Chapter Text
Robb
Robb is not sure if he likes Meereen. He is already tired of the heat and lack of green. But the people seem tough, and the city's translated names are all rather self-explanatory. The Great Pyramid is indeed great.
"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," the queen's supposed steward announces. "Queen of Mereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons."
Robb fights the urge to roll his eyes.
"Aye. And I am Robb Stark, King in the North." He gestures to his sister. "This is Lady Sansa, my sister and advisor."
Sansa curtsies. "An honor, Your Grace."
Her words are polite, but false. Neither of them wants to stand in the presence of a Targaryen, let alone stay in one's city.
But the threat of the returning Long Night leaves no room for prejudice.
"What brings wolves to my city?" The queen asks curiously.
Robb sighs, already tense. He wants to grab Sansa and run them all the way back to their ship docked in the harbor. He wants to damn all of them to hell, the dragons, stags, especially the lions.
But Sansa gives him a reassuring look, urging him to continue.
Robb turns back to the queen.
She looks like the legends say. Thick, silver-blonde hair is braided away from her face, and he can see the one-of-a-kind shimmer of her purple eyes, even from here.
Robb thinks she's unnatural. There's no ice within her, no river either. Just the fire and blood of people who prided themselves on conquering.
But even so, she's the most beautiful girl he's ever seen. If he weren't so unsettled by her name, he'd be mooning at her as if she were a half-naked whore.
"Westeros is tearing itself apart," Robb begins. "They fight over a throne your people forged."
The queen stands from her chair. Purple silks drag across the stone floor as she descends the steps and floats toward them.
Some of her advisors attempt to follow her, but she waves them away.
"A fight the North has chosen to sit out of," she states. "Why?"
"That's why we're here, Your Grace," Robb says. His voice sounds like it's full of gravel, and he swallows down the unexpected nerves.
"You're here to bend the knee?" She asks as she threads her hands together.
Robb finds himself staring at the plainness of her fingers. All of the queens he's met cover their wrists in gold and their fingers in jewels. But the Dragon Queen is bare. There is a ring around her neck, but Robb hardly counts that. He wears one as well.
"The North will never bow to a southern king again," Sansa insists.
Robb flashes her a look of warning. They're no longer in the cabin of Theon's ship, raving about the foolish war and false claims. They stand in front of a woman who stepped into a pyre and lived.
Daenerys Stormborn tilts her head up to look at his little sister, forcing Robb to tense in preparation for an intervention. Her guards aren't close enough to reach him in one step. If she gives any order against Sansa, he'll grab her. They took his sword, but there are other ways to threaten to kill someone.
But Daenerys doesn't seem bothered by Sansa's tongue. Instead, she looks grim.
"I know my father did horrible things to your family," she says quietly. "And I won't ask for his forgiveness because he does not deserve it. But the Starks have always bowed to the Targaryens. It was an alliance that best served the realm."
Robb is surprised by her admission, but unmoved. "An alliance is different than bending the knee."
She looks between them, then nods shortly. "Very well. Then, if not to bend the knee, why have you washed upon my shores? What do you ask of me?"
Robb and Sansa share a look, surprised by her calm. Their reports on the Dragon Queen have been ones of madness. They heard she crucified her enemies and murdered multiple allies. But the queen in front of him seems young and defensive, but not utterly cruel.
"We want to encourage your swift return to Westeros," Robb requests between clenched teeth.
She smiles, almost mischievously. The sight of it makes Robb's eyes twitch.
"You're asking me to come with you?" She asks in amusement.
"No," Robb says sternly. But then Sansa's pinching his forearm. "Yes," he admits.
"Are you not interested in returning, Your Grace?" Sansa questions slowly. "To reclaim the Iron Throne?"
The Dragon Queen looks behind her, and long tresses of her silver hair fall over her shoulder. "I already have a chair to sit in."
Robb wants to curse. He thought she'd be like the rest, desperate for more power and more influence. Their plan, the North, Westeros itself, depended on an ego he now realizes might not exist.
"The Queen asked your business," the Unsullied near her throne demands. Robb studies him. He wears light armor, carries a short, curved blade, and has a stare intimidating enough to constitute as Northern. He is no steward or useless lord.
"The squabbles in the south mean nothing," Robb begins, turning back to the queen he's supposed to convince. "Not when there is something far more dangerous waiting in the North. Past our home of Winterfell, past the Gift and the Wall that has stood for thousands of years."
