A/N: Wow, so this story is now over one thousand reviews. A milestone, I never thought this story would reach when I started writing it. Thanks to everyone out there who's taken the time to leave a review. It really means a lot to me. As well as to those who consistently leave one, chapter after chapter seeing your names and seeing you're still with this story and enjoying it is a treat. So thank you.

And since we reached such an impressive milestone, I thought your support should be rewarded with another fast update. Enjoy.

Our Blades Are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

38: Myrcella

"Are you certain about this?"

"Yes," Myrcella mustered what waning patience she had to answer this question from Ser Arys for what felt like the tenth time since she told him of her choice.

"Very well," the Kingsguard knight accepted, "But your mother will not be pleased."

"I'm aware of that," Myrcella dismissed the threat of her mother.

It had been carefully, but quickly put together. Myrcella had instructed a few barrels of ale be brought down to the dungeon as a reward to the guards, turnkeys, and gaoler for their loyal work to the crown. Picking a time when much of the court including her brother and mother were distracted with plans for a coronation and the ceremonies that followed where her presence wouldn't be missed.

The plan so far was met with complete success. Those assigned to the dungeon was already understaffed, key positions never being filled, and now those that were stationed were enjoying complimentary ale. Drinking and toasting to her brother, whom they believed gifted it to them due to his pending coronation. A simple, but believable ruse, she had hoped, and it was working. Even still, they went down the steps of the dungeon, concealed nonetheless to look like servants and with some haste as to not be stopped or bothered before they reached their destination.

The Black cells, Myrcella was determined to see Lord Stark. She owed it to the man, whom her father loved, and who was to be her good father. What sort of person would I be if I did nothing while he suffered? She knew the answer to that question and was determined not to become it. He's been good to me, showing her more kindness then her own mother since he arrived to the capital. If I can return just a portion of it in this one act, I will.

Ser Arys was not alone in his reservations or in her company, Lord Commander Barristan walked with her, and though he did not say it, she knew he too disagreed with this plan. She looked to her left where Ser Barristan walked beside her. He didn't look like the most famous swordsman in all of Westeros in plain clothes, but an old servant. That any guard or servant would walk past without second thought or suspicion.

He follows me out of loyalty, she knew, and guilt, from unable to save her father against the boar.

When it had been time to speak her plan to them, she knew they'd be against it, but she would see it through despite their judgment. She was relieved to see that they did not inform her mother or her brother about it.

The way I see it, princess, Ser Barristan had said, is a princess doing charity to bless her people in the Light of the Seven and tending to the man who is to be her good father.

She had smiled then at his words knowing it meant she had his support. Ser Arys, her sworn shield followed his Lord Commander's example.

Her thoughts interrupted as they passed a pair of turnkeys with horns of ale in their hands, drinking to Joffrey's health, they didn't spare them a look as they went down the flight of stairs that would take them to the third floor and their destination-The Black Cells.

The infamous level of the Red Keep. This was where the vilest and dangerous criminals were sent. The light which had already been poor as they made their descent was even worse now, dimly lit, she could barely see more than five feet ahead of her.

"Careful," Ser Barristan laid a hand on her arm to stop her movement, "I should go first," he advised, taking a step forward, "Follow my movement."

"Very well," glancing around the weakly lit and foul-smelling area, she felt safer following him. "Ser Arys," she turned to her faithful knight, "you will stay here to alert or deter any intruders."

He looked to Ser Barristan who nodded, "As you command, Princess," He bowed his head and took up a post to stand watch within the shadows.

She and Ser Barristan continued on their way.

This is where my future good father rots, Myrcella smelt excrement among other repulsive odors that made her tummy rumble. She feared she may empty her stomach right there before they reached his cell.

"Halt," A voice called out in front of them. It was harsh and coarse. "Who goes there?"

Oh no! panic seized her at being stopped, having believed they had tricked all of the jailers. We're so close, she could see Lord Stark's cell.

"We've come to see, Lord Stark," Barristan answered, extending his hand which was carrying the torch to see a jailor was staring at them. A portly, unshaven man, with a scarred face, and dark stubble. He was wearing a spiked steel cap, a leather half cape, mail over boiled leather, with a dirk and sword at his waist.

"No visitors," he barked, "Orders from the king."

Her heart sunk at his curt dismissal, she remained behind Barristan, but she noticed his eyes flickering towards her. When their eyes met, she held her breath, hoping he wouldn't recognize her. He lingered on her, searching her face, and in that heartbeat, a flicker of recognition came to Myrcella. I've seen him before, she realized, but where?

