#if you came here expecting canon accuracy go touch some grass this is fanfic we don't know the meaning of that word
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Puppy Love
Summary:
âOne would think youâve become besotten with me, Lord Stark,â you quip, circling each other at a slow pace. âI would agree.â His arm moves up, and you meet it, wrists side by side, âdragons are a rare sight in the North; anyone would be enamored.â You chuckle, âI should say the same; wolves are equally as captivating."
Pairings:
Robb Stark x Male Reader
Tags:
Targaryen Reader | Fluff | Smitten Robb Stark
Words: 2122
Author's Note:
I have not actually watched the show or read the books fully đđžđđž I know things, but most of my knowledge is sporadic and random; it'll be like 60% accurate, I think....in my defense, I want dragons, and I also want Robb Stark, so like what else am I supposed to do đ. Also, sorry if the High Valyrian in here is shit; I'm very behind in my Duolingo course.
âThe dragons have taken back the Iron Throne.â
Robb didnât quite know how to react to the news; his battle had been for the North, and the workings of the other kingdoms and their squabbles had never immensely mattered to him as much as he knew they should. The ball had been his motherâs suggestion, correction insistence, âAs king, you should set an example and get ahead of the other kingdoms.âÂ
The Targarayens arrive on dragon back - each on a separate one - the beasts shake the ground when they land, thunderous roars echoing into the skies. Her Majesty, Daenerys Targaryen, is poised, expression calm as she descends her dragon; another figure follows behind her - the Queen's Hand Missandei - the other dragon rider, steals more of Robbâs attention. Expression perhaps more joyful, you appear rather ill-equipped for the weather, furs less than satisfactory in Robbâs opinion. Your attire appears snow-touched, with little color - a touch of red on the collar of your coat - and dragon detailing on the lapels. Your silver locks are platted back in a simplistic riderâs style, held together by an intricate golden band.
Your company trails behind, arriving just moments later. Robb is accompanied by his mother, Sansa, and Arya, the latter of the three stares in awe at the dragons. Robb picks up a bit of conversation as you approach them, dying down when you come to stand in front of them; the words are of another tongue - High Valyrian, he thinks. âYour grace,â he greets, âwelcome to Winterfell.â
âThank you, Lord Stark,â she gestured to one side, âyou know of my wife and hand, Missandei,â Robb nods, and she gestures to you, âand my cousin.âÂ
âA pleasure,â you greet him.
Robb had yet to follow etiquette, and in the spirit of that, he responds to your greeting and awaiting handshake with a kiss - placed on the back of your hand. Your skin trembles in the cold, cool to the touch; he rubs his thumb along it in an effort to create some heat. The purple of your eyes was entrancing, deep pools that drew his gaze easily. His motherâs cough draws him back; her disapproving and mildly irritated glance is counteracted by Sansa and Aryaâs amused ones. The servants lead you to your temporary quarters, and Robbâs linger on your retreating form; his motherâs lecture drifts elsewhere in his mind, barely settling before itâs tossed aside by the glee of seeing you once more at the welcoming banquet.
Winterfell was colder than you expected.Â
The invitation had seen no hurried response - with the rebuilding of Kingâs Landing, a new Dragonâs Pit, and many other matters - coming to Winterfell had primarily been driven by the need for a break. You rode on Morghon, Daenerys, and Missandei rode on Drogon, with Rhaegal and Viserion following and a company of Dothraki followed from the ground. The cool weather had been the first thing youâd noted, the second being the admittedly attractive King in the North. He donned a thick fur cape overtop his attire, a ringlet crown surmounted by iron spikes, and three wolves at the central front.
âDubÄzma,â you shrug at Daenerysâ warning tone; you hadnât done anything; you simply glanced at the man.
You counter such, âEman gaomagon daorun, ivestragon zirČłla Missandei.âÂ
Missandei shakes her head, amusement in her tone, âIÄ bughegon isse suvion iÄdar kostilus,â she jests.
You shake your head, and the conversation breaks off as Lord Stark welcomes you to Winterfell. Daenerys responds with light introductions for both Missandei, then you.
