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The wind on Ysilla’s skin was far better than her previous confinement, and of course she was grateful to be allowed outside, and to be treated as well as she had been, but it made her miss Dorne all the more. Every time she stepped outside, she expected at first to feel the sun, before she remembered.
She could not have felt more distant from her home and remained in Westeros. The North was a cold, harsh place. At least she was not treated cruelly, but her heart ached for home. She hadn’t seen her brothers, nor her nieces, in years. Who knew how long it would be before she did? She might never. The idea was nearly enough to shatter her, but she had to retain some hope. She’d find a way, surely.
Her marriage was an unsettling thing. It was hard to tell what her new husband thought of her, or anything. They hadn’t been married long, a scarce few months, and neither of them understood the other. He seemed discomfited by her presence but he, at least, wasn’t forced into this thing. She was bitter. Of course she was. She was a daughter of Sunspear, to whom marriage ought to have come as a willing blessing. Not like this. Not as a captive, bound and unwilling. Not so soon.
There was nothing to remind her of home, in this place. Nothing except her own memories. In that respect, her circumstances had changed little from her captivity. She might not be confined and under guard, but she was still a hostage.
More than that, she was desperately, fundamentally lonely. Her new husband hardly spoke to her. His bastard son was a child still. The widowed Lady Catelyn spoke little to her, and her own son was a child as well. Winterfell was full of people, but she was alone in it. All the more so, in her grief.
Maybe, with time, the Rebellion would become less of a sore spot. For now, she was a symbol of the fallen enemy. This place had more cause for anger than most. Elia had been innocent, but she knew better than to say much. She kept her mouth shut and her head down, and people were content to leave her alone. It was a lot better than her previous captivity, with captors determined to take every wrongdoing out on her. Here, she was just adrift. Better than the alternative, but that hardly cured the pain in her heart.
The children here were well treated, but watching them always stirred grief within her. She had been that, once. She had nieces who still were. The children of the North lived very different lives to those of Dorne, only naturally considering the differences between the places, but it made her feel all the more like a piece out of place. She should have been happy to spend time with the children, as she had always had been at home, but she just felt like an interloper.
She wanted to go home. She had no way of doing so. She might be expected to live out her days as a wife married young, ever a hostage, never truly safe, but she was still a Nymeros Martell of Sunspear. She wouldn’t be beaten so easily. She held her family’s words close to her heart, and swore to live by them. She had to be their representative, so far away from home. Let them learn what it meant, to be a Martell. She resolved to hold that truth close. She was, always, a Martell, no matter her marriage nor captivity. She would never bow, bend, or break.