NIHIL NOVVM SVB SOLE
La idea de este song me vino de un tal Víctor Manuel. Las vidas cotidianas de los Baratheon de Rocadragón... nada fantástico, nada sobrenatural, sólo Shireen haciendo de las suyas.
El monstruo del armario, Moby Dick, el champú en los ojos, la vacuna del tétanos y la difteria, las dificultades para encajar en clase... hasta el primer amor (Rickon, notch) y la sangre en la ropa de cama; en el momento que Stannis y Selyse finalmente aceptan que la vida ha de seguir su curso.
(Este relato sigue inacabado, pero sólo faltan la mitad del penúltimo y el último capítulo)
https://www.reddit.com/r/asoiaf/comments/35v3qa/spoilers_all_suitors_for_shireen/
TRES VECES S. BARATHEON
Ya antes de que viera la luz del día, ya antes de que mi esposa empezara a tener las primeras arcadas, ya habíamos soñado con ella (aunque no sabíamos si sería él o ella). Un flequillo negro como la medianoche con reflejos azulados, del típico color ala de cuervo Baratheon, con los ojos celestes a juego, pero con los rasgos angulosos, marcados, de una Florent; así la habíamos visto en sueños, durante un año antes de tenerla en brazos. Lo que sí decidimos fue que compartiera nuestra inicial: S. BARATHEON - S. BARATHEON bajo la ranura de las cartas no podía ser mera casualidad, y dicen que todas las cosas buenas van de tres en tres. Si fuera varón, se habría llamado Steffon, como el abuelo paterno al que nunca conocería y, de haber coincidido en la misma realidad, le habría enseñado más de una valiosa lección. "Y si es niña, Shireen: significa 'dulce'", añadió mi Selyse decidida. Al fin y al cabo, las probabilidades de un caso o de otro son iguales a la de que salga cara o cruz. En un principio, pensábamos que nos había salido cruz, con la fiebre y los sarpullidos de la varicela que prendían fuego a su cuerpecillo de tres o cuatro meses; pero era una Baratheon entrevesada de Florent: resistió a pesar del calor y del dolor, consiguiendo así la primera victoria de su corta vida. Y, desde entonces, encima de la ranura se puede leer tres veces S. BARATHEON.
He aquí los momentos que siempre recordaremos; algunos los contará Selyse y otros los contará un servidor, y habrá los que contemos entre los dos, dependiendo de qué experiencias se trate.
CHAMPÚ EN LOS OJOS
En la botella pone "no llores más," pero a Shireen le siguen picando los ojos. "No se tocan ni con los codos", le hemos dicho, y, en respuesta, ella volvió sus coditos hacia dentro e intentó rascarse con ellos. A Shireen le divertía; a mi marido y a mí nos pillaba por sorpresa, sin estar muy seguros de cómo reaccionar. De repente, ella estudia la botella de champú y, al otro lado, escudriña los ingredientes hasta soltar un A-JÁ que hace eco por todo el cuarto de baño. Ella señala un punto de la etiqueta, pegando saltitos para llamar nuestra atención, y exclama: "¡Ácido cítrico! ¿Por qué hay ácido en el champú?" Qué sorpresa...
Por un rato, Stannis se queda pensativo, hasta que se golpea la frente y dice: "Para ajustar el pH. ¿Sabes qué es el pH?"
"¿Qué es el 'peache'?" ella se hace eco de la misma pregunta.
"El 'peache' es lo ácido que es el champú".
"¿Y por qué tiene que ser ácido?"
"Escucha: papá es fiscal, no sabe tanto de ciencias como de derecho. Pregúntaselo a la seño mañana en clase".
La tarde siguiente, al volver a casa, la niña nos sorprendió diciéndonos que la Srta. Mordane no tenía ni idea al respecto. Pero sólo era la punta del iceberg... Aquella noche, Shireen se duchó, como lo haría todos los demás días hasta llegar a la pubertad, con gafas de nadar muy ajustadas; lo que le da, en mangas de bata, unos simpáticos ojos de mapache. Decía que eso impide que se le meta el aclarado en los ojos.
MONSTRUOS A OSCURAS
Muchas criaturas, a la hora de irse a la cama, tienen problemas con supuestos monstruos en lugares oscuros e inquietantes, como debajo del somier y/o en el armario. Shireen estaba convencida, hasta las ocho primaveras, de la existencia de dichos seres. En su cuarto, había dos monstruos del armario y un monstruo de la cama, según los relatos de nuestra hija en persona. Los del armario eran los más temibles; uno tenía forma de fantasmón semiesférico o de pera oscura y tendencias de montar encima de Shireen mientras ella dormía; la otra (era hembra), una especie de cruce entre serpiente alada y cefalópodo tamaño kraken, no se dejaba ver mucho pero dejaba entrever su presencia, que contagiaba a toda la habitación.
