Chapter Text
Her first thought was: I quite like the North.
She did not mind the cold like her mother did and she did not demand more coats as Joffrey did. She liked the way the white of the snow contrasted with the green of the lush hills and plains. It’s romantic, she thought. It was surely a place for adventures and play.
She had heard stories of the Godswood, of the Heart tree that was nestled amongst the pine trees. The leaves themselves were said to whisper with the voices of their ancestors, guiding those who knew how to listen.
She did not see the Starks at first. She did not watch them from afar as her mother and brother did, rather, she looked around her, eyes wide in wonder. As much as she loved King’s landing – it was all she knew, after all – she could not deny the intrigue of Winterfell, of the ancient castle that was hidden away in the wild, magical North.
She heard her father’s laughter and she turned, in mild surprise, to see him embrace Lord Stark – “Ned!” - As her father would always exclaim at the mention of his dear, old friend. She watched, unsure, as her mother approached the Starks, curious as Lord Stark kissed her hand. Her mother had never spoken kindly of Lord Stark, though, her mother seldom spoke kindly of anyone.
It had taken a month to ride north - an entire month in that blasted wheelhouse - and all there was waiting for them was a feast – something which her brother wouldn’t shut up about. She had not hoped for much, knowing that she would be forbidden to stray, her mother too fearful of all the beasts the North housed. But within her there had been hopes, hopes which flourished the moment they rode through the gates.
Myrcella was still staring in awe of the snow upon the ground as the party disbanded; her father disappeared with Lord Stark - off to see the dead girl, her mother hissed - whilst the rest entered the castle.
She was introduced to the Starks eventually.
She was introduced first to Lady Stark and Sansa, who were as much alike as Cersei and Myrcella. Arya, who was only perhaps a year younger than herself, pulled faces and did not appear to be listening as she was told her name. Then, after her father had emerged from the crypts, laughing, she met Robb, Jon the Bastard, Bran and little Rickon. She knew, though for reasons she did not yet know, not to smile at Jon the Bastard for long.
She smiled at Robb the most, thinking him handsome, like the knights in her songs. He made her cheeks flush when he called her pretty – pretty in a way a summer flower could only be. She knew he was only saying so to be kind, but she did not mind.
Jon Snow was quiet throughout the feast, almost sullen. He sat half-hunched in his furs, his expression grave and melancholy. Myrcella didn’t understand; she did not yet know what a bastard is. Innocence allowed her that.
She was not allowed the play that first day, as she had expected. Instead, she was forced to sit between her brothers and smile prettily, and watch the dancing and enjoy the feast she and her family had travelled so far to enjoy. Her mother made an occasional comment, something which she noted Lady Catelyn seemed to take with a pinch of salt.
--
On the third day, she got to play.
She ran with Tommen across the frosty ground, giggling, behaving childishly (as children are meant to do, no matter what Joffrey had to say on the matter). Joffrey would not have joined them, not even if she had begged. But they did not miss him, they never did. Septa Eglantine trailed behind them, panting as she struggled to catch her breath.
They scampered through the Godswood, kicking up leaves and splashing each other with the muddy waters of whichever puddle they come across. Tommen's breathing came heavily, but he wouldn't let them stop, not even for a moment.
They came to a clearing in the woods gasping for breath amongst their giggles. The bruises on Tommen’s arms were fading, she noticed.
He did not allow himself to remember, but she did. She could not escape from it. Joffrey had always been mean-spirited, but never so much as he had been that day, when he had taken to beating his own brother simply because he was bored and had fallen into one of his foul moods. Her mother hadn’t believed it. And her father had been too drunk to either notice or care.
“Do you like it here, ‘Cella?” Tommen asked her as he settled beneath the branches of a bare birch tree. She smiled as she sank the floor beside him. She gave his chubby little hand a small squeeze and nodded.
“I quite enjoy the cold. It’s different.” She said, looking around her with a smile. She wanted nothing more than to find the nearest patch of snow, just so she could roll in it like a hound. She did not know the feel of snow upon bare flesh, whether it burned or froze.
Tommen pulled a face. “I don’t like the cold.”
“I know.” She said with a soft smile. “But we can like different things, you and I.”
Tommen’s little hand turned, his fingers opening and threading through the gaps between hers. Their hands, both small and delicate, fitted together as though they were made to do so. She felt the cold at the tips of his little fingers and the warmth at the heart of his palm. It made her smile. It had been so long since they had simply sat like this, away from the world, taking a moment to rest. Tommen had met each touch with a flinch since Joffrey. It was nice to know she was the first not to be met with fear.
