Elissa had been troubled by her bad foot since before the royal party had returned to King's Landing. It had taken stern orders from her father to make her rest, and a disapproving letter from her far-away grandmother in Dorne to make her accept the care of the maesters.
"I don't see the need for such fuss," she grumbled, tipping her head over the back of her couch while a maid rubbed a greasy salve into her ankle and foot. Myrcella had never known anything Maester Pycelle offered to do any good to Elissa's leg, and she knew that Ser Aron had kept little faith in the Grand Maester since his failure to alleviate Liss' suffering when they were children - Myrcella could not blame him for that. This, though, had come from the Spottswood, with that same disapproving letter from Liss' grandmother, and there would be no peace until Lady Arna was satisfied that it had been used. "My leg is short, and there's naught to be done for it. No lotions or potions will stretch it out to match the other."
"Stop being so realistic and relish the tender care, Elissa," Rosa chided, smoothing down Elissa's hair as she passed. "Your papa worries for you - there are many greater sins in this world than a parent's love."
Myrcella did not look up from her hoop, afraid of what might show on her face. She could not imagine her lord father taking enough notice of her to worry for her health unless it threatened her betrothal to Robb Stark. No matter that he loved her better than he did Joffie or Tommen - and he did, of that she was certain - he would leave her to her mother's care unless her ill health infringed on some scheme or plot of his own. Myrcella could still remember Elissa's illness, when they were children, and remembered well how much trouble Ser Aron had caused at the time. He had abandoned his duties to oversee her care, and it had taken Ser Barristan's intervention to prevent the King from stripping him of his position.
Neither Myrcella's father nor her mother would ever do such a thing, not for her or Tommen. Her lady mother might for Joff, but not for her other children.
Rosamund returned at last to her seat at Myrcella's side, leaning close enough that their shoulders pressed together for just a moment, a silent comfort. Myrcella loved Rosa very much, but sometimes she hated her, too. It was too dangerous to be transparent at court, and Rosa had always been able to see right through her. That was the trouble with having grown up together, her and Rosa and Myri and Liss - there could be no secrets between them, not truly.
"Have you had any word from the cobbler?" Myrielle asked, in one of the brief flashes of heart she saved for Liss, because a lame Dornish girl could be no competition to a Lannister, and for Joff, because poor Myri truly seemed to think he might choose her as his Queen someday. "If we can source those shoes the Lyseni woman recommended, it might help some."
"I am quite satisfied with my crutches, as I have told you a thousand times," Elissa said, even as she reached out to squeeze Myri's hand. "But Papa has enquired with a number of cobblers, I promise, and if he has any success you will be the first to know."
Myrcella still did not look up from her hoop. She had always had septas and maids to see to her needs, and could not imagine what it would be like to have parents who took such a keen interest in her well-being. Perhaps such things were not to be, not among such lofty personages as kings and lords paramount.
But does Margaery's father not dote on her? she thought, miserable. Does Lord Stark not share his evening meal with sweet Sansa every day? Myrcella could not remember when last she had shared a meal alone with her father. Dining with her mother usually brought Uncle Jaime's company as well, which meant her lady mother's attention was consumed utterly. Only Tommen was still forced to endure their mother's table every evening, and Myrcella would soon be free of dining with Lord Tywin's children forever, away from oblivious Uncle Jaime and cutting Uncle Tyrion, sitting on either side of her mother while she seethed.
She wondered what it would be like to dine at Winterfell without the King in attendance. She could not imagine Lady Stark limiting Myrcella's plate for fear she might gain an inch on her waist.
"Needless to say I won't be dancing after Lord Stark's tourney," Elissa said, the wry turn of her smile drawing a little laughter. "I rather think it's Lady Sansa who will be stealing away your partners, my dears. Such an exciting little thing, isn't she?"
That finally drew Myrcella's head up. None of them really knew what to make of Sansa Stark just yet, who was so sweet and open, but who had so little interest in forging a true place for herself at court. It was so very strange, even knowing that she would not be staying more than a year or two, to see someone who seemed not to understand that politics could not be ignored - whether she was foolish or brave was yet to be determined. Even with that, though, her delicate, simple manners were hardly exciting, no matter how polite and pretty she was. Myrcella was sure that she would not be the centre of things, not once Joff's little friends had been in their cups.
"Don't be jealous, Cella," Margaery called from across the room. "A girl as pretty as Lady Sansa is bound to draw eyes upon her arrival - they'll remember your golden charms soon enough."
"Why should I be jealous of the girl who will soon by my goodsister?" Myrcella said, hoping no blush would betray her. "Lady Sansa-"
"Is prettier than most of us," Margaery pointed out, winking one bright eye. "And a novelty, and the Hand's own daughter - do you think an ambitious young man will consider her precious betrothal a true impediment? She'll be inundated with requests for her company."
"Whether or not she condescends to share her company is something else entirely," Myrielle said, rolling her eyes. She more than anyone disliked Sansa, likely because of Joff's strange fascination with her - if anyone was jealous of Sansa's prettiness, it was surely Myri! Myrcella was confident in her own beauty, sure that her resemblance to her lady mother would put her ahead of any company. "She's very snobbish, I think - has she accepted a single invitation from any one of us? Not since the day the dressmakers took her measurements."
"Perhaps she's shy," Rosa said mildly, rolling her eyes for everyone's benefit but Myrielle's. "Not everyone can have your bottomless confidence, Myri. Some of us are more aware of our shortcomings, and Lady Sansa must surely feel the gulf between her manners and ours."
