Book II – Chapter 13: The Queen of Sands and Storms
The Sapphire Isle
A week ago,
Myrcella stood at the bow of her flagship, the 'Storm's Queen', dressed in a gorgeous gown of gold that fell to her ankles. It hugged her frame enough to suggest, but not enough to be inappropriate, stitched with the softest of swirling patterns, meant to depict the blowing of the wind. Beneath the silk, she wore her favourite boots – a set of meticulously cured leather knee-highs, thick heels raised about an inch off the ground. Jon had gifted them to her on their trip south from Lannisport. To complete the look, her ladies had spent near three hours this morning braiding her hair and parting the thick golden locks until they fell elegantly over her left shoulder. They'd trimmed the split ends she'd developed during the voyage, shortening her hair to just below the shoulder, and Myrcella thought it suited her, to the point where she was honestly considering keeping it at this length.
The sexiest part of the ensemble, in Myrcella's opinion, at least, was the sash. A deep, sandy red strip of cloth with black and gold trim at the edges. It was utterly magnificent, totally sexy, and it was the perfect statement of where her allegiances lay. The red was a mix of the Martell and Lannister shades, not quite either, while the gold was both a nod to her mother and her father. Then, the black trim bespoke her true loyalties to House Targaryen and Jon.
The sash had been a gift from Mat, her beau who stood beside her, his lopsided, wide-brimmed hat making him look quite the pirate (she preferred the term 'boy-toy, but funnily enough, he didn't care much for the title). He'd bought it for her when they'd stopped in Estermont on their journey around Cape Wrath. The odd quarterstaff-glaive hybrid he wielded, a weapon apparently popular in Lys called an ashandarei, had seen a lot of use as they crossed the Sea of Dorne. They'd been attacked by pirates no less than six times, the raiders striking out from their new headquarters in Tyrosh. Myrcella had spent most of the voyage trying to devise a strategy to liberate the city and the pirate-controlled territories of the Narrow Sea. Mat and Baelor Hightower – the ship's captain and head of her escort – had managed to capture several pirates throughout their trip, and all said the same thing when questioned. The pirates had no intention of attacking Westeros. They weren't stupid. Instead, they were content to raid and steal any ships attempting to leave. Their next target was Myr if the rumours were true.
She had some ideas on what to do about the pirates and just maybe succeed where a dozen lords and kings of Westeros had failed. If Myrcella could secure the Stepstones for the Seven Kingdoms permanently, nobody would doubt her right to rule, be it the Stormlands, Dorne, or on the Iron Throne itself.
She just had a war to win first.
Fortunately, she may have a way to do just that.
Tarth truly did deserve its name as the 'Sapphire Isle'; the place was beautiful. Crystal clear waters of a hue Myrcella honestly struggled to describe contrasted perfectly with the vivid green grasses of the island itself. The palace of Evenfall Hall, high on the cliff ahead of them, was a gorgeous structure, full of geometric lines designed, she guessed, to deflect the wind. Hells, even the dockside town ahead of them was unexplainably pretty.
I need to have a holiday home built here. Turn it into a trade outpost like Dragonstone, maybe? If we're going to liberate Tyrosh and possibly Myr, it could be a valuable link in trade through the Narrow Sea. It's certainly nicer than Dragonstone. That place is horribly morbid.
The ship came to a rest against the docks, white sails billowing as the crew drew them in.
"Please tell me you have a plan, Cella?" Mat asked, fingering the ash black haft of his ashandarei, gaze locked on the dockside. Several workers were staring up at her, whispering and pointing fingers. A troop of soldiers in the blue and yellow livery of House Tarth stood at the head of the dock, muttering to themselves, clearly confused about what to do. Even as she watched, they shoved one of their number forward, and the clearly nervous man started down the dock. Another soldier raced in the opposite direction, clearly intending to find someone with a brain to deal with the very important person who had clearly just arrived unannounced.
"I have a plan. And don't worry, it's a good one," Myrcella said, elbowing Mat in the side. Then she turned away from the bow and glided towards the gangway as her sailors lowered it into position. Wynafryd Manderly and Captain Hightower stood waiting for her, the crowned stag of Myrcella's father… Myrcella's crowned stag (come on Cella, get used to it) on his cloak and gambeson.
Wynafryd Manderly… It had taken a while for Myrcella to warm to the slightly older woman. Their personalities grated against one another. They were both fiercely intelligent, but where Myrcella liked to push boundaries, Wynafryd was more traditionalist. The two of them believed in the same things; they just had different ways of going about it. Fortunately, they had managed to come to an accord over the course of the voyage, to the point where Myrcella trusted Wynafryd enough for the mission she had planned for her.
