A/N: This week (Thursday) will mark my ten year anniversary on this site. 10 years and over a million words. Wow. So I just wanted to thank all those who have read and supported my stories over the years b/c if it wasn't for you I wouldn't be here.

With everything going on right now please don't forget to: Be smart and stay safe. To those who are still having to go out there to work during all of this you have my utmost gratitude and admiration for what you're risking & sacrificing.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Six

Myrcella:

I'm leaving.

This wasn't a dream. Her nightmare was over. She was leaving the capital.

May I never have to come back, she hoped, she thought about praying for it too, but she didn't. Why would the Seven help me? I'm just a bastard. She remembered what the Seven taught her about them.

About us. She corrected, treacherous and wicked.

They're right, she thought shamefully, The Seven Kingdoms were at war because of us.

She would not cry. She could not. She tried to push those thoughts away by focusing on her room. Did I pack what I need? The question proved a welcomed distraction. She could not take everything because Uncle Tyrion wanted them to move quickly through the Crownlands and Reach.

We will not be safe until we're in the Westerlands. She remembered him saying, but she also remembered the look in his eyes as if he wanted to add, We may not be safe there too.

I don't care. She'd rather face the enemies of the Reach then stay any longer a captive of her mother and a victim of her brother.

"Princess," Uncle Tyrion's voice had her turn to see him in the doorway.

You're no Princess. Lord Stark's voice was cold as winter.

"Uncle," She smiled, hoping it would shield her perceptive Uncle from her thoughts. She didn't think she was successful. "Is everything ready?"

"It is," Uncle Tyrion was merciful enough not to pry.

At least I still have him, She had lost a father, two uncles, and a cousin. Myrcella could barely even look at the standard now. Everytime she tried, it felt as if the crowned stag was looking down at her in judgment, You're no blood of mine. It sounded like father.

He's not your father. Lord Stark's words cut through her like a knife.

"Then may we leave?" She felt the tears trying to pool in her eyes, but she would not let them.

Her Uncle gave her a sympathetic look, "Of course," He gestured to himself. "That is why I'm here. I need my charming niece to escort me." He smiled.

Myrcella returned it. When she was younger her uncle had scared her. She couldn't understand how she could be related to him. He looked so different, so strange, and Mother had made sure Myrcella knew her own thoughts about her younger dwarf brother. Mother thought ugly meant cruel, but Joffrey was considered handsome, and Myrcella hadn't met a crueler person then him. Not that Mother would ever see it. Her precious Joffrey can do no wrong.

Uncle Tyrion had always been kind and helpful to her. Myrcella was not sure how she'd be able to cope these past few weeks without him and his support. He always knew how to make her smile and visited her to make sure she wouldn't stay in her room to brood or sob. She still did, but it was happening less and less because of him.

"Uncle," She stopped in front of him. "Thank you," and before he could reply let alone react she was hugging him. She was afraid she may topple him over because of how fast she moved to embrace him, but he didn't. She needed to crouch because of his small size, but it was an easy burden to bear.

"You have a good heart, princess." He told her softly. "Your mother can never take that away from you." He patted her back, "Never."

She leaned back to face him, afraid of the tears that may slip down her cheeks. Myrcella nodded so he knew that she heard and understood him. She then kissed his cheek.

"Good," He couldn't hide the fleeting surprise that she caused him. He cleared his throat. "A kiss from a princess," He said dramatically, "You've made this dwarf the envy of every knight in the Seven Kingdoms."

She smiled. You are no princess. Lord Stark's words were a cold and harsh wind that brushed away her smile. The Seven Kingdoms know what you are. The Seven know what you are.

"There you are."

No, she felt her heart's frantic beating, like an animal trapped inside her chest. No.

Walking to stop them was her mother, she was dressed in gold and crimson. She had nearly as much metalwork in her dress as cloth. Her arms were covered with separate scales of crimson plate. The edges were golden trimmed. There were rubies encrusted both in some of the metal, but also woven into the fabric, emeralds too.

She wasn't alone. Garbed head to toe in white, was her uncle.

No, my father. Her stomach protesting the truth that still made her nauseous. Just the sight of the two of them together had her fearful that she may get sick. Brother and sister, her stomach rumbled, she kept her gaze constantly flickering so it wouldn't linger on either of them.

"Sister, brother," Tyrion greeted them warmly, "Come to say goodbye to your favorite brother?"

Mother's lip curled at him. Her green eyes looked down at him with loathing like he was a troublesome insect and she was about to lift her boot to step on him. "You can not leave soon enough." She then turned to Myrcella, her face softening, a smile on her lips. "However, Myrcella will not be going with you." She tried to take her hands, but Myrcella recoiled as if her mother's hands were made of flame instead of flesh. "You belong with your mother."

