Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from the universe of A Song of Ice and Fire.

The news that the war was over and Daenerys Targaryen sat the Iron Throne arrived on the wings of a raven, just after he and his men had surrounded the Twins, determined to wait them out until every last one of them had been driven mad by starvation. In the end he had put the castle to torch, determined to bring about an end to this and return North. Return home.

He would spill no more northern blood when it came to the Frey's, not when they had killed his mother in violation of every guest law known to Westeros. He had sent her to treat with Walder Frey on his behalf, his attention required elsewhere as they attempted to win back the north that he had lost so easily.

He had sent a small force north to Deepwood Motte, to assist the forces of Stannis Baratheon in relieving the castle from the Bolton usurpers. The arrival of their forces had been most welcome he was informed, Stannis' men having nearly froze to death before they could make a move to take back the castle.

He'd been in his tent when the tidings had arrived, and had read the missive quickly. He'd only met Daenerys Targaryen once when he'd replenished the stores of her army so they had enough energy to finish the long march south. He hadn't much liked her.

He'd been most surprised to see his half brother, Jon Snow amongst her ranks, wearing armour as black as night and carrying a flaming sword. He was Jon Targaryen now, legitimised as the nephew of the young Dragon.

Daenerys had been blunt and to the point, and had agreed to allow Winterfell and the North to secede from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms should she be successful in her conquest of Kings Landing. She had no interest in the frozen wasteland that he called home she had informed him. She was born from fire, and would thrive in the South far more than she ever would in the North.

She had his recognition as King in the North in return for his assistance in a time of great need. In truth, he had wanted to see the back of her and her dragons as quickly as possible. They were unnatural creatures, and theirs was an uneasy alliance that balanced on the edge of a knife.

He knew as well as she did that he was King only by her grace, and that if she wanted she could take back the North before he could even do anything to stop her.

But it wasn't that part of her missive that troubled him. Rather it was the news that he was apparently betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon.

He remembered little of the Baratheon princess; she who would have maybe been Queen of Westeros had Daenerys Targaryen not set foot on Westeros soil. She had visited Winterfell a lifetime ago, back when Robert Baratheon drank and whored his way through the passing of days, when it seemed like he would live forever.

She had been a shy and timid little thing, 6 years his junior and not at all talkative. She had been pretty even then, the resemblance to her mother quite eerie. She would grow up to be a beauty, he had been sure of it. So had Theon, who had made a number of lewd comments that had made even him blush.

He had been kept up to date on the movements of the Baratheon children, although it was strongly rumoured that there was more Lannister blood in them than anything else.

He was aware that Myrcella had been fostered in Dorne, but could not comprehend why she had been in Kings Landing at the time of Daenery's final strike against the city. Unless of course, it was a calculated move on behalf of the Dornish. The Game of Thrones was beyond his comprehension at times.

With a sigh, he slumps back into his seat, reaching for his wineskin. As King, he could write to the queen and inform her that it was not within his power to wed Myrcella Baratheon, but he had a feeling that her very life depended on his goodwill.

Daenerys letting Myrcella even live was a miracle enough, let alone sending her North out from underneath her watchful gaze. If it had been himself in Daenerys' position, he wouldn't have let Myrcella out of his sight.

But like his deceased father, he prided himself on being an honourable man, and knew that he would have to do his duty in this instance. He could not consciously leave Myrcella to die, an innocent in the plots and schemes of the Lannister family.

He only has to raise his voice a little.

"Greatjon." He calls as the flap of his tent is lifted back almost immediately.

The giant of a man pauses in front of him, sweeping gaze taking in the tired expression on his face, the wearied set to his shoulders.

"How may I serve your grace?" The older man asks quietly, perhaps realising that he was in no mood to spar with words tonight.

The war had taken its toll on everyone, Robb more than anyone. With both parents dead it fell upon him to rebuild Winterfell, a task of enormous undertaking that he's not even sure how to go about commencing. And he's not sure where he's supposed to get money from, if there even is any coin left in the North.

And then there's the task of tracking down any remaining Stark's, if any were still running around Westeros.

There had been no word of Sansa and Arya since news of his father's death had reached them, since he had taken the field of battle. He had hoped that they had escaped the cruelty of Kings Landing, but as months had passed without word he had quickly begun to lose hope that he would ever see either of them again. This world was not kind to women.

