Margaery never believed she'd ever find love at first sight, or even second or third for that matter.

She married to save her brother Loras from exposure and, consequently, destruction. She married Renly so Loras would have him near. She married Renly, not because she loved him, but because her big shot banker father would handle loss of face just as badly as he'd handle loss of money. She married because the Baratheons equalled a good match for any Tyrell, and because they were linked to that other, filthy rich, family – the Lannisters. She had seen how people like her father and Robert Baratheon and the likes of Tywin Lannister always sought each other out when it came to brokering strategic marriages. She married for all those reasons, but none of them were love. Let alone at first sight. Loras and Renly, now that was the real deal, she knew, but Margaery didn't think it would ever be for her.

Until, of course, she met Robb Stark.

Robb Stark with his fiery curls and his Tully blue eyes, forever the bachelor until his mother had practically twisted his arm into an engagement to Roslin Frey. Robb's father, owner of Stark Inc., the biggest manufacturer of computer hardware in all of Westeros, had been in dire need of Walder Frey's substantial programming division and there was nothing like a good strategic marriage to secure such a merger.

The tabloids had been all over Robb after the news of his engagement broke, causing Margaery to recognise him immediately; the glacier blue of his eyes, the square, unshaven jaw line, the fact that he was never in a suit but always the best dressed guy around. He had bought her a drink – a fruity, girly one that he joked about, and she had felt the pull of that icy-oddly-warm twinkle in his eyes all the way down to the small of her back. Within minutes she was on his barstool and he was standing – too close more times than not – and they were telling each other stories of what it was like to be the offspring of two of Westeros's most influential families.

Robb knew Renly (the Baratheon clan had always been close to the Starks of Winterfell), and obviously Robb's imminent marriage to the arguably prettiest Frey in the flock was common knowledge after every single newspaper belonging to media tycoon Petyr Baelish had devoted multi-paged, sprawling articles to it, the upcoming marriage both a social as well as an economic slam dunk.

He had kissed her at her front door, a quick peck on the cheek, muttering his thanks for providing him with a much better night out than he had anticipated in the city that his father, Eddard Stark, systematically labelled a rat's nest, and was much too hot to be able to breathe properly in anyway. It wasn't until she had put her coat on the next day that she found the matchbook in one of her pockets, his number and hotel room and date of departure scribbled on the inside of it.

She never told Renly – he wouldn't have minded anyway; she had just hailed a taxi and rushed to his lavish hotel, unable to wait for the lift but taking the stairs, arriving at his door with a pounding heart – wanting only one thing.

"Please, kiss me," she'd said.

"You're engaged," she had gasped into his mouth, their lips the most perfect fit as they kissed all through the process of undressing each other with fumbling, hurried hands.

"You're married," he countered with a breathless chuckle, pulling down the long zipper of her short, silk dress.

"Renly's gay," she said, surprising even herself at spouting such sensitive information to a virtual stranger. "Even if I tell him, he won't mind." His eyes betrayed only a sliver of knowledge before he pushed the bra straps off her shoulders and she arched her back, offering herself to him, gasping when his hand closed around her breast.

"Roslin's a thousand miles away," Robb groaned as she sucked in his bottom lip, something she had been wanting to do ever since she had watched him empty his beer bottle and lick his lips the evening before. "And I'm not married yet."

He had lifted and carried her to the bedroom of his hotel suite, kneeling on the mattress before putting her on her back, crowding her on hands and knees as he sucked a nipple between his lips. It wasn't until she felt him hard and wanting against her hip that she realised how much she had missed being with a man who actually desired her, who seemed to be falling apart when touching her, kissing her in every last sensitive spot – spending forever to find out what they were.

Margaery was more than just a pretty face. Like Loras, she had the trademark Tyrell dark-brown locks; the wide-open, alert gaze and the fine, flawless skin, not to mention her impeccable sense of humour, business instinct and manners. For the terrible father Mace Tyrell had been, ever absent from her life, he had sent her to the best schools in the country, ensuring she would grow into womanhood knowing how to carry herself – how to succeed.

Robb Stark was different; his cool and collected stoicism mirrored the impenetrable North he hailed from. Like his father he wasn't a smooth talker, never wasted words when he didn't have anything meaningful to say, hadn't talked himself into her bedroom after their first encounter, even if she knew he wouldn't have had a hard time succeeding at that. He had left her wanting him – pacing her apartment from room to room, barely able to fall asleep once she'd finally found enough peace of mind to go to bed – thinking about that strong, steady body against her when he'd so chastely kissed her cheek –

– when he'd slipped the matchbook into her pocket.

