The scent of battle was overwhelming, the sweet aroma of torn up turf, the acrid smell of bodies burning, the metallic tang of blood and the waft of thousands of men who had marched for weeks on filthy horses. The battle cries of brave knights, the screams of those being dealt a lethal blow, the sobs of the gravely wounded.

There were sparks in the air, adrenaline pumping through her veins and she felt she was infinite, the battlefield was swallowed into insignificance as she thrust her sword into the throat of a man thrice her size, she did not see the thick, dark blood bubbling from his lips as he fell because she was already spinning, her shining silver blade arching through the air and lodging itself in the skull of a man running up behind her. With a brutal yank she pulled it back and the man crumpled to the floor.

Was this what her uncle meant all those times he shared his battle stories, that famous Lannister fighting spirit?

"Princess."

She woke with a start; her handmaiden was shaking her shoulder gently as she was slumped over the desk in her chambers. She looked outside, it was dusk over the craggy northern landscape.

"Princess, are you feeling unwell?" she asked.

"No, no," Myrcella said absently, trying to retain every detail of her imagination. "I just drifted off."

"The king and queen have summoned you and your brothers," she said.

"Thank you," Myrcella said, waving her away and trying not to look guilty. Why should she feel guilty about a dream? And more importantly why did her heart still beat with such ferocity, she was a girl, she would never truly go into battle.

Queen Cersei sat stiffly in her chair, it was crudely carved by her standards and much lacking in the regalia she would usually have insisted upon but such finery was lacking in the north. The bedchamber was large, the largest Myrcella had seen since their departure from Kings Landing. Every evening for the fortnight past, Myrcella had heard screaming and cursing from her parents' bedchamber and every day, seen the dark looks of loathing pass between them over meals.

Myrcella was worried. Her mother was never one to act with impropriety or allow others to read her emotions, but this evening her eyes were rimmed red, shining with unshed tears, her face drawn and pale. Her lord father, King of the Seven Kingdoms sat at the opposite end of the table ignoring his queen's obvious sorrow.

She glanced at Joffrey, his brow was furrowed, his green eyes darting from one parent to another, his jaw set hard. Tommen's small hands clutched her own with more force than she would have thought possible from one of only ten, he had climbed into Myrcella's bed every night this past week, sniffling that Mama and Father would not shush.

"Children, would you take a seat," their father said over the rim of his wineglass.

Two spent bottles sat on the table.

King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals and of the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

Myrcella recited in her head as she took a seat, oh how her overweight, drunkard father had shamed his titles, his family and his honour. She had heard the songs about his victory in Robert's rebellion, how strong, handsome and intelligent he used to be. Now the very site of him, a fat, reddened old man hiding behind an unkempt beard and belly swollen by ale made her stomach turn with shame.

He looked to each of them in turn, but his gaze lingered on his daughter.

"Can one of you tell me, why we travel to the north?" he asked.

"We are to visit the Starks of Winterfell," Tommen announced, a proud smile lighting up his round face. He was too young to feel the tension in the room as his elder siblings did, he was just delighted his parents were no longer shouting. Myrcella squeezed his hand.

"Indeed we are," Robert agreed. "But for what purpose?"

There was silence.

"Because you wish to appoint Lord Stark as Hand of the King," Myrcella said softly, averting her eyes from her father.

"Wrong," he announced. "A raven came two weeks past, the Hand has made an astonishing recovery." Myrcella frowned at this revelation.

"Then why are we not supping in the Red Keep?" Joffrey asked, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "Why have we travelled all this way, to the end of the world to catch our death of the cold?"

"Calm yourself brother," Myrcella murmured sweetly, to her twin.

"Stop playing this game with my children," Cersei commanded, her voice strained. "Tell them your design without this ridiculous guessing game." There was silence, Robert looked to his wife, she looked away but not before Myrcella could see the expression- wild, suffering and cruel- such was the hatred she had for her husband. But as soon as the princess saw such emotion it was gone, the queen stared into the fire with distant eyes, clutching a handkerchief in her long, slender fingers, knuckles white.

"Very well woman," Robert conceded, Myrcella's anger flared at the disdain he held for her mother. "My design, is to convince Lord Eddard to accept Myrcella as a ward in Winterfell."

She was winded by his words, her eyes widened and she seemed so far away from the room where she stood. She could hardly hear the cries of young Tommen or the shouts of Joffrey for her despair; it was as if she were encased in glass.

"You cannot leave Myrcella with the northmen!" Joffrey yelled. "She is my sister, my twin sister. How dare you leave her there as if she was the spawn of some traitorous Lord!"

"Joffrey you will hold your tongue," Robert Baratheon bellowed, spittle flying from his lips. "You are not king yet, you will be silenced or you will face my wrath."

Joffrey closed his mouth into a hard line, silencing himself, but he looking mutinous all the same. The king's harsh words only made Tommen cry harder.

How many bottles have the maids already cleaned away? Myrcella wondered hopelessly, anything to distract her mind from what her father had just said.

owHo

"Come, my sweetling," Cersei cooed, beckoning him into her arms, tears running freely over her rouged cheeks. "We will sit together in hush whilst your father talks to Joff and Cella." He ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, burying himself in the Queen's skirts.

"I need not explain myself to you, but I shall," Robert said, still concentrating on his angry son, rather than the daughter he was banishing to the end of the world.

"Myrcella is to be fostered at Winterfell, so that Sansa Stark may be fostered at Kings Landing," he said.

"An exchange of hostages?" Joffrey spat. "Why?"

"I need to strengthen relations with my wardens, Lord Eddard is warden of the North, but he would never give Sansa up to be fostered without some insurance."

