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Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
22: Myrcella
"Are you ready?"
Princess Myrcella Baratheon looked across the table to see her younger brother, Prince Tommen. The only thing visible of him was his bright green eyes, and his long blond hair that fell over his forehead like a golden curtain. The rest of him was hidden from the tome he was holding.
"I am."
When father announced her betrothal to Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, Myrcella was determined to know everything she could about the north. She'd one day be Lady of Winterfell, and it was her duty to learn.
Before she left Winterfell, she sought out her uncle, Tyrion to have him tell her what books she should read upon her return to the capital. She'd never ask the Grand Maester. She didn't like him. His nails were long and dirty, and he smelled like cabbage. Thankfully, her uncle knew some good history tomes that would help her. However, he didn't need to be grinning or add some japes about her and her future husband when he recommended them to her.
So she currently found herself in her chambers with her brother. He was eager and excited to help her. One of the reasons why she loved Tommen so much, he was so kind and always wanted to help. He hadn't hesitated when she asked.
Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard was also there. He was her constant protector. She had thought about asking him to help her, but knew he'd be uncomfortable at the task. He was a knight, not a scholar. He didn't seem interested in the matter of learning. He was probably happier standing by the door and not talking then having to sit down and read.
Her youngest brother was holding one of the very books that her uncle Tyrion had recommended. It was a history of the northern houses. Myrcella was trying to memorize the Stark bannermen.
"House Mormont?"
That's an easy one, she remembered them being mentioned while she was at Winterfell. They were going to foster Arya, Robb's youngest sister.
"It's a black bear in a green wood."
"And what are their words?"
"Here we stand," Myrcella recited.
"Good job," Tommen lifted his head over the book so that he could show her a proud smile. Even with an easy question, he'd always encourage her. His smile dipped when he moved back to the book. "House Bolton?"
She could understand her brother's reaction. He didn't like their sigil. Remembering how afraid he had been when he saw it while they were at Winterfell. Even on cloth, the sight of it made Myrcella uncomfortable. She never let her eyes linger.
"A red flayed man, hanging upside down," The words were thick and she spoke them clumsily, trying to ignore the haunting image of their blazon. "On an x-shaped cross, on a black field." She noticed Tommen had raised his head over the book, not wanting his eyes or attention to dwell on the pages that detailed the Bolton family and history. She couldn't blame him.
"Their words?" he asked his voice softer then it had been before.
"Our blades are sharp," she found them one of the more intimidating ones especially when she had read some of their history. She wouldn't easily forget the brief passages she read about it before she had stopped herself.
Tommen was eager to move past the Boltons, hastily turning the page. "What about House Karstark?"
Myrcella frowned. She knew that House Karstark descended from House Stark, but their sigil wasn't quick to come to her. It took her a few seconds before their image became apparent, "A white sunburst on a black field."
"What are their words?"
"Erh," Myrcella bit her lip, wracking her brain trying to remember. She recalled a trick to help her when she first learned of them. It had to do with their sigil and the Stark's words…
That was when it came to her, "The sun of winter."
"I thought I had you there," Tommen said playfully.
"Are you trying to beat me, brother?" Myrcella asked in feigned exasperation.
Tommen shook his head; "House Hornwood?"
She sent him a suspicious stare with no ill will that had Tommen dramatically duck his head behind the book to shield him from her, but it didn't stop his giggling; which in Myrcella's eyes proved that he was indeed trying to get one over her.
"House Hornwood," she parroted, as if repeating the name would conjure to her their blazon. It didn't.
"Want a hint?" His eyes were looking at her over the book.
Sweet, helpful Tommen, she thought with a wide smile. "Very well,"
"It's an animal."
That only sort of helped her. She knew lots of houses in the north and other realms used an animal for their sigil. A few animals came to her: lizard-lion, horse, and moose. It was the last one that jolted her memory. "It's a moose!" she grinned triumphantly, "On a dark orange field." She leaned back in her seat enjoying her victory.
