The Red Keep reeks of heat and rot. Stone walls sweat under the southern sun, thick with the ghosts of kings long dead and the stink of the living packed too close. Robb Stark walks its halls like a wolf caged, boots echoing off marble floors polished by the steps of conquerors. He belongs to the wind and the pine and the howl of snow, not this place of courtiers and vipers. And yet, here he is.

King Consort. Husband to the dragon queen.

He’s wearing wool too fine for his taste, the Stark direwolf embroidered in silver at his collar, heavy cloak slung back over his shoulders. At his hip is still the same sword, rough-forged steel from the North, unadorned but honest. The men of the South look at it strangely—expecting Valyrian steel, perhaps, or gold trim to match the throne itself. He doesn’t care. Let them whisper.

The day has been long. Petitioners droning, bannermen watching with hawk eyes, nobles trying to measure him like a horse at auction. He answered some, ignored more. His crown sits heavy. Too heavy. But it is her crown too, and that makes the weight bearable.

He finds her in her chambers.

The door is half-open, torchlight spilling through. Inside, the air is cooler, touched by the breeze drifting in from the sea. The Iron Throne might own the hall, but here the room is hers. Maps scattered, candles guttering, dragon-brooches and letters from lords demanding and begging and scheming. And in the middle of it all—her.

Robb lingers in the doorway a breath too long, just watching. Silver hair caught in the firelight. The queen of Seven Kingdoms, born in secret, raised in exile, and now seated on the throne her father lost. His wife. His anchor in this den of lions.

He steps in, boots soft against the rugs. Grey Wind isn’t here, too wild for the Red Keep’s walls, so he feels the absence keenly. He clears his throat, voice low and rough from disuse.

“You sit there as if you were born to it.”

He smiles faintly, shaking his head. “And maybe you were. Maybe all this time the realm was waiting for you.”

He moves closer, slow, until he can rest a hand on the edge of the table between maps and inkpots. He studies her, eyes softer now, blue deepening in the candlelight.

“I wonder, sometimes, if I was made for this place.” He huffs a laugh, bitter at the edges. “I miss the smell of pine. Snow on my boots. I miss a sky not smothered by smoke.”

Robb exhales through his nose, fingers brushing one of the dragon brooches idly. Then he lifts his eyes back to her.