oOo

"We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls."

Anais Nin

The marshes of the Neck knew no winter. That was what the cragonmen said between themselves. The land was ever alive: If one would peel back the layers of snow that fell from the sky, one would find the vivid green moss and the warm brown bark of the trees underneath. There was nature there such as Myrcella had never seen: trees that seemed planted in water and not earth. Trees as tall as towers, creating heavy canopies of deep shade and silence. There were plains, infinite expanses of small bushes that seemed to float on waters that were so still they seemed mirrors.

And the weirwoods. The woods of the gods… The northerners prayed there to their faceless deities. Fearsome, was what they seemed to Myrcella, those faces seemed to scream out of the white bark, crying tears of blood. If it was truly the gods that looked out of them, then she didn't want them to see her.

The castle itself was odd… and beautiful. Hidden among the water-trees so well it seemed as if it was a natural growth of them. Made of wood and stone, green vines and moss making its way along most of the walls. The keep was not small by any means, but was not built like other keeps she had seen either. Where fortresses searched to outdo the terrain they were built upon, this floating keep blended with it, was shaped by the land and it's materials in every way – as were the cragonmen. Its towers were wide but never outreaching the tallest of treetops, its layout seeking to resonate the life that surrounded men, and not outdo it. At night she could see the lightbugs from her window, flying from treetop to treetop and dusting the darkness like pinpricks of light in the night… Myrcella had never seen anything that more closely resembled magic. And it was true what they said: Greywater Watch floated. Myrcella could see it day after day in the changing of the sight from her window, but she could not feel it. If one was to sit very still outside however, they said…

Oh, but what did it matter! She was just trying to distract herself anyway. All she could think of was not on the breathtaking and utterly unfamiliar beauty of the marshes and their strange plants and quiet people, but on the last moment before she departed Riverrun.

Well, before he departed it.

The army had moved out by night, but Myrcella had heard the commotion because sleep eluded her and the corridors of Riverrun had been her distraction. She had almost run into Robb as he stepped out of his room. The shock on his face had been funny at first, before Myrcella saw him in full armour. She'd known then, what was happening. And he saw her awareness in her eyes. It passed between them in a moment, without words. Myrcella had wished him luck, and meant it. She did not want him to die. Gods knew what would happen to the Starks if they lost him, but it would not be pretty. Her grandfather would seek to tear them apart till all that was left of them was another quaint song… but that Myrcella had not spoken of, ever.

Myrcella had given him her hand, held his fingers as he kissed hers, and then taken her leave… the surprise on his face had been fleeting before it was replaced by amusement.

"Is that how you would send me to war, princess?"

The words had stopped her cold and her face had shown it. His eyes were so intent, Myrcella could not tell if he was jesting or if he was not.

"In what other manner would you prefer to be send to carnage, your grace?" And she'd done it on purpose then, because he'd called her 'princess' first. His smile had stretched wider and as she looked at his eyes that sparkled with mischief, Myrcella had known: this was play. Warmth had infused her.

She could feel its touch even now.

"I would rather be send off with a kiss, and my name on fair lips."

Myrcella had almost laughed, but caught herself in time. She had taken a step further in his closeness; only one was enough to bring them within a foot's distance. She gave him a playful smile as she looked up at him.

"Such simple wishes. I would gladly fulfil them, but alas…"

He had laughed then, the sound thrilling her into a full smile of her own. Robb Stark had a beautiful laugh.

"Alas, what?" he'd asked. She had felt his fingers twisting in her sleeve, ghosting over the skin of her wrist before he realized that she only had a nightshirt under her heavy cloak. He had drawn away then, ever so respectful… and oh, how she liked him so much better for being able to do so.

"Alas," Myrcella had continued. "I do not give goodbye kisses."

Robb Stark had looked her in contemplation for a very short moment before smiling. Looked at her unnervingly, because it had been as if He'd known why she could possibly say such a thing, and what she was hiding behind that smile that made it playful… known that it was anything but, and that she meant it. That was probably why his stares were so unnerving, Myrcella deduced now that she had a moment to think of it: it was not the colour of his eyes, so much like blue ice; or how cold of hard they could be, nor their handsome shape. It was the way he could look at anyone and seem to know, when other people could only guess. It was what made people around him uncomfortable.

It was, Myrcella knew, what made her so nervous sometimes… like it had that night, as he so casually asked for a kiss.

"No? Not even to a king?" he had asked her then, playful again.

Myrcella had shaken her head. No.

"How about to a friend?" he dared then.

"Especially not to a friend." Myrcella remembered herself saying, sure in her own words and intentions. "Friends are only ever welcomed back, never said goodbye to."

His smile had been lopsided. It was lovely.

"Is that another dornish tradition?"

She'd smiled… perhaps not a tradition, but it was something she had learned in Dorne. "Close enough."

"How do you say goodbye in Dorne then?" he asked then, sounding actually curious. It never stopped amazing her how openly he could listen to some things, when most would sneer at a Lannister speaking of Dornish traditions as if they were her own.

"You don't." Myrcella provided immediately. And perhaps he'd thought her silly when she reached under her heavy cloak, undid the sash of her nightgown and put the white silk around his neck like a shawl… perhaps he had, but he'd still bowed his head, looking at her with curiosity has she placed both hands at the sides of his face, nearing her forehead to his as she whispered the parting words that were usually spoken in Dorne, when a loved one left.

When she was done, Myrcella had straightened, but Robb had not. He had still been looking at her through fascinated eyes, leaning into her a bit, just as she had to look up to see him.