Rickon he knew was on Skagos Island, and was even now making his way back to Winterfell in the company of one Davos Seaworth. How the boy had survived on that strange island he knew not, and if the rumours were true very little remained of the boy that was once known as Rickon Stark, his brother more savage than Northener.

He had not heard news of Bran either, did not know where to start looking for him, if he even should.

In fact, the only other person he considered family was Jon Snow, now Targaryen, and the Prince of Westeros. The truth of Jon's parentage when conveyed to him by Daenerys had been a shock and he had not wanted to believe it at first.

Jon had flown South with a flaming sword, determined to bring about an end to the war in the seven kingdoms. It had been Jon that had subdued the Crownlands, 10,000 Unsullied soldiers at his command.

"I need you to ride South." He finally answers the Greatjon, who had started to look concerned with his lack of response. "It seems that the Queen has seen fit to betroth me to Lady Myrcella Baratheon."

The other mans eyebrows almost touch his hairline, his expression incredulous.

"Will you not ride South yourself your grace?" The Greatjon asks cautiously.

"No." He takes a swig from the wineskin, relishing the taste of the sour Dornish wine that they had looted from the stores of The Twins before they had put it to torch. "No I will ride North with the rest of the men and assess what needs to be done at Winterfell."

"It would be more proper-" The Greatjon falls silent as he holds up a weary hand.

"Take twenty of our most trusted men. Lady Myrcella needs to be delivered to Winterfell safely and without any harm befalling her. Can I trust you to carry out this task?"

"You can your grace." The Greatjon answers immediately with a short bow. "I will gather my men and leave at dawn tomorrow. If our travels fare well we shall see you before the month is out."

He nods as a way of thanks before the Greatjon disappears, the flap of the tent falling into place once more.

Tomorrow he would be up before the sun, supervising the breaking up of the camp and leading the long march North to Winterfell.

But tonight at least he is still his own man, and so he tips the wineskin towards his mouth with another sigh.

Perhaps as a gesture of goodwill, the Queen allows her to roam freely around the Keep, provided that a guard tails her at all times.

She would find the lack of privacy frustrating, but her freedom is too generous a gift and she will not waste it.

She sits quietly with Tommen, watching as the city rebuilds, the eyes of passer by's sliding past them like they do not even matter. It has been said that the true victims of war were the mothers who sent their sons off to battle, the wives who farewelled their husbands.

But it is not true.

The true victims of war are children.

And perhaps they don't matter. It is by the grace of the Queen that they are allowed to live, and as much as she loathes to admit she owes a great debt to the Targaryen Queen. For letting Tommen live. For letting her live.

Tommen doesn't speak, a purpling bruise shadowing his jaw line and she wonders what they did to him, how long and hard they beat him for before they showed him some small form of mercy. How many bruises he has that aren't visible to her, that are hidden only under his clothes.

But he sits silently with her, hands clasped around hers as she rests her head against his shoulder carefully. And that is enough for now.

Word arrives from the North, by the hand of Robb Stark. It contains tidings, and thanks for Daenerys most gracious gift. Like she was nothing more than property to be traded away. She reads the letter out loud to Tommen, wondering how she would react to the news that they would be separated once more, the physical distance between them as far as one could get in the Seven Kingdoms.

Later she holds the letter to the flame and watches the signature of her future husband melt away, an untidy and boyish scrawl across the bottom of parchment.

She had however, gleaned a few things from his letter, things that concerned her and her fate. The Young Wolf seemed more than intent on riding North to Winterfell, to assess and begin repairing some of the worst of the damage before the winter truly set in and they were overwhelmed by the elements.

As it stood, he would not be riding South to greet her properly. Instead, a retinue of twenty of his most trusted men were even now on the approach to King's Landing. The assurance of the trustworthiness of these men was expressed most emphatically in writing. Their group once departed would be small enough to travel at speed, and large enough to warn off the most foolhardy of bandits and looters along the road.

The Queen was built from fire and ash, and knew very little of the perils of ice. But like the north, Myrcella remembered. Long ago before she had been marred, skin splitting and rending and tearing beneath a dagger of the purest black, desert winds blowing around her and the blood.

She remembered the bite of winter, the ache that settled deep into her bones whenever she stepped outside. She remembers the cold winds howling through the trees, not unlike the howl of a direwolf. She remembers a young girl with the world at her feet and too many dreams. She doesn't think that she could ever forget.

