Summer eyes

by ihaveastorminme

A sister for a kingslayer; a princess for a kingdom. A precarious alliance forged through a marrige, and a union that would become as undestroyable as it would be unmendable. "-so soon have you forgotten the promise i made you?"...where you go i shall go; where you die i shall die and there shall i be buried.' Her hiss drew blood: "You lied then. You lie now." (minor jonXsansa)

2. Blood of winter

2. Blood of winter

'Right now I want a word that describes the feeling that you get - a cold sick feeling, deep down inside - when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don't want it to, but you can't stop it. And you know that there will now be a 'before' and an 'after', a 'was' and a 'will be'. And that you will never be the same person you were, ever again."

- Jennifer Donnelly, A Northern Light –

The King of the North and the Trident wanted his sister by his side sooner than as soon as possible, her uncle Tyrion said, and at this point it seemed that her grandfather had no objections since that meant sooner evacuation of northerners from the westerlands and sooner for the marriage that was supposed to unite their houses. Myrcella suspected that her grandfather wanted to keep Sansa at court under the pretence of her marrying a Lannister – and not just any but specifically her uncle Jamie - as long as it meant that they could keep something of the North under their claws and manes as assurance, so to speak. But that chance had past and gone, because if they dared, Robb Stark would fuck the westerlands to the seven hells, as uncle Tyrion had so tactfully put it.

It took them a fortnight to finalize the details for the marriage contract and another to make everything ready for the journey (Myrcella had never seen Sansa smiled so much so frequently). When Myrcella looked at the wagons that contained her belongings, she thought it strange how a whole life could fit in such a little space. There was one detail that she wanted to know though, but that she had to be prudent about asking. When her curiosity finally won over, Myrcella chose to ask uncle Tyrion instead of anyone else that would not answer.

"Is he going to support Joffrey's claim to the throne against Stanis?"

Uncle Tyrion had given her a careful look. He always looked at her this way when she asked something that hinted to her being slightly more than just a once-pretty face.

"No. But he won't fight with Stanis either. He maintains that wars of succession in the south are none of his concern and that he is King in the North. What Joffrey does or does not with his realm is none of the northerners business and frankly, we like it that way."

Of course they did. King's Landing could withstand the attack on one army, but not two, especially not with the westerlands being bled dry and all the supply routes being cut off. Add to that the ever present danger of Dorne setting Highgarden on fire, as the Tyrells had been screaming about these last few months, and you had a 'true tactical headfuck on your hands.' Though Myrcella had never heard that particular expression before, going from the drawn look on uncle Tyrion's face when he spoke of it, it had to be a painful thing.

"He's just hoping Stanis comes and burns us all to our bones isn't he?" She mumbled, lost in thought.

"Ah, but not you." Her uncle said, surprising her really, with the clear intent behind those words, as if their history stretched far and wide behind his eyes. as if he had been thinking them a long time. "Not you, because you will soon be a Stark of Winterfell, sweet girl."

Myrcella stared at her uncle, possibilities flying in her mind and when one of them dawned and her eyes showed her surprise, Tyrion smiled at her shock, at her speeding breath.

"You will have a good life up in the North I think." He said slowly. "At the very least, a life far away from here."

Myrcella could feel the tightening of her throat that always meant her voice would thicken with tears that never fell. She wants to ask if he's being purposefully slow, but she thinks it useless. Of course he is not. He knows all too well what a life lived in scorn is like. In the end, all she does is sigh tiredly.

"They'll hate me, you know they will. I'll be just as scorned as Sansa was here."

"Perhaps, at first. But you won't be harmed. The Starks are much better than we are in that respect – and Robb Stark is not Joffrey. You will be safe. Safer than here, at least."

Myrcella feels her breath calcifying in her lungs. She couldn't object to that: there were few places less safe than the Red keep some days… and that reminded her of another important thing that, try as she might, she could not seem to imprint on her mother's head hard enough.

"Uncle… You must promise me something." And she caught his hand, so small but strong, in her own. "You must promise that you will protect Tommen with everything you can. You've seen how Joffrey is with him." and with me… but that she doesn't say. By the look in his eyes, he probably already knows anyway.

"You know I will do all I can, sweet girl." Uncle Tyrion said calmly.

Myrcella nods. "I have tried to tell mother, but she…"

But Cercei Lannister was half blind when it came to her golden sun. Myrcella would rather think her mother that, than consider the possibility that maybe Cercei Lannister does not fund half the things her brother does so offensive. But Myrcella had always thought that the queen loved no one as she did her children… she'd always thought…

"When Jamie comes back, he'll be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He'll take care that Tommen is protected under someone that can be trusted. And when the siege comes… I will do my best." And uncle's best is most often than not good enough for everyone, because though most are too busy sneering at him to notice, he is a man with a formidable mind and a good heart… which is something of an oddity for a Lannister.

Myrcella nodded almost absentmindedly. She had had sir Aerys protecting her ever since she could remember. She had trusted him and in the end he had died doing his duty, that which he had sworn his life to: protecting her own. she owed him the breath that now flowed in her lungs and she was not likely to forget that, but out of all the Kingsguard, few were those like Sir Aerys…

Most of all though, Myrcella felt like she was clinging, grasping at straws of issues that she could do nothing about, if only so that she did not have to concern herself with herself… and her impending nuptials. It was easier to divert her attention to anything else, save for her own fate. Whenever she thought of it, she felt an immense sense of dread, and those few enough times she had voiced it (two in total – to Sansa that night, and to uncle Tyrion just now), those that wished to comfort her kept telling her that Robb Stark was not her brother, as if that was supposed to mean something. That was a lot of faith to put on one man; too much in fact, and that made her even more uncomfortable. She could not in good faith say that she had ever in her life met a man deserving of such trust - most of those men who people seemed to admire so were simply better liars than others. And Kings had a general tendency to be the worst of men.

ooo

Her mother had not come to see her off. She had come the night before, to hold her in a bruising embrace and whisper how much she loved her for the first time since Myrcella came back from Dorne, to be strong and to remember who she was: a lion and 'it's for lower beasts to fear you. Don't forget, never forget who you are.' Myrcella had held her mother just as tightly and bitten her tongue this one last time, because in the end she truly was her mother's daughter and she could not help the love she bore this unreachable woman who had birthed her; a love that endured beyond the flaws they both had, despite the temper and harness and grave mistakes. Tommen was harder to say goodbye to. They spent their last days together, and he was always holding her hand, looking at her as if she might vanish under his eyes. Gods, he must have been so lonely, she thought one day. More lonely than she ever had been in Dorne for she at least had created her own life there, somehow. But Tommen was so isolated… And he had not even had time to take joy in his sister being back before she was ripped from him again. He cried on the last day they spent together, even though he was considered by all too old for such a show of emotion. Myrcella loved him fiercer for it, held him tight and kissed his tears away, promising that she would do all in her power to come see him again, and that was no lie.

