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XII: Shireen
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Storm’s End was a garden. A paradise made of white brick and worked stone, beautiful, huge. The walls around it were tall, so very tall, smooth, comforting even. The same walls that had protected her ancestors from the Storm God’s wrath. Her walls, her own beautiful walls.
The tower was immense, a proud giant against the sky. Her tower, her giant. Inside it, her halls, her chambers.
Her Garden. Hers.
So much to see, to explore and so much she could do! She finally could watch the sunset from the guard post, smell the ocean on the seaward side, run through what still remained of the godswood, search for the kitchens, for the barracks, for the stables!
Her beautiful, beautiful garden!
Shireen loved her new home more than she had ever loved anything else. Loved her new found freedom more than the strong stone that made her new home.
She felt as if she was flying. A bird for the first time in as long as she could remember.
“It’s always summer, under the sea. I know, I know; oh, oh, oh.”
The small queen did not know why that song came from her lips. It was not a joyful song. The tone was sombre, longing. Yet it fit perfectly under the burned trees of what little of the godswood had escaped her father’s fires. She hated that he had put it to the torch. It made her wonder how gorgeous the greens of the foliage would stand against the white and grey of the walls. How better than dirt the grass would feel against her naked feet. He had had no right to touch her garden.
“The rain is dry as bone, under the sea. I know, I know; oh, oh, oh.”
A though that brought others for company. Horrible thoughts. It escaped her how the death of her kin, her king - her father! - could have made such difference in her life. Happiness. How happy she was without his chains.
A Queen.
She smiled, wide, as wide as her cheeks would let, until it stung, until it hurt. So wide it stopped her from singing. She knew she should not be cheerful. Of course she did. She should feel sad, empty, something, anything other. Not relief. Never relief. How could she? Who would?
How could she be happy to be free when it had cost her her father? Why had the news of his death brought no tears, no screams, no moans?
Relief. Just relief. Why relief? Why?
He loved her.
Her father had loved her. She knew it to be so. Even if he had ever so rarely visited, hugged her, touched her, looked at her. Even if she was locked, deformed, misshapen, a disappointment, a failure, a prisoner, miserable. Loved her. Miserable.
Shireen had not known enough love that she could spare it.
And still... Still! Only relief!
And the thought, the simple of thought of how much happiness his death brought her... it scared her, terrified her, broke her smile.
“Smoke rises in bubbles, under the sea. I know, I know; oh, oh, oh.”
Just not enough for sadness, not enough for tears.
Not when she could leave her room! In daylight! When she could run through halls with no one to make her go back, to lock her back! When she could read outside in the yard! Feel the sunlight against her face, the grass against her feet! Not when she finally had someone that looked at her with a smile! Not when she had her own Garden!
The relief for her father’s death was a blanket, warm, protective, that had her smile for days on end, no matter how guilty it made her feel when awake at night.
“And flames burn green and blue and black. I know, I know; oh, oh, oh.”
For if he was there, alive, breathing, there in the castle – her giant! –, Shireen knew she would still be a caged bird in her room. Her too small a room, locked, deformed, misshapen. With only her small, barred window, a disappointment, a failure, a prisoner. And only her small escapes to breathe. Miserable.
And so she smiled, laughed, sang. Relief. Until her living cheek hurt and her throat was hoarse.
Why would she not be relieved?
She was free, happy.
And it had only cost her her father.
Free, happy.
...
Night was coming, fast. Shireen was still laid on the charred remains of what had once been the godswood, her legs and arms stretched in the dirt and weeds. The day’s heat had given way to a piercing cold. There was no wind. The walls around her reached high into the sky, letting no breeze pass.
Yet, she made no motion get up, to find solace from the chill. Even that cold, the outside’s cold, was new to her. Even then, the goosebumps that formed were welcomed with a small grin. She probably look pathetic, delighted at such a small thing. As if the cold was a show mounted just for her amusement. Yet, her grin would get only wider.
She would enjoy it none the less; while she could; while she would be let.
“The birds have scales, under the sea. I know, I know; oh, oh, oh.”
She half expected to be sent back to the keep at any time. Free she may be, but there were still bigger powers in the court than her. Much, much bigger. Even small as she was, she knew there were eyes upon her at nearly all times. She did not see them, could not see them, but the hairs to the back of her neck would lift for no reason at irregular intervals. Sometimes she would feel a chill run down her spine, sometimes she would see a shadow just on the corner of her view.
Perhaps it should come as little surprise. After all, the shadows were servants to the Lord. There were no shadows without light.
“The shadows come to dance my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord.”
She was blessed, her mother had gotten to say. The Lord of Light had chosen her to lead Westeros in his burning glory. So was the word of the red priestess, Melisandre. Her.
Blessed. The word left a copper taste in the young queen’s mouth.
“The shadows come to stay my lord, stay my lord, stay my lord...”
