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Chapter Text

Myrcella startled at the sound of Jon Snow’s raised voice, the slam of his hands against the sturdy wood of the long table, her eyes flickering to the boy, nearly a man as he all but fled the Great Hall. She wanted to follow for some reason, but it would not be proper and even if it were her mother would have bitten her head off for making such a scene, for following after a bastard.

But she liked Jon, with his soft inky black curls and soulful dark eyes that reminded her of oddly of grapes. The deep—nearly black—purple ones that burst easily between her teeth and make the sweetest of wines. And his laugh, she had heard it only once, but it rang through the quiet air of the Godswood as he played with his snow-white direwolf unaware of her hiding behind a pillar at the entrance, peeking past unable to squash her curiosity. It was warm, rich like velvet, and deeper than either of her brothers’. Though she guessed that was to be expected. Jon was five and ten, nearly a man grown while Joffrey was a year younger, his voice not yet changed, and Tommen was still only ten namedays old.

He was kind too, and quiet, keeping out of the way, but never outright ignoring her, answering her questions softly, his northern brocade coating each word and making them sound far more interesting than they had before. She found she could listen to him talk for hours if only he would. There was a melody to his speech, the rises and falls, the dropping of end sounds and shortening of vowels. It was different from what she was used to, but that was what made it all the more special. Myrcella wanted to hear more, wanted to hear what he had to say. She had gotten the distinct feeling that Jon felt unheard, as she often did, perhaps that was what she would use to start a conversation? No, she must be smarter than that, why would he ever want to speak about that with her?

Robb was talking to her, she realized, wrenching her attention away from Jon and back toward the eldest Stark. He was handsome, with auburn curls and Tully blue eyes, a strong jaw, and an easy smile, but he did not hold her attention, not like Jon did. She nodded her head in response to his words and tried to banish thoughts of his half-brother from her mind. Her mother was right, she was too caught up in her flights of fancy. If she was to develop feelings no matter how small for anyone from the North it should be Robb, a trueborn, Winterfell’s heir, not Jon, a bastard boy with an unnamed mother.

Lady Stark apologized for the outburst and Myrcella’s mother made a snide comment about bastards disguised as understanding and sympathy, but Myrcella saw the way her mother’s hand gripped her cup, her knuckles white. The crimson liquid within in danger of spilling as her father laughed boisterously, his shoulder knocking into her mother’s as he pulled a serving girl into his lap. Joffrey snickered at their father’s actions, earning a glare from their mother.

Myrcella wished her father would not do that, would not shame her mother in such public ways. Truly she wished he would not shame her at all but had long given up on that by now. She glanced down at her plate, half-eaten, her wine glass empty, a lightness in her head and a queasiness in her stomach. She did not have the tolerance for wine her mother, father, and elder brother had, preferring pomegranate juice or tea, but it had not been offered, and she was much too polite to ask for it.

She excused herself from the table claiming exhaustion, and made her way out of the hall, hoping that perhaps her Uncle Tyrion would be hanging around, and she could sit by his side, pretending her father had not once again made public his preference for whores over his own wife. He was always able to make her feel better, telling her tales of great heroes, or of her Uncle Jaime when he was young.

Myrcella drew her thin cloak around herself tightly as she stepped into the yard, the snow crunched underfoot, the abandoned space dimly illuminated by torchlight and the moon. She spotted Tyrion first, his shorter stature was one she had grown attuned to, her eyes searching for him in every room, in every crowd, just as her Uncle Jaime’s did. It made her happy when Tyrion pointed that out to her, made her feel special and connected to the man her mother favored above all else, perhaps not above Joffrey but certainly above her and Tommen.

“Uncle—” Her voice died as she spotted who stood with him, arms crossed over his chest, a training sword plunged into the snow-covered dirt beside them.

Jon looked up before Tyrion could turn and when their eyes met, she felt her breath stolen from her lungs. She had caught him off guard, and for a split second she saw his true face. The unshed tears in his eyes, the flush of his cheeks as he realized who called out into the night, the strength of his jaw, clenched in anger. He ducked his head, his curls falling forward hiding his face as Tyrion turned a smile on his face.

“Little Myrcella, have you come to drag me back to that horrid feast?” He remained smiling as she approached, and Jon stiffened at the proximity.

“No, I fear the wine has unsettled me, so I decided to return to my chambers early.” She said, giving Jon a small smile in greeting.

Tyrion shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Is that what we are calling your father now? The wine? I would think it more suitable for your mother, but who am I to say?”

“No, no, truly it is the wine.” She assured him, clasping her hands together in front of her, blinking back hot tears.

Tyrion’s hand rested upon hers. “Myrcella…no one will judge you for your tears, not here. You are among a dwarf and a bastard, no shame of yours can outweigh ours.”

Myrcella felt her cheeks warm both in embarrassment and anger as Jon looked between her and Tyrion with an uneasy expression. “He pulled another serving girl into his lap, groped at her as if he were in a pillowhouse, he nearly spilled Mother’s drink, and Joffrey found it all so funny, I hate him.”

Jon shuffled his feet, keeping silent as Tyrion sighed. “Myrcella this is the way men are—”

“You are not like that, nor is Uncle Jaime, or Uncle Stannis, or Uncle Renly, or Lord Stark, they would never do such things.” She interrupted, feeling much younger than three and ten as she stomped her foot. “And none of the other men laughed at Father’s antics, well they did not truly laugh, they gave a false laugh, one meant to stave off his anger.”

“I, your uncles, and Lord Stark are not like other men, you cannot use us as an example Myrcella, or you will be sorely disappointed in your future husband.” Tyrion said softly, with a wry smile.

Myrcella turned to Jon, feeling brave. “Lord Snow, you would not shame your wife in such a way, would you? You would not bring your whores to your marital bed night after night or take servant girls upon your lap in front of the whole court.”

Jon’s face bloomed multiple shades of red, his eyes dropping to the ground. “I cannot imagine I would ever find myself in front of the whole court, My Lady, nor can I imagine having the coin to bring…prostitutes to my martial bed so often, but even if I did find myself in the situation in which you described, I cannot see myself doing so. If I were to take a wife, it would be her who I take to my bed, her who I would sit by in court, no others.” He looked up sheepishly, the tips of his ears still red. “I believe I would be hard-pressed to find a lady wife considering my standing though, so if I were to find one, I would count myself among the luckiest of men.”

Something in her chest fluttered and Myrcella realized it was her heart, a warmth she had not known before rising to her cheeks. For a moment the moonlight bathed Jon in an ethereal glow, snowflakes dusting his form, making him look much like the prince from her stories. “I see…”

He ducked his head again. “Of course, I speak only in hypotheticals and cannot compare myself to the likes of my Father and your uncles.”

“No!” Myrcella said far too abruptly, making Jon’s head snap up. “I—I mean only to say you should not speak so harshly of yourself. I know we have only been here a short while, but you have proven to be an honorable host, and if my uncle finds you worth speaking to, then you must be someone of strong character.”

“You give me far too much credit, sweet niece.” Tyrion snorted and Myrcella nearly jumped out of her skin. She had forgotten he was there. Just as she had forgotten, they were still in the training yard of Winterfell, with the snow falling and the wind blowing.

Myrcella pouted at him as she drew her cloak tighter against the wind, noticing Jon’s eyes flicker to her lips for a moment before he pointedly stared at the space beyond her shoulder. “Uncle, that is not true, I know you are far too particular to willingly seek out someone of ill character. Especially when you could be drinking instead.”

Tyrion laughed and patted her hand. “I yield. Now tell me, do you still feel unsettled?”

Myrcella smiled; he had once again banished her heavy feelings. “No, though I am a bit cold.”

“Snow, give her your cloak.” Tyrion ordered lightheartedly, though he did not need to, as Jon had already unclasped his cloak and draped it around her shoulders the moment the words left her lips.

It was heavy, and far too long for her since Jon stood a good head or so above her, but it was warm, smelled of the forest, and something else she could not identify but found quite pleasant. The soft fur tickled her skin as she gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Lord Snow.”

“Jon, My Lady, it is simply Jon.” He said, his eyes on the clasp of his cloak, two wolves, their jaws interlocking as he ensured it was secure around her.

“Well then…thank you, Jon.” She said softly, testing out the sound of his name, enjoying how it felt as it left her lips.

He shivered and for a moment Myrcella felt bad for having taken his cloak, then he shook his head and straightened, but his hands stayed, long fingers still clinging to the clasp. “It would not do well for you to be seen with me any longer; your uncle should escort you to your chambers.”

“Yes, well, that would require you letting go of the cloak.” Tyrion said, a twinge of amusement in his tone.

Jon released the clasp as if it burned him and took two hasty steps back, his foot catching on something buried in the snow. As he fell back, he panicked and reached out, his fingers snagging on his cloak and Myrcella went with him, landing atop him with an undignified shriek, bumping her nose against his cheek at an awkward angle, her lips brushing his heated skin. He was warm, so very warm, even through her cloak she could feel the heat. Was this normal? She had not had the chance to lay atop many men, truly none, unless she counted the times when she, Joffrey and Tommen were younger and would roughhouse. That was before Joffrey turned cruel, well crueler.

“Princess, are you hurt?” Jon asked, his eyes wide with fear, cradling her head, his large hands were warm too, and as he gently trailed his fingers down her head and neck, she fought the urge to lean into his touch. They were so close, and she wore her favorite perfume today, made from honeysuckles, she wondered if he could smell it, if he thought she smelled nice, gods what if he thought she smelled bad?

“No, no, I am well, are you?” She tried to scan the snow around them for any blood, to push any thought of her smelling good or bad away, and found that the snow was as devoid of red as before.

He shook his head, curls dotted with snow. “Only my pride.”

She giggled, and the sound seemed to shock him, a light coming into his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. Oh, and he had very nice lips, she noticed. Full and not as chapped as she might have believed them to be, considering the cold weather. They looked soft, and a part of her wondered what he might do if she kissed him.

“Myrcella, are you sure you are well?” Tyrion asked, his hand on her arm, helping her stand.

Jon stood as well, the tips of his ears bright red, he brushed the snow from his clothing and bowed his head. “My sincerest apologies.”

“There is no need, it was an accident.” Myrcella said, her heart pounding in her chest, the warmth of his skin still lingering through her cloak. She was sure she was blushing.

“I do believe now it is time we retire to our chambers.” Tyrion said, taking her hand in his and leading her away from Jon.

Chapter Text

“What kind of rags are these? Have you gone full wolf, Sister?” Joffrey’s voice broke through the low murmur of chatter the next morn, and Myrcella’s cheeks heated as she glared at him, trying to snatch the folded fabric back from him.

“It is a cloak.” She said, “and it is not yours, so give it back.”

Joffrey smiled, she hated when he did that, it never meant anything nice. “Oh, but it is not yours either, so then, whose is it?”

She bit her lip and refused to look at any of the Starks, especially not Jon, who had only just entered with Robb, splitting from him, and taking his seat at the lower table. It was so foolish of her to bring it here, she should have waited, or had a servant return it to him, but her stupid fluttering heart wanted a reason to talk with him again.

“Oh, is it Lord Robb’s?” Joffrey teased, cackling as she tried to snatch it from him once more.

“Is what mine, My Lord?” Robb asked, taking his seat beside Myrcella who was still standing and reaching across the table anxiously.

“This wolf cloak my sister has with her.” Joffrey held it up for all to see, and Myrcella wished she could disappear.

Her mother’s eyes were on her, her father’s, Lady Stark’s, Lord Stark’s, everyone was looking at them.

“That is Jon’s cloak.” Arya, one of the youngest and wildest of the Stark children, piped up, her brows furrowed, her dark eyes fixated on Joffrey, filled with hate.

Myrcella wished she was that brave.

The smile on Joffrey’s face only grew and Myrcella bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. “Oh, it is the bastard’s cloak?”

“Myrcella?” Her mother questioned, her voice was light, but she could feel the wildfire in her mother’s stare.

“I—um—I—” Her heart was pounding, and her voice failed her as she desperately scrambled for an answer.

“Did you let him fuck you in the Godswood like a savage? I bet you did. It is as Father always says, whores will bed any man if he pays right. Was this your payment, dear sister?” Joffrey cackled, tossing the cloak back at her.

She was mortified, clutching the cloak to her chest, vision blurred with tears. “No—I—we did not—Mother?” She turned to her mother, silently begging her to save her.

Her mother’s face was impassive, but her eyes blazed with anger.

Surprisingly her father came to her rescue. “Myrcella, take a breath, tell us the truth.”

“We did not—I went looking for Uncle Tyrion, he was in the yard with Jo—Lord Snow, and I was cold and—”

“And Ned’s lad offered you his cloak, like a true gentleman. As his father is.” Her father finished for her, laughing, and slinging an arm around Lord Stark. “You should let me legitimize the boy; you know I have been wanting to bind our houses, perhaps your Jon can marry my Myrcella.”

Lord Stark started to speak, and Lady Stark looked as if she had stepped in something unpleasant, while Cersei looked as if she would stab Robert with the nearest utensil. “My King, our daughter is a princess, and while Lord Stark has honored us with his hospitality, I am sure even he would not wish—”

“I am jesting, woman, calm yourself.” Robert said, waving his hand dismissively.

Myrcella stared down at her plate, still standing, still clutching Jon’s cloak. She had not meant for this to happen; she had not meant to make a scene. She felt as if she was dunked underwater, everything moved so slowly, everyone’s voices drowned out until it was only her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Her father’s words made it past the rushing of her blood, the pounding of her heart, slicing through the din like a Valyrian steel sword, and she realized she had been staring silently for far, far too long. “That settles it, you will bring him to King’s Landing with you, Ned. Plenty of men have their bastards milling about, he will fit right in.”

Had she done this, or was it her father’s plan all along, and she had simply given him an excuse? She did not know and as she looked up to find anger raging in her mother’s eyes, the cold contempt Lady Stark regarded Robert with, and the panic in Lord Stark’s eyes, she felt she would burst into tears. Her hands trembled, hidden by the tightly woven fabric of Jon’s cloak as everyone began talking at once, the sound swallowing her whole.

Then a warm hand brushed against hers, the weight of Jon’s cloak began to lessen, but her panicked grip on it was too tight. She found herself face to face, or well face to chest, with the very person she had been attempting to avoid.

Jon’s brow was furrowed, his lips pulled down in a slight frown, his eyes searching her face. He towered over her, and she wished that it would make her feel safe, as it had before, but instead she was only more afraid. Would he yell at her? Blame her for the further disdain Lady Stark would cast upon him, the disdain those in the Red Keep would hold for him?

“I am so sorry.” She whispered, barely able to get the sounds out, feeling as small as she did when her parents would fight, their raised voices traveling through the halls of Maegor’s holdfast.

Jon’s expression softened, and he gently untangled his cloak from her grip. “Princess Myrcella, I thank you for returning this to me. I am glad I could do my duty as a loyal supporter of the crown and shield you from the cold. Even if it was only with a cloak that is nowhere near what deserves to grace your shoulders.”

“You are too kind.” Myrcella said, looking up at him through her lashes as she clasped her shaking hands together in front of her.

His words were quiet, as quiet as her previous ones. “I should have asked one of the servants to retrieve the cloak to spare you this embarrassment, I am sorry I did not think my actions through.”

She shook her head. “Neither of us did I—”

“Perhaps I should betroth them, look at the two of them, it is as if we are not even here.” Robert laughed, and Myrcella jerked back from Jon, quickly taking her seat, and fussing over Tommen to hide her blushing face.

She watched out of the corner of her eye as Jon retreated to the lower table.

“Cella, my bacon tastes bad.” Tommen said, poking at the strips on his plate. They were too soft, too fatty, he liked them cooked longer.

“You may have mine.” She said, switching her crunchier strips with his even though she too preferred the crunchy ones.

He beamed at her and began happily munching on them, as Myrcella sighed quietly and took a bite of the fatty bacon, ignoring Joffrey as he tried to pull her into another verbal sparring match.

Myrcella sat in front of the mirror as her mother brushed her hair, long, harsh strokes, that made her wince, and Cersei clicked her tongue. “Do stop squirming.”

“It hurts.” She said feebly, not wanting to stir up more of her mother’s anger.

“You must learn to steel yourself; you will know nothing but pain at the hands of that bastard, if Ned Stark gives into your father’s fantasies.” Her mother sneered, setting down her hairbrush with a hard thud.

It had been a few days since their arrival, and her father still made jests about her and Jon Snow. “Jon seems kind, I do not think he would hurt me…”

“I did not think your father would hurt me, and yet the wheel turns as it does, no care for whom it crushes underneath.”

Myrcella bit her lip, when she was very young her mother’s screams used to haunt her dreams and sent her fleeing at the sight of her father. “I will be strong, like you are.”

Cersei smiled and caressed her cheek. “My little lioness.” Then she began to gather Myrcella’s hair, twisting it into a style like her own. “At least you have not yet flowered, even if he marries you off there will be no bedding.”

The idea of a bedding, the way men would grab at her wedding dress and tear it from her, their hands on her skin wandering and groping, their eyes picking her apart, it scared her, and every moon when she awakened to a clean bedsheet, she gave thanks to the Seven.

“Sansa said there was no bedding at her parents’ wedding, that her father thought it bad luck to break a man’s jaw on his wedding day. Perhaps Jon will feel the same way?” She ventured hesitantly, feeling her face warm at the very thought of Jon and her naked.

Myrcella pressed her hands to her cheeks and her mother gave her a rare soft smile. “No one truly knows the hearts of men until they are tested.”

Myrcella nodded, basking in her mother’s smile, they were always for Joffrey or Uncle Jaime, rarely for any others.

“But do not put too much stock in Sansa’s words, she is a fanciful child with dreams of true love and valiant knights. She will wither at court, and I will not see her rot spread to you.” Her mother added, finishing off her hair, and setting her hands on Myrcella’s shoulders. “Now, promise me you will not go anywhere near the bastard boy today. I do not want your father getting any further ideas.”

“I promise.” She said, though, she would find herself breaking that promise quite quickly when she came upon him in the Glass Gardens.

“Princess Myrcella.” Jon said, bowing his head, his curls freshly washed, his dark colored clothing, and Ghost at his side made him stand out among the flora and fauna around them.

She had left Ser Arys at the entrance to the gardens, as she did for her own gardens at home, though these were much larger, and filled with plants she had never seen before. But she did not feel frightened, nor did she worry about being unchaperoned. The walls were glass, anyone could see them and see that nothing untoward was happening.

“Lord Snow.” She said, giving him a small smile.

“I see you have found yourself a proper cloak.” He noted, jerking his head towards her crimson cloak, the edges of it trimmed with snow-white fur.

She knew it was not wolf fur on her cloak but for a moment Myrcella looked at Ghost and felt guilty. But the direwolf seemed utterly uninterested in her cloak, instead watching a bird fly by through the glass panes.

Myrcella wanted to tug at the collar of her cloak, the heat of the gardens did not mix well with her new heavy cloak. She hoped she was not already sweating, that would be so very embarrassing. “My mother had it brought to me from Wintertown. Though now that I have it, I find myself feeling quite overheated.”

“Aye, it is much warmer in here than outside. It is the hot springs’ doing.” Jon explained, giving her a half smile as he held out his hands for her cloak.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she slipped off her cloak handing it to Jon. He folded it neatly and placed it on a nearby bench.

“Lady Sansa told me a little of their existence.” Myrcella said, suddenly feeling quite bare before him, though she was fully dressed. “It must be wonderful to have hot water so readily, we must wait until the water is heated back home, and that can take time.”

Jon hummed noncommittally, his eyes searching hers for something.

She took a step towards him. “Are you feeling alright?”

Jon nodded. “Yes, yes, I simply—thank you, I know the other night was not your plan, but if it had not happened, I do not know if I would ever have been able to leave Winterfell.”

“Oh.” She had not expected that. “Well, you are very welcome, I am glad that I could be of service.” She wanted to tell him it would be horrible for him in the Red Keep, that people would laugh and sneer at his very existence, but the selfish part of her, the one that found comfort in his presence, held her tongue.

He dug something out of his pocket, the tips of his ears tinting pink, and held it out to her. “I know it is not much, and I am sure you have been gifted far better…but I wished to thank you, with more than simple words.”

In his outstretched hand was a necklace, a small carving of a wolf and a stag side by side hanging from thin leather. It was not perfect, and when she took it from him, she realized Jon’s hands had a few healing nicks, but she could see the time and effort it had taken, and she cherished it. She held it up to the light, marveling over the details.

“It is a horrible gift, I am sorr—”

“I love it.” She cut him off, smiling brightly, holding the necklace to her heart. “Everyone always gifts me jewels, silks, and hair ribbons, all pretty things that have no true meaning. They are nothing compared to this.”

Jon smiled sheepishly, ducking his head. “Robb is better at carving than I, but I did not wish to draw any further attention our way by asking for his help.”

Myrcella held the necklace tighter and decided she would be brave, like her mother. She took another step and went up on her toes, pressing a chaste kiss to Jon’s cheek. “It is wonderful, thank you.”

“You are very welcome, Princess.” He said, his face turning red as a rose.

She giggled and turned towards the flowers, allowing him time to compose himself. “Would you have time to take me on a tour of the gardens, Lord Snow?”

Jon cleared his throat then answered in the affirmative, holding his arm out towards her, leading her deeper into the gardens.

Chapter Text

When Myrcella heard of Bran’s fall from the tower, her heart sunk into her stomach, Bran was a sweet child, lively and curious. He and Tommen had become fast friends, which meant Myrcella spent an hour or so consoling her brother. She wished their parents would be with them, wished her father would wipe away Tommen’s tears, or that her mother would soothingly reassure him all would be well. But their father was with Lord Stark, and their mother seemed more interested in the breakfast set before them and complaining intermittently about the howling of Bran’s direwolf.

The sound was forlorn, mournful, and she felt it deep in her bones. She wondered if Ghost had ever made such sounds? Jon had told her that he had been very ill once as a child, but it was before the Stark children had discovered their animal companions, so Myrcella surmised there were no mourning direwolves then.

“Maseter Ludwin believes the boy will live.” Tyrion said as he speared a sausage on his fork.

“There is no mercy in letting him live.” Her mother said, her brows furrowed as she glared at the open window. “That howling, it is awful.”

“Will he walk again? When he wakes?” Myrcella asked, turning in her chair to face Tyrion, her hand still in Tommen’s as he sniffled slightly.

“I doubt it, but the wolf’s cry seems to be keeping Bran fighting, so who is to say?”

Myrcella bunched her free hand in her skirts, Jon would be so devastated if Bran never walked again, she knows it. She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, they had grown closer since their walk in the garden, but she did not want to intrude, not while his family was suffering so.

“Those beasts are dangerous; I cannot believe Lord Stark allows them around his children.”

“They will be around your children as well, Cersei, surely the girls and the bastard will bring their beasts along.” Jaime said, taking a drink from his glass, his sharp jaw clean shaven, his emerald eyes flickering over to Cersei, whose frown deepened.

The bastard. So, it was true, Jon would be joining his father and sisters. Myrcella knew her own father had requested it, but was not sure Lord Stark would truly agree to his demands.

“I am sure Lord Stark will keep his children’s pets well-behaved.” Tyrion said, a smile toying at his lips as he cleared his throat dramatically. “While you all travel back to King’s Landing, I have decided to make a trek to The Wall.”

Tommen finally stopped sniffling and sat up with rapt attention. “The Wall? Is it not dangerous?”

“Forget danger, I hope you are not intending to take the Black, brother.” Jaime jested, throwing his brother an easy smile, his eyes alight with mirth. “Your hands will freeze trying to read up there on The Wall.”

“Of course not, if I were to join, I would leave many a whore in want of coin and pleasure.” Tyrion quipped, giving his brother a matching smile.

Myrcella hated that word, whore, she had heard it too many times, out of too many mouths, and each time it made her feel uneasy. She was young, newly ten and three, but she knew how quickly a lady could be branded a whore for one tiny misstep.

“That is quite enough out of you both, speaking such filth around the children.” Her mother said sternly, standing abruptly and beckoning Myrcella and Tommen to follow.

Once they were away from the room, Myrcella gathered her courage and looked up at her mother. “Might I go visit Sansa? If we are to be goodsisters then I should like to be by her side as she grieves.”

Her mother pursed her lips, then gave her a cloyingly sweet smile. “That is very kind of you, Myrcella, but you will have plenty of time to spend with Sansa on the road. Let us leave House Stark to grieve in peace.”

Myrcella was bored, turning the pages of her book as her brother played with his toys, and her mother drank her deep red wine, grumbling under her breath about one thing or another.

“When will Sansa and Arya ride in the wheelhouse with us?” Tommen asked from his place on the floor.

“Soon, we are awaiting the honor guard. Once they are here the girls may join us.” Their mother replied, staring into her glass as if it held some answer she was seeking.

“And their direwolves?” Myrcella dared to ask.

“No.”

Myrcella did not let her disappointment show, she knew better than to do so. She returned to her book, so lost within it, she did not realize something had gone wrong until they reached Castle Darry.

She held Tommen’s hand as they stood beside their mother, Myrcella kept her eyes low as accusations flew across the room. Tommen curled into her side, one hand covering the ear not tucked against her, as the accusations grew louder and louder.

Then it was decided, the death of a direwolf, but Arya’s was nowhere to be found. Myrcella’s heart sank when she saw the realization come into Sansa’s eyes. The Tully blue swam with tears, her frantic pleas rang throughout the hall. For a moment Myrcella was seized with rage, at her mother, her father, at Joffrey, and Arya for running away, for not simply backing down and instead challenging Joffrey. It was her fault that Lady must die, she should not have made Joffrey angry.

But there was nothing to be done, as always. Nothing can be done when Joffrey grabs her arm and twists so hard she worries it might break, or when he taunts Tommen until he cries. Nothing was done when he butchered that cat, or skinned Tommen’s fawn, nothing is ever done.

Myrcella clutched the necklace Jon gave her, the one she had hidden from her mother, as she slipped up to Sansa’s chambers that night, she felt brave even though her hand trembled as she knocked on Sansa’s door.

Sansa opened the door with red rimmed eyes, and a pale, sorrowful face.

“I am sorry…Lady was good, and my brother—he is stubborn, but Lady was good.” Myrcella said softly, feeling foolish for even speaking the words aloud.

Sansa sniffled then wiped under her eyes. “Thank you, Princess.”

“There are many dogs in King’s Landing, I know they would not be Lady, but if it would bring you comfort, I could ask a servant to find you one.” Myrcella continued, wincing at the look on Sansa’s face.

“No, thank you.” Sansa said tearily, her face twisted in anguish.

Myrcella squeezed her necklace then took a step forward, wrapping her arms around Sansa.

Sansa stiffened for a moment, then dissolved into tears returning Myrcella’s embrace with a surprising strength. “She was good, she would never bite anyone, never.”

“I believe you.” Myrcella said soothingly, letting Sansa cry until she had no more tears.

Finally, she pulled back and wiped her eyes. “I apologize for making such a fuss, it is not very ladylike, is it?”

Myrcella clasped her hands in front of her, thinking her words through. “My mother says a woman’s greatest weapon is her tears, we must only know how best to use them.”

Sansa nodded with a starry-eyed look. “The Queen is very smart.”

“She is.” And if Sansa is lucky, she will never come up against her intelligence, for it is a battle Sansa surely would lose.

Myrcella thought that perhaps her seat placement was her father’s doing, he was deep enough in his cups, and her mother’s smile was so false it made Myrcella’s stomach churn uncomfortably. Jon was just below her, seated on the end of the bench, only the thick ropes and the slight difference in platform heights separating them. He kept his eyes on the match, watching intensely as the knights charged, their horses galloping, their lances outstretched, while Myrcella watched him.

It was far more interesting to watch Jon, he seemed to learn from every action the knights took, seemed to tuck them away inside his mind. He did that for many things she had noticed. He was quiet, no not quiet—observant, always watching, always learning. She liked that, many boys his age talked and talked, but never listened, never learned. She wanted to talk with Jon, wanted to ask him what he was learning from the jousts, but it would not be proper, she knew that. Not only would she make a scene by leaning on the ropes to speak with him, but she was a princess, and he a bastard, she was not even supposed to acknowledge his existence.

It was the Mountain riding, that monstrous man who her grandsire kept around for reasons Myrcella did not understand. The Hound, his brother, was kind enough, he kept Joffrey entertained and would interfere on occasion to spare Myrcella or Tommen from Joffrey’s cruel games, but the Mountain was not his brother, he was not kind, not even a little.

The sound of bones cracking, the strangled, agonized scream of the other rider filled the air, and Myrcella could not look away quick enough. The Valeman fell, a lance embedded in his neck, blood spurting wildly. Her stomach churned again, and bile rose in her throat, she flew to her feet, hand over her mouth, desperately taking in air through her nose as screams rang out through the crowd. She moved towards the edge of the dais, towards the ropes, that was where the exit was, she could have sworn it was.

“Princess, are you well?” Jon called up from his place below, his dark eyes filled with concern, as she tried to find a way off the dais before she emptied her stomach for all to see.

She shook her head and finally, finally she found the exit, nearly falling down the stairs, vaguely registering shouts of her name being swallowed up by the chaos of the crowds as she stumbled into the tent behind the dais. It was darker in there, her eyes not yet adjusted from her transition away from the sun and into the fabric shadows.

“Princess?” Jon’s voice had fully deepened since he first arrived at the Red Keep, no longer did it crack or waver. It was a rich baritone, his Northern accent reminding her of the freedom she felt in Winterfell, the scent of winter roses, and snowflakes collecting on her tongue.

She swallowed hard, wincing at the taste, and breathed through her nose, banishing the image of the Valeman gurgling as he laid dying from her mind.

“Should I call for a maester?” Jon asked, the sound of his hesitant footsteps was all she focused on as the nausea subsided.

“No, no, I am well, I simply was caught off guard.” Myrcella said, straightening her back and turning to face him.

His arms were outstretched, hovering, mere inches from her, as if he were ready to catch her if she fell. “Aye, it was a brutal sight, not one for the eyes of a lady.”

Her septa would be so disappointed, a lady should keep her composure at all times, and she had run at the first sight of true blood.

“A lady does not run, I must return.” She said, attempting to brush off his concerns, as she smoothed out her skirts.

“Allow me to escort you.” Jon offered her his arm.

“No, thank you, but I do not think that is necessary.” She gave him a polite smile, intending to walk past him, embarrassed that he had seen her in such a state.

“Princess, your hands are shaking.” Jon said softly, stopping her in her track.

She looked at her hands as if they were foreign to her. He was right, they trembled, and she could not make them stop.

He took her hands slowly, as if in a daze. His calloused hands were so much larger than hers, and he held them so gently, as if they were made of spun sugar.

She felt quite dazed herself, her cheeks warming at the way he so carefully turned them over in his hands, inspecting them, his thumbs brushing against her palms.

“I wanted to ride in the tourney.” Jon said quietly, half to her, half to himself.

“You did?” Would he have ridden for Winterfell? Or styled himself as a mystery contender? He was not a knight, nor a squire, merely training with the master-at-arms whenever Joffrey threw a fit, and stormed away, which was often. Myrcella knew he had made much progress, even her Uncle Jamie had taken to giving Jon some pointers. Her father had come upon the scene and declared that Jaime should train Jon, since he seemed to have enough time to hang around the yard and insult the master-at-arms’ teachings.

“I wanted to crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty, the roses are pink, they would look very nice in your hair.” He continued, still toying with her fingers absentmindedly.

She noticed he said my queen, not the queen, and her heart fluttered foolishly in her chest. “I have never been crowned before; it always goes to my mother.”

“I would not have won; it was a foolish thought.” Jon said, his eyes downcast, tracing the lines of her palms with that unrelenting dark gaze.

“Maybe after a few namedays you will win, I can wait.” She said, the words slipping off her tongue before she could think them through properly.

His eyes met hers, surprise shining in them. “You would wait for me?”

Yes, for anything. Her foolish heart said, but her mind was much more rational. “Of course, sword training takes time.”

Jon’s eyes were nearly black in the low light, and Myrcella felt as if she were staring into the night sky, one devoid of stars and yet still as beautiful. “I will dedicate myself to my studies so that you will not have to wait long then, Princess.”

Myrcella smiled bashfully, ducking her head and finally accepting his outstretched arm.

She liked feasts, or perhaps it was better to say she liked the idea of feasts. The merriment, the food, the music, it was all wonderful, but she did not like watching as Joffrey played pretend with Sansa.

“Ser Loras has a keen eye for beauty, My Lady.” He said, smiling charmingly at her, it was a poor mimicry of their Uncle Jaime’s smile, the one that eased their mother’s anger, and made ladies wed and unwed swoon.

She ignored them, focusing on her food, it was quite good, and she had been hungry, though she caught the tail end of their conversation as Joffrey filled Sansa’s cup with dark wine.

“I will defeat them all one day.”

Myrcella bit back a snort. Her brother could barely hold his own against the older boys back in Winterfell, and since he had begun training with her uncle, Jon had beaten Joffrey quite severely many times over.

“Cella, can I have your poppyseed roll, please?” Tommen asked sleepily, half leaning on her as he ate slowly.

It was far too late for Tommen to be awake, but their father had insisted all his children attend the feast.

“If I say I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!” Their father’s voice was thunderous, rolling over the crowd, silencing all.

Tommen curled into her side, and even Joffrey froze for a moment, his grip on his wine glass tightening until his knuckles were bone white. Their mother stood, anger burned in her eyes like wildfire, and she stormed out, their Uncle Jaime making his way up to their father carefully once she had gone.

Myrcella’s heart sank and she gathered Tommen up, bidding Sansa and Joffrey a goodnight before she slipped into the shadows of the hall, Tommen in tow.

Chapter Text

Myrcella and Tommen walked side by side, trailing after their septa when they spotted the boy. It was a brief glance; he was chasing a cat, hid his face, and knocked Tommen over in his fleeing from the guards, which made Myrcella quite angry. Angry enough to storm off to the gardens while the guards attempted to find the mystery boy.

It was there she stumbled upon Jon. She had not meant to wander into the Godswood, but her feet had taken her where her mind would not reveal it wished to go. Jon was knelt before the heart tree, a great faceless oak, its twisting and twining branches embracing the sky, the vibrant red leaves shook as the wind passed through making a pleasant sound that she found comforting.

Myrcella took quiet steps, wriggling her fingers at Ghost, whose head perked up then fell back upon his giant paws at the sight of her. “Lord Snow?”

Jon startled, jumping to his feet, half turned when she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were red, his face swollen. “Pri—Princess, what—where is your guard?”

She looked behind her, mildly surprised to not see Ser Arys lingering on the edge of the Godswood. “I do not know. Perhaps he was recruited to join the chase for boy and cat.”

He gave her an odd look, then quickly schooled his features and took a step back, her hand falling pathetically to her side. “I see. Well, it is not proper for us to be alone together, you should return to your septa and guard.” His voice was thick with sorrow, and it made her heart twist in her chest.

“You were crying.” Myrcella said softly, clasping her hands in front of her, casting her eyes downward to give Jon privacy.

He did not speak for a moment, and she peeked up at him through her eyelashes

“I—it is not polite to sneak up on others.” He said, wiping at his face with his sleeves, leaving streaks of dirt on his cheeks.

She giggled, she did not mean to, and felt horrible when Jon’s shoulders tensed. She pulled her handkerchief from the little pocket sewn into her dress by Sansa and went up on her toes. “I will take your words into account.”

Jon caught her hand, quick as a whip, it was so large, easily encircling her wrist, and she stared at it, as did he. “What are you doing?”

“You have some dirt on your face.” Myrcella said awkwardly, waving her handkerchief as best she could with his strong hand holding her arm still.

He released her hand, and she recognized the indecision in his eyes. He cared deeply for her reputation, no matter how often she tried to dissuade him; to reassure him no one would speak a word while her father lived and doted on him, boasting as if Jon were his own son. “Princess, I do not mean to offend, but this is reckless, you should not be seen with me.”

“Jon.” She mimicked his sullen tone. “No one comes here but you, Arya, your father, and I. There is no harm in allowing me to clean the dirt from your face.”

Jon sighed but jerked his head to the side, and she followed him round the heart tree until they were hidden from sight by its thick trunk. He stood still and allowed her to wipe his face clean, his brows furrowed as he started at the space above her shoulder.

“Why were you crying? Did Joffrey say something to you?” Myrcella asked, keeping her eyes on the disappearing streaks of dirt. “He is an awful twat, but I promise it will become easier to ignore him as the years go by.”

“Years?” Jon snorted, “I think I will need decades to tolerate him.”

Myrcella giggled, ducking her head to hide her smile. “It is a good thing you are patient then, is it not?”

Jon rolled his eyes but smiled down at her, and her heart skipped a beat, her cheeks warming.

She cleared her throat and stepped back. “Done.” Then she folded her handkerchief, keeping her eyes on her and Jon’s shoes. “So, it was Joffrey? That made you cry?”

“No, no, it was—have you heard of Lady Ashara Dayne?” Jon asked, his posture suddenly stiff, his smile gone.

Myrcella nodded, unable to meet Jon’s eyes, instead looking at his nose. He had a fine nose, a bit big, but she thought it suited his face. One of her older cousins had made mention of it, along with the act of riding, which Myrcella did not understand and could not get anyone to explain to her. When she had asked Jon about it, his face turned bright red, and he did not speak to her for three whole days.

“There are rumors, have always been rumors, that perhaps she is—was my mother, and it seems that some of the courtiers have taken it upon themselves to compare my features to hers, to find proof.”

She had heard the rumor, not just from servants but from her mother as well, who blamed Lord Stark for Lady Ashara’s death. Though Myrcella did not think her mother truly cared for Lady Ashara at all, instead wished for more arrows to launch at Lord Stark. “Do you think it is true?”

Jon shrugged, a deep frown on his face. “I do not know. Her name is the only one whispered with any real levity, there was rumor of a fishmonger’s daughter, or a wet nurse, but Lady Catelyn did not seem troubled by those.”

Myrcella bit her lip, then dared to put her hand on Jon’s forearm. “Jon…Lady Stark was not kind to you; I do not think you should put much stock in her words.” He said nothing in response, and she gave life to the question that had long been swirling in her mind. “Do you wish it to be true?”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s Apple bobbing, a distracting movement, then whispered a soft, “yes.”

She nodded and squeezed his arm. “My Uncle Jaime said she was very beautiful and spirited. That she was twice as terrifying as her brother, but she loved with the whole of her being.”

He sniffled and nodded as well, his eyes on her hand, the space between them that she closed in her desire to comfort him. “No one in Winterfell would speak of her, I thought of running away once, of finding my way to Dorne when I was six, but then I found a map and saw how far Starfell was from Winterfell and…”

Myrcella’s thumb swiped back and forth across his arm soothingly. “I could ask Uncle Jaime if he has any other stories, or perhaps a portrait of her is still among the late Queen Elia’s belongings—those that were not returned to Dorne.”

Jon shook his head and wiped at his eyes. “I do not even know if it is true, I should not give myself false hope.”

“I am sorry, Jon; I wish you could know.” She said mournfully, heart breaking for the boy nearly a man who had treated her so kindly since the moment they met.

Jon’s hand covered her own and she looked up at him, her storybook prince. Dark and handsome, kind and strong, so full of deep emotion with thoughts like poetry. Perhaps this would be the moment he would kiss her, and she would no longer be left out. She would be able to join her giggling cousins as they whispered stories back and forth under the covers.

“Thank you, Princess, your words are kind.” He said, squeezing her hand before stepping away, putting a respectable distance between them.

“I am glad I could be of service.” Myrcella’s heart sank, but she smiled, Jon liked it when she smiled. He had said so when he snuck her an extra raspberry tart after she had been scolded quite fiercely by her septa three fortnights ago. Coincidentally, it had been the same day her Uncle Jaime had taken over Jon’s training. A day she thought would upset him, but he had stroked her hair for a brief moment, as he did when she was younger and would hide behind his cloak when she was scared.

She went to her father after dinner—he was in a good mood, he had been since Jon and his father had joined them in King’s Landing, he was far fonder of them than he was Joffrey and Uncle Stannis—with tears in her eyes as she told him of the horrible rumors being spread about Jon, and what she had heard merely on her trip back to her chambers from the Godswood.

He had raged and demanded answers, sparing a single moment to pat her on the shoulder and tell her she had done well before he stormed out. And in the morning, she sat in her bedroom window, eating a raspberry tart, watching as the courtiers were sent home, their belongings hastily packed and stacked upon wheelhouses, fleeing the anger of their king.

Her heart was light as she made her way through the halls to the training yard, it had been a few weeks since the gossip mongers were sent fleeing, and her mood had not been dampened. She frequently went to watch Tommen train. Though he was still too young to spar with the older boys, instead practicing on straw dummies, while Myrcella pretended to work on her stitches, her eyes drifting every so often from her embroidery hoop to Jon’s steady fighting stance.

She found Sansa seated on the bench she normally occupied, her own stitching in her lap. It was a golden lion half formed on a bed of crimson. Myrcella’s cheeks heated as she realized she had brought with her a secret project for Jon and would not be able to hide it from Sansa.

“Princess Myrcella.” Sansa greeted, jumping up and curtsying.

“Lady Sansa.” She said, giving her a polite smile as she sat. She was fond of Sansa; the younger girl was sweet and found wonderment in the most mundane of things. They shared lessons together, but Myrcella had found herself pulling away from the redheaded girl the closer she got to Joffrey. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Prince Joffrey asked me to watch him spar, he said he will beat all the others and dedicate his victories to me.” Sansa sighed; her pale cheeks flushed with pink.

“Our father did the same for our mother.” Myrcella remarked, pulling out her hoop and attempting to sit at an angle that would not look too unusual but still allowed her to hide it from Sansa. Her hoop was strung with sturdy cloth the color like the bruised sky before dawn, a rich purple that bordered on black, yet still held the remaining twinges of twilight. A white wolf sat nearly completed in the center, a sky of shooting stars above him, their tails needing to be elongated, the shading of the wolf’s fur still unfinished.

“Joffrey will surely grow to be a great warrior like the king.” Sansa continued, her nimble fingers threading her needle with pure, deep green silk.

Myrcella hummed in acknowledgement, her stomach flipping when Jon walked into the yard laughing, her uncle by his side.

Her Uncle Jaime never ceased to turn heads, with golden hair and bright eyes of emerald-green, his well-built figure and sharp, clean-shaven cheekbones, his white cloak bright and pristine. With Jon at his side, they were like the sun and the moon. Jon with his dark locks and dark eyes, a smattering of dark stubble covering his strong jaw which Myrcella thought made him look quite roguish. His clothing was dark as well, not quite black, as her uncle had broken him of that habit, but a dark blue with hints of grey embellishments.

Her uncle led Jon over to the weapons rack, jerking his head towards a sword. Within moments, they were facing each other, and Myrcella gripped her skirts, teeth worrying at her bottom lip as she watched them spar.

They were a well-matched pair, student, and teacher. Jon took instruction well, ignoring her uncle’s playful jabs, laughing when he made a true joke. There was a gracefulness to their movements, and she could not help but watch, drawn in by the intricate dance.

“Up, up, keep your sword up or mine shall find its way through your throat.” Jaime called, moving back quickly as Jon pressed forward, adjusting his stance as he did, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Uncle, when you are done wasting your time, I want a turn with the bastard.” Joffrey’s voice rang out with cruel glee. “Let the Crown Prince of the realm put him in his place.”

Myrcella’s eyes narrowed, and she felt more than saw Sansa stiffen.

Jon paid Joffrey no mind, and kept his focus on her uncle, their swords meeting, the sound reverberating through the air, a battle of strength, of stamina that ended with her uncle’s sword at Jon’s throat.

“Well done, you managed to not make a complete fool of yourself.” Jaime said, lowering his sword and clapping Jon on the back, before turning to Joffrey. “My Prince, you said you wished to spar with my protégé?”

“Protégé?” Sansa whispered; her brows drawn as she watched the scene.

“My uncle has grown fond of your half-brother; he says he could be a great knight one day, perhaps even better than him.” Myrcella said, feeling a flutter of pride as she watched Jon and Joffrey circle each other. Her Jon, who made her a necklace, who confided in her, who made her laugh, and listened when she spoke. He would knock Joffrey into the dirt within moments, and she would enjoy the sight of it.

Her uncle leaned down to whisper something to Jon, who nodded almost imperceptibly, and readied himself, two hands on his sword.

“Why is his sword so much longer than the prince’s?” Sansa asked, setting down her embroidery to watch the match.

Myrcella studied her for a moment, while her mother was right, Sansa’s head was filled with fanciful ideals, she was not stupid. Myrcella had seen Sansa quietly observing the world around her, asking questions only when she felt it was proper. A true lady, that is what her father had called Sansa, congratulating Lord Stark on his well-mannered daughter.

“It is a hand-and-a-halfer, my uncle suggested it, he thought it would suit Jon’s—”

“Parentage.” Joffrey cut in, taking his eyes off Jon to glance over at them. “It is a bastard sword for a bastard boy.”

Myrcella hid her hands in her skirts, her eyes hardening. She had not realized Jon and Joffrey had moved close enough that they were able to hear their conversation. Or was it simply that Joffrey was already making the comment, and it so happened to coincide with her words? She would not put it past him.

“I wish you good luck, My Prince.” Sansa said, smiling prettily at him.

Myrcella felt a twinge of dislike for the girl, though she knew Sansa did not know Joffrey’s true nature. But still…to root so clearly for him, against her own blood? Yes, Jon was a bastard, and shared only a father, but he was her brother. She fidgeted with her embroidery, the white wolf with ruby red eyes staring back at her.

She had bastard siblings, she knew that. Edric at Storm’s End, and Myra in the Vale, but her mother refused to let anyone speak of them. She had not even been allowed to look at Edric when he was last brought to court by her Uncle Renly, while Joffrey was not only allowed to look, but had gone out of his way to humiliate Edric at every turn. His efforts failed, which Myrcella had found humorous, but Joffrey’s fit of rage afterwards had not been. It assured her that the stories Uncle Renly had told her were true. Edric was kind and charming, a fierce defender of what he believed to be right. Not one to bully or be swayed by bullies, honorable and now a man grown of seven and ten.

What would it be like to have a kind elder brother, one who doted on his siblings, who protected them as Robb and Jon did their siblings? What if their mother had allowed Edric to live in the Keep. Would he have protected them? Would he have defended them from Joffrey? She imagined he would, that he would be the steadfast wall between Joffrey and them, the elder brother they had always wanted, the strong, steadfast heir their father had always wanted.

 What if, what if, what if.

The sounds of steel against steel filled the air and Myrcella jerked to attention, her own thoughts distracting her from the scene before her. Jon was fast, and strong, but Joffrey fought dirty, kicking up sand and lobbing cruel taunts at him, searching for a chink in Jon’s armor. He would not find one, he could say nothing Jon had not heard before.

Her Uncle Jaime walked the perimeter, watching the match, emerald eyes taking in every detail, every flaw and improvement, until he stopped beside the bench they were seated on, his arms folded across his chest. “Use your reach, Jon.” He instructed, a smirk appearing when Jon stepped back, and gave himself space before he brought his lengthy blade down in an arc, knocking Joffrey’s sword from his hand.

A small cheer escaped Myrcella and Jon’s eyes darted to her, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He was sweating, though she believed the exertion came from his match with her uncle not her brother. His curls were tied back, some wisps escaping, his pink lips parted slightly as he caught his breath. Her stomach flipped as she studied his lips, and she chastised himself, forcing her gaze up to his dark eyes. In the bright sunlight they took on the hue of a deep plum, and she heard her uncle’s sharp intake of breath. She glanced up at him, a torn expression on his face, his eyes roiling like a stormy sea.

“Uncle…?” Myrcella asked, placing a hand on his, looking up at him, her heart filled with concern. He did not display such emotions easily, nor frequently, something must have been truly wrong.

He met her gaze and smiled, the sea gone, replaced by a light summer glade. “Yes, Cella?”

“Are you well?” She turned towards him, Jon leaving her vision fully.

He laughed and rolled back his shoulders with a mock pained hiss, making a show of it. “I am getting old, my mind addled, my bones weary.”

Myrcella pursed her lips, she would have to speak with Uncle Tyrion when she saw him next, he would know what would cause such a sudden outburst.

“Uncle! Guards!” Joffrey yelled, his words panicked and muffled.

Their heads whipped back towards the middle of the yard, as Sansa jumped to her feet with a frightened scream of Joffrey’s name.

Jon and Joffrey were fighting, grappling with each other, fists swinging, weapons discarded in the dirt, growled curses and threats passing between the two of them until Jon forced Joffrey to the ground, a snarl on his lips.

If it were not for his height on her, his much longer legs, Myrcella thought she would have beaten her uncle to the brawling pair with how quickly she crossed the yard.

Jaime bent down and yanked Jon from Joffrey, his face like thunder. “Seven hells, Jon, what madness has possessed you?”

Jon wiped the blood from his split lip, his eyes cold. “His words were vile; they could not go unanswered.”

Jaime sighed and helped Joffrey off the ground.

“That bastard struck me, he tried to kill me, I want him beheaded.” Joffrey spat, his face bloodied, dirt stuck to his wounds.

“What did you say, Joffrey?” Myrcella threw the unspoken accusation at him, venom in her voice, just as her mother had taught her. How horrid were your words? Did you tell him you will make his sister cry night after night, her body bruised and beaten as she lies in your marital bed?

“My own sister. I should have known you would take the bastard’s side, traitor.” He sneered, looking down his nose at her.

Jaime’s face was akin to stone as he drew himself to his full height, the sun glinting off his armor. “Joffrey, Myrcella is not only a princess of the realm, but your blood, your sister, as you so eloquently said. You should not speak to her—”

Joffrey scoffed. “I will speak to her as I please, she is nothing but a wolf’s whore, a bastard wolf at that.”

Myrcella flinched as if she had been struck and Sansa made a small sound behind her, her pale hand slipping into Myrcella’s as Jon lunged forward, stopped only by Jaime’s gloved hand making impact with Joffrey’s cheek. The sound of the slap was loud, too loud, all other sounds faded away, the world around them frozen, holding its breath.

“Listen to me, boy, you will never speak of your sister in such a crude manner again. I care not if you hate Stark’s bastard, if Myrcella takes him or a hundred men to her bed, she is your sister, and we are Lannisters. We defend our house, not attack it. If I catch you speaking that filth again, I will drag you by your ear in front of the king and force you to repeat every word. Do you understand?” Jaime seethed, his hands on Joffrey’s collar lifting him into the air, his voice sharp as a blade, words dripping with wildfire.

Sansa had looked away, tears filling her eyes, but Myrcella could not drag her own from Jon. His chest rose and fell harshly, his hands curled into fists, knuckles bone white as he stared dead ahead.

“Y-Yes I do.” Joffrey said, before scrambling away the moment his feet touched the ground.

“He will tell Mother; she will be angry with you.” Myrcella said, squeezing Sansa’s hand reassuringly as she met her uncle’s gaze.

He shrugged; all anger gone, replaced by the carefree mask he wore so very frequently. “She will forgive me; I have my ways.” Then he stroked her hair, the movement gentle, before he called for Jon to follow him.

“Jon, I—” Myrcella’s voice died in her throat as Jon passed by without sparing her a glance.

She and Sansa stood there until finally Sansa slipped her hand from Myrcella’s and wrapped her arms around herself. “Princess, I am so sorry, I do not understand why he would say such things, Joffrey has always seemed so kind.”

“It is alright, Joffrey says unkind things when he has been embarrassed, I am used to it.” She stood taller and brushed Sansa’s concern aside, she was a lioness, not a quivering rabbit.

Sansa bit her lip then shook her head. “I thought he was a golden prince, like in the songs.”

Myrcella said nothing.

She held back her tears until she reached her chambers, pulling the curtains closed, plunging her room into near darkness, only the lit fire casting a faint glow. She threw herself onto her bed and buried her face in the soft pink pillows. A whore, Joffrey had called her a whore, Jon’s whore. She was a maiden, she had never even been kissed, and while Jon had defended her honor, he avoided her gaze, he took his leave without a word or glance. Was he angry with her? Did he hate her, find her shameful, was he embarrassed to be caught defending her?

Her stomach churned, hot tears running down her cheeks soaking the thick blanket the covered her bed as she sat up, terrified by the idea. She had embarrassed him, hung onto his every word, defended him, stared at him when he was not looking, and she had even—she spotted the nearly finished embroidery, laying abandoned on her night table and another sob wrenched itself from her throat. She was a stupid, stupid girl with fanciful, foolish dreams.

Chapter Text

Jon watched as Jaime began to unbuckle his armor, removing each piece methodically, until they laid upon his discarded white cloak waiting to be cleaned by a nearby servant or squire. They stood in the barracks, devoid of others, quiet, the candles flickering with the draft, the stone absorbing every sound as Jon’s mind churned and churned until he felt he would drown within his own thoughts.

He needed to apologize, cleave himself to Jaime’s mercy. “Ser Jaime I—”

Jaime held up a hand as he heaved a heavy sigh. “What did he say to you?”

Jon shifted his weight, his hand gripping then releasing the hilt of his sword. “You are her uncle, her blood, you would not want to hear such filth.”

“Jon.” Jaime ordered, his bright green eyes turned on him, pinning him to the floor.

“He said that I tainted Myrce—the princess with my very presence and that I should remember my place.” He said, unable to meet his mentor’s eyes, picking the softest blow he could from Joffrey’s spoken array.

Jamie raised an eyebrow, disbelieving and growing frustrated. “That would not have angered you to action, speak truthfully.”

“He said he would not be surprised if she had thrown herself at both me and Robb in Winterfell. That she was a pathetic…” He could not say it, he would never call her that vile name, she was the furthest from it, pure and shining, perfect and untouchable, deserving of a shrine and he a humble petitioner kneeling before it.

“Whore?” Jaime supplied the word.

“Yes, that, one of those who degraded herself by associating with me, and that if he were king, he would have had her beaten for her actions, and—” Bile rose in his throat as he recalled Joffrey’s final words. Surely, they had been to provoke him, the prince could not have truly meant them.

“And?”

“His words cannot reach her.” Jon said, raising his chin, meeting Jaime’s eyes as he tried to replicate his father’s stern expression, the one he that signified he was no longer Ned Stark but Lord Stark of Winterfell.

Jaime scoffed. “Why would I ever tell her such things, I care for her.” Then he paused, as if he had seen something in his expression, something that Jon was trying desperately to hide. “As do you.”

Jon’s own leather armor was still strapped to him, while Jaime stood before him in only a tunic and breeches, yet he felt alarmingly exposed. “I care for the good of the realm, the health of the king and his family.”

“No, no, you care for Myrcella.” He smirked, leaning on the wall casually, clearly enjoying this turn of events. “The golden princess and the bastard Stark, they will write songs about you two for ages to come.”

“He said he would give her to me after he broke her in, said a bastard like me surely would not mind a bit of blood and tears when he had her delivered to my bed. Care for her or not, I could not let his vile words go unanswered.” Jon said, his spine straight, rage curling in his chest.

The thought of Myrcella in tears summoned a sharp phantom pain in his stomach, unending and sickening each time he imagined it. The thought of her being sullied by a man as cruel as Joffrey was revolting enough, but if it were actually him? Jon could not block out the imagined sounds of her pained screams and cries, the image of her body bruised, battered, and violated in the foulest of ways. It took all his strength not to heave.

“Gods above.” Jaime swore lowly, as he pushed off the wall and approached Jon, grabbing him by the shoulders. “You did well, Jon. We will make a knight of you yet.”

Jon basked in Jaime’s words, he had been the man’s squire in all but name since the Tourney of the Hand, when he had spied him escorting Myrcella back to her seat. Jon thought it a jest, a ploy to further irritate his father and perhaps to win favor back upon his name. But Jaime had taken his duties seriously, and Jon found himself growing not only in strength and skill but in admiration, and respect for the man the realm called Kingslayer.

“She cannot know what he said.” Jon stressed, restlessness running through his veins. He wanted to go to her, to console her, to assure her he was not an angry or cruel man, he would never turn the flames of his anger upon her, nor would he let any others do so.

“The princess will not hear a word from me.” Jaime said, leaving the rest unspoken. But I cannot promise the same from Joffrey.

Jon nodded, that sullen heavy feeling returning. That guilt he felt when Myrcella’s eyes fell upon him. He felt them burning into him, and could not force himself to meet her gaze, heart stuttering when he thought of the fear and disgust that would be in her spring green eyes. Her beautiful, beautiful eyes, that filled with concern as she listened to his pitiful tale. He was nearly a man grown and had been caught crying over a dead woman who may not even be his mother. Embarrassment had burned through him, but her touch was cooling, calming, and he had gripped the reins of his self-control tight in order to keep from leaning into it.

“Now, off you go, we shall spar again in the morning.” Jaime dismissed him with a light air, as if they had not a moment ago spoken of the crown prince’s threats to defile his own sister, but instead of the weather or what would be served for dinner.

Jon bowed his head, discarded his armor, made to leave then paused at the door. It was not often that he and Ser Jaime were alone, not often that the elder man was so open and honest with him. With his hand on the doorknob, he braced himself. “Ser Jaime, you guarded Princess Elia, did you not?”

Jamie said nothing for a moment, then Jon heard the man take a shaky breath. “I did.”

“And you knew her ladies?” He asked carefully, trepidation building.

“I knew Lady Ashara Dayne, if that is what you are asking.”

Jon turned, Myrcella had said her uncle would likely know more, and he trusted her words. She would not tell him that if she thought the information he learned would hurt him. “What was she like?”

Jaime’s expression softened, and he jerked his head to the bench, beckoning Jon back over. “I was not a friend of hers per se, she was older than I, and nearly a princess in her own right considering how the court fawned over her, but we were friendly. She had thick dark hair that would curl when it rained, tawny skin, violet eyes that shined and a viper’s tongue. She was as quick to give a kind word as she was to return an insult, all while keeping an air of upmost grace.”

Jon nodded and took a seat on the bench, looking up at Jaime. As he did, his leg bouncing, his mind whirling, he felt more like a child waiting impatiently for a bedtime story than a man nearly grown waiting to hear about his alleged mother from someone who actually knew her.

Jaime took a seat as well and draped his arm over Jon’s shoulders. “This desire to know more is born of the speculations that have been swirling around as of late I assume? The ones Myrcella had the king put an end to?”

Myrcella was the reason the whispers had stopped? She had not said a word to him, he thought the gods had taken pity on him for once in his life.

“I did not know she had done that.” Jon said sheepishly, a blush creeping up his neck.

“She would not have wanted you to feel slighted or undermined.”

“Why would I feel slighted? I am grateful that she spoke on my behalf, I do not deserve her kindness.” Especially not after his display in the training yard, surely, she thought him a brute.

Jaime stiffened, then squeezed Jon’s arm. “Do not say that. If you did not deserve her kindness, then she would not have offered it to you.”

Jon shrugged, guilt and shame churning within him. Jaime was right, yet he could not help but feel guilty. He did not know why she felt he deserved it, and if she knew his true feelings, she would certainly not view him as she did before.

“Lady Ashara loved Princess Elia, they were akin to sisters, she loved to swim, and dance. She was tall, stunningly beautiful and caught the eyes of many men, but rejected them with a kind word that left no man feeling stung. She was intelligent and loyal. She fought to stay by Princess Elia’s side when the rebellion began.” Jaime’s tone took on a mournful tune. “She loved the children, she wished to be a mother, she would have been a wonderful one.”

Jon bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes growing hot with unshed tears. “Do you think…”

“I cannot say, no one can but your father.” Jaime said softly.

“Would she have liked me?” Jon asked quietly, letting the question that had plagued his mind fill the silence of the barracks. Would she have wanted me, would this woman who no one can say for certain is my mother love me? Would she treat me as a son or cast me aside?

“She would have loved you, Jon. You are a strapping young lad with a keen mind, a good heart, and the arm of a proper swordsman. Not to mention, once you grow into your face, I am sure you will be squabbled over by many a lady.” Jaime chuckled, and though the sound was tinged with sorrow, it was still light. “And seven hells, Arthur would have been training you day and night to take up his mantle, that is of course if Dawn found you worthy.”

Jon bunched the end of his tunic in his hands, unable to look his mentor in the eye. Many nights in Winterfell he had curled up with Ghost at his feet, face half buried in his pillows as he tried to picture his mother, what she would be like, if she would dote upon him like Lady Catelyn did Robb. Visions of a blurry figure humming softly, her fingers carding through his hair would lull him to sleep and when he awoke there would be a deep pit of melancholy, of longing in his chest.

Jaime squeezed his shoulder again, his voice still soft, and sorrowful. “I am sorry Jon, I wish I had the answers, I wish I could tell you for certain. I am sorry that you do not know, every boy deserves to know his mother.”

“Princess Myrcella said she was sorry as well. That I did not know.” Jon said lamely, unused to laying out his emotions and insecurities so brazenly. The North was his home, he loved it, but it was cold, and though the people were warm there were still things not spoken of, and Jon’s mother, his feelings regarding the situation were among them.

“Myrcella apologizes for a great many things that are not her fault. She simply wants others to be happy. Do not let it worry you.” Jaime reassured him.

“How can I not?” Jon lamented, twisting his tunic, his leg bouncing anxiously. “How can you stand it? How can any member of the kingsguard stand it? Doing nothing while an innocent is being insulted, or is in pain, or is suffering?”

Jaime went silent for a long moment and Jon looked up, to see the man was staring down at the floor, his jaw clenched. “Ser Jaime?”

“It is difficult. When I was young and the Mad King would…hurt the queen, I asked a very similar thing. I was told we protect the royal family from others, not from themselves.” Jaime finally said, standing and turning from Jon as he grabbed his white cloak. “Now go and get some rest. I will see if I can find a portrait of Lady Ashara for you. Then at least you will know what she looked like.”

Jon thanked him and retreated to the halls of the keep, his thoughts swirling, his steps aimless. His sadness and longing still bubbled within him, his father was angry with the king, it was clear as ink on parchment, but he did not know why, and Myrcella surely was angry with him for his violent display. If his father’s anger turned to rage, would they leave the keep and return home? Shockingly, he found he did not want to return home, he wished to stay.

If he left, who would protect Myrcella? She had the kingsguard, but the incident in the yard proved they were not enough, Joffrey was selective in his cruelty he could keep it hidden, like a snake he laid in the grass watching, waiting to strike. Myrcella needed someone to stay by her side, who was not bound by the rules of the kingsguard as Jaime had described them.

Not from themselves. How could he agree to that when it was Joffrey who sought to hurt her? He was not a stranger, nor an unknown assassin, he was her brother, her family.

Jon dragged a hand down his face and headed for the Tower of the Hand, he needed to sleep on what he had learned, perhaps it would all be clearer in the morn.

Chapter Text

Myrcella sat beside her mother as the maids powdered her face, attempting to cover the red-purple bruise on her cheek.

“You see Myrcella, this is why you must never love anyone but your children.” Cersei said, her eyes hollow as she watched the maids carefully attend to her face and hair.

Myrcella nodded, wringing her hands in her skirts. She had been privy to the argument that resulted in her mother’s bruised face. Her Uncle Tyrion had stumbled back into the Keep and ran straight into Lord Stark who brought him before her father and accused him of sending catspaws after Bran. Once her mother heard the news she had stormed into her father’s solar, wildfire in her veins. Their screaming had drawn Myrcella from her chambers, and she listened at the door. It was when her mother, angry that Uncle Tyrion had not been cleared of all charges without question had snarked that she should wear the armor and Father the skirts, that he lost his temper.

The sound of her mother hitting the floor, of Lord Stark’s grim tone, of her uncle’s concern, of Ser Trant’s armor clanking as he pulled open the door sent Myrcella fleeing down the hall, tears in her eyes. Her uncle would never do such a thing, he was kind, and clever, and he liked Bran, he had written Myrcella to tell her all about the saddle he had designed for the boy.

I will wear it as a badge of honor. Her mother had declared, but now that the whole of the court would gather to watch the trial, she insisted on maintaining her flawless complexion.

“Chin up, we are lions, we will not be cowed by false accusations from barbarians in the North.” Cersei said as Myrcella and Joffrey trailed behind her, the guards pulled open the doors to the Great Hall, and Myrcella kept her head high.

“Why do we care if Uncle dies, it is his fault his catspaw failed.” Joffrey grumbled.

Myrcella thanked the Seven that Tommen was not forced to attend the trial, he and Arya were kept away by their septas. Unfortunately, Sansa would not be spared, and Myrcella averted her eyes when Joffrey sent a smile towards his intended, who smiled slightly in return, Jon seated beside her with solemn expression.

They took their seats, rows and rows of ornate wooden benches had been brought in for people to sit on, boxing the center floor in until all that remained was a small square, her father at the head of it, Lord Stark at his side.

Her Uncle Tyrion stood in the center looking tired, and dirty, but bored, thick iron chains on his wrists and ankles. Myrcella bit her lip to keep from crying at the sight of him in chains. He had done nothing wrong, why was he chained like a common criminal?

One of the septons from the Sept of Baelor began the trial with a prayer to the Father, then her own father spoke. “Tyrion Lannister, you stand accused of hiring catspaws and sending them to kill Bran Stark, what say you?”

“Not guilty, I had been at the Wall for days already when that horrible incident took place. When would I have had time to hire a catspaw?” Tyrion said, meeting Robert’s eyes, then Lord Stark’s.

“We have your dagger, and a witness who claims you won it off him.” Lord Stark said, revealing the weapon.

Myrcella watched as her father’s eyes took in the dagger, his brow furrowing.

“Won it off him? How, and better yet, when?” Tyrion asked, raising an eyebrow still looking completely and utterly bored.

“The man said you bet against Jaime during Joffrey’s nameday tourney and won the dagger from him, is it true or not?” Robert asked, seemingly bored as well, though the trial had hardly even begun.

Then her uncle smiled, and Myrcella followed his gaze right up to Lord Baelish, who sat with the other members of the Small Council, his hands folded in his lap. “When have I ever bet against my brother? Only a fool would believe that tale. I am a Lannister, I never bet against my family.” Then he tilted his head forward, a smirk on his lips. “Though I have known Littlefinger to tell quite fantastical stories, in fact he told much such an interesting tale about your lady wife, Lord Stark.”

Myrcella braced herself, she did not like her uncle’s tone, it never meant anything good.

Lord Stark’s eyes darkened. “Watch your tongue.”

Tyrion shrugged. “If you do not wish to hear how he claimed to take the maidenhood of both Tully sisters, then I shall not regale you with it.”

“Gods, Tyrion.” Cersei cursed under breath, her expression barely giving a thing away.

Lord Stark turned towards Lord Baelish, just as Robert demanded the man make his way to the center.

“Oh, so now it is a trial for everyone, when will the killings start?” Joffrey drawled, tapping his fingers agaisnt the arm of his chair.

“There are no killings, this is a trial by judge and peers.” Myrcella said, watching as Lord Stark circled Lord Baelish, speaking to him in a low voice.

“We all know the lovely Lady Catelyn would never betray her vows to the Maiden, nor would I go against my brother. Your Grace, I am your good-brother, you know I have never acted against our family.” Tyrion said, his words gaining volume, and taking on a life of their own, stirring the crowd.

“Hand me the dagger, Ned.” Robert said, holding it up to the light. “Gods damn me, this is one of mine. The armory had said it had gone missing, but it is such a plain thing I thought nothing of it.” Then he handed the dagger back to Lord Stark. “The Imp is right, Catelyn is a fine woman, and Tyrion has been less of a nuisance than the rest of his kin.”

The crowd began to turn, whispers of Lord Baelish’s name grew to accusations, and Myrcella could see the sweat drip down the thin man’s neck. “Surely you cannot think I sent the catspaws; I was not even in attendance at Winterfell.”

Lord Stark held the dagger firmly. “If not Lord Tyrion, and not you Baelish, then who?”

Joffrey began to squirm in his seat, elbows knocking into Myrcella who glared at him. Sweat dripped down his neck as well, and her stomach sank. Joffrey had no care for Bran, had laughed when their father said he was better dead, he was a theft always stealing from her, Tommen, the servants. He reveled in violence, desperately sought their father’s approval, but surely, he could not have…?

“Did you send them?” She hissed; voice barely audible above the arguing of the crowd.

Joffrey did not look at her.

“Joffrey, do not tell me you—”

He grabbed the ends of her hair and pulled hard. “Shut up, who cares? He is a useless cripple I tried to be fair and grant him mercy, it is not my fault the catspaws failed.”

“No, I will not shut up, you tried to have Bran killed!” She looked at the men standing in the center, it was not too far, if she ran—

“Children, quiet.” Cersei snapped, ignoring Myrcella’s frantic attempts to catch her eye.

“But Mother, he admitted it! He said he sent them!” Myrcella protested, she was sick of Joffrey winning, of no one standing up to him, again and again he was able to hurt others, and yet again she must stand aside.

“Admitted what?” Lord Stark’s voice filled the room, or perhaps she only felt it did as she realized all eyes had turned to her.

Her mother began to give excuses, but Myrcella caught her Uncle Tyrion’s eye. He nodded, and she stood, keeping her head high.

Her Uncle Jaime rushed forward to escort her down the steps and towards the collection of men who towered over her. Lord Stark knelt down, his eyes were dark like Jon’s, but were far older, though they held a similar warmth. “Princess, what did your brother admit to?”

Myrcella looked up at her father who glanced at where her mother and Joffrey sat. Her mother’s face was pinched, her knuckles white as she clutched the edge of her chair.

Then her father looked at her, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his beard was greying, but he moved to stand between her and the piercing eyes of her mother and brother. “Tell the truth, Myrcella, as you did in Winterfell.”

Myrcella swallowed hard then nodded, finding her voice. “Joffrey said he did it, that Bran was a useless cripple. Joffrey is a theft, he steals from me and Tommen and the maids, and he hurts animals, he skinned Tommen’s fawn, and he—” She blinked away tears as the memory of that poor mother cat flashed before her eyes. “He cut open a cat to get to her kittens, it was horrible, and he…he said he did it, he said he tried to grant Bran a mercy, but that it was not his fault the catspaws failed.”

Both her uncles stiffened, and Lord Stark’s solemn expression deepened. “Princess, how do we know that is not all the foolish boasting of a young boy?”

Jaime cleared his throat, a hesitant underbelly to his words as he gripped the pommel of his sword. “Your Grace, I was not going to speak of this, for I did not think anything of it at the time but…I did see the prince handing a blade and some gold to an unseemly looking man in Wintertown, a few days before we headed back south.”

“Liar.” Cersei shrieked, “he is your son, Your Grace, you cannot believe he would ever do such a thing. You cannot believe the words of a kingslayer.”

Her Uncle Jamie made a strangled sound as if he had been punched and turned his face away.

Myrcella fidgeted with the sleeves of her gown, she had not wanted all of this, she only wanted someone to stop Joffrey. “Father, you may ask any number of servants, they are all frightened of him—"

“You cannot listen to her; she is a whore tainted by that Northern bastard.” Joffrey spat, fighting against their mother’s grip. His face was an ugly shade of red, his eyes wild as he fought against her grip, clawing at her arms, attempting to lunge forward like a rabid dog.

“Cersei, control your son—”

“That is your sister you speak of—”

“Whole place has gone to shit, and I have only been gone two moons, sad.”

“I am not! You are a monster, everyone is afraid of you, and you tried to kill Bran!” Myrcella shouted, bolstered by the outrage, and languid disappointment of her male kin. “You are cruel, you hurt me and Tommen, and the servants. You are a pathetic, wretched excuse for a brother, I would rather have Edric Storm as a brother than you!”

“Everyone out.” Robert ordered, his voice like a dragon’s roar, echoing off the marble walls and ceiling of the Great Hall.

The gathered crowds scattered, crownsguard directing people through the doors until the hall was nearly empty and silent. Myrcella shuffled her feet, counting the specks of gold in the marble to ground herself. Her temper had gotten the better of her, she acted foolishly, childishly, and would be punished for it.

“Robert…” Lord Stark said, rising to his feet.

Her father shook his head. “No, no Ned. I have tried to be patient with that boy, but he has gone too far.” Then he motioned towards Lord Baelish and Joffrey. “Take Littlefinger to the dungeon and lock the prince in his chambers.”

The crownsguard dragged Lord Baelish and Joffrey away, her Uncle Jaime went to her mother’s side to console her, or perhaps hold her back, Myrcella was not quite sure, and Lord Stark freed her Uncle Tyrion.

Her uncle rubbed his wrists. “Well, that was entertaining, might I be allowed to bathe now?”

“Do what you will Imp.” Robert grumbled.

Lord Stark nodded at Myrcella as he moved to stand beside her father, speaking lowly with him.

“Myrcella, my legs are still quite weak, will you escort me to my chambers to ensure I do not fall and stain the marble?” Tyrion asked, as he held his hand out to her.

“Of course, Uncle.” Myrcella said, taking it quickly and all but dashing out the doors with him.

They did not speak until her uncle was sure they were alone, once he was, he motioned for her to kneel down and wrapped her up in a tight embrace. “You are very brave girl.”

Myrcella bit her lip, and sniffled, hiding her face in his shoulder.

“Brave and strong, you did the right thing.”

“Mother will hate me now.” She said, her throat tight, barely suppressed sobs fighting to be free.

“No, you are her only daughter, she loves you very much.” He soothed; his voice steady though his hands shook.

The sobs had broken through. “She loves Joffrey, only Joffrey.”

“Little Myrcella…you poor sweet girl” He sighed, rocking her back and forth. “Perhaps after this ordeal is over your father will allow you to come stay at Casterly Rock, we can go sailing, and shopping, anything your heart desires.”

Myrcella pulled back to wipe under her eyes. “I would like that.”

“Wonderful, now, let us return to our chambers until the verdict has been decided.” He offered her his hand again and she took it, letting him lead her into the safety of Maegar’s Holdfast.

It was her father who came to deliver the news later that night, he looked so very out of place in her chambers. Tall and stout in his rich, garish fabric, a dark spot among the soft, subtle colors and fabrics her chambers had been decorated with. Truly she could not remember the last time he visited her here, he normally preferred to call his children to his solar or the Great Hall.

He eased himself down in a chair across from her, folding his hands on the table, a tea set between them, along with little pastries on a silver platter. He had both brought in, and she thought perhaps she was in a dream. “Your brother shall be disinherited and sent to The Wall, along with Littlefinger. Attempted murder, cruelty, and scheming against the brother of the queen are not crimes to be taken lightly.”

“I understand.” Myrcella said meekly, staring at her reflection in her teacup.

“Myrcella, you have three times gathered your courage and spoke in the defense of yourself or others, even in defiance of your mother, and brother.” He cleared his throat and awkwardly reached across the table to take her hand. “I am proud of you. You have embodied the words of our house and spoken with a righteous fury even when you were afraid. That is no small feat.”

Myrcella blinked up at him, was she in a dream?

He nodded at her and patted her hand then he stood. “I will be sending your mother to Casterly Rock for some time, she needs to settle her nerves in a familiar place.”

“I understand.” Myrcella said again, standing as well.

He made for the door then stopped. “Lord Stark and I thought it prudent to reward your courage, is there anything you desire? A new dress, hair ribbons, or a pet perhaps?”

Jon, I want Jon to stay, I want him to know his mother, to no longer be called a bastard. Even if he finds me embarrassing at least I can do him that favor as an apology.

“Could I have time to think on it, Father?” Myrcella asked instead, knowing her wish would not—could not be granted.

“Of course, take all the time you need. And if you wish for something pretty from the North, perhaps from White Harbor, do not fret, Lord Stark shall not be departing any time soon, so he can send for anything you wish.”

Chapter Text

It was strange without her mother and elder brother around. Her mother had taken many of her servants, ladies-in-waiting, and even some of the Lannister guards back to the Rock with her, leaving Myrcella and Tommen with only their uncles as kin among the throng of the Red Keep.