The Dragon Queen's amusement evaporates. She crosses her dainty arms and looks to her advisors behind her.
"There's nothing north of the wall besides Wildlings," Barristan Selmy dismisses.
Robb has heard stories of the former kingsguard's valor, and some of his lack thereof. Barristan the Bold is a man loyal to a chair, not a cause. Seeing him in person, especially behind Daenerys Targaryen, feels like an omen. He's just not sure what kind.
"There is plenty north of the wall, Your Grace. Things that were once as unbelievable as your dragons," he continues. "Unless I do something about them, all of my people will die."
"And you think I can do something about these once imaginary enemies?" She asks in surprise.
Robb takes in her ragged court. They must fill her head with fantasies about her capabilities. He almost pities the young queen.
"I didn't realize you were a fighter," Robb says shortly.
Daenerys's eyes narrow. "Then that's what you need of me," she says coldly. "My dragons."
"Precisely, Your Grace."
"Robb," Sansa warns.
The queen glowers at him. "What would you have me do, King in the North? Lend them to you?" If she were a direwolf, her hackles would be raised. "They're my children. And I won't risk them going west to some land that has never cared for me. Not until they're ready."
Robb has to keep his face straight. She truly is a mother.
"Forgive my brother, Your Grace. He's not very good at this," Sansa interjects. "We don't want to take your dragons."
"Then what do you want?" repeats the queen.
"An alliance, Your Grace," Robb reiterates. "Just as you said."
She looks at him curiously. "You expect me to fight for a house I do not know over creatures I'm told no longer exist."
"I expect you to fight for the living," Robb retorts.
The Unsullied asks something in Valyrian, his eyes burning into Robb in malice. The queen waves him off.
"We bring more than just our words, Your Grace," Sansa adds.
She produces the letter Robb should've started the conversation with. Robb half expects her steward to call for it, but the queen tears it open herself.
Her eyebrows crease as she reads, her pink lips turned downward into a frown. She finally looks up at Robb.
"You mean I'm not alone?" she asks quietly.
"What does it say, Your Grace?" Jorah Mormont urges.
Robb narrows his eyes in suspicion. His story is one Robb is more than familiar with.
Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen looks to a host of traitors and bystanders for counsel. Robb looks to his family. He grabs Sansa's hand, feeling extra grateful.
The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
"You bring me wonderful news," the queen says, tucking the letter close to her heart. "It'd be my honor to host you for however long your stay in Meereen."
"We don't plan to stay. And neither should you, Your Grace," Robb begins. "There is too much at stake."
Sansa squeezes his hand in protest. "What my brother means to say is that we're grateful for your hospitality. It's been a long journey, I could certainly use some rest," she says sweetly.
The queen turns back to her counsel and gives a command in Valyrian. A few of the Unsullied step forward, their spears stationary on their shoulders.
"Rest well. I will call on you tomorrow to hear your requests."
Before Robb can get another word in, they're swept away by members of the Dragon Queen's court and guards. The last thing Robb sees before they turn the corner is Daenerys Targaryen's blooming smile.
Daenerys
Dany traces her fingertips across his name. "Aemon Targaryen," she whispers. A man who must be well over one hundred years old. A man who shares her blood.
"We can't take his words as law, Khaleesi," Jorah warns. "The Northerners might be tricking us."
"What reason would they have to trick Her Grace?" Barristan argues. "The Starks are loyal to their lands and their people. The King in the North wouldn't leave Winterfell unless necessary."
"Then they must no longer have Winterfell," Jorah retorts. "He's here as a beggar. Not as a king."
"The King in the North," Dany says in amusement. He looks more like a soldier than a king, with a hardened gaze cold enough to make her shiver. "How many kings has the north had?"
"None since Aegon the Conqueror, Khaleesi."
She stares at her table full of wooden men and wooden castles. Daenerys Stormborn conquered Essos, just as her ancestors did Westeros.
The knowledge should reassure her. She's upholding what a Targaryen is. Fire and Blood.
But instead, it makes Dany guilty. She wants to liberate, not conquer.
"Don't listen to him. Not until he bends the knee," Daario Naharis insists. He leans against one of the sandstone pillars of Daenerys's counsel room. "You don't owe anyone favors."
"It sounds like much more than a favor," Barristan disputes.
