she was, nor had Daario, nor Robb. The Iron Throne was hers alone to take, and she would take it alone if she had to.

               A knock at the door made Daenerys turn. She had already sent Missandei to bed, and had not summoned anyone else. “Enter,” she commanded, hoping she might see auburn curls, but she was disappointed.

               It was not Robb who opened the door, but Jon Snow. Snow was a curious name for a man so dark of eye and hair, though he was certainly pale enough for it. Daenerys gestured for him to approach, and he did so, closing the door behind him. “Your grace,” he rasped. “You are preparing to march south.”

               “I am.”

               Jon flexed a gloved fist. “You’re making a mistake. The real enemy is north.”

               “I have given you a thousand men to take back to Castle Black.” Not all of her servants had been pleased about that decision, but Robb, Tyrion and Ser Jorah had all understood.

               “A thousand men will not be enough. Ten thousand men will not be enough, or a hundred thousand.” Jon took a step closer to Daenerys, and with the firelight shining in his eyes he seemed more animated than she had ever seen him. “I don’t know if Melisandre’s god is real, and if he brought me back I don’t know why,” he rasped. “But she’s right about one thing for certain. Fire is our weapon, and there is no greater source of fire in all Seven Kingdoms than you.”

               “My dragons, you mean.”

               “You’re their mother. Do they obey anyone else?”

               “No.”

               “Then you’re needed in the north.”

               “Once I take the Iron Throne, I will return northwards.”

               Jon turned away from Daenerys, looking into the fire. “I knew Stannis Baratheon for a time. He said his great mistake was that he had been trying to win the throne to save the kingdom, when he should have been trying to save the kingdom to win the throne.”

               “It wasn’t his throne to win or his kingdom to save,” Daenerys pointed out, doubtful that the Usurper’s brother had much wisdom to offer her.

               “He fought for both all the same. Right or wrong, he felt it was his duty.”

               “As it is my duty to retake the Iron Throne that my ancestor forged. It was your ancestor who built the Wall.”

               “I knew your grandfather’s uncle as well,” Jon said, turning away from the fire to look at Daenerys again, though the light of the flames still seemed to dance in his eyes. “Aemon Targaryen, who served the Night’s Watch as a maester. He told me that a day comes when we all must choose between our desire and our duty. Death is coming for all of us, and we have a duty to fight it.”

               Aemon Targaryen. Daenerys had not heard that name in long years, not since the days of her childhood when Viserys sat with her and taught her their lineage. The man who had refused the Iron Throne, who had fled to the Wall to escape it. Not once had it occurred to her that he might yet live, not with three generations between them. If he had accepted the throne when it was offered to him, what a world might they live in today? Would she have even been born? Would their house have crumbled? “Aemon forsook his duty. I will not. I am the rightful Queen, and I will take my place on the Iron Throne. Then I will bring my dragons to the Wall.”

               The firelight was gone from Jon’s eyes now, and Daenerys thought she must have imagined it. He stared at her for a long moment, his face blank and unreadable. Then, with no more expression than if he was drawing water, he seized her by the throat with both hands. His grip was tight, crushing, and though she clutched at his gloved hands she could not pry them off. With panic rising in her chest she kicked him as hard as she could, but he barely reacted.

               Daenerys couldn’t breathe. Images of Galazza Galare flashed through her mind as Jon bore her to the ground, ignoring how she thrashed and struggled, trying to free herself from his iron grip on her neck. She clawed at his hands, but his gloves protected him from her nails, and even if she had been able to scratch him he seemed utterly unconcerned by anything except killing her. Her back twisted against the hard wooden floor, and tears pricked at her eyes. It felt like she was in a dream, entirely without strength, unable to do anything to save herself from being murdered. It wasn’t fair, not now, not when she was so close, not when she hadn’t even done anything to him. She tried to speak, but she only rattled, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.

               Something burst from Jon’s chest, just below his collarbone, and Daenerys was sprayed with a hot liquid. He looked down at it blankly, and she felt as though they both realised at the same moment that it was the point of a sword, red with blood. Jon’s grip slackened, and he slumped on top of her with a quiet sigh. She breathed deeply, desperately, taking in the smell of blood and leather, and then he was pulled off her and Robb was standing there with a sword in his hand.

               Dropping the sword with a clatter, Robb knelt at Daenerys’ side, taking her head in his hands, as distraught as she had ever seen him. “What happened? Are you hurt? Do you need a maester?” he asked breathlessly.

               Daenerys clung to Robb, grasping fistfuls of his tunic. “He… he wanted me to go to the Wall with him,” she panted, her chest heaving. “When I refused… he tried to kill me.” A wave of energy shot through her as an understanding of how close she had just come to death took hold, and she sat up, looking around jerkily, trying to find something that would make sense of it. But there was nothing there, just her, Robb, and Jon’s corpse. Robb pulled her into an embrace, but though it slowed her racing heart a little, her eyes remained fixed on Jon, as emotionless in death as he had been with his hands around her neck.

               “I saw him on top of you, and I…” Daenerys could feel a realisation run through Robb too, a slight tightening of his grip. “I killed him. I killed Jon.”

               Though she understood why that sat ill with Robb, in the moment Daenerys was rather unperturbed by the death of someone who had been trying to kill her, and had come very close to succeeding. “You saved me,” she said. “You saved my life.” She felt the strength in his arms as he helped her to stand up, but when she had a chance to look at him again he was as pale as snow, and he sat down heavily by the fire.

               Better than most, Daenerys knew what it was to lose a brother like this, to know that it had been necessary but still regret it. She put a hand on Robb’s shoulder, feeling the firm muscle beneath his tunic as she squeezed gently. For a long time he was silent, leaning forward and staring into the fire. When at last she spoke there was such anguish in his voice that she almost couldn’t bear it. “He was my brother. I loved him.”

               Daenerys said nothing, for what could she say? Robb had her love. She hoped it was enough. A soft sound from behind made her turn, and she made a soft sound of her own to see the great white wolf standing there, staring at her with red eyes. The wolf lowered its head to Jon’s body, nuzzling at it, and her heart softened. Then it raised its head again, and now it was looking at Robb. It padded over, and she felt Robb’s shoulder relax under her hand as the wolf laid its head in his lap. She leaned down to kiss his cheek, and feeling wet tears on her lips she wanted to hold him and never let go.

Chapter Text

               The heart tree was smaller than Robb remembered it. In his mind it had been almost endless, its crimson leaves spreading from one end of the godswood to the other, sheltering all in the embrace of the old gods. Now he knelt before it, for the first time in years, it was just a tree, like any other but for its colours and the face carved in its pale bark. He knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t really in Winterfell at all, that this was a fake, a facsimile constructed to fool him by someone who didn’t have the resources to build it to full size. He had imagined his return for so long, in so many different ways, that now he had actually returned it felt wrong. In his mind there had not been horseflies buzzing around the stables, nor rats scurrying beneath the walls, nor bird shit on that rock. In his mind his father had been here, and his mother, and Bran and Rickon, Sansa and Arya, Theon and Jon. Talisa and their child.

               He had Daenerys. He had Theon and Jon, though they were not who they had been in so many ways. But Winterfell was hollow. After so long striving to return, longing for it, part of him could barely stomach the place.

               Still he bent his head and prayed, and hoped that the old gods were listening. He prayed for the war to end quickly, for winter to come slowly, , for the strength to find what remained of his family and bring them home. He prayed that all he had lost might have some meaning in the end. He prayed that he might be forgiven, for breaking his oath to Talisa and falling in love with another woman.

               Raising his head, Robb looked at the other woman and smiled. He was in love with her, he was sure of that now. It might have been mere infatuation at first, but the fire she had lit in him burned as hotly as that of her dragons. Just seeing the way she returned his smile made his heart swell. “Do your gods speak to you?” she asked.

               Robb chuckled. The old gods weren’t like most gods, and he was used to people not really grasping the nuances. Even his mother had struggled. “It doesn’t work like that, your grace.”

               “I confess, I know little of the Seven, less still of your Northern gods.”

               “My father held to the old gods, my mother to the new,” Robb explained. “I know both well, but I’ve always preferred the godswood over the sept.”

               “My brother didn’t teach me much of either.”

               “The old gods dwell in the trees,” Robb said, gesturing widely at the godswood around them, happy for the chance to share something of his world with Daenerys. “And in the streams and rivers, the hills and dells. And through the weirwoods they watch us. And judge us.”

               “I don’t like being a stranger in my own country,” Daenerys said. “It should feel like coming home, but it doesn’t. It’s like going to Slaver’s Bay all over again.”

               Robb took her hand gently, filled with a sudden desire to help her be the queen she wanted to be. “Then you should become better acquainted with your country,” he said. Leading her by the hand, he walked with her the the godswood’s edge, to where steam rose from the three heated pools beneath the stone wall of the guest house. Releasing her hand, he unfastened his cloak and kicked off his boots, eager to share this special part of his home with her.

               “What are you doing?” Daenerys asked, looking at him like he had grown a second head.

               “The hot springs feed these pools,” Robb grinned, removing his jerkin and beginning to unlace his tunic. “I’m going to bathe.”

               Daenerys looked from Robb to the pool and back again as he stripped, and there was a hungry look in her violet eyes when her fingers found the laces of her bodice. Naked, he sank into the water, just as he had done a hundred times before, and for a moment he was a boy again, too young to think anything of sharing the pools with girls.

               A splash signalled Daenerys joining Robb in the pool and he his heart leapt as she laughed, enjoying the visible delight written across her beautiful face. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

               “Better than good. Thank you,” Daenerys replied, basking in the warm water. Then her expression turned sly, her lips curling. “You’re a gracious host, Lord Stark.”

               Robb knew well enough to play along. “What kind of a lord would I be, if I hid this from my queen?”

               “A very bad lord,” Daenerys said breathily, drawing closer to him in the water. “Your queen would have to punish you.”

               Robb’s grin widened. “But since I’m being a very good lord…”

               There was a soft rush of water and then a firm grip between Robb’s legs that made his muscles tense. “Good lords do as they’re told. Like dogs.”

               Robb had no idea how Daenerys managed to blend such disdain and such allure into her expression and her tone, nor had he ever expected being compared to a dog to have so much of an effect on him, making him harden in her hand. “Then tell me what to do, your grace.”

               Beneath the water, Daenerys’ hand twisted playfully, making Robb bite his bottom lip to suppress a gasp. Then she released him, and placed her other hand on top of his head, pushing down. “Kneel.” It was the command, far more than the pressure, that brought him to his knees, sinking beneath the water’s lapping surface with a deep breath. His eyes stung as he looked up at her, but he didn’t care. He wanted to look. Even distorted by the water, the sight of her looking down at him, naked, beautiful, powerful, gripped his heart like nothing else could.

               The pressure on Robb’s head eased, and with a light tug on his hair Daenerys lifted him up, out of the water’s warm embrace. He breathed heavy breaths, chest heaving, looking into her eyes as rivulets ran down his cheeks like tears, and then she pushed him beneath the water once more. Her gaze held him there, kneeling, unable to breathe, waiting for her permission to rise as his chest tightened.

               Again Daenerys raised Robb up and then pushed him back down, and this time he realised that it wasn’t even her gaze that made him drown for her. She could have turned her back on him and he would not have moved. She was his queen. His heart belonged to her. He belonged to her. She had freed the slaves and enslaved him alone, and he would have crawled at her heels if she asked it of him. It felt like madness to be so in love.

               When at last Daenerys allowed Robb to breathe again the air felt sharp in his lungs. At first he had allowed her to hold him down, to take his breath away, but now he was weakened by the lack of it and a fourth time she pushed him down with ease, barely giving him a chance to breathe in. The power she wielded over him was intoxicating, addicting even, his body responding to her with blood rushing between his legs.

               Daenerys pulled Robb up, and he cleared the water gasping, his chest shuddering as it rose and fell, his lips wet and parted. Her hand found his cock again, and her eyes lit up as a wicked grin bared her teeth. “You’re going to fuck me now,” she told him, pressing in close, her body warm and soft and wet. “Right here in this pool.” She squeezed a gasp out of him. “Your queen commands you.”

               Far be it from Robb to disobey his queen. His hands slid around the swell of her hips to the small of her back, pulling her wet, naked body against his. Every time he touched her it felt like the first time, the smooth contours of her body beyond anything his imagination could conjure up. He leaned down to kiss her, and as his lips found hers her hand guided him into her. There was nothing in the world he would have traded for the way she gasped into his mouth.

               Seized by ardent desire, Robb wanted to kiss Daenerys everywhere. He kissed her lips, her cheek, her jaw, her neck, her shoulders, holding her tight against him, grinding his hips against hers. The water took some of his weight, but still it took effort to remain upright and balanced while making love. He didn’t care though; he was warm, he was with the woman he loved, and he was sharing the joys of his home with her. What more was there?