“Are we staying here forever?” He asked her after sometime had passed, his head lifting from her shoulder. The gentle breeze ruffled his golden curls, lifting them from his forehead. She shifted, pressing a kiss to his fair brow, and shook her head as she drew away.
“We’ll be going home soon. Father just came here to see his dear friend. Once he has done that, we shall return home. I promise.”
--
She did not know, was not told, until it was too late.
Her mother paced the room, fuming.
“Married? Married? Robert, she is not even one-and-ten and you’re already sending her away?” Her mother, beautiful, even in her anger, thrust her hands in her direction. Her hands moved in great sweeping gestures which were ignored by her drunken father. He simply shook his head, mouth opening for a moment as though to bellow for more wine.
Always more wine.
Wine.
It was all he had to say, and he’d have it. Myrcella wondered whether life was like that for everyone. For every man, anyway. It certainly didn’t seem that easy for her mother, who was but a woman, small and unimportant – if her father was to be believed.
“Why not the child her own age, Robert? Or, better yet - why not the bastard? What difference is it, after all, you seem to see our daughter - our only daughter - as little more than a whore to please Ned Stark –”
Then there was that familiar sound.
It was not often that he did it in front of her, one of the children, but she knew the sound, and knew the sight of red and purple upon her mother’s cheek. Her mother did not scream, she did not cry out, and did not gasp. Her mother stumbled with the weight and the force behind it, clumsy hands knocking wine from the table. When her father saw the mess, he looked as though he might strike her again.
“Father!” Myrcella exclaimed, stumbling forward. She tripped slightly on her skirts as she hurried to his side, her gentle hands reaching for his. He looked down at her, anger undissipated, but cut short. “P – please. Tell me about Winterfell. Tell me about House Stark.”
And it was that simple.
She could see her mother in the corner of her eye, watching her, studying her. Myrcella sat close to her father, deaf to the stories of battle and glory and wolves and White Walkers. Her father told her those things not for her, but for himself. She was only a child and even she could see it. Instead of listening to her father’s exaggerated war stories, she watched her mother from the corner of her eye.
Her mother clutched her face with one hand, hiding the mark her husband had made, but she seemed to be smiling slightly, perhaps thinking that there was more Lannister in her daughter than she had expected. It had not all been wasted on Joffrey.
--
“It is a fine match.” Her mother said, somewhat stiffly.
“Indeed it is. Given that she is so young, it will give them time to become acquainted with each other.” Lady Stark responded, her tone equally as stiff. She seemed no more comfortable in giving up her child than Cersei was.
Myrcella’s eyes flickered to her father. She watched him where he stood, laughing beside Lord Stark with his belly protruding. He had said (amongst bellows for more wine and women) that he had always intended on the Starks and the Baratheons being one, one way or another. Her uncle Jamie had told her that he told her father had suggested Robb because he too liked horses – but she doubted her father would ever be so observant.
She saw Robb Stark, sat beside his younger brother, Bran, and sister, Arya. They sat away from the others, in the far corner of the room. It was not where they had originated. She suspected that they had moved to escape the noise, something which she wished she could do. The bastard and the Greyjoy were absent, she couldn’t help but notice. She had not seen him without one of them since she had arrived.
Robb’s eyes rose as hers fell upon him and she felt herself flush. His expression was not unkind, but it was not welcoming either. His sister looked up too, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Myrcella. She leant into her brother’s side, whispering something. Robb didn’t say anything, but didn’t let his gaze drop. Myrcella wished it would. Maybe then she too could look away.
His brother and his sister both laughed, looking away from her, the stranger from the South. But he didn’t. He watched her, watching him, without a trace of humour. He gripped his fork tightly in one hand and she could see the pucker between his brows. He seemed just as confused, just as annoyed as she was, being promised to another, to someone who seemed to stand on the other side of a long off shore.
“He’s very handsome, my lady. He’ll be even more handsome when he is grown.” One of her servants told her in hushed, giggly tone that evening as she brushed her hair. Septa Eglantine flashed the girl a stern look, but it served to only make her giggle more. “Just you wait. It may seem like a punishment now, but come a few years, you’ll be begging to have him as your husband. Just you wait.”
Myrcella knew better than to scoff. Her manners were too inbred to ever do such a thing.
--
Myrcella sensed that, though she was the only one being given away that day, there was to be an exchange, Sansa for Myrcella, Joffrey for Robb.