She was not yet sure whether she enjoyed their absence or not, it had only been a few moons since they departed. She enjoyed Joffrey’s absence certainly, but her mother’s chambers sitting empty, her presence fading with each passing day, made Myrcella a bit lonely. Her mother was not as warm and affectionate as Myrcella might have liked, but she was still her mother. She did not know who to turn to now, not for womanly questions, or how to deal with courtiers who annoyed her, or for advice on clothing, jewelry, her hair. Gods above, she had not realized how closely she followed her mother’s fashion until it was no longer before her each morn.

Myrcella fiddled with the dainty fabric flowers sewn in a sweeping pattern along her powder blue skirts, her hair arranged in a way Sansa had heard was popular among the noblewomen. It drew her hair up and away from her face with a net of golden filigree. She felt exposed, far more comfortable keeping her hair down and framing her face, but the dress was a nameday gift from Sansa, and Tommen told her she looked pretty with her hair up, so she kept it as it was.

“Father.” Tommen said, happily spreading copious amounts of jam on a halved biscuit, his tea half drunk, a spot of chocolate at the corner of his lip. “Did you know it was Myrcella’s nameday last week?”

Myrcella wiped the chocolate away with her napkin. “Tommen do not bother Father with such nonsense, he is too busy.”

“Was it now? Ten and three then, yes?”

“Ten and four.” She said, giving their father a small smile. She had cried into Sansa’s shoulder that night, cursing herself for thinking her father would even remember, as the younger girl whispered apologies and embraced her tightly.

“Yes, yes, well I was close.” He said, giving her an apologetic smile. “Do forgive me for missing it, the realm keeps your old man very busy.”

“We should have a tourney, or a ball, or a feast!” Tommen suggested, growing more and more excited with each new idea.

“I do not need any of those things.” She said quickly, busying herself with stirring sugar into her tea.

Robert chuckled. “Surely you must want something, and do not think I have forgotten, you have not yet claimed your reward for your bravery.”

And yet he forgot her nameday?

She bit her lip, looking down at her skirts, the swirl of white and gold flowers painstakingly stitched by the only female Stark she held fond feelings for. “I would like Sansa to be made my lady-in-waiting, officially.”

“Done. Would you like any others? A Swyft or a Westerling?”

She shook her head. “I am like you, Father, I need only a Stark at my side.”

He grinned, wide and joyful in a way she was unused to seeing when he was not deep in his cups. “I knew one of you would turn out like me.”

Tommen stiffened at her side, but said nothing, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly.

“Tommen so enjoys the stories of your battles Father, perhaps you could recount them for him? As part of my gift?”

Myrcella slipped from the room with Tommen’s chants of kill the dragon, kill the dragon, kill the dragon, at her back as their father regaled him with tales of his victories. His booming voice filled the room, his arms swinging wildly as he reenacted long dead battles. All the while, Tommen took it all in with rapt delight, clapping and cheering when their father would triumph, booing when any of his enemies were mentioned.

She would need to let the head servants know Sansa may choose to move her belongings into the chamber next to Myrcella’s once her position became official. Better to take care of that now rather than later. Her skirts swished as she walked, a pleasant sound, she turned her hips side to side to make the sound more prominent, giggling at the childlike joy it brought her. Her mother would have hated her gown, it was not red, or pink, or yellow, or gold, or even black. She was to wear house colors, but her mother was not here, she could wear what she liked. She turned the corner and went down the stairs, meaning to grab the gowns her mother had commissioned, but she did not like, and have them burned or perhaps reworked.

She would do that, speak with the head servants, bring the dresses to the seamstress, and then work on her studies before meeting Sansa for a walk in the gardens. A good, productive day, that is what she would have, and she would not think about the letter from her mother sitting unopened on her writing desk.

Myrcella froze when she realized Jon was standing at the door to her chambers poised to knock and took a step back, pressing herself flush against the wall. They had not spoken since the incident in the training yard, she was too embarrassed by Joffrey’s behavior and hers as well, and surely Jon was too ashamed or perhaps even angry. He had been at the trial, Lord Stark—Ned, Lord Ned, as her father encouraged her to call the Stark man, bid Jon to sit with Sansa, and while she was glad of it—for she would not have wanted Sansa to watch the trial alone—she was also not glad he had been there. Joffrey’s actions and outbursts proved even further that Jon was right to be embarrassed to be seen with her. If her elder brother was so rotten, what was to say she was not rotten as well?

It worried her, the anger that grew within her, the violent desires, the cutting remarks that formed in her mind, held back only by her propriety and knowing better than to lash out. But she was not cruel, she did no harm, she simply…well she did not know. Myrcella wished her mother were here, and at the same time she wished she would stay away forever. She had many questions and nowhere to turn for answers. How could she approach her uncles, or her septa, and admit that she did not know what was occurring within her, that she had so many emotions bubbling inside, threatening to overflow, and she almost wanted them to. With Joffrey and Mother gone, attention had shifted to her and Tommen, she welcomed it, basked in it, but in time it rang false, and she wanted to scream. Scream and scream and scream until someone came running, someone who understood.

Jon was wearing a gray gambeson, belted with a black belt, his breeches were gray as well, and tucked into his black boots which were slightly dirtied. His hair was tied back, and his curled fist hovered over the wood of her door.

“Lord Snow?” She called, forcing herself to fully round the corner and face him, clasping her hands in front of her to keep them still.

“Princess Myrcella.” He greeted, giving her a half bow.

“Where is my uncle?” She asked, glancing around, waiting to see if he would come out from behind a corner as she did.

“With Lord Tyrion.” He said, his arms folded behind his back, his posture had improved, though it was always good. He stood tall, with confidence, though he would not meet her eyes.

“I see.” She fought to keep from swaying in her spot, her nerves urging her to move, to do anything to dispel the restlessness within her.

“I am sorry.” They both said abruptly, their shock mirrored on each other’s faces.

“Sorry? Why would you be sorry?” Myrcella asked, worrying at her lip, the flesh stinging when she reopened a barely healed spot, copper blossoming on her tongue.

Jon stepped forward, handkerchief in hand. “I have been boorish. I owe you an apology and my gratitude.”

She took the proffered cloth, heart singing when she realized it was the one she had made him, a simple pattern embroidered along the edges in silver thread. “Whatever for?”

He looked down at his boots then at her, his gaze never quite reaching her eyes. “You ensured justice for Bran and quieted the rumors of my parentage. I never thanked you.”

“It was the right thing to do.” Myrcella said, pressing the handkerchief to her lip, hissing at the sting.

Jon’s eyes darted to hers at the sound, concern written on his brow, and she felt her stomach flip. Another feeling she could not talk with her uncles or septa about.

“And I must beg your forgiveness for how I acted in the yard, and my silence since then. I—” He cleared his throat and looked away, pink creeping up his throat. “I did not wish to see the fear in your eyes as a result of my lack of restraint, nor did I wish to burden you with my presence.”

“You are not a burden; you have never burdened me.” She insisted, finding herself almost angry, violent desires waking within her. She gripped her skirts as she took a step forward, tilting her head up to look at him fully. “Who said you were a burden? I shall have their tongue.”

Jon’s eyes widened a fraction, and she stepped back, lowering her head, violent desires cowed. She had done it, after all her fretting and avoiding, within moments of being in his presence again she had slipped.

“What I mean—I did not—”

Jon laughed, it was a quiet thing, but rich in tenor and warmth. “No one has called me such a thing, no need for the removal of tongues.”

She missed him, gods how she had missed him.

“Well, that is good, then.” Myrcella said, smoothing out her skirts and avoiding his gaze.

“My Lady.” Jon said, bringing her eyes back up to his. “I also wished to give this to you, for your nameday.” He held out a brown covered, heavy tome, the title written in thick, well-spaced script.

“Folk Tales of the North?” She opened it, flipping through the pages.

“You seemed to enjoy hearing my stories, the ones from Old Nan, I thought perhaps you might enjoy reading them as well.”

She hugged the book to her chest, touched. “Thank you, Jon, this is a wonderful gift.”

There was a ghost of a smile on his lips, then he looked away. “You said you believed you owed me an apology as well? Though I cannot begin to understand why.”

She hugged the book tighter. “Joffrey. He said such horrid things about you to you, and I know you say it matters not, but he is my brother, and I wish to assure you that I am not like him, I do not think you lesser or a brute or a beast, or anything awful that he said.”

“Princess—” When he spoke, that same torn expression on his face as when she called out to him in the training yard, she panicked, remembering her gift for him, finished and tucked away in a drawer.

She darted past him and into her chambers, depositing the book on the table and rummaging through the drawers until she found the embroidery. Jon was still standing where she had left him, turning to face her when she reentered the hall.

“I am not like Joffrey, and I apologize for embarrassing you that day, and any other day that I might have embarrassed you.” She said, holding the embroidery out shyly like a child, bracing herself for rejection.

Jon took it with such reverence and carefully brushed over the wolf, then each individual star with his fingertips. “This…”

She waited for him to speak again, anxiously holding her breath, waiting, waiting, waiting.

He looked at her, really, truly looked at her, and she basked in his gaze, akin to a cat rolling around in a sunspot. He dipped his head, and her heart skipped a beat, this was it, finally, finally he would kiss her. “Thank you, My Lady, you honor me.” He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “I do not deserve your kindness.”

She pursed her lips, disappointed, but kept her voice light. “Not true, you deserve it and more.”

He hummed in disagreement, and a shiver went down her spine when he pressed his lips against the pads of her fingers, then her palm, then finally her inner wrist, his lips warm and only slightly chapped against her pounding pulse.

Myrcella knew she was blushing, and she could not hide behind her hair, her breath hitching when he swiped his thumb across her inner wrist, pressing one last kiss to her palm before letting go.

“You look quite beautiful today, Sansa was right, blue flatters you.” Jon said, dipping down the octave as he kept his voice low, as if they were engaged in something dreadfully scandalous and could be stumbled upon at any time.

She was going to visit the sept to give thanks to the Maiden for Sansa, the Crone for the wisdom to resist the urge building within her, and then order a dozen blue gowns.

“You look quite handsome in gray.” Myrcella said, keeping her words quiet as well, ensnared by Jon’s gaze, by the slight rasp in his tone.

He dipped his head again, his eyes dipping lower, briefly settling on her lips. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” She debated going up on her toes and seeing if it would spur him to action.

“You did not embarrass me, you have never embarrassed me, if I am not a burden, then you are not an embarrassment.” He said, then something cold flickered behind his eyes. “If anyone speaks harshly of you, I shall take their tongue for you.”

Something violent purred within her, reawakened by his words. “And feed it to Ghost?”

“Aye, and if he does not want it, the rats can have it.”

Chapter Text

Jaime did not enjoy traveling with the Stark retinue, they were a sullen, stiff bunch who cared naught for the comforts afforded them by eager nobles along the kingsroad. He did, though, enjoy teasing his former squire about his painfully obvious infatuation with Myrcella. And if the little wolfgirl wished to join in, who was he to stop her?

“Jon, what if you wake up next to her one day, and she suddenly has claws like a lion?” Arya queried, a shit-eating grin on her face as she pulled her horse up beside his and Jon’s.

“You should not be jesting about the princess so openly, and I am not answering that question, it is impossible.”

“That you would be in her bed, or that she would grow claws?”

Jaime bit back a snicker, watching as Jon fidgeted with his horse’s reins before he answered.

“Both, she is a princess, not a shapeshifter, and she will marry a highborn nobleman.”

“Myrcella may take issue with that; she is quite picky, always preferring those she knows over those she does not.” Jaime chimed in, giving Jon an easy smile. “Stay by her side and maybe you will be the next Ser Harwin Strong.”

“Did he not die in a fire set by his half-brother?” Arya asked innocently, eager to test her new knowledge of Targaryen history. She had pestered Jaime endlessly until he told her what he had learned during his time in King’s Landing. “And was it not the bastards born of her union with Ser Harwin that contributed to the downfall of Princess Rhaenyra?”

Jon flinched, it was subtle, almost imperceptible, but he had spent hours upon hours, days upon days, moons upon moons with the younger man, he could read him well and Jaime felt a sharp stab of guilt. “I jest, our Ser Jon is far more like The Kingmaker Ser Criston, than Ser Harwin. A good and honorable man, with hair as black as night, and skills with a sword that would make any maiden swoon.”

Jon muttered a quick thank you, then urged his horse forward to join his father, leaving Jaime with the wolfgirl again.

“It is gross, how enamored he is.” Arya grumbled, narrowing her eyes at Jon’s back.

“All love seems gross when you are young.” Jaime said.

She scrunched up her nose in disgust. “But he is like Sansa now, making doe eyes, and sighing over little gestures, always talking about how radiant and wonderful, and golden and blah blah blah.”

Jaime chuckled, since their talk in the barracks he had been able to encourage Jon to open up to him, to confide in him about his feelings for Myrcella, and the wolfgirl was not wrong in her mimicry of her half-brother, at all.

Brothels were not his favorite place, he saw their merit, but he had dragged Tyrion out of one too many in their youth and been scolded quite harshly by Cersei for daring to look upon another woman each time. But Cersei was gone, banished to the Rock, it had been nearly two years since he saw her last, and each passing day he found himself less… preoccupied by the thought of her. So, when he found Jon yet again staring at the embroidered sigil Myrcella had made him with a deep and painful longing Jaime recognized from his own face, he encouraged the boy to follow him to the nearest den of iniquity. He told himself he was doing Jon a favor—they were long past Jon’s embarrassment regarding his feelings for Myrcella, pure or otherwise, as long as it was kept between the two of them—and not merely using the younger man’s plight to bolster his own courage.

He dropped Jon off in front of the madame with a clap on the shoulder and a sachet of the ingredients needed to make moon tea, given to him as a travel gift by Tyrion. His younger brother had lamented the fact that he would not be able to join them and take his pleasures as he did during the royal procession, and encouraged him to act in his stead. Once Jon did not seem as if he would run, he sought out a woman who bore no resemblance to Cersei and followed her upstairs, leaving his squire in the capable hands of the madame. Hopefully capable, perhaps he should have asked her not to send any blonde women into Jon’s room, or perhaps it would have the intended effect and satiate the natural urges Jon agonized over. If it did—though he had a sinking feeling it would not—Jaime would ask Tyrion for a list of blonde prostitutes in King’s Landing for Jon. If it did not…he shook his head and banished all thoughts and worries from his mind as he lounged back allowing the woman with brown hair and brown eyes to kneel between his legs.

Euphoria flowed through him, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his mind blissfully blank as she slithered up into his lap, wiping his seed from her lips and accepting the wine he held out to her. The Twins were not famous for their beautiful women, but he would not deny they were skilled. He would not bed her though, it still felt wrong to bed another, though her breasts were quite tempting and when she ran her fingers through his hair, cooing compliments into his ear, her voice soft and silken, he found himself very tempted. Gods damn him, perhaps just once, once to force it out of his system. Jaime took the woman’s wine and set it aside, hands hooking beneath her thighs, pulling her into his lap.

The slam of a door, hurried footsteps light, but distinct caught his attention and he sighed heavily as he gently dislodged her from his lap. “Apologies, good lady, my squire has need of me.”

“Oh, of course, My Lord.” She said, bowing her head, her brown curls falling distractedly over her bare breasts.

Jaime leaned upon his oath, the one he broke willingly for Cersei but would try to cobble back together for Jon, and handed her more than enough gold before slipping his breeches back on. He made his way down the stairs and dropped a few more gold on the bar, instructing the madame to ensure whoever Jon had bedded drank the moon tea. Then, he followed him out the still swinging door and into the night.

He found Jon not far from the brothel, he was leaning against a nearby building. Tall and made of old, moss covered stone, half hidden in the shadows of the alley. The sounds of drunks and revelry rung out into the night, masking the sound of his footsteps. Jon’s face was buried in his hands, his head hung low as he took deep shuddering breaths, the claps of his jerkin done up wrong, his boots hastily tied.

He approached the boy—man, his former squire, though he still felt as if Jon were his squire, he brought out an odd sense of responsibility within him, was six and ten, a man grown, no matter how young he seemed to Jaime.

“Jon, are you well?” Jaime asked quietly so as not to embarrass him, coming to flank him, giving him space to breathe but still close enough to catch him if his knees gave out. “Were you harmed? Or were you simply overwhelmed? It happens, it is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I never should have come here.” Jon rasped out.

“No, no, there is no shame in indulging in your needs, we are men, it is only natural, and you are not forcing the poor women, she is paid quite well.” He had spent nearly half an hour and then the walk to the brothel convincing Jon that a good quick bedding would banish the urges he felt for Myrcella from his mind, but now, now he felt as if he had done Jon wrong.

“Natural or not, I cannot—” He fisted his hands in his curls, unable to meet Jaime’s gaze. “It is not right, I heard your words, I tried to heed them, to put her from my mind, but I could not.”

“Was the woman blonde?” Gods damn him, he should have stuck around to ensure this would not happen.

Jon shook his head. “Red hair, brown eyes, nothing like her.”

Jaime stepped closer and placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Then why?”

He knew why, surely it was the same reason he was only now able to let another woman touch him.

Jon closed his eyes and breathed deeply, steadying himself as Jaime had taught him, as Arthur Dayne had taught Jaime. “It is a dishonor to her. When we first spoke, and she was upset about the king’s dalliances in front of the queen, I told her I would not engage whores in that way, that I would be true.”

“Jon…you are not her husband; you do not owe her this loyalty.” The words tasted vile, akin to rot and ash on his tongue.

Jon flinched and shouldered his hand away. “I know that I am not her husband; I am aware that I shall never be, and it is foolish to act or not act with her in mind but—”

“But you cannot stop yourself from doing so.” He said, leaning against the building as well, and tilting his head up to the night sky. “Did you at least finish?”

“I did not even enter her,” Jon mumbled.

Jaime glanced at him. “And to think I wasted extra gold and a satchel of moon tea ingredients for naught.”

“I apologize.”

“Do not, it was a jest.”

Jon nodded and stared silently at the ground, scuffing the toe of his boot in the dirt.

“Did you do or use anything?” Jaime asked carefully, hoping that Jon had at least learned something from this visit.

“The lord’s kiss, and my fingers…she told me I could close my eyes and pretend.” Jon said haltingly.

“Well, that is good at least, not a complete waste of your night then.” Jaime jested; tone filled with false bravado.

Jon shrugged, and they fell into a not quite tense but not quite companionable silence. Jaime watched Jon out of the corner of his eye, while Jon continued staring at his boots.

“I am sorry, Jon; I should have known this would not help.” Jaime said, finally breaking the silence.

Jon looked at him, and again he felt as if he were looking at himself when he was six and ten.

“Myrcella is her mother’s daughter; she is not a girl one can forget by bedding a whore, especially not when one cares for her as you do.”

“But I should not care for her as I do. She is a princess, and I am a bastard.” Jon insisted, his shoulders set.

“Yes, and one day she shall marry, and be taken away to be with her husband, and you will have to live with that.” He said gently, not wanting to hurt him, but knowing he had allowed Jon to go without this frank discussion for far too long.

“But what if he is cruel, or makes her sad, or leaves her alone for days on end as he feasts, or drinks, or visits brothels? Who will protect her?” His hands curled into fists at his side, his eyes flickering with righteous indignation, and for a moment Jaime was strangely reminded not of just himself but of Prince Rhaegar as well.

The way the prince would stare straight ahead, fists curled, forced down at his side as he restrained his anger watching as King Aerys dug his dirtied, uncut nails into Queen Rhaella’s arm, making her cry out, blood from the cuts staining the sleeves of her gown.

He was beginning to feel sick to his stomach, a strong wave of déjà vu washing over him, was this the fate of those who loved royal women? To watch as they were harmed, betrayed, belittled and be able to do naught to stop it? “Ser Arys—”

“You said he is protecting Prince Tommen now, that Princess Myrcella is protected by a rotating guard.” Jon said, clearly turning something over in his mind.

“Yes, but she shall have a new sworn sword before she marries.”

“Aye, and it shall be me.” Jon said, all previous anguish discarded. “When we return, I will go to the king and request that I take Ser Arys’ place.”

“Jon, wait, this is not a decision to be made in haste.” Jaime said firmly, meeting Jon’s gaze head on.

A muscle in Jon’s jaw twitched, and Jaime for once in his life pitied his own father. Surely, he was as stubborn in his decision to join the kingsguard and be with Cersei as Jon was to stay by Myrcella’s side.

“You must consider the truth of the situation. Do you truly think you will be able to stomach seeing her married to another, warming his bed, bearing his children?”

“She will need protection.” Jon said quickly, far too quickly, Jaime knew he was not listening to reason.

Why should he? He himself had not listened to reason; he was a hypocrite for even suggesting Jon do so.

“You should discuss the matter with your father and wait until we are on our return trip before making a decision.” Jaime said, before pushing away off the wall, and jerking his towards the direction of the castle.

“Aye, I shall.” Jon said, righting himself and motioning for Jaime to take the lead.

He nodded to the guards at the entrance to the castle and guided Jon to the guest chambers within the Water Tower. Then deposited him at the door of his chambers and ordered Jon to go straight to sleep, as if he were a child.

Jon did as he was bid, but shut the door quite heavily behind him, which made Jaime chuckle as he retired to his own chambers. There were talks, brief ones, when he was young about his potential brides, Lysa Tully was to be his in the end, but he remembered Lyanna Stark being suggested by one of his uncles. His father dismissed it with little thought, but her name had stuck with him, though he was thoroughly enamored with Cersei. He saw her, the infamous Lyanna, the day Rhaegar had doomed them all and crowned her instead of Elia. She was no Cersei, but she had a sort of wildness to her beauty, something untamed and exhilarating. She would never have been his, even if Cersei had not had his heart then, Robert was clearly infatuated, and his father would never have agreed. But part of him wondered if by chance or fate they had been wed, if the Stark blood won out over the Lannister would he be here in another life? Trying to talk sense into a boy as stubborn as him, but with Stark coloring?

It did him no good to dwell on things that never would have come to pass, so he extinguished the candles in his chambers and laid awake for far longer than he would ever admit.

Chapter Text

Myrcella sighed contently and stretched out her arms, basking in the tranquility of the gardens, the soft sounds of the nearby pond, the birds singing in the trees. The blanket beneath her and Sansa was soft and in the black and gold of her house. A nameday gift from Edric whom her father had allowed her to begin writing the moment her mother departed for Casterly Rock.

A tea set and small plates of delicate pastries sat between her and Sansa, who was braiding flowers into a crown absentmindedly as Myrcella took a sip of her fragrant tea, the taste of raspberry blooming on her tongue.

“What about Harrold Hardyng? I have heard he is very handsome, and since your poor cousin is so sickly there are rumors, that Harrold will inherit the Vale.” Myrcella said, as she set her teacup back in its saucer.

Sansa wrinkled her nose, the sun shone down through the leaves of the trees and onto her lightly freckled face. “He already has two bastards, and I do not know if I would enjoy the Vale, they have yet to quell the raiders in the mountains.”

“Sansa many men have bastards, and they will likely never quell the raiders. Perhaps think of it as part of the Vale’s charm?” Myrcella suggested as she held her quill above the parchment, waiting for Sansa’s response.

Sansa gave her a dead-eyed look, and Myrcella dissolved into giggles. “Fine, fine, what about Domeric Bolton? I have heard he is quite handsome, intelligent, and he plays the harp.”

Sansa shivered and shook her head, setting aside her fully formed flower crown. “No Boltons.”

“Right, yes, they have that unpleasant business in their past.” Myrcella said, crossing off Harrold and Domanic’s names from the list.

Sansa gracefully nibbled on a lemon cake; her legs curled underneath her as she ran her fingers down Lady Whisker’s back. The cat purred in response, nudging her head against Sansa’s hand, as Ser Pounce stood and walked in a circle before he laid back down on the sunsoaked far corner of the blanket.

Myrcella scanned the parchment, they had gone through so many names already, her Great Aunt Genna would be disappointed if she did not write back asking after at least one of the eligible bachelors of the realm. “And you truly will not budge on one of the Karstark sons?”

“I love my home, but I wish to remain here, where it is warm and beautiful.” Sansa said, as she gazed out at the gardens, with a wistful tone.

“There is always Tommen, if you wish to remain here.” Myrcella said before she ducked quickly as a balled-up handkerchief was thrown at her.

“Tommen is a child.” Sansa said, scandalized, glaring at her from the ground.

“He is not too much younger than you. Besides, you have rejected practically every eligible man in the realm besides Willas Tyrell, and he is much older than you.” She reminded Sansa, as she reached over and scratched behind Lady Whisker’s ears.

“But he is heir to Highgarden, and I have heard he is gentle, and handsome, and well read.” Sansa sighed dreamily, pushing herself up on her elbows.

“What about that ward of your father’s? With eyes like the sea? The—”

“Theon?” Sansa’s face flushed red, her voice spiking in pitch. “No, no, Theon is—he is gruff and rude and far too, too…well, Theon! And besides, my mother would never allow it.”

Myrcella laid back on the blanket with a huff, and the handkerchief Sansa had thrown at her was embroidered along the hem with krakens. Letters from Winterfell addressed to Sansa in quick slanted handwriting arrived weekly, and Myrcella had seen Sansa asking the maesters if there were any books on Ironborn culture in the keep. She was not as good at hiding her feelings as she pretended to be. “Sansa…”

“Was this list not for you as well? We have spoken only of my desires for a suitor, and none of yours. You are the princess; it is far more important for you to marry than I.” Sansa blustered, her face slowly returning to its porcelain color as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Myrcella said nothing, instead stared up at the leaves of the giant trees, watching the dappled sunlight play through them. Her father had not made any firm mentions of marriage to her, she did not think he thought of her often enough to do so. She had hoped after the events of the trial they might begin afresh, and they had, but he slipped in and out of his old habits more often than not. Though at least he was allowing Tommen to attend Small Council meetings. He was heir to the throne, and though he was still young, he needed to learn to be a king.

“Myrcella, I—I did not mean to offend you…”

“You have not.” She said as she sat back up and took another sip of tea. “It is only that, well, I already have my mind set on someone, but it is not possible.”

Sansa cast her gaze around the garden—they were still alone, apart from the kingsguards who stood at the far entrance—then leaned in conspiratorially. “He is not married, is he?”

“No, no,” Myrcella reassured her, “nothing like that.”

“Oh, well, then is he studying to be septon or a maester?”

“No, he is simply not a suitor my family would consider worthy.” Her words were meant to be steady, unaffected, but they came out strained and spoken too high in pitch to sound convincing.

Never would it be possible, even though Jon had climbed the ranks. Even though he had been knighted by her Uncle Jaime for his brave exploits. Jon had tracked down and crushed a ring of smugglers who had been stealing children from Fleabottom’s streets and orphanages, selling them off to brothels in the Free Cities.

When Myrcella had heard the tale—how Jon sweaty and speckled with blood, his helmet discarded, the smugglers facedown in the mud, had bowed his head to be knighted, humble and grateful as he stood amongst the cheering smallfolk—she had felt her heart flutter quite embarrassingly, though by the looks of the other ladies at court she was not the only one.

He was no longer Jon, bastard of Winterfell, but Ser Jon, defender of the innocent, and yet Myrcella knew it would still not be enough.

Sansa fell silent, then she picked up her discarded flower crown and placed it on Myrcella’s head, before she went to work weaving another. It was enough, a silent solidarity, that neither of them would marry who they desired, it was the duty of daughters.

Myrcella watched Sansa weave for a moment, then turned her gaze to the cats who pounced on wrinkles in the blanket, meowing in victory when they flattened one. “Have you heard from Arya?”

“A little, she is happy to be home, but said the journey was long, and boring.”

“At least she was able to ride a horse instead of being stuck in a wheelhouse, her journey must have been much shorter.”

She would not ask after Jon. Even if his letters had ceased weeks ago, and she would not think about the fact that his letters ceased after she complained to him of her great aunt’s insistence that she begin searching for suitors.

“Any journey longer than three days is far too long for Arya; she has no patience.” Sansa jested, as she placed her own crown upon her head.

“I cannot fault her for that line of reasoning.” Myrcella drawled, smiling at Sansa. “We both will have to marry lords that are within three days ride from each other, I cannot bear any further.”

Sansa returned her smile. “I will not argue with that.”

If she found it odd that her Uncle Renly was seated in her solar, perusing through the books on her various bookshelves, then she gave no indication of it. She simply greeted him, and took a seat, waiting for him to speak. She promised Sansa she would meet her in the library with the new list of suitors from her great aunt—who had taken nearly half a moon to compose the list—but it seemed that would have to wait.

“You could have asked for anything from your father, dresses, gold, a new wheelhouse, the heads of your enemies, and yet you did not.” He said, his eyes, as startlingly blue as her father’s, fixated on her.

“Correct, I did not.” She replied easily, folding her hands and placing them on the table in front of her.

“You asked to sit in on Small Council sessions, on court proceedings, to learn as Tommen does.”

“He is still so young; I thought it best if I studied alongside him, so I would be able to aid him when he stumbled.” Myrcella said, feigning blithe innocence. Her father had laughed heartily when she made her request, but granted it, muttering something about young girls and their flights of fancy.

Renly chuckled and took the seat next to hers. “Myrcella, what in the gods’ names are you planning?”

“Perhaps a coup?” She jested, giving her uncle a secret smile.

His head was thrown back as he laughed boisterously. “A coup, with what army?”

“Uncle, have I not told you of my mercenary army that I have been amassing since my third nameday?” Myrcella asked with faux shock.

He shook his head as his laughter petered out. “Little Doe, I always forget how humorous you are. But truly, what is your plan?”

She remembered the way the candlelight shone off Varys’ bald head, his hands tucked into his sleeves. His words were soft, his expression something between placidity and eagerness, as if his words were moments from tumbling out, but he knew his face could not betray their true inflection. He asked if she had ever dreamt of being queen.

She had told him no, her brothers were always to be king before she would be queen, though it had been a lie. Tommen was too tenderhearted, too trusting, Joffrey too cruel and too easily angered. She thought herself the balance between the two, and in the deepest recesses of her mind she wondered, pictured herself upon the throne, a fair and steadfast ruler, generous and just.

Varys had nodded, and continued, asking if she had heard from Jon, her Northern Knight, the wolf that curled at her feet, he had called him.

Her answer was, again, no. Though this time she wished it had been a lie.

Varys hummed in response then said that he believed she would be a wondrous queen, lamenting that Queen Rhaella had been wondrous, but the wrong beast had been at her back, and perhaps it would be different for her.

Myrcella thanked him for his compliment, unsettled by the many meanings his words could hold. She did not understand what he meant by beast, was he referencing the Mad King, or the dragons that the Targryens claimed as their sigil? She told herself it mattered not, as she would not be queen, but she could not banish the fear lingering in her mind. It was that fear the drove her to her father, that drove the request from her lips and earned her a seat behind Tommen’s in council and court.

Myrcella shrugged. “I want to learn how to run a great household, and a kingdom is the greatest household of all. Father will surely marry me into a house of high standing, I do not wish to enter my marriage with nothing but my beauty and dowery.”

“Try again, your mother has already taught you how.”

“I want to practice.” She said simply.

Renly tilted his head to the side, inspecting her. “And this has nothing to do with the bastard boy you are so fond of?”

Her eyes widened a fraction, but then she smoothed out her expression. It mattered not if her uncle knew of her affection for Jon, as she knew of his affection for Loras Tyrell. Knights and squires talked, Jon listened as he always did, and he passed along his observations to her during their casual conversations. A fine Master of Whispers he would be if he realized how loose tongues became around him. “How could it?”

“Many princesses have schemed to keep their lovers by their sides. But take care, you do not wish to end up like Princess Rhaenyra, three bastard sons and a fiery death.” Renly half laughed, half chastised.

“It wounds me that you think so lowly of me.” She said, as she lowered her eyes to her lap, a tremble in her voice. “I merely wish to do all I can to better myself not only as a sister, but as a future lady of a great house. I want to make our family proud.”

Her uncle cleared his throat after a few moments of silence, the air between them saturated with her faux sorrow and his ever-growing discomfort. “I—I am sorry, Myrcella; I should not have assumed. It is only that you and Ser Jon seem close, and…forget I spoke of such things, it would do me well to remember you are not like your father and I at your age.”

Myrcella made a show of fidgeting with her hands. “Ser Jon and I are friendly; he has always been kind to me. He was the only one who protected me from Joffrey from the moment he entered the Keep. I feel safe when he is near, and I would like to have Jon assigned to guard me, now that Ser Arys is guarding Tommen, but I am not Princess Rhaenyra. I would never bring such trouble upon either of our heads, though I…”

She raised her eyes to meet Renly’s and caught the flicker of concern within them.

“Though you?” Renly prompted.

For a moment she wanted to confess, she had kept her feelings locked safely within herself for years now, and the weight of her affection, her worry was nearly too heavy to carry. Her uncle had his own secrets, perhaps he could keep one of her own?

“He has been in Winterfell with his father and Uncle Jaime for far longer than was planned. I fear they will return to tell me he has grown tired of the South and decided to stay in Winterfell. I would miss his friendship and protection greatly.” She explained instead, unable to put voice to her true worries.

“It has been some time since they set off, has it not? A couple moons at least.” He said, reaching out to pat her hand comfortingly as if she were a child.

She nodded and dropped her eyes to the wood grain of the tabletop.

“And has he written you?” Renly asked carefully.

“Not for a moon, almost two.” She admitted, surprising herself with how forlorn she sounded. She missed Jon fiercely, seeing him in the shadows, out the corner of her eye, in her dreams, in the romance novels she read. But she told herself again and again not to give into her delusions, not to create an image of them that was not real. He still had not kissed her, she could not know his feelings were true—that was unfair, she knew feelings could blossom and deepen without a kiss, but she wanted it. Wanted the physical proof.

When he set off with his father to return Arya to Winterfell, Myrcella watched as he tucked the embroidered sigil, she had gifted him beneath his breastplate and rode off. Lord Ned in front of him, Arya at his side, her Uncle Jaime at his other, the rest of the retinue falling behind. The sight made her heart sing, but a stone sat in her stomach. Whispers had reached her ears in the days before their departure. Jon was a knight now, had made a name for himself, surely his father, honorable man that he was, would give Jon a keep in the New Gift, would make him a landed knight. If that were true, if Jon were gifted land and perhaps a betrothal to a low-ranking Northern girl, why would he ever return?

There was a pang in her chest when Jon turned and nodded at her, she wished he would wave, would jump from his horse, run to her, sweep him up in his arms and kiss her.

Myrcella closed her ears and heart to the whispers of the court, to the whispers of those who stood with her and Sansa, but she could not stop the dread she felt as Arya and Jon began racing each other down the Kingsroad, Lord Ned on his own horse, shaking his head fondly. Jon loved his half-sister, Myrcella knew this. He loved Arya more than any of his other half-siblings, though he and Sansa had been making strides since Joffrey was sent to the wall, and Arya was consumed with her water dancing lessons. He loved her, and he would miss her, and Myrcella feared he would not be able to leave her side once they had arrived home.

Renly sighed, pulling her from her memories, the ache of Jon leaving a fresh wound once more. “There is no better posting than protecting a princess, he would be a fool to turn down the offer if it was presented to him.”

“Myrcella! Myrcella! They are back, Father, Jon, and Ser Jaime are back!” Sansa’s voice came through the door accompanied by rapid, insistent knocking.

Myrcella flew from her seat, nearly knocking over her chair as she raced to the door and pulled it open. Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon is back, he is finally back. Her mind sang over and over, anticipation and anxiety humming beneath her skin.

“Myrcella.” Her uncle called after her, a note of trepidation in his voice, one she ignored.

“They are here?” Myrcella asked Sansa, all but bouncing on her toes with excitement.

“Yes, they are approaching the gates.” Sansa said, her joy infectious.

“Myrcella.” Renly repeated, flashing a charming smile at Sansa before pulling her aside, his voice barely above a whisper. “Listen closely to his stories, his excuses, you want trustworthy men to guard you, use your head, not your heart.”

Chapter Text

Jon had thought of nothing but Myrcella since they set off for Winterfell. Her embroidery tucked near his heart, her visage burned into his eyes and mind, the feel of her soft hand in his, the smile she graced him with when she first heard his given moniker. The Defender of Innocents, the nobles called him, but the smallfolk called him hero, the White Wolf, savior of their children, unswayed by bribes and the corruption of those around him. One who was not afraid to tackle a man, and force him into the mud, who was not afraid to bloody and dirty himself—and Ghost—if it meant mothers and septas no longer feared for the children running free amongst the streets.

Arya teased him mercilessly for his moping as they traveled, and Jaime would either laugh or throw him a side glance from time to time. He prayed his father did not hear their words, though by the downturn of his lips, Jon was sure he had.

It mattered not. Not when they charged through the gates, anticipation thick in the air. Jaime dismounted smoothly and headed straight for Myrcella who was waiting with Sansa on the edge of the courtyard. Jon’s boots hit the ground, and he was paralyzed by the sight.

Jaime had picked Myrcella up and swung her around, her smile was radiant, her golden hair like a waterfall at sunset, the sun streaming through casting a shimmering light over all it touched. Her laughter was music, the sweetest song he had ever heard, and he barely registered his father’s hand landing on his shoulder.

The rest was a blur, Jaime had whisked Myrcella away, Sansa had run up to them, flame kissed hair bouncing, her face lightly dusted with freckles. She hugged them both, though their father longer, then they departed to speak with the king and the Small Council to give an update on the North and the needs of the Wall. Finally, once the Small Council meeting had finished, Robert pushed back from his chair calling for a drink, and Jon nudged his father.

His father nodded, though there was tension in his movements, and Jon’s stomach dropped. Would his father not support him, did he think he was making a grave error? Jon straightened his spine; he could not falter now.

“Your Grace, Jon and I would speak with you, alone.” Ned said.

Robert shooed the remaining council members off, then smiled widely at them, taking his seat once more. “Of course, I have time aplenty for you and Jon.” Then he smiled somehow wider and leaned forward. “Are you finally asking me to legitimize Jon? Done, Ned, he is my favorite of your children. Hells if it were not for Tywin and Cersei still breathing down my neck, I would claim Jon as my own and prop him up as heir. Tommen would not mind, the boy is far too fond of his books, he could be a maester.”

Jon folded his arms behind his back, he did not wish to be king, he did not want the throne. He wanted Myrcella in any capacity allowed to him, and he prayed to the gods old and new, that the affection Robert seemed to feel for him would move him to grant his request.

Ned nodded again, giving his old friend a strained smile. “Your offer is generous, but—”

“No, no, Ned, I have had enough of your posturing, accept the gift, your boy has earned it, do you hear what they call him in the streets? The smallfolk love him, the crownsguard speak well of him, even that damned kingslayer is fond of our Jon.”

Jon swallowed hard. “Your Grace, I am grateful, but if I could—”

Robert waved him off and scribbled out a decree before pressing his signet ring into the wax. Then he stood and yanked open a nearby door, yelling for a servant to dispense his new order among the court.

Was it truly that easy? The stain of bastardy wiped away by the quick work of a quill and the press of a ring? It could not be, and yet in an instant he was no longer a Snow but a Stark. He could not process the change, not now, not when his nerves were so tightly wound, he feared they would snap, and he would lose all courage.

Once Robert returned, he clapped Jon on the shoulder, then sat in his seat once more. “Yes, yes, you are very grateful, I am sure. Now, what is it you wished to speak with me about?”

Jon stood tall, grasping his forearms tighter to hide the trembling of his hands. “Ser Jaime told me that Princess Myrcella graciously gave her sworn sword to Prince Tommen, that she is now guarded by whichever kingsguard is available.”

“He is not wrong, Barristan has been searching for a new sworn sword, but I have not yet found any among those he put forth as suitable.” Robert said, leaning back in his chair.

“I would ask to be considered for the position.” Jon said, feeling as though the world had gone still, his breath caught in his lungs.

“Jon, you are a great swordsman, an honorable man, but the kingsguard is full.” Robert said gently, his eyes darting past Jon’s shoulder to Ned.

“I do not wish to be a kingsguard, though it would be a great honor. I desire only to pledge my sword to the safety of the princess, in return for the kindness she has shown me.” Jon said, ducking his head slightly, remembering what Jaime had suggested he play upon when speaking to the king. “She is courageous like I am told my Aunt Lyanna was, I wish to safeguard that courage, ensure no foul villains are able to stifle or steal it from her.”

“Your aunt was a paragon of courage and beauty, violated and killed by that craven Rhaegar, if she had been better guarded, or watched by me or the guards of my house she would have never been stolen away.” Robert said mournfully, pausing as if lost within a memory before standing resolutely. “Myrcella must never suffer a fate akin to your aunt’s, so yes, she will have your sword. She shall not leave your sight for a moment, where she goes, you go. Bind yourself to her, Jon, do what I was unable to do for Lyanna.”

Jon nodded. “I shall be more loyal than her own shadow, Your Grace.”

Jaime was at his post, standing guard outside Myrcella’s chambers, as Jon approached, and the older man raised an eyebrow when he drew nearer. “Well?”

“His Grace legitimized me and ordered me to take over your shift, the princess is my duty now.” He said, attempting to sound as dutiful as possible, though he could not stop the smile that threatened to overtake his face.

“Well done, Jon.” Jaime said, as he openly admired Jon’s black cloak, his freshly fitted armor, the stag of House Baratheon stamped across the center of his polished breastplate. “I would have put you in red, though, or perhaps purple.” He held out a small package wrapped in plain brown paper.

Jon took it and unwrapped it carefully. Smiling up at him from within a rounded gilded frame was a Dornish woman, her hands folded elegantly in her lap. She had long dark hair that fell in waves, hauntingly beautiful violet eyes, and her smile was bright and serene, filled with warmth. Was this his mother, the Dornish beauty that Lady Catelyn despised, the one that made her direct her cold anger and indifference towards him?

“Lady Ashara Dayne. I found this portrait of her in one of the storage cellars, thought it would make a fine present for you.” Jaime said.

Jon gently ran his thumb along the frame, drinking in the features of his alleged mother, searching for pieces of himself in her. Did they share a nose, a chin, did they laugh the same, did she prefer salty to sweet as he did?

Jaime tugged on a lock of his hair. “Same color, and I would guess if you spent more time in the sun, your skin would take on a similar hue.” Then he tapped the portrait. “And you smile like her, in the rare instance one can coax a genuine smile from you.”

Jon quickly rewrapped the portrait and tucked it away. “Thank you.”

Jaime smiled and guided him towards Myrcella’s door. “Have I not told you that you are my favorite squire—former squire now?”

“You have called me a nuisance, too sullen for my age, and a lovesick fool but never your favorite.” He drawled, looking up at his mentor.

Jaime hid his laughter behind a startled cough and slung his arm over his shoulders. “Well, they all mean the same thing. You are my favorite pupil; all others pale in comparison.”

Jon’s face felt hot, and he subtly pressed one hand to his cheek, trying to cool his face before facing Myrcella. Both the king and Jaime had praised him, by law he was no longer a bastard, he was told to never leave Myrcella’s side and been given a portrait of the woman many believed to be his mother. He had heard too much of a good thing was bad, so he braced himself for Myrcella’s disappointment at the news of his posting. The gods were not so kind to him as to give him a day wholly unfettered by gloom.

Jaime knocked on Myrcella’s door, and she opened it quickly. “Uncle, have you heard any news of Jo—oh Ser Jon, hello.” Her cheeks flushed pink, and he fought the urge to reach out and touch them, to feel their softness.

She was beautiful, hair loose about her shoulders and freshly washed, a cascade of golden curls, her silken gown was a dusky pink and fitted at the waist to emphasize her form, her shoulders left bare, her skin soft and perfumed. He felt akin to a craven longing for her scent, wishing to bury his face in her hair.

“Princess Myrcella…” He said, half breathless, drinking in the sight of her after moons of naught but seeing her in his dreams.

“Lord Jon Stark has been assigned as your new sworn sword, your father wishes him to take over my duties, but I think it best you two have a moment to reacquaint yourselves.” Jaime said, elbowing him subtly, waking him from his stupor.

“I see.” She said, looking from Jaime to Jon, then back again.

Jaime nudged him forward. “Yes, much to talk about, your daily routines, how often Jon should fight the noblemen that leer at you, his horrid sense of fashion that I still years later have not been able to fully correct.”

Myrcella giggled, and Jon bit his tongue.

“Would you like to come in then, Lord Jon?” Myrcella asked, opening the door wider, making room for him.

She always did that, made room for him, made him feel important, needed, wanted.

He followed after her and Jaime closed the door behind them, retaking his post outside, giving him and Myrcella privacy he was not sure was appropriate. Though the rules were different now, were they not? He was a legitimized son of House Stark and her sworn sword, before the eyes of the court it would be known, that he had taken a knee and sworn his life, his sword to her. There could be rumors, but it mattered not, he was ordered to stay beside her, to guard her every step, and he would do so faithfully.

He stopped by the round table where he knew she often ate her meals, then took her hands in his and sank to his knees.

Green eyes widened; pale cheeks flushed with color. “Jon? Are you alright?” She looked as beautiful as she had when they first met in the great hall of Winterfell. Then again when they had fallen into the snow, and she hovered over him, eyes alight with concern, her lips parted ever so slightly as she stared down at him.

“Princess Myrcella Baratheon, daughter of the Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, my sword and shield are yours.” He said, focusing on the softness of her hands, the delicate golden jewelry that adorned them.

“I am grateful for your sword and shield, now arise Ser Jon Stark, my sworn sword, my protector, my champion.” She said, her voice steady and regal, the voice of a princess.

He rose slowly, pressing her hand to his lips. “I will serve you well, I swear before the old gods and the new, there is no higher command than those that come from your lips, my life is yours. I am yours, Princess.”

Myrcella blinked at him, her breathing quickening, that pink flush spreading down her neck, and even further, though he dared not look. “I—I am yours as well, from this day forward I place my trust and life in your hands.”

He pressed another kiss to her hands then relinquished them, folding his own behind his back to keep from reaching for her, from pulling her into his embrace. Gods how he had missed her.

“How were your travels?” Myrcella asked, looking away from him to the pitcher and cups set on the table.

“They were well, and safe, Arya thought them boring.” Jon smiled at the memory of her complaining that they had not been attacked once on their journey.

“You were gone a long time, and you stopped writing to me.” She said softly, suddenly, taking a tentative step closer, the scent of her perfume filling the space between them. “I thought perhaps you had decided to stay in the North or absconded to the Free Cities to leave all your troubles behind and become a mercenary.”

“A mercenary?” He echoed in amused disbelief.

“You would make a very good one, I am sure you would earn quite a large fortune.” Myrcella said, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirts. A nervous habit he adored.

A vision of Myrcella in expensive, gauzy fabrics, her hair braided up in an intricate style, her eyes alight with joy as he returned to their manse after a long day of work, her smiling as they lounged by a pool in their own private gardens, the two of them sharing grapes, cheeses, and wines, gripped him. It would not be too terrible, he could make her happy, no matter where the gods decided to place him within her life, he would make her happy. Had he not sworn as much to himself that day she found him crying in the Godswood? Or the day he risked his life going against the Crown Prince to defend her honor?

“I would never leave you without a goodbye.” Jon said, pride swelling in his chest when he spotted his necklace still hanging around her neck.

“You did not say goodbye when you left for Winterfell, only nodded in my direction.”

Guilt seized him, he had thought it best that way. If he had stopped and bid her goodbye, it would have singled her out, cast suspicions upon their interactions. He had not meant to snub her.

“And you stopped replying to my letters.” She continued, reiterating her earlier point; her voice tinged with something unnameable that caused the guilt to squeeze tighter.

He could not tell her the truth. That after he read her letter lamenting that her aunt was seeking suitors for her, he found himself quite…distressed. That he attempted to saddle his horse to ride straight for King’s Landing and had to be talked down by Jaime. Could not tell her that he panicked and raged in the privacy of his childhood chambers. That he was a coward who could not bear to hear of her search for a suitor, so he thought it best to not hear from her at all. He was still a bastard then, still felt as one now, and was not worthy of her hand even if he built up the courage to ask for it.

“I was quite busy, my apologies.” Jon said lamely, kicking himself internally. Did you forget everything Ser Jaime taught you? “My siblings were insistent on taking up much of my time.” Better, better, a kernel of truth within the lie.

Myrcella accepted his explanation with a graceful nod and took a seat, gesturing for him to sit as well. “And how are they? Did you spend your time with Robb and Theon, or the younger ones?”

“I divided my time equally.” Jon said, pushing down the noxious bout of jealousy that rose up as he continued. “Robb asked me to pass on his well-wishes, and to tell you he is honored, but must respectfully decline.”

Confusion drew Myrcella’s brows together, then she huffed a humorless laugh. “Aunt Genna.”

“Aunt Genna?” It clicked, Robb’s secretive smile, the way Theon walked about as if he knew something Jon did not, his father’s refusal to entertain any talks of the royal family in his presence.

“She must have written to Lady Stark, how dreadfully embarrassing.” Myrcella took a long drink from her cup, it was raspberry juice, he knew, he had checked every aspect of the table, of her solar, the moment he entered.

“I was not aware, though I cannot deny the wisdom in it. Robb is a fine man, kind and steadfast, heir to Winterfell.” He avoided gritting his teeth as he spoke, praying the gods would forgive him for the undeserved anger he felt towards his brother.

Myrcella studied him, then acquiesced. “Yes, he is a fine man, but I have no interest in him.”

Jon’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. “Truly?”

“I do not want red haired children; I have seceded that honor to Sansa.”

He gave her a half smile. “Only golden haired babes?”

“Or black haired.” She held his gaze, and he felt the air leave his lungs, then she shrugged. “I am a Baratheon after all.”

“Aye.” He said, dropping his gaze, studying the wood grain of the table.

“I believe Father is entertaining the idea of having a marriage mart of sorts. Bring all the eligible lords and ladies here so that he might marry Tommen and myself off in one go. You will find it quite dull, standing beside my seat as lords of the realm come to woo me, I am sure.” She said flippantly, adjusting one of the golden bangles on her arm.

He looked up at her, still feeling as if he could not catch his breath, lungs devoid of air, filling instead with unpleasant thoughts and emotions.

Do you truly think you will be able to stomach seeing her married to another, warming his bed, bearing his children? He had not answered Jaime directly then, and he still could not now.

“When will your betrothed arrive at court?” Myrcella asked, a mask of indifference drawn across her face.

He blinked owlishly at her. “My betrothed?”

“Yes, I assume your father must be preparing to arrange something now that you have been legitimized. Or will you return North to scout for a bride?”

“My Lady, I am your sworn sword, my place is at your side.” He said dumbly, stunned that Myrcella would think he would leave her to find a wife so quickly after he swore his vows.

“So, she will come here then.” She pursed her lips for a moment, then relaxed them, resting her chin in her palm, her voice tinged with venom. “Choose one who will not bother me, I do not enjoy the screeching of jealous harpies.”

His stomach lurched, he could not stand the idea that he had upset her, and like a penitent devotee he reached out desperately, taking her free hand within his own, his fingertips resting upon her inner wrist. His skin tingled at the point of contact. “Princess…”

Her eyes flickered to their hands, but she did not withdraw, the sunlight streaming in from the window behind her cast her in a divine light, the edges of her shimmering.

“I will take no wife.” He could feel her pulse fluttering beneath his grip. “I am yours.”

He was, in any and every aspect she desired, body, soul, and mind. If she wished for a devoted guard, he would be one, if she wished for a companion, a confidant, he would be one. And as shameful, as tantalizing as it was, if she wished to explore physical intimacies, take her pleasures from him, then he would willingly put the skills he had learned in the brothel, and the things he had been told by Robb, Theon, and his fellow knights to good use.

“You are not part of the kingsguard, you could leave, marry, live a life far, far from here.” Her words were sharp, but he was resistant to her thorns.

“And yet I have no desire to.” Jon said earnestly, squeezing her hand.

She did not relent, pulling her hand from his, her eyes like wildfire bright, and angry. “It matters not what you desire, you are mine.”

He swallowed hard, lust sparking to life within him, tinder set aflame by the wildfire in her eyes, the possessiveness in her tone. She claimed him, as no other would do. Yes, his siblings called him brother, his father called him son, and he was grateful, but even with his legitimization there was still a separation between them and him. But there was no separation with Myrcella, he was as he had been from the beginning, her sword, and shield.

Chapter Text

Myrcella’s excitement died as quickly as it had been born. She was denied a reunion with Jon, her uncle sweeping her away before she could even speak his name. Jaime all but corralled her to her chambers before leaving her to ruminate on the rumors and whispers that swirled about the Keep.

Surely, he was betrothed, surely, he had deflowered many maidens on his trip, it was what men did. Surely, he was no different from the men they all knew in King’s Landing. Surely, the White Wolf had found his match in a Northern girl, perhaps a Mormont or a Manderly, and that is why it took him so long to return South.

Her heart ached, a sharp physical pain that made her clutch at her chest, tears pricking the backs of her eyes. No, no, she would not be swayed by gossip, she had kept her head high, and the rumors beneath her feet for moons now, she knew him. He was Jon, her Jon, he would not change and if he did, it would be only for the better. Perhaps his swordsmanship had improved, or his confidence. Yes, her uncle had ridden alongside him, he would have given him tips, encouraged him to speak his mind more, to make his desires known. But then he was there, sitting across from her, having pledged himself to her with such confidence and fervor, that she knew someone else had taken hold of him. But how? Had he not thought of her, not missed her at all? Was that how he had found someone else, he banished her from his mind?

Her mother was right, there was no use in loving men, they would always disappoint you, hurt you, abandon you. So, she struck out like a viper, quick, sharp, and venomous. She could not pretend she did not care about the idea of him marrying another, of him smiling at some other girl. She did not want to think about this mystery northern girl looking at him, speaking with him, laughing with him, touching him. He was hers, he had sworn it, sworn his sword, his shield, his life to her, and yet some boorish wench who surely looked more bear than girl was trying to take him from her. If she were not nearly a woman grown, she would stomp her foot and pout, demand someone right this wrong, it was nearly her nameday, two or so moons out, surely her father would give her this one thing? She had been so very polite and clever, made him look a good king, and a good father, the rare times he attended Small Council. He was fond of her, her father had said it, decreed it practically, praised her above Tommen. He wanted Jon to stay as badly as she, though he did not know it. Delaying a betrothal was within the king’s power, was it not? She could not remember; she would have to consult the librarians and ask if there were any tomes on matters such as this.

Jon squeezed her hand, and she panicked, caught between fight or flight, emotions warring within her until they spilled over, and she struck again, ever her mother’s daughter. “It matters not what you desire, you are mine.” It was not enough. She rounded the table and gripped his chin, possessed by something tempestuous and violent. “You have sworn yourself to me, Jon. I could keep you here to do as I wish, I could send any Mormont or Manderly girl running, I—”

“Please do.” The words were so soft she nearly missed them, so enwrapped in the beginnings of her angry tirade.

She faltered, the look in his eyes, hungry and desperate, pupils blown so wide there was naught, but a thin ring of color left, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his chair. Lust surged through her, catching her off guard.

“Send them away, I would delight in seeing it.” His voice was raspy as if he had not spoken in days, his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Gods above.

She steadied herself, pointedly avoiding looking at his lips. “I am your charge, yours to protect, you said no higher command than mine? Do not ignore me again. I care not if the whole of Silk Street comes parading naked through the room, vying for your attention. Do not ignore me.”

“Never, never again.” He breathed, every inch of his being focused solely on her.

It was intoxicating, so long she had spent third in line, outshone by her brothers, the least desired, and here Jon was, her Jon, her storybook prince devoting himself to her. She released her grip on him, feeling a stab of guilt at the half-moon indents in his skin. “Good, that is good, then.”

He nodded, chin still held up, as if her grip had never left. His eyes were still on her, his breathing seemed heavier, or mayhaps her chambers had gone deathly still, and that was why the sound of his breathing and her heartbeat seemed to fill the room.

She felt pinned by his heated gaze, torn between apologizing and finding a more permanent way to mark him as her own. She was possessive, but she was a lion, it was in her nature. Besides, she knew that at one point Jon had liked it, her possessiveness, her viciousness, had in turn offered his own, stating he would feed the tongues of her detractors to the rats. “I want the armorer to replace the stag on your breastplate. It should be gold, then there will be no confusion.”

“I will speak with him, let him know the request comes from my lady, the Golden Doe herself.”

She gently stroked the halfmoon indents on each side of his face, and he shivered beneath her touch. “But you need not go now.”

“No?” He sounded as breathless as she felt.

She shook her head. “We must discuss my daily routines, how often you shall fight the noblemen that leer at me, your horrid sense of fashion.”

“As soon as I rectify the stag on my armor, I think that third issue will be solved. And I already know your routines well, so you need only point me in the direction of those who leer at you, and I will ensure they avert their gaze.”

Myrcella clasped her hands behind her back, digging her nails into her palms to keep her desires in check. “My father has gifted me quite the competent sworn sword.”

Jon shook his head. “I asked for the position, forgive me if I acted out of turn.”

She wanted to strangle him; she wanted to kiss him. “No, you did not.”

He looked up at her, and her heart fluttered. “I trust no one but myself with your safety, and as such I do not wish to ever be parted from you again. If that pleases you?”

Sansa would squeal and jump for joy if Myrcella were to tell her of this, it was straight out of the bards’ songs, but she could not. She trusted her friend, but this must remain between her and Jon. “It pleases me.”

Jon smiled and stood, taking her hands in his own, his voice still quiet, his accent thickened again from his time up North. “I shall do all I can to continue pleasing you.”

She bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She would need to visit the sept and beg the Maiden to protect her virtue. “I look forward to it.”

His gaze was still smoldering, and he held her own as he lifted her hand to his lips, brushing them to the pads of her fingers as he had so long ago, but that touch was reverent and grateful, and this, this was something else entirely, something that stoked the embers within her.

Her breath hitched when his lips followed that same path, meeting her palm, then her wrist, lingering at her pulse point, before trailing back up, leaning into her touch. She had never desired someone with such intensity before, it should have startled her, but she could not think straight, Jon’s warm lips on her skin her only focal point. In truth, she did not think it possible to feel desire any stronger than she did now, it could not be possible.

“I missed you.” Jon whispered, the thumb on his other hand, the one holding hers still at the level of her waist, caressed the back of her hand, calloused digit gently stroking back and forth across her skin.

“I missed you too.” She whispered back, not wanting to shatter the quiet that surrounded them, that kept them no more than a hairsbreadth apart.

He allowed her hand to slip up into his hair, her well-tended nails grazed against his scalp, and his eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, a fine tint of pink adorning his cheeks. “My Lady.”

Myrcella had thought wrong, she desired him more and more with each moment spent in his presence. “Ser Jon.” She said, emboldened and enraptured, she went up on her toes and pressed her lips to his gently.

It was a cautionary whisper, his response, a lingering barely there touch from slightly chapped lips, but it was there. When she pulled back slightly, slipping her hand from his, his eyes, his dark, devouring eyes, watched and waited. Waited to see if she would pull fully away, or scream, or strike him. She did not, she never would, not when it was Jon who kissed her, not when she kissed him first. She grabbed him by the collar of his breastplate and pressed her lips to his again. Harder, more insistent, there was no room for denial in this kiss. His lips parted softly, eagerly, and she tasted the forests of the North, evergreens and wood smoke. She felt the warmth of him as his free hand anchored itself on her waist, burning through the silk. Kissing Jon was exactly as she dreamed it would be. Even though the scratchiness of his beard was slightly unexpected.

Jon sighed lightly, his grip tightening as he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers. “Princess…”

“Myrcella.” She corrected, feeling slightly dizzy, her mind filled with thoughts of Jon and Jon alone.

His face flushed red, which she found alarmingly endearing, and his gaze dropped to the floor. “Myrcella, I—we—” He cut himself off and stepped away, taking in a shaky breath.

Her stomach sank, she had not thought this through, had not thought of what this might mean for Jon. Selfish, selfish, selfish, Uncle Renly was right, you will be Princess Rhaenyra come again. “I am so sorry, I did not think—forgive me, I acted upon my own desires without considering yours, or the consequences, I swear I will never speak of this, to anyone.”

Jon stood perfectly still for a moment, fists clenched, unable to look at her.

She gripped the fabric of her bodice, her curled fingers pressed against her heart, panic, and sorrow coursing through her. “My feelings are my own, I should not have thrust them upon you, should not have taken advantage of your kindness, your loyalty, it was selfish. If you wish to leave my service, I will not stop you.”

It was so very quiet, her words lingering in the air between them, and she bit her lip to keep from crying when Jon turned his back to her.

“Truly, I will not stop you. Return to Winterfell, or go to the Free Cities, or Dorne, do as you like and know that what occurred here shall never leave here, tales of it will never reach the ears of others.” Her voice wavered, tearstained and pleading for so many things she could not name them all.

Jon took a deep breath, then another, then another, then his hands unfurled, and he turned on his heel, his jaw clenched.

He was angry surely, angry with her for attempting to make him her own personal Ser Harwin Strong, for taking liberties when he was simply doing his duty. He had never been angry with her before, and she worried at her bottom lip, vision blurring as hot tears slid down her cheeks.

“Myrcella.” He said softly, cradling her face so gently it brought forth a new wave of tears. “Have you known me to go back on my word?”

She shook her head best she could, hands coming up to grip his wrists, to keep him with her even if he was angry.

He brushed away her tears with his thumbs, searching her face for something. “Ser Jaime said I could be Ser Harwin if I wished it, then said I was far too honorable and likened me to the Kingmaker Ser Criston. As a child when Robb and I would play in the snow, I would pretend to be Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.”

She sniffled waiting for him to continue, his hands were so warm, so warm, and so strong, she felt safe in his hands in a way she did not feel in anyone else’s.

“I am yours, Myrcella, your knight. I can be Harwin, Criston, or Aemon, it matters naught which you choose.” He looked down, focusing on their hands—his still wiping away tears, hers gripping his wrists—as he often did before revealing something raw and vulnerable to her. “Your desires, your feelings, are mine as well.”

“I choose you, Jon. My Jon, the White Wolf, the boy who offered me his cloak and made me a necklace.” She was doomed from the moment she saw him; from the moment he clasped his cloak around her. Akin to her father, she had fallen for a Stark and would never recover.

“The gods have smiled upon you, then, for you may have me.” He brushed a kiss to the tear tracks on her cheeks, lingering for a moment ghosting his lips over hers before pulling away, seemingly regaining his self-restraint.

She wished he had not.

“The Golden Doe, and the White Wolf.” She tested their nicknames out on her tongue, wondering if the bards would write songs of them.

“Aye, fine name for a song if I have ever heard one.”

“They are already singing of you in the taverns.” Myrcella said absentmindedly, wondering if she could convince him to kiss her again.

His dark brows furrowed. “Who took you to a tavern?”

She smiled shyly. “One of my ladies’ maids is betrothed to a manservant of Tommen’s, Sansa and I snuck out with them.”

Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“We only stayed to hear the song about you, then we returned to the Keep.” She explained quickly, smiling prettily when he reopened his eyes.

Jon arched a brow and hummed disbelievingly.

“Next time we shall go together, you and I, then you can hear the song.” Myrcella said, gently removing his hands and placing them on her waist.

“Next time.” Jon snorted, though his grip tightened, and he pulled her closer.

“Yes, next time.” She smiled, looping her arms around his neck, urging his lips back to hers.

Chapter Text

Myrcella knelt between the statue of the Mother, and the Maiden, head bowed, hands clasped, eyes closed as she prayed silently. The shifting of fabric and dip of added weight to the kneeler cushion disrupted her from her fervent pleading.

“Little Doe, I saw your wolf in the armory, a golden stag upon his breastplate, I take it congratulations are in order?” Renly ventured, giving her a knowing smile.

“Lord Jon has been assigned as my new sworn sword; it is Father’s decree.” Myrcella said, brushing her hair back behind her shoulders. “Uncle Jaime says that in time Jon will be among some of the best swordsmen he has ever seen. That he is loyal and dedicated, a good and honorable man.”

“I believe it.” Renly chuckled quietly, mindful of their surroundings, clasping his own hands, though Myrcella knew he had no intention of praying.

“Did you not say there was no better posting?” She bristled, still on edge, the whirlwind of emotions that had passed through her since Jon was assigned to her were dizzying.

“I did, and I meant it.” Renly said, tilting his head towards her placatingly.

She nodded briskly, turning her eyes back to the statue of the Mother.

“Myrcella, do you ever wish for more than simply Sansa as your companion?” He asked after a few beats of silence.

Myrcella glanced at him, half suspicious, half hoping he would have some gossip for her. For if she had learned one thing from her mother, it was that no one asked questions without motive, especially now that she was de facto lady of the court. “I cannot say I have, why?”

He chuckled again, fondly, but she heard a twinge of patronization hidden beneath. “Because you are young, and I worry you do not have many friends. It will not serve you well in the future.”

She bit her lip; it would be better to have allies outside of her kin, Jon, and Sansa.

“I have plans to bring it up to your father, but I thought it best to tell you first. Lord Tyrell will be holding a tourney for Lady Margery’s nameday in a few moons time and has asked me to pass along the invitation. Margery is of an age with you, perhaps you two will get along.”

“In Highgarden?” She had always wished to see Highgarden having heard such wonderful stories from the other ladies of the court.

“Yes, it is beautiful there, rows and rows of gardens, and music, all the decadent foods and wines one could desire. You will have fun, I promise.”

She mulled it over, then nodded. “As long as Father allows it.”

Renly smiled and stood, helping her to her feet. “Do not fret, he will allow it.”

Myrcella sat in Tommen’s seat waiting for the rest of the Small Council to arrive, Jon at her back. Ser Barristan stood at attention behind her father’s empty seat across from her, and Varys sat on her right, his hands folded in his sleeves.

The doors opened, and Lord Ned walked in with Lord Wyman Manderly, both giving her a slight dip of their heads as they took their seats, the former giving Jon a small smile. Her Uncle Renly wandered in a few moments after with Lord Paxtor Redwyne, then Maester Pycelle joined them all at the table, seeming surprised to see her.

She beckoned Jon down and turned her head towards him, ensuring none would hear her. “Maester Pycelle always looks so very surprised to see me here, as if I have not attended every meeting since Father made the servants drag a chair in here for me.”

“Perhaps his mind is going.” Jon said quietly, though she heard the humor in his tone and bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“You may be right, should I suggest your father write to the Citadel for a new Grand Maester? Grandsire would be furious, he and Maester Pycelle have a long history.”

Jon hummed thoughtfully in response, standing to attention when her father entered the council chambers.

“Myrcella, where is your brother?” Robert asked as he took his seat between Lord Ned and Master Pycelle, sitting down with a huff dressed in their house colors. “I cannot even keep track of how many of these damned meetings he has missed.”

“He is in the gardens with one of the septons. He is quite excited about the Tyrell tourney, and insisted he must learn as many flower names as he can a moon early in preparation. As is such I could not convince him to join us today, my apologies Father.” She lowered her eyes demurely, her hands in her lap. Her ladies’ maids were right, it was prudent to wear her new gown of black and gold today, it made them look a united front.

“I am sure you did your best, Princess.” Paxtor said from her left side, giving her an encouraging smile.

She smiled gratefully in response. Lord Redwyne had never shown much interest in her before, though he had not shown much interest in her Uncle Renly before either, yet they came in chatting as if they were old friends.

“Doubtless she tried harder than any of us would have, our Golden Doe, the pride of House Baratheon and dare I say the prettiest after myself.” Renly jested, raising his cup in acknowledgment of her.

Lord Redwyne did the same, and she glanced at her father then her uncle, who looked akin to a cat with cream. “Thank you, Uncle, I pray I will continue to be worthy of your praise.”

“If we might start, My Lords, and Lady?” Ned said, straightening the stack of parchment before him.

“If I may speak first?” Wyman started, piling ledger upon ledger onto the table. “As the council and His Grace know, I have found extensive evidence that Baelish was embezzling funds during his stint as Master of Coin, and have been working since I took my place here to untangle the mess, he has left us in.”

“Have you gotten all our gold back?” Robert asked, beckoning a cupbearer forward, watching as he poured the wine, then nodding at the boy.

“No, Your Grace, that would be impossible, but I do bring good news. These past three years we were able to recover all of Baelish’s personal gold and sold off any assets of his, along with been able to cut down our spending by eliminating the false positions he had created, and rooting out corruption within the harbors, merchant guilds, the marketplaces—”

“And I was able to weed out those on Baelish’s payroll from among the city watch.” Renly chimed in. “Now the city is defended by good and honorable men.”

Myrcella held back a scoff. The city watch was no longer paid off by Baelish, a victory in itself, but she would not say they were altogether good and honorable men.

“Good, good. It sounds as if we are on our way to being out from under the thumbs of those who hold our debts over us.” Robert said, taking a swig of his wine.

“We are making progress, fine progress, though it would help if…” Wyman trailed off, his eyes darting to Myrcella.

She heard Jon shift behind her, and she met Lord Manderly’s eyes, with an unassuming expression, waiting to see if he could build the nerve.

“If?” Robert asked.

“If we were able to make a profitable marriage arrangement for the prince or princess.”

“The prince and princess are still young, there is no need to marry them off.” Renly drawled; his posture appeared relaxed, but she saw the tension in his limbs.

Myrcella said nothing, simply watched and waited. She had known her unpromised hand would become a subject of interest the moment she turned six and ten, she was surprised they had gotten a moon in before it was brought up.

“Princess Myrcella is six and ten, many girls younger than her have been married for the good of their house.” Pycelle said, speaking for the first time since he entered the council chambers.

She thought he had fallen asleep with his eyes open.

“So, you would have her married to some Braavosi lord who will pay off the crown’s debt?” Paxtor accused; his stooped shoulders tucked tightly to his body.

“If I might interrupt, My Lords?” Varys spoke up, drawing all eyes to him. “I care for the realm and its prosperity as much as any other, but I have news of the Targaryen across the sea.”

“About time.” Robert grumbled.

“Per your order, Your Grace, after the trial of Lord Tyrion, I withdrew the bounty on the girl, but I could not control how quickly the word spread.” Varys said, sitting up in his chair, hands still tucked within his sleeves.

Robert tapped his fingers against the tabletop impatiently. “Speak plainly, is she dead or alive?”

Myrcella leaned forward resting her forearms on the table, fingers threaded together, the sunlight catching on the gold armbands sewn into the sleeves of her gown. She, like her father, desperately wished to know what fate had befallen the Mad King’s daughter.

“I have been informed she was killed by Jorah Mormont. It seems that he had fallen in love with the girl, she rejected him, and in a fit of madness he slit her throat while she slept.”

“And her dragons?” Myrcella asked, keeping an air of calm about her, though her heart pounded in her chest.

“Dead as well, they were still small, easy enough to kill.” Varys said, his expression unreadable.

“Well, that is good then, the realm would suffer greatly under the reign of a Targaryen in possession of dragons.” She said, reaching for her wine and taking a long drink, her hands trembling slightly with both relief and lingering fear. “Or merely a Targaryen themselves, villains the lot of them.”

Her father chuckled and tipped his cup in her direction. It was easy to make him smile now that she understood the nuances of her father’s rage, she needed only to insult his favored enemy, or make reference to the long dead plight of Lady Lyanna.

She had not known what to think of this slip of a girl across the sea as her Uncle Renly called her, so she had written to her grandsire about Daenerys. His words made sense, a Targaryen left alive was far too dangerous, she could raise an army and come for the throne she believed her own. Where would that leave her and Tommen, then? Dead by dragonflame? Branded as traitors and banished? Kept as prisoners for the remainder of their lives?

“And Jorah? Does he live?” Ned asked, a grim expression upon his weathered face, his hands clenched into fists.

“Jorah Mormont was a slaver, sentenced to be executed by my father, but he fled to the Free Cities, he is a dishonorable man, a disappointment to his kin.” Jon’s voice was steady, and his presence behind her, his lips near her ear, his breath warm as he added context to that which she had already known, calmed her.

She nodded and turned her attention back to the discussion at hand.

“Dead as well, fell upon his sword.” Varys said.

“A stain upon his house he was, but I shall inform his kin of his passing.” Ned said solemnly.

“And their bodies will be brought here?” Myrcella asked, remembering her grandsire’s words of caution. Do not believe a man dead until you have seen his body burned or buried.

“Yes, Princess.”

She nodded and leaned back in her seat.

“Perhaps we continue this discussion without the Princess? Surely such topics are not for her delicate ears.” Pycelle suggested.

“I am not so delicate as to shy away from the death of my enemy. I am a Baratheon after all, ours is the fury.” She said curtly, leveling her gaze at the man, watching as he crumpled slightly. She would bring up writing the Citadel the next time she was alone with her father.

Pycelle turned to Robert, a long-suffering expression on his well-lined face. “Your Grace, I must insist, if one of the royal children must hear such things let it be Prince Tommen, Daenerys’ death is a boon to him and his future rule.”

“Tommen is among the flowers in the gardens, and Myrcella is here, as Ned tells me she often is, more so than myself, so this is where she shall stay.” Robert’s tone left no room for argument.

“Thank you, Father.” She said, sharing in the smug smile her uncle threw her way, before nodding for the others to continue.

Chapter Text

Myrcella had been furious with Pycelle after the Small Council meeting; he dismissed her as if she were no more than a silly little girl playing at being heir. As if it had not been her sitting behind the heir’s seat while Tommen still occupied it. As if it had not been her that her father told to sit in the heir’s seat once Tommen began to miss meeting after meeting. She prayed the Seven would forgive her for her pride, but Tommen had done less in the whole of his life to prepare for the throne than she had in the last three years. But she was a girl, a woman, and the Iron Throne was not hers to sit upon. A pity, Varys had all but said back when Jon was still away at Winterfell, that she could not be queen, and perhaps he was right.

She loved her brother dearly, sweet Tommen, who retained his innocence even as he aged. He was not unintelligent, she knew this, he just directed his intelligence towards the wrong things. Instead of applying himself to matters of the realm, to the laws and traditions of the people he would one day rule, he dedicated himself to the study of plants and animals. She thought perhaps agriculture could draw him in, and just last week had asked Lord Manderly to sit with him and discuss how taxes on grains, fruits, and meats were collected and at what rate. Tommen had left utterly bored, and Lord Manderly looked less confident in the realm’s future than he had before.

She was frustrated beyond comprehension and ashamed. Ashamed she could not understand how to successfully encourage Tommen to do his duty, frustrated that it was she who did Tommen’s work, who stood in for him, and yet she was still questioned. It was not as if she was his mother, his regent, and could practically rule in her own right; she was his sister. She could only stand to the side and whisper in his ear, while the court laughed at him from behind painted smiles.

And he gave no excuse for this behavior, at dinner that night when their father demanded to know when Tommen would take his duty seriously, he said nothing, simply shrugged. She wished to scream, but instead ate her soup and changed the subject.

But Jon, her champion, her defender, was a wondrous balm for the uneasy concoction that simmered within her, and she knew he delighted in it. In the knowledge that only he could soothe her with a single word or action.

“My Lady, my apologies but I must go, Ser Jaime is waiting for me. He said we must continue training for the tourney whenever I am off shift.” Jon said though he made no move to break away, his warm hands on her waist keeping her seated sidelong in his lap, her upper body turned towards him.

They had been sitting together for a while, talking through her frustrations until she had run out of steam. Jon’s shift was soon to be over, the time designated for him to spend as he liked quickly approaching.

“That does sound rather important, as I do want you to win.” Myrcella hummed, combing her fingers through his dark curls, and admiring the way his pupils dilated, attempting to take in as much light as possible to better see her. The softness of his lips, the cut of his jaw, the curve of his nose, he was so very handsome, her brave knight. She kissed everywhere but his lips, brief, chaste kisses that he leaned into.

“And I still need to have the squires polish my armor.” He continued, his thumbs caressing her skin, his warmth seeping through the layers of her gown, stirring her from her thoughts of how very princely he looked in this light.

“Very, very important.” She said, brushing her lips to the corner of his own. “Armor is very important.”

“Myrcella.” He breathed her name like a prayer, one large hand going to cradle the back of her head, fingers burying themselves in her hair. “Kiss me, please.”

She did as he asked, closing the space between them, a thrill running through her when his grip on her waist tightened. She melted against him, anchoring herself with one hand in his hair, the other pressed flat against his chest. Jon shifted beneath her, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss with a tentative trace of his tongue across the seam of her lips.

