AN: THANK YOU to all reviewers, to all those who favorited and are following this story.I know its a slow one and that every chapter is enormous, but I like spending time inside these character's heads. Hope you like :)
I just want to point out that I am very much aware this story only skims the surface of these characters and events, that some of the alternations i have made hardly make sense and that the characterisation is shallow in comparison to that of GRR Martin. I am writing as a distraction because i can't seem to get a singe word into the old stories i had been working on for some time, over an old draft that had been sitting in my computer for ages. I hope i don't dissapoint.
o
4. Sands of Dorne
'The words 'I am' are potent words; be careful what you hitch them to.
The thing you're claiming has a way of reaching back and claiming you.'
- AL Kitselman -
It seemed funny to think of it now, but Myrcella had been terrified of the Sand Snakes once. Oh, they weren't any less frightening now, but Myrcella was not so helpless as she'd once been. She'd had to live with them and be exposed to them quite a lot, and they had been instructed not to cause her harm but she soon learned that the Snakes had a loose interpretation of the concept of 'harm', and their own ways of putting commands to action. They had seemed so cruel to her at first and perhaps they even had been, but Myrcella had learned a great deal from them, even when she despised them; and learned even more, once she started to like them.
Perhaps she had not always been happy in Dorne, and sometimes it had been quite literally hell to live there (especially those couple of times when she had brushed against death and scented its shroud), but most of the time, she had been free as she never had been before, a difference Myrcella had appreciated fully only once she was sent back to King's Landing. It had been a strange form of punishment to go back to being a lady after having tasted the fierceness and seductive power of being only whatever you chose to be. Silk dresses had never felt more like irons.
Dorne had taught Myrcella many things, but the one she prized above all was the lesson of independence. Not the kind her mother so craved, the kind that was actually power and that Cercei fought tooth and nail to rip from the hands of men. Myrcella had learned a truer meaning of freedom: independence of the mind, of the heart, of the body and of her own will. She learned it from women that practiced it with every breath: the snakes and princess Arianne among them. Dornish women were taught obedience, respect and fulfilling the duty to their houses… and also that they were not second to their husbands, brothers, sons. They were only as good as their god given gifts allowed them to be. Myrcella had found that if you grew to believe that, to know it to be true in the depths of your heart and mind, then nobody could make you feel any less than what you were, not without your tacit permission1.
As she rode side by side with Sansa and Dacey, Myrcella watched as further ahead in the column, Obara and Elia argued about something or other while Nymeria looked at them and rolled her eyes from time to time, exchanging a word or two with Tyene (the only one of the Snakes that wore a dress even now) who, as always, looked like the Maid made flesh. Myrcella was too far from them to hear what they spoke of, but couldn't look at them without smiling.
She had been so happy when she saw Elia yesterday morning and her happiness only increased when Obara had found them. The tall woman had greeted her as loudly as ever, yelling across the camp 'Well, well, if it isn't the bastard princess herself!' as loudly as she always did, (but thankfully in dornish) and then embraced her hard enough to pop half her ribs, held her face between those wide, rough palms as she kissed her ruined cheek deliberately, right on her scar that marred it so, and then the other one.
Obara, the warrior. Hard as rock and just as strong. Quick as a snake and with a temper that had always reminded Myrcella of her mother, though she had never said that out loud or there would have been blood. Once Myrcella had thought her the most dangerous woman to have ever breathed, but she learned soon enough that Obara was quite safe once you learned to be quick enough to duck the hilt of her spear. She liked to practice, she always said. 'If you don't teach yourself to fight back, you might end up being second princess to be raped and murdered someday'. Obara had never minced her words and in time, Myrcella had learned to be grateful for it.
'I've brought you back a gift' she'd said, just a few moments after their greeting and practically dragged her to the dornish part of the army. Myrcella's heart had almost burst from happiness when she saw what Obara meant. She had brought back Sarabi, the Sand Steed that Myrcella had been gifted with years ago; the same that she had ridden across the Red Waste when the Darkstar had been chasing her down. Myrcella was convinced that that beautiful lean horse had saved her life that day – his swift legs were the reason she was escaped with only a scar on her cheek and a mangled ear. Had it not been for Sarabi, she would be missing a head too. The animal's fine coat of gold shone with brilliant health even in the dim grey sky of the north and when Myrcella had petted his white mane and beautiful narrow head, he had huffed and nudged her shoulder gently, and she could swear he had recognised her and been as happy to see her as Myrcella had been to see him. She had hugged Obara again then, much to the uncomfortableness of the older woman, and thanked her over and over until Obara had pushed her away with a 'Enough already' that was admittedly, spoken rather more softly than Obara had probably meant it to.
Lady Nym had greeted Myrcella as elegantly as always, giving her a kiss as light as a butterfly on each cheek. Tyene had embraced her with such grace that it made dancers look clumsy, and handed her a silken shawl that she had embroidered herself, she said, with a stag and a wolf, and the sun of Dorne uniting them. Irony was Tyene's favourite weapon, and backed with those wide innocent eyes, she could look the picture of naivety if Myrcella hadn't known better. Of course, the antidote to that was Elia and the way she rolled her eyes or snorted at it all, making Myrcella smile.
The Sand Snakes, Myrcella thought with a smile. Never had there been a more apt name.
As Myrcella looked them now, she realized that she saw home in Elia's smile and Obara's booming voice and perhaps that was why she was resting easy, why she felt so warm in their presence. They were something she knew and that she had missed. It was not about good and bad, it was about the familiar. She did not feel quite so alone anymore and the incident with the wolf seemed long ago even though it had happened only that morning. It became something that the Snakes had distracted her from (thankfully!); even Lady Nym and Tyene were a welcome sight, thought Myrcella had never been able to be truly close with either. And that was when it occurred to Myrcella that perhaps she had made her home in the sand and had not even realized until she was taken from there. What right had she had to feel so at home in Sunspear, nobody could possibly understand. Not many liked her there, and even fewer enjoyed her company. Most had delighted in trying to make her life harder with petty difficulties, and almost everyone had harboured her some resentment or another for imagined slights, or even real ones.
But she had had friends there as well, friends she had loved and who she believed had loved her back well enough to look for her after she was taken, friends who had missed her when she was gone and would have mourned her had she been dead. Few enough were these friends, Elia and Obara were the only ones Myrcella thought of as real, but that was no matter. Love was not a question of numbers. Love such as this that she felt was absolute: it either existed, or it did not. And when it did…
"They are… very different from what I imagined them to be."
Myrcella turns her head to Sansa, gives her a questioning look. "How did you imagine them?" She asks with a smile.
Sansa shrugs. "I'm not sure I imagined them at all, really. But they are so…"
Sansa lacks for a clear word and Myrcella feels her smile widen considerably. She could understand Sansa's hesitation. It was very hard to find one single word for the Oberyn's daughters. They are all so different from one another, and yet even those that know nothing of them could feel the string that ran invisible through those women, binding them together. Besides, it's difficult to even pinpoint the true nature of each of the Sand siblings, since they never show the full of it. Except for Obara, who is blunt as the swing of a war-hammer in everything she does, the Snakes never like to show the whole of the truth about themselves, since all of them have a predilection for surprising people. What you see is never what you get, where they are concerned.
"They are one of a kind." Myrcella says simply, and Sansa turns a contemplative eye to her.
"You were very happy to see them, weren't you?"
Myrcella smiled and nodded.
"Especially Lady Obara. I never would have thought you to like her so much. She is very… well, she is rather rough. Not at all like you."