Not surprisingly, it was uncle Tyrion that was going to be their royal escort. At some point Joffrey had had the dazzling idea of coming himself… and when she'd heard Myrcella had laughed, though perhaps she should have cried. Who was going to hold the Mad King's muzzle when her grandfather died? Was the realm to burn after all? But those worries disappeared from her mind soon enough. It was none of her concern, as everyone was so quick to remind her always. Let those who made him deal with Joffrey. Myrcella on the other hand, had a different duty now.

Two princesses for peace and a kingslayer. It sounded fair, except, she was no more a princess than her brother was a King. Unlike Sansa, who was strong in the conviction that her family loved her and would fight for her till there was a breath in their bodies, Myrcella was just a bargaining chip on the side - given to close the deal and no one was more aware of that than she was.

ooo

Almost six years ago, when they had been riding towards Winterfell, Myrcella had heard Robert Baratheon say the words of the Starks were the only ones that were as true for any man living as they were for the family itself; that they were words that reminded everyone of the beginnings of the Starks out of the Long Night, and the grim importance of things to come for all men.

Winter is coming, the Starks said… and as the harsh wind slapping their faces silly with cold as they rode through the western planes, Myrcella felt the truth of it. Uncle Tyrion cursed beside her and Myrcella looked at him with a smile. He looked thoroughly annoyed, as if the wind existed just to bother him, but he did wink at her from underneath his hood.

"Winter is coming huh?" Myrcella said as particularly hard wind picked up and made her shiver like a leaf. Sansa smiled at her fully, making it impossible not to smile back. "Tell me, dear soon-to-be goodsister, what does your family say when winter finally gets here?"

Sansa laughed. "We say 'we told you so'1"

Myrcella laughed with her, for the first time in nearly a month.

ooo

Myrcella looked at herself in the stained mirror of the small inn they had stopped at last night to get one night of comfortable sleep and for a chance for the ladies to freshen up, as uncle Tyrion put it. This was the last day of their travel. Not even half a day really, they had already been sighted by northern scouts. So she undid her braid, combed through her curls with her fingers and then pulled all her hair over the left side of her face and braided it again, carefully making sure that her mutilated ear would be well covered. She had no wish to hide the scar on her cheek, it would be useless since one would have to be blind to miss it, but her ear… no, that one she wanted to hide. She was not ashamed of it, that is what she told herself, but she still didn't want anyone to see it.

The girl staring at her in the mirror is one that, for the first time in a while, is taking a very careful study at her ever feature. High cheekbones, round mouth. Pale gold in her hair, forest green in her eyes. A Lannister, twice. It was unmistakable. There was no way in which she could escape that. Eddard Stark himself had declared her and her brothers bastards born of incest and there was not one man in the North that would doubt his word, especially after he had lost his head over them. Lost his head by the hand of the woman to whom she bore an uncanny resemblance to.

Myrcella had never been a particularly vain creature. Everyone said that she was her mother's image come again and her mother was hailed as the most beautiful woman in the realm, but as for Myrcella, she liked her face for the very simple reason that it was the one that had greeted her ever morning on a mirror for the full six and ten years of her life. That scar on her cheek was just another piece of history, and while in Dorne she had never been made to care of the aesthetics of it. Obara was riddled with scars, Nymeria too, even Tyene had them and they were all proud of them, telling their stories to whoever listened. But here things were different, people were different. In the rest of westeros, there could be no creature considered more unlucky and an ugly woman.

Myrcella sighed. How she wished to be back and spend the rest of her days under the hot sun of Dorne. Instead, she was going to become Queen of Winter. Not for the first time, uncle Tyrion's voice found its way into her head: the gods are such vicious cunts, he whispered.

But then again Myrcella had stopped praying to the seven the day Trystane died, so she had no grounds to complain.

ooo

Sansa's tears fell the moment she saw her house's banners. Myrcella's eye caught the white and grey standard of the direwolf flapping in the wind and she knew who it was that was riding towards them at full gallop some few men riding behind him at a slower pace. Robb Stark stopped his horse with a quick move and had jumped down from it before the beast had yet found its peace. He had plucked Sansa from the saddle before she had the chance to get down herself.

It was a strange thing to hear Sansa sobbing in his arms with such white-hot desperation. She was always so quiet, so still. Always afraid of drawing eyes on herself. And yet, though Sansa was a woman grown – and had had looked it for years - she seemed a small child when her brother picked her up so she could wrap her arms around his neck, because there was no chance of her ever reaching all around him in full armour as he was. Robb Stark was a head taller than his sister and looked twice her size - and as she took that in, Myrcella felt her heart in her throat, immediately calculating in her mind how much a of a weight advantage he had on her and, as she noticed his wide palms as they held his sisters face and wiped her tears away, all Myrcella could think of was how much it would hurt if he did strike her.

'Learn to like the pain' Obara used to say, right after some blow had doubled Myrcella over. 'It means you're still alive.'

But right now the eldest Sand Snake was a distant memory, and the man standing in that clearing so tall and broad and imposing, was a stranger. Robb Stark was not the striking young man Myrcella remembered from Winterfell years ago. There was nothing of that boy left in him except for the colour of his hair, so uniquely trapped between the Tully red of his sister and the Stark's darkest brown. Even his eyes were not the same, she noted, as she swung down the saddle and lowered the hood of her cloak, so that she could greet him with her feet on the ground and her face in plain view. His eyes were still the bluest she had ever seen, but they were so cold, so hard that they made her shiver, same as the winter wind had on the road. They fixed upon her with the steadiness of ice and all the weight of a barrage of rocks falling off the face of a mountain.

Myrcella curtsied low in front of him as one should only for a King, greeting with a clearly spoken 'Your grace', and stayed that way until he greeted her in return with a simple 'Princess' of acknowledgement.

"King in the North!" Her uncle called from the horse he had not dismounted, his usual smirk twisting his lips. "We meet again."

Myrcella almost flinched at her uncle's tone, but as Tyrion always said, being the Imp had certain advantages. Forgoing manners seemed to be the most recurrent one apparently.

"Aye, we do." Robb Stark finally spoke and he raised his hand to gesture to the riders behind him. One single horse was sent forward, and had it not been for those wide eyes of a green so thick it looked like summer grass, Myrcella would not have recognised her uncle at all. He wore his armour ill, as if it was not his own and his hair was a mane, his beard longer than she had ever seen it. When he finally did see her, his eyes flashed with awareness and shock that reverberated through him like a blow.

"When are we to expect the wedding, your grace?" Uncle Tyrion asked and Myrcella had eyes only for Jamie, the white knight, that looked scandalised enough that he was chewing on his tongue for the effort of not speaking. The King's eyes flickered to her for a moment before he turned to her uncle.

"Ravens will be sent to you when I reach Winterfell." The King replied. "The ceremony will be performed as soon as you are able to make it there."

