Summer eyes

by ihaveastorminme

A sister for a kingslayer; a princess for a kingdom. A precarious alliance forged through a marrige, and a union that would become as undestroyable as it would be unmendable. "-so soon have you forgotten the promise i made you?"...where you go i shall go; where you die i shall die and there shall i be buried.' Her hiss drew blood: "You lied then. You lie now." (minor jonXsansa)

13. (cont-2)

oOo

"Don't say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding. I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you."

Anais Nin

It was the Greatjon and his men that Robb send back to pick up his daughter and the princess both from Greywater Watch. He had send Greywind on the hunt near the northern bounds of the marshes of the Neck so Robb knew when the company made it out almost as soon as they crossed the Fever river. He'd wanted to go himself, but could not: he had an army to lead and a march to plan. The waiting was making him more restless than usual though. His mother had smilingly pointed out his impatience to him and Robb had not tried to deny it. He was impatient: to see his daughter, because he'd missed her and was anxious for her safety. Impatient to be gone northwards, because more work awaited him in Winterfell.

…He had been impatient to see her as well. Impatience and anticipation blended well together, he could almost say he did not know one from the other… except he did. He knew things now that he had not known for a long time.

There had not been a single night since he had left her presence that Robb had not dreamed of her face, pale and lifeless, and his blood on her hands. The thought of her was slowly becoming an obsession. Whenever the room was quiet and he had little else more pressing to think of, she crowded his head. Where she was, what she was doing, thinking, feeling. So he was not that surprised when a raven from the Greatjon came, telling him among other things that the Myrcella Baratheon had send a raven to King's Landing the moment she was out of the marshes of Greywater Watch – he felt as if he had conjured the consequences of her existence into being by simply thinking of her too much. A foolish notion if there ever was one: he'd never known a more autonomous agent than this princess. The missive was apparently addressed to her uncle, the Imp, saying that she was well and safe, that her stay was comfortable and her soon to be family of the North was most kind to her (at which Robb had snorted); asking after her little brother's health and the Kingslayer's wounds… and wanting to know if she should expect any of her relations at her wedding.

That was all she had written. It did not mention anything about the campaign, about his strategy or Moat Cailin or anything else that Robb had shared with her.

The Greatjon - and here was where Robb had rolled her eyes - had sounded almost dismissive of this message Myrcella had send back south. It had been mentioned in the end of his letter, a total of two hasty lines, almost as if he thought it unimportant. The Greatjon was no fool however, and Robb was glad that he was not so prejudiced against the princess as others were. He knew that others would have immediately pinned a suspicious eye on the princess and labelled her a spy, even though her letter held nothing strategic.

But still… for someone so careful, Myrcella had given herself quite the opening there. The sheer carelessness of this irritated Robb to no end: he knew she knew better. As he knew that she probably had not cared.

The day that he was alerted of their party being spotted a mile out of camp, Robb up the hill to greet his daughter and his future wife himself. He was not surprised to see Myrcella riding at the head of the company. She was recognisable even from afar: her hood was down, her braid gleamed golden in the sun... and unless she had a flame on her breast, that red head of hair Robb saw in front of her was his Rose, riding along with the princess.

His heart almost stopped when they rode through the plane at a speed that – while nowhere near what Robb knew Myrcella was capable of - was still too fast for one riding with a child... especially if it was his child! For a moment he had a mind to scream at her to stop. In the same moment he was angry at her with all his being!

But then as they get closer he sees Rose with her arms out, laughing and the princess' face almost splitting in her grin.

It a game, he realizes. They are both laughing... and he has no idea how to take it.

They stop short in front of his horse. Rose is squealing loudly clapping her hands and Myrcella is chuckling, flushed and happy as his daughter clamours 'Again, again!' from the very moment they stop, without even paying him any mind.

Robb looked and them and almost forgot why he was so angry a moment ago. All the tension that had been coiling in him snapped at the sight of her with his daughter so close, and that snap left him quite thunderstruck for a long moment.

The princess took the words from him.

"She was bored and impatient, so we decided on a truce: we would ride together if she stopped crying." she told him nonchalantly around a chuckle. Rose looked up at her pulling at her braid and still wanting the other fast ride, her protest getting louder by the moment.

Robb could only raise his eyebrows at her, but then he shook his head. "Welcome to the North, Princess."

Her smile was wistful. "Thank you, you grace."

He turned his eyes to his daughter and to the racket she was making. He could not look at her without smiling. He didn't need to ask what she wanted.

"Are you certain she won't fall?" He asked Myrcella, who raised one eyebrow at him as if the questing was an offence. Robb resisted the impulse to narrow his eyes at her for the presumption. That was his daughter she was carrying with her!

"She has the same chances of falling as I do, your grace: she is tied to me." the princess clarified, and then without even waiting for an answer, she turned to his daughter and asked if she was ready. Rose screamed her glee and put her arms out immediately, making Myrcella chuckle.

Robb knew better than expect an invitation. One look from Myrcella, and he urged his horse forward, before he was left behind by the two princesses riding alongside him. He would have a few words with her later about the ravens she saw fit to displace and the invitations she put forth. But for now, he just rode and enjoyed Rose's laugh mixing with Myrcella's as they chased the wind.

oOo

The only reason Myrcella did not laugh in Robb Stark's face when she saw him, was because she judged it more fun to do so in private (…and because that new cut he was sporting on the corner of his mouth – whether by someone's knuckles of steel she did not know - made her think better of it; as did his overall filthy appearance, making him look as if he's just now crawled out of the battle itself. She was sure she saw specks of dried blood on his armour, as well as dirt.) He had been so shocked at the sight of her with his daughter that he had forgotten to even berate her for the recklessness of it.

But Myrcella had no illusions: she knew that it was only because of Rose's gladness at the ride that she had been spared that particular discussion.

Still, it would have been worth it.

The camp was settled around a small keep Northwest of Moat Cailin; it was busier than she had ever seen and thought it might have been gutless of her, Myrcella was glad they were nowhere near the field of battle. She was rushed inside the meagre keep and she greeted the rest of the Wolves in the main hall. Sansa looked worn but happy and relieved, Arya looked as impassive as ever and the King's sourpuss mother looked at Myrcella as if she had just killed a dozen puppies…Nothing had changed much.

Nothing but Robb Stark of course. Or rather, the way he looked at her.

The whole time she had made the formal greetings he had been there by her side and his eyes, followed her with the intent of a hunter watching his next meal.

His reaction had surprised her; or rather, the intensity of it.

Myrcella had known that he would not exactly be overjoyed over that raven she had send to King's Landing; no doubt he would try to lecture her on all the perks of keeping herself quiet and see-through for the time's being as to not entice suspicion. She had not, however, anticipated such animosity as the one she saw in his eyes, in his hard set face and rigid jawline whenever he looked at her. The back of her neck was starting to prickle from the strength of his glare. She'd expected exasperation, but not this! The Winter King seemed so angry that he could not even be bothered to hide it. It disconcerted Myrcella that she could have incurred such passion in him for something that to her was so infinitesimal, especially because Robb Stark usually seemed so cold, untouchable by things so mundane as a temper (though she knew better: he did have a temper. It was simply hidden). Lord Umber too had been entirely dismissive of her message once he read its contents. She had expected the same capability for logic from Robb Stark as well.

Apparently that had not been a realistic expectation.

She was willing to take it from him though, as long as she'd know for sure if anyone of her family would be showing up in Winterfell to give her away.

Or so she thought at first... except this had gone on for hours; he would not speak to her and his manner was rigid and almost harsh, and even now a dinner in the hall of the small keep where they were settled, he would not stop staring! From mild apprehension Myrcella started to get angry.

What was his problem exactly?!

From anger she then started to get well and truly furious. There she had been, anticipating to see his sorry face; and he dared looked at her as if he'd like nothing better than to throttle her for one tiny message.

Myrcella set her shoulders and straightened her spine. She would not apologise.

Halfway through the meal the frustration got too much and she was moments away from snapping at him to 'stop looking at me like that!'

She dared a glance at him over the rim of her glass. He was not looking at her at the moment, busy as he was speaking to Sansa in a quick manner, seemingly almost forgetting of the plate in front of him. The cut that ran vertically at the corner of his mouth did not seem so bad as far as wounds went and it would most likely heal without leaving much of itself behind, but for now the scar was still red and angry and it made his glares into something even more intimidating. She could handle the glaring – to hells with it, she could glare back! But Myrcella so wished she could understand why! He looked at her with those cold eyes that burned the same ice does when you hold it too long in warm hands and she felt the prickle that it left behind acutely; but that he would not even speak with her, even though between her arrival and dinner there had been plenty of opportunity, that was what bother her most.

As if drawn by her gaze, his eyes snapped at her so suddenly that Myrcella was caught and didn't even have the presence of mind to look away. She held his look, wolfish orbs of a blue so cold it almost flashed like steel, staring at her unblinking. Myrcella held them, hoping that he could see her confusion... and her uncompromising position. A feeling a restlessness come over her when he did not look away for long moments, because she got the sensation that she had been entirely wrong and he did not want her to submit at all. That this, this connection was what he had wanted every time she had looked away.

What...?

But their gazes held longer than they should have in public. Long enough for his mother and sisters to notice. Before they could turn to her Myrcella snapped at herself and turned her attention to her food, but she could not concentrate on it.

What was this? Why?

What had she missed?

And if she had not missed anything, if this was only because of that raven she had send... well the King of Winter would have to deal with it, the thought unkindly. How else would she be able to push her boundaries if she did not test them first.

oOo

It was late when he managed to find himself alone with her. And once she turned the corner and he was there, Robb knew that she would think it coincidence, because she had found him without looking, but the truth could not be farther. He had tracked her though Greywind's eyes and his own, knowing where she would go and following the paths of her scent, knowing where she would be before she got there.

She had been tense, he had been riled up and painfully restraining himself. The result was unpleasant bits of conversation followed by awkward pauses... until finally she had snapped.

"If I may… did I do something to incur your displeasure?" she had snapped then, just as she was about to go, but changing her mind, annoyance winning over manners,

Robb did not find himself lenient. She knew well enough what she had done!

"You should not have send that raven." he said then, gravely, a restlessness searing at his limbs, making his palms itch.

He watched the spark of anger light a fire in her eyes.

"I did not speak to them of anything of consequence and you know that… your grace."

She had not once called him by name. It irritated him beyond measure... and so far gone he seemed to be that he did not even notice how his reasoning was devoid of any logic at all.

Perhaps because his words seemed to come faster out of his mouth than his thoughts could stop them.

"Do you think that matters?" Robb snapped at her then, taking a step forward. "Or that anyone who cares to see a spy in you, would care what you wrote?! I can hardly believe the incongruence you your actions: you cross yourself at every corner."

Her sneer was ugly on her face, her demeanour stiffer than ever. "My actions are my own and I take full responsibility for them. You need not worry over the hardships of my future, your grace, though I do apricia..." She stopped, and Robb watched her as she fisted her hands and with her eyes closed tried to gather herself into a composed state again, breath after deep breath. "I do not wish to have this conversation. Good night." she said tightly and turned her back on him.

Robb didn't know what possessed him, he truly didn't. One moment he was standing there, outraged beyond belief that she would dare dismiss him, and the next he had her by the wrist, his hand was pulled her face to his and he had kissed her before he ever knew he had closed the distance.

He felt it all at once: the sharp inhale that froze in her lungs and how it had allowed him to part her lips and taste their sweetness in a moment too brief, the way she went utterly still with shock her pulse jumped, and how his split lips stung as he pressed them to hers, firmly...

A heartbeat was all the madness lasted. Her body screamed at him to back away and he did, shocked at himself so much that he almost took another step back from her entirely...

Both their breaths were harsh, as if they'd been running… and perhaps they had been all day, ever since he saw her across that plain. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted as she tried to draw her next breath. The shell-shocked look of her made Robb feel the sting of his idiocy acutely and he let her go completely, putting air between them… but when he tried to move away, her handcaught her wrist and tightened so hard that he could feel her nails biting into flesh and leaving moon-shaped marks there.

Her head shook minutely as she gulped. Her eyes had never looked so green nor so wide… and he'd never seen them so full of wonder and tentative softness.