Myrcella laughed, amused to no end by the hesitation in Sansa's tone.
"Oh yes, she is all edges, but we get along well enough." Myrcella responded, and her hand went to pat Sarabi's neck softly without her even being aware of it. The action drew Sansa's eye, and inevitably her curiosity as well. Being the lady that she was, Sansa did not ask, but Myrcella could see the interest in her eyes, so she indulged her.
"Sarabi was chosen from Lady Obara's herd, and gifted to me on my twelfth nameday by Prince Trystane of Sunspear." Myrcella said evenly, focusing only on the good, the happiness she'd felt back then.
Sansa's reddish lips formed a small 'Oh' Of understanding and she nodded. "He is a beautiful animal. Even I can see that." She said then.
Myrcella smiled. "Yes he is. Obara was very kind to have brought him back to me. We've had all kinds of adventures, Sarabi and I."
She'd have to take care with him, Myrcella thought as she watched Sarabi's breath come out of his nose and turn to vapour from the cold. He was a Sand Steed, bred to survive the stifling hotness of the desert as well as the sharp cold of the mountains, but not even the harshest mountain-winter in Dorne could compare to the cold of the north. If he did not do well up where they were doing, Myrcella had already decided that she would send him back to Dorne with the Snakes. She wanted him with her, but she did not want him to suffer needlessly.
"Adventures? That sounds exiting."
Sansa's voice distracted Myrcella from her thoughts and she turned to the princess with wide eyes of surprise for a moment. She thought about riding harshly across the desert, death on her heel, thought about Sarabi's pearly-white mane so soaked in her blood that that it had taken several washings for it to get out…
It took a couple of blinks for Myrcella to get hold of herself and smile. She knew it looked strained, as she knew that Sansa could probably tell by the sheer look on her face that those adventures had not been of the happy kind at all.
"Lady Tyene seems like a very sweet and gentle lady." Sansa said, somewhat hastily, and Myrcella was against surprised by the princess' perceptiveness. The diversion worked – her dark thoughts were banished, but only because she was amused at Sansa's choice of distraction: if one wanted light-hearted, Tyene looked like the perfect choice, but few knew how that was part of the deception.
Tyene, the sweet summer strawberry…
"Yes, she seems that way, doesn't she. Pure as the first snow of winter." -while being as treacherous as the quicksands of Dorne. Sansa caught the irony in Myrcella's voice and raised an eyebrow, begging for explanation.
Sansa leaned in close. "But look at her. She seems so…"
Myrcella smiled, honest amusement in her face as she looked over at Sansa. "You underestimate her. Don't. She is a master when it comes to poisons, you'd never even feel the prickle if she decides she wants you dead. But you'd still die." Myrcella looked out into the horizon, thinking back to the heat of the desert and the dornish sun on her skin. "If you look into her eyes long enough, you'll see the viper in her too."
Sansa looked shocked for a short moment, and then pensive for several others. Myrcella could understand why. Looking at Tyene with her clear azure gown, so modest and simple, with her pale hair and clear eyes, it was so easy to mistake her for the most modest and gentle of maids. Myrcella had never known Tyene's true nature despite the long years living with her. The only thing she did know for sure about the blonde viper was her father's daughter and the most treacherous of the Snakes because she was the best liar.
"You… don't like her, do you?" Sansa tried, looking at Myrcella long, trying no doubt to pick apart her thoughts.
"Oh, on the contrary, I like her very much." Myrcella said with a brilliant smile that no doubt confused the northern princess. But then she decided that she would speak truthfully.
"She saved my life." And Myrcella traced her scar, and watched understanding down in Sansa's blue eyes. "She stitched me up, and took care of me. Made sure the wound did not get infected and that I lived through it. She was my healer for three weeks, hardly leaving my side. I owe her a great deal - and half my face as well, because had it not been for her, this scar would look much worse than it does now."
Sansa nodded, and kept her silence for a long time, watching straight ahead as they rode. It was almost an hour or so later that the princess thought about continuing the conversation and Myrcella knew her well enough by now to understand that this was her way. Sansa's mind was never quiet and even when she kept her peace, her mind picked apart any problem it faced carefully and in solitude. Perhaps it was the result of having only herself for a confidante for long years while she was kept in the Red Keep.
"Dorne must be so very different from the rest of the seven kingdoms." Sansa said, and there was no judgment in her tone, only a strange contemplation.
"It is different is some ways and just the same in others. But women have more advantages there than they do anywhere else. They are not as free as they should like, but they are undoubtedly freer than in the rest of the seven kingdoms." But then again it was also true that even in Dorne, the Sand daughters of Oberyn Martell were a rarity. "But the Snakes owe their way of life to their father: He wanted them to be able to take care of themselves and encouraged independence where other fathers teach obedience."
"And you were raised with them." Sansa observed in a friendly open-ended manner, looking at Myrcella in a curious way that made the princes smile.
Myrcella laughed, delighted.
"I'm not one of the Sand Snakes Sansa. But I learned much from them, that is true. They taught me how to survive the world."
Sansa looked at her for a long moment, and Myrcella knew that something was turning behind those blue eyes. It was her turn to raise her brows in question.
"What is it?"
"I was just remembering how you looked when you came back to court." Sansa said slowly, confirming Myrcella's suspicion. Myrcella left the silence lay, waiting for what Sansa would chose to say. There were many ways one could describe her return to court, depending on what kind of eyes had witnessed it.
"You looked like nothing could touch you." Sansa said, her eyes darkening for a fraction, her expression grave as she went through memories of the past. Her smile was small and thin but her eyes were so focused that Myrcella had to wonder how nobody had noticed the steel in this girl, her incredible grit. (perhaps that had been why Sansa always looked down, never meeting anyone's eye, while she was in King's Landing.) "Even when it was horrible, you still looked like you were above it all."
That's only pride, Sansa, Myrcella wanted to say. She had been stubborn because her life had been the only thing she had had to lose and her life was precisely what Joffrey would never take away from her. She had been so angry at him, at all of them. Angry enough to be reckless, thoughtless enough to fight back. It was sick and twisted, but after years and years of not seeing him and he not seeing her, it seemed that Joffrey could not look at her and see a sister anymore. It made her stomach roll whenever she thought of her parents in that light. She could never understand it, but she refused to judge her mother and father, even when she most resented them - the whole world did just fine in that without her. But thinking of Joffrey turning that way, having those kind of thoughts about her and feeling somehow justified in having them, that unleashed nothing but violence in Myrcella. Violence and disgust at her brother and mother and father. It made her feel tainted to her bones, in a way that no scalding bath could ever cleanse. And they had made her that way. The two people that gave her life, gave her a curse to bear as well: a life borne from such twisted, selfish love could only be a half life - the world would see to that, and it had, repeatedly.
But this was too heavy a topic for this moment. And it always would be.
"I still think that Lady Tyene looks too delicate and pious to be truly dangerous." Sansa said, instantly drawing Myrcella way from her dark thoughts – something for which the princess was immensely grateful, which was why she so readily took to the light tone Sansa had set and smiled at the Winter Princess.
"Oh that's the beauty of it. Nobody expects her to pull out to dagger and slice their balls off. And she does it with such grace too."
