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It's the only way to end the war.
That's what they all say: his mother, Uncle Edmure, the Blackfish, his Northmen. There will never be true justice for what was done to his father, but Lord Tywin swears that the North can be its own country if, and only if, Robb weds Princess Myrcella. At first Lord Tywin wants Sansa to remain in the Red Keep, but Robb swears he will burn the Westerlands to the ground before he lets his sister stay in the lions' den. In the end, Lord Tywin agrees that Sansa may return to Winterfell in exchange for a half-dozen Northern sons. To their credit, his men do not hesitate to offer their boys, and the exchange is to take place at Riverrun.
So focused on Sansa's return, the bright banner of her hair blowing in the breeze as she rushes towards their mother in a way she never would have done before, Robb nearly misses the princess climbing from the litter. She has grown taller since he last saw her, and she keeps the hood of her cloak up, her eyes downcast. Lord Tyrion is beside her, and when they stop before Robb, it is Tyrion who does the talking.
Robb is not sure which remark is the one that finally makes her snap her head up, her hood falling back. Her blonde curls are woven into some complicated Southron fashion, but her eyes burn bright as wildfire. For a moment he loses his breath, startled by her beauty; he had been expecting the child he met in Winterfell, not a young woman whose beauty was only matched by the anger in her face.
She only speaks when spoken to, though Sansa assures him that Myrcella talks to her nightly when they sup. When he points out to his mother that every gown she wears is black, as if she is in mourning, Catelyn optimistically reminds him that black is the color of the Baratheon standard. Robb does not believe it is pride in her father's house that makes Myrcella eschew the brightly colored gowns he knows she owns.
"You've no idea what it is like to be a woman," Sansa tells him one afternoon as they walk the grounds, her arm linked through his, Grey Wind leading the way. "Your family can just give you away without even asking if you care."
"No one asked me if I wanted this."
"That isn't true. You could've said no. Myrcella never had that option." Sansa looks towards him and Robb is startled to realize they are the same height now. "She was betrothed to Trystane Martell of Dorne. She liked it there very much. You mustn't be so unkind about this."
Chastened, Robb nods.
Letters from the capitol arrive at Riverrun. He knows it is not right to spy on his future wife, but Robb cannot bring himself to trust a Lannister. While she walks with Sansa, the Blackfish reads her correspondence and reports back to him.
"Inquiries from her mother making sure she is treated properly and stories from the little prince."
Robb is so ashamed of himself, he doesn't have his uncle invade her privacy again.
It is her reaction to Grey Wind which puzzles him most. His direwolf is truly mammoth now, standing as tall as some men, his yellow eyes sharp and bright. Even some of his men take a step back when Grey Wind approaches, but Myrcella does not. One afternoon as he meets with his advisors, Robb stands at the window and see Myrcella bent down, looking Grey Wind in the face. She scratches his ear as if he is a common dog, and Grey Wind moves forward, bumping her face with the flat of his head, unintentionally sending her back onto her arse. Robb cannot hear her laughter, but it is the first time he has seen her smile since arriving.
He dreams of her that night, of smooth skin and blonde curls wrapped around his hands, of full breasts and breathy cries. When he awakes, panting and sticky, Robb isn't certain what the hells is going on with him.
"You want her," Theon announces as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. "Can't blame you. Incestuous bastards or not, I've yet to see an ugly Lannister woman."
He wishes his father was here or even Jon. He should know better than to rely on Theon for advice.
A fortnight before their wedding, Robb steels himself with Arbor gold and goes to her chamber. The maid who answers is some Lannisport girl Myrcella brought with her, and she always cowers at the sight of him. He can see Myrcella seated at the desk, writing smoothly without even looking up, and there is something about her utter dismissal of him that stirs his blood.
"I've come to call on the princess."
"You may leave us, Clara," Myrcella says, still without looking up from her parchment, and Robb lingers awkwardly for a moment before taking a seat on the end of her bed.
Several excruciatingly long minutes pass before she turns to face him. "Did you need something, my lord?"
"I had hoped we could speak about what is to come."
"Hmm." She gives a little wave of her hand. "Go ahead then."
Robb swallows the rising lump in his throat, trying to sound calmer than he is. "I know this is not the marriage you wanted - "
"No, it isn't."
"But I hope," he continues, trying to finish this before his nerve gives out, "you will come to see I mean you no harm. I will be a kind husband to you and a strong father to our children. You have nothing to fear from me."
"What makes you think I fear you at all?" She smirks, and for a moment Robb is back at Winterfell, watching the same expression play across Queen Cersei's face as she surveyed the great hall. "You think I'm the sort of lady who hides and trembles? While you were playing at Winterfell, I was witnessing firsthand what sorts of evils men and women do to each other. You're not the first man my family has bartered me to in misguided attempts at peace, and should a war start tomorrow, I'm sure they'd call me back and try to sell me again. Sunspear or Winterfell, Martell or Stark, it makes no difference to me. I will do my duty as my mother did hers, and my children will all have golden crowns upon their heads." Her harsh facade cracks for a moment as she admits, "I've known terrible men, Lord Stark. I grew up surrounded by them. I'm not afraid of you."