“Will you ask me for my favor, or will this suffice?” Myrcella asked breathlessly, barely able to pull herself from him.

“I shall ask for it before the tourney, but here in your chambers, this will suffice.” Jon said, melding his lips with hers once more.

He tasted as he did before, and she hummed happily, tilting her head and parting her lips beneath his own as if they had kissed a thousand times before. His tongue carefully, cautiously stroked hers and heat began a slow and steady drip through her. He repeated the action, the tip of his tongue dragging across hers, coaxing it forward, and he sucked lightly.

A whimper left her, paired with a throbbing that began in a place she had not dared to think of in a long time. It was a foreign feeling that set her heart fleeing in her chest. “Jon I—”

“Was that alright?” He asked, pulling back to meet her gaze, concern shining in his own.

“Yes, yes, it felt…nice.” She admitted, her face feeling inordinately warm. “Would you do it again?”

Jon’s breath hitched, and he nodded, the flecks of almost amethyst within his dark eyes seemed brighter somehow, she liked it.

She had never been so close to a man before, except Jon, when they had fallen into the snow together, and yet somehow, she felt as if they were closer than they had been then. He had pulled her to sit astride him, his hands wandering, searching, pulling her ever closer, their hips pressed against each other in a way she knew was indecent.

She shifted in his lap, her hair—which Jon’s deft fingers had freed from its updo—falling forward, shielding them from the outside world.

“Myrcella gods, I—” Jon groaned against her, the sound low and vibrating through her.

She wanted to hear it again, wanted to know what other sounds would spill from his lips, what other sounds she could make spill forth from him. She tried to imitate what he had done with his tongue. The smooth caress, the coaxing, but she was not sure if she had done it right until Jon’s lips moved to find her pulse point, rhythmic and ever quickening beneath his lips, the slight stubble of his jaw tickling her.

“You will drive me mad.” He said against her ear, his breath warm, his voice low, even lower than it had been when he left for Winterfell.

She tilted her head to the side instinctively as his heated lips moved against the delicate skin of her neck, mouthing at it desperately, his fingers flexing against her.

“I-I could say the same to you.” She stuttered out.

Jon hummed in response, nipping at the place where her neck and shoulder met before inhaling deeply. “So sweet, I remember this scent from that night in Winterfell, it transferred onto my cloak.” He ghosted the tip of his nose up the curve of her neck, brushing it against her own as his lips grazed hers. “Forgive me, My Lady, I know it is strange but...”

Myrcella’s head spun, her eyelids were heavy, half lidded, her stomach and lower felt warm and fluttery, she could not focus on anything but Jon, the sound of his voice, his touch. “But?”

She felt more than saw him smile sheepishly. “It is addicting, your perfume. I could not stop myself from burying my nose in my cloak and breathing in the scent of you as we rode south.”

She made a sound; she did not even know what to call it, but it seemed to please him.

She grabbed hold of his gambeson tilting her head, exposing more of her skin as his lips trailed back down her throat. Each kiss sent tingles scattering across her skin, her breathing picked up, and the throbbing grew harder to ignore. It was an unconscious movement, her hips against his, but it felt good, so she did it again, the spike of pleasure drew another whimper from her, and Jon’s grip on her tightened as he stilled, his breathing heavy.

“Why did you stop?” Myrcella asked after a moment, prying her eyes fully open to look at him, only for her breath to catch in her chest.

Disheveled, desperate, flushed, desiring, there were many ways she could describe Jon. His curls were mussed, the pigment she applied to her lips earlier in the day left prints all over his skin, his pupils were blown wide, and his chest rose and fell harshly beneath her palms.

“I need a moment.” Jon said haltingly, looking away from her, his jaw clenched.

“Oh, of course.” She said, not quite sure why he needed to stop, but wishing to respect his request, nonetheless. “If you are tired, I would not mind…taking over?”

“It is not that, it is only—” His words cut off when she pressed a tentative kiss to the spot below where his ear and jaw met. He whimpered out something akin to her name, his face flushing a deeper red.

Emboldened by the sound, she sucked at the skin as she had seen a woman do outside a tavern in Flea Bottom. Jon’s head fell back against the cushioned backing of the chaste lounge, and she followed, trailing featherlight kiss across the line of his jaw, then moving down to his Adam’s Apple. It bobbed beneath her touch, as he moaned softly.

“I must admit, I have long wanted to try that.” She said, brushing her hair off her shoulders and dipping her head to kiss him once more, pride surging through her. She had made him feel this way, her, no one else, only her. “Among other things if you would indulge me.”

He closed the gap between them, kissed her slowly, his fingers carding through her hair, stroking down the nape of her neck sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. After what could have been a few moments or hours he pulled back slightly and rested his forehead against hers.

They sat silently for a moment, allowing their breathing to slow.

“When have I ever not indulged you?” Jon laughed.

Myrcella snorted, and leaned back, meeting his gaze, thinking of the many times she wished he had kissed her, and he had not.

He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. “Allow me to correct myself. When have you ever asked me to indulge you, and I did not?”

She made a show of thinking hard, tapping her finger against her lips. “Never, but when have I ever denied you anything you asked for?”

Ghost’s bed which he was presently sound asleep in would speak for him, but Jon still answered, glancing over at the bed. It was a bed fit for a royal hound, but three times the size. A goose feather stuffed mattress set in a gold gilded wood frame placed near the fireplace, so Ghost could roll onto his side and feel the warmth against his belly.

Jon had not asked for such an ornate bed for Ghost, he requested a straw pallet, but she could not stand the idea of it.

He pressed the lock of her hair to his lips reverently. “Never. You, My Lady, are a paragon of generosity.”

Her heart fluttered, and she could not stop the smile that tugged at her lips. “You have grown far too charming; do remember to act sullen in Highgarden, so no others fall for you. If it helps, I could act as if I was cross with you while we were there?”

He let out a huff of laughter, then cupped her cheek, handling her with such care as if she were made of precious crystal. “No need, I can be a convincing murmmur when necessary.”

Her lips quirked to one side in disbelief.

“I will think on the fact that I must endure Theon’s attempt to flirt with every available maiden the whole tourney.”

“Or you could think on the fact that Sansa will be silently seething as he does so.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Do not remind me.”

Chapter Text

Myrcella stood at the entryway, the stone room far below the Keep was cold, the air dry, the scent of incense thick. The Silent Sisters moved…silently as they finished preparing Daenerys’ body, Jorah Mormont’s on the slab next to hers.

“Princess, this is not a sight for your eyes.” Ned said quietly, his body stiff, his eyes upon the still form of Jorah.

“Ned is right, Myrcella. I will not deny you your anger towards the Targaryens, they would have seen you put to the sword if they lived, but your mother would flay me with her own hands if she knew you were down here.” Robert said, his large hand resting on her shoulder, intent on steering her away.

“I have to see; I have to know the threat to our house, our reign, the realm itself, has truly been extinguished.”

Was it an odd choice of words? Extinguished? House Targaryen often burned their dead, or at least that was what she was taught, and Daenerys was called the unburnt, fire did not harm her. But steel could, proof that the Targaryens died as all men did. Though her father had proved that well enough when his warhammer cracked open Rhaegar’s chest.

Her father nodded and released her. “Do not get too close.”

She crossed the short distance between her and Daenerys, coming to a stop at the slab, the Silent Sisters making room for her. Daenerys was only a few namedays older than Myrcella herself, dressed in finery, stones put over her eyes painted purple. She was beautiful, even in death, otherworldly, and yet so fragile. She was small and slim, Myrcella guessed she might have even been taller than the older girl if they stood side by side. Her silver hair nearest her throat was thick with congealed blood, seeping down to the ends, a deep gash across her pale throat.

Myrcella’s stomach heaved, and she dug her nails into her palms to steady herself. She was a lion, a stag, they had defeated the dragons, she would not lose face in front of them, not even a dead one.

Lord Ned passed by, speaking quietly with one of the Silent Sisters, who carried a large jar of carrion beetles. Only Jorah’s bones would return to his kin.

She felt her father’s presence behind her before his hand settled on her shoulder once more. “That could have been me, Father. If Jorah Mormont had not gone mad and done the realm a favor.” She said softly, looking up at him, curious if the sentiment would strike true.

His lips thinned and he said gruffly. “It is good he did.”

It was good Lynesse Hightower was as powerful and petty as she was. Myrcella had begun writing letters to the exiled noblewoman a year ago, under the guise of wishing to know more about the man who aided the dragon queen. She filled them with flattery, first for Lynesse writing that Lady Stark had spoken so highly of her, then for Daenerys, the young woman whom Jorah had forsaken the realm for. It was, as her mother had always said, no woman wished to know her husband had eyes for another younger and more beautiful. Lynesse’s letters were heavily perfumed and though Myrcella knew Lynesse was content as Prince Ormollen’s chief concubine, she would not let her husband’s indiscretions go.

 Lynesse was not as she had imagined, Myrcella had not expected to even receive a response to her first letter, but Lynesse was more than happy to write, and then later on to spill her husband’s every secret. The hatred ran deep within her, and Myrcella prayed she would never feel such anger towards another as long as she lived. Anger could be a powerful weapon though, if wielded correctly, and based on Lynesse’s letter from a fortnight before the news of Daenerys’ death had reached them, she thought she had wielded it well.

Do not fret, sweet one, your problem is mine and Tregar’s problem, I will see it rectified. Though once the dust has settled do come and visit me, and bring your wolf with you, it is different here in Lys, no one will ask questions, I will not allow them to.

“Your brother did not wish to see this?” Robert asked, squeezing her shoulder as the Silent Sisters covered Daenerys with a burial cloth.

“He is afraid of Silent Sisters.”

“He is afraid of everything.”

Myrcella fiddled with her necklace, running her thumb over the smooth wood. Jon had commissioned a new necklace for her, made of silver, the wolf, and the stag better crafted, but today she had worn her old one, the wood felt warm in her hand. “He is still young.”

“When you were three and ten, you stood in front of us all at Winterfell and defended Jon from Joffrey.” Robert said, giving her a proud smile. “He was a stranger to you, and yet you defended him at the risk of your mother’s ire.”

“Tommen is not as brave as me, but he is a sweet boy.”

“Which was well and good when he was not heir.”

I could do it; I could be heir.

“He simply needs to spend more time with you, then he will learn from your example.” Myrcella suggested, pushing down her traitorous thoughts.

“I think it would be better if he followed Ned around instead. Look at how well-mannered Jon is, if only your brothers had followed in his footsteps.” Robert sighed.

“Jon is older than them, and the Nort—”

“A fine heir he would make.” Robert said, and a bolt of recklessness shot through her.

“You could wed Jon and I, then send Tommen to the Citadel, Jon would not be your heir, but he would be king consort.” She said offhandedly, ready to smile and laugh girlishly if he reacted badly. He turned to look at her, a strange expression on his rounded face, and she waved a hand dismissively. “A poor jest, I apologize Father, the embalming fumes have addled my senses.”

Lord Ned and the Silent Sister he was speaking to returned before her father could say anything and she quickly curtsied then headed straight to the library to search for Jon.

“No, no Harrenhall would be far too expensive to rebuild, you must think realistically.”

“I am, my father would rather throw me to the wolves—no offense intended, then allow me to rebuild Castamere.”

“The gold in the mines below is still worth much, though, is it not?”

Myrcella pressed herself against a nearby bookshelf, hand over her mouth to keep from laughing at Jon and her Uncle Tyrion’s conversation.

“Yes, but you would have to unblock the entrance and drain the water, it would be a logistical nightmare.”

“With your mind, My Lord, I have no doubt it would be accomplished easily.”

“I understand now why Myrcella keeps you by her side, you have quite the silver tongue when you wish it.”

“Your words are kind.”

“Not as kind as my dear niece, who is absolutely awful at sneaking about.” Tyrion drawled, his mismatched eyes finding her through the gaps in the shelves. “Come and join us, Myrcella.”

She rounded the shelf with a sheepish smile. “I did not want to interrupt such a riveting conversation.”

“There she is, my beautiful heir.” Tyrion said, kissing her on the cheek when she bent down to embrace him.

“Uncle, do not tell me you have given up on love entirely.” She said, head turned towards him and fighting back a blush when Jon took her hand and pressed it to his lip in way of greeting.

Her Uncle Tyrion had been making jests about her being his heir since he had returned to King’s Landing for her six and tenth nameday. She did not know if it meant her grandsire would throw his weight behind her, or if her uncle was simply trying to reassure her that she was more than a broodmare to be sold off.

“Love has given up on me, dear one, not the other way around.” Tyrion corrected with a smile.

“I see. Well, if I might add my opinion, I think Castamere is a fine choice, though I am eager to see Summerhall once it has been rebuilt. Father says it will be even more beautiful than it was when the Targaryens occupied it.” She explained, taking the seat beside him.

Tyrion nodded. “Ah yes, the famous summer palace, I heard tale that a village has sprung up around the castle, that will bode well for whoever His Grace installs as its lord.”

“Summerhall resides in a fertile valley backed by the Red Mountains, with a small river that runs down from the mountains and through the lands. Said Red Mountains are rich with amber and iron, while the rest of the land is fertile if tended right, and there are thick forests along the eastern edge, and to the west is the border with the Reach, which makes for good trade.” Myrcella ticked each redeeming feature off on her fingers.

“They should ask you to advertise it to the realm.” Tyrion chuckled.

“My Lady worked with His Grace to present the idea to the Small Council.” Jon said. “She is very well-spoken.”

“I do not doubt that, I only wish I had been there to see it.” Tyrion said, patting her hand, then Jon’s.

Jon smiled and inclined his head towards her uncle.

“Thank you, Uncle, maybe next we can rope Uncle Jaime in and convince grandsire to reopen Castamere.” Myrcella said, resting her chin in her hand, trying to push her blunder from earlier out of her mind.

Robert wished Jon Arryn were here, the old man had given him solid advice since he was a boy, and he could use that wisdom now.

You could wed Jon and I, then send Tommen to the Citadel. Jon would not be your heir, but he would be king consort.

Myrcella had said the words so easily, claiming they were a jest, but he was not as foolish as people believed him to be. He was not blind, nor was he deaf. He had seen the way Jon and Myrcella looked at each other, heard the rumors of their closeness. He had chosen to remain silent, not out of ignorance but out of affection. In truth, he had not thought much of Myrcella until their visit to Winterfell. Yes, she was a bright and sweet child, but Cersei kept her close, bearing her fangs whenever he tried to act a father to their children. But Myrcella has surprised him, shown that at least one of his offspring had the Baratheon spirit.

He sighed as he waited for Ned to finish speaking with the Silent Sisters, steadfastly keeping his eyes away from the body of Daenerys. She was a girl still, a woman grown but still young, Ned had been right to quit over his demand for her life. He gave one last look, she was so small, so frail. The maester that had examined her body told him she had long healed welts across her back, bones that had been broken and reset, deep bite marks in her flesh, and her hands and feet were calloused and rough. She had been whipped, beaten, bitten, and gods know what else over her short lifespan. He had been angry at Rhaegar, at Aerys, hated them and their line, but looking at Daenerys all he saw was his cousin Rhaella. He had not known her well, she was older than him, and he was not at court often, but each time he was he remembered how fragile and downtrodden she looked. All the realm knew now of Aerys’ madness, but back then, few outside the Keep knew of the violence Rhaella suffered. He shuddered and pushed away the memories as he had when he was young. Now Rhaella’s daughter was dead, the last of the Mad King’s line. It was for the good of the realm. Jorah Mormont had done him a favor, taking Daenerys out when she was still young.

She was only a few namedays older than Myrcella, the only one of his golden-haired babes that did not cry in his arms. Perhaps he should have known then that only she among her siblings would be brave, worthy of the name Baratheon. Myrcella was too much like him, drawn to the Starks, but at least he had had the sense to fall for a Stark closer to his standing. But could he blame her? Jon was strong, intelligent, steadfast, a hero to the smallfolk, and he had Lyanna’s coloring. But besides that, he knew Myrcella valued his softer traits. He was kind, a listener, honorable, and dedicated, he did not anger quickly, and it was clear as day he loved her deeply.

He would have been like that with Lyanna, he knew it, they would have been happy, hunting together, laughing, sharing stories. When the light hit Jon in a certain way, he could almost imagine him with blue eyes, he and Lyanna’s son, a worthy heir.

You could wed Jon and I.

If only Ned had been able to marry Jon’s mother, but he had already been married to Cat, and he knew his friend, Ned would never have gone back on his word. But if it had been possible, then Jon would be worthy in the eyes of the realm. No one would question his marriage to Myrcella, it would be expected considering the closeness of their families.

Ned thanked the Silent Sisters and left them to their work, joining him near the door. They left together, walking in silence towards his chambers, until Robert spoke, putting voice to a question that had plagued him since he legitimized Jon.

“Ned, is it not time to tell Jon of his mother? I know you said she was a fishwife, but I have seen him, he guards my daughter, he is not born of smallfolk blood, not even half.”

Ned kept his gaze dead ahead, and he saw the slight tension in his shoulders. “It is not yet time, he is not old enough.”

“He is a man grown, and besides if she is of noble blood perhaps her family would wish to claim him as well, he has made quite the name for himself.”

Ned’s jaw clenched, and he said nothing, still staring ahead.

“Where does he fall in the line of succession for Winterfell?” Robert tried again, hoping Ned would give him something, anything to work with.

“After my trueborn children.”

“That would make him sixth in line, do you plan to grant him any lands or a keep?”

“I had not made plans to as of yet.” He said, coming to a stop and turning to look at him. “Robert, what is this about, truly?”

Robert sighed and ushered Ned into his solar, glancing around to ensure they were alone before speaking once more. “Myrcella made a jest, that I should wed the two of them and send Tommen to become a maester.”

“She is still young, I am sure she did not mean to speak treason against her own brother.” Ned said calmly, as if waiting for him to fly into a rage.

“Gods damn you, Ned, I am not angry at her for stating the obvious. Tommen has made no progress, he skips council meetings, chases butterflies, and cats, spends all his time reading. Cersei turned Joffrey into a monster and Tommen into a weakling, she has ruined both my sons.”

“Tommen is still young. You and I can devise a plan with his septons to ensure his learning is better suited for a crown prince.”

“We could, or he could follow me or you around as Myrcella suggested, or I could recall Twyin to the capital and have him whip the boy into shape, but I fear it will not be enough.”

Ned nodded solemnly. “He is behind where other heirs his age would be, but many kings were unprepared in their youth and rose to the challenge when their time came.”

Robert dragged a hand down his face. “If Myrcella were only a boy, I would not need to worry.”

“The Princess has shown remarkable aptitude for the responsibilities of an heir, she will make a fine lady of a great house.” Ned affirmed.

“I wish to leave the kingdom in good hands, you and I will not live forever.”

“Aye, we will not.”

Robert sank down into his chair. “If Old Arryn were here, I would just give this problem to him, let him solve it.”

“But he is not here.” Ned said, and the sorrow in Ned’s voice eased the pain of a wound in his heart Robert had not known reopened.

“I know what he would tell me to do, marry Myrcella to the most politically advantageous man, and bring in as many septons it takes to train up Tommen, but I—I do not want to shackle Myrcella to her own Cersei.”

“The Queen loves her children.” Ned defended weakly, always an honorable man.

“But she does not love me.” He said. The words did not hurt him, he had not gone into his marriage thinking he would love Cersei, but he thought perhaps in time they would grow to like each other. It was not to be, and he had long accepted his part in that. “I want better for Myrcella.”

“And you believe better would be Jon?”

Robert snorted. “I know it would, perhaps not for her reputation, for my relationship with the Lannisters or even with every other lord with sons of marrying age, but she would be happy.”

Ned took the chair across from him and massaged his temples. “I am not blind to the affections my son holds for the Princess, but he is—was a bastard, he is to inherit nothing, the insult it would be upon the realm…”

“So, give him some land, hells I will give you the funds to rebuild Moat Cailin, or you want the New Gift back? It is yours Ned along with the funds needed, so give it to Jon.”

“Robert.” Ned sighed; the refusal poised on his tongue. “I have other sons, trueborn sons, I could not do that to Cat.”

He slammed his fist down on the desk. “Damnit Ned, allow me to make someone of my house happy.”

“Your house rules the seven kingdoms, I am sure—”

“I am unhappy, Stannis and Selyse are miserable, Renly is a damned sword swallower, my eldest is at the wall, it seems my youngest does not wish to be king, my niece is afflicted with greyscale, there is only Myrcella left.” He said, head in his hands as he tried to blink away Daenerys’ painted eyes staring up at him, blink away Rhaella’s haunted look, the way she flinched, the bruises on both her and her daughter.

“You have Edric, and Mya, you could still do right by them.” Ned said softly.

He waved his hand dismissively. “They are happy where they are, they are free to do as they wish, Myrcella is not.”

Ned nodded and squeezed his forearm before releasing him.

“Fucking Summerhall.” Robert said suddenly, searching through his desk until he found the parchment detailing the updates on the rebuilding Manderly had handed him after the last small council meeting. “I intended it to be akin to the royal summer palace that my father told me stories of, but perhaps it will have a better use.”

“Summerhall?” Ned repeated, his face pale.

“Yes, it is in the Stormlands, so well within my rights to grant, and it looks out upon the border of the Reach where those Targaryen sympathizers still thrive.”

“But the Targaryens are gone.”

“Yes, and when I install Jon as Summerhall’s new lord, it will hammer in that point quite nicely.” He said, shedding any lingering grief or guilt like a heavy cloak, as he began to plan.

Chapter Text

“You saw her body?” Sansa asked, her fair skin paler than normal at the thought, as she sat up from where she had been lounging against the cushioned bench of the wheelhouse.

It was much smaller than the one they had traveled to and from Winterfell in, made to fit seven people quite comfortably or four people and one ever-growing direwolf comfortably, as was the current situation. Ornate but not garish, with windows on both sides and cabinets below the plush benches for the belongings they wanted easy access to. It had been a gift from Myrcella’s grandsire for her fifth and tenth nameday.

“Yes, I was not supposed to, but I told Father I had to see with my own eyes, or I would not be assured the threat to our family’s reign was truly gone.” Myrcella pushed away the memory of Daenerys’ body, small, stiff and cold, a large, deep gash across her throat, her silver hair caked with dried blood.

“Was it awful?”

She nodded. “Horrid, I never wish to see another dead body again.”

Sansa shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “I am glad I was with Eleyna and Roslin instead; we had a very pleasant time sewing in the gardens with Prince Tommen.”

Roslin Frey, her second lady-in-waiting, made the sign of the Seven, her embroidery hoop on her lap, a little village beside a stream and a field of flowers she had seen on the road taking shape on the fabric. Roslin was older than them, nearer in age to Jon and Edric. It was Myrcella’s Great Aunt Genna’s idea. She had been faintly fond of Rosalin’s mother a Rosby, and requested Myrcella take Roslin into her service, to free her from her aging tyrant of a father. The older girl was of a sweet if not shy disposition and was a good listener with the voice of a nightingale. She would sing if asked, and Myrcella greatly enjoyed her songs.

Eleyna Banefort, her third, newest, and youngest lady-in-waiting—sent to serve her as soon as her grandsire heard she would be attending the tourney in Highgarden—shivered as well and clung to the seven-point star around her throat. “Only the Silent Sisters should look upon the dead.”

“Eleyna, I assure you I went straight to the sept afterward and received a blessing from the septon, all is well.” Myrcella said, holding her hand out to her, as she gave the dark-haired girl a reassuring smile.

Eleyna visibly relaxed and squeezed her hand.

“Let us speak of lighter things now, the dead have been put to rest, and there is no need to dwell on them.” Myrcella said, taking a piece of chocolate from the ornate box in Eleyna’s lap and popping it in her mouth.

“This is Lady Margaery’s eight and tenth nameday, yes?” Sansa asked, pulling the curtain back slightly and peeking out at the Roseroad.

“It is strange she is not yet married at ten and eight.” Eleyna noted quietly, taking a piece of chocolate for herself. “No offense Roslin.”

“None taken, it is far odder that Lady Margaery is not married, than I, she is the only daughter of a great house, I am not.” Roslin said, taking a chocolate piece as well, one with slivered almonds atop it.

“That is what my Uncle Renly said—that she is eight and ten, not that it is strange she has not yet married.” Myrcella corrected quickly. “Though I do find it strange as well.”

“Yes, yes, it is odd, but more importantly, Myrcella you turned six and ten two moons ago, you are a woman grown! A tourney should have been held for you, instead of us traveling for Lady Margery’s.” Sansa scrunched her nose, her displeasure clear.

“I did not want one; the crown’s coffers have no need for such an expense.” Myrcella said airily, though there was a pang of sorrow in her chest. So desperately had she wanted her father to throw a tourney in her honor, but she knew that rebuilding the crown’s wealth would benefit her and Tommen far more than a tourney would.

Her grandsire wrote that he was proud, her Uncle Tyrion was proud, the Small Council all praised her for her selflessness, so she put on a brave face and waited until she was alone in her chambers to cry.

Eleyna squeezed her hand again. “The realm will surely be grateful for your frugality, though they do not know it yet.”

“Oh, there is Jon and Ser Edric!” Sansa said, pulling the curtain open more and waving excitedly.

Roslin perked up at the mention of Edric, smoothing down her chestnut brown hair nervously.

Myrcella moved closer to the window, catching sight of Jon and her half-brother. His retinue had joined them at Bitterbridge, and she had been overjoyed to finally meet him. They had done naught but exchange letters, and she feared there would be stiffness in their first true meeting, but Edric was as her Uncle Renly had said. He picked her up and swung her around, beaming at her, his eyes so like their father’s brimming with excitement. He called her little sister, and told her all about Storm’s End, already making plans for her first visit.

Edric waved back, and Myrcella caught Jon shaking his head fondly at Sansa’s antics. Ghost who had joined them a few leagues back raised his head from Myrcella’s lap at the sound of Jon’s name. Jon had playfully chastised the wolf when he scratched at the door of the wheelhouse. Claimed he had grown lazy in his time as a royal guard dog, but she knew he preferred Ghost with her if he himself could not be.

You need only call for me, I will not be far. But if you would allow Ghost to stay with you, it would ease my mind further. He had said quietly, bent slightly at the waist to adjust the black and gold cloth tied around Ghost’s neck. He had protested the kerchief at first, but Myrcella insisted it would help ensure no one tried to attack Ghost, thinking him a wild, vicious beast.

Jon and Edric were seated upon large, well-bred stallions, Jon’s a speckled grey, Edric’s a pure black, both in Baratheon heraldry. Their full armor, and tourney armors, were stashed in the storage below Myrcella’s wheelhouse. They both wore riding coats, though she was sure Jon had some sort of armor beneath, be it an arming doublet or a light layer of chainmail. Jon’s coat was black with golden fasteners, an asymmetrical cut as her Uncle Jaime favored, as she favored on occasion. While Edric’s was a muted blue with bronze clasps evenly spaced up to the hollow of his neck—though he had them all unclasped, enjoying the warm weather.

Edric steered his horse closer, and Sansa opened the window, the scent of apples floated in on the breeze filling the wheelhouse. “My Ladies, all is well? Do we need to call for a halt?”

Ghost sniffed the air then laid his head back down, and Myrcella ran her fingers through the soft fur between his ears. “Have we passed Cider Hall yet?”

“Yes, we were able to convince Father that the Fossoways likely would have brought their stores of cider to Highgarden for the tourney, so there was no need to visit.” Edric said, miming wiping sweat from his brow as if the task had been tremendously difficult.

Roslin giggled at the motion, and he threw her a smile, ever the charmer.

“How fares Prince Tommen?” Eleyna asked, unable to meet Edric’s eyes, a faint blush spreading across her visage.

“The prince is well, I believe he is near the front of the convoy with Ser Arys, identifying birds along the route.”

Myrcella bit the inside of her cheek. Tommen was three and ten, there was still a ways before he reached the age of maturity, but he had not grown in his kingly skills or his interest in anything but books and the natural world. Their mother and grandsire who would be in attendance at Highgarden would not be pleased with his lack of progress.

“Do not fret, Little Sister, I will go and ensure he is alright if you wish it.” Edric said, flashing her a charming smile that made Eleyna beside her flush a deeper red.

“No, no, it is fine, I would not wish to spoil his fun.” She assured him.

“Very well then, call upon us if you have need.” He said, before guiding his horse back towards Jon’s.

Sansa closed the window and fell back against her seat with a dreamy sigh. “He is so very handsome.”

Myrcella wrinkled her nose. “He looks like my father, and my Uncle Renly.”

“You do not have to ruin all of my dreams.” She huffed, folding her arms over her chest.

Myrcella shrugged, “I speak only the truth.”

Sansa huffed again and took a chocolate from the box, chewing thoughtfully. “Eleyna, will you remind me to ask Jon to purposely throw all his fights in the tourney, so Myrcella does not receive a single victory laurel?”

Eleyna giggled but shook her head. “Even if Ser Jon threw his fights, I am sure Ser Edric would not.”

Myrcella rolled her eyes fondly. “Sansa, all victory laurels will surely go to my mother or Lady Margery, so I doubt you will even need to ask Jon to throw his fights.”

Eleyna, Roslin, and Sansa shared a look.

“What?” She asked.

They pressed their lips together then burst out laughing, Roslin’s laughter softer than the others.

“I am sorry, Myrcella, but you do not truly think Jon would give his victory laurels to anyone but you?” Sansa said, pressing her palms to her cheeks, her fingers spread to partly hide her smile.

“It is custom to give them to the highest-ranking lady, or the one the tourney is being held for.”

Eleyna snorted, tilting her head forward, her oakwood brown hair falling forward like a curtain covering her face.

“Or he could give them to you, you are his sister.” Myrcella continued fruitlessly, her companions giving her annoyingly knowing smiles.

“He could, but he will not.” Sansa said resolutely, brushing her hair off her shoulders, the vibrancy of the red complimented by her silver gown.

“Well, then you best hope Robb or Theon enter the tourney, or you will be sitting beside me quite empty-handed.” Myrcella sniffed, holding her head high.

“Will Lords Robb and Theon be entering the tourney?” Eleyna asked, grating Myrcella reprieve.

Sansa leaned forward to scratch underneath Ghost’s chin. “I am not sure. Father never rode in tourneys, but my Uncle Brynden has. He joined up with Robb and Theon somewhere around Darry, which certainly would have given him enough time to convince them to join the lists.”

“I hope they enter; I promised my cousin I would write of every handsome young man that entered and how well he fought.” Eleyna sighed dreamily.

“I only hope no one is badly injured. Lord Edric said he was eager to join the lists, but he shall be up against formidable foes.” Roslin said, rethreading her needle with green silk thread, then casting her gaze out the window in search of Edric.

Myrcella wondered not for the first time how much gold she could offer Walder Frey to relinquish his daughter to her mother’s family, so that she could attempt to pair Roslin and Edric. She was Lord Walder’s twenty-second child, and a marriage to a royal, recognized bastard was not an offer to turn one’s nose up at. It helped that Edric seemed quite fond of Roslin. He often went out of his way to make her smile, spoke softly to her when she was frightened, and brought her peaches each morn once he learned they were her favorite. Though he was a flirt like their Uncle Renly so it could truly mean nothing, but if it was not nothing, then she would pair them together without hesitation. But first she would need to free Roslin from the Freys, she would not have her half-brother chained to those snakes.

Myrcella waited until the wheelhouse door was open, Ghost standing and stretching his legs before bounding out into the dying sunlight. She stood next, straightening her skirts, made of pretty blue fabrics, light and airy to mesh well with the more temperate climate of the Reach. Then she stepped out, Jon’s gloved hand already outstretched and waiting for her.

Highgarden was beyond beautiful, set upon a hill that overlooked the Mander, built with clean white stone, and narrow towers that seemed to scrape the clouds. Rows and rows of briar hedges, fields of flowers, and works of art were tastefully scattered about the halls and grounds, completing the fairy tale look of House Tyrell’s castle. The air was cleaner as well, sweet smelling compared to the unwashed filth that permeated the air of King’s Landing.

Sansa, Eleyna and Roslin followed, flanking her as they were ushered inside where her father and Lord Tyrell were sharing a toast. She saw Ser Loras, and two other men who looked akin to him, approaching from the left, her Uncle Renly among them. Ser Loras nodded to Jon as they approached, and Edric went to stand beside their uncle. A woman with silvery blonde hair presumably lady Tyrell, and a younger woman with rich chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes—presumably Lady Margaery for how all the men in the room stared at her—stood beside Lord Tyrell, in finery dyed the colors of spring.

“Ah yes, there she is, Myrcella, come meet our hosts.” Robert called, beckoning her over.

Myrcella did as he asked, smiling politely as each member introduced themselves. Mace, Alerie, Willas, Garlan, and his wife, Loras and Margaery. She wondered where Lady Olenna was, the infamous Queen of Thorns.

“She is as beautiful as Loras and Lord Renly said, a true compliment to your house, Your Grace.” Mace said with a cheerful grin.

Renly smiled and draped an arm over her shoulder. “She will be a shining beacon amongst the gales of Storm’s End.”

She subtly glanced at him, keeping her smile in place.

“Is she to visit after the tourney?” Alerie asked, her silver hair was braided with jeweled rings that caught the light when she moved.

“She should, it would be good for her to see the lands and people that one day may be hers. After all, if I have no children, she is my heir.” He said, smiling down at her. “Princess Myrcella, Lady of Storm’s End. It has quite a ring to it.”

In all the chaos since Joffrey had been sent away, she had never stopped to consider that it was she, not Tommen, who would inherit Storm’s End. Of course, it would only be after her father and uncle had died, and Tommen had ascended to the throne, but still, was she to be heir to both Casterly Rock and Storm’s End? It would not be possible; she would have to pick one and place a castellan in the other. At least until she had a child or two. Perhaps she would have twins, her mother was a twin, it would not be unheard of. A vision of two babes with dark curls and green eyes danced before her, and she wished to reach out and grasp them, already wondering what names to give the babes.

She pushed that thought aside and watched her father’s face redden slightly. “Myrcella is a princess of the realm before she is your heir.”

Renly shrugged. “Of course, forgive me, I am only thinking ahead.”

“Margaery go on and take the Princess and her ladies up to the guest chambers.” Mace said, shooing them off, breaking the tension between Robert and Renly.

Margery gestured for them to follow her, reassuring them their luggage would be taken care of by the servants and that Tommen would be seen to by her brothers. Myrcella bit her lip, glancing back at the golden head of her brother. He was listening intently to Lord Willas who pointed to various parts of the castle as they walked in the opposite direction.

“Do not fret Princess, my brother Willas is the gentlest of souls, he shall take good care of the prince.” Margaery reassured her, the skirts of her pale green dress swishing as she walked, the skin of her back exposed by the cuts of the fabric. She was beautiful, the Rose of Highgarden, it was a nickname well deserved.

Myrcella smiled and thanked her, giving some airy excuse that Margaery accepted with a graceful smile as she guided them to the guest chambers before leaving them with the time and place dinner would be held.

Chapter Text

“The crown for the Queen of Love and Beauty is made up of large tea roses that were bred to grow primarily pink, but the tips of the petals are gold.” Tommen explained as they walked up to the dais, his eyes shining as he spoke. “And Margaery told me that lesser victory laurels are made of peonies in varying colors, but not pink or yellow, obviously. I hope you; Mother, Sansa and Eleyna get at least one each, I want to take them home and study them.”

“We must pray to the Warrior that he guides the hands of our champions then.” Myrcella said, both gladdened and saddened that Tommen had sprouted up after his third and tenth nameday. He was nearly the same height as her, which meant she no longer had to look down to speak with him, but also that she could no longer hide him behind her.

“Ser Jon will surely win, and Lord Theon said he will win all the archery contests for Sansa.”

“What about Edric, do you think he will win?” She asked, brushing the hair back from his face, the wind mussing his golden locks.

Tommen shrugged. “I do not see why not; he told me he has been practicing since the invitation arrived.”

She smiled and held their linked arms closer to her. “Perhaps you can practice with Edric after the tourney is over, then you will be ready for the next one.”

The corners of his lips downturned and he set his gaze forward. “I have no interest in competing.”

She pursed her lips then nodded. “I see, well, not all great kings were warriors.”

He muttered something beneath his breath she did not catch, his mood soured.

“I am only trying to encourage you Tommen, you know Father has been…concerned about your lack of desire to increase your kingship skills, and after what Mother and Grandsire said—I only wish to ensure you become the worthy king I know you will be.” She said softly, though annoyance flared within her.

They had stood with their heads bowed as their mother berated them for over an hour. Tommen was scolded for wasting his time acting like a fool in the gardens and chasing after the maesters. While she was chastised for dirtying her reputation by allowing Jon to guard her, for her time spent learning nothing but drink and wastefulness from her idiot of a father. If Tommen would only apply himself then she could focus on other things, becoming Lady of Storm’s End, or Casterly Rock, finding worthy suitors for Sansa, Eleyna and Roslin, or even the book that had been on her nightstand for moons, still unread.

“It is never about what I wish to do or be, it is always about the desires of others.” He whined, and she fought the urge to smack him.

“You are heir to the throne, unfortunately it will always be about the desires of others.” She said sharply, irritation growing in her chest. He did not even know what it was to be ruled by the desires of others. He was heir to the throne and yet allowed to do as he pleased, he did not grasp the sacrifices that were made for him.

Tommen looked at her, and guilt quickly replaced the irritation when she saw the tears in his eyes. “Cella, I do not believe in myself as you do.”

She quickly wiped the tears from beneath his eyes, then brushed a kiss to his forehead. In her anger, she was being unkind, and she knew Tommen did not deserve that. “I shall believe in you enough for the both of us then, and in time you will find your confidence, I promise.”

He nodded, and straightened his spine, his head held high, as they climbed the last set of stairs and stepped out onto a large platform with a tented roof. It was typical for a dais, three levels not much height difference between them, but enough separation to denote status. Royalty, the hosts of the games, and then children of those gathered above on the bottom level closets to the quarter wall that kept any drunken lords from falling over and meeting the ground below.

Myrcella glanced out across the arena; the air still smelled sweet. Archery targets were set against the wall in a far corner, waiting to be brought onto the hard packed dirt that housed the jousting lanes and melee ring. Sturdy wooden stands were set along the edges, tall and wide. The banners of nearly all the great houses were hoisted into the air, and various others, bannermen, small houses, landed knights’ sigils were scattered about the grounds. Tents covered the grounds as far as the eye could see, a colorful array of fabric matched only by the outfits of countless guests that milled about.

“Princess Myrcella, Prince Tommen, do come sit with us.” Margaery called, waving them over to her corner of the dais.

Sansa was already there, seated beside Robb who looked noticeably enamored with Margaery who sat beside him, a plate of grapes and cheese resting between them balanced on the outer edges of their respective thighs.

“Go on, I must greet Mother and Father.” Myrcella said, urging him forward. She should insist he greet their parents as well, but she decided to spare him in light of his fragile state.

She made her way to the top level and curtsied before them, her father was in Baratheon black and gold, her mother in Lannister red and gold. “Good day, Mother, Father, I do apologize for our tardiness.”

“My little lioness, how lovely you look today.” Cersei said, running her fingertips down the pink fabric of outer skirts, emerald eyes scanning it, certainly trying to remember if it was one she had commissioned for Myrcella or not.

“Thank you, Mother, I could not decide whether to wear Lannister or Baratheon colors on a day such as this, so I thought it best to do a lighter shade of both.” She said, feigning innocence, as she drew attention to the yellow kirtle beneath her pink outer gown, and the gold strands that belted her waist.

“Yes, very beautiful, will we see Jon in armor of a similar shade?” Robert asked cheekily.

A smile crept across his face as Cersei reddened in anger. “Robert, do not encourage such things.”

“No, I would never force him to wear pink.” She giggled as if it were a silly little jest and swiftly took her exit when her parents began arguing.

She greeted the rest of the remaining nobility seated around her parents. On her father’s side sat her Uncle Renly, Lord Ned and Lord Tully, the Blackfish. Lord and Lady Tyrell sat a level below, while her grandsire, Great Aunt Genna, and Uncle Tyrion sat on her mother’s side. Her grandsire gave her a nod, her great aunt complimented her gown, and her uncle asked if Jon had received her favor.

“He is my champion.” Myrcella said, still feigning innocence, before she curtsied and turned to join the others on the bottom level.

She took a seat next to Sansa, nearest the barrier wall that overlooked the field, smiling at her as she settled in.

Maragery had them arranged in a semicircle, Theon at one end, then Tommen, her in the center, then Robb and Sansa, while Myrcella took the opposite end seat putting her across from Theon.

“Princess.” Robb greeted, ducking his head and reaching across Sansa’s lap to press a polite kiss to her hand.

“Lord Robb.” She smiled, grateful there was no lingering awkwardness from her great-aunt’s letter.

He returned her smile as he lifted his head, and for a moment she was reminded of Jon.

“I see Lord Edric does not wear your favor.” Robb said, jerking his head towards the next joust that was set to begin. She and Tommen had been late, the latter fussed over what he wished to wear then begged her to make excuses for him, so he did not have to attend the tourney for over an hour. She estimated they had missed multiple jousts already, and she was sorely disappointed.

Edric was on his horse, tourney armor shining in the sun, his helmet had the stag antlers of their house. As he lowered his visor, his lance at the ready, she thought he looked so very much like their Uncle Renly. His opponent was a man from the Riverlands, one whose name she did not know.

“He said he had the favor of Storm’s End. Apparently, it was a clear day when he began his journey here.” She explained, as the joust began, and Edric took off against his opponent.

She watched as Edric and his opponent neared each other, their lances held steady. A cheer went through the crowd as Edric’s lance cracked against the man’s chest, unseating him. Edric waved to the crowd then rode back to his place, his squire handing him another lance as a Westerling took his fallen opponent’s place on the opposite side of the tilt. Another crack then another, then another, then another, four men fell to her half-brother’s lance, and she was quite confident his words regarding practice had not been wind.

Then Ser Loras entered the arena, a thousand forget-me-nots sewn into his cape, his silver armor shined in the sun, decked with sapphires and twining black vines. His pure white stallion bore the golden roses of his personal sigil on his saddle blanket. Loras rode up to the dais, lance extended. “Dear sister, might I request your favor?”

Margaery rose gracefully, removed her favor from her wrist, and tossed it down to him with a warm, teasing smile. “Do take care it does not touch the ground, Brother.”

Loras slipped her favor onto his wrist with a matching smile. “I would never allow that to happen.”

Sansa sighed dreamily beside her, and Myrcella bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at Theon’s quiet grumbling. Sansa’s favor sat still unclaimed around her wrist, but Myrcella had caught Theon glancing at it far too many times to worry for her.

Edric and Loras spoke quietly for a moment, their visors raised, and Myrcella wrung her skirts in her hands. Renly’s love versus his ward, if harm befell either of them, her uncle would be distraught. Then they parted, riding to their places along the tilt, and Sansa’s hand slipped into hers. She squeezed Sansa’s hand as Edric and Loras spurred their horses forward, each moment drawing closer and closer until they missed. A draw. They returned to their places, another draw, then another. Myrcella glanced back at her uncle, who was leaning forward in his seat, unable to tear his eyes away.

“Go on, Edric, unseat the rose.” Robert called jovially, lifting his cup.

Edric’s head turned, and he found Myrcella’s eyes first, as if asking for confirmation. She nodded, his ears did not deceive him. He raised his hand in response, and she heard their father chuckle. Possessed by a new determination, Edric shut his visor and adjusted his grip, urging his horse forward. Loras did the same, but there was a carelessness to his movements, one Edric was quick to exploit, keeping his pace, but changing the angle of his lance at the last moment. Myrcella let out a cheer when his lance found its mark and Loras tumbled to the ground.

Margaery gasped softly, but Loras stood soon enough. They clapped each other on the back, and Edric helped him to the sidelines.

“See, Cella, I told you Edric would win.” Tommen said.

She dipped her head towards him. “You did, now let us hope he wins against his final opponent.” They had missed the joust that would determine Edric’s opponent, the man having won earlier in the day, and she was eager to see who it would be.

When her Uncle Jaime rode onto the field, her stomach dropped. Resplendent in golden armor, the lion of Lannister on his breastplate, a gilded lion’s head helmet under one arm, his lances of goldenwood carried by his squires. Only Loras had defeated her uncle in the joust at the Hand’s tourney but now Loras was out of the competition, was it proof Edric was better, would he beat Jaime, or would he fall like all the others?

“Tommen, come here, I shall need your strength.” She said, holding her hand out for him.

He came and settled beside her, holding her hand. “Cella…”

“It is better to look at the wall, if you are seated close, then no one will know you are not watching.” She whispered, resting her head against his for a moment.

He nodded and squeezed her hand as Edric and Jaime faced each other, the hammering of hooves against the dirt akin to the pounding of her heart in her ears, drowning out all other noise. She did not want to watch, but she had to, frantically praying that the Seven would leave her kin unharmed. Impact. Edric’s lance shattered against Jaime’s shield, but both men remained upright. She took in a breath then let it out slowly. They reset, and she squeezed Tommen’s hand tighter, as they charged towards each other, this time Edric’s shield took the lance, he threw it to the side and turned his horse back.

“Mayhaps they will continue to draw and then Father will declare them both winners.” Tommen suggested hopefully, the words passing his lips a moment too soon.

Jaime’s lance connected with Edric’s shoulder, and he hit the ground hard.

Myrcella half stood; hand pressed to her heart, as they waited for Edric to get to his feet. She hoped Eleyna who had asked to sit with her family during the tourney, and taken Rosalin with her, was praying for she was far more pious than Myrcella and her words would reach the gods quicker.

“Cella, Cella, there is Jon, Jon will help Edric.” Tommen said, pointing to the sidelines.

There he was, her champion, he hurried onto the field and slipped an arm under Edric’s own, helping him to his feet.

“Just like you and me, Ned, spitting image of our boyhood.” Robert said, his voice carried by the wind.

She could not make out Lord Ned’s response, too fixated on Edric and Jon disappearing into the maesters’ tent. Soon, though, her fretting was disrupted by the appearance of Jaime, his helmet discarded, a victor’s laurel in his gloved hands. She sat quickly to give him a direct line of sight to her mother.

He smiled at her and slipped the laurel on his lance, then looked to her mother, who moved to stand. Then he did the strangest thing, he lowered his lance towards Myrcella and dropped the victor’s laurel in her lap. “For my niece, the fair, and brave Princess Myrcella.”

She accepted it with a small, shocked thank you, and he trotted off, not sparing a glance back.

Next were the archery and axe throwing competitions, sat next to each other, which she thought rather dangerous. Robb and Theon stood, the latter brushing the nonexistent dirt from his breeches.

Sansa stood as well and slipped her favor from her wrist. “Robb—”

Robb held up one hand and gave her an apologetic smile as he pulled a Tully blue ribbon from his pocket. “Apologies Sansa, Mother gave this to me before we left.”

Sansa’s face flushed, and her bottom lip began to tremble slightly. “Oh…”

Theon bowed ostentatiously low, far too proud of himself when he straightened up. “Lady Sansa, I would be honored to wear your favor.”

Sansa stood frozen, blinking, and Myrcella elbowed her subtlety. “Oh, yes, of course Theo—Lord Theon.”

Theon approached, and Sansa went up on her toes to tie the pure white ribbon with little direwolves embroidered along the edges around Theon’s bicep.

The two men bowed their head in Myrcella’s direction, then Robb kissed Margaery’s hand before they departed, whispering something that made her blush ever so slightly.

Archery was boring, axe throwing less so, but still she could not pay attention, too anxious for what was to come. She contented herself with eating the cheeses and fruits brought by servants, and slowly sipping her wine while she, Sansa, and Margaery chatted. Tommen had been called to sit beside their parents a few moments prior, and she wished him luck before he went off, looking as if he were marching to his death.

“Oh, and I am so looking forward to the ball tomorrow night, my Lord Father has ensured the musicians are able to play music from all over the realm.” Margaery said as she reached forward and plucked a grape from the tray.

“It is a masquerade ball, yes? I have heard stories, but never attended one.” Sansa said, eyes darting between them and the arena, her body half turned.

“Sansa, just watch Theon compete, no one will say anything.” Myrcella urged gently, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her updo behind her ear. There were dozens of pins digging into her scalp, she would think they would keep her hair in place, but no.

“Perhaps we should change how we are all sitting? Princess, if you would not mind sitting next to me, we can face the arena, and Sansa can watch without anyone noticing.” Margaery said, giving Sansa a smile.

Myrcella took Robb’s empty seat, wondering when Margaery and Sansa had become so familiar with one another. “Oh, is that not him now?”

Bullseye after bullseye, Theon was an impeccable shot, she was impressed, all upon the dais seemed impressed, but none more impressed than Sansa. She cheered when each arrow found its mark, and Margaery smiled knowingly at Myrcella over her head. Theon was quickly declared the winner, shooting an arrow right down the center of his opponents to the enjoyment of the crowd. Robb was next, lined up with the other men, either from North closer to the Neck or the Stormlands.

“Robb is very good at this; he used to do tricks to make Arya, and I laugh.” Sansa said, cheering for her elder brother as his axes hit the target again and again.

“He is certainly strong; does it not take strength to throw such things?” Margaery asked, her hazel eyes fixated on Robb’s sturdy form.

“Strength and discipline, I would imagine. My sworn sword tells me he and Lord Robb grew up practicing their martial skills for hours on end.” Myrcella said, toying with her necklace.

“That is only because they were stubborn.” Sansa drawled, before standing and clapping happily when Robb was named victor.

“It seems you shall receive two laurels, sweet Sansa.” Margaery smiled, as Robb and Theon made their way back up to them, sweat and victory upon their brows.

“Lady Sansa, your favor did me well.” Theon said, presenting his laurel to her.

Sansa smiled shyly and took it, hugging it to her chest, then looking at Robb.

Robb smiled down at Margaery instead and held his laurel out towards her. “For the lady of the tourney, though, these blossoms pale in comparison to your beauty.”

She accepted the laurel and smiled prettily up at him. “You flatter me, my Lord.”

“Enough that I might be granted a dance tomorrow night?” He ventured, still holding onto the laurel, his fingers brushing against Margaery’s.

“More than one if you would wish it.” She said, a slight smirk on her lightly painted lips.

He pressed a lingering kiss to Margaery’s hand, keeping it within his grasp, as he held her gaze. “I would wish for them all if you would allow it.”

Myrcella’s eyes widened slightly, bold, Robb Stark was bold.

Margaery’s cheeks tinted pink, and she giggled girlishly. “It is less what I would allow and more what my Lord Father would.”

“Then I shall have to speak with him, obtain his permission.” Robb said smoothly, releasing Margaery’s hand with a final kiss.

Bold indeed.

Chapter Text

Myrcella leaned forward in her seat, wine nearby, her cup half drunk, her heart twisted up in her chest as she watched Jon cut through the other knights on the field. Her champion was smart, he allowed his opponents to pick each other off, acting only in defense of himself. So many had already fallen, and he had not earned himself more than a scratch or two.

She feared he would be too tired, having won earlier in the day riding at rings. He was half horse at times, and she cheered quite loudly for him as he rounded the arena, his lance held steady, collecting ring after ring with ease. Her favor was tied around his wrist, the edges tucked beneath his gloves. The gold hair ribbon was one she had worn since she was a child, the very one she wore in her hair the night they fell into the snow together. It glowed against his skin, tanned from his time in the sun.

A son of Dorne, of Starfell, she had said, his face nuzzled against her hand, the sun shining down on them through the leaves of the heart tree. The godswood was their safe place, always had been.

He had presented the laurel to her, looking up at her as if she were the Maiden herself, asking if she would accept his victory as her own. She wished to kiss him, to flirt boldly as Margaery and Robb did, but she knew better. She would have to accept the laurel and content herself with the memory of his departure mere hours ago.

They stood in the guest chambers given to her as she tied her favor around his wrist, both anxious and excited that all would see the White Wolf and know he belonged to her. “You have my heart Jon, just as you have my favor, do not be reckless with either.” She said, cheeks burning, heart racing, a giddiness bubbling up within her even as she tried to sound serious.

He brought her hand to his chest, placed it over his armored heart. “I will return to you alive and victorious; I swear it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Before the gods?”

“Old and new.” He promised.

“I shall hold you to it then.” Myrcella said, as she went up on her toes and brushed a kiss to the corner of his lips then pulled away, stomach flipping when his lips chased hers. “Now you must depart before my uncle comes to find you.”

Jon pressed a kiss to her palm, his eyes drinking her in, memorizing her every detail. “When I step out into the arena, will you be looking for me?”

Myrcella took a step back and shrugged, though she could not keep the smile off her face. “Depends on how long it takes for the melee to start.”

Jon chuckled and followed her, captured her face in his hands and kissed her with a searing passion that made her dizzy before departing, her favor tied securely around his wrist.

Jon and those remaining had long since abandoned their horses, preferring to fight on foot, and Myrcella worried at her bottom lip as a knight bearing the Frey sigil approached Jon. There were too many Freys, Roslin had listed them all to her, but only a few stuck in her mind. His sword was brandished, and he shouted something she could not hear. Sansa sat beside her, a bundle of nerves, while Margaery sat on her other side, watching the melee with careful interest.

The Frey knight’s sword glanced off Jon’s pauldrons, the reverb knocking it from his hands, and Myrcella forced herself to stop biting at her lip lest she tear the fragile skin. Jon’s armor would hold, it was new, not so new that he was not familiar with it, but new enough that it had no clear weak points. The outer layers were black as night with golden embellishments and a white direwolf head in the center of his breastplate. It was not a full plate, no Jon favored speed and agility over bulk protection. Rather, it was a mix of chainmail and padded leather, reinforced by half plate in the areas one would seek to strike.

The Frey should have bowed out, he was disarmed, but instead he lunged at Jon like a wild beast, grabbing for the wolf ears of Jon’s helmet. He missed, but in his wild scrabbling he seemed to get in one glancing hit, judging by the force in which Jon tore the Frey off him and threw him to the ground face first. Once he was assured the man would not try again, he left. Jon did not gloat over his enemies, he simply kept moving, so similar to Ghost, when he trained, when he fought, he never stayed in one place for long, always on the prowl, ever vigilant. Soon it was only Jon and Thoros of Myr. This was a tourney, she knew the Red Priest would not kill him, but still she worried. Anything could happen, he could be blinded by the sun, the Red Priest could be seized with divine madness, or the other knights that Jon had already defeated to reach Thoros could try to interfere and sabotage him.

Jon’s stance was steady, his sword—which glinted in the sunlight, a gift from her, for his six and tenth nameday—at the ready. Strong and sturdy it was castle forged steel, the pommel set with an emerald, a direwolf carved into the crossguard.

Thoros and Jon circled each other, and the elder man said something she could not hear due to the distance and the roar of the crowd. Jon said nothing in response, only nodded and watched the older man. Thoros’ sword was aflame with wildfire, the flames danced as he swung it gracefully, waiting for Jon to strike.

“Will the fire burn him?” Sansa asked, watching the two men through her fingers.

“I do not know.” Myrcella said, gripping the skirts of her gown—white with golden embroidery and pearls stitched into the bodice—praying Jon would not be burned.

Jon struck, fast as a whip, their swords met, the sound of steel on steel vibrated through the air. He had been training with her Uncle Jaime for years now, Jaime who had been trained by the Sword of the Morning, there could be no better teacher since Ser Arthur had died. She had to have faith; Jon would not fail.

Thoros charged, nearly catching Jon by surprise, but he sidestepped, kicking up dust as he moved.

Myrcella’s heart was in her throat when the duelers met face to face once more. It was a show of strength, and she sent another prayer up to the Warrior, willing her strength into Jon, as meager as it was compared to his. Thoros was gaining, pushing at Jon, his feet began to slide in the dirt, his arms trembled.

“Knock him flat, Jon!” Sansa yelled, prompting good-natured laughter from Theon, and a similar cheer from Robb.

There was no way to know if Jon could hear them, but he seemed emboldened, and he shoved Thoros forward with a grunt. Thoros stumbled back, an ecstatic grin on his face, clearly enjoying the match far more than anyone watching. Jon moved quicker than Myrcella could blink, throwing his weight behind his sword. He knocked the man flat, just as he had Joffrey all those years ago, and held Thoros at sword point, chest heaving. The crowd erupted.

Lord Tyrell called out Jon’s victory in a booming voice as Jon helped Thoros stand. The Red Priest clapped him on the shoulder, smiling, before he took Jon’s hand in his own and raised them to the sky. Jon was steady on his feet, but when he took off his helmet, she saw the blood.

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief and sank further into her seat as Robb and Theon cheered for Jon, but Myrcella could not do the same, her heart still trapped in her throat, her breathing shallow and frantic.  She rushed forward and pressed herself against the barrier wall, desperate to see him, to confirm with her own eyes he was well.

“Princess Myrcella.” Jon called up to her, his helmet under one arm, his curls wild, a smile born from victory on his handsome, but bloodied face. The crown of roses hung from the tip of his sword, the hand-and-a-halfer helping to bridge the gap between them. “Might I crown you as the Queen of Love and Beauty?”

The crown was as beautiful as Tommen said it would be, but she could not appreciate it when Jon was smiling at her in such a way. She nodded, proper, as a princess should. “You may.”

He smiled even brighter, and girlish exhilaration fluttered within her as she reached out and caught the crown. Sansa was quick to help settle it atop her head, but she cared naught for how it looked. Jon was being herded towards the maester’s tent, and she would not leave her champion to be treated alone.

Jon looked up when she entered, finding him in a back corner of the tent. He was no longer in his armor, a squire must have taken it away, and was seated on a maester’s table as the gray robed man wiped the blood from his face.

“Maester, is he injured?” Myrcella asked, dismissing all those around who were bowing with a wave of her hand.

The Maester turned and bowed as well. “Not badly, Princess, it seems when he was hit his inner lip was cut on his teeth, which is where the blood was from, but I have applied a salve, and it has stopped.”

She stepped closer, and examined Jon, dragging her eyes over his every feature. He smirked when she lingered too long on his lips, and she tore her gaze away. “Good, he is not only my champion but the son of a Lord Paramount and shall be treated as such.”

“Of course, Princess, allow me to bring a jar of the salve for Ser Jon, he will be able to apply it himself later on if there is any further bleeding or irritation.” He ducked his head, then hurried off to find the salve, leaving them alone, all other maesters too busy attending to the wounded to take note of how much closer Myrcella stepped towards Jon.

“Ser Jon, congratulations on your victory.” She said her hands clasped behind her back as was proper.

“My victory is yours, My Lady.” Jon said, eyeing the roses in her hair, still smirking. “Were you looking for me when I entered the arena?”

“Of course I was, you are my sworn sword, I am always looking for you.” She said, trying to keep some believable farce of emotional distance between them. They were not sequestered away in her chambers, and she had not done well at hiding her fear for him during the melee, nearly jumping from her seat, or hiding behind her hands as he fought. She needed to be more careful.

There was still blood on his face, she hated the sight of it, not only because she could not stand to see him hurt. But because of how the way he looked up at her glorious in victory, bloody and undeniable, made her feel. Her mind brought forth the memory of his lips, his teeth against her skin, she wanted to feel it again, but they had not found a moment alone to go beyond simple kisses since they arrived at Highgarden. Her face grew hot, and she dunked the cloth in the water, picking up where the maester left off, working in silence as Jon watched her intently.

“I thank you for your patience.” He said softly, his gaze was warm, liquid, a deep plum wine calling to her.

“My patience?”

He took her free hand and kissed it chastely. “I told you I would dedicate myself to my studies, so that I could crown you.”

I will dedicate myself to my studies so that you will not have to wait long then, Princess.

“And the roses are pink.” She noted, adjusting the crown, ensuring it was still snug on her head.

The roses are pink, they would look very nice in your hair.

“They do look very nice with your hair, as I thought they would.” His plush lips were warm, tantalizing now that she knew what they felt like against places other than her hands and lips.

She blushed and tilted his head to the side, cleaning away the blood that had crept down his neck. “Thank you, I am glad I waited.”

Jon smiled; she felt his muscles move beneath her fingers, felt his hand bring hers to his heart. “My Queen of Love and Beauty.”

A ruckus at the tent’s entrance caught their attention before she could respond.

The Frey knight stormed into the tent, his nose crooked and swollen, his eyes blazing with rage. “Where the hells is he? I will hang him up by his guts, the crows will feast on his damned eyes.”

Jon slid from the table and pushed her behind him in one smooth motion. “Ser Benfrey, we are in a place of healing, there is no need for such words.”

Ser Benfrey turned on Jon, cutting a path to him, his face turning shades of red and purple as he sputtered. “You broke my nose, bastard.”

Myrcella’s hackles were raised, and she moved to order the man out of the tent, but Jon held her back, keeping her half hidden behind him.

Jon looked Ser Benfrey up and down sparingly, then shrugged. “It is an improvement.”

“You—I—my father—”

“Your father cannot remember how many sons he has and to which wife they belong, I doubt he has ever thought of you again, after he tossed a name in your direction.” Jon drawled, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Did he even name you, or was he too drunk to do so?”

“You are nothing, you pathetic, motherless brat, you and that Lannister bitch you serve. Surely, she is as horrid as her mother, or she is a whore fucking her way through the kingdom like her father. Is that it bastard, is she fucking you too?” Benfrey snarled.

Myrcella sucked in a sharp breath. No one had ever levied such accusations against her, it was treason, he could be killed.

Jon leveled his sword at Ser Benfrey’s throat. “You speak treason, and in front of the Princess herself, bite your tongue, or I shall cut it out myself.”

Benfrey laughed, and she gripped the back of Jon’s gambeson, a silent warning. “You would not do it.”

“Aye, not in front of my lady.” Jon said, slamming the pommel of his sword into Ser Benfrey’s temple. The elder man crumbled to the ground, and Jon stepped over him, holding a hand out for her, before he instructed the guards to bring Ser Benfrey before the king for his crimes.

She stepped delicately over Ser Benfrey unconscious form, took the salve from the stunned maester and allowed Jon to guide her back to the dais, where her father’s joy soon turned to rage.

Chapter Text

It was foolish, she needed to get ready for the ball, her ladies would soon be arriving, Robb, Edric, and Theon would be waiting for Jon, but she was intoxicated. Not from the wine she had drunk earlier, but from the strange, savage thrill that ran through her when Jon’s sword severed Ser Benfrey’s head from his body. That strange savage thrill that seized her again when Jon turned and nodded in her direction tossing Benfrey’s tongue to Ghost who snatched it out of the air, terrifying the gathered nobles, and amusing her father. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, a Northern saying apparently, and while Jon was not king, and he did not sentence Ser Benfrey to death, he was the accuser and primary witness. She supposed it was close enough. It had been then that Jon’s new lordship was announced. Disguised as reward for Jon’s service, though she had a suspicion her father had been planning to gift Summerhall to Jon for a while now.

Jon shed his armor, thanked those who congratulated him, then escorted her back to her chambers, intent on leaving her to prepare for the ball. But she dragged him inside, kissed him with his back against the door, her hips pressed to his, victory, her own and his, making her dizzy with heady desire. He killed for her, true death was the punishment for treason, but he did not have to do it, he could have let any other swing the sword, but he chose to for her.

“My champion.” She breathed the words against his lips, he smelled of blood, sweat, and pine, of victory, she cataloged it away sure the scent would invade her fantasies as she slept. “My brave knight.”

He attempted to stand firm, to resist and remind her that they were soon to be joined by others, but he was as intoxicated as she, melting beneath her touch, his hands restless and roaming as her name escaped his lips in a soft exhale.

“You did so well, the smallfolk back home will be so pleased to hear of their hero’s victories.” She purred between kisses, tasting the slight tinge of copper from his still healing wound. “Though they could never be as pleased as I. Every noblewoman in attendance was practically green with envy.”

“It is because they are merely candles while you are the sun.” He said, his hands grazing up the sides of her breasts, trailing along the thick golden stitching, circling each embedded pearl slowly with his fingertips.

Need grew within her as he followed the threads’ path inwards, ghosting over the swell of her breasts, calloused fingers meeting the soft skin of her exposed décolletage. “No, it is because I—" She gasped when he cupped her breasts, the flesh swallowed by his large hands. "I-I have the White Wolf at my side, handsome and dedicated, while their husbands are boorish fools who pay them no attention.”

“What an unfortunate plight.” Jon nipped at her bottom lip, thumbs carefully caressing her nipples through the fabric of her bodice.

“Very unfortunate.” She agreed, unconsciously arching her back, sparks of pleasure flying through her as Jon continued his ministrations, his skilled fingers gently twisting and tweaking the sensitive buds.

She had known her breast were sensitive before Jon ever touched them, but had never tested their limits, never known how sensitive. It was an accidental discovery on Jon’s part, after a Small Council meeting discussing Summerhall’s progress. Her joy at the progress of her first true project made her reckless, dragging Jon into Godswood, not watching where she was going. She nearly tripped over a root and Jon’s hand slipped, after he righted her. It brushed against the swell of her breasts, and she uttered a small, breathless oh. It was among his favored things now, winding her up, his large hands palming her—small and perfectly formed in Jon’s opinion—breasts, his skilled fingers playing her like a harp.

“That shall never happen to you, I swear it.” He said, his eyes dark with desire.

Driven by her own desire, she buried her hands in his curls, dragging him down to her level, tongue and teeth clashing with his own as if they were trying to devour each other. He was so very warm, always so warm, even through his arming doublet. It had to be his Dornish blood, she could think of no other explanation, nor did she wish too, far too distracted by him gripping her thighs and lifting her, pressing her back against the door. It was a frantic, need-filled move, her head spun, and she leaned into the kiss, ankles crossing behind his back, pulling him closer.

“Of course not, my love, I know you would never ignore me.” She said, heat gathering in her core, Jon’s lips chasing hers.

“I learned my lesson.” He jested lightly, tip of his nose brushing against hers as he recaptured her lips, claiming them like the great conqueror.

She would retort, or pull him impossibly closer, but a knock on the door startled them apart, and they quickly made themselves presentable before Jon opened the door and allowed her ladies in.

The Great Hall of Highgarden was resplendent, draped in flowers and gold, music, and the scent of delicately crafted desserts filled the air. The hall was packed to the brim, countless lords and ladies in costume, masked faces everywhere she turned. Myrcella kept hold of Sansa’s hand, Eleyna and Roslin behind them. She knew the point of a masquerade was to hide one’s identity, but she would not risk losing her ladies in the crowd. They dressed in various shades of pink, flower maidens, Lynesse had suggested, sending a dress specifically for Myrcella with explicit instructions to wear her hair down during the ball and to scent it with perfume. She was not one to turn down the advice of a woman who ruled over a prince and did as Lynesse instructed.

They were greeted by Margaery on the arm of Robb, she in reds and oranges, a fox mask adorning her features, he in gray and white, wearing a wolf mask with yellow paint around the eyes. Theon who came up quickly from behind them was as unimaginative as Robb, wearing his house colors and a kraken mask, though she could not truly blame either of them, the North did not throw balls such as this. She relinquished Sansa to her brother and sought out her own.

Edric and Tommen were easier to spot than she thought they would be, though she would know Tommen even from a great distance, even in the middle of a storm. He was dressed in lavish fabrics of red and crimson, a lion mask pushed upon his head, a piece of cake on his plate. Edric seemed to embody the name stormlord, having clearly developed a flair for the dramatics from their uncle. But it was Jon, in dark leathers, tall boots, and a linen tunic with the laces far too loose for her liking, who drew her attention. His mask was golden, well crafted, a dagger at his belt, and she watched as he smoothly conversed with the nobles around him, ladies from various houses fluttering their fans or eyelashes at him. She was glad to see him strive, see him comfortable amongst the nobles of the realm. They did not know him beneath the mask, though she was sure some did based on the slight distance they held themselves at.

Myrcella smiled and allowed herself a few moments of shameless ogling. Taking in the cut of his breeches, the toned skin of his chest exposed by the loose laces of his tunic, the definition of his arms, the broadness of his shoulders. He was so very handsome, almost roguish in his costume, but she…liked it, very much. She could vaguely hear Edric and Roslin chatting, the former complimenting her dress, while Eleyna distracted Tommen with questions about his mask. Unfortunately, her good mood was quickly ruined when one noblewoman with her breasts nearly falling out of her garish green gown laughed and placed a hand on Jon’s forearm, saying something to the gathered crowd. Jon glanced at her hand then shifted his arm slightly, dislodging her. The woman’s hand was soon replaced by the fan of another, then a second hand, then doe-eyed girl with hair the color of mud offered Jon a drink, and he took it.

Myrcella huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, the draping fabric of her gown swishing across the floor as she did. “Shameless.”

“Now, now little sister, do not be angry with Jon, he is simply enjoying his moment in the sun.” Edric teased, handing her a full goblet. “He is the new Lord of Summerhall, the tourney champion, executioner for the princess, and has come into quite a lot of gold, it is a heavy burden upon his shoulders.”

She seethed behind the rim, watching as Jon and the girl talked.

“Oh, that is Jeyne Westerling, her mother has been trying to marry her daughters up since they were babes.” Eleyna said, glaring at the girl’s back. “She tried to marry off her eldest to my brother Daven, the absolute audacity.”

“She is barely pretty, I doubt her sisters are any better.” Myrcella grumbled, taking a long drink.

“You are far more beautiful; Jon has simply not yet seen you.” Eleyna reassured her, adjusting Myrcella’s skirts, so that the delicate flowers with their gemstone centers caught the light.

“There is no one more beautiful than our princess.” Roslin joined in, smiling softly at Myrcella, her hair swept off her shoulders by a silver net studded with diamonds, a gift from a mysterious suitor. “Or kind, or generous, or clever.”

Myrcella smiled at them both in return, soothed by their kindness. “Forgive me, I am being silly; the excitement of the day must have caught up with me.”

Finally, Jon caught her eye and smiled, roguish and disarming, before he excused himself leaving a visible trail of broken hearts behind him.

“Princess.” He said, kissing her hand in greeting, as was customary between them.

“Lord Jon.” She said, finishing off her wine and placing it on the tray of a passing servant. He was even more handsome now that he stood before her. “Did you enjoy your conversation with Lady Jeyne?”

Jon took two new goblets from the tray and handed her one, a curious gleam in his eyes. “No, the Lady Jeyne is insipid and prone to prattling.”

She feigned a pout, a thrill running through her when Jon’s eyes lingered. “That is unfortunate.”

“It is, but the gods are kind, I did not have to suffer long before the queen of love and beauty arrived.”

“They are kind, are they not?” She smirked, taking a sip of her wine.

She knew it was wrong, the quiet of the side room they had disappeared into hammered that fact into her head. She was a proper lady, a princess, she should not have slipped out of the ball with two goblets of wine, and Jon beside her, his hands on her waist as they searched for an unoccupied room, desperate to be alone together. But all the other party goers were drunk, and the wine had been so sweet, the music so vibrant, and Jon, her Jon, her love, though she could not speak the words aloud, had been drinking as well so it was neither of their faults. She would swear to it in a sept, in front of the High Septon himself.

“You are far too beautiful in that gown; I wished to hide you from the eyes of every nobleman the moment I saw you.” Jon said, walking her backward until she bumped into a desk, his hands on her waist unwilling to let go, his eyes drinking in the sight of her deeply.

“This gown?” She giggled, as she finished off her wine, then began trailing a hand down the skin exposed by the low neckline of her gown, stopping between her breasts, watching Jon’s expressions. His eyes grew dark, hungry, and she continued, skipping over her stomach to lightly swish her skirts showing off the slit that revealed one smooth calf.

“Yes, that gown.” He rasped, his lips parted ever so slightly.

“It is very soft, feel it.” She said coyly, taking his hand and bringing it to her breasts.

Jon took the remaining goblet from the desk behind her and drained it, swallowing hard. “Myrcella…”

“Do you not wish to?” She pouted, emboldened by the wine and the way his breathing picked up when she allowed one strap to fall down her shoulder enticingly.

Jon righted it, but pressed his lips to its path, trailing up to the spot beneath her jaw, his hands cupping her breasts. “I wish to, and more if you would allow it.”

“Anything.” Myrcella said, head falling back as he began to suckle at the delicate skin, his fingers reenacting their scene in her chambers, the combination of sensations pulling a desperate whine from her lips.

Jon looked at her as if she were a goddess, his hands calloused, and yet so gentle. When he sank to the floor, kneeling before her, his fingertips tentatively trailing up her calves, she felt as if her blood was singing in her veins.

“My Lady, my beautiful, beautiful lady, my queen of love and beauty.” Jon said, his voice low, wrapping around her akin to how his arms wrapped around her as they danced. The wine made his Northern brocade thicker, the rough syllables more prominent in a way she found utterly enticing. “How I have dreamed of this, of you.”

Sat up on the edge of the desk, Myrcella gripped her skirts with one hand, the other planted behind her, supporting her weight, as nerves and exhilaration ran through her. There was a sweet feeling of rebellion that made her giddy, or perhaps it was the wine, she cared not either way.

“Of me?” She asked, as if she did not know there could be no other but her, as if they had not skirted the line between indecent and decent before, most recently an hour or two before the ball.

Jon nodded, his complexion reddened by drink, but in the low light it looked as if he were only blushing.

“I have dreamed of you as well, far more often than I should.” She admitted, and the way his hands tightened on her calves set off a slow throbbing in her core.

“You honor me.” He said, his hands, warm, large, calloused, brushed against her inner thighs as he spread them slowly, so slowly she would have missed it if her senses were not so finely attuned to him. “Allow me to repay you.”

“There is no need, but I cannot deny you anything, you know this.” She said, anticipation and apprehension swirling in her stomach, what was he going to do down there? Would it hurt?

As if sensing her anxiety, Jon smiled up at her, his eyes startlingly clear for a moment, all lust banished. “I have only done this once before; you will have to forgive me if it is not my finest skill.”

She blinked, eyebrows drawn together, jealousy curling around her heart like a dragon. “Done what? With whom?”

There was a tearing sound, her small clothes were in Jon’s hand, quickly tucked into the pocket of his breeches. Then he was at her core, his tongue flat against her, trailing up to her bud, his lips wrapping around it and sucking. He gripped her thighs, skin tingling at the points of contact, as he repeated the movement, devouring her akin to a man starved.

She gasped for air, her toes curling, as a high pitched and unfamiliar sound slipped past her lips. She had heard whispers of this, the lord’s kiss, but had not imagined it could feel this good.

“Golden.” Jon said, as he pulled back to nip at her inner thigh, sucking a reddened mark into the skin. “Like sunlight and honey.”

She blushed head to toe, too flustered to speak, core throbbing, need coiling in her chest banishing the jealousy. She would get her answer later, later, after he kissed her down there again.

Jon did not press her for a response. He dove back in, tongue tracing nonsensical patterns on her bud as he slowly eased a finger past her entrance, groaning at the grip her walls had on it, curling it until she was panting, hips rolling against his hand.

“Jon, Jon, oh gods, I do not understa—” Her words were cut off by a mewl when he slipped in a second finger.

“You are doing perfectly, gods, Myrcella, perfect, perfect Myrcella.” He groaned against her core, and the vibrations traveled up to her head, making it spin, her body tingling, pleasure and warmth scattered across her skin deepening her desire.

His free hand hooked her leg over his shoulder and she clumsily, hastily tucked her skirts around her hips, not wanting to deprive herself of the sight of him. She reached for him, missed his shoulder, hand falling instead upon his curls, nails scraping against his scalp.

“Yes, yes, take hold, I am yours, yours.” Jon’s grip on her thigh tightened, an iron grip, surely, she would have bruises as he pulled her closer hungrily.

She yelped when his nose pressed against her bud, and took hold of his curls, tugging instinctively when his tongue joined his marvelous fingers, thrusting into her with a languid motion that reached deep, further than she thought possible, and stumbled upon something that nearly made her scream. “There, there, Jon, please, please.”

“Here, My Lady? Does that feel good, is it pleasing to you? Am I pleasing you?” He purred, meeting her gaze through his dark lashes, molten heat surged through her.

