Mother, bless me with your light; Father, show me the just path; Crone, light the way for me; Smith, forge me the means to survive; Maiden, shield my innocence and purity; Warrior, guide my hand. Shireen repeated those words in her head as she released the hold on her bowstring. The arrow sliced through the air and planted itself less than half a foot shy of the central mark of the target. She had shunned her dresses for rough brown leathers today. Her father would have disapproved, he always did when he found her training, but in the end, he let her do so, and her mother actively encouraged it. The houses of the Dornish Marches had always trained the best archers as a counter to the Dornish raids, House Caron was no exception, and Lady Myrielle Caron, now Myrielle Baratheon, had insisted that her children learn to do the same. Given that Shireen"s father, Stannis Baratheon, was as often in King's Landing as he was on Dragonstone, and that Myrielle"s baseborn brother, Ser Rolland Storm served as Castellan in his absence, she was more than able to learn archery alongside her brother. Lyonel, she thought, as she released another arrow and watched it fly into the target. She wished Lyonel had been able to come, she would not feel such a foreigner at the archery butts if he was. But, despite the King's request, their lord father had a task that Lyonel had to perform, so he could not be here.

"Be well sweet sister," he had said to her when she was boarding her ship for the capital, "I shall see you when you return." She had tried to ask him what he was supposed to be doing, but he had not said, apparently their father had not, at that time, let him know himself. She tightened the belt on her leather armour, as it was getting a tad loose, and notched another arrow into her Dragonbone bow. She and Lyonel had taken the Dragonbone from the Dragon skulls in the Red Keep and had it fashioned into two longbows of the marches. The Marcher lords used heavy yew longbows, but Dragonbone bows released their arrows further and, even though their bows were slightly smaller, there was no bow forged in Westeros that could match them. In one swift motion she drew and released her arrow and it flew with a whistle before landing with a thunk into the target. She reached for her hip quiver, but found it empty, so she walked up to the target and wrenched each arrow free, returning them to her quiver before marching out another hundred paces to try again. As she walked her eyes caught the far more exciting inter house sparring that was occurring between the Starks and the Baratheons. At this moment it was young Brandon Stark against her cousin Prince Tommen, who certainly seemed less skilled than the young Stark boy. She shook her head, returning her attention to the target and removing the sounds of cheering, shouting and the clunks of wood on wood from her mind as she focussed on the target. In one single movement, she notched, drew and released her arrow and it soared towards the target, planting itself firmly in it less than a finger's width from the centre. No arrow flies truer than the shaft of an archer of the Marches, her mother had told her that at the beginning of her lessons.

"You have a good bow-arm," said the voice of the younger Stark twin, and Shireen turned her head to look at him.

"Thank you," she replied, smiling before turning back to the target and notching another arrow. Not many appreciate that, not knights, and not in a woman.

"Does that not hurt?" He asked and Shireen turned to look at him again.

She raised her eyebrows as she released her arrow into the target without looking, "does what hurt?"

Tristan Stark pointed at her left wrist as she held the bow at her side. "You aren't wearing a bracer."

Shit! She covered her left wrist with her right hand. "No," she said quickly, "It does not, I do not need one." Why do I always forget to put it on in other holds?

The Stark looked curious, but then he was called over. "Tristan," they both turned to see it was his brother Robb beckoning him, "the prince wishes to face you."

The Stark boy nodded and swiftly moved over to the circle. Shireen pulled up the leather sleeve to look at the hard, black, stone-like skin on her wrist, the marks of a childhood disease that had nearly killed her and her brother. Thankfully, the two of them were able to pass the disease, her left forearm was marked forever, much more closer to the hand, and less as the skin got close to the elbow. Lyonel's marks covered his upper right arm and shoulder, some even creeping onto his neck. They both covered their marks in front of any they did not trust, which was only their close family and the Dragonstone household. She let go of her arm and decided to go and watch the fight, curious to see as to why Tristan Stark was called the Sword of the North. But Prince Joffrey was apparently being obstinate as usual. "I am tired of fighting with wooden sticks," he said pompously. "This one fought in the melee at Highgarden with a true sword, I would face him with one of them."

This will not end well, Shireen thought, for her cousin could be obnoxious at times. The Master at Arms of Winterfell, who had the final say in the matters of the sparring denied it, but Tristan Stark seemed eager. "Allow it, Ser Rodrik," he told the grizzled knight, "then I can open the prince from cock to crown and show everyone his rotten southern guts." Arrogant northman, she thought, her brother might well have planted an arrow in his eye for that Just because they didn't have to brave snows thirty feet deep didn't make them weak. There was uproar from the Lannister guardsmen who shared her sentiment, who refused to allow their prince to be both slandered and threatened. "Unless the Prince wants to name a champion to fight in his stead, which would be a better use of my time."

