AN::: God, im soooo gonna regret this, but i coudlnt help it. I was reading some quotes trying to find the right one for the next chapter of 'Summer eyes' and I had an inspiration and i could not get it out of my head! One thing lead to another and.. well, here are the products of a sleepless night. I hope you enjoy. Its patchy at best, like littel snapshots of a story, but that's all it'll have to be for now. I have modified a lot of things for the story's sake, try to just roll with it if you can. I imagined Kaya Scodelario as Myrcella, because she has a mischivious face but can also do grave well - and blue eyes ;P)

o.

Tease: And what if one of Cercei Lannister's children was a trueborn Baratheon? It would make the condition unique, as far as the princes of the Iron Throne children go.

When she first caught sight of the babe's corvine tuff of hair on that tiny little head, a stab of panic buried itself between her ribs, drowning the joy. How could it happen? She had calculated everything, drank the tea, counted the moons… Where did she go wrong? But it didn't matter...all she could do now was weep - for the first time in her life without regret and with shame - weep heavy tears of blood that burned her cheeks. Tears for the child of her body that could not be allowed to live to see its first nameday

Ages of the characters:

Joffrey – 17; Myrcella – 16; Tommen – 10
Robb – 18; Sansa – 15; Arya – 12; Bran – 11; Rickon - 6

o

1. The royals

"In general, the more dysfunctional the family the more inappropriate their response to disclosure. Never expect a sane response from an insane system."
― Renee Fredrickson

The North is beautiful in an untamed way that Myrcella usually found fascinating and reminiscent of the harsh mountains of the stormlands (admittedly up here its colder though, and tipped with white snow even though it was summer) and its thick forests… but she is much too cross to enjoy it fully now. After a week in the cart with her mother, she had finally had enough: It was either get out and pass the rest of the journey on a horse, earning herself a smarting rump and all kinds of saddle sores, or throttle her mother with her own hands.

Or perhaps with one of those ridiculous golden-lion necklaces she insist on wearing.

Perhaps the lack of air would make her quiet for once… but Myrcella knew enough to doubt that. Cercei Lannister would never go quietly. In fact, the princess was altogether sure that even in her death-brushing moments, her queenly mother would still be sneering over godforsaken Starks, the general nullity of the countryside and especially of the northern one, beastly people without manners, finesse, or reasons for wasting the air around her etcetera, etcetera. The most usual were the little huffs and puffs about the carriage, the noise, the men, the mud, the rain - even the sky was not to her liking! Too many clouds, too grey, so dismal. And then, once the little quips over the northerners were exhausted for the day (or the very moment the queen's eyes settled upon her daughter, depending on how foul her mood was) there came Myrcella's most favourite set: why is your hair such a mess, why didn't you put on your corset, where is that dress I had your handmaiden lay out for you? Stand straight, don't smile, don't look so stern, don't be too charming, Lannisters do honour to their name, don't talk to the guards, don't smile so much… the only one missing was don't bloody breathe so loud! No doubt in timer her mother would get to that as well. But let's not forget the and the memorable 'oh he brought me along just so that this cold could kill me, I swear it.'

If only we were so lucky, Myrcella often caught herself thinking, much to the proof that, despite all the lessons shoved down her throat since birth, on the ways of being the perfect lady and princess, despite having quite a broad education and the very best of opportunities for refinement; despite, in short, of being trained for courtly life like a mare is bred for racing, there was still a storm very much alive in her… which Myrcella knew was just a blithely poetic way of saying she was as bad-tempered as her mother could be when she was pushed. A comparison for which Myrcella did not care for at all, considering how very unpleasant this journey was being because of that very same woman.

One of the things that had grated on the princess' nerves more was her mother's inconsistency with her own character: considering her usually so composed and stoic nature, Myrcella had not expected her mother to be quite so vocal in her complains… which of course was a serious misjudgement on her part: her mother was not the kind of woman to let her displeasure pass quietly. Of course she would complain: in sarcastic quips and demeaning comments, but that was her queenly way of grating on everyone's nerves. Nobody should dare be happy under the thundering weight of Cercei Lannister's frown. No one had the right to - if the queen was miserable, the whole world should share her misery… Which was why Myrcella was dead set against uttering even a peep of complaint over her aching body, or anything really, short of a fatal wound.

