AN: super-selfindulgin chapter. but please remember that its from Robb's pov, and he is a boy after all. and not at all above being charmed. I have left out the names of the Lords (marked with an X) because this was written in a hurry and they dont matter anyway, they could be anyone.
AN: Robb's pov was heavily influenced by Jon's chapter in Game of Thrones, especially his impression of the King.
2. Stormdancer
"You must find... someone mild and beautiful to be your lover. Someone who will tremble for your touch, offer you a marguerite by its long stem with his eyes lowered, someone whose fingers are a poem."
― Janet Fitch, White Oleander -
"Beauty is no quality in things themselves: It exists merely in the mind which contemplates them; and each mind perceives a different beauty."
― David Hume, Of the Standard of Taste and Other Essays
When the royal procession came inside the courtyard of his home, Robb took their company in one by one. He looked at the crown prince and didn't miss the way the golden boy immediately eyed his sister, as if he'd been thinking about her all along. His previous opinion of the princeling only solidified then. His eyes moved to take in the Hound, Joffrey Baratheon's sworn shield, the brother of whom was the Mountain… and all the realm knew what he'd done. In came lords and the members of the court, the Kingsguard and finally, the king himself.
The peerless Robert Baratheon that his father had spoke of so much: tall and proud, a giant among princes, his father had said. The fiercest warrior of all seven kingdoms, the demon of the Trident.
Before he had to kneel with the rest of the household, Robb caught a glimpse of the man. The King… he was just a man of course, and a fat one at that, with a bushy beard and a red face beneath it, looking as if he was half drunk already. There was nothing of the king of his father's stories in this man and Robb wished he could turn and see the look on his father's face, when he saw his friend so changed. But he couldn't do that so instead he chose to look at the rest of the procession: the guards and sword shields and – there he was, the queen's golden twin, the Kingslayer – who looked like the knights Sansa talked about should look: tall and proud and golden… and judging from that smile on the man's face, arrogant as well. The queen stepped out and she was as beautiful as everyone says she was, with hair long and shiny as polished gold, skin warm and sun-kissed… and eyes as hard stones cut from emeralds. Gods, the coldness of her is even in that smile of hers. It makes Robb stand a little straighter, shoulders a little tenser. You could look at her and truly believe that she is queen, without even the need for a royal crown on her head.
But then someone else steps out from behind the queen and Robb loses interest for her royal highness.
Princess Myrcella Baratheon. He knows it is her without needing to be told. She could be nobody else, after all. She is almost as tall as the queen herself, and though there is an echo of her mother's features in her face, it is drowned by all the differences. She is young and fresh and as bright as the queen seems to be cold: her eyes shine, curious and brimming with an expression that seemed ready to transform into a smile at any moment, the blue of them deep, so different from his bright Tully eyes. Everyone said that the Baratheons had the deep waters of Shipwrecker's Bay in their eyes… looking at the princess, Robb could believe it.
Unlike the queen, she was pale as snow, her long hair of such a dark ebony that it looks almost black; it fell in smooth waves to her waist and shined like a raven's wings. Robb doesn't know whether to call her beautiful. She seems too… no, beautiful would not be the word for it. It feels inappropriate. The queen is beautiful, easily so. Her daughter is something else. The contrast between that pale skin and dark hair makes up for a bold sort of allure, one that whoever looking was bound to either love or hate. She looked like a slip of a girl, despite her height and altogether her features made up a mixture of fractures and strong contrasts, making her into a striking sight, rather than the outright gorgeous figure and face her mother cut…
But whether you liked what you saw or not, the princess was quite an arresting vision and Robb… he found that it was impossible to look away from her. When her eyes found his however, Robb learned that there was weight underneath her stare and that she could make you feel it: she smiled out of courtesy to him… and then when their eyes held, he saw the curiosity spark in her and her smile turned crooked, her stare more deliberate. As if daring him to keep looking. He already knew she had a sense of humour just by the way one single raven-eyebrow twitched upwards as their eyes held.
When she came to greet them, she kissed his mother's cheeks with a smile that seemed sincere and said all the right, pleasant things. Perfectly courteous and such a lady that Robb knew Sansa was half in love with her already. Then she came to him and offered him her hand, pale and soft. When her long fingers rested in his, he felt the cold of them. She was as chill as ice when his lips kissed her knuckles and he couldn't help the small smirk, though perhaps it would have been wiser if he did hold back. But the thought of her thin southern blood freezing in her veins up here in the north made him smile.