               Gods, she felt good. She always did, but today, here, feeling her chest pressed against his, the tug of her fingers tangling in his body hair, with the hot spring’s earthy tang in his nose, her cunt felt divine. Pleasure tingled up and down his spine, and he held onto her as much to support himself as to support her, breathing raggedly as he kissed her everywhere he could. But it was just too much, too good. He couldn’t contain his rising climax, no matter how much he wanted to. Daenerys must have felt the way his cock throbbed inside her, because she seized his head in both hands, forcing him to look her in those beautiful violet eyes. That sight would have unraveled anyone, and with a shuddering groan he filled her, clinging to her, surrendering to ecstasy.

               Robb’s grip on Daenerys eased as the lingering aftershocks of his orgasm flittered away, but she kept her hands firmly on his head, compelling him to keep looking at her. “Finished so soon, Lord Stark?” she smirked. “Surely your queen comes first.”

               “I… forgive me, your grace,” Robb panted, his cheeks flushing.

               Daenerys’ eyes gleamed wickedly. “I will. Once you prove how sorry you are.”

               There could have been a million meanings to those words, but the way Daenerys was looking at Robb, he could tell what she wanted and he was only too happy to give it to her. In fact he could hardly contain his impatience as he helped her out of the pool, lacing up the bodice of her dress for her with wet fingers before taking her hand and leading her out of the godswood, across the courtyard and into the great keep. Up the old familiar stairs he led her, up to his old room. It wasn’t as he remembered it – the table that had once sat by the window was gone, as was the sword that had hung over the hearth, and the drapes at the windows were new.

               Of course, none of that mattered to Robb when Daenerys wanted him to pleasure her. His hastily thrown-on clothes came off as fast as hers, and she fell back onto the thick, soft furs of his bed, lounging on her elbows. Eagerly he made to join her, but an arched eyebrow stopped him in his tracks. “On your knees,” she ordered him, and he obeyed, going down before her like a proper supplicant lord before his liege.

               A potent thrill ran through Robb from his cock to the back of his neck as Daenerys coiled her soft, shapely legs around his head, drawing him in with a languid grace that was at once demanding and dismissive. As much as he enjoyed the insistent way her calf pressed against the back of his neck, pressure was unnecessary. His head sank between her thighs, and he breathed in her damp scent, flicking his tongue across and along her folds before curling it beneath her hood. He heard Daenerys sigh happily, felt her body shift as she fell back upon the furs, though even as she relaxed her thighs squeezed his head. And he felt, as much as heard, the soft moans that trembled through her as he worshipped her clit with the devotion of a zealot, flexing his tongue against her every way it could be flexed, suckling her between his lips and then licking again.

               “Don’t stop,” Daenerys gasped. “Keep doing that.” Robb couldn’t imagine a greater reward than hearing those words spill hungrily from her lips, and he showed his gratitude by obeying her. He licked and licked and licked, kissed and sucked and licked some more until his tongue and his jaw both ached, but he would have endured far worse for the right to service his queen, to feel the way her thighs squeezed his head and her fingers tangled in his hair. “Robb!” She squealed his name, and for half a second he slowed, thinking she needed a break, but at once her legs tightened, squeezing him so fiercely he saw stars.

               “Don’t stop! Don’t you dare stop!” Daenerys demanded, her voice high and shaky. In a heartbeat Robb pressed his tongue lovingly to her clit once again, and he felt her whole body shudder with delight. Recognising what was about to happen, he plunged his tongue into her cunt just in time for it to clamp down, her wetness flowing out of her and into his mouth. Her back arched so hard she lifted her hips off the bed, forcing his head to tilt back while her legs squeezed tighter still, so tight he almost felt as though his skull might burst.

               Daenerys’ breathless, shameless cries of ecstasy were so loud that even with her thighs clamped over his ears Robb could still hear her, and take pride in his work. When she finally released her grip his head spun, and it was a good thing her legs were still loosely wrapped around him to help him stay upright. Propping herself up on her elbows again, she smiled down at him, and he grinned back up at her, his chin wet with her fluids. This was supposed to be about making sure she enjoyed herself, and yet he had taken so much pleasure from pleasuring her that he felt almost guilty. “You’re forgiven,” she sighed. “For that, I’d forgive just about anything.”

               Robb took that as permission to get into his own bed, and indeed Daenerys didn’t stop him as he lay down beside her, taking a moment to relax while her fingers danced across his chest. “Winterfell isn’t what I imagined,” she said after a while.

               “What did you imagine?” Robb asked, though he had an idea.

               “Winter, I suppose.” Yes, that was what Robb had been expecting. “Everything stern and grey and cold.” Daenerys turned her head to look at him and a lock of silver hair fell across her face as she smiled, looking for all the world like she had been a maiden this morning. “But it’s warm, and soft, and as welcoming as an embrace. In another life, perhaps… perhaps I might have been your lady here, and been happy.”

               The thought of the beautiful woman lying naked beside him as his lady wife surprised Robb more than he expected it to. Not that she was not worthy of such, quite the opposite, but it was hard to imagine her not as she was, not the fierce, powerful queen who commanded armies and razed cities. His mother had been a gentle southern lady, dreading the grim North, and she had come to love Winterfell. If things had been different… if her father had not been the madman he was. But then it would not have been his father that his mother married, but Uncle Brandon. Would he even have been born, were that the case? Or would the name Robb Stark mean nothing to anyone, least of all Daenerys? “In another life we might never have met,” he finally said, though that seemed insufficient to encompass what he felt.

               “But we did,” Daenerys replied, rolling onto her side to fully face Robb. Her hand found his cheek, soft and gentle, and looking into her eyes he never wanted to leave this bed. “This isn’t some diversion for me, I don’t…” she started and then trailed off, making his heart lurch. “I’m the Queen, and you’re the Lord of Winterfell. We could… if you wish… we could… I mean, it would be appropriate…”

               Robb knew what she was trying to say. They could wed. Be husband and wife, the queen and her consort. Only he had been wed once before, and he remembered as if it was yesterday how beautiful Talisa had looked beneath the boughs of that heart tree, how she had looked at him. He had loved her so much it had hurt, and now here he was, falling for another woman. Abruptly he sat up, unable to look at Daenerys. “We… have a war to win, your grace.” He should have explained himself, he knew, but how could he explain? How could he tell the woman he loved that every day he thought of another? “I should help with the preparations.” Without looking at her he rose from the bed and dressed himself, and at the door he hesitated for a moment, wishing he had the courage to speak the truth. But he was a coward, and he left her there alone.

               Guilt and shame kept Robb apart from Daenerys in the days that followed. He couldn’t help but speak to her, not when they were busy preparing to march south, but always he avoided her gaze, pretending to be studying maps or messages, never speaking of anything but practical matters. Every time they were alone he started to build up the courage to be honest, to tell her what gnawed at him, but every time it died in his throat.

               Robb tried to talk to Jon about it, but there was nothing there. Even when they were boys, Theon had always been the one he talked to about girls, not Jon. Theon’s advice had never been exactly romantic, but that was still more than the awkward change of subject he had always got from Jon. It was different now though. Jon wasn’t awkward about the subject, he simply didn’t care. He didn’t seem to care about anything any more, other than his war. Others and dead men marching south, Robb still didn’t know what to make of that. It seemed absurd, but Jon was no liar. Well, the old Jon hadn’t been. Truly he didn’t know what to make of the new Jon either. If Ghost hadn’t been with him, he might have doubted it was really Jon at all.

               Ghost nuzzled at Robb’s hand as he sat by the hearth in his father’s solar. It made him think of Grey Wind, and how that wolf had loved Talisa almost as much as he did. What would he have made of Daenerys? Thoughts of two direwolves became thoughts of the rest, and in turn he thought of his brothers and sisters, out there in the world. Alive or dead, safe or in danger, happy or suffering, he had no idea what state any of them were in, and that wore on him as much as anything. He went to scratch Ghost behind the ears, but the wolf twisted his head away, nuzzling again at Robb’s hand insistently. Knowing better than to ignore a direwolf behaving oddly, Robb frowned. “What?”

               Red eyes stared wordlessly at Robb. Of course, there was no point asking an animal questions. He rose from his chair, and at once Ghost turned, looking back over his shoulder to make sure Robb was following before setting off, padding almost silently out of the solar and down the stairs. It was dark, and a light snowfall drifted through the air as Ghost led him across the courtyard to the Guest House. Up the stairs they went, along the hallway to the royal chambers where Daenerys was staying. At the door Robb looked down at Ghost beside him, wondering if the wolf was trying to encourage him to speak with her. Then he heard a thud from inside, and a muffled cry, and all thoughts fled.

               Bursting through the door, Robb beheld a sight that took his mind a long moment to process. Jon was on top of Daenerys on the floor, and for a bizarre second he thought they were fucking, but then he saw Jon’s gloved hands around Daenerys’ throat. Without stopping to think he tore his sword from its sheath and plunged it into his brother’s back.

               At first Jon didn’t seem to react, and for a horrible instant Robb’s imagination conjured up the thought that Jon himself might be one of the dead men he had been warning them about. But then with a soft sigh that sounded almost relieved his body went slack and he slumped on top of Daenerys.

               Reaching down to grasp the fur mantle of Jon’s black cloak, Robb hauled him off Daenerys. The sight of her, pale and covered in blood, her eyes blown wide with panic and her neck marked with red welts, nearly unmanned him, and his sword fell from his hand with a clatter as he swiftly knelt beside her. Taking her head in his hands, he frantically looked her over for other injuries, memories of the worst day of his life bursting forth in his mind. “What happened? Are you hurt? Do you need a maester?” he asked, his voice breaking.

               Daenerys grasped at Robb, clinging tightly to him. “He… he wanted me to go to the Wall with him,” she rasped. “When I refused… he tried to kill me.” Abruptly she sat up, still holding onto Robb, looking around fearfully as though she expected Jon to have co-conspirators lying in wait. Instinct made him wrap his arms around her, pulling her into a grateful embrace, relieved beyond words that he had not lost her.

               “I saw him on top of you, and I…” Robb started to explain, and stopped as cold realisation crashed home, washing away his relief. “I killed him. I killed Jon.” His truest, dearest brother, with whom he had shared almost everything, since before either of them was old enough even to know why one was Stark and one was Snow. He had sunk his sword into his brother’s back and made himself a kinslayer.

               “You saved me,” Daenerys breathed in Robb’s ear. “You saved my life.” Saved her and damned himself in a single motion. And yet for her he would have damned himself a thousand times over. He helped her to rise, and then had to sit down himself, almost falling into a chair by the fire as his head spun and his skin felt hot and cold all at once.

               Daenerys put a hand on Robb’s shoulder as he hunched forwards, staring into the fire as if there were answers there. But the flames only danced, crackling in a tongue he could never understand. “He was my brother.” The words shuddered out of him at last, and he felt tears on his cheeks. “I loved him.” But he had changed. Robb had wanted so desperately to deny it, but now it seemed undeniable. The Jon he had known was not the Jon they had found outside Winterfell. Something had happened to him, at the Wall or beyond it. Whatever it was that had worn his brother’s face, Robb had put an end to it. He hoped Jon was at peace.

               Hearing a breath of surprise from Daenerys, Robb looked up and saw Ghost nuzzling at Jon’s body. He didn’t know how the wolf would respond to his master’s death, but then it had been Ghost that had brought him here. As if he had heard Robb’s thoughts, Ghost raised his head and padded over. When he laid his head in Robb’s lap it was a balm beyond words. There was something of Jon still with him, and something of Grey Wind too. He would not fail them again.

Chapter Text

               In all his life, Robb did not think he had ever derived such a deep sense of satisfaction from any sight as when he stood on the riverbank and watched the Twins burn. The screaming had ceased some time ago, or perhaps it simply could no longer be heard over the roar of the flames. Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion swooped low, and where their fiery breath struck, stone crumbled under the terrible heat. Unavoidably it reminded him of the inferno that had consumed Meereen, but where Meereen had been a great but troubled city, the seat of House Frey was no more than a blight on the landscape, squat and ugly, a monument to grasping greed. When the Trident had washed its stones away they would build a new bridge here, he had decided. A bridge bearing upon its flanks the bear of House Mormont, the merman of House Manderly, the weirwood of House Blackwood, the giant of House Umber. Every house whose blood had been treacherously spilled would have their place, and the name of Frey would become nothing more than a curse spat at traitors.

               When they marched south all the strength of the North had marched with them, side by side with the strength Daenerys had brought with her, less a thousand to take the Dreadfort and another thousand to reinforce the Wall, as promised. A promise made to a dead man was a promise still, even if Jon had been dead when it was made. That was the only possibility that made any sense to Robb, that his brother had died at Castle Black. Laying his corpse to rest had been a mercy. His wildling followers had not seen it that way, but the red witch’s influence had averted any further violence. Robb would have preferred that she return to the Wall with them, but she had come south instead.

