Chapter Five: Myrcella I

295 AC

Shortly before her seventh nameday, Myrcella had decided to forgo her stitching and other lessons to sneak over to the yards where the squires and men-at-arms were training, Joy following tepidly. Securing a relatively concealed balcony overlooking the proceedings, she settled with her half-completed stitching set aside on the bench, hoping against hope she wouldn't be discovered too quickly.

"We're going to get caught," Joy hissed.

Undaunted, Myrcella said, "As long as we can remain hidden, we can stay away until it's time for dinner."

"But I'll be punished for going along with it!"

"That's why we brought our stitching. We can hardly be punished for choosing a change of scenery. And it isn't our fault that the Septa couldn't keep up as we searched for a suitable alternative."

Joy Hill, Gerion Lannister's natural daughter, was her mother's cousin, despite being of an age with Myrcella. Grandfather had seen that she was looked after, though had effectively barred her from Casterly Rock, an arrangement that Gerion had agreed to after one too many insults to Briony, Joy's mother, and then to Joy herself.

Straight golden locks where Myrcella's curled, but still with the green eyes, she could easily be mistaken for the Princess to those who were unfamiliar with them. Which had already happened three times since she had been made Myrcella's handmaiden, an appointment that still surprised her. Then again, if she had heard correctly, Aunt Genna had joked about taking her on, and Grandfather had preferred sending his bastard niece to the capitol than allow her to be among the Freys.

Oh, Mother had been furious, both Joy's presence and for the cases of mistaken identity, and only a convenient interruption had kept the Queen from sending Joy back to Lannisport in disgrace on the spot. Afterwards, Myrcella had taken it upon herself to get the girl some different colors of gowns. Still, there was enough to separate her from her cousin. Her skin was some shades darker than Myrcella's, more prone to tanning than outright burning.

Not that their alternative scenery for stitching gave any cause to worry on that account. The hours the sun would hit the balcony had long passed, instead beating down heavily on the ground from above.

Padded from head to toe, Joffrey cut a ridiculous figure. His swordsmanship left much to be desired. He had no finesse, no skill beyond wildly swinging away at a strong defense. It certainly wasn't any sort of plan, as he over-committed to a feigned weakness and was knocked into the sand be a firm hit from the wooden training sword.

Though difficult to see from this angle, he was still missing some baby teeth from where their father had struck him less than a week prior, when Joffrey had brought an unborn cat, freshly cut from its mother. He had always been terribly fussy about getting himself dirty, but had thought nothing of the blood had still been dripping from his hands.

If it were merely a morbid fascination, it would have been more readily put aside. But she had seen how gleeful he had looked, had shuddered at the roar of fury from Father, and mother shrieking at him for striking their son. Was this how madness began in the mind of a child? Were she and Tommen susceptible to succumbing to the same? She hoped not, and she refused to simply sink into it as so many had done before.

So she watched, trying to puzzle out what was so terribly wrong with her brother. And didn't mind all that terribly being able to see her friend at the same time.

Away from the younger boys, Jon was sparring with Loras Tyrell, Uncle Renly's squire. The boy from the Reach was slimmer, perhaps faster. Or simply more settled in his growth. Either way, he was winning frequently and by large margins. Meanwhile, Jon had only begun a growth spurt, and it showed in his posture, still accommodating the extra length in his limbs, the higher center of balance.

And then there was his voice cracking. She had laughed the first time it had happened, and Jon had pouted, then warned that her own troubles might prove worse.

Today, Jon was practicing with a greatsword. Likely another contribution to Jon's apparently lackluster performance. While Loras had found his talents and honed them accordingly, Jon was keen on learning how to wield any weapon he was liable to come across in the armory, refusing to commit to a single style until he had settled in his height a bit more, or perhaps not even then.

Armored footfalls echoed from the hall, eliciting a gaps from Joy, and Myrcella braced to be caught. But instead of a servant or household guard, the pristine white of a Kingsguard filled the door, and Uncle Jaime smiled at the two of them, which Myrcella returned in kind.

"I had wondered if I would find you here," he said, stepping onto the balcony. "Your Septa was beside herself not knowing where you had gotten to."

"Cousin Jaime." Joy rose and curtsied.

"Hello, Uncle Jaime."

Her uncle kept to the balcony's rear wall to avoid drawing attention to her and Joy, just in time to see Joffrey tumble to the ground again.

Only the bounds of propriety kept everyone from laughing at Joffrey as he rose with his weapon clutched in his hand, tears brimming at his eyes. His opponent, a boy from one of the Crownland Houses – Willam Rykker, Myrcella remembered – waited patiently for the Prince to stand again, offering more dignity than Joffrey likely deserved. At the Master-at-Arms' call, Joffrey rushed in again, heedless of any other strategy besides trying to pummel Willam into pulp or force him back with a physique he did not possess.

"You've been watching the matches," Uncle Jaime observed. "Any thoughts on how this one will turn out."

"Willam has a solid defense."

"An extra year and a half of instruction doesn't hurt," Jaime noted, wryly.

"It's not as if he can rely on that excuse forever. And Joffrey is going to exhaust himself before he finds or makes an opening. Also, I think Willam needs to try switching to his left hand."

