A/N: I want to thank everyone for reading, alerting, and favoring this story.
I also want to extend my appreciation to Dread Knight N7, Pandean, thepkrmgc, Queen of Ice and Winter, MrSir17, 'birdy,' Nox Descious, Weyland Corp 4, senpen banka, doRodrigo, X59, Northern wolves, Cancer-Chris, OBSERVER01, Spirally, jackli10345, Axular, 'Anna,' El Chacal, DaphneSlytherinWinchester, timijaf, CaptainToast321 (2), RENREY, Milarqui, Rc1212, Ari989, Ai102, JohnnyHarder, bluesnowman, and to all the Guests for taking the time to review. It really means a lot to me.
Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
27: Myrcella
"Why are we here?"
"To pray, Tommen," Myrcella answered.
"But this isn't the Sept," He was trailing behind her.
"No, it isn't." She and her brother were walking along one of the cobbled paths that cut through the Godswood. The Princess and Prince were being followed by Lord Commander Barristan Selmy.
Myrcella was tired of the Sept. That had been where the Court had gone to. They went there to show their faces and mouth the words to the Gods to heal her brother. She doubted any of them were truly praying for her brother's recovery.
It had come suddenly. The day after the tournament Joffrey had been fine, but yesterday he couldn't leave his bed. A sickness of the stomach, Grand Maester Pycelle had diagnosed, that had left Joffrey hugging his privy. Mother was beside herself. She hadn't left Joffrey's chambers since he started showing symptoms.
Pycelle had said that he'd be better in a day or two. And would get the proper tonics needed to dull Joffrey's stomach for the time being. It was said her brother had thrown his filled privy at Pycelle in a fit of rage when the Grand Maester told him that he needed rest and to remain in his room for a few days.
"We shouldn't be here," Tommen said softly when they arrived at the heart tree. "These aren't our gods." He looked around nervously. "The Father could get angry with us." He gulped, "They wouldn't like that we're here."
"You don't have to pray, Tommen," Myrcella took her brother's hand and gently squeezed it. "You can just keep me company."
"But what about you?"
"Someday Tommen, I will be the Lady of Winterfell," she told him. "I will marry Lord Robb in the Godswood of Winterfell in front of the heart tree." Myrcella took a few hesitant steps to approach the heart tree of the Red Keep's Godswood. "Our children will follow the old gods."
"Why?" His face scrunched up in confusion, "Why can't they follow the Light of the Seven?"
"Their gods are the old gods and it is expected of the Stark children who rule the north to keep with the gods of their ancestors," she answered. "You don't have to worry for me."
"Yes, I do," he said without hesitation. "I'm your brother. I have to."
She turned to face him to see his pudgy face was solemn, green eyes imploring her to believe him. "You are sweet brother," she would've reached out and tussled his hair if not for the distance between them. "But I go somewhere beyond your reach."
Tommen looked crestfallen at the idea that he couldn't protect her.
Myrcella's heart reached out to her younger brother. Feeling a soft ache inside her chest, only now as she said the words did realization come to her that she would be leaving her home soon for Winterfell. That she'd be leaving her brother behind.
"I'll pray for you," Tomen vowed with the seriousness that only a child could muster.
His tone and words were enough for her to smile at her valiant younger brother, and thank the gods both old and new to be blessed with someone as sweet and as loyal as him.
"I would welcome those prayers." Seeing Tommen smile at her assurances she then turned to face the great oak that served as the heart tree in the Red Keep. Smokeberry vines slithered and crawled along its branches.
Sansa had told her that in the north all of the heart trees were weirwood. That the faces carved into the bone white bark of the trees serve as a way for the old gods to watch over them.
Myrcella had been too afraid to venture into the Godswood of Winterfell. One day she'd say her vows in front of one. What sort of northern bride would she be if she didn't have the courage to stand in front of the weirwood tree?
Hesitantly, she knelt beneath it. Trying to mimic the way she'd seen Sansa and Domeric do it. Feeling no different than when she was at the Keep's Sept doing her prayers or lighting the candles. She let loose an anxious breath, and closed her eyes.
Kneeling awkwardly, no words came to Myrcella to offer up to the old gods. No pleas to heal her brother were forthcoming. She started a handful of different prayers to give to the gods of the north, but she could not finish them. She felt neither grief for her brother's ailment nor urgency for him to heal.