At a loss, Robb sits for a moment, trying desperately to find the right words. Finally he manages, "I am sorry."
"For what, ending a war? Getting Sansa back? I would hardly fault you for that. My brother is cruel and mad as well; no one deserves him. If the world were just, Tommen would have come first, but we both know there is no justice in this world." Myrcella looks down at her lap, a few loose curls tumbling across her cheek, and Robb clenches his fists tightly to resist the urge to brush them away. "I am not happy about our marriage, but I suspect very few women are in the beginning."
He knows this. During the near nightly lectures from his mother, he has heard how she was uncertain about her marriage to his father but how it obviously worked out for the best. Robb wants to tell her that, wants to assure her he understands, but he isn't quite sure he does. Mayhaps it is like Sansa said; he does not know what it is like to be a lady.
Myrcella steals his breath on their wedding day. Her gown is still black but embroidered with gold thread throughout, onyx combs pinning her hair away from her face. Robb stands with the heavy direwolf cloak around his shoulders and suddenly feels far less like the man and king who has spent the past few years waging war and more like the boy he left behind in Winterfell. When it comes time to remove her Baratheon cloak, Robb finds his fingers fumbling as he leans close to her, catching the scent of juniper; Myrcella's eyes are sharp but amused at his ineptitude, but when he finally manages to free her from it and replace it with his own, Robb feels her shiver at the brush of his hand against her shoulder.
When he kisses her, he swears there is a spark, like flint catching and starting a fire.
Her cold veneer melts during the reception. If it is an act, it is well-done, but then she has more experience being royal than he. She smiles at the Northern lords and asks their wives about their children; she speaks with Bran and gives Rickon some of her roast pig to give to Shaggydog, and it will be said one day that the wedding of the King in the North to the Princess in the South was a surprisingly enjoyable affair. Even when the Greatjon roars for them to be bedded, Myrcella does not crack, laughing good-naturedly and swearing to geld whoever tears her fine gown. Robb loses her in the ensuing chaos, the hands of lusty wives tearing at his clothes with surprisingly strength. He barely manages to hang onto his smallclothes as he makes his way into his chamber, and he can feel scratches on his shoulder from one of the more ardent women.
His men bring Myrcella to him naked as the day she was born, her long blonde hair half-hiding her breasts. It is only now, in the privacy of their chamber with his men outside cheering loudly for him to take her maidenhead, that Robb sees how truly young she is. Barely three-and-ten for all her curves, and it shames him how he wants her, how even now his treacherous cock is stirring. She meets his gaze, her chin held high, and Robb recognizes the look on her face; it is the same one he wore each time he rode into battle, uncertain if he would return.
"Should I lie on the bed or would you have me some other way?" she asks, defiance in her voice, and Robb feels his desire to leave his body as quickly as it came.
He reaches behind him, grabbing a fur off of the bed and handing it to her. "No."
Myrcella studies him for a minute before pushing, "You don't intend to consummate our marriage?"
"Not tonight."
"Then when?"
"When you want me."
Myrcella crosses to the chair nearest the fire and curls up on it, keeping the fur tightly wrapped around her. Settling into it, she states matter-of-factly, "I will never want you."
Robb pulls back the bedclothes and slides between them, not even bothering to offer the bed to her. "I know," he mumbles, turning his back towards her.
He dreams of the Frey girl and wonders if she would have loved him.
Life goes on. It always does.
Winterfell begins to run as it did when his father lived and vacant positions are filled. Old Nan dies, driving them all to tears, and Arya returns to them with a ragged band of boys in tow, bringing them all a joy they had forgotten. When they are certain winter is still further off, he fulfills his promise to Bran, taking him to the Wall to see Jon, who is now Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
"How is married life?" Jon asks one night as Bran sleeps and they drink. They have exhausted all other topics, including Jon's affair with his wildling girl, and Robb hates the jealousy that burns in his chest at knowing Jon has lain with a woman and he has not. For so much of their lives, whatever one of them did, the other followed soon after, and Robb hates being left behind.
"She hates me."
"Hates you?"
It comes pouring out then, his lips loosened by beer, and when he has finished, Jon sighs heavily and admits it is hardly an enviable situation. Before the war, Robb never gave much thought to who he would marry, but he certainly hadn't imagined a Southron princess. If he were truly honest with himself, he had hoped for one of Lord Manderly's pretty granddaughters or Lyra Mormont with her quick laugh; even skinny Alys Karstark with her heavy handed approach would have been preferable to a woman who hated the sight of him.
"You can always take the black," Jon japes with a slow smile. "I'd never turn away a good swordsman."
And as they laugh, Robb realizes just how much he has missed his brother.