"Let them stay for the night. Then bid them farewell. Where the Starks go, misfortune follows," Jorah says.
"At least hear their reasoning, Your Grace," Barristan insists. This is not a normal visit."
"Ned Stark was a foolish man. His children might not be any different," Jorah begins. "Their claims could be a farce meant to lure her—"
"Enough," Daenerys snaps. "I will hear them out."
"Khaleesi—"
She holds up her hand. "But even if I am ready to return, my dragons are not. How are we meant to cross the sea when they cannot leave the Great Pyramid?"
"They're dragons." Daario steps closer to the table. "They'll follow their mother no matter where she goes."
Daenerys sighs. "You're all dismissed."
Almost all of her advisors look at her as if she has grown horns, but Dany needs them gone. They're all biased in their own ways.
"Missandei, Grey Worm, please stay," she requests.
They share a look before turning back towards their queen. "Your Grace.” Missandei dips her head.
"This is a letter written by a living Targaryen asking me for help. Someone who can tell me about my dreams, perhaps even my dragons." She gestures to the map in front of her. "But I have much work to do here. To leave one would mean to lose the other. "
Unlike the others, Missandei and Grey Worm have nothing to gain from either continent. Plus, Daenerys trusts them. They are blood of her blood.
"It is a lot to contend with," Missandei agrees. "But you do not have to sort through it all tonight, Your Grace. Talk to the Stark siblings tomorrow. No matter what you decide, they can help you correspond with your relative."
Missendei's words lift the rocks out of Dany's stomach, just as she knew they would.
"Their envoy is decent," Grey Worm adds. "There has been no extra crime."
Daenerys nods, appreciative of his stamp of approval.
"But their king has a mouth."
"Yes," she says, frowning. "He hates me."
The King in the North's displeasure with her presence surprised her. Even the men who have hated her pretended not to. But not Robb Stark. His glare and insults were as honest as a loyalist's.
"He comes asking for your help," Grey Worm says. "He hates needing you."
The Dothraki bought her; the Quartheen thought her a fool. Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen have one person who hates her for every two who do not. There is no shortage of enemies in her city, from the remaining descendants of the masters to the harpies. They all hate her for their own ambitious or idiotic reasons. But none for needing her.
"Thank you both for your wisdom," Daenerys says gratefully. "Sometimes, I feel like you two are the only ones on my counsel who listen to me."
"Shall I escort you to your quarters for the night?" Missandei asks, feigning the bashfulness Dany's compliment managed to draw out.
"Yes. You both shall."
A few hours later, after Daenerys is bathed and fed, she stands on her balcony, overlooking the city and sea.
She's not sure why Meereen became her home, but it's still not the one she dreams of. There are no red doors. And her dragons…
Daenerys has failed her dragons. They're meant to eat what they want, roam where they please, just like the conquerors she fears. But instead, they're locked away in a room with no sunlight. Only chains.
Her hypocrisy is only one of her many sins.
She shudders and hurries away from her quarters. At the thought of her dragons, the endless world her massive windows provide feels particularly cruel.
Guards try to tail her, but she waves them away. The Great Pyramid is impenetrable. Nobody enters unless she deems it so. Everyone within its walls is someone who belongs there, someone she trusts.
Everyone besides the Starks.
Most of their guards either stay in the ship they arrived in or the surrounding hostels, but the siblings and their immediate guard are within Daenerys's walls.
If she were smarter, she'd be wary of strangers, especially ones who betrayed her family before.
But Daenerys finds it hard to fear the Starks, especially since they have her great-uncle's approval.
She wonders what the last Targaryen thinks of her. She wonders what she'd think of him.
Daenerys crosses into one of the pyramid's large courtyards. She crosses to sit underneath one of the beautiful lemon trees, but stops short when she sees a pair of yellow eyes.
They're high enough for Dany to know the body they belong to is massive. It growls in warning and steps forward, finally silhouetted by the light. She marvels at its massive paws and shoulders.
"Heel, Grey Wind," a gruff voice commands.
The speaker joins the beast underneath the torchlight, and Daenerys blinks in surprise.
"Apologies, Your Grace. I didn't know anybody else was here."
Daenerys barely even heard the King in the North. She was too focused on the animal called Grey Wind.
"What is it?" She asks as she smooths the skirt of her nightdress.
Robb Stark gives her an annoyed look. "A direwolf. My direwolf. His name is Grey Wind."