He bid her welcome to the North and she thanked him for the hospitality – all as he'd been taught to - and all the while, her dark blue eyes looked at him with borderline-eerie awareness, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Perhaps she did… though he fervently hoped that she did not know it all, or she'd have him thrown in some dungeon for half the things that passed his head as he kissed her knuckles lightly, feeling the heat of his own palm seeping into hers.
ooo
When he next sees her they are about to enter the feast hall with the rest of his family. The king enters first, escorting his lady mother, then his father with the glacial Lannister queen; the crown prince and Sansa in his arm looking completely taken by Joffrey's face… and then it her turn.
Unlike the queen, her hair is not up in intricate southern styles, but unbound around her shoulders – with only her frontmost locks tied in a circled to leave her face free of them - perhaps because she is a maiden still and has a right to that freedom: the raven waves fall heavy in front of her and down her back, over a gown that is of the boldest shade of red Robb has ever seen. Its brighter than even Sansa's hair and seems to absorb the candlelight and not release it at all… and it clings to her in a way that cannot help but draw his eye. The princess was a slender thing, her body seemingly trapped between a girl's and a woman's, but that dress clung to her faithfully, making the most of every subtle curve: from her breasts to narrow waist and barely-rounded hips, flaring into heavy skirts on the floor. The golden embroidering shines subtly and like true gold, framing the high collar that only allows for an inch of skin under her collarbones to show and no further, choosing to expose the line of her shoulders instead, something which Robb had never realized could be a more tantalising sight than even the deepest of necklines.
It takes him a moment to realize he's staring - and quite openly as well - until a small teasing smile curves her thin lips and she raises one inky brow at him, amused perhaps by his antics. He immediately closes his mouth (he had not even realized it was hanging open) and steps closer to offer her his arm and follow out in the Great Hall for the feast. She moves to put her hand in his and Robb distracts himself by choosing to be grateful that her sensational gown as narrow sleeves because had it not, escorting her to the high table would have been much more of a chore than it already is.
"I take it that you like my dress, Robb Stark."
It's a statement, not a question and when he dares a look at her he sees that she is smiling softly, looking straight ahead. He should have known of course: she is a princess and though not such a radiant beauty as her mother, she is still pretty enough to have men and boys admire her for her title and her own self both. Perhaps she even knows that; she certainly does know what she makes him think and where his eyes do wonder, as well as she knows that he likes her dress and her figure. Most importantly of all, she seems to like making use of the things she knows – in this case, probably to make him sweat his tunic a little for being so unabashed in his wandering eye. One glance at her face, even a cursory one, tells him that he is just needling him for fun. He had not imagined, after mother's sharp reminders of manners and propriety at all times with the royal family, that he would be faced with a princess who liked to tease.
But Robb says nothing until she is upon her seat. He draws the chair back for her, as his father has done for the queen, and she hold her hand for him to take as she sits, as its custom and she turns to him with a smile, no doubt to thank him. What is not part of custom at all however is that he bows and very swiftly leaves a kiss on her knuckles - her surprised eyes catch his and hold.
"You look very beautiful princess." is all Robb says. Not the most original thought he'd ever had, but truthful to the core.
She has no doubt heard better versed compliments, laced with all kinds of poetry, but those have ever been things that have sparked little interest in Robb, and he would rather speak plainly than say the same things others have spoke before him (even if he were capable of it). Besides, he wonders what she will think if he pays her the compliment of sincerity and truth, as naked as he can make them.
Her eyes show him surprise (and how much subtle it is, how much more controlled; so different from her smiles and polite interest and even her teasing, that for a moment Robb wonders if that so tightly controlled emotion is the only true emotions he has seen on this stranger's pretty face so far… but that's a thought too fancy for such a place and such a time, so he tucks it away) and that wondering brow of hers, ever quick to rise as if in challenge, quirks at him. But he has stepped back before the princess has the time to say anything, it happens before she can even open her mouth, so she follows him across the room and in return, gives him a nod, a most serious one at that, looking at him as if she is trying to calculate him without the benefit of even knowing him.
They are two blank pages trying to read each other, Robb realizes, but the hall is full, the voices are loud and merry and he knows he will have a good time. And when the dancing starts, he will ask her for a turn.
ooo
She converses with all about her, the Stark girls and the other girl, Jeyne Pool, the ladies of the table and the boys, Lord Stark youngest sons. They are charming and lovely and stubborn, and at their lapse of manners Myrcella can only be amused because she loves the freedom it implies. She eats little perhaps, but it's because she'd rather talk. Sansa is such a sweet girl, and it's hard to believe she is not as young as her thoughts make her to be.
