ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 51: The Scar and the King
POV: Princess Shireen Baratheon (303 AC)
From the high arched window of my chambers in Moat Cailin, the world seemed far too vast to be contained in a single lifetime.
Outside, the swamps of the Neck stretched out like a dark green cloak as far as the eye could see, intersected by the monumental work of the imperial canal that cut through the isthmus from end to end. From my elevated quarters, I could observe the calm waters of that great aquatic artery, along which glided ships from every corner of the known world. River barges from the Riverlands, merchant cogs from the Free Cities of Essos, sleek galleys from Dorne, and the new runic ironclads of the North itself crossed paths daily before the fortress, bringing with them cargoes of spices, silk, iron, books, and stories from distant cultures.
I knelt on the cushioned stone seat, resting my elbows on the sill and letting the cool morning wind—heavy with the scent of moss, damp earth, and pine—flutter my dark hair.
Since greyscale struck me in early childhood, my entire existence had been reduced to the routine of a bird kept under constant surveillance. However, contrary to the rumors spread by the court in King's Landing, my confinement on Dragonstone was never motivated by shame or disappointment on my father's part.
My father, Lord Stannis Baratheon, was a rigid and austere man, but he loved me with a silent, fierce dedication. His distance and heavy gaze were not born of repulsion toward my appearance, but rather of a deep, agonizing feeling of frustration and helplessness. For a man who had commanded fleets, won naval battles, and endured relentless sieges, for there to be nothing within his power to heal his own daughter or stop that terrible disease from scarring my face was a devastating blow to his pride and his heart.
My father isolated me in the towers of Dragonstone out of a desperate need to protect me. He feared that the sea humidity would worsen my health, that new ailments would strike me, or that the cruel stares and poisonous whispers of the Southern lords would wound my spirit. Joining my mother's anxious overprotection with my father's stern, unyielding vigilance, my life became a stone cage—built on love and the dread of losing me, but a prison nonetheless.
As the years passed and my adolescence bloomed, this suffocating protection became even harder to bear.
For that reason, when the South's surrender agreement was signed in the Throne Room of King's Landing and Emperor Arawyn decreed that I would be taken to the North as a political hostage, my heart felt no fear. While my mother wept tears of indignation and my father clenched his teeth in suppressed agony—desperate at seeing his only daughter taken far from his care—I felt an unprecedented glimmer of relief. What the world called captivity and subjugation revealed itself to me as the first act of true freedom in my life. Sometimes, remembering the enigmatic look the Northern monarch cast upon me in that frozen hall, I wonder if that man endowed with Greensight hadn't seen my soul suffocated by overprotection and decided, in his own implacable way, to set me free from that cage.
My journey to the North did not follow the path of ordinary prisoners. While the large delegation marching through the western lands led by the generals of the West took the diplomats, I was escorted under an escort of honor to White Harbor and, from there, transported along the great kingsroad to the ancient walls of Winterfell.
It was in the Empire's capital that my world expanded irreversibly. In Winterfell, I was received not as a prisoner, but as a guest of noble blood. I spent weeks under the tutelage and company of the Northern Empresses, whose presences fascinated any young lady of Westeros.
I met the famous Empress of Spring, Margaery, whose refined beauty, political intelligence, and graceful demeanor served as a model and inspiration for all the noble ladies attending the imperial court. It was through her that I also met the dreaded Ros—the Emperor's personal assistant—considered the most dangerous woman in Westeros due to her deeply spiteful and vengeful nature; though I doubt anyone would ever say that to her face. Beside her walked the Empress of Autumn, whom the lords of the South called the "Wild Empress" in whispered tones—the mysterious and stunning Val, princess of the free folk, whose legendary beauty and untamed spirit seemed to reflect the very essence of the lands Beyond the Wall.
To my deep surprise, neither of them looked at me with excessive pity or repulsion. Both welcomed me into their private chambers, spoke with me about literature, history, and maps, and treated me with a warm courtesy I had never experienced outside my immediate family.
It was also in Winterfell that I personally met Emperor Arawyn outside the context of war. Stripped of that monumental, terrifying black iron armor that had made me tremble in King's Landing, the Northern monarch did not resemble the bloodthirsty monster painted by Southern songs. He was a tall man of serene features and incredibly deep grey eyes, whose presence emanated a natural authority, yet who treated his family with absolute devotion.
However, my final destination was not the great winter capital. After a few weeks' stay, the Emperor himself summoned me to his solar and, with his customary pragmatic practicality, explained his decision to me.
"— You are an intelligent and observant young woman, Princess Shireen, —" Arawyn had told me at the time, looking at the map of the continent spread across his table. "— Winterfell is the political and military heart of the Empire, a place of war councils and high sorcery, where there is little for a young woman of your cultured mind to follow day to day. The ideal place for you is Moat Cailin, at the court of my cousin Robb. It is through there that the world flows and commerce between North and South consolidates."