Myrcella felt nothing for Joffrey.
Mayhaps, she should pray for that? Then she stopped herself. She knew what sort of man her brother was. She could not forget his cruelty, the malice deeds and tricks he inflicted upon her and Tommen because he could, because he enjoyed it.
No, she realized Joffrey didn't deserve her prayers. She could not defy him while watched by her mother and the court, but here she could. In the sight of only the gods, her defiance would reign.
So instead her thoughts were left to wander. First to bitterness about her relationship with her brother, but soon that blew away like leaves from a harsh gust that came from the Blackwater. Then images from her previous night's dream came to her mind's eye. They were so potent it brought a dazed smile to her face and a flutter to her tummy.
It was a Tournament. One held outside the great walls of Winterfell, in the shadow of the Stark's ancestral seat. Thrown in honor and in celebration of her wedding to Robb. All of the kingdoms came to see the Princess marry the Heir to the North.
Robb had entered the lists. He rode hard beating every opponent that crossed him until only he remained. Triumphant in the adulation of the commoners and the respect of the nobility and the knights, he rode his horse to where she sat and bequeathed her a laurel made up of blue, winter roses that grew in the glass gardens of Winterfell. He crowned her his Queen and just as she moved to feel his lips on hers, the dream had ended.
Fingers of light crept into her room to poke her awake and take away the bliss and adulation she had been feeling to cruelly remind her that she was not yet his queen, nor his wife. And she was many leagues from him. That morning she had let out a very frustrated sigh into her pillow as the heat from her dream dissipated.
A trickle of cramps began to creep into her legs and she adjusted her stance. She wasn't use to kneeling. In the Sept, there were benches. Cozy and cushioned that provided comfort so that those with prayers could linger and not have their frail bodies betray them before their souls were finished.
Not here. No benches were placed beneath the heart tree. There were no comforts in the north.
She remembered when she gave the tour of the Godswood to Domeric and Sansa, and he had asked about why there were so many benches. She had told him it was so that the lords and ladies wouldn't have to suffer from any aches or discomfort while trying to enjoy the weather and the gardens. Domeric had scoffed, and she was certain he mumbled something about: soft, flowery southerners and that even outside their arses needed to be comforted .
Myrcella had pretended not to hear that. Or see when Sansa had squeezed his arm in response to quiet him about his berating on the southern nobility, but she remembered that there was also amusement in Sansa's expression when she had silently chided her betrothed. That led Myrcella to believe that Sansa too agreed with Domeric's sentiment even if she was polite enough not to say it.
Seeing their reaction had stopped her from asking if they had benches in the Winterfell Godswood. Myrcella enjoyed the benches here. She didn't like her dresses to be stained by leaves or earth from the ground. She enjoyed a seat to rest her weariness after a long walk in the sun. She wisely kept those thoughts to herself as she had finished the tour with Domeric and Sansa.
A sudden whimper from Tommen caused Myrcella's eyes to snap open and for her to spin around quickly to see what was distressing her brother. There she saw it. Stalking out between two elm trees was Lady, Sansa's direwolf.
Tommen reacted poorly to the direwolf's appraoch. He was pale and shaking. Her brother had been terrified of Lady, and tried to avoid her whenever he could. He preferred small kittens and cats, not dogs and especially not wolves.
"Stay back, wolf," Ser Barristan called out in warning. He moved forward to intercept the direwolf before she got too close to Tommen.
Lady stopped. She turned to regard the Lord Commander with an intelligent gaze. She then shifted her eyes towards Tommen. Tilting her head to the side to examine the young Prince in mute interest, she stepped closer, sniffing the air with curiosity.
Barristan had his hand on the pommel on his sword and was ready to draw it to defend Tommen. He stood in between the direwolf and prince.
"Lady," Sansa's voice called, "To me, Lady."
Lady raised her head, head cocked, ears and eyes alert. She turned away from Tommen and Ser Barristan, looking to the where the voice had come from.
"Lady," Sansa emerged from between the elms where Lady had come from minutes earlier. "You know you're not supposed to run off like that." She scolded her direwolf.
Lady responded with a soft, apologetic whine before bowing her head.
It was only then did Sansa notice them. Her eyes went from Ser Barristan, who's hand remained on his sword's pommel, and then to the trembling Tommen.