               Moat Cailin’s garrison had raised the banner of Stark, and as the army crossed the Neck they had been joined by some few crannogmen, then a steady trickle of Riverlanders as they approached the Twins. No quarter had been asked nor offered. Whatever else might be said about Walder Frey, and Robb had plenty to say, he was not fool enough to imagine that an army flying Stark banners would offer him anything but death. Still, the Freys had not expected that death to descend from the sky. No-one seemed to believe that Daenerys’ dragons were real until they saw the beasts with their own eyes. The Freys had no doubt thought to raise their drawbridge, comfortable in receiving supplies from the far bank, and wait out an ineffective siege. Now they were cooking as the sun sank towards the western horizon, the whole sky a blaze of orange reflected in the river.

               At first, Robb had thought it was a shame that he would not get a chance to watch Walder Frey die in front of him. But the more he thought about it, the more the thought of laying eyes on that grey sunken cunt repulsed him. No doubt the Late Lord Frey would have taken the chance to gloat one last time as Roose Bolton had. Confronting Roose face-to-face had brought Robb far less satisfaction than simply bringing about his death, and knowing that he had died badly. Walder Frey had died badly too, there could hardly be any doubt about that. Roasted in his own castle like Harren the Black, along with the rest of his brood. It was regrettable that the castle’s servants had been condemned to the same grim fate by their lord’s perfidy, but that was war. The servants at Winterfell had not been spared, nor had his father’s household at King’s Landing. Nor indeed thousands of camp followers who were butchered upon this very riverbank.

               With his right hand Robb scratched Ghost behind the ears, and his left rested on the direwolf’s smaller twin, the pommel of Longclaw. Sometimes he forgot that it was Ghost’s fur he was running his fingers through and not Grey Wind’s, but here he could not forget. He thought back to the nights when he used to dream that he was Grey Wind, haunting the woods. Mayhaps Jon had dreamed the same of Ghost. He had no such dreams now. His nights were haunted by burning cities, cruel laughter, and his brother’s hands around his neck.

               “Dacey died here, you said?”

               The voice made Robb start, and he looked around to see Ser Jorah beside him, watching the castles burn. “Yes,” he nodded.

               Ser Jorah spat upon the ground. “Then good riddance. She deserved better.”

               “She did,” Robb said quietly, looking down at the sword on his hip. He kept thinking of it as Jon’s sword, but it wasn’t, not really. It belonged to House Mormont, and its return was the very least they were owed for what they had sacrificed. He unbuckled the sword belt from his waist and held it out. “Longclaw belongs to you. I should have returned it already.”

               Ser Jorah was silent, looking at the sword with a furrowed brow, and then he turned his gaze back to the Twins. “I gave it up years ago. I shamed myself, brought dishonour upon my house. I would not take it from you even to take it back to Bear Island. No, my father gave it to your brother; that means by rights it passes to you. I daresay he’d be honoured to have it borne by the King in the North.”

               “I’m not the King in the North,” Robb said, lowering his outstretched arm.

               Ser Jorah looked at him, with a small, wry smile. “And I am not an Andal, yet Jorah the Andal is a name that means something to some people.”

               Robb studied the sword in his hand. The Valyrian steel was lighter and sharper than he was used to, and yet it felt very natural on the few occasions he had so far had to draw it. He had taken it because it would have been a waste to leave it at Winterfell, but he had never really meant to keep it. Already though, he was growing fond of it. He buckled the belt around his waist once more, resting his hand on the pommel. “I was King of the Trident too. I don’t know if it will matter as much. My whole reign was spent south of the Neck, but these lands never felt like home.”

               “Once Daenerys sits on the Iron Throne, you’ll be able to go home.”

               Something bitter twisted Robb’s lips. “No, I won’t. I’ll be able to go to Winterfell, but Winterfell hasn’t been my home for years now. Truly, not since Bran’s fall. How am I supposed to sleep in my father’s bed, sit on my father’s chair, eat at my father’s table, after all that’s happened?”

               “I don’t know. My own father yet lived when I became the Lord of Bear Island.”

               Robb was saved from having to respond to that by the hoofbeats of an approaching rider. “My lord Stark,” he said, pulling his horse up sharply. “A man has been pulled from the river. The riverlanders say he is a Frey.”

               “He’s alive?” Robb asked.

               “Aye, my lord.” Robb’s hand gripped Longclaw’s hilt. It seemed he would get some personal revenge after all.

               The messenger led Robb and Ser Jorah down the riverbank perhaps a mile with Ghost padding beside them, to where a group of men in mixed colours stood beneath a copse of trees with weapons in their hands. Between them was a man on his knees, his clothes soaked through. Someone had thrown a rope over a tree branch where it hung ominously. “My lord Stark!” one of the men – whose tunic bore the three trees of House Tallhart – grinned viciously as they approached, giving the prisoner a kick that shoved him face-down into the dirt. “We caught ourselves a wet rat. Thought you might want the pleasure yourself.”

               Another man dragged the prisoner back up to his knees, and Robb’s hand flexed on Longclaw’s hilt as he recognised Black Walder Frey. “Lord Stark now, is it?” Walder spat. “What happened to the King in the North?”

               “The same thing that happened to your castle,” Robb replied. “The Mother of Dragons.”

               “Found yourself another woman, eh? Found yourself another dog too, I see.” Walder truly was a cunt. Named appropriately, really. “Want me to do for them what I did for the last two?”

               Robb looked up at the looming noose. No doubt it would bring him great satisfaction to watch the cunt dangle while the men made sport of him. But no, he thought. Ghost was owed vengeance for his brother’s murder too. He looked down at the white wolf and spoke a single word. “Kill.”

               Black Walder was unarmed and defenceless, but even had he been armed he would have been no match for the direwolf’s ferocity. Robb didn’t know whether it was a reflection of his hatred, Ghost’s own nature, or an understanding of what had been done to Grey Wind, but Walder’s screams pierced the gathering gloom as he was viciously torn apart.

               There wasn’t much left by the time Ghost was done, licking his bloody snout. Robb ordered the men to burn the scraps of meat that had once been Black Walder Frey and to hang any others they caught trying to escape, and left them to it, returning with Ser Jorah to where the army was encamped. Torches and campfires were being lit, though the ongoing consumption of the Twins by flame cast its glow for quite some distance. Ser Jorah took his leave as they passed the pickets, and Robb continued onwards to the camp’s centre.

               Inside the queen’s grand pavilion, Daenerys was sharing a cup of wine around a warm brazier with Missandei, Tyrion and Varys. Robb had expected the plump spymaster to struggle on the long southward march, but he never seemed less than composed, even in the depths of the Neck’s bogs.

               Daenerys still smelled of smoke, Robb noted as he took a seat beside her, and her face and coat were marked with soot. The coat had been a gift from Lord Manderly, black leather with a half-cape of crimson velvet. Quite unorthodox, but it suited her, and it was practical for riding on dragonback. And though they were south of the neck now there was still a chill in the air, from which the coat’s high collar protected her better than most of the gowns she had brought from Essos. She smiled at him, with an odd combination of warmth and glee in her violet eyes. “Not quite Harrenhal, but I think it sends a similar message.”

               “It has been a long time since dragons were seen in the Seven Kingdoms. A few more castles may need to be razed for the message to sink in,” Tyrion commented, sipping his wine.

               “If we burn every castle in our path there will not be much left of the Seven Kingdoms,” said Missandei, and Robb was inclined to agree with her. Burning the Twins was one thing, but razing castles merely for opposing them was another.

               “Fortunately, many of the castles that stand in our path are like to find old Targaryen banners to raise as we approach them.” Varys’ wine cup hovered close to his lips, but he did not drink. “Darry and Harrenhal shall be the main obstacles, I believe.”

               “Even better,” Daenerys said eagerly. “A second burning of Harrenhal should leave no doubt in anyone’s mind about what it means to defy me.”

               “There is, of course, still the matter of King’s Landing itself,” Varys continued. “Not to mention the Westerlands, and Riverrun also under Lannister control.”

               “My brother does not support my sister,” Tyrion reminded them. “He holds the Westerlands.”

               “No, but it is his men who hold Darry and Harrenhal,” said Varys. “We must take these castles to enter the Crownlands.”

               “Even if Darry and Harrenhal surrender, we would be fools to leave Lannisters unchecked in our rear,” Daenerys said, tapping a finger against her wine cup. “The Kingslayer may rediscover his loyalty to Cersei and attack us from behind.”

               “What do you propose? Split our army once we cross the Trident?” Robb asked.

               Daenerys looked down, studying her wine as if there were answers there. “This army is not large enough to be split without risking the two halves’ separate destruction.”

               Prudent, Robb thought, but there remained a large army as yet untouched by the years of war, not that far away. “We could solicit the support of my Aunt Lysa in the Vale. Her numbers would greatly strengthen us.”

               “Lysa Arryn sat comfortably in her castle and did nothing to support you the last time you marched south. Why should she behave any differently now?” Tyrion asked. “Even if she does, she is unstable to say the least, and would make for a most unreliable ally.”

               “Lysa Arryn’s reliability, or lack of it, is unlikely to trouble us,” said Varys. “My little birds tell me that she’s dead. Petyr Baelish is regent for Lord Robert now, with the reluctant assent of the Lords of the Vale.”

               “Dead?” Robb had never met his aunt, and she had hardly done him any kindness, but nevertheless it was a shock to learn he had lost another relative.

               “Indeed. An accidental fall, apparently.” Robb did not have to be a spymaster to know Varys didn’t believe that for a second. “Lord Baelish is a cunning and ambitious man, your grace,” Varys continued. “Even in my line of work, I have never met someone so utterly without scruples.” He turned his gaze back to Robb. “Your father trusted him, and Baelish betrayed Lord Stark to his death.”

               Robb’s mind turned over. He remembered his mother speaking of Lord Petyr Baelish, of a foolish boy who had challenged Uncle Brandon for her hand. She had mentioned his position at court, but if she had known of his betrayal she had never mentioned it. Another enemy, one he hadn’t even known about. And ruling the Vale, no less.

               For her part, Daenerys seemed unsurprised to hear any of it. So much so that Robb rather suspected that Varys had already told her. “It would take a long time to march all the way to the Eyrie and back, especially to meet with such an untrustworthy man.” she said. “I have no intention of wasting so much time. I will fly.”

               The next morning, Daenerys did indeed climb onto Drogon’s back and soar away to the east with Viserion and Rhaegal flanking her, though not before sharing a very enjoyable night with Robb. Watching her go he felt pride and apprehension in equal measure. She was truly the queen, launching fearlessly into the sky, but the thought of her alone made him uneasy, even though she would hardly be unprotected.

               It was fortunate that other matters required Robb’s attention and could keep his mind off worrying about Daenerys. As the army marched southwards along the Kingsroad, more riverlanders flocked to its banners, bringing tales of an outlaw brotherhood and the sinister witch who led them. It was hardly the most pressing concern for an army marching to war, but then very quickly it became very pressing.

               Two days after Daenerys set off on her flight to the Eyrie, as the army was making camp for the night, the picket guards brought a man through the lines. He was skinny and weathered, with a scruffy grey beard and wisps of grey hair clinging to his scalp, his clothes worn and patched to the point that their original red colour was barely distinguishable. He wore a sword belt, but his sheath was empty, his sword carried by one of the guards. Brought into the pavilion Robb was using as his command tent, he bent the knee. “Your grace,” he said in a curiously mixed accent.

               “Get up,” Robb said, trading a look with Grey Worm. “I am not a king. I am Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell.”

               The man stood, looking at Robb as though he knew who he was but had not expected to meet him. “Robb Stark? Son of Eddard and Catelyn?”

               “Have you encountered many other Starks?” Tyrion asked with a smirk which became a frown. “Seven Hells. Thoros?”

               “Well met, Tyrion,” Thoros nodded, with a roguish smile that looked like it was forming against his will. “Allow me to introduce myself properly to you, Lord Stark, lest you think I have no manners. I am Thoros of Myr. Formerly of the red temple, presently of the Brotherhood Without Banners.”

               “From King Robert’s court to an outlaw,” Brynden scoffed.

               “Serving the Lord of Light often brings us to strange places.” If Melisandre had been in the command tent before, Robb had not noticed her, but now there she was, studying Thoros intently.

               For his part, Thoros looked wearily grateful to see a fellow red priest. “That it does, my lady.” They exchanged a few sentences in Valyrian, and Grey Worm leaned over to Robb to translate.

               “You failed to change the king.” That was Melisandre.

               “I failed far more than that.”

               “Yet you burn with the Lord’s light.”

               “The Lord does his work through me.”

               “What work?”

               Thoros looked at Robb and switched back to Westerosi. “Do you know that the Lord of Light has the power to wake the dead?”

               Robb glanced at Melisandre. It would have sounded absurd, but for the life and death of his brother. “Would it surprise you if I said yes?”

               It did indeed seem to take Thoros aback, though he recovered quickly. “Through me, the Lord brought back Beric Dondarrion six times,” he explained. “And with Beric, I… came upon your mother’s body.” Every muscle in Robb’s chest tensed, but he said nothing. “Beric wanted me to say the words, to implore the Lord to bring her back. But I refused. I felt she was too far gone. So Beric did it himself. The Lord took the fire from him, and put it in her.”