And so I was brought to Moat Cailin. Having resided in this reborn fortress for weeks now, I can say the Emperor was entirely right. Here, I am treated with impeccable dignity and respect. Even if I still receive a few curious glances from the merchants and sailors crossing the canal, none carry the malice or veiled disdain of the Southern court, where people stared at me as if I were a monstrosity burdened with ill omens.
However, as much as the vastness of the canal and the movement of the ships filled my mornings, my deepest thoughts inevitably returned to the moment of my arrival at Moat Cailin.
I remember with almost painful clarity the day my carriage crossed the fortress gates. The King of the Neck himself made a point of being present in the main courtyard to receive me in person.
King Robb Stark was the living embodiment of everything bards tried to describe in their legends, yet rarely found in reality. He was an extraordinarily handsome young man, with broad shoulders, a majestic posture, and an aura of leadership that emanated effortlessly. Robb had inherited wavy, golden-auburn hair that gleamed in the sunlight—a striking heritage from his mother's lineage—in perfect contrast to the deep, grey eyes of the Starks of Winter.
However, the feature that disarmed me most in that first impression was his smile. The King of the Neck possessed an easy, warm, and sincere smile, capable of disarming and flustering any young noble lady with his mere presence.
And I, obviously, was no different. Seeing me step down from the carriage, I instinctively hunched my shoulders and turned the left side of my face away from his view, pulling up the collar of my cloak in a desperate attempt to hide the grey, calcified skin. I was accustomed to the hesitation or formal stiffness most men displayed upon noticing my scar for the first time.
But Robb Stark did not back down a single millimeter.
With firm, calm steps, the young king approached me. He gently took my right hand and, bowing with impeccable elegance, placed a soft kiss upon my fingers. Then he raised his face and fixed his grey eyes directly on mine, keeping his welcoming smile without showing the slightest discomfort or averted glance regarding my face.
"— Welcome to Moat Cailin, Princess Shireen, —" Robb had declared, his calm, resonant voice carrying over the courtyard noise. "— I know diplomatic treaties technically classify you as a hostage of our Crown, but I make a point of ensuring that in this fortress you will never be treated as a prisoner. This castle and these lands are entirely at your disposal."
That simple gesture, stripped of any mockery or condescending pity, made my chest burn with an unfamiliar warmth. I had felt my cheeks flush in a violent blush, and from that exact second, the figure of the King of the Neck came to occupy every corner of my mind.
As the days passed, integrating into daily life at Moat Cailin proved to be a surprisingly natural and pleasant process. Since the fortress was situated at the focal point of the great imperial canal, the court's routine was incredibly dynamic. There was always something new to witness, diplomats from distant lands to receive, trade routes to organize, and minor administrative matters bustling in the main hall.
I spent most of my free time in the company of the high-born ladies who led the social life of the fortress. I used to sit in the gardens and tapestry rooms beside the young Queen of the Neck, Wylla Manderly, and Prince Eddard Stark's two wives—Lady Cersei Lannister and Lady Ashara Dayne.
Being surrounded by that specific group of women was both a blessing and a secret source of insecurity. Wylla Manderly possessed a radiant warmth and a unique charm; Ashara Dayne boasted legendary beauty, crowned by violet eyes that seemed like ancient sorcery; and Cersei Lannister walked with the proud majesty and perfect face of a golden lion. Sitting among such breathtaking figures made my petite frame and scarred face feel all the more imperfect.
Yet none of those women ever treated me with disdain. On the contrary, they welcomed me with genuine affection.
A few days ago, taking advantage of an official visit by Emperor Arawyn to Moat Cailin to inspect the canal expansion works, Cersei and Ashara decided to intercede personally on my behalf. The two ladies approached the monarch in the reception hall and asked him to use his supreme knowledge in blood magic and runic sorcery to attempt to restore the left side of my face, permanently erasing the greyscale scar.
I remained curled in one of the chairs in the hall, my heart beating wildly against my chest as I awaited the Emperor's answer. Arawyn approached me, lifting my chin with two fingers of his gauntlet and analyzing my skin under a green light that emanated subtly from his palms.
After a few seconds of silent observation, the Northern monarch pulled back his hand and slowly shook his head, delivering his definitive verdict.
"— Flesh sorcery can heal fresh wounds, rebuild tissue, and stop fatal bleeding... but what happened to the princess's face is not an open wound, —" Arawyn explained in his deep voice, addressing Cersei and Ashara. "— The greyscale destroyed the living tissue more than a decade ago. The infection was contained and cured in the past, but the remaining greyish tissue is dead calcification fused to the skull's bone structure. Attempting to remove this mass with blood magic would require tearing away half the girl's face and jaw, which would destroy her life. The scar will remain forever."
Upon hearing the Emperor's verdict, I felt a bitter pang of sadness cross my chest, a reminder that the mark of my childhood would never leave me. I lowered my head, staring at the stone floor and trying to hide my disappointment.
However, the silence of the hall was suddenly broken by the firm footsteps of King Robb Stark, who had entered the room in time to hear the monarch's explanation.