"Then perhaps it would save time if I join you now." Her uncle tried but he had not even finished his sentences before the firmest 'No' Myrcella had ever heard came from Robb Starks lips with the severity of a man that knew his own mind and that knew he did not need to raise his voice to be obeyed. It was the kind of 'no' that she had sometimes heard from Arianne, so full of self awareness, and from Prince Oberyn too those few times she had met him. It was the kind of 'no' her grandfather was a master in delivering. A King's order.

She saw her uncle was meaning to speak again then, saw the King urge his sister towards her horse once more as his riders spread out into formation again and she felt time slipping through her fingers. She was afraid, she was not ashamed of it. These moments were possibly the ones that were going to determine the rest of her life, but she could not… she could not go without…

"Your grace!" She called as clearly as she dared and was grateful for when the King's eyes found hers immediately, his brows only slightly furrowing. "May I please say goodbye?"

The King blinked once, as if it had not even occurred to him that she might want to, and then, so fast that she thought she had imagined it through the sheer force of will to see it there, something seemed to soften in his eyes. But it was gone so fast that Myrcella was left feeling afraid that she had overstepped the line already and that she would feel the brunt of it later. But it didn't matter. Who know if she would even see her uncles again? Who knew if she would even be alive long enough for a wedding. Life was ever harsh and never merciful. Anything could happen.

"Of course, Princess." The King said and he urged his riders at some distance. She felt uncle Jamie land from his horse almost before she turned to see him there in front of her. There was such anger in his eyes… but she could not help but take his hands and hold them, could not help the smile. She'd missed him. She knew it clearly as soon as she saw him. The anger she had accumulated disappeared, cowered by the notion that she might never see him again. And if it were so, then she would not want their last words spoken in anger. Anger didn't matter, it wouldn't make anything better.

It was a small wonder however, to see how quickly Jamie Lannister's temper faded the moment she took his hand, how suddenly there was longing in his face and how clearly she saw it, even though his beard and messy hair covered most of his expression.

"I can't say I'm surprised." He said finally and Myrcella smiled at him, because he was trying so hard to make he think he was still the same man.

"You shouldn't be." She said then with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. But there was no time. "I missed you, and I'll miss you more now even though you look awful," and that got a laugh out of him. "-and I'll write to you as often as I can." If I can… "And you must write to me, both of you." She said turning to uncle Tyrion. "-because nobody else will."

"We'll write, sweet girl." Uncle Trion said softly.

"Whose head am I to have for doing this to you?" uncle Jamie finally found the nerve to ask, his thumb tracing the line of her scar, his voice was so soft that her heart broke for him… and because she would never get the chance to call him father, ever.

"That dept has been paid." She said, thinking about the Darkstar's corpse rotting in the desert. "Uncle Tyrion will explain. Will they let you be at my wedding?" and now she had tears in her eyes and in her voice.

Uncle Jamie snorted, as if the answer was obvious, even though his eyes too were shining. "I won't miss it for the world."

She rolled her eyes with a half smile. "If mother tries to send me a red gown, stop her." She said then (another smile, this one she would remember because it was the teasing one that had always been Jamie's as far back as Myrcella could remember) and reached up to tug his head down so she could kiss his forehead the way she always used to when she was a child. He was not a giant anymore though. Then she took her uncle Tyrion's hand and kissed it too, holding it tightly before letting go ('Don't forget your promise uncle, please, because nobody else will remember'), and then she was on her horse and galloping forward, and not once did she look back.

ooo

Myrcella stayed back and watched as Lady Stark cried and cried as she held her daughter, a lanky girl with the short hair and fierce eyes standing close by. The girl that Myrcella had thought looked awkward as a child, now looked dangerous as a woman: Arya Stark was not in a dress but in boiled leathers, with a thin sword strapped of her hip, a bow and a quiver full of arrows on her back. Her eyes singed like hot steel when they fell on Myrcella's face. Arya Stark had the kind of beauty sharp swords did: cold and lethal. Myrcella knew the kind of violence the girl regarded her with; she'd faced it before and she was too weathered in it now to be afraid as she had once been when face with such reckless hate. But no matter what feelings Myrcella's face invoked in the girl, Arya Stark still embraced her sister tightly when Sansa practically threw herself at her with a strangled cry of 'Oh gods, I thought you were dead!' over and over.

The King stayed with his family for a moment more before turning towards Myrcella. Unlike his little sister, there was no immediate dislike in his eyes, but then again, Myrcella could not see anything else in them either. His face was hard and unchanging, as cold as if his expression was carved ins tone and there seemed to be nothing beneath the frosty-flue of his eyes, no flicker of emotion to guide her reaction. For a moment she tried to imagine what it would be like to spend a whole lifetime with a man that felt nothing but distain for her, or at best, cold disregard…

'I don't belong here' was too little a phase to encompass the enormity of the displacement Myrcella felt in that moment.

"Princess, I have had a tent set up for you and my sister. I advise you get some hours worth of rest, we'll be marching as soon as we're able." He spoke looking at her with the unnerving steadiness of a stranger.

Myrcella takes deep breaths as he talks, inclines her head forward and says 'thank you, your grace' when he's done... and tries not to think of how cold his eyes are, or how his mouth looks like one that never smiles and that the shape of his jaw hints at more than just stubbornness. She does her honest best not to dwell on the memory of Trystane who was all warmth and laughter and kindness. Her best is not enough because she still feels the familiar sting of tears behind her eyes.

But Myrcella is not alarmed; she knows she won't cry. She just blinks a couple of times, takes a deep breath and then dares even a long look around herself, taking in the many faces of men of war. Some stare at her openly, their distain as flat and direct as Arya Stark's was. Some even look upon her with a plain and simple hatred. No big surprise, that, she had expected it, but it was different to be surrounded by some one hundred men that wanted nothing better than to wet the cold ground with her blood.

Myrcella sighed… if it were not for their colouring and the cold weather, then she might as well be back in Dorne, except now she was old enough to understand what those kind of stares meant. It did not escape her that the King paid her the least attention possible within the bounds of strict cordiality. In her heart of hearts, she could not blame him. He was to marry the daughter of the most reviled queen in the history of Westeros, the sister of the boy-King that had cut off his father's head… a girl that had her mother's face. She was a taunt in the face of all he had lost, and as she thought of it that way, she could easily imagine her grandfather sitting somewhere in a chair, smiling at the thought of her becoming her mother's daughter in every way and making Robb Stark's life a living hell, just as Cercei had so often strived to do with Robert Baratheon.

No, Myrcella did not blame the King at all, but she had herself to think about. Nobody else was going to see to her comfort, she had no time to waste her concern on a King who, apparently, could not stand to look at her too long.

That was precisely the moment when Sansa chose to turn to her with a tearful smile and to Myrcella's great surprise (so much so that she actually showed it) the elder Princess of the North took her hand and tugged her to her remaining family.