"We got different orders," Barristan's voice pulled the gaoler's attention away from her. "The king sent ale to his servants as a show of gratitude for their loyal service."

"How thoughtful of him," The man's eyes were on him. "I've heard of this generous gift."

"Then why haven't you partaken?" Barristan asked, "You wouldn't want to insult our king?"

"No, I would not," he answered slowly, "But nor do I want it known that Lord Stark has had visitors."

"No one will know," Barristan insisted, "No one has seen us."

"Oh?" Amusement spread through his coarse voice, an unfamiliar look passed his expression, she thought it was reflective, but it was hard to tell as the man's face was now partly hidden in shadows and his scars made it even more difficult to decipher.

She wanted to step closer to not only gage his expression, but to study his face which tugged at the back of her mind as if she should know who he was. She got her chance when he bobbed his head forward, his face moved into the light, and in the glow, Myrcella had her answer, giving a gasp when it came to her-"Varys."

Barristan looked bewildered by her gasp and declaration turning from her then to the jailor, who took her word without even a flinch. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard put his hand on the pommel of his sword.

Myrcella waited and watched the gaoler who seemed unphased by the attention or the unspoken threat from Ser Barristan. She was certain the quick minded and cunning Eunuch was considering all his options in the silence that stretched on for heartbeats between them.

"Princess," He inclined his head, his voice no longer coarse or low, but what she recognized from his time in court, "And Ser Barristan," He turned to the knight, "No need for that," he tittered, "We're all friends of King Joffrey, aren't we?"

"Why are you here, Varys?" Myrcella looked at the eunuch she thought she knew, his plump cheeks hidden by some sort of mummery beard and scars, powdered head hidden beneath his spike cap, trading away his silks and lavender scent for a gaoler outfit and cudgel. In seeing him before her, she could only wonder of how many more disguises he had, and how often he used them to sneak about within the Red Keep.

"I could ask you the same thing, Princess," hearing his higher pitched voice coming from the bearded and scarred jailor made for an odd sight. "Coming to see the man who tried to depose your brother and steal his crown?"

"That's not true!" Myrcella hissed, she couldn't believe the accusations against the man who was to be her good father. "Lord Stark loved my father," she argued, "He must have had a reason," she paused, seeing how Varys sent a look of pity, and delivering a gentle, and condescending tsk at her words.

"When I heard of this gift being given to the men of the dungeons, and servants of the crown," Varys smiled through his stubble, "I had to see this extraordinary act of generosity."

Of course, she should've known better then to think she could deceive the lord who was known as the Master of Whisperers. "You are well informed, Lord Varys."

He giggled, bowing low, "I must be, if I want to keep my head, Princess." When he straightened up, his eyes held a hue to them, "Now, what to do about this?"

Myrcella saw though the glint and the casual tone, "A secret for a secret, Lord Varys," She offered, "Mother would be cross with me for sneaking here," she admitted, "But how would she act if she learned of your disguises," Myrcella gestured to the one he was currently in. "She wouldn't be pleased at such deception as well as costing you a certain advantage if enemies were to look more closely at those who they dealt with."

"Well done, Princess," Varys acknowledged, hands clasped together, in front of him, tilting his head to her in deference, "What am I but a spider in the path of a lion?" His voice lilted in amusement.

"Do we have an agreement?"

"Princess," Varys sounded insulted, "I live to serve," he bowed low, "You have your audience with the prisoner and my silence."

"I won't forget this," Myrcella assured him.

"Figures to find a spider in such a dark pit," Barristan muttered, eyes on the retreating Varys who went to the jailor's post.

She pulled on the Lord Commander's arm to get his attention. He turned to look at her, "Stay here."

"Aye, princess," He handed her the bag he had been carrying. "Be quick," he urged her, "We shouldn't dwell here."

"I will be," Myrcella took up the silently offered torch from Barristan and stepped inside the cell. Her heartbeat quickened when she heard the door closed behind her. It's alright, she tried to calm the nervousness that was gnawing in her tummy.

I knew that could happen, she reminded, Barristan is still out there and will open the door when I'm ready. With that, she stepped forward, torch in hand, eyes ahead, she made a conscious effort not to look at the ground. Not wanting to know what it was she was stepping in, and was already prepared to toss and burn everything she was wearing for this visit.

"Who's there?" cried out a voice, rough and cracking.

Myrcella's heart quivered upon hearing the weak voice of Lord Eddard Stark. She moved forward, waving the torch as she went, and it was then that she spotted him, unkept and dirtied. He looked like a criminal or a street urchin and not the man she knew as the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. "It's me, Lord Stark," she answered, her voice pulled his eyes towards her.