"I thought her manners more than sufficient," Margaery said, tone a little sharper than Myrcella really thought was fair - of course there was a difference between Lady Sansa and themselves, because Winterfell couldn't aspire to King's Landing's grandeur, and the steward's daughter who served as her companion was hardly comparable to Myrcella's ladies. Lady Sansa's care with her words and her sharp eye for the offences of others would serve her well, no doubt, but she had a long way to go before she would match.
But mayhaps that was not such a terrible thing. Myrcella had prettier manners than anyone else in the city, and she could hardly wait to escape. That might have spoken more to her family than to court itself, but it could be exhausting. It could have been that Lady Sansa was right to hold herself at arm's length.
"Will you dance, Cella?" Elissa asked, giving Margaery the most curious look. "I have wondered if some of your most ardent admirers will persist, even against your coming change of status."
Cousin Lancel certainly would not be deterred, no doubt just as confident as Myrcella privately was that her lord grandfather would dislike both her betrothal and Lord Stark's appointment as Hand. Yes, her lord grandfather had assumed that the Handship would be his upon Lord Arryn's passing, and rightly so - there was no man in Westeros who had done more for the realm, in all his long years of service. Of course his infamous pride was wounded by having been passed over for the sake of boyhood friendship when he had sheer incomparable competence to offer. Lord Tywin's disapproval was not lightly borne, not even by the King, and Myrcella had been wondering what concessions her father would have to give her grandfather to salve the sting of allowing him no say in her future. No doubt she would be overrun with Westermen, all driven by a quiet suggestion from Uncle Kevan that perhaps the princess should be discouraged from her Northern match, or a teasing jape from Aunt Genna about the suitability of a savage bridegroom for a bride of such paramount blood.
Lord Tywin was a man who caught all attempts at injury and returned them threefold, and Myrcella worried constantly what that would mean for her lord father - even without her lady mother's efforts, Lord Tywin's influence was a magnificent thing, and Myrcella wanted to be sure of her future before he could crush it.
If Lord Tywin brought enough pressure to bear against the King, Myrcella might well lose her chance to share in Robb Stark's warm smile against all that cold. It all depended on the King keeping his word, but Robert Baratheon had left much of his spine at the Trident, and it was easier to talk him out of things than to talk him in. It would not take much for Myrcella to find herself with a cousin whose face matched hers as closely as her mother and Uncle Jaime's, or the son of some esteemed, ancient House who had paid Lord Tywin the right lipservice, who would be as suitable a husband for her as her lord father was for her lady mother.
And he would not have that warm smile, against all that cold.
She was more perturbed than she would ever admit to anyone, even to Liss, by the thought of Lord Tywin's intervention. They had not been long at Winterfell, but even with Ser Arys sticking to her like a limpet, she had taken enough of a measure of her betrothed to know that she liked him. Even her mother, who hated the Starks for no apparent reason, could say little truly bad of them, and if even Cersei Lannister could speak no ill of a man, then that surely meant that Lord Stark was equal to his reputation. Surely such a man would raise his son in his image?
No matter. If something prevented her marriage to Robb Stark, Myrcella would make the best of her lot as her mother had not. If it went ahead, she would do the same. That was as much control as she could hope to exert over her future. If she used her power wisely, she could perhaps create a kinder childhood for her own children than she or Tommen had been allowed.
"Still with us, cousin?"
Cerenna's perfect face appeared over Myrcella's shoulder, the satiny spill of her hair framing a beauty that even the Queen envied - if only Cerenna had the sense to make use of her face. She was truly gorgeous, and had a nature sweet enough to tempt even the sourest of men, but her head was utterly, utterly empty. Myrcella could not imagine another woman in the world so vacant as Cerenna Lannister. Daven and Myrielle had been blessed with all the wits in that house, that was certain.
"I am here, Renna," Myrcella promised her, kissing her pearly-pink cheek. No matter how stupid Cerenna might have been, it was the cardinal sin of the maidenvault to upset her. "For as long as you will have me."
Cerenna rewarded her with a beaming smile, prettier than the Maiden herself, and rambled away - perfectly beautiful, but as clever and graceful as a duck on land. It was only fair.
"You do seem somewhat absent, Cella," Rosa murmured, knocking their crossed feet together without ever looking away from Myrielle, away across the room, here and there but never near to Margaery. "Trouble, cousin?"
"Always, dear," Myrcella said, smiling a little. "But not for now. Come, the dressmakers are due back this evening - did you decide on your sleeves?"
The dressmakers did indeed arrive, bringing with them the gowns they all had ordered for Lord Stark's tourney. Myrcella was under strict orders from her lady mother to wear red or green, and so she had ordered the pale pink she had always favoured. It put roses in her cheeks, and the thread-of-gold embroidery was her favourite. Her lord father had once told her she looked very pretty in a pink gown, when she was a little girl, and while she had outgrown the delusion that he would ever think to compliment her again, she had retained her preference for pink - nothing else suited her quite so well save green, which was so much her mother's colour that she hated to wear it most of the time.
"You should wear a lower cut," one of the Tyrells said from somewhere behind her. "I'd wear a lower cut if I had teats like yours, Marg."
Margaery's gown was an exquisite thing, as usual - a rich dark blue, like the Sea God in Myrcella's tapestry, simple to the point of plainness but cut so perfectly to her shape that it seemed far lovelier than Myrcella's more ornate choice. Margaery's taste was unparalleled, subtle in a way Myrcella never quite managed, and a surprisingly effective balance against Renly's exuberance.
