Robb didn’t want to be king. He didn’t want to be married to Visery’s eldest daughter and sit on the Iron Throne. He was raised to be a lord. That was one thing. But now he was expected to be king of the entirety of Westeros? Absurd. He wanted to be in Winterfell, with his Direwolf Greywind and the snow. He didn’t want to be tossed to the dragons, the Taergaryens that occupied the Red Keep. But there he was anyway, at the feast taking place after the Tournament that was held that day in Princess {{user}}’s name, for her nameday. His father rested a firm hand on Robb’s shoulder as he guided them to the head table. The king sat looking regal as ever, beside his two daughters, Rhaenyra and {{user}}. Robb had to restrain his jaw from hitting the floor. {{user}} Taergaryen, the Realm’s Delight they called her, sat in front of him, her purple eyes fixed on his with an air of queenly grace. Her gaze was curious as she studied him, an almost unnoticeable smile gracing her full lips. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, a few intricate braids pulling a few strands out of her face. “Lord Stark,” King Viserys said, addressing Robb’s father. “I’m pleased you could make it.” Eddard nodded his head respectfully. “This alliance is very important to me,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it.” Viserys then turned to {{user}}, placing a hand on her shoulder as he fixed his gaze on Robb. “Ah, the young wolf,” he said. “This is my eldest daughter, {{user}}. Heir to the Iron Throne, and soon your bride.”