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The bell above the door did not merely ring—it announced.
Margaery had always thought so.
It chimed brightly for hurried students, politely for mothers balancing children and canvas bags, and indulgently—almost conspiratorially—for the occasional tourist who stepped inside as though they had stumbled upon something secret and precious, something tucked between the folds of the city that not everyone was meant to find.
The sign just beneath that bell—polished wood, gold-leaf lettering softened by time and sun—read:
Tyrell & Co. Booksellers
It was, according to their grandmother, a name that inspired confidence.
According to Loras, it inspired mild terror.
According to Margaery, it felt like stepping into something that had always been waiting for her.
But for him—
The bell softened.
Not quieter, exactly—no, the sound still carried, still threaded itself through the warm hush of the shop—but gentler, as though the note itself curved at the edges. As though the bell, old as it was, had learned the cadence of his arrival and chose, each time, to greet him kindly.
Margaery noticed that sort of thing.
She noticed everything.
The bookstore, after all, was a place built on details—on spines and margins, on the soft sigh of turning pages, on the faint, comforting scent of paper and ink that clung to the air like memory. Sunlight pooled in long, golden stretches across the wooden floors, catching on dust motes that drifted lazily, as though even they had decided there was no need to rush inside Tyrell & Co. Booksellers.
And Margaery Tyrell—who wore her soft green blouse with its delicate lace cuffs as though she had stepped out of a painting, who tucked her hair back in a loose half-up style that never quite held by the end of the day—was very, very good at noticing.
“Don’t,” Loras said without looking up, one hand flipping a page in the ledger with practiced, almost lazy precision.
His handwriting, sharp and elegant, marched neatly across the page in dark ink, though the faint smudge along the side of his hand betrayed his usual impatience with drying time. A lock of his golden hair had fallen forward, catching the light, and he blew it away absently without breaking rhythm.
“Whatever it is you’re doing with your face,” he continued, dipping his pen again, “stop.”
“I’m doing nothing,” Margaery replied, which was untrue.
She was leaning—just slightly—over the counter, her elbow resting against the polished wood worn smooth by years of transactions, her chin tilted in a way she told herself was casual as she watched him step inside.
“You’re doing that thing,” Loras went on, still not looking at her, which was infuriating because it meant he didn’t need to. “Where you look like you’re about to narrate someone’s life story.”
Margaery smiled faintly, entirely unrepentant.
“I think he’s interesting.”
“I think he’s a freeloader.”
“That’s uncharitable.”
“That’s accurate.”
She ignored him.
The boy—no, not a boy, not really, though there was something in the quiet way he carried himself that felt almost youthful, like a softness he hadn’t quite outgrown—closed the door behind him with careful hands.
He always did that.
Never let it slam. Never allowed the bell to clatter harshly. He guided it shut as though mindful of the fragile hush that lived within the shop, as though he understood—instinctively—that this was a place where things were meant to be handled gently.
As though he respected it.
As though he belonged there.
His hand lingered on the handle for a second too long before he turned, and in that small, unnecessary pause, Margaery found herself wondering—ridiculously—if he liked arriving as much as she liked watching him arrive.
He glanced around, not searching, not uncertain—just taking it in, like someone reacquainting himself with a place he had already, quietly, claimed.
The shelves.
The counter.
The soft glow of the lamp near the register.
The way the sunlight settled across the floor in long, golden ribbons.
And then, without hesitation, he moved.
He passed the front displays—new releases arranged with care, each one accompanied by a small handwritten card in Margaery’s looping script. He didn’t slow, though his gaze flickered over them briefly, as though acknowledging their presence.
He bypassed the center tables, where Loras had arranged a dramatic spread of hardcovers that morning, complete with dried flowers that had already earned a cutting remark from their grandmother.
Straight to the aisles.
Straight to the back.
History.
Second shelf.
Left side.
“He’s predictable,” Loras murmured.
Margaery tilted her head slightly, watching as he reached the shelf and paused—not to decide, but to confirm, perhaps, that everything was where it should be.
“He’s consistent,” she corrected.
“He’s cheap,” Loras said, finally setting his pen aside and glancing up, his expression unimpressed but his eyes betraying a flicker of curiosity. “There is a difference.”
Margaery hummed thoughtfully, resting her cheek lightly against her knuckles.
