Robb/Myrcella: Welcome Home, My Love
The wind bites against her porcelain cheeks like the claws of a wolf, and she thinks that in this strange place, she must not belong.
In this land of grey and white, of shadows and snow and frozen darkness, Myrcella stands out like the last blooming flower in a dying field. She is sunlight in a world of eternal night, and the dark-haired, solemn faced Northerners stare at her as if they know she does not belong too.
The crown that sits atop her head is heavy and iron and crude, and looks wrong against her other crown, the crown of gold that she has worn all her life. Her new husband, her new King tells her she looks beautiful, says she will come to love the North, that these are her people and she shall love them as he does, and they shall love her as they love his mother, and when he tells her all this she smiles, but turns her face so he cannot see the tears that glisten in her eyes of green.
Eyes of spring.
Robb's eyes are blue, but not the blue of lakes and oceans and the summer's sky. They are the blue of ice, and although she think them lovely she also thinks them terrifying. They remind her of wolf's eyes, and though Myrcella knows that this is who he is, the Young Wolf, and knows that his hands are always gentle and never rough, and knows that his kisses are always sweet and never cruel, she finds fear in them all the same. She tells him this one night as they lie together, his cold flesh against her warm, dark red curls tangled in her blonde, and he laughs at her, and as he laughs she thinks of music, the sweetest music she has ever heard, and decides that the noise pales in comparison to this.
"Sweet wife," he tells her, bringing his hand to cup her face. "Blood runs through both our veins, the same as it runs through the veins of all others. However, our blood is not the same. Yours is warm and red, filled with the sweet scent of summer and sunshine, and it flows through to your eyes, the eyes of a flower of the South. But do you know what my blood is?" he asks, but does not pause for her answer. "My veins have frozen from the cold that runs through them, frosted over by the ice that I was born into. The ice of the North, my love."
He kisses her gently then, and though his eyes have fluttered shut hers remain open, seeing, wondering, awaiting what more he has to say. For there is always more that waits beneath the surface, always something that must be said, something that changes everything.
And she is right to wait for that something, for he whispers, breath hot against her neck, the only heat his frozen body radiates, "Soon the winds of winter shall freeze your blood like mine, and the North will live in you as it lives in us all."
Myrcella, in that moment, thinks him crazy. She thinks him mad. Thinks his wits have left him along with his innocent youth, that which he carried when she first laid eyes on him all those years ago. But the next morning she looks at herself in the glass, and in her eyes, in the eyes of spring, she thinks she may see flecks of blue.
She thinks this, and as she does she smiles, and in the mirror she sees a wolf.