Robb walked over until he stopped right beside me. He didn't look at Arawyn, nor at Cersei or Ashara. The young king simply bowed slightly toward me and said, in a clear, natural voice devoid of any hesitation:
"— You don't need to worry about that at all, Princess Shireen... you are already beautiful like this, either way."
Those few words struck the hall like a thunderbolt.
I felt all the blood in my body rush instantly to my face, burning my cheeks in a blush so intense and deep that it covered even the edge of the greyish skin. I froze completely, not knowing where to hide my eyes or how to respond to such a direct statement.
On the other side of the table, Cersei Lannister let out a short, teasing laugh, while Ashara Dayne arched her eyebrows with an enigmatic smile on her lips.
"— Well, look at such sweet and gallant words... —" Cersei commented teasingly, crossing her arms and staring at the young king. "— I wonder what your young queen, Wylla, would think if she heard her husband weaving such warm and direct compliments about the beauty of a young foreign princess in the middle of the hall."
Robb merely blinked, maintaining an impeccable posture and a light smile at the corner of his lips, unbothered by Cersei's teasing, while I wished the stone floor of the hall would open beneath my feet to swallow me whole out of sheer embarrassment.
Back in the present, the evening sun began to dye the sky over the Neck with shades of orange and purple.
I stepped away from my chamber window and walked slowly to the dark wood vanity in the corner of the room. I approached the polished bronze mirror and stared at my own reflection.
I raised my right hand and gently covered the left side of my face, concealing the rough, grey surface beneath my fingers. I observed the right side—the fair skin, the deep blue eyes of House Baratheon, the delicate features of a young woman beginning to bloom into adulthood.
I moved my hand slightly, taking in the full image of myself. I asked myself in silence if there was any genuine truth in the words Robb had spoken in the hall, or if the young King of the Neck was merely being excessively courteous and kind to a foolish girl who had let herself be enchanted by his presence.
However, as much as my mind tried to reason with logic, a silly, uncontrollable, radiant smile insisted on shaping my lips every time the memory of Robb's words crossed my thoughts.
— You are already beautiful like this, either way... —
I pressed my arms against my chest, letting out a soft sigh and allowing that sweet, overwhelming feeling to fill my soul. For the first time in my life, I did not feel like an abomination destined for the solitude of the shadows.
The next morning, the air at Moat Cailin dawned considerably colder, blanketed by a thick fog rising from the swamps and covering the fortress's stone corridors.
I was walking at a peaceful pace along the second-floor outer corridors, watching the movement of the runic soldiers in the courtyard below, when I noticed heavy footsteps approaching. I turned my head and met the imposing figure of Emperor Arawyn, who wore a simple tunic of dark wool and a wolfskin cloak over his shoulders.
"— Walk with me for a few moments, young Baratheon, —" Arawyn commanded calmly, gesturing toward the covered gallery.
I adjusted my cloak and fell into step beside the Northern monarch, keeping pace with his slow stride along the masonry corridors.
"— How is your definitive stay at Moat Cailin going, Princess Shireen? —" the Emperor asked, without turning his face toward me. "— Have the North and life on the isthmus proven to your liking?"
"— It is being an absolutely wonderful experience, my Emperor, —" I replied truthfully, keeping a respectful tone. "— King Robb's courtesy and the court's welcome have exceeded all my expectations."
Arawyn turned his face slightly in my direction. The Northern monarch flashed a provocative, slightly playful smile at the corner of his lips, his grey eyes shining with a mystical wisdom that made my heart skip an involuntary beat. I felt perfectly that, through his expanded perception and Greensight, he was fully aware of every thought and every passionate sigh I had dedicated to his cousin over the last few days.
"— Yes... I see perfectly well how much Robb's 'courtesy' has done your spirit good, princess, —" Arawyn commented in a tone imbued with subtle irony.
I felt the blush threaten to return to my cheeks, but before I could formulate any defensive response to hide my embarrassment, the Emperor stopped abruptly in the middle of the corridor.
His relaxed posture vanished in a fraction of a second. Arawyn's expression hardened into a scowl of pure irritation and annoyance, his grey eyes fixing on the distant horizon toward the Narrow Sea, as if seeing something thousands of leagues away through the fog.
I observed the sudden change in his aura with a touch of curiosity and apprehension.
"— Has something serious happened, my Emperor? —" I asked, stepping closer.
Arawyn clicked his tongue impatiently, shaking his head with deep disdain.
"— It is nothing of consequence, princess... —" the Northern monarch replied, his voice coming out in a tone laden with boredom and restrained annoyance. "— Just another meddlesome little lizard that has just landed on our continent again."
I furrowed my brow in pure confusion, not understanding the hidden meaning behind that metaphor.
"— A... little lizard, my Emperor? —" I questioned, seeking some explanation.
Arawyn merely gave a dismissive wave in the air with his hand, resuming his walk down the corridor without bothering to elaborate on the answer, leaving me behind in the fog with curiosity and mystery floating in the air of the Neck.