Myrcella moved from her position to the heart tree to her brother and was quick to embrace him. Feeling him shaking in her arms, "It's alright, Tommen," she soothed him, rubbing his back. "You're safe."
Tommen only murmured into her shoulder, but she shushed him softly.
"Did something happen?"
"Your direwolf was approaching the Prince," Ser Barristan answered not unkindly, "and would not relent from leaving him be," he eyed the animal with suspicion.
"Forgive me," Sansa apologized quickly, "Lady meant no harm to either of you," she tried to reassure them.
Ser Barristan didn't look convinced, and Tommen still hadn't lifted his head from Myrcella's shoulder.
"Lady, shame," Sansa chastised, pointing a finger at her direwolf. "I've taught you better."
Lady chuffed softly, but didn't meet her master's eyes.
"Prince Tommen," Sansa turned to them, "Forgive me," she implored. "Lady would never harm you."
Tommen raised his head to look at Sansa, but didn't speak.
"Will you let Lady apologize?" Sansa asked him. "I can show you she means it."
Tommen's green eyes widened at that suggestion.
"It's okay," Myrcella voiced her defense, "Sansa is right. Lady is a good direwolf." She looked to see Ser Barristan's skeptical look. "We can trust Lady Sansa, and Lady," Myrcella told her brother. "I've been around them both and they make for wonderful company."
Lady raised her head almost regally at Myrcella's words. She made almost what sounded like a pleading whine of her own towards Tommen.
Tommen slowly nodded his consent.
Sansa smiled. She put a hand on Lady's blue ribbon collar and carefully led her over to cut the remaining distance between them.
Myrcella could feel her brother tensing as the direwolf approached. Lady's size was intimidating at this angle as Myrcella was kneeling beside her brother and had to look up slightly to meet the direwolf's golden gaze. She put her hand on her brother's shoulder, "I'm here, Tommen." She reminded him.
Sansa stopped and offered the Prince and Princess a curtsey, because even when she was introducing them to her growing direwolf, Lady Sansa always observed her courtesies. To Myrcella's amusement, Lady mirrored her master's movement, bowing her head.
"You can pet her," Sansa encouraged. "Lady will do nothing as long I'm here."
"My Prince, My Princess," Ser Barristan interjected from where he stood, a few paces away. "I do not think this a wise idea." He sent Sansa an apologetic look, "My apologies, my lady, but your direwolf is a wild animal, and even with a ribbon tied to her neck it cannot truly be tamed."
"Lady has always been friendly with me, Ser Barristan," Myrcella reminded the Lord Commander, "I appreciate your concern and your wisdom, but in matters involving the direwolf, I trust Sansa's judgment."
Ser Barristan frowned that his advice had been overruled, but he nonetheless bowed his head in respect to her decision, "Very well, my princess."
"I'm thankful for your trust, Myrcella," Sansa said sincerely. "Will you, Prince Tommen?" She gestured to Lady.
Tommen gulped, but moved his hand towards the direwolf. His fingers were twitching, but a look of determination slowly spread across his face to mask his fear. Lady met his outstretched fingers with an initial sniff before licking them with her long, rough tongue. The reaction was immediate. Tommen giggled and his green eyes lit up.
Myrcella joined her brother in lavishing their attention on the direwolf who preened at their words and their petting. Lady would give their hands a lick and when they moved their faces closer, she would try to lick those too.
Tommen was eagerly scratching Lady in a spot on the direwolf's neck which was causing her back leg to twitch and a look of contentment to come to her face which looked odd and amusing on a direwolf.
Sansa looked relieved and happy at the scene, and was promising Lady special treats for her good behavior which the direwolf understood because she let out an appreciative yip. Sansa stepped away from Lady and towards the heart tree. "I did not think to find you in this part of the Godswood, Princess."
"I was praying."
"Praying?" Sansa was clearly caught off guard by that answer. Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. "Out here?"
"I was trying to," Myrcella found herself amending.
"To the old gods?" Sansa didn't look to believe her. "But you don't follow them."
"I'm to be Lady of Winterfell one day," she reminded the woman who would be her good sister. "I feel as if I should pay my respects to the gods of my future husband and his family."
Sansa smiled, a look of pride flickered across her face. "That is honorable, Myrcella." She told her, "I know Robb would appreciate that effort."
