Shireen hadn't left Lyonel's side. His cold fingers were clutched between hers on the wagon to the coast, his chest was her pillow every night and she hugged his body to hers on the voyage back to Dragonstone, should the gods see fit to cast her into the sea once more, then she would be with him always.

His stiff hand was still linked with hers when they lowered the longboat to the beach and two oarsmen, Captain Rennic and Captain Albrech of the archers, pushed them to shore. They were not experienced oarsmen, but Shireen didn't care, she stared at her brother's dead face and wept. She thought her eyes would have dried by now, that all the tears of grief would have leaked away. But they kept coming, even though there was nothing to wash away, all the light and joy were drowned and the hollowness or sorrow was all that remained in her breast.

It was late in the day and the sky was dark and starless as the boat ran aground on the beach. She looked up from Lyonel's face for the first time and saw a solitary figure standing on the dark sand, a figure who had been standing there ever since she had received news on dark wings. Her uncle Rolland climbed out of his own longboat and approached her mother. She couldn't hear what was said, but soon he pointed in Shireen's direction.

Shireen looked back at Lyonel, hearing the soft crunch of sand as the figure approached. "Where is he?" Her mother asked in a strong whisper.

She heard Rennic reply and step aside. A form flickered over her momentarily before Queen Myrielle Baratheon knelt in the longboat next to her daughter, staring down at the lifeless body of her son. Shireen saw the strength in her face, the wisdom of her years and the glory of her house all straining to the breaking point to hold back her heart. She reached out undoing the top buttons of Lyonel's gambeson and reaching in to feel for final confirmation - the greyscale scars on his shoulder.

Silently she drew her hand out, clenched and unclenched it, then reached for Lyonel's face. She drew a single finger along his skin and bones, tracing the sharp features she had given him, the high cheekbones, pointed jawline, keen nose. She ran her fingers around his eye sockets, his cold, dead lips, going up to his hairline and back to his ears. All without a word.

Finally, when it became so dark that Lyonel's features were concealed by shadow, Myrielle stood. "Take him up to the castle," she commanded, in a voice of strength-concealing-loss. She reached down and took Shireen by the shoulder. "Let him go, Shireen."

"No," Shireen said through a dry throat. But her mother took her away and Shireen, having forsaken meals for several days, lacked the strength to resist. She was taken away.

They followed Lyonel's body, carried on the shoulders of six of his archers up to Dragonstone. "Place him in the chamber of the painted table," Myrielle said. Shireen made to follow but her mother took her to a room off to the side.

"Don't make me leave him," Shireen said weakly.

"You need to eat. Even in this gloaming, I can see your bones under your skin, and Rolland tells me you leave your meals to go cold."

"I've no hunger or thirst, no desire to imbibe that which would keep me in this world. Keep me away from him."

Her mother held her hand softly, but said nothing for a long time. Finally she said, "eat, Shireen, and then you can go back to him."

Alone, Shireen ate. The food had no taste, and she had to eat slowly so she didn't vomit, but she did feel a little of her strength returning. She finished the food and washed it down with a glass of water, then pushed herself to her feet. Perhaps it was that she had just eaten for the first time in days, but her limbs felt weak and she strained to even do that.

She returned to the chamber of the painted table and found Lyonel's body lying across Westeros, lit by candles placed around the room.

Amalia was standing over his body. Lyonel's mistress took something from the folds of her gown and rested it on Lyonel's chest, leaning in to kiss him on the lips "What is that?" Shireen asked.

Amalia jumped. "Princess, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," she said, bowing low.

"What is that?" Shireen asked again. Amalia reached over and picked up what she had just put down. It was an arrow, one of Lyonel's, with two flowers wrapped around it, the stems twisting around the shaft and the heads of the flowers facing in opposite directions next to the fletchings.

"It's just a little something I made," Amalia said in a voice just more than a whisper. Shireen could hear the pain in her voice. "In Myr it is custom that you leave a token when someone you care for passes on."

"You were his lover," Shireen said. She hurried around the table. "You were Lyonel's lover."

"I- yes," Amalia said, stepping back.

"Are you pregnant?"

"What?"

