A/N:Happy new year everyone! Just wanted to say a massive thank you for the amazing response on the first chapter. I know some of you are itching to know what happened in the intervening eight years between the prologue and this first chapter, and you will find out, though it will be a slow and gradual thing. You'll learn more about what happened as we go on, through the thoughts of Robb and Myrcella. There may be a few flashbacks/memories, but only where appropriate. Anyway, this is the first real chapter of this story - set post war(s), hope you enjoy!

Lang:Thank you very much, here's the new chapter - hope you like it!

Boramir:Thank you very much! We're skipping ahead eight years to the actual start of this story, though what happened in the in-between years will be referred to. It may be a while before the full picture is revealed but you will gradually find out the details. Some of what happened will be mentioned in this chapter, though there is more explaining to come!

Guest:Thank you! Robb was basically offered everything on a plate, I don't think he is as stubborn as Ned was so I think he would take it. It does mean letting Jaime go, but I think he would do that if he got his sisters and the North's independence in return.

unnamed visitor:Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed the prologue! Glad you're hooked already. It's going to be a few more chapters before the meet between Robb and Myrcella, but hopefully it won't be too long a wait. As for your PS, one of those things is going to happen, the other one isn't. I won't say which one though, but you will find out soon!

I know there were a few more reviews, but for some reason the site isn't showing them up so I can't reply to them. I'm not ignoring you I promise, hopefully the issue will be fixed soon and I can get back to you!

Right-ho, after all that. Here's the first, proper chapter!

:)


Eight years later...


I: Winter is Coming


Myrcella


Myrcella leant her forehead against the windowpane and sighed heavily. Her mother's voice was growing shriller by the second and it was beginning to give her a headache. They had been going on and on for what felt like hours, and still they hadn't managed to agree on a single thing. She was just about ready to stand up and scream, perhaps then they would actually remember that she was in the room. That it was her future they were debating. Neither of them would have to journey to the North. Neither of them would have to marry a man who would no doubt despise every fibre of their being. They wouldn't have to be his wife. They would have to bear his children. Bear his coldness. She closed her eyes despairingly. In previous years she had tried to delude herself into believing that it wouldn't be that bad. That he might be soft. Kind. It had been a child's fantasy. The King in the North was a hardened warrior. He had killed more men than she could even comprehend, with his snarling direwolf at his side.

She had read all the stories she could get her hands on when the wars were finally done with. When the Young Wolf had finally returned to Winterfell, his sword sheathed once more. She had pored over them in the dead of night when she was supposed to be sleeping. Her mother would never even utter the name of the man she was promised to, Myrcella knew well enough that she would never tell her anything about him. She craved the knowledge though. She needed to know something of the man that she would be bound to for the rest of her days, or the rest of his. Whichever came first. She lost herself in the words on the pages, let her imagination get caught up in the images that had been so skilfully drawn. The King in the North had become legend already, and he had only just reached four and twenty. He was desired by any woman who laid eyes on him, so Etta had told her in hushed giggles on occasions where Myrcella had fallen into a fit of anxiety over her future. "He is the most handsome man, and you are the most beautiful woman. You will be perfect together."

Myrcella knew her handmaiden meant well, but she could see it in Etta's eyes that she believed the words no more than Myrcella did. It was something she wanted to be true, not something she ever imagined coming to fruition. Robb Stark was a man. A warrior. A King. A King who despised her family, though Myrcella privately thought that it was not without good reason. She still dreamt of Lord Eddard Stark sometimes. Felt his warm hand on her shoulder, the way his grey eyes had twinkled when he'd looked down on her. She shook her head. Thinking of him only made her long to believe that his son was just as kindly, that he would be just as warm and kind to her. How could he be? After what her family had done? It seemed impossible, and likely it was. Myrcella just prayed that if he could not be kind then at least he would not be cruel. She hoped that one day he might be able to tolerate her, grow to find himself content with their union. Perhaps if she bore him strong children he would soften…

"The agreement was for Myrcella to go when she reached eight and ten! Not now!" her mother's furious screech pulled her mind from her uncertain future. She turned from the window, seeing her mother and grandfather standing opposite each other, mere feet between them. Her mother's stance was protective, and yet somehow utterly intimidating at the same time. She imagined a lesser man would have quelled. Her grandfather was not that man though.