"He's beautiful," she says in awe.
"He doesn't like it here," Robb says, almost accusingly. "It's too hot. And there is nowhere for him to hunt."
"Has he eaten? I can get the kitchens to prepare something."
Robb frowns. "He's alright. But your offer is appreciated, Your Grace."
"He listens to you."
"Aye."
Dany steps forward. She's close enough to hear the direwolf's breath, and she inhales. Even though they're thousands of leagues away, the scent of snow lingers on his fur. She'd love to see it for herself someday.
"How?"
Robb runs a hand across the direwolf's coat. "How what?"
"How do you get him to listen?"
Robb Stark's curls are a deep red, like dragon fire. It was the first thing Daenerys noticed about the Northern king.
"He just does. Grey Wind is part of me," Robb says.
Daenerys extends her hand out in greeting, then pulls it back. It sits limply in her other hand.
Robb watches her cautiously. His eyes are a deep blue, like river water after a storm. He wears a light leather doublet stamped with his sigil, unarmored from their meeting today. Dany has not met many Westerosi men, but he's by far the most unique. She can feel the North cling to him, just as it does his wolf.
Grey Wind brings his face closer to hers. His growls have stopped and have been replaced by a curious tilt of his head.
"May I touch him?" Dany asks softly.
"If he lets you," Robb replies, somewhat surprised.
Dany puts her hand forward again. It finds the coarse fur of the direwolf's neck, and she lets out an exhale she didn't realize she was holding.
"Grey Wind," she repeats in appreciation.
The Dothraki didn't name their horses. Daenery's first love, her beautiful silver mare, was only a color, never a name.
But the Stark king named his direwolf, just as she named her dragons. It makes her trust him even more.
"Is he fast?" She asks excitedly.
Robb finally rewards her with half a smile. "Fastest thing I've ever seen."
"Do all Stark kings have direwolves?"
Her questions are childish, embarrassing even. But Dany still knows next to nothing about the customs of Westeros. Her brother was only interested in Targaryen history. All talks of the other famous houses involved their betrayals and how Viserion would make them pay.
"My siblings all used to. We thought they were gone from our lands." His eyes furrow. "But it seems many things that once disappear are capable of returning."
"Then their return was purposeful," she says matter-of-factly, running her hands against Grey Wind's neck. The direwolf doesn't seem to mind her caresses. His eyes have gone squinted, and his ears are relaxed.
Robb stares at her blankly. "What does that mean?"
"Direwolves and dragons and the threat beyond the Wall," she lists. "We convinced ourselves they were all gone. But perhaps we just didn't want to see them."
"Where are your dragons, Your Grace?" Robb blurts.
Daenerys frowns. Most people ask right away. The King in the North made it through their second interaction before breaking.
"They're not like your Grey Wind," Dany explains slowly. She's still not sure how trustworthy Robb Stark is. To admit she doesn't have full control of her dragons could be foolish. "I fear letting them roam would be dangerous."
"For you? Or for everyone else?" He asks.
"Both."
Robb scoffs. "I doubt that very much."
Daenerys crosses her arms defensively. "Which part?"
"You don't fear your dragons. You like that they're dangerous."
"In the same way you appreciate your direwolf's teeth," Dany retorts.
Robb chuckles, his laugh deeper than a gorge. "Grey Wind is a weapon, same as the sword on my hip. I don't deny it."
"But don't you love him?" She asks. Her fingers knot into the wolf's fur in anger or fear. She's not sure which.
"Of course I do," Robb assures quickly. "There's nobody in the world I trust more. Which is why he's my greatest weapon."
"A weapon you know how to wield."
Suddenly, it's not Grey Wind in front of her, but the bones of the herder's son. A child that Drogon was accused of burning alive.
She springs away from the direwolf, causing both him and Robb to jump.
Daenerys once again thinks of her dragons, alone and afraid underneath the very pyramid she lives inside. Her palms grow cold and clammy, and the sky seems far too vast.
"Thank you for your counsel," she manages to get out.
"I didn't mean to offend you, Your Grace," Robb calls after her, but she doesn't turn around. Dany can't allow the King in the North to see her anguish. She can't allow anyone.
When she returns to her quarters, Dany seals herself inside her linens, desperate to recreate the dank crypt her dragons are kept in. Morning brings her freedom. But not her dragons.