"You heard me!" Shireen growled. "Are you with child!" Amalia had backed against a wall at Shireen's stalking approach. Shireen fell to her knees before Amalia, ignoring the pain that flared through them and pushing her hands against Amalia's stomach. She couldn't feel a bulge, but it could be early, mother said it took time for pregnancies to show. "Did my brother leave a part of himself inside you before he left?" She asked, her fierce voice becoming a whisper. "Please tell me some part of him remains?" She would cherish that child, her bastard niece or nephew until the end of her days. She would smother it with love and tell it all the stories she had of its father.

But Amalia replied, destroying the dream. "No, princess. I am not."

Shireen pressed her face against Amalia's stomach for a few seconds, wanting to ignore her reply that hovered around her head. But she was too weak to keep up the illusion, and the words rang around the inside of her skull. The last hope that something of Lyonel survived in the woman he had come to love, guttered out like a weak candle.

She got to her feet.

"Princess?"

"Leave. Just go," she said.

Amalia knew not to challenge it and left without another word. Shireen sat down next to Lyonel's body and took his cold stiff hand in hers. Why did he have to die? Why did he have to go to that castle? Why wasn't she quicker to bring help. Did she need those last two hundred archers? Those fifty knights?

She laid her head on Lyonel's chest, looking up at his pale face. "Lyonel," she whispered. She closed her eyes.

She must have fallen asleep, because when she woke up in her own bed, her dress draped over a nearby lounger, and her in her nightgown. Someone had changed her. How fast asleep had she been that someone could change her clothes and she hadn't woken up?

She threw back the covers. The night was cold on the stones under her feet and the wind on her arms, so she got a grey woolen mantle out of her wardrobe and pulled it on before opening the door and stepping out into the dark corridors of Dragonstone castle. She made her way back to the chamber, she would sit by Lyonel's side again.

But as she turned the corner she stopped. There were guards on Lyonel's door. Not the door to where his body lay, but his bedchamber? She walked along the corridor until she was in front of the door. The guards bowed their heads to her. "Princess," one of them said. "Our deepest sorrows." Shireen licked her dry lips to reply, when the guard turned and opened the bedroom door. "She's inside." He said simply.

Shireen stepped in, forgetting to ask who it was.

Lyonel's Solar was empty, but the door to his bedroom was open. She could see that the fire was lit, an orange glow spilling into the solar and a noise was coming from it over the crackle of wood and spitting of sparks. A noise Shireen knew well. She hurried to the door and stepped inside. A figure lay on Lyonel's bed. Shaking with uncontrollable sobs, the sounds barely muffled by the pillow she was pushing her face into.

"Mother?" Shireen asked.

Her mother sat up and turned to her. Her face was streaked with tears, running in rivulets down her cheeks and spilling onto her nightgown. Her hair was twisted and her breath came in ragged gasps. She took a few breaths to try and calm herself. "Shireen, you shouldn't see me like this," she tried wiping her cheeks with the palm of her hand. Shireen had nothing to say, and her own eyes started drowning again. Her mother looked back at Lyonel's pillows. "It still," she gasped, "it still smells like him."

For many moments they were frozen, then her mother raised her arms and beckoned.

Shireen launched herself at the bed, scrambling up until she reached her mother's arms. The two women of house Baratheon squeezed each other so tightly, staying up right for only a few seconds before they fell into the bedding. Shireen felt her mother wrap the bedclothes around the pair of them as she buried her face in the pillows and cushions, seeking Lyonel's scent. She found it, or the memory of it, and inhaled deeply. They cried and hugged each other to sleep once again that night.

They woke to an urgent knocking on the door. Shireen ignored it, working herself deeper into the comfort of her mother's hug. She heard her mother speak, and her uncle reply, not concentrating on the words, not thinking. Her mother rustled a piece of parchment and her breath hitched. She told Rolland to leave them.

"What was that?" Shireen asked.

"It can wait," her mother said, her voice on the verge of breaking as she dropped the raven scroll on the bedside table and pulling Shireen in close, kissing her several times.

Shireen nodded and closed her eyes against the morning sun knifing around the curtains. Later, her mother would tell her about the contents of the letter that Uncle Bryce had written them from Storm's End. She would learn that another ship was sailing for Dragonstone bearing the body of her father, and that she now stood as the last daughter of the Baratheon royal bloodline.