"And what about their words?" Tommen's tone was mischievous.
Myrcella felt her smile dip and her victory dashed. She was drawing a blank on their words.
"Do you want me to tell you, sweet sister?" He asked innocently.
She sighed. "Very well?"
"Righteous in wrath," Tommen closed the book. He was grinning.
She rolled her eyes at her brother eliciting a laugh from him and she too joined in. She couldn't be mad at him. Knowing he was only playing with her. She doubted her little brother had an ounce of meanness in him. Even by besting her, Myrcella knew next time they'd do this he'd be the first to encourage her to make sure she was ready. Tommen would never stop helping her.
"In my day, studies weren't so amusing."
Myrcella and her brother stopped laughing at the familiar voice both turning to see the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard standing in the doorway, looking at them with a wry smile.
"Ser Barristan!" Tommen greeted the old knight excitedly. It was no secret that Tommen favored the Lord Commander over any other member of the Kingsguard.
"Prince Tommen," Ser Barristan Selmy offered the prince a crisp bow before winking at him. His friendly eyes then turned to the Princess, "and Princess Myrcella."
"It's always great to see you, Ser Barristan." She meant every word of it. "But I thought you were training for the tourney?"
"I was," he answered, "but I thought I'd relieve Ser Arys from his duty of watching over you two so that he could train."
"Lord Commander?" Arys repeated clearly surprised by the gesture.
"Do not fret, Ser Arys," Barristan put a gauntleted hand on his fellow knight's soldier, "I have years of training to rely on. You could use the practice," he sent her and Tommen a grin at the last line.
"Thank you, Lord Commander," He looked appreciative of the offer. He then turned to her. "I'll be back afterwards, Princess."
"Of course, Ser Arys," she didn't begrudge him his chance to train. Smiling, as he bowed to them before stepping out of the her chambers, his pale cloak slipped past the door before it closed.
"Please, Ser Barristan, come and sit," she stood from her chair and beckoned him to join them.
He eyed the seat warily, "Afraid I may drop, princess?" His wry tone belayed his words.
"No," Myrcella answered hastily, hoping she hadn't offended the Lord Commander. "I just thought you'd like to sit for a few minutes after all the training."
"You are kind, princess," He gave her a warm smile before coming to join them. "But only for a minute." He held up a hand. "I can't be known as the knight that sits."
"You're Barristan the Bold!" Tomen exclaimed.
"They say to my face," the Lord Commander said, "but Barristan the Old to my back."
"Don't listen to the fools at court, Ser Barristan," she patted his arm. "There's no better knight I'd want to guard me," she then dropped her tone in a feigned conspirator manner. "Just don't say that to Ser Arys!"
Ser Barristan chuckled, "You have my word as a knight." He held up his hand in a mock pledge.
"Me too," Tommen wanted to play along. Mirroring Ser Barristan's movements, "As a prince, I swear."
Myrcella favored her little brother with a grin. "I'm so blessed to have such respectable, stalwart men to protect my honor."
Tommen puffed up at the praise.
"How was the training?" Myrcella was curious on how others were faring as they prepared for the tourney. She had seen blazons from houses throughout the kingdoms as lords and knights were making their way into the city. All of whom drawn here by the Tourney of the Hand, it was said that this tournament would be one of the larger ones Westeros has seen in years. So it was no wonder that so many had come to attend in the hopes of achieving the victory and glory that was offered.
"Your Uncle hasn't slowed with horse or lance," Ser Barristan told them. "He should do well again in this tourney."
"If he wins he'll crown mother," Tommen said happily.
"Aye, he will," Barristan nodded.
Myrcella tussled her brother's hair affectionately as she took a seat beside him. "Anyone else catch your eye?"
"The Bolton heir is good," Barristan admitted, "he rides like he's half horse."
"Like a centaur?" Tommen giggled.
"Yes, my prince," Barristan smiled at him, "like a centaur."
"Do you think he can win?" Myrcella was curious with the Lord Commander's opinion of Sansa's betrothed. She knew Ser Barristan was always honest with his words and judgment.