Myrcella inwardly reveled in not just Sansa's admiration but her words about her brother. It was one thing to think Robb would approve of her actions, but to have his sister confirm it only made her heart soar.
She watched as Sansa put her hand on the heart tree, her eyes looked distant, and her lips curled down slightly. Her hands moved along the tree as if searching for the faces that were carved in the weirwood trees that were found in her family's Godswood in Winterfell.
"My father told us that we couldn't lie in front of a weirwood tree," she chuckled, but the sound was not one of joy, but glumness. "He once brought me in front of the one in Winterfell to ask if I had been mean to Arya," regret colored her tone, "I had been, but I opened my mouth to deny it, but then my eyes found those carved into the bark."
She shook her head, blue eyes lost in the haze of the memory, "but that long, melancholy face and silent, judging eyes, I could not find the words." She shivered, "I could feel the power of the gods in those seconds and confessed to my poor behavior," she dropped her eyes, looking to her feet in silent shame from her past actions.
"I envy you and your sister's love for one another," Myrcella admitted, remembering how they treated one another during her brief time in Winterfell.
"We were not always like that," Sansa confessed, "But thankfully that has changed," Relief came to her face with that revelation. "I'm not sure I could've left for Winterfell or her to Bear Island knowing if it was otherwise." She then turned to Myrcella, "and soon we'll have another sister." She took her hands, "and we will love and protect you from our brothers' tricks," Sansa laughed at that.
Myrcella couldn't help but laugh along, feeling Sansa's mood infectious and the image she painted something that she very much wanted to experience. "What sort of tricks are these?" Myrcella asked once their laughter had subsided.
"Do not worry, I will warn you before you come to any serious harm to their mischief," Sansa answered in a teasing tone.
"Thanks," Myrcella responded dryly.
Sansa only giggled further at her indignation, "It is expected for some to befall you."
"Well, I expect you by my side when it does and not amongst the conspirators," Myrcella told her.
Sana replied with a smile, but gave no answer as she turned her attention back to the heart tree of the Godswood. "It'll be beneath our heart tree in Winterfell when you say your vows to my brother."
I'd say them now if I could, Myrcella had wanted to answer, remembering her enchanting dream of Robb crowning her his queen and the kiss that almost was. "You'll say yours to Domeric in front of that one too?"
"We will," Sansa confirmed, her eyes shone brightly and her lips curved in a smile at the reminder of her pending wedding to her betrothed.
Myrcella felt a stab of envy pierce her heart at seeing that reaction. Knowing her dream about Robb, the tournament and her being crowned was fueled upon seeing Domeric crown Sansa his Queen of Love and Beauty.
Their love for one another felt like a romantic tale spun from a bard waiting to be famous and heard: The tale of the Dread Knight and the Wolf Maid. A song about their northern love and how it endured in the southern scrutiny, ending with the northerner beating all southern knights and lords to crown his northern betrothed his Queen.
Myrcella's heart fluttered at how beautiful and romantic it felt. Despite her attraction to him and her hopes about her betrothal to Robb, she still worried for it, for them. She twirled a strand of her golden hair, wishing for a crown of roses that was not there.
She knew how important her time in Winterfell would be when she fostered there. It was there that she'd learn her new home, her expected duties, her future family, and most importantly about her betrothed.
Her green eyes fell on the heart tree that rose before her and Sansa. It was only then she found what prayers she needed to give to the old gods.
"How is my Father?"
Myrcella was relieved to see that it was her favorite knight; Ser Arys Oakheart standing in front of her father's solar.
"He's had a glass or two," Ser Arys answered delicately.
"Alone?" Myrcella felt her heart ache for her mother with that one word.
"He is," Ser Arys looked uncomfortable, but whether it was because of the question or that she had asked it, she did not know.
"I'd like to speak with him, please."
"Very well," Ser Arys turned and knocked on the door, before poking his head in, "Your Grace, your daughter is here."
"Send her in," was the king's muffled voice.
"Thank you, Ser Arys," She replied kindly when the knight opened the door for her and Myrcella went inside her father's solar. Hunting tapestries covered the bare walls while the crowned stag of House Baratheon hung proudly behind her father's desk. Tall windows provided plenty of light, and the hearth had a small fire going.