Margaery rarely wore a low cut gown such as those Myrcella's mother favoured, even though she did have a lovely figure. Myrcella usually refused such things solely because her mother favoured them, her mother and the sort of women her father took to bed.
She did like a low back, though. It felt more elegant, a tease, to wear her hair down and have the pale skin of her shoulders peek through the gold. It left all her many suitors without the option of speaking to her breasts, too, when they attempted to flirt.
Would Robb Stark have looked at her breasts while they walked the walls of Winterfell, had she worn less sensible gowns? She did not know. She did not think she would have minded, had he leered just a little.
"You should wear your hair up, Cella," Myrielle said, gathering Myrcella's curls into a loose twist at her nape. "It makes you look very elegant. Like a swan, almost."
"Or a goose," Myrcella said, sharing a rare, genuine smile with Myri. She had always hated wearing her hair pinned back because she had the misfortune of having inherited her father's big ears, and hated to draw attention to them. "What of you, Myrielle? Are you well satisfied?"
Myrielle's gown was, of course, crimson velvet, utterly gorgeous and far too heavy for the sticky humidity that had descended on the city these past few days. Myri was slim to the point of skinny, something Myrcella had always been jealous of, and was able to get away with more daring gowns than most because she had so little bosom to display. If only she were as sweet as Cerenna, or as clever as Rosamund - as it was, Myrielle had bare ambition and an eye for weakness, and when she wasn't making a nuisance of herself Myrcella sometimes felt a little sorry for her. The second daughter of even a cadet branch of a family like House Lannister could do well for herself, if she played her lord's games, but Myrielle had neither the subtlety nor the will that Myrcella's lord grandfather preferred. She was too obvious, reaching for things not hers without the strength of arm or character to claim them.
Nothing was outside Lord Tywin's reach. A shame that so many cousins had failed to understand that his reach was not theirs.
"Renly is thinking of having a little party, the night after the final joust," Margaery said, holding a narrow length of embroidered silk against the dark blue of her gown. No doubt she would make a crown of it in her perfect chestnut curls for the tourney, and all her cousins would mirror it, if plainly. Myrcella could only dream of having such exacting control over her cousins, but Lannisters were fiercer beasts than the roses of Highgarden, and would not be so easily tamed.
"Isn't there to be a feast, Marg?" Elissa called from her comfortable seat in the window. The view was grim, as all views were from the maidenvault, but it was the best seat in Myrcella's solar all the same. "I can't imagine the King will be pleased if Lord Renly and all his friends slip away for a jollier time."
"I can't imagine that Lord Renly will care," Lady Lanna said tartly, halfways to a Martell banner with the fall of her bright hair against her dark orange silks. Everyone would laugh if Myrcella said that, save for Elissa, who knew well how the Reachers hated her and the Lannisters looked down on her, and so Myrcella said nothing. Cruelty and cutting had their places, but not at Liss' expense. "When has the King's censure ever stopped him? If his brothers feared him, then Stannis would not be squirrelled away on Dragonstone in a sulk."
"If the King's disapproval mattered so much," Rosa murmured, drifting past in a cloud of pale turquoise, "then Lord Tywin would not be squirrelled away at the Rock in a sulk, either."
"I think perhaps it is not for us to think too hard on my uncles' motivations, Lady Jast," Myrcella said firmly, ignoring how Rosa's assessment stung. Lord Tywin was not a man to sulk.
For now, it would be best to make nice with Renly - no trial. He had grown in influence with her father this past year or so, ever since his betrothal to Margaery. Not so much that he could turn the tide of the King's behaviour, not when even Lord Arryn's cool, capable hands had failed to guide that tiller, but enough to shift the make up of his household. Lord Dondarrion particularly had been a victory for Uncle Renly, for his permanent appointment to the KIng's household had ousted… Robbie Brax, if she recalled correctly.
She usually did. It would not have done to forget slights done by her parents. She had learned that a soothing word and a sympathetic ear could earn all sorts of forgiveness on the King and Queen's behalf, but to do so meant keeping a catalogue of all the many insults her parents dealt without meaning to or caring about it. She usually relied on Uncle Renly's help in such things, but given he had been so involved in House Brax's displeasure, well, she was quite without help. She could only suppose that her lord grandfather had offered some balance, to take the sting out of Ser Robert's removal from court, and marked it as another debt she owed him.
"There are always parties after the feast," Myrcella said, trying to appear as unaffected as possible. She had not considered it, but with the Tyrells behind him it would not be impossible that Renly might consider himself a suitable Hand for her lord father. Myrcella couldn't say one way or the other if he might be good at it - certainly he was clever enough, and so inured to her father's temper and violence that he might be better suited than anyone to work with the King. But the realm did not need someone who indulged the King. The realm needed someone to control him. Lord Stark seemed to be making a good start of it, shaming Myrcella's father into behaving at least a touch better than usual, but she did not think he had the taste for politics needed to survive in the Tower of the Hand for very long.
If Renly was throwing parties, that might well serve to make more friends for him. Renly was by far the most popular of House Baratheon among the younger set, who seemed not so far off becoming the lords of Westeros in their own right, instead of just bearing their fathers' names in the capital. It would not be difficult for him to build on that popularity, and if he promised to take the burdensome business of ruling from her father's weary shoulders, well, he would be King in all but name.
Until Father drinks and eats and whores himself to death, and Joffie takes the throne.
