@ungvargr asked: It was you. I know it was you.

"You   presume   as   much."   Today   she   had   not   come   as   a   princess.   The   masks   were   a   choice   for   a   ball,   masquerades   were   not   rare   but   there   has   been   a   long   time   since   the   Seven   Realms   saw   one   as   such.   She   wore   for   once   a   dress   outside   the   colors   she   chose   for   those   that   represent   her   house   and   wore   pink   shades,   silks   of   Dorne   and   Free   Cities.   Perhaps   that   gave   her   away,   as   Robb   would   know   how   fond   she   is   of   such   fabrics   due   to   her   upbringing   in   the   warmer   weathers.   She   cannot   hide   it   though,   not   when   she   had   slipped   out   of   the   ball   oping   to   go   unnoticed   until   a   hand   pulled   her   closer,   her   back   to   firm   chest   and   a   voice   she   recognized   that   sent   shivers   down   her   spine.

@ungvargr asked: [tender.] sender gently traces their fingers along receiver's scars. + reverse

The   King   in   the   North.   Does   the   title   still   fit   a   dead   man,   even   if   the   dead   man   is   not   one?   Margaery   had   requested   to   be   the   one   to   tend   to   the   man   and   she   can   see   the   resemblance   with   his   mother,   who   he   met   while   she   was   still   Renly's   Queen.   They   both   hide   now.   Her   neck   scarred   by   wildfire   from   the   explosion   and   the   world   believes   her   dead,   and   he.   .   .Robb   Stark   should   be   dead.   They   said   many   things   about what   happened   at   the   Red   Wedding.   That   his   body   was   looted   and   attached   to   his   wolf'   head   but   both   direwolf   and   man   were   living   and   breathing.   Margaery's   eyes   drift   to   the   guarding   direwolf,   who   still   looks   at   her   as   if   she   would   dare   to   hurt   the   man,   and   she   wonders   if   he   behaves   that   was   because   Robb   himself   does   not   trust   her.   She   had   been   Joffrey's   queen   after   all.   By   all   means,   she   would   be   an   enemy.   "Scars   are   not   to   be   ashamed   of,   Your   Grace.   They   mean   you   survived."  

Her   own   are   covered,   makeup   does   wonders   but   even   then,   wildfire   cannot   be   cured,   not   completely,   and   some   days   are   better   than   others.   She   traces   the   scars   with   tender   care,   fingertips   ghosting   over   his   skin   before   she   uses   the   other   hand   to   press   the   wet   cloth   to   help   him   clean   them,   even   if   he   don't   need   the   help,   she   is   doing   it   because   she   wants   to.   "I   am   truly   sorry for what   happened.   I   was   close   to   Sansa   when   she   was   at   the   Keep.   Even   tried   to   take   her   out   of   there,   marry   her   to   Willas."   Gods   above,   if   that   had   gone   through,   they   would   be   sisters   now   and   Sansa   would   have   been   happy,   the   polished    girl   she   met   barely   smiled,   and   she   feared   the   capital   had   broke   her   beyond   repair.   Even   when   she   had   ran   away   after   the   wedding   with   Joffrey.  

@ungvargr asked: “A crown of kisses to the queen of dreams.”

The    words    were    too    soft    for    the    cold    stone    walls    they    stood    between,    too    delicate    for    a    world    carved    out    of    blood    and    war    banners.    A    crown    of    kisses    to    the    queen    of    dreams.    It    didn’t    sound    like    something    a    king    would    say.    It    sounded    like    something    a    boy    might    whisper    when    no    one    else    dared    listen.    And    still—he    meant    it.    She    could    tell    by    the    way    his    voice    barely    held,    like    something    fragile    would    shatter    if    she    looked    at    him    the    wrong    way.

Myrcella    looked    away    because    it    felt    too    much.    Too    much    tenderness    in    a    place    she’d    only    known    as    a    cage.    Her    fingers    curled    into    the    edge    of    her    sleeve,    uncertain    whether    to    reach    for    him    or    protect    herself    from    the    weight    of    his    words.    She’d    been    kissed    before—courtly,    shallow    things    meant    to    flatter    her    name    and    not    her    soul.    But    Robb    spoke    like    he    saw    her,    not    the    gold    in    her    hair    or    the    lion    in    her    blood,    but    the    ache    behind    her    practiced    smiles.    The    way    she    still    dreamed,    even    when    dreams    had    no    place    in    her    world.

@ungvargr asked: “We both know what this is.”

Myrcella’s    gaze    didn’t    drop.    It    never    did,    not    with    him.    Not    when    the    tent    was    lit    only    by    the    golden    glow    of    the    brazier,    not    when    the    walls    between    them    had    thinned    into    whispers    and    careful    glances.    She    heard    the    weight    in    his    voice,    the    line    he    was    drawing    with    just    a    handful    of    words.    “We    both    know    what    this    is,”    he’d    said    —    and    perhaps    he    meant    it    to    ground    them,    to    remind    them    of    titles,    alliances,    the    war    that    pulsed    just    beyond    the    canvas    walls.

But    Myrcella    wasn’t    made    of    only    gold    and    duty.    Her    breath    caught,    just    briefly,    before    she    stepped    closer,    the    hem    of    her    gown    whispering    over    the    rushes    on    the    floor.    “Do    we?”    she    asked,    quietly,    searching    his    face.    “Because    I    know    what    it    isn’t.    It    isn’t    a    game.    It    isn’t    just    politics.    And    it    isn't    something    I    can    walk    away    from    like    a    discarded    ribbon.”    Her    voice    was    soft,    but    steady    —    trained    in    courts,    sharpened    by    loneliness,    shaped    by    watching    men    make    cruel    decisions    in    the    name    of    power.

She    touched    his    hand,    just    barely.    “You    say    we    both    know…    but    maybe    you’re    afraid    to    name    it.    I’m    not.”    She    let    the    truth    settle    between    them,    heavier    than    any    crown    she’d    ever    worn.    “It’s    real,    Robb.    And    if    we    only    have    a    sliver    of    peace    in    the    middle    of    all    this    blood    and    chaos…    I’ll    take    it.    Even    if    it    ends    with    my    heart    in    pieces.”    A    short    pause,    as    hand    retracts,    duty    reminding    her    that    in    here,    she    is    not    a    princess,    not    to    the    northerns    or    the    lords    that    speak    to    him.    “You    will    have    to    marry    someone    else.    And.    .    .it    is    likely    my    own    engagement    will    be    back    on    course    once    I    am    back    in    King's    Landing.”    It    was    never    meant    to    be    anyone    but    Robb    for    her.    

"𝐈    𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰    𝐈    𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭    𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞    𝐲𝐨𝐮    𝐭𝐨    𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲    𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞    𝐲𝐨𝐮    𝐚𝐫𝐞    𝐚    𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫    𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠."    and    men    like    him    cannot    stay    still    and    watch    others    fight    for    them    and    their    name.    She    admires    that    quality    about    him    the    most,    that    he    is    willingly    risking    his    life    for    others    because    they    fight    for    his    kingdom.  @ungvargr