"You'll regret those words boy," someone called out from the Lannister camp.

This only seemed to amuse the Stark, who twirled his sword around effortlessly. "Then make me regret it southerner." There was a clamour from the Baratheon and Lannister men to fight in the name of the Prince, Shireen recognised the Hound was silent, despite being Joffrey's sworn shield.

"What is this my Lady?" Shireen turned and smiled. Ser Richard Horpe, a knight her father had assigned to guard her on the trip to the North, approached. He had broken his fast with a knight of the Kingsguard that morning. Ser Richard had always wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard as a squire, but the Queen's political appointments had sidelined him. Richard liked battle and fighting, more than any woman, but was dutiful in his defence of her when possible. Shireen had been surprised when her father had told her that Ser Richard would be accompanying her. She knew Ser Richard, but had never travelled with a sworn shield before, so did not understand why her father now saw it as necessary. Unfortunately for Ser Richard and his love of battle, Joffrey was repulsed by his pox marks and scars so would never get him to fight for him. Denied the glory of fighting at the side of the king just by his pox scars, a cruel fate for a knight. That was one of the reasons that Shireen liked Ser Richard, he had scars of his own, not like hers, but she could hide her greyscale marks. She liked him, more than was appropriate for a lady of her standing, she remembered in the tourney melee for squires where he had won his knighthood, she had given him her favour to wear. He had thanked her for it, claiming that she was responsible for it. She had kissed him lightly on the cheek before but, no matter how hard she wanted to, she never went further. Her father would never marry her to a knight like Ser Richard, his birth was too low.

"The Sword of the North is readying himself for battle," she informed her knight, and she caught his hand grip the sword at his waist tightly, but said nothing. Why is it left to Joff to defend the honour of the south? If it had been Richard, they would've been in safe hands.

"Tell you what prince," Tristan Stark said as he absently twirled his wooden sword in his hand. "If you can land a single blow on me with that wooden sword in your hand then I will consent to fighting you with a training blade. Is that acceptable, Ser Rodrik?"

The knight looked between them cautiously, but in the end he nodded. "It is."

Joffrey smirked and readied got into stance opposite the northman. Shireen gripped her bow tightly in anticipation, wondering what the Stark was planning. Her cousin struck, giving a swift thrust at Tristan's belly with his wooden blade. Tristan's response was smoother than silk. He dropped his wooden blade on the ground with a clatter that alarmed the audience, at the same time, he spun out of the way of the thrust so that he was to Joffrey's side. Then he seized Joffrey's sword arm and wrenched the wooden blade from it. Using the momentum left over from the spin he leapt out to range with a spin. With a loud crack that made Shireen wince, Tristan slammed the wooden blade across Joffrey's head, dropping him to the ground like a sack. "All too easy," Tristan Stark said, dropping the blade on Joffrey's prone body.

"He has skill," Richard commented. It took a lot to impress Richard, who had been a prospective Kingsguard knight; her father insisted he was a better fighter than many in the order now. Shireen half thought that he was about to challenge the Stark, but then there was an eruption of laughter and Richard and Shireen both looked over to see the King and Queen standing there. While her uncle was laughing, her aunt by marriage looked like she was about to commit murder.

"You do not disappoint boy," he roared.

"I try not to, Your Grace," Tristan Stark replied, bowing.

"Disappoint," the Queen spat, "he just brutalised your son."

"Then be thankful, your grace," Tristan said, his voice dripping with false sycophancy, "that Ser Rodrik did not permit the prince his wish to fight with cold steel, or you would be down one son."

Silence fell over the courtyard and Shireen's mouth fell open. He can't say that, not to anyone, let alone the queen.

"He is right, wife," Robert said harshly. "My son had best learn to defend himself properly, or he will not be able to serve as protector of the realm. Hound." The Hound stood tall. "Take my son to Winterfell's maester, he can patch him up, and maybe he'll look at himself in the mirror and learn from it." The Hound nodded and, despite the vehement hatred in the eyes of the Queen, took the Crown Prince into Winterfell.

Shireen felt a grip on her arm. It was Ser Richard, which was strange, normally, following the kiss she had given him, he refrained from touching her. "My Lady, we should go," he said, nodding at the queen, who was looking at her bow in her quiver, and her leather armour disdainfully. She nodded, and left with him, making her way inside and back to her chambers.