Sansa looked at her with wide eyes for a moment before she started to laugh, drawing heads their way. When Myrcella noticed that the King too had been watching, she looked away immediately, the smile feeling frozen on her lips.
ooo
Myrcella had been expecting the outburst. Obara was nothing if not aggressive and direct and Myrcella knew her friend too well not to notice the anger, the fury, growing in those dark eyes of hers, swelling like a storm at every slight. And Myrcella knew that she was not angry at the men who disrespected her or muttered behind her back loud enough for any to hear. It was with Myrcella's passiveness to all of it that Obara was furious. 'Your 'pretty princess' face' she used to call it. 'Do you think it will ever save you? Do you think the world will care you have a royal cunt when it tramples you?'
Back then, Myrcella had not known there was more inside her than that, she had not had claws and sharp teeth to protect herself with. Now she did, but she held back. And that was what was driving Obara to a near rage that boiled so close to the surface Myrcella was wondering how Obara didn't scald the people that passed her by. Admittedly, all those who had even an inkling of her lethal temper stayed well away, but even knowing how lethal Obara's temper could be Myrcella didn't shy from it; she would not be cowered because there was not even an ounce of shame inside her that Myrcella might wish to hide. She was perfectly aware of what she was doing, which was why she met the heat of that fire chin-up whenever Obara's eyes clashed with hers and Myrcella warned the warrior woman silently to be still, to be quiet, to let it pass.
It had been three days since the incident with the wolf, Arya Stark had apologised stiffly in plain view of almost half the camp, the King had enquired after her health and Sansa divided her time between her family and Myrcella while Myrcella was always in Elia's company and (now more rarely) Obara's.
One night a faceless soldier had made a bawdy jape about a girl and a missing ear (a tired one, truthfully, it hadn't even been that funny) and Obara's eyes had burned her. 'Do something!' that look screamed. 'Do something, don't stand there, useless. Slit their throats, cut their cocks, shove 'em down their mouths till they choke on 'em!'. But Myrcella kept walking by, pretended not to hear, not to see, a smile on her face as she traded japes back and forth with Elia. Obara had walked off into the night without a word, fuming up like boiling water, that angry stride of hers setting her apart even here among men of war. She had gotten into a fight after, broke a few bones and a couple of noses. Myrcella had known that was not the end of it: Obara was not one to waste her energy on people who were not the target of her rage. And in this instance, the target was the mutilated princess that the soldiers made fun of.
The eruption came on a crisp morning when Myrcella was riding with Sansa and Elia, Dacey never too far behind them. Myrcella had been listening to Elia tell her about her sisters and how Dorea had all the makings of warrior, when Obara rode close to them so recklessly fast that it spooked their horses. By her side Dacey tensed immediately, but she didn't draw steel and for that Myrcella was grateful.
"Why do you do this?" Obara asked trough gritted teeth, biting the words together like she wanted to rip the syllables to shreds. Thankful for small mercies, Myrcella was relieved that at least, Obara had chose to have this conversation in dornish. "Why do you not react to them."
"Because I must show care in all I do here and tread lightly, at least for now." Until I know who I'm dealing with.
Myrcella spoke calmly and for the same calmness that answered her, Obara became twice more enraged. Her stallion reacted, twisting his neck to the way Obara twisted the rains in her hands.
"Release the reins Obara, you're hurting the poor beast."
Obara's sneer was painful to watch. "Oh you feel for the poor beast, but not for yourself? They humiliate you, speak of you like some common whore with no honour and you walk on by, like a fool. You think your grace and charm will do you good here? You think they care about that horseshit?"
"They don't. I know that, but I can't just-"
Obara growled at her, barring teeth like they were daggers. "Then why? Why do you hide behind that ridiculous, useless façade?" and she paced her horse forward, her black stallion's neigh making Sarabi retreat a couple of paces. Myrcella held up her hand to stop Dacey from doing anything but form the corner of her eyes she could see that they were attracting too much attention, and her heart started fluttering behind the iron grip she held on her temper.
"Being the princess never did you much good in Dorne, it won't work here among these northerners either. They will never respect you if you keep being so weak! They will only despise you more for it, just like I did."
"Obara, stop this at once." Elia's voice came, the sternness in it very alike to Obara's own, but Myrcella knew that would do no good.
"What would you have me do, Obara?" because this was the question Obara most wanted her to ask, so Myrcella gave in, if only so that she could be done with this as soon as she possibly could.
The moment the words left her lips, Obara's feral grin stretched her face into a bloodthirsty expression that Myrcella knew well. "Show them you are fire and venom! That you'll set their winter aflame! Show them who you really are!"
"I can't." and this time Myrcella's steel was a match for Obara's flame. "This is not Dorne and I cannot afford to think only as a warrior here."
"I doubt they will hate you with any more passion than you were hated in Dorne."
"I was nobody's wife in Dorne!" Myrcella snapped, unable to control her voice rising, even if it was just barely. She took a deep breath to even out her nerves and straightened a little more on Sarabi's back. But not for a moment did she retreat her eyes from Obara's and faced that scorching anger with her coolest determination. "Do you have any idea what he could do to me? If something about me, anything, offends him even more than my presence here already does? He is the King, and he is to be my husband… he could rape and torment me to his liking to the end of my days-" and there it was, the blow that drained even Obara's gorgeous olive skin of colour, proof of how much of an animal she was being speaking of this, but Myrcella had to shock some sense into Obara soon or she would go on until it was too late. "-and nobody would ever lift a finger to stop him. I am on my own here and I always will be, so don't speak to me of weakness. This is not some pageant to be won, this is my life. Until I know how to tread around him, I will tread lightly and make my way with wits, and not with fire and steel."
The silence that fell was gritting, it was a horrible thing because it stretched. Dacey looked at them, confusion awash on her face and Elia had gone as pale as death. Even Sansa seemed terribly tense as she watched between Obara and Myrcella like she expected one of them to jump on the other's throat.
But Obara would do no such thing. As if it was a live animal that Obara carried around her back, Myrcella could see her temper receding, cooling.
"You fear him…" the words were strange coming from Obara's lips, and Myrcella could imagine how she was struggling with hat idea – the words themselves came haltingly from her, as if she was testing their constitution on her tongue. Fearing a man for the simple sake that he was a man was incomprehensible to Obara, and rightly so, but Myrcella felt sure that her warrior friend was missing the point: she did not dread Robb Stark because he was a man, but because he was King, and Kings often got it in their heads that there was nothing they could want that they could not have. Experience had taught Myrcella that that meant only woe for their wives…
"Well you're wrong." Obara said then, with much more conviction.
Myrcella felt the first signs of tiredness. Gods, but Obara could drain you of energy in five minutes flat. "Obara…"
"I have fought and bled beside that man you will call husband and though he not Trystane, he is not Fat Robert either, and he sure as fuck is not your vicious cunt of a brother."
No, he is Ned Stark's son, Myrcella thought, and I am Cercei Lannister's daughter. An uglier match could not have been made even in the deepest pit of the seventh hell.
"And believe me when I say, he will like you better when you show some spirit. Northerners are suspicious of too much charm, you ought to know that by now."
I do know, she thought despite herself. But it was something else worrying her. Myrcella frowned, heartbeat clapping in her breast. She knew all too well that smile that was stretching Obara's lips. It wasn't the feral grin of death. This was worse.
"Whatever you think you're going to do, don't do it." She warned.
Obara leaned a bit forward. "And how do you propose to stop me?"
"Please don't."
But just when Myrcella expected Obara to say something else, she spurned her stallion and trotted away from her and towards the front of the column.