"Winter is coming again," her grandfather said calmly, but with unmistakable authority in his voice. "If it lasts six years as the last did, then Myrcella will not be able to travel. We will have failed on our end of the bargain and I do not doubt that Stark will jump at the chance to choose an alternative bride," he continued.

"Good!" her mother snapped, and Myrcella untucked her legs from underneath her, swinging them down so they touched the floor.

"It is not good, Cersei," her grandfather sounded quietly furious now. "The North is an independent kingdom, and it is thriving as such. We need to strengthen ties with them and this is the best way to do it. Myrcella will be queen, and the next king to rule the North will have Lannister blood in their veins. There is no more to be discussed on this matter, Myrcella leaves in two days, and that is final."

Her mother made an angry noise but threw no retort at her grandfather. He seemed satisfied that there would be no more argument, casting a look towards Myrcella and nodding curtly at her before he turned on his heel and marched from the room. Her mother began muttering furiously at once, but Myrcella was in no mood to try and catch what she was saying. What she really wanted to do was slip from her presence and find Etta. If she really was set to leave for her new life in the North in a mere two days then she would have to begin packing away her things. She swallowed hard. Gods. She was not ready for this, she had thought she had another year here at the Capitol with her family. With Tommen. She blinked her eyes furiously, refusing to show any upset here in front of her mother. Her tears would only make things worse, cause more arguments. She stood up soundlessly, picking up her skirts slightly before making her way towards the door.

"Myrcella," her mother's sharp voice stopped her in her tracks and she took a deep breath before she turned to face her, hoping her expression was neutral.

"Yes, mother?" she inquired politely, hoping she sounded suitably unaffected.

"Sit down," her mother instructed, and she did as she was bid, crossing to take the seat by the fire that was indicated to her. "It seems you are to go to the North sooner than anticipated," her mother told her, as though she had not heard what had transpired mere moments before.

"Yes, mother," she said calmly, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

"You're not a stupid girl, Myrcella," her mother met her eyes, holding them fast. "You know what Robb Stark is, you know how he feels about the Lannister name." Myrcella held her tongue, deciding it was probably best not to contradict her mother by reminding her that she was named Baratheon.

"Yes, mother," she said instead.

"He is little more than a savage," her mother's voice came out as a venomous hiss, "and likely he will treat you little better than a whore. Whatever he forces upon you, you will endure it. You are a lion, do you hear me?" Myrcella merely nodded in response, her mouth suddenly uncomfortably dry. "You will endure him taking his pleasure until he gets you with child," her mother continued, "perhaps if you bear him a son it will grow easier for you. But hear me now, you must never, ever show him any weakness. No tears. No affection."

"No affection?" Myrcella repeated the words with a slight frown. She was not expecting any affection from her marriage, but surely if it were offered to her then she ought to reciprocate? Surely that could not be wrong.

"If he thinks you care for him then he has power over you, more power than he will gain from visiting your bed night after night," her mother said the words scathingly, looking at her as though she were stupid. "Stupid, stupid child. What have I told you?!" She shook her head slightly, forcing herself to focus on the present, on her mother's cold gaze.

"Of course, mother," she said automatically, digging her fingernails hard into the back of her hand.

"Good," her mother finally looked somewhat satisfied and Myrcella took a little breath of relief, hoping that she would now be allowed to leave.

"May I be excused?" she asked after a moment. "I ought to begin arranging my things."

"Yes, go on," her mother said after scrutinizing her intensely for a long moment.