"Mother, Arya… allow me to present princess Myrcella to you." She said with enthusiasm in her voice that to Myrcella was completely foreign. Two pair of eyes fixed on her and Myrcella felt the hair on her arms prickle, the way they always did when she was aware that someone was looking at her with sharp intent. But Sansa was not done, indeed she had not even let go of Myrcella's hand.

"She was of great comfort to me when I was held in the Red Keep." Sansa said, smiling at Myrcella's so obvious shock at her words. And Myrcella was sure Sansa knew exactly what she was doing… and she was doing it anyway. Myrcella could not say anything in return, sure that she had never been a true friend to anyone before, and yet she was being shown the meaning of it now, by the same girl that her family had tortured slowly for years.

Shame prickled at the back of her spine.

"You're too kind, your grace." She said softly, meaning it, in a tone meant only for Sansa and nobody else.

"I thought that the Princess had been fostered in Dorne since she was a child and that she was returned some six months ago." Lady Catelyn pointed out, her tone as polite as her eyes brimmed disdain. Myrcella met the other woman's eyes steadily, needing to see whom her enemy was to be now and how was the best tactic to survive it.

"Your grace is correct. As I said, princess Sansa was being generous."

Catelyn Stark regarded her for a moment with intelligent eyes and Myrcella tried to show neither weakness nor pride. She tried to show a princess with courtly manners, remembering the way Sansa had always behaved in the face of sharp scrutiny.

"How'd you get that scar?" Arya's asked then with a complete nonchalance that didn't surprise Myrcella one bit - the defiance was in the girls very breath, even in the challenge in her tone when she spoke.

"Arya!" her mother and Sansa chastised immediately, their tone of voice so similar that it was a wonder. The three women looked at each other for a moment and then, in the same moment, they started laughing at some secret jest between them that Myrcella was utterly out of.

"Some things never change do they?" Sansa said, but she said it as if it was the most wonderful thing on earth. Myrcella didn't understand it, but she could not deny that the way both mother and daughters smiled at each other, ever so softly, was pleasant to look at. When they looked at each other, they saw family and the feeling showed in their faces… and it melted like new snow when their eyes fell on her. Lady Catlin sighed turning to Myrcella with a look on her face that might have been called resigned. "Come then. Let's get you into some warmer clothes. You both looked chilled."

Sansa smiled at her and Myrcella tried to smile back, but she was sure her expression was not so convincing. Arya Stark kept a pace behind her, eyeing her back like it was her target practice, no doubt, countless eyes following their walk… and that was when Myrcella understood how her life in the north was going to be like even ten years from now: even if she did manage to be not-so-hated, even if they learned to live with her presence, to tolerate her, that was as far as she could ever got to anyone's heard in this Kingdom. She would forever be the outsider, never their kin. She would be ever lonely here.

The sudden realization of this very simple truth hit her with the strength of a blow and she felt the blood drain from her face. She had never been truly alone in her life… she was afraid of it.

ooo

When Myrcella found herself looking upon the northern army camp, she felt the suddenness of her reaction betrayed her feelings in a moment where they should not have, because she knew she was being watched from all sides. But being still and calm in a middle of a sea of men… literally, a sea of them, she was in a valley, and could not see the ending of the encampment – it made her taste fear for the very first time. How many were there?

She looked over, searching for banners, wanting to know who they were, but the colon was moving so fast, straight into the heart of the camp and she did not have the time to take it all in. They were families of the north, Stark bannermen, and there were others as well. Riverlords perhaps. She caught the standard of the Twins somewhere, and even the sun and spear of Dorne.

"We could have burned it all to the ground, you know."

Myrcella turned to meet Arya Stark's cold-steel eyes… and felt something in her respond to the strength with which she was being hated in that moment. She felt her insides pull together, tense, as they always did when she was coiling for a fight.

'Always fight like the next one will be your last breath, she used to say, because it might very well be.'

But Obara had always been too vengeful, too violent, too blunt. This girl to whom Myrcella was talking to now was just a girl who hated her face - and she was the sister of the man she was to marry. So Myrcella kept her face schooled and expression flat.

"We could have burned Lannisport to the ground, taken the Rock and razed it down."

"Then I am glad the King chose to show mercy on the people of the westerlands."

Arya Stark snorted. "T'was no mercy, Lannister." A name spit out with so much vile it was already an insult. "It was tactics. Just like you are."

Myrcella regarded that in her head, calculated the many responses she could give, before settling for the only one that Arya Stark was likely to understand.

"I know." She said, pronouncing it clearly, without distain or anything else. A simple fact for both of them to acknowledge.

The silence stretched a bit longer, long enough for them to dismount and walk a little beside the King as he spoke to his mother and kissed Sansa's forehead.

"I'm going to kill your brother one day."

The voice was close and not low enough to be considered a whisper. Arya Stark obviously didn't care about such things. Myrcella could only stare at the wolf girl in a mix of wonder and amusement, unable to decide which was she wanted to go for a moment.

"I'm going to kill your mother too. I swore it. And I'll do it." Arya Stark continued, with a voice that boiled with conviction, of hate, the thread of violence laced in it like a scent. Myrcella did not doubt it for a moment that Arya Stark was capable of bringing death. She sounded like killers Myrcella had met before sounded, but what she spoke of was… was so commonplace really. How many men and women, Myrcella wondered, had sworn the same thing, over and over again? She was sure there had to be an abundance of them, somewhere in this world or (more probably) in the next. Men and women whose lives the Lannister Queen had ruined, had sworn to kill her in innumerable ways… and yet there she stood, upon her throne.

And where were those people now?

"You will have quite a bit of competition there, I'm afraid, but I wish you well on your endeavours all the same. May you act wisely and may justice guide your hand." Myrcella said pleasantly, as if she had not been just sworn death and blood of her kin. Arya sneered at her response.

"Justice, yes. For my father and my brother." There was a moment of silence, and then a snort. "Lannisters. You people don't love anyone but yourselves do you?"

Myrcella felt the spark of annoyance for the first time since the girl had started to speak. She turned to her and met her eyes, not fire for fire, but bloodlust with cool indifference, because she knew Arya Stark's kind – or at least, she knew the kind of hatred Arya felt. She had learned long since how to deal with those kind of people.

"And if you think this is the first time someone threatens to kill my brother or mother, you are more naïve than I thought you to be, princess." She said calmly, placidly almost.

The fury in Arya's eyes made her peel back those lips and show teeth like a wolf showed fangs. "Don't you call me that! I'm no princess!"

Myrcella inclined her head. "As you wish."

Sansa's voice interrupted them. "Arya, stop it, you're causing a scene."

As Sansa linked their arms together with a smile and pulled her to their tents, Myrcella thought back at Arya Starks snarling face. Well, she decided, at least the girl was honest about her feelings. It could have been worse. It could have been that she was cunning and conniving and a liar and a sneak, and that would have been a real problem. But this kind of anger, this Myrcella could handle. Unless of course the girl decided to shoot her full of arrows or cut her throat in her sleep.