The little one, Arya… she is difficult to judge and seems not to have the highest opinion of Myrcella – which obviously provokes the princess enough to want to change her mind. So while Sansa and Jeyne speak in hushed whispers about what can only be her handsome princely brother, Myrcella leans in close to the younger Stark girl and asks her what she likes to do with her time. Perhaps it's a hunch, but there is something wild and untamed about the girl even though she has not one hair amiss on her head. It's those dancing eyes, Myrcella thinks, that mischievous smile. It reminds her of herself, what she could have been, if the Red Keep had not been as stifling as it was, if her mother had not been the woman she was. I could have been you, Myrcella thinks as she looks at the little girl and it makes her both sad and smiling. I could have been many things, and with that she closes that argument… and finally gets the young Stark talking about how she likes riding and running and swords and bows, that she is terrible at sewing – something which Arya confesses in a murmur, so Myrcella says that she hates it too, to make the girl feel better (it works! The girl gives her a full smile so wide that Myrcella swears those dark grey yes are sparkling!) – and that she doesn't like the septa's lessons cause they're boring, which Myrcella laughs.
The frankness of the girl is astounding… and so very charming. It would be easy to be offended: Arya does not seem to be able to mince words, but Myrcella is not so delicate and she appreciates boldness in others almost as much as she cultivates it in herself.
Myrcella bristles with excitement when the tables start being cleared and the dance-floor is opened. She so longs to dance, and from across the room, she catches uncle Renly's eye and they shine with silent laughter and understanding.
"Do you like dancing Arya?"
The girl pouts almost. "I like it fine, but I'm not so good at it."
Myrcella's smile widens. "Don't you worry about that. Give these men some time and they'll be so deep in their cups nobody will notice. Even if you knew the steps perfectly you'll still trip from time to time."
She watches Arya smile back to her and decides then and there that this little girl has the loveliest smile of all the household. Myrcella winks at her and then gets up, heads for her brother's seat, where Joffrey is looking stiff and bored out of his mind. That was not bound to go well, Myrcella thinks, but she still smiles widely at him and reaches to take his hand.
"Dear brother, will you open the dances with me?" she sais gently, smiling widely. Joffrey likes pretty things.
Her brother grumbles. "I don't feel like dancing." he says and then gives a cursory look at their mother, whose smile is frozen in her face. Why does she even bother, Myrcella wonders. Everyone can see she is as miserable as she looks. That smile only makes her seem more frigid.
"So you would leave me in the hands of those with inferior skill? Come now brother, you're the best dancer I know." because she knows Joffrey and she knows how to stir him. He likes to be admired, his ego is such a frail little thing… and such a hungry things, by turns. As expected, her brother responds to the compliment better than to the invitation and his scowl lessens a little.
"Fine then, if I must. But only for you." he say and gets up with great show. Oh brother mine… she thinks with an internal sigh, but smiles wide none the less.
Her mother stops her with a minute raise of her chin. It's all she needs to turn Myrcella's head – she hates that its so, but she cannot help it. The response is immediate, ingrained. Not even the longest time away from her mother can erase it.
"Don't make a spectacle of yourself." the queen says softly enough for her alone to hear, and Myrcella tries to keep her smile in place even though now her expression is glazed, as blank as her mother's smile.
This woman is what royalty is meant to be, Myrcella thinks, and then some more on top of that. But can she not enjoy a little good fun every once in a while? Must she made it so hard for all about her to smile?
But then the music starts, and Myrcella wills herself to think of Cercei Lannister no more.
ooo
They are a handsome pair together like that, the golden prince and the raven princess with the flaming dress. The prince sulks like a boy but his sister is the liveliest thing in the room and soon her good humour get the better of her brother as well. They spin and jump and dance around each other, changing partners and coming back together, but where the princess radiates an undeniable warmth, as if whoever she lays eyes on is someone whose company she would enjoy, the crown prince has eyes only for his sister and it's for her that he saves all his smiles. Her brother retires after the first turn, but just in the moment when he seems to be suggesting to his sister to get back on the high table, her uncle, Lord Renly, sweeps her away in the throng of the dancers again and the princess' laugh sounds in time with the music. She looks back to send a kiss to her brother from the air, and smiling as her uncle spins her about.