“Yes, Jon, my love, feels so—oh gods—so good, I want—I need—oh, oh, fuck …”

This was what the whispers had been about, his nose, riding. She rolled her hips against his face over and over again, moaning when he turned his head and bit down on her inner thigh, hard, an almost feral light in his eyes.

Lewd wet noises filled the room, and her cheeks would have burned darker if not for Jon’s deep groans drowning out the sounds. “Mine, my golden girl, my queen, gods Myrcella, you taste divine.”

Her heart raced in her chest; her breathing grew shallow as she whined and pulled him closer rocking her hips against him. Something pleasurable and intoxicating was building within her, rapidly, coming ever closer, and she whimpered his name, all rational thoughts dissolving like spun sugar in water as he dismantled her. His fingers bullied that spot within her, not letting up for a moment, pushing her over the precipice she was standing on. Waves of pleasure overwhelmed her as she flung herself into the ocean that was Jon and his magical tongue and fingers. She released his hair to slap a hand over her mouth and muffle her cry of his name. He did not stop, fingers still pumping, nose rubbing against her bud, tongue thrusting, lapping up her arousal, and it catapulted her further, body trembling, as her hand fell to her side uselessly.

“Kiss me.” She pleaded, half out of her mind and half entirely certain. They had already risked much, anyone could walk in, but she could not bring herself to care.

Jon stood, chest heaving, a wild look in his eyes, his fingers still working within her, slow and indulgent. She watched as his pink tongue darted out; the lower half of his face shiny with her arousal. She whimpered at the sight, walls fluttering around his fingers. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then brushed a kiss to the corner of her lips.

“Jon. Kiss me.” She grabbed him and closed the distance between them, the world warm and hazy, made golden by the wine. She tugged on his curls as her lips met his, and he swallowed the whimper she let out when he removed his fingers.

“My Lady, we should—”

“Please.” Myrcella begged, unsure of what she was even truly asking for, face tilted up towards him, desperate to feel his lips once more. “Please, Jon, you are the victor, the champion, am I not your queen? Will you not claim your prize?”

Jon swore under his breath, and he nudged her legs wider, fitting himself between them. His clothed manhood pressed against her core as he dropped his head to kiss her neck, heated open mouthed kisses that left her squirming against him. “You cannot—you cannot ask such things, in that voice, Myrcella….”

“I am yours Jon, yours, are you not mine?” She asked, fingers tangling in the laces of his tunic.

His teeth sank into the crook of her neck, a pleasure-pain flaring through her. “I would sooner carve my own heart out than belong to anyone else.”

A possessive thrill went through her. She wanted him, wanted to feel him to the hilt, his bare skin against hers, his warm breath stirring her hair, his voice in her ear as he climaxed. Wanted his seed to take, to give him babe after babe until they had a wolf pack, a pride of their own.

“As would I.” She breathed, taking her own bite of him, reckless and drunk on their shared confession, her tongue, and teeth marking beside the hollow of his neck.

Jon’s head fell back, a moan escaping his lips as his hips jerked against her own.

The friction was delicious, Myrcella sought it again, scraping her teeth against the tanned skin of his throat, her nails digging into his shoulders, his back. A lioness, she was a lioness, she would mark him, claim him. She rolled her hips again and again, gasping when his cock caught against her bud, and Jon nearly doubled over, hips moving against her own, his breathing harsh.

“M-Myrcella, we cannot, your maidenhood, I would not dishonor you.” He panted out, even as he rutted against her, and palmed her breasts, his teeth and tongue marking the pale flesh, claiming her with a savagery she had only seen when he trained or fought.

“It is yours; I am yours, Jon, there is no dishonor.” She promised, desperation like she had never known running amock, playing havoc with her rational mind. That savage thrill from before returned, and she kissed him hard, fire burning within her, higher and higher, brighter and brighter, fueled by the sound of Jon chanting her name like a prayer.

His chant faltered, dissolving into intelligible moans and curses as his hand slipped between them, finding her bud and setting a frantic pace that made stars burst forth behind her eyelids. While she was recovering, he choked out a semblance of her name, his hips stilling, his head dropping to her shoulder.

She wrapped her arms around him, seeking comfort in his warmth, head still spinning, her nerves alight, worry creeping in the longer he did not move or speak. “Jon…?”

He kissed her temple and returned her embrace, cradling the back of her head. “I will do this the honorable way; I swear to you. I will not have whispers plaguing my wife.”

Her heart fluttered, and she clung to him, praying his courage would not fail him when the time came, praying her father would do right by her.

Chapter Text

Jon slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning, sweat soaked, as strange images and sounds filled his head. Cold as he had never known pierced him, statues towered over him, the faces of his ancestors looking down upon him with cruel expressions. The crypt, he was in the crypt of Winterfell. He got to his feet, his body heavy, aching, each step a struggle as the statues whispered, their voices too low, too convoluted for him to understand their words. Jon pushed forward towards the exit, the pinprick of light high above, the stone steps taunting him. He reached the final step, sweat dripping from him, soaking his heavy cloak. The voices fell silent, the air went still, and he pushed through the doorway expecting to see the familiar halls of Winterfell. Instead, the world around him shattered. Enraged screams filled the air, forcing him to his knees, his chest grew tight, and he pulled at his clothing desperate to relieve the pressure, his vision darkening as he failed to draw breath. Then he was alone in a desert, mountains in the distance, the sun beating down on him, his ears ringing, but the screaming and the weight gone. Jon breathed deeply, buried his hands in the sand to ground himself. Slowly the sun became bearable, the air smelled sweet, and the ringing ceased.

After a few moments he stood slowly trying to get his bearings and the wind began to pick up. It whipped around him, carrying with it a voice, familiar and unfamiliar, female and gentle, calling his name. He turned his head, searching for the source but found none, the sands swirled around him, faster and faster blinding him, battering against him until he was forced to stumble back, arms held up to protect his face.

Jon. It was Myrcella’s voice now, he knew her voice, every rise and fall, every lilt and inflection, her soft crownlands accent, the words she pronounced like a Northerner learned from him.

He called out to her, sand getting in his mouth, his tongue gritty, his throat dry. He felt as if his feet were weighed down by unseen shackles, and his lungs burned with each breath he took.

Jon. Again, he heard her, more urgent, frightened.

He trudged forward towards the sound of her voice fighting against the wind, only to stumble upon a…mummer’s play?

Outside the swirling winds amongst an oasis sat a small but ornate stage. Two mummers dressed as a black dragon and a golden lion fought for a faceless crowd. They crashed into each other, the lion prevailing until another larger crimson lion jumped out from behind the curtain and attacked. The crowd cheered and booed in equal measure. The larger lion joined the dragon’s attack on the smaller lion, and once it fell, the crimson lion turned on the dragon. Rivers of red ribbons ran from each beast until the lion collapsed, and the dragon stood victorious, a wolf lingering in the shadows of the stage where it was too dark to tell its coloring, but its eyes were red.

His head ached and his vision swam, as the faceless crowd clapped, the sound growing louder and louder. He tried to swallow to speak, but his throat was as dry as the sand he stood upon, and no sound came out. Then the scene changed, it was night now, the crowd gone, and the stage empty save for the first lion lying motionless, red ribbons limp beside them. He stumbled forward, colliding with the stage, and grabbed one of the ribbons, using it to wipe sand from his hands so he could wipe clear his eyes. Once he had, he blinked several times, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the moon. Sweat dripped down, and he wiped it away, freezing when his hand came away red. Both his hands were red, and the sickly sweet smell of death, of a freshly butchered kill, filled his nostrils. He clambered onto the stage and gingerly turned the lion to face him.

Myrcella’s face, frozen in fear and agony, blood caked into her golden hair, stared back at him, long claw marks marring her face and body, her costume was soaked through with blood. His hand shook, and he fought down the bile rising in his throat. He croaked out her name, shaking her gently to no avail. His chest was tight once more, panic seizing his mind, sudden grief a crushing weight he bowed and broke under as he gathered Myrcella in his arms, sobs wracking his body.

He spotted the dragon in the distance, rage boiling within him, something sharp and feral possessing him, spurring him to action. He crossed the distance between them before he could blink and lunged, snapping his jaws closed around the dragon’s neck, fangs digging deep, claws seeking its heart.

Jon woke with a start, panting, his blanket on the floor, his sheets torn to shreds around him. The sun filtered gently through the stained-glass windows, birdsong filled the air, and the scent of bacon and freshly baked biscuits floated in from beneath the door to his receiving room. He dressed quickly, the feel of Myrcella’s stiff body in his arms lingered, his throat dry, his tongue heavy. He pushed open the door, still lacing his tunic when another sound reached him.

Humming, light and sweet, accompanied by the rustling of skirts.

Myrcella sat at the small, rounded table in his receiving room, spreading jam on a halved biscuit, humming as she did so, Ghost at her feet looking at him knowingly.

Jon nearly fell to his knees with relief, crossing the room in two strides he swept her into his arms, burying his face in her hair, blessedly free of blood, and smelling of honeysuckle once more.

“Jon? Are you well?” Myrcella asked, her voice muffled by his collarbone.

He pulled back and cupped her face, kissing her soundly, basking in the feel of her warmth, her life beneath his hands.

She sighed blissfully into the kiss and looped her arms around his neck, going up on her toes to be closer to him. “This does not answer my question, but I will accept it.”

He chuckled and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, lingering for a moment on the curve of her cheek where a claw mark had been in his dream. “I am well, and you? How are you feeling?”

Myrcella blushed, the sight more beautiful than any flower, and finished lacing up his tunic, fingertips ghosting over the marks she had left on his chest and throat. She wore a gown of purple and cream, with gold laces on the bodice. The neckline of her kirtle brushing past her clavicle, her arms fully covered excluding the oval slits that exposed her forearms, and no slits in her skirts. It was far more modest than she had worn the night before, and for a moment he mourned the fact that she would most likely not wear her dress from Lys again, not at court at least. Memories of the night before rose unbidden, heated lips and skin, the sound of her moans and pleas akin to music, the sting of her nails and teeth, the heady rushes of pleasure, the taste of her on his tongue. Yes, it was good she was covered, it would help him rein his urges back in.

“I feel wonderful.” She smiled and led him to the table, setting a plate before him laden high with his favorite foods to break fast with.

He tucked in gratefully, tossing a piece of bacon to Ghost.

“I shall have much to tell you after my tea with Sansa, Eleyna, Roslin and Margaery. According to Eleyna we missed a multitude of scandals. Not counting our own.” She said cheekily, pulling down the bodice of her kirtle slightly to display the red and purple marks that decorated her décolletage. “I had to cover my neck in cosmetics and tell the servants I wished to put my kirtle on myself, so no one would see these.”

“My apologies.” He said, guilt twisting in his gut.

She shook her head still smiling, gods he wished she would smile at him forever. “Do not apologize, I enjoyed it.”

He smirked, still riding high from his victories, from the sounds and reactions he had pulled from her the night before. “Oh?”

She threw a cloth napkin at him, flustered now that they were face to face in the morning light. “Shut up!”

He caught it with ease, chuckling. “If it embarrasses my queen of love and beauty, I will refrain from speaking.”

Myrcella rolled her eyes playfully. “Good, then I might finally have some peace and quiet.”

Jon did not respond, pointedly keeping his lips closed.

“Jon…” She dragged out the syllables of his name, a pout on her petal pink lips.

He beckoned her over, and she slid into his lap, seated sideways, resting her hands on his chest. He took one and pressed it to his lips, thanking the gods old and new that his dream had been only that, a dream. “I will go to your father today, if his mood is good, and make a formal plea for your hand.”

Myrcella’s expression shifted, worry clouding her brow. “What if he says no? Perhaps we should wait until Summerhall is closer to completion or when we have returned home, and he is away from my mother.”

The wolf lingering in the shadows of the stage as the golden lion lay dying.  

It was a dream, a dream, but he was a Stark, had sat at Old Nan’s feet and heard the stories, had seen through Ghost’s eyes, had tasted his fresh kill, harnessed his senses as he trained and fought. If it were only a dream then he had naught to concern him, but it was something other, something older, more powerful, then he could not afford to ignore it.

The door to the king’s temporary solar was closed, but Jaime stood outside the door and smiled when he saw him, arm outstretched to grasp his own. “Jon, I have not had the chance to congratulate you on your victory.”

He clasped Jaime’s arm as the elder man did the same. “Thank you, and congratulations to you as well, you are a fine rider.”

Jaime laughed. “I have been doing it for far longer than Lord Edric that is for sure.”

“And the queen? Was she not angry with you for…” He trailed off, still unsure how to navigate the complex relationship between Jaime and his twin. It was unlike any sibling relationship Jon had ever known.

Jaime waved a hand dismissively. “I hid out in the vineyards with Tyrion, until she calmed.”

Jon nodded, and wiped his hands on his breeches, he was a man grown, a champion, a knight, the king’s favorite Stark son, he had no reason to feel nervous, and yet he did.

Jaime arched an eyebrow at him, looking pointedly at a spot near his collar. “Tell Myrcella to be more careful, cosmetics can only hide so much.”

Jon tugged the collar of his tunic higher, it was finely made, one of the finest he had brought to Highgarden, the doublet he wore over it even finer, gleaming silver fasteners, pure silk thread, sturdy quilted fabric. Myrcella had not let him leave his chambers until she felt he was sufficiently presentable, telling him if he wished to be a prince he must look as one. “I am going to ask the king for Myrcella’s hand.”

“It has taken you two long enough.” Jaime straightened one of his fasteners then clapped him on the shoulder before announcing him to the king, raised voices falling silent as the door opened.

Robert was seated at a polished wooden table, the legs carved into roses, Cersei seated on his right, Jon’s father on his left. Lord Tywin was standing near the unlit fireplace, and Lord Renly turned from where he was pouring himself a drink to greet him.

Jon’s stomach churned, his practiced speech now jumbled and twisted in his mind. He had hoped it would be only his father and Robert, or even just Robert himself, but the gods could only allow him a certain amount of kindness each day it seemed.

“Our new Lord of Summerhall, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Renly said, tipping his cup in Jon’s direction, far too jovial for the tense mood of the room.

“Your Graces, Father, My Lords.” He nodded his head at each in turn, taking care to show proper respect to Cersei, who looked moments away from clawing his eyes out.

“Where is my daughter, Lord Jon? Do not tell me you have lost her.” Cersei drawled, swirling her wine, her eyes like daggers of jade.

“Princess Myrcella is with her ladies, taking tea with Lady Margaery. Ser Loras, and my direwolf are watching over them, and I will be joining them shortly as well.” He said, arms clasped behind his back, spine straight, chin level, stiff and proper as he had been taught.

Cersei accepted his answer and sipped her wine, eyes darting between Robert and Tywin, her knuckles white from how hard she gripped the cup.

“Jon, come closer, you look as if you have something to ask of me.” Robert said, a gleam in his eyes to match the caution in Ned’s.

Jon stepped closer and steadied himself. “Your Grace, I humbly request the hand of Princess Myrcella.”

Cersei choked on her wine, and his father met his eyes, a silent question within them.

“I have proven myself an indispensable protector, been granted a lordship that I have no doubt will be worthy of her, come from a great house, one that shares a rich history with your own, and I hold her in the highest esteem. She will not know sorrow or fear, I will never raise a hand to her, nor let any others try to hurt her through word or deed.” He continued, gaining courage as he spoke.

“Does she wish to marry you?” Renly asked, counting out coins from his purse.

“She does.” He was certain of that at the very least.

Robert held out his hand, and Renly dumped the coins into it with an exaggerated sigh. “I was hoping Myrcella would be the braver of you two.”

Jon did not let this turn of events rattle him; he forged on. “Your Grace, you wished to bind our houses, jested that it should be through the princess and I long ago, you were right. I ask you to bind us.”

“Well Ned, he is your boy, any objections?” Robert asked, looking over at him.

Jon waited, eyes on his father. He should have gone to him first, heard his council instead of charging in blindly.

“If you have none, then I have none. Let us bind our houses.” Ned said, cracking a smile when Robert stood and pulled him with him.

“I have an objection. You will not marry my only daughter to a former bastard.” Cersei said, standing as well, wildfire in her eyes.

“They will be happy together; what mother does not wish for her daughter’s happiness?”

Cersei turned on her heel. “Father?”

“Send Tommen to the Rock in exchange. He clearly needs stricter guidance, and a capital preparing for a wedding will not be the place he finds it.” Tywin said coolly.

Cersei sputtered but fell silent when Tywin turned his gaze upon her.

It would break Myrcella’s heart if Tommen was sent away, he moved to speak. “The Princess—”

“Done, take the boy and whip him into shape.” Robert said as he slung an arm around Jon’s shoulders, cutting him off completely. “Now, let us go give our Golden Doe the good news.”

Chapter Text

Within a gazebo made from white marble, overlooking the gardens and shaded by fruit trees, Myrcella rested her chin in her hand as the conversation flowed around her. It was gossip from the night before, who wore what, who left with who instead of their spouse or betrothed, which lord or landed knight had gotten far too drunk and made a fool of himself. It was a pleasant break from the raw aggression of the tourney. The round table they sat at was laden with tea, sweets, and fruits of various kinds upon silver tiered trays. The chairs were cushioned, music rose softly from somewhere within the sprawling grounds. Her thoughts swirled, her heart pounded in her chest, what if her father denied Jon’s request, what if he married her off to someone else? She would not have it, she would seduce Jon, take him to her bed until she was with child and force the marriage.

“I would not be surprised if we heard several marriage announcements in the coming moons.” Margaery said, gracefully sipping her tea, her ring a rose of gold nestled within an emerald caught the sunlight, sparkling brilliantly.

“I am sure I saw at least two pairs of lords and ladies sneak out to the gardens, and Theon said he heard the sound of coupling from below his window!” Sansa said, shaking her head in disbelief as she took a lemon cake from one of the tiered tea stands.

Myrcella schooled her features into an expression of equal concern and disbelief. “Hopefully none of those couples were made up of anyone we know.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow at her.

“But if they were, then let us hope it was someone we do not like.” Myrcella acquiesced with a cat like grin.

“Like Lady Jeyne.” Roslin said, venom dripping from her words that was quite out of character.

“She was awful, she would not leave a single minor lord alone.” Eleyna agreed, breaking her blueberry tart in half. “Even the married ones!”

Myrcella took a bite of her honey cake and chewed thoughtfully. She knew it was silly to dislike the woman solely because she flirted with Jon, but she was a lioness, she did not share. Besides, Lady Jeyne had flirted with Edric as well, and most certainly would have attempted to hunt down Robb if he were not attached to Margaery’s arm the whole night. “She was very insistent on speaking with Edric, I hope he does not take after our father and present me with a bastard niece or nephew in nine moons time.”

Roslin’s spoon clinked harshly against her teacup, her complexion reddening as they turned to look at her, even Ser Loras who was leaning against a nearby pillar, watching as Ghost rolled around in the grass. “Apologies.”

Myrcella gave her a reassuring smile and steered the conversation away. “Lady Margaery, you and Lord Robb seemed to be enjoying each other’s company last night, you made quite a handsome couple.”

“He is a skilled conversationalist.” Margaery demurred, setting her tea down with a secretive smile. “Surprisingly handsome as well.”

“Surprisingly?” Sansa echoed, eyes narrowing slightly. “Robb is by far the handsomest of my brothers, Theon said he has every available maiden in the North nipping at his heels.”

Myrcella sat back in her seat delicately, watching. It was not often that Sansa would push back against others, especially not those she admired, as she seemed to admire Margaery.

“I meant no offense; it is only that we do not get many stories about the North down here. Southron men would have you thinking all men living past The Twins were rabid beasts. But I have come to learn that is very much not the case.” Margaery said with a coy smile, quickly soothing Sansa’s pride in a way Myrcella found quite brilliant.

“No, it is not.” Sansa sniffed; her chin tilted up slightly.

“Men at The Twins are rabid beasts.” Roslin said quietly, stirring another spoonful of sugar in her still undrunk tea.

Guilt pierced through her, and Myrcella reached out for Roslin, stilling her hand. Benfrey was not a full-blooded brother of hers, far older than Roslin and according to her tales, a tormentor of the children born of any mother but his own, but still, he was her kin.

“Lady Roslin, I am so sorry, I did not think before I spoke.” Margaery said, genuine remorse in her tone.

Roslin waved them both off. “Benfrey was a brute, it is better that the realm is rid of him. I only hope the next Frey to go is my father.”

Eleyna and Margaery’s eyes widened, Sansa choked on her tea as she tried to hide her laughter, and Myrcella snorted. “I could visit The Twins and bait him into insulting me, then perhaps my father would let Jon execute him.”

“It is easy to bait my father, that is why he has so many children, and yet none that care for him.” Roslin drawled, finally taking a sip of her tea.

At that Margaery laughed, the sound clear and silvery akin to the bells of the Great Sept. “Remind me to never cross you Lady Roslin, I do not wish to be presented with such a scathing review of my faults and failures.”

Roslin blushed slightly and nodded, her burst of bravado fading.

Male voices from around the corner drew their attention, and Ghost stood, shaking the grass flecks from his fur.

“Is that the King?” Eleyna asked, hurrying to her feet.

Myrcella turned to see Jon and her father approaching, Lord Ned and her Uncle Jaime with them, though the latter was trailing behind. She stood and curtsied, putting on the bright smile her father loved. “Father, have you come to join us for tea?”

He shook his head, smiling widely as he urged Jon forward. “Not this time, I only wished to bring your betrothed to you.”

Myrcella’s breath caught in her throat. He had done it; Jon had convinced her father.

Jon was suddenly standing before her, taking her hands in his. “His Grace has agreed to bind our houses, we shall be wed.”

Sansa’s arms were around her next, smiling so widely it was as if she were marrying her heart’s desire, not Myrcella. “We are to be sisters!”

Myrcella returned her embrace, Eleyna and Roslin were smiling as well, while Margaery had slipped through them and was speaking quietly with Robert. The way she tilted her head and laughed softly knocked something loose from the night before.

Margaery and Robb, slipping through the crowd, a door left cracked, stoppered up by orange fabric snagged on the door frame, a discarded wolf mask, flashes of bare skin, auburn hair gripped by a delicate hand. It was after, when she and Jon snuck back to their separate chambers, she was certain, certain of what she had seen, though she did not know how far Margaery and Robb had gone. She had to tell Jon, or perhaps she should speak with Margaery first? She did not know, and did not wish to get Margaery or Robb in trouble. A lady’s reputation was the cornerstone of her worth, and while she hoped Robb would do right by Margaery, she did not know him well, so she could not say for sure.

Her father’s hand on her shoulder pulled her out of her thoughts, and Sansa’s embrace, only to pull her into his own. “It shall be a wedding to rival my own, we will have hunts, feasts, and guests from all over the realm to celebrate the binding of our two great houses.”

Myrcella returned his embrace, her arms were less strained since her father had been slowly losing weight, since her mother’s banishment. He was still large, but Lord Ned said he was far closer to fighting shape than he had been in years . Apparently, he had always been broad, but now the fat was turning to muscle and his health was improving. Which was good for Tommen and the realm, neither were ready for the death of the king.

“What did Mother say?” She asked, once he allowed her to pull away.

Lord Ned’s mouth was set in a hard line, and she understood.

It was not until they arrived at her father’s solar did Cersei speak, fuming, furious, anger burned inside her like wildfire soon to erupt and take with it the whole of Highgarden. “She is my daughter! My only daughter, she cannot be sold off to that Stark bastard.”

Tywin’s cold gaze, his impassive expression, only stoked the flames.

“And you would trade her so easily, give in to that boar and his fucking quiet wolf. You would give her to them just as you gave me. What will you do when that boy falls head over heels for some dark-haired whore and calls out her name as he beds my sweet girl? She will suffer as I did, the bastard has spent all his life with Robert and Ned Stark, he will not be any different.”

“You foolish girl.” Tywin said, anger flaring in his eyes. She remembered when they were kind, when her mother was still alive, when he was happy, when she was happy, when Jaime was happy. Jaime gods damn him how could he embarrass her as he did. Looking straight at her, making her rise from her seat only to reject her. At least it was for Myrcella, and not the Tyrell girl, or worse the Stark one.

“Foolish? No, I am a mother, I care for my children’s fate.” She seethed, unable to comprehend how her father could be so callous about his grandchildren, his legacy.

“If you truly cared you would have endeared yourself to the king, would have reined in Joffrey before he tried to kill that Stark boy. Now all we have left is Myrcella and Tommen. A woman and a weak whimpering boy. You have failed to raise them, failed to raise your children as I raised you and your brothers. This marriage is a result of your inadequacy.”

Cersei bit back an insult about her brothers, particularly Tyrion, he who killed their mother, who made her life miserable, who stole Jaime from her. Her father’s greatest shame.

“You have failed to make the king care for you, but Myrcella has not. He dotes upon her, Pycelle tells me she sits in the heir’s seat, she is respected, listened to, the people adore her, smallfolk and noble alike, did you not see how they cheered for her, for him? They were practically foaming at the mouth for the chance to see the Golden Doe and her White Wolf in action. For gods’ sake Cersei there are songs written about them, we must capitalize upon this.”

“Surely, he has done something, tricked her, or seduced her. The Starks have done it before, that stupid Lyanna girl she used some Northern wiles to ensnare Prince Rhaegar.”

Tywin massaged his temples. “Prince Rhaegar was already lost to us, you must get over that insult, you are queen, the Stark girl is dead.”

“But he is a bastard, a northern brute.” She protested, feeling as she did when Robert first came to see Myrcella, the sudden loss and panic that filled her veins when he snatched her from her arms, smelling of drink.

“Hardly. He is Jaime’s protégé, you cannot say you have not seen it, the bond, the blind devotion and skewed sense of justice. Just as Jaime would never harm you, Jon would never harm her.”

“If he harmed her, I would kill him myself.” She snarled, holding onto a nearby chair for stability.

“If he did, we would deal with that, but first she must bear him an heir, preferably three.” Tywin said coolly, watching her, waiting for her reaction.

“Three?” He would force her little lioness to lay with that beast at least three times? He would ruin her, ravage her, break her spirit as that Dornish bitch had ruined her dear Rhaegar, left him weak to Lyanna’s wild ways.

“Yes, three.” He sighed as if he thought her simple-minded. “One for Summerhall, one for Storm’s End, and one for either the throne or Casterly Rock.”

“Tommen is heir to the throne.” Her sweet simple boy who wished only to make others around him happy but had been failing so miserably, she wished he could return to the babe he had been before, safely tucked up in her arms.

Tywin shrugged. “For now, he is, but the king has grown tired of him and his failures. That is why we must train him, raise him in the ways of our house, we cannot have another weak king on the throne.”

“But he is still heir to Casterly Rock, after me, correct?”

“We shall see how he does.”

“You cannot take his birthright from him, I did not stomach Robert’s advances, his whores, his drinking, and the bruises for my son to not sit upon a throne. He must sit on a throne, either in King’s Landing or the Rock.”

“You stomached all that for all of your children.” He said, coming closer and taking her gently by the shoulders. “A child of yours shall sit upon the throne, Cersei, we must only ensure it is the strongest one.”

“It should have been Joffrey.” She said softly, her golden boy, her firstborn, she mourned him each day, cast so far from her.

“It was never going to be Joffrey.” Tywin said. “He would have made far too many enemies; his reign would have been cut short moons after he took the throne.”

She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. “He needed guidance.”

Tywin sighed again and released her. “You are in shock, go and rest. When you wake, you will see this is good. We have found a way to cement ourselves into that damned Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Baratheon power bloc without having to lift a finger. No one will be able to stand against us.”

She pursed her lips then nodded, there was no use in fighting, she could not win against her father’s will. “There will be no bedding. I will not have my sweet girl groped and leered at as I was.”

“Beddings are traditions, especially for royalty.”

“I care not, Ned Stark threatened to break the jaw of any man who tried to call for a bedding at his wedding. If his son is anything like him, then surely, he will do the same, and I will support him.” The words tasted akin to ash on her tongue, but she meant them. If Jon protested the bedding, she would add her voice to his, if he did not, she would protest it herself. If her daughter had to bed a bastard wolf, then she would do so without lecherous lords outside her door.

“We shall see what happens.” Tywin said, giving her no indication of which way he fell.

Furious and determined, Cersei turned on her heel and stormed out.

Chapter Text

Myrcella found her Uncle Tyrion in the library, head bent over a large leatherbound tome, dust swirling in the air illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the arched windows that stretched up towards the ceiling. Tommen was seated beside him, in a similar position, wearing Lannister red, a break from his favored blues and browns. She must get used to the sight; she knew the deal that had been made. She and their father got Jon, and the Rock got Tommen. He knew it as well, but they both pretended they did not know.

“Uncle?” She called quietly, making her way through the tables and chairs until she reached his, tucked away in a corner.

“Little Myrcella, have you grown tired of the chittering of the court and sought out solitude among these hallowed shelves as we have?” Tyrion asked, placing a marker in the book and closing it as he motioned for her to sit.

Tommen smiled when she sat, but quickly went back to his book.

She pressed her lips together tightly, then released them, anxiously gripping the fabric of her skirts. “I have a question, a rather sensitive one.”

He raised an eyebrow and turned to face her fully. “If it is a sensitive one, would it not be better to ask one of your ladies? Lady Roslin and Margaery are both older than you, perhaps they have the knowledge you seek.”

Myrcella glanced at her hands. She had kept Margaery’s secret for moons now, ever since they left Highgarden and Margaery came with them, flirting with Robert until they were out of The Reach, and then she would retreat into Myrcella’s wheelhouse strangely quiet. She kept to this pattern once they reached the Keep, lively and sociable then dimming, gossiping and hawking then hiding out in her chambers. Myrcella attributed it to homesickness at first, but now she knew it was more than that.

“Ah, I see, Tommen, would you give your sister and I a moment alone?”

Tommen’s jaw clenched, but he nodded and brought his book to another table.

“So, this question is regarding one of them, then?” Tyrion guessed, patting her hand reassuringly.

She nodded and glanced around to ensure there was no one else to overhear. “You cannot tell anyone.”

He crossed his heart, his mismatched eyes shining with mirth. “I will not tell a soul.”

“I think Lady Margaery is with child, and I think it is Robb Stark’s.” She said in a whispered rush. “I saw them together briefly during the ball in Highgarden, and now it has been a few moons, and she is sick and has begun covering herself more.”

“And she has been trying so very hard to win over your father. I wonder how she thought Robert would take it when the child was born with red hair?” He mused, taking far too light a tone for the severity of their conversation in Myrcella’s view.

“Uncle, I do not want Margaery to be cast out, but you know the Tyrells they strive for the highest place possible; they will not want to send Margaery north.” She said, genuine worry forming in her gut for the woman she had come to consider a good friend.

“Well, it is that or ruin her prospects entirely, no man wishes to marry a woman who has a bastard.” Tyrion said, tapping his fingers against his tome.

“What should I do? Should I write to Lord Robb, should I tell Jon, or Lord Stark? Should I tell Margaery she must come clean, or do I pretend I do not see it?” She fretted, fiddling with her necklace.

“Have you spoken with her about it at all?”

She shook her head. “And if I pretend, I do not see it, I will look a fool, and then all my ladies will be looked down upon. People will whisper, their reputations would be at stake, I cannot allow that.”

Tyrion hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps speak with her first, see if she is willing to speak to Lord Stark, if not, then you shall have to do it yourself.”

Myrcella nodded, moved to stand, then sat right back down. “What do I say to her?”

He shrugged. “I know you are carrying the future heir to Winterfell; tell Lord Stark his son has deflowered you, or I shall.”

She wrinkled her nose at the brusque wording but nodded, and kissed Tyrion on the cheek before departing.

Margaery was seated in one of the cushioned windowsills in her chambers, her knees pulled up to her chest, head turned towards the glass, her shoulder shuddering slightly, a letter open beside her.

She approached her with caution, keeping her steps light. She could hear quiet sobs as she drew closer. “Margaery?”

Margaery startled and hastily wiped her eyes, shoving the letter behind her back. “Myrcella, my apologies, I did not hear you come in.”

Myrcella slid into the space between Margaery’s knees and the opposite wall. “I do not think I have ever seen you cry.”

“I am merely feeling a bout of homesickness, it will pass.” Margaery said, giving her a watery smile.

“I do not think this sickness will pass, Margaery.” She said gently, motioning to the elder girl’s stomach.

Margaery let out a sob and buried her head in her knees. “I did not—I drank moon tea, but we saw each other once more before we parted, and I stupidly thought all would be well since it was such a short time between, but now…”

“The babe is Robb’s is it not?”

Margaery nodded, the tears sliding down her cheeks crystalline in the sunlight. “He wished to marry me, after the first time, but I told him I would drink moon tea, and it would be our secret. Merely some fun before we were forced to marry whoever our families chose.”

Myrcella placed a hand atop Margaery’s knee. “I know the North is very different from the Reach, but Robb is a good man, and I thought you two were fond of each other. Would it really be so horrible to marry him?”

“My family would never—plans had already been made, and I…I did not know if his feelings were true or if I was simply something new and exciting. So, I told him he did not need to worry about me, that I enjoyed our time together, but he owed me nothing.”

“He is a Stark, they hold their honor in high regard, I cannot believe he accepted that so easily.”

“He did not. He said he enjoyed our time together as well and wished to be with me.”

“He is a worthy suitor, the heir to a lord paramount.” Myrcella said.

“And yet it would not be enough for my father, so I tried to dissuade Robb, but he would not listen. He said he would return home and gather evidence to prove it was a place where a Southron rose could bloom freely.” Margaery smiled wistfully, her chestnut hair spilling over her shoulders. “I told him he need not do that, but before we parted a second time, he told me he would write to me, asked me to wait for him. How could I say anything but yes?”

“Does he know about the babe?” She asked tentatively.

Margaery shook her head, a fresh wave of tears bursting forth as she pulled the letter from behind her back. “I did not know how to tell him, I have avoided it in all our letters, thought perhaps a resolution could be found, and I could tell him in person, but then I received this.”

Myrcella took the letter and scanned it, her heart sinking into her stomach as she neared the end of the letter.

My father has arranged the match, a Mormont girl. I have not even met her, nor have I seen her face, but my stomach turns at the very thought of gazing upon the face of any other but yours for the remainder of my life. I do not have the power to break the betrothal, but by the gods old and new I swear to you, my dearest rose, I had no knowledge of the betrothal until it was lobbed at me by my lady mother. Tell me what you wish me to do, sweet Margaery. Ask me to come to you, to steal you away, and I shall. Curse my name and never speak with me again, and I will accept it. If it is the latter, I beg of you, give me your answer before you turn from me. Allow me the memory of your words to warm myself by in the never-ending chill that will descend upon your absence.

Myrcella refolded the letter and handed it back to Margaery. “You must tell Lord Stark, Robb cannot marry this Mormont girl, not when you carry his child, and you carry a torch for each other.”

“He will think me lowly of me.” Margaery whispered tearily.

“No, he will think his son has made the cleverest mistake of his life. You bring the Reach with you, there is no better bride in winter than she who comes bearing bushels of wheat.”

Margaery nodded, and took a deep breath, banishing her sorrow, the letter held tightly in her hand. “Let us go then.”

If Lord Ned was surprised to see her and Margaery in his office, he did not show it, he greeted them politely and offered them wine. When they both refused, he motioned for them both to sit, leaning his elbows on his desk.

“Is there a matter that I can help you with, Princess, Lady Margaery?” He asked, looking them each in the eye in turn.

“It is in regard to your heir, Robb.” Myrcella said, her back straight, she was a princess, and soon to be Lord Ned’s good-daughter, she would not falter.

“Robb, has something happened?”

“It is a sensitive matter.” Margaery said softly, the letter in her lap, out of Ned’s sight.

He nodded, waiting for them to continue speaking.

“The betrothal between him and the Mormont girl must be called off.” Myrcella said firmly, speaking for Margaery. She was her lady; it was her duty.

Ned’s brows furrowed and he steepled his fingers. “Princess, that is not a decision for you to make.”

“The babe in my lady-in-waiting’s womb says otherwise.” She said, her head held high. “Your son deflowered Lady Margaery, she is with child and the situation must be rectified.”

A twinge of something, pain, or exhaustion perhaps, flickered across his face, and he got up and closed the door to his office, his heavy boots muffled by the thick rug covering the floor. “When did this happen?”

“The night of the ball in Highgarden, it was not planned, we simply wished to get some air, and leave behind the crowd.” Margaery said.

“Does Robb know of this child?”

“No, I—drank moon tea, but we…saw each other again before he returned North and—”

“You did not drink again because you thought the effects would last.” Lord Ned sighed heavily, returning to his chair.

“It was not my intention to shame myself or Robb, I did not even realize until two moons ago, please Lord Hand, I wish to marry Robb, to right the wrong he and I have committed.” Margaery placed the letter on Ned’s desk. “He wishes to do so as well, he wished to marry me after the first encounter, but I feared his feelings would falter, they have not, nor have mine.”

Ned took the letter and read it silently, placing it facedown when he was finished. “I will write to Robb. Once this is confirmed I will send a raven to your father, I presume we will want you wedded quickly.”

Margaery nodded, her hand coming to rest on her still small stomach, the light returning to her eyes. “Thank you, Lord Hand.”

Then he turned to Myrcella. “Princess, please tell me you do not share Lady Margaery’s predicament.”

Her face burned, she could defend Margaery’s actions but to speak of her own, to even hint at them to Jon’s father, was entirely terrifying. “No, no, I am not with child, Jon is an honorable man not easily swayed by his urges—I mean no offense.” She winced, realizing she had insulted Lord Ned and Robb in one go.

He waved away her apology. “Let us try to keep this quiet until a formal announcement can be made. Lady Margaery, I do not mean to sound harsh when I say this, but if the child you are carrying is my grandchild, please take care.”

“It is your grandchild, you may ask Robb, the blood from my maidenhead was on his cloak.” She said, eyes narrowed slightly.

“Peace, Lady Margaery, I say this only because my lady wife will be very happy her first grandchild will have Southron blood, and I do not wish her to be disappointed.”

Margaery accepted his answer with a prim dip of her head.

They lingered for a few moments more before Myrcella led Margaery back down the Tower of the Hand’s stairs and into her chambers, leaving her to write a letter for Robb to be sent after he confirmed their dalliance.

She left Margaery to her writing and meandered back to her own chambers, strangely exhausted by the turn of events.

Chapter Text

There has been a change within the capital, the court, ever since Jon had been named Lord of Summerhall, and their betrothal was announced. It was as if every noblewoman in the Red Keep suddenly realized he existed and sought him out. At first, it was women she knew, ones on the outer edges of her circle, then it was strangers, women brought with their husbands or sent by their father in preparation for the wedding. She could not begrudge those who sought to use the influx of people arriving for her wedding as a way to find a husband of their own, but it was those who laid their eyes upon Jon she could.

And Jon her sweet Jon was far too unaware of his own beauty, his allure, treating each noblewoman with equal courtesy. He was quite shocked when one would say or do something particularly bold, his eyes finding hers, silently asking for rescue. She rescued him often enough, but sometimes she would wait, let the girl wind herself up, and make an entrance at exactly the right moment, eyes flashing imperiously, catching the girl in the act, watching as shame flooded her. But some were bold, no lowering of their eyes in deference, no flushes of shame or steps away when she approached, and she did not like that. For while Myrcella had no fear someone would steal Jon from her, so tightly bound they had been since they were young, she did not enjoy the sight of another so near him. Nor did she enjoy the blatant impertinence of those women. She was their princess; her betrothed was not available to be pawed at.

So, she made a mental list, taking note of those who acted out of turn, who did not back down or acted as if she were nothing more than a little girl who did not wish to share her toys. They would find themselves hard-pressed to secure a proper match, once Myrcella’s maids had finished their campaign of whispers. A campaign led by Eleyna who proved far more conniving than Myrcella would have ever imagined. It was a boon to discover since with Margaery wed and soon to have her babe in Winterfell there was a distinct lack of sharp tongues among her ladies.

It was with that thought, of the lesson that would be learned by those who did not know how to act properly, that she called Jon to her. She pulled him away from the chittering lords and ladies, made excuses to her own, and asked him to escort her to her chambers.

He did so, thanking her quietly for rescuing him, his pinky brushing against her own as they walked.

She was not necessarily angry, no, it was more that she felt moved to seize what was hers, and once they entered her chambers, she had made up her mind. She would claim Jon, remind him and herself that there was no other that owned his heart, that held his attention, and she would get answers. Who had he given the lord’s kiss to? When? Why? Had she reacted better, been better, had he enjoyed himself more then?

With the door locked behind them, Myrcella beckoned Jon to her as she walked backwards, aiming for the chaise lounge, intent on leading him straight into her trap, she would have her answers. He followed her as if on a string or under a spell, eyes dark with desire and devotion, sitting on the lounge as she bid, reaching to pull her into his lap, but she shook her head, and placed a hand on his thigh.

I have only done this once before; you will have to forgive me if it is not my finest skill. Myrcella had waited, been patient, let Jon’s drunken words sit and stew, aging like wine in the barrel of her mind. The time to tap the barrel had come, the wine at its fruition, full-bodied and tart with anger and jealousy, she had tried to push away. He was hers; they were to be wed, it should not matter who came before her, he was a man, they had needs, and yet he had told her he was hers. His sword and shield, his life, it was hers. She had not made him swear his body though, nor his attention, not until after he had returned from Winterfell. She guessed that was when it had happened, while he was away traveling. Had he not come back more confident, had she not feared he had given himself to another?

She had him now, quite literally in the palm of her hand, his cock thick and heavy, long according to the drawings in the books Lynesse had sent her. They were for educational purposes, Lynesse had written, so that Myrcella would not be left so very in the dark on her wedding night. Her face had burned as she flipped through the pages, but they were educational, and she was gladdened to see Lynesse’s note on page one hundred and forty-two was not wrong.

Take your husband in hand, and he will not be able to deny you anything.

Jon gripped the arm and back of the chaise lounge, his knuckles white as she sat beside him, the neckline of her dress tantalizing low. Lynesse had recommended kneeling between his legs, but she was a princess, a Lannister, she did not kneel.

She leaned forward slightly, letting the tops of her breasts catch Jon’s eye, her hand slowly stroking him, her thumb brushing over the reddened tip of his cock every so often, as she pressed soft kisses to his throat.

“Myrcella…” He sighed, his face pink, his eyes roaming her form, darting back to her eyes every so often.

She hummed affirmatively against his skin, twisting her wrist at the base of him.

He shuddered at the feel, a quiet groan slipping past his lips.

“Yes, Husband?” Myrcella asked, her breath warm against his ear as she squeezed his shaft, biting back a smile when his hips jerked.

“We should wait. We will be wed soon enough, then we can do all we wish to do.” Jon said, head falling back as she continued to work her hand up and down. He made a show of protesting so often these days, no truth or heart in his words. She knew he did it for the good of her reputation, and his own, a kind gesture, though today so had no patience for it.

Not when he was seated beside her, powerful legs spread wide, his breeches undone, his tunic half pushed up from their movements revealing his toned abdomen, the flexing of the muscles as he tried to keep control of himself.

She feigned innocence, squeezing him once more, higher up, and nipped at his earlobe. “Is it unpleasant for you, what I am doing?”

He shook his head, his cock twitching in her grip. “No, no, it is too pleasant, and I do not wish to—”

Myrcella quickened her hand, tightening her grip, twisting her wrist when she reached his tip, repeating the movement over and over again as she attached her lips to the spot beneath his jaw, sucking harshly.

Jon’s words died on his lips, making way for a low moan, hips bucking up into her grip. “G-Gods, will you do—please do that again.”

“Of course, my love.” She purred, repeating the motion, alternating between fast and slow, learning what he liked as she went. “Anything for my Lord Husband.”

His breath hitched when she circled the tip of his cock with her thumb, paying special attention there, as the books had told her. His eyes were half lidded, focused on the wall as he tried to control himself. His kiss swollen lips parted as he desperately sucked in air. Deep voiced moans and pleas filled the room, as she continued her ministrations, using her free hand to slowly unlace her bodice just in case he needed additional encouragement.

“You are so good, too good to me, perfect, perfect Myrcella, gods your touch…” He tilted his head to the side, allowing her more access, his breath catching when she scraped her teeth down the sensitive skin.

He was too coherent, not yet distracted enough to answer her question honestly, she needed to fix that, needed his pleasure to blind him as hers had that fateful night. Unlacing her bodice the rest of the way, she let it fall, exposing the swell of her breasts, the chill of the air against her exposed flesh caused goosebumps to decorate the skin.

“Jon.” She pouted, letting her hair fall forward and frame her breasts, the marks he had left from a few nights prior still stark against her pale skin. “Look at my dress, I think the laces are broken.”

He swore under his breath, his warm gaze sweeping over her. “Aye, I think they are.”

She continued pouting, and sped up her ministrations, squeezing, twisting, tugging, until he was panting, his eyes darting between her face, her hand, and her breasts, a constant dizzying pattern. “What should I do? I cannot cover them myself; I need your help.” She cupped one breast with her free hand, batting her eyelashes at him.

“Others take me.” Jon growled, his breathing growing harsher, and harsher until his hips began to stutter in her grip, jerking wildly, his head thrown back against the chaise lounge. Warmth splattered across her hand. He looked at her with an apology in his eyes, but she shook her head and straddled him, taking him in hand once more.

“Gods, please, please.” His voice was rough, raspy, as he rolled his hips into her hand.

She used his seed to aid her movements, his cock hardening quickly in her hand, her free hand guiding his own to her breasts. “Touch me, Jon, please?”

“Gladly.” He breathed, palming her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers, meeting the pleasure that had been building in her halfway.

She stroked him, hitting each spot he enjoyed before, moving quickly, squeezing him hard, her free hand trailing her nails up and down his side gently, a stark contrast to the punishing pace on his cock.

Jon panted, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, his hands on her breasts groping them desperately. “Myrcella, please, please, My Lady, you must—harder, be harsher.”

“Harsher?” Myrcella asked, brows furrowed slightly.

He nodded frantically, and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Her core was aching, her small clothes damp and sticking to her, each moan and plea that fell from his lips sending another jolt of heat through her. “I-I do not want to hurt you.”

“You will not, I promise.” He said, his voice strained, his accent thick.

She bit her lip, but did as he asked, gripping him tighter, pumping him faster, digging her nails into the hard muscle of his abdomen, her breath escaping her when he melted beneath her, was now the time?

Jon’s hips rolled, jerked, and thrusted into her hand at an ungodly speed, his hands falling to grip the lounge cushions, his knuckles white, moans slipping from his lips, his breathing heavy.

“Jon, do you remember the night of the ball, in Highgarden?” She asked, finally seizing her opportunity.

He nodded. “So beautiful, My Lady was so very beautiful.”

She hummed in response, slowing her hand, watching the desperation flood his veins, his handsome features creasing and twisting. “And you remember you feasted upon me, with the lord’s kiss.”

“Myrcella, please, please, do not stop.” He begged, his cock red and angry in her grip.

She sped back up, and anchored her free hand in his hair, pulling his head up, her lips hovering over his. “Do you remember?”

“Yes, yes.” He said, his eyes open now, glazed over with pleasure, and so very pretty.

“Good, and do you remember how you told me you had only done it once before?” She continued sweetly, wondering if perhaps she should feel guilty for treating him this way.

Jon nodded best he could, his lips seeking hers, blinded by need.

“When did you first perform the lord’s kiss and who with?” She asked, focusing only on the head of his cock, basking in the sounds of his desperation, the rutting of his hips, the scent of him thick in the air.

“She was no one, it mattered little to me.” He said, his chest brushing hers with each rise and fall, the linen of his tunic against her nipples making her squirm.

“That is not what I asked, dear champion.” She purred, brushing a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“It was on the journey to Winterfell; a brothel in the Twins, I could not banish you from my mind and sought aid in doing so.”

Her guess had been right, but she could not decide if his reasoning made her feel better or worse.

“Ah, so you fell into bed with a whore and forgot about me?” She snarled, yanking his head back.

“I did not bed her, I tried, but the thought of it made me ill. I am yours Myrcella, she taught me to use my fingers, and the lord’s kiss, nothing else.” Jon promised, looking earnest, albeit thoroughly wracked with pleasure.

It was not enough, jealousy burned bright within her. “Did you moan her name; did you look her in the eyes as you used your fingers and tongue on her?” She did not wish to hear his answer right away, rage and lust warring within her. She shoved his head to her breasts, sighing when his lips wrapped around her nipple, his warm hands leaving the cushions to cup her breasts, teasing them, easing her growing need as he switched between the two.

“Did she touch you? Did you let her touch you, while you tried to forget me? Did you enjoy her more?” Her hand worked him faster and faster until he finished a second time, his body shuddering, pleasure muddling her mind as Jon’s teeth grazed her nipple, and he groaned her name against her skin.

She had to pull him off with a pop, his fingers still plucking at her nipples like harp strings, making her anger falter. There was a wolfish gleam in his eyes, it was maddening. He liked this, liked her jealous and clawing at him.

“I do not even remember her name, nor the color of her eyes. She did not touch me, not as you have, I did not want her. I imagined you, thought only of you, there is no one I enjoy more.” He said breathlessly, smiling wryly when she swatted his hands away.

“I want her dead, and banished from your memories. You are mine Jon, you have always been mine. How dare you allow some woman to touch you, to feel your touch, to receive pleasure that belongs to me alone?” She seethed, sitting back on his thighs.

“She was only trying to help alleviate the madness born of longing for you, only you.” He said, his hands ghosting over her ribs, his voice low, his touch warm as he dipped her head to kiss her.

“Madness, was it?” She asked, lips a hairsbreadth from his, still angry, still wanting.

He nodded, breathing ragged. “Madness, Myrcella, nothing more, nothing less.”

“This.” She yanked his head back, and dragged her nails down his chest, lingering over his heart, then letting her fingers rest at the base of his softening member. “And this and this, is mine. Let madness take hold of you again—”

Jon cradled the back of her head, mimicking her movements, his free hand slowly trailing down from her heart to grip her thigh, close to her clothed core but not yet touching. “Are these mine as well, then?”

“They have always been yours; I have never fallen to madness.” She snapped.

Jon chuckled darkly, and it sent that savage thrill through her. “No, for if you had I would have killed the man who aided you.”

She all but purred at his words, her anger dissipating slowly but steadily, like calling to like, violence to violence. “The Lord of Summerhall and his silver tongue, truly, I see why the ladies of the realm are so envious.”

He cupped her cheek and kissed her hungrily, showing her exactly how skilled he was with his tongue, pulling away only when she was breathless and dizzy. “Are you still cross with me, Lady Wife?”

She stared at him for a moment, still dizzy, then collected herself. “No, but I want you to give her name and a description of her to one of my grandsire’s men. I cannot have a random woman claiming to have received the lord’s kiss from my husband, the newest lord of the realm.”

She knew it was not in his nature to kill a woman, not unless it was the direst of circumstances, but she had no such reservations.

Jon smirked, and his hands briefly settled upon on her hips before trailing lower, slipping beneath her skirts. “It has already been taken care of. Lord Tyrion assures me the woman was given a job as a maidservant in his manse in exchange for her silence.”

Myrcella smiled, her uncle did not have a manse in King’s Landing, he had done her a favor and spared Jon’s conscience without her even needing to ask. “How kind of him, and how very resourceful of you.”

“I can be quite resourceful when needed.” Jon said, gripping her thighs and pulling her closer.

Chapter Text

You will move to Casterly Rock to be with your mother and I after the wedding, there you will be under my tutelage, and become a man worthy of the throne.

What if I cannot? I was not raised to be king.

If you cannot then, perhaps, I shall have to revisit the line of succession. Myrcella is young, healthy, and I have no doubt her betrothed will want many heirs to match the Stark brood of his youth.

You would name Myrcella heir?

I will name whichever member of my family is the least disappointing, you will need to work hard.

With his grandsire’s words echoing in his mind, Tommen pulled at the seams of Myrcella’s Baratheon bridal cloak until it began to tear. He used his dagger for the more stubborn parts, slashing through the beading, satisfaction filling him as they scattered across the floor. Gems and beads clattered across the stone, rolling in every direction, and he kicked the more stubborn diamonds about. Then he grabbed a nearby pitcher and drenched the fabric in wine. The very wine their father had gifted her for her upcoming wedding, one of many gifts. Their father had given Myrcella more gifts in these past few moons than Tommen had received from him in his whole life. Why? What made Myrcella more worthy? Because she was marrying? That was not fair, he had never been given the chance to seek someone of his own. Jon had come along with Lord Stark, he was all but handed to Myrcella, as everything was.

Tommon had not intended this, he came to her chambers to talk, to confide in her, to seek advice, but she was otherwise occupied, out in the gardens with Lady Margaery Stark and her daughter Leona. A servant asked him to wait, while they informed her of his presence, but as time passed, and she did not show, he grew bored and began to browse her chambers. She had changed the decorations some, adding in trinkets sent by various friends, fabrics from Lys draped pleasingly, her gowns of various cuts and colors hung neatly in wardrobes. Her writing desk was covered in letters, and he smiled when he saw the drawings he had done for her put in a place of honor. But it was the letter that sat open on her desk that stoked his ire. Their grandsire’s handwriting, flourishing loops and sharp lines, praises for her cleverness and for her shrewdness. With the help of Lord Manderly she had brokered a new and more advantageous deal for Lysne lace to replace the old one drawn up by the late Lord Baelish.

A fine Lady of Summerhall you shall be, it is a tragedy you could not be more. The wife of a Lord Paramount or a prince would be far more suitable, alas none are available, or to your liking, as my sister has assured me countless times. Like your grandmother, your heart knows what it wants and will not be dissuaded. Keep up your studies, you have done well.

He had seen red, Lannister crimson being stripped from him, and had flown into a rage.

Now he regarded the wine-soaked fabric with contempt, the symbol of their house, one she would be discarding so soon, and yet he knew, he knew all would still consider her a Baratheon more than they considered him one. The Golden Doe, she had gained a title, the love of the people, peasants, and nobles alike, their family, the Reach, the North, the Stormlands, the ruling concubine of a merchant prince from Lys, but it was not enough for her. No, she would take and take and take until she had stolen the throne from under him. Joffrey was right, he had warned him, but he had not wished to believe it. For so very long he did not believe it, but now, now that he had, he took the remainder of the Baratheon cloak and threw it into the roaring fireplace. Watched as the proud stag shriveled in on itself, the flames consuming the fabric. The gemstones fell free from their threads and clattered upon the stone, mixing with the embers. He watched, entranced by the flames, the scent of burned cloth thick.

He heard the door to Myrcella’s chambers open, and he turned on his heel, rage flaring within him. Now she came, long after he had called for her, no messenger sent, no apologies conveyed, she strolled in leisurely as if she were heir, as if the Red Keep were her castle.

She called for him, searching until she found him and smiled when she saw him. Then her face paled as she took in the carnage around him, the cogs in her mind jamming, unable to make sense of what lay before her. “What is going—what happened to my maiden’s cloak?”

“It is only a stupid piece of fabric; Father will buy you a new one if you ask him to.” He said, unable to hold back the bite in his tone.

Myrcella picked up a scrap of her cloak, beads slipping through her fingers, tears collecting on her lashes. “This was Mother’s, why would you do this?” She dropped the scrap when she spotted the rest of her maiden’s cloak in the fire.

She moved quicker than he expected, lunging for the fireplace, intent on pulling the cloak out. He caught her, pulled her back, he would not let her burn herself, their parents would skin him alive.

“Tommen, this is my maiden’s cloak, I need it if I am to be wed, why did you do this?” Myrcella asked, pushing out of his grip, still taller than him, her tears doing nothing to hide the confusion and anger in her eyes.

“You will still be wedded; Father would not let a war stop your wedding.” He said, glaring at her, furious, he still had to look up at her to do so.

“I do not understand, are you angry that I am marrying Jon, or have I done something to upset you? Tommen you are my brother, my heart, if you were cross with me, you needed only to speak with me, we could have—”

“We could have come to an understanding, yes? Because that is what you do best, you talk and talk, and dazzle everyone with your charm and wit. You sway the stubborn, win over the wary, persuade the petulant, and if they do not agree you sick your dogs on them.”

“My dogs?”

“Jon, Father, our uncles, your ladies, that whore in Lys, even Grandsire on occasion, they lunge and snap at whomever you point your finger to.”

Myrcella’s eyes flashed imperiously, but her tone remained soft, tinged with tears. “That is not true, and I would ask you not to refer to my ladies, and Lady Lynesse as dogs, they have been nothing but kind to you, especially Sansa, how could you speak of her in such a way?”

Tommen pulled at his hair, feeling as if he were going mad, still, still she twisted his words, made him to be the villain. “It is, Cella, it is! Jon fought Joffrey, pummeled him into the ground, Uncle Jaime testified against him, Father sent him to the Wall. You wrote to Lady Lynesse and the Mad King’s daughter died—”

“How did you know of that?” Myrcella asked sharply.

“Pycelle told me, he saw the ravens coming in from Lys, I thought perhaps you were organizing a trip or a present for me, so I snuck into your chambers and read the letters.”

“That is highly inappropriate, Tommen I am your elder sister, you should never have read my private missives.” She scolded, her features furrowed in anger and disbelief.

“That does not matter, it is the truth of things, though it was not spelled out so plainly.”

Myrcella pursed her lips, her eyes sweeping over the beads and gems scattered across the floor. “I did that for you, for the stability of your reign.”

“No, you did that because you could not stand the idea of another in competition of you. That is why your ladies speak so highly of you, so that others will pale in comparison, why you sent Margaery off to marry Robb Stark.”

“Margaery loves Robb, and he loves her, and my ladies speak highly of me because I have done things to speak highly of. If you had accepted my offer to find lords of your age to surround yourself with, to find you friends, you would understand.” She said sternly, looking at him as if he were still a child who needed every little thing spelled out for him.

“I am crown prince, I am heir to the realm, the Rock, Storm’s End, you do not command or correct me. You are just a girl who does not know her place.” He snapped, pulling himself up to his full height, though it made no true difference.

“I am heir to Storm’s End, not you.” She said, watching his face, her expression unreadable, though her tears still fell.

Her words took the wind out of his sails with a brutal swiftness. “Uncle Renly named you his heir over me?”

“It is a wedding gift; he has jested of it for ages, but it seems now he wishes to make it official; Edric has agreed to be castellan when the time comes.”

He said nothing, stunned.

Myrcella placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Tommen, please tell me what has upset you so.”

He shrugged her hand off. “You are heir to Storm’s End, Future Lady of Summerhall, beloved by the people and nobles, the Golden Doe, they sing songs of you, and I…I am crown prince, but Father prefers you, and Grandsire has warned me if I do not measure up, he will remove me from the Lannister line of succession.”

“Oh, oh Tommen that is awful, I will speak with him, he cannot—”

“No, no, it is precisely because you speak on my behalf that he does not take me seriously. You have coddled me, weakened me, poisoned me.” He said, venom dripping from each word.

“Poisoned you? I have protected you.”

He shook his head and pushed away from her, pacing. Pity, he did not need her pity. He was a man, a lion, a great stag, he was born to be king, he did not need her pity, her poison. “No, it is as Joffrey says, from the beginning you have been undermining me, ensuring you look the better heir.”

“Joffrey?” She echoed, confusion evident on her brow.

“Yes, Sister, Joffrey, it seems you do not know everything that goes on in this keep.”

“Tommen, Joffrey is a cruel man, he tortured you, he tried to kill Bran, he is poison, you must not listen to his lies.”

“No, he has changed, the watch has changed him, he said he has understood his transgressions and wants to make right with me. He has been encouraging me, listening as no one else has. He has opened my eyes to the truth.”

“Tommen, he is trying to turn you against me, he is sewing chaos as he always has.” She warned.

He turned on his heel, facing her, rage boiling within him, she was so very predictable.

She has always been clever, our dear sister; she coveted my seat as heir since the day she was born, and now it seems she has turned her jealous desires upon you. I am saddened by this news, but not surprised. Do not fall for her pretty words, Brother, or you will find yourself here at the Wall with me soon enough.

“You are trying to steal my throne.”

“No, I am not.” She said immediately, grabbing his arms and stilling him.

“Yes, you are. You have been endearing yourself to the smallfolk, the nobles, you earned an ally in the North and the Reach with Robb and Margaery’s marriage, you have the Stormlands in hand, the Rock has been all but promised to you. What is next, will you have Walder Frey killed and install one of Roslin’s brothers as Lord of the Twins? Marry Cousin Joy to them and gain control over the crossing that way? There is no need, House Tully controls The Riverlands and they will follow Robb Stark regardless of the Freys. A lord does not follow his bannermen, he follows his family, you plan in excess. Then what? Will you marry your children to Dorne and the Vale, will you align yourself with every Lord Paramount in the kingdom until you have enough backing to overthrow me?”

She shook him as if he had gone mad. “You are talking nonsense, I have no plans to overthrow you, I have spent our whole lives supporting you. I only wish to get married, and you have destroyed my maiden’s cloak in a fit of unearned paranoia.”

The words slipped from his lips before he could think, hate filled and not his own. “Joffrey was right, you are a nothing more than that bastard wolf’s whore.”

She flinched, releasing him with a pained expression that made him feel as if he had been stabbed, the knife jagged and twisted.

“Cella I—I did not mean—”

She slapped him hard. “I have spent my whole life protecting you, covering for you, if I have gained allies and endeared the kingdom to me, it was for your good, your reign. And if you wish to take Joffrey’s word over mine, then that is your decision, but you will not speak to me as he did.”

He had never seen her so angry, never even seen her anger turned upon him, cold fear settled in his veins. “Cella I am sorry, I—”

“Get out.” She ordered, her anger like their mother’s scorching, blinding, unrelenting.

“Myrcella?” Jon’s confusion was far more evident than Myrcella’s had been when she first entered. He had not even heard him come in, so quiet were Jon’s footsteps. He was wearing his armor, the golden stag on his breastplate, his sword at his hip, standing two heads taller than Tommen, looking more akin to Tommen’s father than Tommen himself did. Broad and strong, his sharp eyes sweeping the room then focusing on him and Myrcella. He crossed the space in two long strides, his expression changed, now cold, and unyielding, his gaze like castle forged steel. “Is everything alright?”

Joffrey had stressed the danger Jon posed, the danger of your enemy having a loyal attack dog. He had never considered Jon a dog, he was a friend, an elder brother, the man who loved Myrcella beyond measure, but now? Now with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his actual dog—wolf at his side, the direwolf half Tommen’s size, he understood the danger.

Tommen looked at Myrcella silently begging her not to tell Jon what had happened, all the while knowing the moment he left his pleas would be useless.

“Leave Tommen and pray I do not tell Father what you have accused me of.” Myrcella said, her eyes burning, wildfire green.

“Please Cella, I did not mean it, you were right, he got in my head, he twisted my mind.” He protested weakly, reaching for her.

Jon’s gauntleted hand came up between them, stopping him.

He looked at him helplessly, then at Myrcella who had stooped to pick up a remaining scrap of her maiden’s cloak, the beads falling through her fingers. “Sister, please.”

“Get out, I do not wish to see your face.” She said, clutching the scrap, the tears returned to her eyes.

He moved to protest, but Jon shook his head, and Ghost growled low in his throat, his ruby eyes following him as he left, burning into him, as Myrcella’s sobs echoed in his ears.

Chapter Text

Her gown was ornate, off the shoulder, made of white silk pure as freshly fallen snow, with what felt like miles and miles of Myrish lace, and countless pearls, and diamonds sewn into the fabric in swirling, branching patterns. It shimmered in the light when she moved, the corset fitted tightly pushing up what little breasts she had, her feet encased in slippers of white. She stood still as they laced her into the gown, scrutinizing herself in the mirror. Her cosmetics had been applied, her curls were gleaming, her gown was breathtaking, and she had been scrubbed head to toe, doused in perfumes, but she felt something was missing. She did not dare wear her necklace, too afraid it would be torn from her neck during the bedding ceremony. She silently mourned her gown as well, soon enough it would be torn from her body by the hands of lecherous lords.

“You look beautiful.” Eleyna said, fluffing out Myrcella’s skirts. “If you were not already a princess, I would say you look as one.”

“Do you think there is something missing?” Myrcella asked the whole of the room, pressing her lips together anxiously, the pink color they had painted on smudging, which made Sansa grumble and reach for the cosmetic pot.

Sansa reapplied the color, with a stern look, fanning her face to help it dry. “Everything is perfect, you are simply nervous, all brides are nervous, my mother said so.”

“There is something missing.” Cersei said, setting her wine down and shooing Sansa away, a velvet jewelry box in her hand. She opened it, and Sansa gasped.

Nestled among black velvet was a tiara, a finely crafted arch of gold coming to a gentle point in the middle with large and small rubies set in an alternating pattern, and large pearls spanning the top like spokes.

“Your grandsire had this made for my mother, for her to wear on their wedding day. I did not wear it to wed your father, there was not enough time to retrieve it from the vaults, but now it may see the light of day once more.” She continued, removing it from its nest and placing it upon Myrcella’s head with a soft smile, one Myrcella had not seen since she was a child. “Now everything is perfect.”

“Thank you, Mother.” She said, glancing at herself in the mirror, nearly unable to believe the woman staring back at her was truly her.

“Lord Jon will be struck dumb when he sees you.” Roslin said, gathering up her maiden’s cloak.

“It is such a shame to cover your dress, especially with such a plain thing.” Cersei said, taking the cloak from Roslin, her nose wrinkling faintly.

“Mother…” Myrcella warned quietly. She had told her mother what Tommen had done, she had to in order to explain why a new cloak needed to be made from scratch in such a short time. Cersei had offered her Lannister cloak, but she declined politely. She did not wish the realm to see her as a Lannister alone. She was a lion and a stag, soon to be a wolf, she would show all aspects of herself, even if the cloak was far plainer than either of her parents’ cloaks.

Golden fabric, split down the middle, a lion, and a stag rearing up, finely stitched, finely made, but lacking much in the way of ornamentation, covered her form, and she held her head high.

She waved to the smallfolk outside the Great Sept of Baelor, smiling when they cheered her name, and her father’s who looked almost surprised, and gave a short wave in reply. Her arm was linked with his, and he stood tall, dressed in a fine doublet, his crown on his head. The sept was quiet when they entered. She could see Margaery and little Leona, dressed in green seated near the front, with the rest of the Starks, while Myrcella’s family shared the first two rows. Her uncles turned either to smile at her or glare at Jon, and Tommen would not meet her eyes.

Between the statues of the Mother and the Father stood the High Septon, his rainbow crown casting shimmering light across the marble floor. Beside him was Jon, and her heart leapt in her chest. There he was, her prince, dressed in black, with intricate silver stitching along the collar, shoulders, and cuffs of his doublet. His curls were freshly washed, his beard trimmed, shorn close to his skin, his sword polished and stowed within a new sheath, the Stark sigil branded upon it. He looked so very handsome, and his eyes found her the moment she entered, focusing, drinking her in, as if nothing and no one existed before her.

She blushed when their gazes met, and she dipped her head forward to let her hair shield her face and her father chuckled softly, encouraging her steps forward. The pathway to the marriage altar felt impossibly long, rose petals scattered underfoot, the sun streaming through the stained-glass windows, the air sweet with incense. When they finally arrived, Jon gave her father a nod, smiling when Robert clapped him on the shoulder, before moving to stand behind her.

“My Lady.” Jon said quietly, taking her hands, smoothing his thumbs over her knuckles.

“My Champion.” She replied, equally quiet, suddenly feeling quite shy.

The High Septon smiled at them both and began, the seven vows, the seven blessings, the seven promises, then the singing began. Melodious and awe-inspiring it filled the great sept, and echoed off the domed ceiling, goosebumps spreading across her bare skin. Next came the challenge, the High Septon asked if any among the gathered crowd had any reason to speak against the marriage. She had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing when Jon's hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword, and he cast his dark eyes out over the crowd. There came no answer, not that she feared there would.

Finally, it was time to exchange the cloaks, and she stood tall waiting for her father to remove the cloak from her shoulders and fold it over his arm. She thought he would do it quickly, give her over to Jon without any fanfare, but her father did not always do what was expected of him. He waited a moment, looking at her, his hands on her shoulders then pressed a kiss to her forehead before removing her cloak, and stepping back smiling.

Jon was quicker than her father but allowed enough time for the sunlight to hit her dress, sending shards of light dancing around the sept before he turned and took her wife’s cloak from Robb. It was a soft gray, thick heavy fabric with a white direwolf—Ghost in the center rubies sewn in for his eyes, his claws made of onyx. Jon draped the cloak over her, fastening it, his long fingers lingering on the clap, two wolves, their jaws interlocking, just as they had been in Winterfell, had he recreated the clasp or was it the very same one? She would ask him later.

She looked up at him, the silver of his doublet’s collar brought out the plum hues in his eyes, and she could not look away smiling through her lashes at him, delighting in the way his cheeks tinted pink.

A sharp cough came from the High Septon, and Jon released the claps and took her hands in his once more, nodding for him to continue.

“And with this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband.”

“And with this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.”

Jon’s voice blended with hers as they pledged their undying love, undying devotion, none shall tear them asunder, she knew well these were more than mere words, had she and Jon not proved it time and time again?

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, cursed is he who seeks to tear them asunder.” The High Septon pronounced, but she could barely hear him, as Jon cupped her face and kissed her eagerly.

It was terrifying for a brief moment, her mind not yet registering that they did not need to hide, but once it had, she returned the kiss, stunned and breathless when another rather sharp cough came from the High Septon.

“Apologies.” Jon said, looking quite unapologetic, a roguish gleam in his eyes.

Her heart skipped a beat, and a giddy giggle rose up, tampered only by the pursing of her lips as she attempted to keep the sound in.

“Princess Myrcella, Lady of Summerhall and Jon Stark, Lord of Summerhall are forever bound in the eyes of the Seven.” The High Septon said, raising their joined hands aloft, as cheers filled the Great Sept.

Myrcella looked at Jon, who was already looking at her, and swept her into his arms the moment the High Septon released them. She let out a small scream of surprise and looped her arms around his neck.

“You say it is a Northern tradition, carrying your bride to the feast as if she were a war prize to be paraded about?” Cersei directed her question across the table to Jon as they ate, thinly veiled venom in her tone.

“It is to prove the strength of the man, if he cannot carry his bride to the feast how can he provide for her?” Jon answered easily, sliding his diced and seasoned carrots onto Myrcella’s plate.

She thanked him quickly, scarfing down what food she could stand, as the bedding loomed large above her head.

“Myrcella, my sweet, do slow down, it is unseemly to shovel food in your mouth like a starving peasant.” Cersei said, reaching across the table to pat her hand.

Jon raised his wine to his lip and muttered something uncouth that made Myrcella giggle into her napkin.

The pie had been rolled out, and cut, birds flying from the inside, slices distributed, but she could not stomach a piece. Jon had sworn, her mother had sworn there would be no bedding, but it was tradition, it would be demanded, and now, now she must stand and receive gifts from the men who would tear her gown from her.

“Oh gods, and here come the Dornish.” Cersei grumbled, her eyes darting to a dark-haired couple in vivid hues of orange, making their way through the crowd.

Myrcella’s heart rose, perhaps it was the Daynes, and they had come to reveal the truth to Jon?

“I must go and see to Tommen, be strong, my lioness.” She said, adjusting Myrcella’s tiara before she departed.

“Would that I could make a queen flee with only my presence.” Jon remarked, much more forthcoming with his words now that they were wed, and he could make her laugh freely.

“Princess Myrcella, Lord Jon, may you have a long and happy marriage.” The Dornish man said, giving a shallow bow. “I am Oberyn Martell, and this is my paramour, Ellaria Sand.”

Ellaria curtsied, and Myrcella did not let the disappointment show on her face. They were not Jon’s alleged kin.

“Well met, thank you for your kind words, Prince Oberyn, Lady Ellaria.” Jon said, nodding to each in turn.

“Lady Ellaria, such fine manners in a young man.” Ellaria smiled, and Myrcella could see why Prince Oberyn had four children with her. It was a lovely smile, and it softened her sharp features, revealing the gentle beauty beneath such severe bone structure.

“I expected nothing less, such a beloved princess would not marry a thick-tongue brute.” Prince Oberyn said, presenting them with their gift.

“You flatter me.” Myrcella said, continuing their conversation while Jon opened the gift. She was wary of the Martells, they had much to gain from the downfall of both her houses, and Oberyn Martell was all too willing to risk his life for revenge if her information was correct. “I do hope the skull of The Mountain arrived swiftly enough? My apologies, it took the beetles far too long to remove all the flesh from that monster’s head.”

Jon glanced at her, she had not gone into much detail when she told him of this section of her plan to appease Dorne, then returned to trying to figure out the gift they had been given.

“It arrived many years too late, but it did arrive.” Prince Oberyn said, though he was smiling.

“I thought it high time he paid for his crimes, and well we shall be neighbors of a sort once Summerhall is finished. I have always heard such wonderful things about the Water Gardens, and would be delighted to see them if you and Lady Ellaria would not mind hosting us one day?”

“Perhaps, someday.” Oberyn said, giving her a nod, before he and Ellaria departed.

“Others take me, I cannot get this open.” Jon said, holding the ornate box up to the light and inspecting it.

“I have failed to win over the Martells, just put it with the others.” Myrcella said quietly, plastering on a smile for the next pair that approached them. Gods help her, this was going to be a long day.

Chapter Text

Catelyn had not wanted to attend the wedding, she and Ned’s ba—Jon, had never been close, though she could admit that was of her own doing, but what wife could stand to see her husband’s indiscretion so blatantly paraded about? To see him raised among her own children, while her husband would not even give her the dignity of knowing the name of the woman who bore the child? When she was younger, she believed Ned would come around. That in time he would tell her who Jon’s mother was, certainly after she had given him multiple children, had stood by him and faithfully managed Winterfell while he was away fighting the Ironborn. But no, he had remained as tight-lipped as the day he presented Jon to her. She had felt that if knew the name of the woman then she could have accepted it, moved past it, but the mystery remained, and she was left with only rumors.

She looked up at the sound of laughter to see Robb and Margaery dancing, Leona in Margaery’s arms, the dark-haired babe giggling and clapping as Robb spun her and Margaery round and round.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. She wished it to be Bran and her, but the Mormonts had sent Rickon and their youngest girl, his betrothed Lyanna, to Winterfell to stay with Bran and Old Nan, forcing Catelyn to join her family on their journey south. At the very least, her Uncle Brynden had accompanied them, and she could lean upon him when needed.

The feast had been good, decadent. Tables laden with foods, spices, and wines she had not had in a very long time and found she almost did not have the stomach for, so long she had lived in the North and become accustomed to their fares. Sansa sat at her side for a time, chatting happily with her, filling her in on everything her letters had not covered, her sweet girl, how radiant she was, the South had done her good. Ned had left her side to dance with Myrcella, while Cersei danced with Jon. Catelyn expected her to wear a pinched expression. Surely, she could not stand him, surely, she held the same distaste for this arrangement as she had all those years ago when it had been no more than a drunken jest from Robert’s lips.

To her surprise, Cersei’s expression was neutral, no sign of displeasure besides the slight tightness around the corners of her lips. Had she been cowed into acceptance by Robert? Catelyn doubted that, though Ned had written to her of the changes in Robert, the slow returning of the man he once knew. She looked at Jon, really looked at him, trying to see the features of his alleged mothers. She had not seen him since he was freshly five and ten, she did not count his brief visit when he was seven and ten as she had seen very little of him. Instead, preferring to spend as much time with Ned as was possible while he was returned to her, while Jon spent time with his half siblings. Jon had grown, become a strapping young man, he did look so very much like Ned, but he was taller, and stockier, though she could attribute that to his vigorous training, and the heartier diet he surely had in the capital.

The song ended and Jon bowed to Cersei, heading straight for Myrcella who was already halfway to him, the skirts of her gown held in her hands to prevent them from slowing her movements. Catelyn smiled, she remembered that feeling, that eagerness and anticipation. Remembered running through the back halls of Riverrun skirts in hand, so very eager to see Brandon, stopping for only a moment to straighten herself up before stepping out into the light of the Great Hall or her father’s audience chamber where he could see her.