Myrcella closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. She honestly hoped that Arya Stark had a bit more sense than that. A bit more sense than Joffrey, who went and cut off Ned Stark's head and plunged the kingdoms into war and devastation. Because that's what would happen again if she died among these people, Myrcella knew that. Her mother would not rest until she had burned the whole North down if Myrcella made the mistake of getting herself killed here. Which was what made dying an unacceptable option, and Arya Stark would have to learn to live with that.

ooo

Myrcella slept fitfully under the pressure of what felt like a ton of heavy furs, and when she woke she felt her bones aching, as if she had been crushed under her bedclothes. But when she did wake and saw the way Sansa and her mother, and Arya too, were sleeping, she felt the bite of sadness in her breast. They were cocooned together, holding each other in their sleep, as she and Tomen used to do in King's Landing when they were children. These people, Myrcella thought, were not bad people, were they? They were just family… a powerful family, yes, but family none the less.

But then again, she should know better by now. She should know that blood means nothing and ironically enough, the proof of it are the Lannisters themselves, who are said to love none but their own. The Lannisters are family And they all hate each other…

What would it be like for her with these people up in the frozen north? What would it be like for her children? Would babies that came from her body be as loved as Sansa Stark seemed to be? Myrcella felt her hands close into fists and the spark of anger. She would not let anyone harm any child that came from her, of that she was certain! And then of course she realized she was being stupid and thinking far too much ahead. Before she planned the future of her offsprings, she should perhaps try to have a full conversation with their would-be father, preferably one that involved more than a few words spoke out of courtesy.

She got up and started dressing herself with as much quiet as she could, not to wake up her tent-mates. In her mind, she was revisiting for the hundredth time the episode of last night, when she had waited for the camp to calm and the hour to be late before she snuck out of her tent and, with the heavy box of polished dark wood in her arms, headed for the King's tent, trying not to be seen… or at least, to be seen by as few as possible. She had been so scared, hands trembling even though her step was sure. Sansa had offered to accompany her, but in the end she had decided against it, to Myrcella disappointment. She said that it would be better if Myrcella did this alone, and Myrcella could understand why that was a wise decision, but the comfort of a familiar presence would have been a relief indeed. Instead, she was alone…

The guards had stopped her at the entrance of the royal tent and that she had predicted. They didn't recognise her face, but when she lowered the hood of her cloak, they did recognize her, and they scowled.

"How may we be of assistance, your grace?" one of them asked, and it was so clear that he'd rather call her bastard than anything else that Myrcella was likely to smile at his transparency – but she was no idiot.

"I would have a word with the King, if he allow me." she said carefully, taking the decision out of his hands.

"The King has retired for the night."

As if she did not know that. "I assure you, he will want to hear me. …I have something to deliver to him."

"Gifts can wait till morning." The other guard said gruffly, eyeing her with distain and did not even spare her the leering sneer on his face as he took her in from head to toe.

"It's not a gift, sir. And I think the king would like to decide for himself." Myrcella said and this time she could not keep the steel from her voice as hard as she tried. She hated it when men regarded her with ownership they had no right to feel, and she hated it even more that this soldier who was, at best, a son of some noble house, eyed her like she was a whore in a tavern because he felt he could do so without impunity.

The guards regarded her carefully then, and after a moment, with a stern eye, took in what she was carrying in her arms. No doubt she thought that perhaps she was there to kill their King or something as preposterously stupid as that. She was a Lannister after all, nothing could be beneath her. But in the end the truth of it was that a guard, even a royal one, could not take decisions that the King would better like to have taken himself, and for all these soldiers knew, the King could not afford to offend her too tremendously, since she was the one link to the stability of their realms. The reality of it was different, but Myrcella would not be the one to explain that to him. A moment later, the soldier returned and the tent flap was held open for her to go in… and in she went.

The King's tent was much wider than that of his mother and sisters, and curtains separated his private area from that that served as general quarters of his army, where he held meetings with his generals and captains. It seemed cosy enough, as warm as any tent could be, clean and fit a commander, but it was also bare of anything that was not strictly needed - and that told her much about the character of the man inhabiting it. The King was not one for lavish fineries it seemed. Myrcella ran her eyes around herself, looking for the King and when she found him standing almost behind her, she swallowed down the lump in her throat and curtsied.

"Your grace."

A moment passed.

"Princess."

She stood up straight and looked at him. He is not going to ask you what you want here, she thought as she took in his hard face, so hard and unmoving that it seemed his features were set in stone (thank the gods or whatever had had mercy on her fate, he was not as big as he had looked with his armour on, though he was still tall and his shoulders were still wide enough to mean strength). Myrcella stepped forward and put the box she had been carrying on the table where all his maps were. Her arms had been aching from the weight of it.

"I wanted to return this to you." Myrcella said as she did so, trying to resist the urge to look anywhere but in his eyes, (no matter how sharp and cold they were as he tried to drill through her thoughts) because it was in his eyes she had to look since she firmly believed that deference was one thing, while weakness was another. When he said nothing, Myrcella lifted the top of the dark wooden box and allowed him to see what was on the inside of it. It was not snakes or some poison or other. Just a sword. And when he saw it, she saw a true response from him and was thankful that he was able to feel something – anything – that was not mistrust or frosty distain. His eyes as he regarded her now were even darker though, and his frown spoke of confusion, as well as suspicion. He did not trust her one single bit, Myrcella realized and probably never would.

Well then, she would have to earn it. And he would have to learn to give in a little. In time.

"You grandfather made it very clear that my father's sword had been lost." The King said, and it was just as clear from his tone that he had not believed it for a moment. Myrcella said nothing, because there was nothing she could say that would be to her advantage here.

"Am I to consider this as his wedding gift to me?" and the tone was even harsher, mocking the idea for its arrogance, its presumptuousness.

Myrcella took a deep steadying breath.

"No one can present as a gift something that already belongs to you, your grace." she said calmly, though she betrayed herself when she looked down to her feet at his words - because that had been precisely her grandfather's intent. At first he had had no intention of returning the thing at all, but somehow (only the gods knew how) uncle Tyrion had convinced him to do it. But grandfather Tywin had wanted Myrcella to give this sword back to the King at their wedding feast, in front of all his bannermen so that all could see that she was the one to return the lost heirloom where it belonged. That the North was a concession, an allowance of the crown, and not a right earned in blood. Myrcella had seen her mother's sneer when she had been told what to do, as clearly as she had seen the disapproval in uncle Tyrion's eyes. And when Myrcella had spoke to her uncle about this on the road and presented her own idea, he had smiled and called her a smart girl, as he always used to do when she he particularly enjoyed the fruit of her wit.

Myrcella startled and it was all she could do not to take a step back, when she saw that the King was much closer to her than she had expected… though not for her, but for the sword. He picked it up from its confines and took it out of its sheath in one fluid move, held it in his hands as if it weighted nothing more than a feather, even though the thing was so long that the hilt of it came up to Myrcella's chin. She had never seen it this close before really, never dared. Now she watched the look on the King's face as he too examined it, the emotion that seemed to melt the frost from his eyes when his gaze turned inwards.