The commotion heightens – the king is making a fool of himself, utterly drunk and dallying with the serving girls right under the queen's nose – whose smile looks frozen on her face. But Theon tells him its normal, that the King is completely shameless and gives a total of zero fucks about the queen's honour apparently. Robb notices the halting look this brings on the princess' face, but it's gone from it quick and he is probably the only one who's taken notice, and only because he's been paying too close attention to her. Theon teases him relentlessly about it, but Robb is only half listening. More dancers join in and Robb wonders if he'll ever be able to catch her holding still enough to ask her for a dance.
She does back to the high table a few times and always come back alone. Her brother does not want to dance anymore it seems, he is quite content to sit back and sulk in his seat. So the princess brings back both his sisters and offers herself up as a partner. Sansa smiles and blushes but she can't say no, Arya laughs merrily without a care in the world and all three of them dance in the middle of the dance-floor, everyone making room for them as they spin around each other, laughing without a care in the world – even Sansa seems a little more carefree than usual.
She persuades her uncle, the queen's twin for a dance – and they look striking together, so much so that Robb is suddenly very glad the Kinglsayer is her uncle and a Kingsguard besides. To the great amusement of some and not so well mannered japes of others, the princess dances a slow turn with the Imp as well. Her merriment is as sincere with him as it was with his golden brother and the Imp has an indulgent smile on his face, as if he is enduring it to make the princess happy and he looks nowhere but in his niece's eyes the whole time. She dances with her little brother, prince Tommen before he is sent off to bed with a guard – she picks him up and turns about the floor, laughing - dances even with Bran, who blushes and is full of smiles. Robb sees her try to persuade Rickon too, and feels like laughing – because his little brother is too wild to ever allow himself to be picked up the way the princess did with her own brother. But he still blushes red when the princess kisses his cheek and leaves him to play with Shaggydog under the table.
She dances a turn with the members of the court and with his father's bannermen and after each turn she manages to charm them well enough with smiles and good humour. For each of the queen's dour looks, the princess has a smile and it makes people gravitate around her with the same ease the seem to gravitate around her uncle, Lord Renly Baratheon, of whom the princess seems fond of and very close to. He catches her speaking with her uncle and some of his lords – stormlords, Robb reminds himself and notices that she speaks with those grown men as easily as she does with his sisters, with her brother. Theon tells him that she is as familiar with Storm's End and Dragonstone as she is with the Red Keep apparently, since she has spent the last four years of her life mostly away from the capitol and travelling the south. It's obvious from the way the lords of the stormlands look at her that they like were all too well.
He catches fragments of conversations every now and then and the one that proves lucky is the one he catches by mistake.
"… seems that you have to make up for your family's unwillingness to join the festivities, Princess."
The princess' chuckle is low, but he hears it. "So it seems, Lord X. I am resolved in fact, to dance all night, and with every person in this hall at least once."
And that is his opening, finally. Robb has been making enough of a study of her after all.
"Might I ask for the next turn then, princess?"
She turns to find him there and her smile widens in the same moment it fell when she heard his voice. Her eyes sparkle.
"You may, my Lord."
And so it is that she finds herself in his arms for the first time. The silk of her dress lets him feel the heat of her body as if he were touching bare skin and the thought alone is enough to fluster him a little. She is warm and smiling, and he likes the feel of his hand on her small waist. She is a graceful dancer, but that he already knew. He doesn't risk pulling her too close, it's too obvious, but he gets close enough to catch a whiff of her scent. It rises with the heat of her body from her breasts and fills his nose, and if he'd had the privacy of his own company – and hers- he would have told her that she smells almost as lovely as she looks. He wonders, what would she say to that. Somehow he cannot see her blushing at it. Her eyes are too bold, her gaze too direct, her smile too knowing.
Do all princess grow up so fast, he wonders. This princess does not show her age whenever he tries to fluster her. But perhaps he is out of practice: every girl in the north flushes giggles all too easily for him.
The dance ends and she bows her head to him in thanks. He can see that a few strands of her hair are clinging to her forehead and he is about to offer to escort her for a walk outside if she is feeling encumbered by the heat, but then the King yells loud enough to be heard over the music some nonsense about storms and songs and the princess lights up at the mention of it. Robb turn questioning eyes to her and the princess is quick to explain.