"Your grace!" Obara's voice carried like a thunderclap in Myrcella's ears and it sent Myrcella's blood into ice that scratched at her veins. The King's company had been so close too, close enough that Obara's next good-humoured words carried to Myrcella's ears and she thought her heart stopped truly this time. "Has anyone ever told you that the dornish can fly, your grace?"
Gods, what is she doing?
But the King turned towards Obara and there was an amused smile on his face, one that Myrcella had never seen before.
"Myrcella, what is the matter?" Sansa enquired, an edge to her voice that was no fear. It was anger. She was angry with Obara, of course she was. She could not know of course, the details of their conversation.
"Nothing. All is well."
"Please Myrcella. You've turned so pale."
"Have I?"
"Must be the strain of not giving in and throttling Obara when you had the chance Myr." Elia put in with a shaky smile that Myrcella mirrored, if only to appease Sansa a little.
All the while not missing the conversation happening some yards away amidst jest and laughter. Prince Oberyn seemed to support his daughter and they all knew that once the red Viper wanted something there was little that could stand in his way except a natural disaster.
"What was she so angry about? I thought she would strike you." Dacey asked, and Myrcella noticed that it was only now that the warrior Mormont decided it was safe enough to remove her hand from the hilt of her sword.
"Obara would never strike me, Lady Mormont." Myrcella said and there was the kind of assuredness on her tone that left no room for doubt. Obara had never laid a hand on her outside the practice rig. "She was however very cross at me for my passivity to the various jests that the men see fit to pass around every once in a while. I assured her that none of it offended me. Soldiers have their own ways of diverting themselves."
From the corner of her eye, she saw Dacey fidget a little with the reigns.
"Obara does not believe much in patience you see. She thinks it's best to tackle problems head on." Myrcella said with one of her usual smiles. It was an explanation that would satisfy those that did not know Obara very well, and it seemed to work. Sansa relaxed, Dacey straightened in her saddle.
"She does look like the type to prefer more… direct confrontations." Sansa said then, if only to be polite. Elia covered for Myrcella's silence by diving on a tale of Obara's duel with some knight of the Red Mountains and diverting the attention away from Myrcella – who was too busy looking ahead at Obara and the King, hoping against hope that what she feared would not…
It was when Obara turned her triumphant smile to her that Myrcella knew she had been hoping in vain. Obara trotted her horse back and Myrcella inhaled and exhaled slowly.
"There are fields so vast beyond those hills over there, that they reach further than the eye can see. And I want to outrace the wind. What do you say?"
The challenge was there in those dark eyes and Myrcella cursed in her head. Of all the asinine things to concoct …
Why was it that Obara was one of the few people that were actually capable of appealing to Myrcella's vanity in a way that she could not say no to? It was most troublesome, especially now. Especially when offered was the possibility of something Myrcella loved doing, and something she was so good at, after days and days of boredom and slow marching.
But she had cautioned herself towards patience…
Obara saw exactly what was the seed of her conflict.
"Don't you trust me, Myr?" she asked softly, so softly that it shocked all those about her, with a small smile that made her harsh face look almost sweet.
…he will like you better when you show some spirit.
"I do trust you."
Obara's grin was instantaneous. "Then trust me. Come."
Obara spurred her stallion and Myrcella didn't think about it anymore. She followed.
ooo
He saw them ride, dethatching themselves from the main column and towards the fields ahead. Saw that they had shed their cloaks and extra weight off the saddle, wrapped shawls around their noses and mouths so that the cold air of the north wouldn't chill their lungs. They aligned side by side and then the real speed started to show, when they started to push their horses faster and faster and even as they rode away Robb still heard the sound of their laughter in his ears.
They were very strange, those women. Proud and defiant, but that did not mean Robb did not enjoy watching them ride downhill and then across the plains, pushing each other for a win. He could easily recognise Obara – she was the one that spurned her horse with a rod so hard that the animal would soon find himself a bloody side. 'The dornish can fly, your grace. We ride the wind' she'd said, that cocksure grin on her face. And what could a man say to that?
Lady Tyene's pale hair was easily recognisable even with that scarf around her head. But then he saw a second flash of gold, and no, it was not from one of the horse's coat, it was the rider and that was when all lightness left him. He thought to himself 'no it can't be'… but one look behind him and he saw Sansa standing alone, watching the race with fascination and a touch of fright and he knew that 'yes, yes it is' even before Dacey met his eyes with an apology – she had been just coming to notify him it seemed.
Robb snapped his eyes towards the race, found that horse with a coat of pale gold and narrowed his gaze at it. She was down there in the vast plains, riding like a shade out of the gates of hell, and even catching up to Obara's black stallion, the animals head to head until she managed to surpass it, and then gain and gain distance as she went, horse and rider a blur. He watched, and felt the prickle on anxiety in his breast. One tiny mistake, a heel not positioned well enough, a little shift, a misplaced rock, and she'd fall and break her neck and then it would be hell. Had she not been thinking about that when she decided that she wanted to show everyone the meaning of haste2? Irritation flared within him more strongly, but Robb controlled it. He was being unreasonable, that voice inside him whispered, one that usually sounded like his mother. Have some sense Robb, she would not engage into such activity if she were not proficient at it.
And she was, proficient at it that is. Oh hells, he might as well admit the full of it: the girl could be part horse for all the skill she had! And it was obvious she liked the speed and danger of it. Nobody quite sane would, but she did… And there the surprise - not because she was capable of that kind of ability, but that she would enjoy such a thing. The princess had not seemed to him like someone that would like the wind ruining her hair, or anything involving even minor perspiration. But then again, he had little to no idea what went on underneath that royal flesh of hers. She so rarely acted like a real person that one could be surprised the wind could move her hair out of place at all.
But he'd just been proven wrong after all. There was a person under there and he'd known that – found it out in a very unpleasant way just a few days ago when his carelessness brought her to inconsolable tears. The memory still made something in him shrink a tiny bit, but it was hard to concentrate on that when even from a distance her huge grin was visible, the colour on her cheeks high and some messy curls that had escaped her braid were framing her face like a wild halo. One look at her from head to foot and Robb found himself wondering how come he had never noticed that underneath that heavy fur-lined cloak, the princess of the Iron Throne dressed like a dornish rider, with their characteristically loose breeches tucked in thick high boots and long overcoat that split down the middle. Those were chinks in her armour, and from between them felt that he was looking at the girl he was to marry for the first time, instead of seeing a shade at some far shore, hidden away from him by politeness and manners.
Obara said something to her and she threw her head back and laughed – he heard it, they were getting closer; her laughter full and careless, it made her sound every bit as young as she was and completely at odds with her dignified bearing and composure. But Obara didn't seem to appreciate the princes' mirth (Robb could only presume it was at her own expense): she swung that spurning rod at the princesses head, perhaps a little too fast to be good-natured – no surprise there, Obara was no such thing – and instead of ducking her head, the Princess raised her hand and caught the blow full on her gloved palm, giving the rod a twist and a tug and pulled it out of the Snakes hand and tossed it somewhere out in the grass. That actually made Robb smile for a moment, despite the utter surprise he felt watching it. It was the kind of thing Arya would do. And that look on her face, the mischievous tilt of her smile, and the teasing light in her eyes…
"Congratulations princess." He heard himself say even before he realized he'd made up his mind to speak. But he had, and the second he'd seen how happiness lit her up from within, he decided that he would not speak a single word of reprimand to her… at least not this time.
The princess' smile fell a bit – not on her lips, but it was her eyes that instantly sobered as they always did when they fell on him - and Robb was disappointed to see it, but the glow of happiness did not entirely fade from her.
