Chapter Text
Robb Stark
The first letter he sent wasn’t to beg for a crown or to claim the Iron Throne. It was a plea—quiet, desperate, and painfully human. His family was splintering, pulled apart at every corner of the realm. His father dead. His sisters held as hostages. His brothers hunted more often than protected.
Everywhere Robb turned, he saw traitors behind friendly smiles and knives hidden beneath oaths. He didn’t need armies or power. He needed someone to trust. Someone who could bring peace to the realm—or at least help him bring his family home.
Surely the Dragon Queen, even across an ocean, would understand something of that.
He rewrote the letter once, twice—ten times. The floor around him was littered with crumpled parchment, every failed attempt staring back at him. He tried a political tone, but it sounded cold, transactional. He tried sounding like a king, but then it read like a bid for a crown he didn’t even want.
So in the end, he signed the letter simply as himself. Not King in the North. Not Your Grace. Not even Stark.
Just Robb.
‘Daenerys Targaryen,
I pray this finds you swiftly. I do not know how to ask this—or if I should beg for it. Perhaps it may seem like a desperate attempt at alliance or politics. But I write to you as a man who is trying, with all he has left, to save his family.
Could you ever find it in your heart to return to your realm and bring it peace? To help me bring my sisters and brothers back to where they belong—safe, whole, and home in the winters of the North.
Perhaps it is too small a thing to ask. Perhaps it is impossible. You are a Queen, and I am sure you have far greater matters to attend to. So I only ask, and I will respect whatever answer you send. Yes or no. Either way, thank you for reading this.
I figured—it couldn’t hurt to ask.
—Best regards, Robb Stark’
A crow carried it to the ports. A sailor carried it across the sea. A messenger carried it across foreign sands.
And somewhere far from Winterfell’s snow, the Dragon Queen received a letter written by a young man who wanted nothing more than to bring his family home.
Daenaerys Targaryen
The first letter she received was unexpected.
A small roll of parchment, sealed with black wax stamped by the sigil of a crowned wolf. She assumed instantly it would be another marriage proposal—another man seeking her crown, her dragons, her armies. So she ignored it for three days. It sat untouched on her nightstand, quiet and patient in the candlelight.
She’d had one too many proposals already. Every man seemed charming until he revealed what he truly wanted: not her, not Daenerys, just the power attached to her name.
Still… she should have read it. Even out of courtesy.
So one night, wrapped in warm blankets and half-lulled by the desert heat, she finally broke the seal.
And what she read was not a proposal at all.
Not a demand, not a bargain, not even the polished voice of a king.
It was a plea. Soft. Honest. Exhausted in a way that mirrored something buried deep inside her.
A man asking for help—not for a throne, but for his family. A man begging for peace.
Her heart clenched. It felt strangely intimate, reading such vulnerability from someone she’d never met. He sounded nothing like a king. Nothing like a lord. Just Robb. A young man trying not to lose the people he loved.
That alone made her pick up her quill.
Whether she could help him… that was another question entirely. She had no ships. No safe passage. No way across the ocean even if she wanted to try.
And she wasn’t sure she believed him. Words on parchment were easy lies.
But she replied anyway.
‘Robb Stark,
I’m sorry it has taken me so long to respond. I expected this letter to be another marriage proposal. Instead, I found honesty. A rare thing.
I understand what it means to fight for family. I respect the lengths you’re willing to go. But I do not know how I could help you. I am an ocean away, with no ships to my name. Even if I wished to come, I could not.
And though your words feel true, truth can be worn easily in ink. If all you’ve written is real, then I hope you succeed. I hope your family comes home to you—safe and whole.
—Fire and Blood, Daenerys Targaryen’
She sent the letter the next morning.
And then she forced herself to forget it—forced herself to return to her routines, her lessons, her people. But now and then, her gaze drifted back to his letter. Now and then, she reread it.
She wasn’t sure why.
She wasn’t sure if any of it had been real.
But then a new letter arrived.
Same wax. Same careful handwriting. Same plea voiced not by a king, but by a man.
And that was how it began—something far more than she ever expected.
Robb Stark
At first, they were nothing more than shared reports — two young rulers writing across the world about the chaos surrounding them. Robb sent what scraps of news he could gather from the North, while Daenerys wrote of the strange wars and politics in Essos, so far removed from Westeros it felt like another lifetime.
For Robb, her letters became a pocket of peace he didn’t know he needed. Every time he cracked the seal, it felt as though a small bubble formed around him — one no grief or council demands could pierce. In those moments, he wasn’t a king. He wasn’t his father’s heir. He was simply Robb.
And, gradually, the letters became more than reports. They turned softer. War gave way to small confessions about frozen lakes and sand dunes, shared reflections on the loneliness of leadership, and the rare, precious bits of good news either of them found.
But the letter he sent tonight was different.
He’d been slightly tipsy when he wrote it. Just enough for the world to feel too loud, too heavy. Sleep had refused him again — every time he shut his eyes, he saw his father die, saw the men he grew up with falling around him, all fighting for a family he still couldn’t save. His sisters were gone. His brothers were frightened. The war devoured everything.
His hand shook as he wrote:
‘Do you ever think of running away from your duties? I know how foolish that sounds. You’re a Queen — or perhaps that makes it less foolish. If being King is this difficult… then being a Queen can’t be any easier.
I hate this title. I never wanted the crown. I only wanted my family back. Gods, I wish my father were here. I wish he’d never gone south.