"He wants a turn of the dances of his country, the music of the stormlands." She says simply, eyes darting from his face to someone behind him. Robb nods in understanding and is not surprised when her uncle Renly who looks so much like her he could be her brother too, takes her away with a smile and a nod of the head.
Robb thinks that her uncle looks at him with eyes that know too much, but he recedes in the corner of the room t watch, choosing to ignore the warning.
The music starts and it's a different rhythm from what he's ever heard. Its heavy with drums and flutes and the beat is fast, so is the dance. The ladies turn and clap their hands, waving their shawls above their heads like sails in the wind and Robb understands: they are dancing to a storm. They don't dance in lines, they form a circle, and it's the first time Robb has seen anything like it: the inner circles moving clockwise while the outer ones dancing in the opposite direction; the effect is mesmerising, and the princess is at the heart of it – a place of honour, he supposes - dancing with her uncle. She is vivid as a lick of flame in the midst of all the dancers, and no matter how fast they move, she is right there and Robb cannot lose sight of her. Her cheeks are flushed, her smile is bright and her eyes alight with laughter as her uncle picks her up by the waist and spins her about to the beat of the music. I'd like to learn this dance, Robb thinks absently, not even noticing that Theon murmurs almost the exact same thing close to his ear. She wraps her shawl around her uncle and the spinning starts again. The many feet stamping the stone floor hard at the same time become a march, a gallop and the rhythm increases until Robb has to wonder just how can they keep up - but they do. They laugh and dance and faster and faster until the there is only movement that is almost mesmerising to watch and Robb thinks they'll either start flying or fall down. But they don't; when the music ends suddenly, with the same bang of the drums echoing around the hall, the dancers stop with it just as suddenly, right to the beat of it with a clap of their hands that echoes in the fractional silence… that silence and stillness lasts only half a breath, before the cheers rise loud and men bang their fists on the table to be heard even louder. The princess' cheeks are bright pink and her smile is full of teeth and happiness as she claps with the others and lets herself be hugged by the other ladies who flock around her as if she is beckoning them – it only then that Robb realizes she had been in the centre leading the dance, along with her uncle.
The King's cheers sound the loudest and perhaps even the most drunk, but he still seems so very careful when he beckons his daughter to give a kiss on the crown of her head. She smiles at him in a way that would make one beg for a that sort of smile every day: as if she loves him and he is the only man she'd ever smile that way for.
Out of the three of the kings children, it seems in that moment as if the princess loves her drunken father best.
One of the lords stands, a man around his sixties and he bears the coat of arms of X upon his chest, one of the oldest houses of the stormlands, Robb recalls. The man raises his glass and, smiling at the princess with yellowed teeth and merry eyes he calls for silence. When a passable semblance of it falls, the old man's voice booms.
"To our King and queen, and to the daughter they have made. To our lady, Princess Myrcella: Stormdancer, stormbreaker, heart of flame!"
The hall resounds in cheers, and the stormlords and her uncle cheer the loudest. Few people notice the look the crown prince gives his sister, or the one the queen give her daughter, and even fewer (just one person really) knows its significance. But Robb does not have eyes for the finer, more subtle plays of the night and the strained chords that bind all these people together, how they sing with tension whenever something as seemingly inconsequential as a dance happens. Robb cheers with the rest, liking the man's word and how they sound – how they make her sound - and he has eyes for none of the storm princess who bows her head ever so prettily in thanks and raises her cup to salute the man's words before taking the tiniest sip of it.
She looks happy and she looks radiant and Robb is still a boy green enough to be swayed by both easily. Stormdancer, they call her, and he likes that very much… like the princesses in stories and songs she seems larger than life in that moment.
Of course, had Robb been a bit more weathered in the game of shadows, or had he known the queen a little better (or the princess for that matter), he would have been able to guess that there was a dangerous game being played here. And he would not have been so surprised when, the next morning, the princess would be declared unavailable for breakfast and that, from that morning on, she would be spending quite a lot of time indoors, in the solar with her ladies and her mother, doing things ladies do and things that Robb knew nothing of. Nor would he have been so surprise to see that whenever she did show her face, she was caged at all sides by fluttering ladies in waiting and arm in arm with her mother the queen… and how she could hardly speak a word before the queen demanded her attention, interrupting. He would grow to learn these little details in the days ahead, and they would by turns puzzle, annoy and disturb him.
But for the time being, the night as wonderful and the princess' smile was enchanting… and he decided that, if someone was ever going to have his admiration, nobody seemed more worthy of it than the Storm Princess.
tbc...
