i
Cella lies there, sweat pouring down her brow. Rosamund holds her close, fingers twined in her golden locks and a prayer upon her lips. Cella is not her friend. She had never been. But these past moons, together, always together they've kept, up until the point her own hair had been curled and her face painted in red spots.
They are not friends. But she has acted Cella's part enough to know that they are sisters in their suffering.
The Princess whimpers softly. Rosamund tentatively touches her own scar and wonders why the gods have given the fever to the one that carries some weight.
ii
They bury her somewhere near the sept. Rosamund's eyes are red rimmed, lined with kohl to hide it. These are not marks of sorrow though. She hasn't cried for Cella's death. She cannot seem to, although she tries.
The Dornish servant curls her hair, one thick strand at a time. The iron emanates heat; it almost sears the back of her head. But Rosamund says not a thing. Her hands have fisted together in the skirts of her dress, pulling at the fine gauze.
She wonders for how long the charade will last.
In King's Landing they shall stone her to death, she thinks, for having failed the Princess. And they would be right to.
iii
Nymeria does not enter the wheelhouse. She says she prefers riding. Rosamund does not care. Or rather Princess Myrcella does not care about a bastard's preferences. So Rosamund keeps her peace and tries not to feel out of place in one of Myrcella's best dresses.
She wants to cry out. She wants to throw herself beneath the pounding hooves of the horses but fears that they should only further main her. Rosamund fear survival. Fears, fears, fears beyond all words what waits for her. These chains, golden, supple bonds, hold her tightly. But she should not.
Rosamund Lannister is dead, after all. Dead girls have no fear.
Myrcella Baratheon is still a Princess.
Myrcella still lives.
iv
They set sail for Braavos. There an escort will be waiting for her.
For Myrcella, that is.
The Princess hides her face beneath fine veils and stays within her cabin at the direction of Nymeria. Rosamund suspects the woman knows she means to lay the mask to rest and that is why someone lingers around her at all times.
Even now as they lie abed together, she and Nymeria, Rosamund feels her eyes on the scarred flesh. Judging. Weighing.
She thinks about swallowing her own tongue. For just a moment though. Then decides she'll find another way as her companion calls her name.
"Do you sleep, little Rosamund?"
v
Gauze turns to linen. Rosamund looks down at the embroidered hems of her shift and admires the way the golden thread shines in the dim light. She raised her hands on command and the dress covers her. The green kirtle should bring out her eyes.
On Myrcella is would have worked. Her eyes, of vivid green, had been made to stand out.
Rosamund's are less so. The golden flecks work against the green, dulling, unmatching.
Her face is hidden beneath a golden veil this time, the curls slipping around the edges, tight ringlets framing her face.
Rosamund dons the mask once again, straightening her back.
vi
It is the look upon Ser Jaime's face that breaks her composure. Green eyes stare at her, green eyes as hers should be. And horror lingers in the gaze. Horror come just after the realisation.
They know. They know she is not Myrcella.
Heart sinking in her stomach, Rosamund removes her veil, her golden shroud and presents to all her scarred face.
The King's council breaks out into loud argument, and she barely catches anything more that the word Stark.
The name Stark.
She quivers and falters, tripping over her own feet as she makes to retreat.
And Rosamund falls down, down, down.
vii
When she wakes, she is in a sumptuously decorated bedchamber. The curtains have been let out, so she is hidden from view. But the light gossamer allows her own eyes to make out, albeit poorly, what is around her.
She has never been within the Red Keep before.
From without noise can be heard. Instinctively, Rosamund draws the covers over herself and stops breathing.
The creaking of an opening door follows and in mere moments the curtains part.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stares down at her. "You will tell me everything that happened in Dorne." There is no inflection, no anger; only emptiness.
viii
The Queen Mother never comes to see her. Rosamund is glad for that. She does not think she could bear reliving Cella's death to her as well. It hurts. The pain lingers, grows and stretches even with everyday that they keep her locked within Cella's chambers.
They have not killed her yet. But Rosamund knows it is not far off, this fate of hers.
Sometimes she prays to the Mother and the Maiden. Not to the Father though. There is no justice in this world. But mercy is not unheard of. She prays that somehow she'll be sent back to Lannisport and left to her mother's loving embrace and her father's tales of war.
ix
Lord Regent Kevan Lannister comes to her one day. Rosamund does not know what to expect when the man calls upon her to join him without, in the gardens. Nonetheless, refusal is not an option.
The roses have wilted. Rosamund looks at one of the dried flowers with a drop of pity.
"The King needs your service," the lord regent tells her. "The realm has need of Myrcella to live."
"But Her Grace is dead," Rosamund replies flatly.
"Not as far as the inhabitants of the kingdoms know." They look at one another. Rosamund parts her lips to refuse. "The only other option is war. Do you wish for war?"
x
She dons her veils and keeps her eyes upon the ground when they take her before the King. Tommen sits upon throne, an awkward child waiting for the puppeteers to pull his strings. The puppeteers do.
"It has been decided," Mace Tyrell speaks in that strange voice of his, "that Her Grace, Princess Myrcella, shall by her marriage to the King of the North, seal an alliance between our kingdoms and end the war. Let there be peace, from this day forth."
The noblemen echo the words if not the sentiment.
Once more, Rosamund is forced into Cella's dreams and desires, wed far away into the bitter North.
She wants to weep, but can not do so before the gathering.
