MYRCELLA

The Horn of Herrock was a family heirloom of the Kennings of Kayce, a last reminder of the time they had spent on the Iron Islands. It was a gold-banded warhorn made from a hollowed-out walrus tusk, as long and thick as a man's arm. When blown it made a great booming sound that could silence even the rowdiest of crowds. At Ser Kevan Lannister's signal, Ser Kennos pressed it to his lips and blew. The noise of chatter and marching drums paled at once before it, then faltered and quickly died. The only sound that remained was men and horses manoeuvring themselves back into their positions for the march.

Above, the king's banners flew proudly in the breeze, hoisted by their bearers, bolts of crimson silk with the lion of Lannister worked upon them in heavy golden thread. Other banners were carried, bearing the sigils of lesser houses and vassals, but none stood so tall, Myrcella saw.

Then Ser Kennos blew the horn again, and when the blast had died out she heard the shouts of "Forward march!" and "Left, right, left, right…", loud at first, then fading as the host marched further and further away, across the bridge that bound Casterly Rock and Lannisport together, five or six abreast, boots and hooves echoing off the stone under their feet.

Myrcella turned to Ser Kevan. "We had best be off, then."

"Aye." The Lord Regent bowed his head and rode forwards a few paces on his palfrey. "Here is the letter." He pressed it into her palm; a yellowed parchment with the lion of Lannister imprinted on the neat circle of scarlet wax. Doubtless he would not be such a fool to give me the only copy, she thought. Tommen has one, I can be certain of that… and probably Ser Balon as well. Of all her travelling companions, the white knight was likely the most trustworthy, even if he were not senior among his brothers. Balon Swann's incorruptibility was well known. A shame that the same cannot be said of House Swann. That had been troubling news, regarding the loss of House Lannister's few allies in the Stormlands and the Crownlands, but not entirely unexpected.

"Thank you, uncle." She leant across to kiss his cheek, and led the horse in a circle around the square. Myrcella enjoyed riding, but she had never been the most practised in the art, and she could not quite match her brother in the saddle. They're just like cats, Tommen had told her. Or other animals. If you look after them, they'll look after you.

Queen Cersei rode forwards on her palfrey. They had said their goodbyes in the privacy of their chambers, but she kissed both of her children on the forehead before riding back into line beside her uncle.

Myrcella surveyed her riding companions once more. Tyg sat patiently on his horse at the edge of the bailey, away from all of the goodbyes. A springy yew longbow and quiver of green-tipped arrows was slung over his shoulder, a dirk at his belt. But if it came to battle she would sooner rely upon Ser Balon– the only one of the four Kingsguard who would be following her all the way to Harrenhal – or one of his brothers. The silent giant Ser Robert Strong sat a destrier that seemed a dwarf between his massive legs. Mother should not have put him on a horse, Myrcella thought, there are plenty of large knights in Westeros, but only a few of them ride in the exact same fashion as Ser Gregor Clegane.

Ser Lucion Lannister mounted up beside Rollam Westerling, both on brown coursers, while Rollam's sister Eleyna rode a grey palfrey. That had been part of Myrcella's price for her undertaking this journey without complaint – Eleyna would act as her handmaiden until they reached the Golden Tooth and then as a noble 'companion' of the king thereafter. Myrcella's cousin Rosamund would also act as a handmaiden, but she would be following her all the way to Harrenhal.

Tommen had ordered a new suit of armour for this campaign, to suit a proper king, he'd said. The Lannister lion roared on his breastplate while leather straps crossed from shoulder to shoulder; his swordbelt was also adorned with studs in the likeness of bronze lions. "My lord." He nodded in Ser Kevan's direction and turned his horse around. "Shall we?"

Ser Lucion led the way, followed by half of the Lannister escort and Ser Arys of the Kingsguard. Then came King Tommen and Princess Myrcella, Ser Arys and Ser Balon, the Westerlings and the other King's Companions, and finally the remnants of the Lannister guard. Myrcella sat tall in the saddle, and did not look back. The waves were churning angrily below them as they rode across the bridge between Casterly Rock and Lannisport, searching the nooks and crannies of the caves beneath the castle. Gulls circled above, cawing a tune that sounded oddly like 'the Rains of Castamere'. Then they were across. Smallfolk were shouting seven blessings from the walls of the city, while Lannister guardsmen raised their pikes and tipped their bowl-helms in salute.

The host was a snake armoured all in red-gold steel, flying a hundred banners or more as they rode out into the light of morning. After an hour or so, the ranks started to thin out and Myrcella found herself riding beside Tyg Sarsfield. "How do I look today?" she jested with him.

"Striking," Tyg replied without a moment's pause. Then he turned bright purple and looked at his hands again. "My lady."

"But it's not entirely true, is it? I'm wearing red and gold, same as half of the army. I wouldn't be surprised if they managed to lose me in all of this." She gestured around her. "I worry about you, Tygett."

"Why so, my lady?"

"The ride to Harrenhal is three weeks at least. By then, you'll have run out of words for me."

He blushed, then swallowed and said, "and what happens when we run out of words?"

"You'll have to wait and see," she replied teasingly. "You have something on your face." Her fingers brushed against his nose and ran slowly down his cheek. "There." Just a little more every day, never too much, else the illusion is worthless. She would have to move on soon, though; she could not keep flirting with Tyg if this marriage to Robert Arryn ever came to fruition.