"No, I…" her whisper was barely heard but he was so close he would have heard her breathe in the dark. "I…"

Long fingers ghosted over the corner of his mouth where he'd been cut, not touching his wound even though the vicinity of her tingled all the same. Robb understood her without even needing words – the relief was strange, a rush in his veins - and smiled with a small shake of his head as he leaned down, slower this time, his hand finding her waist and following its shape, deliberately. Gently. Giving her time to back away or come to him as she chose.

"I doesn't hurt." He whispered back, his voice sounding so rough it surprised him. It did not, in fact. He'd had far worse. And even if it had hurt, he wanted to taste her more than he might ever want to avoid a small sting.

This time his kiss was softer. She came to him, one fraction at a time and closed the distance between them, first with her hand against his face then with her lips that met his. He did not crush himself to her; it was better to taste her softness slowly, matching the way she wanted to be kissed…

She liked to be kissed slowly, and kissed back as if she was at her own leisure, both curious and wanting at the same time. It was a strain not to fall into her deeply, but there was a tremble to her hand as she sneaked it at the back of his neck and Robb knew enough of himself to realize that the pleasant warmth he was feeling inside out now would turn insistent all too soon if he did not control it. So Robb kept to her lips as, andtasted of wine and smelled of heady things that enveloped him in a warm blanked… But then she opened her mouth to his and stepped into his body, and the wet slide of her tongue invaded his senses like a thunderclap, obliterating the caution he'd been trying to maintain. And as it had so rarely happened to him before, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much longer than a moment.[1]He knew the feel of a kiss that overtakes the senses, the moan in her throat, the arch of her body into his and the igniting of his blood, all in the space of a moment…

He had to break away from her to breathe but that did not mean he had to stop, so when she turned her face to gasp in air, he anchored his hand to her cheek and kissed a line from the corner of her sweet mouth to the end of her jaw, and then her soft throat and the crock of her neck until she had her arms wrapped around him tight and fingers fisting in his hair… until his name left her lips like a call and he realized he'd trapped them both against a had wall and unyielding desire…

He moved to look into her eyes, still so wide and lips now red, full of new wonder. He was sure he looked much the same. He certainly felt just as shocked.

As they looked at each other and absorbed the meaning of the sizzle between them, time awakened again and moved sluggishly on[2], leaving the two of them dazed and new.

But they kept there against that wall for a while longer.

…

And if someone saw them from a corner, then they would have seen the Lannister princess, standing much too close to the Winter King, speaking softly to each other so that the whisper wouldn't carry. They would have seen the princess raise her hand and with the corner of her sleeve dab at the King's lip without interrupting what she was saying, with the smallest smile, even as the blood seeped into the silk and marked the whiteness of it red

And perhaps if this had been anyone else but Catelyn Tully that was seeing such things, they might have missed what her eyes saw, but a mother knows her children. Instinctively, she knows, always. Which was how Catelyn knew that her son was making a mistake, looking at the Lannister girl with that kind of tenderness. She knew it because her heart clenched in fear at the sight of it – of such honesty between them. He should not smile at her that way, nor should Cercei Lannister's daughter be able to look back at him with such full wondrous eyes.

Those two in the corner might not be aware of it, but Catelyn was: Lions and Wolves simply were not of each other's herd and they would always end up tearing each other apart… one way or another.

oOo

"I take pleasure in my transformations. I look quiet and consistent, but few know how many women there are in me."

Anais Nin

The rest of the journey north was a blur of days without clear dividing lines. Myrcella ate and slept and rode at a gruelling pace. North, always north. She saw the same outline that she had seen years ago, when with the rest of her family that had travelled North through the King's Road… and yet it was as different now as it could be: difference people and difference purpose… Myrcella too was changed so much that she almost did not recognise that little girl that had come through that same road years ago.

The further north they went, the clearer it became where they were going: the plains started getting windier, the mountains ever whiter and the cold more biting.

The north was welcoming her…

It was when it first snowed that Myrcella truly found a moment of wonder. She had not seen snow ever since she had been to Winterfell last. The wonder left its place to distaste once the cold set in though, especially after it was announced that they were to hasten their pace even more for fear of being caught in a snowdrift too high to travel through. Myrcella had wondered during those days, if a week of respite before the wedding would be enough for her to rest. She most certainly did not want to look like death warmed over upon the altar. But mostly she did not think on it much; even because she knew she would not be married in a sept but in the woods, in the eyes of the northern gods. She would not particularly care, if she did not find those trees so frightening. The rest of it made sense. All the king's bannermen had to be there for the wedding, so why ever wait to have it later, when they could all just on with it when they were all together at the same place?The sheer practicality of it might have put any other bride off, but Myrcella did not see the point. She was not a bride, she was a princess and about to be made a queen. All she wanted was to get it over with, and make as much of an impression as possible at the same time.

Sansa had assured her that the castle would be ready for them once they arrived. That it had been rebuilding for almost two years and it was almost done. Myrcella never added anything when the Starks spoke of Winterfell. The light in their eyes did not permit it. There was something fierce and absolute in them when they spoke of their home, as if they were built of the same stones and their blood were the mortar that held it together. She could not understand it, but then again, Myrcella knew she had never belonged anywhere so fully: perhaps she was not meant to understand it; only envy it.

When the day came, to Myrcella it was just like any other day. But when they stood upon that hill and overlooked the fields around Winterfell and saw the high walls and proud towers rising against the iron sky… that had been a moment like no other for the Starks. Myrcella knew, because she had been looking upon their faces. She had no particular interest for the keep, but that look that Robb had on his face, in was mirrored in al of them in the same way: a longing so strong that it could break hearts… and among them a moment so intimate, that Myrcella could not look at their faces for long without feeling as if she was intruding on something she had no part of.

She had turned to Winterfell again; Robb Stark's home.Her home, in but days from that very moment. Her heart had jumped then, and not because those grey dreary walls spoke to her was her future she was looking at, Myrcella realized. Without meaning to, her eyes went to the King and she was astounded to find that he was looking at her this time, a smile such as she had only seen on his faceonce, and a soft yielding in his eyes.

Myrcella had given him the faintest of her smiles, the most true. The one he'd have to look for to find.

For the second time in almost six years, Myrcella Baratheon would cross crossed the threshold of Winterfell, ancient seat of house Stark… and neither she nor the castle were the same. But she was glad about one thing above others: she did not come here as a queen, no even as a bride. She would enter Winterfell's walls as herself.

Myrcella Baratheon of house Lannister…

She could not help a smile: uncle Tyion called her that in jest. She had always found it foolish.

oOo

The first days were a hustle of ongoing preparations so much so that everything became a blur. Lady Stark ran the keep with the efficiency of a general and Sansa was no less capable in helping her mother. They seemed to delight in doing everything they possibly could – perhaps it had something to do with finally being back in their home after so long a time away from it. Arya on the other handwas always off somewhere secretive with her brother, Rickon, the boy whom Myrcella had seen but once since she arrived in Winterfell.

The most immediate result for Myrcella in that organised chaos that seemed to dominate was thatshewas quickly left without a proper place in the midst of it. She was a guest, she was the Iron Throne Princess, she was the future queen… none knew exactly whatshe was except for the fact that she was of high birth and a Lannister. Servants don't know how to act around her, people give her wide berth and hardly anyone spoke to her for more than a few moments but for the Obara, Elia (who was ever by her side these days, refusing to leave her alone and Myrcella had rarely loved her friend better), Sansa whenever she had a moment, and Robb Stark, whenever his council permitted him to leave their chambers. He seemed to have come back from the war only to be lost to endless meetings and council gatherings. It must not be the easiest thing, Myrcella gathered, to organised a kingdom that has not functioned as one for centuries…

Myrcella watched it all from the sidelines, took note of who was who and what purpose the people around her served. She was quick to deconstruct the organisation of Winterfell's household and found herself wondering what courtly life would be like here in the north, where there has not been a court for more than three hundred years. She imagines something scattered, disorganized, at least in the beginning. Structural hierarchies take time to form, she thinks, and knowing the nature of the northerners, the etiquette and flourish of the southwould have no place at all up here. Myrcella did not mind. She knew how to handle it both ways: she was raised in the Red Keep, the most rigidly hierarchic court in all seven kingdoms, and then was removed to Sunspear, where they proceeded to demolish that rigidstructure of thinking brick by carefully laid brick.

Her mother would have despaired (perhaps she even did, who knew). Myrcella had been shocked. Now she was thankful.

She would find her own place. For now all she had to do was take care of herself. She was after all the bride, as Elia was ever so fond of remind her, to the great pleasure of Obara's snickers.

oOo

It was on the third day that two important things happened, one right after the other.

Oberyn Martell came into her room along with Elia, Obara, Ellaria and Nymeria, and they presented her with Doran Martell's gift to her, for her wedding: a dress such as Myrcella had never seen and would probably never see it's like again… and nor would the northerners that would see her in it. A gown fit for a queen, Oberyn said with an amused smile and Myrcella had nodded her thanks. She had known the moment she saw that it that, though the gown was prince Doran's gift, Arianne had had an important hand in having it made. Her taste was as impeccable as it was unmistakable.

But then the Red Viper had done something that had left Myrcella speechless. He had come close to her, taken her face in both his hands and leaned their foreheads together as he wished her clarity in the paths of her life and graced her with the words of blessing of Dornish custom. Myrcella had stood frozen and taken it all in with shock that was directly proportionate to her conviction that Oberyn Martell would never speak to her again after what she had done to him in Riverrun.

She had been wrong apparently.

"I do no blame you at all for my past Myrcella." He said to her as he leaned back and looked at her bewildered face. His smile was so sad that it chirped at her heart. "How could I? You are innocent of the crimes of those before you… and perhaps you were even right not to give in to me."

He had seen the shock in her face at those words and laughed at the blatant way she could not hide it.

"What?" He dared. "I have admitted to being wrong before!"

"Not that I know of, my prince."

Oberyn had shrugged with his usual grace. "Well, the times I am wrong are far few and far in between."

Ellaria's smoky laugh had been a delight (but it could not cover Obara's snort or Nymeria's snicker)

"Oh I would have an interesting answer for that…" Ellaria said as she looked at her loved sideways. Myrcella could not help a chuckle. It was when she caught Elia's eye and saw the gladness there, the happiness, that Myrcella knew without a doubt: Elia had had a hand in this. Who else? Who else could claim the same amount of sway over the Red Viper as her. None, perhaps not even Ellaria herself.

The other interesting development was far more relevant to the Starks than to Myrcella, but she would soon find that she should have in interest in it as well.

The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch came to Winterfell, with ten of his black brothers and a Red priestessin tow.

From the window of her room Myrcella had watched Sansa and Arya come running out to greet their wayward brother, and later she saw the king with his half brother (who wore Eddard Stark's face so well that Myrcella had been almost startled the first time she had seen him close), laughing and jesting together, Robb Stark looking happier than he had since she had seen him first in the plains of the westfold. Watching them in one another's company, Myrcella became conscious of what she had so far only sensed intuitively: that they were not accepting her, they simply tolerated her – even Robb Stark, who so far liked her well enough and wanted her even more. Their devotion for each other seemed to Myrcella comparable only with their relentless dedication to keeping her out of it.

But that did not surprise her. She had not expected anything less.

oOo

Myrcella met Jon Snow on the most extraordinary circumstances. She had been introduced to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch when he first came to Winterfell of course, but she had not had the chance to actually speak to the man beside the expected pleasantries, even though she could feel his eyes on herself sometimes, watching her carefully. She did speak to him on a pale morning under an overcast sky. She had woken with dawn and, not her feet had taken her forcibly to the place where some days from that day, she would be made a wife and a queen. She did not like the godswood. It was too dark and too quiet and the stillness seemed to have eyes. It breathed down her neck and Myrcella could not help but feel watched. And that was precisely why she had wondered in there that morning: because she feared it.

The north could not have a queen that feared their holy places. It would not, no matter how much those eyes of blood made her cringe.

So she had entered its silence and stood before the heart tree, looking and not daring to breathe too loud… and not knowing what to do. She refused to leave as soon as she came. She did not know what purpose this was serving, but she knew about poisons and she knew about fear: if you take a few doses of poison for a while you might actually build immunity to some. Fear was the same.

So she stood there and waited for her heart to slow.

When a branch cracked behind her, her hand went to her sleeve and she had her dagger by the handle before she even turned, but did not pull it out. Surprise was the best asset in…

Myrcella straightened. "Your grace! Lord Commander… Good morning."

