AN:response to reviews: thank you to every guest reviewer to whom i cannot respond in messages to thank them for reading and reviweing this story. I am so very happy that you like it and i hope to do it justice. Thank you to Dracolover (cool name, btw ;P), Im glad you like the story; this chapter has, i hope, a bit more of the Robb Myrcella interaction that you wanted. And to the guest who posted the longest review yet, i beg for your patience, seeing that this is my first 'game of thrones' fanfiction and, after all, it is just fanfiction, a completely AU story, and probably im mischaracterising a lot of characters, but im writing for fun and for those who enjoy a littel diversion. I do however apriciate you taking the time to speak to me, so thanks for that.

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3. You have to know your name

'We frail humans are at one time capable of the greatest good and, at the same time, capable of the greatest evil. Change will only come about when each of us takes up the daily struggle ourselves to be more forgiving, compassionate, loving, and above all joyful in the knowledge that, by some miracle of grace, we can change as those around us can change too.'

- Mairead Maguire -

When the raven had first arrived from King's Landing with Tywin Lannister's terms of peace, Robb mulled the possibilities over for a long time before summoning his council, which had been (predictably) dead set against to the idea. However, it had taken little persuasion to convince them of the benefits of the proposal, mostly because all of his bannermen were tired of war and they wanted to go home - winter was well on its way and there were other, more dangerous battles to be fought and they all knew that. So if wedding the King to an almost princess was the price to pay, so be it. In private, he had discussed this with his mother much more at length, before he spoke with his men. There were very few privy to his true reasons for agreeing to wed the bastard princess of the Iron Throne, men that he would forswear his life to. Men that he needed as witnesses.

But after all that was done, it was to prince Oberyn that Robb had wanted to speak to. All the realm knew that Myrcella Baratheon had been taken to Dorne since she was barely two and ten and that was where she spent her whole life until her queenly mother had finally had her successfully kidnapped and brought back to King's Landing. (He didn't allow himself to think that perhaps, had the dornishmen guarded the princess a little better, he wouldn't have to worry about marrying a second Cercei Lannister) So if there was anyone who knew this elusive Princess' character if would be the Red Viper since, after all, she had been raised in his brother's court.

When Robb had asked, the prince had smiled that secret smile of his, dark eyes glittering in the firelight of the camp, full of secrets.

"You do know that her face was slashed open, yes?"

Robb had felt the prickle of irritation, but held his tongue and simply nodded. The Viper had shrugged him off then, and continued talking.

"Her manners are polished, her wits are quick and her elegance is that of a true princess. And of course, she has her mother's absolutely stunning face –unless you're a man to prefer the image of perfection, you're going to find her attractive enough even with that scar. In fact, there are those, such as myself-" the Prince had continued, his smile turning wickedly sharp in turn. "-who say that she is more beautiful than Cercei Lannister ever was, because she has none of her mother's bitterness, and where Cercei's beauty is like a frosty blade, her daughter's is as warm the sun of my country."

Which was all well and good, but there had been something in Prince's eyes when he spoke that had made Robb wonder. Robb had sensed from the beginning that the Red Viper was a man of powerful passions and strong contradictions – and there had been one of those contradicting emotions in his eyes then, as Robb contemplated his words. And that was when beautiful Ellaria, who at meals never left Oberyn's side, nudged at her lover with a kiss on his cheek (and even a chaste gesture as that seemed somehow more sensual than it had any right to be, coming from her lips).

"Don't be a grump, lover." She had said softly, and that had caused Oberyn to roll his eyes, but smile at her nonetheless. Ellaria had turned to Robb then and smiled at him with the content look of a stretching feline, her large smoky eyes reminding him very much of a shadowcat's stare. Robb had had to adapt to many of the dornish ways when he welcomed the alliance with them, but he could not quite adjust how free dornish women seemed, how confident in their own skin and purpose – whatever that may be. Ellaria for example was one of a kind: so unashamed of herself, but somehow managed not to seem shameless because of it – there was too much pride in her for that. Or perhaps it was only Oberyn's lover who was that way.

"My beloved is cross because the little princess has never given him a reason to despise her but for the blood in her veins. And you can't very well hate a little girl just for that, can you?" Ellaria had explained and then chuckled as if that was a funny jape… and perhaps, considering all things, it really had been. But Robb had not been able to appreciate it then.

Oberyn had scoffed however.

"I can, and I should… but I'm not a fool, so I don't." He'd muttered, somewhat petulantly. He could, but apparently he did not. Robb remembered the sharpness in Ellaria's eyes as she eloquently raised a beautifully-arched eyebrow at her lover, making the prince smile around the rim of his cup before he turned to Robb again.

"My nephew Trystane, to whom the princess was betrothed to, used to say that Myrcella is what my daughter Tyene pretends to be: the sweetest girl that ever lived. As far as I know, my nephew was not wrong." The Prince had said and raised his glass of wine to Robb, laughter dancing in his dark eyes. "But you should not forget, Wolf King, that this princess of the Iron Throne was raised in Dorne, among the Sand Snakes - and my daughters are not delicate creatures. The weak do not survive them."

Robb had thought about those words carefully and he was thinking carefully on them even now, months later.

He had met Oberyn's daughters - the oldest four of them. It had been a wonder to see them riding with the army, Robb had not thought that their father would have allowed them to come, much less ride in battle. It had not taken him long to understand however, that the Sand Snakes were not women to be allowed anything, just as he had come to understand that, though in different ways, the Snakes were all fierce and dangerous in the same measure. (Arya adored them for it, and she had already asked him if she could join them in Dorne when everything was settled. He had half a mind to let her.) By either lance, spear, darts or arrows, they were as efficiently lethal as their father was and it took a mind's eye he did not poses to imagine the quiet and so well-mannered princess to whom he was betrothed to, growing up with women so fierce and bold.

It felt like a stretched truth… but not an impossible one. It had taken Robb very little scrutiny to realize that his wife-to-be was not as delicate a creature as she may first appear. As petty as it sounded, it really was a shame that a face such as hers was so marred, but despite feeling that way Robb really did not care about her scar – he had plenty of his own and never bothered about them. Hers was more immediate than any he had, true, and it would be a lie to say it was not unpleasant, just as it would be a lie to say it was grotesque. There was a certain appeal to it even, in how it took something out of the sweetness of her looks, replacing it with the hardness of painful experiences. It grounded him to earth, reminded him that this was no sweet maiden: Myrcella Baratheon was Cercei Lannister daughter and if nothing else, proof of steel was in the way she spoke when she asked to say goodbye to her family, in the way she had come into his tent that first night and held his eyes without wavering even though he could see she was nervous, perhaps even afraid. Afraid yes, which had surprised him and shocked him out of that initial hardness and cold detachment he fell back on whenever he was unsure of how to act.