               Robb wanted so desperately to be happy. His mother lived, restored to life by the grace of the red god. But he had seen what kind of life the red god offered. “Where is she?”

               The look on Thoros’ face did nothing to alleviate Robb’s doubts. “She is not who she was. Her injuries were severe, and they do not heal.”

               “I know.” Robb meant only to be firm, but it came out almost as a snarl.

               “I cannot say for sure that she will even recognise you.”

               “I know.”

               That one got through to Thoros, and he led Robb with a small group – including Melisandre – out of the camp and through the woods. On the way he explained the origins and history of the Brotherhood Without Banners, and Robb warmed to him somewhat when he spoke of their campaign against the Freys. Thoros also explained that he had entered the camp seeking not Robb but Daenerys, for what true servant of the fire god could ignore the coming of the Mother of Dragons?

               Robb was already less than pleased to have one fire priest whispering in Daenerys’ ear, but Thoros at least seemed less obscurantist than Melisandre. By the standards of priests he was remarkably convivial, jovial even, though there was a weariness to him beneath the surface. Hardly surprising if he had truly been fighting since even before Robb called the banners a lifetime ago.

               The Brotherhood Without Banners awaited them in a clearing a few miles away from the encampment. They looked as ragged as Thoros or worse, gaunt men whose clothes were more stitches than cloth, bearing weapons that were battered and dented. None were smiling. From among them emerged a small figure, hooded, clutching in bony hands a familiar crown of bronze and iron. She threw back her hood, and Robb’s blood ran cold to behold what had become of his mother.

               Catelyn Stark looked like a walking corpse, with white, straw-like wisps of hair clinging to her skull, her cheeks scratched and torn open, her throat slit almost from ear to ear, her skin like congealed milk. Worst of all were her eyes, sunken and red. Robb could see nothing of his mother in those eyes, and he understood in an instant why Thoros had refused to raise her from death. Better that she had been allowed to rest than forced to live in such a state. Grasping the flaps of her slashed throat together, she hissed out a word, and if Robb had not heard her say it so many times he would not have recognised his own name, so distorted was her voice. “Robb,” she rattled. “I thought you dead.”

               “Lady Stoneheart says-” one of the Brotherhood began, but Robb cut him off.

               “I understand her.” Lady Stoneheart. Was that what they called the thing wearing his mother’s face, or what it called itself? “I would have died, but for Olyvar and Perwyn’s intervention.”

               Lady Stoneheart looked like she barely recognised the names. “I have wreaked vengeance upon the Freys.”

               “As have I. The Twins are no more.”

               A hideous grin like that of a skinless skull twisted Lady Stoneheart’s torn cheeks. “Good,” she hissed. “Very good.”

               Robb stepped closer, flexing his hand on Longclaw’s hilt. “Roose Bolton too is dead. If it’s vengeance binding you to the world, you need not remain any longer.” Let his mother’s gods show mercy, if they would.

               The sound of Lady Stoneheart’s hacking laughter made Robb’s skin crawl. “Boltons and Freys may have paid the price, but there are many trees along the Trident from which corpses have yet to dangle. Lannisters and Tyrells, Mootons and Pipers, my own sweet sister who abandoned us, so much fruit these lands have yet to bear.”

               Robb had heard enough, and wished he had heard none of it. He had clung to the faint hope that something of his mother remained, but he had been fool enough to believe Jon’s walking corpse was still Jon himself, and that mistake had almost killed Daenerys. Before anyone could stop him, he tore Longclaw from its sheath and drove it into the monster’s stone heart. Her eyes gleamed red with hatred, and his crown dropped from her fingers, rolling across the grass as her ragged nails scraped across his jerkin. Then she sagged, the force of her unnatural animation fleeing her wretched body, and he pulled the sword out of her, letting her crumple to the ground.

               Silence reigned in the clearing for a long, weighty moment, and then pandemonium erupted, weapons drawn and shouted words traded. Robb looked down at his mother’s corpse, and his crown beside it. How much better it would have been to have never laid eyes on either again. He had no tears, not for the thing that had defiled his mother’s body. He had mourned her when she died. He would not mourn the monster.

               Reaching down, Robb retrieved his crown. It was a heavy thing, and he did not miss wearing it. But once he had been king of these lands. “Be silent!” he bellowed, and the cacophony faded away. All eyes feel upon him, and only the clink of metal on metal could be heard, the wind rustling through the trees. “My mother died at the Twins. This creature you called Lady Stoneheart merely wore her skin. She is not the first such creature I have encountered, but she is the last I will countenance.” His eyes fell upon Thoros and Melisandre. “You will raise no more corpses, lest you wish to become corpses yourselves.” Turning his gaze to the Brotherhood Without Banners, he flexed the hand holding his crown. “You men fought in the name of King Robert and my father. You punished the Freys for their treachery, and for that you have my gratitude. But King Robert is dead. My father is dead. The Seven Kingdoms have one true Queen, Daenerys Targaryen. Bend the knee to her and you will be rewarded for all your deeds, I swear by the old gods and the new.”

               When Robb returned to the encampment the Brotherhood came with him, all but a few who preferred to take their chances in the wild. Viserion soared overhead, and he smiled to know that Daenerys had returned, though bile still burned in his stomach. He was a kinslayer twice over now, and it was a bitter irony that his mother would have shed no tears over Jon. Let the gods curse him if they would. They had already done enough.

               In Daenerys’ pavilion she turned as Robb entered, and her smile warmed him more than he could say. Gods, he loved remembering how beautiful she was. Before she could speak he bent the knee before her and held out his crown. “A gift for you, your grace,” he said. “It is yours to do with as you wish, as am I.”

               Daenerys took the crown from Robb, turning it over in her gloved hands, studying it. Some time ago she had asked him to describe his crown, and he could tell now that she recognised it, though what she thought of it was less clear. Abruptly she tossed the crown aside, looking down at Robb as it landed on the ground with a dull thunk. “I think I have a use for you tonight,” she grinned.

Chapter Text

               Leaning low over Drogon’s back, the cold air snatched at Daenerys’ braids and stung her eyes, but it was a price well worth paying for the thrill of dragonflight. Mighty wings beat as she soared and swooped, riding the thermals up and plunging back down. And what could be a better accompaniment to the ride than to unleash the power of dragonfire on a thoroughly deserving foe. Daenerys had never met a Frey, but that didn’t matter. She had learned of their crimes from Robb, and not just him. Varys and Tyrion had spoken to her of the Red Wedding, as had Lord Manderly and the Blackfish. So she was without compunctions of any sort as the Twins blazed beneath her, turning the Trident orange.

               The sheer force of the dragons’ fire was a thing to behold, smashing stones apart, toppling towers into the churning river. Daenerys had watched from on high as burning figures leapt into that river to escape the flames. Let them try; there were men along the bank waiting for them. Now though the castles were silent and still but for the inferno consuming them, a crumbling tomb for a house of betrayers. There was a bloody satisfaction for delivering such justice, much as there had been to sacking Astapor and purging the Great Masters. This was the queen Daenerys wanted to be, the queen she alone could be, wielding the terrible power of dragonfire. A sword of justice, swift and merciless. For Robb, for his mother, his wife, for all the treacherous Freys had harmed, she was glad to right the scales.

               The heat of a house’s end warmed Daenerys as Drogon swooped low across what remained of the Twins, his shadow descending on the encampment a ways to the east. There was an open space among the tents in which he landed, shaking the earth, and no sooner had Daenerys slipped from his back than he rose again, the force of his wingbeats nearly unbalancing her and threatening to blow away a few dozen tents.

               Men stopped to acknowledge Daenerys as she strode through the camp with her head held high, as was only right. She was their queen, and owed respect, but it felt different now. During the siege their respect had been perfunctory, on the march it had been renewed, but now she felt how the Targaryens of old must have felt, bestriding the Seven Kingdoms on dragonback. Closer to gods than to men, so Viserys had said, and now they had all seen the truth of it. Nothing could stand in her way.

               When Daenerys ducked through her pavilion’s flap, Missandei was already there waiting for her with a cup of wine, which she took gladly and drank deep. Razing two castles was thirsty work. Varys was there too, with his hands tucked into his sleeves, and Tyrion with a cup of his own. The man could drink, though she valued his counsel far more when he was sober. Still she decided not to begrudge him his wine; tonight they were celebrating a victory.

               Chairs were already arranged around a warm brazier, and Daenerys sank into one, relaxing as the others joined her. Powerful she might be on Drogon’s back, but she was not particularly comfortable, no matter how she tweaked her saddle. This padded chair was much nicer, especially with wine inside her. “Quite the display, your grace,” Varys simpered.

               “One wonders why anyone ever rebelled against House Targaryen when they still possessed dragons,” said Tyrion. “I hope my sweet sister can smell the roasting flesh from King’s Landing.”

               “Cersei has had her fair share of that scent,” Varys replied. “I understand the ruins of the Sept of Baelor still smoulder.”

               “House Lannister fought against dragons when they supported Aegon over Rhaenyra, and paid dearly for it,” Daenerys pointed out, swirling her wine.

               “True, but it was not the dragons who made them pay,” Varys said. “Lord Jason was cut down by a squire, and Ser Tyland was mutilated by Queen Rhaenyra, while it was the ironborn who sacked Lannisport.”

               Silence fell briefly, and Daenerys mused on her ancestor, the only woman to ever sit the Iron Throne. Rhaneyra was remembered as a cruel and capricious woman, but how much of that was true and how much slander? How different would her memory be had she triumphed?

               Before Daenerys could sink too deeply into such thoughts, the flap was pushed aside and Robb appeared, bringing a smile to her face. Today had been for him, a gift she was glad to give, and she dearly hoped he liked it. “Not quite Harrenhal, but I think it sends a similar message,” she said, studying his face and finding his expression disappointingly grim.

               “It has been a long time since dragons were seen in the Seven Kingdoms. A few more castles may need to be razed for the message to sink in,” Tyrion commented, sipping his wine.

               “If we burn every castle in our path there will not be much left of the Seven Kingdoms,” Missandei spoke up, and not for the first time Daenerys was glad to have a voice of restraint she could trust so completely.

               “Fortunately, many of the castles that stand in our path are like to find old Targaryen banners to raise as we approach them.” Varys had picked up a cup of wine, though it seemed quite full. “Darry and Harrenhal shall be the main obstacles, I believe.”

               And what better castle to have in their path than the one the Conqueror ruined, Daenerys thought. “Even better. A second burning of Harrenhal should leave no doubt in anyone’s mind about what it means to defy me.”

               “There is, of course, still the matter of King’s Landing itself,” Varys continued. “Not to mention the Westerlands, and Riverrun also under Lannister control.”

               “My brother does not support my sister,” Tyrion reminded them. “He holds the Westerlands.”

               “No, but it is his men who hold Darry and Harrenhal,” said Varys. “We must take these castles to enter the Crownlands.”

               “Even if Darry and Harrenhal surrender, we would be fools to leave Lannisters unchecked in our rear,” Daenerys said, tapping a finger against her wine cup. “The Kingslayer may rediscover his loyalty to Cersei and attack us from behind.”

               “What do you propose? Split our army once we cross the Trident?” Robb asked her.

               Daenerys looked down into her wine, holding back a spike of frustration. Why was he asking her? He was the Young Wolf, and this was the land he had fought over with such skill, so everyone said. If he could not even tell her how to wage war here, what use was he except to warm her bed? “This army is not large enough to be split without risking the two halves’ separate destruction,” she said, holding her irritation in check.

               “We could solicit the support of my Aunt Lysa in the Vale,” Robb suggested. “Her numbers would greatly strengthen us.” That was better, but still hardly the genius everyone talked about.

               “Lysa Arryn sat comfortably in her castle and did nothing to support you the last time you marched south. Why should she behave any differently now?” Tyrion asked. “Even if she does, she is unstable to say the least, and would make for a most unreliable ally.”

               “Lysa Arryn’s reliability, or lack of it, is unlikely to trouble us,” said Varys. “My little birds tell me that she’s dead. Petyr Baelish is regent for Lord Robert now, with the reluctant assent of the Lords of the Vale.”

               All this Daenerys already knew, for Varys had told her about it some weeks ago. It had not seemed all that important at the time, not when the Vale remained neutral, but seeing the look on Robb’s face she wished she had at least told him. “Dead?” he asked, stunned.

               “Indeed. An accidental fall, apparently.” As accidental as Queen Jaehaera’s death, no doubt. “Lord Baelish is a cunning and ambitious man, your grace,” Varys continued. “Even in my line of work, I have never met someone so utterly without scruples.” He turned back to Robb. “Your father trusted him, and Baelish betrayed Lord Stark to his death.”

               Daenerys bore little love for Ned Stark, but she would be a fool to ignore his lesson. Still the Vale was there for the taking, and with a new regent who had many enemies this seemed a good time to make a move. “It would take a long time to march all the way to the Eyrie and back, especially to meet with such an untrustworthy man.” she said. “I have no intention of wasting so much time. I will fly.”