That being said, the less she thought about the day when her family would sell her in marriage to some sickly thirteen year-old, the better.

"Sometimes," she said, "amidst all the war and the death, I forget how beautiful places can be." She took a look back over her shoulder, where the top of Casterly Rock was fading into fat white clouds. She breathed the cool air deeply and exhaled. "We live in a beautiful world, Tyg."

"We do," he said.

"Sarsfield is on the goldroad, is it not?"

Tyg nodded. "Yes, my lady. Two days east of Oxcross. We'll probably pass it by at some point."

"Your lord father rules there, correct?"

"Aye. But he's getting old. Almost five-and-forty. My parents… they didn't think that they would have another son after my brothers came along. They're twins, seven years older than me. Raymund is in charge of Father's estates and all of the fields, and Medwyck garrisons a holdfast on the southern edge of Father's lands, to make sure that the trade wagons don't get accosted by bandits. I expect that I'll join them soon." He looked gloomy.

"But you don't want to?"

He paused a long moment. "No. I want… I'm better than them at archery; I can shoot a rabbit through the eye at two hundred paces, my lady. Probably. Maybe I could become captain of Raymund's guard, once he's the lord, but-"

"The world is so much bigger than Sarsfield. Your brothers never squired in King's Landing, did they?"

"No, my lady. Begging your pardons, but I heard that your lord father didn't like having too many Lannister bannermen in his court."

"My father? – King Robert… yes, he was prone to that suspicion." She nodded. "But times have changed, Tyg. My brother is the king of the Andals, the rightful lord of Casterly Rock and Storm's End. And I am to be lady of the Eyrie, it would seem. Someday I may have need of a loyal captain of the guard to keep me and mine safe. And on that day, I may look to a certain thirdborn son of the Sarsfields that I have in my loyal service. You can rise far higher than your brothers ever will, if only you have the willingness to do so."

They came to Oxcross on the third day out of Lannisport, as the dusky sky was darkening to night. "Send for my brother," Myrcella told Tyg, who was cooking a haunch of venison over a spit outside the tent. "Tell him that I should like to dine with him."

While she was waiting for Tommen, she sat down and wrote a letter to her mother. Ser Addam reckoned that they would reach the Golden Tooth inside another seven days if they kept their current pace, nine at the most, but Myrcella had half a mind to ride ahead of the main column. She would reach the Tooth quicker… but even then she must needs wait for the army to arrive there before continuing to Harrenhal. Perhaps it was pointless. There is no harm in waiting a little while longer, she thought as she sealed the message with a blob of red wax and handed it over to Tyg.

Her tent was a vast pavilion of red-and-gold tourney silk, furnished with every comfort she could ever have need of on the road, and more. She had a featherbed here that was big enough for three, a generously sized copper bathtub, camp chairs set before a stout dining table, a pair of braziers where hot coals burned by night, tables set with cyvasse boards and no less than half a dozen flagons of wine from the Reach and Dorne. She changed out of her riding leathers and into one of her older gowns, one where the spiral patterns on the silk had already started to fade.

Her brother had changed his garb too, exchanging kingly steel for a dark grey shirt and plain jerkin. Unlike Joffrey, who could spend hours vainly screaming at his tailor about how a king did not wear roses, Tommen would wear whatever was put in front of him. "I have sores on my feet," he complained as he sat down in front of her. "I knew I ought to have worn two pairs of socks when we set off this morning, but I decided not to bother with it."

"Why didn't you stop the march, then?"

Tommen scoffed a little. "The march stopped because His Grace's feet were hurting. Do you know how foolish that would make me look?"

"Yes," she acknowledged, "but then your feet wouldn't hurt so much." He had no answer to that. "Eleyna's mother taught her – and her sister Jeyne – some of the old herbal remedies that her grandmother brought over from the East. She could help you with that, make a salve or something and put it on for you."

Tommen smiled. "You want Eleyna Westerling to touch my feet? You could at least be a bit more subtle about forcing us together, Cella."

"You know?" It seemed wiser to play the fool here.

He snorted. "Of course I know. I'm neither stupid nor blind, believe it or not." He took a sip of wine, smiling a wide toothy grin. "What will you have her do next, I wonder? Check that my hair doesn't have lice in it? See that my shoulders aren't aching? Make sure my smallclothes fit properly?"

Myrcella raised an eyebrow and smiled sweetly at him. "That would depend on whether or not you're around Lady Eleyna, dear brother."

This time Tommen could not keep the laughter in. She smiled to see him like that; it had been a long time since she'd last seen him laughing, as he should be. A crown does not become you, little brother, she thought.

They shared the venison between them and afterwards ate honeycakes with lemon cream and strawberries. The night turned from blue to black, and Myrcella brought out the cyvasse board. She'd spent a few nights in King's Landing trying to teach Tommen how to play, but she knew that he wasn't patient enough for it. Though he was playing better than last time, at least. "Why does the dragon get to move like that?" he asked her.

"What does it matter?" She knocked his piece from the board.

"I was trying to do a pincer movement. Your dragon messed it up."

"Strategy doesn't always work how you expect it to, little brother," she told him, "and life isn't fair."