âA pleasure,â you say once introduced, hand held out, ready for a handshake. Lord Stark does something far different. Taking your hand, he turns it over and lays a peck on the back of it, causing Lady Starkâs eyes to grow wide in surprise and his sistersâ expressions to morph into grins.
âThe pleasure is all mine,â he replies, eyes locked on yours as he does so. His hand remains with yours for seconds longer, thumb caressing the skin, and when her ladyship breaks the brief haze with a cough, he leaves behind a phantom warmth.
The temporary chambers are cozy, readily warm, and stocked with furs; you set your luggage by the bed and donât dwell too long on them - furs, a bed, fire, and comfort - as the welcome banquet requires far more attention. You replace your traveling coat with one more suitable for festivities - dark with gold embroidery and light fur trimming on the bottom. You exit the room to find Lord Starkâs figure leaning against the wall opposite, and a smile lights his face at the sight of you.
âHave you come to escort me, Lord Stark?â you inquire.
âIf youâd allow it,â he responds with a hint of hope. You chuckle and nod, drawing out a broader smile on his face. The hall is not as far off as youâd imagined; light chatter filters through the open doors as people mill into the open-spaced hall. Far from the entrance sits a horizontally set long table - the Starks on the right, Taragrayens on the left - the other tables line the sides, leaving the middle empty.Â
âLord Robb of House Stark, King in the North, Lord of WinterfellâŚâ the announcer declares, drawing attention to you both; he announces you next, â...of House TargaryenâŚ.â It had been your idea to drop your name of Velaryon, â...Dragonheart of Old Valyria, and Prince of The Ashes.â The latter of the titles stood more as a slight mockery, with your old life on the remnants of Old Valyria, those that had spotted you and Morghon had called you that in whispers.
You take the two remaining seats at the long table, Robb near the center, you near the edge, close to Missandei. The food is wonderful; meats, deserts, ale, and various Northern delicacies are brought to the tables - the honeyed chicken may well become one of your new favorites. People begin to mingle after the main courses as music fills the halls in steady beats; you follow suit at Lord Starkâs request to dance.Â
âOne would think youâve become besotten with me, Lord Stark,â you quip, circling each other at a slow pace.
âI would agree.â His arm moves up, and you meet it, wrists side by side, âdragons are a rare sight in the North; anyone would be enamored.â
You chuckle, âI would say the same; wolves are equally as captivating,â your arms turn, both palms now against the other; he laces his fingers with yours, a cheeky grin on his face. You turn to circle in the opposite direction, the crowd around you filtering out as you remain fixated on each other. You draw back, hands still intertwined; coming back again, he places his other hand on your shoulder as yours goes to his hip. A few paces and you should separate from the other, turn to another person and carry on the dance, but you donât, remaining in each otherâs grasp as you drift across the floor.Â
The music changes and a joyful beat begins; the formality is lost as the crowd of dancers switches to more upbeat and expressive movements. Lord Stark tugs at your arm, head tilting towards the doors; you turn briefly to glance at the long table - Lady Arya is immersed in conversation with Daenerys; Missandei and Lady Sansa are the same; Lady Stark herself, however, appears to have swallowed a lemon, eyes glaring daggers at his Lordship. You return your attention to said man and allow him to drag you away from the hall.
Robb hadnât paid much attention to his motherâs lecture; her words went in one ear and out the other; she wasnât angry, not truly, merely cautious. The interest seemed mutual to some extent, though the matter of marital affairs would be complicated - gods know the Lords of Westeros would turn their noses high in disgust - his almost engagements had all fallen through when heâd paid them little mind.Â
âRobb Stark!â His motherâs voice cuts through his thoughts, âI understand your attraction circumvents what the realm would regard as suitable, but that is no excuse, do not trifle with him; we donât need them setting our lands ablaze.âÂ
âYouâve outdone yourself this time,â Sansa comments after their mother leaves.Â
Robb purses his lips; a wise man would take the words to heart and cease whatever he was doing - even if this interaction bore positive fruit, there was no certainty it would be in the best interest of the North. Her Majesty could have him abdicate his throne in favor of moving into the Targarayen household, or she could disapprove of him and feed him to her dragons. Robb was a man of heart, the kind that intercepted the servant at your chambers and took it upon himself to escort you personally to the dining halls.