Robb—though she did not yet know his name, not truly, only that she had begun to think of him as something singular, something distinct—reached for a book without looking at the title.
His hand moved with quiet certainty, fingers sliding between spines until they settled on one, pulling it free in a smooth, practiced motion.
As though he had done it before.
As though he remembered.
“He doesn’t read like someone wasting time,” she said quietly.
Loras made a noncommittal sound, though he followed her gaze all the same.
“And how, exactly, does one read like that?” he asked.
Margaery considered, her eyes tracing the line of Robb’s shoulders as he opened the book, the way he shifted his weight slightly, settling in as though preparing to stay.
“He reads like he’s looking for something,” she said at last. “Not just passing through it.”
Loras watched him for a moment longer than he meant to.
Robb’s thumb slipped between the pages with ease, landing somewhere in the middle—not the beginning, never the beginning—and his brow furrowed just slightly as he began to read.
He didn’t skim.
He didn’t rush.
He *read*.
“Maybe he’s looking for a free education,” Loras said, though there was less bite to it now.
Margaery laughed softly under her breath.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Loras said, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms, “undeniably correct.”
She nudged him with her elbow, a familiar gesture, one that spoke of years spent side by side—of shared glances, quiet jokes, and an ease that required no effort at all.
“Be nice,” she murmured.
“I am nice,” he replied. “I simply also happen to be observant.”
Margaery raised a brow. “Observant?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even notice he switched sections last Thursday.”
Loras blinked.
“He did not.”
“He did,” she said, entirely too pleased. “Briefly. Fiction. Ten minutes.”
Loras stared at her.
“You’re tracking his movements now.”
“I am aware of them.”
“That is worse.”
She smiled, bright and unapologetic.
“Is it?”
Loras opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head as though trying to dislodge the conversation entirely.
“You’re going to end up emotionally invested in a man who has never purchased a book,” he said.
Margaery’s gaze softened as she looked back at him.
He had leaned against the shelf now, one hand braced lightly beside him, the other holding the book open, his head tilted just slightly as he read.
There was something almost… gentle about him.
Something quiet.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“Oh?”
“No,” she continued, softer now, more certain. “I think he’s already invested.”
Loras followed her gaze again.
Watched as Robb turned a page with careful fingers, as though the paper mattered.
“Into what?” he asked.
Margaery smiled, just a little.
“The stories,” she said.
And then, after a beat—
“Or maybe… the place.”
Loras huffed.
“Gods help him, then.”
“Gods help you,” Margaery shot back lightly.
He grinned, nudging her back, the easy rhythm of them settling again without thought—
and behind them, the bell gave the faintest, lingering sway, its soft chime threading through the quiet once more—
just as a voice, sharp and unmistakable, began to cut cleanly through the calm.
“Children,” came a voice sharp enough to cut through even the softest of afternoons, “if you have enough time to philosophize about a man who refuses to pay us, then you have enough time to work.”
Margaery straightened immediately, the half-smile she’d been entertaining vanishing in an instant.
“Grandmother.”
Olenna Tyrell emerged from the back room like a storm wrapped in silk, every step deliberate, every movement a declaration. Her presence commanded attention—not by volume, but by a precision that made the air itself seem to obey her. She carried a stack of invoices tucked under one arm, the edges perfectly aligned, her reading glasses perched atop her head instead of where they belonged, as if she had other, weightier concerns than proper placement.
Her gaze swept the room, sharp and calculating, and lingered on the history aisle.
“He’s here again,” she stated, more than asked.
“Yes,” Loras said obediently, though his tone carried the faintest tremor of amusement.
“And has he purchased anything?” Olenna’s voice was crisp, slicing through the warm hum of the shop.
“No.”
“Has he made any indication that he intends to purchase anything?”
“No.”
“Has he, at the very least, expressed guilt for his continued existence in this establishment without contributing to its survival?”
Margaery bit back a laugh, pressing her lips together as a flush of amusement rose in her chest.
“He’s quiet,” she offered, careful, measured.
Olenna’s gaze turned on her, unimpressed, one brow slightly arched. Without warning, she reached over and tugged lightly on the loose strand of Margaery’s hair that had escaped the half-up style she had spent the morning arranging. “And if you intend to let your hair fall into disarray while contemplating a thief,” Olenna said, “you may as well let the man walk off with the store too.”