"Thank you, your grace." She said simply as she fidgeted to get her hair unto some resemblance of order (and it didn't escape his notice that she flattened her hair against that which was supposed to be her missing ear, so that there wouldn't be even the chance of a glimpse). But she was still smiling and she still meant it. It was so different from those other smiles he'd seen on her face that it was a wonder to see.
"Yes, she won. So payment where its due Obara." Lady Nym said as she drew closer, and even she seemed mused by the race. Obara grumbled but she still produced a sheathed blade from nowhere and before and before Robb could even catch the details of it she threw it – threw it! – at the princess, who to his relief, caught the thing easily.
"Thank you, my lady." The princess said most courteously, but there was something there, a glint in her eye, that little curl of her lips that made the words into an instant joke.
Obara scowled. "Stop gloating quirt, it doesn't suit you."
"Ah, but you love it so." And now the teasing in the princess' voice was plain as day and Even Robb was smiling at Obara's antics. "After all, you taught me how."
The snakes chuckled and Obara herself rolled her eyes, before Robb felt them on his person, that calculating dark gaze always setting his teeth on edge as if it was an open challenge.
"Isn't it common up here that when someone wins something, they get a crown of flowers or some such nonsense?"
Robb raised a single eyebrow at her but it was the Princess' reaction that most amused him: she almost choked on her breath and covered it up with a cough, but it was plain that she'd rather laugh than hide it.
It was lady Tyene who kept her composure long enough to speak when the others were so busy trying not to laugh in Obara's face. "Forgive her, your grace. Your northern air has played some strange trick on her brain and my sister seems to have forgotten her manners entirely."
The little one snorted. "Or she would have, had she had any to begin with." She muttered close to the princess who pursed her lips even more tightly and looked down.
"Oh to hell with the lot of ya. Except for you your grace, of course." She said then looking at Robb.
"Of course." He said laconically, but didn't keep the smile off his face
He joined his guard and the Snakes joined the second column where they had been before, their jesting getting more rowdy and free as Robb trotted his horse away from them. But when he turned out of impulse, to get a last look at the princess, it was not the back of her golden head he found, but her green eyes instead, staring back into his as if she'd had the same thought. and this time, for the very first time, there was the shadow of a smile on her lips as she looked at him and had he not know better, he would have said that the expression was mirrored in his own face before he turned his head away.
ooo
"I told you! Didn't I tell you?"
"Alright, alright, you told me. What do you want, a shrine in your honour?" but despite the quick reply, Myrcella was smiling from ear to ear, taking care not to meet anyone's eye and instead fixing her gaze on Sarabi's mane. He'd almost smiled at her. It was so faint that had she not been paying attention, she would have missed it, but she was all too familiar with the hard, unyielding expression of his face to ever miss it when it softened even a little bit.
"I'll give him a day at most, before he comes to seek you out." Obara said proudly, as if the whole thing was her own concoction… which it was, admittedly, in the ways that mattered. Had it been up to her, Myrcella would have never given such a spectacle of herself.
"I would show care though, Myr." Lady Nym said in her deep voice that always managed to sound beckoning even to Myrcella's ears. She turned to look Nymeria in the face and found that those rich smoky-grey eyes of hers were fixed and studying her with careful intent. "Do not play it too much like a game; the King has a very keen eye for deception and if you try to play him, he will sense it – and he won't thank you for it."
Myrcella shook her head. "I'm not trying to seduce him or fool him into thinking me something I'm not. I just…" Myrcella took a deep breath and reordered her thoughts. "It would be nice to know him, even a little. Have a conversation with him. And perhaps on my wedding night, I won't feel as if I'm letting a stranger in my bed."
The silence lingered or a few moments, until Obara broke it. "Not to be married to a stranger is the highest of happiness you can hope for…" she said, as if testing the admission, and Myrcella gave her a resigned look. Obara sighed, shaking her head. "Fuck, but I'm glad I'm a bastard and nobody claims otherwise. I don't think I ever thanked my father for that one."
Myrcella laughed and the girls joined in. But it was not a laugh with a light heart. Immediately her brain went into that direction, the one that for pain, she never allowed herself fully to explore. But her thoughts were split open when Obara turned to her, looking at her fiercely and full of purpose, a grin stretching her full lips and giving her the looks of a maniac if only for a moment.
"You know, I can't wait until you have your first child. I want to see you as a mother." She said, stunning Myrcella and even her sisters who fancied themselves used to her abruptness. Obara's grin turned even more wicked. "Somehow I can't imagine you as anything less than feral for your children. Motherhood will suit you beautifully."
And just that was all she said before she spurned her horse forward and tracked away in a gallop, leaving Myrcella wondering how in the seven hells she could respond to someone whose thoughts followed patters that no live being could track.
"You know, I've always thought that too much sun on the head was the cause of these kinds of declarations, but now I know the truth: she's just plain, old-fashioned mad."
Myrcella shared a look with Elia that managed to be serious only for half a moment, before both burst out laughing.
ooo
In the end, she didn't have to wait that long to speak with the King, for he came to find her the very next day.
It was barely even dawn, the sky a pale, unwilling grey as the sun tried to fill the world with daylight even through the stubborn clouds. As was her way, Myrcella had been up the very moment the chill of a new day had settled. She had dressed quietly and snuck out of her tent to where the horses were kept, brush in hand, and dry apples and a couple of carrots in the pockets of her cloak. Sarabi neighed when he caught sight of her shape and she presented him with her offers to keep him quiet. With an ungloved hand she petted him long beautiful face, humming under her breath and speaking to him in whispers about nothing in particular as she brushed him down. The repetitive motion calmed her, always had, and the feel of Sarabi's smooth coat, the warmth of him alive under her hands had always reassured her. She liked taking care of him, liked knowing that whatever being belonged to her was loved and taken care of.
But when Sarabi neighed and shook his head, hitting the ground with his hooves to get her attention, Myrcella knew that she was no longer alone. She spun fast, immediately tense, but then she found herself face to face with the King in the North and for a moment, blankness reigned in her mind. Until she willed her limbs to loosen and her knees to bend so that she could courtesy in front of him.
"Your grace, good morning."
He didn't say anything for a moment and under his stare she felt the cold even more than before. He was such a hard man that it was difficult to connect to him the image she had of the boy waiting with his family in Winterfell's courtyard. When he did speak, he didn't bother at all with the pleasantries though.
"It's barely morning yet. Are you always such an early riser?"
Myrcella was discomfited by his so familiar approach, but only for a moment. She was nothing if not adaptable.
"Yes, I am." She said… and then thought about adding something more, something more personal that would not sound as if it could have come from anyone's lips. "I like the quiet of the early hours."
His face seemed to soften a little, as he considered that, and he stepped closer. Myrcella put her hand on Sarabi's neck to calm him, knowing he would not welcome the King's closeness.
"I imagine the Red Keep does not offer much of quietness, you have to get it where you can."
Myrcella blinked once, stunned. "Y-yes that was…" that was what had always driven her to rise with the very first light and walk about the keep when silence was at its best. But that had been game she had played as a child. And in Sunspear had been the same. "I used to rise early and walk the halls of the main keep before anyone else got about. It felt like an adventure."
And how silly it must sound to him now, or why on earth she had said such a thing… perhaps it had been nerves.
