His bride was ugly, if you looked at her face.
Florent ears, people called them. And that jaw... "I don't want to marry her." Bran shifted in his saddle. His straps felt uncomfortably tight as the girl rode up to him, a smile on her lips. The corner of those lips was stiff and cracked and grey and ugly. He'd always imagined wedding a girl who looked pretty and nice and in his mind he'd conjured a girl who looked a little like his sister Sansa. Westeros was ravaged by a civil war, yet Stannis' army had found him, and now he was marrying his ugly daughter. No one replied to his complaint. One man looked the same to the other, stony-faced and broad-shouldered and gaunt.
One of Shireen Baratheon's cheeks blushed. "I am graced in your presence," she said in a wavering voice that sounded stiff and rehearsed. Her mother probably taught her what to say.
"And I you," Bran replied rigidly. "I have... I have heard tales of your beauty..."
Shireen's head bowed. "And I have heard tales of your valour and bravery," she said quickly. A silence followed. Bran bit his lip and thought of Meera Reed. He could have married her, even though she was a frogeater. At least she was prettier than Shireen Baratheon. "I am... I am sad I do not have the, ah..." she stammered, unscripted words flowing awkwardly from her mouth. I'm marrying a parrot. "I hope..." He tried to imagine what her kiss would feel like. A grey kiss.
"Shireen," a sharp voice cracked. Shireen turned and bowed her head again at her mother. Lady Selyse was sat on her own mare, nostrils quivering and disturbing the hairs above her lip. "Brandon Stark," she said. "Your lord father supported our king's claim. Did you know that?" Bran nodded, because he'd look stupid if he shook his head instead. "I hope you have the honour of Lord Eddard," she said, her voice a little nasal. "And you shall not resent Shireen. You are infertile, are you not?" Bran avoided Shireen's gaze and gave a sullen nod. A few laughs escaped the mouths of the men and went steaming into the cold air. "You are infertile?" she repeated.
Bran swallowed. He licked his lips. I'm a wolf, and these are stupid stags. "Yes, Lady Selyse."
Shireen muttered something. Bran turned his head. "Queen Selyse," the girl corrected, her voice barely audible. "My father is the rightful king to preside over the Seven Kingdoms, so my mother is a queen."
"I apologise. My lady." Shireen's face flamed again, and they swerved back into silence. Bran raised his voice. "Yes, I'm infertile, Queen Selyse!" Laughter stabbed at him like knives. "Your daughter is fair and sweet and just. I hope to be a good husband to her." No I don't. Selyse leaned in close, and Shireen's mare backed away like she sensed the queen had words only for him.
"Listen to me, boy." Selyse's voice was sharp and curt. "You will care for her, and you will be near her day and night until death comes to separate you." She grasped him roughly by the shoulder. Bran tensed. "There is no place for love here. Only duty. Remember that, Stark. You can only hope for anything once you surrender your desires to do what is right." Then she backed away from him, seizing her reins and leading her men back. Bran exhaled, sending steam into the insistent wind. He rode after them, murmuring. "But I always do what's right," he said to himself, resentfully. He looked at Shireen. She was facing away from him. Slowly, he surrendered his desires for duty.
Shireen was beautiful, if you didn't look at her face.