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His mother tells him he has to leave the city for the weekend and come home for a barbecue. Robb tries to explain all the reasons he can't leave Philadelphia, but Catelyn Stark is unmoved, informing him that there is already a ticket awaiting him at 30th Street Station and she will pick him up at the station in Colmar Saturday morning. He was supposed to play ultimate frisbee with Theon, Jon, and the Umbers this weekend, not to mention try to lay some more ground work with Jeyne, but when Catelyn calls, everyone listens.
Robb tries not to pout for the length of the train ride, bites his tongue while his mother drives him to their sprawling development in Upper Bucks County, and wonders when his family will realize he is 24-years-old, a grown man with an MBA, an apartment, and a life of his own and not, in fact, little Robb, Ned Stark's boy.
Sansa is home from Princeton for the summer, sunning herself on the front lawn in a bikini Robb would bet money their father hasn't seen yet; Arya is at kickboxing class, Bran is at physical therapy, and Rickon is in the backyard with the dogs. Robb loves his family, he does, but he can feel the claustrophobic press of suburban life from all sides. By the end of the night, he knows every neighbor will know he's home and want to know how he likes living in the city, how he likes his job in the accounting department at Baratheon Industries, whether or not he's dating anyone, and every other possible question they can think of until every detail of his life is known.
"As soon as Arya and Bran are finished and shower, we'll leave for the barbecue," Catelyn informs him, removing plates of deviled eggs from the refrigerator.
"Where is it?"
"At Robert's. Don't leave your bag in the entryway!"
Robb suddenly understands why his mother insisted upon him coming home; Robert Baratheon was his father's best friend, had written Robb a letter of recommendation when he applied to Wharton, was the reason he had such a high paying job at Baratheon Industries. Though he was often hassled by his coworkers for the perceived nepotism he received as a result of his father's friendship, Robb likes Robert Baratheon.
What Robb doesn't like is being forced to ride shotgun while Sansa drives her car, following the wheelchair accessible van their parents bought after Bran's accident a year earlier. The Baratheons live in a sprawling estate in Montgomery County, and, though his family is certainly upper-middle-class, Robb still feels awed by the sight of such obvious wealth. There are luxury vehicles being parked by valets, and Robb glimpses Jaime Lannister disappearing around the house with his younger brother Tyrion, half the size of his brother but thrice as smart.
The backyard is full of people, the scent of charcoal in the air; Robb orders a beer from the bar, taking his bottle to a corner of the yard, scowling at the way Sansa is smiling at Joffrey. Robb hates the eldest Baratheon boy; two years younger than he, Robb had often seen him around campus and the idea of him going near his sister makes his blood boil.
“You know, if you keep it up, your face might freeze like that.”
Robb turns towards the feminine voice to see a woman he doesn't recognize. She is easily the most beautiful woman at the party; golden curls are gathered haphazardly in a loose bun, her eyes a brilliant green when she pushes her sunglasses atop her head. A pair of criminally small jean shorts reveal long, tanned legs and her halter top reveals just enough cleavage to be tempting. Robb gives a startled laugh as she takes the seat opposite of him, slipping off her flip flops and kicking up her feet into his lap.
“Not very shy, are you?”
She grins unrepentantly, mischief sparkling in her eyes, and Robb feels his cock twitch in his jeans. “Oh, I'm sorry. Am I supposed to be all blushing and giggly? Want me to bat my eyelashes?”
“Maybe bite your lip a little,” he plays along, his fingers skimming the circumference of her ankle.
“What, like this?” She pulls the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth, fluttering her eyelashes, and Robb wonders what her mouth tastes like.
“Now you're a proper lady.”
Her laughter is loud and free. “I can't say proper's ever been a word used to describe me.”
“What words do they usually use?”
“What word would you use?” she challenges, stretching out to grab his beer. She takes a heavy swallow from it, leaving a smudge of pink gloss on the mouth of the bottle, and Robb allows his fingers to trail a little higher on her leg to gauge her reaction.
“I don't even know you.”
“You strike me as a good judge of character, Robb Stark.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I'm smart.” She nudges him in the chest with her heel, passing the beer back to him; his mouth is bone dry. “So how would you describe me?”
