#speak your gif desires into the tags I visit and they shall appear

[novaursa]

Could you write something about Robb Stark x Targaryen!reader?

For some background information: this would take place in an au where Robert's Rebellion failed and Rhaegar is king and is determined to mend the damage done from his father's reign and the rebellion and to get House Targaryen back in everyone's good graces. Years after the failed rebellion, Rhaegar visited the North with his family and discussed with Ned the possibility of an arranged marriage between Rhaegar's daughter and Robb and Ned reluctantly agreed. Maybe the plot could be about Robb and Targaryen!reader first meeting, getting to know each other, and their thoughts on each other.

(it also doesn't really matter to me who the daughter's mother is. It could be Elia, Lyanna, or someone else, but I would prefer if Rhaegar's daughter has a Valyrian appearance).

Bethrodal of Ice and Flame

- Summary: You are promised to Robb Stark, to mend the wound inflicted to the realm by events of the past.

- Paring: targ!reader/Robb Stark

- Note: Robert's Rebellion has failed and Rhaegar rules.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alive with the warmth of firelight and the din of voices raised in celebration, but something else thrums beneath the surface of the merriment. It’s an uneasy peace, born of necessity rather than desire. You sit at the high table, your gaze drifting over the gathered lords and ladies, all feasting and drinking beneath the Stark banners. The air is filled with the scent of roasted meats and the murmur of conversations, but your thoughts are elsewhere.

Beside you, your father, King Rhaegar, speaks in low tones to your uncle, Eddard Stark. His silver hair gleams in the torchlight, a sharp contrast to the dark hues of the Northern lords around him. He’s regal and composed, as he always is, but there’s a careful politeness in his words tonight, a measured tone that speaks of delicate negotiations. You can see the rigid set of Eddard Stark’s shoulders, the tightness around his mouth. The man who was once your father’s sworn enemy now must play the role of reluctant ally.

“Lord Stark, I understand your reservations,” your father is saying, his voice smooth, almost gentle. “But your niece is a link between our houses. Her blood is both Stark and Targaryen. This union with your son would strengthen the ties between us, ensuring peace and prosperity for the North and the realm.”

Eddard’s eyes, grey and stormy, flicker to your lilac ones briefly. There’s something unreadable in his gaze—grief, perhaps, or bitterness. It’s no secret that he still mourns his sister, Lyanna, your mother, who died bringing you into this world. Your very existence is a reminder of the war that tore the realm apart, of a love that should never have been.

“The past cannot be undone,” Eddard says, his voice rough and low. “But what’s done is done. My son will do his duty, as will I. If this betrothal is what’s needed to secure the future of the North, then so be it.”

Rhaegar inclines his head, acknowledging the words without a trace of triumph. “I thank you, Lord Stark. Your son will be a good match for Y/N. And I hope, in time, you will see that this is the best path for all of us.”

Eddard’s jaw tightens, but he nods curtly. “We shall see.”

You turn your attention away, feeling the weight of their conversation pressing down on you. This is your life they are discussing, your future, and yet you feel like a pawn being moved on a board, your fate sealed by men who speak of duty and honor while ignoring the desires of your heart.

Across the hall, Robb Stark is speaking with his friends, his face flushed from the warmth of the hall and the wine in his cup. He glances your way, catching your eye, and for a moment, there’s something like uncertainty in his expression. You stand, smoothing the folds of your dress, and make your way through the throng of guests towards him.

As you approach, others fall silent, their eyes flickering between you and Robb. You offer them a polite smile, and they excuse themselves, leaving the two of you alone amidst the bustling crowd.

“Robb,” you say, his name unfamiliar on your lips. He’s taller than you remember, broader too. There’s a steadiness to him, a quiet strength that you can’t help but admire.

“Y/N,” he replies, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I—well, I suppose we should get to know each other, shouldn’t we?”

You nod, feeling an awkwardness settle between you. “I suppose we should. We’re to be married, after all.”

He shifts his weight, looking around the hall as if seeking some escape from the conversation. “I’m not sure what to say,” he admits, a touch of color rising in his cheeks. “This isn’t…what I expected.”

You smile, a small, hesitant thing. “Nor I. But it seems we have little choice in the matter.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, as if seeing you for the first time. “It’s strange, isn’t it? To be bound by the choices of others. But I—I want to do right by you, Y/N. I want to be a good husband, if you’ll have me.”

There’s an earnestness in his voice, a sincerity that touches something deep inside you. You’ve heard stories of the young wolf, of his prowess in battle and his loyalty to his family, but this—this is something different. This is a boy on the cusp of becoming a man, trying to find his way in a world that seems determined to shape him into something he’s not.

“I appreciate that, Robb,” you say softly. “And I will try to be a good wife. Perhaps, in time, we can find our own way through this.”

He nods, relief softening the lines of his face. “I would like that.”

The music swells, and the lords and ladies begin to take to the floor for the dance. Robb hesitates, then offers you his hand. “May I have this dance?”

You take his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours, and allow him to lead you to the center of the hall. As the music begins, you move together, the steps familiar but strange with him as your partner. There’s a tentative grace to his movements, a carefulness that speaks of his desire not to misstep, not to falter.

As you dance, the hall fades away, the faces of the gathered nobles blurring into the background. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, spinning and turning in a world that is all your own. And in that moment, you think that perhaps, just perhaps, this union might not be the prison you feared it would be.

When the dance ends, Robb holds you close for a heartbeat longer than necessary, his eyes searching yours. “We’ll make this work, Y/N. I promise.”

You nod, the words you want to say caught in your throat. Instead, you offer him a smile, a real one this time, and squeeze his hand gently. “I believe you, Robb.”

And for the first time that night, you feel a flicker of hope, fragile and new, but there all the same.

[athenagrantnash]

Athena Grant-Nash & Michael Grant + A guide on how to treat a r*pist