               When Daenerys departed the next morning, soaring upon Drogon’s back towards the light of the rising sun as it sprung forth from the horizon, Viserion and Rhaegal flew with her. She might have left them behind to protect her army, but the scouts had reported no Lannister army moving to meet them, and there was no power in the skies but her own. Besides, she still wasn’t sure if she could exert that much control over them. She could do more these days than command them to breathe fire, but she was not confident they would stay if told. It didn’t matter overmuch though, she only needed them to go with her, and today three dragons would make an excellent point.

               The Mountains of the Moon rose before Daenerys and she urged Drogon higher, up into the clouds. The air bit at her exposed skin, cold and harsh, snatching the tears from her eyes as quickly as they formed. Still Drogon rose, higher and higher, the force of his wingbeats threatening to start an avalanche as rock gave way to snow. And then all at once he surged over the peaks with a keening cry, and the Vale stretched out before Daenerys’ stinging eyes. Steep-sided green valleys went on all the way to the horizon, cut in two by meandering rivers that wended westwards towards the sea. It was a magnificent sight, and she couldn’t help but laugh. This was what it was to be a dragon rider, to be a Targaryen, to be closer to gods than men. There was only one man she could imagine ever sharing this with.

               Daenerys and her dragons swept through the valleys, following their westward course. Far below she could see the High Road climbing along the heights, towards her destination. The tale Viserys had told her of Aegon’s Conquest was at the forefront of her mind: Visenya’s flight to the Eyrie, past the Bloody Gate and the Gates of the Moon, up to where the Arryns perched upon a shoulder of the Giant’s Lance. She followed her ancestor’s path, soaring up that great peak whose snows were as white as the castle. Sunlight shone off the ice of a frozen waterfall as she descended, and the weight of Drogon’s landing shook snow off the roofs.

               The Eyrie sprang to life, though none of the men who rushed out into the frosty courtyard clutching arms seemed eager to be the first to test Drogon. Daenerys dismounted, sliding down his flank, and at once she missed his warmth. It was bitterly cold here, colder even than it had been outside Winterfell, the chill air stabbing at the exposed skin of her face.

               A small, finely-dressed man with grey at his temples and in his goatee appeared from a doorway, swiftly followed by a tall young woman with dark hair and eye-catching beauty. From the way the soldiers parted to let them pass, Daenerys presumed they were in charge. Which meant the man must be Petyr Baelish, though who the young woman was she didn’t know. Baelish’s daughter, perhaps.

               Standing in front of Drogon, Daenerys waited for Baelish and the girl to approach her, which they did with understandable reluctance. “Daenerys Stormborn, I take it?” the man said, eyeing the dragon apprehensively.

               “Queen Daenerys Stormborn,” Daenerys corrected him with a thin smile. “And you must be Lord Petyr Baelish. Lord of Harrenhal, as I understand?”

               “You understand correctly,” said Baelish, steepling his fingers in a practiced pose. It seemed to Daenerys like an attempt to appear calm and collected with a dragon eyeing him. “To what do we owe the honour of this visit, your grace?”

               Never had the words ‘your grace’ sounded quite so insincere to Daenerys. “I have need of the Vale’s army. House Arryn has not forgotten its fealty to House Targaryen, I presume.”

               “Lord Robert was not born at the time of the Rebellion,” Baelish pointed out. “He swore no oath of fealty to your father.”

               “Then he can swear one to me now,” Daenerys replied. “Where is he?”

               “He is… indisposed. Unfortunately, the young lord is often unwell.”

               “He has not suffered a fall, I trust?” Daenerys smirked.

               The corners of Baelish’s eyes crinkled. “Not at all. Merely a disturbance of the stomach.”

               “And who is your companion?” Daenerys asked, turning her eyes upon the girl.

               Baelish gestured for her to step forwards. “I’m told that when you sailed in to White Harbour you arrived side by side with Robb Stark. No doubt he will be grateful to learn that here in the Vale I have kept his sister safe after spiriting her out of the hands of the Lannisters. May I present Lady Sansa Stark.”

               Daenerys looked her over again, and she could see it now, the resemblance. Sansa carried herself like Robb did, looking at her with those same thoughtful blue eyes. “Your grace,” she said, curtsying gracefully.

               “Lady Sansa. Robb will be pleased- he will be overjoyed to know that you’re safe and well,” Daenerys smiled, and this time it was warm and true. Already she was looking forward to telling him.

               Sansa smiled too, though there was an intense look in her eyes as she took a step closer to Daenerys. “Lord Baelish murdered my aunt Lysa,” she said, her voice taut but firm. “You cannot trust him. You should kill him.”

               Baelish moved fast, darting towards the doorway from whence he had come, but Daenerys didn't have to move at all. "Dracarys," she said, as cold as the frozen waterfall, and Drogon breathed fire that melted the courtyard’s frost, enveloping the small figure in a column of orange flames. He screamed, thrashing, the fire’s grisly effect on his flesh mercifully obscured, and in a matter of moments what remained of him collapsed to the steaming flagstones.

               Sansa let out a breath, watching Baelish’s remains like she couldn’t believe it had been so easy, like she wanted to be sure he would not conspire to rise to his feet. “He thought I was under his spell,” she said, without turning away. “He thought to use me to win Robb’s favour. I don’t think he expected you to fly here by yourself.”

               “Men have been underestimating me for my entire life,” Daenerys replied, and Sansa looked at her with a small smile of understanding. “He’s not the first to meet this fate. I doubt he will be the last.”

               “Would you like to come inside?” Sansa asked. “It’s too cold out here.”

               Daenerys took Sansa’s arm, and together they strode into the castle as the soldiers watched on, wisely unwilling to dispute the recent transfer of power with Drogon making himself comfortable in the courtyard.

               In the Maiden’s Tower, Sansa and Daenerys warmed themselves by a fire and shared tea and lemon cakes. Daenerys spoke of Robb, of her journeys in the east, of the campaign in the North. Sansa spoke of King’s Landing, her escape to the Vale, Lord Arryn and Lord Baelish. “I lied for him,” she said. “I told the lords of the Vale that he was innocent of my aunt’s murder. I think he wanted to believe that I did it out of affection for him.”

               “Why did you do it?”

               “Because I didn’t trust that the lords would not simply hand me over to the Lannisters after they killed him.”

               “But you trust me?”

               Sansa arched an eyebrow as if to say Daenerys was getting ahead of herself. “You and the Lannisters can’t both rule. And Littlefinger- Lord Baelish told me about Robb. I’m… looking forward to seeing him again,” she smiled, seeming for a moment very much a young girl.

               “He never gave up on you.”

               “Giving up has never been his strong suit.”

               No, it hasn’t, Daenerys thought with a smile. “I would offer to bring you back with me on dragonback to see him, but I’m not sure how well my dragons will take another rider.”

               “I wouldn’t go anyway. Matters need to be settled here.”

               For some reason, Daenerys had thought of Robb’s sisters as delicate little girls, but it was clear to her now that Sansa had steel beneath her silk. “You intend to take Lord Baelish’s place?”

               Sansa nodded. “Lord Robin is very attached to me. He will do as I ask, and the lords of the Vale will do as he commands.”

               “Then what will he command?”

               “That they muster their armies at the Bloody Gate, and march to join you, as they should have marched to join Robb.” Sansa’s smile was wolfish. “I think I will enjoy having a Queen on the Iron Throne. How does Robb feel about it?”

               That was an excellent question, and one Daenerys wasn’t sure she knew the answer to. To be sure, Robb had been nothing but a loyal servant since the moment she demanded his submission. But it must chafe for a man who had once been a king, to bend the knee to a woman. “He… I think he’s just glad to be on the right side of the Narrow Sea again.” She might have mentioned his affection for her, but somehow she doubted Sansa wanted to know how much of her brother’s time was spent with his tongue in Daenerys’ cunt, not when they had only just met.

               “Many lords will not feel the same way. They will oppose you because you are a woman,” Sansa said matter-of-factly.

               “I don’t see that they have much of a choice. The Tyrells and Martells are advancing a queen of their own, and no-one seems to doubt that it is Cersei and not Tommen who rules in King’s Landing.”

               Sansa smiled thinly. “Myrcella is as much a puppet as Tommen. Doran Martell and Willas Tyrell are easier for men to follow than either Cersei or you.”

               “But the Vale will follow you?”

               “The Vale will follow Robert Arryn. And he will do what I tell him.”

               Daenerys tapped a finger on the arm of her chair. It rankled to hear these things, but Sansa was only being honest. Men did not like women in power, she had learned that a dozen times over, all across Essos. Even now, the Northerners who had followed her south did so for Robb’s sake, not hers. And it seemed the Valemen would be much the same. What would happen if Robert Arryn proved less pliant than Sansa thought? Or some other lord who had bent the knee decided he did not like serving a queen? Once for blood and once for gold and once for love. Betrayal ever lurked, and even her dragons would not protect her from a knife in the dark. More than ever it seemed necessary to demonstrate her power. To make an example. The Twins had been a start, but Tyrion had been right. More castles would have to burn. Let the lords of the Seven Kingdoms know that their choice was not between a queen or a king, but a queen or the flames.

               The realm’s castles were not going anywhere though, and Daenerys was not going to rush on their account. For two days she remained at the Eyrie with Sansa, planning the details. The High Road came down out of the Mountains of the Moon to meet the kingsroad just north of the Trident, so that was where the Vale’s army would join with Daenerys’ coming down from the north. Lord Yohn Royce would lead them. Daenerys had heard the name; Varys had named him a friend to House Stark. From what little she knew, he seemed a good choice.

               The Lord of the Vale, on the other hand, concerned Daenerys from the moment she was introduced to him. Sallow and spindly, he behaved like a boy half his age. At least he was as devoted to Sansa as she had said – a small mercy, but a welcome one. Daenerys felt a sort of kinship with Sansa, a feeling that grew the more she spoke of her past, of her captivity in King’s Landing and her time hidden away here at the Eyrie by Lord Baelish. She imaged they had both been much the same once, timid little girls bartered away like things, and both of them had grown up and learned how to bite. For once she did not begrudge Robb his family.

               When the time came for Daenerys to depart, Sansa saw her off. In the courtyard, with Drogon looming over them, Daenerys took Sansa’s hands in her own. “I’m sorry to go so soon, but with luck it will not be so very long before we are all together. You, Robb, and I,” she said with a smile.

               “Tell Robb I can’t wait to see him again,” Sansa replied with a smile of her own. “And tell him winter is coming.”

               “I will,” Daenerys nodded. Sansa’s hands slipped from hers as she turned to mount Drogon, and her stomach lurched inside her as he surged into the air. Sansa and the other figures in the courtyard dropped away below her, rapidly becoming no more than dots and then not even that as Daenerys rose into the cold sky.

               The flight back to the west was as uncomfortably chilly as the flight eastward had been, and Daenerys was grateful when she descended from the Mountains of the Moon towards the kingsroad. Her army was not hard to locate from the air, and she swooped down, circling in broad loops lower and lower until Drogon landed with an impact that shook the tents. She made her way past knights and men-at-arms who bowed their heads, interested in little but the warmth of her own pavilion. Missandei was there waiting for her with the braziers already lit, and Daenerys eagerly accepted a cup of mulled wine. Even with gloves on her fingers were cold, and she held the warm cup between both hands, the warm wine filling her as she drank.

               The sound of the tent flap opening made Daenerys turn, and the sight of Robb made her smile, though there was a grimness to him that was new and fresh. Still, the way he seemed to glow in her presence made her forget every doubt she had about him in an instant, even before he went to his knee, holding out a bronze crown set with iron spikes. “A gift for you, your grace,” he said. “It is yours to do with as you wish, as am I.”

               Daenerys took the crown, turning it over in her hands. It was finely made, but harsh and cold. Even had Robb not described his crown to her before, she would have recognised it for what it was. A fitting crown for the King of Winter. And yet not at all right for the handsome young man with curly auburn hair who was looking up at her with those bright blue eyes. She tossed the crown aside, fixing Robb with her gaze. “I think I have a use for you tonight,” she grinned.

Chapter Text

               The inn could not have held a fraction of the army that was encamped at the crossroads, but it made an agreeable headquarters. It was nice to be surrounded by stone walls rather than a tent, and with the endorsement of the former members of the Brotherhood Without Banners the proprietors were generous hosts.

               Robb could not get comfortable though, not after what Daenerys had told him. All the march down from the Twins he’d been restless, his thoughts ever drawn towards Sansa. Getting her back had been driving him for so long that it was a shock to know she was on her way, as safe as she could be. That she would march to join him with an army had truly never crossed his mind. Of course, in his imagination she and Arya had always been together. He’d known for a long time that they were separate, ever since Tyrion told him about Arya vanishing from King’s Landing, but still they went together in his mind. Get the girls back, and then kill them all.