Y Shireen tenía una forma muy peculiar de pedir auxilio; despertándonos en la cama con un chillido que siempre por poco echaba por tierra el jarrón de Bohemia, recordando a una banshee o a... el caso es que era una frecuencia muy aguda.
Con el paso de los años, ut supra diximus, ella dejó de creer que había monstruos en su cuarto. De nuevo podíamos pasar las noches en paz; salvo que entonces la pasión entre nosotros se había enfriado, lo cual conllevó la consecuencia de que nuestra Shireen sea, por fortuna, hija única (de haber tenido hermanos, otro gallo cantaría).
CUENTOS DE IRSE A LA CAMA
Aún me acuerdo del día en que una Shireen seisañera me explicó que sabía decir "ballena" en varios idiomas, incluyendo en fiyiano y erromangoano (en ambos idiomas, es algo parecido a "peke nué nué"), además de preguntarme dónde se hablaban estas dos últimas lenguas. Tras responder a su pregunta e indicarle las islas correspondientes en el atlas, le pregunté de dónde había sacado esa información; ella señaló al Moby Dick de Austral de la estantería del salón, que había pasado "por estraperlo" a su cuarto y tenía escondido bajo las sábanas. "Estaba cansada de los cuentos de siempre", dijo, con la sinceridad que emplean los niños pequeños para expresarse. Ya había leído la etimología inicial ("hval", danés; "val", sueco; "hvalur", islandés; "Wal", alemán... hasta llegar al fiyiano y al erromangoano), así como los extractos literarios sobre cetáceos que abren el libro antes de la narrativa en sí ("La ballena es un mamífero sin patas traseras", según el barón Georges Cuvier), pero se perdió a la hora de meterse en la narrativa; "Capítulo Primero, Espejismos: Llamadme Ismael. Hace unos años, no importa cuántos exactamente, teniendo poco dinero o nada en los bolsillos y nada en particular que me interesara en tierra, pensé que me iría a navegar un rato por esos mares y ver la parte líquida del mundo..." Y ya se había enredado con tan pequeña letra y tan complicada sintaxis. De modo que un servidor le propuso contarle Moby Dick a su hija de modo que ella lo entendiera:
"Érase una vez un grumete llamado Ismael, un chico que navegaba en un barco llamado el Pequod. El Pequod surcaba los siete mares, arpones en ristre, disparando a las ballenas a diestro y siniestro..."
--¿Y por qué las cazaban, papi? Las ballenas no hacen mal a nadie. Comen gambitas muy pequeñitas...
"Era el siglo diecinueve. Entonces la gente no tenía reparos a la hora de matar a toda clase de animales, ya por diversión, ya para sacar algún dinero de vender sus restos. Las barbas, las costillas, la grasa: toda la ballena se aprovechaba en aquellos días. Los tripulantes del Pequod, en general, cazaban cetáceos para ganar dinero. Pero el capitán tenía en el punto de mira a un cetáceo en particular..."
--¿Moby Dick?
"Sí, Moby Dick, el temible cachalote blanco".
--¿No es el capitán el que se llama Moby Dick?
"El capitán, hija, se llamaba Ahab".
--Ajá. Ajá me parece un nombre raro para una persona. ¿Y por qué quería Ajá cazar a Moby Dick?
"Porque Moby Dick, al defenderse del arpón del capitán, le había arrancado una pierna".
--¿La izquierda o la derecha?
Sabía ya que la niña iba a preguntármelo. "La izquierda. Y por eso quería Ahab matar al cachalote blanco".
--¿Dime, papi... eso no es una venganza?
"Sí, es una venganza. Los marineros cazaban por dinero, pero el capitán buscaba solo a esa presa para vengarse".
--¿Y vengarse no está mal?
De nuevo, su inocencia de niña volvía a dar en el clavo. Hay cosas que los adultos no podemos ver pero que los niños captan en fracciones de segundo.
--Sí, vengarse está mal... por eso, cuando Ahab acabó con Moby Dick, el último coletazo del cachalote hizo naufragar al barco. Y sólo Ismael vivió para contarlo. Todos los demás se hundieron y se ahogaron.
Afloran recuerdos reprimidos durante décadas. De que mis padres nunca volverían de aquel viaje al extranjero con las velas desplegadas. Steffon Baratheon era el capitán Ahab, o Ajá, o como se llame. Ergo, llamadme Ismael. No Stannis, o papá, o el fiscal... llamadme Ismael.
Tragándome los sentimientos como siempre, le doy un beso de buenas noches en cada mejilla y apago la luz. Seguro que mi niña dormirá tan dulce e inocente como siempre. No le importará que el capitán se haya hundido con el barco, como siempre ha sido.