It seemed that both Sansa and Myrcella were promised that night, both given away. Sansa was the only one who seemed content with that. Myrcella watched the pretty Stark girl, with hair like fire, smile and flush when talking to her brother, unaware of what a beast he really is. She was so young, so innocent; Joffrey would ruin her.
Something within her longed to tell her, to finally tell someone of what he had done. Tommen still had his bruises, there was still proof.
Joffrey seemed to notice too. When her gaze flickered to him, his eyes would slide up and meet hers. Sometimes he’d smile, while other times, more often than not, he’d scowl. And when she left the hall, foolishly choosing to go to bed alone, he followed.
He caught her by the arm and dragged her to a dark corner. She tried to push him away, but it did not good. The walls of Winterfell, which she had thought were so welcoming, seemed to close in on her as Joffrey twisted her arm behind her back.
“Do you remember Tommen’s kittens, Myrcella? Do you? Because I remember.” Tears burned in the corners of her eyes. She bit her tongue and looked up at the ceiling, refusing to let him see her cry. “Look at me. Myrcella, look – at - me.”
Later, she told herself that she should have been prepared. But Joffrey, always so weak to his temper, snapped so easily. He struck her then for little more than her unwillingness to spare him a glance. Her head hit the stone wall beside her and she felt blood there, just above her temple. Joffrey didn’t seem to notice. If he had, she wasn’t sure what he would have done. She liked to think he would have stopped. His fingers twisted at her wrist, causing her to gasp.
“I know what you’re scheming, sweet sister. But you’re not going to tell my lady Sansa anything.” She thought of Tommen’s bruises and it was that, and that alone, which made her hold her tongue. “Because she will be my lady, just like you’ll be the Stark’s little whore.”
“I won’t!” She cried, suppressing a sob as he finally released her. Joffrey had twisted the skin of her wrist, leaving angry red marks behind. It stung, but far worse was the knock to her head. The blood was now trailing down her cheek. “I won’t say anything!”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
Joffrey pressed a kiss to her cheek before he left, pleased, and acting as though he were the sweet brother he should have been.
She suppressed a sob as she was left alone in the darkness. She had always been able to stand up to Joffrey, but something had changed within her the day she had seen what was truly inside of him. She feared that he would do to her what he had done to Tommen.
As she pressed her sleeve to her temple, the castle suddenly felt so much colder than it had been before. She wondered, in the midst of her self-pity, whether Joffrey would be like their father, if he would take to striking his wife whenever he saw fit. She wondered how long it would take before Sansa saw the truth behind Joffrey’s handsome, Lannister grin. The poor girl...
“Princess?” She shouldn’t have been surprised to be found. Whenever she wished to be alone, she never was. Looking up with a quiet sigh, she was met with the surprised, and albeit, confused faces of Robb and Bran Stark, following closely by the bastard, Jon Snow. Robb’s eyes dropped the moment she looked at him, his hands twisting together in front of him.
“Oh. Hello, my lords.” Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she smiled courteously at the two Starks, avoiding glancing at Jon Snow when she spoke of the titles which he would never bare. She may not have known what a bastard was, but she knew better than to call someone what they weren’t. “How are you all this evening? Doing well, I hope.”
“Are – are you alright, Princess?” Jon Snow pointed at her wrist, whilst Robb stared at her bloody sleeve, his eyes travelling up until he saw it. She might have been embarrassed if not for the concern which was so obvious on their faces.
“Yes, thank you. It’s nothing. I fell, that’s all.” She mustered a smile and cast a glance around them. She wasn’t quite sure where they were. It was dark, quiet, but not far from the noise and the buzz of the hall. It was too dark to see much, too late for candles to be of much use.
“Liar.” Bran said, though not unkindly. Robb elbowed him, hard, in the ribs.
When the two Starks and their half brother took her to the kitchen, she wasn’t quite sure what she expected. Robb didn’t look at her, but she didn’t blame him. She couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him either.
When they entered the kitchen, descending the pokey staircase down into the servants’ quarters, Bran hopped up onto the table in the centre of the large kitchen, ignoring the servant who awkwardly lingered at the stove. He seemed so entirely at ease there, as though it were commonplace for a young lord to be seen in the servant's quarters. His legs swung loose, knocking into Robb’s back as he ran a cloth under the taps.
Myrcella watched him as he rung it out and she frowned a little when he handed it to her. She stared at it, one part of her confused and the other part not wanting some dirty dishcloth anywhere near her.