"Ready?" Myrcella asked the Manderly girl, noting her common messenger's attire and packed bag slung across her shoulders.
"Yes, your Grace," Wynafryd said, curtseying elegantly, then patting her breast, where Myrcella's dual letters to Lord Robb Stark and Lord Wyman Manderly were no doubt tucked away. Robb knew the truth of Jon and the Senate – but Lord Wyman did not. This would change that and, hopefully, make not only an ally out of the Lord of White Harbour but also help Robb in the North. Wynafryd would disappear tonight and charter a merchant ship north, through enemy waters, to White Harbour. What happened after that depended on Lord Manderly.
"Fair travels, Lady Wynafryd," Myrcella said, curtseying in turn. That done, she turned to the gathered sailors, who all bowed in acknowledgement. They'd become quite close during the past moon of travel, Myrcella taking the time to sit and speak with each of them. Margaery had taught her that.
"Most people never expect to meet the person who claims to rule over them. As such, if they do meet their lord or lady, they are usually unimpressed. You can't change that fact, for the meetings usually last for the briefest moments as you pass through a city or town. What you can do is impress the smallfolk you do spend time with. Let them see you as caring and approachable, a ruler worth following. Live up to their expectations. The smallfolk gossip liberally and loudly; meeting a lady or a royal is something they will talk about to anyone they can. If they speak of how honourable and kind you are, that information will spread like wildfire."
"Thank you all for sailing with me. It was certainly not an easy trip," Myrcella said, and the gathering men all chuckled. "You've more than earned some time off. Rounds tonight are on me; find yourselves some good drinks and some good company."
The crew burst into cheers and applause, and Myrcella curtseyed to them, a warm smile easily sliding onto her face. She really did love this.
That done, she started walking down the gangway with Captain Hightower on her left and Mat on her right. The nervous soldier was waiting for them, lips bitten bloody, helmet tucked under his arm.
"Greetings, good man," Myrcella said, stopping and offering her hand for the man to shake. He didn't take it, instead staring incredulously at it for a moment before his eyes flitted to her bosom and stayed there. "I seek an audience with Lord Selwyn Tarth. Could you perhaps be kind enough to guide me and my companions in the right direction?"
The guard opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed, opened it again, then seemed to give up, nodding several times. He finally wrenched his gaze from Myrcella's tits, then turned around and practically galloped down the dock. Mat started giggling, and Myrcella smacked him across the back of the head.
"Behave."
They followed the traumatised guard onto dry land to meet his troop, the dockworkers continuing to stare. Fortunately, the guards' errant member chose that moment to reappear, rushing down the hardpacked dirt road through the dockside town. Behind him strode an immensely tall and ugly woman, covered from head to toe in what must be incredibly heavy steel plate. Her hair was trimmed short like a man's, skin covered by large and blotchy patches of freckles, and if she had any defined breasts, they were hidden beneath the armour.
"That's one big woman," Mat muttered as Captain Hightower whispered in Myrcella's ear. "Blimey. That's Brienne of Tarth, old Selwyn's daughter. I'd heard she was strange, but that's something else."
The guard halted, but Brienne kept coming until she stood directly before Myrcella, looking down on her not by design but through their vast difference in stature.
Admittedly, the Dornish were not known for their height, so Myrcella had always enjoyed being taller than many of the people she met in the sandy kingdom. And Myrcella was quite tall for a woman, thanks to her father's blood, she supposed, standing at near even with most men. With heels, she was even taller than some lords – always fun. Now, she understood a little better how people felt when she used her height against them. Still, she was the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. It would take more than a very tall woman in steel to intimidate her.
Myrcella curtseyed once more, deeper this time.
"Greetings, Lady Tarth. I'm pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Obara Sand speaks quite highly of you."
Brienne's stonelike face twitched slightly for a moment. Excellent, she'd guessed right. A woman like this? There was no way Obara hadn't sought her out.
"And who are you supposed to be?" Brienne asked. Myrcella grinned.
"I am Myrcella of the House Baratheon, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Princess of Dorne, and Protector of the Realm."
Brienne blanched, before falling immediately to one knee with an audible clank.
"Your Grace! I apologise for my words; they were spoken in grave error…."
"You need not worry," Myrcella said, taking Brienne's hand and guiding her back to her feet. "I am here in secret after all."
"Secret?"
"Yes. I must speak with your father as quickly as possible. I have news from the mainland and intelligence on the pirate threat that Lord Tarth must be made aware of post-haste."