PATITA FEA (¡CUAC!)
Shireen tenía, y aún tiene, la mitad izquierda de la cara más pálida que la derecha, como si estuviera quemada, a consecuencia de la enfermedad que casi se la llevó en la cuna.
"No he hecho amigos", dice apática, tanto en el kínder como en primaria. "Los chicos de clase son como los patitos guapos que se burlan del patito feo", viéndose identificada con el cuento de Andersen.
"¿Y qué era el patito feo en realidad? Cuando volvió la primavera al año siguiente..."
Shireen suspira. "Un cisne, sí. Pero cuesta aguantar que los demás te den la espalda y se metan con una cuando somos pequeños".
Los niños pueden ser crueles y prepotentes, sí. Y que ella ansiara tanto crecer era de esperar. ¿Pero qué ha de hacer una madre con su hija acosada en clase?
Abrazarla, auparla, levantarle los ánimos, proponerle un juego simbólico, como el juego de las compras. Y decirle, tras comprar unas cuantas de sus frutas de madera, que yo también fui una patita fea, con orejotas de soplillo y el talle como un palillo. Pero eso me hizo aplicarme en mis estudios y ser fuerte, así que espero que también Shireen siga esos pasos míos. Y no tenía amigos hasta que conocí a un chico igual que yo, inteligente, serio, retraído, que se hacía el duro... Sí, era el mediano de tres hermanos huérfanos, y también un estudiante muy aplicado. Se sentía igual de solo que yo, nos conocimos a fondo, nos ayudamos el uno al otro en los estudios y contra los abusones...
A Shireen le brillan los ojos. Esa historia no tarda en levantarle el ánimo. Al fin y al cabo, la vida real ofrece retazos a los que los cuentos no tienen nada que envidiar.
LUNES AL SOL
¿Quién no se ha despertado un lunes por la mañana de un humor insoportable? También mi Selyse ha tenido sus momentos, por no hablar de nuestra niña. Al fin y al cabo, para un servidor todas las mañanas son mañanas de lunes.
Pero ahora toca hablaros de Shireen y de cómo pasaba los lunes por la mañana.
Íbamos un lunes de clase a casa, de la mano. La verdad es que echaba de menos el tacto de una mano infantil aferrando la mía de adulto responsable. No pude evitar pensar en Renly y en lo que costaba llevarle una década antes. Siendo huérfanos y estando yo demasiado ocupado con los estudios, consideraba una cruz llevar a mi hermanito a clase hasta que el mocoso se hizo mayorcito. Pero la peor cruz era que quería que conversara con él, y terminaba monopolizando toda la conversación, hablando con esa vocecilla aguda que sólo podía enervarme.
Por fortuna, Shireen es mucho más callada que Renly. Sin embargo, esto es sólo una regla general. Me acuerdo que un lunes... bueno, un lunes se repitió la historia, una década más tarde. Íbamos despacio, porque a pesar de ser lunes yo tenía el día libre... y normalmente era competencia de Selyse acompañarla. Tuve que cargar con todo el peso de la cruz mientras Shireen explicaba entusiasmada que le habían contado el cuento de Blancanieves en clase y lo habían escenificado con marionetas. Con una vocecilla aguda que me sonaba muy familiar...
La verdad es que muy rara vez le toca a mi esposo, para variar. Suele ser una servidora quien acompaña a Shireen a clase, y acostumbrarse a su forma de hablar no es nada difícil si nos conocemos como madre e hija. Es encantadora todo el rato.
EL PINCHAZO
Dos veces se vacunó Shireen, como todas las criaturas, contra el tétanos: a las seis y a las catorce primaveras. Fue poco después de que le contaran Moby Dick en la cama, cuando estaba en primero de Primaria, que oyó decir en clase que aquella semana vendría una enfermera para darles el pinchazo.
Y fue entonces cuando, a base de poner esa carita adorable y llorar y estirar de mangas, nos convenció para que le hiciéramos de carabinas. No soy muy amigo de los niños pequeños en general (Shireen es harina de otro costal; ídem Renly antes de que le despuntaran las hormonas), pero las damas de casa eran dos contra uno y, por ende, tuve que ceder; además, se había aplazado el proceso legal que coincidía casualmente con la vacunación de aquella clase de 1º. Además, sería una buena oportunidad para ver como eran esos compañeros que daban a la niña de lado y no podían hacerse amigos de ella... qué venía a cuento y qué era verdad en las historias que nos contaba cada tarde.