She was however conscious enough of her bad temper and foul humour to reluctantly decline when uncle Renly had asked her to ride by him and some of the stormlords he had brought north as his company, telling him that she would join their party shortly… shortly enough to get her nerves under firm control, that is. She didn't want to be anywhere near civilized company until she could behave accordingly without wincing with the effort – and she would never forgive herself for even the slightest hint of disrespect to her uncle's bannermen, who had ever been welcoming towards her.

Myrcella thought back at the oppressive feel of those green eyes upon her. Her mother had a talent for making people feel small. Whether it was born or bred or won with her crown, Myrcella did not know, but she did know how effectively it had always worked. That look had catapulted her right back to her infancy, made her feel smothered and helpless and weak… and perhaps that was the true reason why she was so angry, and not her mother's complaining. Being trapped in that small space with her mother had been… Gods, even now, on the open field with on her horse, the thought of it almost started Myrcella's heart on a gallop again. It had felt like drowning! It had felt like the embodiment of all her childhood, upon her all over again. She had felt six years of age again, forever striving, forever failing. Trapped in that cart with her mother's smoothing presence and ever watchful eye, ever disapproving frown.

There seemed to be no way to escape the queen! That her mother could reach her everywhere and see everything had been one of Myrcella's deepest fears as a child… but she was not a child any longer.

She was almost a woman grown now, ready to be wed even (something that she should be, any day now and, hells but she was looking forward to that! To finally leave and never have to call the capital home again!). She was her own person, with her own mind and the ability to yield it and her mother's cold eyes had no such power over her as they once did. Myrcella had stopped dancing to that tune some time ago. Given up upon it really and in that resignation, she had found… an astounding, heady freedom. Freedom from trying! Freedom from the Red Keep and her mother's rules and impossible standards – a freedom to find her own self, and what an shocking revelation that had turned out to be! Freedom, finally, from the grief of never being able to meet them, from forever being the disappointment to the only woman whose love mattered… until she finally resolved that it wouldn't.

That had been the day the child in her had died: when she had finally admitted to herself that her mother did not love her, and probably never would. She had had two and ten namedays on her back. It might seem too soon for anything so complicated to pass around a child's head, but to Myrcella, it couldn't have happened soon enough.

Oh she had despaired for it deeply… and it was that way: crying with wretched sobs that stole her breath away, that her uncle Stannis had found her. She had been confined to her rooms yet again after making a mess of dinner with the ambassadors of the south and embarrassing Joffrey in front of half the great lords of the Reach and the West. Her mother had been furious… Myrcella could still remember it. The Red keep had been full of souls and she had felt alone and forgotten and hated. So she had cried and cried until she seemed she would never stop, without understanding fully what it was she was crying about, but knowing with certainty that she was alone in this world and tha tit made her despair. Loss of hope seemed loss of life.

It was how her uncle Stanis had found her. She had never asked him why he'd come looking for her, she was never going to. He had come and found her crying as if the world was ending, picked her up from the ground and settled her to sit on her bed, handling her with gentleness expected for a child, and firmness that was intrinsic to his being. He had wiped her face clean of tears then, ordered her sternly to stop crying. She would have, if she could. But though Myrcella had bitten her lips to stop her sobs, and fisted her hands on her lap with the strain, stubbornly trying to comply like she had so many other times, tears had kept flowing. She could no longer control them than she could make the sun stop rising.

But her uncle had said nothing, waiting for her to speak first… and perhaps that had been wise of him.

'Mother hates me.' she'd said to him between tears with the kind of certainty that she didn't even know she'd had until the words finally left her lips. It had certainly felt that way at the time. 'Joffrey dislikes me and father ignores me. I am a princess and nobody loves me…'

Her uncle had looked at her strangely then. There had been a fierceness to his eyes that was uncommon in her usually so cool uncle. He had frightened her then… but not enough. And she had been glad for it afterwards.

In two day's time she had been travelling for Dragonstone.