The two men stood side by side, both tall, though Jon Snow had a couple of inches on Robb Stark and Robb's shoulders were a bit wider than his brother's. They looked so different, but if one wanted to search for signs of their same blood, one might have found them in the shape of their eyes though the colour was different, in that dour expression and the way they held it.

"Princess." The Lord Commander greeted with a nod, stiff as always.

Robb Stark afforded her a smile. "Good morning Myrcella. We did not mean to startle you… or interrupt your solitude."

Myrcella pulled her cloak a little closer to herself. "It nothing. I was out of sorts, that's all."

Robb looked at her as if he saw straight though her words. "You were about to pull a dagger on us weren't you?"

His amusement showed in his smile.

"Of course no." She said then, raising her chin. "I would have pulled the dagger when you least expected it. One of my size has to keep her advantages pretty close to the chest, your grace."

The king laughed easily, and even Jon Snow graced her with a small smile. They had come closer not, standing under the canopy of the heart tree, under its horrific eyes, looking ever at their ease.

They belonged there. She did not. And in that moment Myrcella felt it acutely.

"There is a sept in Winterfell. I was sure that Sansa had told you of it." Robb said quite suddenly, looking from the sacred tree to her uncomfortable self. "I have bene thinking of asking you whether you would like for a smaller ceremony to be held there as well."

Myrcella could not conceal her astonishment.

"Why would I want that?" and her wonder was so transparent that it became obvious she could think of no reason at all for such a thing.

"I imagined… you would want to be married in front of your gods, Myrcella." Robb explained and she felt herself flush for not having understood him immediately.

"Oh… that is…" Myrcella gulped. She was starting to stumble on her words, but she could not help it. She was nervous and this place gave her chills. And that warmth she felt which started on in her bell and unfurled outwards at his words, was making her nervous too. "That is very kind, thank you. But I am honest when I say that the old gods and new are the same to me. …I am grateful that you thought to ask, however." She then added hastily, not wanting to overlook his thoughtfulness when it was so plain before her.

Robb answered her with a smile, but it was the Lord Commander that had questions for her.

"You do not keep to the southern gods, princess?"

"Not exactly." Myrcella answered as lightly as she could. "At least not in any way the Faith of the Seven would consider worthy."

"So you believe in nothing then?" There is an edge of caution in Jon Snow's voice that tells her he would believe it of her, if she speaks the words seriously enough.

"I believe in the gods, I just don't pray to them." Myrcella cleared, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "And I believe in myself more, in my view of the world."

It's a dangerous thing to say, Myrcella knows it: terrible things have happened to women because they thought they could hold their own then again, Myrcella is not most women.

"I believe in my responsibility for my actions, my sins and my own good deeds. I believe in determining my own life, honouring myself and doing my duty." Myrcella looks at Robb Stark and she is fully expecting the surprise she sees. "These are much easier principles to believe in. You don't run the risk of them clashing often, since, as with all rivers leading to the sea, all my principles lead to myself."

Jon Snow seemed to consider her words seriously, before nodding only once, but it was the King's reaction that drew her attention.

"And you're so sure that you'll never compromise yourself?" Robb asked her then, softly, the echo of a strange emotion in his eyes.

Myrcella can see what he means. She can hear it in his voice. She wants to say that its different for kings; that compromise is all a king is about, that she will be different when she is queen because kings and queens do not belong entirely to themselves. They are both more and less than human.

Instead she chooses to say something that will sound not quite so hopeless.

"I have always forbidden myself from compromising my person. But I had a clearer choice, it was a matter of survival: for quite a while, I was all I had."

And you're not. You're king. Sometimes kings can't afford to have principles, especially in war. Robb Stark must have found that out some time during the war of five kings, otherwise he would not have survived it. And it must have hurt him deeply. Merely weeks ago she would have thought this to be her imagination filling the voids of this man, but now Myrcella did not think so. She was building him up piece by piece, as she slowly knew him… even though he was not so easy to piece together. As clear as they were, his eyes hid so much, and sometimes he aid more in silence than in words.

But Myrcella could understand that. She was more or less the same.

oOo

"Does it frighten you?"

The princess looked up to his brother, seemed to contemplate the question and then decided on an answer in a matter of a heartbeat.

"It's not fear, exactly. I just… feel very much a stranger here."

Robb was reminded of his mother, who came from the heart of the south and who still felt like a stranger when she came here, in front of the old gods.

"Our gods must seem cruel and crass to you." Jon said then, and though the princess did not know his brother well enough to tell, Robb knew that the was testing her, getting the feel of who she was. But the words seemed to ring within Myrcella – that sharpening in her eyes, an awakening in her expression, told him that clearly enough - even though she simply shrugged it off.

"All gods are cruel." she deadpanned, her certainty ringing in her tone."The southern ones just dress it up more nicely, with pretty words and vain promises."

Her words made Jon cast him a glance, a look passed between them that lasted for the fraction of a moment but it was enough. The princes was not what Jon had been expecting and even though Robb had warned him of that, his brother was still surprised. Myrcella on the other hand was looking at neither of them, her eyes were fixed on the heart tree and she couldn't take her eyes off it, it seemed. It must frighten her, Robb thought. It had frightened him too as a child, though during the war, the times he could find in the godswood were a respite and became moments he sorely craved.

The time when he felt uneasy among the shadows and deep silences of the godswood were long gone, but for his southern bride-to-be, itmust be different. Roslyn too had always been very uneasy in the godswood. She was devout to her own faith, and prayed often, but the eerie silence and sometimes stifling presence of the woods had unsettled her. Perhaps it was so even with the princess…

"You know, I think I like the old gods better." Myrcella said finally, snapping out of her silence and looking and both Robb and Jon in turn. "They are honest in their nature: they don't disguise their cruelty. I can respect that… If I prayed, would your gods listen to me even though I'm a foreign to their ways and their woods?"

Robb felt his lips pull into a smile. "My father used to tell me that the old gods listen to everyone who kneels before them. You don't have to worry about your prayers falling on the deaf ears of the wind."

Myrcellanodded.

"I think… if I have to pray, I'd rather pray to gods that make no promises."

Robb could have smiled at that – Jon did smile, a true one this time and he knew in that moment that his brother could learn to respect Myrcella for exactly who she was. Jon was like that: he made up his mind about people within moments of meeting them. Robb was that way too: he had to be. But deciding on her had been the hardest thing he'd had to do in a while. To him, she was a complication, not just another person.

"Now if you'll excuse me, your grace, my lord, I shall have to go. At the risk of sounding truly southern, I'm afraid I'm starting to get rather chilly out here."

Robb chuckled, and wordlessly offered her his arm. Just as wordlessly she took it with a small nod and they left the woods, Jon falling to his side as they walked back to the main keep.

oOo

Over the breakfast table, the discussion went on and he found that in the hectic days of their arrival home he had missed the chance of simple speaking to her. So much had to be ready and he had hardly the time to leave his solar – which had turned into a temporary council chambers. But now, as they ate, he found that her enthusiasm was contagious and that she was quite interested in northern ways, and much more informed than he had expected. Robb suspected Dacey and perhaps even the Greatjon and his son were responsible for that.

"How do you pray to your gods? I have never read anything about that anywhere and frankly never thought to ask."

"We pray silently, princess." Jon answered and though he spoke as seriously as ever, the princess caught the joke and her eyes sparkled with humour. He could almost hear her saying in her head 'as with everything else you do'.

"It is the truth, though." Jon continued, more seriously then. "We have no songs or hymns or anything of the like. Everything you have to say is between yourself and the gods."

And as his brother spoke, Robb watched her eyes turn serious, and he could tell that she was listening to every word as if it mattered – she had that strange ability, to look at you as if she would remember every word. In all likehood, she probably would too. Myrcella focused on things with intent; there was no idleness in her, no matter how many pains she took to appear simple. Jon was not used to her concentration, Robb realized. It was disconcerting him a little. It had had the same effect on Robb as well, but he got used to it.

"It's simpler than the seven, and less alluring I imagine." Jonconcluded, smiling at the princess as if it was a joke between them.

And when Myrcella nodded, Robb knew that she would start going to the godswood more frequently. He knew that it frightened her, and that was how he knew she would go back there if only for that reason. Besides, Myrcella seemed to him like someone who would go a long way to achieve something and it was not farfetched to think her kneeling here, embracing the old faith, for the sake of finding a better place with his people.

But Robb didn't want that. Who men worshiped was between them and their hearts and no concern of any other, not even kings.

"The glamour and pomp of the Faith is designed to attract the eye and yes it does, but its purpose has nothing to do with religion at all." Robb heard Myrcella say. "I am not negating the existence of true believers: a man's heart is his own. But history has proved that The Faith itself is an institution, and its rigid hierarchy a tool of social convenience."

Robb frowned at that. She sounded so certain and even a little disapproving as she spoke. And though she went back to taking bits of breakfast as if she had not said anything of much importance, Robb did not wish to ignore this.

"So you think that the reason behind the wars with the Faith is not a cruel and unjust sovereign, but greedy men in septon robes?" he asked, already leaning forward a little. And if he noticed that there were others paying attention to their discussion she hall filled, he did not pay them any mind. It was to Myrcella he was speaking.

"I don't presume to judge the reasons behind a war. There has never been a war where injustice and evil belonged only to one side, I think." she paused, for only a heartbeat, but Robb knew that she regretted that last statement. She looked into his eyes then as if she was measuring him, wondering if he would speak of the war that had just a month ago ended. When he did not, she acknowledged his silence with a smile that was visible only in her eyes.

"What I was commenting on was how troublesome multiple fealties can be, for the people and for the king who rules them." She added then, and with every word, Robb got to think of something he had never considered before. Nobody dared interrupt them."The formal rituals of the Faith of the Seven force the creation of a hierarchy, a structure. It creates another state within the state: you swear fealty to the king and your beliefs to your gods, which are conveniently represented by men. What is one to do, when one clashes with the other?"

"Holy men." Robb specified, knowing exactly what her point was but wanting to know just how well she would be able to make it. How deeply could she understand it.

The princess rolled her eyes at him. Robb almost laughed.

"Men all the same, your grace. And for most men, once they taste power, all they want is more power."

There was a certain bluntness about her declaration. A sort of recklessness about her honestly, one that dared him to call her on it. Had they been alone he would have teased her for it. 'Are you certain you're all Lannister, Myrcella?'. But considering the people that were now listening to them, they would not take it as an innocent jape but as a provocation and Robb did not want to make her feel mocked.

"Regardless, this seems to be a question you'll never have to canted with." Myrcella said then, and this time was bright and amused. "It simplifies things a great deal not to have people about who claim they speak for the gods."

Robb found himself smiling back.

"There are actually – those who speak for the old gods, I mean." Her confusion pulled her brows together a tiny fraction and Robb went on. "Old Nan called them the Children of the Forest. They were the ones that carved the faces on the weirwoods, so that the old gods could see us and hear us."

The princess' eyes sparkled with amusement. "I have read about them. When we were children, Tommen and I used to play in the Red Keep's gardens, pretending we were the Children of the Forest. He used to make crowns of leaves and flowers for me, but they always fell apart."

She looked at him with eyes that shone of true fondness, and he was yet again reminded of how much it softened her face, how much more it sweetened her beauty. Where she grew sharp-edged whenever Joffrey was mentioned, she almost melted for her other brother, whose very name brought tenderness in her eyes.

He did not remember, afterwards, of what exactly they had spoken during their meal. But he did remember that she had laughed with him and that he had felt lighter and more careless than he had in days, forgetting all about the many troubles that assaulted him from odd angles. He remembered that whoever had broken their fast with them that morning could not stop glancing at them together and that he knew it to be a good thing, that they should all be used to it. He would perhaps explain to Myrcella one day that she had not been introduced to Winterfell the first day they had come, but rather that very morning, when she was seen as something more than a beautiful foreign woman about to marry their King.

In Robb's opinion Myrcella's introduction to the halls of Winterfell could not have been done better if he had planned for it.

oOo

Returning to Winterfell for a wedding had never been among the ways Jon had imagined he would get to come back to that ancient seat. He had, around the years, come back to his old home twice, but never stayed more than for a passing night. He did not want to it had been too painful. The castle looked as dead as in his nightmares without his family in it. Now his family was there, ever different and always the same in so many ways. Robb, Arya, Rickon and even Sansa… Nothing could have prepared him for what seeing them againhad felt like. What it had been to embrace Arya again, still skinny and wild, but taller and so very beautiful now. What it had felt when he had seen Sansa's face, seeing in her who she was and who she had become, someone completely new. Or what he had felt when she took his hand and called him brother, same as Arya had…

Jon knew that she had been told. Robb said so and they had even sat down one evening and spoken of it – the truth of his parentage and all that came with it. And yet she still called him brother and so did Arya and Rickon. So did Robb for that matter.