The Lady Brienne seemed somewhat surprised that Myrcella made no acknowledgement of her bizarre appearance, but a few moments later, she was ushering Myrcella, Mat and the Captain up the hill towards Evenfall Hall.
Several hours, a seriously awkward introduction, and an impromptu feast later, Myrcella sat across from Lord Selwyn and his gigantesque daughter in the Lord of Tarth's private solar, waiting patiently as they read from the leather-bound tome Myrcella had placed before them. A condensed handbook guide to the Senate Protocol, written by Margaery and Uncle Tyrion as they travelled from Casterly Rock to Highgarden. This version of the plan had been composed for the express purpose of showing it to other lords. Particularly lords whom the plan would greatly benefit.
Lords like Selwyn Tarth.
In Margaery's words, the Senate's greatest selling point was its appeal not to the Great Houses but to the Houses just below them in hierarchy. Houses whom, should history have played out differently, would be Lords Paramount. The Senate gave families like the Daynes, the Royces, the Hightowers, the Blackwoods, the Brackens and the Manderlys far more authority and power than their liege lords would ever realistically give them. It was that more localised dynamic of power, combined with a forum to settle political debates and feuds that didn't involve gruesome murder and war, that would provide the stability the realm desperately needed. But regardless of its actual intended goal, the boost in prestige to the major houses was a very enticing and palpable offer.
Lord Tarth looked up at her, steel-grey eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted in apparent wonder. He was a strong-willed and authoritative man who clearly cared deeply about his home. A good lord and a good man. And Myrcella would wager that she was the first liege lord to ever step foot on his island and offer him the respect he deserved. She understood that, down in her very bones.
All women did.
"Say I believe… this," Lord Tarth said, waving a hand cautiously over the tome. She glanced at the page. Ah, the seating allocation. He'd reached the point she'd added herself to sweeten the deal. "Why would you do it? This Senate you outline will significantly impede the power of the Iron Throne. You are, in effect, succeeding a considerable amount of your own authority to the people who should be beneath you. What do you get out of it?"
Myrcella sighed, leaning back in her chair, wishing for a brief moment that Margaery was here to explain this better than she could. But there was no Margaery to help her now. She had to do this on her own. For the dream. For Jon. And for herself.
"Do you know how many civil wars have been fought in this country in the past one hundred years?"
Lord Tarth frowned, then opened his mouth, but his daughter beat him to the answer.
"Six. Four Blackfyre rebellions, the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and Robert's Rebellion."
Myrcella nodded. "Seven, now. Not a great track record."
"Your point?" Lord Tarth asked.
"How many civil wars did we fight in the hundred years before that?"
Again, Brienne answered. "One. The Faith Militant Uprising."
"Exactly," Myrcella said. "Since the dragons died, Westeros is constantly on the brink of trying to tear itself apart, frequently falling off that edge. If we want to break the cycle of war and death, we can't keep going as we have. Something must change. Either Daenerys Targaryen crosses the Narrow Sea and kills everyone who doesn't follow her when she gets here like Aegon did, or we unite before she arrives and deal with her as a nation."
"House Stark, House Tyrell, House Dayne and House Martell have all agreed, and when I approach Houses Hightower and Manderly, I doubt they will exactly say no. My army marches on Storm's End as we speak. Once my Uncle Renly is dealt with, I can turn my attention to Stannis and his alliance with the Vale. My people have already made in-roads with House Royce of Runestone, and with House Tully all but extinct, how readily do you think Houses Blackwood and Bracken will jump at the chance to take their place? That leaves Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon, who won't be alive to protest, and House Lannister – and as head of both the smallest and richest kingdom, there's no need to split their lands at all, so with me on the Iron Throne, my grandfather shouldn't be too perturbed."
Grandfather… he was the greatest threat to the Senate, and Myrcella knew it. If she bent the knee to Jon when he came into his own, Myrcella didn't know what her grandfather would do. She didn't like where the thoughts took her, but there was no point worrying about it now. She had a lord to win over.
"I'll buy that," Lord Tarth said, then he lifted the page of Myrcella's own writings up from the book. "What about this then?"
"That is my offer to you specifically. Our original plan was for Lord Velaryon to take the Narrow Sea seat, but I have no intention of rewarding my enemies, Lord Selwyn. Which means a new Lord of the Narrow Sea will be needed. House Tarth seems perfectly fitted to take on such a role to me."
"What do you want in exchange?"
