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Chapter Text

Robb was speaking to someone.

As Myrcella drifted back towards consciousness, she could hear Robb's voice, soft and thick with his Northern accent, discussing something. Rolling onto her other side, Myrcella opened her eyes to find Robb standing near the window overlooking the yard as sunlight began to filter in, Ned wide awake on his chest.

“And Brynden,” Robb was saying, his fingers idly stroking Ned's back, “he is small but he is so smart. He is only five, but he already knows all of his letters and reads as well as your older brothers. He wants to be a maester. Your sister Joanna is a beautiful girl. She is so sweet; your grandmother writes how gentle she is.” As Ned babbled, Robb chuckled before continuing. “Lya is your uncle Rickon's natural daughter with your aunt Elenya, but you will know her as your sister. I am going to legitimize her as Rickon's daughter; she deserves to be a Stark as well. She is like Aunt Arya, which is both good and bad. She says she wants to be a knight, but she is still small, barely even two. They will love you as you will love them.”

Myrcella could hear the longing in Robb's voice, his desire for his words to be true; she knew he worried Ned would not be accepted by their children. Though the children had taken to Lya without incident, Myrcella knew there was a difference between accepting a cousin and accepting a child your father had with another woman. Myrcella knew how deeply it had wounded Jon to never fully be accepted as a Stark and how much it bothered Robb; no matter how complicated her feelings were for poor departed Jeyne Westerling, Myrcella did not wish for Ned to know that sort of alienation.

“You will love Winterfell,” Robb stated with more certainty in his voice, beginning to pace the floor as Ned made a high, whining noise. “Your mother was Southron, from the Westerlands, but you have Northern blood. Jeyne was afraid of the North, but I told her it was not nearly as scary as her mother made it sound.” Robb was quiet for a moment, bouncing Ned in his arms, before confessing, “Your mother was a wonderful woman with a gentle heart, and I did not do well by her. I suppose I could have learned to love her in time, had it not...”

Had it not been for me, Myrcella silently finished, pressing her face into Robb's pillow, inhaling the scent of him. She suddenly wished she had remained asleep, not wanting to hear the rest of her husband's words.

“Myrcella is my wife and your stepmother, but I hope you will come to love her as your mother. She is...I have loved her since I was barely more than a boy, and I do not know how not to love her. I wed your mother Jeyne because I thought Myrcella was dead, and I could not bear it. If you must hate anyone when you are older, place the blame with me. I truly believe Myrcella would have let Jeyne be my queen if I had not constantly pushed.” Robb pressed a kiss to the top of Ned's head. “I am no king, Ned. I am just a man, and I do not wish you to ever know the sorrows of my life.”

Myrcella listened as Greta came to reclaim Ned for his morning feeding, and, when the chamber door closed again, she finally sat up. Robb stood looking out the window, his broad back to her, and she could see the wilt to his shoulders, burdened down by all which was about to happen. In three days time, he, his men, Jon and his dragon were going to march upon the Twins to free the allies in the Freys' dungeons before going on to Winterfell; while they marched North, Daenerys and her allies were going to King's Landing. If rebellion had been what filled the Seven Kingdoms before, all out warfare was going to be declared, complete with the dragons of old, and it made Myrcella ill to think of it too closely.

“I must be a poor wife if you leave my bed so early.”

Robb turned, a tired smile on his face. His eyes took in her bare breasts appreciatively as he crossed to the bed, perching beside her. Their lips met in a long, soft kiss before Robb pulled back, absently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I am to meet with Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan to discuss the upcoming battles. Trystane is to meet with us as well.”

Myrcella smiled at the hint of distaste in Robb's voice. Ever since Trystane had too much strongwine one night and groped her during a dance, Robb was desperate to punch the Dornishman. With Arianne's presence at Riverrun, his interactions with the young prince were limited, but even the sound of Trystane's name was enough to spoil his mood.

“Try to keep a civil tongue.”

“I would keep a civil tongue if he did not lust after you so blatantly.”