En fin, que llegó el gran día y estaban todos los niños de seis haciendo cola ante la sala donde estaba la enfermera. Shireen nos había pedido que la acompañáramos hasta dentro de la consulta de la enfermera. Un par de gallitos varones que hacían cola detrás de nosotros ahuecaron los brazos a modo de alas y cacarearon como gallinas. En respuesta, Shireen me tiró de la manga derecha y no supe cómo reaccionar. ¡La cara que puse, según mi Selyse! Bueno, será mejor pasarle el testigo a ella y que complete el relato.
Como Stannis os decía, puso una cara tan graciosa... la verdad es que no tiene mano izquierda para tratar con niños y esta situación le pilló desprevenido. Fue una servidora la que encaró a los abusones lanzándoles una mirada glacial, penetrante, sin palabras. Lo que sea por mi hijita. Ellos volvieron a ponerse a la cola, sin atreverse a volver a mirarnos.
Y al final nos tocó el turno, o más bien le tocó a ella. La enfermera se sorprendió al ver que acompañábamos a la niña... pero pronto lo entendió en cuanto le cogió el antebrazo izquierdo para introducir la aguja. En efecto, ver a Shireen debatirse para que no le pincharan...
"¡¡ANESTESIA!! ¡¡ANESTESIA, POR FAVOR!!"
No sabemos si era por la forma en que suena su aguda vocecilla cuando la alza o por el hecho de que ella, siempre tan serena, estaba teniendo una rabieta. Me acordé que de niña tenía la misma reacción a las inyecciones y la misma vena teatrera que me llevó a actuar en las obras del cole (aunque siempre eran papeles secundarios de cierta importancia: la muchacha bandolera en La Reina de las Nieves, una pastora en el belén viviente, el ama de cría de Julieta ya en sexto o Emilia en Otelo con el último fin de curso de mi paso por el instituto).
"Le ha salido a alguien que conocemos muy bien", comentó Stannis con la misma expresión de siempre.
"Sí, a una exagerada de las que lloran como magdalenas empapadas en café por un rasguño cualquiera..." Le guiñé un ojo mientras veíamos a nuestra hija corretear chillando y pegando saltitos. Se asía el antebrazo izquierdo y lloraba y se desesperaba por una única gota de sangre, pero todo se le pasó en cuanto la enfermera le secó las lágrimas y le puso una tirita para restañar el flujo.
"Has sido una niña muy valiente". Ya había oído en mi vida esa frase a diestro y siniestro, especialmente en estas circunstancias. En cuanto le dieron la consabida piruleta en forma de corazón, sin embargo, Shireen nos sorprendió con esta inesperada respuesta:
"¿No me van a condecorar?"
A condecorar... y todos riéndose menos mi cara mitad, a quien oí murmurar por lo bajinis algo de enterrar la cabeza antes de preguntarle a la enfermera por el excusado de caballeros y, tras darle las gracias, dirigirse allí sin detenerse. ¡Las caras de los colegiales varones al ver a un fiscal trajeado entre ellos, usando el mismo urinario! La verdad es que aquella ensoñación, y el hecho de que la enfermera, señalando a la tirita, le dijera a nuestra niña que ya estaba condecorada, me mantuvieron de buen humor hasta que Stannis regresó a la enfermería y nos despedimos de ellas.
Aquella tarde, Shireen nos dijo que, según Rickon Stark, habían visto a un señor muy alto y bien vestido que se parecía a ella usando el cuarto de los chicos...
Déjame terminar a mí, Selyse. La verdad es que era por pura vergüenza que decidí ir a hacer lo que uno tiene que hacer, poniendo el grifo de fondo para facilitar la tarea. Había salido de Málaga para dar de lleno en Malagón, como dicen. No pude evitar abrocharme e irme de vuelta a la enfermería, sin secarme las partes nobles, al ver que había bastantes chicuelos esperando a hacer lo mismo...
¿HAS BESADO A OTROS?
El primer beso de un desconocido (de fuera de la familia), nuestra niña lo recibió antes de cumplir su tercer lustro.
Pero antes del beso ya había notado que estaba cambiando. Una mañana cualquiera de aquel año, al despertarse, pudo ver una gran mancha de sangre en su ropa de cama.
Aquella misma mañana al desayunar, puso delante suyo la enciclopedia de ciencias de la salud y la consultaba a la par que se llenaba de leche con campurrianas.
De pronto, los ojos se le dilataron, cerró el libro de golpe y, tras tragarse unas campurrianas con un buen trago de leche, nos pilló por sorpresa.
--¡HE PUESTO UN HUEVO!
Silencio total. Nos miramos, los dos esposos, el uno a otro.
--¿Lo queréis ver en mi cuarto?
Un poco preocupados y un poco intrigados, no pudimos decirle que no.
