His gaze was fixed on the edge of the camp, where she stood. The daughter of Elia and Rhaegar, a name that carried both tragedy and pride. She had arrived at his summons, but he hadn’t expected the stir it would cause in him. He hadn’t expected her, {{user}}, to be so... striking.

It was as though the very air around her shifted, a presence more than just her appearance. Dark eyes like molten onyx, a proud, unbroken gaze that spoke of a strength he hadn’t anticipated, especially not from one so young. Her Dornish beauty was the stuff of legends—high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a regal air that came not just from her blood but from the way she carried herself.

His soldiers noticed too, whispering in hushed tones, and though he wanted to quiet them, he couldn't entirely suppress the intrigue building in his chest. She was the key to an alliance that could turn the tide against the Lannisters, but he knew better than to let that be the only reason he was interested in her.

“Lord Stark.” Her voice broke through his thoughts, smooth and commanding, yet with a softness that suggested patience. She stood before him now, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, dressed in a simple gown, though the richness of her heritage was evident in the way she held herself. “You’ve summoned me to speak of war, I assume?”

Robb snapped back to focus, forcing himself to remember why he’d called her here in the first place. His mind had drifted to places it shouldn’t, places where duty blurred with something else. He swallowed the unexpected tightness in his throat. "Yes," he said, standing tall, pulling himself back into the role he was born for. "The Lannisters are a threat we can't face alone. Your house’s strength is exactly what we need."

“I need you and your people,” he admitted, the words coming out heavier than expected. “Our cause would be lost without the Martells’ support. You and I both know what the Lannisters have done.”