"What should your brother do?"

"First, stop wielding his sword like a warhammer. And then take advantage of Willam's own weakness in his form and aim for his right side."

"You're very observant, Princess."

"I have little else to do but mind my stitching and courtesies. Might as well give me a sword. Joffrey is never going to reach Father's reputation at this rate."

Green eyes flicked from her uncle, then back to the match below. To his credit, Joffrey didn't immediately jump at the first opening that presented itself, even if this one was not entirely feigned. But despite the disadvantage of his sword hand being poorly chosen, Willam locked weapons with Myrcella's brother, then used it as a lever to spin him around. Joffrey's poor footwork did the rest, stumbling to the ground like a drunkard.

Jaime rested a hand on her shoulder, smug approval rolling off of him. "No, your brother is not likely to achieve much of anything like this."

"I can ride better than Joffrey, and yet I'm made to ride in the litter. I can do better than my brother with a sword, but when I asked Mother to be allowed training, she said that's not what ladies do." Pulling away from the railing, Myrcella sat on the bench. "Why can't I have an adventure?"

"Ah, well. You're a princess."

"You mean boring." Myrcella clenched her skirts in her hands. "I want to do more than marry well and make babies. I want to do something meaningful."

A shriek from below as Joffrey threw his weapon to the ground, drawing attention from everyone else within hearing. "This isn't fair!" he whined. "My father is a great warrior. Fight me fairly!"

More than a few knights and squires had to hastily mask their humor at the Crown Prince's petulance. What little composure Joffrey had fled him, and he began sobbing before storming off, likely to mother. The rest of the yard paid little attention and gave less mind to it, save for a couple of guardsmen following after him, then everyone went back to training.

"Joy," said Uncle Jaime, "if anyone should ask, Princess Myrcella has gone to the privy and should return shortly."

"Of course, Ser Jaime."

Uncle Jaime drew Myrcella away from the balcony and wound through a couple of passages away, but the twists eventually put them in a small room, a slight distance from where the yards were, as she could still hear the sounds of wood clacking and steel clashing a short distance away. Myrcella's eyes widened when Uncle Jaime drew his sword.

The pommel was golden, much like the hair on their heads, fashioned in the shape of a lion.

He stood behind her, helping wrap her hands around the grip, a task she was barely able to accomplish with her hands, and it dipped terribly by her strength alone. It was heavy, at least for her. She could barely wrap both of her hands on it, so it dipped horrendously until her uncle's hands supported the weight.

"This will be our secret. Your mother and father would have my head if they knew I let you hold my kingslaying sword. And I don't care much for your brothers demanding the same of me should they learn of it."

"You mean…?"

"Joffrey has his own swords, little as he knows how to wield them." He let out a low chuckle. "And Tommen will have his own soon enough. You'll appreciate this more."

Myrcella gasped lightly. This was something that was hers. Would only be hers, so long as she kept it secret.

"Will do this often?"

"As often as our duties and time allows, and only so long as you wish."

With effort, Myrcella raised her arms, sword gripped tightly, then let it swing down once more, and with her uncle's assistance, did so again and again until calls for dinner began circulating the Red Keep.

A/N: Full disclosure, a number of elements that I will make use of here (and in any other fics I put in the Song of Ice and Fire setting) are derived from several different sources, namely other fan-fics, to fill in gaps that haven't/won't be filled in by canon. For example, much of Myrcella and Jaime's characterization and dynamic I'm using is drawn from I Fear No Fate (For You Are My Fate, My Sweet), incidentally a Robb/Myrcella work. Don't expect her to become a great warrior, but she will be far from helpless once she's older.

Joy Hill is a character that has yet to make an appearance in canon, barely being mentioned outside a case of potential miscommunication, and here she is taking on much of the role of Rosamund Lannister. The original idea I had for this story (which has been shelved for later repurposing) was to have Joy Hill be the Lannister girl matched to Jon, but I had a bit of trouble setting the direction of the plot outside of a high adventure that I'd have to probably alter canon timeline even further in order to make it work. That's when I came across the idea of Jon/Myrcella, and the rest of the pieces started falling into place.

For those of you who were wondering/hoping for Joffrey to be a better person by way of Jon's presence, prepare for disappointment. It would take a set of phenomenal circumstances – a separation from Cersei, a complete personality rewrite, and/or running him through a groundhog-day loop until he shapes up – in order for that to change in a meaningful way. That said, Jon's presence does go far to mitigate the progression as far as their limited interactions would allow for.

In other news, we have a Discord! For this and virtually any other project I'm running. I mean, it's been there for a while, and under another name, but I kind of forgot about it. Not the point. Point is that I dusted off the cobwebs and redecorated it! Might still need a little brushing up, but you know the drill. Not sure how to put the link up here, so we'll give this a whirl.

https [colon, forward slash, forward slash] [forward slash] cR5Dj7Suzn

If that doesn't work, I'll leave the link on the AO3 version and deviantArt.

Anywho, that's all I've got for now. If you have question, comments, or concerns, leave a PM or review. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.

(EDITED as of 5 May 2024 for minor corrections. If any other errors stick out, let me know so I can hammer them out)

Until next time!

Winterman, out.