It tore at his heart really, just how much he loved them all. In the years they had spent apart, they had all found themselves, and so had Jon: his place and his purpose were at the Wall, but in his family – there he found his reasons. His sisters, their love (he could hardly believe it still) his brothers. He had been spending every spare minute with them as the wedding approached. Neither Arya nor Sansa would leave him a moment in idleness and Jon found that he was far from minding it.

The wedding…

A Lannister as Queen of Winter. It sounded preposterous but it was true. And a part of Jon still found it ironic that the little girl who had once come to Winterfell and looked at Robb with stars in her eyes, the girl he had found so insipid, was now that young woman he had met, who would be his brother's wife, who would become a queen.

She did not remind him of that little girl. She reminded him of Cersei Lannister more. But she was more open and perhaps even more beautiful than her mother had been, despite that scarred cheek. Tall and slender as a willow, straight as a spear, she was everything striking. Myrcella Baratheon was young yet, and sweet as well whenever she deigned to laugh and smile. Jon could see it the promise in her though, how she would grow into a frightening beauty one day, when she grew into a woman and left the girl behind. Her manner was easy and charming, her wit was quick and her mind quicker. Robb was taken with her, that much was plain for all to see and she liked him as well. This did not please all the same way, Jon had noticed this that day in the hall, when the betrothed couple had been discussing religion and whatever else the princess was curious to know. They drew such looks that one might have thought them a strange oddity, when in face they were days away from being married.

They were and oddity too, of course. But only if one chose to be superficial.

The princess for her part was reserved, was pleasant enough company and soon Jon found himself liking her well enough to feel at his ease in her presence. There was something about her that felt known, as if she reminded him of someone else. Something about her humour and its edges, about her looks and her teases. It did not take long to recall why: she reminded Jon of the Imp's company, of his sharp tongue, careless japes and free laugh.

Her easy manner shocked him one day, when they had been breaking fast together: the two earliest rises of Winterfell, aside from the servants. She had been the one to invite him to her table.

"Please join me, Lord Snow. It's so depressing to eat alone."

And then Lady Catelyn had passed by the hall, and doused him (and the princess too) in a frigid look, before she strode away. It had been when Lady Catelyn was well away out of hearing range, that the princess had started to chuckle.

"You know, I quite like your company, Jon Sow." She said, though he could see from the look in her eyes that she would say something more. The imp had had the same look in his eyes when he made japes at Jon's expense. "Somehow it makes me feel better to know that there are other people in this world that lady Stark dislikes with the same passion she reserves for myself."

He'd almost choked at the way she so easily talked of a subject that all the Winterfell household had managed to ignore all his life. It put him in a rather tight spot for a moment, until he remembered that he was no longer a boy. After that, Jon couldn't help the smile, even though there was nothing funny about it. He'd felt so… so many things over that particular dislike, growing up.

"There's really something to be said about misery enjoying company, isn't there." The princess said lightly.

Jon finally gave in and chuckled with her. It wasn't funny no, but she had managed to make it sound so. And truth be told... it really was a revelation to see the way lady Stark's face cooled whenever she looked too long at the princess. He did not enjoy it, but it did make him feel less displaced. He didn't ache much for Lady Caitlyn'sacceptance now and he doubted the princes did either. For his part, as Jon grew up and became a little more his own man, he learned to be grateful that lady Stark, though not a mother to him, had not been unkind. She was cold, yes, but had never mistreated him, never abused him. Never urged her husband against him - though perhaps that would have caused her more trouble for herself than for Jon...

He'd could have given the princess some words of comfort, perhaps advice… but he didn't feel he had that liberty, and upon better scrutiny of the princess, Jon realized soon enough that she really didn't need that much help anyway.

In the end it was for the best that he did not speak, for only moments later, Lady Stark was upon them, and though she nodded her greeting to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, for the princess she reserved nothing but a cold look down her sharp nose, and an outstretched hand with an open missing in it.

The princess turned an unaffected smile towards the Lady and bid her good morning as if she did not care at all for the tension between them.

"I must ask Lady Stark," The princess added as she took the message from the Lady's hand. "Will there ever come a time when letters addressed to me will find my person before they grace your eyes?"

Jon almost choked on his water and was forced to swallow quite painfully and try not to cough out a lung. Say what you will about him being a man grown – which he was – but the side glares of Lady Stark still sent something inside him cowering. Perhaps that was the boy in him living yet. Jon scoffed internally. Even if that boy had been dead and gone for many, many moons, Lady Stark was such a woman that could bring him back just to make him cower. The fact didn't make him feel so bad as it should – he'd seen it happen to many men hardier than himself.

And yet there she was, the golden princess of the Red Keep: she had the gall to smile almost shamelessly in the face of Lady Starks' austere looks, as if the matter of her non-existent privacy amused her truly and she was teasing an old friend. The truly funny part was that there was no mocking in the princess tone, nothing disparaging. She soundedhonestlyamused!

The frigid look Lady stark send the princess could make the Wall feel like a hotspring…and yet the princess smiled without a care in the world.

Lannisters…

"All messengers and letters that come and go through Winterfell pass through my eyes or my son's, Princess." And that was that. Jon almost winced at the finality in lady Stark's tone. Had it been him, he wouldn't have bowed his head and left. Damnation, had it been him, he probably wouldn't have said anything at all (though he doubted his mail would ever be so closely supervised as the princess' was. And perhaps with good reason). But the princess shrugged, blithely cheerful.

It was insulting really, how much she disregarded the Lady's frigidity… and of course, that was quite shamelessly the point.

Blasted impudence! Was she deliberately trying to win Lady Stark's displeasure?!

"Of course. Far be it from me to question your ways." The princess answered, utterly carelessly. Lady Stark raised one eyebrow at her and Jon almost cringed.

"Old strife and misgivings are slow to shift, Princess. You should know that better than anyone." Lady start said between tight lips. "Generally people dislike change."

The little smile that she sported was a bitter expression, one that Jon was not too familiar with. Lady Stark had always been a hard woman when she needed to be, and shrewd, but never bitter. War had changed her… same as it had changed all of them. Jon immediately felt the bite of shame. She should not be so quick to judge. They had all suffered.

Unfortunately for Lady Stark, the Lannister princess was not so lenient as Jon.

"That is true my Lady, but mercifully, very few of them dislike it as much as you do[3]. Oh, don't misunderstand me, I don't mind." The princess was quick to cheerfullyclarify, even though her eyes were stone cold. "I think you'll enjoy my uncle's letters – he has a true flair for the descriptive."

This time Jon did choke, though if it was because of indignation at her nerve, or the laughter it provoked in him and got caught in his throat, he didn't know.

Gods, he'd almost inhaled his piece of bread…

"Everything alright Lord Commander?"

Jon glared at the princess for her cheek as much as he could, though he still took the cup she offered and found that, thank the gods, it was water, or else his eyes would have burned right out of his sockets. He knew that with his red face and scrunched up lips, he didn't make for much of imposing figure, which probably explained why she was still smiling like a silly girl (she's six and ten Jon, Sansa's voice gently reminded him), pretending she was unaware of what she was doing.

Jon straightened in his chair and took a gulp of clean air. Thankfully, lady Stark had already left the hall entirely.

"Are you purposefully trying to make her dislike you even more?" He asked softly, almost whispering. After this bout of silliness, he felt he had enough confidence with this girl to ask her such a candid question.

"I'm not sure how that's possible." The princes noted and Jon saw, with a twinge of guilt, that her good humour had evaporated like it had never been there, and her eyes were the poorer for it. She looked much more alive when she was happy… or when she pretended to be.

It occurred to him all too late that perhaps she found very little occasions for laughter aroundWinterfell.

"Well, it won't be made easier if you quip and jape in her face." Jon pointed out, knowing he was simply repeating something she already knew.

"Huh, perhaps you're right. Her sidelong glares could curdle milk for sure, they'd give my mother's a run for gold."

Inside him, the child he had been was shocked.

"Don't say that." he said softly, imaging - shuddering - at the thought of what his father would say if he could hear her.

The princess frowned at him even as she smiled. "A jape, Jon Snow. Gods, don't tell me your sense of humour froze at the Wall."

Jon allowed himself smile, wondering when exactly between now and twenty minutes ago had he acquired such an ease with this princess. "I don't know. I'm not sure I ever had one."

And that at least brought a smile on her face. That was better. She looked much less like her mother when she smiled.

"I had hoped that she would eventually tire of keeping me in such poor graces for my face and name alone. Hatred, or even distain, without a sound base for its existence is a terrible waste of one's energy, I have found."

Jon looked up from his plate and into her eyes. Yes, she was asking him, though it did not sound that way. But Jon knew better: the question was sin her eyes. And what was he supposed to tell her? Why ask him? But the answer to that was so self-evident it almost slapped him around the face.

Come on, Jon you've been the resident bastard of Winterfell your whole life. Did Catelyn Tully Stark ever warm up to you even an inch?

He didn't say anything, but from the way her face fell into immediate understanding, there must have been something telling in his expression. Jon knew that she knew his answer, though he had not spoken a word. Perhaps his silence had been enough.

The princess leaned back on her hair, abandoning her porridge altogether. After a moment, she shook her head and shrugged.

"You know, there's this saying in Dorne: If a problem can be solved there is no use worrying about it. If it can't be solved, worrying will do no good[4]."

Jon found himself chuckling. "Life must be easier in Dorne."

The throaty laughter that burst out of her was shockingly warm. It eased him, that she was capable of it.

"Oh, Dornish summer there can kill as easily as winter kills here, so no, life is not that much easier in Dorne. But it's a common jape among soothsayers, what I just told you. I think I should start practicing that philosophy where Lady Stark is concerned though."

Jon didn't say anything one way or the other, but the lopsided smile he hid behind his spoon must have been as telling as his smile previously.

oOo

"They would have no claim on me if I did not desire it, for I am solely my own: half flowering creation, half blistering hellfire…"

'Persephone speaks' by A.C.

The day before the wedding, Robb found himself knocking on the princess' door early in the morning. She appeared to him fully dressed and he gave her a smile as he bid her good morning. She smiled back, in a tentative way, with a touch of shyness – a smile he had never seen her give to anyone but himself… and that he had not seen ever since that night northwest of Moat Cailin, in that dark corridor where they had kissed. Yet despite his better inclination or what he might feel every time he saw her, this moment then and there, with him at her door, was the only one they had had for themselves ever since they left that dim corridor.

She looked at him as if she was thinking exactly the same thing… but not even now was a time for kisses. Robb perhaps resented it, but he knew that he had something for her which she might want more.

"Would you come with my, Myrcella. I have something to show you." He had told her, and offered her his hand, which she had taken with and intrigued smile. She may not like surprises, but she had yet to deny him anything.

The shiver that had passed through her when she saw her Imp uncle waiting for her was something Robb had not expected. She looked astounded for the total of a single moment, her breath came broken through her lips, surprise robbing her of her usual composure… and then the smile had lit up her face as she let go of his hand and practically ran to her uncle. She had to get down to her knees to hug the little man properly, something that she did without a single moment of pause, and held him long and tightly.

Robb had not expected that reaction. She seemed always so reserved, the picture of poise even when she was angry. Except for when she escaped the castle to ride around the moors of Winterfell, he had never seen a single hair out of place in that golden head of hers and sometimes her outburst still surprised him. But seeing her that morning, noticing the edge of desperation in her look, in her words as she spoke to her Imp uncle under her breath… it had gotten him thinking…

Had she been lonely? Had she felt so miserable that even her deformed uncle could sway such strong emotions just because he was her family? Or maybe it had been worry that gave way to such a reaction, relief over seeing him alive and well, even though exhausted from the gruelling road. The truth was Robb did not know. It could be a thousand things. Where her family was concerned, the princess was ever tight-lipped, even with him.