“What is this for, my lord?” She asked sincerely, earning a giggle from Bran. Robb did not say anything. She was glad he didn’t. Instead, he dragged two stools and sat down on one and gestured wordlessly for her to sit down on the other. She lowered herself reluctantly, allowing for him to shift closer. She flushed as he reached out, an uncertain hand brushing her long hair from her face. The damp cloth was dabbed against where it hurt at her temple, the once off-white cloth coming away red. Oh, she thought, feeling foolish.
She had never quite looked at her betrothed properly, not like this, never once this close, only ever from afar. When they had first arrived, she’d thought him handsome and she turned pink at the sight of his smile. But, she supposed, that had not been real. She had seen him as a knight from a song, not as a real person, not as her betrothed.
His hands were large and slightly calloused, but they were gentle upon her face. She watched him, curious, as he bit down upon his lower lip, concentrating. He was not much older than her, but he was not close to her age either. She supposed that he was several years older than Joffrey, perhaps one-and-four or one-and-five. He was handsome, in a boy-ish sort of way, with hair caught between the red of his mother and the brown of his father and siblings. His features were not as dark as the others, but he was a Stark, all the same. His lashes were long, tipped with gold and his eyes were blue, and cold, like the stormy skies of the North.
It was strange; she could not help but think, at how different the Starks all were, yet somehow still alike. They were not like her and her brothers, all Lannister in their golden hair and green eyes.
“You didn’t fall.” Robb Stark said to her, lifting his head. She saw that his chin jutted out, just like his brother’s had when he had called her a liar. They were a stubborn sort, the Starks. So Myrcella shook her head, knowing that she would not win this game.
“We might go riding tomorrow. You can come with us, if you like.” Bran Stark said from the table. His smile was so genuine that she could not stop herself from returning it.
“Thank you, my lord.” She said, knowing already that her mother would forbid it. “That is very gracious of you.”
“What’s the South like?” Bran asked, hopping down from the table.
“Warmer than here,” She said, earning a laugh from even the bastard, who had stood by the doorway and not made a sound. “And… busy. I don’t like it very much. I think I prefer it here, my lord.”
--
An arrangement was proposed. Cersei won. She always did.
It was decreed that Myrcella would spend half of the year in the South and the rest in the North until she was of age to be married.
She did not get the chance to speak to Robb and Bran Stark before she and her family returned to the Kingsroad. She saw them though, stood in line as they had been on that first day, but there to say their courteous goodbyes this time. She thought, perhaps, as she helped Tommen up into the wheelhouse, that she saw Robb cast a glance at her. But she could have been wrong.
“I cannot believe you promised him to one so young.” She had heard Lady Catelyn say to her husband, echoing the words which her mother would hiss to her father whenever Robb Stark was mentioned in her company.
“The North is no place for her. She belongs –”
“She won’t be a child forever, Cersei.” Either one of her uncles, Jamie or Tyrion would say, causing her mother to make even more of a fuss.
“She’s my daughter. My only daughter. And you are taking her from me.” Her mother would snap in response, ensuring a bruised and awkward silence. Sometimes, Myrcella would be tempted to reach across and take her mother’s hand, but she never did, for during the journey back home, her hands belonged to one and one alone – Tommen.
He never let go, and neither did she.
--
Anyone but us is the enemy.
She had always been taught to rely on blood and blood alone. Her heart could belong to only those whose blood she shared – her family, but most of all, her children. She could only ever let herself to fully love her children. She could love a wolf or a bear or a dragon. She was a lioness. Lions stuck with their own, their pride.
But as she entered Winterfell and was welcomed back into the arms of the North, she did not feel as far from her own as she should have. There was not a lion in sight. They were gone, left behind. All there were were wolves. As she climbed out of the wheelhouse, she glanced at Ser Arys and Ser Preston and saw that both knights stood with their hands sitting atop the pommels of their swords. Neither one of them looked at ease here.
It was strange to think that it had only been half a year since she had last been here.
Joffrey had spoken of Sansa on occasion, boasting about how she was going to be his wife and his queen. He had thought it quite funny that she was being made to marry Robb, as though her escaping him and King’s Landing was something she should have been upset about. It had not been difficult to say goodbye to him, only Tommen had forced a lump into her throat, making the threat of tears very much real.
They had never had to say goodbye to each other before, and while she knew that goodbyes were never forever, the further the carriage rode from him, the more it felt as though it were. She had dug her nails into her palms thinking about what might come of her sweet brother in her absence. She was gone, meaning Joffrey was free to behave in his usual fashion. Without her there, there were only adults to protect Tommen from his brother, who she knew she could not blame, for he didn’t know any better.