Your dragons — you call them your children. You never told me their names. What do they look like? Are they as beautiful as the stories say? Mischievous? Magical? Grey Wind is mischief incarnate. He steals my boots and hides them in the strangest places. He’s silly… and perhaps the only thing keeping me sane these days, besides these letters.
I hope — Seven help me — I hope one day we can meet. That I live long enough to. And I hope your children are as wonderful as I imagine they are. You haven’t written much about them, but I know they must be.’
He didn’t remember sealing the letter. Didn’t remember handing it to the maester.
Only the next morning, being told a raven had already flown.
A hot flush of panic went through him — gods, if he could only call the bird back. Snatch the letter before she ever saw those words. But he couldn’t waste resources on something so foolish.
So Robb sat in the quiet, staring at the window where the raven had vanished into the grey sky, and waited for her reply.
Daenerys Targaryen
When she received the letter, she felt the usual spark of excitement — a small, bright thing she had begun to look forward to more than she cared to admit. As always, she opened it in bed, curled beneath her blankets, her children coiled around her in warm circles of bronze, white-gold, and red. Their heat was intense, but familiar. Comforting.
The moment she unfolded the parchment, she noticed something different.
The scent of wine lingered in the fibers — faint, but unmistakable. His letters normally smelled of pine and cold air, like the winter she had never seen but often imagined. There was even a small dark-red drop on the bottom corner, his handwriting unsteady but still clearly his.
As she read, her heart ached. Gods, how she wished she could cross the world in a heartbeat and be there with him now — to hold the weight he carried instead of replying from thousands of miles away with words that would take weeks to reach him.
Daenerys let out a long, heavy breath and set the letter across her lap. Drogon, ever watchful, lifted his head. His red eyes glowed with a kind of ancient understanding, as if he knew exactly what was twisting in her chest. After a moment, he huffed softly and dropped his head onto a silk pillow.
She waited until morning to reply, wanting time to think — not only about her words, but about the decision forming in the back of her mind. She could build ships now. She had the resources. She needed to eventually, regardless. But now… perhaps there was a reason to begin sooner.
Perhaps she could bring a smile to the man behind the letters.
Her reply flowed like a confession:
‘Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal. Named after my late husband and my brothers. They are each beautiful in their own way. Drogon is temperamental and fiercely protective, black as night with red along his wings. Viserion is a sweet boy — he loves to be close to me, lazy as a cat, white with gold. Rhaegal is quiet and observant, green with bronze, always watching everything around him.
They can be mischievous, each in their own way. But none of them have ever stolen my boots and hidden them. Grey Wind sounds quite the character. Is he very fluffy? Soft? Warm to cuddle? I imagine he must be adorable. I would like to see his face one day.
And… on a more serious matter. I have begun preparations for ships. I have the means now, and the purpose. I hope to see you soon, Robb Stark. We will get your siblings back. Together.’
She sent the letter off and returned to her duties, though her mind drifted often — to ships, to storms, to the quiet boy-king in the North who wrote her letters that smelled of pine and grief.
She wondered what he looked like.
People said Starks were stoic. Long-faced. Quiet.
Would he be handsome? Would he have grey eyes or brown? Would he be tall? Broad-shouldered? Would his voice be soft or steady? Would he smile easily, or rarely?
She imagined him a fighter — but how skilled? How scarred?
One day, she would know.
Until then, she let herself dream.
Dream of the man who had already begun to feel closer than a stranger.
Robb Stark
The letters continued, each one building a quiet, steady hope in his chest. Hope that he would see her. Hope that he would see those three dragons soaring behind her like living fire. Some nights he lay awake wondering what she truly looked like, how her voice might sound, whether she would be a kind Queen. He had heard whispers and songs: short silver hair, sun-kissed skin, eyes the soft violet of dawn.
How he wished to see her—now, not later. To tell her everything with his own voice instead of ink. To hear her laugh, which he imagined to be as sweet as honey. To see her smile, bright enough to rival the stars.
One day soon, he told himself. One day, if the gods were not as cruel as he feared.
And then the day came.
The snowfall was light, carried gently by the warmest breeze winter had allowed in weeks. Robb waited at the gates, pacing back and forth, gripping a bouquet of Winter Blossoms. Was this too much? Perhaps. But first impressions mattered.
Then he heard it— the low thunder of hooves rolling across the land, making the ground tremble beneath his boots.
They were coming. Fast. Hard.
His men tensed on the walls. His mother’s warnings echoed in his mind, but he brushed them aside. He had faith. He had hope.
The riders pulled to a sudden stop—close enough to charge, far enough to eye the archers above the gate.
Then one horse broke away from the rest. White as the moon, moving with the grace of something out of an old story. And atop it—
her.
The closer she came, the faster his heart raced. The world… quieted. Everything fell into place. It felt real—his sisters coming home, his brothers safe again, a future possible.
Daenerys swung down from her horse but stumbled slightly before catching herself. A faint pink dusted her cheeks. She giggled, soft and embarrassed, then hurried toward him.
“Robb…?” she said gently.
Robb stared. Truly stared. Like a man seeing the stars from up close. She was breathtaking—far beyond the songs, the whispers, the stories.
He cleared his throat. “Your Grace! I—I… flowers!” He thrust them at her, wide-eyed, heat rising up the back of his neck. “Welcome to Winterfell…”
Daenerys looked from him to the flowers and back again, a smile blooming slowly, warmly. She took them with careful hands.
“They’re lovely. Thank you,” she murmured, smiling wider—like she genuinely enjoyed the expression on his face.
And for a moment, the world was right.
The realm would know peace. Robb would have his family back. And maybe—just maybe—he would build a new one someday with a woman he was never meant to meet.