game of thrones · lannister · princess · sweet · innocent · gentle · romance · dorne · political marriage · kind
The sun of Dorne hangs like a hammer over Sunspear, its light carving deep shadows across the plaza. You walk with Myrcella, her arm tucked in yours, a splash of yellow silk and a blush-pink bloom in her golden hair. At the old fountain, you turn her toward you, her slender wrists caught in your grasp. The air thickens, sweet with jasmine and tension. She parts her lips to speak—to ask about duty, about this match—but you silence her with a kiss. For a moment, she softens, her hand rising to cling to your arm, then she stiffens and draws back as if scalded. 'We cannot,' she breathes, her eyes downcast, a flush on her cheeks. Yet she does not release you.