Gods be good, she was turning into her lady mother. Renly had given her no reason to mistrust him so, Margaery had been her friend for many years, and her father, while not healthy, exactly, was still a far distance from his deathbed. Her grandfather was not to be dismissed, true, but in the Seven Kingdoms of House Baratheon, was House Lannister really so all-powerful as Lord Tywin liked to believe? There was no need for this paranoia, this misery - she would wait, and see if any evidence for her churning belly arose.
"Renly's is sure to be very fine," she said, not daring to meet Elissa's eye. If Rosa always saw through her, then Liss always saw to the heart of her, and Myrcella was not sure enough of her heart in that moment to risk sharing it with anyone. She trusted Elissa as much and more as she trusted Rosa, but even so. Openness was the next thing to weakness at court, everyone knew that.
"It will just be a quiet affair, I'm told," Margaery said airily, slipping a flash of gold into the seamstress' hand with a wink. "Just a select few friends - a sort of prelude to our wedding, where we might shorten the guest list a little."
"How very sweet of him," Elissa said, lifting her book to hide her face. "What an attentive husband he will surely make, Marg. When is the wedding, after all?"
"Just next month, as you well know," Margaery said, sticking out her tongue to the great amusement of her cousins and friends. "Do try not to be so sour, Liss, I promise I won't entirely abandon you upon my marriage - that disdain should be reserved all for our dear princess."
Aye, and wasn't that the rub. Myrcella could not wait to be away from her father's mortifying self-indulgence, could not wait to be out from under her mother's thumb, but she had never been without company - she had seen little evidence of Lady Stark keeping a personal household, and certainly her daughters had only the daughters of Winterfell's master-of-arms and steward for companions. It seemed terribly lonely, away in the wide, empty North with only her husband for company.
Then again, if they got along well enough, perhaps that would be no terrible trial.
"I will visit, probably," she said, smiling her thanks to the seamstress who'd just finished her hem. "Winterfell is not so very far away."
"I don't think many castles are further, really," Myrielle said with one of her sharp-nosed smiles. "Only that hovel sweet Sansa is bound for, I think."
"Lucky Cella," Liss said, still half-hiding behind her book. "Luckier Lady Sansa, that they should be so far away from you, Myri."
Even Lady Lanna laughed at that.
When the King decided to gather together his family so they might dine together, none of them enjoyed it. They could not say no, though, and so it was that Myrcella had to allow her maids to pile her hair up as her mother preferred, and then to follow alongside Ser Arys to her father's dining room.
It was a beautiful room, high in the Keep with wide windows looking down across the city to the Sound, and it smelled of stale ale and seemed always to echo with a recent belch. Myrcella's father had so little care for how he appeared, but when he was in good humour she could not be angry with him for it - he was always so pleased to see her.
"Hello, golden girl," Renly said, greeting her with a kiss to the cheek just inside the door. "How pretty you look this evening - you may as well remain at the door, Oakheart. She will be quite safe between myself and Lord Stark, I think."
"As you say, my lord," Ser Arys said, not even looking at Renly. He bowed at the waist to Myrcella, though, and took up position just inside the door, blank-eyed with his hand resting on his pommel. He had an unnerving ability to shut himself away, to hide all the sweetness and concern he shared with her, that frightened her just a little. She aspired to that level of control, but also wondered what Ser Arys lost every time he hid himself within his white armour.
"Marg should be here any minute," he said. "And apparently the Starks are to join us, if you can believe it."
"He has more time for Lord Stark than for any of us, uncle," she murmured. "A shame Uncle Stannis is not here to cause a row, isn't it? That might be the only thing that could stop my lord father's reminisces of his time in the Eyrie, now that he has a witness to all his tall tales on hand to corroborate his heroics."
Her lady mother and Uncle Jaime were present already, with Tommen and his kittens basking in a rare moment of attention from the King. It warmed Myrcella to see it - Tommen was largely ignored by both of their parents, dismissed at one-and-ten as useless. Their lady mother seemed certain that Tommen would inherit Storm's End, a confidence that seemed odder and odder the closer they came to Renly and Margaery's wedding, but she also seemed sure that she would rule the Stormlands through Tommen. Myrcella wished that anyone besides her could see Tommen's quick mind and strong heart, but Joffrey stole away everyone's attention and left him bereft.
"Ah!" the King cried. "There she is! Come, my girl, come here - come sit with me for dinner, my girl."
She made a point of kissing Tommen's snowy curls before dropping into a neat curtsy before her lord father. He did not seem as bleary-eyed drunk as he usually was at dinner, his hair combed and drawn back with a cord at his nape. She could not remember when last she had seen him look so well so late in the day, and leaned forward to kiss his bearded cheek without invitation. Perhaps, perhaps, having Lord Stark at court would make her lord father remember the man he had once been. Perhaps Lord Stark could be a powerful good influence on the King.
Perhaps. It was an unfair burden to lay on any man, but Myrcella could always dream. At least his good humour might make him more suggestible.
"There we are, come now," he said, wrapping a massive arm around her shoulders. He kissed her temple, clearly pleased to have her near but obviously a little at a loss as to what to do with her, now that he had her. "You are well, my girl?"
"Yes, Your Grace," she promised him. "We all are looking forward to tomorrow's excitement very much."
"Aye, well," he said, squeezing her a little and clapping a heavy hand to Tommen's shoulder. "We all will sit together on the morrow as well, yes?"