"I have never been too fond of early mornings." He admitted then, one corner of his lips curling upwards in a small smile that softened his features so astonishingly that Myrcella could not help but look at him full in the face for a few moments… and then immediately look down, having caught herself staring. The silence between them would have stretched farther had Sarabi not huffed and shaken his head, making it seem as if he was ready to trample on the King at any moment. Myrcella put both hands on his neck and tried to soothe him, since she could not very well tell the King that he needed to step away.
"He does not like strangers, does he?" he King asked, having stepped away out of his own volition, something for which Myrcella was thankful for. But then she caught the humorous note in his voice and decided to tempt fate.
"Perhaps he can smell your wolf on you." She said with a small smile… and to her immense relief, the lopsided approximation of a smile on the King's face widened a fraction.
"Yes, perhaps." And then, fixing his ice-blue eyes on her, he asked her without much preamble. "Would you walk with me, Princess?"
Myrcella was caught so off guard that she might as well have tripped over is words. She needed to relax and find her centre again, but no matter how hard she tried it seemed that it took the King no effort at all to push her out of balance every time. It was with a strange sense of unease with herself, that Myrcella realized that she felt so ill at ease because even the few words they had exchanged so far had felt a little looser, not quite so ensnared by the bounds of propriety and manners that required her to have a twenty-word vocabulary.
Myrcella realized that she had yet to answer to him, and she felt her cheeks burn with a blush that was surely heating them even in this cold, as the words stumbled out f her mouth, a little too fast for them not to betray her nerves.
"Yes, of course, your grace."
She took his arm and he directed them through the woods near their encampment, his guards following from afar. Though she had imagined this moment, hoped for a chance to get a better feel of who this man was, Myrcella had no idea how to speak to him. her mind felt numb as it rarely had before. Had it been anyone else, she would have known perhaps what to say, or maybe she would not have been so unsure, but this was not just anyone. This was the man that she was supposed to marry and he was the first man that she found herself afraid of after so much time. It had been years since she was a child and the last man she feared was Joffrey. She did not fear him anymore. She had not feared the Darkstar, not even when he slashed her. She had had no time for fear then, only for life and she had fought for it with teeth and nails and rage.
But here she was, with a man that seemed as cold and hard as the lands he was from, and he frightened her, not because he was scary, but because life with him sounded like a barren wasteland - and that was where her fear sparked. She did not want to become her mother, that more than anything was the heart of her dread.
But she reminded herself that she had a little hope. Just a little, a ghost of a smile.
"Are you in the habit of grooming your horse yourself?"
His voice startled her, so long had they been quiet. She had not even seen where he was taking her, so engrossed she had been in her own thoughts. His question felt random, as if he had been trying to find one that would do and finally given up on the obvious, but Myrcella was glad for his choice. Sarabi was a good topic, she could speak of him however much the King wished.
"I… I like taking care of him. He is very well-behaved with me, and I think he likes the sound of my voice."
"Yes, I imagine he would."
Myrcella tried not to look up at him as he said that, it would have been too obvious. But she so wanted to know what he meant by that…
But then again, did it matter?
"Do you always speak to him in dornish?" and then he looked down at her, a frown on his face, one of uncertainty "That was dornish you were speaking, wasn't it?"
Myrcella nodded. "Yes. He is used to taking commands in that language and I doubt he would understand them in the common tongue."
"And the speed he is capable of is remarkable. I have never seen a horse ride so fast. From a distance you were both a blur." He stopped and Myrcella felt his eyes on her, so she looked up to meet them… and found that his scrutiny, even when it was not as coldly appraising as it had been before, was still just as uncomfortable. She was not used to being stared at so boldly and the intensity in his eyes made her skin itch with unease. But she did not look away.
Perhaps even something as innocuous-sounding as horses was not a quiet topic to discuss…
"My compliments to you, princess, for your skill with him."
Myrcella found it hard to swallow. "Thank you, your grace."
There was something in his eyes then, something that made her think he was about to tease her, but it seemed such an impossibility…
"I doubt you learned to ride like that in the Red Keep."
Myrcella snorted softly before she could catch herself and instantly she felt the heat of embarrassment warm her cheeks… again.
Was she to be perpetually red-faced then?
"Forgive me. No I did not." Her mother would truly start spouting wildfire if she ever learned that Myrcella pushed her horse faster than a light trot. "Obara and Elia taught me how to ride desert horses. They are both wonderful horsewomen, much better than I ever will be."
"And yet you won the race yesterday."
"I did, but that is because Sarabi is the fastest horse most have ever seen. I take little credit, just that I am able not to get in his way." Myrcella was quick to explain.
"Sarabi?"
"Yes, that is the name I have given him." and then, after remembering that he could not possibly know, she explained. "It means Dawn."
She saw him nod and then a strange expression came on his face, but she did to know how to read it, nor could she, since she could not very well study him for as long as she liked. Keeping her eyes head seemed a safer option.
"I forget, must I present you with a gift as well for your winning, as Obara suggested?"
Myrcella was too horrified to catch the teasing in his tone.
"Of course not! She was speaking in jest, your grace. I would never presume…"
But then, as the words left her lips she caught his expression and realized he was speaking lightly, even though his tone did not give to it. It was in his eyes, Myrcella was surprised to find, that most of his humour concentrated. And she would gladly admit that whenever he made an effort, he did not seem to her quite so dour as he first had, and in those occasions, his features reminded her more of Sansa and he did not seem quite so much like the shade of Eddard Stark only with different colouring.
"I have a feeling Obara Sand doesn't know how to jest, princess." The King suggested. This time Myrcella knew enough to keep her tone light.
"Oh she does! It's just that people don't understand it because her japes are never particularly funny."
The King hummed. "Yes, more on the barbed side. Obara's sense of humour matches Obara herself, I suppose."
Myrcella felt her smile widen. "Indeed."
"You are close, are you not?"
Myrcella shot him a questioning glance. "With Obara?"
The king only nodded.
"Yes we are. Most find it strange, but it's true."
"I cannot seem to be able to picture the circumstances that would allow it." he said, so honestly that Myrcella had to smile, even though she did so with sadness – one that was easily overwhelmed by the gladness she felt in this moment for this easy conversation.
"The circumstances were drastic, I admit, but I am glad they made us friends. Obara is the very best of friends to have."
Silence fell again, but this time it did not stretch as long.
"Did you learn to speak dornish while you were in Sunspear? Or was it before that?"
Myrcella sighed internally in relief. Another safe topic! The King seemed to be much more proficient at delicacy than she had first given him credit for. She was not foolish enough to think that these choices of discourse were random, and she was thankful for his consideration.
"I learned when I was in Dorne." Learning the language of the dornishmen had been the only way to understand anything since all behaved as if the common tongue offended them – at least around her. Without meaning to, Myrcella was reminded of Trystane and how he had sat for hours on end with her in the Watergardens, or in the pools of Sunspear, and taught her how to speak the foreign language himself, laughing when she got the words wrong, but never ill-naturedly. That was how their friendship had started. Slow and warm and full of laughter… and as she thought of it now, and of him, the sadness in her breast became a gaping wound. "I suppose it's not too bold to admit that nobody in the Red Keep considered learning dornish a priority."
"No, not bold. Honest though. What was that other language you were speaking last night with lady Nymeria?"
He had heard them? Myrcella had felt him watching but had not turned for a moment, not wanting to meet his eyes. But now it was different, and now she wanted to see his meaning. Myrcella looked up to search his face and found true curiosity in his eyes, giving them a different light, a softer edge. It flickered in his expression, as if he were unsure perhaps, and it was only now that it occurred her that he might be as doubtful about her as she was about him.