Her good-daughter was beautiful, so very similar to Cersei and yet so different, she could sense none of Cersei’s anger, none of her harshness, or her unhappiness. Myrcella carried only light, and she beamed when Jon took her hands, raising them to his lips. They spoke with one another, Jon’s head bowed, Myrcella’s tilted up slightly. She was tall, Catelyn realized, taller than Cersei, taller than Prince Tommen, though Ser Jaime and Lord Tywin were tall men, as was Robert. She supposed it was only natural for Myrcella to take after either side of her line, even if her brother did not. But he was still young, perhaps he would shoot up, and tower over his sister, that would be good, a king should be tall.

Ned returned to her side, intertwining her hand with his own. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

She looked at him, he was so very handsome in his finery, his beard trimmed, his countenance light, and open. “For what?”

“For attending, and indulging me, I am sure this is not easy for you.” He continued, and she felt a twinge of irritation.

She had not brought up Jon’s parentage since that fateful night when he ordered her to question him no longer, far angrier than she had ever seen him. She had not been cruel to Jon, had not tried to smother him in his sleep, or order the servants to treat him poorly. She had kept her distance and put all her love and affection into her children, pushing aside the constant insult that was his continued existence in her home. Why now would Ned choose to acknowledge that this may be difficult for her? That attending the wedding of her husband’s legitimized bastard where the king of the realm lavished him with gifts and praise, while her trueborn son carried around a babe far too old for when his marriage occurred, might be embarrassing for her.

She turned away, focusing instead on Arya and Sansa who were gathering sweets from a nearby table, piling their plates high. “I have indulged you for twenty years, this is only another public embarrassment to add to the pile.”

“Cat…” His voice was soft, and pleading, as he gently fidgeted with the ends of her hair, wrapping a lock around his finger.

He does so love my hair. It was among the first things he had complimented her on, perhaps it had been among the first things he said to her before they married. I am honored to marry a maid as beautiful as you, with the red of sunset in her hair.

“Perhaps Arya will return home with a babe just as Robb did, another scandal to happen under your watch.” She hissed, swatting away his hand.

“I cannot apologize enough for Robb’s indiscretion, but are you not happy with your good-daughter and granddaughter?”

“Of course I am, but it should have been done a better way.”

“I know, I know.” Ned sighed, and kissed her hand, same as Jon had kissed Myrcella’s, as Brandon had kissed her own when they were young. “If I had not been so busy during the tourney perhaps, I would have seen it, but with Robert being Robert, and Sansa. Well, Sansa has become quite opinionated. She will not cease bothering the seamstresses”—he shakes his head with a fond smile—“nor does she have any shame in stopping anyone in the halls to ask who made their outfits. It is quite the turn from the quiet girl we once knew… I did not think I needed to watch over Robb, you have raised the children so well, I thought he would not stray from your teachings.”

“Well, he did, and we must thank the gods that he strayed into the arms of Margaery Tyrell and not some useless slip of a girl that would bring nothing but trouble with her.” She sniffed.

“Aye, I thank the gods daily for that.”

She took a drink of her wine, studying Jon again, he was with Ser Jaime, the elder man poking him in the ribs, jesting with him until Jon laughed and Myrcella clapped her hands delighted. Both men smiled at Myrcella, their stances similar, the cuts of their clothing, the way they wore their swords, even the way they glared at a passing lord who nearly bumped into her were similar. It had been like that for Petyr and her father, they had spent so much time together Petyr had picked up her father’s mannerisms. “He looks like him.”

Ned stiffened beside her; his voice taut, a note of panic within it. “Who?”

She glanced at him, then tilted her head in the direction of Jon and Jaime. “It is only natural; did you not say he had taken Jon under his wing?”

“Oh, yes, yes, they are close.” Ned said, and she noticed a slight tremble to his hands.

It could not be? No, Ned would never cover for the kingslayer, not unless…

“Ned,” she began, working up her courage to ask him what was surely an inane question.

He nodded, and she could still see the stiffness to his movements. She was no fool, she knew her husband, knew when he was hiding something.

There was another Stark that could produce a bastard, one that Ned would do anything to protect, and they were at Harrenhal together, they could have met again.

“Jon, is he Lyanna and Jaime’s son?” She whispered, searching his face for an answer.

Ned froze then burst out laughing, and she felt her face burn, turning away from him with her arms crossed. “Cat, Cat, I am sorry, I did not mean—” He wiped away tears of mirth and gently tugged on her arm. “I did not mean to laugh at you, it was just not the question I expected you to ask, but no, he is not their son.”

She rolled her eyes, her pride wounded. “Well, you will have to tell Jon of his mother soon enough, if the princess bears a son with purple eyes and silver hair many will talk.”

“Robert’s grandmother was a Targaryen.” He reminded her, avoiding her forever underlying question once again.

“And yet, none of his children trueborn or bastards look it. In fact, Arya told me she met Edric Dayne at the tourney thrown for you, and he had purple eyes and silver hair, it seems the Dayne seed runs strong, no matter who the mother lays with.” Catelyn said sharply, watching him, waiting to see if he would get as angry as he had before at the subtle mention of Ashara.

“All our children but Arya favor you in looks, while Leona has the Stark look. Coloring is unpredictable, and the will of the gods.” Ned said, taking a long drink of his wine.

She would let this lie for now and ask Sansa to write to her of Ned’s reaction when Jon’s child bore the Dayne coloring. Then she would know, then she could put her years of wondering to bed and pray the pain would sleep eternally with it.

“Now they have been wed, let us put them to bed!” Someone cried, and Catelyn sent up a prayer to the Maiden to protect Myrcella. She had been able to avoid a bedding, Ned had threatened to break the jaw of any man who touched her, and her heart had fluttered at his words, at the length he would go to defend her.

She spotted Cersei rising from her seat, her rage clear and directed towards Lord Tywin, then she saw Jon had drawn his sword, his arm around Myrcella’s waist, his face like thunder.

“There shall be no bedding.” Jon said firmly, his voice carrying throughout the Great Hall. His blade was sharp, gleaming dangerously in the light. “If anyone wishes to argue, they may test their blade against my own. I have been my Lady Wife’s sword and shield long before we wed, and I shall remain so until the Stranger comes for me.”

“Oh gods.” Sansa was back beside them now, her face pale.

“Do not fret, sweet one, I am sure none of the lords will harm Jon.” Catelyn said, drawing her to her side.

“I do not fear for Jon, I fear for the lords.” Sansa said, gripping her arm tightly.

“I hope someone challenges him; I want to see Jon fight.” Arya said through a mouthful of cinnamon cake.

“No, we do not wish to see men fight for the right to undress a maiden, it is barbaric.” Catelyn scolded quietly, clutching Sansa tightly, as someone emerged from the edges of the crowd.

“Oh, do not mind me, I am only crossing to get a drink.” Tyrion said, patting Myrcella’s hand affectionately as he walked by.

The Great Hall was silent, and all waited with bated breath, Jon standing tall, steady, eyeing each man in the crowd unflinchingly, an almost feral curl to his lips when one or another would drop their head avoiding his gaze.

Wolf’s blood, Ned called it. Brandon had it, Lyanna and Arya too. She had not thought Jon would possess it; he had always been a well-mannered and quiet child, but he was no longer a child, and King’s Landing had the tendency to bring out the harshest aspects of any who lived there long enough. The Mad King had proved that well enough.

“Gods, no one would be stupid enough to challenge you, go on, take your bride to bed, but remember she and I have plans to visit the markets in a fortnight, so do not keep her too long.” Tyrion said, patting Jon’s hand this time as he recrossed the hall, returning to his place beside Jaime, who looked as if he were trying not to laugh.

Myrcella ducked her head, and Catelyn realized she was holding back laughter as well. Brave girl.

Jon nodded towards Tyrion and Jaime, then her and Ned, bowed to Robert and Cersei, then sheathed his sword, swept Myrcella up into his arms, and exited the hall, the doors closing resoundingly behind them.

“Pity, I did really want to see Jon fight.” Arya grumbled.

Chapter Text

They were alone in their chambers, new ones, near the back of the holdfast, windows facing out towards the sea, decorated as Myrcella liked, with minor input from him here and there. They were a generous gift, spacious with a private atrium that housed its own little pond and garden, a study, a personal library, and multiple other rooms that Jon could not bring himself to care about now. Finally, finally they were alone, alone, and married, no longer did they need to hide, or make excuses.

“I cannot believe my uncle did that.” Myrcella laughed, hanging onto his arm for support and smiling so brightly he felt as if he were looking into the sun and yet was not blinded. A merciful sun, she was, shining directly down on him.

“My heart nearly leapt from my chest when I saw movement, I did not wish to kill a man at our wedding.” Jon said, smiling down at her, his heartbeat finally calming as he gazed upon her.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, all others were but a candle and she was an inferno. He would follow her endlessly like crops in their fields, forever turning to face the sun, bathing in its warmth and light, deriving life and sustenance from its rays.

She placed a hand upon his chest over his heart, the other cupping the back of his neck urging his head down, her lips meeting his halfway.

He sighed against her lips, tasting the honeyed wine on her tongue, the scent of her perfume ever present. When she reached for him with her other hand, her kiss becoming more demanding, he chuckled and set her on her feet.

Myrcella’s pouted but brightened quickly when he began to unlace her gown, and soon enough she was eagerly unlacing his tunic, trying to pull it over his head hastily. It got caught, and he had to yank it free, his hair falling into his eyes. She giggled and brushed the hair out of his face, hands lingering, tracing the slope of his cheeks down to his jaw before she stepped back and allowed her dress to fall to the floor.

She stood in only her shift, then she let that fall as well, pink crawling up her chest and neck, coloring her cheeks the longer he stared. “Do I not—”

“Beautiful.” He breathed, taking a step forward, reaching for her, ghosting his fingertips over her bare form, feeling as if he should first clean his hands before he touched her. “You are so very beautiful.”

She looked up at him through her lashes, verdant green eyes ensnaring him, luring him closer as she moved to remove her tiara. He caught her hand and did it for her, setting it aside gently, before pressing a chaste kiss to the palm of her hand.

“It is embarrassing, standing bare before you when you are still mostly dressed.” She said, lowering her gaze, her hand going to fidget with a necklace that was not around her throat.

He turned and began to shed the rest of his clothing, a knot forming in his stomach. He had never done this, and neither had she, but he still felt a twinge of fear, what if she did not like what she saw, what if she changed her mind?

“Do you mind if I get on the bed? I am a little cold.” She asked, and it calmed him that she sounded as nervous as he felt.

“Please do.” He said, trying to sound confident and composed, certain he was failing.

He heard the sound of the sheets rustling, then her voice again. “I do appreciate you keeping your word and refusing the bedding, I knew you did not want the bedding, but I feared the court would overrule you.”

He shed the last layer of his clothing and turned. Myrcella sat on the edge of their bed, her wife’s cloak wrapped around her, his sigil wrapped around her bare body. He joined her, taking her hand and pressing it to his heart. “I would never let them touch you. You have corrupted me, I am as jealous as you, I cannot stand the idea of another even laying eyes upon you.”

“I have corrupted you?” She smiled, scooting closer to him. “It was not I that knelt between my legs and performed the lord’s kiss, not I who begged for me to dig my nails into your skin, not I who—”

“You have made your point, Lady Wife.” He said, swallowing hard when she let her cloak slide from her shoulders.

“Have I? Because I think I may need some more examples, would My Lord Husband be willing to provide me with some?” Myrcella asked coyly, trailing her finger down his chest, his cock stirring in response.

“You know I can deny you nothing.” He said, folding her cloak and setting it aside, before guiding her further up the bed, fitting himself between her thighs. “But allow me to partake in one last meal from our wedding feast first.”

She looked up at him confused, her hair splayed out on the pillow, goosebumps prickling her skin. He pulled one of the lighter blankets from the bed and draped it over her, she would be warm once they began, his fellow knights had told him as much, but he did not wish her to be cold beforehand. Then he gently nudged her knees further apart, and her breath hitched when he lowered himself between her legs, hunger growing within him.

Myrcella tasted of sunlight, he did not know how it was possible, but it was. Every time he would find himself between her legs, or his lips would meet hers, it was all he could think of. That and the fact that he would wage war against all seven of the kingdoms to keep her by his side.

“Jon, oh gods, Husband, please, please, do not be cruel, do not tease.” Myrcella whimpered, her delicate hand in his hair, tugging on his curls as she arched her back, her thighs shaking in his grip. The blanket had fallen off, bunched up by her side, exposing her unblemished skin to his gaze.

“Never, never, sweet wife.” He reassured her, diving back in to lap at her core, the taste of her more intoxicating than any wine, and he was drunk on it.

Myrcella’s sighs filled their bedchamber. Her pleas, and calls of his name urging him onwards, until he felt the tightening of her grip, the waver in her voice, the complete loss of composure that allowed her hips to move wildly, his nose pressed against her bud, his tongue deep within her helping her ride the first wave of pleasure intending to send her crashing into another one.

“Jon, Jon, Jon, oh gods, oh gods.” She cried out, and he knew he would never hear his name said more sweetly.

He worked her through her second climax then crawled up her body, a wolf cornering its prey, capturing her lips with his own, smiling as she looped her arms around his neck pulling him ever closer. “So beautiful, your voice is a music of its own.”

She giggled and flushed, as she always did when he heaped much deserved praise upon her. “The gods must have created our voices from the same material, then, for I find yours quite melodic as well.”

He ducked his head, suddenly shy, trying to ignore how his cock throbbed, desire coating his veins. “You flatter me.”

“Is that not my duty, as your wife?” She smiled, carding her fingers through his hair, the sensation sending a shiver down his spine.

“Your duty is as you wish it to be.” He said, his heart pounding in his chest, he knew what came next, but he feared hurting her, feared disappointing her.

“Shall we try it now?” Myrcella asked, rocking her hips against his teasingly, her lips seeking his. “I do so wish to feel my husband to the hilt.”

For a moment he was back in the brothel, the red haired woman trying to coax him into bed. He could smell the heavy scent of coupling that had seeped through the walls of the brothel, the guilt from that night that took hold of him, nearly made him nauseous, and he jerked back.

Hurt and confusion flashed across Myrcella’s face. “Jon?”

He buried his face in his hands, exhaling slowly. “Apologies, I need a minute.”

“Oh…of course, yes, I-I need a drink of water anyway.” She said, and he heard her slide from the bed, her feet padding across the room.

He took deep breaths, attempted to cast out his guilt. He did not regret what he had learned from the brothel and the woman had been understanding, and now he was here, with Myrcella, his lady wife, there was no need for guilt. There was no need, no need, no need.

The bed dipped, and he glanced up to see a cup of water extended towards him, and Myrcella redressed in her shift. She searched his face, her free hand bunched in her shift, her voice soft, and sad. “It has been a long day; we do not have to try. I can prick my thumb and wipe the blood on the sheets, it will be convincing enough.”

He took the water from her, fingertips brushing her own, and downed it, casting all guilt aside. “No, I want to try, I want my wife.”

Myrcella bit her bottom lip. “Jon, I know what is expected of us, but if you are not comfortable or if you do not want—”

He grabbed her and kissed her soundly, letting the cup clatter to the floor, one hand cradling the back of her head as he laid her back down, lining himself up with her entrance. He pulled away only to confirm this was what she wanted, and when she nodded eagerly, he kissed her again, readying himself.

She reached for his free hand, and he noticed her slight trembling. He intertwined their fingers and squeezed her hand reassuringly.

He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, coaxing them open, attempting to distract her from the stretch he knew she would feel as he slowly eased himself past her folds. “Forgive me, I am told this will hurt.”

Her lips parted in shock, taking in air quickly, her grip on his hand tightened, her brows furrowing, a small yelp of pain leaving her as he pushed past her maidenhood, filling her to the hilt.

Gods above, he thought he might burst, every muscle in his body tensed to keep from spilling or rutting into her.

Myrcella stayed stiff, her walls tight around him, her hand squeezing his as she adjusted to his length.

“Breathe, Myrcella, breathe.” He reminded her, stroking her cheek with his knuckle as he waited for her to calm.

She let out a shaky breath, resting her forehead against his with a weak smile. “It hurts less than my septa said it would, I shall have to correct her next time I see her.”

He laughed, lavishing her face with chaste kisses. “I promise the pain will ease soon.”

She nodded, then moved her hips experimentally. “It is odd…”

Shame washed over him, and he nearly pulled out. “Odd?”

“I thought I knew the size of you, from the books Lynesse gave me, but it feels as if you are much bigger than my estimations.” She said innocently, unaware of how her words went straight to the primal part of his mind he was trying so very hard to restrain, his hips jerking reflectively.

“Oh. Oh, that was nice.” She said, laying her head back on the pillow. “Could you do that again?”

He smiled, pressing kisses up the curve of her cheek, hips beginning a slow, steady pace. “Is this alright?”

She gasped, her walls fluttering around him, warm and soft like velvet. “Very much alright.”

She was beautiful, perfect, and he brought their joined hands to his lips. “I am glad to hear it.”

“But perhaps we could try more?” She suggested delicately, her hips rocking slowly, testing the waters.

He nodded and placed her free hand on his shoulder. “Hold tightly to me.”

“Are you going to ravish me, Jon? Should I be concerned, I will not make it to the markets in a fortnight?” She jested, though her eyes were dark with desire, shades of winter green, of cedar trees.

“It will not be tonight that will prevent you, ask me again the night before your outing, and we shall see.” He said, voice low, and he watched it roll over her, felt the tightening of her around him.

“I will do so. Now please Jon, I want more.” She whispered, face flushed, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

“My brave girl.” He breathed, brushing a kiss to the corner of her lips as he pulled out and then thrusted back into her, harder, faster, over and over again, finding that spot deep within her that made her sing and focusing there. “My brave, perfect Myrcella, my lovely lady wife.”

“Jon, oh gods, oh go—” Her words were cut off by a desperate moan, her pretty pink lips parted as she melted beneath him, becoming pliant in his hands.

He glanced down at her shift, slowing slightly. “May I remove this?” She blinked at him, mind struggling to keep up, pleasure muddling her thoughts, but then she nodded. He released her hand, and gently pulled it over her head, throwing it to the side, before intertwining their fingers once more, regaining his pace. “It should be a crime to cover such beauty.”

She blushed bright red and turned her head to the side, hiding from his gaze. “Flatterer.”

“No, I am merely a man who appreciates what he is given.” Jon’s free hand groped her small but perfectly formed breasts, and he groaned at the feel of her soft skin, rolling her nipples between his fingers. His breath caught when she arched her back, pressing more of the flesh into his hand. “Is this to your liking, my queen?”

She whimpered in response, squirming in his hold, all bashfulness forgotten, her hips rolling to meet his incoming thrusts, her warm walls clenching around him, her fingers abandoning his shoulder to tug on his curls, making him lightheaded.

“Or shall I stop?” He teased, switching to slowly circling each pert bud, as his hips sped up, liquid heat filling his veins, desire driving him forward.

“Jon, please, please do not stop.” She begged, her arousal dripping, soaking him, lewd wet noises filling the room, the sound of skin against skin, their voices entangled in ecstasy.

“Never.” He promised, trailing his fingers down her bare body until he came upon her bud, setting a practiced rhythm that made her body tremble, cries of his name growing louder and louder. “They will have to drag me from you.”

She smiled deviously up at him, how he adored his lioness, the flash of her fangs. “They could try, but I would not let them.”

“You would not, would you? How lucky I am to have such a fearsome wife.” He said, a savage thrill running through him urging him onwards, his cock aching, throbbing, soothed only by her heat, by the taste of her skin as he bit down, teeth sinking into the crook of her neck.

She gasped, delighted, walls clamping down on him, sucking him back in, bearing her fangs as he sucked a mark into her skin. “Very, very lucky, let me leave my mark as well, I want them all to see.”

He groaned, feeling akin to prey as he exposed his throat to her, allowed her to scrape her teeth down it, to suckle at the skin, her nails digging into his back. She took him well, as if she were made for him, as if they were made to fit each other, melding into one flesh.

“You are so handsome, my love, my champion, my husband, so handsome, and you are making me feel so very good.” She purred, rising up, chasing his lips, her hair slipping off her bare shoulders, her chest pressed to his.

“You make me feel divine.” He said, gripping her thigh in one hand, need building within him, faster and faster, his peak approaching quickly. He placed her leg up over his shoulder and reached deeper, the change in angle driving them both mad.

“I want a son.” Myrcella said suddenly, her nails scraping up his back, her lips meshing with his, tongue, and teeth clashing.

“A son for Summerhall?” Jon asked, a thrill running through him at the idea.

She nodded. “For Summerhall, and another for Storm’s End.”

“Not the Rock as well? Do you not wish for me to give you three sons?” He teased, dipping his head to mouth at her breasts, pride purring within him at the smattering of marks that littered her skin.

Myrcella made a noise that sounded vaguely like his name in response, hips moving frantically, desperately seeking out friction, to be filled, the wildness of her movements signaling the coming of her release.

“What say you, Lady Stark?” Jon asked, his thumb rubbing her bud, his eyes drinking in the sight of her, grateful he could replace the bearer of that title in his mind’s eye with Myrcella.

“I-I shall give you eight sons if you wish it.” She stuttered, “eight sons, eight Starks of Summerhall.”

He felt his own peak, the tightening of his body, the lust roaring in his mind threatening to overtake him. He kissed her, swallowing her moans as she dissolved into pleasure, walls spasming wildly around him, coaxing his release forward, stars bursting behind his eyelids.

Once his breathing had returned to normal, he eased himself out of bed, pressing a kiss to Myrcella’s temple when she whined. He returned shortly with a damp cloth, cleaning her then himself before falling back into their bed.

Myrcella tangled her legs with his, and he crushed her to his chest, burying his face in her hair. “We cannot have eight sons.”

She hummed sleepily in response.

“We must have daughters as well, with their mother’s looks, so that no matter where I turn in our home, I shall see you.”

“Marriage has made you far too soft, do not let my Uncle Jaime hear you say such things.” She mumbled, curling into him.

“I shall not tell him if you do not.” He jested, his eyelids heavy.

When no response came, he glanced down to see her fast asleep, and soon enough sleep came for him as well.

Chapter Text

The pain was unending, tearing through her, sapping the strength from her as she gritted her teeth and tried to bear down. Tried to push as all around her encouraged, their voices weaving, melding into a cacophony of noise in which she would gladly never hear again as long as she lived, so great the pressure of their voices was upon her pain wracked mind. As pleasant as coupling with Jon was, as intimate and loving their joinings were each time, she swore he would never touch her again if this pain was the result of it. She must have said as such because she heard Roslin laugh, the clear sound washing over her, comforting her for a moment. Then Myrcella heard it, the cry of her firstborn, strong and piercing, a lion, or a wolf, she wondered as she crushed Roslin’s hand. She prayed for it to be a boy, an heir while she was granted a brief reprieve, thinking her labors were over, but they began again. A devastating wave crashed, dragging her down, and she heard Pycelle yell something about another child. She had not even been able to see her first babe, or even truly register much beyond his words. Her second demanded to be born, quickly, as if to not be left behind, bringing with it the pains of labor in full force. The momentary relief she had felt vanishing as pain wracked her body, her blood burning beneath her skin as she screamed, and screamed, her throat desperately dry and sore. Her hair was stuck to her skin with sweat, her body was tired and aching, she wanted it all to be over, she begged the gods to let it finally, finally be over.

“Twins, Myrcella, you carried twins, well done little lioness, well done.” Her mother’s voice was at her ear, elated and bolstering, giving her the strength to keep her eyes open. Her mother was proud of her, she had done well, had given the realm two new members of the royal family.

“I want to see them.” She said wearily, reaching for the bundle in the midwife’s arms.

The midwife looked down at the babe, then her face went pale, and she turned away swiftly. Myrcella panicked; she had not heard any new cries, nor any from her firstborn after their initial cry. Why was there no crying? Her mother stood, leaving Roslin at her side, holding her hand tightly.

“Why are they not crying?” Myrcella asked, breathing shallow and ragged as she tried to catch her breath, the lingering pains of afterbirth, then the delivery of the placenta still running through her.

“The Queen will find out, just rest.” Roslin said softly, smoothing back Myrcella’s hair from her face.

“Mother?” She called shakily, fear taking hold. Why was no one speaking, why were they huddled together, where were her children?

“Princess…” Maester Pycelle began, her brow furrowed.

Her mother stood beside him; her expression unreadable, her hands buried in her skirts, something she had not seen her mother do since she was very young. Something was terribly wrong, she had failed, the babes had been born poorly. They were gone, the product of her and Jon's love, the solid proof ripped from her before she had even gotten the chance to look upon their faces.

“Oh gods no, no, do not tell me they are dead, please, please, they cannot be dead, they cannot be!” She cried, trying to push herself up, her arms weak, her body still aching. Roslin tried to halt her, but she pushed her away, screaming for Jon, sobs wracking her body as she fought to untangle herself from the sweat soaked sheets that weighed her down.

The doors flung open, slamming against the walls and Jon was by her side in an instant, Sansa and Eleyna filing in after him. His hands supporting her, helping her to sit up, taking her into his arms. “Myrcella, I am here, I am here.”

“Why are they not crying? Jon, why are they silent, I want to see them.” She sobbed, clinging to him, her face buried in his sleep shirt. Her labors had begun in the dead of night, and it seemed neither of them had the time or presence of mind to change.

Jon untangled himself from her, and stalked over to the maesters and midwives, his voice low and angry. Sansa took his place, whispering soothingly to her, stroking her hair.

“They must be well, Eleyna, you must pray, pray to the Mother that my children live.” Myrcella begged, vision blurred with tears, the sound of Eleyna’s soft prayers filling her ears, giving her a thread of comfort to cling to.

After a moment or two in which Myrcella thought she would collapse under the weight of her grief, two sharp cries pierced the air, and she fell back against the mountain of pillows, relief flooding her veins.

“Princess, you have successfully delivered twins, two sons.” Pycelle said, carrying one bundle, Jon carrying the other, her mother trailing after them.

Jon reached her first and handed her their first son, his voice soft, his eyes even softer. “Your firstborn, My Lady.”

She took him gratefully, heartbeat slowing as he settled against her. He was beautiful, with a swath of dark hair and brilliant green eyes, her nose, and Jon’s lips. She loved him, her Gawen, heir to Summerhall or Storm’s End if her Uncle Renly kept his status as a bachelor.

“Your second born, Princess.” Pycelle said, not yet handing him to her. “I do not wish to startle you, but it seems your father’s Targaryen blood has made a reappearance.”

“No child of mine could startle me.” She snapped, far too tired for pleasantries.

Pycelle hesitated, but Cersei took the babe from his arms and gave him to Myrcella.

Targaryen or Dayne she could not say which side her second son drew from for his coloring, but he was otherworldly, golden tuft of hair and eyes of deep violet. He looked strangely akin to her Uncle Jaime and if she had not already promised Jon one of their sons could have a northern name, she would name the child as such.

“Perhaps you should name him something that honors your father’s grandmother, Rhaelor or—”

Myrcella’s laughter cut Cersei off. “Mother, please do not make me laugh; my body cannot handle it.”

“Rhaelor or any other name would sound far too much like Rhaegar, I will not have our son be named after the madman who raped my Aunt Lyanna to death.” Jon said firmly, adjusting the black and gold blankets around their second son. “Cregan, that shall be his name.”

“Gawen and Cregan. Fine names for two little princes.” Myrcella said, brushing a kiss to each babe’s forehead.

Cersei smiled, albeit tightly, and kissed Myrcella’s cheek. “I shall inform your father.”

Once she left, Jon dismissed the remaining midwives and maesters, her ladies ushering them out before leaving as well and shutting the door behind them. He sank onto the bed beside her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “You are wondrous. I could not have dreamed of this when I was young. To think I would marry a woman I love, a princess no less and she would give me not one but two healthy sons on our first try?”

“It seems your seed is strong, Husband. Stark hair for one, Dayne eyes for the other.”

“Pycelle may be correct, your great-grandmother’s blood could be the cause.” He said, his breath pleasantly cool against the sweat soaked skin of her neck.

She shook her head. “I do not want it to be Targaryen blood, let it be Dayne.”

Jon lifted his head, admiring their sons. “Cregan looks very much like you, though.”

“I think he looks like my Uncle Jaime, though some have said it is not a surprise I share traits with him, my mother is his twin.” Myrcella said, running her index finger down Cregan’s little nose.

“And Gawen’s eyes, brilliant like jade, they are beautiful as yours are.” Jon said, tracing the curve of Gawen’s cheek.

“He has your long face, though; he will look quite the Stark as he grows.”

Jon smiled. “A Stark of Summerhall, with his mother’s eyes, the lords of the Stormlands will fall at our feet to arrange betrothals.”

Gawen leaned into Jon’s touch, and yawned sleepily, while Cregan stared up at her, quiet and content in her arms. His eyes were so very beautiful, and she wondered if now, while all were swept up in the joy of her children’s birth, was the right time for Jon to ask.

She laughed softly, wincing at the pain in her abdomen. “Do not count our second son out, he will be the portrait of a dashing prince when he comes of age.”

Jon hummed in response, taking in their good fortune. “Now we need only one more, and you could have a son placed upon each of your family’s seats.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Do not bring up such nonsense, not when my grandsire shall be arriving soon.”

“Will Tommen be accompanying him?” The tension in his tone was quite clear, though he spoke softly. Ever since Tommen had destroyed her maiden’s cloak and accused her of treason, Jon had looked upon Tommen in a new, colder light.

She shook her head. “Mother said she sent a raven when my labors began, Grandsire wrote back that he would leave immediately but Tommen would remain behind, it seems he cannot be pulled away from his lessons.”

Jon shifted his weight, a frown marring his features. “I do wish visits could be delayed; you need time to rest, Robb said that Margaery did not receive any visitors for nearly a moon after Leona was born.”

“Yes, well Margaery is not a princess, she is allowed her seclusion.” Myrcella said, feeling Cregan’s head nuzzle against her breasts in search of milk. She guided him to latch, and Jon gently wiped her brow with a cool cloth, before offering her a cup of water. She took it eagerly, draining the cup, before bringing Gawen to her other breast.

Jon poured her another cup, his eyes on her face, staring at her as if she were the most wondrous thing he has ever seen.

She flushed under his attentions, feeling very unkempt, and quite like a sow, wishing he would turn away and not look upon her while she looked so ragged. She pulled the sheet up, covering her breasts, the babes not stirring, content to suckle.

“You are magnificent.” Jon said, pressing a kiss to her temple, cradling her cheek, his steady hand a balm for her aching body. “And I am so very lucky, our sons are so very lucky, to be fed by their mother’s own breasts, to have such a selfless mother.”

Myrcella snorted, “I am not so selfless, my mother did the same for my brothers and I.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“She did, and she advised me to do the same, said it is safer for the babes since you cannot know all a wetnurse eats and drinks, or if she will go mad and try to run off with your child.”

“Understandable reasoning and then reasoning that befits your mother all wrapped in one.” Jon huffed a laugh, his gaze softening when she pulled the sheet back down, their sons sated and unlatching from her breasts. He gently fixed her shift, covering her once more.

Myrcella took a deep breath, it had to be now, or she would never have the courage to bring it up again. “Jon, I think it is time you ask your father.”

“Ask him what?”

“Who your mother is.” She said, glancing up at him.

He sighed and stared down at their sons, wrapping his arm around her shoulders so he could pull them all to him. “And if he refuses to answer?”

“Then press him on it. The Daynes have not shown their faces at any royal event since your father’s tourney, there must be a reason, and if we are to live so near the border of Dorne, we must know what that reason is.”

He rested his head against her own, so that she could not turn to see his face. “What if Ashara is not my mother, what if I was born of some whore, or smallfolk woman?”

“Then the crown has offended House Dayne in some other way, and we will seek to set it right.” She felt him nod reluctantly, and she leaned into his embrace. “Jon, no matter what his answer is, it will change nothing, you are as you have always been to me, but you will never know the truth if you do not ask. So, do it for our sons if you will not do it for yourself.”

“I will, when I have a moment alone with my father, I will ask him.”

“Did you hear that, sweetlings? Your father is very brave.” She cooed to their sons, earning a halfhearted chuckle from Jon.

The door to her chambers swung open and her father barreled in, her good-father, grandsire, and uncles behind him.

“Your Grace, this is far too many people—” Pycelle called, stumbling in after them, earning a glare from Robert.

“To hells with that, I wish to see my grandsons.” Robert said, a wide smile on his face, nearly splitting it apart as he sank into the seat beside her bed, arms outstretched.

“Which would you like to see first, Father? Gawen, my firstborn, or Cregan who has your grandmother’s eyes?” Myrcella asked, putting on a smile, exhaustion weighing down her bones once more. Pycelle was right, there were far too many people.

Robert looked at them both, a gentleness in his eyes that made Myrcella feel strangely forlorn. “Let me see Gawen, and give Cregan to Renly, since he still refuses to marry and produce his own heir.”

“I think Lord Stark should have the honor of holding at least one of his grandchildren first.” Renly said graciously.

Pycelle helped hand Gawen to Robert, and Jon placed Cregan in Ned’s arms, saying, “I cannot remember if there has ever been a blond Stark.”

“Neither can I, but there must always be a first.” Ned said softly, gazing down at Cregan with a forlorn look Myrcella felt deeply in her chest.

“Are you disappointed?” She asked hesitantly, feeling suddenly on the verge of tears.

“No, no, it is only right a Southron Stark have the sun in his hair, just as his Northern kin have the black of winter in theirs.”

“I myself am quite proud, another victory over those madmen. The only Targaryen line worth discussing lives on through Baratheon and Stark blood, what a feat.” Robert chuckled, placing Gawen back in Myrcella’s arms and motioning for Cregan. “Give the boy here, let me see if I recognize my grandmother in his eyes.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, you did not know your grandmother.” Tywin said, leaning forward to scrutinize Cregan. “He is a handsome boy, much like Jaime when he was a babe.”

“That is what I thought, he looks so very much like Uncle Jaime.” Myrcella said, smiling at Jaime, who hovered at the edge of the crowd. “Do you wish to see him?”

Her Uncle Jaime hesitated for a moment then came forward, accepting Cregan from Robert, while Renly scooped up Gawen, Jon’s eyes ever watchful, tracking each movement.

“He is a handsome little lad; you shall have no troubles securing an advantageous match for him when he comes of age.” Jaime said, giving her a soft smile, before bumping shoulders with Jon who had come to stand beside him,

Tywin moved to join them, still inspecting Cregan, while Renly paraded Gawen around the room, followed closely by Ned, who looked as if he feared Renly would drop him.

A gentle pat on her hand tore her attention away and her eyes fell upon her Uncle Tyrion, who smiled at her. “You did a marvelous job, how are you feeling?”

“Tired, sore, like I could sleep for a fortnight.” She admitted, leaning back into her pillows.

“You made such a racket I thought poor Sansa was going to keel over with worry.” He jested, taking the cloth from earlier and rewetting it, standing on his toes to finish cleaning the sweat from her face and neck.

“Oh, I shall have to tell her I was being dramatic, or she will never agree to bear a child.” She laughed wearily.

“Ah yes, lie to the girl, it is how we have ensured children are born for centuries.” He chuckled, then he leaned closer, glancing around to ensure no one was listening, taking her hand in his own. “I am glad to see you are well though, do not push yourself to have another child soon, let your body rest.”

“If I do that, then you will have to wait even longer to meet the next male to inherit Casterly Rock.” She said quietly, half jesting, half serious. The reports of Tommen’s progress had not been good, better than they were here yes, but not by much.

Tyrion’s expression turned serious. “Neither I nor your grandsire plan to die anytime soon. Your life is of far more value to me than who rules the Rock once I am gone.”

Tears clouded her vision, and she nodded, touched by the kindness of his words. She had not planned to rush into another birth, but Tommen’s predicament, his lack of progress, what it might mean, hung heavily over her head. “Alright, I will rest, and drink plenty of moon tea once I am healed.”

Chapter Text

Jon stood outside his father’s office, gazing out the windows down onto the Great Yard, Myrcella was there, far below him with the children and her ladies. He would think she planned it, to bolster his courage, and remind him not to run, but she often took the twins out into the gardens so they could feel the sun on their faces and breathe in fresh air—as fresh as it could be in King’s Landing.

He watched them for a moment, mind wandering north to Winterfell. He wanted to bring their sons there, perhaps for their third nameday, to show them his home, where he grew up, where he played and fought with his siblings, show them the crypts that housed their ancestors. Wanted to see Myrcella in the snow once more, her cheeks flushed, her nose red with cold, snowflakes in her hair, his cloak settled around her shoulders. How would it feel to return home married with children, with sons, sons given to him by a princess of the realm? He wondered about it every so often, returning victorious to the North, all who whispered behind his back silenced by the reality of his situation. The power he gained, though it had not been the reason he sought the life he had now. His wife was a princess, and heir to Storm’s End, both his sons would inherit lands of their own, and if Tyrion had his way, their third son would rule Casterly Rock. In one fell swoop he could be father to three lords of the realm, two of which could be future lord paramounts, and if the gods were good, a daughter, or two. He imagined it would feel good, better than good, great to return home the favored good-son of the king, the only good-son of the king, but still, with a princess and two sons. A sight it would be. His wife and sons playing in the snow, calling to him, all bundled in furs, Myrcella distracting him, so Arya could shove snow down the neck of his coat, before taking the boys’ hands and fleeing with them, mischievous she was. She would encourage them to cause chaos, to question everything, and he would be glad of it. His sister would enjoy corrupting his children, encouraging them to be the wolves they were.

Cregan’s laughter carried on the wind, and he moved closer to the open window, leaning on the sill. Sansa had Cregan in her arms, spinning in circles with him held close to her chest, her red hair fanning out behind her, a pure white headband keeping her hair from falling in her face. Cregan’s golden hair caught the sunlight as they spun, his arms held up, tiny hands reaching for the sky. He smiled, then smiled wider when he saw how Gawen sat beside Myrcella, petting Ghost’s head, the direwolf allowing it patiently. Ghost shifted and looked up at Jon, and it was as if he were silently asking him to save him from the tiny cub who would not leave him alone.

The door to his father’s office opened, and Jon pushed away from the window, spine straightening. Lord Manderly was exiting, and he smiled when he saw him. “Jon, good to see you, my boy. Have you come to visit your father?”

Ned stood in the doorway, and raised an eyebrow at Jon, but smiled, nonetheless.

He greeted the elder man with a respectful nod. “Lord Manderly.”

“Call me Wyman or Lord Wyman as your wife does.” Wyman said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That was quite a show you put on at your wedding, challenging any who would come near your bride to a duel. You have got a fine Northern spirit, just like your father.”

“Thank you, Lord Wyman.” Jon said, pride creeping in. He would never regret his threat, his challenge to the lords of the court, but a small part of him worried it would reflect badly upon himself and Myrcella. Luckily, Lord Wyman was not the only member of the court who approved of his show. Most surprising had been his Good-mother Cersei, who gave him a small, acknowledging nod the next time she saw him.

“Now, I shall let father and son talk, unless you mean to tell him the princess is with child again?” Wyman asked, an amused gleam in his eyes.

“Wyman, the princess only gave birth six moons ago.” Ned said, a similar hint of amusement in his tone.

Jon shoved aside the memories of the day Myrcella told him she felt ready. The maester had cleared her moons ago, but they both agreed to wait, to give her longer to rest and recover. Robb had written praising his patience, as he and Margaery had fallen onto each other the moment Maester Luwin cleared her. Which explain why Robb was so very protective of Margaery at his and Myrcella’s wedding. It would also explain why it seemed Margaery was with child again, giving his half brother a daughter, a son, and another babe on the way, in quick succession.

“If she is, I am not yet aware of it.” Jon said, giving Wyman something to chew on, all the while praying he was not blushing. That day, and many following it, counting this very morn were filled with the stuff he had dreamed of as a boy, but Myrcella was drinking moon tea for now, to give the children time with them alone.

Wyman smiled and patted him on the back before bidding them goodbye and making his way down the stairs.

“You wished to speak with me?” Ned asked.

Jon cast one last look at his wife and sons, do it for our sons if you will not do it for yourself, and steadied himself. “Aye, if you have a moment?”

“Always.” Ned said, welcoming him in, before he took a seat behind his desk. Myrish rugs and wall hangings decorated the cylindrical room. Gold tinted windows made the space seem warmer, more comfortable, the sigil of their house set about in places of honor, a small portrait of Lady Catelyn smiling up at his father from within a frame on his desk.

He thought of the portrait of Lady Ashara, the one hidden in a chest of drawers in his and Myrcella’s chambers. Should she be there on his father’s desk too? No, he had not married her, but she was someone of importance to him, was she not? She made the noble Ned Stark break his vows, surely, he loved her.

Jon sat and rested his hands on his knees then folded them, then interlaced his fingers, then rested them on the arms of his chair, unable to keep still.

His father breathed a laugh. “Peace, Jon, you seem as if I am poised to scold you, when it is you who came to me.”

Jon chuckled and ducked his head. “Apologies, I thought I was more prepared for this than I truly am.”

“Prepared for what?” Ned asked kindly, his eyes searching his face, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is Myrcella with child again?”

“No, no, we are enjoying the time we have with the children now.”

“Good, that is wise.” He smiled fully, leaning back in his chair.

“Speaking of children.” Jon started, cringing internally at the roughness of it.

“Speaking of them?”

Do it for our sons.

“Cregan’s eyes. They are an unusual color for a Stark or a Lannister, or a Baratheon.” He said, watching his father’s face for any signs, any hints.

“Myrcella has Targaryen blood, it as the queen says, Cregan’s eyes must be from Robert’s grandmother.” Ned said, his expression unchanged.

He braced himself; he had not asked after his mother since he was young. “Father, when Myrcella and I take up residence in Summerhall we will be neighbors with Dorne. I have not pressed you relentlessly nor do I intend to dredge up old hurts, but I must know. Who is my mother?”

His father sat silent for a long while, just looking at him.

“I do not care if she was a whore in the war camps, I want to know her name.” Jon said finally, unnerved for the first time in a long time under his father’s gaze.

“Do you know the story of your Aunt Lyanna, how I went south to rescue her?” Ned asked, drumming his fingers on his desk.

“Of course.” Everyone knew the story, especially in the keep, Robert would not let anyone forget what had happened, but why was his father bringing it up now?

“She gave birth to a child in that tower. Rhaegar’s.”

Jon froze, did he have a cousin he did not know of, where was the child now? He or she would surely be of a close age to him and Robb. “I have a cousin?”

“No, the babe died with Lyanna, her of a horrid fever, and the child—” His father looked away, his fingers stilling, his voice thick with grief—“it was a winged, twisted thing, stillborn and covered in scales, a cursed creature, it was a mercy it never drew breath. Your aunt was too weak, too feverish to realize what had happened, she begged me to swear I would protect her child, and I told her I would, to ease her passing.”

If Myrcella were beside him, she would say, let us pray the Stranger dragged Rhaegar screaming to the Seven Hells, and guided your aunt and cousin gently into the arms of the Mother, and he would agree. Though, he did not keep her faith. He hoped the Old Gods did as his mind’s image of her said, and he was glad she was not here for he did not like her to see him angry, but he could not hold his tongue. “Others take him, gods damn him, I am glad Robert caved that madman’s chest in.”

His father nodded solemnly. “Aye, I only wish I had done it myself.”

“But if there is no cousin, why tell me of this?” Jon asked carefully, as his father’s grief still lingered between them.

“You must understand, what I did was to save the realm from Aerys. We needed the Tully armies, we needed the trust of those who followed us, we could not risk the war, and they say bastards grow faster than trueborn children. No one would question a matter of moons, not if I put a stop to it.” Ned explained, his voice quiet, a tense quiet that set Jon’s nerves on edge.

Perhaps he should have asked Myrcella to accompany him, the urge to reach for her hand, to steady himself through her touch, made his hand twitch almost imperceptibly.

“When I traveled to Starfell to return Ser Arthur’s sword and bones I was greeted by Lady Ashara, she had given birth to a son with Stark features, and I made the connection quite quickly. Brandon had gotten her with child, a bastard, I do not know how they accomplished it, but Ashara has always been clever. She must have gone to him while he was imprisoned in King’s Landing, or before, I truly do not know. All I know is that there you were, a few moons old, but alive, while I carried with me the remains of my sister and her child.”

Ned Stark was not his father; his father was not his father. Jon gripped the arms of the chairs, willing himself to remain calm. There must be more, he needed more, the words spun around and around in his mind, making him dizzy.

“She already knew about the Brandon’s death, and the Sack of King’s Landing, of the deaths of Queen Elia, and her children. She was Elia’s closest companion; she loved those children as her own. She was draped in black, mourning with her whole being, and I delivered more grief to her that day. To lose a brother, a lover, a sister, and children she held so dear in such quick succession…she shattered before my very eyes.”

Jon’s heart twisted painfully in his chest, his mother, his poor mother had lost so many, had grieved so deeply. He thought of Gawen and Cregan, they now felt leagues away, and he wished to go to them, to pull them and Myrcella into his arms and shield them.

“She begged me to take you, said she named you Jon, a proper Northern name, to honor your father, and that you should be with family, that she could not have you with her.” Ned continued, the lines of face seemed deeper, the tale, and sorrow aging him.

She would have loved you, Jon. You are a strapping young lad with a keen mind, a good heart, and the arm of a proper swordsman.

“She gave me away?” He stood, a sharp pain piercing him, Jaime was wrong, Ashara had not loved him, his mother had not loved him, nor had wanted him. The visions in his mind, the blurred woman with soft hands, and a softer voice humming to him, were a lie. It had all been a lie, he should have known, should not have gotten his hopes up, he was a fool, no, worse, he was an unloved and discarded bastard with foolish dreams.

“She was not well, I did not know at the time, that some women do not recover their joy and normality after giving birth, that there is a sorrow that weighs down their souls, that drives them mad. I thought it was from the losses she had suffered, but she said she feared she would hurt you, so she wanted you gone, for your own safety. I prayed she would come to her senses by the end of my visit, but when the time came to return, she was no better than before, if not worse, and I could delay no longer.” Ned sighed heavily, unable to meet his eyes. “I began the journey back home, and it was not much later I heard she flung herself from a tower.”

Jon’s vision blurred with hot tears, and he braced his hand on the back of the chair to keep himself steady, his knuckles white, anger, grief and shock warring within him. “Why would you lie to me? To spare my feelings? I would rather have known, would rather have had a place in the world, known her name, even if she did not want me.”

Ned stood and rounded the desk, coming to stand before him, his eyes so like Jon’s own, weary with sorrow, with the weight of his secrets. “We needed the men as I said, but Brandon’s actions, the knowledge of them would have wounded Cat deeply. I wished to spare her the pain of knowing that my brother, whom she loved, dishonored her so readily.”

Jon could not deny he understood his fath—his uncle’s logic, but it stung. “I would have kept the secret, I would not have spoken of it, Lady Catelyn would never have known.”

“I could not risk the war; I could not risk the lives of all I cared for, I could not dishonor Lady Ashara’s memory, nor would I dishonor Brandon’s, and in my grief I thought it better for you to be mine, you would not be a threat to Cat and Robb, as you would be as Brandon’s bastard. No one could badger me to send you away if you were mine. I could not protect Lyanna’s child, so I protected Brandon’s in its stead.”

He was not only a bastard, but an orphan, and before that an unwanted babe. The gods truly looked down upon him, truly cursed his name. He tried to push down the wretched sob forcing its way up, but it tore past his gritted teeth, and he sagged into his uncle’s embrace. He must have uttered the words aloud, for Ned gripped him tighter.

“Lady Ashara wanted you; I am sure of it; you were not born out of hate but love. She was just unwell, Jon. If she had been well, I am sure she would not have given you away.” Ned said softly, cradling the back of Jon’s head as he sobbed in the arms of the man, he believed for so long to be his father. “And Brandon, had he known, had he lived, he would have kept you, my brother was wild, but he was loyal to us, his family, he would not have abandoned you.”

He pulled back and cupped Jon’s face. “You may trust my words or not but know this, you are still my son, my blood, I love you as one of my own, your kin, your Uncle Benjen and cousins love you as their own, do not doubt that, never doubt that. You are a Stark; you shall always be a Stark, even if you were the child that Rhaegar forced upon my sister, you would still be ours.”

“He loved her? My father?” He asked through jagged sobs, he needed to know, needed to know his life was not one brought forth solely by lust.

“In the brief times I saw them together, and from the tales I heard, I am inclined to believe there was love shared between them.”

It was not the answer he wished to hear. He wished to hear a love story to span the ages, but he knew it could not be. It was war, his father was to marry another, his mother was sought after by many, bound to the crown. The Mad King and Rhaegar tore them apart, he hated them, understood now the anger his good-father felt, the anger Jaime felt.

His fat—uncle kissed his brow, as he had not done since Jon was a child. “I hate to ask this of you, I know you are hurt, but this must remain a secret.”

Jon reeled back, anger outweighing his sadness. “A secret? I must tell my wife, and the others, Robb, Arya, Sansa, they should know the truth. Lady Catelyn should know what you have done for her, perhaps it will lessen her distain of me.”

“No, it must remain secret until Cat and I have passed from this world. I will write the tale down, of your true parentage, so you may have it in your home, but none must see it. It will change how you are seen, and egos can still be wounded decades later. Besides I have no wish to dishonor the memory of the dead, even now.” Ned said firmly but not unkindly before he returned to his desk to do as he said.

Jon stood watching, anger still roiling inside him, shoving down his sorrow. He wanted it known, he wished to claim his mother, even if House Dayne wanted nothing to do with him. He did not realize his uncle had finished until the sealed parchment was set in his hand.

“Go tuck this away somewhere safe and see your sons, their joy will make your heart light again.” Ned urged softly.

It was the kindest dismissal he had ever received and yet it burned him, his hand closing around the parchment, his back straight as he wiped his eyes with his arm and headed back to his chambers.

Jaime found him first, raising an eyebrow at him in the halls. Jon held up the parchment then tucked it into his pocket, and Jaime fell in step with him. “How did it go?”

“Myrcella told you?”

“She tasked me to linger in the halls in case you tried to run.” Jaime said good-naturedly, his tone covering for the concerned expression on his face.

Jon glanced around then lowered his voice to a near whisper, anger swirling in his gut. She was his mother, as many thought she was. He could speak of her if she wished, damn the Tullys, damn the honor of the dead, the honor of his uncle who lied to him, then asked him to keep secrets from those he was closest to. “Lady Ashara is my mother.”

Jaime bumped his shoulder into Jon’s. “I knew it, did I not tell you that you have her smile, and her hair?” Then he whistled lowly. “I did not think Ned Stark had it in him, what a beauty he ensnared.”

“He did not.” Jon said, the words tumbling from him, his anger an avalanche. He felt a spike of guilt, his uncle had kept his parentage secret for reasons Jon understood, but they wounded him anyway.

Jaime stopped and looked at him, his head tilted slightly. “Oh?”

Jon stepped closer to him, hands curling and uncurling into fists as he breathed deeply, trying to curb his anger. Jaime had seen him despondent in the dirt and riding high on victory, had been the one who gifted him Lady Ash—his mother’s portrait, it had been Jaime who told him of his mother, how she was when she was alive and happy. It was Jaime who had trained him, supported and teased him, had encouraged him to pursue Myrcella, had covered for them. Jon would never begrudge his uncle for his time spent running the kingdom, but in his absence, there were spaces Jaime filled, things he told his mentor that he did not tell Ned. Jaime had never betrayed his trust before, and now they were kin by marriage, and Jon knew there was little Jaime loved more than his family.

“Jon, you know you may tell me anything.” Jaime said, his verdant eyes searching his face, lingering on the redness of his nose, the faded tear tracks down his cheek. “Have I not proven myself trustworthy?”

Another sob worked its way through him, and he cursed himself. He was a man grown, a husband and father, he could not be seen crying like a babe in the halls, people would talk.

Jaime steered him towards a side hall, pulling aside a tapestry and ushering him through a doorway Jon had never seen before. “Hidden passageways, they are all over the Keep, but there are none in the holdfast do not worry.” Jaime explained breezily.

Jon made a mental note to ask about these passageways further at a later date.

They traveled down a darkened hallway until finally Jaime stopped and turned. He then cupped the back of Jon’s neck and brought him closer, meeting his eyes, not letting him look away. “No one will hear us here. Now, tell me what ails you, Jon.”

Jon’s jaw locked, and he shook his head pitifully. “I cannot, the truth has consequences, you will not see me the same.”

Jaime laughed and placed his other hand on Jon’s arm, squeezing reassuringly. “You are my protégé, my favorite former pupil, I have seen you slumped outside a brothel sick with guilt, and I have seen you brimming with joy as you held your sons. I have seen you win a tourney, and I have seen you execute a man. I have seen your flaws and failures as well as your strengths and triumphs since you were five and ten, there is nothing you can say that will change who you are in my eyes.”

The words flowed as freely as they had outside the brothel, but with more urgency, his breath nearing running out as he spoke, tears clouding his vision, his soul weary with the weight of his sorrow, his anger, his guilt, and confusion. “My father was Brandon Stark, he got Lady Ashara with child sometime while he was here, and when my fat—uncle went to return Ser Arthur’s sword my mother gave me to him because she was unwell, some madness that lingers after childbirth. She gave me up and then flung herself from a tower. My uncle says she wanted me, that her and my father loved each other, but I am an orphan, a secret. My whole life I thought myself Ned Stark’s son, and now he asks me to keep the truth a secret until he and Lady Catelyn die because it could upset House Tully, and he does not wish to speak ill of the dead. But I-I cannot lie to Myrcella, I cannot lie to you, and I do not want to. I want to claim my mother even if she could not bear to live in a world without my father and her brother, and Queen Elia and her children. Even if she could not live for me.”

“Well…I was not expecting that.”

His breathing was shaky, and he could not stop his tears. “He said she wanted me, but she…” He shook his head again, unable to continue, Jaime’s face blurry through his tears.

“She was unwell, I can only imagine it was the same illness that plagued Queen Rhaella, it is a brutal battle and leaves many scars. Your uncle was right to take you somewhere safe, you could have died with her. There was more than one occasion we were ordered to remove all sharp objects from the queen’s vicinity, and bar her from the nursery, so deep in the throes of madness and misery she was.” Jaime said, his voice taking on that detached quality, that told Jon he was dredging up memories he would rather keep buried.

Jon hung his head, he understood, he believed Jaime’s word, he had heard Roslin and Myrcella discuss something similar in hushed voices before the twins were born, but still his tears dotted the stone floor, and his voice was small. “You said she would love me.”

Jaime’s grip on him tightened, his voice thick with emotion, no wisps of detachment lingering. “If she had been well, your uncle would have had to wrestle you from her arms, she would have poisoned him first before she allowed him to take you from her. Lady Ashara would have saddled a horse and chased him down, would have picked up Dawn and run him through, but her mind was wracked with shadows and sorrows she could not escape, it would not have been safe for you to stay with her.”

“But what if—”

“You are Jon Stark, Lord of Summerhall, husband of Princess Myrcella, father of two healthy sons, beloved by the smallfolk. You are the White Wolf, a great swordsman, a loyal friend, and a good man. If you had died with your mother, none of this would have come to pass.” Jaime said, and his words echoed in Jon’s bones.

Finally, Jon nodded and sniffled, feeling akin to a child.

“Believe my words Jon, if she were not sick, if she were not fighting the darkness that plagues grieving mothers, she would have loved you endlessly. You are the son of Ashara Dayne, one of the most beautiful women in the realm, nephew to the Sword of the Morning, be proud.”

“But I cannot tell anyone.” He reminded him halfheartedly.

“You cannot say Brandon was your father, but all already believe Ashara is your mother, so act in accordance with the truth.” Jaime shrugged.

Jon thought of the sigil Myrcella had made for him when they were younger, and he was still a bastard hovering at the edges, enamored with her. The purple sky, the stars, Ghost beneath them. Summerhall still needed an official house sigil. “I must speak with Myrcella.”

“Uncle?” Myrcella’s voice rang out in the tunnels, and relief flooded him. How did she know he needed her? How did she find them? He cared not, he wanted to see her, to hold her.

Jaime moved quickly, seemingly unfazed by her arrival, and Jon went to her, mildly surprised to see Eleyna beside her. His wife’s Banefort lady had a penchant for subterfuge, so he guessed it only made sense she would know of these tunnels.

“Jon, are you alright?” Myrcella asked, her hands going to his face, wiping away his remaining tears before pulling him down to her, her familiar form a comfort like no other. He took one of her hands and kissed it, lingering longer than normal before embracing her to hide the slight trembling of his bottom lip.

“And what might I ask are you two ladies doing here?” Jaime asked, his tone light and jovial again.

“We were on our way to check on Jon, he had been gone for a while.” Myrcella said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer.

“Through secret passageways?” Jon asked into Myrcella’s hair, breathing in the scent.

“It is faster, and I did not want any curious eyes on me, so Eleyna provided a way.”

“I am surprised you did not already know of them, My Lady.” Eleyna said, her expression was pleasant, but unreadable, her eyes dark as night in the shadows of the passageway, the sight almost sent a shiver down his spine. It was the Baneforts that helped Tywin crush the Tarbacks and the Reynes, their hooded man sigil dark and ominous beside the roaring lion of Casterly Rock.

“You planned to spy on me, sweet one?” Jon asked, burying his face in her hair, not yet ready to release her.

“Check on you, my love, no spying necessary, I know you would not keep secrets from me.” Myrcella said, tilting her head up, dislodging him so she could brush her lips against the edge of his jaw.

“And where are the children?”

“With Sansa and Roslin in the nursery.”

He nodded, drinking in the sight of her, beautiful even in shadows.

“Lady Eleyna perhaps we might allow these two a moment of privacy?” Jaime suggested, holding his bent arm out towards her.

She accepted it gracefully. “Of course. My Lady, do you remember the way back?”

Myrcella nodded, and they split off into pairs going in opposite directions, his hand held tightly in hers.

They walked in silence for a while until she spoke once more. “I would take us to the Godswood, but your father is there praying, and I have a feeling you wish to avoid him?”

He nodded again and told her everything. All that Ned had said. That Jaime had said. Every thought in his mind, every feeling, every hurt, every fear, everything, until finally they were safely tucked away in their chambers. They were seated before the fire, Myrcella at his side letting him trace the lines of her palms, avoiding her eyes, and until he found he had nothing left to say.

She had listened patiently, and said nothing for a moment, then took his hands in hers and kissed his palms, bringing them to her heart. “I am sorry, Jon, that this news brings so much pain, but I am here, and I shall share in your burden until it does not feel so heavy anymore.”

He loved her, he loved her, he loved her.

“You do not see me differently?” He knew her answer would be no, he had no doubt of her love for him, it was among the few things he had no reservations about.

“I told you it would change nothing, except our plan on how to approach the Dornish, if we ever do.” She said, glaring at the still unopened box from the Martells that sat on the low table. Neither of them had been able to open it, and he had stopped her from trying to break it open with large sewing scissors multiple times.

“What if I am cursed? They both suffered such cruel fates, and I am their son.” It was a fear, but his heart was lighter, and his motivation was more towards earning honeyed words from her than true reassurance. Her glaring and the memory of her swearing furiously as she tried to stab the box, hand wrapped tightly around the scissors’ handle, had amused him and banished some of his sadness.

She snorted. “If you were cursed, you would not be here. Against many, many odds, my love, you have gained yourself quite a nice life.”

He gave her a small smile and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, caressing the shell of it. “Aye, that I have.”

“Or perhaps I should say earned, you did toil patiently for many years.” She corrected as she rose from their shared seat and rummaged through a chest of drawers. She returned with two items; the portrait of his mother and the sigil she made him years ago. “If it pleases you, I think we should send this to whomever is in charge of plastering our house’s sigil everywhere, and the portrait should go up with the rest.” She placed it on the mantle beside the portrait of him, Sansa, and his uncle, a gift from Sansa herself. “Now our families are presented equally. Well, they will be once we have a portrait of your father made.”

He went and stood beside her, slipping his hand into hers as he had longed to do since he entered his uncle’s office. “Thank you.”

“You do not need to thank me.” She said, adjusting the portrait of her and Cersei. Their similarities so easily spotted when they were side by side, he wondered if he had ever been able to stand next to his own mother would their similarities be shown too?

“And yet I will.” He said, carefully side-stepping Ghost’s vacant bed, to move closer to her, the direwolf in the nursery with Sansa and the children.

She smiled up at him and squeezed his hand. “Shall we get the boys and show them their grandmother?”

“Not yet, I think it best we wait until they are older.”

She nodded, still looking up at him.

He felt suddenly self-conscious, and ran a hand through his hair, he must look a mess from crying so childishly. “I know, I look haggard.”

“You look handsome, as you always do.”

He blushed and turned his face away, staring into the fire, telling himself it was merely the heat from the flames.

“But I do think you should clean your face a little before we get the children for dinner. Let me help.” She said lightly, squeezing his hand once more.

He turned back to her, grateful but embarrassed. “It is alright to tell me if I look a mess.”

Myrcella kissed his cheek, then his other one, working her way down the tear tracks before kissing him gently, her hand cupping his cheek. “You look a mess.”

He huffed a laugh, and returned the kiss, sighing against her as the tightly wound tension in his chest began to unravel.

Chapter Text

Myrcella pushed open the door to her goodfather—no to her husband’s uncle’s office with more force than was polite, the anger she had shoved down for moons returning to the surface as she spotted Ned looking out the window as if he had not a care in the world.

He turned abruptly when she entered, the small smile on his face at the sight of her replaced by a concerned frown as she stormed into the room.

“You told my husband to lie to me?” Myrcella asked, though she knew the answer, her eyes narrowed, one hand on the back of a nearby chair, the other on her rounded stomach.

She had planned to enter this conversation calmly, to gain the upper hand quickly. It was precisely why she had waited until the shock had worn off, until she felt enough time had passed, and she could catch him off guard. But then Jon had stumbled under the weight of his secret, of the guilt he felt, and the longing to know more, and she could not stay calm. This weight was not his to bear alone though, but no matter how hard she tried to convince him of it, he would not share it, would not go against the man he once called father, and it angered her.

She was angry that he had been lied to his whole life, and then forced to keep up that lie by a man he held in the highest esteem. Angry that he was told to lie to her with no explanation for why. She thought highly of Ned Stark, and believed he thought the same of her. Of course, he never outright championed her as heir of anything as others did. But he always ensured her voice was heard in Small Council meetings, and did not speak against anyone who said in veiled, honey-soaked words that they thought her a better heir than Tommen. But he told Jon to lie to her, why? Did he not trust her, did he think her a gossip, or was he so stuck in his ways of keeping this secret from his own wife that he could not fathom anyone else not choosing to do the same?

“Not lie, but withhold the truth, just until certain circumstances were fulfilled.” Ned said calmly, moving to close the door to his office then sitting at his desk, his hands steepled.

She scoffed. “Until you and Lady Stark die, what an easy condition to fulfill. We shall just tell our sons on the day of yours and her death, good news boys now that the man you believed to be your grandsire is dead, we can tell you the truth. He was not your grandsire, your true grandsire died decades before. That shall be such a comfort to them.”

“Gooddaughter please you should sit, with your condition…”

She gripped the back of the chair, nails digging into the wood as she fought to keep her cool. “I shall stand, because if I sit, I shall not leave here again until one of us is crying, and I promise you Lord Stark it will not be me who is shedding tears.” She sounded like her mother, and she was glad of it, she needed her strength, her bite, and had even worn a Lannister red gown to bolster herself.

Lord Stark, not Lord Ned, or Ned or Goodfather, no, the man had lost that privilege, at least in private. Her anger had only grown as her stomach swelled with a third babe, and she realized Ned Stark’s lie would claim another generation of Starks. But not her Starks, no, she would not allow it. The Starks of Summerhall would know their history, know their lineage, know their grandsire and grandmother, even if it was only through portraits and scant stories. She would ride to Starfell herself and beg for stories of her deceased goodmother if need be. Not that Jon would let her go alone, or at all while she was with child. It was a long journey and though she was an excellent rider, her skills could not stave off the potential risks to her unborn child.

“Myrcella, neither of us are going to shed tears, it would pain Jon, and I know you do not wish to hurt him.” Ned said, holding his hands palm out in a show of surrender.

She tapped her foot angrily. “I have never hurt him, not as you have, and I never will, because I do not keep secrets from my husband, nor will I keep them from my children.”

“There was a war going on, a war I fought with and for your father, it put him on the throne.”

“Yes, and I am grateful you aided him, but the war eventually ended, and you still kept quiet. You have been married to Lady Stark for over two decades, and you never once thought to tell her the truth? You allowed her to treat my husband, your nephew coldly, allowed her to think you dishonored her, and allowed Jon to believe he was unloved, and unwanted by his mother.”  

And asked him to lie, when he knew that Jon did not like to lie. It was that which truly burned her, the request to sully his own honor, to lie to her whom he had never lied too before. Perhaps it was selfish of her, that the request wounded her so deeply, but it did, it did. Why was she not worthy of the truth? She was not a known gossip, or a stranger, nor would she risk angering House Tully by shouting the truth from the mountaintops.

“It is more complicated than you might think, you are so newly married and gods willing will not face the trials Cat and I have faced.” Ned said, pouring himself and then her a drink of water.

Myrcella imagined what her mother would do in her place, snatch the cup from the desk and throw the drink in his face, then throw the empty cup for good measure. Her fingers twitched, and she could see it, could feel the violent desires awakening in her once more. It would feel good to throw the drink in Lord Stark’s face, to curse his name and scream at him, but she could not do that. She was not queen, she was not her mother, she had to restrain herself.

She straightened her spine, both hands resting atop her stomach. “I am not unaware that my parents’ marriage is an unhappy one. Nor do I claim to know the intimate details of your marriage to Lady Stark, but I am not someone who has never witnessed love. And I can understand not trusting a new bride, but Jon and I are not new to each other.”

“No, you are not.” Ned agreed. “You are Robert’s daughter through and through, you saw what you wanted, a Stark as he did, and would not be persuaded otherwise.”

She bristled at his words; she was not her father pining after some dead girl he barely knew. “I know who Jon is. We have been beside each other since we were young, and I am under no illusion of his true nature. I would have stayed by his side even if it turned out he was the son of two smallfolk you took pity on.”

“Peace Myrcella, I am not accusing you.” He said, and his calm tone, his even expression sparked the kindling of her anger.

She tilted her chin up, the kindling beginning to burn. “There would be nothing to accuse me of, except perhaps elevating your alleged son while you were content with the idea of letting him waste away at the Wall.”

His eyes hardened. “That was a choice Jon wished to make for himself, one he abandoned quite quickly once he met you.”

She smiled, anger making her cocky. “Now that, Lord Stark, sounds like an accusation.”

“It is an observation and a fact, no malice intended. I have known your father long enough to know stags are stubborn, they will drag the unwary along, willing or not.”

She raised an eyebrow, willing herself to stay calm, feeling little kicks under her palms. Three children within the first year and a half of their marriage, she did not drag him into anything. “I can assure you, Jon came quite willingly.”

Ned nodded stiffly, and his eyes drifted to a small portrait of Lady Stark.

“Is that why you told Jon to lie to me, because you believed I dragged him away from the Wall?” When he did not answer, she pressed on, but tried a softer approach, nodding towards the portrait. “Clearly this falsehood has weighed heavily upon you, why not put it down now? Lady Stark seems to be a forgiving woman; surely, she would understand your reasoning.”

“When you are faced with a similar decision, you will see the necessity of carrying this weight.” Ned said, keeping his eyes on the portrait.

She laughed, a sharp mocking thing, she could not help it, could not stop it. “I doubt I will ever see the necessity in keeping such a secret from my husband, nor would I ever bear a bastard, or pass one of Tommen’s off as my own.”

“Only time will tell.” Ned said, glancing at her, taking in the crimson of her dress. There was something in his tone that she did not like.

Myrcella gritted her teeth, perhaps it was the babe toying with her emotions, but she felt the venom on her tongue and did not swallow it, instead let it color her words. “You may find it honorable to lie to your wife, but Jon does not, and it makes him the better for it.”

“Let us not speak of honor when it is you who told Lynesse Hightower what could be gained from killing your cousin. Your grandsire must be proud of you for such a feat, no one can doubt you are a Lannister.” Ned said, a sudden, bone chilling cold rolling off him.

“You are right, Lord Stark, I am a Lannister, and as you know we always pay our debts.” She cradled her stomach, wrapped in crushed crimson velvet, and looked down at him imperiously, glad he was still seated, for he was taller than her when standing. “So, consider the recovery of the slaver that slipped your watch and the elimination of the Targaryen line that murdered your father and all but one of your siblings, as payment for your aid to my father. With interest, of course, considering I did take a son from you.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Aye, you took a son that does not listen, I only pray Jon will not come to regret telling you what he has.”

“That son of a bitch!” She grabbed her plate and threw it, the porcelain shattering against the wall. “Damn him, and his honor, how dare he, how dare he?” She seethed, her wine glass joining her plate in a heap on the floor, her breath ragged as she reached for something else to throw.

“He is a fool, my heir, an absolute fool.” Tyrion drawled, sipping from his own wine glass as he pushed another set of tableware towards her.

Myrcella picked up a bowl and flung it at the wall with an enraged scream, following it up with another wine glass, then a plate, then a gravy boat, various patterns and colors of glass and porcelain cracking and crashing to the floor. “To ask my husband to lie to me? To me? I am his wife, he belongs to me, body, heart, soul, and mind, his very legacy runs through me. I could sever him from those damned wolves if I wished, House Baratheon of Summerhall sounds just as good as House Stark of Summerhall.”

“I actually do like the sound of the Starks of Summerhall a little better, if I am being honest.”

She screamed again, and Tyrion did not even flinch, simply watched as she raged. Her hair was a mess from how she had dragged her fingers through it in frustration. Her face was stained with angry tears, her gown a deep Lannister red, as all hers would be until her anger subsided, she had already decided it. Red, gold, or purple would be her wardrobe, she would not wear Stark colors neither would her sons nor her husband, not until she felt Ned Stark was sufficiently punished. So long she had shoved down her violent desires, the rage within her, for she was not vicious like her mother, but now she wished she was. If she was then, perhaps, she would have had the right words to say, or her rage would have been strong enough to force Lord Stark’s hand. But no, she was not, so now she would wait. Wait and wait, and mayhaps she would write to her grandsire and ask for advice on waiting out one’s enemy. Not that Lord Stark was truly her enemy. Jon still loved him dearly, and he was still Sansa’s father, but in this moment, she had no other name to call him nor did she want to.

“He dares to cite the Tullys as his reasoning as if they did not end the war with all they wanted, as if Lady Stark would not be glad to hear her husband never truly dishonored her. He is a coward, a fucking coward, and now my family and I must suffer for it!” Her fists clenched, and she took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. “And to insult House Lannister, and imply that Jon would regret telling me what he has? Mother was right, that man’s arrogance knows no bounds.”

“Sometimes Cersei is right, I am always surprised when she is, it happens so rarely.” Tyrion snorted.

Myrcella huffed and grabbed another plate, admiring it coldly in the low light of the storage room. “With Joffrey at the Wall, I am the eldest child of the king, the only princess, the granddaughter of Tywin Lannister, heir to Storm’s End, and Lady of Summerhall, I do not have to listen to a false goodfather.”

“No, you do not, but he is Hand of the King, so you cannot kill him.” He reminded her.

She rolled her eyes. “I was not planning to. I am not Joffrey, trying to kill off everyone who annoys me.”

“Good, then that is my job done preventing any family catastrophes today.” He said, taking a long drink of his wine.

She tossed the plate aside and rested her hands on the swell of her stomach, tapping her fingers on it in rapid succession. “Come, Uncle, I need help thinning out my wardrobe.”

Myrcella stormed into her chambers, with her uncle at her side, and ripped every white, gray, and black—that did not have gold on it—article of clothing from her, and the children’s wardrobes. She threw them in a pile, setting aside the tunics Sansa had embroidered, and the tiny doublets Margaery had sent from Winterfell. Her friends were innocent, she would not throw out their gifts.

“Myrcella, let us not be hasty, you have many fine gowns here, it would be a shame to throw them all out.” Tyrion urged, picking some out of the pile and setting them aside.

“They can be repurposed, or donated to the septs, I just cannot stand to look at them right now.” She said, throwing open the doors to Jon’s wardrobe as well. “Gods, he will need a wheelhouse’s worth of new clothes.” She pulled a large section out and set them aside, she would not throw out Jon’s possessions without his knowledge, she was not as domineering as Lord Stark seemed to think she was.

“Jaime was right, he still wears entirely too much black.” He said, picking up a particularly gloomy looking tunic with a look of disdain that made her laugh.

“Perhaps I shall just stitch a golden stag head onto all of these, that way he will not be left with so little clothing.” Myrcella said, biting the nail on her pointer finger, as she counted the articles in her head.

The door to their chambers opened and Jon walked in, his eyebrows raised as he took in the scene, Ghost trotting past him and making himself comfortable in his bed. “Has the color black been banned?”

“Yes, by me. No longer will we be wearing white, gray, or black without gold. I spoke with your uncle, and I do not want us in Winterfell Stark colors any longer. We are Starks of Summerhall, and we shall dress like it.” Myrcella said, bracing herself for his rejection of the idea.

Jon looked from her to Tyrion then back to her, then to Tyrion once more. “Tyrion, would you mind if I spoke with my wife in private?”

“Not at all, Nephew, I shall go and visit my heir’s heirs.” He kissed Myrcella’s cheek once she bent down for him to reach her, then patted Jon on the hand as he passed him by. “Do try and stay out of projectile range, she throws hard.”

Once the door shut behind him, Jon sighed heavily. “Do I want to know what you and my uncle discussed?”

She huffed again and continued pulling clothing from his wardrobe. “I am too Lannister for him, and too much like my father. He refuses to change his mind about telling people of your parents, and he thinks I dragged you through the years to the altar and my bed, and he hopes you will not regret telling me the truth.”

“I see.”

She moved to her writing desk and began making a list for the royal seamstress, Jon, and the boys would need a multitude of new clothing items.

“Myrcella, you should not have spoken to him without me.”

“You will not speak with him, so I had to.” She snapped, her anger still simmering beneath her skin. “I had to know the truth.”

He came up behind her, his hands on her hips, and rested his chin in the crook of her shoulder. “Why do you think he finds you too Lannister?”

“He said it.” She said, leaning into his touch, letting his warm hands leech the anger from her. “He all but accused me of stealing you away from the Night’s Watch, when I did not even know you were considering it when we first met.”

“I will speak with him.” Jon said, slipping his hands from her hips to under her belly, lifting it slightly, taking the weight off her back.

“It will do no good.” She sighed, grateful to whoever taught him the trick. “Tempers need to cool first, namely my own, and probably his as well, I may have implied that I paid him for his time in the rebellion and for you with the deaths of Daenerys and Jorah Mormont.”

Jon barked a laugh, surprised, and turned her to face him. “I can only imagine the shock he felt when you said you paid for me in literal blood.”

“Yes, well he said I should not speak of honor since I told Lynesse about Daenerys, and that my grandsire must be proud of how Lannister I was, and well if he is going to insult my family then it is only right, I remind him they are your family too.”

“Aye, I married a lioness with full knowledge of the pride she came from. I do not want your mother, though; you may keep her.”

“Oh, but she is so very fond of you.” She said with faux sadness. Jon leveled her with a look, one eyebrow raised, and she held out for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. “Fine, fine, she tolerates you, but the rest are fond of you, besides Grandsire I do not know what he thinks of you. I also am not sure how Tommen feels.”

He pulled her closer, smiling when he felt the babe kick against his palms. “You can keep Tommen too; I am content with the lions who have never made you cry”

“That shall be our task for tomorrow, I write to my grandsire to keep Tommen at the Rock, and you go with my Uncle Jaime to take these dreadfully dour articles to the sept, see if they have need of them. The fabric can be reused for a myriad of things, I am sure.” Myrcella said, as the exhaustion of her anger swept over her, leaving her drained, the babe making her tired as well.