"We should be honoured, shouldn't we, Tommen?" she said, leaning around the King's bulk to smile at Tommen and ensure he was included. "I had hoped to speak with you about Tommen's training, my lord - perhaps tomorrow, while we are watching the tilting?"
"Had you indeed!" he boomed, laughing uproariously. "The boy is blessed to have a sister as attentive as you, my girl - well! Tomorrow, then, we will talk, and see if we cannot find a suitable swordsmaster for our Tommen!"
Myrcella kissed his cheek again in thanks - she had tried to raise the issue of seeing Tommen squired to someone who had the time to pay him some specific attention with her lady mother and with Uncle Jaime both, thinking that they might understand that she wanted Uncle Jaime to take Tommen as his squire. Of course they had not, or else they had and ignored her, but she knew better than anyone how to convince her father of what she wanted with a pretty smile and a sweet plea. If she was very careful, and very lucky, Tommen might be in white livery by the end of next week, squiring for Ser Barristan.
"Thank you, Your Grace!" she said, settling against his side. Renly gave her a curious look from where he was caught between Ser Mandon and Joffrey, trying to avoid both. She shrugged to him, smiling as naturally as she could when Margaery arrived, with one of her interchangeable greencloaks taking up position outside the door. "Is this our party for dinner, Your Grace?"
"As soon as Ned and his girl arrive, we'll eat," her lord father said. "You've been getting along well enough with her, I suppose? You've always made friends easily. You've that from me."
Did she make friends easily? Perhaps, but only in the same shallow way her father did. Everyone in the court loved the King, but only for as long as they stood in his favour - as soon as he grew bored of them, they rejoined the whispering masses who saw the King for the drunken sot he had become since taking the throne. Myrcella's friends seemed true enough, but she was too much her mother's daughter to trust in anyone much beyond Rosa and Elissa. It made it difficult to forge true friendship, no matter how much she might wish for it.
She had Rosa, her mirror image. She had Liss, who she sometimes thought might be to her what Ned Stark was to her lord father. But beyond that, how could she have friends when everyone around her had their own interests at heart?
"As you say, Your Grace," she said. "Lady Sansa is very sweet."
That satisfied him for now, contenting him until Lord Stark and Lady Sansa arrived and, to a chorus of bawdy roars from her lord father, they all took their seats.
Myrcella found herself foolishly annoyed by the arrangement of their party - her lord father at the head of the table, of course, but with Lord Stark to his right hand where usually the Queen sat. Beyond him was Lady Sansa, then Renly and Margaery. Myrcella found herself opposite Renly, which at least ensured her some interesting conversation, but she found herself less excited by her uncle's company than usual. She could not quite shake her concerns about this party of his, and wished suddenly for Uncle Tyrion to distract them all from their worries by raising a row with her lady mother.
The first morning of the tourney was pleasant, not quite so sticky and humid as the days had been since their return from Winterfell. Myrcella was glad she had chosen split-sleeves for her gown all the same, because she knew that the sun would be searing-hot by midday, even under the canopy over the royal box. Rosamund had chosen a dress almost identical to Myrcella's own, soft, pale turquoise blue and a little lower in the front but almost a twin all the same. Rosamund had been chosen as a child to be Myrcella's companion because of the similarity in their faces, something that had only grown more pronounced as they grew, in the hope that it might distract any would be assailants for even just a moment, and she still generally followed Myrcella's preferences even now.
Myrielle's brilliant crimson seemed sultry beside them. She looked an insufficient mirror of Myrcella's lady mother, but wealthy - no matter that her gown was bought from Myrcella's allowance, it will still draw the fortune chasers to her during the festivities later this evening.
"I wonder if anyone will ask our favours," Rosa asked, gushing mockingly at the eager flush in Myri's cheeks. "No doubt some brave young hotspur will seek yours, Cella, even in the face of your goodfather's disapproval, but what of us poor cousins?"
"I will reserve mine for Ser Arys, if my uncle will not have it," Myrcella said firmly, hiding a smile behind her cup. "What of you, Rosa? Will you not offer yours to some fine young blade, to see him to victory in the melee?"
"Oh, I am sure that I will," Rosa said, grinning widely and fluttering a little with the pretty fan of creamy silk she had brought with her this morning. Myrcella's was gold, Myrielle's black, and they had all been gifts from Elissa. Myrcella's lady mother looked down on them as Dornish follies, but they were invaluable in the sticky heat. "Perhaps someone particularly suitable will mistake me for you, and by the time I think to correct him it will be too late, and he will have ensnared a Lannisport Lannister in place of a princess of the realm."
"You are terrible, Rosa," Myrcella said, reclining easily in her seat. Her parents were not present just yet, nor her brothers, but a great many other watchers had arrived. She raised a hand in greeting to Lord Stark and Lady Sansa, and was rewarded with a brief curtsy from Lady Sansa and a smile from Lord Stark so warm, so much like Robb's, that it startled her.
Hmm. Perhaps it was not so surprising that Lord and Lady Stark had five children after all.
Lord Littlefinger was hovering nearby as well, his little book in hand, ready to coax coin from the unprepared, and Lord Varys in exquisite purple silk robes. There was Maester Pycelle, with his bag at the ready, and Margaery coming to sit with Lady Sansa. They looked very pretty together, Lady Sansa dressed pale like the dawn and Margaery in her midnight blue, and immediately Margaery drew Sansa into a conversation - abandoning poor Lord Stark to Lord Littlefinger's mercies.