Margaery’s cheeks warmed, though she straightened her posture with as much dignity as she could muster. “He doesn’t take anything,” she countered. “He just reads.”
“He takes time, space, and electricity,” Olenna replied without hesitation, her tone as sharp as a scalpel. “All of which cost money, which he does not provide.”
Loras nodded solemnly, folding his hands atop the ledger. “A menace,” he agreed, his voice heavy with mock gravitas.
Margaery nudged him lightly with her elbow, a conspiratorial gesture that made him glance at her with one raised brow.
Olenna’s gaze, imperious and unflinching, shifted back to Margaery. “Do something about him.”
Margaery blinked. “About him?” Her voice was light, questioning—but not too light, not flippant. The soft green of her blouse caught the sunlight streaming through the front windows, and she folded her hands neatly in front of her as though that could somehow help her organize a solution.
“Yes, about him,” Olenna said, stepping closer, her silk skirt swishing softly over the polished wooden floor. “Unless you intend to let him complete his entire literary education at our expense.”
“I don’t think—”
“You’re charming,” Olenna continued, cutting her off like a knife through silk. “Use it.”
“I’m charming,” Loras interjected before Margaery could respond. His hands were planted firmly on the counter now, his posture all confidence, though there was a faint quiver in the set of his jaw that betrayed how rarely he allowed himself to be caught in the middle of Olenna’s assessments.
“You’re intimidating,” Olenna corrected without missing a beat. “Which is useful when we need someone to glare at late payers, but not here.”
Loras looked deeply offended, a dramatic flare to his golden hair catching the sunlight. “I can be charming.”
“You can be pretty,” Olenna said flatly. “It’s not the same thing.”
Margaery choked on a laugh, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, though she was careful not to make eye contact. “Grandmother,” she said, regaining composure with a polite dip of her chin, “I can’t just walk up to him and tell him to buy something.”
“Why not?” Olenna asked, folding her arms and letting her gaze sweep over the stacks of books as though weighing every possibility. “People do it all the time. It’s called selling.”
“Yes, but not like that.”
“Then do it your way,” Olenna said, waving a hand as if dismissing the weight of generations. “Just make sure it ends with him at the counter.”
Margaery hesitated, her fingers brushing the smooth edge of the counter as her gaze drifted back to him.
Robb had shifted slightly, leaning against the shelf, shoulders relaxed yet somehow purposeful, completely absorbed in the book he held. The outside world seemed to have melted away, leaving only him and the soft rustle of pages. She didn’t want to break that delicate bubble of focus.
“I’ll… think of something,” she said, her voice soft, almost reverent.
Olenna narrowed her eyes, the faintest crease forming between her brows. “Thinking is not a business model.”
“And yet, it’s all I have at the moment,” Margaery replied sweetly, letting a quiet defiance shine through.
Olenna huffed, an audible puff of exasperation that somehow seemed fond rather than harsh. “Hopeless,” she muttered, though the sharp line of her mouth softened slightly. “Both of you. Absolutely hopeless.”
Loras exchanged a glance with Margaery, the unspoken sibling dialogue passing between them in a single shared blink. Their grandmother might scold, might command, might expect, but they knew her well enough to know that somewhere beneath the razor edge of her words was the softest approval, the smallest smirk reserved only for those she deemed capable of surviving her scrutiny—and maybe even, if they were lucky, enjoying it.
Margaery allowed herself one quiet exhale, leaning lightly against the counter again. Robb was still reading. Still present. Still, somehow, completely untouched by the orders, the lecturing, the familial scheming that swirled around him like invisible eddies.
She tilted her head slightly, considering. Perhaps… that was exactly why she couldn’t just march over and insist he buy something. Perhaps it was why she wanted to.
Margaery did not approach him that day.
Or the next.
Or the next.
Instead, she observed.
Not casually—never casually—but with a quiet, deliberate attention that bordered on something far more intimate than mere curiosity. Her eyes followed the subtle arc of his movements, the slight incline of his shoulders when he shifted weight from one foot to the other, the way his fingers curved around a book’s spine as though he were holding something fragile and sacred.
She noticed patterns.