“Sexy,” he blurts out, like the way her eyes flare with heat and surprise.
She is pure grace as she removes her feet from his lap, stretching until she can reach his iPhone on the arm of his chair. Robb watches as she taps something into it before handing it back, the brush of her fingers against his making him smile. “Then you should call me. Sooner is better than later.”
Instinct makes him slide his hand around her wrist, holding her in place; she doesn't try to pull away, and he notices she has a tiny scar beside her left eye. She quirks an eyebrow, waiting, challenging, and Robb wonders if it is poor manners to make-out with a stranger at his boss's barbecue.
“There you are!” Robert Baratheon's voice booms, and Robb jerks away from the girl as his boss and father approach. He is certain he is about to get his ass chewed out for something when Robert all but lifts the girl from her chair with a laugh. She squeals, voicing a complaint, and, before he can figure out what exactly is going on, Robert asks, “You bugging my newest accountant, Myrcella?”
Robb feels his blood turn to ice as the girl - Myrcella - laughs. “I don't know. Am I bugging you, Robb?”
As he manages to shake his head, Robb feels as if his head is spinning. While he saw Joffrey often around campus and Tommen had always been close with Bran, he rarely saw Myrcella, especially once he left for college six years earlier. In fact, the last time he saw Myrcella, she has been thirteen, frizzy-haired with braces, and, if he remembered correctly, she had burst into tears when Joffrey declared she was ugly. Quickly doing the math, he realizes Myrcella is a year older than Bran, which makes her seventeen.
Jesus Christ, she's seventeen!
He barely remembers the rest of the barbecue, so deeply ashamed of his flirtation with a teenager - a teenager! - he can hardly wait to leave. By the time his family arrives back at their house, Robb is certain he is going to hell; he claims a headache and goes to his room. He is half asleep when his phone vibrates with a text message; expecting Theon or Jon, he fumbles for the phone on his bedside table, freezing when he sees the text is, in fact, from “Sexy Cella.”
A good man would ignore the text, ignore the 17-year-old girl sending it, and go back to sleep.
A good man would not do what he does, which is open the text.
Didn't embarrass you, did I?
You could have told me who you are.
Her response arrives less than thirty seconds later. It's not my fault you didn't remember me.
You don't exactly look like you did when you were 13!
You mean sexy?
Robb pauses, knowing this is the time to end the conversation, knowing he is dangerously skirting the “dirty old man” line. And yet he still finds himself answering. You know you are.
So are you. Which means two people as sexy as us should obviously go out sometime.
You're 17. It's illegal.
Only if you fuck me. Do you want to fuck me, Robb?
He turns off his phone.
“You need to get laid.”
Robb glares across the small table at Theon. “That's your answer to everything.”
“Because it is the answer when your problem is being an uptight, fun sucking douche.”
“Thanks, man.”
Theon shrugs, unbothered by any offense he has caused. “I'm just saying, since the whole Jeyne thing isn't happening, maybe it's time to find someone to touch your dick who isn't you.”
“I'm really glad I called you and not Jon for this relaxing drink.”
“Look at all the women here tonight,” Theon continues, gesturing to the full bar. “Give 'em a little charm, mention the fact you just got a huge bonus, and you can be having your dick sucked before the night is over.”
Draining his beer, Robb declares, “I'm getting another drink.”
It takes nearly ten minutes to make it to the bar through the throng of people. Robb tries fruitlessly to get the bartender's attention, but a bachelorette party on the other end is occupying the man's attention. Just as he is about to give up, call it a night, and leave Theon to his pick-up games, a bottle of Corona is set in front of him. He looks up to see Myrcella behind the bar in a tight, black tank top, her golden curls cascading over her shoulders.
“That's your brand, right?”
“What are you doing here?”
She holds up a rag. “I work here.”
“But – How - “
“Well, if you weren't so busy ignoring my existence, you'd know I started at Penn last month.”
“But why are you tending bar? You have a trust fund bigger than the GDP of Ecuador.”
Myrcella smirks. “If you really want to know, I get off at two.” And then she flits away to pour drinks for the other patrons, leaving him to stare open-mouthed after her.