Hours later, Robb was in solar surrounded by his brothers and sisters, and yet he could not seem to get rid of that suspicion on the back of his mind, the edging restlessness. He did not like having the Imp in Winterfell – his mother liked it even less (she still had not forgiven him for admitting the 'the foul creature' in her home). And though Robb was not so passionate on the matter, he was of the same basic sentiment. He did not like it one bit that Myrcella cared for that half man so deeply either, and he especially did not like that look full of surprise and then sharp suspicion that the Imp had thrown him over Myrcella's shoulder, as if Robb was the cause for the princess so emotional reaction to finally seeing a familiar face; as if he had treated her ill, being a jailor and not her betrothed.

Robb was both of course, but he was not acting like it! Not once had he treated her like his captive. It was hard to even think of her that way; at his worst, Robb had thought her as a complication he had been vexed to deal with, yes, but never as his prisoner.

"It keeps bothering you, doesn't it?" Sansa asked him, interrupting his thoughts.

Her brother looked up from the fire and into her eyes. She read the answer there – he did not need to say a word.

"She has always loved him, Robb." Sansa said, hoping that her words at least could smooth away some of his worry. "Even before Dorne, when she was a child."

Robb felt irritation prickle at him.

"She's only ever shown care for her little brother." He said, thinking over her behaviour, and what it might mean. Why was this still bothering him – he so wished it would not. "I have gotten the impression that she never had the smoothest course with the rest of her family."

Sansa tilted her head and gave Robb a faint smile, one of those that he did not know so well as he might have liked.

"You know, Lord Tyrion was actually one of the very few people that tried to protect me when I was in the Red Keep. I remember once - it was a while ago - there was a riot in the streets of Fleebottom because Joffrey provoked the crowd." Sansa chuckled a little to herself. "They say Tyrion was enraged. He slapped Joffrey and kicked him and called him a vile, vicious, cruel boy."

Robb couldn't help the little incredulous laugh that escaped him and neither could Arya.

Sansa joined them soon enough."It must have been quite a sight. I am grievous to have missed it, though the castle buzzed about it for days."

"Missed it? Where were you?" Jon immediately asked

Sansa shrugged carelessly. "Dealing with my own problems, so to speak. But no matter; what I wanted to say is that the only people Myrcella treated as family back in the Red Keep was prince Tommen, and the Imp." His sister threw him an amused look through her lashes before she got back to her embroidering.

"It enraged the queen so, you have no idea. She has always despised her younger brother. She went so far as to try having him killed once or twice. And yet her golden daughter, who rebuffed her left and right, had nothing but the most honest, simplest care for her Imp uncle. She showered him with the very same affection that Myrcella so steadily denied her mother… and for which Cersei was ever hungrier for."

Robb felt questions gathering behind his lips but he held them. Jon seemed confused and Arya bored – but they too were keeping their silence. It was always wiser to listen whenever Sansa was concerned: she knew things, things about people and places and secrets seemed to swirl behind her eyes, like water down a well.

"At first I thought she was doing it on purpose to irritate Cersei and Tywin, but that theory fell through soon enough. Myrcella's affection for her uncle is as simple as it used to be when she was a child; as sincere as my love for you is." Sansa raised her eyes from her embroidery and pinned Robb with the seriousness in them. "And what you also need to understand is that that is precisely the key to Tyrion's unwavering loyalty to her. It seems cruel, but it's the truth: the only price one needs to pay for the Imp's loyalty is a bit of well-earned respect. And Myrcella and Tommen have always freely given him what he has always wanted and never had: the affection of family.…That is why he is here, why he looks at you with such suspicion and why he regards us with distrust: worry for his niece, and nothing more."

Sansa's eyes lifted to him, and pinned him down with that certainty of knowledge that made her gaze at times unsettling. "Do you understand me, brother?"

"I understand that whatever selfless deed the Imp may have done was motivate by the selfish desire to be acknowledged." Robb said calmly. He had seen that strange altruism in the Imp when he gifted Bran his modified saddle for his brothers limp legs. Robb was not likely to forget that - not because of the Imp, but because of the smile he put on Bran's face. The very first smile since he fell.

Sansa's only response was a small smile and a shrug. "Yes perhaps. But how do you judge a man: by his motives or his deeds?"

"Both." Robb replied immediately, and it was not rashness that made him say it, but experience.

Sansa nodded. "Yes, it's safer if you take both into account. But Tyrion's love for his niece is no longer born out of 'selfish desire to be acknowledged', as you put it. They share more than the rest of their family ever will …and they see each other as similar, I think: they are both two lonely broken things."

Robb straightened in his chair. He remembered well the Imp's words, remembered them as if he'd heard them yesterday.

…cripples, bastards and broken things…

Robb had thought it a cruel jape at the time. Now perhaps he was starting to think on it differently. It wasn't so farfetched after all, to see how even the Imp would see himself as something broken and discarded. But Myrcella… she was so fiercely whole, so unblemished and well put-together. What could she possibly have that would liken her to her ill-made uncle? Robb struggled a little with that. He simply couldn't see her as this 'broken' creature Sansa was painting. But perhaps she did see herself that way… though from looking to her and speaking to her, and being in her presence, one would never know.

"Besides, I don't think we should be the ones to speak of foolish things done for family." Sansa said then, almost carelessly, but her eyes were on Jon and he suddenly felt uncomfortable.

Arya on the other hand was not so careful about her reactions.

"Oh right. Almost forgot about that one." Though the deadpan sarcasm in her tone was an immediate giveaway.

Jon gave his sisters a small smile. Neither of them bulged however. They had yet to speak of this. They had spoken of many other things… secret, dangerous things, and yet not of this.

"You almost got killed trying to come to me, didn't you? They stabbed you because you forgot your brothers and wanted to save your sister?"

Arya's words were harsh, her eyes fierce. Her long face was familiar then, those lips pulled back almost as if in a snarl… he could almost hear it, until there was no 'almost' to it at all – Nymeria was doing the real snarling, it tumbled across the room like low thunder, reacting to her human's emotions.

"Do you know what I would have done Jon? If it had been true that the Bolton Bastard had caught me and planned to marry me?" Jon did not want to know, but did not look like she was about to stop, not for him nor anyone. "I would have played nice and easy, I would have screamed and cried and begged… and then, the second gave me the smallest opening… I would have ripped his throat open with my teeth. I would have killed him stone dead, believe it."

Jon felt his heart beat against his chest like a war drum.

He did believe it. And yet…

Gods, thinking about it with Arya there before his eyes, feral and wild and beautiful, was ever worse. He did not doubt her words, not even for a second. Arya would have taken one look at the Bastard Bolton, and decided which was the best way to kill him… and yes, she would have ripped his throat with teeth and nails and a fork or a chicken-bone if she had to. Jon didn't doubt it. But it still hurt. It hurt like a fucking open wound, and the worst was that he couldn't bring himself to regret his choice, even knowing that it had cost him his life and his honour and his duty. It had been Melisandre's doing that he was still alive, no matter hw much the Red Woman babble about fires and prophecies, dragons and fire and blood. It was a trick. Magic. Jon tried hard not to think it as black magic because he would not be able to stand the feel of his own skin if it were so… even though Melisandre herself denied it all and said that it was the magic in his own blood that had awakened him from death. A true dragon, she said, of the blood of old valyria, found rebirth in flames.

All nonsense, all of it, especially when faced with Arya's long face and angry eyes…

Jon knew he would do it again to save her. The only difference was that this time he would be smarter about it and try not to get stabbed in the back.

"Sansa would have done the same if they'd wed her to Joffrey I bet." Arya said then as if it was a challenge, and Sansa gave a snort.

"No I would not." was the immediate response. Calm. Sure.

Jon turned to her, to that little smile on her lips, her sweet familiar face and the delicate lines that made her face so beautiful and famliar, to the ivory sheen of her skin, pale as snow. She looked frail enough to break at the hardiest brush and yet her eyes burned ice-blue and as feral as Arya's when she looked at her sister and spoke.

"I would have waited until I got with child, of course." She said calmly, as if it was something Arya should have thought of. "And if it had been a boy, I would have waited until I had another child, so that I wouldn't be the first one to be suspected."

There was a glint in Sansa's eyes that was quieter than Arya's but just as violent. Sansa had always been so contained in all things… was it really a surprise that she was restrained and careful and calculated in her ruthlessness as well? Because that's what it was of course; her pretty face didn't change the nature of those emotions in her eyes.

"I would have gotten rid of Cersei first. She's the most dangerous one: vicious and stupid is not such a good combination." Sansa's smile toed the line between amusement and malice as she considered ideas. "A nice marriage to the knight of flowers might have done it right. They would have both found a deep, singular misery[5] in their union."

Nobody dared speak to interrupt her. It was as if she had enchanted the room. Jon was the first to admit he found strange fascinations in the workings of the mind of this woman who looked like the sister he used to have, but spoke and acted nothing like her.

"Then Joffrey would have gone hunting and a terrible acceded would befall him. Such a shame. So young. I would have liked to make Joffrey's death slow though. Slow and painful. A boar would have been too ironic… I would have needed lots of whiteness for that."

Jon was frozen watching her. The flames danced in her hair, in her blue eyes. His heart beat faster now, but for different reasons. Was it really so wrong of her to wish them dead? Wish them dead violently even. Jon himself would have killed them with his own hands, all Lannisters, torn their house down root and stem, such had been his rage at times. And yet his sweet sister was sitting there, dainty as you like, contemplating murder so carefully that Jon knew she'd planned it long and meticulously for a while. This was no spur of the moment idea. If Robb had not won the war, if the unthinkable had truly happened... Jon had no doubt that Sansa would have obliterated them all. Perhaps not immediately, but soon enough. Or she would have died trying.

"Wow, you've really thought that one through huh?" Anya asks, light, natural. Like they are speaking of the weather, not of murder.

Sansa's shrug is absentminded. "I had to do something with my time didn't I?"

Arya was smiling with all her teeth showing.

My sisters, Jon thought as he looked at them, the she-wolves of Winterfell.

He could not fault them for it. He knew it did not diminish their goodness, just as he knew that they were children of winter and war. There was a reason that the Kings of the North were called the Kings of Winter and, thought it might amuse the south, it was not because of the weather. Ned Stark had raised them to be honourable men and women, and yet…

Would he be disappointed, Jon asked himself, to see what has become of us: I, an oath breaker, my brother a Winter King whose name makes half the continent tremble, a sister who is most comfortable in darkness and another than can play half the country for fools and do it with a sweet smile. They were the wolves of the north and they had brought peace to their realm, but what was the cost, he wondered? In the north a lie was only morally admissible if you had been lied to, if a bargain had been broken, if you were betrayed first. But then, once the chips went down, Jon thought, all rules were off. And the chips had gone down several times for the Stark children. Would their father think these things excuses?

Ned Stark had been raised in the Vale, Jon reminded himself. He had been raised to live higher than honour. And he had raised his children on that way as well.

But Ned Stark was also the man that held the sword and took his men's heads once he passed judgment. He was the man that would have taken Theon's head without pause if the Iron Islanders had rebelled. The same man that had waged war against one mad king and would have risen against another.

The north remembers. And the north is ruthless.

And we are the wolves of winter.

Perhaps Ned stark, their father, Jon's only father, would be disappointed. I'll ask him when I see him again, he told himself. As for Jon, he was not disappointed in his sisters or his brothers: he was proud of them. In himself... that was another matter.

oOo

Nymeria is kind enough to prepare her bath, adding the scented oils in the water. Incense burns in the corners of her room and fills the air, and Elia blows the scented smoke into Myrcella's drying hair. Obara has rubbed them with neroli oil, which is why her curls yield to waves of softness, all the way down to her back. They help her rub creamy flower-petals on her skin and it becomes so soft even Myrcella wonders at it, and takes a fine golden sheen as if she has bathe on sunlight. They put pastes on her face and willow bark on her eyes to take away the weariness of a sleepless night.

Myrcella takes it in as if in displacement. She moves and she speaks but she feels six inches behind her own body.

Elia keeps speaking to her softly, her tone so gentle, her voice so warm. It's a comfort. Obara looks at her intently as she paints her hands, her fingers and Nymeria her feet. They design, in tiny dots, the symbol of peace on her skin, of fortune and prosperity. Once she is dry, Elia and Nymeria her into the dress Arianne has made for her and its heavier than it looks: the inner layers are of wool and warm velvet, to keep her warm, and then silk over sheer silk and when Myrcella runs a hand over the fabric, it flows like water over her fingers. And it shiners with the silver shine of white pearls.