He came in at nearly the same times each afternoon, always around the lull when sunlight softened across the front windows and the city outside seemed to pause between rushes. The warm light gilded his hair, catching the edges and giving him an almost ethereal glow that made Margaery’s chest tighten for reasons she refused to name. He stayed for nearly the same duration—long enough for a careful immersion, brief enough to leave before the shop could feel crowded. He chose books with a kind of instinctive precision, as though some unseen compass guided him more reliably than the titles themselves.
He read deeply.
Not skimming. Not flipping aimlessly. Not even browsing like someone who had nowhere else to be. He read. His eyes absorbed every line, lingered over passages with the reverence of someone taking a private pilgrimage. Occasionally, his lips would curve, ever so slightly, as though tasting the words. Occasionally, his brow would furrow, a subtle crease betraying thought or wonder. Occasionally, his hand would tap the edge of a page in silent accompaniment to a thought no one else could hear.
And sometimes—
Sometimes, when he thought no one was watching—
He wandered.
Away from history. Away from war, strategy, and kings long dead.
Toward quieter shelves. Toward softer stories. Toward worlds that seemed as though they had been waiting just for him. Romance, mostly. Subtle ones. Not the loud, dramatic covers with gilded titles and impossibly glossy dust jackets, but the understated spines tucked between them, the stories that whispered rather than shouted.
Margaery pretended not to notice.
But she did.
Of course she did.
“You’re doing it again,” Loras said one afternoon, his voice teasing as he leaned against the counter, one hand brushing stray curls from his forehead. He had a way of saying things that sounded like gentle criticism but carried the weight of sibling amusement. He watched her rearrange a display that had already been perfectly arranged, his golden eyes glinting with mischief.
“Doing what?” she asked, though her lips quirked slightly despite herself.
“Thinking about him,” he said. “It’s distracting. I can practically hear it.”
Margaery tilted her head, smoothing the edge of a paperback on the display with meticulous care. “I’m just… curious.”
“You’re building a personality profile,” Loras said, mock-serious, as if reporting an alarming statistic. “At this point, you probably know his favorite color, his preferred method of turning a page, whether he likes his tea sweetened or bitter, and what he’d do if the store caught fire.”
“I don’t,” she said primly, though her voice lacked conviction. Then, after a beat, she added, “But I could guess.”
Loras groaned theatrically, throwing his hands into the air as though he were summoning the universe to witness her folly. “This is how it starts,” he said, shaking his head. “Obsession. Followed by heartbreak when he inevitably disappears into the void, never to return, leaving you with nothing but a collection of half-finished observations, like some poor detective chasing a ghost.”
Margaery tilted her chin, regarding him with faux severity. “He won’t disappear.”
“And how do you know that?” Loras pressed, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the counter, his voice softening in the way siblings often softened for small debates that weren’t really about the topic at hand.
Her eyes drifted toward the history aisle, toward him. There he was, exactly as expected. Shoulder pressed lightly against the shelf, head bent just so, absorbed in the text. Even in his absence of awareness, he drew her gaze, pulling it like gravity.
She found herself noting details she didn’t consciously intend to notice: the way sunlight caught the faint golden flecks in his hair, how the crease of his elbow mirrored the gentle arch of the book he held, how his shoes scuffed the polished wood floor ever so slightly when he adjusted his stance. He was quiet, unassuming, yet somehow left a trace in the air, like the memory of a song you could almost hum without realizing it.
“Because he always comes back,” she said softly, almost to herself. The words lingered in the warm shop air, mingling with the smell of ink and old paper, dust motes dancing lazily in shafts of sunlight.
Loras raised a brow, unconvinced. “Always comes back,” he repeated, as if testing the claim, teasing her out. “That’s a bold assumption, sister mine. What if one day he… vanishes? What if the universe intervenes?”
Margaery’s lips curved in a quiet, knowing smile. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to wait for the next universe,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and smoothing her green blouse. Her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than necessary, memorizing the curve of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the quiet care with which he turned each page.
She caught herself imagining other details she had no right to: whether he liked the smell of new books or old ones more, whether he would notice the small notes she left tucked between the shelves for her own amusement, whether he would ever even glance up in her direction. And the thought made her heart flutter in a way that felt both thrilling and unbearably fragile.
Loras sighed, resting his chin on his hand. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though there was no real bite in it. “Completely and utterly hopeless.”