"Thank you, mother," Myrcella stood gracefully, dipping into the slightest of curtsies before she again made her way to the door. This time she wasn't called back, and as soon as it closed behind her she picked up her pace and almost ran down the hallways towards her bedchamber. She thought of Tommen on the way, thought of leaving him behind here in this snake's nest. As apprehensive as she was about the North, as frightened as she was about being married, a part of her could not help but be glad that she was finally leaving the Capitol. She had not done so since the visit to Winterfell all those years ago. She had loved it. Truly loved it. Memories of it flashed before her eyes, and before she could stop herself she was smiling as she remembered Bran and Tommen attempting to spar in the tiltyard. The smile faded from her face as she reached the door to her chamber. Yet another thing the Starks had reason to despise her family for.

"The North is a frozen wasteland overrun by savages." Joffrey's mocking voice rang in her ears as she let herself into her chamber, firmly closing the door behind her. It was cold in the North, that she could concede, but the people more than made up for it. They were warm. Friendly. They smiled at one another with genuine affection. They were informal. They laughed heartily and did not hold with all the grandeur and the pomp and ceremony that they did here at the Capitol. At least, that was how it was before. She wondered if it had changed. There had been a war. Then another. Just when they had thought it was done with, when her uncles' heads adorned spikes, just when they thought they were safe the dragons came. She had seen the fires from the windows. They had come so close, but the North made good on their word and they had come again. Saving them. Dragonslayer. Yet another name the King in the North had earned. It was not done without injury though, they said he would be scarred for life after the encounter.

Myrcella had thought he might come to the Capitol once it was done, he was so very close after all. He hadn't come. He had taken his men and turned back for Winterfell once more. That had been two years into the winter, before the snows had truly set in and the roads became impassable. She had been two and ten, and disappointed despite herself. The Northern lords had insisted on taking the head of the dragon back with them, hauling it along despite how it slowed them down. They wanted a souvenir; that is what her grandfather had told her when she plucked up the courage to ask. And why shouldn't they? There were not many men who could claim their king had slain a dragon. Myrcella idly wondered whether the King in the North still regaled his lords and his court with the tale. If he revelled in the nickname that had been bestowed upon him, or whether it was tedious to him, as her Uncle Jaime's was to him.

She sighed, sinking down to sit at the end of her bed, her mind still casting back to the time of all the troubles. After the dragons they truly had all thought that it was it. That they could get on and endure the rapidly worsening winter in peace. It was not to be. Not four moons after the end of the dragons it was the turn of the North to call for aid. Myrcella distinctly remembered her mother scornfully telling her grandfather to leave them to fight their own battles. He had been livid. Her mother had been drunk. She and Tommen had slipped away in the end, but they had both heard more than enough. "The Wall protects us all, and the alliance with the North must hold!" So to the Wall he marched over a hundred thousand men, through snow and ice and biting winds. They had already battled the elements and when they finally reached their destination their reward was to battle death.

And so they did. It was one part of the story of the Young Wolf that Myrcella was happy never to read in great detail. She knew little, and she was glad of her own enforced ignorance. What she did know chilled her. The dead walking. Killing. Animating those who fell to fight against their former friends and allies. Fire did for some of them. But for others the only weapons that could repel them were made of old Valyrian steel or dragonglass. Myrcella remembered the image drawn in her book despite herself, the image that had stopped her from reading any further. Some nights it still haunted her dreams. The icy pale skin, the sunken features and, most prominent of all, the bright blue eyes that almost seemed to come alive on the page. She could not imagine facing such a thing in reality. Before she could stop herself she was remembering that the King in the North had eyes of blue. She shuddered involuntarily, inwardly begging that he would not be as cold as the monster from her nightmares.

"Myrcella?" the soft, uncertain tones of her brother accompanied the light tap on her door. She pulled herself together, hoping she would look completely unaffected and composed to him as she called for him to come in.

"Tommen," she smiled for him as he made his way into the room, closing the door behind him and fixing her with an apprehensive look.

"Grandfather said that you are to go to the North sooner, since winter is threatening once more," he said uncertainly, and she nodded her head in response.