Before she could even request it, the Queen bestows upon her a gown of sapphire blue, of the finest cut and make found in these seven kingdoms. It is lined with ermine, thick enough to keep her warm on the long ride north. It is a gown fit for a princess, fit for a queen. But she is not a princess. And she is not a queen.

Tommen leaves for Storm's End the next morning, where he will be joined by Jon Targaryen. The had agreed to take Tommen on as his ward, having no heir of his own. By all reports, the simple request from Jon Targaryen had saved her brothers life. And so she is indebted to yet another Targaryen.

The men from Winterfell arrive the next evening, and they accept the Queen's hospitality graciously. She sees all from her window, the unease in which they interact with the guards, the restlessness they feel at being caged within the walls of the Red Keep.

She herself is restless that night, and tries to hold onto the hours as they slip away from her, of the memories of her childhood here, ripped away by blood and by war and by ruin. The absence of Tommen cuts deep like a knife, and once more she is helpless to stop her tears from slipping down her cheeks.

It is in the early hours of the morning that she gives up on sleep and dresses for the journey. She hates the thought of putting on a riding dress, instead reaching for the tunic and leggings in the very back of her wardrobe. They were clothes that she oft wore in Dorne, when she was doing some hard riding with one of the Sand Snakes.

Sturdy leather boots lace up her calves, and a belt goes around her waist to hold the tunic in place. She slips a dagger into each boot. Her cloak is a deep blue, of fine cut and cloth and it whispers against the stone floor as she slips out of her chambers.

She leaves the dress from Daenerys behind.

The Red Keep is quiet, it's occupants still asleep. A guard at the door falls into step behind her quietly, shadowing her as she finally steps outside and into the courtyard beyond.

She's not sure why her footsteps lead her to the Godswood beyond the walls of the Keep. She has never been familiar with the Old Gods, so alien and unfamiliar they are to her and to her family.

She's surprised to see another familiar figure kneeling before the great weirwood tree.

"You." She hisses through clenched teeth as her Uncle pulls himself to his feet and turns to her. The traitor, the Lion turned Dragon. The third head of the dragon that had come to be both revered and feared throughout all the lands.

"Hello Myrcella." Tyrion Lannister returns evenly. "I hear you are to be wed."

He doesn't flinch when she slaps him across the face, hard enough that her palm stings from the effort. An outline of her hand blooms almost instantly on his pale skin, but her Uncle doesn't tear his eyes away from her.

She is marked now, just as he is, scar roping across his face, splitting it grotesquely down the middle like a mask in a mummers play. He seems as unaffected by his scar as she is by hers.

"You betrayed us. Betrayed me." She bites out through gritted teeth. Uncle Tyrion had forever been her favourite, and she had not wanted to believe his betrayal when informed by her mother by letter.

She still remembers that day, the elated tone that her mothers letter had contained, like it was all a game and she had won a great victory. It was also the day that she began to trust the people around her a little less.

Tyrion flinches as if he'd been slapped once more. He steps to the side and with a nod dismisses her guard. The man lingers uncertainly on the fringes of the Godswood before nodding to himself and taking his leave of them.

As a rider of a dragon, Tyrion wields great power in this new court.

"I am sorry." The last word comes out in a whisper. And for a moment she can see the regret he wears before it slips away like a mask.

"Was it worth it? Your childish need to prove your worth and your desire for revenge against those who had wronged you? Was it worth it?" She asks through the tears that have sprung up traitorously in her eyes.

Tyrion stares at her for a long time, sympathy in his eyes.

"Yes."

She's stunned, her mouth opening and closing as she blinks at her Uncle. And it's the realisation that hurts the most, the one that tells her that perhaps she didn't know her Uncle at all.

She turns on her heel, and she doesn't look back.

If Daenery's Targaryen looks surprised to see her waiting with her horse saddled and ready to leave she doesn't show it. Instead, the Queen lets a sly smile curl at her lips as she waves a man forward.

The man looks frustrated at being commanded by a Queen that is not his own, but steps forward anyway.

"This is the Greatjon Umber." Daenerys begins in a low voice. "He is one of Robb Stark's most trusted banner men and has come to take you North."

"Well met Greatjon." She begins mildly, holding out a hand for the Greatjon to take. He grips it firmly, surprise painted across his features at the lack of a curtsey, especially from one such as herself.

"Well met Prin-" He corrects himself at the last moment, an alarmed glance towards Daenerys who remains silent at his error. "Well met Lady Baratheon." He instead says, inclining his head respectfully towards her.