She found her father sitting behind his desk, papers were scattered across it, but Myrcella was certain they hadn't been seen or touched by him. A pitcher of ale rested on a pile of papers, while the king was holding his tankard.
"Myrcella," he greeted her in his warm, rumbling voice.
"Father," She smiled.
"Why am I afforded this honor?" He rose with some difficulty from his seat to greet her where he kissed her brow.
She relished the affection from her father when she got it. She ignored the smell of ale that clung to his breath, "I wanted to see you."
He moved back to his seat behind the desk. "Your mother didn't send you did she?" his voice had gotten strained. He looked at her suspiciously. "I wouldn't put it past her to use you or Tommen to send as her little ravens carrying her messages. Hoping I'd like how they sounded coming from your voices instead of hers."
"No, Father," she wanted to quickly diffuse her father's bitterness that brought a pain to her heart. No matter how many times she heard it, it always hurt to hear either of her parents insult the other. When she was younger it use to make her cry.
She felt numb at how her parents referred to each other so callously and so openly.
"Good," His demeanor brightened remarkably, picking up the pitcher of ale, he sensed her gaze because he added, "To help with your mother."
Is this my future with Robb? Bitter arguing in front of their children with a distant, and chilly relationship with her husband that could rival any snow that blanketed Winterfell.
No, it won't happen. She vowed silently. Yet, even in her determination she could feel the fear scratching beneath trying to break through.
"I wanted to talk to you about Tommen?"
"Is he alright?" He sat up in his chair.
"He's fine, father," Myrcella got the glimpse of the father he could be, when he wanted to.
"Ser Barristan told me about the direwolf." He shook his head. "I told Ned that a direwolf isn't a bloody pet." He took a swig from his tankard. "Mayhaps, I should've listened to your mother and barred that wolf from coming into the Red Keep."
"It was a misunderstanding, father," Myrcella assured him quickly. She hadn't expected her father to have been seriously considering such a proposal. She realized that her visit had been well timed despite her not coming for that particular matter.
"Tommen likes Lady now." She couldn't forget how much her brother had giggled and smiled when he petted Lady.
"Still," He didn't look placated, "They're wild animals they don't belong in a castle." He frowned. "You don't see bloody stags and lions prancing around in the Red Keep, do you?"
Stags and lions can't coexist, Father, that was what she wanted to say, I've seen enough of you and mother to know that, she thought sadly. "Lady has done nothing wrong, Father. There have been no incidents."
"Except the one with your brother."
"A misunderstanding," she implored him. "Please, Father, I will one day be Lady of Winterfell. Have you forgotten my betrothed has one too?" Her eyes were pleading.
"Fine," he grumbled, but she saw that he wasn't bitter about it. "Stubborn like your Uncle Stannis, but more charming," He laughed.
Myrcella giggled, pleased to hear her father's loud, rumbling laughter.
"Father, I was wondering about Tommen." She broached the subject again when her father's laughter died down, counting on his jovial mood to make him more agreeable to her suggestion for her younger brother.
"What about him?"
"I was thinking about his future," she said delicately.
"Are you now?" He sounded amused.
"Yes, I have," she answered. "I was thinking of all the great stories you've told about your time in the Vale with Lord Stark under Lord Arryn." She knew her words sunk in at the look of wistfulness and creeping smile that came to her father's face.
"Those were good days."
"Exactly, father," she was silently pleased at his reaction, "Couldn't Tommen benefit from this too?" She suggested, "Lord Stark has sons near his age." She mentioned casually. "He could come to Winterfell with me and return with you after I'm married, and mayhaps even you can bring back one of Lord Stark's sons too." She wasn't certain that would go over well with Lord Stark, but Myrcella needed to make it enticing for both sides.
"Fostering?" He scratched his beard, "Tommen could use some time away from his mother." He spat the name, "Joffrey could've used some time away from her too. Hides behind her skirts so much, you'd think he was sewn onto them."
Myrcella stayed quiet at her father's hard words. Wondering if he had even visited Joffrey since he had fallen ill, she doubted it. She knew her father and her older brother had an icy, tumultuous relationship.
"But Ned would be down here with me," he pointed out, with a thoughtful frown.
"Yes," Myrcella was aware of that snag, "But Tommen would be with boys his age, and Robb is a good man. Just like his father, and there are other good men at Winterfell too."