“We will discuss the clothing later.” Jon said, his thumb tracing a path beneath her right eye, trailing up to her temple, then into her hair, gently smoothing it down. “The maester said you must not exert yourself too much, let us rest before our sons return with your uncle.”

She nodded, and let him lead her to their bed, falling asleep the moment her head met the pillow.

Chapter Text

The day was pleasant, the sun high in the sky, the foul smell of the city lessened slightly by the breeze coming off the sea. Her father encouraged her to take a trip to Storm’s End before Tommen arrived, and to spend some time there with Edric. But truly to—as he said once pressed—relieve the pressure and allow Tommen to display what he had learned without her shadow looming over him. It was ridiculous, if Tommen was to be king, he needed to learn to stand on his own regardless of the shadows cast by those around him. Her father privately agreed with her, but his order disguised as a gift did not change, and she saw her grandsire’s fingerprints on the neatly wrapped bow. She would not go, she would not run when he returned, she would stand firm and act as she always had.

Banishing her irritation, she took a deep breath and glanced around the courtyard. Jon was at her side, their sons gathered around, their daughter on her hip. Her father, and Jon’s uncle, stood side by side a few feet away, talking quietly. Her ladies were scattered about, her uncles were in deep conversation, off to the side, all three of them, which she found particularly suspicious but did not have time to dwell on.

“He is like your mother with that horrid wheelhouse, forcing us all to wait to see the peacock show its feathers. It is a waste of daylight.” Jon said quietly, his impatience clear, just as clear as it had been half an hour ago. He was wearing one of his black doublets with a golden stag head sewn on by her. It was a compromise, one she did not mind because he looked so very handsome, the tunic style reminiscent of the armor he wore when he declared her his Queen of Love and Beauty.

“Well, he has been living with only her and my grandsire for years, I would be surprised if he did not pick up her love of a dramatic entrance.” Myrcella said, carding her fingers through Gawen’s hair, trying to make it more presentable. She and the children wore Baratheon colors, but mostly gold. She wished to dress herself and them in Lannister red, as she always did when she knew Lord Stark would be around, but she feared Tommen would learn from her example, which would make her look the odd one out. “Did you truly have to let them roughhouse with Ghost? Look at your son’s curls, they are a mess.”

Jon cracked a smile, and scooped Gawen up, causing Cregan to raise his arms and insist he be held as well, while Lynesse clapped her hands clumsily, giggling at her brothers’ antics.

Her heart fluttered at the sight of it, at the ease with which Jon held their sons. He let Cregan climb up onto his shoulders, not even wincing as he grabbed onto his hair for balance, while Gawen sat patiently, looking around until his eyes landed on Robert, and he began to wave.

Her father saw it instantly, and made his way over, Jon’s uncle coming with him, his steps slow. “There he is, the little stormlord!”

Jon relinquished Gawen to Robert, his now free arm going up to steady Cregan who was calling out birds when he saw them fly by, flapping his arms in imitation.

Ned came up beside Robert and Gawen, and Myrcella turned away to fuss with Jon’s curls, batting her eyelashes at him when he gave her a confused look.

“Crash, crash, boom, thunder!” Gawen said, throwing his arms out wide as he attempted to imitate the sounds of a storm.

“Oh, Ned, do you hear that? It sounds as if a storm is coming.” Robert said, pretending to scan the horizon.

“It sounds as if.” Ned said with a small smile.

“We better get inside before the rain comes and washes us all away, hurry Gawen we must flee.” Robert said, hoisting Gawen up into the air and turning him to and fro.

“Mama, we must get Mama too.” Gawen insisted through his giggles.

“Right you are.” Robert said, tucking Gawen under his arm, then picking Myrcella up as well.

She yelped when her feet left the ground, holding Lynesse closer to her chest. “Father I am holding your granddaughter please, be careful.”

“I would never drop you three. I may be getting on in years, but I am still a mighty stag.” He said, voice filled with bravado, making Gawen cheer, and Myrcella roll her eyes even as she smiled despite herself.

A better grandsire than father, Roslin said it was not uncommon, and Myrcella was grateful and perhaps overly pleased that her father took such an interest in her children. He had even sat upon the Iron Throne with Gawen on his knee, taking care her firstborn did not injure himself. Damn thing is too dangerous, I should have the blades dulled. He had said, and she held her tongue in fear she would say something foolish and hopeful.

“Goodfather if you would not mind returning my wife to me, your other grandson wishes for your attention.” Jon said, smiling as Cregan scrambled down—with Jon’s help of course—and rushed over to Robert.

“Grandsire, I want to fly too.” Cregan said, turning his vivid violet eyes upon him, big round things that none so far could resist.

Robert put her down, and she thanked the gods Lynesse had not made a fuss, her sweet girl had only giggled and clung onto Myrcella’s necklace trying to stick it in her mouth.

Jon came to assist her, untangling her necklace from Lynesse’s tiny hand, and smiling over her shoulder at Gawen and Cregan’s laughter as Robert lifted them into the air, Ned hovering nearby with Ghost watching from Jon’s side.

Lynesse reached for the direwolf and Myrcella bent slightly letting her run her hand down Ghost’s flank. “Be gentle sweetling.”

Cries rang out from atop the walls, and Myrcella straightened.  The gates opened, the crimson banners of House Lannister flapping in the wind as a lavish wheelhouse, not quite so lavish as her mother’s but more lavish than Myrcella’s own, rolled through the gates.

“Boys, come stand by your mother.” Jon called, placing a hand on her waist, steadying her.

Three years, it had been three years since she last saw her brother. Their grandsire and mother sprinted him away a fortnight after her wedding, and she had not found the time nor desire to visit him. Neither did he it seemed, as she received no visits or letters aside from congratulations on the birth of her daughter, despite his supposed guilt over what he had done and accused her of. His accusations and his silence stung, an ever-present thorn in her heart, tugging at the fragile organ, at the most inopportune of times. While she was breaking fast with her ladies and Sansa told a joke she knew Tommen would like, or when she chased after Cregan and his laughter echoed through the air, the sun shining on his golden locks as they had Tommen’s when they were young.

She missed her brother, despite his cruel words, despite his actions, despite the fact that Jon thought it better Tommen stay at the Rock and never return. He was young, too young to know better, he was manipulated by Joffrey, it was not his fault and yet, yet she could not help but feel angry too. At Tommen and herself. She could not lie and say she did not understand why he felt threatened, had she not been harboring a secret, ever-growing desire for the throne in her heart? Had she not thought herself a better heir, a better Baratheon than he? Had she not told Jon she would give him sons upon sons, enough to inherit the throne and still have plenty to spare? Did she not forgo moon tea six moons after the twins were born in hopes of gaining another son? Perhaps that is why the gods gave her a daughter for their third child, to quell her ambitions, to punish her for her treacherous thoughts. Not that her daughter was a punishment, no, Lynesse was a joy, her beautiful girl, the exact copy of her as Jon desired. Lynesse came quickly, much easier than her brothers, though she had more room to move, and move she did. Kicking and turning, a dancer her daughter surely would be once she was old enough to learn to do so. But for now, she would stay close on Myrcella’s hip, especially now as she stared down her wayward brother.

“Sister, you all but radiate with the joys of motherhood.” Tommen said, presenting her with a bouquet of roses with a graceful flourish. She was right to wear Baratheon colors, Tommen had learned from her example.

Jon took them and passed them to Eleyna who inspected them subtly then tucked them under her arm seemingly content with their contents, or lack thereof.

Tommen had grown, had gotten taller, still not as tall as her, but close, they were nearly eye to eye and his voice had settled. It was a softer tenor that lacked the bass of their father’s voice, but no longer cracked or fluctuated wildly in pitch. He still looked akin to the boy she had all but raised, but there was a veil drawn between them now. A thin sheet of ice that obscured their vision of each other only slightly, but enough that she felt a twinge of grief. Her sweet Tommen who clung to her skirts and crawled into her bed when he had nightmares was no more, in his place was a man, a man she did not know if she could fully trust. She wanted to though, Jon and Eleyna would scold her, Sansa would quietly admit she understood and Roslin, Roslin would only warn her to be careful with her heart.

“Thank you, Brother, it is good to see you.” She said, shifting Lynesse on her hip, Gawen and Cregan holding onto her skirts, her firstborn glaring up at Tommen with a stare so very like Jon’s own she nearly laughed aloud at the sight. So protective her dark-haired boys were.

Tommen knelt to their level, extending a hand to them. “And you two must be Gawen and Cregan, my nephews. Your grandmother has told me much about you. I hope you two have not been giving my dear sister trouble.”

“They are good lads, well-behaved.” Jon said, his voice calm, almost blasé, but Myrcella heard the steel beneath it.

“They are Myrcella’s sons; I would expect nothing less.” Tommen said, standing once more and moving to embrace Sansa who gave him a polite smile that softened at the edges, when Tommen asked after her and then Robb and Margaery. She was too kind, too forgiving, and Myrcella loved her for it.

Her grandsire came up to them next and stooped to kiss her cheek before glancing at Lynesse. “I was hoping you had given us another son, but she looks as you did when you were a babe. It is a suitable consolation; her hand will be desired.”

She smiled, his words did not pierce her, she heard the true meaning and was grateful. “We shall write to you when the times comes, I am sure we will need help sorting through her suitors.”

He nodded, patted the twins’ heads, then moved to speak with her Uncle Jaime, skirting around Ghost, who watched him leave, ruby red eyes gleaming in the sunlight.

“The Brackens have once again asked for the crown to weigh in on their dispute with the Blackwoods.” Ned said, laying out a wrinkled map in the center of the table and pointing to a stretch of land that was often the center of Bracken-Blackwood disputes.

“What now?” Renly sighed, swirling his wine around in its glass lazily.

“It seems a Blackwood bull wandered over to a Bracken herd and impregnated one of their heifers. Both families claim the offspring should belong to them.”

Myrcella leaned forward in her seat eyeing the map, only two more disputes like this and her Uncle Renly owed her a new gown. “The Brackens should be able to keep the calf, it is their heifer that birthed it.”

“Yes, but without the Blackwood’s bull, there would be no calf.” Wyman said, tapping the Blackwood side of the disputed land with one finger.

“But the Blackwood bull prevented a Bracken bull from mating with the heifer. I can see the Brackens citing that as further injustice dealt to them.” She countered, waving her hand in a roundabout way, the long, loose fabric of her sleeve billowing with the movement.

“Who did we mark as the winners last time?” Renly asked.

“The Blackwoods.” Paxter said distractedly, shifting through the various ship manifests he had brought with him for his report.

“Then tell the Brackens they can keep the calf, and to build a better fence.” Robert said, ending the matter there.

Myrcella began to do the same as Paxter. She shifted through her reports of Summerhall’s progress, of the mining that had begun, and the ores discovered, half paying attention as Lord Stark bid a servant to send a message to the fighting families, because by the gods old and new the Bracken-Blackwood feud would never end.

Then the doors to the Small Council Chamber opened, the slight creak drawing her attention.

“Prince Tommen Baratheon.” Ser Barristan announced, opening the door wider for Tommen.

He was dressed in Baratheon colors again, and he stood tall, a sheepish smile on his face. “My apologies, it seems in my years away I forgot where this chamber was.”

Myrcella could feel Jon stiffen behind her, and she guessed if she looked up, she would see him scowling. “Dear brother, how lovely of you to join us. I am afraid we are nearly finished though… Perhaps next council meeting, Ser Barristan could collect you from your chambers and escort you here, so you do not get lost.” She said, giving him a fond smile.

The first test, either to see if Tommen still held anger towards her, or if he had learned anything from their grandsire, or both depending on how well he had taken to his teachings.

“I could not trouble him, and now that I have made my way here myself, I am sure I will not forget my way again.” Tommen said, giving her a similar smile, looking so much like the child she once knew.

“My Prince, please have a seat and we will resume.” Ned said.

Tommen glanced around the room, a blush creeping up his neck. There were no empty chairs, as the one that had been brought in for her when Tommen still attended the meetings in his youth was removed long ago. “I would be glad to, but it seems there are none for me.”

“Princess, you must give your seat to your brother, it is his by right.” Pycelle said with simpering softness that did nothing to blunt the sting of his words.

She furrowed her brows and glanced at her father, who was pointedly not looking at her.

“You would ask the princess to give up her seat? One which she has rightfully earned through years of dedication and contribution to this council?” Jon asked, more accused, his voice hard, his hand reflexively resting on the pommel of his sword.

“It is the heir’s seat.” Ned said gingerly.

Myrcella bit her tongue, another stinging slash in such short succession, had they planned that? No one had spoken of heirs in a long while, no one on the council had made it plain they considered Tommen more worthy than her, until now. She stood, placing a hand on Jon’s chest—even in her anger, she could not help but briefly admire the firmness of his chest—a muscle in his jaw twitching. He looked so very like his mother in the rich purple and gold fabric she dressed him in, the patterns and embroidery complementary to her own, the snarling head of a direwolf—Ghost stitched on both their chests, his eyes made of rubies, his fangs ivory. His dark eyes now rife with plum-colored hues, his skin warmer, more vibrant.

“My darling heir, come take my seat.” Renly said, vacating it with a flourish. “I doubt this meeting shall go much longer anyways.”

Myrcella smiled and rounded the table, sinking into his seat gracefully.

“This is much better, now I can hear whatever clever things Jon is always whispering to you.”

“It is mostly scathing remarks and sordid gossip.” She jested, organizing her reports primly.

Renly chuckled and patted Jon on the back. “That is how you married your way up huh? A sharp tongue and a quick mind.”

“Silver tongue, sharp sword, and a handsome face, as my Lady Wife is keen to remind me.” Jon said, a faint smile on his lips as he leaned on the back of her chair.

Ned cleared his throat sharply. “Princess, Jon, Lord Renly, if we might start again?”

“Of course, Lord Hand, just one moment.” She said before dragging Jon down by the collar of his tunic and kissing him swiftly, the pink of her cosmetics lingering on his lips. She wiped it away with the inside of her sleeve, then turned back to face the council.

Her father and Paxter were chuckling over her antics. Pycelle seemed half asleep, Varys was watching everyone’s reactions with a placid smile on his face, the two northerners at the end of the table exchanged looks, and Tommen smiled at her from her seat.

“Prince Tommen, you said you had a suggestion for the council you wished to put forth?” Ned said, nodding to her younger brother.

“Yes, Lord Hand. I did extensive studying of the sewer system of Casterly Rock, and I have some ideas of the system here could be improved upon.” Tommen nodded, passing out sheets of parchment filled with sketched designs.

Myrcella examined it, taking note of the scribbling in the margins, the explanations, and sums spelled out plainly. It was good work, but she was not surprised, Tommen was intelligent, and when a subject captured his interest, he excelled in it. “These are based off Uncle Tyrion’s improvements, then?”

“Yes, I consulted the schematics he left with the maester and found ways to improve upon the improvements.”

“These are very well done, Prince Tommen, what an excellent show of ingenuity.” Wyman said, doing his own calculations of a spare scrap of parchment.

“Aye, it is a well though out plan.” Ned agreed, before turning to Robert. “It would be a large undertaking, but it would do the city much good—”

“You would do this in the Red Keep, or King’s Landing?” Jon asked, speaking over his uncle, their voices clashing.

Even Myrcella startled, all eyes turning to Jon, who rarely if ever spoke during the meetings.

She had noticed the differences in their accents, and ways of speech before, especially compared to that of the various Karstark cousins that attended their wedding. But she recognized it as more than that now. Jon and his uncle no longer sounded the same. Her father and Lord Stark spoke as Lord Arryn had, though her father more than Lord Stark, as he had not visited home as often as Lord Stark did when they were wards together. And while Jon still sounded Northern, she could hear the more flowery and indulgent Westerland and Crownland influences directly conflicting the strict honor bound roots of his uncle’s speech.

“I thought it best to start with the Keep, and if my plans are successful, we could—with your permission, Father, roll them out into the city.” Tommen said, recovering quickly.

Robert nodded. “It sounds interesting, gods know the city smells worse each passing year.”

“I also wondered if I might be allowed to visit The Vale, once my time here is over?”

Varys’ eyes flickered to her, and it set Myrcella on edge. She glanced at Paxter, who had become a sort of ally to her, though she was not sure if it was because of Renly or because he wanted her to bring on his daughter Desmera as a fourth lady-in-waiting. He was looking up and past her at Renly, and she fought the urge to turn around.

“The Vale?” Robert asked.

“Tommen you have never done well with heights, why not go visit Storm’s End if you are seeking a change of pace? I am sure Edric would be delighted to host his beloved younger brother.” She added, gripping her skirts beneath the table, Varys’ eyes still subtly on her.

Queen Rhaella had the wrong beast at her back, perhaps it would be different for you.

What did he know? That damned spider, what did he know?

“Robert Arryn is not too much younger than me, and I heard that there were not many others his age at the Eyrie. We began writing a few moons after I returned to the Rock and became friends. After a while I extended an invitation for him to visit me, but Lady Arryn declined my invitation on his behalf, and I have not heard from him since.” Tommen’s entire body portrayed an anxious sorrow perfectly. “I worry for my friend; I want to go and see if he is alright. His mother is so very attached to him, and I fear she will try to clip his wings because she is so terrified of losing him the same way she lost her husband.”

“Jon died of old age, Tommen, but I understand your worries.” Robert said, nodding emphatically, sharing a look with Lord Stark. “You may go and visit him, but you must report back your findings. If Lysa has become too unwell to govern properly in Robert’s stead, then it may be time for another to act as regent.”

Tommen smiled. “Thank you, Father, I will not let you down.”

“How kind of you, Prince Tommen, to go out of your way to befriend such a lonely boy.” Varys said, smiling serenely at Tommen. “And one with such power soon to rest upon his shoulders, the might of The Vale is nothing to turn one’s nose up at.”

She knew what the Spider meant, and she prayed Tommen did not, but she could not hedge her bets on her brother’s previous ignorance, she had to act.

“Lord Varys is right, though I am not surprised by your kindness, you have always been gentlehearted, it is one of your best traits.” She said, watching a twinge of guilt dull the brightness of Tommen’s smile.

“Thank you, Cella, you have always seen worth in me, even when I did not. It is one of your best traits, I am blessed to have such a loving sister.” His voice softened as he spoke, and she felt frantic tugging on her heartstrings. He was her brother, her baby brother, her first friend, she wanted to go to him, to embrace him as she did when they were children, and it was them against the world.

“Aye, you are. A forgiving one as well.” Jon said, placing a hand on her shoulder, the warm weight akin to a cloak settling around her.

“Yes, yes, we are all blessed to be in the presence of Princess Myrcella, the Merciful.” Renly said. “Now, might we hurry this along; I have dinner plans.”

Myrcella perked up. “Ah, yes, Tommen, did you know Edric decided to come straight here from Storm’s End when he got word that you were to visit? His ship should arrive within a fortnight.”

The change in Tommen was immediate, he worshiped their elder half-brother, Edric wrote to her saying he received letters from him each week. “He did?”

She nodded. “He was so very excited, but when you see him, do not let him know I told you. He wanted it to be a surprise.”

Tommen was practically bouncing in his seat, an amusing sight from an eight and ten-year-old, but it lightened her heart to know he still retained some of his childhood exuberance. “I will not say a word.”

Chapter Text

Myrcella was glad they were in her solar when Edric arrived. Well, she was glad her grandsire was not there to see Tommen’s reaction, she had a feeling he would not approve.

Tommen’s face split into a wide smile, all the light returning to him, as he ran towards the approaching figure. “Edric!” He cried, flinging himself into their half-brother’s arms, the taller man catching him with ease.

Envy flared within her, sharp and quick. Not so long-ago Tommen would have reacted to her like that even when they were only separated for a day or so. She stifled the feeling, reminding herself of Edric’s written reassurances. Tommen trusted him, confided in him the way he used to with her, and more. He was desperate for a replacement for their father, or for Joffrey, or both she did not know, but she could not fault him for that. Edric was seven years older than him, stronger, taller, bolder, kind, and quick to respond to letters, he was an excellent replacement. Had she not wished he were their elder brother instead of Joffrey when they were younger, had she not sought him out as a replacement of her own? No, she could not fault him for his excitement, even if it stung.

Nor would she hold her jealousy against Edric. Her elder brother had been instrumental these past few years as her representative in the Stormlands and overseer of Summerhall’s progress. And he was Edric, her brother who defended her name, who welcomed her with open arms and no anger towards the life she had, and he had been denied. If he were trueborn, the throne would be his by right, but he had no desire for it. A pity for if he were trueborn, she would not have minded Edric as king as long as she could be his Hand, or at least on his small council.

“Is that my little brother? No, he was not so tall, nor so grown up.” Edric said, breaking the embrace to hold Tommen at arm’s length and take him in. His hair was ruffled from the wind, his clothing speckled with seawater, his smile bright and his face ruddy.

“Not as tall as you or Myrcella.” Tommen all but pouted, basking in Edric’s undivided attention, his hands on Edric’s forearms reluctant to part from him.

“True, but you still have time to outgrow Myrcella.” Edric reminded him, releasing Tommen to pull her into his embrace as well. “Soon she shall be the shortest of us three.”

“In your dreams.” She scoffed, shoving at his arm playfully, basking in his attention all the same. She missed her brother too, he was often away from the capital, negotiating trade deals on her and Renly’s behalf, visiting Weeping Town and ensuring the port was well maintained, and most importantly keeping an eye on Summerhall’s progress.

“My apologies, dear sister, but my dreams are filled with one woman only. Speaking of women, Lady Roslin, you look exquisite tonight.” Edric said, releasing both her and Tommen to stride forward, bow at the waist and take Roslin’s hand, kissing it chastely.

Roslin blushed, letting her hair fall forward to shield her face. “Lord Edric, it is good to see you again.”

“I have definitely not been waiting by the window all day for you, sighing longingly, and ignoring all invitations to play cards from my dear friends.” Eleyna teased under her breath as she came to stand next to Myrcella.

She snorted and bumped her shoulder into Eleyna’s. “Be nice.”

“I am nice, I said that quietly so as not to embarrass her.”

“You should tell her that we know they are writing each other. It will be less embarrassing coming from you.” Myrcella said, watching as Edric, Roslin and Tommen chatted, Edric’s pinky brushing against Roslin’s hand. She smiled, perhaps on her next nameday she would bring up the subject of Edric’s legitimization to their father. “Were Jon and me ever that obvious?”

“Of course not, My Lady, you two were much worse.” Eleyna said, smoothing out her skirts perfunctorily.

Myrcella rolled her eyes fondly and knocked her shoulder into Eleyna’s again, laughing when Eleyna jostled her back harder.

“Cella, where my are niece and nephews?” Edric said, bringing her attention back to him as he made a show of looking around the room, one hand shading his eyes.

“With their father and aunt, both who should be here soon.” She said, glancing back at the door of her and Jon’s solar, hoping they would arrive quickly.

Once Jon and Sansa arrived with the children, they all moved towards the long wooden table brought in for Edric’s arrival, servants coming in and out, the table laden with food and drink, and candles down the middle.

“Gawen, Cregan, say hello to your Uncle Edric.” She encouraged, smiling down at them as Cregan gave a little bow, Gawen following suit.

“Hello Uncle.” They chimed in perfect synchronicity, making Edric laugh, his delighted amusement was infectious, and the boys smiled at him.

He scooped them up, much like Robert often did, holding each boy with one arm. “Look at how polite these two are, and so handsome. I shall have to warn the fathers of the Stormlands that there will be two dashing young lords soon to arrive and steal their daughters’ hearts.”

“You look like Grandsire if he were not old.” Cregan said, staring at him wide-eyed.

Edric laughed again, while Myrcella cringed slightly, and Jon turned his head to hide his smile. “Well, he is my father, so it would stand to reason I look like him.”

“Uncle Tommen, why do you not look like Grandsire?” Cregan asked, turning his head to look at Tommen who had taken a seat next to Sansa.

“I look like your grandmother, as your mother does.” He said, giving Cregan a polite smile.

“But Mama is tall like Uncle Edric.” Cregan protested, reaching up to place his hand atop Edric’s head, then move it towards her as if measuring them.

“I am not that tall, and your uncle still has time to grow taller.” Myrcella reminded him, shifting Lynesse on her hip.

Edric passed Cregan over to Jon who squirmed out of his hold and ran over to Eleyna insisting she help him into Sansa’s lap, before beginning to ask Tommen a million rapid-fire questions. Gawen did the same but climbed into Roslin’s lap instead, joining in on the questioning from across the table.

“Might I see my niece now that I have two hands free?” Edric asked, holding his arms out for Lyensse.

Myrcella handed her over carefully. “Lynesse Stark, named after a notorious and shrewd woman of exceptional beauty.”

“Ah yes, the Hightower that rules Lys, or so some say. I met her when I last visited to ensure the trade routes were secure. Wonderful woman, absolutely terrifying, I pray I never cross her.” He placed a hand over Lynesse’s ears. “She did away with the prince’s wife, allegedly. They say she was found dead, having fallen from a fifth story window, with a shattered bottle of wine beside her, but rumor has it his wife was not known to be fond of wine.”

“How horrible, I must write to Lynesse and send her my heartfelt condolences.” She said, putting on an air of mock sorrow, her hand pressed to her chest.

Edric snorted. “I see right through you, little sister; I know you would do quite the same if Jon had been roped into marrying another.”

“No.” Myrcella said, shaking her head, still keeping up her façade. “No, I would not have waited so long to be rid of her.”

Jon hid his laugh with a cough.

“I see right through you as well, Goodbrother, one must be tough to rule the Stormlands, be willing to make hard choices.” Edric said, rounding on Jon with an easy smile.

“If anyone speaks harshly of you, I shall take their tongue.”

 “And feed it to Ghost?”

“Aye, and if he does not want it, the rats can have it.”

“I do not think that will be difficult for us.” She said, straightening out Jon’s tunic.

“You have sworn yourself to me, Jon. I could keep you here to do as I wish, I could send any Mormont or Manderly girl running, I—”

“Send them away, I would delight in seeing it.”

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to it, a secret smile toying at his lips. “No, not difficult at all.”

“Lord Edric, do tell us how Summerhall is coming along.” Sansa said, setting her fork down on her plate with a gentle clink.

“It is coming along well. The village has grown into a fledgling town, and there has been an influx of miners seeking to make their fortune in the mountains. The sept has been completed, and I do believe a hearttree sapling is on its way down from the North for the Godswood.” Edric said, placing his own cutlery down. “The bedchambers still need decorating, but that will require Myrcella’s in person touch, as there are about ten of them in the holdfast, which is far too many in my opinion.”

“Do you intend to have nine children, Cella?” Tommen asked, his eyes wide.

Myrcella laughed and shook her head. “Well, the chambers may likely be taken up by visiting family, and I do not think we are planning a specific number, but…” She looked at Jon, who hid his face behind his ale.

“But?” Tommen prompted.

“But we are enjoying the children and want to ensure there is enough room for however many we may have.” She said, their little secret bubbling up inside her, threatening to burst free.

“Nine chambers, we truly are of Targaryen blood.” He said, stabbing a piece of cooked quail with his fork.

Jon set down his ale and cleared his throat. “Aye, it runs true, or perhaps it is the Stark blood.”

“Jon and I are two of six, and Robb and Margaery have four children already, it is not so unbelievable.” Sansa said, soft wistfulness coloring her tone.

Myrcella glanced over at her friend. Sansa wanted desperately to be married, but Lord Stark still could not seem to find a suitor the two of them agreed on. She would give him that, he cared deeply for Sansa’s happiness, but so far, he had not been willing to go against his wife, who expressly forbade any mentions of Theon as a suitor. Myrcella would need to write to her great aunt again, see if there were any young men suitable for Sansa, she had left off her list.

“I think it is both.” Myrcella said, resting her hand on her stomach, the small bump hidden beneath the deep blue fabric of her gown.

Edric’s eyes followed the movement, then flickered to Jon. “You absolute dog.” A grin spread across his face as he rounded the table and pulled Jon from his chair, and into a bear hug.

Tommen’s brows furrowed, and he glanced between the three of them.

“I did not wish to say anything until Maester Pycelle was certain, but he is as of yesterday. I am with child again.” She said, smiling when the room erupted into exited chattering.

Tommen sat stiff, his expression caught between excitement and dread.

“Tommen? Are you not happy for me?” She asked, softening her features, letting concern and confusion soak them through.

He startled, and reached for his wine, holding it aloft. “No, no, I am. To my future niece or nephew, may the Mother protect them and you, dear sister.”

She held her own glass aloft, but it was filled with water, something Roslin had insisted on when she was pregnant with the twins. She told her she saw many babes born of wine-addled mothers come into the world weak and struggling for breath. It seemed odd, everyone she knew continued to drink wine while with child, but Roslin had seemed so certain, and she did not need wine to live, so she went without it. Besides her children could not be weak, not if they were to rule the Stormlands, and if the gods favored her, the Westerlands, and perhaps other kingdoms as well.

“A kind toast, little brother, well done.” Edric praised, banishing the dread lingering on Tommen’s face.

“Thank you, Edric, I have been practicing.” Tommen preened, setting his cup down without drinking from it.

“Prince Tommen, I am so very interested to hear what you have been learning under Lord Tywin, could you regale us with some tales? I remember you being quite the storyteller when you were younger.” Eleyna said, seemingly or, more likely, purposely forgetting her and Tommen were of a similar age.

Tommen smiled, preening further. “Of course, Lady Eleyna, I would be delighted.”

It was quite late when a servant knocked on their door with a missive from her grandsire. She was half awake as Jon went to the door, the babe, and the dinners they had been having the past fortnight with Edric, Tommen, and her father, in varying rotation sapping the energy from her. She closed her eyes once more, waiting for Jon to return, the blankets pulled up to her chin.

“Myrcella.” Jon said gently, nudging her fully awake.

She sighed heavily and took the note.

There is never a better time to announce good news than when the smallfolk come to petition the king.

“Tell the servants we will be attending court tomorrow.” She said, handing the note back to him and falling back asleep.

She dressed in a rich golden gown, one cut in such a way that it emphasized her ever-growing bump, then covered the gown with a cloak and strode into court. Jon was at her side in black with a golden stag embroidered along the front, Gawen and Cregan walking in front of them dressed in Baratheon black and gold. Lynesse was in Jon’s arms dressed in a child sized version of her gown, and her ladies were dressed similarly, in various cuts and styles that flattered them best.

They walked through the hall, taking their places among her family on the sidelines, watching quietly as petitioners laid their pleas and troubles at her father’s feet, until finally, it was her turn. She curtsied at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the Iron Throne, smiling at the floor when Cregan quietly called out to his grandsire.

“Myrcella, my dear girl, come closer and make your request.” Robert said.

“Of course, Father, allow me first to shed this cloak, it is far too warm to wear it.” She said, unclasping the cloak and folding it before handing it to Roslin, who hurried back to stand at Edric’s side.

A gasp went up from the gathered throng, and her father’s face split into a smile, much like Edric’s had. Her pregnancy had been well hidden from him, as at first, she had wanted to wait even longer than required before making a grand announcement, but then she received her grandsire’s note.

“I do not have a request, Father; I have news I wish to share.” She said, turning halfway to look out over the court. “And with your permission, I would like to share this joyous news with those gathered.”

“I am sure they can guess your news, but please, do share.” He said, his eyes bright but not with drink, well perhaps a little with drink, but mostly with joy. She hoped.

She turned fully and smiled bashfully, placing a hand on Jon’s forearm for support. “My Lord Husband and I wish to announce that we are with child again. Grand Maester Pycelle says the babe is healthy and strong. We have wishes for a boy, another son to serve the realm, but have faith the gods will grant us what is needed most.”

A cheer began, surely started by her eldest brother and her ladies, and it swept through the Great Hall. Myrcella caught her grandsire’s eye, and he gave a short nod. Her heart soared, and she lifted Gawen from the ground into her arms. He waved and smiled, a true prince, and the women among those gathered cooed over him.

Her grandsire stepped out from the crowd and cleared his throat. The hall fell silent, and not for the first time she was struck by the power he wielded, the hold fear and riches could have over others even decades later. “If His Grace would allow it, House Lannister wishes to throw a feast in honor of the Princess’ newest child once he or she is born.”

She could not stop herself from risking a glance at Tommen who was staring at Tywin, the color draining from his face.

“Of course, let us celebrate in style.” Robert said, coming down from the throne to clap her and Jon on the shoulder. “Another grandchild of mine is always worth celebrating.”

“That is very kind of you Grandsire, and you Father, thank you both.” She said, cradling her stomach, smiling at the crowd, all the while wondering if her grandsire had something deeper at play, or if she was merely becoming paranoid.

Chapter Text

Tommen waited with his mother, father, and grandsire outside the door to Myrcella and Jon’s chambers. Tommen pointedly ignored all three of them as if they were the ones who caused the snowstorm that delayed her travels, causing her to miss the birth. Now they had to wait outside as Jon and Myrcella did whatever they were doing in their chambers. Edric said Jon wanted Myrcella to rest after the birth, and would stall as long as he could, which is why he was not even waiting outside with them. That and he knew Cersei could not stand the sight of him.

His Uncle Jaime was standing guard at the door, and he heard two sets of footsteps approaching, accompanied by his Uncle Tyrion’s laughter and his Uncle Renly’s boisterous voice. “Come now Brother, Jon, and the door cannot be that strong, let us break it down together and see the latest of the Stark-Baratheon brood.”

Tommen did not know how to face the man. His decision to name Myrcella as heir made sense when he considered the fact that he and his sons would be in line for the Iron Throne and have no need of Storm's End, but still it grated upon him. He knew Renly favored Myrcella. It was clear before the decision was made, but he thought it was a lighter, more playful kind of favoritism. Not one that would cement her status as future ruler of the Stormlands and announce to the realm that he thought her more Baratheon than him. He tried to console himself with the memory of his grandsire’s proud nod when he told him how well he had done in the Small Council meeting, but the memory was tainted by Tywin’s proclamation. A feast for Myrcella’s newest child, a feast for a fourth born babe who would stand to inherit nothing. Who would look akin to Jon, dark and dull with somber Stark gray eyes. Tainted even further by the fact that Grand Maester Pycelle had whispered something in Tywin’s ear before he left them all to wait outside the room, his robes still stained with various birthing fluids. His grandsire had smiled, smiled, at whatever the old man had told him.

“You may try it, Brother, but you will soon find yourself without an heir.” Robert laughed, elbowing Renly good-naturedly, jostling Cersei.

His mother scowled and knocked on the door again, harder, and more insistent.

“I am sure they are getting the children in order.” Ned said, his low, northern brocade coming from behind Tommen, startling him.

Quiet Wolf indeed, Ned Stark always managed to sneak up on him, so quiet his steps were. It was something father and son shared. He would never forget how silently Jon had entered the room during his dreadful argument with Myrcella. The way he appeared suddenly towering over them both, his eyes cold, his expression like stone, Ghost at his side ready to strike.

“Apologies, My Prince, I did not mean to startle you.” Ned said, giving him a nod in greeting.

That was one thing Ned and Jon did not share. While Jon stood firmly by Myrcella’s side, his father stood opposite, voicing his support for him, the crown prince and rightful heir.

“No apologies necessary, Lord Ned, I am simply on edge with excitement.” He said, not lying, but not speaking the full truth either.

Finally, the doors opened, and Sansa ushered them in with a smile, pressing a kiss to her father’s cheek as he passed.

Myrcella was seated on a plush settee with a blanket over her lap, she wore a soft looking lavender gown, her skin, and hair clean, no sign of exhaustion or lingering pain on her face. Her ladies were scattered about the room, the children were playing on the rug near the fire, with Ghost laying nearby keeping one eye on them. And Jon was standing behind her, his hands resting on the back of the settee.

“Well, we have waited long enough, four whole hours, do tell us what you have had.” Renly said, striding into the room ahead of them all as if he owned it.

Myrcella pulled back the blanket—she did always love a dramatic reveal—and smiled up at them all. “The gods have seen it fit to grant us another set of twins.”

“Paxtor owes me ten gold.” Their father laughed victoriously, the sound echoing off the ceiling, setting off the excited exclamations of the others, filling the room with mirth. He always sounded so happy when it came to Myrcella, why could he not make their father happy too?

“Brother, would you like to see your new niece and nephew?” Myrcella asked, shifting the babes up in her arms.

He moved to the settee, Cersei beside him, and glanced down at the newborns. Black hair, pale skin, all as he expected, but then the boy opened his eyes, and he heard Cersei gasp, then saw her smooth down her skirts with rapid jerky motions, a fixed smile on her face.

“They are like sapphires, are they not? They both have them.” Myrcella beamed, holding her blue eyes babes close to her chest proudly.

“King’s eyes. That is what Maester Pycelle said, when he saw them.” Sansa added, sliding into the seat next to Myrcella and cooing over the babes.

Cersei nodded; her movements stiff. “How wonderful. You did a fine job, Myrcella.”

“Thank you, Mother.” She said, looking to him in expectance.

“Another son”—he looked to Jon—"you must be happy.”

Jon smiled down at Myrcella and the twins, reaching to stroke the shock of black hair on the head of the girl child. “I am happy with whatever we are given.”

“And what are their names? Do not leave us guessing.” Tyrion said, slipping past Cersei and up onto the settee to kiss Myrcella’s cheek.

“Jaime and Jocelyn Stark.” Jon said, directing his smile towards the elder Jaime, who lingered on the edges of the room.

His eyebrows shot up, and he moved to join them, a smile spreading across his face as he did. “How high was your bribe to get Myrcella to agree to that?”

“No bribe necessary.” Jon assured him, rounding the settee to meet the man halfway and accept the tight embrace Jaime pulled him into.

“He looks like Renly did as a babe, but less red-faced.” Robert said, gently picking up his newest grandson and smiling down at him, then up at Cersei. “You have your grandmother to thank for that, she is the fairest woman in the realm. She must have softened the Baratheon edges for you.”

Tommen had never seen such an expression on his mother’s face. She seemed half caught between sorrow and joy, resignation pulling at her shoulders, and confusion taking possession of her tongue.

“I could not agree more, Goodfather. Queen Cersei has done the realm a great service.” Jon said, nodding in her direction. “If not for her sharing her beauty with Myrcella I fear our children would be quite run-of-the-mill with my somber appearance.”

“Do not judge yourself too harshly…Jon. There is something in your appearance my daughter finds pleasing, or we would not be standing here.” Cersei said, pressing her lips tightly together, glancing over at Jaime, her face pale.

“I guess it is only right. Cregan looks like Uncle Jaime, and now little Jaime looks like Uncle Renly.” Myrcella said, eyes darting between Robert and Cersei, the corners of her lips quirking downwards.

“Your two handsomest uncles. No offense Tyrion.” Renly said, shooting the aforementioned man an apologetic smile.

Tyrion waved his hand dismissively. “I am not a praying man, but each time she falls pregnant, I pray our little Myrcella does not have a child that looks like me.”

“That is—thank you, Tyrion, that is kind of you.” Cersei said haltingly, the color still drained from her face.

“Though I am hurt the boy has not been named after me.” He said, giving Myrcella a faux stern look.

She giggled and tilted her head towards Jon. “Do not look at me, it is Jon who gets final say over what to name our sons, hence no bribe necessary.”

Tyrion rounded on Jon and waggled a finger at him. “I was the one that ensured this love story could even happen, and this is my reward?”

Jon chuckled. “I am sorry, but how could I not honor the man who has devoted many of his years to molding me into the man I am?” Then he looked at Ned, guilt flashing across his face, though Tommen was not sure why. “And my brother Robb has already named his firstborn son after our father. I did not want there to be too many Neds running around the seven kingdoms, or we would never be able to keep track of them all.”

“Too many Neds, too many Roberts, and yet no one ever complains about too many Tyrions.” Tyrion said, letting Jocelyn try to wrap her fingers around his pinky.

Ned came closer to Robert and looked upon both children. His face went blank then molded into a smile that did not quite meet his eyes and he elbowed Robert playfully. “He does not look like an Eddard, far too much Baratheon in him, I am content with little Ned in the North, he looks a true Stark.”

Tommen could feel the wildfire in Myrcella’s glare, see the way her lips pursed, hear her exhaling sharply through her nose, and he felt a trickle of old amusement, this would be fun to watch. His sister did not anger easily, but when she did, he pitied whoever would face her ire and enjoyed his front row seat.

“I heard it was another pair of twins; Uncle, you owe me five gold.” Edric called, entering the room with a bouquet of flowers in his arms, so large he could barely see over them. He deposited them on a nearby table and kneeled before Myrcella, breaking her line of sight with Ned. “Do you plan to populate the empty lands of your future kingdom yourself, or do I need to keep Jon away from you with a stick?”

“Edric!” Myrcella gasped, scandalized, though there was a smile tugging at her lips, all anger forgotten.

Cersei scoffed and turned away, moving to join Tywin, muttering something about bastards and their crude words.

“I am asking only out of concern, I was beside your husband during that fateful tourney, I know he can be quite beastly.” He said with a teasing smirk.

Myrcella hid her smile with her free hand, as Robert began to parade young Jaime about the room, Tywin on his heel.

“A stick could not keep me from her, though you are welcome to try.” Jon jested, joining in on the fun. “I have put many a man in the dirt for Myrcella.”

“Including mine own brother.” She noted with a casual air, adjusting Jocelyn in her arms.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Aye, that was not my finest hour.”

“Now this I have to hear.” Edric said, glancing over at him. “Tommen were you there when this historic event happened?”

“Yes, but I was young, still a child then.” Still a child, and yet he remembered that day so clearly.

He remembered the sun in his eyes as he hacked at the straw dummy, the training sword heavy in his hands. He heard Joffrey hissing something he dared not repeat, something that made him sick to his stomach to hear then and now as he thought back on it. Then Jon lunged, and they were grappling in the dirt. Joffrey yelling and swearing, Jon growling threats as he got Joffrey on his back, Jon fist meeting Joffrey’s face over and over again until Jaime pulled them apart, breaking up the fight. It had been terrifying, though he had not been scared of Jon, not then because he was fighting for them, fighting to defend Myrcella as he had wanted to, but was too young and weak to do so. It would be different now, as it had been during his argument with Myrcella. Jon was not protecting them any longer, he was protecting her, and her alone.

“It is a tale for another time.” Myrcella said, beckoning their Uncle Jaime closer. “Would you like to see her?”

Jaime took the final few steps and joined the makeshift circle they had made. “She is beautiful, as is your son, though I think you should call him Jae, so not to confuse the two of us.”

“And it is a nod to his Targaryen ancestry, even if he does not look the part.” Tyrion added, patting Myrcella’s hand. “Do not worry, I am sure one of these days you will get a silver haired, purple eyed one.”

“All we will need is a dragon, then.” Myrcella jested, though her expression stiffed a bit when she said it.

There were no more dragons, she had seen to that. She had not even thought that perhaps if Daenerys’ dragons were brought here, either he or her or both of them might have been able to claim one. Had she done that on purpose? Had she sabotaged her own chance at getting a dragon just to keep him from having one?

“It is too bad the dragons were killed, there is such savagery over there in the Free Cities.” He said, unable to resist poking the proverbial bear.

“Daenerys and her dragons would have been a threat to Father’s reign, it is good they are gone.” Myrcella said breezily, not rising to the bait.

He nodded, suppressing the urge to scoff at her convenient excuse. “You are right, Sister.” Then he headed over to Robert, who still had Jae in his arms.

Robert looked up when he approached. “Tommen, have you come for your turn holding the newest prince?”

He had not, but he would nod once more and accept the child into his arms. He stared down at him, finding every feature he lacked staring back at him. If Grandsire did not want him as heir, if he removed or placed him below Myrcella in the line of succession, this child had pushed him down another rung with his mere existence. He was struck by an overwhelming urge to drop him, to pretend to trip and let the boy fall to the floor, his soft skull caving in. Then he reined himself back, kinslaying was a crime above all others, a curse would be laid upon him and his descendants, and Myrcella would be distraught. Mayhaps the rumors from his childhood were right, he should have been sent to the Citadel. His life certainly would have been much more pleasant, and kinslaying would never have come into his mind. But no, he could not think like that, could not give up. Myrcella had been right, being heir meant one’s own wants must be set aside, even if he was miserable.

“Father, I will be leaving for the Vale soon.” He said, pulling himself from his dour thoughts.

“And what a wonderful time you will have, plenty of chances to test your mettle against other young men, take in the wildlife, visit with a friend, get into trouble together as Ned and I did.” Robert said, a nostalgic smile on his wide face.

“Should I write to you of my progress while there?” He asked, Jae squirming in his arms as if he sensed his previous, murderous thoughts.

“If you wish too, but perhaps not right away. Lysa is a sensitive woman, and she takes time to…warm up to others. She has always been that way, but it has gotten worse over the years. Allow her time to see that you have Robin’s best interests at heart, and you will surely assuage her fears.”

Tommen gritted his teeth; he did not want to wait. He was going to the place of his father's childhood. He was dealing with that spoiled brat Arryn and his loony bird mother to make himself a stronger candidate in his father’s eyes, and yet his father paid his efforts no mind.

Jae began to cry, and he realized with a stab of guilt that he had been squeezing the babe too tightly. Jon was beside him before he could blink, taking Jae from him, a flicker of something in his eyes that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Please handle our son with more care, Tommen, he is still fragile.” Jon said, his tone even and showing no signs of anger, but it felt as if he had been scolded like a child.

“My apologies, it seems I do not know my own strength.” He said, brushing the nonexistent dust from his breeches.

“Babies are very fragile, and easy to make cry. The only one of you three your mother allowed me to hold more than once was Myrcella, and that was only because she did not cry when I first held her.” Robert said, chuckling as if it were a lighthearted anecdote and not further proof that there was some bond between them, he had no chance to break into, and no idea when she had enacted the plan to put it in place.

“It seems she passed her love for her father down to our children. I do not think any of them have cried when you first held them.” Jon said, guiding Jae’s head to rest against his chest as his eyelids began to droop.

“I think you are right. Brave bunch they are. True Baratheons.” Robert smiled, looking over at Gawen, Cregan and Lynesse, who had ceased playing to observe the adults around them.

“I am sure when I have a son, he will not cry in your arms.” Tommen said, though he had no maiden in mind to give him a son.

“Even if he does, I will not be wounded, it only means he has your sensitive heart.” Robert reassured him, clapping him on the shoulder before heading towards the rug where the children were.

Cregan brightened at the sight of him and began calling him over with wildly waving arms. “Grandsire, Grandsire, come play castle with us, we must save Lynn from the evil dragon!” He pointed at Ghost, who was lying by the fire with Lynesse atop him, petting the wide space between his ears.

“Fear not, slaying dragons is my specialty.” Robert said, putting on a playfully serious expression as he joined Cregan at the edge of the rug.

His father’s words were meant to be kind, he knew they were, but they stung. It was all Myrcella’s fault, she had coddled him, molded him into this weak creature that no one thought capable of anything more than tears and chasing butterflies in the garden. He glanced over at her, their grandsire was seated beside her, taking Jocelyn from her with great care, his lips moving though Tommen could not make out the words.

He felt Jon’s gaze on him and turned back. “I am glad such joy can be brought to our family.”

Jon just looked at him, staying silent for a long moment, scrutinizing his every feature. It felt as if he were clawing past skin, muscle and bone reaching the depth of his soul, and a chill ran down his spine. “Be safe traveling to The Vale, the roads can be treacherous, and I know Myrcella would be greatly saddened if harm befell you.” Then he departed, returning to the crowd around Myrcella, and depositing Jae in his namesake’s arms with a hearty smile as if their entire exchange had never occurred.

Chapter Text

Eleyna did not like Lord Varys, did not trust him, though no one truly did. But he seemed to like her, or at least find her amusing. He watched from the shadows as she went about collecting information the way one might collect trinkets in the marketplace, and he did not confront her when the little birds he kept placing around Myrcella disappeared one by one. Though neither had Myrcella, though Eleyna was not surprised by that. She loved her lady dearly, but she was too trusting, too accustomed to changes in the staff. It was an unfortunate holdout from her childhood, she was certain, since the Queen was known to terrorize the servants and drive them away with her cruelty.

Lord Varys did not confront her, but she knew that he knew it was her. She knew many things, far more than any expected her to. Her doe-like eyes and softly rounded face made her look sweet and innocent, and her quiet nature lent well to those who wished to unburden themselves to a sympathetic but silent listener. She knew of Lord Renly and Ser Loras though everyone knew of that. Knew who went to Pycelle for moon tea, knew which lords cheated on their wives and vice versa. She knew of Lady Margaery and Lord Robb multiple dalliances, even the ones Margaery had not admitted to, and had distracted her so all thoughts of the necessity of moon tea would slip her mind. Myrcella did not need competition for the king’s attention, and the Tyrells were better suited tied to the North, where the future king consort held strong blood ties. 

King Consort, it would suit Jon well, though he did not know it yet, nor did he seem to crave it. His lack of ambition in that area was remarkably disappointing. Especially considering she was certain if Jon desired it, or even desired the throne itself for Gawen, Myrcella would move the heavens and hells to put herself or their firstborn on the throne. Her lady’s devotion to her husband was admirable, though Eleyna wished she had fallen for a more ambitious man, but her father, using words that sounded much like Lord Tywin’s, assured her Jon’s lack of ambition would serve Myrcella well. He would not try to overrule her, nor would he be threatened by her power. Eleyna had snorted at that; she could have told him that ages ago.

She knew things, petty things, important things, and she knew the desires of people. She had always been good at them, learning their secrets, spinning a web of her own, drawing in those Varys overlooked, or disregarded. The servants were excellent spies yes, but so easily bought, when gold and fear was all that kept them bound. She preferred to endear her spies to her in other ways. A kind word here and there, standing between them and a groping lord, insisting a royal maester be sent to their homes when a family member was ill, paying off a dowry, getting rid of a violent husband. All done under the guise of piety. The Mother called her to be kind, the Maiden called her to ensure the virtue of her fellow women, the Father called her to be just, the Crone to be wise, and the Warrior to protect, aided by the Stranger. Piety was her shield, her hood, and cloak.

Above all else, Eleyna had known people wished her lady to take the throne from the moment she entered the Red Keep, and she knew they were right to do so. She had prayed on her thoughts of treason, on the plans laid by those far older and wiser than her and had gotten no answer in the negative, in fact all seemed positive. Five healthy children, the love of the people, of the nobles, ties to four perhaps five—depending on who Lord Tywin declared for at the end—of the Seven Kingdoms, a husband whom the people championed, Myrcella had much to back her claim when the time came. Of course, that was all contingent on Tommen relinquishing the throne, which as of late it seemed he had no intention of doing. If he challenged Myrcella, she knew Ned Stark would stand with him. The man was too set in his ways, would not see a woman on the throne when her brother still lived. It mattered not that Myrcella had the better skills, training, and temperament, nor that she had heirs a plenty of her own, it mattered only that she was not a male.

There was still the pesky black of hair and blue of eye situation as well, but Eleyna had yet to discover more from old Arryn’s findings. Besides, Jaime and Jocelyn’s birth would have put those thoughts to rest, unless the late Lord Arryn had further proof besides the looks of Baratheons in the past. Was there something more? Did it have something to do with the expression on the queen’s face, with the way Lord Stark stiffened at the twins’ coloring? Clearly, he had thought something was amiss, but nothing could be proven until Tommen had children. It was probably best she turned her mind elsewhere, towards The Vale perhaps? Lady Arryn was paranoid, and she knew even Varys had difficulty placing his spies in her court. She would have to doubly ensure a servant or two who was to make the journey with Tommen was one of hers and not Varys’ so ripe the opportunity was.

If Tommen challenged Myrcella, the North would stand with him, and with the North came the Riverlands, and perhaps The Vale if Tommen was truly friends with Robin Arryn. The Reach was an unknown though, it would be only natural for them to rise for Margaery’s Stark husband, but they had remained neutral before, who knew what Lady Olenna would choose? Myrcella would have the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and perhaps the Westerlands, again depending on who Lord Tywin declared for in the end. Her lady needed to win another kingdom, a merchant prince in Lys was good and well, but he mattered little compared to a kingdom. If only Dorne would come to heel… She bit her lip, one of the kitchen girls was distantly Dornish, and had mentioned the eldest son of Prince Doren was still unmarried. She would have to mention that tidbit to her lady. But even with three kingdoms behind her, Myrcella was not a man. If Tommen were dead, she would be undisputed, but he lived, and she knew Myrcella would never condone the death of her brother even without the kinslayer’s curse. Mayhaps she could gain favor by putting herself forth as regent for Gawen? Would the realm accept a child king knowing it was his mother who ruled instead of Tommen, who was a man grown? No, no, that was simply not how it worked, Tommen was the next son of the king, and even if he was not suitable for the throne, the realm had survived plenty of unsuitable kings. There must be a way to get Myrcella on the throne, there must.

Eleyna sighed heavily and pulled herself from her thoughts, she needed more time to think on this, and now was not it. She nodded to Ser Podrick, who boarded up another passageway, glancing back every so often to ensure she was still a safe distance away. She had barred the entrances to many of Myrcella’s favored places herself before realizing Ser Jaime, and Lord Tyrion also knew of them. It had been a less awkward encounter with Ser Jaime, as both had simply been using the passageways as a shortcut, than with Lord Tyrion, who was slightly intoxicated and smelled of a whorehouse. Both Lannister men had visited her the day after her run in with Lord Tyrion, bringing with them another man she knew of, but had not yet met. They expressed concern over her traveling the passageways alone, and Lord Tyrion ordered his former squire, Ser Podrick Payne, to accompany her whenever she needed. She did not tell them she had been traveling the passageways alone for years, for she knew men enjoyed feeling as if they had solved a problem even if there was none, and Ser Podrick interested her.

Not because the man himself was particularly interesting, but because of his unique position. He was sent to Lord Tyrion as a punishment, and yet it seemed he thrived. Eleyna knew the dwarf was kinder than he appeared, but she had not thought he would take the time to show that kindness to someone who was sent only to spite him. There was that, his distant relation to Ser Ilyn, and the rumor that originated from a particular brothel that Eleyna was morbidly curious about. Now they worked as a team, with her growing irritated with the way Varys’s birds would come along and tear down what they had put up, and him seemingly happy to be brought along. Thus began the removal of the birds. Murder was a foul thing, but poison and on occasion her dagger were quick, and Ser Poderick was efficient, carrying the bodies off and sending them Seven knows where, probably to some pig farm Lord Tyrion owned. Afterwards she always lit a candle at the altar of the Stranger for them, saddened that they would choose to betray their future queen, instead of aiding her ascent.

“Where to next?” Podrick asked, satisfied with the job he had done.

“Follow me.” Eleyna said, taking him through another set of twists and turns.

He followed dutifully, humming quietly as they went, a song she knew well, a Westerland folk song about a fair maiden and her love of the sea.

She turned on her heel, looking up at him. “Ser Podrick?”

“Just Pod is fine, My Lady.” He said for the hundredth time, ever patient, stopping short, glancing around as if searching for unseen enemies.

“Ser Pod, might I ask you a question?” She caved a bit, hoping it might loosen his tongue.

He nodded, and she could already see the blush forming on his cheeks. They had been at this for moons now. Just the two of them traveling in the shadows, chatting and sharing stories of their homes, their lives, though all hers were calculated and intended to pull more information from him than he did her. Yet he still blushed when she turned her attention fully on him.

“Would you consider us friends?” She asked, starting off easy.

“I would.” He said easily, which surprised her. She thought he would add an if you consider us to be, My Lady, at the end of his sentence.

“That is good, I do as well.”

He smiled, and she gave him a small smile in return.

“Might I ask you a question, Lady Eleyna?”

She nodded, curious to see what burned so brightly in his mind it prompted him to speak.

“Do you think what we are doing is just?” He glanced down at his feet, a habit she knew Lorrd Tyrion had been pleased to have broken him of. Oh well, she would not tell Tyrion of this, it was not his to know.

“Protecting the princess? Of course.”

He lifted the hammer slightly. “I do not mean in this way, but the removals.”

“Oh, well murder is a sin in the eyes of The Seven, but so is treason. I believe what we do and what these spies do cancel each other out in the end. It is not as if we are ridding the Keep of innocent children, Ser Pod, these people wish harm upon the realm.” She said, resting a hand on his forearm, pleasantly surprised by the toned muscle beneath his sleeve. “It is our duty to stop them, in any small way we can.”

He nodded again, firmly this time. “You are right, it is our duty.”

She smiled and squeezed his arm, before going in for the kill. “Speaking of duty, would you mind clarifying something for me?”

Podrick opened his mouth then shoved her to the side, something dark in his eyes, turning the warm brown, black with anger. His shove sent her into the wall, and she hissed, eyes narrowed as she turned to glare at him, hand going to the dagger at her hip, her shoulder smarting. Traitor.

Clashing steel drew her from her angry thoughts, and she straightened to see Podrick’s blade crossed with an assassin’s. Well, she did not know if he was a true assassin or a sellsword, or even a well-equipped thief, but either way his intent was clearly to kill.

She scrambled back, searching the man for any identifying marks, a startled scream leaving her when the man’s blade caught Podrick’s side, and he grunted, the blade coming away wet, and crimson in the low light.

“Eleyna, stay back.” Podrick ordered, gritting his teeth, and advancing on the man, pushing him further down the passageway, using his strength to his advantage, forcing the man to move backwards as he fought.

She clasped her hands and began to pray, begging the Warrior to lend Podrick his aid, her frantic whispering filling the passageway, a quiet hymn beneath the sounds of battle. She heard another grunt, then the sound of a blade pulling from flesh, and she waited, dagger in one hand, her prayers silent now as she watched the shadows.

Fear fled her when Podrick emerged, his sword bloodied, the man’s dead body dragged behind him by the collar of his thin armor.

“Thank the gods.” She said, rushing forward to ensure Podrick was unharmed.

He caught her, having already dropped the man’s body, his hands caught her elbows, and he scanned her as if it had been she who dueled the unknown man. “Are you alright?”

“I am fine, what about you?” She asked, hand going to his side, where she had seen him bleeding.

He pulled a punctured wineskin from beneath his gambeson and gave a shrug, an easy smile on his face. “Not a scratch on me, but I shall have a hard time getting the wine stains out of my clothing.”

She could see why he and Jon were friends, well as much as they could be, with Podrick often gone following after Lord Tyrion on his various trips and adventures. Both men rushed into battle, then returned as if it had been naught but a walk through the gardens. Though she supposed it was a learned Lannister trait, the casual confidence that bordered on arrogance.

Eleyna huffed a laugh. “Saved by the wine, Lord Tyrion will love that.”

Podrick laughed as well and dumped the remainder of the liquid out before tucking it back in place. “You had a question?”

Did she? Yes, yes, she was finally going to ask about the rumor.

“Yes, I heard a rumor about you and some…women that you patronized.” She explained, feeling her face warm. She had thought about asking before, did not think it was something too outrageous to speak of, but now as she uttered the words aloud, embarrassment flooded her.

He laughed again, nervously, then met her eyes, looking almost heroic in the dim light, the torchlight emphasizing the strength of his facial features, the broadness of his shoulders. By the Seven did she find Podrick…appealing? She wished Sansa was here, she would tell her if she was going mad or not. It was a game they played, picking out members of the court and rating them on a scale from “muck to buck,” Podrick’s cousin Ser Ilyn was a muck, while Loras Tyrell was a buck, his strange affinity for men notwithstanding.

“You do not have to tell me details, I more so wished to know if it was true.” She continued, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her resolve.

“I am not always so good with my words, but I could show you if you wished?”

She blinked, once, twice, three times, his words hardly registering, heat rushing through her. Was it from embarrassment, or rage, or lust, or Seven help her she did not know, but a very foolish part of her was a little tempted to find out. “I—”

“Sorry, sorry, Lord Tyrion told me to be confident, and Ser Jaime said I should play to my strengths, and there are a few things I know I am good at, and I have only improved since then, but I should never have said such a thing to you.” Podrick said in a rush, his face surely as bright red as her own.

Eleyna pressed her lips together tightly and buried her hands in her skirts, then shook her head. “No, no, I asked.”

They stood in silence staring at the ground, the dead man’s blood seeping across the stone floor, shadows shortening and stretching, the sound of wind from somewhere further down whistling through the open space.

“I apologize, Lady Eleyna, I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable.” His voice was soft, ripe with regret.

“You did not.” She reassured him, sorting through her feelings in her head as if they were a deck of cards.

Lord Tyrion told me to be confident. Why, why did he tell him that? Why if not because Podrick felt affection towards her, or at least lust, but she did not think he would act upon only lust. He was a better man than that. But why did she care, why did it make her feel a tad giddy? Did she feel a similar way? No, no, she had to focus, Tommen was in King’s Landing, doing an adequate job so far, but that did not mean he had only good intentions, it did not mean he was not planning Myrcella’s downfall.

“I am glad to hear that, thank you.” He said, giving her a stunning smile, but she had banished any thoughts of feelings good or bad from her mind, it did not reach her.

“You can thank me by taking that man’s head off and helping me sneak it into Varys’ bedchamber.” She said, turning on her heel and stalking back the way they came, a small flicker of regret in her chest she frantically tried to stifle.

Chapter Text

Jaime sat alone in his chambers staring down at the small portrait in his hands, Myrcella and her family smiling up at him from within a gilded frame. It had been hand delivered by Jon and little Jaime, his namesake with laughing blue eyes and black hair, the grandchild he thought belonged to him until his eyes opened, until Cersei shot him that panicked look. He thought perhaps he should feel sick, should rage and weep as any father would do when learning their child was not their own but he did not feel such things. There was a sense of detachment, one that had clicked in place long ago. Cersei had never allowed him to bond with the children so afraid someone would make the connection. He had not even grown closer to Myrcella until after that fateful trip to Winterfell, it was always Tyrion whom she was close to. Truth be told he was closer with Jon, the boy had been his protégé, he saw himself reflected in him, though he was a far more honorable man than Jaime had ever been.

He held the portrait tighter, the frame cracking beneath his grip. Were any of the children his? With his luck only Joffrey and Tommen would be. A cruel savage and a boy better suited to be a maester than a warrior or a king was his spawn. Was this punishment for what he and Cersei had done, for going outside the laws of nature, for flying too close to the Targaryen claimed sun? Or was it a mercy? He could live now knowing he had never lied when he called himself Myrcella’s uncle, he had never lied to her because he was lying only to himself though he did not know it.

“Father visited me today, congratulated me on Jae and Jocelyn said I had made our house proud, that their births made up for my failure with Joffrey.” Cersei found him, she always found him. In the depth of his despair and the heights of his triumph she always found him.

She stood at a distance from him and if he were a younger, weaker man it would have wounded him, but now he was grateful.

He raised his head to look at her. She was still beautiful, still golden but she had lost her luster no longer did she shine like the sun as he gazed upon her. “You said she was mine, that all of them were mine.”

Cersei huffed, her hands buried in her skirts, a habit from her younger days their father had tried and successfully broken, until now that was. “I believed her to be.”

“What happened?”

“Do you think I know? Do you think I am thrilled by this turn of events? My precious girl, my only daughter has his blood running through her veins, polluting her and yet…” She clenched her jaw staring into the fire.

His heart and stomach sunk. He thought his love for her had died, and perhaps it had but it did not take away the sting of her hesitance. “And yet?”

“And yet, she is the only successful one. She has thrived, has clawed her way up past her brothers, past other highborn girls, past the inequities of the world we live in, and found herself atop the hill. She has won Robert’s favor and held onto it when no other but Ned Stark could.”

He did not know what to say, he did not know what he wished her to say, but he knew he had to speak, he had to know. “You must know how this happened, we were so careful.”

“Gods Jaime does it matter?” She snapped, striding forward and catching his chin, her nails digging into his jaw. “Does it really matter? My girl has the potential to be Queen or at the very least ruler of the Storm and Westerlands.”

“You swore to me it mattered.” He said, pinpricks of pain turning sharper as she gripped tighter.

She rolled her eyes. “Perhaps it was a time Robert took me then I laid with you closely after or that moon you were sick and Ser Barristan would not let anyone near, who cares?”

“Are any of them mine?” He asked, watching her face, searching for any signs.

“The boys are yours, I know for certain. The gods must have just thought it a jest to give me a girl and have her tainted by that Baratheon boar.

He believed her, perhaps against his better judgement, but he did not care, he did not wish to think on this any longer.

“Tainted or not our father has indicated to me that he wishes to see how high Myrcella can climb. I will not fail him again.”

He knew what that meant, he had seen things, people, pets, catch Cersei’s fancy for a while before she threw them aside for something more exciting far too many times. “Tommen is your child too.” And his, though he had never given him much thought in truth. It was too dangerous at first and then in time he found it easier to simply not care for the boy beyond what Cersei asked of him.

Cersei pressed her lips tightly together, a flicker of sorrow in her eyes. “He is, and if I could keep him safe and small in my arms I would, but he has grown too defiant. We have not been able to mellow him, mold him as we thought.”

“He is a man grown he needs space to breathe and stand on his own, he should have been fostered earlier as I was.” He protested, giving it a valiant effort. If Robert were dead then perhaps this news, that Tommen was his only remaining child would change things, but the boy’s supposed father still lived, he was still cast in the same role as he had been since Joffrey was born.

“And how well did that turn out?” Cersei scoffed, releasing his chin. “You and I Brother, we come at the beck and call of others, of our father, Tommen will be the same, I have seen it. But if I play this right, if I can show Father I am as smart as he is then Myrcella shall not have to do as we must. Her and I will wield the power.”

“Would you ready the banners for war? Make your daughter a kinslayer?” He asked, standing now, unable to shake the dread that clung to him at the light in her eyes. He did not like that light; it was a raging wildfire consuming all in its path uncaring of its innocent victims.

“No, no, I would never harm Tommen and neither would Myrcella, we do not harm our own remember?” She said, patting his cheek as if he were simple.

It was his turn to scoff, pushing her head aside. “Then what would you have her do? What would you do? The boy does not wish to be a maester any longer, you and Father have filled his head with ideas of the throne.”

Cersei began to pace, biting at her thumb nail. “That is not the only option, and we have time, he shall be in The Vale, it will be enough for me to think.” She swore under her breath. “Damn the realm, damn these foolish ruling men, if only the eldest could ascend. It should be me as Lady of the Rock and Myrcella as Queen, it is our birthrights, it is her’s, the throne is hers. Did the Targaryens not argue that at one point, do the Dornish not practice it? Loathe I am to take any example from those crude creatures but…”

“The Targaryens went to war over a daughter inheriting.” He reminded her. “And no one wishes to see Dornish practices initiated here.”

She snapped her head towards him. “I know! I know! But something must be done. Gods if only our places were switched. I would have Robert cast aside as an adulterer claim the Tommen was not mine and put Myrcella on the throne, but I am a woman, I cannot do such things, and so I must plot and wheedle and play my part while the careless, pig-headed men around me squander their every opportunity!”

“Cersei…” He had never been the cleverest of them, that was Tyrion, and he wished his brother were here now though to speak sense, though he could not bear the shame of Tyrion knowing what he had done.

“You do not understand, you never understood, how could you?”

There was something creeping in now, past the indifference, past the sting. He needed a bath, a drink, a good spar, something, anything to purge this unnamed feeling from him. “That is not fair, I have always stood by your side.”

But she was not listening, she was looking at him, taking in his words but they did not register so tightly wound within her own web of paranoia and rage she was. “If it all goes to hell, if we are exposed then Myrcella could save us, pardon us, Tommen would only lose his head alongside us.”

“We will not be exposed, we need only act as usual, no one suspects anything, and even if they do, your youngest grandchildren are proof enough to dispel any claims.” He reminded her, fighting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.

“Swear to me. Swear to me now Jaime that you will continue to stand by my side, by Myrcella’s. You did not care for Tommen before, you did not care for Myrcella before that damned Stark boy came into her life. If you have changed, if you care for her now then swear to me you will stand by us.” She demanded, eyes blazing bright, not with anger no, something deadlier and yet utterly convincing.

Jaime swallowed hard and glanced down at the portrait in his hand, he had not noticed he held it still. Was it wrong of him to focus on Jon in the painting? Did he care more for his protégé than his own son, than his own niece? He and Jon had spent more time together, and he was able to act familiar with him, encouraged to do so in order to make him a better knight, to have him learn from his mistakes. Jon trusted him with his secrets, had named his son after him, and Jaime, he—he liked the man Jon had become. He had enjoyed watching him become that man, he was proud of his accomplishments, the work he had put in, the jests and snide remarks he made. Jon was a son to be proud of, a good man, an honorable one, a true knight where Jaime had failed even before he took his vows. Was it sentimental drivel? Or was it a natural occurrence of their time spent together? He did not know.

He thought back to that night years ago in the Twins, how he left the whore, left his desires that had taken a godsforsaken amount of time to build up to ensure Jon was alright, quite literally chasing after him, and the guilt he felt for pushing him when he himself was not yet ready. Thought back on when they walked back together, and he watched Jon sulk and slink into his room and had felt a surge of affection for him he had never quite felt before when looking at Tommen or Joffrey or even Myrcella. Fuck mayhaps he did care more for Jon than his sons or niece. He should feel guilty, right? But he did not, and he reasoned it was because of Cersei keeping him from his sons, and that fact that even if he wished to, he could not separate Jon and Myrcella, they were a bonded pair. To care for Jon was to care for her and care he did.

He nodded more to himself than Cersei, pulling air into his lung, forcing the complex tangle of emotions and questions down deep. He had made his choice long ago; he needed only to stop running from it. “You are right, dear Sister. I am at our father’s beck and call. If he calls for Myrcella, I shall answer.”

She shook her head, and he nearly begged her to take his word and leave, he did not wish to think of this, of the meaning behind their words any longer. “That is not enough.” She said, hands buried in her skirts once more. “Swear to me you will not let any harm come to her or her children, by your hand or any others. Swear it to me, on our mother’s grave.”

He felt ill, though what she asked of him should have been easy for him to swear. He had taken an oath to protect women and innocents when he became a knight, and it was one such part of his vow he still held close, but it did not sit right with him to swear on their mother’s soul. He did so nonetheless, for he knew if their father, or Jon had come and asked the same of him he would do so in a heartbeat. “I swear, no harm shall come to Myrcella or her children, not by my hand, or any other.”

She nodded, eyes still blazing and left, leaving him alone in his chambers once more, the air filled with the scent of her perfume once fragrant and enthralling, now garish and overpowering, making him feel more ill than before. He waited, still clutching the portrait, breathing in and out, in and out until the room ceased spinning and he felt the sudden nausea subside. Then he placed the portrait gently atop a nearby table and left, heading down the hall to Tyrion’s chambers.

His brother answered quickly, rubbing his eyes, clearly half asleep. When had it gotten so late? “Jaime?”

“Take me to a brothel, a discrete one.” He said and the words felt thick, choking him as he forced them out. It was time, he had to put this to rest, had to kill whatever remained of his twisted affection for Cersei. She had not been loyal to him; he owed her no loyalty in return.

Tyrion’s eyebrows shot up. “Alright then…allow me a moment to get dressed.”

He nodded and waited until he returned, and followed him through the winding passageways, his head down, watching his footsteps.

“Lady Eleyna, Pod, should you two not be in bed?” Tyrion asked amused, coming up short round a bend in the tunnels.

The two looked at them as if they had been caught doing something quite scandalous.

“Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime, I was only escorting Lady Eleyna back to her chambers.”

“And where was she before?” Jaime asked, eyeing them both searching for ruffled clothing and unkempt hair.

“Taking care of some rats.” Eleyna said, recovering quicker than Podrick.

He noticed the dripping bag in Podrick’s hand, the red stains on his side, the dagger belted around Eleyna’s waist. “Well hopefully your hunt was successful?”

“Very much so. Podrick killed quite a large one.” She said. “Now if you will excuse us, My Lords?”

He nodded and they went on their way.

“Gods I forgot how terrifying young women can be.” Tyrion remarked, continuing down their path, leading him to what he hoped would feel akin to freedom no matter how fleeting it might be.

Chapter Text

The feast was marvelous, lavish, and many nobles from about the realm had come to indulge themselves in the crown’s hospitality. Myrcella was disappointed to see neither House Dayne nor Martell had accepted her handwritten invitations, the former sending a commonplace excuse for their lack of attendance, the latter sending a slightly warmer excuse, citing family matters that needed attending to. She had given the Martell’s response to Eleyna who wondered aloud if it had anything to do with Quentyn Martell’s recent return from his time spent studying in Oldtown, and how she had heard he was quite intelligent and gentlemanly. Sansa had perked up slightly at her words, she did love a good bit of gossip, but her interest was not quite piqued. No matter, they had time, for she knew Sansa’s father would never truly allow a Greyjoy to have her hand, ward or not.

She clapped politely as the music ended, pulling her from her thoughts. The dancers bowed to each other before they returned to their seats or their places among the throng of people along the edges of the dance floor. Jae was propped up in her lap, tiny hands crashing together in a charmingly clumsy imitation of clapping. She stroked his dark hair, smiling at anyone who approached the high table to see him, or speak with her various family members seated nearby. Jocelyn was in Robert’s arms, mesmerized by the gold fastening on his doublet, trying to grab them, her hands slipping as Robert laughed at whatever Renly was saying.

Her ladies were scattered about, Sansa and Roslin tasked with finding any other noblewoman of their age that might be suited to join their ranks, while Eleyna did as she did best. Summerhall would need people to fill its court, after all, and no one was so honest as when they were drunk. Cregan and Gawen darted through the crowd, giggling, dodging dancers and musicians, stolen sweets in their hands. She stifled a laugh before glanced over at her grandsire, who sat beside her mother and was listening halfheartedly to Lynesse as she babbled on. He caught her gaze, and she fixed her posture, hoisting Jae higher in her lap, making sure anyone below the high table had an easier time spotting him. She had done well, given birth to Baratheon-looking babes, proved in the eyes of the realm that she was a true Baratheon, for even if she did not look it, her children did. A sense of pride washed over her, this was a feast for her children, in celebration of them, she should enjoy it.

“Do we have to give a toast?” Jon asked, breaking open the baked potato on his plate and adding a large slab of butter and thinly shredded cheese, along with a dash of black pepper to the middle.

“Perhaps one of the children can, Gawen has been doing very well in his lessons according to his septa.” She said, taking a sip of her Lyseni wine, the rich plum taste bursting on her tongue. It was a gift from the elder Lynesse, along with a gown she planned to save for Jon’s next nameday.

“And I am sure he would love to show off, he is like his mother in that way.” Jon said, taking her glass and sipping from it as well, too attached, and too proud of his northern ale to ever ask for his own.

“I do not like to show off.” She scoffed, adjusting the bangles on her wrists, slipping one off and letting Jae play with it.

“No? Then do explain how it is not showing off that our children dress in clothing far finer than I was ever given at their age to simply play in the gardens.”

Myrcella shrugged, taking back her glass then taking another sip of her wine, eyes flickering to Jocelyn who was now looking up at Ned from Robert’s lap, her arms outstretched towards him. The wine made her petty, and sharpened her tongue, while warming her limbs. “It is not my fault Lord Stark did not outfit you properly. Gods know the North is not poor, there was no reason for it.”

Jon covered his startled laugh with a cough, covering it further with a long drink of his ale. “He outfitted me sensibly.”

She turned to face him, setting her glass down primly, a catlike smile toying at the edges of her lips. “Is that a Northern way of saying in dull fabrics and dreary colors?”

He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger, smirking slightly, challenging her. “You did not seem to mind those dull fabrics when we first met.”

“I was distracted by the boy wearing them.” She said, straightening the collar of his doublet. His smirk spread into a smile, and she could not resist teasing him. “I mean, Robb was quite handsome back then.”

He quirked a brow and released the lock of her hair, fingertips brushing over the diamonds sewn into patterns on the low, inwardly curving neckline of her gown, growing dangerous close to the exposed flesh of her décolletage. “And yet you followed the poor sullen bastard boy out into the snow instead of staying inside with him.”