He tells himself he stays because it is a rough neighborhood and he doesn't think it's safe for her to get back to Penn's campus alone. Theon leaves just after midnight with a redhead named Ros, and Robb tries not to feel like a creeper of the first order while he sips beer after beer waiting for Myrcella to be finished. When two o'clock rolls around, Robb is balancing on the line between tipsy and drunk, and Myrcella's appearance at his side makes him wonder if this is not the worst idea he's ever had.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, and, even though he isn't, he nods.
She hails a cab outside the bar, giving the driver a Center City address. He almost asks why they are going in the opposite direction of University City when he realizes there is no way Myrcella Baratheon lives in the dorms, a suspicion which is confirmed when she presses a beer soaked twenty into the driver's palm when he stops outside a building comprised of high-price condos. Robb blushes beneath the doorman's disapproving scowl, and he wishes he hadn't grown this stupid beard; he had only done it so he could look older amongst his middle-aged coworkers, and he was certain he looked like a pedophile while alongside Myrcella.
“What floor do you live on?” he asks when they get in the elevator.
Myrcella smiles as if he has said something wholly amusing. “The top one.”
The penthouse. Of course. Where else would the daughter of a millionaire and the granddaughter of a billionaire live?
He thinks of his studio a dozen blocks away in what is affectionately known as “the gayborhood,” complete with rainbow street signs and his ninety-year-old neighbor who always made a point of telling Robb how handsome he looked when he helped her carry in groceries. Everything in his apartment is older than he is, nothing like the sprawling newness of Myrcella's home.
Robb watches as she kicks off her shoes, dropping her purse unceremoniously by the door. His breath catches as she strips off her clinging black tank as she disappears down the hall, calling, “Let me change and I'll make us something!”
Her bra is fuschia lace, and Robb tries to push down his disappointment that he only sees it from the back.
When she reappears in a pair of pink sweatpants and a faded girls' lacrosse tee, her hair messily piled atop her head, Robb breathes a sigh of relief; if she had any plans for seduction, she would not be dressed like Arya. Instead she gestures for him to sit at the bar in her kitchen while she begins to make scrambled eggs.
“So why are you tending bar?” he asks as she passes him a bottle of water.
“Because my mother gets my credit card bills, which means she knows everywhere I go, everything I do, and everything I buy. A girl needs a little mystery in her life.” Myrcella shrugs. “Besides, I like it. Makes me feel useful.”
“You don't ever feel useful?”
Shaking some of the eggs onto a plate, Robb sees a shadow of sadness pass across her face. “I don't have to be useful. You spend enough time in my world to know that's not really what's expected for the women. If all I wanted was to be pretty and wait around until someone married me, I could. My father still thinks I'm a little girl; it doesn't matter that I got into Penn without him having to pull strings the way he did for Joff. None of it matters because they don't expect anything from me.”
“What do you want them to expect?”
Myrcella smirks, gathering eggs on her fork and eating them with relish. After a beat, she says, “Joff wants Baratheon Industries, which is fine. He can have it. Uncle Tyrion's already promised me a position at Lannister Corp. I'm going to run it some day.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I want it, and I don't stop until I get what I want.” She jostles him with her elbow. “Haven't you figured that out by now?”
Robb laughs, shaking his head before turning on his stool to face her. “You're too young for me.”
“Is that why you're in my apartment at three o'clock in the morning?”
“I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”
“Uh-huh.” Myrcella spins on her stool, setting her hands on his knees and leaning forward. He can feel the heat of her breath on his face, and it takes every bit of restraint within him not to lean into her. “You think I'm sexy. You told me, remember?”
“That was before I knew you were seventeen.”
“Well, I'm eighteen now.”
“That makes it legal, not moral.”
“Do I look like some helpless, little coed who doesn't know what she's getting into?”
“You look like my boss's daughter.”
Myrcella leans back with a laugh. “That's what's stopping you? My father once walked in on me having sex with Trystane Martell, and he just pretended like nothing happened. He honestly won't care.”
Robb tries not to think about how jealous he is of Trystane Martell as he shakes his head. “Myrcella, I like you, but...We can only be friends.”