Blessed, said her mother. The same woman who had her locked. The woman who had not looked at her in so long that Shireen could barely remember her. Had one asked the child two months prior, she would have had trouble describing her mother’s features.
And when she finally could... Part of her wished she still could not. A childish wish, she was sure. But her mother’s was not a beautiful face. There was something twisted, wrong, in the way her eyes would shine, her lips would lift. Something sick.
Should not a mother’s face look beautiful to one’s daughter?
It was colder. She stopped singing.
Of little matter. Of no matter. Because now she was blessed. Blessed. Blessed!
To her ears, the word sounded as a cage in the making, a new cage where she could be locked, deformed, misshapen, a disappointment, a failure, a prisoner, miserable. A cage that the priestess crafted out of gold, adorned with sculptures of stags, fruits and torches. Miserable.
The cold deepened, ate away at her bones. Her hairs rose on their own accord.
“You should be inside, your grace.”
She forced down the lump that had formed in her throat, calmed her lips so they would not shake.
Melisandre. Her gown was light, Shireen could but help noticing, cut in a way that left much of her skin in view. And yet the woman held no signs of noticing the cold.
“Is supper served, my lady?” She gave a small curtsy. Politeness masked the fear.
“We have already eaten, your grace.” Her voice was warm, but it did not reach her eyes. “Your supper was sent to your room.” Shireen could not help but be thankful. Eating at the table had been fun at first, new, so much better than alone. But she had always imagined a feast as a happy event, brimming with life and laughter, music and poems. There were none in the red court. Only whispers and stares.
The priestess gaze was fixed on the girl. It was cold, deep, old. One could drown in her eyes. They had the girl almost gasp for breath. Shireen looked down to her feet.
A new curtsy, shy, her eyes never leaving the brim of her gown. And she left, in quick steps, just slow enough to not be a sprint, her back turned to her fears. If you can not see them, they do not exist.
Not even when the chill left her spine did she run. She still waited to turn a corner, then another. Her breath was getting harder. She ran then, giving sharp turns at each corridor, jumping over steps when she got to the staircases.
She had ran through the keep times enough not to get lost. She had done so with less light, with less freedom. But never with her breath so laboured.
She opened her room’s door in haste, closed it behind her with a pang. She leaned her body against the wood, her head down to the stone floor. She forced her gasps to slow.
“Your grace... Are you quite alright?” The voice broke into her mind. Melodious, warm. Truly warm. Her handmaiden. The woman tried a smile. “Do you wish to eat?”
Shireen’s lips curved on their own might. If there was someone who was the opposite of her guardian, of her mother, of her family, it would be this woman. There was never disgust or frost or disappointment in her tone, her words, her poise, her eyes. She had met her little after her father took the castle. The first night in her service, as the woman helped her to bed, she had hugged the then princess and placed a kiss against her cheek. Her darkened cheek. She had kissed her. HER.
Shireen loved her.
“No” her smile hurt her cheeks once more, wide “I am well.” Instead she sat on her chair, turned to the room’s mirror. Her hands were over her knees, begging them to stop shaking. As the smell of her handmaiden enveloped her, they did.
She looked to her polished copper and her thoughts returned to herself. Her fingers traced her dead cheek. She tried stabbing her nail against it, to cause pain, discomfort, something. She tried harder. And harder still, until her finger hurt. And yet... yet...
Nothing. Why nothing? Was she broken after all? Deformed, misshapen, a disappoint-.
“I could comb your hair by the window, your grace.”
Her heart swooned at such a small, big, gigantic gift. To forget her mirror for a while more, forget who she was. She smiled, wide, grateful.
For a moment, Shireen felt the now recognisable need to please the woman. Mayhap she should sing? There had always been a compliment in the woman for her singing. And Shireen had been starved of praise all her life. She licked her upper lip and bit her lower:
“And you’ll fall up, under the sea. I know, I know; oh, oh, oh.”
She could not help but enjoy the smell of salt and fish and sea. Her window was big, the bigger in the castle as she could remember. It was what had made her choose that room. She pulled her chair with her, setting it so she could look at the waves. They were calmer than was usual for Shipbreaker’s bay. They were beautiful, deep blue framed by foamy white. The sweet feeling of the comb against her hair, the salty coast smell, had her curl her toes in pleasure.
She was happy. Happy. Loved. Happy.
“Away, away, come with me beneath the sea, away, away, away.”
She was disappointed when the comb was taken from her hairs. But before she could say a word, plead and beg and whine for more, she felt a push, a powerful push.
There was suddenly no ground beneath her feet, only a throb on her back, new bruises where her legs had tripped over the stone parapet.
For a moment, she did not know what had happened.
Only that, as she fell, she felt as if she was flying.
Away, away, away.
Free, happy.
A sharp pain and a numb crack.
Nothing.