He could freely admit that he had had no idea how to act towards the princess when he had first met her. From the very beginning he had given her little thought but for what she meant for his country and his family and his men. She had hardly been real, until he saw her face that day when Sansa was returned to him. After that, he had not thought of her much beyond his wonderings of how to handle someone he could not seem to get a clear understanding of.

She was nothing like Roslyn, he had thought one night, as he pondered her person (and privately he admitted that this was perhaps a kindness, otherwise Robb had no idea how he would ever be able to go through with this godforsaken marriage). She was nothing like any woman he had ever met, for that matter, but Roslyn was who he compared her to, for reasons that to him were obvious. Roslyn had been scared and fretful and so very shy at first… so very honest too, with wide doe eyes of golden brown and a kind heart that he had taken warm comfort in. She had been so gentle, so eager to love him that the affection that had grown in him for her that been as easy as breathing. She had been brave too, brave in daring to trust him from the start, in daring to gamble her faith in him even though she'd never met him before the day she came to be his wife. On the other hand, Myrcella born Baratheon, with Lannister blood in her veins, was the farthest cry from Roslyn Frey there could ever be, contrary to her in every single way: Where Roslyn's beauty had been subtle, gentle and sweet, the princess' was bold, immediate, undeniable even with that savaged cheek of hers that she never bothered to hide. Roslyn had been unblemished from the inside out, a piece of innocence that had astounded Robb, brought him back into a world where innocence still survived. The princess on the other hand had eyes that spoke of a survivor's journey, not quite so honest, nor so trusting and sometimes Rob thought she was as hardened as he was. And if he had been so easily swayed to care for Roslyn from the very first night he spent with her, Robb could not even be persuaded to speak more than five sentences in a row to this Princess that was to take her place.

Take her place… Robb snorted at the thought. Nobody could ever take anybody's place in anyone's heart. People just built layers.

A princess…

No matter what blood flowed in her veins, it was an easy thing to see that Myrcella of House Baratheon was raised as royalty. She was a princess. She carried herself with dignity that started in her eyes and stood with her back straight in such a way that it made her seem even taller than she was - and she was not short to begin with. Her every movement was measured, the elegance of them one such as he had never seen, because there was nothing behind it but grace. You could not see the effort, only that natural poise that made you think it was all an afterthought, as if the Princess had been born that way and not taught courtly manners like all ladies. It was easy to see royalty in her, despite that scar on her face that made her look more like a warrior than a lady. Perhaps that dignity of hers so bereft of arrogance was what had stopped his bannermen from going too far with their insults behind her back. Ignorance and hatred will do as they please of course, but those that had two coins worth of sense to rub together and a little honour, found it hard to insult too heavily a lady that had the most royal presence any one of them had ever seen.

There were other things about her too… things much easier to notice. Kissed by fire, the northerners said of those that had red in their hair. If that was the way, Myrcella Baratheon had to be kissed by the sun. She was vibrant in it – in her hair, on her skin - as if she had been dipped in gold from head to foot (and he'd be a liar if he had not imagined what that looked like beneath her clothes) Andal blood, some called it (though it did her no favours since for some she seemed to be a living emblem to her family). To Robb it seemed as if she carried summer under her skin. The warmth of it was even in the dramatic green of her eyes - eyes that after the kingslayer's company were almost familiar. Almost. The Princes' eyes were wider, rounder. Not quite so sharpened by cynicism perhaps, not nearly as cold as her mother's, for sure.

Her mother… the queen's shadow followed this princess' every step. Everyone looked at her and saw her mother, and Robb was no different. But at least, he was cleverer than most: Robb had stopped worrying about having another Cercei Lannister in his bed when he saw the princes smile for the first time. It had not been directed at him of course, but at Sansa, who was the sole receiver of the Princess's unguarded moments.

Ever since the princess had set foot in his line of vision, Robb had been trying to determine the truth about Myrcella Baratheon – and perhaps had been unkind in doing so, with his gruff manner and measuring stares - trying to understand her without the benefit of speaking to her himself. Unfair, yes. But when had life ever been fair? He had wanted to know from which angle to grab this foreign creature, trying to understand which side was less poisonous, which was safe, if any. He did not trust her poise and her grace, that careful control on her face and the distant politeness with which she regarded all about her. If anything, it made him even more suspicious of her. But then he had seen her release that so careful royal face, had seen the poise let up and make way for something real, something alive, the green of her eyes vibrating with startling life, her face warming, so unexpectedly kind…

Robb had no idea what she and Sansa had been speaking of but when she had smiled, he had understood that this princess was nothing like her mother. She could not be, if she was capable of smiling that way. He remembered the queen from the weeks she had spent in Winterfell. More than a month in his home and Robb had never once seen the woman smile. It was always those razor-sharp smirks with her, lopsided and mocking. The ice queen, they had called Cercei back then, in whispers and in jest. The bitch queen, the Lannister woman, mother of madness – those were some among the tiles that she held.

There was none of that in the princess though. She kept to her own company, but she was not frozen. It had been a small relief.

But that warmth of real emotion melted away like summer snow whenever the princess caught sight of him. She was so reserved that talking to her seemed harder than drawing blood of a stone - which was why in a whole fortnight, he had barely spoke two words to her. Perhaps the princess was not in the wrong; after all, Robb knew he had not been exactly welcoming and perhaps she used courtesy as a fallback, because she was as unsure about him as he was about her. But there was something else to the way she regarded him, a weariness he could not name. Robb didn't exactly know what that emotion she watched him with was, if it was fear, or suspicion or dislike, or perhaps a mixture of all three. She masked her emotions well behind all that fixed polite expression (her royal face, he had started calling it) and had he been a lesser man he could even have been distracted by it as she undoubtedly meant him to, but it had been a long time since a man – or woman, for that matter - had been able to deceive him. Robb could see that she was weary of him more than she was of anyone else.