               Outside the inn, the chill breeze tugged at Robb’s cloak. Most of the Vale’s army had arrived already, indeed he had been out here eagerly awaiting the vanguard this morning, only to be informed that Sansa was with the rearguard. How Arya-like of her to make him wait, he thought with a rueful smile. But now the rearguard was finally arriving, bearing fluttering blue falcons, black stars and red castles before them. Robb flexed his hand on Longclaw’s hilt as he watched the column of knights approaching, riding along the road between row after row of tents.

               When he caught sight of Sansa his heart all but lurched out of his mouth, though he barely recognised her. Gods, she had grown. She had been a girl when last he saw her, and she was a woman now, he could see that even at a distance. Even her hair, surely it had not always been that dark?

               Sansa dismounted, and Robb could not stop himself. He sprinted to meet her, and she raced to him, and they threw their arms around one another, holding as tight as a person can hold. It was not dignified, he knew, not lordly to behave such in front of all these men. Fuck them. He had his sister back. He held her forever, and it was not nearly long enough. When he finally pulled back far enough to look at her he could feel tears on his cheeks, and see her eyes glistening. “I missed you,” she blurted out, her voice trembling. “I missed you so much.”

               Robb could only respond by pulling Sansa in for another hug. “I’m sorry. Father… Mother…” The words heaved out of him. “I tried.”

               “I know. Robb, I know.”

               Inside the inn, Robb told Sansa everything. From the day she left Winterfell with their father, all the way up to this morning. The war, his acclamation, Theon’s betrayal, Talisa, the wedding, Meereen, bending the knee to Daenerys, sailing home, Jon, the Boltons, the Twins, their mother, all of it. It was dark by the time he was done, the candles burning low. But he fetched new candles so that Sansa could tell him her own story of King’s Landing, Lannisters and Tyrells, Joffrey’s death, her time in the Vale. By the time she was done the pre-dawn light was peeking in through the windows, and no sooner was Robb abed than he fell asleep, dreaming of pigeon pie.

               The next day, Daenerys held a council of war in the inn’s common room. It was quite the eclectic band of councillors she had collected: Robb and Sansa Stark rubbed shoulders with Asha and Theon Greyjoy, Tyrion Lannister shared a cup of wine with Thoros of Myr, Barristan Selmy and Brynden Tully spoke to one another of old battles. Grey Worm and Missandei, Varys the Spider and Jorah Mormont, Yohn Royce and Melisandre of Asshai, Robett Glover and Marlon Manderly, they had all gathered from the ends of the earth to serve the queen.

               A map of the Seven Kingdoms had been laid out upon a long table, and as Daenerys walked around it Robb had to work hard not to be distracted by her. The way she carried herself, the steely look in her violet eyes, the complex of silver braids she wore like a crown… it was unfair, really.

               “Across the Trident we face enemies to both the south and the west,” Daenerys began, placing two gloved fingers upon the map at the Ruby Ford. “We cannot move against one without exposing our rear to the other. This army, therefore, must divide.” No-one objected, the military logic was straightforward. “To the west, the Kingslayer sits at Casterly Rock, refusing to support his sister.” Daenerys’ fingers moved southwards along the kingsroad. “To the south, Cersei Lannister and her boy-king puppet hold King’s Landing and the Crownlands.”

               “Cersei commands little loyalty,” Varys spoke up. “An army marching through the Crownlands will likely see many castles open their gates to us. But Ser Jaime’s men hold Harrenhall and Darry, between here and there.”

               “And Riverrun,” said Uncle Brynden.

               Daenerys nodded. “Harrenhal and Darry will burn as the Twins did, should they refuse to yield. Ser Brynden will go west with the men from the Riverlands, accompanied by Lord Royce and the army of the Vale, to lay siege to Riverrun. I will take the rest of my forces south, to King’s Landing.”

               “You intend to march directly to King’s Landing, your grace?” Ser Barristan asked. “Such a march would expose our flank to Lannister forces at Maidenpool or Duskendale.”

               “I do,” Daenerys replied. “True, it would be a dangerous manoeuvre if I intended to settle in for a siege of the capital, but I do not. I will take King’s Landing the same way I took Winterfell.” Her eyes found Robb, beautiful and piercing, and he nodded. It was bold, aggressive, exactly the kind of move he would have made.

               “What of Cersei and Tommen?” asked Tyrion. “Will they suffer the same fate as the Boltons?” At first Robb assumed Tyrion was asking out of concern, but the look on his face was a vengeful one.

               “Cersei Lannister’s crimes are beyond mercy,” Daenerys said firmly. “But Tommen is a child. I will spare him, if I can.”

               “This siege of Riverrun,” Yohn Royce spoke up. “It will be difficult to maintain if the River Road is not secure, and for that we will be dependent on the defection of river lords who have bent their knees to the Lannisters.”

               Uncle Brynden snorted. “There’s not a lord from here to Pinkmaiden who will not strike his golden lions and raise the silver fish the moment he sees us coming.”

               “That may be so, but still we will either have to bring supplies all the way from the Vale, or rely on the riverlords to feed us,” said Royce. “Their harvests these past years have been disrupted, and winter is coming.”

               “The siege need not last overlong, my lord,” Daenerys reassured him. “Once King’s Landing is secure, I will join you at Riverrun, if need be.”

               “Even with King’s Landing in hand, you will face the Tyrells and Martells to the south. It may not be so easy to turn around,” Royce replied.

               “Then I will simply have to trust your military judgement,” said Daenerys. She was keeping her composure, but Robb could tell she was irritated, though Royce’s concerns were reasonable enough. “Riverrun is not crucial. Should the siege be impossible to maintain, Ser Brynden may lift it. At any rate, I hope to reach an accomodation with the southern houses. They fought for my father, after all.” Daenerys didn’t have to say unlike you for it be heard.

               Uncle Brynden nodded at Robb. “Ki- Lord Stark commands as much loyalty in the Riverlands as I do. If he rides west with us-”

               “No.” Daenerys cut him off. “Lord Stark will accompany me to King’s Landing.” She glared at Robb as if he was the one whose tongue had slipped, but he knew better than to try to argue. As much as he would have liked to spend more time with his uncle, he preferred Daenerys’ company anyway.

               “If I may, your grace, I would be honoured to investigate the possibility of a diplomatic solution with House Tyrell and House Martell,” said Varys. “Military matters are not where my skills lie, after all, so you are unlikely to have need of me on this campaign.”

               Daenerys thought for a moment before nodding. “Be careful not to overpromise, Lord Varys. I am willing to offer peace and the confirmation of their rights, even restitution for the wrongs they have suffered, but they must bend the knee.”

               Varys bowed his hairless head, and the council turned to more mundane matters of logistics and organisation. By the time everything had been settled, Robb’s head hurt, and he went for a walk along the river to clear it, with Ghost roaming ahead.

               Though there was a chill in the air the sun was bright, glimmering off the Trident’s flowing water and lighting up the green grass as Robb emerged from among some trees to find Sansa in a clearing. She was wearing one of his cloaks, with the wolfskin mantle draped across her shoulders. He called out to her as he approached, and she turned, smiling sadly. “I remember this place,” she said. “We came here on the journey to King’s Landing. Gods, it feels like it happened to someone else.” Robb knew the feeling well.

               For a moment Sansa was silent, staring at a patch of grass as though she was watching someone there, and then abruptly she spoke again. “Do you remember the time Arya stole Theon’s horse and cloak and rode around pretending to be him? You and Jon had to stop him from pulling her out of the saddle.”

               The memory made Robb chuckle. Arya had been so ridiculous, it had been hard for them to hold Theon back while trying not to laugh. Only days later had he finally, begrudgingly seen the funny side.

               “Arya was playing here with her friend Mycah, I was walking with Joffrey, and we happened upon them,” Sansa said suddenly. “Joffrey started picking on Mycah for no reason, so Arya struck him, and then Nymeria attacked him.” Her hands twisted in the fabric of her dress as she spoke, and Robb put a hand on her shoulder. “Joffrey lied about it, he said Arya and Mycah ambushed him. And I supported him. I thought…” she looked down, ashamed. “I don’t know what I thought. I was a stupid girl who still couldn’t see who Joffrey really was. Sandor Clegane killed Mycah, and Cersei made Father kill Lady. And Arya had to drive Nymeria away. All because I wouldn’t tell the truth.”

               “We’ve both made mistakes,” Robb sighed. “Regret is just part of growing up, I fear.” He squeezed her shoulder, wishing he had something better to say. “Joffrey is dead, and Cersei will soon join him. We’re together again, and we’re going to get the others back. Arya and Bran and Rickon, we’ll all be together again. The worst is behind us.”

               “Oh, Robb,” Sansa wept, falling into his arms. He held her tightly, and prayed that what he’d said was true.

               The march south began the next day and went as well as could be hoped, though Robb was fairly sure it disappointed Daenerys when both Darry and Harrenhal pulled down their banners and opened their gates, denying her the chance to burn them. That did not stop her from accepting the fealty of Harrenhal’s castellan, Ser Bonifer Hasty, and his Holy Hundred, on Ser Barristan’s advice.

               After Harrenhal, the lesser castles along the kingsroad were not held by men brave or foolish enough to resist. Sow’s Horn and Antlers both yielded the moment dragons were sighted in the distance, and from there the road was open almost all the way to King’s Landing. It was a strange and not altogether pleasant feeling for Robb, to be so close. In his own war he had never been in a position to march on the capital, not even when he held Harrenhal. The Lannisters were always too strong. And now here they were, marching along the kingsroad all but unopposed, with three-headed dragons snapping in the breeze above their heads. Dragons made war much easier.

               Two days’ march from Castle Hayford, the last obstacle before King’s Landing, with the army encamped for the night, a runner summoned Robb to Daenerys’ pavilion. She was alone when he entered, studying a map with a silver goblet of wine in her hand. Looking over her shoulder at him, she smiled, gesturing for him to approach. “I was considering the route Aegon the Conqueror took,” she said, sweeping the goblet across the map. “He began at King’s Landing and ended at the Trident, where Torrhen Stark bent the knee. Such a short distance, and yet he conquered half the continent in-between.”

               Robb toyed with a silky silver braid, wondering what had got Daenerys thinking about their ancestors. “You began with a Stark and will finish at King’s Landing. It seems fitting.”

               Daenerys shook her head. “King’s Landing will not be the end of it. Even once I sit the Iron Throne, we still have enemies to the south and west.”

               “You said you would seek a peace with the Tyrells and Martells.”

               “I will. But overtures of peace are not always heard. Even if they are, the Kingslayer remains.”

               Robb looked down at where Casterly Rock was marked on the map, far to the west. How dearly he would have loved to take it. Even now the thought of Daenerys subjecting it to the same treatment as the Twins was most appealing. It was odd, though, for the Kingslayer to sit behind his walls and do nothing, for surely he must have known that Daenerys if she triumphed in the east would not leave him be. There were many words Robb might have used for him, but coward was not one of them. “Tyrion will not like that,” he said.

               “Tyrion can hardly stop me,” Daenerys scoffed, taking a seat on a couch by a burning brazier set low to the ground. “He has no lands, no titles and no men. He is an advisor, nothing more. And he is the one encouraging me to show no mercy to his sister.” Robb joined her on the couch and she snuggled up against him, goblet in hand. “Your sister feels much the same way. They agree on a surprising number of things, including their marriage. Both of them have asked me to annul it.”

               “Are you going to?”

               “Of course. As soon as the Iron Throne is mine. It will be a decree better issued from the Red Keep than a tent.”

               Robb put an arm around Daenerys and she rested her head on his shoulder, watching the fire. “Everything will be different then. It’s… strange, to be so close. The Iron Throne has loomed over my whole life, and yet I’ve never laid eyes on it.”

               “The thousand swords of Aegon’s enemies,” Robb mused. “It must be quite the sight.”

               “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the view when I’m sitting on it. Though I still need a crown.”

               “There may yet be some of your ancestors’ crowns in the Red Keep’s vaults.”

               “Perhaps. But I would prefer a new crown. The throne is mine by right, but I am not my father. Nor am I a king. I am a queen, and I should have a queen’s crown.”

               “No doubt all the jewelsmiths of the realm will fall over each other to make one for you.”

               “I shall have them etch a dragon riding a wolf into the band.”

               Robb looked down at Daenerys, who was grinning up at him. “Wouldn’t that be very heavy for the wolf?”

               “I don’t know. Do you find me heavy?”

               “You are not a dragon,” Robb pointed out with a smirk.

               Daenerys waved her goblet as if this was an irrelevance, adopting a stern expression without quite managing to stop grinning. “Don’t avoid the question, Lord Stark. Am I too heavy for you?”

               “You spend enough time on top of me, do you really need to ask?”

               Daenerys gave up trying to look stern and laughed. “No, I suppose not. You do seem to enjoy it.”

               “The day I don’t enjoy having the most beautiful woman in the world on top of me, please call for a maester.”

               “I wanted to hate you.” Daenerys’ smile faded, but her eyes were bright. “When we first met, you were Ned Stark’s son and I wanted you to be my enemy.”