--Tiene forma de mancha de sangre... los huevos de humana son tan pequeños como puntas de alfiler, y siempre salen acompañados de mucha sangre, una vez al mes. --Al decir esas palabras mientras nos guiaba, pude ver que Stannis había cambiado de expresión una de las muy raras veces que lo hacía. Me acordé de mi propia primera vez, cuando aún me apellidaba Florent y me despuntaban las curvas. Como la única niña en una casa llena de testosterona --hija de padre divorciado, con dos hermanos varones--, mi caso fue aún mucho más difícil, pillando a los demás por sorpresa. Fue una época muy incómoda, de hacerme preguntas que siempre llevaban a otras preguntas... pero yo no quería incomodar a nadie y, siempre tan retraída, me tragaba todas aquellas preguntas.
Quitamos la ropa de cama ensangrentada para lavarla. "Es normal", le dije. "A tu edad, yo también puse el primero. Ya eres una chica joven, estás cambiando..."
Fue en primavera de aquel año, por abril, cuando le dieron el beso de marras.
...
IGUAL LLEGA QUE SE VA
... (Rickon y Shireen adultos forman pareja -ella vuela del nido-)
Chapter Text
brothers born
The brothers were different, later Cressen would say “as all brothers are”. They were all born with blue eyes and a mop of black hair, but their marks, the marks of a family and sibling bond were not as similar as one might expect. Robert, first-born and heir to Storm’s End was a loud and bawling babe with the stag of the Baratheons stretched across his right forearm as dark as his hair, proud for all to see. It was only after holding the babe, his babe that Steffon realised he had a small matching mark on the inside of his wrist to match his son’s. Cassana too had a match, though hers was discrete above her left hip, and the happy parents would always smile as they danced and those paired marks would meet.
Stannis the second-born had two stags, one behind each elbow, though easy to spot on his pale baby skin they were the gray of ghosts, they were faint and in a position awkward for the boy to ever see himself. They didn’t match either, not each other, with the right slightly larger and darker, and the left a stag with antlers more petite, and not the marks of his parents. Steffon had another stag on his wrist, it was the same paler shade, but the shape was almost identical to the mark for Robert. The same held true for Cassana when she noticed the extra stag upon her hip. It was only later they noticed the tiny green sea turtle hidden behind his left ear, the same as Cassana’s, she too was born with hers.
Years later Cassana and Steffon found they had their final stag, a circle of three. Renly was born with his stag prancing across his right clavicle towards his neck, it reminded Cassana of her growing bond, the two prongs that grew and itched across her clavicles and confirmed a love she had dreamed of. It was Steffon’s mark that sealed the marriage though, a green sea turtle that covered the back of his right hand, there was little at all to interpret. Growth marks were used for marriages and alliances, they looked the same as family bonds when finished but they itched and stung and hurt, they were not meant to be ignored.
They were though, more often than not. Because marriage is not about love or happiness or even the will of the gods, it’s about security for the family and their name, advancement through the ranks of the gentry. The maesters or septons and septas interpreted the marks to please their holders, to reassure them and offer the illusion that they are destined to be happy. Not all had growth marks and for most that did they were vague; such as a flower that happens to be fair maiden’s favourite and a horse with colouring similar to the knight’s, or mayhaps the knight’s first horse,
- do you not remember the horse you had once, it looked like this, did it not?
- Aye, how could I forget?
- It is destined my love, the gods themselves agree, we are blessed
robert
There were few with marks so clear and obvious as Steffon’s sea turtle, but the splodge of green with flippers could not be mistaken for anything else. It was the same for Robert, he was but ten and six when the black direwolf began to grow across his chest, his mark the same as he; large, obvious and proud for all to see. It was clear enough for Rickard Stark, the Northern folk held the marks in higher esteem than their southern counterparts, a potential match was only considered after an interpretation. But this sign was enough that Stark did not wait for his daughter’s own mark to agree to a betrothal, why when there could be no other meaning?
It was soon after that Robert met Ned Stark in the Vale, foster brothers under the tutelage of Jon Arryn. The two betrothed hardly met, hardly knew one another, though Robert showed the mark at the first opportunity and Lyanna for all her hopes of love and future happiness with the man that Ned assured her was the best man he knew…She felt nothing. There was no burst of emotion, no thrill that over whelmed her, the tales and songs told so oft had lied. He was charming though, and she found herself thinking that if she were to have a pair of antlers grow along her along her clavicles like his lady mother it would not be such a bad thing.
Then there was Harrenhal and the disappearance of Lyanna, with rumours that her mark had started growing, that Rhaegar fancied it was a dragon. Brandon with his howling wolf and his splash of water across his torso and left shoulder were burnt alive, nothing to the flames that consumed his father.