It is on his ride back to Winterfell that Robb thinks of a way to make peace with Myrcella. As he helps Bran down from his saddle, Hodor waiting with the wheeled chair Bran now uses since his last growth spurt, Robb climbs the stairs to Myrcella's solar. She seems surprised at the way he strides in without asking, but her expression quickly reverts back to unfathomable.
"You should invite Tommen to visit."
Myrcella blinks. "What?"
"I missed my brother, more than I even realized. It is a cruel thing, being separated from family. If you would like Tommen to come, I will make the arrangements."
Her smile is bright and unguarded, and it is the first time since she arrived at Riverrun that Robb does not feel completely inept in his dealings with her. "Thank you, my lord. I will have Maester Luwin send a raven at once."
The reply comes a week later, Myrcella breaking the seal the second she gets it with a zeal Robb did not even know she was capable of expressing. Her face crumples so dramatically, tears filling her eyes so quickly, Robb cannot resist his first instinct, which is to wrap her in his arms.
"I am so sorry."
The moment he speaks, Myrcella pulls back, almost as if she realized she has shown too much of herself to him. She wipes the tears from her cheeks, pulling her shoulders back as she crumples the parchment in her fist. "It was a silly fantasy. I should have known better."
She does not come out of her chamber for a week, and Robb has never felt so powerless in his life.
The dress is a vibrant purple silk, Myrish lace extending down over her hand, the neckline more daring than any of her black garbs. Her hair is loose, the first time he has ever seen it this way, and as she emerges from the glass gardens, Robb is so distracted watching her, Ser Rodrik manages to knock him to the ground, the older man already complaining that fighting Southron knights has made him soft. She carries a clutch of yellow flowers, and later he will see the same flowers in her solar.
It is a silly, boyish impulse to pluck more of them, leaving them on her bedside table while she is out, but Robb does not know how else to make it known he wishes for things to be different between them.
He returns from praying in the godswood to find Myrcella sitting in his solar with the flowers in her hands. For a moment he allows himself to indulge in the fantasy that this is the turning point he has been waiting for, that now they will be able to build something true.
And then Myrcella announces, "You will not be able to win me over with gifts, so do not try."
His anger sneaks up on him. "I only wished to do something kind for you! Can you not even say thank you?"
She blinks before snapping, "If you did it so I would come to you full of thanks, then it was not some selfless gift to me! I would respect you more if you'd tell me what you want rather than try to ply me like some cheap girl in the village!"
"I want a wife! I want a marriage! I want someone to share my bed and my life and have what my parents had! That is what I want!"
"Do you know what I want? No, of course not, because you have never once bothered to ask me." Getting to her feet, tossing the flowers to the ground, she growls, "Just because you are the king does not mean you get to have everything you want."
He breaks two knuckles when he punches the wall.
They have been married a year when Rickon asks one evening during supper when he and Myrcella are going to have a baby. Robb cannot even bring himself to look at his wife; over the past three moons, they have exchanged mayhaps a half-dozen words, and nearly everyone in Winterfell knows they do not share a bed. There have been whispers, Maester Luwin confides one day, from Northern lords with pretty daughters who are happy to bear his bastard so long as it means a legitimization and an eventual crown. Though his honor resists it now, the idea has started to sound better and better the more nights he spends alone.
"Eager to be an uncle, little one?" Myrcella teases, ruffling his unruly hair.
He is readying for bed, stripped down to his smallclothes and washing his face in the basin when he hears the chamber door open. Myrcella stands there, her face a bit paler than usual as she declares, "The North needs an heir."
"I won't bed an unwilling woman."
"If I was unwilling, I wouldn't be coming to you, would I?'
She huffs, shedding the robe to reveal a thin nightrail. Robb watches in confusion as she climbs into his bed, lying her head back on his pillow. The gold of her hair spread across the sheets is something he has imagined more times than he'd like to admit, but his head spins too rapidly now to appreciate it.
Robb carefully joins her in bed, sitting beside her prone body. When he lightly touches her wrist, she flinches slightly and Robb pulls back, shaking his head.
"I cannot do it, not like this."
"I know you want me," Myrcella declares, sitting up against the headboard. "I see the way you look at me."
"I do, but...I would rather you come to me because you truly wish this than to do so to save your pride."
Myrcella sighs, settling back into the pillow. Robb waits a moment before leaning over to blow out the lantern. As they lie in silence, Robb wonders what it would be like to reach out and hold her hand in his own.
"I do not know if I will ever be able to love you."
The words are a knife in his heart. "I understand."
"But if you remain kind like this, mayhaps I could come to look at you as a friend. I could come to you because I truly wish to lie with you."
"I would like that very much."
He wakes to the first rays of sun coming through the windows. As Robb rubs the sleep from his eyes, he looks over to see Myrcella beginning to stir, her hair a tangled cloud around her head. When she sees him, she pauses and a small smile tugs at her lips.
"Good morning, Robb."
He grins. "Good morning, Myrcella."
It is a start.