It would have been so easy to say that she feared him, but Robb knew fear and that was not what he saw in her - at least not entirely. In a fortnight of dining with his family and watching her from afar, he had noticed patterns in her behaviour, and more importantly, the fact that these patters only applied to him. She always froze when he was near and whenever he spoke to her, or even looked at her, she… it seemed as if she hid behind herself, behind that wall that was her royal person. And he knew how to tell the difference between her expressions, because she did not react this way with anyone else but him.

Robb had never thought himself as a particularly frightening man and he knew that there were harsher men about her, men who spoke to her not always kindly, no matter what Robb had ordered. And yet Dacey said (with a veil of unconcealed admiration in her tone) that the Princess never flinched in front of anyone, never looked down or hunched her shoulders, or got visibly angry about anything.

She didn't fear any of them. None but him. It set him thinking.

But as it was common, just when Robb had resolved that he could not go on ignoring his betrothed until it was time for the wedding, no matter what his personal doubts might be, the proverbial shit hit the fan.

Perhaps he had waited too long, even if too long was just two miserable weeks.

ooo

He had been shocked by the strength of it, as one is when catching a familiar scent in utter incomprehensible circumstances. He had smelled fear through Greywind before, but this was… it was that sheer terror that had no name, and that pierced his senses like a lightning searing the night sky. This was not what he had expected when he sensed his friend close by.

Robb got up so suddenly that the Greatjon moved his hand to his sword immediately and looked around, stepping in to protect his flank.

"What is it?" the big man asked, but Robb put a calming hand on his shoulder just as he started forward with a pace as swift as he could without outright running. He knew exactly where Greywind had picked up that scent and he could hardly imagine what had befallen the Princess to terrify her so much that she should smell of death, and so sharply so that Robb could practically taste it in his own mouth. He didn't like how with every step, the silence around him deepened, as if this part of the camp was made of mute men. They parted for him hastily, his men, but he thought nothing of it – he should have. There had been alarm in their eyes, but Robb hadn't noticed.

But then he came within sight of his mother's tent and saw her standing there, tall and straight and frozen as Nymeria growled, circling her like prey and Greywind watched from the sidelines, his restless pacing concentrating into fierceness when Robb came close. He noticed her rapid breathing, her pale face, the white knuckles of her fisted hands… saw Nymeria coil, ready to spring and tear her apart and saw the princess make no noise and no movement beyond turning her face away and closing her eyes, a tear staining her cheek and her scar as it fell.

His stomach fell through to the ground even as he moved to her and with a voice that boomed even in the middle of battle, ordered the wolf back, even as Greywind growled at his sister from the sideline of his vision, backing Nymeria into the woods. That was all it took for the men around them to burst to life, acting busy, all trying so hard to seem they had something to do, anything but to stand there and watch. Robb turned to the princess, and with trepidation, he dared speak to her. She had not yet opened her eyes and when she did not respond to her title, he put his hand on her arm, gently as if she might be made of glass.

He expected her to shiver away, to jump, even scream. All she did was open her eyes and hit him with that look…

For a moment he felt himself become smaller under her eyes.

But then she winced and looked away immediately. Her tears would not stop coming down though, no matter how fast she blinked. It was an uncomfortable wonder to see her then, because though he took no joy in her pain or her tears, they distracted him from the intensity of his anger at the moment… and he was very much aware that he needed distracting. Robb looked at nobody but her, because he could not trust himself to look about and catch sight of Arya by mistake. He was too angry for it now. Arya and her punishment for this idiocy would have to wait. Wait for him to usher the princess into his tent (strange how easily she followed his direction) and apologise for her distress in a way that he hoped would convince her he was not craven enough to set wolves on her on purpose.

But she would not stop her tears, or rather, the tears refused to stop falling no matter how harshly she dashed them away or how fast she tried to blink them into submission. She was so frozen as she cried… as if her eyes were just leaking water and nothing more. Not another muscle of her face moved and Robb wondered if maybe she was in shock still. He was convinced of it when she tripped on the hem of the rug and almost fell on her face.

She weighted little over nothing when he caught her and set her on his bed. He could not think of what else to do with her, but as his discomfort grew along with his sympathy, for the very first time it occurred to him that she too was unsure and afraid and very much alone as well, in the middle of an army that were her enemies… and bound to marry a man that was…

Robb froze for a moment, and then took a step back, watching the line of her shoulders and how it trembled ever so faintly every as the princess sobbed in utter silence, face hidden away in his furs. Who knew what she thought of him, what they said in southern courts about him. She had probably been told that he was some savage that was as likely to rape her here and now as he was to set wolves on her at any moment – an opinion that was only going to be reinforced after this blunder today.

Who did she think she was marrying? And what would she think now, after this?

Robb felt his feet take another step back, shame starting to burn in him. And there had he been, like a right prick, wondering about her reserve and the distance she kept, wondering why she looked at him with dread. Wondering what her game was when she had refused to keep Lannister soldiers as guards. What would they be able to do, if he had meant her real harm? Nothing at all, nothing but watch. And she had known that. He'd known it too, but only now was he able to understand a little bit of what that would mean for her, if he really were so cruel.

Gods, but he felt like the monster that she no doubt thought he was…

He couldn't stand it a moment longer!

Robb turned and left her there before he started ripping his hair off in his rage. It was proof that the gods could be merciful, when he saw Sansa outside his tent, anxious but careful not to come in. It took her only a look at him to know what he needed and Robb had never loved his sister more than when she slipped by him, her hand briefly on his arm before she went inside his tent and left him to himself.

But by himself he was the most dangerous, and all around him men seemed to take notice of that. Robb felt his fists clench and unclench and the storm inside him heaved.

He needed to run; run his rage raw. He needed the forest.

ooo

The hiss of a sword through air and clash of steel rang in his ears and Robb concentrated all his senses and perception in the movements of his arms and legs: all the fierceness of his anger, the depths of his disappointment. He had to focus on his adversary and the long spear the Red Viper yielded with such deadly precision, on escaping it, evading it's sting to get close enough o the man to slash at him at least once.

"You're starting to miss, my friend."

The taunt went right over his head at this point. There was nothing the dornish prince could say to make Robb any angrier than he was, but even if he had not been in such a state, Robb would still not have fallen for it. Swordplay had always been a source of focus and sharpness for him, but more than that, with the years and with testing in crucial moments, Robb had learned to rear in his emotions and control his temper in a way that served him well when all around him the world wanted to crumble. If he lost control every time his emotions got the better of him, Robb would spend much more time running with Greywind that he already did and that was unacceptable.