She drops his hand and steps away, back to the safety and comfort of her mount. He was a Dornish steed, accustomed to and bred for extreme weather be it heat or cold. She hoped that he was hardy enough to survive the Northern winters.

She had named him Abraxas, a great warrior of old from the tales she was taught. He had commanded much power and influence in his time. Born a commoner he had won the love of his people, and had won a great victory against an ancient evil.

"Do you have what you need before we set off?" The Greatjon asks in a surprisingly gentle voice. She nods, gesturing to her saddlebags strapped to the back of Abraxas.

"Everything I have is with me." She confirms as she turns towards Abraxas.

She didn't have many material possessions to take with her. The Southron dresses, made from delicate silk and lace would not be suitable for the frigid conditions of the North. Anything that held sentimental value was probably still in her quarters at Dorne, or in the case of Tommen on horseback riding to Storm's End.

"Allow me to assist my lady." A voice echoes from over her shoulder as she turns her head. She recognises him, although it has been some years since she has seen him.

The man laces his fingers together for her, bending low so that she may use his shoulder to push off from. She does so easily, well accustomed to mounting in this way down in Dorne.

"You are Jon Targaryen." She states with a bitter smile. Once Jon Snow, she remembers the boy well from the North. He had been a lot younger, but he was still as handsome as he was now.

"Well met Princess." He says in a low voice so his Aunt may not hear him. "I hope the North is to your liking. I would be grateful if you would be so kind as to send my regards to my cousin."

She nods once in confirmation.

"I will convey your well wishes to the King." She replies just as quietly, bending down to adjust the buckle of her stirrup.

Jon grips her boot briefly. It's familiar and entirely inappropriate in the current setting but his body is shielded from view by her and Abraxas.

"Robb is a good man. An honourable man. He will see that you are treated well. You need not be afraid of him my lady. Remember that stories are just often that." Jon allows with a wry smile.

She blushes as she lets her hair fall over her face. Although she'll never admit it out loud his words are a comfort to her. She's heard a great many tales about the Young Wolf, about his deeds and exploits. She scarcely knows what is true and what is false anymore, the amount of rumours that swirl around him.

She's surprised then, when Jon gestures for a guard to approach, before releasing her boot and stepping back and away from her.

He takes the parcel from the guard before tucking it into one of her saddle bags.

"A cloak to keep you warm on the road and in the North. I had a feeling that you were not one for dresses." He remarks amusedly as she glances towards the Queen.

Daenerys is watching both of them carefully, still too far away to be able to hear their conversation properly.

"Thankyou Jon." She pauses, at loss as to how to ask her next request. "Would you look after my brother for me please? He is a gentle boy, and not one for violence and bloodshed."

A look of understanding seems to come over Jon's features as he nods.

"He will be taken care of as if he were mine own blood. This I promise. I'm sure he will be most eager to write to you once you are both settled in to your new homes."

The relief she feels at those words are palpable, and she doesn't know how to properly express her gratitude. She did not have the acquaintance of many men, but she knew that Jon Targaryen was a good man, even if she did not care much for his aunt.

Jon seems to have guessed the direction of her thoughts, because he glances once at a very impatient Greatjon Umber before offering her a sweeping bow.

"Safe travels Princess." He says loudly with a wry smile. There it was again, that dangerous word. There was no doubt now that the first time he called her that was calculated, not a mistake.

With a clattering of hooves the Greatjon soon joins her on his own mount as he salutes the Queen with a nod.

"Thankyou for your hospitality your grace."

"You are welcome anytime Greatjon Umber. Safe travels Lady Baratheon." The Queen directs towards her, the hint of a smile again threatening to overtake her features.

You win or you die she reminds herself, and returns the smile with the grace of a queen.

The men fall in around her on their own mounts, the striking of hooves against cobblestones as she pulls her hood up around her head.

By now the news of her betrothal must have spread throughout the city, but it was probably best to keep her face hidden.

She doesn't look back as the company rides out.

AN:

So obviously as an AU there are going to be a few plot points that are different here. Bear with me as I figure out the intricacies of this particular story!

I really wanted to do a Robb P.O.V here and see where his head is at. He has an enormous task ahead of him; rebuilding Winterfell, finding his family members etc. He will be affected by this war, some of which we'll see later.

He and Myrcella probably won't meet until next chapter or chapter 4.