Her uncle Jamie, she had supposed, a day into the journey, would protect him. He had always done his best in the past. Sometimes, in idle passing, she had wondered why that was, even though the answer was always tucked into the back of her mind, always just out of reach, just waiting for the day when she finally could.
“Princess Myrcella, how lovely it is to see you again.”
It had been half a year, but from what she could see, Winterfell hadn’t changed. The walls were still high and made from stone, the ground still covered lightly in snow, the sky still hidden away by thick clouds. It was still beautiful, and that was all that mattered to her. She smiled properly for the first time since she had left home.
“Thank you, Lord and Lady Stark.” She replied, remembering her manners as she lowered herself into a curtsy. The ground crunched underfoot as she rose and was greeted, one by one, by Lord and Lady Stark. Lady Catelyn kissed her on the cheek, something she hadn’t expected.
“It’s lovely to see you again. I hope the journey was pleasant.”
“It was very pleasant. Thank you, Lady Stark.”
“Call me Catelyn, please.”
That was all it took for the memory of her mother, in those months, to be eclipsed by the unfamiliar maternal kindness which was Catelyn Stark, as she, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, warmed to her and made her feel as though a lion could be loved by a wolf.
--
It was not the smiles, the glamour nor the pomp that welcomed her home, but the anger and the tension.
First it was her father, barking orders at her mother, then her uncle, hissing whispered threats under his breath.
The others did not see – could not possibly see – what was as obvious to Myrcella as a knife to the throat. Her mother and father had been exchanging harsh words in private. Joffrey had been upset by something – or perhaps someone – and most of all, most importantly, Tommen was absent.
She had looked for him the moment she had stepped into view of her family, her father sat slouched upon his throne and her mother sat beside him, not waiting in a line, ready to embrace her, as it had been in Winterfell.
It had been difficult for her to leave the North.
She had missed her brother, missed his sweetness and missed his smile, just as much as she had feared for him. She had feared every day that they were apart what Joffrey could be doing to him without her there to protect him. She had missed him and thought of him every day she was away from him, but all the same, she had grown to love the North.
She had allowed herself to grow close to those who her mother would call her captors. She found herself attached quite quickly to Lady Catelyn, who treated her with more kindness and care than her mother ever had. And though she loved her mother with all her heart, she could not deny that the warmth and affection Lady Catelyn had treated her with would be missed.
It would be a lie, however, to say that she would miss Robb Stark.
In her time in the North, she had spoken to her betrothed perhaps once or twice, and only ever in the passing. He looked away when she looked at him, disappeared during the day and the evenings, often missing dinner to be absent with the Greyjoy and the bastard. But she had never minded. She hadn't needed his attention when she had the kindness and the respect of the other Starks, those who could look at her and not resent her for reasons which were out of her control.
She had hoped, as she journeyed to Winterfell that they would speak as they had done during her previous visit that they would grow close and almost be considered friends. She had hoped he would smile at her and hand her the same flower, making it a tradition of sorts, but he didn’t.
Her mother smiled at her as she stepped up to meet her. She drew her close and embraced her tightly for a long moment. Her mother’s hair smelt the same as it had when she was very little, a smell which had always comforted her. She felt her lip tremble slightly when her mother released her and moved away.
Her father rose eventually, hugging her tightly, as though he had missed her – as though he had noticed her absence.
“Mother, where is Tommen?” She asked as Joffrey reluctantly welcomed back the guards who had escorted her, who had been so oddly kind to her on the kingsroad. She kept her eyes on her brother, making sure only her mother could hear her. “Why has he not come to see me?”
Her mother hesitated. “He is – resting.”
Resting.
Myrcella knew that word.
Her father was only resting when he was absent on her nameday, her mother was only resting when she disappeared for several hours, her brother was only resting when he was too frightened of Joffrey to leave his chambers. Myrcella glared at her mother, pushing all of the blame onto her. Her mother did not seem to notice. Brushing past her, her mother moved to Joffrey’s side.
Watching her from her over shoulder, Myrcella watched as her mother brushed a strand of hair off of her brother’s forehead and wrapped her arms around his shoulder. She called Joffrey her ‘sweetling’, something which he had not been since he was a babe nursing from her mother’s breast. Myrcella bristled slightly, ashamed of the envy which flooded through her at the sight of her mother treating her brother with more care than he would ever deserve.
Brushing down her skirts, Myrcella did not allow herself to be embraced by her brother; rather, nodding stiffly, she moved off to find Tommen. They did not seem to notice her leave, too caught up in themselves and their own thoughts to see their princess move past them and through the doors to the Red Keep.