Myrcella had almost laughed. She was supposed to wear gold and black – they were the Baratheon colours. Pale gold was the gown that uncle Tyrion had brought with him for her and it was beautiful. But Baratheon was not her house. And Lannister was not her house either. As the thought connected, Arianne's playful voice came to her ear: wear what makes you into what you want to be seen. Wear your image. Wear yourself on your sleeve… and white has always made you look so pure…

That beautiful gown was a private jape.

Myrcella loved it for exactly that.

And because it did make her look ever so pure. She looked at chaste as a freshly-bloomed lily as she stared in the mirror, even though the dress was completely off the shoulders, exposing her throat and her frail collarbones and the tantalizing roundness of her shoulders, the hint of her breasts. It clung to her faithfully all the way to her hips where the waves flared freely down, and moved with her like smoke, shimmering like water.

It really was a striking gown…

The numbness breaks only when Myrcella turns and looks at her maiden cloak on top of her bed, a drape of silken that catches the light as if it really was gold made fabric, and the crowned black stag embroidered on the silk with careful stitches. There are other motifs dancing around the hemline, delicate and beautiful: crowns and antlers intertwining. On the inside the cloak is layered with fur, her mother's thought no doubt, against the cold. Thinking of her mother shocks Myrcella into her own body and she takes a deep breath to steady herself. She wishes her mother were here, no matter how terrible Cersei's presence at this wedding would be – not politically but in itself: her mother would have made her wedding to anyone a nightmare (let alone to one such as Robb Stark, king r not) because had it been in her mother's hands, Myrcella would have never married anyone, or maybe married and stayed in the Red Keep. Selfishly, as she ponders this, Myrcella wishes she had a different mother, a different family. A different life.

But most of all, she wishes she was not still stupid enough to ever think about wishing for anything. The cold stone floor was still firm beneath her feet, her head still attached to her neck. She had her life – a pleasure denied to many. She would take charge of this life and not long for another that would never belong to her.

And wasting thoughts on something as stupid as a maiden cloak was something she had had no time for a long time ago, let alone now. This is a royal wedding, and appearances, like all lies, are as good as the show that keeps them up: they demand to be kept. The twist of irony is that, up here, pretty words freeze on people's mouths before they ever make it out. They will all know that it's a lie and none will appreciate being lied to. It would have been the same anywhere. Up here the reaction will just be harsher.

She expects it.

She stops caring the moment she turns her back on that cloak and closes the door behind her.

oOo

The knock on the door is sharp and sounds twice, and Tyrion knows who it is before she comes in. He has a retort ready, his smirk in in place, but then he sees her and the smile freezes on his face before falling to astonishment.

…He doubts he has ever seen anyone that arrested him more than this. And so severe is the look on her face in that moment that it does away with her sweetness, and she looks fierce and terrible in her beauty.

Violence of action. He has always liked that expression. It means to move quickly and violently in order to leave your enemies scattered, leaderless and unable to defend themselves from the onslaught. It was the expression Myrcella brought to mind, as Tyrion looks at her.

A sight to stop any heart.

But she is upset.

"I am ready, uncle." She says drily. The golden cloak of house Baratheon is in her hands, and her bare shoulders invite the eye – she is a play of contrasts. Sharp white dress, shimmering in pearly and silver hues as it catches the light, darkened skin kissed by the sun, vivid gold in her unbound hair…

Oh yes, Robb Stark is definitely getting the better end of this deal.

"I can see that, niece. You look…" but then Tyrion smiled, and gave her an forbearing look. "I'm sure you know you will be the most beautiful woman out there today."

His niece rolled her eyes. "I am the most beautiful woman in most rooms every day, uncle. But perhaps you're forgetting Lady Sansa, or her sister, or the dark northern beauties that shall be attending."

It was Tyrion's turn to huff.

"Dark northern beauties are common up here. And Lady Sansa, though lovely, is not the one getting married today. Nor the one about to be queen."

Or wearing gowns like that one you are wearing: a chaste provocation, almost absentminded. Tyrion knew better than to believe it. Nothing Myrcella ever did was without purpose.

"Before we go though, I have something for you." And he directed her gaze to the large wooden box on his bed. "Go on, open it."

Myrcella looked at him and then stepped forward, lifting the ornate lid. Jewels of every kind greeted her eyes and even for one such as her who was used to riches and ridiculous fashions, what she saw there was worth a pause.

"It is your wedding present… from Tywin Lannister."

Her eyes snapped to his face, frown already in place. She knew better than to take gifts from men such as his father and Tyrion could almost laugh at it: at how clearly she saw some things and missed others.

"They were the jewels of the Lady of Casterly Rock. My mother's." Tyrion added softly. "She had them made after her own taste, I was told, and they were all she ever wore." And it seemed almost surreal in a way. Their father had never spared any king of expense for anything, Cersei had had the best necklaces, bracelets, coronets, of the most precious stones made forged from the best smiths of the Rock… but this box had been sealed away when Joanna Lannister had died and it had never been touched; not when Cersei came of age, not even when she married. Every single piece was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, elegant and tasteful - as everyone said his other had been. All in all, that box contained enough riches to buy Myrcella a small fleet if she so wished: gold, silver, rubies, emeralds, stones he'd never heard of in settings of every kind, fit for royalty – which Myrcella was and ever would be.

Myrcella touched one of the rings: multiple circlets made to appear as if she was wearing not one ring but five, and which would cover half her finger.

"This is a dornish design." And her questioning eyes went to her uncle's, questioning. "There are other pieces here that I have only ever seen in Dorne: head circlets, and snake bracelets…" Things that in the fashion of the westerlands were considered outlandish, no doubt.

Tyrion shrugged. "My mother served as a lady in waiting for queen Rhaella, along with the ruling princess of Dorne at the time – Oberyn's mother. They were said to have been good friends. Perhaps they exchanged gifts."

"Perhaps…" Myrcella echoed, fingering a silver necklace with pale stones set in the middle of it. "They are beautiful."

"They are. And they are yours." Tyrion thought about it and then decided to say it out loud. "Perhaps you don't realize, because you don't know my father that well, Myrcella, but this is particular gift means he has great plans for you." And a particular regard as well, but that Tyrion did not say. She would not believe it.

His niece snorted. "Oh, you mean he expects me to breed in exactly nine months from this day?"

Tyrion bit back a chuckle. Her unaffected tone somehow made the thing more funny even though it was really not.

"Something like that, yes."

"For someone so intent on discreetness, your father sure known how to tell people to get fucked."

This time Tyrion didn't bother to even hide his laugh, though it was bitter.

"Oh he has a talent for it, believe me." And though he was sure that Tywin's plans on Myrcella was great indeed, Tyrion did not know them and could not guess. But he was sure that it would involve bringing the North back into the fold. How his father planned to do that, Tyrion did not know. He did not even know if it were possible anymore… but with his father one could never know.

Myrcella signed deeply and set on the bed heavily then, as if her strings had been cut. Her shoulders slumped and her hand went to rest on her stomach, as if she was afraid it was going to fall out.

"I don't know what's the matter with me. I feel so foolish."

Tyrion gave her a small smile as he took her hand. "You're nervous. It's quite a common affliction among brides, I hear."

But his niece only rolled her eyes at him.

Yesterday, when she had come into the room he had been put to wait for her, and seen him… Tyrion had almost been frightened by the shock and joy and sheer desperation he had seen on her face before she came to embrace him tightly enough to make him feel his own bones. He had read unhappiness in reaction and he had known who to blame for it – though the Winter King had seemed as shocked as Tyrion had been by her reaction.

He had told her all he could of the battle, of Tommen and Jamie and himself… or her mother and Joffrey too though she had not asked. She had not demanded why Jamie had broken his promise to come to her wedding. She had not even addressed her own words, dismissing them as foolish the moment he tried to remind her of them and saying she was glad that Jamie was not there. The Kingslayer in Winterfell, when he had just been released form captivity. What had she been thinking?!

All excuses.

Myrcella sighed deeply and turned to look at him for long moments, a gentle smile softening her face.

"Have you ever noticed uncle, that we have the same eyes."

Tyrion felt a small bit of tension settle between his shoulders. Her eyes were wide and bright and shaped for wonder, perfect, and now darkened ever so slightly, just about enough so that nobody would miss the violently green shade of them – a colour such as none in their family that Tyrion had ever seen. His were black and green, gateways to the seven hells some said.

"Look at us. The shape of our eyes is exactly the same." She insists again, gently, locking her eyes with his.

"I know." Tyrion admitted softly. He had been aware of that for a very long time though, and it shocked him none the less that she had noticed it too, that she was admitting it so carelessly, as if it was nothing. It was the only thing that he had in common with his blood. Not even his hair was the same colour with the rest of his family; but the shape of Myrcella's eyes, his beautiful golden niece, it was the exact replica of his own. And it was a trait she did not share with neither of her parents, with nobody but him. Wide eyes of green, shaped like almonds and glittering with mischief whenever they both felt the inkling for a good fight.

Strange, li little tings…

"You always were so good at saying the right thing uncle. It's how I remember you: the man who always knew what to say."

Tyrion gave a small laugh. "Well, that is perhaps the best way I am to be remembered as."

"Don't you have some clever words for me? Something for me to keep in mind, to help me laugh at their japes and be strong against their more cruel ones."

And though her tone was more or less flat, her eyes were windows to her truths and Tyrion knew that he would never be able to resist that gaze when she looked on him with such a pleading expression…

Tyrion sighed, and his shoulders fell a little.

"I don't know about advice, Myrcella. But I will share a few things I have found to be true in my life." He turned to her then, intent and serious. He did not know what it was to be a girl of sex and ten set to marry and live among enemies. But he did know about being an oddity. "Nothing you do or say will ever be perceived as neutral, or normal. It will either be tragic or comical or suspicious. You'll never go unnoticed, and you'll never be at rest. You'll either struggle or you'll fall."

Tyrion watched her as she watched him and a smile grew on his face at what he saw of her, knew of her.

"But you already know all that. Because you have brain enough for two, and as a queen, that is exactly the amount you will need. You may take whatever path you wish Myrcella: ignore them, or fight them, or make yourself into everything they think you are. I have done all of it. Whatever you chose…" and here, his hands gripped strongly, because he needed her to understand the importance this. "Whatever you chose to do with what you're given, make sure to have a spare plan, Myrcella. Make contingency plans for contingency plans if you must – you're good at that. Pay attention to the people that surround you – knowing who you're dealing with and how to best use them can save your life. It has certainly saved mine more than once. You have to ensure your own survival here, dear niece, because nobody else will."

Myrcella swallowed thickly. She had been ensuring her own survival for a while now. She had not done as spectacularly as she might have wished, but she was still alive and mostly whole was she not?

That however was not the point.

"Are you telling me I should trust no one?" Myrcella asked without looking her uncle in the eye. Are you telling me what my mother has been telling me all my life, she wanted to ask, but she didn't want to bring Cersei Lannister here, not when her uncle was keeping her company. It would be unkind.

"No. I'm telling you make yourself safe. You know where your vulnerable heart is: don't give that part away to anyone. Love and live and give your heart away if you wish, but keep your vulnerabilities to yourself."

"People are used to crushing anything vulnerable, aren't they." She muttered with a sigh. Vulnerable… she wasn't sure she had anything of that kind left in her any more.

… and what a lie that was. One she had been telling herself so long she almost believed it herself. The truth was she was vulnerable, in the most unlikely places.

"Yes they are… but who knows." Tyrion dispelled his own sudden bout of gravity with a laugh. "I'm just a poor old sod, bitter and cynical. Maybe I'm not the best one to give advice, sweet girl."

Myrcella scoffed and gave her uncle an affronted stare, melancholia forgotten.

"I can think of no better person: the world has been mocking and trying to kill you for years yet you refuse to die or bow out for them." She declared making her uncle chuckle.

"Now, now my dear. Don't get confused: that has not been the world, but my sister."

Myrcella rolled her eyes but did not hold back the smile.

"Sometimes I wish we could all just wake up one day with no memory at all in our minds but our names… and try living for one day like that: people without a past, only a future. It's a nice dream."

Tyrion wanted to tell her that perhaps it would more probably be a bloodbath, because even when they don't have a past, people are still the same. But in her desire to have people forget about where she came from and be accepted for who she was, Tyrion saw a reflection of himself – of the same wish he had so often had for so long.

Until he had stopped.