What was he thinking about, she wondered. Was it his father's memory in his mind?

The King put the sword back into its scabbard and turned to her. He was much more composed when he watched her, but the steel she had felt today when he looked at her was not there now.

"Thank you." He said simply, and Myrcella bowed her head to him, just as simply. But she knew that she could no longer leave without begging to be excused as she was used to… just as well as she knew that if she stayed any longer there would be rumours flying in the morning of her being a whore, as well as a bastard.

"May I take my leave, your grace?" she asked then carefully, when he said nothing to her for several moments. Again, his dark brows pulled together by a small fraction, a thin line of confusion arrowing in his eyes, before he replied.

"You may, if you wish."

Myrcella felt herself in a difficult situation all of a sudden. Was this a trap? Did he want her to stay? She rebelled from the very core of herself at the thought. She may dread him, but she would not be made his whore, not without a fight. And he would be surprised at how much of a fight she was capable of.

"I fear it would be improper, your grace, to stay any longer in your tent without an chaperone." In the middle of the night… but she did not add that.

She watched understanding dawn in his eyes, as if the idea had not occurred to him at all. (And why should it? Men didn't suffer from ill rumours as women did, and he did not care about her honour, because he probably thought she had none.) But she did not see the annoyance she expected. He looked away from her for a moment, as if… well if it had been anyone else, Myrcella would have thought him embarrassed at his own slip, but this was the King of Winter and though Myrcella knew him for but a day, he had not struck her as a man to ever get embarrassed about anything.

"Of course." He said then, nodding firmly. But after a moment he opened his mouth again, and closed it, looking… unsure, for the very first time since she had met him that morning. Myrcella admitted that she would have liked nothing better than to leave his presence (her heart had been flying ever since she entered this tent and she could already feel the cold sweat start to bother her underneath her dress) but she could not very well leave when it was obvious that the King had something to say.

"Are your accommodations to your liking?" he asked then… and Myrcella blinked twice, as stunned to hear those words as he seemed to be to have said them. Suddenly the awkwardness between them that had taken the place of the hard tension of a moment ago, seemed ridiculous. He was just trying to be courteous, was he not? Wasn't that expected?

Myrcella had to be honest with herself: no, she had not expected it. She had expected a great deal of things, and none of them were of the pleasant kind. It was why she dreaded him, why she measured every look, every step, every breath, in his presence. She had been steeling herself for awful things, telling herself those were expected. Not this. Strange was it not, that things that should have been quite normal between two people, sounded so extraordinary in their situation. Perhaps that was because their situation was extraordinary in itself, and therefore normal things did not fit comfortably between them. She had never expected the ordinary from this… and perhaps neither had he. But that did not mean she could not accept it graciously.

"I am very comfortable, your grace. Thank you." Myrcella said, a little too softly perhaps, trying to smile and not daring to sound too much of anything. Sansa, dear sweet Sansa, had made sure that she had the warmest clothes and the most comfortable bed as possible, in such a large display of compassion that had she not been how she was, Myrcella would have been reduced to tears.

One single gesture of kindness meant the world it seemed, when none was expected.

"I'm glad." He said, the word sounding strange from his lips. "Goodnight then, princess."

"Goodnight to you, your grace."

And she left, pulling her hood up before she exited the tent completely and returned to her own tent. She hoped that he understood what she had done, and why she had done it this way and not another, with the dark covering her and nobody there to witness the moment between them. She had taken a great risk on her person by presuming to know the best way of action and she could only hope that he would be able to see this as a peace offering - not between their families, but between themselves… an offering of good will, if nothing else, and that if it was true that this King was as good a King (and a man) as they said he was, then she wished to win his regard at least.

She had smiled at Sansa when the princess asked her how it went, and told her that her brother was polite and spoke to her kindly, even though that was a stretch of the truth. Sansa had smiled and it had been relief Myrcella had seen in her eyes. Apparently even Sansa had her own doubts when it came to her brother, and Myrcella thought it a bit sad really, how little they both seemed to trust men, just because they had had the misfortune of being subjected to her brother's fickleness.

She looked over at the princess now as she slept, between her mother and her sister; smiled at how harmless and how very young Arya Stark seemed in her sleep. Everyone is so much happier when they chose not to remember anything, she thought. But she also knew that was not the northern way. The North remembers, they said, and Myrcella wondered if it was possible sometimes to remember too much. She dismissed her thought with a shake of her head, breathed deep and stepped out of the tent silently. She was in a good mood today even though se he had slept fitfully, and she knew why that was. Myrcella was no fool to give away all the measure of her trust for one polite word, but she had to admit that she was also immensely relieved that the King was capable of it, when it came to her. It reassured her that there might be something she could build on, even if all there was to be between them was distant courtesy. But distant courtesy sounded magnificent, when compared to all the other things she had imagined. And even though this was just a faint hope, it was still better than nothing.

ooo

Unfortunately for Myrcella, her good mood evaporated immediately when she caught sight of the two soldiers dressed in Lannister armour just outside her tent. She froze, her heart skipping a beat as she turned to look at them fully in the face, aware that whoever was awake and within sighting distance of her was looking at her. She need not be a witch to know the kind of thoughts that were running through their heads.

"Who are you?" she asked, turning to them with a frown, not trying to hide her feelings.

"We are to be your guards, Princess." One of them said and Myrcella felt her anger start to rise. And she had been in such a good mood too…

"By whose order are you to be my guards?"

It would have been a cruel joke indeed if the King had dressed them this way and ordered them to follow her about. At her question, the two men looked at each other and then back at her.

"King Joffrey and the Queen Regent, your grace."

Myrcella raised an eyebrow at them. She should have known, this had Joffrey written all over it. Or rather, his stupidity and brutal intent.

"And was it, by any chance, part King Joffrey's order that you guard me while wearing this ridiculous getup?" She asked, as she pointed towards their armour. It was obvious from the look they shared that her brother had done precisely so, and Myrcella could not help but be a little sorry for them. It was not their fault that their King was the kind of moron to want to cause his sister harm even when she was a hundred miles away from him.

Myrcella sighed. "Go find yourselves a more appropriate armour, or I will find myself new guards." She said simply, but firmly enough to let them know she meant every word, before turning to leave.

"Forgive me, your grace, but the King gave us an order and we cannot…"

Myrcella felt her blood boil, but she kept her tone to an even whisper lined with hot steel.

"The only King north of the Neck is Robb Stark, and you two are in the middle of his army. Ten thousand northerners who at the sight of that pretty red armour, would like nothing better than to open you up from balls to brains and see how pretty you bleed. " She said harshly at the two before her, even though she knew they were not so much at fault here. "So unless you want to find yourselves victims of some unfortunate accident before I even have the chance to dismiss you from my service, find yourselves an armour more appropriate to your current situation."