"And is that what Cella is to you?" Joff demanded. "An insurance deal?" Robert stayed silent. Myrcella had never felt smaller.

"You are taking my twin sister away from me, for the sake of securing fealty from the north?"

"I am keeping this realm together!" Robert shouted. "As king that is my divine duty."

"You cannot even keep your own family together!" Joffery screamed, his fury warping his handsome face. Myrcella hadn't noticed her cheeks were wet.

"I shall not stand for this," Robert said, rising from his chair and stalking to the door. His gait was slow and swayed violently from side to side, his thick thighs and enormous belly giving him a malformed step. "We ride at dawn for Winterfell, I will return then."

"Curse you father," Joffery spat with such a hatred Myrcella had never seen. "May the seven strike you down."

"You would do well to hold your tongue," Robert said in a low, dangerous voice. "But as we are alone I shall excuse this folly, this once. You should be taking tips from your mother about how to keep affection for your twin alive despite the distance." He shot a dark look at Cersei, which none of the children understood and banged the heavy oak door behind them.

Cersei had wiped her tears away and instead looked stoic, as if even time could not change her, this show of strength was soothing to Myrcella.

"Come my sweetlings," she said in a low voice, extending her arms. Gently she enveloped Joffrey and Myrcella in her arms, Tommen still clutching at her legs and sobbing.

"Calm yourselves, my darlings," she instructed, stroking Joff's hair, she turned to him first.

"Your father is a cruel man Joffrey, but one day you shall be king and you can right the wrongs he has done you," she said, a steely look in her eyes. "What you must do, is make the people love you, make them love you, yearn for you as their rightful king and when this King falls you may rectify anything he has done. In the meantime, rest easy that your sister shall be safe whilst we have Sansa Stark and soon she will come home to us."

Joff looked at the floor.

"Can't you do something mother?" he asked, sounding like a child. "It is not fair for him to do this to us."

"I have tried sweetling," she admitted wearily, bitterly. "But he is the king. I was lured from Kings Landing under the same pretences you were. I have my fears that Robert faked John Arynn's impending death, he has returned to Kings Landing to rule in our absence." Joffrey's eyes narrowed and he turned to Myrcella.

"Do not fear sweet sister," he said. "For I shall ensure that justice is done for your fate."

"There's a good boy Joff, you will make a fine king," his mother said pleasingly. "Now you both must leave Myrcella and I to talk."

Joffrey left in a storm of velvet and Tommen's maid came to retrieve him promptly. When the door closed Cersei sighed, and for the first time Myrcella thought she looked old, tired. But it was only for a moment. Her mother could never look old, even if she lived to be a hundred.

"My sweet Myrcella," she sighed, running her slender hands over her daughter's silken hair. "How shall I go on without you?" Myrcella was the spitting image of her mother. She had the same hair, soft, sleek and shining like spun gold. Their features were similar, strong and beautiful, with large green eyes and soft pink lips and at fifteen Myrcella had almost developed the same curves and long, lean legs.

"Do you know where the king has gone sweet Cella?" she asked. She shook her head. "Think about it my sweetling, and speak freely."

She shifted her gaze to the ground.

"A brothel mama," she almost whispered, filled with shame at knowing such a place existed.

"You are correct, no princess of fifteen should know about such places, but you have been wronged by your father," she said, tracing her fingers delicately over the lines of Myrcella's face.

"Once I realised your father's design, I fought for you to stay at Kings Landing and when that proved fruitless I begged him for you to become betrothed to a Stark, but your father would not permit it. He did not want Lord Eddard to become the father of a princess. He has forbidden you to marry a Stark my sweetling, you must not become too attached to those you meet in the north."

"I thought Lord Eddard was father's best friend, I thought they fought together in the rebellion," she said.

"They did, but Lord Eddard has not deteriorated the way your father has, he can still ride a stallion that hasn't been specially bred for his weight, he is jealous and suspicious that he wishes to steal his throne," she explained.

"And does he?" Myrcella asked.

"No sweetling," she said. "The Starks are noble and honourable and if you wish to return to us, you must become their greatest friend. It is long past time the Lannisters and Starks united. Can you imagine, Joffrey as king, Sansa Stark as queen, the north has never really been part of the seven kingdoms, they are a queer folk, but if you stay with the Starks, they will conform."

"You want the Starks and the Lannisters to rule through Joff?" she asked, confirming her suspicions.

"Robert Barratheon was made to be a warrior, not a king. Look what happen when his crown was donned. Joff will be a good king and you can help him. It is a bad situation my darling, but you must make the best of it, until we can have you return. You are to be a ward of Lord Eddard and you are to win the affection he would give his own daughters."

"I understand mama," she agreed.

"You are a dear, sweet girl Myrcella, I shall be wretched parted from you," she sighed. "You will spend this night with me, I wish to have some time before my baby is parted from me."

"I don't understand why the King is coming," Bran sulked, crossing his arms over his short frame. He was unhappy that practicing his swordplay had come second to sweeping the yard and washing the banners. "If he doesn't plan on making father Hand of the King, why is he coming?"

"Quiet yourself Bran," his older brother said patiently. "The king is coming because he was going to offer it to father, but then the hand recovered from his illness."

"Then why is he still coming?" Bran persisted.

"Because he was already north of the neck by the time the raven reached him and he is father's oldest friend besides," Robb explained. "Are you not excited Bran?" His little brother sent him a dark look for a twelve year old.

"Why would I be?" he asked. "So I can have more people better than me at archery in the castle, or because I'll have no space to practice getting better."

"You're only young Bran, you'll be almost as good as me by the time you're sixteen," he said with a grin. Bran rolled his eyes.