Because for all his stoic, northern cool, there was something infinitely fiery about Robb Stark as well, once you were allowed to explore beyond the outer layers. It was something she had rapidly become addicted to, finding the wildest excuses to go back to his rooms again and again. He had prolonged his business for as long as he could, giving them more time than strictly necessary, allowing to turn whatever it was they were doing into a full-blown affair – quickly spiralling out of control – even within the limits of the three instead of two weeks Robb had managed to make his stay last.

She vaguely wondered if Renly had put two and two together now that she had spent so many days and nights away from the mansion, but she dismissed the question and her guilty conscience just as quickly as she realised she had given him plenty of opportunity to hook up with her brother in those weeks.

She had returned to Renly during the day-time, when Robb was working, meeting with future investors, ensuring a number of important deals for his father. Renly never asked, and she never told, but she knew he knew and he smiled at her in a way she had never seen him smile before. "Go out to lunch," he had suggested. "That new place overlooking the bay, maybe?" She had; met up with Robb at a wonderful table one could only get if there were serious strings to pull. She had managed to play it cool when Robb refilled her wineglass, telling her casually how Renly and Loras had just sat down at a table somewhere behind her, checking him out as much as they were her.

"Be careful," Renly had told her after the weekend, when Robb had returned to work. She had only nodded, still reeling from the two days of sensory overload, his body never far from hers, spilling their lives' tales in between smatterings of urgent, incredible sex. "You're playing with fire."

She had nodded at Renly again, knowing better.

He was waking up next to her, a long groan into his pillow, and she turned to watch him surface.

"Hey," he smiled, his curls an adorable russet mess around his face.

"Hey," she smiled, rolling into his embrace.

"My last day," he groaned, realisation dawning, his blue eyes clouding.

She slid her leg across his hips, inhaling the musky warmth of his neck.

"You could take me with you," she suggested on a cheeky whisper, sucking a soft bruise behind his ear. "I fit most suitcases, I'm sure."

"Don't know about suitcases," Robb breathed, hitching her body up on his, aligning their hips before using his fingers to slide her open in one smooth, almost-practised motion, "but you fit me amazingly." She had to bite back her laughter when she sank down on him without hesitation, pushing up from his chest and watching his eyes roll back as she clenched around him.

They'd grown expert at knowing what the other wanted so fast it scared her, and she also knew she was falling so hard for Robb that saying goodbye might become more of a problem than she initially anticipated. She'd travel with him to Winterfell in a heartbeat but her father would be instantly suspicious and it made her think of ways to be less conspicuous about it. Maybe she could get Renly to join her, promise him she'd bring Loras too.

"Where are you?" Robb asked then and she opened her eyes, blushing fiercely when she realised she was lost in her scheming as much as she was lost in the heady feeling of him inside of her.

"Trying to picture Winterfell," she answered. "With all the ice and snow up there."

"My love-making skills are rapidly going downhill then," he joked, pulling her flush against his chest before rolling them over, taking control, bringing her off with an almost angry determination.

The subject of his departure wasn't broached again, and Margaery wondered if a trip to his ancient, northern home was even possible. They had never really discussed where they would go after the soft, sensory bubble they had created in his hotel room was punctured; had never dared to talk about if things between them could ever progress beyond this storm of passion they had whipped up in no time at all.

Robb's wedding was within a few weeks, she knew, even though he never gave her the exact date – unwilling to refer to that part of his life. Not necessarily because he didn't want to share his feelings with her – she felt like deep down it was something he wanted to do more than anything – but because it would cast a big, ugly shadow over their happiness and neither of them wanted for that to happen when the whole affair was going to be short-lived to begin with.

"I've got to go," he murmured after, holding her so close to his chest she felt like being crushed.

"Kiss me," she said, realising suddenly how nothing would make sense again without him, and it crushed her so much more than his body ever could.

He kissed her. Held her hand. Pulled her with him into the lift, bag slung across his shoulder; kissed her again when the doors slid closed.

They were still kissing as the lift doors opened; kissed as they crossed the lobby hand in hand.

"Kiss me," was what she said – again – until his taxi pulled up and there was nothing left to do.

Because maybe if they kissed, she could make it last, could make him stay;

could right the wrongs of meeting him too late.