Barristan didn't answer right away. He looked to be considering her question. "He's strong with the lance," he scratched his beard. "He has a chance, princess."
"Good," Myrcella was happy to hear it. She couldn't help but think how romantic it could be if Domeric won the tournament and named Sansa, his queen of love and beauty. The thought made her smile. It'd be perfect.
"Mother says the north is full of savages and fools," Tommen said suddenly, clearly oblivious to the meaning behind the words.
Myrcella's smile faltered at hearing her innocent brother say such things without truly understanding them. He often parroted remarks mother would say in hopes of receiving more of her smiles and attention, but sadly, their mother only seemed to have eyes for their older brother, Joffrey.
Tommen was too young to understand how dangerous what he said could be if heard by the wrong people. The offense that could be taken if Lord Stark or Lord Domeric heard such words. Not to mention it cast a poor light on their mother, the Queen. She glanced over to see Ser Barristan was frowning.
"My prince," Ser Barristan said gently, "I've known many men from the north and they are honorable and worthy of respect." His voice had taken a stern tone, "You mustn't say such things about the north especially in front of Lord Stark, and the other men who have traveled with him."
Color came to Tommen's cheeks as he realized he was being scolded, he ducked his head. "I'm sorry, Ser Barristan." His voice hitching and tears threatened to spill down his now reddened cheeks. "I won't, I promise."
"It's alright, Tommen," Myrcella was quick to soothe her younger brother, wrapping an arm around him and bringing him close to her. "You didn't know."
"Yes, my prince," Ser Barristan added quickly. "No harm was done. We must do better moving forward."
"I will," Tommen swore, lips quivering as fat tears came down his cheeks.
Ser Barristan sent him a kind smile. "That is why you are such a great prince."
Tommen's face lit up at the praise given to him by the Lord Commander. "I won't disappoint you, Ser Barristan."
"My prince," the Lord Commander assured him, "You can never disappoint me."
Myrcella blinked back tears.
Her vision was nearly becoming blurry but still that didn't stop her. She moved with as much haste as she could through the corridors of the Red Keep. She knew mother would be angry. But she didn't care.
Myrcella didn't run. She was a lady and even when upset certain decorum was still expected, especially for a princess. Her hands were grasping the silks of her new dress to help lift her skirts as she moved. Unable to dab at her eyes now that tears were starting to slip through and run down her cheeks.
She could hear the heavy metal boots of her silent protector, Ser Arys trailing her as loyally as her own shadow. "My Princess?"
A part of her wanted to ignore him. Pretend she didn't hear him, but she couldn't. She was a lady and it was unbecoming to act in such a way. Myrcella stopped, turning to see Ser Arys was right in front of her, having no difficulty in keeping up with her with his long legs and strides when she all but bolted out of her chambers.
He said nothing as he offered her a yellow handkerchief, his family sigil emblazoned on it.
"Thank you," she sniffed, taking it and quickly dabbing at her eyes. "You must think me a fool."
"Never, princess," Ser Arys replied quickly.
She gave him a watery smile. It wasn't supposed to have happened like this. She had been so excited for today. Her newly commissioned dress was to be presented to her and she had been so excited to see it.
Everything had been going splendidly. The dressmaker had brought it and it looked beautiful and Myrcella had been eager to try it on and to see how it would look. She had slipped into the dress, admiring her reflection in the mirror as she did a little twirl.
"What do you think, Ser Arys?" She turned to her silent knight who was standing a few feet away.
"You are a vision," he praised, "Many a men's heart will be taken when they see you." A smile came to his comely face, "But do not worry, I will keep them away." He said the last part as he put his hand on the pommel of his sword.
Myrcella glowed at his praise. A giggle escaped her lips, as she shook her head. "My betrothed will thank you for defending my honor."
Ser Arys smiled, and bowed his head.