Robert fought, he fought Rhaegar and ended him, ended the man with the stars on his chest and the small dragon across his shoulder. But there was no relief from the ache in his chest, the ache on his chest. He raged against the family that caused the grief, he raged against his family for failing him, and found he’d nothing but rage left. Ned had gone back North to his wife and family with his sister’s body and the child that he’d fathered, two babes to Robert’s heavy crown and painful chair. Soon enough though, there was a marriage, and a babe, but not the ones that anyone had really desired. He’d ordered the marriage, Arryn the man who looked at him like a son before but now had only pity in his eyes had advised this, this joining of houses between Baratheon and Florent. The Tyrells would still have their power and Robert their loyalty, whilst the Florents expected the Lord of Stormlands through their grandson in return for their support.
It didn’t turn out that way.
A son was born, but not to Selyse and Stannis, who was given Dragonstone not the Stormlands, instead to Delena. Edric Storm, and Robert knows it’s another of his because another piece of the stag growing on his arm comes, the right antler joining the left and the two eyes. It’s a strange and fragmented mark, and he had worried when the eye first appeared that Lyanna would disapprove, she had said nothing though it was clear enough for her to see when he showed her the wolf on his chest. Cersei though, she scowled and scratched at it and hated all sixteen pieces that took to form it. She hated it almost as much as the wolf.
He was betrothed again without quite realising it, for his behaviour didn’t change, he whored and drank and hoped that maybe someone else would do the king business. Arryn was good at it, Stannis was good at it too even if he had ridiculous ideas like banning the whore houses. Renly too was learning, though who from Robert knew not, the boy’s mannerisms and behaviour was from no father figure Robert had ever known and even further from Stannis.
Cersei was adorned in lions, regal and roaring, she had two birth lions she told him, and then one for each child. He oft wondered where his children were on his own body, she told him they were on his head hidden in his hair, perhaps if he became more like Stannis perhaps others would see the lions there too. Pycelle interpreted them, the position he told him was to show how they were always in his thoughts, his greatest concern were his children that’s why they were on his head. Of course Robert nodded, it wasn’t true though, the thoughts he had most were where he could see them, and feel them.
It still hurt.
It would always hurt.
When the boar pierced through his skin, slashing the wolf, for all the pain, there was relief.
stannis
He envied Robert’s stag so clear upon his forearm. Though his mother oft rubbed his ear and told him of the green sea turtle that hid behind there, Stannis wished that he too could have a stag where he could actually see it and where others could see it too, he was proud to be a Baratheon. He asked Maester Cressen once why he had three birthmarks, the Maester looked at him and hummed and ahhed but could not give the answer, or at least one that satisfied him. It was only later when Renly was born that it started to make sense to Stannis, he the middle brother had one for each.
He stood with Robert upon the parapet as the ship was torn apart by the waves, Renly was crying somewhere in the castle the Maester and the nurse tending to him. It was stormy and the wind was violent, they’d been told even in good weather it was not a safe place to be, they had to be careful, to hold tight and not lean near the edge. He stood there with Robert who roared and shouted and stamped his feet, gripping Stannis’ hand so tightly that it went numb and he just stood there, not saying a word.
Watching. His head filled with noise.
He didn’t hear a word Robert said, but it wasn’t the sound of the storm, it was the waves he heard, the only sound was the ocean fillings his parents’ screams.
It started during the siege, the prickling upon his shoulder blade, another place he could not see, he told no one, not even the maester, Cressen would only be too happy to interpret the mark and find Stannis his fated. But he had done without the gods for six years, he wasn’t about to start again now.
The burning and prickling persisted and worsened, it was almost a welcome feeling to distract from the aching hunger in his stomach. He was more irritable he knew, though it could just have easily been the hunger, that hunger that drove good men to treachery and wise men to consider the unthinkable. It was the sailor-smuggler that saved them with his salted fish and his onions, it was such a relief, to sleep without the aches and pains of starvation. Recovery was slow, and rations were still scarce but they made it through the siege and the war when Ned Stark and his men eventually came to force the Tyrell men down. It had been a bloodless battle, or near enough when Stannis considered Davos’ left hand, he thought of the people of Storm’s End, his people. Yes, a bloodless battle, but you would not have known from the number of dead.
Robert ordered his marriage to Selyse before the mark had finished growing, continuing its painful itch across his shoulder blade. Stannis never told his brother of the mark, Robert had never thought he needed to ask. He worried what it was, that all the people would see it at the bedding, see this part of him that even he did not know. He thought little of the gods and their whims, but there were others who would care, who might even at the bedding halt the marriage and demand an interpretation.
He feared what this mark might do to jeopardise his duty.
He needn’t have worried.
By the close of that day, even Selyse had not seen the mark.