“Perhaps,” Margaery agreed lightly, leaning over to straighten a stack of paperbacks that didn’t need straightening. “But at least I’m observant.”
“Observant,” Loras echoed, rolling his eyes. “Yes. That’s what they call it when one is secretly plotting to fall in love with someone who has never purchased a single book.”
Margaery only smiled, letting her eyes wander back to him again, to the quiet reverence with which he held the stories, to the gentle gravity of his presence. In that moment, it hardly mattered that he didn’t know her name. It hardly mattered that he hadn’t yet exchanged a single word with her. She had learned more from watching him than from any book on the shelf, and for now, that was enough.
The soft tick of the clock above the counter, the gentle rustle of pages, the low hum of sunlight pooling across the polished floorboards—everything seemed to pause, as though even the bookstore itself was leaning in to witness him, and her, and the quiet tension that hung like golden dust between them.
And Margaery found, with a small, secretive thrill, that waiting could feel almost as sweet as acting.
Tuesday arrived.
The bell chimed.
He entered.
Margaery felt it then—that flicker of something unfamiliar and entirely too warm, a little flutter that had nothing to do with the late-afternoon sun or the scent of old paper and polished wood that always seemed to settle comfortably over Tyrell and Co. Booksellers.
Nervousness.
“Go,” Loras murmured under his breath, his shoulder brushing hers as he pretended to adjust the ledger on the counter. His golden eyes were alight with amusement, just a hint of mischief tugging at the corners.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he said, firm but quiet. “You’ve been preparing for this like it’s a diplomatic negotiation with seven kingdoms at stake.”
“It feels like one,” she admitted softly, glancing down at the folded paper tucked carefully in her apron pocket, fingers brushing the edge as though it were a fragile treasure.
Loras leaned back, watching her with a grin that was equal parts teasing and incredulous. “Go,” he said again, folding his arms, every inch of his posture radiating confidence. “Before you overthink yourself out of the store entirely.”
Margaery inhaled slowly, feeling the faint tremor of excitement and nerves mix in her chest.
She adjusted the blouse she had chosen that morning, the soft white fabric catching the light in a way that seemed almost intentional, the delicate lace cuffs brushing her wrists with each tiny movement. Her skirt, a pale cream with gentle pleats, swished just so as she moved, and she had pinned her hair with a small floral clip at the nape of her neck—loose enough that a few tendrils escaped, framing her face softly, giving her the appearance of effortless charm she had been perfecting for hours in front of a mirror she didn’t even own.
Then she stepped out from behind the counter.
Not toward him. Not yet.
Instead, she followed the path she knew he would take, each step measured, light, perfectly casual—though rehearsed, every motion choreographed in her mind a dozen times before this very moment.
History. Second shelf. Left side.
He was already there. Of course he was. He always was.
For a long beat, she simply stood beside him, pretending to browse the worn spines, her fingers grazing the edges of books she didn’t need to check. She tugged absentmindedly at a strand of hair that had escaped her clip, adjusting it in that little habitual motion she always told herself made her look poised instead of flustered.
He glanced at her. Their eyes met.
“Hi,” he said.
Her heart did something inconvenient. It skipped, stumbled, and then tried desperately to rearrange itself in a calmer rhythm.
“Hi,” she replied, her voice lighter than she expected, tinged with warmth she could barely control.
Silence. Not empty—but full, like the pause between notes in a song you’re trying not to hum out loud.
She drew in a measured breath, letting the words form in her head before letting them out.
“You never finish them.”
He blinked. “Sorry?”
She turned just enough so he could see the small smile teasing her lips, playful but gentle, like a secret shared only between them.
“The books,” she clarified. “You never finish them.”
Understanding dawned slowly across his face, that moment of sudden recognition that felt like a small spark in the quiet afternoon air.
“You’ve been watching me,” he said, a note of surprise softening his voice, but not offense.
Margaery tilted her head, casually, though her stomach tumbled in quiet excitement. “Only a little.”
A quiet laugh escaped him—soft, surprised, utterly real, like sunlight spilling through the front windows in a sudden, golden patch.
“I didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“I notice everything,” she said lightly, letting the words hover between them.
And he looked at her then, really looked, the sort of gaze that made you feel measured and yet understood all at once, as if he were trying to see the shape of her thoughts through the curve of her smile.
“I’m Robb,” he said finally.