The time apart had altered her, in many more ways than she had expected. Being there, back home, where she was supposed to belong, she could feel the difference in herself as she had not been able to when she had been in Winterfell.
She saw the word less like a child than she had before. She looked at her parents wishing she saw the two Starks in their place. She longed for the kind face of Lady Catelyn and the faint, understanding smile of Lord Eddard. She had glimpsed something which she had not known in Winterfell. She had seen the Starks and seen the love which they held for each other, something she had never seen in her parents.
She had been stripped of her innocence, almost. She had been stripped of the blindness she had had to her parents’ faults and to the strangeness of her life in King’s landing. Her eyes had been opened, never to close again.
Pushing open the doors to Tommen’s chambers, she felt herself smile properly for the first time since she had left Winterfell.
“Tommen.” She breathed at the sight of her brother.
Stood by one of the many great windows of the Red Keep, her brother turned at the sight of her voice. With aging bruises littering his arms, her little brother cuddled a small kitten to his person, smiling in spite of all the wrongs which had been inflicted upon him.
“I was wondering where the Prince of Kittens was!”
“Myrcella!” Carefully placing the small, grey kitten on the floor, her brother bounded towards her, the weight of his embrace leaving her breathless and giggling, childishly, as she had not done in what felt like so long.
She drew him away from her after a long moment, hands running through his golden hair, cupping his small round face. She pressed light kisses to his cheeks, to the tip of his small freckled nose, to his forehead, carefully avoiding any bruise that came in her path. She felt him squirm, giggling as he slipped from her embrace. His smile was sunny; it was a warmth she wished she could bring with her when she was sent back to the North.
“What has he done to you?” She whispered as, pulling him by the hand, she led her brother the window. In the bright midday light, so harsh and unforgiving, there were no shadows to conceal the truth from her. Looking at him, bruised with no one to comfort him in her absence, she found herself having to turn away to disguise her tears.
“Please don’t go away again,” He murmured, his eyes welling with tears as she looked to him. Her lower lip quivered as he reached out with trembling fingers to touch her damp cheek. “I missed you too much.”
“If I could put you in my pocket and sneak you to Winterfell, I would do it in a heartbeat.”
It was all she could say. She couldn’t lie to him, not when she knew that there would come a day when she would leave for good and she could have to leave Tommen and this life behind.
--
Staring down at the stained sheets, she did not see new life, but death.
She should have been happy. She had been blessed with her moon’s blood early. She would be one-and-three in a month’s time, yet, it seemed, she was already a woman. She was supposed to be happy.
She had always imagined the day she became a woman as a joyous one. She had thought she would have been in King’s landing, close to her mother. She had thought she would become a woman and then she would be married to someone who loved her with his whole heart. But instead, she was promised to someone who could barely look at her, let alone love her.
Lady Catelyn stared down at the ruined sheet and waved away her servants when Myrcella began to cry. Robb’s mother sat down beside her on the edge of the bed and took her hand in hers. I want my mother, she wanted to yell. I want to go home.
“What if he does not love me? What if he never loves me?” She exclaimed, unashamed of her outburst. She looked up at Catelyn, her green eyes wide and beseeching. She could look at the bloody sheets no longer. “What will I do then? Am I cursed to live the same miserable life as my mother, with a man who cannot stand the sight of me?”
She had expected disappointment from the mother of her soon-to-be husband, but rather, Lady Catelyn smiled, as she always didMyrcella was once again asking herself why she always confused the actions of her own mother with everyone else. Did kindness not exist in the world because Cersei Lannister didn’t demonstrate it enough? No, of course it was still there, lying not on a far shore, but for once, within her reach.
Lifting her hand, she touched Catelyn’s fingers, feeling them tighten slightly around her shoulder; giving her what she assumed was a confronting squeeze.
“I will tell you exactly what I told my son; love… it can be built and it can be worked at until one day, rather than simply happening at first glance, it appears and that kind of love is stronger. I believe that kind of love never disappears.” She had been embraced them, her shaking form taken – unexpectedly – into the arms of her mother in the North. The bloody sheets had been gone – hastily taken away by servants – before she had stepped out of the embrace, all traces of what had come in the night and stole from her all the time and innocence childhood had given her. “Why don’t we wait? You’re much too young to be married yet. Why don’t we wait until you visit again to make the announcement?”
Even if she did not have Robb’s love, at least, in part, she had some of Catelyn’s.