It finished growing in time and it did not hurt as much as he’d heard ignored marks were wont to do. He’d near forgotten the mark, the ache it caused had dulled same as the hunger he’d once had, though he felt it sometimes it was near nothing to before. It was during the Greyjoy rebellion that Davos brought it to the forefront of his mind, he had a cut to his back, superficial but the man insisted that if he were not to go to a maester he would at least let his most trusted man check for himself.
With disgruntled reluctance Stannis removed his undershirt and forgot completely the mark that once prickled his skin.
Davos gasped despite himself “A ship?”
“Aye” Stannis replied as though this was nothing new, he winced as his skin stung where Davos’ fingers traced the mark.
“I’m sorry, I forgot myself, m’lord”
“The cut, Davos, how fares the wound?” Stannis snaps, he’s in pain that has nothing to do with battle.
Davos brings Maester Cressen, and he tells himself because it’s the wound that needs attending to, but another part of him knows had it not been for the ship with script so familiar, yet to himself unintelligible, he would have let Stannis be stubborn. But his curiosity wins, and the Maester struggles to hide his surprise and hurt that this is something Stannis has not shared with him. He tends to the wound in near silence, only to apologise for the pain he causes and admonishing Stannis for not having the sense to see him immediately. He mutters something to the stubborn man who grits his teeth and mutters a reply, their voices too low for Davos to make out,
As he leaves he beckons Davos to him, quietly he thanks him, “Take care of him, Davos, you are more important to him than you will ever know.” He says it as though Stannis should not hear these parting words, but looking back to the dark haired man with the ship now half covered in bandages, he knows that Stannis heard it all, he had the strangest feeling that the words meant more to Stannis than he could understand himself.
Stannis continues to ignore the gods, he has no time for them and remains unaffected, but the mark it still prickles and aches.
He tells himself he’s ignoring that too, that it would make no difference.
But he’s glad for the prickle, he fears for the day when it might stop and there’d be only an ache.
renly
He’s the youngest of three, but he might as well be an only child for all the attention the household pays him. And Renly adores it, knowing that he’s loved, by the cook who sneaks him extra sweets, by the nurse who sings him songs of summer and the tailor who makes him clothes that would be fit for a prince. It is not what he wants though.
He wants Stannis to laugh with him and smile at his enactments, he wants Robert to come home and to stay home and teach him to use the war hammer that he talks of and he wants the parents he’s never known to tell him how proud they are, how much he’s grown.
Robert promises a great many things, he promises Renly a sister he will love, he promises to teach him as their father had, he promises to keep Renly safe. He promises again before he leaves to fight. By the time Renly is master of laws he’s learnt the weight of Robert’s promises.
They live through a war, Stannis and he and the household. But it is nothing like the battles in the tales, there’s no thrill and glory. Only hunger and sadness. He sees Stannis training in the yard with determined regularity and he’s good, second only to Robert and his warhammer they say, but there will be no glory for Stannis, there is nothing the sword can do against the battalion that lays in wait outside their gates. When Renly trains he holds the sword with distaste, it is not his weapon of choice.
It’s a common man who saves them. For all his gratitude for the food Renly cannot help but wish that the man had thought to bring fresh fruit, sweet fruit like grapes and apples and peaches. He holds his tongue though at the sight of Stannis and Cressen who tell him the news, the old man is frail but he’s smiling as though the fish and onions might be the best food in the world and Stannis doesn’t smile, he hasn’t in so long, but there’s relief. Renly knows his brother feared for them, he never said anything though, not to anyone. For all that Renly said, and he spoke a lot, Stannis said little in return, he spoke with actions and hard looks that required few words. He had to concentrate when he was younger to understand Stannis, to pay attention to the subtleties that were so easily missed and harder still to interpret. His brother hardly said when he was pleased or impressed, so Renly took care to make sure he could know despite it.
When they were to meet again in King’s Landing, Renly stopped looking, he didn’t pay attention to the stubborn clench of his brother’s jaw at Robert’s overruling, though the grinding and gnashing of teeth was hard to miss, he didn’t see the short quirk up of Stannis’ lip when he made a worthy suggestion nor hear the sardonic tone in comments levelled at Littlefinger. No, because he’d decided long ago when Stannis had left him that he no longer cared.
He has a squire in time, though he knows he’s hardly a knight himself. Loras Tyrell, from Highgarden, Mace Tyrell had suggested it, though Renly knew it was the Grandmother who pushed it forward. He was loathe to take Loras from Highgarden as he was loathe to leave it himself, he fostered good relations with the family that had stood opposite himself on the battlefield. He fostered good relations with many families those with and against the great rebellion, he was good with people, good at talking to people, he knew because they told him so themselves.