Robb looked at the prince, calculated distance, strength, velocity and his enemy's movement and then lunged… and managed to shove at Oberyn's spear enough to crash into him and send the man off balance, enough to swing the sword at him. Missed of course, but that was not the point.

They were at it until Robb was exhausted and his limbs felt heavy like they were made of lead. And when the prince took off is armour, Robb could see that Oberyn too was breathing hard and his sweaty forehead spoke of the same fatigue Robb felt. It was easier now though, to think back at what had happened. His exhaustion seemed to eat away at his temper, leaving him to bear only the memory of his previous fury… and even then, even just the memory of it was hot enough to burn.

He could hardly believe Arya's stupidity. Her selfish incomprehension of the consequences of her actions had set him into a rage that had very few others for comparison.

Robb did not consider himself a temperamental man. In his youth he had been quick to anger and just as quick to forgive and forget, but the rebellion and war had changed him. His humours had grown to be for the most part steady, and even though he knew the hotness of wolfblood in his veins, fate had seen fit to temper it with a cool reason that everyone said mirrored his father's. War had forged him into a man with an iron control over his own self, and battle had imprinted upon him the steadiness of a sharp rule over his body and mind even as the hotness of battle-rage took over him. And still, all of it had been trampled to nothing in front of the wrath he'd felt mere hours prior.

All his work, all the careful planning and years of blood and death and the utter desolation of war… all of it wiped clean because of the stupidity of one girl - his own sister. No matter that he had spoken to her beforehand, knowing that the princess' presence in the camp would likely set Arya off in all manner of mischief; no matter that he had warned her that, despite any kind of behaviour, the princess was not for harming, because she was the key to the very fragile truce with the south. (No matter that the princess was as bloody far from bothersome as anyone could be. She hardly stirred the air about her own person for fuck's sake!) He had been very clear that Arya was to steer clear of the girl everyone said had her mother's face, if his sister could not bear to keep herself civil. Robb had been stern in his commands and when Arya had only nodded in front of them, he had known that his sister was not convinced, but he had trusted her not to act against his explicit directive.

He had trusted. And his sister had gone and done this…

'I didn't mean to kill her.' Arya had told him, as meekly as Arya ever could, as Robb paced in front of her, all rage and fury without anywhere to unleash them on. 'I just wanted to scare her a little' she'd said.

That had been when Robb had left his mother's tent. He could not even bear to look at Arya any longer and he knew that should he stay and face that argument with her then, he would say and do things that he could possibly regret. He had been much too angry for rational thought in that moment. But he had been rational enough to order her mother not to let Arya leave the tent for any reason. His sister would be the one to put the chains on Nymeria, with her own hands, as a punishment for both their recklessness.

'I just wanted to scare her a little.'

It sounded so trivial. So foolish, like child's-play… and it sounded even crueller when he thought of it that way. He could see it so clearly still: Nymeria, huge and bloody, coiling for the kill. A flash of wide, terrified green eyes – eyes that for the first time showed the truth about the young age of the princess they belonged to… and his shame renewed with a twinge of his insides.

He had played the same trick on the Kingslayer once, but it had not seemed to him nearly so cruel as doing it to his daughter. The Kingslayer was a grown man, a soldier. He was prepared for worse. He deserved worse after all he had done. But the Princess was a different matter and doing the same to her was cruel, because it was unwarranted. His mind screamed the word at him, stroking the embers of rage again, wishing he were speaking to his sister and not just inside his own head. Her ridiculous play had been an utterly unjustifiable act of malice and as vicious as it was stupid, damn it! Had that wolf slipped out of Arya's control for even a moment, they would have been plunged right back into a war that would have lasted as long as Cercei Lannister and her spawns lived.

It was unwarranted, he told himself again and this time he felt the full weight of a guilt that did not belong to him settle on his gut. It had not been Greywind to terrify the life right out of the princess, but it had been him whom to whom she had looked at with the void eyes of those that knew the taste of death… and it had not been his imagination that made him see in her eyes a thin betrayal that she had no right to feel.

Or perhaps all the rights in the world. She was to be his, was she not? She was going to be his lady wife, his queen, and in the two weeks travelling with her he had barely spoke a word to her.

He should have known better. And the princess had all the rights in the world to feel betrayed. He was King… if he was unable to stop his house's direwolves from tearing his own betrothed apart, he was nothing.

Robb sighed and rubbed his forehead trying to root out the splintering ache building there. He had known that there were things behind Arya's eyes he would never get to be privy to. Dark things, violent things that she would never speak of. When Bolton had found her at Harrenhall and brought her to him, she had been almost unrecognisable. So cold, so hard. She had still cried though, when he had taken her in his arms and held her, and she had cried harder when their mother had almost fallen on her knees at the sight of her and sobbed as they held each other. Arya was his sister, his wild-little-boy sister, still, and that darkness abated just a little more with every day she spent with her family. But there was a thirst for blood in her that Robb recognised. Arya hungered for vengeance with a single-mindedness that was characteristic of her, and she was as ruthless as any man of war about getting it.

Robb could not deny it that sometimes he felt the same way himself, but he did not have the luxury of giving in to those that he perceived to be baser instincts. He had a crown to bear, with all the responsibilities that came with it. He could ill afford to turn into a ruthless man. If he did, that same ruthlessness would ripple across his men, elevated to the tenth power in each of them and the destruction that would follow would be a hundred times more grave than Robb was prepared to have on his conscience. War was beastly enough without it. Even now, being as he was, fighting to never forget how to care, he could not always contain the unprovoked savagery of his men. It was the nature of war.

He had made peace with the fact that he could not control everything a long time ago. But it seemed that he could not even control his own sister.

"You seem aggravated. What ails your mind, my friend?"

Robb looked to his right, when Oberyn came to him and spoke with that usual direct manner that Robb had appreciated in the Prince of Dorne from the very start.

"My sister." Robb said laconically. The Prince had no way of having heard what had happened. His party had only just joined the main army from their long scouting mission. In fact, both Nymeria and Greywind had been with them, leading them into the deep woods ahead of the main army to secure a safe passage through the Riverlands.