She is still for a moment before nodding agreeably. “If that's the way you want it.”
That is not the way Robb wants it, but he thinks of his own sisters and the damage he would inflict on any man his age who dared mess with them. He and Myrcella can be friends and only friends.
The first time Theon meets Myrcella, he tells Robb that, if Robb isn't going to fuck her, he will. Robb punches him in the jaw, and Jon pulls them apart. They don't speak for almost a month, and, when Myrcella asks why Theon stops coming to the bar with him on the weekends, Robb makes up some lie about Theon being busy with work. When he and Theon finally make peace, he pointedly ignores the looks Theon gives him when he and Myrcella are together.
“You know the two of you aren't just friends, right?” Jon asks one Saturday afternoon when they meet to jog along Kelly Drive. “I mean, you're her boyfriend; you just don't have sex with her.”
“No, we're - “
“When was the last time you actually went on a date? Went home with someone? Hell, when was the last time you even talked to a woman who wasn't Myrcella?”
“You're as bad as Theon.”
“Why, because I'm telling you the truth? Isn't that what brothers do?”
“Can't we be the kind of brothers who just talk about the weather and the Eagles?”
Jon laughs. “You're in love with her.”
“You know, I don't know where you get off giving me romantic advice. You haven't dated anyone since Ygritte ran off with that guitar player.”
“Not true. If you didn't spend all your time with your not-girlfriend, you'd know I've been seeing Val for the last three weeks.”
Robb speeds up, leaving Jon and his truth behind him.
His 25th birthday falls on a Friday, and Myrcella offers to hose a party at her place. Given that his apartment is tiny, Theon's is disgusting, and Jon has a roommate, it is the best option. By the time he arrives, the place is full of his friends, the alcohol flowing freely, and it is only after doing a round of shots with some guys from work that he realizes he hasn't seen Myrcella most of the night. He is on his way towards the kitchen when he catches a glimpse of gold out on the balcony. Stopping, he sees Myrcella and an unfamiliar man out there, the man tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear before brushing his lips against her cheek.
Fury rises quickly in his chest, his alcohol-soaked brain urging him to walk out onto the balcony and pitch the stranger over the edge to plummet 18 stories. Instead he gets another drink and starts talking to a friend of Theon's, a girl named Kyra who blushes when he smiles at her. By the time Myrcella comes in off the balcony with the man, he is well-and-truly drunk, slurring his words and sucking a bloom onto Kyra's neck.
“Looks like you two need a room,” Myrcella drawls, smiling stiffly as she and the man from the balcony stop before them. As Kyra blushes and stammers, Robb just looks at Myrcella, bleary eyed and twisted up with so much jealousy, he can barely breathe.
“Had to keep ourselves busy somehow.”
Green eyes narrowing, Myrcella grits out, “Robb, I'd like you to meet my uncle Renly. He's visiting from the West Coast office and I wanted him to meet you.”
Shame washes over him as Renly awkwardly extends his hand. “Cella's told me great things.”
“I'm drunk,” is all Robb can think to say, his head swimming.
“Obviously,” Myrcella snorts, casting a look so poisonous at Kyra that the poor girl scurries away. Robb thinks he should apologize or explain, but his tongue and brain are not connected at the moment. “Perhaps you should sleep it off in my room while I see to your guests.”
She looks remarkably like her mother in that moment; Robb even recognizes the clipped tone she uses as the same one Cersei uses when Robert has drank too much and said something embarrassing. He would protest, but the apartment is spinning, and it doesn't sound like a bad idea.
He's never been in her bedroom before; there is a king-sized bed and a mountain of pillows in the center of the room, and he barely manages to toe off his shoes before collapsing into its softness. Robb isn't sure how long he sleeps, but, when he wakes up, Myrcella is setting a bottle of water and aspirin on her night stand and sometime during his blackout, he has removed both his jeans and his henley, leaving him in his boxers.
“I'm sorry,” he croaks through a dry throat.
Myrcella pauses, looking at him with pity and affection. Sweeping his auburn hair off of his forehead, she assures him, “I know.” Taking a seat beside him, she adds, “But you don't get it both ways, Robb. You don't get to say we're just friends and then get jealous when you think I'm dating someone.”