The mention of her betrothed brought a flush to her cheeks and her tummy to do a somersault. Returning her attention to her reflection, she inspected her appearance wondering how Robb Stark would react if he were to see her in this dress. She hoped his lovely blue eyes that rivaled the bright sky would look her over with affection. For a smile to come to his lips, that had a way of making her tummy flutter the few times she had been the recipient of it. For him to put his hands on her and…
"Yellow and black?" Her mother's voice broke her from her musings.
Startled, but still smiling, she turned to her mother, modeling the dress. "Isn't it lovely, Mother?" She looked down at the beautiful black and yellow silk and lace. It was cut in the southern fashion, allowing glimpses of skin to be seen along her back, but the neckline didn't reveal too much.
Not that she had much, she thought with a critical eye. Myrcella didn't have her mother's or Sansa's curves. Mother had told her she was still growing and not to worry. She had only recently flowered and that her body was still developing.
That's how mother put it when they had gotten together in the aftermath of it. Despite the blood and the aches, Myrcella had cherished the time afterwards because it had just been her and mother. They had had tea and talked all morning. It had been wonderful.
"A stag?" Her mother's eyes were focused on the Baratheon sigil.
"Yes, mother," She bobbed her head up and down. Myrcella often wore the Lannister colors, and liked them just as much as the Baratheons, but since this was such a large tournament, she decided her father's colors would be best. "I am a Baratheon."
"You're also a Lannister," Her mother corrected sharply.
Myrcella had been taken aback by the venom in her mother's voice. She noticed the dressmaker had visibly shrunken and slunk out of view, no doubt not wanting to be the target of the Queen's cutting words. "M-mother?" she didn't understand. She heard her voice waver when it slipped past her mouth.
"Do you think the lion beneath you? Is my house beneath you?"
"No," she said quickly.
"Too good to be a Lannister?" Her mother shook her head. "Your brother doesn't think he's too good to be one." She pointed a finger at her. "He appreciates my house and where he is from."
"I'm sorry, mother," Myrcella felt tears swell in her eyes.
"Don't cry!" Her mother corrected her. "Princesses don't cry!"
Unable to take the disappointment and hard words, Myrcella jumped off of her step where she had been standing, and dashed towards the exit, silently praying that Ser Arys would not bar her way. He didn't. She could hear mother exclaiming behind her, demanding she come back, but she couldn't. So she ran, barefoot and in her new dress.
She wiped away any lingering sign of tears from her eyes and scrubbed her cheeks. It wouldn't do if any castle servants or guards saw her distressed and disheveled.
"My princess?" Ser Arys stood beside her, the question in his tone-Where are we going?
"I could use some fresh air, Ser Arys." She wasn't ready to return to her mother.
"That sounds lovely, princess."
She sent her Kingsguard knight a smile before returning his handkerchief, "Thank you, Ser Arys."
"It's only a handkerchief," he deflected.
"No, not just that," she shook her head, "You let me leave." She knew she was right when she noticed he looked down at his armored boots. "You didn't stop me when you were supposed to."
"I thought it wiser not to interfere," Ser Arys picked his words carefully.
"I'll make sure to commend you to the Lord Commander," Myrcella could sense the discomfort in his tone. He feared a possible reprisal from her mother if she reported his inaction to her uncle, Ser Jaime.
"You have my thanks, princess." Ser Arys inclined his head towards her, "To the Godswood?"
"Yes," she agreed.
Thankfully, the Godswood wasn't crowded at this hour. Few from court were found mingling on the acre of land that consisted of elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees. She was familiar with the Godswood. She found it one of the nicer places if not the nicest place in not just the Red Keep, but within the city itself. She knew every stone path, every vantage point to see the Blackwater Rush at, where the best spots to sit in the shade were.
With this knowledge, she chose her path and began walking down it. She heard Ser Arys' metal boots hitting the gravel as he marched behind her. This place was nothing like the Godswood at Winterfell.