"Was that a prayer?" he'd asked her then, almost as if the words spoke themselves. The thought of herself praying had amused Myrcella for half a second.

"No. I wished you well on your endeavour, and told you I would celebrate your return. …They are the traditional words friends exchange before parting ways."

His eyes smiled at her as he let the silence linger between them for a moment… and unlike any other time before, it bound them together rather than laying thick and heavy between them like an obstacle.

"Because friends are never said goodbye to." He said then, as if to let her know he had understood. His eyes had smiled at her. "Then I will look forward to being welcomed back, as you said." Robb Stark had said in all seriousness, looking at her in the eye without flinching. It had almost been a challenge.

Myrcella had not said anything to that. silence was as good as an acceptance.

He had kissed her hand again and gone, and she had only had time to think that perhaps, yes, she would look forward to welcoming him back as well. Only once she was back into her room and warm in her own bed, could she admit to it though. …The thought turned to a prickle not one hour later, after she was done dissecting it every which way. It was bothersome the next morning and wearisome in the days of travel. Now, a fortnight after, as she looked out of the her window into the marshes of the Neck, it was starting to grate.

They had had no news at all.

Waiting was the work of women, men said. Myrcella found it was no wonder, then, how some women went mad in their waiting.

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She revolted against stillness. She could not live by it, never had been able to, and Greywater Watch seemed to be the epicentre of it. Myrcella found in the days that she passed at Greywater Watch, that waiting did not suit her at all. So she gave up on it and made herself fall into a routine of movement and purpose. Time had to serve a function and the only one Myrcella could find in her temporary residence was exploring it, learning from its people… and learning of Rose Stark.

All her self-appointed tasks proved to be strenuous, but the King's daughter was perhaps the most trying. But Myrcella was nothing if not persistent.

Every morning she would wake with dawn and go find the little princess, the Rose of the North, as they were already calling her. (Myrcella had barely kept herself from rolling her eyes at that name when she heard it.) They would eat together – well, Myrcella would eat; then the battle to feed the famed Rose of the North would begin and it usually ended up with both sides capitulating or Myrcella issuing a stern edict that prohibited further fucking about with what was supposed to be eaten… something which the little girl took to, and rather strangely so – for Myrcella at least. It had been a while since she'd been so obeyed by a child, not since Tommen was one. The little girl's willingness to do as Myrcella told her perhaps stemmed from the fact that Myrcella did not hesitate to harshen her tone a little when she wanted to be obeyed, but still, it was surprising. They would play a little after that, in the many gardens of the floating fortress. Myrcella tried reading to the little girl, but Rose was not one to stay in one place for long. She tried singing, dancing and playing with whatever toys she could find. Rose Stark enjoyed the attention she got and revelled in it, and in everything new and shiny or colourful.

She cried sometimes though, asked for her father. She threw tantrums and Myrcella had had to learn how not to lose her nerve or her temper at them. But most often than not, the child wanted to be spoken to, and played with, and Myrcella found herself doing that, when the Lady Reed would ever so unceremoniously hand the princess to her as if it was Myrcella's duty to provide for the child's entertainment. It had been irritating at first… until a whisper told Myrcella that it would be far better for her if she made herself known to this child.

She simply boiled form want of seeing lady Caitlyn's face when Rose would reach out to her or react to Myrcella with a smile or a laugh. All Rose could call her now was Cee and that was more of a gurgle than a true name… at which, in spite of herself, Myrcella always smiled. It was only made sweeter by imagining the look on Lady Stark's fierce face when she heard it. Myrcella had told herself that she bore the older woman no ill will and hoped to believe it... but she could not deny herself. Catelyn Stark was a strangely dislikeable person. Only once though, and very briefly, out of sheer spite, had Myrcella wished that Rose would call her 'mother', for the lady Catelyn to hear…

The spite had gone out of her the moment after the thought was conjured and Myrcella felt the bite of shame.

Rose Stark was a motherless child, a child of merely 2 years of age. A child who was beautiful and who, despite the outbursts, had a gentle temper and such a loving heart that it had made having her around bearable. She could so easily be endearing, Myrcella knew. All it would take was time.

A motherless child…

No, Myrcella would not play on love that way. It would be unfair and beneath her. She didn't want to be Rose's mother. She just wanted the little girl not to hate or mistrust her.

She is first-born, a voice warned her… but Myrcella knew that made no matter. The north was as far from Dorne as one could make it. Dornish law did not apply there. Robb Stark's first-born son would be his heir. A part of her felt bitterness in that. And maybe Rose too would grown to be bitter about it: queenship denied to her, because she lacked a little worm between her legs. It was so unfair that even Myrcella could see herself burning with indignation in the name of her gender. And perhaps that would be why Rose would hate Myrcella and her half siblings. Perhaps she would always be a threat. If Catelyn Tully had her way, no doubt it would be so.

Which was why it was so important for Myrcella to win Rose Stark's affection. With the right education and nurturing, Rose might not grow to feel that way. Love was not necessary; lack of hatred was, however, imperative. And with the right marriage, Rose would be taken care of, in time, and no risk would ever come to Myrcella's children from Robb Stark's first-born daughter. Myrcella knew little of the north, but she knew the minds of noble men and woman and north or south, she knew they would take better to a prince whose mother was a Lannister, than they would to a princess, whose mother had been a Frey. Her children would be safe.

And if they were not… Myrcella would make them safe.

But once she started thinking in that line, she frightened herself, and immediately shifted her attention to other, more harmless thoughts.

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