Myrcella smiled. "Paxtor Redwyne is moored at Ghost Hill with the Redwyne Fleet, guarding the shores of Dorne and Cape Wrath from the pirates in Tyrosh. Allow my fleet passage into Shipbreaker Bay without alerting Stannis or Renly. Once my uncle is defeated, let us use the Straits of Tarth as a staging ground to liberate Tyrosh and restore order to the Narrow Sea. Do that, and I will raise you to the status of Lord Paramount of the Narrow Sea, with two seats in the Senate and the authority to raise taxes from the lesser houses of the Narrow Sea and Massey's Hook, as well as trade from the Free Cities. Furthermore, when I sit the Iron Throne, per your new position, I will name you or a man of your consideration as the Master of Ships."
It was quite the offer, but Myrcella was asking the man to let an enemy force into his backyard and not tell anyone about it, so she considered it appropriate. Furthermore, she wanted to prove to Lord Tarth that her word meant something. She might be a fifteen-nearly-sixteen-year-old girl, but she was a Queen.
"I believe her," Brienne said then, and Myrcella bowed her head to the woman.
Lord Tarth looked from Myrcella to his daughter then back to the book.
"I will bend the knee to you, Queen Myrcella Baratheon, and send my own ships with you to Storm's End, though I cannot, will not, leave the island entirely unprotected from these pirates…."
"Nor do I ask you too."
Selwyn nodded, then glanced to his daughter one final time. He really did care for her, Myrcella realised then.
"And I have one favour to ask of you, personally."
"Name it."
"My daughter is an incredibly skilled warrior; courageous and battle-hardened. She has led three sorties against these pirates in the last moon turn alone. I ask that you take her on as a member of your Queensguard."
Lady Brienne's eyes flared wide, jaw-dropping a little slack. Myrcella beamed.
"It would be my honour, Lord Paramount."
Ours is the Fury
The Present Day…
Jon galloped through chaos as soldiers frantically equipped themselves, and camp followers sought refuge near the centre. Screaming and shouts of confusion and terror mingled in the damp air, and all the while, Storm's End towered before them. Men were gathering on the walls, cheering and jeering at the would-be besiegers without. The Tyrell and Martell camps were in complete and utter disarray.
"Come on, you frivolous fool, take the bait," Jon muttered under his breath, Mia's hooves pounding in the dirt barely audible over the maelstrom of sound all around him. On his left, Beric and Obella. On his right, Edric and Thoros of Myr. Team together again. Without thinking, Jon glanced over his shoulder, searching for some sign of Garlan. But of course, there was none, just as Anguy wasn't present either, and all Jon could do to push away the hurt was grip his reins and focus on the front ahead of him.
The Martell infantrymen were lining up in formation as well as they could, Lord Anders and Lord Dalt at their head, Prince Trystane astride his own horse wedged firmly between them.
"Lord Anders!" Jon shouted, bringing Mia to a halt behind the lines, his 'entourage' gathering around him. "How fair the winds?!"
Lord Anders spun around, the scar on his lower lip pulled taught by the tension in his jaw.
"The ships fly the banners of House Tarth and House Estermont," Lord Anders exclaimed, hailing Jon with a raised fist. Trystane waved awkwardly to him, and Jon shot him a nod of respect. Then, he got a good look at the enemy. Nearly a dozen ships had beached below the cliffs, armoured men spilling out from their holds.
"Should we not march down to meet them?" Trystane exclaimed, "stop them from disembarking?"
"No," Lord Anders stated. "To do so would be yielding the high ground. As it stands, the enemy will have to climb the hillside in the full range of our archers to reach us. Lord Tarly and Lord Oakheart are preparing their rangers atop the bluff ahead.
Jon continued to peer into the distance. More and more ships were appearing, silhouetted against the advancing storm clouds. Surely Houses Tarth and Estermont didn't have that many ships at their command? Jon shared a look with Lord Anders.
"Did you speak to Tarly?" Jon asked. Anders nodded sharply, and Jon breathed a sigh of relief.
Another wave of ships drew ashore as the first wave of soldiers formed up into ranks. Tarth men in blue and yellow.
A horn blast erupted from the fortress behind them, and all the commanders turned towards Storm's End.
The walls were empty.
Jon glanced towards the Tyrell cavalry a short distance across the camp. Mounted and ready, but leaderless. He glanced back to the ships, watching as several mounted riders disembarked from the largest. That was when the smile broke out across his lips. For he could spot a man with a very distinctive hat astride a brown gelding, and beside him rode a slim figure he thought he recognised.