She had not ventured into Winterfell's Godswood during her brief stay. Robb had wanted to show it to her, but she had declined. Myrcella hadn't felt comfortable with the idea. It was said that was where the old gods stirred. Those weren't her gods. She followed the Seven and the Seven Pointed Star. It was in a Sept, not a Godswood where she worshipped. So she had kept her distance.
For now, she realized. That she could not avoid the Godswood of Winterfell forever. She'd one day be Lady of Winterfell, and she would need to be familiar with the entire castle including the Godswood. Myrcella had also been told that in the north, weddings took place in the Godswood in front of the heart tree.
The idea of traveling north again brought a nervous quiver to her insides. She felt the cold grip of apprehension claw at her when her mind drifted towards her future home and responsibilities. The long journey to the north when she had gone with her family allowed her a glimpse of the land she'd one day call home.
Myrcella could still remember the feeling of unease that coiled inside when her eyes took in the nothingness of the north. It was a cold wasteland that stretched as far as she could see. Their party went days without seeing people. It looked as if civilization had never touched this part of the kingdoms.
Voices broke through her thoughts on her future home, turning down her path; she spotted a pair of soldiers. She noticed the flayed man emblazoned on their leather jerkins. They were deep in conversation and hadn't seemed to notice her yet. She looked past them to see the heir to the Dreadfort. He was kneeling in front of the heart tree. He looked to be praying.
Here is the reason why I head north, she thought idly. Her father had been adamant in uniting their house with Lord Stark's. He had wanted a Stark bride for Joffrey since he had been robbed of his. Joffrey had been indifferent to father's talks and seemed uninterested about the idea of marrying a daughter of a savage.
However, her father's plan had been met with an immediate challenge. Sansa had already been betrothed. Father had pressed Lord Stark to break the betrothal between his house and house Bolton, but Lord Stark refused. Father had been mad. Cursing and drinking that night in his chambers about Lord Stark's stubbornness.
It was only at not being given to him did her older brother finally take notice of the beautiful oldest daughter of Lord and Lady Stark. Joffrey was never one to be denied something, Myrcella thought bitterly. She did not love or care for her older brother. There was no bond between them like the one she cherished with her younger brother, Tommen. Their bond had partially been formed to help each other avoid Joffrey's cruelty.
It was Lord Stark's refusal that brought mother's attention to the betrothal as well. She had taken it as a personal slight that her precious son had been denied by Lord Stark. A privilege these savages don't deserve! Her mother had raged. They should be thanking us for letting their daughter be Queen one day.
Mother was always quick to comfort and defend Joffrey. In mother's eyes, her precious Joffrey could do no wrong, her golden prince.
Myrcella could still remember her brother's reaction when father had relented with the betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa. He tried to look unbothered, but she knew her brother was angered and annoyed that he couldn't have her. Joffrey never liked hearing the word no. As a Crown Prince he was rarely refused something.
Her father had laughed it off, claiming it was the Stark's stubbornness. A trait he had grumbled about days ago, he now was toasting it. She suspected her father didn't put any real pressure on his oldest friend. As King he could've formally broken the betrothal between Houses Stark and Bolton, but she knew father well enough to know that he wouldn't have wanted to anger Lord Eddard Stark who he saw as his brother.
However, a new betrothal had been put forth one between her and Lord Stark's son and heir, Robb. Father had given her the news with a wide smile, wine clung to his breath. He told her: she was lucky; that there weren't better people then Starks in all of Westeros.
"Princess."
She blinked to see Domeric had risen from his kneeling position in front of the heart tree. "Lord Domeric," she greeted in kind. Going to close the distance between them, she took the time to inspect Sansa Stark's betrothed.
He was tall and slender. He was not handsome like her betrothed, Robb or Ser Loras. He had a plain face. His eyes were dark orbs that betrayed nothing. His face was still and impassive as if he was wearing a mask carved from ice. His brown hair was nicely combed, and fell just short of his shoulders.
He was dressed in a deep blue doublet, though the buttons were red. Blood drops, she realized, squashing the disgust that threatened to climb up her throat. A flayed man brooch was pinned at his collar to keep his equally blue cloak in place.