Tommen moved his king forward towards her side of the board, put it down, flicked away one of her pieces with a wry smile and stopped. "Oh," he said.

Myrcella smiled sweetly at him. "Death in two." Her dragon swooped again and knocked her brother's king from the board.

Tommen picked up the king piece, turned it in his hand, and suddenly threw it down as hard as he could on the tent floor, sending it rolling across the rushes. "I… I shouldn't have done that," he said afterwards. "It was wrong of me… were they expensive?"

"They're only wood," said Myrcella, "in Dorne they have much more ornate boards, pieces of onyx and ruby or emerald and lapis lazuli, with squares made from gold and silver."

"Silver." Tommen snorted. "Silver, for the second-best. He looked up at her with scorn in his eyes. "Joff's wedding gift," he summarized, "I brought him a dagger, with a hilt of silver, studded with rubies. "It's only silver," he told me, with that look in his eyes. He tossed it down at my feet. "I am the king, and I deserve gold. Keep this, you mewling pup. Silver, for the second-best." That was the last thing he ever said to me, I think. Then he had his wedding and drank his wine and-" He hiccupped suddenly. "I was only ever supposed to wear silver. Only ever meant to be a prince, or a lord of someplace far away from Joffrey."

"Someone should have poisoned his wine a long time before that," Myrcella said darkly. "Before he grew up to do what he did."

But Tommen shook his head. "You… you can't poison a babe in his cradle. Maybe if Father had… if he had raised him to be a proper king, then he wouldn't have acted as he did. He'd still be alive, but… sometimes, it doesn't hurt to wonder, does it? To wonder what Joff would have been like if he'd actually seen us as brother and sister, and not just as…" His lips met in a frown. "We shouldn't dwell on the past." He rose from his seat.

"Tommen," she said, as he was leaving, walking towards him. "We still have each other, you have to remember that." It was not her intention to sound fragile, but her voice was almost pleading. Tommen gave a stiff little nod, then held out his arms hesitantly. For once, it was Myrcella who was grateful for his embrace rather than the other way around.

She watched him go, then set the plates and wine cups aside and changed again into her clothes for bed. That night she fell asleep quickly, but it was an evil dream she dreamed. Joffrey and Tommen were standing over her, holding twins of the same Valyrian steel sword. "You lied," they were saying over and over, a horrific chorus, snarling at her. "You lied, you lied, you lied to us." She did not know what she meant, and she could not move, could not do anything as they laid into her with the flat of their blades, their swords raining down on her horribly, cuts and bruises blooming on her pale skin. And from somewhere, far off in the realms of memory she could hear the calling, two voices arguing with one another; one cruel and mocking; the other, a boy's voice, a fearful, reedy wail.

"Don't… don't, Joffy, I'll be good, I swear it-"

"Silence, you insolent pup. Or I'll have my dog murder you-"

"I… I can't. I won't."

"You will, or I'll make you do it again."

"It isn't… why are you doing…-"

"Because I can." Those words were the ones that etched themselves most clearly on her memory, in the days and weeks and months and years afterwards. "Because I can." They would stay with her forever. "Because I can." Her last haunting memory of Joffrey. "Because I can."

She awoke in the bleak grey dawn of the morrow, cold and alone. She washed herself from the basin, dressed in her riding leathers once again, and broke her fast on oaten porridge with a little honey. Two hours later, they were riding.

It was another three days before they came to Sarsfield, the ancestral keep of Tyg's family. Ser Medwyck had an escort to take them up to the Golden Tooth, and another five hundred men to join to his king's. After greeting her squire's father and brothers, Myrcella made to follow Tommen inside the command tent, but he held up a hand to stop her. "You don't need to concern yourself with all this," he said in a choked voice.

"If I am to help you in this war, surely it is better for me to know the circumstances of it?"

Tommen chewed his lip nervously. "If they capture you… I don't want… them to learn our plans from you. I don't want them to think that you know."

"You don't want them to torture me." She nodded. "Or is it that you don't want me concerning myself with your war."

"This is not my war!" The outburst was surprisingly explosive, but he calmed himself quickly. "I did not choose it, Cella… only, I don't want you getting hurt over it. Please, go and… I don't know… go somewhere else."

She did not want to argue with him, much as he seemed desperate to argue with her. "As you will, Your Grace," she muttered, with an edge of sarcasm in her voice. "I'll just go and embroider another cloak, and take afternoon tea with my ladies."

"Yes," Tommen said, turning to enter the tent, "you do that. Good. Go and see Eleyna."

Myrcella had not mentioned that, but there was no harm in doing so. She found the Westerling girl with chatting with Tymond Vance of the King's Companions and her brother Rollam around a small campfire. "My lady," Eleyna said when she saw her, rising to her feet and smoothing her dress down. "Do you need my help?"

"Not really. But I thought we might walk together for a time. It is so beautiful out tonight, and I fear that this will be the last night before the frost sets in."

"My lady." Eleyna moved away from the campfire to stand beside Myrcella. She wore a gown of plain grey cotton, with a red cloak around her narrow shoulders. "Is it about your brother?"

Myrcella let them get some distance away from the others before replying. "I had hoped to make small talk, but there is no harm in getting to the heart of it, I suppose. Tommen is having his doubts about you."