               “I remember. I thought you were going to have me executed.”

               “I’m glad I didn’t,” Daenerys said softly. “I couldn’t hate you, much as I tried. You’re… unlike any man I’ve ever known.” She paused, biting her bottom lip. “I can’t imagine hating you now. I think… I think I l-”

               The tent’s flap was thrown open, and Ser Barristan appeared in the entrance with an agitated look on his face. “Forgive me, your grace, but the pickets report a force advancing on the camp from the south. A large force.”

               Robb and Daenerys both rose. “The Lannisters?” Daenerys asked.

               “It seems so,” Ser Barristan replied. “The men are already assembling to meet them.”

               Daenerys turned to Robb. “Take command. I will take to the sky.” There was no doubt nor hesitation to the order, and he hastened to obey, hurrying out of her pavilion and turning southwards as she turned north to where her dragons could be found. Alongside Ser Barristan, Robb mounted his horse and rode to where the army was forming up outside the camp. Sure enough there was an army facing them, ready to give battle. A night attack was a bold move and a risky one. He had smashed a Lannister host at Oxcross with a night attack, but there surprise had been on his side, for Stafford Lannister had been fool enough not to post sentries. Here they may not have had much warning, but it was enough that they would meet the enemy head on. The Lannisters must have force-marched from Hayford to reach them without being detected by scouts on the march, and they were likely worn out. To Robb’s mind it seemed doubtful the gambit would succeed, but that didn’t mean he would throw caution to the wind.

               Grey Worm and his Unsullied stood in the centre, flanked by the Greyjoys and their ironborn on the right, Robett Glover and the Northmen on the left, including most of the cavalry. Robb could have done with some of the Vale’s knights, but you fought with the army you had, and once he was informed of the disposition of his forces he knew what to do. “Sound the advance,” he ordered. The Lannisters had chosen this battle, and he didn’t intend to sit still and  let them dictate its course.

               As the horns blew to signal the advance, Robb spurred his horse along the line with Ghost loping alongside him as Grey Wind had done so many times, riding to join the Northern cavalry on the far left. Ser Marlon Manderly saluted him as he approached, and the direwolf of Stark fluttered and snapped in the wind alongside the dragon of Targaryen. It was a cloudless evening, with a full moon hanging low in the sky. A good night for a battle.

               Drawing Longclaw from its sheath, Robb held it aloft, letting the Valyrian steel catch the moonlight. “The Lannisters are here!” he bellowed. “Here to stop us from reaching King’s Landing, where they murdered my father! Are you going to let them stop us?!” The answer was clear in a thousand voices. No, they were fucking not. “For Eddard Stark! For Daenerys Targaryen! For the North, and for bloody revenge!”

               A thousand voices shouted it all back at him. For the Ned, for the Queen, for the North. And then someone shouted, “The King in the North,” and suddenly it was all that was on their lips. The King in the North, the King in the North, the King in the North! Robb could hardly stop them, and in truth it made his chest swell to hear it again, like that night so long ago. Turning his horse to face the enemy, Robb touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and led them forward, first at a walk, then a trot, then a canter, and finally a gallop, surging across the last hundred yards of open ground with a wordless war cry on his lips. The Lannister infantry in their fine red armour braced to meet the charge, but it did them little good. Robb felt the impact as his horse collided with a man and kept going, crunching bones beneath its hooves. Longclaw’s tip sheared open another man’s throat in a spray of hot blood, and Robb followed up with a swing that split someone’s helmet and the skull beneath it.

               The thunderous charge hammered through the Lannister infantry like plaster. As much as Robb would have liked to attribute it to the martial weakness of Lannister soldiers, rare were the infantry who could withstand heavy cavalry on the charge. Letting the charge go on past him, he pulled up his horse to take stock, looking across the moonlit field towards the centre.

               There, the Lannister knights were learning the hard way that infantry capable of resisting heavy cavalry were rare, not nonexistent. Their charge had carried them straight into the spears of the Unsullied, and the Unsullied had held. Robb watched as the Lannisters pulled back in disorder, leaving many of their fellows in the dirt.

               A shadow passed across Robb, and he looked up to see great wings silhouetted against the moon. Even knowing that the monster was on his side, fear clutched at his heart. He could only imagine how the Lannisters must feel.

               Drogon descended with a roar that seemed to shake the earth, with Rhaegal and Viserion behind him. They swooped low across the Lannister lines, and night turned to day as scarlet and orange erupted as if blasting out of the ground. Even from where he was, Robb could feel the rush of heat, the sudden dryness in the air. If there was a power in the world that could stand against Daenerys, it wasn’t on the field that day. Lannister men died by the thousands at her will, roasted in their armour, choking on ash. At a stroke, Robb was reduced from commander to spectator, watching an army die because she wished it so. Men ran heedlessly onto the swords and spears of her army in their desperation to escape the conflagration. Lucky for him, she was careful; it was impressive really, how precisely she could direct her dragons’ fire, keeping it away from her own men. And they were her men, not Robb’s or anyone else’s. If he had any remaining doubts about who held the power, they died with thousands of burning men.

               As Robb pulled his cavalry back to keep them out of the way of the flames, he found himself wondering how anyone could fight such a foe. They would have to avoid the dragons of course, strike where they were not, but how did you avoid a creature that could cross vast distances in a day’s flight? If Daenerys wished to, she could raze every great castle in the realm within a week.

               The Lannisters broke, of course, they would have had to be inhuman not to. More than broke, in fact: their army shattered, disintegrating in the face of such a display of terrible power. Daenerys ordered mercy for those who had thrown down their weapons and surrendered, though some were killed before her order could save them. The road to King’s Landing lay open, but the capital wasn’t going anywhere. The fires burned all through the night, and Robb slept in Daenerys’ arms, dreaming of fire and ice.

Chapter Text

               From the window of the inn at the crossroads, Daenerys Targaryen looked towards the river and thought of the brother she had never known. The Ruby Ford, they called the crossing there, for the jewels that had fallen from Prince Rhaegar’s armour and flowed out into the sea. Robert Baratheon had killed him there, not a mile from where she stood. Smashed open his breastplate and crushed his heart. Noble, honourable Rhaegar Targaryen had died, and the Usurper had ridden over his corpse to steal the Iron Throne.

               After more than twenty years, that day’s injustice was so close to being undone. Daenerys stood poised to retake her birthright, the kingdom her ancestors had built. It was a strange irony that she was following Robert Baratheon’s path to it. Soon she would cross the Trident at the Ruby Ford and march down the Kingsroad with the Lord of Winterfell at her side, at the head of an army flying the banners of Stark, Tully and Arryn. Viserys would have hated that. But what would Rhaegar have thought, she wondered. Neither she nor Robb had even been born when that battle had been fought upon the Trident, yet it had shaped both of their lives. So much of what they had suffered had flowed from here, so much of what they had lost carried out of reach like Rhaegar’s rubies.

               Adjusting her half-cape and the draconic silver brooch holding it clasped at her shoulder, Daenerys descended the steps to the inn’s common room, musing on the comfort of her old riding boots. On the long march southwards, the men’s boots had been the subject of much logistical consideration, such that she was seriously entertaining the idea of chartering a cobbler’s guild tasked with ensuring that furture armies were well-shod.

               In the common room, all the advisors Daenerys had gathered from the four corners of the earth awaited her. Missandei of Naath and Asha Greyjoy, Sansa Stark and Melisandre of Asshai, it was quite the collection. A map of the Seven Kingdoms had been laid out upon a long table, and she circled it, her gaze tracing the lands that would soon be hers. “Across the Trident we face enemies to both the south and the west,” she began, placing two gloved fingers upon the map at the Ruby Ford. “We cannot move against one without exposing our rear to the other. This army, therefore, must divide.” She paused, waiting for objections or proposals, but none were forthcoming. “To the west, the Kingslayer sits at Casterly Rock, refusing to support his sister.” Daenerys’ fingers moved southwards along the kingsroad. “To the south, Cersei Lannister and her boy-king puppet hold King’s Landing and the Crownlands.”

               “Cersei commands little loyalty,” Varys spoke up. “An army marching through the Crownlands will likely see many castles open their gates to us. But Ser Jaime’s men hold Harrenhall and Darry, between here and there.”

               “And Riverrun,” said the Blackfish.

               Daenerys nodded, having already considered which strongholds should fall first. “Harrenhal and Darry will burn as the Twins did, should they refuse to yield. Ser Brynden will go west with the men from the Riverlands, accompanied by Lord Royce and the army of the Vale, to lay siege to Riverrun. I will take the rest of my forces south, to King’s Landing.” It seemed natural to send Ser Brynden to take back his home, and the capital was hers by right.

               “You intend to march directly to King’s Landing, your grace?” Ser Barristan asked. “Such a march would expose our flank to Lannister forces at Maidenpool or Duskendale.”

               “I do,” Daenerys replied. “True, it would be a dangerous manoeuvre if I intended to settle in for a siege of the capital, but I do not. I will take King’s Landing the same way I took Winterfell.” She looked to Robb, hoping for his input, and was gratified when he nodded approvingly,

               “What of Cersei and Tommen?” asked Tyrion. “Will they suffer the same fate as the Boltons?”

               “Cersei Lannister’s crimes are beyond mercy,” Daenerys said firmly. “But Tommen is a child. I will spare him, if I can.” The Lannisters had not shown the same lenience to her family, and it was tempting to repay cruelty with cruelty. But the boy bore no more blame for Tywin Lannister’s sins than she did for her father’s.

               “This siege of Riverrun,” Yohn Royce spoke up. “It will be difficult to maintain if the River Road is not secure, and for that we will be dependent on the defection of river lords who have bent their knees to the Lannisters.”

               The Blackfish snorted. “There’s not a lord from here to Pinkmaiden who will not strike his golden lions and raise the silver fish the moment he sees us coming.” What of the red dragon, Daenerys thought, but said nothing.

               “That may be so, but still we will either have to bring supplies all the way from the Vale, or rely on the riverlords to feed us,” said Royce. “Their harvests these past years have been disrupted, and winter is coming.”

               “The siege need not last overlong, my lord,” Daenerys reassured him. “Once King’s Landing is secure, I will join you at Riverrun, if need be.”

               “Even with King’s Landing in hand, you will face the Tyrells and Martells to the south. It may not be so easy to turn around,” Royce replied.

               “Then I will simply have to trust your military judgement,” Daenerys said shortly. He was a powerful and experienced lord, it was not her task to hold his hand. “Riverrun is not crucial. Should the siege be impossible to maintain, Ser Brynden may lift it. At any rate, I hope to reach an accomodation with the southern houses. They fought for my father, after all.” Unlike you.

               The Blackfish nodded at his nephew. “Ki- Lord Stark commands as much loyalty in the Riverlands as I do. If he rides west with us-”

               “No.” Daenerys cut him off. “Lord Stark will accompany me to King’s Landing.” She glared at Robb, daring him to argue. He did not.

               “If I may, your grace, I would be honoured to investigate the possibility of a diplomatic solution with House Tyrell and House Martell,” said Varys. “Military matters are not where my skills lie, after all, so you are unlikely to have need of me on this campaign.”

               Daenerys considered for a moment. Varys was right that his skills would be better put to use whispering in powerful ears than sitting in camp, but he would not perhaps be the most respected emissary she could send. Still, he could at least smooth the path of someone more prestigious, so she nodded her assent. “Be careful not to overpromise, Lord Varys. I am willing to offer peace and the confirmation of their rights, even restitution for the wrongs they have suffered, but they must bend the knee.”

               Varys bowed his head, and the council turned to the military minutiae of the planned campaigns. This was not Daenerys’ forte, so she said little, watching the way the men deferred to Robb, even experienced commanders like Lord Royce and Ser Brynden. It was true that he had fought over these lands and knew what she was speaking of, but still, she wished it was so easy to get anyone to listen to her without having to invoke her dragons.

               When the army set out the next morning, Daenerys rode with the van on horseback. Drogon and Viserion were nowhere to be seen, roving where they would, but Rhaegal circled overhead, as if sensing the place where his namesake had met his end. The Ruby Ford of Daenerys’ imagination was a rocky torrent, foaming scarlet with spilled blood. And mayhaps it had been on that day, but the water that splashed about her horse’s hooves as she crossed was muddy brown, swirling lazily across a bed of silt. Still, her eyes searched for a gleam of red as she crossed, but any rubies that had not been washed away had no doubt long been found by lucky smallfolk. As her horse ascended the far back she turned in her saddle, looking back, trying to picture Rhaegar and Robert locked in combat. The faceless suits of armour conjured by her imagination were not the men who had lived and breathed though, they were mere concepts, reflections of faded reflections, fables from an old tale. Turning her back on Rhaegar Targaryen, she rode on towards the throne that had never been his.

