(Sorry not sorry for taking a jokey text post and turning it into a one-shot but shush because gratuitous Arianne Martell.)

She had known he was a Stark from the minute she saw him: pale skin, Tully red hair, a half-smile that was contagious despite its cockiness. But it was a neighbourhood dance and it was neutral ground, so she danced with him anyway, perhaps a little too close, a little too raunchy.

Who cared? Arianne wasn't there, nor Jaime to keep his eyes on her. It was just a fling.

But then Jaime came back, and tore her from the handsome Stark and took her home. She could feel Arianne's suspicious dark eyes on her all the way home.

But that was it, wasn't it? Just a dance. It wasn't like she was marrying a Stark!

Until he turned up on her fire escape in the dead of night. She thanked God that Arianne was out, and then she snuck out to meet him. He really was handsome, his freckled face glimmering gold like her hair in the uplight of the street lamps.

When he kissed her, she didn't care that he was a Stark and she was a Lannister. She didn't care that Arianne would kill her if she found out. She didn't care that his gang would probably do worse. All she cared about was the touch of his lips on hers, the caress of his hand on her waist, the way he moulded her body to his like they were one flesh. Once they were done, she pressed his hand to her chest, wanting him to feel her heart racing. One hand, one heart.

He was halfway to the ground when he called up, 'Wait! What's your name?'

'Myrcella!' she laughed, dashing back inside before Jaime could spot her absence.

…

Arianne must have known something was up. Myrcella's behaviour had been so odd! Dancing around the shop, draping fabric around herself, dangling veils over her face- she hadn't been so joyous since her mother died. But if she knew, Arianne didn't say anything. She took the opportunity to go for a proper date with Jaime, leaving Myrcella to lock up.

That was when he appeared, sneaking in to the shop and playing along with her gleeful games, kneeling beside her whilst they shared false vows, knowing it was all a joke but taking it seriously despite themselves.

The shop floor was not the most comfortable place, but it was quiet and cool, and by the time they reached the floor, she was all Robb, Robb, Robb and the outside world was nothing to do with her.

After, they sat together quietly, and she finally plucked up the courage to ask him to stop the rumble. She couldn't bear the thought of him fighting Jaime: the two men she loved most, trying to kill each other?

(And perhaps there was a doubt in her head, perhaps she was scared to watch Robb lose.)

…

But it was Arianne who told her, not Robb. Robb had been true to his word, he had tried to stop the fight, hadn't raised a hand to Jaime- until Jaime turned on Theon Greyjoy- who was he? A coward, a good-for-nothing gangster! Jaime had killed him, of course.

And then Robb had murdered Jaime.

…

He ran to her, even though he was the source of her pain, her worst enemy, the slayer of her kin. She fought with him, told him she hated him; but then she had given in. She couldn't hate Robb. She loved him. She loved him so much.

But Arianne wouldn't understand. The police wouldn't forgive him like she had. They had to run away. There would be a place for them, somewhere.

She tried to hide him, but Arianne knew. She could see Myrcella's swollen lips, hear the patter of footsteps on metal stairs; she caught the shine of his red hair as he ran away.

Arianne was grieving, she knew, but that hardly excused some of the things she said about Starks, and Robb in particular. Myrcella wept and wept, but she knew she couldn't betray Arianne. It would be betraying Jaime too. It would be betraying family.

'But I love him,' she said, knowing how childish it sounded, but she told Arianne the full story, and Arianne sat silent.

'You love him like I loved Jaime?' She asked, though it sounded more like a statement.

Myrcella could only nod.

'Frey is after him, with a gun,' she whispered, 'He wants revenge.'
Myrcella's breath caught in her throat.

'I thought I did too,' murmured Arianne.

Then the doorbell rang, the cops at last, waiting to question her. She begged Arianne to go to Robb, to Winterfell, to ask him to wait.

…

(Robb's friends aren't as good men as him. They taunt Arianne for her foreignness, her luscious dark skin and rich accent.)

…

Myrcella doesn't have to try hard to summon tears for the police. She misses Jaime already, and her heart beats ten times as fast for Robb.

…

(Arianne is not to be trifled with. The Starks mistreated her, so she fought back. Her spite got the better of her and she yelled at them: she yelled poisonous lies. She told them Myrcella was dead.)

…

Myrcella escaped the police, full of anticipation for her new life with Robb.

But he was taken in by Arianne's lies.

He went to find Frey, convinced that if Myrcella was dead, he would be with her in death. And he would give Frey his revenge too.

She appeared in his vision, golden hair and wide smile, an angel of life.

And Frey's bullet rang out.

She held him as he died, as the wolf blood seeped from his chest and his vibrant blue eyes faded to grey.

'There's a time for us…' he murmured finally, and drew his last breath.

…

(The rest doesn't matter. Their war, started with hate, drew the hate from her; but it was love that ended it at last.)