She looked concerned. "My lady… perhaps… well, maybe you are right. We spoke together on the morning before he went to inspect the garrisons in Lannisport… only he never returned to visit me in the afternoon."

"My little brother does not often go back on his promises." She smiled. "It makes him rather predictable, really. That being said, his moods are changeable. Sometimes he acts with the utmost conviction; once he just pissed himself when it got too much for him."

"He… my lady? Did I hear your words-"

"Oh, it was a long time ago," Myrcella said offhandedly. "Bran Stark challenged him to climb a wall in Winterfell. He couldn't, and he got stuck and had to be fetched down. No one else seemed to notice that his breeches were wet after we managed to get him down, but I agreed to keep his secret."

Eleyna's cheeks reddened. "I know my brother's secrets as well. I could embarrass him in any number of ways. One time, I found him in his chamber under the covers, moaning and groaning as he-"

"I think I understand," Myrcella said, "…but you may have touched upon something there."

Eleyna smiled. "Well, Rollam certainly did."

She grinned. "Yes. Perhaps we are thinking of our brothers too specifically, and forgetting that they are almost men grown. And they have a man's needs."

"I'm not sure I… oh." Eleyna's eyes went wide. "You want me to-?"

"That would be rather brazen of you…" Myrcella said, "and stupid, I think. Tommen already suspects that I am behind all of this, and if his suspicions are confirmed you will not get anywhere with him until I return to Casterly Rock, which might not be for a year or more. No, you must have a genuine reason to bring the pair of you together."

"When Robb Stark's army came to the Crag, Jeyne and I helped with the healers… on the Lannister side, of course. I saw… lots of men wanted women to comfort them before a battle; to soothe their woes, to see to their hurts, to spend the nights beside them."

"I'm sure those were whores, Eleyna. But you may have a point. Go to my brother before his battles – and after them, and try and get him to sit with you. Listen to his qualms, see to his aches, eat his meals, play cyvasse or whatever you please with him. The less clothes you happen to be wearing, the better. If you can coax him into bed, stretch your talents as far as you can-"

That seemed to offend the girl. "I am not some glorified camp follower."

"When did I say that? You suggested it yourself. And I am not making you into a camp follower; no, I am making you into the lady of Casterly Rock. Into a queen."

After, she went to find Tyg. He was on the riverbank, practising his archery against a pair of straw targets about eighty yards away. The wind ruffled his hair and threatened to knock the targets down, but he stood tall and unwavering, his arm tensed. For the first few shots, Myrcella watched him in silence, as he raised his arm and drew the string back to his cheek, glanced down the range carefully, then loosed an arrow. The shaft spiralled through the air, and embedded itself in the central ring.

"You're certainly a good archer," she said, "not quite the best I've ever seen."

Tyg smirked at her. "Who is, then?"

She approached him. "Might I have a turn?"

"You think you can beat me?" He laughed.

Myrcella was no stranger to a bow and arrow. At Winterfell, much to Sansa Stark's chagrin and Arya's pleasure, the princess had taken up the longbow for a time. Admittedly, her eye for the target had become less practised with the years of lacking use, but she still remembered Ser Rodrik's commands; to stand sideface, to hold the bow as though it were a part of her arm, to not be afraid of her own strength. As the night grew long, Tyg tutored her beneath a breezy willow tree at the edge of the town, as he told her stories of Tylos One-Eye, the greatest archer House Sarsfield – and indeed the entire world – had ever seen. "I don't understand that," Myrcella told him. "How could he be the best archer in the world with only one eye?"

"He knew what he was doing, for a start," Tyg said, nudging her foot over and placing his hands a little lower on her waist than was perhaps necessary as he adjusted her position. "And unlike you, princess, his arm was in the right place. Now, draw back the string, but slowly. Careful."

"You never do it slowly."

"I've been learning for years, princess." He paused a second, smiling. "But you shouldn't rush when pulling back on the bowstring. And be careful, it's good yew, light and springy. I don't want you to break it."

"I make no promises." She pulled back her arm. The effort of holding the bow up was starting to take a toll on her arm, and the makeshift arrow started to slip from its position. "Keep your back straight, my lady."

"No. I'm loosing the arrow," Myrcella told him. "This can't be worth the effort." And so she did. The shaft sailed into the sky, much higher than their target and disappeared among the canopy of trees. She did not even hear it land.

Tyg smiled. "I think you might have hit something. In the North, mayhaps."

She tossed him the bow. "Your turn, then."

His smirk widened as he took the longbow and pulled three arrows from his quiver. "You see that tree," he said, pointing to an ancient, sprawling yew spotted with frost. "I reckon I can hit it three times out of three."

"As do I," she said heavily. "You are quite good at this, as you love to remind me." She pointed. "Hit that other one instead." This trunk was thinner, and further away.

"You do so love to make it difficult for me." Tyg adjusted his feet, then raised the longbow to his shoulder and drew back the string. A breeze whistled through the trees, setting Myrcella's braid to fluttering with the wind. Tyg pointed the bow down. "There's a slight wind," he said, "hold up a moment now." He turned towards her, "and what reward do I get if I succeed in this task, noble lady?"

"A song and a kiss," she said sarcastically.