"It is a nice dream. But just a dream." Myrcella said then, flatly. She too knew that much, and for that Tyrion was happy. She had never been the kind of child to hold sand between her fingers and call it gold, thank the gods. "I don't think they will ever forget who I am. Perhaps I could learn to make that into a good thing."

Tyrion nodded, smiling at her.

"We can no more escape your name than you can escape your skin. Trust me, I've tried – escaping my skin, that is." His smile was a little more amused now than before. "I have found thought that inhabiting a role can be quite satisfying: it teaches you quickly to turn your every flaw and vice to your advantage."

Her eyes were attentive. How he was proud of her sharp mind.

"You think I should make them fear me?" the doubt was thick in her voice, but she was not outright against the idea. She simply did not like it.

Tyrion sighed. His father would tell her yes, her mother would tell her yes. He was not those people: he was Tyrion Lannister and none other.

"Fear is the means, not the end; if you want to avoid using it, all the better. Your end game should be to make them respect you. …They'll be quick to listen to you, don't worry about that."

Myrcella scoffed softly. Because they would rip apart her every word with suspicion, that was why. "And they'll be just as quick to dismiss me."

Tyrion chuckled mutely. Aye, that was true enough. People had been dismissing what he said all his life, he knew that. They would be the same with her, because she was a woman, no matter how capable.

"Yes, but consider this - you have a great inheritance at your disposal: house Lannister." The look on her face, that mixture of distaste, disbelief and stinging amusement, made Tyrion laugh. "I mean it. We have quite a reputation you know. Use it to your advantage."

Myrcella narrowed her eyes at him. "They don't like Lannister much up here."

Tyrion scoffed. "A friend of mine told me once, if you waste time trying to be liked you'll be the most popular dead man in town[6]."

His niece graced him with a lopsided smirk, a shadow of her father's. But then she looked away without saying anything. He watched her profile, flawless in every curve, every line. She was so beautiful, indeed, more so than her mother had ever been. Tyrion looked at her and wondered if the whispers of the Red Keep were true: that she was a shadow of the Lady Lannister of the Rock in both looks and bearing – the woman that Tyrion had killed coming to this world. Those were careful and frightened whispers – his father would probably rip out any tongue that he caught saying that… but it had been precisely his father that had turned Tyrion's mind. The way Tywin looked at Myrcella sometimes made Tyrion think that perhaps the whispers had some truth to them.

Myrcella had noticed those looks, same as Cersei had noticed them and pretended not to. His niece did not know Tywin Lannister well enough to realize that she had his regard, but Tyrion knew his father's mind a little better. And that wide chest of jewels that had been gathering dust in the bowls of the Rock for decades and now belonged to Myrcella spoke of something: not of Tywin Lannister's sentiments, for Tyrion knew he had little to speak of. But rather, and more importantly, of his judgment. That Myrcella was worthy, in his father's eyes, of the property of the one woman that he was said to have loved and respected.

Tyrion could see the reason why, same as his father saw it, and there was no doubt that it was not based on something as ephemeral as looks.

Joffrey did not deserve to be mentioned. Tommen was a kind and clever boy, more adept to numbers and logistics than he was at fighting or anything else, but Myrcella… Myrcella was Cercei and Jamie's best creation – and in their own ways they were both blind to her. She was all Lannister, though she perhaps did not know that yet. In that, she had been lucky to be raised away from Lannisters. Tyrion almost laughed: what a splendid paradox! Himself, Cercei, Jamie… together they might make one passably decent human being. Tyrion had the cunning and vision, Cersei the drive, Jamie the prowess. They were pieces of a sword forged by Tywin Lannister: the aim, the blade, the arm. Myrcella had all those gifts in herself; she was all three of them in her own right, and luckily for her, she had forged herself away from the reach of those that would spoil her by trying to cage her. She had not been forced into a role, into a farce, as they all had been: the knight, the queen, the Imp. Myrcella had had a chance to grow and make herself, without anyone telling her who she was supposed to be. She had had to find herself much sooner than any other Lannister she had come from, or dead women she might resemble…

Which is why she will do better than all of us combined. Tyrion knew it. He was convinced of it.

What was she thinking, he wondered. What did she want, if being powerful and respected was not enough? He almost chuckled at the irony of it. At the same weaknesses perpetrating themselves from father to daughter. Fatal ones, one might say.

Tyrion sighed deeply.

"You know, I have begun to think, dear niece, that we have a misfortune in common; you, your father… and myself as well. We all have a deeply-rooted need to be loved, for some reason."

Myrcella frowned at that, as if confused, but the moment she got his meaning she looked away… and she might as well screamed her admission at him. Well, at least she was aware of her weaknesses. But that kind of wish could lead to so many mistakes… Tyrion dearly hoped she changed her mind soon. For someone in Myrcella's position, love was not an easy option, nor was it a safe one. And that was speaking in terms of abstract love – of her people, her household, love of those she would command and rule upon. Tyrion dearly hoped she was not so naïve as to think she might make the Winter King bend for love.

The moment he thought of it, that same thought stopped him… and he tasted fear.

Tyrion looked long in her face. The face that was supposed to be her mothers, her fathers. The smile that reminded him of neither. Those eyes whose shape was only alike his and no one else's. It had been such a strangeness to have her love. Simply, in the manner of children, and then deeply as a young woman who felt for him more regard than for anyone. She loved him as his brother did – as family was supposed to. As her mother never had. He had been weak to it, as he always was, of course. As was she… just look at Tommen, Tyrion reminded himself, and how tightly she is wrapped around his finger.

What useless thoughts!

Her destiny was her own. Myrcella alone would shape it. And besides, the look on his face was undoubtedly scaring her: she was staring at him wide-eyed as if she expected him to say something terrible.

"Don't look so spooked Myrcella: you are stronger than your parents. You are the best of them both." he said, trying to make it sound warm, affectionate. He had little practice with it, but it wasn't so hard. "And you have my first rate brain. You'll be fine."

Myrcella sighed, her shoulders straightened and she stood with a little difficulty, as if she felt heavy and unwilling to move altogether, but once she had straightened the nonexisted creases from her skirts, she did give him a smile. She leaned in to hug him and he felt her soft lips kiss him lightly on his cheek.

"I'm happy you're here, uncle. I truly am."

Tyrion had felt relieved that she had not asked him what he had been thinking a moment before. Perhaps she had not wanted to hear it. Perhaps, she had not needed to.

oOo

She knew what she looked like as she walked hand in hand with her uncle down the path cleared for her to the heart tree. Little fires in small bowls lit her way, the rays of the sun spilled across her and no doubt made her seem to glow. She knew she looked beautiful because she could see it in the faces of the people around her, in their eyes as they took her in. There were so many of them, lined to see her from the moment she stepped out of the main gate of Winterfell all the way to the heart tree. She heard soft sounds of wonder and saw smiled, and smiled back gently to those that graced her so. Mostly they were simple people who worked on Winterfell and cared nothing for politics. People who only had wanted to see their future queen, see if she was as beautiful as they said, people who cared for the festivities and didn't really give any thought to why they were having them. Little children who giggled at the bride and pointed. She smiled at them more than she smiled as she moved further into the godswood, where the noblemen and bannermen were waiting for her. Even on their stern faces she saw the slacking of marvel. From the corner of her eye she saw the Red Priestess there too, and Jon Snow, Sansa and Arya and their mother looking as dower as ever.

And Robb Stark waiting for her at the foot of the Heart tree, right in front of its face and those eyes that made her shudder.

Myrcella had always been beautiful, but the perfection of it had been taken from her before she was grown enough to make advantage of such a thing. She saw herself unblemished now though, when her eyes met Robb Stark's and she noticed how his lips slightly parted at the sight of her and his eyes fixed on her with enough heat in them to melt the snow from the entire godswood. Unlike Myrcella, he was wearing his house colours proudly (and it was only then that she realized she had not seen him in anything but black ever since she met him) and for the first time, he had his crown or bronze and iron on top of his head. He resembled the boy she had met years ago more now, with his hair combed back and his curls were still rebelling, his beard was trimmed closer to his face than she had ever seen it.

Her already nervous heart doubled its beats and she squeezed her uncle's hand more tightly.

She was not afraid. She was not! She knew fear, she could master it. This is not fear, she told herself.

But Myrcella didn't know what it was either.

There had been a pause among the attendants when she reached the King. The Imp was supposed to take her maiden cloak off her shoulders, but he could barely reach her waist. They were about to start snickering when Myrcella brought her own hands to the doe fastening the cloak and undid it calmly. Her uncle had not fretted either, though he had had quite the good laugh earlier when she had factually suggested it. She felt the silence take life and thicken as she took her cloak off her own shoulders exposing them to the cold air without caring at all for 'the way of things' as the Lady Stark had preciously put it, and laid it gently in her uncle's waiting arms, smiling at him and trying not to look too playful. It wouldn't do to be so satisfied of the crowd's shock, now would it.

Myrcella rose to look at Robb Stark in the eye and his were practically twinkling with hidden laughter. She put her hand in his and the ceremony began. Myrcella heard none of it. Words came to her as if from a distance and though when she spoke she did so clearly and with surety that granted her presence, she spoke almost without understand herself. She looked into Robb's eyes and nowhere else, and willed herself not to flinch when he unpinned his grey cloak from his back and fastened it around her shoulders with the outmost care, snarling direwolf holding it together.

The moment must have been momentous. She could feel the crowd holding their breaths.

What were they expecting, for the cloak to burn off her shoulders?

Robb stark noticed none of it and for the life of her, neither could she. And perhaps because the silence in that moment was so deep that Myrcella noticed something strange that had before seemed to her like nothing, but not anymore… she heard a voice. Soft as a whisper, so smooth like rustling leaves.

The wind for sure… except she could almost make out words.

Her heard stuttered and instinctively she tightened her fingers around his, eyes widening in alarm. His calm smile and his thumb soothing circles on the inside of her wrist told her not to panic… and Myrcella willed it so.

What was that? Could he hear it?

But the next moment the little fires she had followed to the heart tree flared brightly and Robb Stark was leaning to kiss her lips, because the ceremony of their marriage was over. Myrcella kept her eyes open – she could not see to be able to close them and so did he. Their faces so close looking at one another, the words they had spoken before seemed to take life fully between them and instead of to the gods, they spoke the each other with that brief kiss.

He leaned away and their eyes held for a moment more before he reached to his left, and Myrcella had to bow to him, to receive her new title. It was Robb Stark's had that put the heavy grown atop her golden head. It was bronze and iron, heavy on her brow and sharp spikes reaching up like daggers. It was just like his, except smaller and more delicate. It was just as sharp and not at all mean for beauty.

When Myrcella rose, she looked at Robb Stark briefly before they both turned to the crows, holding heads and finally the cheering let up and rose, ever louder as it had been so silent up until that point. The dark woods around her swallowed the sound and Myrcella tried not to shiver as she faced them all… and herself as she was now.

With her Winter crown on her head, she was now their queen.

oOo

The feast was raucous, the laughter loud, the food warm and aplenty, the music sometimes could be barely heard over the other sounds. It reminded Sansa of another feast years ago, but not even then there had been so many people dancing, and laughing and cheering. She was sitting by her husband and looking and trying to convince herself to eat. Robb Stark seemed serene, almost happy perhaps as he spoke to his brother and his friends and took their congratulations. He kept looking at her from the corner of his eye and Myrcella did the same, but this time she smiled at him fully in the face and the expression startled him, before he returned it.

She did not expect him to take her hand and kiss her knuckles. When he did, it seemed to dim out the noise in the room for a moment. That sinking feeling she had had somewhere in the region of her stomach returned again.

By now she knew what it was and was not nervous because of it.

This time she smiled.

Elia came to collect her for a dance and Myrcella stood. As custom demanded, she kept her new cloak on at first, but then Obara joined in with her and then so many others that Myrcella swore she had danced with everyone in that hall at least once before the night was hallway through. She danced with her uncle too once, before Oberyn took her away. She knew all the bannermen she took a turn with and they were all graceful with her, and she was polite to them. Strange how marked the difference in their manners was: they had had the smallest regard for her while she was the princess of the Iron Throne. Yet now that she was queen they obliged her with curtsies at least. Myrcella could not see the reason behind it. She was the same today as she had been a week ago! Where was the difference they saw?

But then she had no time to think on that much, because just as ended her dance with Dacey, laughing with true enjoyment, she found herself in her husband's arms.

He said nothing to her and she needed no words.