As soon as Robb had left his mother's tent, he had walked for the practice yards that the soldiers had set up. His men parted from him without even daring to look at him in the eye, and he had beaten several of them to the ground in the practice rig, before the Viper came to him, still in his full armour and looking like he just got off his horse and, laughing, challenged him into a match 'since you seem to be in a sparring mood'. Robb had accepted, but in truth they both had known that he had simply been in a very foul mood and had wanted to vent off the violence he felt coiling in him in a way that could do controllable damage.

"What of your sister?" Oberyn asked, now much more darkly. "I heard she was returned to you whole and healthy."

And there was the threat of darkness in those words, the implicit violence that was always very close to the surface with the Red Viper when it came to the matter of sisters of any kind. That violence had not abated when he had taken the Mountain's head… and Robb imagined it could not, not that kind of hatred. He too was of the sort that wanted all Lannisters to rot in the sun.

"She was, though I doubt she is as unharmed as she pretended to be for my sake." Robb said, thinking back as Sansa's wretched sobs when she had first seen him, the desolation in her eyes sometimes, when she thought nobody was looking. "But I was speaking of my other sister."

Oberyn smiled. "Ah, the little she-wolf. She is the aggravation then?"

Yes, Robb thought as he heard the amusement in Oberyn's tone, Arya had a gift for making friends among the fierce. And Oberyn liked his sister well enough.

"You could say that, yes." Robb didn't know how to even begin explaining the incident in a way that sounded sensible. For all the good graces between them, he and the Prince of Dorne were not so close in friendship as to warrant free discussion of family matters.

The silence stretched as they walked towards one of the centres of the camp and it would have gone on had one of Oberyn's daughter's not interrupted it.

"Your grace, father." She bowed her head in the manner of all dornish, forgoing the curtsey since she was, as all her sisters, wearing leather breeches and not a gown. Robb took in her sharp features, the almost-black curls of her braid and the smoky dark eyes that were just like her fathers. This was Elia, Robb remembered, the youngest of the sisters here, and the one that Oberyn himself said was the 'most difficult'. A clever euphemism for the fact that she had her father's exact temperament and they clashed like storm clouds whenever they disagreed on anything. At six-and-ten Elia was as fierce and proud as her sisters and she was in many ways the only one that had the nerve to argue with her father in a way that her older – and wiser – siblings did not. Robb however recognised Oberyn's stubbornness when it came to his youngest for what it was: the prince had a weakness for her in a way that he did not for her other daughters who were all fully grown and perfectly able to take care of themselves. And perhaps it was also because, aside from the eyes that she had taken from her father, Elia was the exact replica of her mother. It was impossible to look at her and not see Ellaria Sand's exotic likeness.

"Forgive me for interrupting your grace." The girl said, looking him in the eye in the bold way that Robb was used to now. "I have heard that Princess Myrcella is here, yet I cannot seem to find her and nobody will tell me where to look. Nobody seems to dare even speak her name."

Robb took a deep breath. It had been a long time since he had felt so uncomfortable in his own skin. It was the guilt, he realized and even though he hardened his face against it so that it might not be readable in his face, he knew his own heart and couldn't lie to himself.

"The Princess is resting." He said carefully, and those eyes that everyone called 'viper eyes' snapped at him and zeroed in on his face with an expression of absolute incredulity at first… and then with a kind of venomous suspicion that stung. "My sister's direwolf frightened her, and I took her to my tent, so that she could be undisturbed. My sister Sansa is with her, you need not worry."

From his right, Robb heard Oberyn's soft 'Ah' of comprehension and the prince limited himself in that, but not his daughter. She said nothing of course, but those snake-eyes of hers were intent on him.

"May I have permission to visit her, your grace?" she asked then, carefully and he knew how much it was costing her to even ask for such a thing as permission – but she had to, since after all it was his private quarters she wanted to go into. Oberyn had told him that Elia was the one child who was likely never to ask about anything… but these were his private quarters she intended to visit. "I assure you, the princess will want me there. We were always the closest of friends."

Robb found that surprising and expected in equal parts. "Very well. You have my leave."

Elia Sand did not thank him, nor did the hardness of her eyes recede. She only inclined her head to him and then took her leave with a swift pace that was only a breath away from an outright run.

"Just out of curiosity, did the direwolf attack?"

Robb felt his irritation flare at the prince's laid back tone.

"No. But I'm sure you know that is inconsequential. Nymeria scares most men just by walking by."

The prince snorted. "Perhaps it is so, but your princess is not most men. She does not scare easy. In fact, I have rarely met a man or woman so prone to quiet fearlessness."

Robb had to turn and look at the prince then, and Oberyn shrugged in that usual careless way of his.

"Safe to say that the wolf did not just walk by then?" Oberyn pushed, and Robb would have liked nothing better than to punch that smirk off the Prince's face.

"No, she did not." He answered, looking ahead as he walked away briskly. Oberyn's snicker followed him and all Robb could think of was how much he missed Jon in that moment. Even fucking Theon would have been a better option, though Theon would have probably made a great companion to Oberyn since they seemed to have the same sick sense of humour. But it had been a long time since Robb could think of Theon without his heart clenching.

ooo

Myrcella woke slowly, the waking world filtering in her mind as smoke through water, in slow and lazy tendrils. She felt surrounded by warmth and the echo of a memory that belonged to some time ago, in another place where the sun was hot and bright and its fingers reached to her through latticed windows. It was pleasant to be wrapped in the feeling this brought her, so she lingered for a heartbeat more after the dreamy feel of this memory left her, only to open her eyes and find out that she had hot been dreaming at all.

Myrcella felt her breath hitch.

"Elia!"

She sat up immediately, perhaps a little too fast, and ended up with Elia wrapped around her in a strong embrace that she had missed.

"Gods… what are you doing here?!" she could not help but ask as Elia laughed in her ear.

"Well, where else would I be? You didn't think I'd leave all the fun to you and my sisters now, did you?" Elia said as she drew back and reached out to Myrcella's hair to fix back the stray curls that had escaped her braid as she slept. In front of Myrcella's eyes widening with something very much like horror though, Elia offered a little more explanation.

"Oh, don't look at me that way, it's not like I'm riding into battle! Obara would have my hide." And then her smile turned wicked, just like her mother's was. "I did go scouting with my father's men though."