She felt herself shaking. The fear was wrapping itself around her like an icy rope.

"Don't be foolish, Myrcella," She chided her. Her tone was light, but her look had hardened, "You can not be taken from me."

"What?" Her uncle couldn't hide his surprise. "What nonsense is this, sweet sister?"

"It isn't nonsense," Cersei sniffed, still not looking at her youngest brother. "It's a Mother's duty to protect her children."

It was too much. She felt as if a fire had suddenly been lit within her. It burned away all her doubt, all her etiquette, the polite princess role she was taught to emulate melted away like snow in summer. Prim and proper, demure and smile, she shed them, one after another they were put into the flames.

"No," She said it so quietly she didn't think they heard her. "No," she said it again, surprised by the happy thrum that went through her upon seeing her mother react to it. Myrcella felt stronger then she ever felt before. You cannot drag me down anymore. I am free of you. The fire continued to rage, consuming all her bitterness as if it was kindling.

"Myrcella," It was his voice, "Don't you think its better to stay with your mother?"

The last shackles of her restraint crumbled to ash. She felt the roar of defiance that ripped through her. "NO!"

She moved to him in two steps. He took a step back, surprised, but she would not let him retreat.

"I used to defend you. I used to stop those who called you Kingslayer." She told him, "I used to say you killed a bad man. You stopped a king who was killing innocent people. You were being good, not selfish." Myrcella felt no tears on her cheeks. No, her face was warm from the anger that continued to spread through her like magma.

"But now, but now I know what a fool I was," She laughed. It did not sound melodic like a princess' laughter was supposed to be. It was ugly and cruel. "You've earned every curse, every insult, every glare that any person has given you!" Her hands began to pound on his chest plate.

"I HATE YOU!" She roared, slamming her hand into his armor like they were hammers. "I hate you!" She said it again, Her palms stung, but she ignored it. "I hate you!"

"I will not waste a single tear on either of you! If you are to die I will not wear even a scrap of black. I have nothing to mourn." Her hands again and again slapped the armor falling into an unexpected rhythm with her rage. "You took everything from me!"

"I hate you now and I will hate you forever!"

She was huffing nearly out of breath. The anger was receding. She saw her reflection in his chestplate. Her face was red. Her green eyes were burning. Her hair was unruly, falling around her face.

Ours is the fury. She hoped he'd be proud of her. She felt like a Baratheon in that moment. That storm, that intense rage. This will be as close as I'll ever be again to them, to him.

She took a step back. It was deathly silent. Her breath was still uneven and her heart was only beginning to calm itself, but it still felt like a horse winding down after a long gallop.

He was looking at her like he had never seen her before. His smirk had faded, barely staying in place.

She turned away from him. She had no more words for him. Not now. Not ever. Myrcella's eyes found her other uncle who was looking at her with mild surprise. He eventually tipped his head to her, "Well, there you have it," His words seemed to snap everyone else out of the stupor, "The princess has politely declined your lovely invitation for her to stay." He held out his hand for her to take which she did.

"You have no authority here, brother." She could hear the sneer in her mother's voice.

"No, but I do," Uncle Kevan stood with more than a dozen Lannister guards. He spared her a smile before he turned to her mother and him. The look shifted in an instant, "Tyrion and Myrcella are leaving. The rest are waiting for them." He turned back to the two of them, "Come along," He gestured for them to join him.

They did. She held her uncle's hand tightly afraid they'd try to reach out and grab her. Uncle Tyrion never protested.

"Uncle," Mother's voice was sharp like a whip lashing forward trying to ensnare Myrcella to force her to stay.

Uncle Kevan sighed. "Whatever thought or scheme you have in that empty head of yours which you perceive as brilliant is anything but," He said bluntly, "So please spare us the embarrassment and stay quiet," He waved his hand in her direction like she was a pest and not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Myrcella didn't look back at either of them. She followed her uncles out of the corridor where they were leading her to her freedom.

"Princess," Arys greeted her. "My apologies," He was shaking his head in shame. "Lord Commander Jaime-"

"Yes," Uncle Kevan stopped him, "You were right to come to me, Ser Arys."

That didn't ease the guilt out of his expression. "Princess-"

"No," She put her hands around his armored gauntlet, "You're my protector, Ser Arys, now and always," she found her voice beginning to strain as the truth and guilt threatened to crush her like a boulder. "If you wish."