Tyg seemed to take account of that. He raised the bow again. He was reedy and thin, but stood tall and unwavering when the time came to loose his shots. He breathed out and loosed one shaft, then another, then a third in succession. Thud, thud, thud, went the shots, as they embedded themselves in the wood. "My lady," he said, bowing his head mockingly, then set off to retrieve his arrows.

She gave him neither a song nor a kiss, but she did permit him to eat with her that night in the privacy of her tent. The night was cool, so Myrcella chose a gown of plain red silk through which the outline of her womanly figure was clearly visible. Tyg spent half of his time staring where he ought not to. "Are… are you not cold, my lady?" he blurted, when she reminded him that her face was 'up here, not down there'.

"No," she said, "the breeze is nothing tonight. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the snow will start to fall on the morrow."

"How can you know that?" Tyg asked.

"Look at the sky when you leave the tent. Dark clouds are growing in the north. And as I seem to remember from my time in Winterfell, that means that chilly winds are moving in from the Wall. And winter is long overdue anyway."

"I've always wanted to see the Wall," he said. "And the Long Bridge in Volantis, the pyramids in Slaver's Bay… I've only seen them in books."

"Uncle Tyrion is not too different," she murmured. "Perhaps if you see him again, the pair of you could go on a voyage across the Narrow Sea, look upon the wonders that were built by the hands of gods and men."

"And you."

Myrcella raised an eyebrow. "I am not a wonder of the world, Tyg. Much as your eyes seem keen to dispute that."

He turned almost purple. "Sorry, my lady. No, I meant you could come with us."

She leant forward, took his face in her hands and pressed her lips softly to his forehead, then moved them down to his nose, caressing his cheek all the while. Tyg made a strange, soft moaning noise. "I-I…"

"I am to marry Robert Arryn, remember," she said as they drew apart. "I will be lady of the Eyrie, expected to run his household, rule his castle when he is away, and sire his sons. That being said… my prospective husband is weak, and likely to die soon after our consummation. And I may have to travel to the Wall, given time, to present my support for the Night's Watch, or sail across the Narrow Sea to Braavos or Pentos to secure trade alliances with the Vale. When the time comes, Tygett, I will have you with me."

"My lady." He rose to his feet, still red in the face, and quickly withdrew.

She had not been wrong about the weather. When the next day dawned, the snow on the ground was about an inch thick in places, and the trees glistened with hoarfrost. Myrcella donned a dress of thick red wool lined with ermine on the sleeves, and a grey cloak. When Tommen approached her through the snow, wearing a similar fur-trimmed cloak and thick grey gloves, she burst into laughter. "You haven't looked like that since Winterfell."

"No," he said, grinning weakly. "I suppose I haven't."

There was no reason for it, but they hugged each other then. "Winter has come," she said, when they drew apart.

The snowfall did not stop until the end of the day. Chilly winds whistled across the cloudy sky, and the moon glimmered above, even by daylight. For three more days they rode, as the oaks gave way to pines and thistles, and as the trees fell away altogether and the road curved upwards sharply into the mountains, passing beneath arches of carved grey stone and under half-frozen waterfalls. The novelty of the snow fast died away, though, and Myrcella found herself longing to an end to the road, for a seat by the hearth and mulled wine and memories of Winterfell that were a distant dream. And so when the towers of the Golden Tooth loomed suddenly above them as the stars began to appear on the fourth night after Sarsfield, she was so surprised by their appearance that she almost thought them a part of her reverie.

All at once a fresh burst of morale coursed through the army like fire through a man's veins. We are nearly there. The Tooth awaits us. It was a grey, drab fortress perched on the mountainside between the towering peaks that separated the West from the Riverlands on one side, and a yawning chasm on the other. A half-frozen susurrus of a river trickled over the lip of the mountainside into the black bowels below. The road wound up to a single great gatehouse on the castle's western side, then snaked down out of the eastern gate somewhere on the other side of the vast courtyard, descending the mountain by way of a steep stony slope to the valley of the Riverlands on the far side. Myrcella knew that the great peak that shadowed the Tooth entirely was home to some of the West's richest goldmines, but she was so tired by the ride that she barely had the strength to care.

The Tooth was not nearly large enough to house a garrison of ten thousand, so the common soldiers were conducted away from the castle road to set up their campsite on a vast grey sward on the shady side of the mountain. It hardly looked a comfortable place to camp, open to the wind and the rain, but Myrcella was not concerned with that. The only thing that roused her from her daydreams in the saddle was the sound of the gatehouse winching upwards, icy chains creaking as they fought against rust. She felt fresh snowflakes on the hood of her cloak, drifting into her eyes and melting in her hair.

In the courtyard, the young squires and grooms swarmed around her as expected, pushing and shoving each other out of the way in their eagerness to help the princess down from her horse. They all looked rather disappointed when Myrcella climbed down herself and took a disdainful look around the Tooth's courtyard. It reminded her a little of Winterfell in its grey drabness, but it did not look nearly so historied, nor were the walls anywhere near so tall and impressive.

Nor was the young woman who came to greet her Sansa Stark, though the pair did have their similarities. This girl had auburn curls aplenty, but her eyes were hazel brown instead of blue. "My lady," she said, sketching a haughty curtsey. "I am Arianne Lefford, Lady Alysanne's younger sister."

She must be younger by quite a few years, for while the Lady of the Golden Tooth was five-and-twenty if she was a day, her sister seemed not much older than Myrcella, if at all. "Might I show you to your chambers?"