Myrcella shook he her head at her friend's unusual concepts of a good fun time, but could not help the smile. Elia was bold and generous, but she was also one of the Sand Snakes and that was not to be forgotten.

"I came up when my father send word that you were doing to be the bride of Winter about a month ago. I sailed here with Dorne's wedding gifts for you."

Myrcella felt her face settle into the lopsided smile that she knew well, feeling the spark of mischief in her, one that she had not felt in a long while – ever since she had been parted from her usual partner in crime, actually.

"Are you one of my wedding presents?"

Elia snorted. "You should be so lucky." And then her eyes softened. "I was worried about you, you know. For a good time we thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere."

Myrcella smiled sadly. "For a good time, so did I."

Elia's dark brows pulled together in a heavy frown. "Who was it that your queenly mother sent after you? Not even my father's men could track you after you were taken away from Sunspear."

Myrcella sighed. She did not want to go about digging in those memories. There was nothing pleasant about them.

"I don't know where they were from. Sometimes I thought they spoke dornish, but their dialect was beyond me. And you could to track me because I never made it to Sunspear." Myrcella saw the shock ripple through in Elia's face. "I was taken a day after my party had left the Watergardens, and a decoy was used in my place. The kidnapping in Sunspear was a decoy, and I'm sure that so were the people you followed. I travelled to King's Landing by ship."

"But… but that's impossible!" Elia said, getting up, her voice rising. "Nobody could have known that we were all at the Watergardens with my uncle, that was pure coincidence! And how was this decoy not recognised in Sunspear – yours is not a face anyone is likely to ever forget, Myr! And what about your guard – didn't they notices that the princess they were supposed to be guarding was missing?!"

The more she spoke, the angrier Elia got.

"Those guards had already been bought." Myrcella explained calmly, taking her friends hand in hers "And though you love me well and look me in the eye when you speak to me, you know that not everyone in Dorne has that same regard, Elia. A thin veil over this face and nobody ever knew the difference between me and someone who looks remarkably like me. Nobody thought twice about it - veiled women are common in Dorne."

Elia scowled and kept pacing for a few more moments, anger stewing in her, but then she dropped herself on the chair she had been occupying moments ago, looking sad an sullen at the same time.

"That's what father suspected you know. He told us almost the same thing. I just didn't want to believe it." Elia looked down at her hands. "Sounds so stupid, the way you were taken. Dorne should be ashamed of its own defences really… I'm sorry we let you go so easily Myrcella. I know you didn't want to go back."

Myrcella shrugged. Had she stayed in Dorne she would not be here as a bride to be, she would be here as a hostage. But she knew that Elia had never had an interest in politics and that was not the feeling behind her words anyway.

"I don't know about easily. I put up quite a fight you know."

Elia's smile returned. "Oh, I would have been disappointed if you hadn't. Did you kill any of them?"

It had been a joke, but the way Myrcella's eyes sobered instantly let Elia know that she should not have said it so flippantly after all, since the answer to that light questing seemed to be a very definite yes.

"Huh… Obara will be proud of you." Elia said then, after frantically searching her mind for the right thing to say and coming up only with this. "She'll probably give you some sharp dagger to celebrate."

Myrcella smiled and passed a hand over Elia's thick black hair, always soft as a bird's feathers no matter how wild Elia herself could be. She had learned to care in different ways for all her childhood companions, but Elia had been good to her from the start. She was fierce and she was rough, but there had been no push-and-pull games with her, no tricks. Elia had shown a strange patience for Myrcella, because she had loved Trystane almost as much as Myrcella had, and he had brought them together as fast friends. The three of them hardly were ever apart for a time. And then, when it had been just Elia and Myrcella, they had taken comfort in each other.

Elia's eyes met hers and held, a smile widening on her full lips and Myrcella felt her heartbeat flutter with the happiness of familiarity, something that she had thought had been lost to her forever. It came to her in a moment… and went from her just as easily as she sat up in a bed that was not hers, surrounded by a scent she did not know and a space she had never seen before. Instinctively she knew where she was… remembered the tears that would not stop, (could still feel the puffiness of her face, the sting in her eyes) and how she had been picked up and settled here, in the same bed where she was sitting now… A great heaviness settled in her chest at the memory. How could she have possibly allowed herself to lose her composure that way? How on earth would she ever repair the damage she had done now?

Nerves began to form, making her heart beat a little louder.

It was then that she looked around and saw Sansa seated close to her bed, smiling at her amiably – and at the sight of the red-haired princess did Myrcella become conscious of many things at once; among them the fact that she had been speaking with Elia in dornish all the while and that had been quite rude of them both. But Myrcella had slipped back into the familiar dessert language with the ease of someone that considered it as familiar on her tongue as the westerosi she had been borne speaking and only became aware of the slip when she saw Sansa there, where she had been all along.

Had she been sitting with her? Guarding her?

Myrcella did not know if the northern princess noticed the shift in her mood or not, but Sansa still got up and came to sit by her, face grave and eyes sober as she took her hand.

"I am so sorry Myrcella." She said fully of feeling and Myrcella nodded, and tried to summon a proper response, but Sansa went on in a hurry before Myrcella could even open her mouth. "It would be too generous to say that it was an accident, but I swear that Arya did not mean you real harm. She'd just half wild and sometimes very stupid, but Robb promised me that he will never let Nymeria anywhere near the camp again…"

Sansa's zeal toned down when she was met with the confusion in Myrcella's eyes, one that grew the more she spoke. It took her only a moment to understand why the princess looked so tense in her presence, why that generic polite expression was gracing her face even as her eyes asked questions.

Sansa felt her mouth slacken in shock.

"You… you thought it was Greywind." She whispered, unable to believe it. Myrcella's eyes were steady on hers, but so void. There was no accusation there, only preservation. Sansa knew that look.

"You thought Robb had set him on you, didn't you?" Of course she had. In her place, Sansa would have probably thought the same thing. Her cheeks heated with the blush of shame and guilt for her stupid little sister and her rashness… "Oh Myrcella, that was Nymeria… Arya's wolf."

"I didn't think much of anything really." Myrcella admitted slowly, looking at the hands on her lap, and then giving a small smile at both Sansa and Elia too. "I just saw the biggest wolf I've ever seen snarling at me like I was dinner."

Sansa flinched. "I'm… I'm truly sorry."