A flower blooms on his left shoulder and though he’s ashamed to admit it his first thought was of Margaery. But he knows the next time he sees Loras and feels the oft described prickle that there is only one explanation. He both seeks out Loras and avoids him as he waits for the mark to finish growing, he watches to see if Loras too has these feelings, a mark of the stag. But he cannot have Loras see him, they’re friends, more so than a squire and his Lord have any due to be, and Renly fears, irrationally he knows, what if Loras is not the same? What if it’s all a grand misunderstanding and it’s Margaery after all? He knows though, that if Margaery had any sign of a stag there would be no waiting on Mace Tyrell’s part, she would be put forward as Joffrey’s betrothed with little delay, the Tyrells were not subtle in their lust for advancement.
He tries to learn from the songs and histories about the great loves and how one might approach the other. It’s all man and woman though, all so very simple you make a grand gesture of showing your beloved your mark and with a look of fated recognition they fall into your arms with unrivalled joy.
It’s Loras that makes the first move, they waited, perhaps in a mutual unspoken understanding, until he was knighted, Ser Loras Tyrell one of the best jousters in the land. Renly wasn’t envious, and he revelled in the attention his handsome knight received, because he knew, that the handsome knight had eyes only for him.
shireen
It wasn’t an easy birth, but at least this time there was reward for all the struggles. And perhaps Selyse was disappointed that the squalling babe wasn’t a boy like the silent children before her, and maybe she was fearful that her husband might not care for the child, might not care for her. He did his duty yes, but what duty does a father have to a daughter beyond a convenient betrothal? She had hoped that this child could help them, that she as his wife would give him the ultimate gift of life of an heir and he in the joys of fatherhood might soften his permanent scowl and speak the sweet words the songs had taught her to expect to hear.
But she smiled at her daughter, calm and sleeping now as she held her waiting for her husband to arrive and decide upon a name, stroking her soft downy hair already looking the black of her father’s. The babe had a fox behind her right ear. “Ears befitting any Florent child” Selyse thought sadly as she remembered the teasing she had endured as a child. But this babe,her babe was the daughter of a great lord, the Master of Ships, niece of King Robert Baratheon himself, there would be no children so bold as to tease a Baratheon about her ears.
She clutched her daughter closer as she heard the impatient footsteps of her husband approach the chamber, he’s come faster than she thought he would, it was when Stannis stops outside her door that Selyse realised she saw no sign of a stag or even a sea turtle upon their daughter. She looks at the child again, it’s an insult worse than being a daughter.
He waited in the solar continuing with the business of Dragonstone, he was of no use to the women and the maester, they would tell him when it was time. If the wind blew right he could hear her cries, it was taking so much longer this time and he found his concentration lapsing, made evident by the angry scratchings upon the accounts he was trying to manage. Was it a good thing it was taking longer? This babe though early was older than the others, but those times it was the babes that had not survived, he feared that perhaps this time his wife might not.
The noise stopped, though the wind might have changed. Stannis returned his focus the matters at hand only to find his hands covered in ink and his quill irredeemably broken. He gets up to clean his hands at the basin provided, but he doesn’t return to his desk when he’s done, he leaves the solar and heads towards his lady’s chambers.
Cressen says nothing as he sees the young Lord with his face so determined, he was on his way to tell him, he smiles knowing there is only one way for the father of the child to have known before him.
“They are both well my lord” he says without the preamble he knows would be wasted on Stannis, “both my Lady and your daughter.”
Cressen watches closely catch the twitch of a smile that crosses his face, only to stay there.
They stop outside the door, when Stannis finally delivers his reply.
“Good.”
It happens that the daughter has inherited her mother’s ears with the Florent fox behind the left and her father’s strong jaw. Her hair is black like her father’s, but not so coarse, it’s finer and she’s grateful for the joy she sees her mother have in stroking and combing her hair. She likes her blue eyes too, the same as her father’s Cressen says, blue Baratheon eyes and black Baratheon hair, she is her father’s daughter the old Maester often says.
Shireen had a stag of house Baratheon too, it covered her cheek in the colour of her skin. As a babe Cressen told her once it was only visible when she cried or blushed to make her cheeks red, then it would stand out and be seen. She wonders sometimes if that might’ve been better, though she is not one to cry often now or blush if she can help it, her birth mark might not be easy to see but she would know it was there nonetheless.
There is little point in wondering though, childhood illness that should have left her dead left her with only a cheek marred by dying skin that cracked and peeled and made the hidden stag bright and obvious. She had learnt over time it was no use to hide her cheek and the mark that graced it.
She was Shireen Baratheon, survivor of greyscale, of the Northern Winter and the beasts that accompanied it and bringer of peace to the war torn lands of Westeros.
Able and just it was the white stag across her marred cheek that showed the people who she was, more than any Queen’s crown ever could.