Myrcella could hear her parents bickering long before she saw them, and rose to her feet before anyone else did. They were preceded by a pair of redcloaks, and arrived with matching scarlet cheeks - high tempers. Myrcella was glad that she had not inherited that from either one of them, even if Joffrey had been blessed with both.
"Good morning, Your Graces," she said, leading everyone in the stands into obeisance with a neat curtsy. "Brothers, good morning to you as well."
Tommen settled easily into the chair nearest Myrcella's, furthest from Joff's - it put him just below their lord father's left hand, and Myrcella knew from experience that the King would ruffle Tommen's hair whenever he won a bet, and that would cheer Tommen for a week or more. Myrcella kept her head down as her lady mother took her seat, knowing that the Queen would disapprove of the little bit of stain she had applied to her lips that morning until she was enough into her cups to stop noticing such things.
Joffrey, in Lannister crimson and with that stupid sword on his hip, took the seat below their father's right hand. By the time the first tilt was run, he would be complaining that he could topple any man he chose to ride against, despite having never competed - their lady mother always recommended against it, and she was the only person he seemed to listen to. Myrcella privately thought it seemed cowardly, for a Prince of Dragonstone without apparent physical impediment to refuse to take up a lance, but she knew better than to say so. Even if her lord father defended her from Joff's ire, her lady mother would never forgive her for criticising Joffrey, even if she was careful to do it privately.
"Will you be riding among the squires tomorrow, Your Highness?" Rosa asked, leaning forward between Myrcella and Tommen's shoulders. Tommen loved Rosamund, and when he was very small, he used sometimes mistake her for Myrcella - luckily, Rosa loved Tommen in return. "I should love to see you ahorse. You showed so well on the road to Winterfell."
"Not until I can squire for someone who might train me," Tommen said, looking glum. "But Cella asked Father if he would find someone to take me! He promised we could speak on it more today, didn't he, Cella?"
"He did indeed, dear one," she agreed, smoothing his curls with a grin. "So not tomorrow, but mayhap for the next tourney, and you might wear both mine and Rosa's favours."
Tommen seemed pleased enough by that, and Rosa squeezed Myrcella's shoulder. Myri was already leaning forward to try and catch Joff's eye. She would not - even Myrcella, who tried to avoid noticing such things, knew which way Joff's preferences turned and it was not to such slender beauty as Myrielle's.
"The sooner this all begins," Rosa breathed, right by Myrcella's ear, "the sooner we can be done with it."
The box creaked with the arrival of the Hound, taking up his place behind Joffrey. His arrival coincided neatly with the first of the riders' arrival on the lists, for their presentation to the King - led by the Lord Commander, then Uncle Jaime, then Ser Loras, Uncle Renly, on and on past cloaks of red and gold and white and grey and green. Ser Barristan never asked anyone's favour, but Uncle Jaime offered his lance to the Queen and was rewarded with red velvet. Ser Loras held out his hand to the waiting Margaery as he passed, laughing when she tossed a white rose wrapped about with twined green and gold ribbons, and Uncle Renly - Uncle Renly stopped before Myrcella.
"Golden girl," he said, offering her his arm. "Might I humbly beg your favour?"
Perhaps, she thought, tying a broad golden ribbon, embroidered by her own hand with the crowned stag around his arm, it is not Ser Barristan who could shape Tommen best. Perhaps it is best that at least one of us knows Storm's End.
"Always, uncle," she said, leaning over the railing to kiss his cheek, earning a great cheer from the commons across the field. "Upon whom else should I bestow it, if not you?"
He raised his arm then, the gold so very bright against the dark green plate, and roused another cheer. The commons loved Renly, who had his own coffers and those of Highgarden to draw from when he stretched out his open hand toward Flea Bottom. Myrcella wished her parents had the sense to make an occasional show of charity, even if only through almsgiving on feast days, but her lord father was too thoughtless and her lady mother too haughty.
She had tried, last year on Maiden's Day, and had had to write to her lord grandfather to beg the funds. Lord Tywin had acquiesced, much to her surprise, and the brief note he had sent with the coin had been slightly less brief than usual - an unprecedented sign of approval. She loathed owing anything to Lord Tywin, even just her thanks, but her parents had left her with no choice. Her lord father had waved her off toward Lord Littlefinger, who was a miser unless he saw personal benefit to the spending of the King's coin, and her lady mother had made no secret of thinking the commons unworthy of any sort of charity at all.
Myrcella didn't really much care about the actual giving of the alms, but she knew that for the royal family to be seen as pious and generous could only be to their benefit. It was not enough simply to toss down their leftovers, as seemed the plan with this tourney.
Poor Lord Stark , she thought, for he was plainly embarrassed when the King hailed him and dedicated the tourney to him. But perhaps King's Landing is no place for a shy man.
Tommen, who had always been shy, gripped Myrcella's arm as the first riders took their positions. No, perhaps it was best to get such creatures away from the city. There must be some way to manage it.
The first time Myrcella saw a corpse, she was five years old, six at most, and had been visiting with Uncle Stannis and Shireen on Dragonstone.
She and Renly had visited Dragonstone half a dozen times over the years, always when Uncle Stannis had kept Shireen away for longer than a month or two, and Myrcella had never taken to the island. It was plenty fine, of course, grand in a much stranger, more sinister way than King's Landing or Storm's End, and while a tiny thing compared to the Rock it had always seemed just as full of hidden corners. After Shireen's sickness, the King and Queen had been reluctant to allow Myrcella to visit Dragonstone for fear that her face would be marred as Shireen's was, but Renly had not been inclined to allow such a thing as royal disapproval to stop him. He had been five-and-ten and fearless, and he had stolen her away as a treat.