"Don't apologise. You've done nothing wrong." Myrcella finally said, but instead of a true feeling there was just exhaustion behind her words.

Sansa saw the change happen in Myrcella's eyes. Saw her shake her head and straighten her spine, and then look up and herself and Elia Sand with a smile.

"I suppose I don't have to introduce you two." She said and Sansa looked over at the dornish girl, smiling a little.

"No, we got past that while you were busy crying yourself to sleep." Elia said bluntly, not without a bite – which earned her a nudge by Myrcella's foot.

"Play nice, Elia. The princess is not used to your blunders as I am." The princess said with a small smile. Then, with another look around, she got up. "I suppose we should go. I don't… I don't want to be any more of an inconvenience for his grace than I already have."

Elia looked at her as if she had lost her senses, but Sansa only sighed and seemed like she was about to apologise again, before nodding and going out first, leading their way from the tent.

"Sansa…"

Sansa turned when her name was called, and saw that the princes was smiling at her; a real smile this time and she knew it was so because it was so faint.

"Thank you for staying with me. You really are too kind, I'm afraid I've done little to deserve it."

Elia snorted at that, not exactly the ladylike thing to do (but that had been obvious from the beginning, with how she was dressed – namely not in a dress) but Sansa smiled none the less, because she knew the truth: Myrcella may not have done much, but in a place where nothing was expected, a single hand reaching in the dark felt like it was giving you the world.

"Gods, you two are breaking my heart, really, but how about we get a move on - I'm starving."

Sansa's eyes were surprised at that particular brand of candour, but not without a certain amusement. Myrcella on the other hand, outright laughed.

ooo

Sansa did not need to be told that the Princess and Elia Sand of Dorne had been good friends growing up. The easy familiarity of them was a clear tell, if nothing else. And the way Myrcella had slipped into that in unfamiliar language with the girl as soon as she opened her eyes told Sansa that Dorne had not been for the princess the way the Red Keep had been for her.

Myrcella introduced them of course and they spoke together for what felt like quite a while, hearing from Elia of all kinds of mischief they had been about while in the Watergardens of Dorne. It had been a relief to see Myrcella so at ease after what had happened not even two hours prior. And even a greater relief that she had woken to find a friendly face she trusted enough, because for all the understanding between herself and the Princess, Sansa knew that there was uncertainty Myrcella harboured in regard to her, and that she would never trust Sansa completely. At least not yet.

Trust seemed to be a tricky, slippery thing. And unfortunately, Arya had taken very good care in shattering it completely before it even breathed its first breath, where Myrcella and her brother were concerned.

Sansa was not completely aware of the reasons why she seemed to care. For all intents and purposes she should not. For all the amounts of times she had been hurt by Myrcella's family, her mad brother, her cruel mother… by all that was right in the world, Sansa should very well feel vengeful. And she did. Sometimes she thought she would choke on all the hatred she bore that family. But she would be a fool to discharge it on Myrcella, and Sansa was no fool. And she could not quite readily forget how the last months at court it had been so easy to hide, because it was Myrcella had had her brother's attention, it was her he preferred to torment and if, by any chance, Sansa managed to catch his attention, Myrcella would divert it every chance she could. Why had she done that Sansa did not know even now, and did not need to know. They never spoke of it and Sansa was sure they never would. It was best that way. She didn't need reasons. Myrcella hadn't needed them then, and Sansa would not need them now to repay her. As hard as it was to believe that Myrcella had done what she had done out of the kindness of her heart, Sansa did believe it, because never had she been asked for anything in return.

Sansa had left Myrcella in Elia Sand's company and that other woman's, Obara was her name. She was a hulking giant by all accounts, very much alike her mother's sworn shied, Briene of Tarth, in body (but not quite as unpleasant of face, admittedly) loud and brash and dressed as a warrior (and if Myrcella had not introduced her as a lady perhaps Sansa would have thought her simply as a more feminine-faced soldier). But for all the brashness and lack of any kind of delicacy in her manner, the giant woman had taken Myrcella's face in her hands so carefully, and kissed both her cheeks, looking at the princess with lively eyes that bore clear affection. And when both the dornish women had dragged the princess away speaking of surprises and a gift they had brought her, Sansa had let them go and went looking for her brother, believing (hoping) that he would want to hear that the Princess was well.

She found him in his tent… along with mother and Arya. All three of them were silently staring at each other and Sansa could tell simply by how mother was sitting at Arya's side, holding her hand that she had taken Arya's defences throughout all this. Sansa sighed. She could not bring herself to resent that. Arya may have been in the wrong but the moment she felt she had everyone against her she was liable to do something even stupider. Or at least, the Arya Sansa had known would behave that way. This Arya was foreign sometimes.

Sansa sat at her brother's left and only then did his eyes leave Arya's and came to rest on hers.

"The Princess is with Elia and Obara Sand of Dorne. She begged me to tell you that she is quite well, apologises for the lack of self-possession she displayed and for the inconvenience it caused, and thanks you for the care you showed her."

Robb's wince was a relief. Sansa was not sure whether her brother should trust the princess or not, but that he was the Robb she remembered, that he took no pleasure in someone's pain and fear… yes, that was a relief indeed.

Sansa felt her brother take a deep breath (and didn't miss her mother's eyeroll either).

"Does the Princess wish for Dacey to be replaced with someone else?"

Sansa couldn't help the small smile, though there was no humour in it. "No. On the contrary, when Dacey apologised for not being there to protect her, Myrcella was very firm in settling that there was nothing for her to apologise, and that she would have no other guard but Dacey herself."

Robb frowned. "You think she was being sincere?"

Sansa thought on that carefully. "I think so, but even if not, I stand by what I said: if you put knights – or any man for that matter - to guard her she will not feel protected, she'll feel threatened."

As would I. But Sansa did not say that. She doubted she even needed to say it aloud. The spark of dark anger in Robb's eyes the first time she had suggested it had been enough to know that her brother already knew, with vagueness befitting the imagination, why Sansa would say such a thing.

"Very well." Robb sighed and then looked at Arya again. "Tonight you will apologise to the princess." He said then with a tone that let Sansa know this had been thoroughly discussed before. he sounded tired somewhat.

"I will not." Arya said between gritted teeth and leaned a little forward. It was only mother's grip around her shoulders that kept her seated.

"Arya…" Catelyn started gently, but Arya interrupted.