"Indeed," she agreed, "it hardly seems fair that it is coming once more, we have barely had a full year of summer and already the leaves are falling."

"If the summer was so short, then likely the winter will be too," Tommen responded, taking a few more steps into the room. Myrcella nodded her agreement, patting the space next to her. He seemed to hesitate a moment before he crossed to sit with her. Her eyes flickered to him, seeing that he was staring straight ahead at the opposite wall. She adopted a similar stance, wondering what he was thinking. Wondering if he was dreading their separation as much as she was. Through all the bad times that had been endured, she and Tommen had always had one another. They laughed together. Cried together. Avoided Joffrey together. Tommen was six and ten now though, taking a more prominent role in ruling the southern kingdoms. Myrcella knew that he would never say it, but she couldn't help but believe that her grandfather was quietly impressed with how well Tommen was learning. He was a fair and just king. A kind king. Just the kind of king that was needed after all the struggles and the battles.

He had wed a few moons beforehand, to Alysanne Bulwer. It was not an obvious match, one made to snub the Tyrells more than anything else. Mace had been pardoned after his treasonous support of their Uncle Renly, but it was by no means forgotten. Alysanne was a cousin of his line, so he could not make any complaint that his house was not being favoured. It was an open secret however, that he had wanted his own daughter to be queen rather than a distant relative. In Myrcella's own opinion, which of course she would never voice, Tommen would likely be far happier with Alysanne. She was very pretty, and of his age. To Myrcella's eye she always seemed gentle, and softly spoken, the perfect match for her kind-hearted brother. She knew her mother looked down on her, irritated that a richer and more prosperous match had not been found for him. Tommen was unaffected by her indifference, he walked with a new spring in his step and a smile on his face since his wedding. If only she could be so lucky.

"I'll miss you," he broke the silence, and she glanced to see him still staring straight at the wall.

"I'll miss you too, but you have Alysanne now to keep you company, I know you'll be happy with her," Myrcella replied to him, her own eyes looking down at her entwined hands.

"You could be happy too," he said hopefully, "Robb was always kind to us at Winterfell."

Myrcella smiled slightly at that, she had had little, if any, interaction with Robb Stark all those years ago. It was easy to assume the same of Tommen, but of course he had regularly frequented the tiltyard with the other boys. "I think you saw more of him than I ever did," she commented, clenching her fists tightly to stop her hands from shaking.

"Remember when…when Joffrey," Tommen could still barely utter their brother's name without stammering. "When he wanted us to use real steel, Bran and I?" he continued, and she nodded her head slightly in agreement. "Robb wouldn't allow it, he said it wasn't proper, that one of us could get hurt," Tommen went on.

"Not many people ever refused Joffrey," Myrcella conceded, feeling Tommen shift a little closer to her. In the next moment his arm wrapped around her shoulder and she leaned into him.

"I know you must be frightened," he said quietly, "and I know you must think that he will hate you, after everything that happened. But we are all allied now, and Joffrey's sins were not ours, nor were Uncle Jaime's. We did nothing wrong Myrcella. You did nothing wrong, and if he believes that you did, then I am demanding now, as your King, that you put him right. You never let Joffrey best you, and you always looked after me, shielded me from him. Robb Stark is not Joffrey, you can handle him. I know you can."

"They call him Dragonslayer," Myrcella said wryly and Tommen snorted, squeezing her shoulder tightly.

"Because he came to our aid, because he honoured the treaty he signed with grandfather. You were part of that pact, he will honour you as well," Tommen sounded so certain that she almost believed him. She ached to believe him.

"Perhaps you're right," she said, hoping that her voice didn't betray her inner scepticism.

"Even if he wants to despise you he never could, not when he comes to know you," he said, and she smiled slightly.

"That's just it, Tommen, what if he doesn't want to know me?" she asked almost fearfully, lifting her head up from his shoulder so she could meet his eyes.

"He will have no choice," he said simply, a sad little smile on his own face.