She had always loved the journey to Dragonstone, at least. She loved sailing, and spent as much time on the water as she could, but the Rush could not compete with the Gullet. She had loved sailing for its own sake since first Uncle Gerion had taken her out onto the Sunset Sea when she was hardly more than a babe, her and his bastard daughter and Uncle Tyrion and whatever children he had been able to gather. She had dangled over the railings the whole time, during that little pleasure trip, and had talked of nothing but the sea for weeks after her return.
Renly had remembered. She wished desperately that she could still trust him as easily now as she had then, when all that had mattered was that he loved her just as she loved him.
But they had gone to Dragonstone, she and Renly, and their ship had docked - the Elenei, she knew, a small ship for informal trips, one that Uncle Stannis hated for not being sturdier, for not being safer, for not being stronger for Shipbreaker Bay.
Uncle Stannis loved the sea too, Myrcella was sure of it, but he hated it, as he hated so many things.
They had arrived, as usual, already making childish plots to free Shireen of her parents' grim clutches and return her to court with them. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary, until Myrcella had seen the flash of white flesh under the gangplank. She had thought it a strange sort of fish, and pointed it out to Renly, but he had heaved her up into his arms and rushed away, hiding her face against his shoulder - not a fish. Not entirely human, either, not after days and nights and miles in the water, but certainly not a fish.
This was nothing like that.
Rosamund's fingers dug into Myrcella's shoulder like steel when smug Ser Hugh of the Vale fell to the Mountain's terrible lance. Death was not unheard of in the lists, even if it was more common in the melee, but this was something else altogether. Often, the Mountain was kept at least a little leashed, saving the monstrousness he was so well feared for to the field, but Myrcella saw the way his lance tipped up, and she had watched enough jousting over the years to know that laces tended not to splinter like that.
She had never seen a lance splinter quite like that.
"Goodness," Myri said mildly, belying the sudden paleness of her face. The great golden Baratheon banner across the royal box was spattered with his blood, away to the right, but the bright white Stark banner draped before Lord Stark and Lady Sansa's seats had taken the worst of it, gore streaking up across their beloved direwolf. Lady Sansa's plain little friend was swooning, but Lady Sansa was watching with the same distant interest Myrcella remembered from seeing her own first dead man. Women were not supposed to see death, of course, and were supposed to avert their gazes, to swoon, but Myrcella was a Baratheon on one side and a Lannister on the other - women of such breeding did not swoon. Looking at Lady Sansa, it seemed women of Northern stock were not so meek, either.
Margaery looked grim, beside Lady Sansa. She was a rabid sportswoman, one of the finest riders of the court, and apparently a genuine asset on the hunt. No doubt she had seen the way the Mountain had behaved dishonourably - Margaery disapproved of poor sportsmanship, and was not generally quiet about it. Now, she was watching across the field, to where the rest of the riders were gathered, to Ser Loras. To her brother, who would like as not end up facing the Mountain. Ser Loras was a truly splendid jouster, elegant in a way even Uncle Jaime was not, and the Mountain's sheer brutality meant he had never lost a match in all the time Myrcella had been watching him.
Ser Hugh's body was dragged away, across the sand and chippings, until someone sourced a stretcher. Myrcella watched Maester Pycelle's acolytes struggle with the corpse, heavy with death and armour and a lost future, and slipped her arm around Tommen's shoulders.
"A waste," her lord father grumbled. "And a shame, but always a risk."
"Had we a real fight," Joffrey sneered, "I should-"
"Be quiet, boy," the King said, more subdued than Myrcella had seen him since they were in Winterfell. "Show a little respect, even if you have none."
Myrcella reached above Tommen's shoulder to touch her father's hand, where it hung limp over the arm of his chair.
"Your Grace?" she called, as quietly as she could. "Is there anything you would have me do? Ser Hugh was part of Lord Arryn's household, but as they have departed, I could write to his family and inform them of his misfortune. I could arrange to have his remains sent home, if that is your will."
He squeezed her fingers briefly, his many rings clicking.
"Aye," he said. "You're a good girl, sweetling. Please. After today's business is concluded, I'll see if any of Jon's household yet remains in the city, and I'll send them to you. Good girl."
Released and burdened, she gathered Tommen closer against her side.
"Don't you worry, Your Highness," Rosa whispered, leaning between them so that her words were just for Tommen. "If the Mountain ever seeks to ride against you, I'll fell him myself."
Tommen kissed Rosa's cheek, and she sat back satisfied. Myrcella kissed his hair, once more watching Margaery - who was, of course, watching her in return.
There was a feast. There was dancing.
Myrcella was an accomplished dancer, because such things were expected of a princess, but she tired of it quicker than her mother thought appropriate. Still, she would dance with Joff, with Tommen, with her uncles and, on the rare occasion when he could be coaxed to the floor, her lord father. She always danced with her lord grandfather when he was at court, because while he clearly took no pleasure in it and thought the whole business beneath him, Lord Tywin understood better than anyone else she knew that the appearance of absolute competence was crucial - and no man in Westeros was more competent than Lord Tywin.
Truthfully, he was one of her favourite partners. His exactingly perfect step meant she did not have to think about it, and could cast her eye on the other couples on the floor. Uncle Jaime and Uncle Renly were always distracting her with japes both bawdy and silly, and Uncle Stannis had immaculate time but no grace, so dancing with him was like dancing with a pendulum.