"Lady Nym's mother is a noblewoman of Volantis, they speak valyrian there. I learned some when I was a child. My septa seemed to be under the conviction that learning to recite poetry in valyrian was a skill a lady could not live without."
Myrcella thought she covered her real feelings on the matter quite carefully. Her tone had been as blank as it could have without giving away rudeness, but apparently, it was not enough to fool him. He chuckled, and the surprising warmth of it made Myrcella look up at him, at the expression on his face as he stared ahead and then turned to looked at her.
"I take it that you did not agree then?"
"I… it was lovely, of course, but… I have always enjoyed reading about history better. Poetry always seemed to me too much like play-pretend." Whereas history of war and battles and duels were much more real, and felt more exiting. Tommen always loved hearing about them. He wanted to be a knight, like uncle Jamie.
"Sansa always loved reading us poetry. And Arya would rather do battle than read about it. You seem to have unique preferences, princess. At least they seem so to me. But then again, I've never met a princess before."
Myrcella didn't know what to say to that – didn't even fully understand what he meant with it - so she kept her peace.
"So, you like riding, you like history and you like languages." He said then, and there was something very open ended about that observation, as if he expected her to say something.
Was that amusement in his eyes?
"I like learning new things." Myrcella said tentatively. "My uncle Tyrion always said that the greatest freedom was that of the mind, because it's the only thing nobody can take away from you."
The silence that greeted her words made her look at him again, and that was when she caught her mistake. She has spoken too rashly it seemed and had undone that lightness between them that had been so pleasant with the strike of one careless word. Any mention of her family was forbidden, because it brought such a hard look on his face that she should be very sorry to see it again. But apologizing for it would be worse, Myrcella suspected.
"I suppose your uncle is right. Everything else is easily forfeited." The King said slowly and Myrcella understood, once silence came again, that the topic was closed and that he was not going to make mention of her uncle again. She supped he saw it as a great favour that he had overlooked her slip of the tongue. Myrcella tried not to sigh. To live among the northerners, she would have to become a different person, but she could not bleed out the blood than flowed in her veins, nor could she change her appearance to please them, or her heritage. She could not be who she was not. And she would forever be a reminded of death to them...
It was unfair. But then again, life rarely was any different.
"I don't believe I properly apologised for what happened with my sister's wolf." The King said quite suddenly and Myrcella felt him turn to look at her, so she made herself do the same. The fierceness in his eyes made her stager but her body immediately straightened as she faced it, a natural reaction: whenever she felt threatened she immediately hardened against it.
"I am sorry for my sister. She had to travel in the wild for long before she found her way into our family again, and has seen more horror than most grown men do. She will not be easy to accept you here, but she will never do what she did again, that is promise." And now his eyes smouldered "Whatever has happened between our families is no fault of yours, princess, and you are not going to be harmed, neither by me nor by my men."
Myrcella found that she had to remind herself to keep breathing. This was too much honesty, more than she had ever expected and she felt that every word was heavy between them, as heavy as the previous had been light and airy. She swallowed and took a few breaths before opening her mouth to speak. What should she say? Was there even a right way to answer this? Was there even the need for an answer?
"Thank you, your grace. I am grateful for your generosity." and she was, truly. "It is uncommon among men." And therefore unexpected. But Myrcella knew better than to trust words of men in power. Words are wind, they are lies, even Robb Stark's words, though he spoke them as if they were the truths of all time.
"I'm not your brother." He said then, and the statement caused a spear of fright to pass straight through her heart. Apparently he had sensed her hesitation as if he really was a wolf and could snatch the scent of her emotions right out of the air. His keen perception only aided to make her more weary of him: she did not want to be so transparent, not to anyone, and most definitely not to him. She was sure her eyes were huge as she looked at him, and though he did not look as fierce now as he had a moment ago, his expression was still peculiar: both intense and tempered by something akin to sympathy. "I'll never do to you what he did to my sister just because I can. I wouldn't even if you were less deserving of respect than you so obviously are."
Myrcella was silent and so still that she could have been made of rock. What had Sansa told him, she wondered, the question echoing in the silence of her head like a scream, her mind dashing from one memory to another, frantically searching.
His voice was calm, soothing even, when he spoke again.
"Don't look so agitated princess. My sister has told me very little of her time in King's Landing, but I'm not blind nor am I a halfwit." And now they were walking again, or rather, he walked and she had to follow because her arm was still around his elbow. "I recognise the mark of cruelty on another human, and I am able to see it in my sister's eyes... just as I see it in yours."
Myrcella's steps faltered and without meaning to, her hand clenched on his sleeve and she regretted it, because the King no doubt felt that. She didn't know if she should be offended, or angered at his presumption, of thankful for the gentleness of his tone all of a sudden. She was confused and felt out of her depth, throughout all of that, Myrcella knew one thing for certain: she did not want anyone's pity, but less his.
"There is a saying in Dorne." Myrcella spoke carefully when silence stretched. "What does not kill you makes you stronger."
"Aye, I can see that." he said and there was even the trace of humour in his voice. "And I remember the way you stood so tall and stared down a wolf the size of a small horse with blood still dripping from his fangs."
Had he been making fun of her, she would have known… but he was not. There was no trace of humour in his voice now. Perhaps had he known how she had been dying inside as she looked at that beast, he would have laughed at thinking her so very brave. She had though she was staring her death in the face.
"I wanted to show you something, once we were far enough from the encampment. Will you allow me?"
She looked at him and he really seemed to be asking for her permission. If only for that – that he asked – she gave her consent, and felt that he let go of her arm and moved to stand in front of her.
"I think it's appropriate to introduce you two, properly this time." And he looked over her shoulder. She knew without turning what was standing behind her. Myrcella closed her eyes and breathed deep, feeling every muscle in her body tense.
"No, don't be afraid. I didn't call him to frighten you." the King said, quickly this time, as if he was explaining. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking. She jumped when she felt a hand on her arm carefully… surprisingly gentle. More so than she had hoped.
"He is not wild like some believe. He won't harm you, I promise. Look." and he took off a thick glove and extended a hand forward. Myrcella saw his wolf come to him, huge and grey, with eyes the colour of golden stones. The direwolf came close, so close that if she could have, Myrcella would have stepped back. But then the beast bowed his giant head, letting himself be petted like he was just another dog. Myrcella felt a shudder shake her frame and then, a moment later, she felt something else: the unmistakable feeling of the King's arm around her shoulders holding her in place gently.
"Offer him your hand, let him smell you. A token of friendship, if you will." he said when she looked up at him, taking deep breaths through her mouth because her lungs suddenly had to work double time for air. But she did as she was told nonetheless. She took off her glove and extended her hand trying to move slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle the beast.
'Oh gods...' was her last though when she felt the warm and wet snout of the wolf on her palm. The direwolf picked her scent and then started sniffing her pulse, and then under her sleeve where it ticked… and Myrcella was transfixed. It was only when she heard the King's chuckle so close that she remembered... between a moment and the next, the terror had eased. It helped that all her extremities were still attached to her body, but she knew that she owed her unexpected resilience to the fact that the owner of this creature that seemed like a monster from old tales, was still right there with her, his arm still around her shoulders an anchor of reality and sense (perhaps she was simply confused, not knowing which beast was more dangerous, the direwolf or its owner). She doubted she would have been so steady on her feet had she been alone.
"Is it true what they say-" Myrcella asked in a whisper as the direwolf bowed his head and allowed her to touch him between the ears, feeling the coarse fur against her palm, between her fingers and the softer fur underneath. "-that you and your sisters and brothers have a bond with your wolves, that they are to you what dragons were to the Targaryens?"