"Please," Myrcella said, "the ride has tired me out, I think."

"We have put you in the guest rooms near your brother," Lady Arianne told her. "There can quite a chill during the nights, so you might want to make your fire early. In the meantime, I can show you to the library, if you'd like. I'm afraid we don't have much to do here, not while Stannis's army is gathered below."

Myrcella stepped inside the door of her chamber. "No matter. I will not be here long, my lady; in a few days I will be heading to Harrenhal."

"My lady?"

"There are other ways through the mountains than by way of the river road, I presume?"

Lady Arianne nodded. She seemed a little put out, though Myrcella could not fathom why. "There are passes which are used by the mules to bypass the main route. Ser Flement has sent a few sentries down that way, but none have returned yet – and the passes are not all safe."

I have no choice. She had to hasten to Harrenhal; there was no other way about it. "Where is my brother?" she asked. "I saw some knights greeting him in the courtyard."

"Likely they have gone to a war council," said Arianne. "In the Great Hall."

"Then I must go there," Myrcella told her, "perhaps Ser Flement did not know, but my brother likes me to sit on his councils, as his most stalwart supporter." If a lie is kindly meant…

Lady Arianne raised her hands in protest. "A war council-,"

"-is no fit place for a lady. But I will go there nevertheless."

Of course, Arianne Lefford had likely been sent to greet her by the Westermen to stop Myrcella from doing exactly this. Without her present, it would be a lot easier for them to manipulate Tommen into doing their bidding. She was a little surprised that men who concerned themselves with warfare had such political cunning… but this was the Westerlands after all, a distinctly Lannister place, and it was steeped in intrigue just as King's Landing had been.

The Great Hall of the Leffords was long, with vaulted ceilings and pillars of stone along its length, wooden beams supporting the rafters. On the southern side, a frosty waterfall trickled down, fed by some underground stream beneath the hall, and flowed over the lip of the cliff into the snowy valley below. The windows went from floor-to-ceiling, affording those inside an admittedly spectacular view of the mountains that ranged below. The room was bathed in the fading sunlight. Inside, the long benches and feasting tables had all been cleared to the sides and the back of the hall, leaving a solitary table around which the lords and captains of the Lannister army had arrayed themselves. On a tablecloth of red silk, decanters of red wine sat before men dressed in red cloaks. A map was also laid down, showing the Westerlands and the Riverlands; red tokens represented Lannister forces, while the black were Stannis's.

They all followed her with their eyes as she marched down the hall, listening to each and every footstep as it rang against the flagstones. "Princess Myrcella," Ser Addam Marbrand began, "we did not expect to see you here."

She took a seat at the table before any of them could protest. "Well, what is life without a few surprises? Please continue as you were before I interrupted, sers."

Myrcella was not looking, but she could feel Tommen glaring at her. "Anyway," he said, "Ser Franklyn, exactly how many men do we have to garrison the castle?"

"Before Your Grace's arrival, there were seven hundred and eighty-three of us. Now-"

"Does that count include the boys who have put on Lannister helmets and the orphans who have no choice but to fight because it is their only way of getting fed?"

The knights glanced at each other uncomfortably. "Officially, they are not a part of the Lannister army, Your Grace," said Ser Addam.

"Officially they are," Tommen said. "They fight and die on our walls just as other men do, and often they are the ones who take the brunt of the losses. If you will not give them what they are owed – their food and their coin – then send them to the King's Companions. I will have a use for them even if you do not."

Ser Forley Prester said, "As it pleases Your Grace. I warn you, though, this may present certain… impracticalities. Up here in the mountains it is hard to get supplies, and our rations are not limitless."

"Control the rations more closely then," said Tommen. "I will survive on stew and porridge just as my men do, and I hope that you would do the same, sers."

That made them look uncertain. "Your Grace," began Ser Aron Payne, a stout knight who was cousin to his house's main branch, "we cannot make such sweeping changes so suddenly."

Myrcella smiled at him. "Would you care to explain why, Ser Aron? Will eating a little less for a change kill you?"

The knight glanced down, avoiding her gaze. "No, my lady."

She turned to her brother. "Your Grace, I know little of war, but it seems to me that if I manage to get through the mountains and rally the armies of the Vale for you, we will be able to take Stannis in the rear even if he crosses into the West somehow. And when that is done, we will be able to march on King's Landing."

That sent a murmur around the table. Myrcella was not surprised. They have become so preoccupied by Stannis's war that they forget that it is the Iron Throne we intend to win in the end. "I don't mean to forget other important aspects of the war, but can we discuss the specifics of my quest?"

Tommen shrugged. "Of course," he said. "Ser Forley, is there a route through the mountains that bypasses most of Stannis's forces?"

Ser Forley Prester leaned over the table and pointed to the spot on the map where the Golden Tooth was marked. A thick red line, signifying the river road, ran due northeast towards Riverrun, but other, fainter lines were also marked. "There was a pass that Robb Stark used to get around the Tooth on his way to the Battle of Oxcross," Prester said. "He managed to march his whole army up it, so I daresay it is more than wide enough to make your passage, princess."

Addam Marbrand disagreed. "Stannis has lords such as Tytos Blackwood with him. He may have a few Northmen in his camp. They will remember that route, to be sure; they may even try to use it themselves."