She turned at the door. "Lady Stark and her daughters were eager to hear my singing," she told the knight. I was blessed with this voice, I should take more pride in it, her brother always told her that. Shireen did not like singing too much, certainly she was not good at her mother's marcher ballads, one hundred verses each, but she did not deny her talents. "It would be unbecoming of me to sing to them in leather and armed." She did not like dismissing Ser Richard, at least not directly.

He bowed his head, "I shall wait outside for you to change my lady," he said.

"By no means," she replied, lightly touching the hand that was gripping his pommel. "I saw you out there, go and demonstrate your skills, I am in no danger here."

Ser Richard smiled and nodded, "thank you, my lady." Then he turned and headed outside back to the courtyard.

Her handmaidens arrived quickly and helped her strip from her leathers, which they never understood, but said nothing about, and helped her into a dark blue dress, the colour of her eyes. As they were doing this, they wondered what Lyonel was doing, and what his task was that their father had for him. He had said that it was vital to the Kingdoms, and House Baratheon of Dragonstone was nothing if not dutiful to the Kingdoms, whose shores they guarded. However Lyonel had never been tasked with a mission of overly great importance, sometimes leading patrols of the Royal Fleet, whatever he was doing she hoped he would be safe. As much as her heart might flutter for Ser Richard, her brother meant a thousand times more; he was the only one who truly understood her, as only those who had survived greyscale could.

Once she was changed into the dress that matched her eyes, her hair brushed and flowing down her back like a black waterfall, she retrieved her harp, a small thing, made of ivory that was easy enough to carry on her person, and made her way to where the Stark girls were. She entered the solar to find all of them, the Stark girls, those of her household, the princess Myrcella and others all practicing their needlework. No, that wasn't quite right, the youngest Stark girl, Arya, wasn't there.

"Cousin!" Myrcella smiled at her eagerly, her mother's beauty shining through at her face. "Are we to hear another song from you?"

Shireen gulped and nodded. "Yes, princess, if you wish it."

She nodded, needlework forgotten in an instant, as had the other girls. The Septa looked put out, but eventually took a seat as the others sat gracefully on the floor around her. She herself smoothed out her dress and sat down on a stool, gently plucking at the strings to ensure they were tuned correctly, it could throw her if they did not match. She decided on something simple, the Song of the Seven would probably please them. But before she could begin, the young lady Stark spoke up. "The Princess tells us that you compose your own songs, Lady Shireen." Shireen refrained from shooting Princess Myrcella a look of venom. "Could we hear one of those?"

Not wanting to disappoint, she nodded and thought of one that she had written. Clearing her throat and taking a sip of water, she gently plucked at the harp and began to sing her song.

"I dream, I dream of a different lord,
Proud and kind and true,
You are his knight, I am his maid,
Two hearts drawn to heartache and pain,

"I am a prize of gold and jewel,
Chained at hand and foot,
I cry in pain and aching loss,
A cry you alone can hear,

"You are the earth and I am the tree,
So long as I live, we never shall part,
Your love feeds me, holds me and warms me,
I die when we are torn apart.

"You are a knight sworn to serve,
But it kills you in your heart,
You die, if you leave me, you suffer when you see me,
An endless dance with death and pain,

"I am a maid, sworn to obey,
But it kills me in my heart,
I love when I see you, I yearn when I leave you,
An endless song of suffering and loss.

"You are the earth and I am the tree,
So long as I live, we never shall part,
Your love feeds me, holds me and warms me,
I die when we are torn apart.

"You come at night to save me, to take me and claim me,
And finally, you took me in your arms,
You fought men to kiss me, killed them to love me,
And then you took me away.

"We rode through the night, through arrows slings and spears,
We found a place far away, a place without tears,
You hung up your sword, and I hung up my lyre,
Together our love, will grow and never tire.

"You are the earth and I am the tree,
So long as I live, we never shall part,
Your love feeds me, holds me and warms me,
I die when we are torn apart.

"Our love never faded, father's wrath unabated,
He came to take me back home,
Your sword was removed from it's scabbard,
My heart was bared to your blade

"His soldiers were coming, riding and hunting,
They found only blood and death,
Father's grief was endless, he wept and begged forgiveness,
I grant it from the next world.

"You were the earth and I was the tree,
So long as we lived, we never did part,
Your love fed me, held me and warmed me,
We died before we were are torn apart."

She played the last few notes of the song on her harp and let them fade into the silence of the room. Her throat felt red and dry and the water she drank was nearly as much comfort as her brother's hold.