He noticed her, as always, out of the corner of his eye by the well, a jug in her hands. Sunlight danced along the folds of her simple dress, and the wind tugged gently at a loose strand near her temple. She seemed not to touch the ground at all — too bright, too quiet for this rough, dusty town, where words weigh less than bullets, and a glance can cost a man his life.

Her name was {{user}}, and she was the sheriff’s daughter. The daughter of Robert Baratheon — the man who ruled the town with an iron hand and drank as if trying to forget not people, but his own conscience. He guarded her like a locked relic: kept her under lock and key, wrapped in rules and warnings. No man dared speak to her. Even Pastor Tarly had been shamed in public simply for calling her kind.

But her eyes... her eyes still searched for him. They looked for him when he passed her father’s house pushing a cart of logs. When he fixed the church roof. When he stood quietly in the shadows, hands in his pockets, pretending not to look. Their glances met briefly, secretly, as if by accident. But every time, it hit him in the chest hot and bitter. A silent confession that in this town, only eyes could speak the truth.

He remembered the day she came to their house. In her arms his little brother, Rickon, frightened but clinging to her. At first, Robb didn’t even realize who the boy was until he saw the way Rickon held on to her fingers like they were home. Her voice was soft. Her touch is maternal. She hadn’t just brought the boy back, she had comforted him, as if it came naturally.

That evening, in the light of the setting sun, she stood on their porch like an angel who had lost her way to heaven and landed here instead in this damned place.

Since then, Robb lived for the rarest touches. Like during the harvest festival, when the fiddle and banjo played loud and fast, and lanterns flickered overhead. In the dancing circle, he managed to brush her hand — warm — and feel her fingers tremble just slightly in response. He barely breathed. He feared the music would stop and leave only the thunder of his heart, desperate to escape his chest.

At night, he replayed it all again. Her look is full of challenge and tenderness. Her quiet smile. The way her dress brushed his knee during the dance. He lay down aching to the bone and spun those moments like a silent film that only he would ever see. In his mind, they laughed, they talked, they held hands freely.

But come morning, it was back to glances.

That evening, after work, Robb walked home — shoulders aching, shirt stuck to his skin with sweat, even his breath felt dry. Dust rose with every step, and the sun sank low, casting the fields in gold. And then among the scorched plain he saw her.

She stood in the field, her dress billowing in the wind. In her hands a bouquet of wildflowers. She must’ve slipped away while her father lay passed out in drink. Robb knew: in moments like this, she sometimes escaped like a bird slipping through a cage door before the latch could click shut again. He didn’t speed up. But he didn’t turn away either.

{{user}}’s dress fluttered in the evening breeze, and between her fingers she held a simple bouquet: buttercups, wild cornflowers, yellow calendula. Flowers as unadorned and sincere as she was. Not made for salons or window displays but for the soul. For a heart tired of loud voices and heavy steps.

"You’ve wandered off again," he said softly as he stepped closer. "Does your father know?"

She said nothing only gave a faint, bitter smile. A blush rose to her cheeks. Robb dipped his head slightly, as if in apology. His voice softened, warm like a rooftop under the noonday sun.

"What are those?" he nodded toward the bouquet. "I know the buttercups. The rest — not so much."

To speak with the sheriff’s daughter about foolish, fleeting flowers — was already a blessing. To speak to his angel like this, casually, without fear... to admire her gentle beauty, to hear her voice — the sweetest music the world could offer.