"The nobles won't like this," he said, "One Princess married to Lord Stark and a Prince fostering at Winterfell too."
Myrcella didn't care what the other great nobles thought or wanted. All she cared about was Tommen. She'd do anything to help him. She couldn't abandon him in the capital to mother's indifference and Joffrey's cruelty. She needed to protect him.
"He's there to help me adjust to the North," She gave her father the perfect excuse to use on the protesting nobility. "Then when he returns with one of Lord Stark's sons, you can invite other noble sons to court or mayhaps Storm's End or Dragonstone."
"Settling disputes and quieting protests," he said fondly, "You will make a great Lady of Winterfell someday."
She beamed at her father's praise. Relishing the pride that filled her at being able to make him proud.
"The fact that your mother won't like this just makes it a better idea," he laughed, "I'll talk to Ned and see what he thinks on this before I make a decision."
"Thank you, Father."
That night Myrcella found her way being escorted by Ser Arys to the Small Hall in the Tower of the Hand. She had been invited by Lord Stark for a dinner with him and his family. An invitation she had gotten days ago, she had been ecstatic when she first received it, but anxiety had slowly crept in and refused to budge.
She chose to wear a gown of her father's colors. Yellow lace and silk with black trimming, and a black stag embroidered along it. Her tummy rumbled, and she kept her hands interlocked together in front of her. The dinner was not something her mother was pleased with, but thankfully her mother had been distracted with Joffrey's sickness and had forgotten about it.
The door to the Small Hall opened when the Princess neared. She stepped inside the hall only after a slight hesitation to see it was empty of any guards and servants eating. A single table had been put forth at the center of the hall with chairs on both sides. Ser Arys excused himself quietly to take his position just inside the room.
"Princess," Sansa curtsied in greeting. The eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Stark looked beautiful in a pale blue dress, her long, auburn curls fell past her shoulders, and along her neck was a silver chain wrought with rubies. They were winking at Myrcella in the torch light.
"You must forgive my Father," she moved to meet her. "Small Council business, I'm afraid."
"I understand," Myrcella knew how much the previous Lord Hand, Jon Arryn worked to keep the realm running, and understood that responsibility to govern now fell on Lord Stark since her father wasn't keen on it. "I'm thankful for the invitation all the same."
"We're happy to have you," Sansa was at her side, "This will be the first of many family meals we'll have in the future."
"I look forward to them," Myrcella meant every word.
Sansa smiled, as the two walked together towards the table that was prepared for their intimate dinner.
Myrcella couldn't take her eyes off the ruby pendant adorned on Sansa's neck. The rubies shone and glistened along the silver chain. "That's a lovely necklace, Sansa."
Sansa's smile only grew, "Thank you, Princess," her fingers went to her neck, gingerly touching one of the rubies. "A gift from Dom," she said, her voice warm when saying the name of her betrothed, and her eyes sparkled like the red jewels on her necklace.
Seeing the rubies and knowing they came from Domeric, Myrcella wondered if he took them from his tournament armor. Remembering they were adorned with rubies, an unexpected display of wealth from the northern heir. It had made his armor popular with the court gossips. She liked to think that they did come from the armor, and she couldn't help but find it romantic.
"He gave it to me on a picnic this afternoon."
"It's beautiful," Myrcella praised, admiring the necklace.
"Thank you, Princess, you are too kind."
"Will Lord Domeric be joining us?" She hoped her tone came out as simply curious and nothing else.
"Yes," Sansa said, "He's just seeing Lady is properly fed and comfortable." She rolled her eyes, "He spoils her more than me."
Myrcella smiled at her friend's jest hoping it distracted her from the slight disappointment she feared might show on her face upon knowing that he would be joining them. She was trying to be kind and polite to him, but she hadn't felt successful. She had made another attempt at the feast when she asked him to dance, only for him to decline. Myrcella knew she surprised him when she refused to take his dismissal and instead insisted he dance with her.
He did. Though there was no conversation between them. He danced well, but it made Myrcella feel a slight chill having to meet those dark eyes. He didn't make her laugh or try to talk. He gave her no smiles or compliments. They danced in silence as the music played around them. She wondered had it been a mistake to insist he dance with her.
"Princess Myrcella."
There he stood. He entered the Small Hall, the Heir to the Dreadfort, Lord Domeric Bolton. He was wearing a dark doublet. A flay man was stitched into the cloth in dark red, while drops of pale red were peppered around the infamous Bolton blazon.