               To finish what Aegon had started and raze Harrenhal to its foundations would have delighted Daenerys, but she was neither cruel nor stupid enough to harm the garrison after they opened their gates to her. As she dined that night in the Hunter’s Hall after accepting the fealty of Ser Bonifer Hasty and his Holy Hundred, watching Robb laugh with his men, she thought on another warrior prince of her house, Daemon, who had once made Harrenhal his fortress. He was her ancestor, a man who had fought for a ruling queen, and also as vicious and cruel as the worst of them. She hoped she would have had the courage to refuse his service, even knowing what a warrior he was. But she had not been over-cautious in whose oaths she accepted; Ser Bonifer was merely the latest. Ser Barristan had vouched for him, as Robb had vouched for Ser Brynden and Melisandre for Thoros of Myr. No-one had vouched for the Greyjoys, yet they too followed her, their crimes forgiven, because she needed their ships.

               Maybe need would have driven Daenerys to accept Daemon’s service. But she would not have tolerated any further barbarity. Even as she thought it though, it rang false, for after all had she not piled heads high in Meereen before razing it to the ground? What was that if not barbarity? Perhaps Daemon had felt his cruelty as necessary as she did, in service of his queen.

               Rhaenyra. There was a woman Daenerys had never decided how to think about, for in truth they had little in common beyond the surface. She could scarcely imagine what Rhaenyra’s life had been like, nor how she had felt when she finally sat the Iron Throne, and so quickly lost it. Her mistakes were a gift if nothing else, a lesson in how not to rule. Daenerys had no intention of losing the Iron Throne once it was hers.

               The blood of Daemon and Rhaenyra flowed in Daenerys’ veins, but Aegon the Conqueror had come before them all, and every Targaryen since had lived and died in his shadow. It was Aegon who had made seven kingdoms into one and forged the throne she was fighting for. Even now he shaped her world, for it was he who had raised Edmyn Tully up and made Torrhen Stark bend the knee. Even her bedchamber at Harrenhal was in a lower level of the Kingspyre tower because the higher levels had been melted by Balerion’s terrible fire, fusing a tomb for Harren the Black. With three dragons and two sisters Aegon had conquered, and with three dragons Daenerys would conquer again. She would have liked to have had sisters.

               Past Harrenhal the plains of the Crownlands opened up, and the army’s slow march almost became a pleasant excursion, unopposed as they made their way along the Kingsroad. Beneath rows of trees, Tyrion brought his horse beside Daenerys’, and she looked at him sideways, expecting that his intentions were not idle.

               “A pleasant country, is it not?” Tyrion remarked. “Much less grim than the North.”

               “Indeed. Very green.”

               “And full of such agreeable women.” Tyrion’s rakish grin faltered when he saw the look on Daenerys’ face. “Yes, well, speaking of agreeable women, I should warn you not to underestimate my sister.”

               “Do you feel I am underestimating her?”

               “No, but she has a habit of getting her way. I would advise you not to let her spin you a story, but to cut off her head at the first opportunity.”

               “Why?” Daenerys asked, her lips curling. “Do you fear she will tell me something you’d prefer I not know?”

               Tyrion looked like this conversation wasn’t going the way he had hoped. “Not at all. She will tell you that I’m a monster, a murderer, that I’ve devoted my life to ruining hers. I imagine she will appeal to your shared womanhood. Do not trust a word of it, she is a snake.”

               “You are a murderer, by your own admission,” Daenerys pointed out. “When we met, you told me you were a great Lannister-killer.”

               “Indeed, a virtue for which you accepted me into your service. And now I am telling you that my sister is a Lannister that needs killing. By all means put the axe in my hand and I shall add her to my tally.”

               “Yet your brother does not inspire the same vitriol.”

               Tyrion frowned. “Jaime’s crimes are a mere fraction of Cersei’s.”

               “He killed my father.”

               “And we are well rid of him,” Tyrion replied, meeting her gaze despite how she glared at him. “You are a queen worth following, your grace. Your father was a king worth killing.”

               As much as Daenerys wished to introduce Tyrion to the axe he wanted for his sister, she knew he was right. She had heard it from enough mouths at this point to accept that her father had been a mad tyrant, even though Viserys’ stories of a wise and just king still sat at the back of her mind. That didn’t mean she had to enjoy having it thrown in her face. “My enemies will share his fate,” she said sharply, kicking her horse’s flanks. “All of my enemies,” she added before she cantered ahead, leaving him behind.

               King’s Landing crept closer and closer, and Daenerys found her gaze drawn ever southwards, watching for the city she had never known to rise across the horizon, even when she knew it was days away. Two days north of Castle Hayford, itself a mere day from the capital, she sent for Robb when they encamped for the evening, longing for his company. He came at once, of course, ever quick to obey, and she could not help smiling like a lovestruck girl at the sight of him. Beckoning him closer, she gestured with her wine goblet at the map she had been studying. “I was considering the route Aegon the Conqueror took,” she said. “He began at King’s Landing and ended at the Trident, where Torrhen Stark bent the knee. Such a short distance, and yet he conquered half the continent in-between.”

               Robb stood close behind Daenerys, toying with her hair as he looked over her shoulder at the map, and she bit her bottom lip as a tingle ran down her spine. “You began with a Stark and will finish at King’s Landing. It seems fitting,” he said, his voice low in her ear.

               Daenerys shook her head. “King’s Landing will not be the end of it. Even once I sit the Iron Throne, we still have enemies to the south and west.” Nor had he been the beginning of anything for her, she was tempted to say, but she didn’t want to argue with him.

               “You said you would seek a peace with the Tyrells and Martells.”

               “I will. But overtures of peace are not always heard. Even if they are, the Kingslayer remains.”

               “Tyrion will not like that,” said Robb.

               “Tyrion can hardly stop me,” Daenerys scoffed, taking a seat on a couch that was pleasantly warmed by a burning brazier set low to the ground. “He has no lands, no titles and no men. He is an advisor, nothing more. And he is the one encouraging me to show no mercy to his sister.” Robb joined her on the couch and she snuggled up against him, enjoying the comfort of warmth, wine, and the man she cared for. “Your sister feels much the same way. They agree on a surprising number of things, including their marriage. Both of them have asked me to annul it.”

               “Are you going to?”

               “Of course. As soon as the Iron Throne is mine. It will be a decree better issued from the Red Keep than a tent.”

               Robb put an arm around Daenerys and she rested her head on his shoulder, watching the flames dancing in the brazier. Fire had made Aegon king, and cost her father his crown and his life. “Everything will be different then. It’s… strange, to be so close. The Iron Throne has loomed over my whole life, and yet I’ve never laid eyes on it.”

               “The thousand swords of Aegon’s enemies,” Robb mused. “It must be quite the sight.”

               “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the view when I’m sitting on it.” Just the thought made her heart beat faster. Not just sitting the throne, but Robb looking up at her as she did it. “Though I still need a crown.”

               “There may yet be some of your ancestors’ crowns in the Red Keep’s vaults.”

               “Perhaps. But I would prefer a new crown. The throne is mine by right, but I am not my father. Nor am I a king. I am a queen, and I should have a queen’s crown.”

               “No doubt all the jewelsmiths of the realm will fall over each other to make one for you.”

               “I shall have them etch a dragon riding a wolf into the band,” Daenerys grinned, tilting her head on Robb’s shoulder to look up at him.

               “Wouldn’t that be very heavy for the wolf?” Robb asked, looking down at her.

               “I don’t know. Do you find me heavy?”

               “You are not a dragon,” Robb pointed out with a smirk.

               Daenerys gestured dismissively with her goblet. “Don’t avoid the question, Lord Stark. Am I too heavy for you?” she asked, trying to look regal and imposing.

               “You spend enough time on top of me, do you really need to ask?”

               Daenerys gave up trying to look regal and laughed. “No, I suppose not. You do seem to enjoy it.”

               “The day I don’t enjoy having the most beautiful woman in the world on top of me, please call for a maester.”

               “I wanted to hate you.” All at once, everything Daenerys felt for Robb filled her. It was a complicated mess, all twisting up in her stomach, but she knew that it was all one thing in the end. She loved him as she had never loved anyone else. “When we first met, you were Ned Stark’s son and I wanted you to be my enemy.”

               “I remember. I thought you were going to have me executed.”

               “I’m glad I didn’t,” Daenerys said softly. She wanted to tell him how she felt, she had to, and yet it terrified her more than the city full of enemies that lay before them. “I couldn’t hate you, much as I tried. You’re… unlike any man I’ve ever known.” She paused, biting her bottom lip to stop it from trembling. The memory of how he had looked the last time she had tried to confess tore at her, but she forced her way past it, clutching her goblet tightly. “I can’t imagine hating you now. I think… I think I l-”

               The tent’s flap was thrown open, and Ser Barristan appeared in the entrance with an agitated look on his face. “Forgive me, your grace, but the pickets report a force advancing on the camp from the south. A large force.”

               Robb and Daenerys both rose. “The Lannisters?” Daenerys asked, both relieved and devastated by the interruption.

               “It seems so,” Ser Barristan replied. “The men are already assembling to meet them.”

               Matters of the heart would have to wait. It was time to be the queen. “Take command,” Daenerys instructed Robb. “I will take to the sky.” He obeyed her at once, much to her satisfaction. For a moment she watched him striding away, and then she turned her back on him to go to her dragons. It was time for the Lannisters to taste fire and blood. Tonight there would be vengeance for the Sack of King’s Landing, for Elia Martell, for Aegon and Rhaenys.

               Drogon waited restlessly for Daenerys at the edge of the encampment, tearing deep trenches in the earth with his claws in his impatience. She felt much the same way, eager to take to the skies and destroy her enemies. The Boltons and the Freys had been Robb’s enemies, and though she had been glad to exterminate them for him, and for all those they had wronged, here at last was the chance to hurt her own enemies, the ones who had driven her from her home. As she climbed onto Drogon’s back, strapping her legs to her saddle, her mind was already filled with images of burning men. His immense, coiled muscles launched both of them into the air with such force that her stomach lurched, and she hastily grabbed at his spikes as Rhaegal and Viserion followed them into the night sky.

               Wheeling far above the world, Daenerys could see the two armies coming together, two fragile lines stretched out across the fields, straddling the Kingsroad. It was the privilege of her blood to see the world from dragonback, her birthright just like everything she surveyed. From the Wall to the Broken Arm these were her lands, and she would love and protect them as a queen should, but first she had to take them back from the Usurper’s dogs.

               Leaning low in her saddle, Daenerys swooped lower, searching for the best place to strike. As her eyes scanned the Lannister lines, voices carried on the wind, faint but clear. At first she paid them no mind, but then the words sank in, and her thoughts darkened. The King in the North, the King in the North, the King in the North! It was coming form the Northern cavalry, chanting it as they rode forward to meet the Lannisters, and for an instant she wanted to turn Drogon’s fury on them for their treason.

               But anger was not Daenerys’ master. She had no master. Her father would have lashed out, but that was why he had lost his throne and his life. She was not him, and she never would be. She watched the Northerners smash into the Lannisters and ride over them, bearing the dragon of Lannister and the wolf of Stark side by side. Shifting in the saddle, she watched the Lannister cavalry attempt the same, only to break upon the spears of her Unsullied. This was her moment, with her enemies reeling, to strike the killing blow.

               Three dragons descended out of the sky like dark thunderbolts, their shadows passing across the moon as a savage thrill filled their mother’s heart. Three pairs of great wings snapped open, and a bestial roar shook Daenerys, drowning out the cacophony of battle in the moment before terrible columns of fire speared downwards, tearing through the Lannister lines as if they were made of paper. Entire columns of men vanished in moments, devoured by the flames as surely as if Drogon’s jaws had closed shut around them. A wave of terrible heat washed out, and Drogon rode it upwards, whirling in the sky only to descend once more and condemn hundreds more men to a terrible fate. Daenerys’ enemies died screaming that night, their bodies burning like torches, their skin melting like wax, fat bubbling, eyeballs bursting in their skulls from the heat.

               Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion roamed freely across the sky, killing at will. What few brave men attempted to resist with scattered volleys of arrows had only time to watch their shots clatter uselessly off dragonscales before the fire came for them too. The strength of House Lannister, with all their glittering golden spears and fine red armour, burned away to ash. No more would they sack cities, steal thrones or kill babies. Tonight Daenerys knew how Aegon the Conqueror must have felt at the Field of Fire, watching another Lannister army die. He had shown mercy and let Loren Lannister bend the knee. She would not.

               But Daenerys would not enter King’s Landing as a butcher. When at last she returned to the earth, with what was left of the Lannister army fleeing in all directions, she ordered that those who had thrown down their arms be spared. Let them return to their homes and families as she had longed to do for so many years. From the air, watching an army die at her will had made her feel powerful, invincible. On the ground, with the stench of burning bodies in her nose and her mouth, and the wails of the dying in her ears, she hoped no-one would give her cause to do it again.

               King’s Landing lay right there, ripe for the taking, but Daenerys had waited all her life to come home. She could wait one more night, and it was a night she wanted to spend in Robb’s arms. Tonight, her Lord of Winterfell, tomorrow her Iron Throne.