Trystane Martell, Myrcella Baratheon, Rosamund Lannister and cyvasse.

"Did you meet with any problems?" "Only Trystane. He wanted to sit beside Myrcella's bedside and play cyvasse with her." "He had redspots when he was four, I told you. You can only get it once. You should have put out that Myrcella was suffering from greyscale, that would have kept him well away." (A Feast for Crows)

Rosamund

"You're not Myrcella."

Rosamund froze. No one would come close enough to see that you are not me, Myrcella had reassured her. But now here was Prince Trystane, close enough to see –

Her face was hidden by the veil; her hair, straight, instead of Myrcella's golden curls that Rosamund had always envied, hidden by the cloak. If I keep quiet, perhaps he will go away. Perhaps he will think he is mistaken …

To open her mouth and speak would be the greatest danger; Trystane knew Myrcella's voice well enough. He would not be deceived.

He would not be deterred from his questions either, to Rosamund's consternation. "Where is my sweet princess? Where has she been hiding?"

The prince was staring at Rosamund through the veil. "May I?" He asked, his hands about to lift the veil to reveal Rosamund's face.

"No!" Rosamund exclaimed, turning away from Trystane sharply. "You … you shouldn't be here. Redspots is highly contagious."

"You're Rosamund, Myrcella's handmaiden," Trystane said with astonishment, recognizing her voice. "I thought it was Myrcella playing some game, a fun new game she wants us to play. But you're really not Princess Myrcella."

No, not Princess Myrcella. Only her handmaiden. Only her distant Lannister cousin from Lannisport, not even from Casterly Rock. Only her double, here to shield her from any who wished to do Myrcella harm. A game, Septa Eglantine had called it, when she dyed Myrcella's hair brown and dressed Rosamund in Myrcella's clothes on the voyage to Dorne. But both girls knew the real reason – to confuse the enemy in case their ship was taken by Stannis Baratheon's men.

"Where is Princess Myrcella?"

"You must leave, Prince Trystane. Redspots –"

"Were you told to repeat the same thing over and over again? I had redspots when I was four. You can only have it once."

Rosamund tried another ploy. "You should not have disturbed Princess Myrcella when she is ill, Your Grace. It is not very kind. The princess is always telling me how kind and considerate you are. She would not be very pleased to hear about this."

Trystane stared at Rosamund with disbelief. "But Myrcella is not even here."

"But you didn't know that when you came into the room, not until I spoke."

Trystane looked embarrassed. "Yes, well …." He paused, staring down at his feet for a few moments before lifting up his head again. "I came to see if Myrcella would like some company. It must be very tiresome to be stuck in your bedchamber for days and days. I thought I could read to her, or we could play cyvasse. I didn't come here to disturb the princess," he said, sounding defensive.

"I'm sure Princess Myrcella would understand, and appreciate your good intentions," Rosamund replied.

"You still haven't told me where Myrcella is. Is she with Ser Arys? Have they gone somewhere? I won't tell anyone, as long as I know that she is not in any danger."

"Ser Arys has taken Princess Myrcella away, to keep her safe," Rosamund said quickly. "Only temporarily, until things have calmed down. We heard them on the streets, shouting for vengeance for Prince Oberyn. Shouting for … for Lannister blood."

"My uncle was beloved by the people," Trystane said carefully, side-stepping the issue of Lannister blood.

"I … I'm sorry for your loss, Your Grace."

"My father's grief is the greater. He has lost both his sister and his brother. I still have mine, even if I rarely see Quentyn, and Arianne is too preoccupied with her duties and grown-up matters to have much time for her little brother."

Rosamund stayed silent, not knowing what to say. Myrcella would have known what to say and what to do, Rosamund suspected, but she was not Myrcella.

It was Trystane who broke the long silence. "Would you like to play cyvasse? It must be very dull for you, all alone up here."

"I don't know how to play, Your Grace. Princess Myrcella tried to teach me, but the rules are too hard, and there are too many pieces."

"I can try to teach you if you'd like. I was the one who taught Myrcella how to play the game," Trystane said. "Would you like me to teach you, Rosamund?"

Rosamund would like to pretend for just one afternoon that she was the one betrothed to Trystane Martell, the one beating him constantly at cyvasse, the one putting a smile on his solemn face. That she was the real thing, the actual princess, not a mere double meant to confuse the enemy.

"Yes, Your Grace, I would like that very much," she replied.

Myrcella

Trystane sat beside her bed for days while Myrcella recovered. He read to her, not about the Young Dragon or the Conquest of Dorne as he was wont to do in the old days, but stories she had never read in books before, silly and funny, frivolous even. She wondered if he was making up the words himself. She did not feel like smiling, her thoughts haunted by the sword that took her ear and the axe that split Ser Arys in half, but she smiled nonetheless.

They played cyvasse, with Trystane moving all the pieces and Myrcella giving the command for him to move her side of the board. He had learned to set his squares differently than he used to while she was gone, saving some of his elephants and mountains for the back instead of putting them all up front.

She still won the game. He still did not mind.

He asked her nothing of that day. Of why she left without telling him. Of where his sister was taking her.

In return, she did not ask him about Ser Arys' fate. Or Princess Arianne's.

Ser Arys was dead, Myrcella knew without asking anyone. Princess Arianne had screamed and cried too, like Myrcella did. Had she been hurt as well? But her scream was different than Myrcella's own. It was a different kind of pain that had made Princess Arianne cried out, Myrcella knew instinctively.

Princess Arianne was not dead; Myrcella knew that much from Trystane's calm countenance.

Trystane snuck a mirror into her room one day, at her request. Rosamund and the maids were under strict orders from her septa not to allow her a mirror. Myrcella did not wish for them to be in trouble with Septa Eglantine. Trystane was different. He was a Dornish prince and the septa did not have any power over him.

She did cry, when she saw herself in the mirror. He did not try to tell her that she was still a pretty girl, as if he knew she was not really crying for her lost ear.