“Margaery,” she replied.
A pause, as though the world itself had decided to hold its breath.
Then—
“I made you something.” She pulled the folded paper from her apron and held it out, careful, hopeful. Her hands were steady, but she could feel the faint tremor in her fingertips, betraying the nervousness she refused to voice.
He hesitated. Then took it. Carefully. As though it were precious, fragile, meant to be treated with attention.
He unfolded it. Read.
And as he did, something shifted. Subtle, almost imperceptible—the faint lift of his brow, the softened set of his shoulders, the way his lips quirked upward in quiet acknowledgment.
When he finished, he folded it again, slower this time, savoring the moment as if the act itself were an unspoken conversation.
“You’ve really been paying attention,” he said, voice low, genuine, carrying a note of admiration that made her pulse skip again.
“Yes,” she said simply, though her smile broadened in the tiniest fraction, warmth blooming across her chest.
A beat.
“Which one should I start with?”
Her smile softened further, the edges of her lips curving in gentle encouragement. “The third.”
He nodded, a small, satisfied tilt of his head. “Alright.”
And then—
Instead of turning away, instead of retreating to the shelf he’d claimed as his own, he stayed.
Stayed close enough that she could hear the faint rustle of the pages, see the subtle shift of sunlight across his hair, catch the faint scent of him—something like cedar and fresh ink—and she realized, with a thrill that was dizzying in its simplicity, that the world hadn’t narrowed to just this moment… it had widened. Widened to include him, the sound of the bell above the door, the soft hum of the shop, the gentle warmth of an afternoon spent together among spines and paper and quiet, unspoken understanding.
And she realized, even more sharply than before, that some things—some people—were impossible to ignore.
He bought a book that day.
Loras nearly dropped an entire stack of leather-bound journals when he saw it, eyes wide like he’d just spotted a unicorn wandering through the history aisle. “Miracles do happen,” he muttered, leaning against the counter with exaggerated disbelief, one hand propping his forehead like he needed physical support to process the moment.
Olenna, emerging from the back room with her usual air of imperious calm, simply observed, stack of invoices clutched under one arm. Her sharp eyes—already calculating, already assessing—flicked toward the counter. “About time,” she said crisply. She tugged lightly at the braid in Margaery’s hair without asking, just enough to make the younger girl straighten and fidget. “Do try not to faint.”
But Margaery—Margaery only smiled.
Because it wasn’t about the sale. Not really. It was about the way he lingered at the counter, book clutched carefully against his chest, as though he were protecting some fragile treasure. It was about the way his eyes lifted to meet hers, soft and uncertain, almost shy in a way that made her stomach twist deliciously.
“I’ll let you know how it ends,” he said, voice low and hesitant, and she felt that little flutter of panic-excitement bloom in her chest.
“I’d like that,” she replied, sweetly, but firm—like she’d planted a tiny flag in the middle of her heart and it was his now, whether he realized it or not.
Robb’s fingers tapped lightly against the cover, a small, nervous rhythm, and Margaery noticed it immediately. She saw the way he hesitated, as if he weren’t sure if it was polite to leave yet, and the way he glanced around the shop like he half-wished the walls could swallow him whole—and somehow still wanted to linger anyway.
Loras leaned against the counter, smirking, eyes glinting with mischief. “Well,” he said, clearly savoring the moment, “it appears the impossible has happened. You got him to pay. You actually got him to pay.”
“I did not ‘get’ him,” Margaery corrected, cheeks warm. “He… he chose to.”
“Ah, semantics,” Loras said airily. “But still. Credit where it’s due. You’ve officially achieved what I—what we all—thought impossible.” He leaned closer to Olenna, lowering his voice. “Honestly, I was beginning to suspect he might be cursed.”
Olenna huffed, setting her invoices down. “Cursed, my dear Loras, is what happens when you waste your life fretting over someone else’s manners. But yes,” she added, eyes flicking toward Robb with sharp appraisal, “this is… promising. Remarkably promising, for once.” She tugged lightly again at Margaery’s braid, making her yelp in surprise. “Keep him. Guard him. He’s behaving far too well.”
Margaery laughed softly, a quiet sound that made Robb glance up at her again, curiosity threading through his expression. “I’ll keep him,” she said, not a question, more a declaration.