"I do, Princess," He said without hesitation. He bowed his head. "I can think of no greater honor than serving as your sworn shield."

Myrcella felt the relief wash over her. It did not last.

Honor. A cold voice echoed within her. It then scoffed. A knight of the kingsguard protecting a bastard who thinks she's a princess? Where is the honor in this?

She did not find the words to argue because there were none. It was right. Myrcella's shame would be Arys'. His white cloak was being soiled by staying with her. "Arys," She began, her hands were stinging. I must let you go.

"No, Princess," he stopped her. "I serve as your knight."

Her throat swelled. "Thank you," she pushed the words out thickly. "Thank you."

They had arrived in the courtyard where the horses and wagon were waiting. Uncle Tyrion had already said that his mountain clansmen would be waiting for them outside the city. "Apparently, they have not grown fond of the smell of shit and piss." He had said in feigning dismay.

"You should hurry," Uncle Kevan had stopped while they went forward to get to their horses. "May your journey be swift and safe."

"Uncle?" Myrcella couldn't leave. Not yet. Her fingers were still red and sore when she took it out. "I-I it is not much," she apologized, "But," the words stumbled out of her mouth like she was a drunkard instead of a princess. I am neither.

He looked down at what she was offering. It was red silk with golden trim, with a small golden lion's head stitched into the center of it. He put his hand over hers to take it. "Your favor?"

"Yes," She mumbled, "I am sorry," She realized it was a mistake. It was not her place. It was for his children and his wife to give not a niece, not a bastard.

Uncle Kevan took it gently out of her hand. He held it up to examine it and smiled.

"A token of my thanks, Uncle. You've done so much for me. You protected me. You helped me. And I am grateful," she was trying her best not to stutter, to remain poised, but it was so difficult. Everything was cracking inside her like breaking glass. "I am sorry that I have nothing better to give."

"This," he wrapped his fingers around it, "Is a gift I will treasure, Princess." He bent down and kissed her forehead, "But now, you need to leave."

She hugged him. She felt the fear constrict around her heart. The whispers in her head that she'd never see him again. "Goodbye, Uncle," She looked down when she felt the tear dribble down her cheek.

"Princess," He called back to her when she was on her horse.

Myrcella turned to see he had tied her favor around his wrist. He waved to her, the red silk swishing below. That was the last thing she saw when she rode out of the Red Keep. She prayed it would not be the last time she saw him.

Ned:

It smelled like fish.

Ned sat in the loft of a small warehouse nestled on one of the docks at Gulltown. At this height, all the different odors were able to waft upwards, and none of them were pleasant.

The loft was smaller than his solar back at Winterfell. There was a straw mattress tucked in one corner. The blankets were dirty and tattered, and there was no pillow. Instead of tables there were barrels. Instead of chairs there were only stools, three legged and wobbly.

So Ned made due with the musty mattress. He leaned up against the wall, but was careful not to aggravate his wound when he adjusted his leg.

It had all been arranged by Ser Davos. The former smuggler still had friends in every port. Ned had been left alone with Davos going to get them food and he sent his new squire, Cley Cerwyn into the city to make contact with Mychel Redfort, who would escort them to his family's castle. There, Ned hoped the beginnings of an alliance between the Vale and the forces of the north and Riverlands could be made under King Stannis' banner.

Despite his new accomodations smelling like fish guts, Ned was content with the rest. His time at sea had not been troublesome, but he preferred his feet on solid ground. Even though he hadn't seen much of the city before being taken into this old warehouse, he noticed enough to see how much Gulltown had grown. The streets were busier, the crowds were larger, and the noises of it all were louder from when he used to visit as a young man with Robert and Lord Arryn.

Now, they are gone, he mourned them. They had been victims of Lannister greed and ambition.

He sighed. In the end I could not save Robert from himself. He missed his friend despite what the city and the crown turned him into. Ned had seen far too few glimpses of the charismatic and charming Robert Baratheon he remembered and respected from their youth during his time as his friend's Hand. Robert may have gotten fatter, but Ned saw beneath it the hollow ache that his friend could never fill not with his wife, not with ale, nor food nor whores. It only grew in time and as it did so too did Robert's misery.

Oh Robert, he thought sadly, but in the end he found some peace, or so Ned hoped.

Now, Ned was serving Robert's brother, Stannis Baratheon, the true King of the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei's get were all hers and her twin brother's. Lannister bastards on the Iron Throne draped in the royal colors of House Baratheon. He had been surprised by the hesitance of some of the lords to back Stannis' claim. North and Riverlords were not all keen at supporting the rigid and dour former Master of Ships.