Her breath caught in her throat, a blush climbing up her chest, her neck, coloring her cheek, the laughter, chatter, and music around them reduced to nothing more than muffled wordless quiet, all else fading away. “I needed air.”

The corner of his mouth lifted suggestively, devastatingly handsome, and he leaned forward, dipping his head down, his voice a low murmur in her ear. “So soon after I needed some?”

She brushed his implication aside, even as her heart fluttered as if she were three and ten again. “More than two people can need air at one time, it is not unheard of.”

He chuckled breathily, his fingers trailing back up, brushing against the side of her neck where a reddened mark, his mark, was hidden beneath layers of cosmetics. “Aye, in fact I feel a need for some now, care to join me?”

“Are you asking me to sneak away from a feast thrown in honor of our children?” She leaned into his touch, eyes drifting down to his lips, her hand on his chest, fingers splayed.

He dipped his head lower, lips ghosting over hers with each word. “It seems I am.”

She gripped his doublet, backing away slightly to meet his eyes. “How scandalous. Now you have me thinking you lured me out into the snow all those years.”

“And how did I do that?” He asked, his free hand grasping her waist, pulling her back in, warmth radiating from his palm through the layers of her gown.

She tilted her chin up, lips a hairsbreadth from his. “By being brooding and mysterious and handsome.” He smiled, and she hooked her fingers over the collar of his doublet, smiling as well. “How could I resist when you seemed the dark and dashing prince from my storybooks? When my mother warned me to stay away?”

“And you were the golden princess I was not supposed to speak to.” He said, voice low and rich like velvet.

“It is a good thing we did not listen.”

“Aye, very good.” He agreed, kissing her once, gently, chastely, then again with more heat, more urgency, catching her bottom lip between his teeth and tugging lightly.

She breathed his name, a thrill running through her, yes, some air would be good. She moved to speak, but Jae pulled at her necklace with surprising strength, reminding them he was there, a startled yelp slipping past her lips.

Jon laughed and scooped him up, untangling her necklace and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Traitor.” He whispered once he pulled away, fixing Jae with a playful glare.

“It is his feast, he should be the center of attention, he and Jocelyn.” She said, slipping her bangle from Jae’s hands and back onto her wrist.

Jae pouted and reached for the bangle, a look so reminiscent of Jon when he was upset, she could not help but comment. “See, look at that brooding pout, just like his father’s.”

Jon held Jae up, so they were face to face, inspecting him as Jae smiled, kicking his feet in the air gleefully.

“Allow me to retrieve Jocelyn, it is much more noticeable on her face.” Myrcella said, pushing out her chair and standing, stifling her laughter as Jon continued to inspect their youngest child. She spotted her Uncle Tyrion further down the table, and he made a face at her, and presumably her and Jon’s actions. She wrinkled her nose at him in response, and he chuckled before returning to his conversation with Lord Banefort, Eleyna’s grandsire.

Myrcella made her way down the high table to her father and tapped him on the shoulder, Jocelyn letting out a delighted noise at the sight of her. “Father, might I have my daughter? I need to prove to Jon that she and her brother have inherited his pout.”

“Of course, but only if you bring Gawen to me, I promised the boy I would tell him of how I defeated—”

A scream cut through the air, followed by a cry she knew instinctually, her heart racing like a startled rabbit. A crowd gathered near the far end of the Great Hall, and she saw her Uncle Jaime pushing through the dancers towards the crowd.

“Gawen?” She called, rushing down the stairs, pushing through the dancers as well, Jon’s voice joining her own, hot on her heels.

Cregan burst through the crowd and threw himself at Jon, who caught him and kept moving. “Da his face is bleeding, and it will not stop.” He cried, burying his face in Jon’s shoulder.

Myrcella barely registered his words, or Jon’s shouts for a maester, shoving her way through, snapping at any who complained until she broke through, and found Gawen lying on the floor. His face was bloodied and scrunched in pain, tears streaming down his face, and Jaime was trying to get him to sit up. She kneeled beside him, heart in her throat. “Gawen, sweetling, what happened, what hurts?”

“Mama.” Gawen sobbed anew, reaching for her, his nose crooked and swelling.

“Mind his wrist, I think it is sprained.” Jaime cautioned, helping her get Gawen into a sitting position.

“Sit all the way up for me, my love, there we go, my brave boy, come here.” She soothed, pulling him to her carefully, mindful of his face and wrist.

He sobbed into her embrace, tears, and blood staining her skin and gown as she stroked his hair, glaring at those who remained gathered and silent. Cowards the lot of them, why was no one telling her how her son got hurt?

“Move you vultures.” Robert ordered, his voice bellowing through the hall, sending the onlookers scattering. Cersei, Jon’s uncle, and Pycelle were behind him hurrying towards them, and she could see the rest of their children were being kept busy by her ladies, her grandsire, and Tyrion.

“He tripped him, Uncle Tommen tripped him.” Cregan said, before anyone else could speak.

She had not even noticed Tommen was there, lingering at the edges of the moving crowd. His eyes widened and he shook his head frantically. “No, no that did not happen, I did not mean to—”

Jon set Cregan down then crouched to be at eye level with him, Ned at his back. “Tell me what happened, the whole of it, and speak honestly, you will not get in trouble.”

Cregan rubbed his eyes and sniffled, but immediately launched into his story. “We were playing, and then they started playing you and Mama’s song so we wanted to get Lynn so she could come dance with us, she loves Golden Doe and White Wolf, but we ran into Uncle Tommen, and he looked upset. Gawen said we should invite him to dance to cheer him up, so he went over, but Uncle Tommen could not hear him, so he tugged on his breeches to get his attention. Then Uncle Tommen said something that made Gawen sad. Gawen started to come back, and I saw Uncle Tommen stick his foot out so he would trip, and then he fell down the stairs and tried to stop himself, but he hit his face and his hand, and then I ran over to help, and Uncle Tommen just stood there on the steps and did nothing!”

“Tommen what do you have to say in your defense?” Robert asked, striding forward, and pulling Tommen into the makeshift circle they had created.

“I-It was an accident, I did not realize he was still there.” Tommen said, all color drained from his face.

“An accident?” Myrcella echoed, glancing down at her eldest, his eyes so like her own filled with tears. Her stomach pitched and rolled, akin to a stormy sea. That had been Joffrey’s favorite excuse, an accident, or a jest, and no one believed them when they said he had done it on purpose. She did not want to believe Tommen would harm her children, but she could not repeat the mistakes of their parents and not believe her son’s words.

“He was so mean, Mama.” Gawen whimpered, clinging to her tighter, refusing to allow any others to come closer and examine him.

She felt nauseous, his words echoing in her mind. Mean, Tommen was mean, to her children? No, no, he was mean to her before her wedding, and he had acted out before then, and after, but he was not mean to children, he was not Joffrey, he could not be. She had tried so hard to make him kind, to encourage his gentle heart, was it all for naught?

Cregan stomped his foot and pointed at Tommen, violet eyes flashing. “Liar! I watched you make a face like Uncle Renly does when Ser Barris-is-tan tells him he has to take a guard with him into the city.”

“You are five namedays old, you saw nothing, you spoiled brat.” Tommen hissed.

“You are a spoiled brat, that is why grandsire does not let you sit on the throne, but he lets Gawen.” Cregan said, his chin raised in defiance.

Myrcella stiffened, she knew how Joffrey would react to such words, but now she was not sure if she knew how Tommen would. She glanced at Robert as Tommen sputtered looking from Cregan to Robert then back again.

“Cregan that is not the way we speak to our elders, apologize to your uncle.” Ned chastised.

Cregan’s eyes filled with tears once more, his head drooping. She was not cruel, she did not keep her children from their supposed grandsire, and in turn they bonded with him, Cregan especially. He loved both his grandsires with the admiration that can only come from youthful innocence, but he thought the world of Ned. He craved to hear stories of the original Cregan Stark, and begged him to tell him of the North constantly. She knew Ned’s scolding would be a terrible blow to his heart.

Anger seized her, pushing away her nausea, urging her to act, but she was stuck. She could not leave Gawen, and Jon was just crouched there. Her father seemed frozen, Tommen was still stammering, Pycelle was hovering, and Jaime was trying to keep onlookers at bay, barking orders upsetting her sons further. Useless, useless men. Her eldest was injured, bleeding, crying, while her second born was crying and had been scolded for telling the truth, for standing up for his brother. She pressed her lips into a thin line glaring at Jon, hoping he would speak in their son’s defense, but he sat unmoving, his hands on Cregan’s shoulders, his head turned up towards Ned.

Instead, her mother spoke, her voice sharp, cracking through the space like a whip. Her blood red skirts swept over the ground as she stooped and picked Cregan up, wiping away his tears with a gentleness she had forgotten her mother possessed. “My grandson is a prince of the realm, you have no right to scold him, Lord Hand.” She returned to her side, still holding Cregan tightly, glaring at all those before them. “He does not have to apologize to anyone unless the King or his mother say he must.”

As Myrcella kneeled on the cold floor of the Great Hall, holding her bleeding, crying child, all around her doing nothing but staring she felt desperately alone. It was a frightening feeling, and her stomach churned again, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she struggled to bring air into her lungs. Her sons were crying, her eldest was bleeding and she could do nothing, nothing. She could not protect them, could not demand justice for them because she could not even force her mouth to move to in order to do so, paralyzed by her fear.

Pycelle finally was able to ease Gawen from her embrace, and it freed her from her prison of panic, if only momentarily. She stood, moving to grab Tommen by his collar and demand he explain himself. She had put herself between Joffrey and Tommen countless times, and now she would put herself between Tommen and her children, rage burning in her chest, stealing what little oxygen she had left in her lungs. But a hand landed on her shoulder, keeping her from lunging, forcing her to breathe.

“Not here, little lioness, not here.” Cersei cautioned, her grip like iron.

Myrcella bit her tongue hard and nodded, she was not so alone it seemed, her mother had come to her aid. Was that not how it was with lionesses? They protected their female cubs even into adulthood, and she was grateful for it.

“We should move the prince to my quarters, so I might get a better look at him.” Pycelle said, looking to her and Cersei.

Myrcella nodded again, and her mother released her. She took Gawen back, uncaring of the blood and strode out of the Great Hall with only her mother at her side, fixing Tommen with a withering glare as she passed by, though her hands shook, and her chest ached.

Broken, her son’s nose was broken. His wrist sprained, his knees and shins bruised, and his favorite tunic ruined, all because of Tommen’s childish jealousy. It was not enough that he burned her maiden’s cloak, that he called her a whore, accused her of treason and trusted Joffrey’s words over her own. Not enough that she had tried so very hard to protect him from Joffrey, from their parents’ anger and disdain. Not enough that she had spent most of her life trying to prepare him for a throne he never deserved. Now he had harmed her eldest, insulted her second born and ruined the feast thrown in honor of her youngest children, and Lynesse gods above she hoped her daughter had been spared the sight of her elder brother bloodied.

She glared at Tommen unflinchingly as Pycelle cleaned the blood from Gawen’s face and applied salve to his forming bruises off in the far corner of the room, his wrist wrapped tightly to keep it stable. Cregan sat beside his brother on the maester’s table holding his uninjured hand, his legs swinging as he waited for Pycelle to be done.

“He is a child. A child, and you tripped him down the stairs, on purpose.” She said, finally confident enough to accuse him with their mother at her back, and their father outside the room. Their mother had kept everyone out of Pycelle’s quarters but them, the twins, and herself. “Why? They only wanted you to dance with them, they wanted to cheer you up.”

“It was meant to be a harmless prank; I did not want them nagging me.” Tommen said, staring down at his hands.

“He is five, five Tommen. You are a man grown, who tripped a child, broke his nose and sprained his wrist.” She threaded her fingers together and brought them to her lips as if praying, and breathed deeply. “I have forgiven much but this? This is—” She threw her hands up in the air, speechless. “Mother, please, tell him how absolutely unacceptable this is.”

Cersei looked from them to Gawen and Cregan, then settled her disappointed gaze on Tommen. “Brothers fight, they play rough and get hurt. Grown men and children do not, it is not a fair fight.”

“It was not a fight! It was a prank, a jest.” He protested.

“Look at me, there is blood, your nephew’s blood on me, from your cruel actions.” Myrcella snapped, making his eyes shoot up.

“If he had just caught himself—”

“If I had just let Joffrey keep you locked in that suit of armor, if I had not stopped him from hitting you, kicking you, if I had not told Father and Lord Stark what he had done in Winterfell…there are countless what ifs.”

“Children.” Cersei said, silencing them both. “Tommen, your nephews are Lannisters as you are, and they are princes of the realm, as you are. If the realm sees you attacking them, they will think it fair game and try to rise above their station to attack us. You give your grandsire reason after reason to think you weak, do not be so foolish again.”

“Yes, Mother.” Tommen mumbled, his head low.

Myrcella brushed her hair behind her shoulders with a smug smile, cringing slightly at the scent of iron, the stickiness of drying blood that clung to the strands.

“And Myrcella.” Her smile dropped as Cersei turned on her. “Get your husband in order. He allowed his sullen, arrogant excuse of a father to chastise your son in front of the entire court without a word in his defense. Either ensure that will never happen again, or quit clinging to him like a lovesick fool.”

She clasped her hands in front of her and nodded, feeling akin to Tommen for the first time in many years. “Yes, Mother.”

Their mother was not wrong, her children could not stand up for themselves. If they did not have Jon, they would have only her, and rewarding his behavior would not lead to change. Though it pained her greatly to think of pulling away from her husband, of acting cold towards him, she would do so for her children.

“Good, now Myrcella, tend to your sons. Tommen your grandsire will surely wish to speak with you.”

Tommen moved first, slinking towards the door, and Myrcella caught his arm, her voice a low hiss. “I have forgiven much, Brother, but do not test how far the limits of my forgiveness go.”

He looked at her, his face still pale, his bottom lip trembling. “I did not mean to hurt him so badly, I swear Cella, I just wanted them to leave me alone.”

“You could have come to me, asked me to stop them.” She said. If it had been anyone but her children sitting on Pycelle’s table, her resolve might have softened, but Tommen’s tears would not dissuade her this day.

He shook his head. “I needed to stand on my own.”

“Against a five-year-old? You were five when Joffrey killed and skinned your fawn simply because he was annoyed with you. My son has no fawn, he has a broken nose. You stood on your own, but be wary of whose shadow you stand in.”

“Myrcella.” Cersei called sharply.

She released Tommen and joined their mother, spine straight as an arrow, the wheels of her mind turning. She needed to send some letters, but first she had to speak to Jon.

Chapter Text

Once the children were sound asleep in the nursery and she and Jon were back in their chambers she rounded on him, wildfire raging beneath her skin, her hands on his chest shoving him angrily. He stumbled back, not because of her strength, no, even with anger fueling her she was not strong enough to topple him, but in surprise.

“You son of a bitch, you let your uncle speak to our son like that? How dare you? How dare you, you coward.” She spat, the words like venom on her tongue, but she was no true snake, they burned her as well.

Jon frowned, and he stepped further back, out of her range. “Myrcella…”

She shook her head, the smell of Gawen’s blood thick as her hair settled around her, the ends of the strands clumped together and stained, her chest and the neckline of her gown still slightly sticky. “No, no, I have our son’s blood on me. Your heir Jon, your firstborn son, and when he was attacked, when Cregan defend him and was chastised for it, you, their father was silent.”

His face tightened and he flexed and unflexed his hands. “What would you have had me say? I cannot accuse the Crown Prince in front of the whole court, and my uncle—”

She laughed, a short half hysterical, disbelieving sound as she ran a trembling hand through her hair. “You could have said what my mother did, or something of that affect. You are Cregan’s father. It is your job to correct him when he makes mistakes, but he made no mistake.”

“Myrcella, I do not hold the same anger towards my uncle as you do, you know this.” He said softly, catching her hand before she could raise it to her eyes and see the blood once more.

She knew he was restraining himself, modulating his voice to calm her, forever her bulwark in a storm, but she had no patience, no grasp on herself, shame, fear, and rage burning her from the inside out.

She ripped her hand from his grasp. “So, he means more to you than your sons?”

His frown deepened. “That is not what I said. I am just as angry as you are.”

“Oh? Well, that is not what you showed.”

“You are reading into something that is not there. I froze, my worry for Gawen and Cregan’s words caught me off guard.”

“You do not freeze, in all my years of knowing you, you have never frozen, not when it comes to our children. I will have the truth.” She demanded, feeling that familiar panic claw its way up her throat. She was alone, alone on the cold stone floor, her children crying, bleeding, and she could do nothing, nothing but sit there helplessly, a failure of a mother, struggling to breathe.

His brow furrowed. “The truth? When have I ever kept secrets from you?”

She shook her head again, helplessly, burying the feeling down beneath her anger. She did not like to be angry with Jon, but there was no one else, and she could not turn her anger inward any longer, or she would collapse, and her children would have no one. “I do not know! That is what I am trying to figure out!”

“You know I would never keep things from you. My uncle advised me to remain silent, and I did not think, I just trusted his advice, he has dealt with things like this far longer than I.” He reached for her, but she swatted his hands away.

She wrapped her arms around herself, stepping further from him. “You bowed to the words of your uncle. You allowed him to scold our son for telling the truth. It is clear now that he supports Tommen over me, perhaps he has always done so.”

“We cannot know that for sure. No alliances have been declared, and you have not even formally stated your desire to be heir to the King or the Small Council.” He reminded her.

“And you defended him, you defend him now. You think me unsuited for the throne, as if I would not make you king consort, make your son a king.” She barreled past his words, panic clawing further, bursting free and melding with her anger. Since she was three and ten, he had stood by her side, had supported her, it could not have all been a lie, right? It could not have been, no, no, if he did not—she could not lose—gods she could not breathe. She placed one hand at the base of her throat and forced air in and out through her nose, the other clutching her skirts, nails digging into the fabric.

He inched closer to her. “I did not say that.”

“No? But you did not defend my heirs, you did not defend me, you sat there on your heels and gazed up at your uncle like a damned fool.” She angrily ripped her bangles from her wrists, slamming them down on the table beside her.

Jon looked down at his hands and took a deep breath, then another, then another, a muscle in his jaw twitching, the rest of him deadly still.

Love no one but your children. Her mother was right, she should have listened, if she had not been distracted, a lovesick fool at the high table Gawen would not have been hurt.

“Myrcella please, listen to me. The day’s trials have worn on you, and your emotions have taken hold of your rationale. Come, let us bathe and rest, you will feel better in the morn, as will the children.” He coaxed gently, finally raising his head and holding one hand out as if she were a wild animal.

“You wish to see emotions taking hold?” She laughed bitterly, fury spiking at his calm tone, tinting her vision red. His tone was so similar to Ned’s when he gave his excuses for telling Jon to lie to her. “You think me overtired? Irrational? Get the hell out. I do not wish to spend another moment in the presence of a traitorous coward.” She grabbed the nearest object, one of her bangles, and threw it, narrowly missing his shoulder.

Jon’s eyes darkened, and he stalked forward, frustration shimmering beneath the surface. “Myrcella, I know you are angry and frightened but this—”

She got him in the face with a stuffed toy of Gawen’s. “I said get out.”

“These are my chambers as well; you cannot command me to leave.” He retorted, dodging her next projectile, a clay cup that shattered as it hit the floor.

“Fine, fine! Stay here. I will go and sleep in the nursery, as it seems I am the only one who puts our children first.” She turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind her, tears hot as they rolled down her cheeks, her stomach lurching and ill feeling.

Her Uncle Jaime was stationed at the nursery door and his brows furrowed at the sight of her. “Myrcella, whatever is the matter?”

She could hear Jon calling for her from the hall behind her, and she quickened her steps, yanking the door open. “I do not want anyone allowed in, but my mother. Not Jon, not my father, not Uncle Renly or Uncle Tyrion, no one but my mother.”

“Myrcella…” He said, the corners of his lips downturned.

“Please Uncle Jaime.” She said, barely suppressing a sob.

He nodded and pressed a warm hand to her back, guiding her in and closing the door swiftly behind her.

She heard Jon approach, their voices quiet then raised in argument until her uncle had the final word. “By order of the Princess, only the Queen is allowed inside. As the only child of the king who has produced a potential heir for the throne, her wishes must come before her husband’s.”

She heard Jon’s steps retreat, and she moved towards the small beds and bassinets lined against the wall. Her children were sleeping soundly, thankfully not disturbed by the noise. She sank into a nearby rocking chair, and rested her head on her hand, watching them until her eyelids grew too heavy and sleep took her.

She sighed as the servants washed her hair, the bath water near boiling as she liked it and pleasantly fragranced, the water a milky white broken up by the occasional flower petal.

“I want him punished.” She said, eyes closed as a servant gently poured water along her hairline, skilled fingers scrubbing the soap from her hair.

“Of course, darling, I have already begun to think of suitable punishment for your husband.” Cersei said from her seat beside the tub as she ran a hairbrush through Lynesse’s golden hair.

“No, not him, Tommen.” She said, eyes still closed, the scent of honeysuckle her favorite filling her nose.

“Myrcella...” Cersei sighed.

“Father will listen to me.” She insisted, mind whirling as she tried to spin a convincing thread that would win her father over. “I do not want a harsh punishment, but something must be done. Perhaps just an apology to the children.”

“Your father is a coward, he will not punish Tommen, not in a way you would find suitable.”

She sighed again and sank lower into the water; her mother was right. Besides, Gawen and Cregan had no desire to go anywhere near Tommen.

“Why not focus your mind on lighter thoughts? I know you do not want to cause Jon physical pain, so I thought perhaps we focus on emotional pain instead. Convince your father to banish him to the Tower of the Hand, he loves his own father so much, he can live beneath his roof once more, away from his children.” Cersei said, setting the hairbrush aside and beginning to braid Lynesse’s hair.

Gawen and Cregan were with Roslin near the fireplace, listening to her read. Her youngest were asleep in their bassinets, the windows open to allow the crisp winter air to filter through, the sun setting, golden light streaming in gently.

“I want to see Da.” Lynesse said, leaning forward to dip her fingers in the water, splashing lightly.

“Your father is very busy, sweetling, but is it not fun here with your mother and grandmama?” Cersei asked, finishing Lynesse’s braid.

Lynesse nodded and plucked a flower petal from the bath water, placing it in Myrcella’s wet hair. “Mama is the queen of love and beauty!”

Myrcella smiled, though her heart ached. “Thank you, my love, now go join your brothers.”

Lynesse hopped down and hurried over to the twins, eagerly spinning in a circle to show them her braid.

Myrcella sighed and rested her arm on the side of the tub, then rested her chin upon it glumly.

Cersei sighed as well, and ran her fingers through her hair, detangling it with her nails, sending a shiver down Myrcella’s spine. “You cannot hide in here forever.”

“It has only been a few days.”

“A few days too many, you are a princess, you should not be having to hide in the nursery. Banish your husband from the holdfast, and you will no longer need to hide here.”

“I am not hiding, I am…composing myself.”

“Oh, little lioness, you cannot lie to me, and besides that horrid wolf creature has been sleeping outside the nursery the entire time you have been here, it poses a threat.”

“He is harmless.” She said, watching as her eldest three listened with rapt attention to Roslin as she read a folktale from the North aloud. It was the book Jon gave her for her five and tenth nameday, leather-bound and filled with stories she had never heard or dreamed of before, that Roslin read from.

“That is what Lord Stark said, and that horrid beast that belonged to his youngest girl attacked Joffrey.”

Myrcella scoffed. “It is clear Lord Stark distrusts House Lannister. Did you see how he reacted to Jae and Jocelyn? He looked as if he could not believe they were truly Jon’s.”

“Perhaps he cannot imagine a faithful marriage between two so young, since he himself could not keep to his new bride’s bed.” Cersei drawled.

“Perhaps.” Myrcella said, gesturing to the servants for a towel, allowing them to wrap it around her before she ducked behind the ornamental folding screen and dried herself off, reaching to pull on her shift. She had not told her mother of Jon’s true parentage, she had promised Jon that, and she would not break it, even if she was upset with him.

“Some men worship their fathers, others despise them, dead or alive. You got unlucky and married one who worships, but at least he does not share his father’s suspicions.”

But she had not married one who worshiped, or at least that was what she had thought. Jon had disagreed with his uncle before, had stood by her side against him, what had changed?

“Thank the gods for that.” She said, dismissing the servants without fear that they would take her words and spread them about the Keep. They were Eleyna’s, loyal and discrete. Not that she worried Jon doubted the paternity of their children, such a thought would never enter his mind, for it would never be true. Her heart had always been his.

Myrcella finished changing into her shift, heart hurting when she realized it was one of Jon’s favorites. She hated this, hated being angry. She missed him, wanted to see him, wanted to apologize. She had said cruel things to him, things she did not mean, not truly. But most of all she wanted to place her worries in his hands as she had always done and find that yet again, he made them all seem much less frightening. Mayhaps it was pathetic, her mother would surely think so, or a weakness, but it was Jon, her sword and shield, her husband, her friend. She did not want to be without him, but their children, they had to come first, she needed to make him see that, she had too.

Myrcella chewed on her bottom lip, then grabbed her dressing gown, tying it tightly around herself, she needed to pray for guidance. For the wisdom of the Crone and the mercy of the Mother, then perhaps the path would be more clear, and if it was not, then she would seek out Jon’s gods and hope they answered her.

Chapter Text

Jon did not even knock on the door to Ned’s solar, he pushed it open as he tried to shove down his anger, wanting to keep a cool head despite all that raged within him. “Uncle, we must speak.”

“You are right, we do need to talk, but first I must apologize; I overstepped at the feast the other night.” Ned said, his hands clasped behind his back, visible only because he was facing the window looking out over the snow covered keep.

Jon faltered. He had prepared himself to have to speak harshly with his uncle, to ask him why he scolded Cregan when they both knew he had spoken true. But now he paused, curious about this change of tune in his normally steadfast uncle. When no further words came, and silence stretched between them until he felt it or his patience would snap, he spoke again. “Aye, you did. Cregan is my son, if corrections need to be made, I will make them.”

“You are right, forgive me. Grandsirehood is much different from fatherhood, but I forget that on occasion.” Ned said, though he did not turn.

“I appreciate your words, but before I accept them, I feel I must remind you it is only my insistence and Myrcella’s sense of appearances that keeps her from prohibiting you any contact with the children.” He said firmly, rooted in his spot. “I would have contributed it to her soft heartedness as well but after Jaime and Jocelyn’s birth…”

“If the boy’s name was not meant to be an insult, then my observation was not meant to be one either, we have discussed this.” Ned sighed wearily.

Jon set his jaw, gripping one of Myrcella’s bangles he had stored deep in the pocket of his breeches. He had spent his childhood believing himself not worthy of the Stark name, the nightmares and whispered voices telling him he was no Stark, that he did not belong. He would not have his children be plagued with such doubts, nor would he have them believe their father did not care enough to defend them in any and all trials. No matter how frivolous they might seem to those around them.

“Is there anything else?”

He brought forth the meat of his meaning for coming here. “My Lady Wife is angry with me. Angry that I did not defend our son from your words, that I did not defend Gawen further, that I did not defend her, and she has barricaded herself in the nursery with the children.”

“Her anger will fade; you must allow her time.”

“And I am angry.” He continued, brushing aside Ned’s platitude.

“Do not be angry with her, she was merely frightened by the sight of her child harmed. Gawen will heal, and soon this incident will be naught but a fleeting memory. He sustained minor injuries; all children have accidents; he will be well.”

He folded his arms behind his back, hands curling into fists. “I am angry because you cautioned me not to speak, to remain silent after you chastised my son, and I listened.”

Ned turned now. “It was a wise decision; Myrcella will not gain her brother’s favor if she fights so publicly with him.”

“I spoke with the Queen and Grand Maester Pycelle, Tommen confessed to tripping Gawen on purpose. He harmed my son, my heir, on purpose.” His chest tightened at the admission. Fear had taken hold of him when he saw Gawen laying there, when Cregan sobbed out his story and pointed the finger at Tommen. He knew the younger man was capable of cruel acts when jealous, but he had not thought he would resort to violence, especially not against one so young. He shook his head, banishing the memory. “It was only the eyes of the court and my children that kept me from taking action. If they had not been there, another Lannister son would have been met with blows, it is not House Stark’s way to allow such things to go unchallenged.”

“It is not uncommon for younger siblings to grow jealous of their nieces and nephews, especially in cases where two siblings were so close, as the prince and princess were. I am sure Prince Tommen meant no true malice.”

He tightened his fists, but kept his frustration hidden, it would not serve him well here. “You did not see him with Jae the day he was born, there was something in his eyes, I do not trust him.”

“He is heir to the throne, whether you trust him or not, he will one day be your king, and it would serve your house well to not make an enemy of him.” Ned reminded him with another long-suffering sigh.

“He harmed a member of your kin, your great-nephew, a boy of five namedays, on purpose. He broke my son’s nose and sprained his wrist. He made Cregan cry, insulted him, and in doing so, insulted my wife. You have always taught me it is the duty of a husband and father to ensure the safety and honor of one’s family, and yet by chastising him over something we both know is true, you contributed to the attack on my house.” He said, anger slipping out from between his fingers and darkening his words.

“Peace Jon, I did not attack your house. You have spent too much time in the company of Lannisters, you are seeing threats where there are none.” Ned said, his expression placating, the way it would be when Arya and Sansa would drag their fights before him and demand he say which of them was right.

You did not defend my heirs, you did not defend me, you sat there on your heels and gazed up at your uncle like a damned fool.

He had never seen Myrcella so angry, so frightened, her words cut to the core, peeling back his flesh, and exposing his frantically beating heart. But they did not sting as sharply as the sight of her tears. Of her fear constricting her airway, of Gawen’s blood staining her hair and skin, of their sons’ cries, Gawen’s swollen face, his bruised knees, and the way Cregan clung to him. He prayed nothing would sting so sharply again.

“I am not seeing threats where there are none, I am seeing threats that have already occurred.” He said sharply, hoping to cut through his uncle’s thick hide, and reach the heart he knew lie within.

“Your sons are fine, and now they have learned to watch out for stray feet when they run.” Ned reassured him.

He could not tell if his uncle truly believed Tommen meant no harm, or if he simply did not care. He did not wish to consider the latter; it would not align with what he knew of the man who raised him.

Jon exhaled slowly, feeling as if he were about to step onto a frozen lake without first testing the thickness of the ice. “Cregan spoke true. You and I both know the King does not consider Tommen worthy. He has harmed my house more than once, harmed his own sister, my wife more than once and has leveled cruel accusations against her, all the while taking to heart the words of Joffrey. A man we all know to be deserving of a painful, prolonged end from a dull blade. He has shown little growth, he only parrots whatever Lord Tywin tells him, and he blames others for his ineptitude. I am in agreement with the King, the path to the throne is not meant for everyone.”

Ned frowned, crossed the room to stand before him, and he could see the concern in the lines of his face. “A king may speak as he likes, a lord may not.”

He gritted his teeth. “It is only us here, speak plainly. I do not wish to play these games.”

“And yet you play along with Lannister games willingly.”

“The game of defending my sons, my wife?”

Ned exhaled harshly through his nose. “I know you are not simple, Jon.”

“No, I am not, and I do not wish to be in conflict with you Uncle, but I will not let Myrcella think any come before her and our children.” He said, stepping out onto the lake and bracing himself for the icy plunge.

His uncle nodded stiffly in understanding. “You must do what you think best for your house, and so will I.”

Three days, it had been three days since he saw his wife and children, three days, and two nights. If he could not convince Jaime to let him pass, or lure Myrcella out, it would be three nights, and he did not wish to spend another night alone in their shared chambers. He should not have let her leave, but that was not his way, he was not like Robb, never leaving room for anger, acting on disagreements the moment they sprung up. He needed time to think, to brood, as Myrcella would say.

Jon passed by the royal sept as he made his way back to the holdfast, a flash of gold catching his eye. He ducked in, the scent of incense thick in the air. He wrinkled his nose. Though it had been over a decade, he still could not endear himself to the smell, preferring instead the fresh air and forest scent of the Godswood.

Myrcella stood at the altar of the Stranger, lighting a candle. He could hear bits and pieces of quiet hymns, the last light of the day filtered through the high windows, casting weak rainbows across the floor and pews. He approached her silently, not wishing to disturb her prayers.

When she lifted her head, her eyes cast up towards the half human face of the Stranger, he moved to stand beside her, keeping his voice low out of respect for their surroundings. “Praying for the death of your husband, My Lady?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin, relaxing when she realized it was only him. “Jon, you startled me.” She hissed, her hand dropping from where it had flown to her heart in her surprise.

“Apologies, I did not wish to interrupt your prayers.”

She stepped away from the altar, the candlelight shining in her golden hair making her look especially lovely. “I am finished here; you did not interrupt.”

“That is good.” He said, feeling as if he were back out on that frozen lake once more.

“I was not praying for your death; you may rest easy.” She said perfunctorily, not quite meeting his eyes.

His lips quirked up. “I am glad to hear that, though I must confess I do not rest easy without my wife beside me. I have come here to seek her forgiveness, as I have not slept well these past few nights.”

Myrcella bit her lip, toying with the cuffs of her dressing gown. “It is I who should seek your forgiveness…for some of the things I said…and did.”

As he did earlier with his uncle, he paused, and waited for her to speak.

“I should not have thrown things at you, that was not very becoming of me, I am sorry. And I should not have called you names or accused you of conspiring against me with your uncle.”

He raised a brow. “You did not do that last part?”

“Oh.” Myrcella blushed, letting her hair, unbound, and still slightly damp, smelling of honeysuckle, a balm amongst the incense, fall forward and shield her face. “I must have yelled that in my mind but not…well, that is good then.”

He tucked her hair behind her ear, caressing the apple of her cheek with his thumb. “You did accuse me of caring more for my uncle than our sons.”

She pressed her lips together, emerald eyes swimming.

“You were not wrong to say so, but you were wrong.” He cupped her face, gently guiding her head up, so their eyes were forced to meet. “I must apologize for allowing you to believe that any would come before you and the children. There is no one Myrcella, no one.”

“I know you care for your uncle I did not mean to demand, but it is clear to me now that lines must be drawn, and choices made.” She said tearily.

“I acted a fool, listening to my uncle when he urged me not to speak in defense of Cregan, and I apologize. He thought to save us from a public feud with your brother, but I set him right. Tommen harmed our sons; I will not sweep that into the fire and let it remain among the ashes, as I did your maiden cloak and his cruel words.” He promised, the hollow ache in his chest lessening as he spoke. “I made my choice long ago, and now I have drawn the lines clearly for him.”

She looked at him as she did when he first pledged himself to her, adoringly and flustered, a pink flush spreading down her neck and lower, to places he had only dreamed about then, but knew intimately now. Her eyes wide, her lips parted, he wanted to kiss her as he had then, but he restrained himself.

“I am sorry I kept the children from you.” She said, her hands coming to his wrists, keeping him in place. “That was cruel of me, they missed you desperately.”

“I am sorry I did not do more that night, I cannot imagine how frightened you must have felt. I got caught up in my uncle’s words, and I lost faith in myself. I felt a failure. Our son was harmed, and I was in the very same hall, completely unaware until it was too late.”

She closed her eyes, tears trapped by her lashes. “I was so afraid, Jon, and helpless. If you felt a failure, imagine my own guilt. I was distracted, and our son was hurt by my kin, I could not protect him, I could not protect Cregan, I could not force my mouth to move or my lungs to draw air. I—”

“Your guilt is my own, I participated heavily in the distraction, I did not keep my eye on our sons, and I did not say all I should have.” He said, stopping her spiraling.

She reopened her eyes, crystalline tears trailing down her cheeks. “Neither of us should feel guilt over this. If Tommen had not done what he did…”

“We could have gotten some air.” He said with a half-smile.

She nodded, her bottom lip still trembling. “What if he does it again, when we are not near? I do not wish to think him cruel, but I cannot go on in ignorance, or I will be failing in my duties as a mother.”

“I hear Lys is lovely year-round.” He whispered, mindful of the implication.

Her eyes widened, but there was a gleam in them that he knew well. “I did not hear you say that. For the protection of our house and your line, I did not hear those words pass your lips.” She glanced around, ensuring they were alone. “Though I did warn him not to test the limits of my forgiveness in Pycelle’s quarters.”

Jon bit back a laugh. “My fearsome wife, how lucky our sons are to have a mother so dedicated to their protection.”

She leaned into his touch, gazing at him silently. It would have unnerved him had he not known her so well. But he did know her, and he basked in the gaze of his Queen of Love and Beauty.

“Everyone who is not us is an enemy.” Myrcella said softly, almost curiously, as if it had not yet made sense to her until now.

“What?”

“It is something my mother used to say before you and I met. I thought it odd because Joffrey was surely an enemy of ours, but if applied correctly…”

He wiped the remaining tears from her face. “Myrcella, I am grateful that your mother defended you and our sons, but do not forget she was Joffrey’s greatest champion. I would not suggest taking her insular views on as your own.” He felt her jaw muscles tighten beneath his palms, and he sighed. “Allow me to think on it.”

He would think on it briefly; to make good on his words, but he would not adopt Cersei’s views as his own—and he guessed Myrcella would not either once she had calmed—for surely that could only spell disaster.

She smiled softly, and his heart skipped a beat, quite embarrassingly. “I missed you.”

“I missed you as well. It does not feel right to be apart from you, especially not in anger.” He said, smoothing his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks, the soft flesh still tinted red from her tears.

“Kiss me?” She asked innocent as the Maiden.

“In a sept? It is not even our wedding day.” He teased, taking her hands in his own and pressing them to his lips.

“You are right, it is improper, and I suddenly find myself in need of some air. Perhaps the balcony of our chambers might be a suitable place for me to find some?”

“Air? Aye, there is plenty of it there, allow me to escort you.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and offered her his arm. “My Queen.”

She bit her lip to keep from smiling too widely and took it, her voice hushed as well. “Thank you, my dear King Consort.”

Chapter Text

Robert wished Jon Arryn were here, again, for the umpteenth time, he wished the old man were here, though he had a feeling he would not have liked what Old Arryn would have had to say. Nevertheless, as he sat at his desk in his solar, the balcony doors open, the sun filtering in but barely reaching him, his two remaining trueborn children at odds with each other, he wished the man were still alive. Just once more, he wanted him to walk through the door, his face lined with age, his hair leeched of color, but his eyes still sharp. Jon would scold him for one thing or another, but then he would take care of all his problems in that steadfast, ever patient way he always had.

Robert spun the hunting knife Jon gifted him as a boy on its tip, the blade’s luster had dulled with age, the handle worn down, but he could not part with it, would not. He kept it sharp, and a groove had been made in his desk from how often he spun it in thought over the decades. He would not get a new desk either, too many things had changed since he first took the crown.

The crown, the cursed crown, he had never wanted it in truth. He wanted justice for Ned and Jon Arryn’s families, he wanted to keep his head or rather keep his body from being consumed by Aerys’ flames. He wanted to save Lyanna and teach Rhaegar a lesson and part of him, the part he hated to think on, that kept his early life and the memory of his parents' death locked tight wanted revenge. If it had not been for Aerys and Rhaegar, his parents would never have gone on that bride hunt. They would not have been on that ship, would not have sunk into the bay, would not have been taken from him. As his hammer hit Rhaegar’s chest, the crack sounded so similar to the thunder of that storm, and he was glad. Let him die in pain and fear as his parents had, let him face their scorn in death.

But when the battle was over, and he was crowned it was not what he wanted, gods did he even know truly what he wanted? Justice, revenge, Lyanna, but he had gotten those first two, Lyanna was dead, and yet…

Robert poured himself a glass of wine, watching the deep red liquid fill the cup. Tommen had confessed the truth of the incident, the morn after the feast, teary-eyed and sniffling, his head bowed, thoroughly cowed by his mother. He had not thought Cersei would do such a thing, stick her neck out for their daughter instead of their son, but since the birth of their youngest grandchildren he noticed a change in her. Perhaps all her time at the Rock and his allowance of her to stay the first year of Jae and Jocelyn’s life had softened her enough that she was not entirely impossible to share a castle with. Either way, she marched Tommen to his solar and ordered him to confess his wrongdoings quite sternly.

He felt a twinge of pity for the boy, surely it was embarrassing to be dragged before your father by your own mother at the age of eight and ten. Tommen truly did need to learn to stand up to Cersei, he was a man grown, and yet he still clung to her apron strings. Hopefully, The Vale would allow him to do so, though he doubted Lysa would inspire any thoughts of independence in him considering how tightly she held onto Robin.

The pity had quickly fled him though when Tommen began to blame Gawen and Cregan for the incident, requesting Cregan be given a light punishment for his words. Clearly that had not been Cersei’s idea, as her mouth pinched at the idea. He laughed at the suggestion. Who would punish a boy of five namedays for using the same childish insult Tommen had lobbied at him first? It would not be him, especially when Cregan had spoken the truth, though he wished the boy had more tact in his truth telling, but he was young he could learn.

He had dismissed them both, declaring there would be no punishment for the children and reminding Tommen that his departure date for The Vale grew closer. He hoped it would occupy his mind enough that he would not cause any more trouble, and raise his spirits as well.

Now he sat, days later downing his wine and pouring himself another cup, still unsure of what to do. He agreed with Ned, Myrcella had been too panicked, too angry over the incident that led to Gawen’s nose being broken and his wrist sprained. Children had accidents, they fought with their family, he himself had his nose accidentally broken by Ned while they were sparring as youths, and they had laughed it off. But he would admit in the silence of his solar that he understood why she was so upset.

Had he not struck Cersei for implying that if Mya was brought to court, an accident would be arranged? It was in a Lannister’s nature to be duplicitous, and though his Myrcella was more Baratheon than Lannister—had been since Gawen’s birth, perhaps since her own birth—that did not mean she could not see through Lannister ploys. His daughter was his through and through, she would react to a potential danger to her child as he had. Though she had not even struck anyone, gentler she was than him. She knew what her kin was capable of, why would she not be fearful that the accident was more than an accident? She had not been wrong either, Tommen had confessed it was no accident.

Robert ran a hand down his face, heaving a heavy sigh. He was tired of this, of these plots and schemes and veiled threats. He loved his grandchildren, they were happy, content children, they adored him, begged to be told stories, and listened well. And now he had two more, with Baratheon coloring, but their celebration had been marred by the pain of their eldest brother. Gawen followed him around like a duckling whenever he could, asking questions and listening quietly to the answers given. He was a dutiful boy for such a young age, neither Joffrey nor Tommen had such an interest in him or his duties at five namedays. Was that why Tommen considered the boy a threat? Or was it merely jealousy as Ned said?

Did he think Tommen capable of killing a child? No, but he knew of Joffrey’s cruelty, and he was no fool, there was a reason Myrcella had not worn the bridal cloak that his mother was married in. He had not needed Tywin to tell him what had happened, though the damned Lannister had anyways. He needed only to see how Tommen shrank away from Myrcella guilty and anxious the entirety of her wedding. No, he did not think Tommen capable of killing a child, but he knew resentment when he saw it growing, the way it tightened the jaw, curled the fists, made words curt and motives muddy. Myrcella did not have the luxury of being able to send Tommen away as he had Stannis, though he always brought his brother back once his anger had faded.

He rubbed his eyes and sat back in his chair with a groan, cursing Old Arryn for going and dying on him.

A knock at the door was followed by one of the kingsguard—Ser Baelon Swan—announcing Myrcella’s presence.

She was wearing green, not something he would have noticed normally, he was not privy to the trends and fashions of the court. His chamberlain set out his clothing the night before and he wore them. But it was the particular shade of green that caught his eye. Estermont Green, like his mother wore. He could still remember her taking him and Stannis out into the sea and showing them the sea turtles that swam below the surface, gliding through the crystal-clear waters.

She had Jocelyn on her hip, the babe wearing Estermont green as well. He had bid her to sit, and she did, turning Jocelyn so she sat in her lap facing him. She smiled when she saw him, but Myrcella was frowning.

“I want him punished.” She said abruptly, her eyes sharp and made more vividly green by the gown.

“I heard you hid out in the nursery, was that not punishment enough for your husband?” He jested, knowing Jon was not who she meant, but hoping she would smile as she often did when Jon was mentioned and ease the tension.

He had done well pairing them. Surely, for all his faults, none could say he did not care for his daughter’s happiness in marriage. He had elevated a bastard boy into a lord, ensured he was trained by one of the greatest swordsmen in the realm—though he hated to give Jaime the compliment—given him a castle newer than any other and soon to be complete. He also made certain that the secret of his parentage remained that, a secret. Though that was perhaps more a favor to Ned than Jon, something the man had barely had the chance to tell him before Tywin informed him of the same fact. How Tywin knew and Varys did not was something that briefly unsettled him, but he brushed it aside. It was of no true consequence.

Myrcella did not smile, but her expression softened slightly. “It was, but it is not Jon I speak of, and I know you know that.”

Ned’s words rang in his ears. His old friend had not steered him wrong often, he knew it would serve him well to listen, to pacify both sides of his family. “Myrcella, truly, accident or not Gawen was not hurt that badly, I know that women tend to be sensitive, mothers especially but—”

“The boys are frightened of him, they do not wish to go near him. He claimed it was a prank, but that is what Joffrey would say, and we have all born witness to how far his pranks went.”

“Are you saying you believe Tommen is like Joffrey?” It was a serious accusation to lay at his feet, one he hoped would make the decision, any decision for him.

She fiddled with her necklace, looking away for a moment before meeting his eyes once more. “No, but I fear he may develop such cruelty if he is not removed from environments where cruelty thrives. At least until he learns to stand on his own two feet.”

“He will have his time in The Vale.” He reminded her and himself because she had once again been thinking along the same lines as him.

“But will it be enough? What if Grandsire or Mother tries to call him home or to the Rock? He needs to be someplace where others cannot influence him so strongly and have reason to stay there.”

He stroked his beard, if only Old Arryn were still in The Vale he would send Tommen to him. Perhaps one of the Royces would do well in his stead?

Myrcella glanced down at Jocelyn, brushing her dark hair back from her face. “Did you know Jon wrote to his Uncle Benjen at the Wall? He sent him some sketches of the children. Benjen said he could see some of Lyanna’s features in Jocelyn. Do you think he is right? Neither Jon nor I ever knew her, and Jon said it is hard to see a resemblance when all he knows of her is carved from stone.”

He looked at his youngest granddaughter, her cheerful blue eyes, her black hair, the roundness of her cheeks, her bright smile and pushed back his grief, roaring like a great beast. He could not see Lyanna in her, he barely remembered what she looked like. “I see more of my mother in her, and in you, and funny enough in Edric as well. All four of you have tall noses, elegant, as my father would say.”

She touched the tip of her nose and smiled almost absentmindedly. “I know so little about her, perhaps one day soon you could tell me more about our family.”

He nodded. “Yes, we should find the time to do so.”

“The children would love to hear all about it, as would I, and I could write to Edric, see if he has time to make the trip.” She said, genuine warmth and excitement in her tone.

He looked at her, she had grown so much, a beauty she was, like Cersei but softer, kinder, a joy in her eyes and expressions that Cersei’s never held. He used to think all their children looked solely like Cersei. But now, now as he looked at Myrcella demanding justice be served, stubborn and steadfast in her defense of her child, he truly did see bits and pieces of himself, and his—their kin in her. She had his mother’s nose and kind heart, his stubbornness and some of his height, and Renly’s uncanny ability to make friends alongside his easy smile. She would make a good queen, Renly, and his faction—that he knew his brother did not think he had noticed form—said as much, praising her abilities constantly, skirting the line between praising Myrcella and outright insulting Tommen. He did not want to let it stand, Tommen was his son, and it was not truly the boy’s fault he was so...weak. But to acknowledge Renly’s faction was to acknowledge the true issue, and he was not prepared to do so.

Tommen wanted to go to The Vale, wanted to spend time with his friend Robin Arryn. If he gave the order, if he banished but did not actually banish Tommen there for two or so years, he could make both his children happy, right?

He made the decision, gods damn him, he tried his best. “I will tell Tommen he must stay in The Vale for two years minimum; he wants to be there, and it will give him time to stand on his own two feet, as you said.”

Myrcella smiled brightly, beaming like the sun, and stood, rounding the desk to embrace him and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Oh, Father thank you, thank you. The boys will be so relieved, and I will be able to sleep peacefully knowing that my children are safe from any harmful pranks. You have given Tommen a strong argument to fall back on if anyone tries to recall him from The Vale, I am sure he will be grateful for the uninterrupted time.”

Jocelyn babbled in her arms, reaching for him, and kissing his cheek clumsily as well.

“Did you hear that little doe? Your grandsire is going to protect you, and your siblings. Is he not the kindest and best grandsire in all the seven kingdoms?” Myrcella cooed, shifting Jocelyn on her hip.

Jocelyn smiled at him, all the while tangling her fingers in Myrcella’s hair. “Papa yay!”

“Papa yay!” Myrcella echoed, smiling still, before she reached into a pocket in her skirts and pulled out two small, framed portraits. “I almost forgot. The court painter finished the latest official portrait of House Stark of Summerhall. I wanted you to be among the first to see it.” She handed it to him.

It was her, Jon, and the children all dressed in finery, arranged on a deep purple chaise lounge, Jon standing behind her, sword sheathed, the children in order of their ages. Upon Myrcella’s head was the tiara she had worn on her wedding day, in her lap were her youngest children, Jocelyn holding a stuffed stag made of golden fabric. He chuckled, no daughter of his would let any forget she was still a princess and a Baratheon no matter which house she married into.

“And then this one was Gawen and Cregan’s idea, they were too embarrassed to present it themselves, so they asked me to do so.”

The second portrait was of him standing near the fireplace in her solar, telling a story, with all her children gathered around him, the rapt attention on their faces meticulously captured. His stance was strong as if he were again a mighty warrior holding his hammer aloft.

“It is a very good gift; tell them they had no reason to feel embarrassed.” He said, pushing aside any lingering doubts and thoughts of Cersei and Ned’s arguments that would surely be coming his way, focusing only on Jocelyn and Myrcella’s smiles. Yes, despite his flaws he was a good father, a good grandsire, both his children would be happy.

Chapter Text

“So far, our grain stores are holding steady, it is still early winter, but we are being vigilant.” Wyman said, dressed in lighter clothing than the rest of them, far more used to the chill that seemed to seep in through the thin windows of the council chambers.

Myrcella sat next to her Uncle Renly; soft white furs wrapped around her to keep away the chill. A gift from Margaery that arrived a few moons after the birth of Jaime and Jocelyn.

“Is there any news from the Reach in regard to surpluses, Lord Redwyne?” Renly asked, blowing on his mulled wine to cool it, the steam curling up into the air.

“I have written to my liege lord and a few other houses to collect a total, but have not yet received a full reply. Many do not wish to reveal their hand until dire times set upon the realm and loosen purse strings.”

“Well, then we are lucky the Citadel does not predict this to be a particularly harsh winter.”

“Indeed.”

Myrcella took a sip of her own mulled wine, the warm drink easing the apprehension she felt deep in her chest. The cinnamon and nutmeg burst on her tongue, adding to the warmth, and creating a pleasing smell that eased her further.

Tommen’s chair sat empty. She thought he would try harder to keep his seat, especially if their grandsire had scolded him, but the meeting was halfway through, and he had yet to arrive.

Pycelle cleared his throat and looked to Robert. “I have the report on the progress of Prince Gawen’s recovery that you asked for Your Grace.”

“Oh, Grand Maester, Father that is not necessary, I am sure the council have much more pressing matters to discuss.” She said quickly, sitting up in her chair.

“I must disagree; I am quite eager to hear about the prince’s recovery.” Paxter said, giving her a reassuring nod. “My Desmera has a boy about his age.”

Renly nudged her from beneath his fur lined cloak.

“Ah yes, Gilbert is his name, is it not?” She asked, feigning uncertainty. She knew the boy’s name; she had a list written out of children from high houses that were of an age with her own.

Paxter nodded. “Yes, named after our House’s founder, a sturdy young lad, his father is a cousin of yours.”

Willem to be precise, the second son of her Great Uncle Kevan.

“Once my son has fully recovered you should invite him and his parents to court, My Lord Husband and I are always seeking playmates of good stock for him, and I have been considering looking for another lady-in-waiting if Lady Desmera would be interested?”

Paxter smiled. “I am sure she would be, but I will write her and confirm.”

She returned his smile, then looked to Pycelle. “My apologies, Grand Maester, please give the report.”

Pycelle cleared his throat, the links in his chain clinking as he stood. “I have examined the boy, and he is in good health. His wrist has healed completely, and his nose may have a slight crookedness to it, but we shall have to see if that changes as he grows.”

“What wonderful news.” Paxter said.

“I have always heard it said a lady finds a crooked nose appealing, it adds character to the face.” Renly agreed.

Jon snorted quietly from his place behind her. “There is a dead Frey that would disagree with you, My Lord.”

“Yes, well, the dead cannot truly disagree, especially if they are missing their tongues. My point still stands.” Renly countered, giving Jon an easy smile as he leaned back in his chair.

“I am sure Gawen will still grow to be a handsome lad, like his father, crooked nose or not.” Myrcella interceded, placing one hand on Renly’s shoulder, the other on Jon’s forearm.

Renly kept his smile as he leaned forward, sitting up properly, and Jon’s lips twitched upwards before he fell back and played the role of silent guardian once more.

“And Prince Tommen has been deemed healthy as well, there should be no sickness or frailty affecting his upcoming trip.”

“Have the preparations for Prince Tommen’s journey been finished?” Varys directed his question at Paxtor, his hands folded into his sleeves, a gently intrigued expression on his face.

“Yes, the galley that will transport the prince to Gulltown is set to be stocked with supplies by the morn, then he and the ship will depart after he breaks his fast.” Paxtor said.

“Lord Gerold Grafton has invited the prince to stay in his keep while the Arryns make their way through the snows. It seems the man he appointed to replace Littlefinger has done quite well and brought an influx of trade to the port. Enough that he was able to coax Lady Arryn into changing her plans from visiting the Gates of the Moon to staying in Gulltown for the Winter.” Wyman added. “It is no White Harbor, but Gulltown is far more exciting for a young mind than the Gates of the Moon, I am sure the prince will enjoy it there.”

Robert nodded then bumped his arm into Ned’s smiling fondly. “Do you remember the trouble we used to get up to in Gulltown, the summers spent in the marketplaces, chasing after fair maidens and good deals on swords?”

“Aye, I remember the deals, the maidens I left to you, my friend.” Ned smiled. “Prince Tommen will learn much during his time there, it is a shame it is so short, a few moons is not much time when faced with an entirely new city.”

Myrcella’s eyes flickered to her father, whose smile faded slightly as he reached for his wine and drank deeply. “My thoughts exactly, Ned. So, I have decided that Tommen will remain in the Vale for at least two years. Lord Grafton was overjoyed at the idea, and if winter fades soon enough, then perhaps Tommen will be able to visit Bronze Yohn and learn a thing or two from him.”

“And do not worry, Lord Hand, the Graftons are not left without any payment for housing our dear Tommen.” Renly said, laying it on thick to irritate him, Myrcella assumed. Her uncle did enjoy riling people up. “His youngest Gyles is to become my squire.”

Myrcella pondered his words. It was a great honor, though her Uncle Renly was nowhere near the swordsman Jon, and her Uncle Jaime were. Should Jon have a squire? Would it serve them well to open their household to the sons of the Great Houses in hopes of breeding loyalty the way Jon Arryn had bred loyalty into her father and Jon’s uncle? They had many children already, but Summerhall could fit more, and she knew Jon would enjoy passing down the skills he had learned to others, especially while their sons were still too young to swing a sword. She would have to bring it up to Jon at a later date, see what he thought of the idea.

“Two years is a long time; the prince has barely spent two years back in the Keep.” Ned said, directing his calm counter towards Robert.

Her father gestured lazily, performatively lazily—as if it were obvious, as if sending Tommen away, as if his anger over Gawen’s injuries were not something Myrcella feared he would backtrack on—to the papers containing Pycelle’s report on Gawen’s recovery.  “And look what has happened as a result of his return.”

“Robert.” Ned said quietly, the two of them having a wordless conversation containing only miniscule facial expressions, then finally a reluctant release of breath from Ned, who nodded and turned back to the rest of them. “Someone should ensure the prince is well outfitted for the winter, the temperatures in Gulltown can be deceptive.”

“The Queen has already taken care of that.” Myrcella said, hands folded in her lap. “With Jon’s help, of course, who better to know the cold than a Stark?”

“How kind of you Jon, if my son were harmed by my good-brother I cannot say I would be the first to offer my help with his wardrobe.” Renly said, taking another drink of his wine, hiding his smirk behind it.

Those around the table grew tense, the air impossibly still, and she felt both Varys and Pycelle’s eyes on her. Pycelle was her grandsire’s man, but who did Varys truly belong to?

“The Mother calls us to forgive.” She said, inclining her head towards Robert, pretending she did not know that all on the council were aware Jon did not hold to her gods. “And my father has done much to reassure us and our children since that unfortunate incident. So, as the Mother bids us, we pray that Tommen’s journey is safe and that he learns much from his time in the Vale.”

“We pray he learns much from his time in the Vale.” Renly snickered, pitching his voice up in a poor imitation of her own as he lounged on a settee in her chambers he had claimed as his own, many visits ago.

She wacked him lightly with a decorative pillow, her legs tucked beneath her as she sat on the floor leaning against the settee, watching Jae and Jocelyn try to stack a few colorful wooden blocks on the rug. The tower grew steadily higher until it collapsed, and her children giggled, eager to try again. “I did not sound like that.”

“You sounded exactly like that.”

She rolled her eyes, turning away from him and smiling when she saw Lynesse hovering near the end of the settee. “Yes sweeting?”

Lynesse came and curled up into her lap. “I want a lion.”

“A lion?”

Lynesse nodded.

“You have Ghost, why would you want a lion?”

“Grandmother says House Lannister used to ride lions. I want to ride a lion, but to ride one you have to have one, so I want one.”

Myrcella held back a sigh. She too had grown up hearing of the lions of Casterly Rock, but she learned long ago they were no more, except a few that hid in the outlying hills of the Westerlands.

“Cannot argue with that line of logic.” Renly snorted, turning onto his side to face them. “Why not have a fawn, for your mother’s house?”

Lynesse shook her head, an adorable, tiny pout on her lips. “No, I want a lion.”

“There really are not any more lions in Westeros, my love, they have all gone.” Myrcella said, stroking Lynesse’s hair, so like her own.

“Gone where?” Lynesse asked, looking up at them both with big spring green eyes.

“Not me.” Renly said quickly, making a show of inspecting the ceiling.

Myrcella cursed him silently, and tried to think of a way to explain the extinction of their house’s lions in a way that would not send Lynesse dissolving into tears.

She was saved by the door opening, Gawen and Cregan entering with Jon and her Uncle Tyrion. “Ask your father.” She said, helping Lynesse up and sending her off towards Jon.

She ran over to him, arms extended upwards, letting out a shriek of laughter when Jon scooped her up, throwing her into the air then catching her.

Jon made his way over to them, as Gawen joined Jae and Jocelyn on the rug, Ghost trailing behind him. Cregan dragged Tyrion off to show him something he made with his septon. Storm, and Zokla, Gawen and Cregan’s direwolf pups following their respective owners. “Ask me what?”

“Where did all the lions go?” Lynesse asked.

“The lions?” Jon raised a brow at Myrcella, and she smiled apologetically.

“I want a lion, Da, please?” She stuck her bottom lip out further, pouting in a way that was almost puppy dog like.

“You have Ghost? Is he not good enough?” Jon teased playfully, but there was a flicker of sorrow in his eyes, and Myrcella rose from the rug.

“Ghost is not mine; I want my own, I want a lion.” Lynesse insisted.

“I was telling her that the lions are gone from the continent.” Myrcella explained, resting one hand on his back, the other brushing Lynesse’s hair back from her face.

“But where did they go?” Lynesse asked again, her face scrunching, a telltale sign that she was soon to burst into angry tears as she grew tired of her question remaining unanswered.

“They were hunted down by mean men, and now only a few remain hidden from those evil villains.” Tyrion said, coming to their rescue.

“Find them!” Lynesse demanded, throwing her arms down to her sides with a huff.

“Lynesse…” Jon warned softly, not even flinching when she began to squirm in his hold, and her little feet hit his ribs repeatedly.

Her face scrunched up, tears welling in her eyes, and she kicked her feet harder. “Now, I want a lion now!”

“You cannot have one now, Lynn, we do not know where they are.” Jon said as he set her down, his expression and tone calm. He was much better at handling tantrums than her, it was only natural given his multiple younger siblings, while she only had Tommen who was often too frightened by Joffrey to put up much of a fuss.

The moment her feet touched the ground, Lynesse started screaming, and Myrcella braced herself, taking a small step back to give her daughter room.

“Gods above, why is she so loud?” Renly swore, covering his ears and nearly bolting over the settee to put distance between him and her screaming child.

“Find them then.” Lynesse began to cry harder, her face red and pinched as she wailed her protests to the world.

“Sweetling, your father cannot go find them right now, he has to stay here with us. Remember Uncle Tommen is leaving for the Vale tomorrow? We are all going to say goodbye to him when we break our fast in the morn.”

Lynesse stamped her foot, balling her little fists in her skirt. “No, no breakfast, I want a lion.”

Myrcella pressed her lips together, breathing out through her nose. “Lynesse, you cannot have one now, it is not possible.”

Her wails only increased in volume. “Grandmother said I could, she said it.”

The time Cersei spent with Lynesse needed to be limited, severely limited.

“Well, I will talk to her and see why she said that, my love, I promise.”

“Lynesse, why not let your parents get you a different pet, perhaps a kitten?” Tyrion suggested, doing a wonderful job pretending Lynesse’s wails were not piercing his eardrums.

“Or a direwolf?” Renly added.

“The only ones newly born have been given to Robb’s children, it is their right as Starks of Winterfell.” Jon said, glancing at their other children.

Gawen was keeping the babes distracted, while Ghost was watching Storm as the young male ran circles around Gawen, tail wagging, his pale gray fur and light blue eyes catching the firelight. Cregan was hovering behind Tyrion, Zokla sticking close to his side.

Lynesse pivoted instantly. “I am a Stark, I want a direwolf too.”

They had discussed it, her and Jon, but he spoke true, there were not enough direwolf pups to go around. Robb had already sent the two for Gawen and Cregan once they were weaned from their mother, but there were not any new ones yet for their other children and they could not demand one be taken from Margaery and Robb’s children.

“You cannot have both, Lynn; you have to choose.” Cregan said, now at Myrcella’s skirts, holding onto them with one hand.

Zokla rubbed her nose against Cregan’s leg, her tawny-gold fur and amber eyes a perfect compliment for her son.

Lynesse quieted at her brother’s words. “Choose?”

Cregan nodded and approached her, letting go of Myrcella’s skirts. “It would not be fair if you had a lion and a direwolf, that is too many pets.”

Lynesse sniffled and plopped down on the rug, Cregan sitting beside her, holding her hand. Lynesse stroked Zokla’s head tearily with her free hand.

Myrcella exchanged a look with Jon, who was watching the two of them carefully, ready for another round of tears.

“We are Starks of Summerhall, we are not like our cousins.” Cregan said, scratching beneath Zokla’s chin. “And we are royals too. Gawen and I have our wolves as Father and Uncle Robb do but you, Jae and Jocelyn should have something no others do.”

Was that her mother or her father’s influence? Or her grandsire’s? Perhaps it was a Lannister trait, for she agreed with him, her children deserved only the best that could be offered.

“Like what?” Lynesse asked, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her frock.

Cregan thought for a moment. “There are white lions, across the sea, Uncle Tyrion told me they are called hra-hrak—" He stumbled over the pronunciation and turned to Tyrion. “Uncle, what are they called?”

“Hrakkar, they are native to the Dothraki sea.” Tyrion said.

“The Dothraki? No, no, I will not have such a creature around my children.” Myrcella said.

“The lions are not Dothraki, they simply share land.” Tyrion said with an unconcerned wave of his hand.

“They are white? Like Ghost?” Lynesse asked, looking between Cregan and Tyrion, excitement drying up her tears.

“Imagine it, your pack of children, their ever-growing wolves, and their Dothraki lions led by that massive wolf of Jon’s. It would be quite a sight indeed.” Renly said, coming to join the half circle they had made now that Lynesse had stopped crying.

“The cost of such a thing would be enormous, and the climate of Summerhall would not be good for a desert dwelling creature.”

Renly raised a brow, she did not need to tell him she had made a decision, he had been backing her from the beginning and seemed to have been waiting for her to notice.

“Or the climate here.” She added.

“You never know.” He shrugged.

“No Dothraki lions.” She said flatly, though her mind did wander for a moment trying to picture the fearsome beast. Perhaps her remaining children should have fearsome pets, as potential heirs to great houses they would need protection, Ghost was only one creature as skilled as he was. She would need to discuss it with Jon, away from the children, she did not want to get their hopes up about any animal that was not a kitten for now.

Chapter Text

“Mother you cannot tell the children about the lions, Lynesse was beside herself when I told her they had all but vanished, and now she and Cregan cannot stop talking about these dreadful Dothraki white lions.” Myrcella said, her arm interlinked with Cersei’s, their skirts swishing over the marble flooring. She had nearly fainted from shock when her mother appeared outside her door dressed in a gown of mulberry red so deep hued it looked almost purple. It paired well with her own gown, a mauve colored thing of beauty, a white fur shawl over her shoulders.

“Can I not tell my grandchildren of their family history?”

“Of course you can, but perhaps leave out any mention of animals?”

Cersei clicked her tongue in disappointment but complied. “Fine, little lioness, I will neglect their teachings to spare you any further tantrums.” Then she held her hand out to Cregan who hurried forward to take it. His affections had transferred from Ned to Cersei after the feast and Myrcella could not blame him, but kept a close eye, nonetheless.

They were the first ones there, to her surprise, usually her grandsire was first to arrive, but he was nowhere to be seen. Jae and Jocelyn were still sleeping in the nursery, and her ladies as well were allowed to sleep in, though Sansa chosen to rise early and join them, walking beside Jon, fighting back a yawn. Myrcella had a feeling Eleyna would rise early as well, but she would not join them, at least not where Myrcella could see her.

She took her seat, her mother, and Jon flanking her, Lynesee climbing into her lap, eyelids heavy, resting her head on Myrcella’s chest as she curled up. Gawen and Cregan were seated between Jon and Sansa, both looking a little tired as well. It was early morn, but Tommen had been anxious to set out, claiming the sea was more favorable before the sun had reached the center of the sky. Myrcella ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair, smiling softly when she realized Lynesse had fallen back asleep.

“Uncle Jaime?” She called, summoning the man who stood in the corner watching and waiting, an apple he had snagged from the table in his hand.

“Yes, Myrcella?”

“Will you stick your head out the door and see if the rest of our family is soon to arrive? If they are not, then I may take Lynesse back to her bed.” She said, wrapping her furs tighter around her and Lynesse.

“I shall do so at once.” He said, turning to the doors right as they swung open.

Her Uncles Tyrion and Renly entered first and did not look hungover which was a pleasant if not slightly suspicious surprise, her grandsire and Tommen entering after then finally a moment or so later her father and no Ned? She waited a moment more, resisting the urge to crane her neck to see if the Stark lord was lingering in the hall for some unknown reason.

Both Tyrion and Renly passed by her chair, kissing her cheek or ruffling her hair, Tyrion cracking a smile at Lynesse’s dozing form. “She wore herself out with all that crying, I see.”

“Crying?” Robert asked, taking his place at the head of the table. Cersei on his left, Renly on his right.

“A bit of childish want, nothing to be concerned about.” Myrcella assured him.

He gave her a knowing nod as if he had ever spent any time consoling her or her brothers when they were children, then began calling for mulled wine.

Her grandsire was seated across from her and took a halved grapefruit, putting it on his plate, delicately serrated spoon in hand. “Childish want?”

“Mother told Lynesse of the lions that used to reside in the Westerlands, she was quite upset when informed of their near extinction, she wishes for one as a pet, we told her no.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly, emerald eyes flickering down to Lynesse’s sleeping form. “I see.”

Tommen was picking at his food, dressed in seafarer’s clothes, clearly tense considering Jon sat across from him.

“Where is Lord Stark?” She asked, directing the question to whomever could answer it.

“Ned is down at the docks with Paxtor, making sure everything is set for Tommen’s journey.” Robert said, cutting into a thick spiced sausage.

“How kind of them.” She said, spreading jam on flakey biscuit, and setting half aside for whenever Lynesee awoke.

“Lord Grafton will be there to greet me on the docks as will Robin. Lady Lysa will be staying in the Grafton manor, but I will of course pay my respects to her once we arrive.” Tommen said, inspecting a piece of bacon before popping it in his mouth.

“Prince Tommen, will you pass this letter on to my aunt for me?” Sansa asked, handing Tommen a letter bound and sealed with House Tully’s standard, though the wax was Stark gray. Curious, she would have to ask Sansa about that later.

“Of course, Lady Sansa, anything for you.” Tommen said, tucking the letter into the fine leather satchel at his hip.

Jon’s fork scraped against his plate the piercing sound making those at the table, those who had not survived a war, flinch. “Apologies.” He said, setting his fork down, his dark eyes on Tommen.

Myrcella placed a hand on his knee. “Jon, my love, will you hand me the cinnamon?”

He handed her the small bowl, the rich scent filling her nostrils as she added it to the steaming drink made of cocoa powder, and cow’s milk that her Uncle Tyrion claimed he read about in a book from the Free Cities.

“I heard Prince Doran’s daughter is to be married soon.” Tyrion said, playing on all gathered at the table’s either interest or dislike of the Dornish as he drizzled honey onto slices of bright red apples.

“To whom?” Sansa asked, and Myrcella felt a stab of guilt alongside the excitement she felt at Sansa’s interest. Gods old and new as her witness, she would get them an invitation to that wedding.

“Ser Andrey Dalt, second son of House Dalt, he is a knight, from a house of landed knights, but he is allegedly among her dearest of friends.”

“It is a rare gift to be able to marry one whom you share a deep friendship with, the princess is among the few who receive it.” Jon said.

“Prince Doran must love his daughter very much.” Myrcella added, cataloguing that piece of information away for later.

“Or he feels guilty.” Tywin said. “He turned down many great houses when the girl was younger, offering her only the old, fat, and ugly. My King, you should have Varys look into this sudden change of heart.”

Robert stroked his beard. “I will give the order; we do not want those vipers scheming beneath our noses.”

“I could ask Loras if his brother knows anything, Willis and Prince Oberyn are friendly. Surely the Red Viper knows what his brother is up to.” Renly said, leaning back in his chair, his plate cleared.

“Good, good, perhaps with the two of you we will find out what schemes Dorne is concocting.”

They stood on the docks, watching as the crew of the Lady Cersei finished loading their cargo, Tommen standing near the gangplank, his hair shining in the light of the rising sun.

This was good, it was what she wanted, it gave her time, and it would make Tommen better, it had to. He was not strong enough to fight the influences of their mother’s house, not when he was within their grasp. The Vale was harsh, port towns could be dangerous, Tommen was not so skilled at avoiding danger though Ser Arys was a good knight, he would protect Tommen, but he could not be everywhere at once. She could send assassins or pay a servant girl to slip poison in his drinks, but it would be too obvious, she had to wait, wait and see if she was able to secure Dorne for herself.

“My Prince, it is time for us to board the ship.” Ser Arys said, his pure white cloak flapping in the wind.

Tommen nodded and approached them, embracing their mother first. Cersei smiled dotingly at him, but Myrcella had no fear of changing alliances, their mother had made her choice clear.

He bowed his head to their father, who clapped him on the shoulder. “Listen well to the captain, it is his ship, and he is charged with seeing you to Gulltown alive and unharmed.”

“I will.”

“And do try to enjoy yourself.” Robert added, squeezing Tommen’s shoulder before releasing him.

Next was their grandsire, then Ned, then their uncles, then finally her.

“Sister.” Tommen said, giving her a brief nod.

“Little Brother.” She said, before making the sign of the Seven, falling back on her faith to conceal the unsteady mixture of emotions that swirled within her. “May the gods watch over your journey.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it and bowed his head. “Thank you.”

“Take care you are not gutted in the street like a fish.” Jon said, his expression giving nothing away. “Docks can be dangerous.”

Tommen nodded stiffly and hurried away, Ser Arys giving a final bow to Robert and Cersei before following Tommen up the gangplank.

“Subtle.” Myrcella snickered under her breath.

The corner of Jon’s mouth twitched, and he interlaced her fingers with his.

Tommen leaned against the bulwark of the Queen Cersei, watching as King’s Landing drew further and further away until it was naught but a speck on the horizon. He took a deep breath, inhaling the sea air, watching the ship cut through the waves, seagulls squawking and soaring on the winds above. Free, he was finally free. Well not yet, but soon he would be, soon he would in Gulltown with his friend, no competition, no scheming, no angry glares, or guilt.

He stretched his arms above his head, the linen of his tunic coarse against his skin in contrast to the silks he usually wore, but he did not care, he relished the feeling.

“My Prince, the captain says your quarters are ready.” Arys said, coming to stand beside him, leaning on the bulwark as well, his armored arms glinting in the sunlight.

Arys was a good man, older than him by many years, but he considered him to be a friend. He was his only true friend during his time at The Rock, and he was glad he was joining him in The Vale as well.

“Another moment or so, if you do not mind, Ser Arys, it has been so long since I have felt able to take a full breath.”

“The court can be suffocating at times.”

Tommen snorted. “At times?”

Arys cracked a smile. “We are not yet far enough away that I would disparage the countless lords and ladies of King’s Landing.”

“You know I would never breathe a word.”

“I do.”

Arys’ trust in him, in his words, meant far more than Tommen expected them to, and he took a moment to respond. “I am grateful to you, for joining me.”

“I go where you go, My Prince, I am your sworn sword.” Arys said with a shrug.

“Still.” Still he was grateful, grateful to have Arys’ support, to have a friend, someone who did not judge him, who his weaknesses could be shown to without reprimand.

Arys glanced at him then nodded and pushed off the bulwark. “I will tell the captain you wish to remain on deck for a while more.”

“Thank you.” He said, returning to staring out at the sea, the rise, and fall of the waves calming, the rocking of the ship stilling his nerves. The winter sun was weak, but he still turned his face towards it, eyes closed as he let his mind wander. In another life he was still the second son, he had freedom, he could become a maester, or spend his life sailing, he had not realized how much he liked sailing, like the sea until Casterly Rock until he spent his days lying in the sand, or tucked up into a cove, hiding from his mother and grandsire.

The calls of the men around him added to the cries of the seagulls, the crash of the waves, the creaking of the ship, and he breathed out, drawing his cloak tighter around him. It would grow colder soon, he needed to ensure he had his winter tunics ready for when they passed Claw Isle, and the air and sea turned cold. Enjoy yourself, his father had said. He would try to do so, and he would deliver Sansa’s letter to her aunt, then he would do whatever he wished. Robin could be a tyrant when he wanted to be, but Tommen had no qualms about wielding his friend’s temper as he willed. Yes, he would enjoy himself, he would make his father proud.

Chapter Text

Lord Gerold Grafton was standing on the docks when the Queen Cersei pulled in, the crew calling to those down below, throwing ropes, rigging, and anchor overboard. The captain watched with a keen eye as they came to a gentle stop, not even grazing the docks with the ship’s bow. The gangplank was lowered, and he descended Arys following behind him, a few servants dressed in the yellows and red of House Grafton scurried forward to collect their luggage. Lord Gerold was a broad man, thick of arms and shoulders, dirty blond hair with eyes as blue as the sea.

“Prince Tommen, welcome to Gulltown.” He said, giving a short bow, his voice booming, carrying over the noise of the harbor.

“Thank you, Lord Grafton, I am grateful for your welcome, it is a fine city you have here. I am anxious to see more of it.” He said, before motioning to Arys. “This is Ser Arys, a member of the Kingsguard, my sworn shield.”

“Well met, Ser Arys.” Gerold said, clasping Arys’ arm.