Robb’s lips quirked into a small, uncertain smile, and for a moment, Margaery thought he might actually blush. “Well,” he said softly, “I… uh… I guess that means I’ll have to keep coming back, then.”
“You will,” Margaery said, voice light and teasing. She leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the counter, just enough to bridge the space between them without actually touching him. “You always do.”
Loras groaned dramatically. “Oh, gods,” he muttered, resting his head against the counter. “Do you have to make every man fall in love with you within five minutes of walking into Tyrell & Co. Booksellers?”
Margaery shot him a look that was half amused, half warning. “I’m merely observing,” she said sweetly, and Robb tilted his head slightly at her, a faint laugh escaping his lips.
“Observing, yes,” Loras said, voice thick with mock exasperation. “Like a hawk. Or a very, very charming stalker.”
“Not a stalker,” Margaery corrected, lightly, “an enthusiast.”
Robb blinked at her, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “An enthusiast,” he echoed, testing the word, and the warmth in his tone made her chest flutter impossibly faster.
Olenna, meanwhile, folded her arms, one sharp eyebrow arched. “This is dangerously close to flirting disguised as commerce,” she said pointedly. “Do not let him leave without a second book. Or at least a promise of a return visit.”
“I… I might have a second one in mind,” Margaery admitted, glancing down at the neatly folded list in her hand, the one she had prepared secretly over the last week, and she felt the tiniest thrill that only someone who’s utterly in their element can feel.
Robb’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and she caught the flicker of anticipation there—half delight, half wariness. It made her grin softly. “It’s… a recommendation,” she explained. “Nothing official.”
He laughed then, a warm, easy sound that made the entire shop seem a little brighter, as though sunlight had pooled specifically around him. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said.
Margaery’s heart gave an inconvenient little leap. “Good,” she said.
And just like that, the air seemed to vibrate with the quiet, dizzying, completely undeniable thrill of beginnings.
Days turned into something softer. Warmer.
He came back. Again and again.
Some days, he arrived with a book under his arm, the leather creased slightly from travel, the spine softened as though it had been waiting for him. He would linger near the same shelves, sometimes in history, sometimes meandering toward the quieter sections of the shop, where novels were tucked between forgotten encyclopedias and travelogues.
Sometimes, he didn’t bring anything at all. Just a quiet presence, a subtle smile, as though the air of Tyrell & Co. Booksellers itself had drawn him in. Margaery would watch from behind the counter, pretending to adjust displays or dust shelves, though her eyes never left him.
One afternoon, he had sat cross-legged in the history aisle, reading with a care that made her heart ache a little. He would pause, fingers lingering on the page, a small hum of thought slipping past his lips. Loras had leaned over the counter to whisper, “He’s adorable, you know,” and Margaery had flicked him a look sharp enough to make him freeze mid-smirk.
Other days, they spoke.
They spoke of stories, of endings and beginnings, of the strange comfort found in unfinished things.
“You know,” Robb said once, tilting his head as though listening to the book rather than her, “there’s something almost criminal about leaving a story incomplete.”
Margaery smiled faintly, the curl of her lips betraying a warmth she didn’t bother to hide. “Incomplete stories give you something to return to,” she said. “Like… like an invitation.”
Robb’s eyes lifted to meet hers. A quiet understanding passed between them, soft as the afternoon sunlight pooling across the polished floorboards.
And then Loras would inevitably insert himself, offering sharp commentary that made Robb laugh—a sound Margaery secretly adored—and made her roll her eyes.
“Honestly,” Loras had said one day, leaning casually against the counter as Robb read aloud a passage from some obscure romantic novel, “you’re both utterly ridiculous.”
“You think this is ridiculous?” Margaery asked, voice teasing, as Robb glanced at her with a smile that held just enough amusement to make her blush.
“Yes,” Loras said promptly. “Ridiculously charming. Dangerously so.”
Olenna watched it all with quiet approval, though she would deny it if asked. She tugged on Margaery’s braid when she passed through the back room, a faint reminder: pay attention, girl, this is how beginnings bloom.
Some days were quiet. They didn’t need words.
Margaery would see him settle into the corner near the windows, the afternoon light falling across his hair just so, and she would linger at the counter, rearranging spines with exaggerated care, her heart thudding a little too fast every time he glanced up.