He looked at her as if he didn't believe she was there. "Myrcella?" He sounded mystified.

"Yes."

"How did you get here?" He asked, mouth agape, still looking as if he didn't think she was real. "How did V-Rugen," he cleared his throat, changing whatever he was going to say mid-sentence.

"Rugen?" She repeated, before realizing that must be Varys' alias for when he posed as the gaoler for the Black Cells. Judging by his hasty correction, Lord Stark also knew the true identity of his jailer, while also trying to shield the sensitive information from her.

"He let me see you." She put the torch in a holder so she didn't have to hold it. Placing in a spot to the right and above Lord Stark's head, where she got a grisly look at the former Hand of the King. His face was pale, dark rings had formed under his grey eyes, his beard had grown disheveled. He looked flushed in the light, beads of sweat trickling down his brow.

"You shouldn't have come," he told her, "It isn't safe," he shook his head, "If your mother finds out."

"She'll punish me," Myrcella shrugged off his concern, "A few days alone in my room for this act." She looked closer towards him, "A trade I wouldn't hesitate to make," she moved to put a hand on his cheek to confirm her growing fear. His skin was hot to the touch. He had a fever.

"I brought you some things," she wanted to put aside her concern for his poor condition until her eyes settled on his bandaged leg to see the dirt, dried blood that had coated it. It hasn't been cleaned since he was thrown down here, she discovered, believing the condition of his leg was probably the cause of his fever.

What good is a prisoner who dies before judgment? What good is a hostage who cannot be used? The questions came to her mind, hearing them in the voice of her grandfather, the fearsome, Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, and Warden of the West. She hated the callousness in the tone or the words used to describe Lord Stark, but even then, she couldn't deny the wisdom in the observations.

We have a chance for peace, but my brother is too foolish to seize it. Sadly, Myrcella wasn't surprised at her brother's behavior, and not for the first time had she wished the gods had shown better wisdom to have made Tommen, not Joffrey the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

She put aside Lord Stark's poor condition since she could do nothing for him now, and opened her bag to where she could help him. She pulled out a loaf of bread she had gotten from the kitchens.

"I wasn't sure if they were feeding you," handing it to him, seeing the hungry look in his eyes that resembled more wolf than man.

"Why?" Lord Stark asked her, in between large and noisy bites.

"You are to be my good father," She reminded him, "I-I had to do something."

His eyes widened at her answer, and coughing followed, sounding as if he was choking on the food.

"Lord Stark!" Myrcella went to pat his back, fearing she may accidentally kill the man she came to help.

"I'm fine," he coughed, after heaving up part of the bread, "Forgive me," he mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. His sleeve was dirty and grimy, but Myrcella didn't comment on it, nor did she comment on the rancid smell that wafted in the room. Her stomach lurched. "I brought this too," she handed over a waterskin from the bag.

He put the bread in his lap, uncorked the waterskin, and drank greedily from it, water slipped down his cheeks and chin onto his shirt. Watching him drink, she hoped most of it was going to his stomach and not his shirt. After several gulps, he pulled it away, a sigh of relief escaped his wet lips,

"You still shouldn't have come," He grumbled. "I am a traitor, didn't you hear?" There was a dark dry edge to his tone.

She ignored his protests. "I don't believe it," she argued. "My father trusted you." She noticed how his eyes looked down at her words, was it shame that flickered across his tired, dirty face? Remorse? She wasn't certain. "You were deceived," she put forward, trying to find an excuse to justify what had happened. She needed it be something else.

Mother and Joffrey couldn't be right, she wouldn't believe it. The honorable Lord Stark trying to steal the throne? Her father's truest friend who he considered his brother, who had fought together to remove the Targaryens from the crown, would not commit these acts that he was accused of. The man who showed her more kindness and respect than either her mother or her older brother. It would be some cruel jape by the gods that made Joffrey right and Lord Stark wrong.

"Myrcella," he sounded tired, elbows resting on his legs, slouching forward, weary and defeated.

"Have you heard the news?" Myrcella interrupted, not wanting to see him like this, not wanting to focus on his downtrodden demeanor or hear his confession. "Your son is calling the banners of the north."

"Robb?" Ned snapped his head up at that, for the first time in their meeting there was life behind those grey eyes. "He's trying to save me." His tone a mixture of wistfulness and pride.

"It's my fault," Myrcella suddenly confessed, eyes watering, while the cold fingers of guilt clutched her heart.