Myrcella would never know how her uncle had convinced her father but she had been unbelievably happy that he had. Which was why her unyielding and stern uncle would forever hold a special place in her heart (and why her mother hated the man with such a burning passion perhaps…), why she made sure he was always aware of her love and gratitude and how much what he did had meant to her, no matter how stern and unyielding Stanis Baratheon could be. His fairness was reward enough for his unyielding nature and though everyone said he was impossible to love, Myrcella loved him fiercely precisely for that: his fairness had saved her life, and she was not quick to forget that. She would have loathed to own anyone else such great a debt, but it was Stanis she owed it to, and there was a certain safety in that: most things with him were certain, the way the world around him could never make them.

And now, after all that, after how much she had fought to get out of the claws of the capital and not go back there for too long, she was back with her royal family… which was not the problem, strictly speaking. Her mother had always been the crux of her issues and, as much as she felt unnatural admitting it, Myrcella could more easily find happiness away from her. Which was why travelling with such close quarters with the queen for such a long time, uninterrupted… well, it had been a shock to her senses, Myrcella could admit to that. Perhaps she had not handled it very well.

Four years… four years out of the Red Keep, trying with any kind of excuse imaginable to stay away. Dragonstone, Storm's End, the stormlord's keeps, the westerlands, even the Reach, on occasion… she had visited them all. She was the wondering princess, the one that wanted to see everything, people said with a smile. The curious soul, forever restless. They thought that she travelled holdfasts and homes of familiar lords because she wanted to know her subjects, some even treated her as an emissary to the crown. They liked that the king would sent his own daughter to listen to their troubles and cares – and Myrcella flied over the insult implicit to that, that thought the 'heir and the spare' were too precious to risk, the princess was more expendable than both her brothers. Myrcella didn't care. She promised to send word to the king, and always did, though she knew those letters never graced her father's eyes. There was no harm in letting people believe what they were more comfortable believing. The truth was always so much uglier… and her own truth was one she had never shared with anyone. But that she would go so far as to say that she preferred the Rock and her grandfather's company to the capital, supposedly told a longer story than any she might tell, to those that cared to look… but few enough paid attention to the princess when she was out of the capitol.

Myrcella looked back at the cart travelling much ahead of her. She would not go back into it. She would have to put her foot down gently over it, as her uncle Renly to intervene for her, maybe playa trick or tow to have his men call for her company – they called her the Lady of Storm's end after all, to Renly's great amusement… but she would not go back into that cart, even if they dragged her by the hair!

"I can tell your thoughts are full of violence."

Myrcella huffed but said nothing. Her golden uncle, the most fearsome sword in the seven kingdoms, more commonly known as the Kingslayer to those that didn't much like him - which was everyone or thereabout, seeing that he had a natural talent for being an enormous ass (that he was a funny one did nothing to absolve him) - chuckled by her side and brought his horse even closer to her, his voice lowering.

"She is your mother you know. I'm sure it's written somewhere in some holy book that it's a sin to enjoy thoughts of murder when it comes to your blood."

Myrcella turned narrowed eyes to him, but her smile was sweet (or at least she tried to keep it that way, though she knew that she looked like an a scorch-tailed whenever she scowled.)

"Forgive me sir, if I don't take your word for that." she said coolly, though her uncle kept smiling for all her troubles. "When was the last time you ever touched anything remotely alike to the Seven-Pointed Star anyway?"

Sir Jamie pretended to think about it. "I think it was when I beat some boy in the head with it, many years ago. I was still living at the Rock."

Myrcella rolled her eyes. "Very nearly two decades ago then. I'd say you've officially lost the right to preach anything upon me since any septon worth his robes would cringe at you even mentioning their holy words in any kind of context."

Her uncle laughed freely and then made to ruffle her hair. Myrcella let him. She'd have to do her braid again the moment she had the chance anyway, some shorter strands had already escaped and were curling about her face. Every time that happened, every time another strand ended up in her eyes, or in her mouth or – Oh, seven hells! – in (up!) her nose, tickling most grievously, she wished she weren't so vain and actually had the nerve to hack it off entirely like one of the famed Mormont warrior-women and be done with it. Her queenly mother would surely have a conniption off that.

Myrcella felt herself pause, and a wicked smile started stretching her lips.

Now that I think about it…the idea seemed to grow its own kind of charm.

"I sense trouble. What's that devious little smile for, huh? Not scheming ways to end my sisters reign are you? I'd be duty bound to stop you, princess or no."

"Oh, come now, sir. If I was truly bent on assassination do you really think you could stop me?"