Your previous coat has been replaced by a darker one; golden dragon heads decorate the cuffs, and it sits tighter on your person, with the fur trimming at the bottom fluttering delicately as you walk. âHave you come to escort me, Lord Stark?â
âIf youâd allow it,â he responds, and gods, he hopes you would. He feels himself smile wider at your agreement, arm threaded with yours; the short walk to the dining halls leaves him ecstatic.
âLord Robb of House Stark, King in the North, Lord of WinterfellâŚâ the declaration echoes in the hall; brief glances become more fixated on your intertwined arms. His motherâs eyes squint, a frown on her face, â...of House Targaryen, Dragonheart of Old Valyria, and Prince of The Ashes.âÂ
Robb thanks the gods; his motherâs seat is further from him; if looks could kill, heâs certain heâd have died at the entrance. âYouâve taken to my cousin quite quickly, Lord Stark,â Her Majestyâs voice draws his attention.
Her gaze is steady as she regards him, âI suppose, your grace, is that a problem?âÂ
Itâs no secret that certain parts of Westeros and their rulers disapprove of other attractions; Robbâs not quite sure where his father would have stood on the matter - he imagines him supportive - he knows his mother prefers he be less expressive on the subject. Queen Daenerys had been quite clear on her stance, disregarding the disapproval of her new laws and marriage, though thatâs not to say she would like to have him as her in-law.
âNot as long as he is happy, and well,â she answers, âI have little family left; I cannot help my worry.â
There is an underlying threat to her words, and Robb nods in understanding, and it satisfies her enough to turn away from him. The food is brought in just after - honeyed chicken, venison pies, cod cakes, ale, candied bread - the music begins near the tail end of the feast. Some sway to the tune, conversations carrying in the air, as the music changes to something more befitting a dance. He stands and moves down the long table towards you, âCare for a dance?â
âOne would think youâve become besotten with me, Lord Stark,â you quip.Â
âI would agree; dragons are a rare sight in the North; anyone would be enamored.â Your arms meet in the middle, level to your heads, as you circle each other; even as the other dancers switch partners, you remain together. Up until the music changes and a less formal tune carries in the air, you follow suit, hand in Robbâs as he drags you from the hall. You stroll idly through the halls, hands held together and swung lowly and sharing idle chatter.
âWhat do you call your dragon?â
âMorghon,â you respond, âit means death, a fitting name. Would you like to see him?â Robb pursed his lips, and you chuckled at his hesitation, âDonât tell me youâre scared of dragons,â you teased; coming to a halt, you tugged him closer, âcertainly not after flirting with one.â
He can feel the heat creep up his neck and imagines his skin pinker at the moment, âWhat if he bites?â
âHe wonât,â your graze drifts a little lower, âbut I could.â
âIs that an invitation to your bed, my prince?â
âIf youâd like, you could show me how warm the North could be. Iâm sure a few hours of demonstration should suffice.â
âThe demonstration will have to wait for another time, your grace,â his motherâs voice cuts in. You both jump apart, hands loosely held together; she grabs Robb by the arm, âI apologize for the interruption, your grace, but we have some familial matters to attend to.â His face pinches into a frown as his mother leads him away; he remains turned enough to send you a brief wave and a smile and is thrilled to see you return it.
End Note:
Hope you enjoyed this mess. Stay hydrated.
#robb stark x male reader#robb stark x reader#game of thrones imagine#shut up i want dragons alright#i am disregarding canon because i think he's too hot to die#and also cause there's like a few solid male reader fics i think and the rest aren't so here comes the petty dragon riding bitch#if you came here expecting canon accuracy go touch some grass this is fanfic we don't know the meaning of that word
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