He is Robert's true heir, Ned had told them in a crowded solar at Riverrun. They grumbled about leaving the south with their mess, and returned home. He would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't tempted to just go back to Winterfell, but he couldn't. He was no longer the Hand of the King, but he was still Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, and he could not turn his back on his duty.

The commotion at the docks was loud and the noise easily bled through these warped wooden walls. He could hear sailors and dockworkers and the sound of birds squawking overhead. All those people passing through the city from all over the Seven Kingdoms and Essos and here Ned was sitting unseen.

It had been Davos who cautioned Ned that they should be discreet when they arrived at Gulltown. He had been hesitant, but Davos was insistent upon it, and rather blunt.

My lord, with all due respect, Davos had told him bluntly on the deck of their ship, Gulltown is all but Lord Baelish's. It would be foolish of us to flaunt you arriving especially with you being an enemy of his and all.

Ned saw the wisdom and deferred to the former smuggler. He had gotten to know Ser Davos over the last few weeks both from their time in the Riverlands and on the seas. He respected and liked the man. He thought Stannis was fortunate to have such a devoted, but honest follower in his ranks. He spoke his mind when what he thought was right even if that meant going against lords like Ned.

The reminder of the current Lord of the Coin darkened his mood.

Baelish, Ned growled, his hand clenching into a fist upon recalling the man's treachery.

I told you not to trust me, his smirking face appeared before him. Ned could feel the phantom touch of the dagger's blade at his throat.

Sometimes when Ned slept he dreamed he was back in the Black Cells beneath the Red Keep. This time one of his walls was as clear as glass, but it was as strong as valyrian steel. He could not break it so he was forced to watch helplessly while they passed him by.

Petyr Baelish walked slow and smug, stopping here and there to stand and watch him like Ned was some tapestry put up for his amusement. Do not worry, Stark, the specter of Baelish would tell him, I shall look after Cat for you.

Ned would pound the glass to no avail. That only amused Littlefinger further, but he too would leave.

Myrcella walked past in a red dress with red, puffy eyes. She stopped and tried to study the glass, but she was chased away by her older brother. Joffrey strode past with a crown atop his head, dressed completely in Lannister crimson and gold with lions stitched into his garment. He shook an angry finger at him. I'll have your head, Traitor! He'd stomped away when nothing happened.

Ser Ilyn Payne was next. In one hand he was carrying Ice, the ancestral blade of House Stark. It was dripping red, flecks of brown hair and bone on the valyrian steel. He stopped and faced Ned. He resembled a corpse, pale as bone, with colorless eyes and hollow cheeks. He opened his mouth and made a dreadful clacking sound. He then raised his other hand to show that he was holding something.

It was the head of Winterfell's former steward, Vayon Poole. His empty eyes staring back at Ned. Ilyn would leave behind the head and walk away, while making that terrible sharp sound which must have been his laugh.

Then it was Renly Baratheon standing in front of the glass. He was dressed in expensive fabric of a green velvet doublet and sewn into the cloth were actual silver stag coins. He wore a cape of gold that billowed behind him as if there was a draft in there with him. Atop his long, thick inky black hair he wore a gaudy crown of gold with different gems embedded into it including emeralds and opals, rubies and pearls.

"Why didn't you listen to me, Lord Stark?" He shook his head, "This war is on your hands."

"Stannis is king, Renly. He is Robert's heir."

Renly laughed as if Ned was the court's fool. When he opened his mouth to speak, someone else's voice could be heard.

"Lord Stark?"

Ned moved with a start. He was back in the loft. It seemed his reflections went deeper then he had thought. He looked around to see Ser Davos had returned. He was carrying food. "It isn't much." He shrugged apologetically. "Should I?" He gestured to where Ned was currently sitting.

He tried to get up to tell him he would join him at the barrel, but his leg was stiff and the wound prickled irritably. He slumped back down. "If you do not mind, Davos," He felt like a child being tended to. "You have my thanks."

Davos was silent in his task. There was no judgment or mockery to be seen on his weathered face when he brought one of the barrels over so that Ned could use it as a table. He then showed him the pitcher of ale he got, pouring them both a cup.

Ned took his with a nod. He drank it down. It was warm, and thick, but it was welcomed since it helped to push away what he had been thinking about.

Davos returned next with food. He gave him bread, jerky, and an apple. "Please Davos join me," Ned gestured to the spot on the other side of the barrel.

He looked surprised by the offer even after all the meals they shared together. It was as if he was still expecting Ned any day now to remember Davos was only a knight and former smuggler and dismiss him from his company.

"Much obliged, my lord," Davos said dutifully, bringing over one of the unsteady stools to join him.