His smile is razor sharp, as her own – or so people say sometimes. "I'd die trying."

"What's this I hear? Not even six moons off age and already plotting murder?"

Myrcella rolled her eyes, but smiled nonetheless as uncle Tyrion came close to them, his mismatched eyes smiling at her with their unusual wicked mischievousness.

"What can I say…" Myrcella replied blithely, the picture of indifference complete with a shrug. "Must be my Lannister heritage taking over me."

She didn't see their faces – it would rather ruin the effect if she tuned to look at them now, after such a finely delivered line – but she did hear their muffled chuckles. Or rather, Sir Jamie bothered to muffle his laugh. Her uncle Tyrion didn't much care either way.

"And she was such a sweet babe once." Sir Jamie said with mock regret.

Of course, uncle Tyrion world not be left out of this. "Yes, I remember. Such a smart little girl, even at two namedays, waddling about, pulling on everyone's hair and yelling out little choiced words she learned from her favourite uncle."

Myrcella snorted. She had been told of that story: of how Tyrion Lannister had ended up banished from the Red Keep because a two year old Myrcella had crawled into her mother's lap and said 'cunt' loud and clear, for all the royal ladies to hear. Gods, her mother must have been… was there even a word to describe it? There were those who said she'd wanted to cut out uncle Tyrion's tongue – which would have been a shame, since uncle Tyrion was almost as amusing as he was insolent. On a note that perhaps granted her maturity, Myrcella admitted to herself that she would have probably done the same thing to anyone daring to teach her daughter the same… but that didn't make picturing the scene less funny! She was sorry too, that he had not been there when she was growing up. The Red keep would have been less a lonely sad place if he had been there from time to time, Myrcella was sure: her uncle seemed to be oblivious to the queen's constant displeasure with her daughter after all. Or perhaps it was because of it that he went to such lengths to make her his favourite… If it were so, Myrcella would not find it surprising. After all, she was the first to admit that she liked the way her mother's face soured every time she saw them laughing together.

"I remember how cute she looked practicing her curtsies over and over in the mirror, tripping about her skirts every time." Uncle Jamie shot back, and that was when Myrcella rolled her eyes. She'd better put an end to this before it became a concert. Where was uncle Renly when you need him?

"As if you were born graceful." Myrcella murmured, and sure enough they hear her but once the caught momentum they were more unstoppable than a boulder down a mountain.

"And just look at her: who could ever guess that beneath that pale-milk skin and wide innocent eyes there hides such nefarious intent."

Alright, that was enough! Myrcella turned to her uncles, blithering idiots the both of them… and smiled, putting on her most innocent face.

"Why, I am astounded that you have lived to get so old, the both of you, with those little heads of yours submerged by such bizarre notions. You should both know by now that the appearances of this world are precarious things." Her uncles were looking at her with amusement and mischief in their eyes and she knew that she didn't look so much different.

"Take sir Jamie for an example: one has but to look at you in all that pretty armour and glorious face, to think you the greatest knight in all the seven kingdoms." Myrcella let her lips stretch in a contented smile, sticky sweet as honey. "But then you open those pretty lips and within the space of your first three words… the illusion shatters."

Her uncle laughed heartedly and Myrcella even heard sir Aerys stifle a chuckle too. She gave her sworn shied a sidelong glance, smiling widely herself.

"You wound me princess – and without any right to do so, since I'm not the reason why your little royal bum is smarting."

Myrcella didn't even bother to gasp at his insolence – she skipped right to shoving him with an 'Oh, be quiet!' and almost sliding off her own saddle herself since he was as unmovable as a stone wall. All her shove did was make him laugh, which, admittedly, had been the point. It occurred to her much later that during the whole time she was bickering with her uncles, her mood had lifted considerably and she thoughts of her mother had been banished out of her mind completely - so much so that it was easy to smile to the queen the next time they stopped to set up camp and she didn't mind when her mother reminded her sternly that, while she may be allowed to ride out with her father and uncles, she would be arriving in Winterfell inside the carriage – as it was proper for a princess. Myrcella nodded and all the while thinking that she would thank her uncles when she next saw them, for unwinding her just enough. Had they not, her mother's order would have tuned into another fight between them. She was very grateful for her silly, ridiculous uncles on occasions such as those.

TBC::