Both men were startled by her tone and the words she chose, but they could not very well disobey her openly since she was by all accounts their liege lady, so they both bowed they heads and took their leave. Myrcella sighed and closed her eyes. This was not going to be easy, and she had known that from the beginning, but she had not expected people where were not even there to make it quite so difficult either.

"Your grace, good morning."

Myrcella turned at the voice and saw a woman standing there, dressed in full armour and looking at her with wide almond-shaped eyes.

"Good morning to you my lady." Myrcella said, not knowing how else to address this stranger.

"My name is Dacey of house Mormont, your grace. The King would like a word."

Myrcella nodded and even smiled a little. Of course she was of house Mormont. Myrcella had heard about warrior women of Bear Island. And she had heard of Dacey too, even all the way in Dorne. She had heard that she was beautiful and that she was fierce - and now that they had met, Myrcella agreed on the first and could easily believe the second.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, lady Mormont." Myrcella said as they walked. She smiled at the other woman when their eyes met. "Your bravery and prowess in battle is known even as far as Dorne. Obara Sand always told me she would like to measure her strength against yours one day."

Dacey turned to look at her, amusement in those light brown eyes that seemed almost golden when the light hit them right.

"Obara Sand, the first of the Sand Snakes?"

Myrcella's smile grew. "Yes, the same. You've heard of her?"

Dacey chuckled low. "Aye, I've heard of her. She's a right hammerhead, that one."

But there was amusement in Dacey's eyes and warmth in her tone, the kind that follows familiarity, and Myrcella wanted to ask lady Mormont if they had met, if perhaps Obara had followed her father's army – it sounded so like her that Myrcella did not doubt it for a second, now that she thought of it – but they were too close to the King's tent and there was no time for a conversation.

"She has her moments, yes." Myrcella said instead, smiling as she remembered. "But she admires you. And so do I."

Dacey nodded her thanks as she held open the flap of the King's tent for Myrcella to pass through.

The King was busy speaking to several of his men, one of them at his right was as the tallest, biggest man Myrcella had ever seen aside from the Mountain… and she was terrified of the Mountain. They all looked up when she came in and, as always, Myrcella curtsied in front of them all.

"Your grace, my lords. Good morning."

She noted the look in their eyes when they took her in, the stiffness in their necks when they bowed their heads, eyes never leaving her as if she was a snake in their midst. These were among her betrothed's most loyal bannermen, soon to be her bannermen too… and Myrcella had to find some way to win them over, even slightly. At the moment that possibility was cosily cooped up right next to the impossible. Myrcella idly wondered if the position of their King had faltered in their eyes, ever since they learned that he was to marry their enemy's daughter 8difficult as that may be, since Robb Stark seemed to be the closest thing to a god in his men's eyes). But then again, she supposed that after a war so long and hard, they would welcome any chance for peace, even if it involved a bastard princess.

"Princess, your men reached us this morning, with your belongings. I was told that there are several knights assigned to be your guards."

Myrcella frowned at that. Several? What did that mean, she asked herself with trepidation. But the King was not yet done, and the worst of it was that she could not tell, from his eyes or his tone, what he made of this.

"You are free to keep them all under your service as you best see fit of course, but I council you against a large guard."

And Myrcella understood why perfectly. She'd look like a right fool and she'd be ridiculed at best, and hated even more at worst. What in the seven hells had her mother been thinking? Or was this Joffrey's doing? Why had grandfather not stopped them?

"I was not aware of such measures, your grace." Myrcella said carefully, trying to keep her voice as steady as she could. "With your permission, I'd rather send the lot of them back to King's Landing."

She noticed the surprise in his eyes, thought she didn't dare look away from him to measure the lords beside him. She was gambling a great deal here… or nothing at all, depending on how one chose to look at it. If the King gave the order for her not to be harmed under any circumstance, she doubted there would be those that chose to go against it, especially since she was almost all the time with the royal family. And if the King wished to harm her, then there was nothing a whole guard could do to stop it, much less one or two knights.

"You don't see the need to have a sworn shied?" the King asked, regarding her carefully.

She had not had a sworn shied since ser Aerys had died. She had not wanted one, though there had been the opportunity.

"We are travelling in the middle of your army, your grace. I doubt I can be better protected than that."

The smile he gave her was the first one he had ever directed at her. It was lopsided and didn't reach his eyes, but there was amusement in them all the same, because he knew exactly what she was doing, what she was saying without speaking. It was in that moment that for the very first time she felt a connection with him: in that moment they were thinking the same thing, and it was that kind of harmony that made her think perhaps he also understood that she was putting herself entirely on his hands and depending on whatever kindness he chose to show her… or not show her. It went without saying that this was a step she was taking in his direction, and unfortunately she was taking it completely blind, without knowing whether he would be willing to make one of his own towards her, or be what she feared him to be, and bite at her exposed neck, so to speak, like a true wolf would.

"That is true, but I would still feel more at ease knowing there is someone guarding you against what cannot be predicted. Lady Mormont was the shied I had in mind. She is part of my private guard and a fierce warrior. You'd be guarded well." The way he spoke it made her think as if it was an open question. As if he was waiting to see what her opinion on the matter was. Myrcella smiled internally, thinking about it. The illusion of a choice was sometimes as sweet as any kindness. But this was one of those rare cases where that did not matter, because Myrcella was perfectly happy with the option that was presented to her. In fact, she could not help the smile as she looked at the lady who had all this time been standing to her right, tall and proud.

"I have heard nothing but the best praise for the warrior women of house Mormont." Myrcella said looking at the King and then turning to the Lady in question, who inclined her head in Myrcella's direction. "I would be honoured to have you as my protector, my lady." She said and hoped that all could see that she meant it.

"Then it is settled. In the mean time, I advise you council the men under your command to be a little less conspicuous, princess. It would make their time here easier." The King said, and Myrcella turned wide eyes to him, thoroughly surprised – though she should not have been. She could feel the blush that was heating her cheeks to a fierce red. Her face burned and she could not help looking down.

"I have already done so, your grace." Myrcella said flatly, harshly telling herself to look up, look him in the eye! "I beg your pardon, on their account."

"You beg his pardon for their disrespect, or for their indecency?" a new voice asked, gruff and loud. She met the eyes of the man that had seemed to her like half a giant… and saw humour in them, mixed with the distaste he felt as he looked at her.

Myrcella held his eyes steadily as she spoke. "For both, my Lord."

"They should be honoured to serve a lady generous enough to sacrifice her pride for theirs. Thank you for your time, Princess." The King said - stopping whatever the lord at his side had been about to say with a stern glance his way - and it was as gentle a dismissal as any. Myrcella curtsied, wished them a good day and then retired out of that tent – and it was only then that she was able to take a full breath at last.

ooo

It came sooner than she expected it to, the day that Myrcella thought would be her last - not even a fortnight after she had joined the northern armies.