"How well is this pass defended?" asked Tommen.

"Sufficiently," said Ser Russell Yarwyck, "there are archers ranged along its length and we are building defensive fortifications at this end-"

"Then it will be obvious," Myrcella surmised. "Surely there are roads through the mountains that have not been used for years."

"'Roads' might be an overly generous way of putting it," said Ser Franklyn Lefford, "when my brother was lord of the Tooth, he tried countless times to clear those passages, to make another route for trade headed this way. He never succeeded."

"And what is the nature of these passages?" she asked.

"They cut through crevices in the rock and some use tunnels. They may be blocked, though-"

Myrcella shrugged. "I will have men with me to unblock them. Which leads me to the matter of my escort."

"You will have Ser Lucion Lannister and forty men, as well as Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard," Tommen said.

"Your Grace, is that wise?" Addam Marbrand asked. "Ser Balon is of the White Swords, after all, and-"

For the first time, Ser Arys Oakheart spoke up. He was the only man at the table wearing a white cloak instead of a red one. "The Kingsguard have sworn a vow to defend the king and his family. Princess Myrcella is part of the royal family, so she should have a knight to protect her. I thought that Ser Jasper Peckledon might be better suited to the task, but I am confident that Ser Balon will do his duty well."

"Ser Balon is loyal and stalwart," Myrcella assured them. "He will not fail me, nor will Ser Arys and Ser Jasper fail His Grace."

"And do not discount the silent giant," said Ser Aron. "I would hate to find myself fighting that one."

As would I, Myrcella thought. She knew what Gregor Clegane had done to the Targaryen children and it sickened her. "I would have Rosamund and Tygett with me as well, to serve as handmaiden and… well, squire, I suppose."

Tommen looked disconcerted. "Tyg is of the King's Companions, and I need someone to show the others how to shoot-"

"Surely Tyg is not the only one who can fire a bow?" she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Oh," Tommen said. "No. You can… very well. Is that all you need of us, Myrcella?" He sounded tired.

Part of her wanted to stay, but she thought that it might be best to let Tommen handle the Westerlords himself. I will not be here when the battles begin, and he needs to show that he can cope without my help. She rose from the table and left them behind without a word.

Back in her chambers, Myrcella had Rosamund fetch some water for a bath, while she and Tyg sat on chairs before the window, watching the snow fall slowly as they played cyvasse.

"We leave at dawn in three days," she told him. "So you had best say your goodbyes before then."

"I have no one to say goodbye to," Tyg said, shrugging. "You told me once that we should look to the future instead of the past."

"Did I?" Myrcella did not remember that, but she would not be surprised to hear that Tyg remembered everything that she ever said. He is more than in love with me; he is obsessed with me. She wondered to what extent he would be willing to go for her. "Tyg," she said, "where are you sleeping?"

He turned so red then that the embers of the fire looked grey by comparison. "Uh… on the mountainside, my lady. With the other squires. It's cold," he added as an afterthought.

"I see no reason why you should not share my quarters until we leave the Tooth. There are two beds in here, after all, and it will be good for me to have a companion to talk with. I've had trouble sleeping lately."

"I'm sorry, my lady." He coloured again. "Are… are you sure?"

She gave him a small nod. "Why not? What harm could it possibly do either of us?" There will be whispers that the princess sleeps with her squire, but no man would dare to repeat them, unless they want me to prove that a Lannister always pays her debts. She could contend with rumours, for certain… but they would not do Tommen any good. "Perhaps not," she intoned, "not here. But I have a large enough tent for both of us to share when we are riding to Harrenhal. We can keep each other company."

"My lady," Tyg squeaked. He scurried out of the room like a mouse, and left just as Rosie and two guardsmen were arriving with the water for her bath.

She did not have the same luxuries here as she did in Casterly Rock, no scented oils or bubbles, no Dornish sours to indulge in as she bathed, but with the warmth of the water soaking everything below her shoulders, she felt more at peace than she had in days. For a strange, brief moment, she was reminded of Trystane's embrace. What would life have been like had he not died in the capital? Would she have returned to Dorne to sire his children, or would they have remained in King's Landing, with the Dornish joining the Lannisters as they held off Targaryen invaders from across the Narrow Sea?

One thing was for certain, though; she would never have ended up like this. Princess Myrcella had always had an aptitude for the game of thrones, but she had never been quite as calculating or determined until Trystane's death. For she knew now that the family she still had could be torn away from her as easily as anything, and that only her efforts could stop that from happening.

The door creaked open and footsteps came inside. "Myrcella," her brother said, then saw her sitting in the bath and averted his eyes. "I… I'm sorry."

"You can look, you know," she said. "When we were small, we used to have baths together."

Tommen gave a strange little laugh. "That was thirteen years ago, not yesterday." He moved to sit on the edge of her bed. "A lot has changed in thirteen years," he said, "but not much of it for the better."

"That's not true. We're far happier now than we were when Joffrey was still alive."

"Yes." Tommen picked at his fingernails. "The things he did... sometimes… did they ever actually shock you? Or did you become so used to his actions that they seemed… almost normal?"