"The winds are blowing fair indeed," Jon announced to Lord Anders and Lord Dalt, pointing down towards the ships below. They followed his arm, and Anders broke into a manic smile. "Prepare for a false rout and use the confusion to turn the infantry towards Storm's End," Jon said, taking command without really thinking, "and tell Lord Tarly not to fire. I'm taking the cavalry for a run."
"Aye!" Anders said, then he turned towards Trystane and Dalt, explaining the situation. Jon just caught Trystane's smile, then Jon was digging his heels into Mia's side, turning and riding for the aimless cavalry.
"Ser Jon!" Beric called, and Jon blinked. Beric and Thoros were both still there. He'd forgotten them. "What's the plan?"
Jon let a soft smile creep across his face.
"We have a Queen to escort. Fancy a bit of afternoon riding?"
Thoros made a show of rubbing his beard. "I think I can be convinced."
They pulled up before the host of mounted men, nearly a thousand strong, just standing at the edge of the camp, waiting.
"Riders!" Jon proclaimed, standing in his stirrups and calling out to the men. "I am Ser Jon Snow, former squire to Ser Garlan Tyrell, your fallen commander." Jon pointed towards the castle, which seemed now to be holding its breath, such was the eerie atmosphere. "Our enemy hides behind walls that rightfully belong to our Queen. Now, her plan comes to fruition. The ships amassing below are our own, hidden beneath false banners. We will ride as if we intend to assault them and trick the false King Renly to open his gates. Then, we will swing around and take the forces Renly sends to ambush us right up the ass. Storm's End falls today! For the Queen, and for Ser Garlan!"
"FOR THE QUEEN! FOR GARLAN!"
Blood pumping in his ears, entire body flooded with adrenaline, Jon wheeled Mia around and set off racing towards the beach, a thousand men in Tyrell livery behind him.
For Garlan. For my friend.
The host swarmed down the side of the hill, turning grass to mud in a matter of seconds as they covered the distance between the encampment and the beach. Then it happened. The gates of Storm's End ground open, and armed men came pouring free in haphazard formation, only to be met with a hail of arrows from Randyll Tarly and his archers.
Jon could make out Myrcella clearly now on the beachside, golden hair marking her clearly. A boiled leather bodice, black with golden stitching and buckles covered her torso, a riding skirt of matching colours flowing past her legs. Leather guards wrapped her arms, a thick neck cuff shielded her throat and… He couldn't help grinning. She still wore the knee-high boots Jon had bought her nearly a year before; soles locked into the stirrups of her horse. Her hair was tied into a low ponytail, but that didn't hide the circlet of tempered black steel that sat perfectly in her golden hair, a single red ruby set at the peak, glimmering like the sun.
She looked as close to a warrior queen as you could get without actually holding a weapon.
Mounted at her left was Mat Cauthon, Beric's bastard brother whom Jon had met at Summerhall and quite liked. He still wore his wide-brimmed hat, but he'd exchanged his usual clothing for a steel hauberk emblazoned with the stag of House Baratheon, and his ashandarei sat in a holster at his horse's saddle, ready to be drawn. However, on Myrcella's right was a hulking figure in deep cobalt blue steel plate Jon had never seen before. He was positively enormous, whomever he was, and Jon had no doubts he knew how to use both the sword at his back and the morning star at his hip. Probably a Tarth man. He could probably fight the bloody Mountain!
"Brother!" Beric shouted as they drew close. "Nice of you to join us!"
"Wouldn't want to miss out on all the fun!" Mat called back.
"Ride ahead, Ser Jon, Lord Beric! The levies of Houses Tarth, Estermont and Redwyne will advance after you!" Myrcella announced, thrusting her fist in the air. "SerTarth! Raise the standard!"
The burly Knight did as instructed, taking an ash black haft of wood from a man at her side and unfurling the black and gold banner of Myrcella's House Baratheon. Then Jon and his army rounded the cape and began the race back up the cliffside. Bells and horns were ringing out within Storm's End now. Time was running out.
They exploded atop the hill, coming face to face with the sounds and sight of dying men. Someone within Storm's End was calling the retreat, but the men weren't listening. They'd engaged the Dornish infantry, and Jon could spot Lord Anders on his feet in the centre of the vanguard, swinging his broadsword with wild abandon.
"Charge!" Jon yelled, drawing his sword as the men in the front ranks lowered their lances. Thoros pulled ahead of the host and ignited the wildfire on his iron blade. The Baratheon men pouring forth from the fortress finally realised their peril.
Jon's host slammed into their flank, and the battle was joined.
What followed was a slaughter.
Authors Notes: I can't help picturing Dove Cameron when I write Myrcella. Next up, Tyene finally comes clean to Jaime, and Benjen wakes up.