"No need for formalities, Lord Domeric," she tried to disarm him with a smile. She was not close with him, but that didn't mean that they needed to stand on such ceremony. After all, he'd be her good brother one day through their marriages: Hers with Robb and his with Sansa.
He looked at her, face unchanging. "Apologies, Princess," he declined stiffly, "But I fear it would be unwise to speak with such familiarity with you. Some would consider it a slight."
Myrcella had been caught off guard by his blunt refusal. She stopped herself from frowning openly. "Of course," She wanted to recover quickly, still smiling. "I understand."
She snuck a glance over at the two Bolton men who were with him and she was certain she caught a flicker of amusement come from their expressions. They probably think her some foolish southern girl. She'd one day be Lady of Winterfell, and they look at her like she's the court's fool. That brought a flame of annoyance to flicker within her insides.
"What do you make of King's Landing?"
"It is as I expected it," he answered neutrally.
She found his vagueness infuriating. Myrcella had remembered Domeric's interactions with Sansa, Robb, and their half brother, Jon at Winterfell. There, he had smiled and laughed easily and often, but not here, not with her. He treated her with cool courtesy and nothing more.
The shifting of Ser Arys' armor signaling his posture had stiffened was loud enough to get her attention. She saw the source of it, Lady who bounded through the Godswood. The direwolf was only continuing to grow. Lady made straight for Domeric, who greeted the direwolf far warmer than he had greeted Myrcella, minutes earlier. He crouched down, scratching the direwolf behind the ear in a spot which she seemed to like.
Lady proved to be the herald for the arrival of Sansa Stark. She looked radiant even in grey wool. A running direwolf stitched into the material joined with swirls of pale red and deep blue. Her copper curls shone in the sunlight, falling past her shoulders with only a few strands put into a simple braid.
"My lady," Domeric greeted her, his expression shifted immediately. His eyes that had been hard when speaking with Myrcella had softened when they looked at his betrothed. A smile cracked his indifference demeanor and improved his otherwise ordinary features. He took her in his arms and kissed her cheek which brought a slight blush to her face.
"Dom," she murmured in response, smiling at her betrothed. Her bright blue eyes then moved to Myrcella. She was quick to curtsey, "Princess Myrcella."
"Lady Sansa," Myrcella replied, a hint of mischief dripped into her tone at the formalities they put on one another, a jest between them that never got old.
An amused Sansa moved over towards Myrcella, clasping her hands in hers, "What a wonderful dress, Myrcella!" Sansa's eyes looked her over.
"Thank you," Myrcella brightened at the compliment. She had nearly forgotten that she was still wearing her new dress. "It's for the tourney."
"It's beautiful," Sansa complimented her, "You'd have my brother's undivided attention if he saw you in this." Sansa's eyes danced mischievously.
Myrcella felt heat creep into her cheeks, and for a pleasant flutter to fill her insides upon thinking of Robb seeing and approving of her in this dress. She couldn't stop the smile that formed on her lips at the image.
Putting aside those enticing thoughts, Myrcella looked to see Sansa had gone over to where the two Bolton men were standing. The men stood straighter in her presence and were quick to bow their heads to the future Lady of the Dreadfort. Sansa knew their names and asked after them and their families. She even laughed at one of their jokes. They had looked at Myrcella like she was insipid, but to Sansa it was clear how highly they regarded her. She had earned their loyalty.
It got Myrcella thinking. What had she done with the Stark men? The men who came down with Lord Stark's household would one day serve her and Robb, and she hadn't even given them a second thought. She would one day be the Lady of Winterfell and Myrcella hadn't even tried or bothered to speak or meet with them.
It was clear to her now. Upon seeing how Sansa treated and spoke with the Bolton men that Myrcella needed to try a similar approach. She couldn't stop but think how Robb would react if she could impress him when she returned to Winterfell already knowing and being familiar with not just the north itself, but the Stark household.
I'll prove myself worthy to be the next Lady of Winterfell.