“The prince is right, Gulltown is a fine city.” Arys said, his eyes sliding to the man standing behind Lord Gerold.

“And this is Lord Mathos Shett he replaced that snake Baelish as customs officer and has seen us all the richer for it.” Gerold said, nodding to the man who stepped forward and gave a similar bow.

The man was tall, with thick red hair, brown eyes, a kind, open face and a full beard. His clothing bore the sigil of his house, nine white seagulls of a field of brown, but the material was rich, far richer than he had expected from a house of landed knights. “Good day Prince Tommen, welcome to our humble harbor.”

“Humble? You do yourself a disservice, Lord Shett, it far outshines any harbor I have seen before.” It was true, though he had not seen many harbors at all. Gulltown’s was teaming with life. Seagulls squawked overhead, fish jumped from the sea, people of all parts of the continent and beyond milled about. Laughter and sea shanties filled the air, the scent of saltwater and brine thick and yet not obnoxious, the winter wind dispersing it before it could become too pungent.

Lord Mathos smiled. “Thank you, My Prince, I am grateful to have been given the chance to prove myself.”

“And made good on that chance many times over. You should see the manor he had built; it rivals that of the Arryn of Gulltown’s.” Gerold said, clapping Mathos on the shoulder.

“I would not go so far as to say that, but I would be honored to host the prince at some point in his stay if he so desired, I need only to tell my wife so that the servants can prepare the guest chambers.” Mathos said, his countenance and tone both modest and without airs.

A grizzled sailor with a ledger came up to them, bowing to Tommen before speaking quietly with Lord Mathos, a frown on his face. The two discussed the figures in the ledger before the man departed, thanking Lord Mathos, his frown gone, replaced by relief.

Tommen liked Lord Mathos, so far at least. He did not brag, or beg, and there was a quiet confidence to him, rounded out by his seemingly humble nature. “If it would not be too much trouble, I would be delighted to stay a night or two in your home.”

“You will have to stay more than a night or two, my wife Alia is Braavosi and will not accept anything less than a week, it is in her nature.” Mathos said, smiling fondly at the very mention of his wife.

“Braavosi?” Tommen asked. That would explain the finely made clothing.

“Yes, to hear her tell it, I fought off seven men to win her hand, but truly I think it was persistence that won her over.” He chuckled, a blush rising, crawling past his beard.

“Do not be so modest, old friend.” Gerold said, motioning for them to all start walking towards a wheelhouse that was further down the docks. “Mathos fought in the king’s rebellion, saved the Late Lord Arryn’s hide and earned himself enough gold to buy a ship and crew, sailed it to Braavos, put that mind of his to work and ended up gaining himself not only a name among merchants, but the daughter of a keyholder as well.”

“She would tell you, My Prince, that she was among the youngest of her father’s children when we wed, now he has many more but, at the time, she did not catch his eyes often.”

“But she caught yours.” Gerold said merrily, clearly enjoying the retelling of this story.

“Yes, we met along the Black Canal, I saw her pull a blade on a jeweler, rushed in to help, and she promptly informed me that she did not need my assistance, but I was more than welcome to be a witness to the man’s thievery, so I stayed and interrogated the man alongside her. I was enamored with her; I had never met a woman so fierce and yet beautiful.” He nodded to the wheelhouse driver, who opened the doors. “I did all I could to put myself in her path after that until she finally asked for my name, and I asked for her hand, from there it was history.”

Tommen felt a longing in his chest that he had been burying deep for years now. When he was younger, he thought nothing of love, he did not wish to repeat his parents’ mistakes and found himself more enraptured with books and the natural world around him to notice any ladies his age or otherwise. But as he had grown older had seen his sister, his half-brother, others in the Red Keep and Casterly Rock fall in love or lust, he felt a desire for companionship of his own. He doubted he would ever find something so all consuming as Jon and Myrcella’s marriage or one born of undeniable passion like Robb and Margaery’s, but he wouldn’t mind something simpler. Less flames of passion and more the waters of friendship. A meeting of the minds, not only the bodies. He liked Lord Mathos’ story, it had a humor to it, a wildness. Such freedom those of the lower nobility had when it came to life and love, he was almost envious. He knew himself well enough to know he was not one to challenge another man to a duel for a lady’s heart, nor was he one for grand gestures or lavish flattery. But he thought he could do what Lord Mathos had done. Step in to aid a maiden and strike up a bond, he was not bad at talking to people, and thought he would do well amongst the values of the Vale. He simply needed to keep an eye out for any fair maidens in need of assistance.

The wheelhouse traveled through the market district, the smells of exotic spices floating on the breeze, the sounds of various languages, a few catching his ear, others completely unknown to him, the rush of people bundled up, the glint of gold and jewels catching the weak winter sun. It was all a blur as they traveled higher. Higher, up into the mountains that walled in the city, the great ships in the natural harbor grew smaller and smaller as they climbed. The air was fresher when they emerged, sweeter, but with the sting of winter that would surely have been worse had they gone to the Eyrie or even the lower seated Gates of the Moon.

“Prince Tommen!” A voice he had not heard since he was a child called, now deeper, but still cracking with youth.

“Lord Robin.” Tommen greeted, keeping the surprise off his face when Robin barreled into him, embracing him tightly.

“It took you far too long to travel here, you must get a new ship, a faster one, I was waiting here for ages.” Robin said, still holding onto him tightly.

Tommen returned the embrace, glancing at Arys who looked pointedly at the snow-covered ground to hide his smile. “I hope you were not waiting in the snow, my friend, it is far too cold for someone of your constitution to do that.”

Robin pulled back, smiling up at him. He was still small for his age, and thin, but he looked vaguely healthy. There was color in his cheeks, he seemed less spindly, and his eyes were not as runny as before. “I have my new cloak on, Uther gave it to me.”

Uther? He did not know that name, he thought Robin’s only friends were him, Wallace Waynwood, and that singer Marillion whose continued presence in the Vale after the rumors Robin had written him of continued to baffle Tommen.

Tommen slung his arm over Robin’s shoulders, steering him towards the entrance to the Grafton estate, smiling jovial like his father did when he spoke with Ned, taking note of the aforementioned cloak. It was made of thick blue velvet, trimmed and lined inside with white fur, similar to one Myrcella owned, though hers had been a recent gift from Margaery, the fur dyed a pleasing shade of green. “Uther? Come now Robin, do not tell me I have been replaced.”

“Never.” Robin said, shaking his head so frantically, Tommen feared he would make himself dizzy. “Uther is Lord Mathos’ son, you will meet him soon, he is fetching my gifts for you.”

“Ah yes, I have had the servants bring up my gifts for you, we are of the same mind.” He said, giving the younger boy a conspiratory smile. “I even have something for you that you mustn’t show your mother.”

Robin’s eyes widened, nearly taking up half his face. “Really?”

He nodded. “But it must wait until tonight, when she is not checking on you, I would not want to get you in trouble with her.”

Robin bounced with glee as they walked, struggling to keep his voice down. “I cannot wait, until the dead of night. I will tell her I am tired straight after dinner and that she need not bother me, then you must sneak to my chambers and bring my gift.”

“I will try my best, but forgive me if I am detained, I must do my duties as a gracious guest first to throw off any suspicion.”

Robin nodded. “Of course, you are so very clever to think of such things.”

It was easy to impress Robin, he knew this, but after years of coming second or even third to his siblings, his friend’s easily stoked awe was a balm to his ego.

“It is our friendship that drives me to be so clever, Robin, have no doubt.”

Robin visibly brightened with the praise, and the affirmation of their friendship, of his worth as a friend, and Tommen felt a stab of guilt. They were friends truly, but it was clear to him Robin had no knowledge of the threads that entangled their friendship. The costs and rewards that could spring forth if they both knew how to play upon them correctly or incorrectly. If he ever felt rudderless and sheltered, it was nothing compared to how Robin must feel, if the boy had even reached that stage of knowing yet.

“And I have been listening well to those around me, learning from them, have you been doing the same?”

“Yes, Maester Colemon says that I have much improved in my lessons, and the maids have been speaking of all sorts of things when they think I am not listening.”

“We will have to swap stories; I have spent long enough on a ship to learn some sailor’s tales I think you might find interesting.”

“Yes, yes, please, let us go swap stories now.” Robin begged, tugging Tommen through the towering double doors of the Grafton estate, a rush of heat heating him as they entered the inner atrium leading him further inside. A woman’s signing voice lilting and silver toned was echoing through the halls.

“I must greet your mother first, then we should exchange gifts, should we not? The not-so-secret ones, at least?” He suggested, as he tried to puzzle out the tune the woman was singing, as a male voice joined her. “Where is she? I thought she might come greet me.”

Robin rolled his eyes. “She is listening to the singers again. I told her you were soon to arrive, but she has become enraptured with Lady Alia.”

“Lady Alia Shett?”

Robin nodded. “She is Uther’s mother, though he looks nothing like her, he takes after Lord Mathos.”

Tommen followed Robin towards the source of the song, admiring the high ceilings and sturdy ornamentation of the estate that reflected the landscape outside.

“Mother, Prince Tommen is here.” Robin said, pushing the doors open wider, abruptly cutting off the sweet song.

Lady Lysa stood, she looked similar to Lady Catelyn but a decade older, and there was no joy or warmth in her visage even as she smiled at them both and swept into a graceful curtsy. “Prince Tommen, welcome to the Vale.”

A servant scuttled forward, a silver tray in his hands, the traditional bread and salt upon it. He took it and bit down, the salt crunching between his teeth flavorful and crisp, contrasting nicely with the almost sweet taste of the brown bread.

“Thank you for hosting me, Lady Arryn.” He said, giving her a winning smile.

He knew he was handsome; he looked as his Uncle Jaime did, and all agreed he was handsome, but Lysa did not seem affected as many other ladies had been when Tommen smiled, which was slightly disappointing but not enough to dissuade him. Perhaps his close appearance to his uncle did him a disservice? Lysa had been the Tully sister Jaime was to woo in their youth, though from the stories he heard it seemed he did not try very hard at all, preferring to hear the Blackfish’s tales instead. Tommen did not blame his uncle for that, what young boy would choose to spend time with a dour girl over a great warrior?

“Allow me to introduce my companions.” She said, gesturing to the only other people in the room. One he knew instantly, Robin for his many flaws was excellent at describing people, and Marillion looked exactly like Robin described, right down to the wisps of blond hair on his upper lip. But he had no prior knowledge of Lady Alia Shett, and when she rose from her curtsy, he did a double take, certain he was seeing things, a woman could not be that beautiful, it was not possible.

“Marillion, a wonderful singer, I am sure you have heard of him, and one of my ladies-in-waiting, Lady Alia Shett.” She said, gesturing to each in turn.

Marillion strode up to him and bowed. “Well met, My Prince.”

“Lady Shett.” He said, ignoring Marillion, and wincing at the abruptness of his tone. “I met your Lord Husband at the habor; he did not tell me how beautiful you were, or that you had such a lovely singing voice.”

She smiled, a devastatingly lovely smile, and he heard Arys’ breath catch in his throat behind him. “My Husband is not one to brag, but I am honored by your words, My Prince.”

“Mother, where is Uther? He was supposed to bring Tommen’s gifts.” Robin asked, looking around the room as if he this Uther might have been hiding.

“Forgive me Robin, I was detained by the cooks, they asked I bring you these marzipan treats.” Came a male voice from the doorway.

“Uther!” Robin said excitedly, rushing towards the voice that came from behind them.

Jealousy flared within Tommen as he turned on his heel, a genteel expression on his face, but he tampered it down. It would do him no good to alienate any potential allies. If he wanted Robin to become a strong Lord Paramount, then he needed to encourage the younger boy to make friends even if he had not already vetted them.

 A tall, thin, pimpled ginger haired man of Tommen’s age with a sparsely growing beard stood before them, wrapped gifts in one arm, a tray of various confectionaries in the other one.

Tommen glanced back at Lady Alia, then her son, then back again. There was little to no resemblance, Uther was all his father’s blood.

“Is Jessa coming to dinner too?” Robin asked, hurriedly taking the gifts and a cookie from Uther.

“Unfortunately, my sister will be detained this evening, she has many documents to go over, one of the ships our father purchased for her just returned an hour ago.” Uther said.

Tommen idly wondered if this Jessa took after her father as well, or if Lady Alia’s beauty had not been completely wasted.

“I wanted to introduce her to Tommen; can she not just leave the documents for later?” Robin insisted, about ready to stomp his foot.

“I would not want to inconvenience the lady, Robin, I am sure I will meet her soon enough. For now, I wish to spend time with you.” He interjected smoothly, taking a cookie from the tray as well.

Robin brightened. “Yes, yes, let us exchange presents. Marillion, do you know any songs about friendship?”

Marillion gave Robin a wink, and Lady Lysa a roguish smile. “I know one or two.”

Tommen resisted the urge to roll his eyes, his grandsire was right, Lady Lysa needed to remarry before she fell into Marillion’s bed, and the singer found himself with far too much sway. Perhaps while he was here, he could engineer some sort of accident for Marillion, or Lady Lysa herself? One that for the lady would drive her into the arms of an appropriate second spouse, either through grief or desire. He knew Lady Lysa had loved the now disgraced and probably dead Littlefinger. Myrcella had mentioned it to him when they were young, pointing out how her eyes followed his every move, how she hung on his every word in contrast to the wooden look that came over her when her husband spoke. Baelish was an odd choice, but Tommen digressed, one cannot choose who their heart longs for, he had seen it happen all around him. Jon and Myrcella, Robb and Margaery, Edric and Roslin, his father and the ghost of Lyanna Stark.

Marillion began to sing, and Robin dragged Tommen over to the settee. “Open yours first.”

He did as Robin asked, taking the first gift. It fit in two hands and had a small bit of weight to it. He unwrapped it carefully, quickening his pace when he saw the anxious expression on Robin’s face. In his hand sat an inkwell made of porcelain crafted into a stag standing beside a tree, a falcon taking flight from one of the lower branches, putting it level with the stag’s antlers.

“It is us; you are the stag, and I am the falcon, the tree is our friendship. Do you like it?” Robin asked, staring at him with wide, eager eyes.

Tommen gently handled the inkwell, admiring the delicate details, the fine craftsmanship. He was not often gifted stags, those were reserved for Joffrey, and after his doe had been killed, he shied away from the symbol, wearing it only when he was bid to. Lions were his gifts, even after Joffrey was gone, their father had not even gifted him anything with a stag upon it, though Myrcella had received a set of golden antlers to place above her seat in Summerhall’s Great Hall. Those in King’s Landing made it clear they did not think him a worthy stag.

He moved to speak but found his emotions choked him, and he had to clear his throat to make way for his words. “I-I do, thank you.”

“Now the other one.” Robin said, handing him a much larger gift that barely fit in his arms. “Be careful, it is fragile.”

Tommen set aside the inkwell, and unwrapped the second gift, freezing when he realized what it was.

“I got you a ship!” Robin said, bouncing in his seat.

He examined the model ship with reverence, the wooden masts, the smooth curve of the keel, the sails puffed out as if filled with wind, and on the side the words Crimson Stag. Never had he received a gift so personal, one that looked beyond the surface, beyond the first few layers and to his core.

“The ship has not yet been completed though, I am afraid.” Lord Gerold said.

When he and Lord Mathos had come in, he did not know, but neither did he care.

“Robin, how did—how did you know I love to sail?”

Robin gave him a look he never thought he would see on his face, as if Tommen had asked the dumbest question in the world. “You write so often of the sea, of freedom, of far-off places and your desire to put your knowledge to the test, how else would you enjoy such things without a ship?”

He blinked at him, then set the model aside and brought Robin in for a tight one-armed hug. “Thank you, my friend, this is a wonderful gift, I am honored by your generosity, and your attention to my words.”

Robin patted his back. “You write of it all the time, I barely had to pay attention.”

Tommen laughed, albeit a little watery, and squeezed Robin’s arm gratefully before pulling back. “I fear my gifts may pale in comparison to yours, I hope you will not be disappointed.”

A servant brought forth Robin’s gifts, handing one to Lady Lysa who looked a bit surprised.

“Shall we allow your mother to open hers first?”

Robin nodded and turned to face his mother, who opened her gift cautiously. It was a music box, silver trouts jumping in and out of a river as it spun, the tune one from the Riverlands, the wooden base emblazoned with the Tully colors.

“I had to write to your uncle the Blackfish for the song selection, he said it was a favorite of yours in your youth. Not that you look anything but youthful, My Lady.” He said, trying once again to give her a winsome smile.

She watched it for a while, and Tommen grew nervous. Then finally she spoke, her voice hoarse. “Thank you, Prince Tommen, this is a very thoughtful gift.”

“Of course, My Lady, it is the least I can offer in return for your generosity. There is also a letter from your niece, Lady Sansa.”

“My turn.” Robin said, ripping into the wrapping of his gift, all three at a time.

The first was a sheath for the dagger Robin had written he had recently received, Arryn blue leather and the white falcon in the middle made of crushed diamonds so it glittered when it caught the light. The next was a box of candies from Lys he had asked Sansa to order for him, seeing as Myrcella would barely speak to him. The third was a replica of the Moon Door complete with tiny wooden figures attached by string that could be thrown through the stone doorway and brought back up.

Robin held it up so all gathered would look at it, smiling so widely, Tommen worried his face might split in two. “I love it, it is perfect, I shall have to put it on my dresser the moment we return home.”

“I am glad you like it.” He said, giving Robin a smile in return. Now all he had to do was make it through dinner, then he could give Robin his final gift.

Tommen stole through the halls of the Grafton estate, keeping to the shadows, the revelry in the hall drowning out the sound of his footsteps. Dinner had been fair enough, and he left his hosts listening to Marillion sing some raunchy song he swore he picked up during his travels. With the way the lyrics tended towards generous descriptions of Lady Lysa Tommen doubted that highly.

He knocked on Robin’s door, and the boy opened it quickly, ushering him inside. Robin’s quarters were not as large as his, but as finely decorated, the large windows overlooking the mountains, the model Moon Door on Robin’s bedside table.

“Did you have a difficult time leaving the hall?” Robin asked, popping a piece of candy in his mouth.

“No, all were fixated on Marillion’s singing.”

“Yes, he is quite good.”

Tommen nodded, though he disagreed, there were far better singers in King’s Landing. He thought Edric was a far better singer, and his elder brother rarely sang, often only at the insistence of him, Roslin or Myrcella. “Here, your gift, that you cannot tell your mother about, lest she take it away.”

Robin took the small package and tore into it, confusion drawing across his face as he held up the leather band with a crudely carved charm of stone dangling from it. “What is it?”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You know how you wrote to me of your fits?”

Robin nodded.

“Well, I searched the libraries of every castle and keep I came across during my travels and found an old tome that spoke of a way to ward off convulsions such as yours, to protect you from dark influences.”

“Really?” Robin asked, holding the charm higher as he inspected it. “Why have my parents or maester never heard of this?”

“Because it is ancient magic, from the Old Gods up north.” Tommen continued.

“Like my throne, is it made of weirwood.”

“Yes, I had a fervent believer in the old gods carve this charm especially for you. You must wear it around your leg, under your breeches, so it is close to your skin.”

Robin began pulling up the leg of his breeches, tying the band. “Why can I not tell my mother about this? It sounds wonderful.”

“Because she is a faithful woman, and I fear the influence of Old Gods might frighten her. If the charm works, then in time you may tell her, but for now let us keep this secret between us.” He said, extending his outstretched pinky to him.

Robin interlocked their pinkies, smiling brightly. “If you say it will work, then it will work, you are far too clever to put your faith in anything but facts.”

His stomach twisted, a heavy feeling in his chest, and he fought to keep the flash of guilt off his face. He was doing this for Robin’s own good. He had read about this, that sometimes the very act of belief itself was a cure. If it worked then it was all in Robin’s head, if it did not then he would send for better maesters to tend to his friend.

“Your words mean much to me, truly.” He said, pushing away his guilt.

Robin yawned and rubbed his eyes. “I do not wish to expel you from my chambers so quickly after receiving my gift, but I am tired. I will see you in the morn for breakfast.”

“Of course, sleep well.” He said, taking his exit and slipping through the halls, nodding to Arys as he reentered his quarters.

Tommen readied himself for bed, and blew out the candles, sliding beneath the covers, his own windows overlooking Gulltown below, the ocean beyond. He tried to imagine his ship, he knew it was in one of the shipyards, but not which one. He wanted to ask to see it, but he knew such haste could seem ungrateful, but to not ask could seem as if he did not like it. Tommen placed his hands over his face and groaned. He had been prepared for Lady Lysa’s anger, or distrust, for strange customs and too rigid lords, but everyone had been welcoming, and kind, it felt like a trap. He was not as charming as Myrcella, not as jovial as Edric, he did not have his grandsire’s political savvy or his father’s ability to draw a crowd. He was Tommen, second son, thirdborn, he preferred the quiet of traveling, the rhythm of sailors at sea. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine his ship once more, the phantom feeling of the waves rocking him to sleep.

Chapter Text

When he woke in the morn, he dressed quickly with the help of the servants. He exited his quarters wearing a blue doublet that complimented his coloring with mother-of-pearl buttons, white myrish lace up the lapels, and tan breeches. His polished boots shined in the winter sun, and he was surprised to find he was among the first to arrive at breakfast.

Lords Gerold and Mathos were seated along with Uther, the three lounging in their high-backed chairs, discussing what sounded to be mercantile subjects with a casual air. Sunlight streamed in through the tall, rounded windows, and he could see through the frosted panes that the mountain tops were capped with snow.

The small hall in which they were to break their fast was well heated, a roaring fire at one end, a thick rug covering the dark wood flooring. Tapestries depicting stories of The Vale hung from the walls, the ceiling arched like a sept’s would be.

Lord Gerold noticed him first from his place at the head of the table and stood, the others following. “Prince Tommen, good morn, how did you sleep?”

He bid them to sit and took a seat himself, at the place where his name had been written on a card in handwriting he recognized instantly. Robin had put him next to Uther, no doubt to try and force them to become familiar. “Well, thank you, I awoke to the distant sight of ships sailing in and out of the harbor, it was a welcome reprieve from both the Rock and King’s Landing.”

“Did you not have a fair view in either castle?” Uther asked.

“I did, but neither are so fair as this view.” He said, turning over his shoulder to gaze out at the city below.

“We are blessed to have such a view, though if you enjoy seeing the ships, Mathos’ manor is closer to the harbor, you would be able to see them much better.” Gerold said, ringing a bell to call for the servants.

“I must admit, you have made Lord Shett’s home sound very appealing since the moment I arrived.” Tommen said, thanking the serving girl who set a steaming bowl before him.

“He will not brag, so I must do it for him.” Gerold said, clapping Lord Mathos on the shoulder.

“It is thanks to you and your sister’s bravery years ago that I am able to possess such fine things, I shall not brag but only be grateful.” Mathos said.

“Our bravery?”

“If Princess Myrcella had not spoken up against the former Prince Joffrey, Littlefinger’s crimes would have never been exposed. She did that for love of you, did she not?” Mathos asked, cutting into a wide spiced sausage on his plate.

He had not thought of that trial in years, mostly because he had not been allowed to attend.

“I heard the Princess listed off the abuses committed against you by the disgraced prince quite boldly, that she risked much speaking up in your defense.” Uther added.

“She was speaking in defense of our Uncle Tyrion, but she did denounce our brother for his cruelty.” He said, grip tightening on his fork, even here he could not escape the singing of Myrcella’s praises.

“Brave girl, and brave of you as well, to stay strong through such cruelty.” Mathos said.

His grip lessened, and he calmed himself. “Thank you, Lord Mathos.”

“I cannot imagine what Jessa would have done if I had treated her so cruelly.” Uther said, holding a slice of a cut red apple between his fingers. “Probably lure me onboard a ship and then push me into shark infested water.”

Tommen’s eyes flickered to Lord Mathos who only smiled fondly.

“My daughter Jessamyn is quite fierce when she needs to be.” He explained, drizzling honey onto his oatmeal. “She is about your age and blessedly takes after her mother in looks.”

“Blessedly?” Uther jested, striking a pose, flexing muscles Tommen did not think he had. “She should weep that she is not as finely crafted as I.”

Lord Gerold chuckled. “Is that why Myranda Royce turned down your offer for a dance at the last feast?”

Uther’s face went red, and he stabbed at his food. “That was Ossifer’s fault, old goat never minds his own business.”

Tommen laughed; he could not help himself. “I am sorry, I do not mean to laugh at another’s misfortune.”

“No, no laugh, then I can tell any maidens I come across that I made the prince laugh.” Uther said, giving him a smile, the color fading from his face, his skin no longer bright red but back to a normal flush.

A warmth filled his chest, and he returned Uther’s smile. It was nice that he did not take offense, that he swiftly turned it into a comedic bit. “If need be, I can vouch for you.”

Uther got up from the table and hooked his arm through Tommen’s with a bravado that was clearly put on as a jest. “Come then, My Prince, we must hurry to the marketplace before the girls are done with their morning shopping.”

Tommen laughed again, he had not stopped laughing, and followed Uther, the elder men still at seated at the table shouting advice after them.

They made it to the door before Uther released him, smiling. “Thank you for playing along, Prince Tommen, I promise I will not actually drag you to the markets this early in the day.”

“Call me Tommen, as Robin does. If I am to act as your wingman, then we must be familiar with each other.” He said, nudging him with his elbow. Robin had been right to seat them next to each other, he had not realized how much he missed jesting with anyone other than Ser Arys until now.

“Aye, we should, Tommen.” Uther said, leading him back to the table. “Now tell me all I need to know so that we might impress the fair maidens of Gulltown.”

Soon enough Lady Grafton, Lady Lysa, Robin, and Marillion entered, the latter looking hungover, Robin looking surprisingly well rested. He was disappointed that Lady Alia was not among them, but Uther explained his mother was with his sister down at the docks, straightening things up. He shuddered when he said that, and Tommen was reminded of Lord Mathos’ story of how he met his lady wife while she was holding a knife to someone’s throat.

Robin took his seat between him and Uther and began to dig into the food set before him.

Tommen would talk to Robin once their meal was done, inquire if the charm had helped him sleep, but for now he would enjoy the quiet morning, and get to know Uther, his newfound friend.

“Quentyn will you at least look at the options I am presenting you with?” Arianne asked, her voice sharp, as sharp as the rhythm her foot beat into the baked clay floor of the tailor’s shop. “It is my wedding; I want my brothers to look presentable. None of this messy scholarly look you have decided to stick with. I know there has been a surge of romance novels about acolytes and scribes that fall in love with the daughter of the house they serve, but those are fantasies, and it will not serve you well to dress so…bland in the living, breathing world.”

He glanced down at his outfit, a loose linen tunic of a flaxen color with minimal embrodairy, his breeches a dark brown, his sandals the same. He had a few gold rings adoring his fingers, and a band of leather interwoven with golden thread in the Rhoynish fashion around his wrist, but nothing else. “I wore this so as not to draw attention away from you, it is your wedding, all eyes should be upon you.”

“Nice try, if you were Trystane I might believe you, our brother has gotten so handsome, but you are dressed that way because it is how you dress every day.” She drawled as she held up the two different sashes he was supposed to choose from again. “Now choose.”

A few of the shopgirls tittered at her words, ducking behind racks of fabric, or shooting him sympathetic smiles.

He bit the inside of his cheek. He knew he was not as handsome as Trystane, but Arianne did not have to make such a fuss about it. “The brown one.” It was unassuming, would allow him to slip into the background, which was what he planned to do once the wedding was in full swing.

She clicked her tongue. “I knew you would say that. We are getting the red one.”

He pushed his shoulders back, releasing the pockets of air trapped in his spine. “Why did you even ask me here if you are going to make all my choices for me?”

“Because I wish to discuss the guest list with you.” She said, handing the sash off to one of the girls, and grabbing a box of trinkets and pins, bringing it over and setting it in his lap. She then sat on the bench next to him, taking pieces out and holding them up to his skin or hair or eyes before putting them back or setting them aside.

“The guest list? Why do you need my opinion on it, has it not been finalized a moon ago?”

“Yes, but I want to go over the eligible ladies that will be attending.”

Quentyn closed his eyes, irritation furrowing his brow and thinning his lips. “Arianne, I do not need you to matchmake for me.”

“Yes, you do, unless you wish to marry that Yronwood girl who stalks you endlessly?”

“Gwyneth is a woman grown, do her the respect of at least calling her a woman, not a girl.” He said, feeling the need to stick up for the sweet girl—woman who treated him so kindly during his fosterage.

Arianne held a golden bangle up to his cheek, before discarding it. “She is small and ugly. She will not bear children well, she is too thin, she talks endlessly with nothing to say, and she hovers too much, it annoys me.”

“That is unkind, she could still grow and learn.”

She rolled her eyes. “Let Trystane marry a girl with no thoughts in her head, someone who will flatter him endlessly. He is made for such a life; you, Brother, are not.”

He reeled back. “Why can I not have a wife that flatters me endlessly?”

She grabbed his chin and pulled him forward, an emerald studded brooch in her hand. “Because you are blessed with brains, not beauty. A thoughtless chit will soon stray because she cannot keep up with you and will grow bored and turn to seeking out beauty over fidelity.”

“You think me that unappealing that my wife would stray so quickly?” The words stung as they left his lips. He was not as handsome as his brother and sister, he knew that, but he did not think himself that hideous.

Arianne’s expression softened, and she stroked his cheek apologetically. “No, no, I am sorry Quentyn, my words were far too harsh. I only worry that a woman of exceptional beauty will not be able to keep up with your mind, and you two will be unhappy together. I do not want that for you.”

Her words and touch soothed his wounded pride a bit, but the wound remained exposed, old insecurities he thought banished while he was studying at the Citadel returning to haunt him. “So, you have complied a list of women who are beautiful and intelligent?”

“Let us start with intelligent, then see where we are at.” She said gently, pulling the folded parchment from her bodice.

He leaned over to read it, scanning the names. Many on the list he did not find desirable, either from stories he heard or the histories he learned.

“What about the Princess Myrcella?” He asked, thinking of how a fellow acolyte had mentioned that the princess had formed a tight circle of beautiful maidens from across the realm. Including Lady Margaery Stark née Tyrell.

Arianne laughed, long and loud. “Oh, sweet naïve Quentyn, I do admire your confidence, but the princess is famously in love with her Stark husband. She has given him five children already.”

He shoved her, the box in his lap rattling with the movement, his face burning. “No, not her. Her ladies-in-waiting, are there none among them that might be suitable?”

She mulled on his words for a moment, scanning the list in her hand. “There may be one, but I do not think her father would agree, and Uncle Oberyn’s would rip your head from your body at the very mention of it.”

That caught his interest. While his uncle had a quick and sharp temper, he did not often harbor anger against another for no reason. “Who?”

She sighed heavily and picked out another brooch, a large amethyst set in gold, turning it over in her hand. “When you and I were young, I was to marry Prince Viserys, did you know that?”

Quentyn watched her turn the brooch over and over and over, it caught a beam of sunlight, sending scatterings of violet light across the floor. “Father had told me a little of the plan, before the Targaryens were killed. He was going to send me to Daenerys.”

“I hated him then, and you, well I was jealous of you. I did not know the plan, and Father kept pairing me with these ugly old men. I thought you were set to steal my birthright.”

He looked from the brooch to her. “I would never do that to you.”

“I know that now, and I should have then. You were still so young; you never would have acted against me if not for Father pushing you, I was foolish not to realize that.” She swapped the brooch for another one, tilting it side to side with disinterest.

“He was trying to make you queen, make you happy.” He offered weakly. The failed plot had fractured something between his sister and father. So much so that they rarely stayed in the same castle, and their father had not argued when Arianne declared she would marry Ser Andrey Dalt in an increasingly elaborate ceremony.

She laughed, short and bitter this time, her hand stilling. “That was never going to happen, Viserys was mad as his father, he would have had to die the moment I gave him a son.”

“But now you will be happy, and that is what matters.” He said softly.

She nodded, running her thumb over the brooch, the sapphires winding around the pear-cut ruby on silver filigree the way wisteria or jasmine winded around a trellis. “Andrey is a kind man, easily bent this way or that way, and he knows when to keep his mouth shut. We will enjoy our life together.”

He nodded, unsure of what to say. His sister’s desired attributes in a husband were different from the desires of any other woman he had ever met. Most wanted husbands with strong convictions and a sociable personality, but not Arianne.

“Sansa Stark.” She said, dropping the brooch back into the box. “That is who you would lose your head for.” Then she stood, heading to the counter to pay for the items she had chosen for him.

Quentyn fished the brooch out, admiring it in the midday sun. Rubies for her red hair, sapphires for her blue eyes, he had heard of Sansa Stark, of her beauty and gentleness. He placed the box back in its place and the brooch upon the red sash.

Arianne looked at him for a long moment, then nodded to the tailor. It seemed she would not deny him this choice at the very least.

Chapter Text

Tommen had been in Gulltown a few weeks now, and it brought him no shame to admit that he was enjoying himself. Even with the cold and the rain, he found himself excited to wake each day and see what the Seven had set before him. He dressed quickly, fastening his thick cloak around him, stopping momentarily to check his appearance in the mirror. He wished to look appealing but not too appealing, only enough to attract the attention of any eligible maidans so he might direct them to the taller but less…comely Uther.

Uther and Robin were waiting for him in the foyer, they had eaten their morning meal in Robin’s solar, discussing their plans. Robin was not yet that interested in girls but seemed more than excited to tag along and aid them.

Tommen smiled at them both, throwing his arms over their shoulders, as Edric had done to him and Myrcella many times. It helped to pretend he was Edric, to mimic his elder brother’s mannerism, his confidence, to portray an ease he did not feel at the prospect of charming women in the street.

Uther pulled a knit cap from his pocket and tugged it down over Tommen’s golden hair. “There now we will have a fighting chance.”

Tommen adjusted the cap, giving his friend an easy smile, though his stomach churned. “If you wish for a fighting chance, Uther, I think it would be best if I stayed here.”

Uther threw his head back and laughed, dragging him and Robin towards the door. “We shall see Tommen, we shall see.”

“Do I need a cap as well?” Robin asked, running a hand over his brown hair.

“I do not think so, you have spent much of your life in the Eyrie, many of the smallfolk and merchants will not be able to recognize you on sight alone.” Uther reassured him.

“But Tommen has never been here before, how would they recognize him?”

“Golden hair and emerald eyes? That’s a Lannister look, not many of them around here.”

“I am also quite sure that my mother has Myrcella, and I’s portraits circulated throughout the realm whenever possible.” Tommen added, breathing in the mountain air, before they ducked into the wheelhouse.

They traveled down the winding path, Robin chattering excitedly about what he planned to buy in the markets, while Arys watched the landscape change, his white cloak traded for a simple brown one to help them better blend in.

The scent of the sea hit him first, the salty air filling his lungs, the early morning chatter ebbing and flowing with the waves that lapped against the docks.

Uther got out first and clapped once, a wide grin on his face. “Alright my friends, today we seek revelry, pretty maidans, and—” He looked to Robin.

“Saffron for my candles.” Robin said, already excitedly looking around.

Candle making had been a more recent hobby of Robin’s but something he enjoyed very much, and Tommen would admit he was quite good at. He had a candle with swirls of gold dust and assorted seashells within the wax that smelled remarkably like the beaches of Casterly Rock back in his chambers at the Red Keep. A nameday gift Robin had sent him the previous year.

“Saffron will be deeper within, with the other luxuries from the Free Cities.” Uther said, leading them into the market, pointing out different stalls, shops, and people. He explained why one stall was this color while that one was another, why that spot was empty—pirate attack—and how soon it would be until it was filled. There were some permanent shops, blacksmiths, tailors, butchers, and jewelers and some temporary stalls, for fabrics, fishes, carvings, and the like, all neatly organized and surprisingly clean.

Tommen took it all in with wide eyes, the dizzying array of colors and fragrances, the squawking of birds on merchants’ shoulders, fishwives haggling, children darting past, calling to each other as they played or went about their chores. He kept a hand on his coin purse just to be safe, but he could see the Gulltown guards patrolling. Posted at every corner was a man bearing House Shett’s sigil on their breastplates, watching the comings and goings like a hawk. They nodded to Uther as he passed, and Tommen realized why Lady Lysa had allowed them out of the manor with only Arys as their guard. Every inch of the marketplace was under guard.

“Perhaps we should stop at an apothecary, I find my skin quite dry since my arrival, and I would like to purchase something to remedy that.” Tommen said, tilting his head towards an upcoming one, the door propped open, the scent of eucalyptus and mint washing over him as they drew nearer. He also wanted to see if he could convince Uther to use a better soap on his face to clear up his pimples, but he would do that subtly so not to offend his new friend.

“Is that your secret, Tom? Soft skin to win the hearts of ladies across the realm?” Uther asked, using the nickname they had agreed upon over bacon and biscuits.

He shrugged. “It does not hurt.”

The apothecary greeted them warmly. She was a stout, older woman with dark hair flecked with gray tied up in a bun, an apron covering her plain gown, and Myrish reading lenses sitting on her nose. She got right to business, gathering the ingredients Tommen requested with a surprising speed.

“What is that?” Robin asked, looking at the pot of amber wax the apothecary had placed in Tommen’s hand.

“It is a wax that comes from sheep’s’ wool; it helps calm windburn and keep skin soft.” He explained, grateful that the apothecary had been able to provide him with so much, though it made sense if he thought about it. The Vale was known for its sheep.

“From sheep?” Robin’s nose wrinkled and he shook his head. “Gross.”

“You eat mutton all the time, that is sheep.” He reminded him.

“That is different, I am not putting it on my skin, I am eating it.”

Uther’s lips quirked to the side in thought. “Does it really work?”

“Most of my family uses it, even my uncles.” Well, his Uncle Renly did, and his Uncle Jaime, though the latter would deny it.

“Alright, I will take some as well.” Uther said, snagging a small pot from the counter. He looked at it, smelling it cautiously. “What else do you and your uncles use?”

Tommen gave another set of ingredients to the apothecary, and she bundled them up, handing them to Uther.

“This is a lot; Rob, do you think you could mix these all together as you do your candles?” Uther asked, using the nickname they had decided on for Robin. The people of Gulltown might not know his face alone, but if combined with his name and his proximity to Uther, they might make the connection.

Robin studied the ingredients, seemingly doing calculations in his head, looking far more serious than Tommen had seen him look before. “I would have to consult my books, and make a few test batches first, but I think so.”

Uther bumped his shoulder against Robin’s, which was a sight to see considering Robin was half Uther’s height. “Keep this up, and you may be known throughout the realm for your concoctions.”

Robin looked at them both, torn between excitement and anxiety, as if someone might come and scold him for his joy. “Really?”

“It is never a bad idea to have a profitable hobby.” Tommen shrugged. He wanted to encourage Robin’s excitement. The younger boy had been much livelier since he began wearing the charm he had brought him, and if fiddling with herbs made him happy, he would not mock him for it.

Robin marched up to the apothecary’s counter and began rattling off herbs and fragrances, the poor woman struggling to keep up with the speed in which he talked.

“Do slow down, Rob, she only has two hands.” Tommen chuckled, leaning against one of the sturdy shelves.

Robin rounded the counter to start helping her, pulling jars from the shelves and setting them aside.

“That is not much better you will get in her way, do not be a nuisance.” He continued, folding his arms over his chest.

Robin glanced back, embarrassment blooming across his face, his lower lip beginning to tremble as he wrung his hands in his cloak.

Guilt, hot and sharp, flashed through him. He had not meant to embarrass him. He could hear Joffrey’s taunting, tormenting him for helping the maester pull books from the shelves eager to learn all he could about the flowers in the gardens. He handed his purchases off to Arys and came to join them. “Tell me what you need as well, six hands will be better.”

The apothecary shot him a grateful look as Robin listed off the ingredients at a much slower rate, his face still red.

Once they made their final purchases, and left the shop, Tommen pulled Robin aside, signaling for Uther to walk ahead of them. “I am sorry, for my words in there. I did not intend to embarrass you.” He said quietly.

Robin looked up at him then back down at the ground, fiddling with his fingers.

“You are knowledgeable and excited about your passions, that is something to be celebrated, not scolded, and I forgot that. Please forgive my mistake.”

Robin nodded, but still did not look at him.

Tommen sighed silently and braced himself. He did not like speaking of Joffrey. The shame of how easily he fell right back into his game still lingered now years later, but Arys had told him there could be good that came from speaking the pain aloud. That it could help him connect with others. “When I was younger, my brother Joffrey tormented me endlessly. Anything I enjoyed, he ruined or stole or mocked me for. It hurt me, badly, and in turn I began to hide my interests, or give them up until I had nearly nothing left except that which one of my kin would defend me over and even still, I felt the shame.”

“You are a prince; you should be allowed to do whatever you like.” Robin said, his voice small.

He nodded, taking in Robin’s soft features, trying to put himself in Joffrey’s shoes. There was the same age difference between him and Robin as there was between him and Joffrey. Four namedays. He was not even four and ten when Joffrey was sent away, he was younger than Robin was now and Joffrey had treated him as if he were less than dirt. Even though Robin annoyed him on occasion, and his weakness was evident to all who merely looked upon him, he could not imagine taking the actions Joffrey did. Could not imagine squashing Robin’s enthusiasm, making fun of him until he cried, until he was frightened of the sound of his voice coming down the hall.

He looked at Robin, a boy who wanted desperately to be valued for more than his title, than his blood. Who longed for friendship and encouragement and with a jolt that felt similar to that moment right before you fall asleep, when your body panics and makes you think you have fallen out of your bed, he realized he was looking in a godsdamned mirror. “And you will be a Lord Paramount one day. You should be allowed to pursue what you enjoy without mocking, especially from me, your friend.”

Robin finally looked at him, and it hurt, gods it hurt. He had never meant to wound his friend; it had been a jest, good-natured and lightly teasing, but so had the feast incident. It was meant to be a jest, just to teach his nephews the limits to which they could annoy him, but that had ended in blood, and this had ended in near tears.

He cleared his throat. “I am still shedding the hurt of my youth, but it is a clumsy process, so I ask for your patience as I do so, and your forgiveness when I make an error in my efforts.”

“You have it.” Robin said, before looking back down at his purchases. “Do you really think me knowledgeable?”

“Yes, I could not have rattled all that off with such speed, nor am I any good with candles. I nearly melted half of the one you gave me my first time lighting it.”

“No, you did not, it is not that hard to light a candle.” Robin laughed, a wide smile spreading across his face.

Relief washed over him. “I do not know what to tell you, my friend, I am not as skilled as you when it comes to flames.”

Robin rolled his eyes and dragged him up to Uther. “Uther, Tom, says he cannot even light a candle properly.”

“I believe it, look at those soft hands, it must be the sheep wax’s doing. He cannot grip the matches properly.” Uther said, miming someone trying and failing to hold and strike a match.

Robin giggled, and Tommen smiled. He would never understand Joffrey, it was so easy to not ruin the moment before him, to simply exist in it and enjoy the happiness of others, to let it make him happy.

A droplet fell upon his hand, then another, then the sky opened and dumped its bounty upon them, rain falling in thick sheets catching them all off guard.

Robin shrieked and darted under a nearby awning, Arys swore under his breath and Uther pulled the hood of his cloak up unbothered.

“We are not far from my home, let us wait out the rain there.” He yelled over the storm, leading them through the streets, the rain blinding them, until finally rising out of the gloom was the manor of House Shett of Gulltown.

Tommen placed his wet clothing into the metal tub provided, his body once again warm after the bath that had been drawn for him. They had run through the streets, guided only by the beacon that was Uther’s bright red hair, until they made it within the halls of House Shett. He had barely taken the sight in before he was whisked away by servants and herded into a bath, new clothing laid out for him. They were a bit long on him but dry and that was all he cared about after being soaked to the bone.

He made his way out of the chambers he had been led through and stuck his head out the door. Uther and Robin were nowhere to be found. He ventured further, taking in the artistry of the manor, the soaring ceilings and ornate fixtures, the paintings and tapestries, the statues and other strange décor he did not recognize.

“My Prince, I was wondering where the servants stashed you.”

He turned towards the unknown speaker and found himself frozen in awe.

“Apologies, I should have introduced myself first. I am Lady Jessamyn Shett, my brother told me how you all got caught in the rain.”

If he had thought her mother beautiful, and he had, then he had not known what beauty was. Jessamyn was beyond beauty, beyond words, ethereal and yet so very tangible, dark curly hair falling to her waist, gold threaded throughout the curls, warm umber skin that seemed to absorb the torchlight glowing from inside out, flashing amber eyes and thick, dark lashes that ensnared him. Her full lips quirked up in a welcoming smile. Her yellow gown fit like river water wrapping around rocks, impossibly close and yet ever flowing, cut fashionably low at the neckline giving hints of more smooth skin, and her arms were covered by the same yellow fabric, highlighted by golden bracelets that curled up her arms like snakes.

He could not speak, could not think or even breathe, and when she curtsied, he had to avert his eyes lest he look a lecher.

“Welcome to our home.” She said, rising gracefully. Even her voice was magnificent, silverly like her mother’s, but bolder and rooted firmly like mangroves in the sand.

He cleared his throat, praying his face was not bright red, hoping he was better prepared to speak to her having already spoken with her mother. He winced internally when his voice cracked, as it had not in years and was far, far too loud. “Thank you, Lady Jessamyn, I am grateful for such a warm welcome.”

She thankfully did not react to his utterly embarrassing blunder and smiled, handing him bread and salt on a small plate.

He reached for it, their fingertips brushing, and he swore it was as if lightning had struck him. He ate quickly, nearly choking in his haste. At least the redness of his face could be blamed on that.

“I do apologize that my parents are not here to greet you, they were called away on urgent business.”

“It is my fault; we got caught in the rain. Uther suggested we come here, as he obviously already told you...” He trailed off, coughing as discreetly as he could into his crooked arm. “Is all well with your parents?”

“The captain of a merchant vessel of ours claims to have brought back a rare prize indeed but refuses to allow any at the harbor to inspect it. It seems he desires a maester of well renown to verify its value and lineage.” She explained as she guided him further into her home, the long train of her gown making it look as if she were gliding instead of walking.

“Do you know what it is?”

“Some insect encased in crystal, it would not be an object rare or not I would pay for, but some would.” She explained, glancing over her shoulder at him. “And do feel free to call me Jessa, My Prince, Jessamyn is far too formal for a friend of Uther’s.”

He realized how far behind he was lagging and hastened his steps, the topic catching his attention quite fiercely. “Only if you will call me Tommen.”

“Then I shall, Tommen.” She said, smiling at him, so close that he could smell her perfume, frankincense, rose, and something else, something warm like feeling of the sun on one’s face. It blended to create a scent he wished he could carry with him forever.

“I am no maester, but I spent and still spend much of my free time studying both the natural world and history. I could perhaps look at the crystal and determine its lineage? While a maester is called for?” He suggested, eagerness rising within him at the thought of putting his studies to good use.

“I guess a prince would know the value of a rarity.” She said, before calling out to a passing servant. “Mary, would you have a runner sent to my mother and father? Tell them the prince wishes to try his hand at identifying the crystal the captain of The Sapphire brought back.”

Mary nodded and scurried off, leaving them alone once more, and Tommen seized his chance. “Do you have any studies of interest, Jessa?”

“I am to take over my family’s merchant fleet, so I have been studying all that entails for most of my life.” She said, leading him into an ornate sitting room with a roaring fire, large thick paned windows overlooking the harbor, the rain, and wind battering against the glass.

“Do you enjoy it?” He asked, taking the seat, she offered, the one closet to the fire. He held his hands out towards it, the chill not yet fully left his bones.

She moved her hair to one side, the dark curls tumbling into her lap as she sat in the chair across from him. “Yes, it is what I am good at, and it brings me much joy.”

“That is a blessing.” He said, distracted by the way the firelight caught in her eyes, reflecting and dancing like a fire opal.

“Do you enjoy your own studies?” She asked, leaning forward to take the poker and stir the fire.

His eyes traced the curve of her spine and lingered on the graceful beauty that radiated from merely one side of her face. One perfect half that would soon be reunited with its equally perfect twin to form a whole so perfect it was nearly divine. “Yes, I do. Though I find myself seeking to deepen my knowledge of another subject.”

She turned to face him, replacing the poker. “Oh?”

“Sailing, ships, sea voyages, all and everything of the sea.”

“Do not tell me our fair city has ensnared the Crown Prince so quickly; you have not been here even a full moon already.” Jessa teased; one elegant brow arched playfully.

He leaned forward, playing into it, his voice hushed as if revealing a shameful secret. “Truthfully, I developed the interest years ago but never had the chance to explore it in depth as I believe I will here.”

She leaned in as well, a smile toying at her plush lips. “If it is the sea you seek, there is no better place to start than House Shett, we own more ships in these harbors than most know. Your ship herself is being built in a shipyard of ours.”

A knock at the door had them both leaning back, and Jessa’s parents entered, with whom he presumed to be the captain Jessa spoke of. He was striking, nearly as handsome as Lady Alia was beautiful, carrying the crystal carefully.

Tommen’s breath nearly caught in his throat at the sight. “That is a Lys Silver Spotted Butterfly, they are rare indeed, many say they only exist still within the gardens of a few merchant princes, and even then, that is largely lauded as myth…” He crossed the room quickly, examining the artifact with awe. “Do you see the spots, the vivid purple on the edges of the wings? There are many who would pay an exorbitant amount for such a prize as this.”

“I told you.” The captain said triumphantly.

“Yes, yes, Brother, I know.” Lady Alia said, waving a dismissive hand. “But Alios would you have us deny the prince a chance to show his skills?”

Brother, that explained the man’s beauty.

“Of course not, especially since your prince confirms my words.” Alios said, directing his next words to Tommen. “My Prince, would you like to confirm other suspicions for me?”

“You have more rarities like this one?” He asked, Robin and Uther forgotten.

“A ship’s hold full.”

He nodded, hopefully not too eagerly. “It would be my pleasure to confirm your suspicions.”

Chapter Text

In the privacy of their cabin aboard the Seaswift, Myrcella watched Jon sleep, sick with worry. It was late, and she had been roused from her slumber by his thrashing, and his nonsensical rambling. His skin that had been pressed against hers burned as if with fever, his night shirt stuck to him with sweat. She had tried to wake him, but he remained within the grips of sleep, mumbling unintelligibly, his face pinched as if in deep concentration or agony. She sat herself against the headboard of their bed and pillowed his head in her lap, alternating between wiping the sweat from his brow and soothingly running her fingers through his thick hair. He twitched in her hold, eyes moving rapidly behind their lids. Ghost slept peacefully near the door, and she tried to take comfort in that. Surely if he were unwell, the direwolf would be up and awake by Jon’s side?

Unless something had affected him too. She shook her head, and traced the features of Jon’s face, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She was aware of the connection between Ghost and Jon, they had discussed it many times over their years together, but she had never seen Jon like this. It could not be his connection with Ghost, not if Ghost was perfectly content. She fought the urge to call out for a servant, for the maester, for anyone. Jon would not want people to see him like this, especially if it were all a bad dream she simply could not wake him from. She would feel quite silly if that were the case.

The ship swayed and creaked, waves crashing against the porthole. They had bypassed Stormbreaker Bay by traveling past Tarth, but still the waters were affected by a vicious, far-flung winter storm that had been brewing all day.

“Jon.” She tried again quietly, caressing the skin beneath his eyes, praying they would open, and she would find that comforting gray staring back at her.

He shifted, his brows knitting together, his hand suddenly spasmed and gripped the sheets, the veins in his arm prominent as his fingers dug into the dark silk sheets.

She bit her lip and shook him. “Jon, wake up.”

Jon still did not wake, the sheets ripping as he jerked his arm back, his elbow making sharp contact with her thigh. It drew a startled noise from her, much more surprise than pain, and Jon went rigid.

He was alone in a desert, mountains in the distance, the sun beating down on him, his ears ringing, he had been here before, it was hazy like a childhood memory or a dream. The air smelled sweet when he had last stood amongst these shifting sands, but now it smelled sour, clung to his lungs and stuck to his skin. The wind came again as it did before, but it was limp, nowhere near the whipping, wild tempest he remembered, but it still carried that voice, familiar and unfamiliar, female and gentle, calling his name. He heard it again, louder now, thick with grief and rage. It was not Myrcella’s no, he knew her voice, it had followed the first one last time he was here, this was someone else.

He followed the voice, the sands softening, giving way to riverbanks, to river water, an island coming into view seated at the mouth of an expansive river. Upon it was a castle made of the finest white stone shining in the sun, nearly blinding him. It was multitiered, and beautiful, a single spire rising above the rest, lush green trees visible from even where he stood on the river’s banks. Beyond was a city nestled amongst greenery, and below the castle children played amongst the river many tributaries, splashing and swimming, a towering bridge of similar stone to the far right of him connecting the island to the mainland. He squinted at the banners hanging from the walls, trying to discern the sigil when the world tilted.

It will be alright, Jon, I promise. You will come home with me, to the place of our forefathers, this sorrow will pass. He knew that voice too, low and calm, interrupted by an ear-splitting scream. A rush of agony, of hysteria tore through him, and then he was on the bridge, one step away from the mainland, turning with a bundle in his arms, his soul heavy, his body weary.

No. The woman, the voice he vaguely knew, screamed over and over again. Near the castle gates a commotion broke out, a single figure, a woman, dark hair streaming behind her, clothed in mourning garb sprinted down the length of the bridge, making it nearly halfway before she was caught. She fought like a wildcat, screaming and kicking, scratching at the guards until she broke free only to be caught again by a man who shared her coloring. No, please, he is mine, please, please, do not take him!

You are ill, Sister, you must rest. The man said, struggling to keep her contained, his expression akin to stone, though Jon could see the tear tracks on his face.

She spat a curse at him, her violet eyes blazing with fury as she fought against his hold, tears streaming down her face as quickly as the current of the river below.

You nearly killed him, and yourself. Ashara, you must let the boy go.

The name was like a blow to the stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Lord Stark, please, you lingering only harms them both further. The man said, jerking his head, the guards Ashara had fought off coming to aid, who Jon could only assume was the then Lord Dayne or perhaps his heir.

Jon’s eyes, or perhaps they were Ned’s, met Ashara’s and a force like a thousand blows fell upon him.

She stood on the edge of the window, the wind whipping through her hair, the ground so far below to look down made her dizzy. It would be so easy, just one step, one fall and then silence, blessed silence, the pain, and agony in her chest and mind would quiet, her tears would cease, and she would be able to sleep, truly sleep.

Jon wriggled in her hold, his little hands searching for her breasts, his skin so pale against the harsh black of her mourning gown. He was hungry, he was always hungry, her boy needed so much, needed her so much and she could not stand it. It would be so easy, one step, but she did not want him to die, no she loved him, she loved him, but she had not wanted this, had not wanted him like this. Alone and abandoned, grief wearing her down, tugging at her limbs, exhaustion tearing at her mind. She loved him, her sweet boy, her only son, but she ached, every part of her ached and she wanted the ache to go away.

Ashara forced herself back into her bedchambers, resting her chin on Jon’s head, his hair was feather soft, and dark like hers. She crawled back into her bed, pulled down her bodice and let him latch on. He would not take any others’ milk; she had tried to give him to a wetnurse, but he cried and screamed and refused. She had never seen a babe do that before. At first, it made her feel special, her son would have no nourishment but that which she could provide, but feeding him herself was difficult, and tiring. She could not bear to be touched by any other, not even her dear sister because she spent so much of her time with Jon clinging to her. It felt as if he sapped the strength from her with each feeding.

He latched on and suckled, making soft noises of contentment, and she stared at the open window, the sun singing brightly, birds singing. What right did the sun have to shine, what right did birds have to sing when she was so… She did not even know how to name what she felt, all she knew was that it was painful and yet at the same time she felt utterly numb. Jon unlatched and began to cry, he always cried, and she could not calm him, no matter what she did. She was a failure, a failure of a mother, of a sister, of a daughter, of a friend, a damned failure.

She tried to rock him, tried to sing, and wipe the tears from his face, but it did no good. They fell as quickly as her fingers moved, and she realized his tears were not his alone. She wished Elia were here, she would know what to do, she was so good with babes, or Arthur, her brother, would be able to make Jon smile. And she wished Brandon were here, wished he would hold her and soothe her, tell her all would be well, and that he loved her. But he was dead, they were all dead. Brandon first, she could hear his screams from her place hiding in the tunnels of the Keep, could still hear them now. Then Elia, whom she had not seen die, and still could not decide if she wished she had or not. She should have been there with her, should have tried to protect her, but Elia sent her away after Brandon’s death, and she had been glad for it then. Then Arthur, his killer resided in a guest chamber three floors down, Dawn returned to them alongside the news of his death.

She hated Rhaegar, that wretched man, it was his fault they were all dead, if he had not stolen away Lyanna then her friend, her brother, and her Brandon would still be alive. At least Rhaegar was dead too. She did not like Robert Baratheon for taking the throne that should have been Aegon’s, did not like that he left Tywin Lannister unpunished for his crimes, but she did like that he killed Rhaegar. He shattered him, pulverized him, cracked open his armor, and ended him painfully. That was what Tywin Lannister deserved as well, and his monsters that killed Elia and her children.

Jon’s crying pulled her from her thoughts, and was struck by an urge to fling him, to throw him out the window and then herself. But she loved him, she loved him, she loved him, she did, she did, she just needed a moment, just a single moment to breathe. In a daze, she carefully set him down on the bed, between two pillows so he could not roll and hurt himself. Then she walked away, into her bathroom and shut the door, curling up into a ball, her hands over her ears, and sobbed, sobbed and sobbed until her throat was sore, and her tears were dry, but it was not enough. She dug her nails into her palms, and screamed into her shoulder, her gown somewhat muffling the sound. Her nails broke the skin, and after a moment she stood, going to the water basin to wash the blood away. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her skin was dull, her hair tangled, her eyes swollen and red rimmed, deep purple circles beneath them. She did not recognize herself; this was not the woman she was, or was it? Was this all she was now? A grieving failure of a mother with her own blood on her hands? She rinsed her hands then splashed water on her face, once, twice, a third time until she found herself staring too long at the basin wondering if she could drown in it.

Jon had stopped crying, it was quiet, she had longed for quiet, but now it scared her. Was he alright? Had he been harmed? Had she thought she placed a pillow but really had not, and he rolled onto the floor? Was his skull cracked open as Aegon’s had been? Her stomach lurched though there was little in it, and she pushed open the door, blood streaking on the wood, and rushed over to her bed. Jon was there, unharmed, just sleeping. Her heart calmed, and she sagged to the floor, burying her face in the side of the mattress, one hand on his chest to reassure herself his heart still beat. Would the gods never take pity on her? Old and new, she had prayed desperately to for aid and none came. Why did they torment her this way? She had wanted Jon, wanted a babe, wanted Brandon’s babe even though he was to marry another, but now she hated him. No, no, she loved him, she did, she did, she was just so tired. So tired and hungry, and aching, and she could not keep her thoughts straight, she could not do anything right. She pulled herself onto the bed and curled around the pillows, shielding Jon. Just a few moments of rest, just a few, and then she would be better.

His body was not his when he pulled himself out of her memory, but Ned’s. He turned, stepping off the bridge, his jaw locked, eyes burning with unshed tears, his back to the castle, to Ashara. Her wailing pierced him, her cries and pleas, shouts of Jon’s name, curses and bargains thrown with a gut-wrenching desperation. You have to tell him, Eddard. Tell him I love him. Jon, Jon, Mama loves you, she does, she does. Swear to me, you will tell him Stark, swear to me!

“Jon, wake up, or I swear I will get the maester.” Myrcella’s anxious tone yanked him from the grip of sleep before he could hear Ned’s reply, and he sat up with a start, nearly catching her on the chin with the top of his head.

“Do not bother the maester.” He said briskly, uncomfortably aware of how his clothes stuck to him, warm and damp, the sheets torn beneath his hand. He stood and stripped, rummaging through a nearby chest for new clothing.

“Are you alright?” Myrcella asked, slipping from the bed and gathering his discarded clothing, hanging them over the back of a chair.

His new, clean clothing was like a balm to his overheated skin, and he watched the storm raging outside for a moment before he spoke. “I saw my mother.”

“Your mother?” She asked carefully, and he could see her reflection in the porthole glancing around as if she might be still in a dream.

“In my dreams. I saw the day my uncle set off for Winterfell with me, or at least that is what I think it was.” He ran a hand down his face, trying to shake off the feel of Ned’s skin, of Ashara’s grief. He did not dream often as he just did, usually he slipped into Ghost’s mind, or stayed within his own as the visions came and went, nothing lingered as strongly as this dream did. “It was a…difficult thing to watch.”

Her arms came around his middle, her cheek pressed to his back. “I am so sorry, my love.”

Jon watched the swells, the white caps as the waves surged, the lightening arching across the sky above the dark, choppy sea. “Jaime was right. She did fight to keep me, but what can one woman bound up by grief and illness do against her kin and household guards?”

Myrcella’s arms tightened around him, broaching a topic he knew she had been dancing around since they left King’s Landing. “You should speak to the Daynes, if there are any at the wedding, see if they will acknowledge you as one of their own.”

He turned and pulled her to him, burying his nose in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her. He did not know if he had the courage to approach his kin, and he did not wish to be rejected by them. But he felt a surge of anger on behalf of his mother, of himself, the babe he was in his uncle’s arms. “I will think on it.”

Chapter Text

“Wife for sure, look at the frown on her face. Mistresses know better than to frown.” Arianne said, pointing to a dour looking couple below.

He and his sister were seated in a windowsill overlooking the courtyard, watching as guests arrived for the pre-wedding festivities. They were playing a guessing game of sorts, trying to determine if the woman beside each passing noblemen was a wife or a mistress.

“It feels like folly, taking another woman to your bed when you cannot make the one you already have happy.” Quentyn said drolly, scanning the never-ending parade of people entering through the Water Gardens’ gates. There would be food, dancing, drinking, plays, and shows of skill all paid for by the Martell coffers to celebrate Arianne’s wedding. This meant noble and landed houses alike made their way through or to Dorne to take part in the festivities.

“You know that most men do not think in terms of a woman’s happiness. They think only of their own.” She said, twirling a lock of long, dark hair around her finger.

“True folly, to think of one’s own happiness before your wife’s. That is how you end up sleeping on opposite sides of your home.” He snorted, turning one of his well-worn rings round and round.

“Or the sea.” Arianne added with a laugh that died almost as quick as it began.

“Did Mother respond to your invitation?” He asked, keeping his eyes on the nobles below.

“She wants Andrey and I to come visit her in Norvos after the wedding, says she will throw us a party finer than we have ever seen.” She said, and he could hear the eye roll in her tone.

“That is kind of her.” He missed their mother terribly, and while Arianne did as well, she masked her longing with irritation and anger.

“It would be kinder if she attended my wedding.”

“Of course, but you know Mother, she will not attend if Father is there.”

Arianne flicked her hair behind her shoulder. “They are too old to be acting like children.”

He looked at her and shrugged, long resigned to their parents’ situation. “What can be done? They have been like this for over ten years now.”

“Mistress.” She said, ending the conversation abruptly as she tilted her head towards an ostentatiously dressed woman with a fan made of peacock feathers.

“And behind her, I assume a friend of the man’s wife, considering the daggers she is staring at his back.” He said, letting the previous conversation die with grace.

“I would agree with that observation.” She said, the corners of her lips quirking up as she took in the woman’s expression. “Perhaps she will throw wine on her, that would liven things up.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair, his fingers coming away smelling like the various oils the servants had added to his bath the night before. “I thought you wanted to be the only source of scandal at your wedding?”

“No, I was hoping that you would do something scandalous. Maybe challenge someone to a duel, or drink too much, or deflower a noble’s daughter and get chased through the halls in your smallclothes.”

“None of that sounds particularly enticing.”

She booed him loudly, as if they were playing tourney as they did when they were children.

He held his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine, I will try to drink a little more than usual, but I will not be dueling or running through the halls in my smallclothes.”

She smiled like a cat that had caught its prey. “So deflowering is still on the table?”

“No, it is not.” His face burned hot at the very thought of it.

Arianne’s eyes darted to the door as it cracked open.

“Quentyn?” Gwyneth’s voice came, more settled than it had been when he left, though she was still a child then.

“Gwyneth, do come in.” He called, ignoring the look Arianne shot him.

“This conversation is not over.” She hissed.

Gwyneth entered, still a slip of a girl, though her brown hair was longer, her face sweeter, her smile even more so. “Lady Arianne, many congratulations.”

It seemed Gwyneth had come to greet him the moment she arrived. A fact which made Arianne leave the room swiftly, not even bothering to do more than greet the girl perfunctorily, her orange silks fluttering behind her as she left.

Gwyneth had chattered on for a bit, telling him of Yronwood, of her sisters and brother, excitedly detailing the gown she planned to wear for the wedding, when a flash of black and gold caught his eye through the window.

Down below in the courtyard upon the blankets of their horses was the sigil of House Baratheon. Behind it, that of House Stark, House Banefort, and an unfamiliar sigil, a white wolf, with vivid red eyes howling at a sky of rich purple and shooting stars. He leaned closer, spotting the princess first. It was difficult not to, she was as beautiful as they said, riding alongside the man he assumed to be her husband. That meant—

“And the pink will look quite pretty, Ynys said it makes my cheeks flush like a maiden from the tales they tell children.” Gwyneth continued, tugging on his sash. “Do you think I will look pretty in pink?”

There dressed in pale blue, her face flushed beautifully from the heat, was Lady Sansa Stark.

He stood and slid by her with a friendly pat on the shoulder, as he had done when they were children. “Yes, yes, I am sure you will look lovely, but you must excuse me, I am needed by my father.”

“You have met my daughter, the bride to be, already and this is my firstborn son, Quentyn. His brother, my youngest, Trystane, is currently away squiring at Salt Shore but will be arriving soon for the wedding.” Prince Doran said, gesturing to the man standing beside him.

Quentyn was dressed in the orange and reds of his house, loose silks draped artfully and belted at the waist, revealing the warm brown skin of his forearms and upper chest. He had a stocky build, though he was neither short nor fat as his father was. He had a sturdy looking face, a high nose bridge, and brown hair that fell in waves ending near his chin, his eyes were intelligent, and took in every detail, his jaw clean-shaven.

Myrcella thought him ordinary, though compared to Jon she found all other men lacking, but Quentyn was simply…plain.

“Princess Myrcella, Lord Jon, we appreciate you leaving the comforts of your home to visit us.” Quentyn said, his accent similar to his father’s though his tone was clearer, his words a bit stilted, almost overly formal.

“Thank you for the kind invitation.” Myrcella said, giving the man and his father a dazzling smile. She was not here only for a wedding, but to help further mend the rift between her family and the Martells. Hopefully by way of Sansa falling for one of the brothers, preferably Quentyn as he was closer in age to her.

Prince Doran looked unimpressed, while Quentyn kept glancing over her shoulder. She tensed, were they about to be ambushed? At a wedding? No, they had already eaten the bread and salt, guests rites would protect them.

“And who are your guests?” Quentyn asked, taking a few steps forward, wiping his hands on his silken ensemble, his sash the smallest bit wrinkled.

Sansa and Eleyna stepped forward, curtsying, and Myrcella bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. They were not being ambushed; in fact, it seemed they were the ones doing the ambushing, at least of Quentyn.

“Might I introduce two of my dearest companions, Ladies Sansa Stark, and Eleyna Banefort.” She said, her fingers pressed to Sansa’s back, urging her forward.

Sansa, ever the perfect lady, smiled and fluttered her lashes at Quentyn. “It is an honor to be here, My Lord. I have heard such wonderful stories about the Water Gardens of Dorne.”

Quentyn’s face went red, barely noticeable beneath his tan skin, but noticeable enough that both Myrcella and Eleyna saw it. Prince Doran surely did as well, and Jon would have if he were not too busy ensuring there were no hidden threats about. He had been on edge since his strange dream on the ship two nights ago, and she could not fault him for it.

“I see the resemblance between you and your half-sister, Lord Jon, it is in your smiles, they are lovely.” Ellaria said, giving them a small smile of her own from her place next to Oberyn against the far wall.

“Thank you, Lady Ellaria.” Jon said, nodding in her direction.

“Still so polite.” Ellaria cooed, leaning into Oberyn.

“Did you ever figure out our gift?” Oberyn asked, his hand on Ellaria’s hip, fingers almost absentmindedly seeking the skin exposed by the fashionable cutouts of her gown.

Myrcella could feel the embarrassment rising to her face, and was glad she could blame the flush on the heat. “We did not. I was with child very quickly after our wedding, and then a few times after that.” She laughed and hoped it did not seem stilted, Jon was not the only one unsettled by his dream. “I am sure I do not need to tell you how much attention children require.”

He chuckled. “No, I am well aware, they take up all the time they can get.”

“Where are your children, Princess?” Ellaria asked.

“Our youngest are too young to travel, and their siblings did not want to leave them behind, so they chose to remain in King’s Landing, with my elder half-brother and another one of my ladies.”

“How sweet.” She said. “Our daughters have a similar mindset.”

“I am gladdened by their loyalty to one another, though it pains me to be apart from them.” It was true, she missed her children fiercely and had cried through the first two days and nights of their travel. She was consoled only by the knowledge that if anything were to happen, her children would be sprinted away to Storm’s End, where they would be well protected.

“It can be painful to be separated from one’s child, but I do hope the festivities will act as a sufficient distraction.” Prince Doran said, genuine empathy in his tone, the first true emotion she had heard from him all day.

“I am sure they will, already I am dazzled by the beauty of the gardens, I cannot wait to see what wonderful things you have prepared for us all.” She said.

They were dismissed shortly after, led to their quarters by a servant, Eleyna and Sansa whispering back and forth as Jon alternated between scanning for threats and staring off into the distance. She motioned for Eleyna and Sansa to break off into their own quarters, leaving her and Jon alone.

The room was bright and airy, decorated in desert tones, with strategically placed splashes of rich colors and richer fabrics. The windows were wide and tall, open and overlooking the gardens, and the rolling sands beyond. The canopied bed had gauzy curtains swaying in the breeze.

“It is too hot here.” Jon said, shucking off his cloak, doublet and outer tunic, leaving him in a thin linen under tunic.

“I did warn you.” She said, making her way around the room inspecting everything, utterly fascinated.

She found the heat more than tolerable and was enjoying the breathable yellow fabric her gown was made of. Her upper back was exposed to the open air, and the neckline would be considered scandalously low if she had been blessed with a full bust the way Roslin was, but she had not been, so it toed the line. It was embroidered with small, bunched flowers from the neckline down to the center of the dress, and hung partly off her shoulders with short billow sleeves, thin straps easily hidden by her hair keeping it from slipping off her.

“Aye, you did.” He agreed, splashing water from a burnished copper basin in the corner on his face.

“Why not change into one of the outfits I had made for you? It will help.” She took a grape from a bowl laid out alongside cheese, dates, and crackers. There was a clay pitcher of water as well and two cups, which she took gratefully. She may enjoy the warmth, but she was not used to it yet.

“Perhaps later, before the festivities begin.” He said, kicking off his boots and moving to the window.

“Do you want a date?” She offered, holding the bowl out to him as he passed by.

He took one and chewed it slowly, eyes on the horizon as he rested his hands on the windowsill, his back to her.

She sat at a rounded table with a mosaic tiled top that was diagonal to the window and watched him for quietly a while as she sampled the different foods in the bowl. She decided she liked the cream-colored cheese and the brown crackers with seeds in them the best, and set aside the bright orange cheese with the sharp flavor and the white sea salt covered crackers for Jon.

Jon did not have his strange dreams often, but when he did—depending on how deeply he dreamed—he would be a little…off color for a bit. She had found over time that the best solution was to simply wait it out and be there when his body felt wholly his own again.

Ghost trotted up to her and waited for her to feed him a few pieces of cheese before settling his head in her lap and training his eyes on Jon.

Myrcella ran her fingers through his fur, feeling a twinge of guilt for not trying harder to keep Jon from bringing him. If Jon thought it was too hot, Ghost must as well, especially considering his thick coat. She would have to ask for an additional basin for Ghost to drink from, or perhaps a trough, that way the servants would not need to refill it so often.

She wished the children were here. Their presence helped ground Jon, remind him that he was not Ghost, not some long buried memory of Ned’s, or painful moments of his mother. He was Jon Stark, a father to five children who adored him and wished for his attention constantly.

Ghost nudged her hand with his nose then headed over to the basin, drinking silently, and she poured Jon some water from the pitcher and brought it over. “Drink.”

He took it and threw it back like it was foul tasting spirits, then inclined his head, a silent thank you.

“Thank Ghost.” She said, taking a seat on the windowsill. The air smelled of spices and incense, the gardens and pathways below filled with chattering people from all corners of the realm.

Jon moved his hand so that she was sitting in the space between his arms.

A flash of color among the meanderers below caught her eye. “Oh gods, Lord Mooton’s son brought his mistress. Look at that fan, what is that? Peacock feathers? How gaudy.”

“Perhaps she is using it to hide the fact that she is nearly two decades older than him.” Jon said, his voice sounding almost gravelly as if from disuse, though they could not have been in their chambers for more than an hour—an hour, and a half at most.

“I heard he all but inherited her from his father, they say the Lord Mooton’s rudder no longer steers.”

“His rudder no longer steers?” He snickered, looking down at her with that special smile reserved for when she was being sharp-tongued or gossiping. He could and would never deny he enjoyed her more vicious side, but he would deny enjoying gossip, though she knew the truth.

“Yes, it no longer steers, so he passed her down the line to keep her from abandoning ship altogether.” She said, wrapping her arms around his neck, her worries finally dissipating now that he seemed settled.

He shook his head in disbelief. “I cannot imagine sharing my bed with someone who has laid with my father.”

Her nose crinkled. “It is a particularly unpleasant thing to imagine.”

“How skilled is she that both men are willing to do seemingly whatever is necessary to keep her close?”

“Perhaps she knows secrets they do not want exposed?” She mused, tilting her head to the side, admiring Jon’s features. His skin had tanned from their travels, the sun shining fiercely off the waves during the day, and a part of her wondered if it would tan any further while they stayed in Dorne. She wanted to see him with his mother’s coloring, and another part of her wondered if it would help encourage the Daynes to tell him the truth.

“I wonder if Lady Mooton is here.” Jon said, searching the crowd, proving her further correct, he did enjoy the dramatics of it all.

“I doubt it. You could not force me to attend any event, but especially not a wedding with my husband’s turned son’s mistress.”

“You would have had any mistress killed before they ever caught wind of an invitation.” He chuckled, his hands settling at her waist, the violet in his eyes more prominent in the light of the Dornish sun.

“I would have had the mistress killed the moment I learned of her existence.” She corrected, tilting her face up, an unspoken request for a kiss.

He answered it, kissing her chastely before pulling a bit back and smiling. “I do remember your insistence that the woman from that brothel in the Twins be killed for teaching me the lord’s kiss.”

She pouted, fingers interlocking at the nape of his neck, trying to drag him back down for a proper kiss. “Do not remind me of her, or I will be cross with you all over again.”

“If you wish to take me in hand as you did back then, I will risk your ire.” He teased, kissing her properly, one hand sliding up to feel the exposed skin of her back.

Her face flushed at the memory. She had been so angry, so seized with jealousy, but the memory of the expressions on his face, the sounds she pulled from him, how he begged and pleaded for her were seared into her mind. Desire stirred within her at the very recollection of it.

She turned her face away deciding to be petulant, but she could not stop her smile, when Jon nuzzled his nose against her own. “My sweet wife, my queen of love and beauty, of the seven realms.”

“My king consort.” She cooed, capturing his lips with her own, cupping his face, his beard scratching at the palm of her hands.

He picked her up with one arm, using the other to close the window.

“Will you not get hot without the air flow?” She asked in the breaths between increasingly desperate kisses.

“Aye, but I cannot have them hear you. The pleasure of hearing you sing so sweetly belongs to me alone.” He said, nipping at her bottom lip before tossing her onto the bed, following quickly, with a roguish smile.