When the music started it was slower this time, and for that Myrcella was grateful. They made a handsome pair to whoever looked, she was sure, as they moved about each other, hand in hand. His eyes slipped from her face to her body to her shoulders and then back again. She knew she was wanted. There had scarcely been a single man to come close to her that had not wanted her tonight, but she had only had eyes for one of them, anxiously almost. Robb Stark did not seem to be so different from other men. But he was different from his usual self: she had never seen his face so warm, nor his eyes so alight.

He was happy, Myrcella realized. And perhaps she too was content.

And then what did it matter that there were those that stared with frowns on their faces, or those that never once smiled at her? Nothing at all. If she could have this, she would have everything.

When the dance ended, and he kissed her knuckles lightly as all other men did for their ladies, she turned her wrist without letting go of his fingers and kissed his knuckles too, as he had. It was not so shocking to her, lovers did it all the time in Dorne; Ellaria and Oberyn ahd done it only moments ago. It still brought a strange stillness to the Robb Stark's face, and an intensity to his eyes that made her blood rush to the surface of her skin and tingle.

Myrcella had known it would provoke him. She had done it just because of that treason. She had not imagined she would feel this way though, because of it.

oOo

She watches as the direwolf looks at the mess around the hall and his eyes are almost… she smiles thinking of it, but he looks so bored, that Myrcella cannot help her amusement. A bored direwolf. Maybe he thinks these festivities as tiring now as she does, even though there plenty of noise and music and fun to be had, for those who enjoy drunkenness. Maybe he's weary as she is, having risen with the sun and having walked about all day.

Myrcella takes a slice of venison from her place and holds it out to him, outstretched under the table so that it might not catch the attention of anyone else. The direwolf eyes her speculatively perhaps wondering whether that little snippet of food was actually worth getting up for. She almost gives up but then he moves, trotting to her silently. Her heart skips a few beats when it comes the moment for that huge mouth of sharp teeth to take the meat from her hand, as if has before. But there is no reason to fear: the way beast lifts the venison from her fingers could be described as almost gentle really, as if he had taken it with lips as a human might. He hadn't even slobbered over her hand! Myrcella felt herself smile in triumph, so very pleased with herself for some reason.

Of course, the whole slobbering thing didn't last, because as soon as he was done with the meat – and that was a whole three seconds – he gave her fingers a good lick of two before sitting at the feet of her chair, enormous head on his legs. She could almost laugh at how sullen he looked, as if he was pouting.

A pouting direwolf.

"Something amusing you, Myrcella?"

His voice came from close, much closer than he usually spoke her to, but then again he had to lean in if he had any hope of being heard, seeing how loud it was in the great hall. She turned her face to him, and felt the heat start from her ears to her neck and inevitably her face - because there were scarcely a few inches between them.

What was it that he wanted to know?

Oh!

"Your direwolf, he..."

"Greywind." Robb corrected, or maybe simply put in since the tone was not that of a chiding but rather of someone reminding her a friend's name.

"Yes, Greywind." much too familiar for such a large animal, but she was not about to contradict him. "He seems rather bored, your grace."

Robb's eyebrows rose minutely.

Her husband, Myrcella reminded herself. Though he would not be her husband truly, not until tomorrow.

Well, not until the bedding.

Icy fingers of dread gripped her insides ad she dismissed the thought immediately. No use worrying about it now.

"Something wrong?"

But he had noticed of course. Myrcella smiled, shook her head.

"I was wondering about what gifts they will bring me – the Sand Snakes."

She had not, but it made no matter. In the face of his confusion, Myrcella took the chance to explain and make him forget he ever saw that flash of panic on her face.

"It is Dornish tradition that once the feast gets well and going, they stop and friends give presents to the bride, to celebrate her day."

His smile was amused. "Only to the bride?"

Myrcella laughed at his almost dismayed tone. He enjoyed the Sand Snakes. They seemed to him foreign creatures that were meant to be seen but not touched. What did he thing of her , she wondered briefly. She who was so many women at the same time and had gathered pieces of such different cultures within her.

She doubted he would refrain from touching…

"A wedding is the bride's day, in Dorne. It is her that they celebrate. Her transformation." And when he did not interrupt, Myrcella went on, leaning on her armchair just a bit more, so that she was closer and he could catch the scent of her hair, her skin.

Why was she playing with fire?

She knew why of course: she liked it. Same as she liked riding the wind and jumping off cliffs.

Would Robb Stark prove more dangerous than either, she wondered absently… and the thought made her lose trail of her thoughts for a single moment.

"The bride leaves her family and the life she has had so far, for a new one, her own. She leaves her name, unless she is the heir. She will leave her childhood, her life, a part of her past self, in a way. For the bride it's a transformation, something more to be added to her identity. For the groom its expected."

His eyes were at her lips the whole time she spoke and the way he leaned forward ever so slightly made her want to close the distance. She didn't know if she should thought. Should she?

You are queen… you can do what you want to do.

The sudden whisper in her thoughts made her straighten her spine and draw back immediately, almost afraid that he had heard her. Robb looked puzzled for a moment, but then he gave her a look of such tenderness that Myrcella found herself relaxing into her own skin once more.

He thought she had been startled by the moment, when in fact she had been leading the moment on. It had not been his closeness to frighten her, nor the desire she felt unfurling in her belly, warmer than the wine and much more heady. She had managed to train herself to them now.

It was the thought in her head that had made reconsider herself. Perhaps the wine was getting to her head.

His hand was at her arm, fingers gently tracing the hemline of her dress where it fell off the shoulders, half caressing skin and calling forth shivers, half on the silk, which spear the head of his palm slower into her. He meant to make her feel at ease… and Myrcella felt herself thawing from the inside out at it. She allowed herself to react this way. She welcomed her own ability to even be capable of it. She had been so afraid that she would not know how to feel for him, that they would be forever strangers. I could not have been so far from the truth of them now; from the truth of Robb, who made it so easy to gravitate towards him whenever he chose to spend but an ounce of kindness on you.

And he did look at her with such kindness now.

…

Dorne did eventually present its gifts. Elia gifted the Winter queen with the best silks and laces, warm wools and velvets. Enough to make a hundred gowns, she said, for the one she would always call sister. Then Lady Nym, whose helpers brought forth a wide chest full of vials and bottles that Robb knew not the function of. Scents and rare essences, the Lady declared loudly enough to be heard over the hall, from the most sweet smelling flowers of the desert of Dorne and the continent of Essos. And Myrcella had inclined her head at the Lady and thanked her. Her crown had not moved an inch and it was as if she had been born to wear it. Obara the Warrior laid in front of his queen a collection of short lean daggers that glinted dangerously in the candlelight, and Robb knew that he had not mistaken that gleam of instant interest in his wife's eyes, how they lit up at the sight. The two shared a smile that was as sharp as those blades.

The last to come forth was Tyene, and she held but a basket, round like a globe. Myrcella did not take her eyes off the other Lady and together like that they stared each other down without blinking a single eyelash. Lady Tyene laid the basked wordlessly on the table… and Robb saw his queen's face change, her features sharpen. She smiled that same razor smile that she seemed to reserve only for Tyene and lifted up the lid of the basket, putting her hand inside in one fluid movement without ever breaking contact with the Lady in front of her.

He swore his heart jumped when Myrcella took out her hand and a snake of blue and black scales was wrapped around her wrist.

The smile on her face was satisfied. A challenge. And he knew then that Tyene had meant to cower her… and failed. Myrcella had known there was a snake in there, thought it was only her nerve that made her so fearless as to put her hand in and reach for it.

"The Blue Cobra of the Red Waste." Lady Tyene declared then as the snake hissed around Myrcella's wrist. It tried to bite her but she did not flinch. He did not imagine Lady Tyene's dejection at the fact.

"A toothless one, of course." The queen of Winter added, as if amused by the whole ordeal. Her eyes pinned the Sand Snake and did not let go. "Its venom is deadly within moments of a bite, but distilled, it acts as a cure for almost every snake bite known. I thank you, Lady Tyene. You are most generous."

And though Myrcella sounded perfectly honest as she spoke, the history Robb knew made the words into a mockery.

Oberyn came last and he was empty handed. But he lifted both his palms for the queen to take instead.

"I do not come to you with gifts, Winter Queen, but with a promise instead." And as those black eyes burned with intensity, Robb knew that Oberyn mean his every word. "I promise you that you shall forever be a princess of Dorne. That as long as my daughter calls you sister, Sunspear will be your home, and Dorne will keep you in its heart. And I promise you that whenever you need a friend, you will find one in me."

He kissed both her hands and bowed his head before he left.

oOo

It was not so long after that the calls for the bedding began. Robb was carried away by a heap of woman of all ages and as he looked back, he caught only a glimpse of Myrcella's petrified face before they pushed him through corridors all the way to his rooms. The ladies were playful and cheerful and some of them drunk enough to strip him down to his shirt and take off his boots before they let him into his room.

Once he was in there, he waited, blood rushing in his veins, for quite a few moments before the commotion came to his door. He did not hear much – he got the most of it from Jon the day after.

Of how Myrcella had kept a stoic face all the while, keeping her chin up and angry eyes firmly planted ahead waiting for it to be over. She had seemed almost indifferent, Jon said, and colder than the Wall. Of how Karstark had grabbed her from the back of the dress and ripped it open all the way to her waist… and Robb could just imagine the harsh intake of breath she had given, the look of surprise on her face before it turned murderous. It was not strange to him at all that he could imagine it so clearly. Jon Told him it had been exactly so, and how Karstark's stupidity had stopped the other men in the company, and none other had touched the queen after – they had not dared, Jon had said, so murderous had been her the look of her. But Karstark had been drunk beyond himself, and started laughing, demanding that she show them her missing ear, grabbing for her face, for her hair.

And Robb could almost imagine the dead finality in her 'No.' Sharp and strong, like a blow. Jon had spared him details up to this point, but he did not when he told Robb of how the princess had looked at Karstark as if she was about to murder him then and there. Of how fast she had moved and how nobody had even bothered to stop her. She had been quick, Jon would tell him, and Karstark too drunk. She had bruised his balls good and proper with a knee, and blackened his eye so hard that the man twice her size had needed up on the stone floor moaning.

Robb would find it in him to smile at this the next morning, but that night, when Myrcella entered his room with her chin led high and her eyes blazing, smiling was the last thing that came round his head. She slammed the door closed, pushing her hands against the wood as if she wanted for it to never open again. He saw the rip of her gown, the arch of her spine beneath it all the way to the small of her back, and bruises blooming around her shoulders in the shape of fingerprints… her chaffed knuckles that were starting to bruise as well. His blood went utterly cold and Robb instinctively took a step forward, but stopped when he noticed the tremor of her shoulders, those long fingers arching like claws, trying to dig into the hard wood of the door. All he could hear was her fast breath. It pierced the silence and shattered his thoughts, but though he was itching to hold her, Robb dared not. He did not know if she wanted him right then and did not want to risk making it worse.

When she turned to face him not a moment after, Robb was hit with the full force of her flushed face, alive and breathing… breathing fucking fire. Her eyes were alight, her cheeks flushed and her lips pale, and she was looking as if she wanted nothing better than to commit murder with one of her sharp wedding gifts. Gone was the poise and her reserve, she was not cold in that moment; she was fire made flesh; living emotion and fierce passion. And those eyes of violent green had been dry but for the fury they boiled with.

She'd not been crying as he'd thought.

She'd been fucking furious.

TBC:::

---

[1] Jon Steinback

[2] Jon Steinback

[3]From 'Young Victoria' – Prince Albert's line.

[4]From 'Seven yeas in Tibet'

[5] Tyrion's words about Loras Tyrell's marriage to Cercei

[6] Bron's line from the show, though I don't remember the episode.

o

o

AN: I and so nervous and unsadisfied with this chapter TT_TT
yes, this is the chapter without end... o_O
As I promised, the wedding is here though - I took me forever to write it (got through several drafts before i was willing to consider it) and this is not even it yet! There are all the Sansa/Jon scenes that i left out because i didnt want to deviate the story too much (even though i feel like taking them out somehow takes away from the narrative, but no worries, i will post them), and there is also the wedding night... which i am humonguously nervous about writing but that i have alredy begun, much to my woe.

I know the pace of this chapter is a bit different. I tried to fill the blanks, and connect the dots of this part of the sotry as best i could. I hope you like it.

Let me know. ;)