The apple was mushy, but Ned still took several bites of it before putting it down. "Any news?"

"None, my lord."

"So King's Landing remains in the Lannister's hands."

"It may, my lord," Davos replied, "Or it may have fallen and we don't know it yet." He frowned at that possibility.

Renly, Ned remembered him in his dream. He was so proud and sure of what he was doing. He didn't care that his actions went against all the laws of god and man.

He could still remember that night back at the Red Keep when Robert lay dying and Renly proposed his plan to him. He urged Ned to strike against the Lannisters, move before the Queen could act. To take Tommen and Myrcella as well as Joffrey as Ned's wards where he could then be confirmed as Lord Protector by the council.

Had I listened, would we be at war? He had wondered that after he had been betrayed and his loyal household slaughtered. Would Renly have rebelled then?

"My Lord?" Davos said, "Do you think it'll come to war between Stannis and Renly?"

"I do not know, Ser Davos," Ned sighed. He took a bite of the jerky. The texture was rough and lean, but he chewed and swallowed. It was difficult to eat with that foul fish odor in the air trying to clog his senses. "I was hoping you would know. You served Stannis when he was Master of Ships while Renly was Master of Law."

"Aye," Davos looked down at his tankard, "Aye, I did." He opened and closed his mouth once and then twice as if trying to decide on what to say. "There's little love between them, my lord."

Ned knew that as well just from being with Robert. His friend had admitted that Ned was the brother he chose. You can have more than one brother, He had wanted to tell him. He considered Robert his brother, but he still loved Brandon and Benjen. It appeared Robert couldn't or wouldn't when it came to his brothers. And the Seven Kingdoms are made to suffer because of Baratheons bickering.

"I pray there can be peace, Ser Davos," Ned admitted, "I'm tired of the south and wish to return to the north to Winterfell with my family."

"And never come back?" There was a lightness in Davos' tone.

Ned looked up and gave the man across from him a small smile. "Only if commanded." He knew of Davos and his family at Cape Wrath and of his wife and sons. Some served in Stannis' household, others in the fleet while the younger ones remained with their mother. He suspected the smuggler yearned to see them too, but like him was bound to see this through and that meant Stannis on the Iron Throne.

"If Renly takes the city from the Lannisters," Ned drank or more like chewed some of the thick ale that Davos had provided. "He will claim himself the King of all Seven Kingdoms and sit upon the Iron Throne."

"King Stannis would see it as an insult and one he would not forget, or possibly forgive," Davos said quietly, "What if Renly was made Stannis' heir?"

"Renly is already his heir," Ned corrected.

Davos frowned. "What of the Princess Shireen?"

"The Iron Throne follows a different law, Ser Davos," Ned answered, "The men of royal blood will always come before the women regardless of birth, a King's brother would inherit before a king's daughter."

Before further discussion could be had of the laws of inheritance within the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne, voices could be heard and then steps. Ned and Davos looked to see the new arrivals. The first face was familiar, it was Cley Cerwyn, the new Lord of Cerwyn who Ned had made his squire.

"My lord," Cley bowed, the young man beside him followed his lead. He was wearing a traveler's cloak but it could not conceal the armored boots he wore or the gleaming of metal that wasn't covered. He had short and messy blond hair. He knew his name even though they had never been introduced, he was Lord Redfort's youngest son, Mychel Redfort.

The young man stepped forward to present himself. His face scrunched up from the smell before his eyes turned to Ned, where his expression smoothed over. "Lord Stank," He immediately blanched, "I mean Lord Stark," he stammered out, bowing his head quickly. "Lord Stark," He said a second time, "My apologies," He still wouldn't raise his head.

The poor lad was clearly distracted by the dead, rotting fish smell that filled this warehouse. It was an all too familiar distraction for Ned too.

"Calm yourself," Ned assured him, "No insult was given."

Mychel slowly raised his head, eyes peeking out from behind his messy hair, "Thank you, my lord." He straightened up, relieved.

"You are to take us to your father?" Ser Davos asked.

"I am," Mychel turned his way, "You're the smuggler?"

"He is a former smuggler," Ned put in, "He is now Ser Davos Seaworth."

Mychel gave a slight nod to acknowledge the correction. "Of course," His tone sounded sincere when he apologized, "My father is honored to have you both." He turned back to Lord Stark, "I have a small party of men-at-arms and knights outside the city that will serve as our escort for the trip to my family's castle."

Ned nodded, He would not argue for leaving this smelly warehouse and this city. He turned to see neither Davos or Cley objected, "Then lead the way."