Myrcella swirled the bathwater around with one hand. "Joff was never normal," she said, "but… yes, I supposed to grew used to it. No, nothing he did really shocked me." There was only one thing that Joffrey had ever done that shocked her, and it was better that Tommen never knew that she knew.

"I…" He stretched his arms. "There was something that you said today, Cella. When we were at the war council. You said that we would get the army of the Vale so that we could take back King's Landing… and the Iron Throne."

Myrcella gave him a sideways glance. She had expected nothing less from Tommen, of course. With a sigh, she rose from the bath, watching him even as he averted his eyes from her, dried off with a towel, and threw a robe around herself. Her hair was still wet as she sat down beside him. "The Iron Throne is your birthright. Father's gift to you, and it has been stolen away. You have a duty to reclaim it, for the sake of House Baratheon and…" She trailed off, uncertain how to proceed.

"I have no intentions of being like Father," said Tommen, "I will not have thousands die so that I can sit on a stupid metal chair. Would it not be easier, kinder, even, if I were to lay down my arms once Stannis is defeated, ride to King's Landing with an escort, and swear our fealty to the Targaryens?" He looked to her, a tear in the corner of his eye.

Myrcella slapped him. Not hard, but hopefully it was enough to make him realise the stupidity of what he'd just said. "You are a king," she told him, gripping his hand hard, "the First of Your Name. And you are my brother, the only of your name. The Iron Throne is ours, not theirs, and we will take it back."

"I will not sit back and watch more men die for me."

"Then by all means, march forward and watch them fight, as Robb Stark once did." Even as she said the words she knew that they were untrue. Tommen was no great conqueror, no true fighter. He was reasonably tall, yes, but not particularly broad in the shoulders, with thin arms that were not made for swinging a sword or holding a shield. And there was nothing imposing about his stare, not even the gleam of Joff's unpredictable – but admittedly frightening – madness, nor did his words strike any sort of fear. He will never make a great king, Myrcella thought; she had known that for years. But he must try.

She reached up suddenly to his brow and pulled sharply at his hair, then at her own, drawing forth two long strands of spun gold, one from each of them. She held them up to the light for his inspection. "Gold," she said, "A royal colour, and a Lannister colour. You're right when you say that we have lost friends and family during these wars. Lord Tywin is dead, and our armies were shattered on the Tumblestone. Aunt Genna is dead and Trystane is dead. Tyrion is a captive, and Jaime is lost, missing, possibly dead himself. Our home has been taken from us, the Tyrells have betrayed us, and Mother is a broken woman. Yet here you sit, acting like a coward, suggesting that we roll over and die quietly.

"We will not die quietly. Get up, little brother. Get up and stand at the head of our army where you belong, where you are supposed to be. Show our men where their loyalties belong. Show them what Lannisters are, what we do to our enemies, what we do to those who hurt the ones we love." She rose above Tommen, turned to him with wrath and fire in her eyes. "Show them that a Lannister always pays his debts. They will hear us roar from Casterly Rock to King's Landing to Asshai-by-the-Shadow across the Narrow Sea. We will not stop until every Targaryen, every Tyrell, everyone who has ever wronged or betrayed us, lies broken and dying at our fight, with their armies shattered and in ruins. We will not stop until they bow before us, till the dragons are nothing but blackened bones, till every man, woman and child in the Seven Kingdoms are yours. You are not some boy-king. You are King Tommen of the House Lannister of Casterly Rock, First of Your Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Dārys Sikuda Dārȳti Vestero, and you will take what is yours. What is ours."

Tommen looked at her, blinking rapidly. There was fear in his gaze, and a horrible realisation appeared to be dawning in his eyes. "Y-you," he stammered, "Cella, you're mad."

"Perhaps I am," she said, "or perhaps I've learned what the world does to cowards, to those who bow before its every whim and wish, to those who are too weak to forge their own path in life." She took his hands in hers, met Tommen's gaze. I should have been queen. She had always known that. Suddenly she pulled him close into a long, tight embrace, wrapping her arms tightly around him, holding on tightly, tangling her fingers in his hair. "You are not some cub who will go mewling for his mother at every opportunity," she told him, "you are a lion of the Rock, and lions do not bow."

And I am a lioness of Casterly Rock, she thought. And I protect my own.

Author's Note:

I loved this chapter.

That's probably the reason why it's the longest in TSK so far, longer than Sansa's wedding: because I never wanted it to end. It is the definitive Myrcella chapter, all of her strength and hypocrisy and ferocity and borderline insanity and cunning boiled down into 9000 words.

From cyvasse games with Tommen to playing at seduction with Tyg, this is her chance to show the world what she is. Show-watchers may recognise part of her speech at the end of this chapter as being stolen from Cersei in the Season 6 episode "Blood of My Blood." To be honest, that's exactly what I was going for there. She is Cersei, but cleverer, smarter, kinder... and yes, possibly madder. The way she switched from Common Tongue into High Valyrian seamlessly in that final speech seems like something born out of pure (and possibly insane) passion. I think deep down she knows that House Lannister has little chance against Dany's dragons... but at the same time, she doesn't particularly care.

In the 2011 film Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, there's a castle at the top of the Reichenbach waterfall (a major location in both the original stories and pretty much every adaptation of them). My version of the Golden Tooth is inspired by that.

I should probably stop now, otherwise I'll have said everything that you'll want to say in your reviews.

Thanks for reading. :)