No Lord Tywin tonight, nor Uncle Stannis - not even Uncle Tyrion to keep her amused between partners. Rosa and Myri were always in high demand, but some were shy of asking the King's daughter to dance - and shyer again of asking the Princess who was to wed the Lord Hand's heir to dance, it seemed. She had been left sitting with Tommen since Uncle Renly had returned her to her seat last, spinning away with a grin and a blown kiss to take Margaery's hand.
"If I may, Princess?"
Lord Stark was smiling very slightly, hand extended to her. She was so surprised that she stared at his hand a moment, so very pale, and then smiled.
"I should be honoured, my lord," she said, and took his hand.
"Robert doesn't dance much, I suppose," he said quietly, as they moved into the dance. "Nor do I, save with my wife, but I do try to dance with my daughters when we have musicians at Winterfell."
"Oh," Myrcella said, unsure what to make of all of this. "No, my lord. My father does not take to the floor so often as other men."
"He is very proud of you," Lord Stark said, dancing with neither Renly and Jaime's style or Lord Tywin or Stannis' precision, but still with a light step and gentle hold. "He thinks you and Robb will make a fine match, and I hope the same."
"You do not think me too southron, my lord?" she asked, cringing a little at the flash of surprise on his face, the moment of severity that creased his brow. "Support for the match between Robb and I has not been… complete, here at court."
"You forget, Princess, that my lady wife is southron," he said, the severity fading. "I think you will not find quite so much opposition to this match as you suppose - not in the North, at least."
Myrcella doubted that, but hid it behind a smile. How could there not be a disapproving faction in the North, the fathers of daughters who had surely thought themselves secure in an attachment to Winterfell? Robb had brothers, of course, but little Lord Bran was a cripple now, or so everyone had said before they left Winterfell - and that was even if he other one, little Rickon, was hardly more than a babe. They were not such prizes as the heir to Winterfell himself, even if they were not tainted by infirmity and infancy.
"Has there been any word of Lord Bran, my lord?" she asked, a little ashamed to have not asked sooner. She was to marry into House Stark, to become part of this family, but hardly thought about them at all beyond being tentatively pleased by the positive influence Lord Stark had over the King, and pettily annoyed by Lady Sansa's innocent sweetness. She should have asked sooner - it was a sin on her part that she had not.
"I am told that he has awoken," Lord Stark said, with the broadest smile Myrcella had yet seen on his face. Would her lord father be so overjoyed had Tommen survived disastrous injury, and so willing to show that joy? She could not imagine it. "And that he is alert and speaking, even if it seems he may not walk again."
"Oh! I am so very sorry."
He gave her a curious look, and Myrcella quailed slightly. He was a difficult man to read, beyond that stern brow and those rare smiles.
"I am not," he said simply. "Do not think me a fool who sees an easy path ahead of Bran, but there is more to a man's worth than the strength of his legs. He has always been a clever boy, and will grow into a clever man. There are many things he may do, even without his legs."
Myrcella thought of Uncle Tyrion, who had both his legs no matter how short they might have been, and his place in the world - she could not see what it was that made Bran Stark so different from Tyrion Lannister. Lord Tywin's children might have ruled the world, had King Aerys not stolen Uncle Jaime, had Myrcella's lady mother not been a woman, had Uncle Tyrion not been a dwarf.
Myrcella didn't want to rule the world. She thought that perhaps she might be happy in Winterfell, with a husband to respect her and dance with her and keep her warm. Lord Stark trusted Sansa to run his household, without half a dozen aides - Myrcella had never been trusted with such a thing before, and wondered what it must be like. She would know, perhaps, when Lady Sansa returned to the North to wed her giant and, presumably, Lady Stark came to the city to join Lord Stark in the Tower of the Hand. Then she would have the running of Winterfell, as wife to its heir, and not only responsibility but authority.
She was too much Lord Tywin's granddaughter not to wish for at least a little authority.
"Then I will make it my business to aid him, when I am at Winterfell," she offered. "And Lady Stark? She was very kind to me when we visited your home."
His face did something strange, but remained unreadable - she wondered if Robb was so troublesome as his father in that regard. It was not a bad thing, necessarily, if he could maintain that stoicism in the face of challenging bannermen, but it would certainly be interesting while they worked to know one another.
"She will be glad to know you thought so, Princess," he said. "She was very pleased with the match between yourself and Robb."
The dance came to an end, and Lord Stark led her to her abandoned chair on the dais, below Joffrey's empty seat. Her lord father was leaning forward to speak with Lord Dondarrion, roaring laughter right into his face at whatever tall tale he was spinning, and Lord Stark gave him a pained little frown when he belched before turning to greet them.
"Ah! Ned! She's a good girl, is she not?" he bellowed, pulling Lord Stark down into the Queen's chair - oh, there she was, dancing with Jaime. "A fine girl for your fine lad, eh?"
"The Princess does you great credit, sire," Lord Stark said, pink-cheeked from the tight grip her lord father had on him. "My lady and I are honoured to have her joining our family."
It was nothing Myrcella had not heard a thousand times before, whenever someone tried to convince her lord father to toss aside her hand for some paltry prize. She blushed all the same, because this meant something - she was to marry Lord Stark's son. He would be her goodfather. Soon, she would be a part of his family, and he was pleased by the addition.
She wondered if her father would even notice the loss of her.