"I will never apologise to a Lannister for anything. Never. I'd rather die first. And you!" Arya's steel eyes found Sansa's and held. "You, going about her, fretting like a mother hen."

"Arya!"

Mother's tone was harsh, but Arya's anger was stronger. Her eyes were shiny and if Sansa hadn't known better she would have thought her sister was three breaths away from tears.

"I can still hear you screaming at the steps of Baelor's sept, you know. I've heard plenty of men die screaming and it was always with your voice they screamed. They crippled Bran, killed father right in front of you! She is a Lannister, and you act as if she's your friend!"

Robb was about to speak, but Sansa stopped him with a hand on his forearm. The air in the tent was so tense that one could cut it with a knife if one wanted, but Sansa had eyes only for her sister.

"You were there?" she asked, slowly. They had never dared speak of his. Sansa saw Arya swallow thickly. The tension vibrated. It felt as if nobody was breathing.

"Yes."

Sansa felt her heartbeat in her throat. "Did you… did…"

"No." Arya said, sparing Sansa having to ask what she had meant to. The relief was so palpable in her that it was only then Sansa realized she had been barely breathing since her sister started speaking.

Sansa nodded.

"You want revenge. I can understand that." and she could. Gods knew she could understand it even if she didn't like it. "But taking it on Myrcella is not just wrong; it's unjust. She is as blameless here as I was in the Red Keep."

Arya scoffed, the distain a live, coiling thing in her, reflected in her eyes. Sansa couldn't help but smile at the sight of it, and it was that that surprised her sister most.

"You don't care. I can understand that too. I thought I didn't care either." Every day, in a thousand different ways she had hated them, hated for years until she had grown so exhausted in it that she thought she had nothing but hatred to hold on to, when flinging herself down from the highest tower of that dreadful place seemed like the best escape.

"When news of Jamie Lannister's capture reached the Red Keep some ten months ago, the queen was furious. So she suggested to her son that they take retribution on the available Stark in court." She could still see Cercei's sneer, her monstrous son's laughter still rang in her ears. "Joffrey had me kneel at the foot of the iron throne as the kingsguard tore my dress. 'If you want your brother to hear, you must scream a little louder' he said, and had them beat at with the flat of their swords till my back bled. The throne room was full, the noblest people of King's landing there… nobody dared breathe a word of protest. Not even when that maggot pointed a crossbow at me and started firing." She had just closed her eyes and prayed he struck true, just once, so that the pain could end. "He had no intention of killing me, but that didn't really matter, I thought I was going to die that day."

Her voice had been steady and flat throughout the entire time, but horror-struck faces stared back at her. Sansa noted the tears on her mother's face, still in frozen shock. She saw the violence in Robb's eyes like it was a storm bruin, but throughout the tale she had been careful to keep her hand on his arm, her thumb moving back and forth, reminding him of calmness. Arya was staring at her with the same intensity, but her expression was closed, guarded.

"When Myrcella was brought to court, it was her turn, because she had lived in Dorne for years and now Dorne was fighting the crown. Believe it or not, her punishments were no less severe than mine. And yet she was the only one that would ever dare speak in my defence, even when the most she could do was divert attention from me and to herself. It was more than anyone else ever did for me in that place."

Sansa took a deep breath and stood up, hand folded in front of her, eyes never leaving her sister.

"What you did was a cruel prank that made that girl fear for her life. You did it because you could and because she was there, even though she had done nothing to deserve it - that is why you're going to apologise." Sansa felt the words pour out of her, calm as still water even as her voice hardened with by the torrent of emotions in her breast. Arya was not looking at her, but Sansa knew she was listening to every word. That she had not interrupted yet was proof enough that some of it was getting through. "You're going to do it in public, where everyone can see you, so that nobody has the lethal idea to do imitate you. And you are ever going to do such a thing again, because it would mean the end of a peace won with thousands of lives and neither your vengeance nor mine is worth that much. I am going to be Myrcella's friend and you are going to leave her be, because anything less would make our father ashamed of us."

Arya had the decency to flinch but she still wouldn't look up to meet her eyes. "They would never show us the same fairness, and you know that better than I do. Why should I?" she murmured, her fingers worrying the hemline of her sleeve.

Sansa's anger finally erupted to the surface, but she gripped it with her fingertips, breath after breath, until her emotions were within her grasp again. "Because we are not Lannisters! We are Starks of Winterfell. That is reason enough."

Arya got up and walked away but not before muttering an unwilling 'Alright' before she passed past the flaps of the tent. Sansa sighed, feeling exhaustion settle in her bones hat had no right of being there. The day had just started, it was not even midday yet… and yet she wished for nothing more than a bed in this moment. All the excitement that had started with the break of dawn had tired her out. She could only imagine how Myrcella must be feeling.

"Sansa…"

She looked around to her brother, only to be met with his pained expression. The guilt and pain she saw there was staggering for a moment an it took her a couple of blinks to understand what this was about.

"Oh Robb, don't." she put her hand on his cheek gently. She had wanted him to come save her for so long. At one point or another she had even resented him, hated as she had hated the whole world. But in that moment, she could feel nothing but love for him.

"I didn't tell that pretty tale to make you feel guilty, brother. It's in the past, and it's going to stay there. I'm…I'm well now…" but even to her own ears that sounded uncertain, so she tried a simpler truth. "I'm going to be well." And this time Sansa smiled and it was real. "I'm with my family again, the North is free and we are going home. Everything will be well."

Her brother breathed deep and closed his eyes before he leaned down to kiss her brow (and her heart broke a little bit because that is what father used to do so very often and Sansa missed him with an ache that sometimes was a physical pain) But even in the middle of that emotional moment she could not miss the regret on Robb's face, the darkening of his eyes as if he was steeling himself from a truth he did not want her to be burdened yet. Sansa had heard talk of other dangers coming from the north, but she knew little of it. Nobody did and Robb spoke of it to nobody but his most trusted.

All will be well, Sansa told herself. She told herself now what she used to tell herself all those days in the Red Keep for courage. Winter is coming for us all, but I am a Stark. I carry the north in my breast and wherever I go, winter calls me home1. I'm not afraid.

o

TBC:::

1 Whenever I go, winter calls me home' – not mine, I found it written in a poster of Sansa that I found on the internet. I didn't have defined authorship, but credit (and disclaimer) where it's due.