Chapter Four

A/N: Thank you to Master of Dragons God, ladyres, Revan3363, Dragonbinder, Ptl4ever419, Guest, yourloved, EndlessReign, Nathalieobvious, Guest, ro781727 and Beth for reviewing. It means so much to me!

Myrcella turned on her pallet once again, trying to find a position in which she could comfortably sleep. Having been raised a princess, she had always slept on featherbeds with the finest silken sheets, and even in Sunspear her bed had adequately befit a lady of her station- laying on rough-filled sackcloth with only her cloak for a blanket was a different experience entirely.

It was cold in the tent, so cold that the grass had turned white and brittle with frost, and Myrcella huddled further beneath her cloak, desperately grasping for any warmth she could find. She could not remember ever being this cold. 'The Starks have the right of it,' she thought. 'Winter is coming.'

Somehow, the chilly air combined with the smell of the river's salt water reminded her of a trip to Estermont, back when Tommen was still a babe and her not a great deal older. It had been a wondrous moon's turn, filled with roaring hearths and laughter echoing all across the castle. When she was a child, it had been one of her most treasured memories- now, she recalled the lightning flashes against the black sky, and the bruises they showed on her mother's collarbone. 'Not the first and certainly not the last. I can only pray that my lord husband will never be so cruel to me. If I survive long enough to wed, that is.'

It was a thought she had often had, though she tried her best to avoid it, morbid as it was. After all, ever since she had left the capital, she had been a captive, whether called a guest or otherwise. War had broken out across the Kingdoms, with five men claiming the Iron Throne as their right. What hope had a poor little princess, heir to the throne after her brothers, when she fell into the clutches of the enemy?

Even in this situation, Myrcella found it difficult to view Robb Stark as the enemy, just as she did her uncles. Her mother had always taught her that anyone who was not family could be an enemy. But now even the Baratheons had turned on each other, fighting tooth and nail for the birthright of their brother's children. 'My mother was wrong about my uncles.' she thought, and could not help herself from wondering further. 'Perhaps she was wrong about the King in the North as well.'

Another element of the life at a military camp which Myrcella found difficult to cope with was the noise. True, King's Landing was a bustling city, but it had always seemed fairly peaceful from the palace, and the Water Gardens had been all but silent during the night. At one point, she had even pulled her pillow over her ears to block out the noise, but quickly thought better of it. After all, she was in a tent in a military camp, a prisoner without a friend. She could not to deprive herself of the opportunity to see an attacker coming- her mother would never forgive that.

Yet somehow, amidst the discomfort and the cold and the noise, she eventually drifted off into slumber. Her dreams were what they always were, not fair maidens and painted knights like most other girls- her mother had long ago disillusioned her about such things- but the nightmares of a childhood spent in a dangerous city. Occasionally it was the prisoners who had been sent to execution, or the smallfolk who starved to death in the streets. Once she dreamt of a poor boy who she had seen trampled to death by a horse during a royal parade. But this night she dreamt of the horrors within her own home, when her mother could not conceal her rage and her father was too far into his cups to ignore her. He had beaten her badly that night, folk had said, although they were careful not to say so around her uncle Jaime, for fear of what he might do.

In the dream, her father's hand wrapped tight around her wrist, his grip painful and bruising. She wrestled against him in confusion- her father had never turned his anger onto her- before she realised the pain was real.

Myrcella sat bolt upright and shrieked, much to the shock of the fur-wrapped figure stood above her, the one who was grasping her wrist. His expression had turned to fear now, but she recognised the smirk he had worn before: Theon Greyjoy.

"Lord Theon." she greeted in a voice as timid as a mouse. Her resolve to disguise her fear had disappeared with the young man's growing smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Just obeying orders." Theon answered with a shrug. "King Robb told me to make sure you remained confined. To see you were being treated appropriately."

The smile had changed now, the sort of smile her father had given serving wenches when he thought her mother was not watching. His eyes had drifted downwards and suddenly Myrcella was conscious of her thin nightgown and the transparency of material which had never bothered her in the past. She instinctively took a step backwards. Theon took one forwards. Myrcella took another step and so did he until there was no further for her to walk.

For the briefest moment, Myrcella's eyes turned skywards. She asked the Mother for mercy, the Warrior for protection, the Maiden for… but she received no answer, and Theon moved closer still, closing the gap between them. Myrcella opened her mouth, intending to scream, but closed it again; even if someone was still awake to hear her, who would help?

Theon was reaching towards her now and Myrcella closed her eyes, waiting for the pressure of his hand, the beginning of what she knew was about to come. She may have been raised a princess, sheltered from the horrors of the outside world, but when they occurred in the very palace she lived in, there was not much that could be done to protect her.

Then her eyes flew open once more, in time to see Theon go flying across the tent, reeling from the vicious blow to his head. There were shouts and threats and cries of pain, then Theon staggered from the tent, his hand clamped tight around his aching jaw. Myrcella let out a breath she had not realised she held and felt tears well up in her eyes, the room around her spinning.

She barely noticed as she collapsed to the floor and clung to the fur of her saviour's hastily-donned cloak. For all his emotional response to his bannerman, while his prisoner sobbed wildly against his chest, Robb Stark simply held her as she cried.

A/N: I am so sorry I took so long to update. I don't even know how long it's been, but before I finished it today I hadn't written on this document for about four months. Anyway, I'm back now (kind of-see my profile page for details) so please review, if you guys are still out there! Thank you!