Myrcella could almost hear the flayed man's ghoulish scream. She wasn't sure how she could eat looking at such a thing throughout their meal. She turned away from it to see he had finished greeting his betrothed, and had made his way across the table, sitting opposite of Sansa.
His dark eyes were looking at her, but his expression remained guarded.
"Lord Domeric," she replied in kind, "Your name has been the talk of the capital."
"My name?" Domeric asked, "Or the name the people have given me?"
"The names may be different, but your deeds are the same," Myrcella pointed out.
"You are most kind, Princess," Domeric said in a tone that was neither kind nor unkind.
A servant came forward presenting them with the first course. It was a salad of green beans, onions, and beets.
"My father said we should start without him," Sansa told them, "And he hoped to join us when he could."
"Then we shall honor Lord Stark's request," Myrcella said politely.
"I heard your brother is sick, Princess."
"He is," Myrcella looked up from her plate to see Domeric was looking at her. She resisted the urge to shudder at the eerie feeling she felt building in her tummy at his dark eyes.
He gave no smile. No look of approval came to his expression at hearing her brother was ill. No satisfaction could be gleaned from his eyes. He may as well have been wearing a mask of pale stone.
"A pity," Sansa said politely.
"Some would call it that," Myrcella said, before stabbing the greens on her plate. She was surprised by her boldness. She wasn't the only one judging from the look Sansa had given her. Myrcella took a bite of her green beans. The sprinkling of salt on it improved the otherwise bland taste.
"It's a cruel lesson from the gods to remind us of our frailty," Domeric observed softly. "One that even Princes must learn."
She could not blame him or Sansa for not taking the news of her brother's illness with sympathy. Myrcella remembered her brother's horrid behavior at the feast, bold on drink with his insults at Domeric's expense. Her brother treated him, an heir to a powerful house like a servant.
Domeric did nothing when Joffrey had taken his drinks. There was no annoyance or anger as he was being belittled by the Crown Prince in front of the most powerful nobles throughout the realm. He hadn't looked surprised by her brother's actions. It was as if he had been expecting Joffrey to take the drink from him.
"Forgive my absence," Lord Stark entered the Small Hall abruptly.
Myrcella's thoughts snapped back to the present as she turned her head in his direction. She and the others were quick to stand at the entrance of the King's Hand, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and her future good father, Lord Stark.
"Please sit," he insisted. He was wearing grey wool, the Hand's pin attached to it, and he wore a direwolf brooch clasped at his collar.
"We only just started, Father."
"Good, so I haven't missed much," he sounded relieved, but also tired. "I'm glad you followed my instructions and started without me."
A servant came forth to bring him his first course and drink. He thanked the servant, but made no move for the food, instead drank from his glass. "I hope you may forgive my delay, Princess."
"Of course, Lord Hand," Myrcella assured him, "I understand the responsibilities and burdens that fall on you in helping to run the realm. My father is very thankful to have you at the capital."
His grey eyes looked at her, and he gave her a small, but warm smile. "You are too kind, Princess."
She felt relief swell within at receiving such a response from her future good father. Her nerves were still gnawing at her and to get such a friendly reaction from the usual solemn Lord Stark gave her a needed boost in confidence.
"I assure you that such delays are not permitted in Winterfell by my Lady Wife," Lord Stark smiled, his tone was warm at the mention of his wife, who he clearly cherished.
Myrcella had never heard Father use such a tone when describing Mother. She felt a pang in her chest and moved to take a small sip from her glass of iced water.
Before their conversation could resume and for their dinner to truly begin now that they were all seated, the doors to the Small Hall opened. Showing a man who Myrcella recognized as Lord Stark's Steward, Vayon Poole.
"My Lord Hand," he bowed.
"Council business can wait," Lord Stark sounded tired, "Until after I eat with my family."
"This isn't Council business, my Lord Hand," Steward Poole said delicately, "A man from the Night's Watch is here to see you."
"Very well," Lord Stark didn't make to get up. "House Stark has long been friends with the Night's Watch. Give him a good room and a warm meal and I'll see to him in the morning and let him have his pick of the dungeons."
"My Lord Hand," The steward shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "He isn't alone. Jon Snow is with him."