He noticed the little things too: the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the gentle curve of her smile when she read something amusing in a book. He remembered which mug she used when she poured herself tea during slow afternoons, and he would sometimes leave a book at the counter with a note tucked inside, playful and observant, knowing she’d notice.
And sometimes, the world shrank.
He would lean against the shelf near her, quiet, watching the way she moved through the shop with calm precision, and Margaery would feel that familiar flicker—warm, bright, something impossible to name at first.
One evening, as the light turned golden and the shop fell into that familiar hush, Robb approached the counter with a careful, almost hesitant step.
“I finished it,” he said, voice soft, almost shy.
Margaery looked up, and the sight of him standing there, slightly flushed from the walk, the book still under his arm, made her chest tighten. “And?” she asked gently, leaning forward on her elbows.
He smiled, small and uncertain, but entirely genuine. “You were right.”
She leaned her chin into her hand, a playful tilt to her lips. “I usually am,” she said lightly.
He huffed softly, reaching into his jacket. Pulled out a folded piece of paper. “For you.”
Margaery blinked. “You made me something?”
“Only a little,” he said, cheeks coloring faintly.
She unfolded it. And found—
Not books.
But a list.
Places. A café tucked between buildings, where the light fell through a stained-glass window just so. A park bench that caught the sunset perfectly, casting gold across the stone. A quiet street, lined with lanterns that glowed softly in the evening.
At the top, in careful, precise handwriting:
For when you’re ready to go somewhere else.
Margaery looked up. Robb was watching her. Hopeful. Careful.
She smiled, the kind of smile that lingered and softened the corners of the shop. “I think,” she said softly, “I might be.”
He exhaled, almost imperceptibly, relief curling in his posture, a quiet happiness in his eyes.
Behind her, Loras groaned quietly. “Disgusting,” he muttered, voice dripping with mock disdain.
Olenna, somewhere in the back, clicked her tongue. “If he doesn’t take her out by the end of the week, I’m intervening,” she said, voice sharp, final, leaving no room for argument.
Margaery laughed, a soft, bubbling sound that Robb repeated in a quiet chuckle, and the bell above the door chimed again—soft, warm, approving—as though it had been waiting for this all along.
The next day, Margaery found herself glancing toward the door more often than usual, her shift stretching and shrinking in her imagination with each passing minute.
And sure enough—just as the final customer left, and the soft hush of the shop settled around the shelves and counters—he appeared.
Robb. Standing outside, leaning casually against the doorway, a faint smile playing across his face. He held something in his hands: a small tote bag and the unmistakable glint of a book peeking out.
Margaery’s heart did that inconvenient flip again.
“I thought I’d wait,” he said simply, as she stepped out from behind the counter. “You finish, I take you somewhere nice.”
Her smile widened. “Somewhere nice?”
“A café,” he said. “Quiet. Sunlight. Good tea. Maybe pastries if you’re feeling indulgent.”
Margaery laughed softly. “You know me too well.”
They walked together down the cobbled street, the city humming around them, but the world seemed smaller, more intimate, somehow quieter than it had the day before.
At the café, he pulled out the book from the tote, placing it gently between them.
“Number two on your list,” he said, glancing up to see her expression, which was equal parts delight and mock suspicion.
Margaery’s fingers brushed against his as she reached for it, and she felt the same spark she’d noticed the first time he had lingered near the shelves at Tyrell & Co. Booksellers.
They read together, taking turns aloud when the words demanded it, pausing for commentary, soft laughter spilling across the table, and quiet, meaningful glances when the other wasn’t looking.
At one point, Robb reached for his tea and accidentally brushed her hand again. Margaery caught it and held it just a second longer than necessary, and he smiled faintly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Do you always make reading this… enjoyable?” he asked, eyes twinkling.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice gentle, teasing. “Do you always make bookstores this… enchanting?”
He laughed, a soft, warm sound that made her heart lift. “I try.”
The sunlight shifted, brushing through the café windows, painting the pages of the book and the tops of their hands in golden light. Outside, the city went on, oblivious. But here, at this small table, tucked away from everything, Margaery and Robb found themselves in the delicate rhythm of something new. Something tentative, something entirely theirs.
And as they read together, one book at a time, Margaery realized that the slow afternoons in the bookstore had finally carried them into something brighter, something outside the shop, something that—just maybe—would last.