"What?" He blinked at her in confusion, "No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is," she argued, feeling the tears down her cheeks. "I wrote to him," she hiccupped, "Told him to come to the capital," she bit down a sob, "Bend the knee to my brother," She hated herself every day since she wrote that letter, "They made me," she added, but the excuse sounded hollow to her ears. "I wrote it all the same."

"Hush, child," Lord Stark's voice was soft and calming. His hand reached out to pat her arm, "You are not responsible for this," he squeezed her arm, "Any of this. Robb cares for you, he would know the truth behind your words, and whose voice you really wrote in."

His words were a soothing balm to her nagging guilt that festered in her chest. She wiped away tears, "Thank you, Lord Stark," she felt the words were empty as here he was rotting in a cell because of her family.

"Come on," She urged a wild and sudden idea springing to her mind, "I can get you out of here," She moved to grab his arm. Clinging as desperately to him as she did to the thought that this plan would work.

"No," His voice was firm, "You will not."

His tone punctured her self-induced delusion. Suddenly feeling foolish at her lapse in madness, she dropped her hand from his arm. Embarrassed at her desperation, thinking she could lead Lord Stark out of here like one of the heroes in her stories. Her face burned hot and she dipped her head.

"I will not have you risk your life for mine," His voice softened, "On some well-intentioned, but poorly thought out escape," his eyes met hers, "My choices led me here." He sighed, "But I will not forget this unexpected kindness from you," and for the first time he smiled at her. "Now, go," he turned his side to her, dismissing her, "I do not want to see you here again."

"I'll find away, Lord Stark," she vowed to him, "I'll set this right."

"Dismissed?"

The Princess had elected not to attend her brother's first day of presiding at court. Unsure if she could stomach seeing him atop the Iron Throne, his greedy green eyes, his smug look, with his smirk looking down at all of them. Just the thought of it was enough to make her nauseous. Her decision to not attend had made her mother mad, but that had cooled quickly enough as she was more concerned for Joffrey on this day then any ailment, Myrcella may have had which she had used as her excuse to stay away.

"Aye, Princess," Arys confirmed grimly, "Dismissed."

"H-how?" Myrcella asked, "H-how is that possible?" She knew the history of the Kingsguard well enough to know that it was a sworn brotherhood, with vows that only death could relieve.

"By orders of the King and the Small Council," Arys looked ashen. "They deemed him too old," A flicker of regret came over his face, "And his inability to save King Robert."

What a fine start to kingship you've shown us brother, she thought bitterly, this news confirming her fears in regards to Joffrey's new hold on true power.

"They were unkind," Arys hesitated, posture stiff, face taut, "They mocked him, and I laughed," he spat, mouth twisted, "He was a mentor to me, and I did nothing to defend him." He ducked his head in shame. "I did not mean it," he said more to himself in trying to defend his inaction, "A shame I can never forgive," he shook his head, "I've sullied my cloak." He gripped his milk colored cloak, eyes on it as if expecting dark blemishes to sprout upon the white fabric.

In her mind's eye, all she could see was Ser Barristan being ridiculed and put in disgrace by this unprecedented move by her brother. She pushed those disheartening thoughts away, knowing she needed to guide Arys out of his self induced melancholy.

"You could not have changed my brother's mind," Myrcella tried her best to comfort her knight, "You are of the kingsguard. You do not have a voice to go against the King or the Small Council."

He looked as if her words hadn't been said. Too caught up in his guilt and anger at what he didn't do to listen to her.

Myrcella didn't press her opinion, knowing he was too distracted and determined to stew in his guilt. So she kept her silence, mulling over this unforeseen move. Tommen will have to be comforted, she knew how much her younger brother adored the Lord Commander. This would devastate him.

I didn't even get to say goodbye, tears filled her eyes at the realization. Will I ever see him again? Someone she had known all her life, who was a stable presence which she had relied on, and now he was gone.

Leaving her to now think back at the last time she had been with Ser Barristan. It had been two days ago when she had visited Lord Stark in the Black Cells. Where Varys had discovered them...

That disquieted her. Looking at his dismissal in a new light, and leaving her to wonder if this was her brother's work or someone else's, like a Spider.

A warning to her? She wasn't sure, but regardless it didn't sit well with her. She knew something had to be done before she suspected Varys' role in Ser Barristan's dismissal. The decisions Joffrey were making were disconcerting. And it was clear that her mother wasn't going to do anything to stop him, so Myrcella realized it was falling on her to shield her and Tommen before their brother could ruin them.

That left her wondering what she could do. That was when the idea came to her.

I may not have the power, she thought, but I know who does.