i

Princess Myrcella is walked down the aisle by her uncle. Robb cannot help but wonder, watching them advance side by side is there is any truth to those tales that are whispered about – dreadful tales of a brother loving his sister as a man loved a woman.

This Myrcella is nothing like the girl he remembers. That one could smile. The young doe before him trembles like a leaf in the storm and barely ever looks upon anyone with kindness. Instead she withdraws within her own keep, behind insurmountable walls.

And there is the scar. Robb doesn't truly allow his eyes to linger too long on it, but the slash of red against porcelain white is vivid.

ii

His hand is big enough to cover all of hers. Rosamund watches in fascination the play of colour, of light and shadow, as his warm palm touches the back of her hand.

A hush has fallen over the throng of noblemen and knights. It is done out of respect for their King, she knows, not for the silly, scarred Southron Princess. More than one man has looked at her face with that look akin to pity but even more cutting by its measuring quality.

Her cloak is set loose from her shoulders, the lion brooch falling to the ground as the mantle lands in Ser Jaime's arms.

Robb Stark, King in the North, presents her with an ice-white cloak, trimmed with dark grey fur. She knows a wolf is running across that field. Her golden and red past has been erased from this moment.

She is Queen Myrcella. In word, if not in deed.

iii

Olyvar Frey is her husband's squire. The tall man invites her to dance as Robb is caught in conversation with some of his lords. She is not privy to those talks yet; Princess Myrcella has spoken her vows and shed her cloak, but in their eyes she has yet to become the North.

Rosamund is not bothered. But neither does she want to dance. Yet like any lady of good breeding, she stands to her feet and offers the gallant squire as sure a smile as she can produce, allowing her hand to touch his lightly.

There are others dancing as well. Some stumble on their steps and some follow the tunes with graced. Rosamund closes her eyes and pretends she is in her father's hall, dancing with one of her older brothers.

iv

Greatjon Umber takes pride in his missing fingers. Robb chuckles at the man's recount, or rather boast, of how he's earned his wounds. From the corner of his eye he catches a flare of gold and follows it with a sharp movement of the head.

Myrcella is dancing with Olyvar.

Robb turns back to his men. They continue to speak about the campaign. Some of them look relieved that the war is over. They have won lands, after all, and gold and a kingdom to rival King Tommen's. A pang of guilt settles low in his stomach at the though of leaving the Crag. But nay, 'tis not his place to dwindle.

A king must rule.

v

The fiddlers have begun playing the song of the bedding. Rosamund sips from her cup of wine with more calm than she necessarily feels. Her feet ache, her lids are near dropping, her stomach is churning. Half-asleep from the wine and excitement of the day she endures the tugs and bawdy jests, a cool smile upon her lips.

Her face burns with embarrassment. The gown grows looser and looser from the strings being tugged at. She hopes it won't come off before she is within the bedchamber. A mere shift is not enough of a shield for her.

The stitches holding her sleeve together rip.

vi

Were his hair darker he could have easily passed for a Baratheon, with his blue eyes and sturdy frame. Rosamund remains seated upon the bed's edge, clutching the front of her gown, holding it tightly against her as if to prevent any of her skin from showing within the warm glow of the candles.

He strides towards her with the ease of a wolf, moving through the light and shadows. She stops herself from uttering a single sound when she is lifted to her feet, gently.

He is not callous, not in any way, yet he is not forgiving either.

The kirtle slips down her shoulders, the chemise gives way easier than the gate facing a battering ram would.

Her defences are a pile of silk and gossamer at her feet.

vii

It is the first time he's been so close to the scar marring the otherwise unblemished skin. There is no ear to be found there and the cut slides down to her cheek. Robb focuses on this imperfection, unsure if she presents this side of her face to him because she wishes to wipe away any stirring of desire or it she'd doing it unconsciously.

Whatever the case, he no more wants to bed her than she does. Yet there is enough to her warmth and gently rising curves to make coupling possible. Robb doesn't try to turn her face towards him. She is welcome to keep her eyes upon the wall if that is her choice. He doesn't think that looking into her eyes would help matters any.

viii

The tight passage burns with every retreat and slide, the back and forth motion helped along only by some miracle devised by the gods. Tears cling to her lashes and the bride bites on her lip to keep from weeping.

It shall be over soon. So they told her.

Frankly, Rosamund thinks they lied to her. This doesn't seem like it will ever end.

The King's weight is hot and uncomfortable, pressed tightly against her, skin rubbing against slick skin. Her legs ache with the strain her fingers twist the sheets around tightly. Warm breath slides against her scarred cheek, coming out in short gasps.

Then a shudder follows.

ix

He rolls away from the quivering form beneath him, lungs crying out for air. This in itself is a form of vengeance. The reason why he offers no pity is not because his heart is made out of stone. It's because none such has been offered to his own sister. He won't be cruel to her forever. Not even for a moment beyond this night.

Robb feels the mattress rising and dipping with Myrcella's movement. He imagines she has turned her back towards him and in his mind's eye golden curls burn dark, as dark as his fair lover's hair.

The King opens his eyes and banishes Jeyne from his mind.

x

Lying on her side, Rosamund listens carefully to the pattern of her husband's breathing. She lies still and listens until it is all an undisturbed stream.

Then she carefully slides out from beneath the furs, her bed-warmed skin prickling uncomfortably at the coolness of the chamber. The fire in the hearth has gone one. Still, there is enough light from without for her to trace the discarded gown and shift.

There is too much honesty in nakedness.

She picks the one closest to her and slides it upon her body. Like this she can cling to at least a shred of distance; she can put a wall, however flimsy between her and Robb Stark.