“Are you dating someone?”
“I wasn't the one giving a hickey at this party, was I?”
He rolls onto his side, swallowing hard to choke back the wave of nausea. “You're so young - “
“Oh, Christ, not this again.” Getting to her feet, she snaps, “You make it sound like you saw me on a playground and lured me into your van by promising me a puppy! I'm a big girl, Robb, and if this is such a big, fucking issue for you, then maybe we just shouldn't hang out at all anymore.”
“Myrcella - “
“I don't need a babysitter, and I don't need to be condescended to; if I wanted that, I'd just go home. So why don't you get your stuff - “
“I think I'm in love with you,” he declares, still too drunk to stop himself.
Robb isn't sure how he thought she'd respond to such an announcement, but the scoffing was never on the top ten. “You think? Well, let me make it clear for you: until you know, stop wasting my time.”
He is 25-years-old and doing a walk of shame out his 18-year-old sort of girlfriend's apartment at four in the morning reeking of tequila and sweat.
This is not the highlight of his life.
She stops answering his calls; she ignores his texts. When he goes to the bar on Friday night, the guy serving drinks tells him she quit; his decision to visit her at the condo results in the doorman refusing to let him in and threatening to call the cops. In a fit of what can only be defined as desperation, he sends her a Facebook message, a tactic he wouldn't have even tried when he was eighteen. Theon and Jon are in agreement for the first time in history, telling him he blew it and needs to move on; Val has a friend, Jon says, but Robb isn't interested.
It isn't until Myrcella has deliberately removed herself from his life that Robb realizes just how important she has become to him.
He knows she's going home for spring break rather than vacationing with her friends, and Robb feels a flush of shame when he calls Arya and asks if she can pick him up from the train station. Robb is well aware he has hit a new low when he gets the house number for the Baratheons out of his mother's cell, dialing it and hoping Myrcella does not announce to her family that he is stalking her.
One of the maids answers; Robb feels as young as Rickon while he waits, and, when Myrcella's voice comes over the line, the first time he has spoken to her in nearly two months, Robb sighs.
“Please don't hang up.”
Myrcella is quiet for a beat before remarking, “Well, if nothing else, you're persistent.”
“Look, I know I fucked up. And not just with the party but with everything. I don't care if you're younger than me, I don't care if you're Robert's daughter - “
“How big of you, considering I can't change those things.”
Robb exhales sharply, trying to find the right words, wishing he was better at this. “I miss you,” he finally says, hoping his sincerity is clear. “I miss talking to you, I miss spending time with you, I miss how you wait until I go to the bathroom to remake my bed because I don't do it right. I just miss you, Cella, and I want to fix it. I'm at my parents' house; I can come to you.”
Myrcella sighs softly. “My mother's having some sort of meeting here today. I can be at your parents' place in twenty minutes.”
“Okay.”
He isn't sure where Arya is when Myrcella's Audi parks beside the curb, but he also isn't sure he cares. Her hair is down, a few stray snowflakes catching in her curls; her cheeks are bright red from the cold, and, when she catches him by surprise, pressing her mouth against his right there on the stoop, her tongue pushing past his lips, Robb can't believe he's wasted the last six months cockblocking himself.
They trip their way up the stairs towards his room, stumbling as they attempt not to break their kiss, and Myrcella starts laughing when he nearly wipes out at the top of the stairs. As he tugs her into his room, he irrationally remembers his parents' rule about having people of the opposite sex in bedrooms, and, when he says this to Myrcella, she pushes him onto the bed, shedding her heavy peacoat and scarf with a teasing smile.
“Well, I won't tell if you won't.”
Robb doesn't remember ever getting undressed so fast in his life, and, when he catches sight of Myrcella gloriously nude, he stops, staring at her; she smirks, striking a pose, completely unashamed of her nudity before reaching for the waistband of his boxers, snapping the elastic.
“Let's see the goods, Stark.”
Myrcella Baratheon is not like any woman he has ever dated.
As she urges him onto his back, capturing his lips again, Robb hopes he's up to the challenge.