She had heard more than that; she had heard that the Starks were wargs, skinchangers. But she thought that only rumour of men that adored and feared their commander, wanting to make him more than a brilliant general or even King; they wanted their leader to be something fearsome straight out of a dark tale.
The King smiled in a way that Myrcella could not read well; his smile never seemed to reach his eyes for some reason, and even now she thought it was not sincere, but then again for all she knew – which was little – this was the way he always smiled.
"I don't know about the Targaryens, but Greywind and I are friends. I know that he protects my life and that he is loyal. And I know that he will protect you if I ask him to, so you don't need to fear him."
Myrcella frowned without meaning to, and she was sure that he had caught her expression before she could smooth it away.
"He has that kind of intelligence?" she asked then, giving her expression a real reason for him to contemplate, as he wolf drew back and gave her a lick on her palm, making her jump, before he trotted away from view into the woods.
"Sometimes I think he's smarter than most of my commanders." The King said with a curl on one side of his lips. But then he looked at her seriously. "He has instinct, and its infallible. And he has never harmed anyone that did not have ill intentions towards me."
Myrcella felt the beginning of a joke on the tip of her tongue but she held it back. He caught it however, and his smile was one of curiosity this time.
"What?" he asked, and Myrcella wondered when she had become so transparent. Perhaps it was nerves. Perhaps it was because she wanted him to see her as transparent enough, as long as he was willing to make the same concession.
… as long as he was willing.
"I was wondering, if you and I were at some point to have a disagreement, would your direwolf attack me too?" She asked, smiling only barely, enough to make the joke obvious.
The humour sparked in his eyes, though his smile was faint. "I suppose that depends on whether or not you have an intent to kill me." and the way he says it makes it sound like a joke, though for a moment she tensed. But since he was so relaxed, Myrcella understood this was no trap, but only a conversation, as it had been when this walk first started. Such a revolutionary concept, that… but it should not have been. After all, conversing with him about safe topics had not been as painful as she had first thought it would be.
But she could be sure of nothing with this man. Myrcella had never felt quite so much like a blind woman walking towards a cliff's edge than she did in her dealings with this King. That was however, a contemplation for another time.
"When one of my men once drew steel on me, Greywind took off two of his fingers."
Myrcella blinked and her jaw slackened. "That story is true?" she asked before she could stop herself. She knew of the one they called the Greatjon (apt name, she thought, he was almost as big as the Mountain, though hardly as alarming) and how the direwolf had eaten his fingers. The King's amusement only grew at her wide eyed stare, as he offered his arm to her again.
"Yes." he said simply, though the corner of his lips was twitching upwards.
"Is it true that the Greatjon started laughing afterwards?" because she could not help it, she had always been curious and as of now, the King didn't seems as cold and hard as he always did, so she could dare a few questions.
"Yes he did."
Myrcella couldn't help the short incredulous laugh that escaped her lips, even though she must have looked like a child to him then. Such strange men, she thought… but not without fascination. These were a rough people, the one she was marrying into; no less exotic and foreign than she had once found the dornish and their unique ways. But she had adapted quickly. She had a talent for that: she survived beautifully anywhere.
She would survive the North as well, Myrcella promised herself. She was after all, for all the good and bad, the daughter of Cercei and Jamie Lannister, wasn't she? When Myrcella found no answer in herself to that, she turned to what she had learned once she been forced to find out who the stranger that inhabited her skin was: she turned to the girl she had grown into in Dorne: little bastard lioness, Obara always joked. The name fit her better than all the ones before it though. That was who she was. In that she recognised herself more than in strings of names that had never belonged to her anyway. She was Myrcella Sand, Myrcella Hill, Myrcella, period. She had once been 'Myr' for Trystane and 'Sand Lion' for Arianne's amusement as well as many other, worse names. She would be the northerners Bastard Queen soon enough. It didn't change a thing inside her anyway.
ooo
Sansa woke feeling very little rested these days, but as soon as she opened her eyes to see her mother's red hair or her sister's unruly mop, happiness always suffused her in great waves. This morning she opened her eyes to find Arya, sprawled on her back sleeping with her mouth open and her hair in such a wild disarray that it looked like an animal had taken residence atop her sisters head. Sansa Smiled, her heart aching with how happy she felt. She would have reached out and touched her sisters face, but then Arya would wake and she was as untreatable as a bear out of hibernation in the morning. So instead Sansa got up and dressed as silently as possible.
As always Myrcella's bedroll was empty and Sansa was not surprised. Instead she went out looking for her. What she found, was her mother staring ahead with a very strange expression on her face... one that Sansa did not particularly like. It seemed as if her mother was frozen in place, her face a mask of stone. But before Sansa could ask what was wrong, before she even turned to follow her mother's gaze, she heard a sound that, despite all this time, was as surprising to her as the first time she had heard it, so rare was Myrcella's laugh. Or at least, it was rare that it was honest and free of that sharp mocking edge that she had dared use in the Red Keep from time to time.
Sansa turned immediately and saw her brother walk alongside the princess, her arm tucked in his elbow and though they were keeping a very respectable distance from each other and there were Robb's guards behind them, they seemed so… Sansa smiled widely, so much so that she felt her cheeks ache. They seemed almost at ease with each other. She noticed the expression on Myrcella's face then, the laugher that started in her so vivid green eyes but did not burst forth as it had before, but rather a very real smile – of the kind that overwhelmed her face and made the distortion of that scar almost invisible. But there was such lively mischief in Myrcella's eyes that Sansa knew without a doubt that there was a great deal about whatever Robb was saying to her that amused the golden princess. As she watched them, Sansa hoped that Robb had gotten to experience that wicked way Myrcella sometimes liked to tease with, one that instantly exposed her quick wit and that more often than not reminded Sansa of Lord Tyrion's way of jesting: sharp and funny.
Myrcella looked at her brother then, and her eyes didn't lose their spark as they always did, she didn't retreat into a pensive place inside herself. Instead she smiled and spoke to him – and by bow the two of them were close enough that Sansa got to hear what the princess said.
"I am sorry to disappoint, your grace, but the truth is that women like silent men better only because it's easier to pretend they're listening." And her voice was light and warm, dancing with laughter when she spoke, and not a trace of that sticky, honey-sweet charm that she put on like a dress whenever she was acting the princess.
And when Robb laughed, more easily than Sansa had heard him in a long while, that Sansa felt the spark of hope in her breast; a hope that, perhaps there was more than a tiny chance that her brother and Myrcella found something like happiness in their union. And she wanted that for them both, but especially so for her brother. Sansa wished peace and happiness for all her family, but it was Robb leading them now and the weight of all that responsibility had turned him so grave and serious… just like father had been. Seeing him so at ease with the princess gave Sansa a fierce sense of elation: no, her brother had not forgotten how to smile, and this time, it did reach his eyes.
But her joy evaporated a little when she turned around and saw that her mother's gaze was still fixed on her brother and Myrcella and there was no sign of the hope and elation that Sansa was feeling in her mother's face. The hard expression etched into her features had scarcely changed from before, and as soon as she saw that, Sansa felt something quicken in her breast. It reminded her that there are some wounds that never heal, and her mother had never been a woman to easily forgive.
o
TBC:::
1 Eleanor Roosevelt said something like that, a quote that I was inspired by here.
2 Lord of the rings – The two towers (movie); Gandalf's line.