"No," Myrcella agreed, saved from having to elaborate further by another knock on the door. "Come," she called out, perhaps it was best that her conversation with Tommen ended now. Perhaps it was best that she left him thinking that she was reassured and hopeful, instead of unburdening herself and revealing the true extent of her apprehension. Etta slipped around the door in the next moment, her grin faltering when her eyes found that Myrcella had company.

"Your Grace, princess," she curtseyed politely before them, keeping her eyes meekly on the floor when she rose back up. Myrcella couldn't help but smirk, Etta did a wonderful impression of a demure and proper young woman when she wanted to.

"I will leave you now," Tommen said, a slightly regretful look in his eye as he unwound his arm from her shoulder. She missed the pressure instantly. The warmth. All too soon everything would be cold for her, and the dread was slowly creeping in further.

"I will see you before…" Myrcella trailed off, unwilling and unable to speak the final words. Tommen merely nodded in response, inclining his head in Etta's direction before he left the room.

"Has something happened?" Etta was wide eyed and crossing to her as soon as the door closed behind Tommen.

"Winter is threatening again, and if it is doing so here it will most certainly be doing so in the North," Myrcella said, seeing her handmaiden frown slightly. "Which means I will be going to Winterfell early, two days from now to be precise," she elaborated, despising the shake that had crept into her voice.

"Two days?" Etta repeated in a rather dazed manner, and Myrcella nodded her head, doing her best to smile.

"I need to gather my things," she said. It was not what she wanted to say, but if she began confessing her fears now then she was afraid she would never stop. Etta met her eyes for a long moment before she slowly nodded her head. Perhaps she understood. Perhaps she didn't. Either way, Myrcella was glad that she was not pushing her on the subject.

"Of course," Etta said, "your warmest dresses I think, princess."

Myrcella smiled her agreement, rising up from the end of the bed so she could approach her dressing room. Etta followed after her, and for a long minute both of them just stood and stared at the racks of clothing that lined the walls. Myrcella knew that she would likely never see the majority of these dresses again, let alone wear them. Even when summer came the North was still far colder than the Capitol. She moved closer to one of the dresses, her hand going to touch the pale green silk, her fingers savouring the feel of it as her touch moved along the neckline to toy with the creamy lace. Vaguely she wondered if she would ever wear silks and lace again. "You could still wear it," Etta seemed to have read her mind, "though perhaps with thick underskirts and a cloak about your shoulders." Imagining a heavy cloak around such a delicate and intricately made dress made Myrcella simultaneously want to laugh and cry.

"I wore it to Tommen's wedding," she said quietly, remembering how happy she had been in that dress as she had been twirled about during the dancing afterwards. She sighed, not wanting to taint her wonderful memories by taking it with her to the North. It was silly. It was only a dress after all, and yet to Myrcella, just touching it and seeing it before her was enough to transport her back to a happier time. "I don't think I will have reason to wear it again," she continued, finally letting go of the fabric.

"You don't know that," Etta said kindly, and Myrcella summoned up all her strength before she turned around to face her.

"I think I do," she said, a slight smile forced to her lips. "Best we dig out my clothes from the last winter, could be that some of them still fit," she said.

"Very well, princess, if you insist upon it," Etta said heavily, "but I still think you should take that one, the King in the North would be unable to resist you in it." Myrcella smiled wryly. She was grateful for Etta's words, and grateful that she was trying to reassure her as Tommen had. Perhaps the King in the North would desire her in the dress, she was frequently regaled for her beauty. Desire was not the same as love however, nor even the same as caring. Men desired whores, and she knew well enough what the world thought of them. She closed her eyes and took a long breath, pushing unsavoury thoughts from her mind.

"Thank you, Etta," she said when she opened them again, "I appreciate your kindness, but I think it will take more than a pretty dress to make him forget who I am."


A/N: Right, so that is the first time I have ever written a Myrcella POV, or Myrcella in general in any great detail. Hope it was believable, and enjoyable. I'll post another chapter next week, and we'll be with Robb.

:)