She admitted that she had been curious, in an unhealthy sort of way, about the wolf that the whole court in Kings Landing had been terrified about, and that everyone in Dorne spoke of as if it as a lie that had been made up by the northerners themselves. Myrcella knew that the direwolves themselves were no lie – she remembered them from the visit north, years ago. Remembered Lady, who had belonged to Sansa, and Nymeria, Arya's wolf. She remembered Sansa's sleepless night and the rivers of tears she had cried when her wolf had to be put down. But, though Myrcella knew the wolf was real, she thought the rumours about its size and qualities had been greatly exaggerated. Some people said it was as big as any horse, others that it had eyes red as blood, and fur as black as night. Some even said that his fur was made of steel! Myrcella did not remember the King's wolf from when she was in Winterfell that well, but she doubted it was as horrific as that – if it had been, she would have remembered it.

When she had asked Dacey about it, the lady told Myrcella that the animal was very much real though not with steel fur (Dacey had laughed at that). The King called him Greywind because of the colour of his pelt, and he really was almost as big as a horse, the difference being negligible, seeing that a wolf of his size made a terrifying sight even without those inches more. The king did not ride the animal into battle apparently, but Greywind did as much damage as ten men, and there was no guard more loyal, or more trustworthy.

"You don't sound afraid of him." Myrcella noted, as they rode side by side. Dacey smiled good-naturally.

"I am not. I have seen that beast tear men apart like they were nothing, but he has saved my life more than once; and he has never once attacked one of our soldiers, not in all these years . Besides, Greywind obeys the King unfailingly and I trust my King."

At Myrcella look of confusion, Dacey had shrugged vaguely. "Nobody knows the real nature of their bond, but it's clear that runs deep. A direwolf could never be a pet, and yet the understanding between the Starks and their wolves is…" Dacey paused, and it seemed to Myrcella that she was trying to find a right word and failing. "-well, it's like nothing I've ever seen, your grace." Dacey finally said.

The stuff of legends, Myrcella thought in the privacy of her head. That is what Robert Baratheon had told her one: the Starks were shrouded in mystery that came right out of the pages of a dusty book. But this was no fantasy. Robb Stark was very much real and apparently, so was his direwolf.

"I heard people say that they are one. That the King's wolf can even tell when someone means him harm just by being in their presence." Myrcella pressed on.

At her words, Dacey's eyes darkened and her face hardened. "Oh, he can smell treachery alright. That has saved our lives more than once." The armoured lady said and there was much heaviness in her voice that Myrcella thought it best to change the subject, because it was so very obvious that whatever was going through lade Mormont's mind at the moment had to be very unpleasant indeed to cast such a shadow on her face. Later in her tent, Myrcella had wondered and tried to imagine the animal that Dacey described but she had to admit that she had some difficulty. That is, until one morning she slipped out of her tent and not even ten paces later she found herself face to face with the beast.

Her breath froze in her lungs, and her steps faltered.

She had tried to picture a wolf that was the size of a horse and she had thought that she could, but this… this was…

This is unreal…

And yet it was very much a reality. The beast's snout was bloody and as it snarled at her, blood dripped from its mouth. There were no words for Myrcella's terror, for her heart hammering like the wings of a mockingbird in her breast… She could not breathe and all she could see was those lips pulled back in a snarl, that low growl, a head that was bigger than her torso and a mouth of teeth so sharp that it would not even take a second to rip her apart like she was made of clay. Those yellow eyes stared at her with both an uncommon intelligence and an animal's blindness at the same time.

She could not see or hear anything but that creature in front of her. Not the eyes of all those men around her, so intent, nor the silence that had fallen. At the heart of an army, dozens of men around her, and the loudest sound she felt was her own heart beating in her throat. Out of habit perhaps, Myrcella tried to think of a way to escape, something to do to live, but her mind could not conjure an option and the void she felt in her own brain proved to her that there was no way out of this, not this time. She was alone and she would die alone, of a violent, bloody death, far away from any who loved her…

It seems to be the chosen death for Princesses of the Iron Throne…

The beast started circling her, licking its bloody chops and Myrcella could not help but follow the motion with wide eyes, not daring to move an inch further from the spot she was rooted in, her breathing so fast she felt the constraints of her dress against her chest. She closed her hands in fists, straightened her back and blinked rapidly to try and choke back the tears. It didn't work though, she felt them fall down her cheeks as she had so rarely felt them throughout her life. What use was pride now, she wondered as she heard that beast growling so loudly that it seemed the tumble of a storm. More tears blurred her vision and Myrcella cursed whoever had said that prolonging death was its own form of torture.

But she did not want to die looking into those terrible yellow eyes staring at her with such intent… so when she saw the beast crouch and gather its limbs, ready to spring at her, Myrcella closed her eyes and turned her face away… trying to think of nothing and seeing the faces of her family and all the people she had ever loved while begging silently for it to be quick, not to hurt so much…

…but the bite of death never came.

Instead she felt a hand settle on her arm and she shivered so violently at the contact that she almost fell. And would have fallen, her legs were unsteady at this point, but the same hand caught her arm firmly and she know who it was before she opened her eyes and looked up at him. The only one who had dared touch her so far was Sansa, and that hand felt too big to ever belong to the princess.

The furious anger she saw on the King's face when she looked up at him made her turn away immediately, wincing. She tried to wipe her tears with one hand, find some thread of composure as she told her legs to stop shaking and keep up her weight. She would be no-one's fool as long as she had a choice in it. And she was not going to die either, though not even five heartbeats ago she had been fully convinced of the contrary.

There was some commotion around her and perhaps it had been that way all the while, only she had not heard any of it. Even now she was only vaguely aware of people moving, shouting, as she was pushed to talk with a firm hand that did not hurt. She could not even tell where she was being taken because she was too preoccupied with the tears that would not stop falling no matter what she did to stop them. She had never cried this way in her life: in stillness, without sobs or shaking, without so much as a whimper. Just tears leaking out from some deep dark place over a frozen face, tears that she had collected over a long time. Every bad memory, every horrible sensation came back and she could not stop those tears from falling, even as she was ushered inside a tent or other, even as she tripped and almost fell, only to be caught and even as she felt her feet leave the ground entirely, lifted up like a child. Even then she had not the presence of mind for anything but a half hearted struggle that led nowhere. If before her insides ha felt like someone had filled them with iron, now her bones themselves had liquefied.

She could barely move, a horrible feeling overtaking her: the knowledge that something had just broken within her and all the rivers of her existence were leaking out. All the tears she had refused to shed for years, all of them were overwhelming her. She was so out of herself that she did not even have enough sense to be ashamed of them. And when she was laid on a soft bed of furs that smelled foreign, all she could do was push face against the softness of it and give in, just this once.

o

TBC:::

1 Unknown reference, I read it once in a funny meme that i found in the net, without a specific author, but still, disclaimer, just in case.