Drawing him down for another kiss, she reminded him, “I do not want Trystane Martell. Why would I toil with a prince when I have a king?”

Robb smirked, tumbling her back against the pillows. Myrcella raised her mouth, her hands already reaching for his laces when Robb caught her hands gently. Pressing kisses to her fingers, he groaned, “I must go, but I will be back as quickly as possible. Stay here and do not put a stitch on.”

“You have become so demanding since becoming king.”

“I swear that, when we are at Winterfell again, I will gladly remain naked in your bed for as long as you want me there.”

But we will not have time because you are the king now, and you belong to the North even more than you belong to me.

But Myrcella knew Robb thought the overwhelming demands on his time would lessen once the war was over. He did not understand that keeping the peace was twice as exhausting, that being Warden of the North was not going to be anything when compared to being King in the North. Myrcella remembered what it was like as a child, how her father was constantly being besieged by Jon Arryn and the other men on the small council, how the drinking and the whoring increased as time went on as a way of escaping.

He will need a strong Hand, she thought as Robb went to his meeting. He trusts Theon as well as anyone but the North will never fully trust a Greyjoy. Jon's legitimization by Dany makes him Targaryen; he will remain in King's Landing, likely as her consort. Arya has no head for politics, and Gendry knows nothing of the North. Mayhaps Bran if he is willing; he has been invaluable in keeping Rickard protected. But we will also need a small council. Once we've assembled a Kingsguard, he can appoint Lord Commander; that still leaves Master of Coin, Master of Laws, Master of Whispers, Master of Ships, and Grand Maester.

Rising from the bed, Myrcella wrapped herself in a heavy robe before sitting at the desk, locating a piece of parchment and beginning to write.

Lord Manderly should be Master of Ships. Lord Glover certainly deserves a place as does the Greatjon once he is freed. And I will insist on one of the Mormonts having a seat; they have served us and our family well. If Maester Luwin was alive, we could raise him to Grand Maester, but he perished during the siege. Mayhaps we could find a way to release Sam Tarly of his vows to the Wall; he would make a fine Grand Maester. And if Dany strips the Lannisters of their lands and titles, Tommen could come North and we could find a place for him. Robb has always loved Tommen.

By the time Robb returned, good-naturedly complaining about the robe on her shoulders, Myrcella had filled three pages with appointments and thoughts on how the North should be governed. She listed ideas for the Kingsguard, potential alliances which could be strengthened through marriage, even ideas for how to strengthen relations with Lord Commander Mormont at the Wall. Robb stood over her shoulder, reading her careful script, after a moment he set the paper down and sighed.

“I was simply trying - “

“Why would you make Theon the Master of Whispers?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Men trust Theon; he is everyone's favorite man to share a drink. And he spends more time in brothels than my uncle Tyrion, and everyone knows whores know all the secrets of the realm, shared by drunken lords and desperate guards.”

“And Tommen as Master of Coin?”

“Well, Lannisters do shit gold.” Robb laughed, shaking his head. “If Daenerys doesn't take all of the Lannister holdings, if I can convince her that Tommen and Tyrion are not going to work against her, it makes Tyrion Lord of Casterly Rock. Jaime told me Tommen increased the coffers of the Westerlands twice over during his time in the West, and he did so without taxing the poor into absolute hunger. I think he could be a loyal lord to you.”

Robb nodded silently before remarking, “You have not named a Hand.”

“I assumed you would want to do so, though I have listed options. You will need a strong Hand. The North loves you well, but the North is also the size of the South. You will collapse if you do not have someone to handle the more tedious matters.”

“And if I wished to name you? Is that an option?”

Myrcella blinked in surprise. “I am the queen. I cannot be the Hand.”

“Why not? You've listed Gendry as an option for the Kingsguard, and he and Arya have been...whatever he and Arya are for years.”

“We do not have to do everything like they do in the South. Good men can serve a king well without having to hold nothing of their own.”

“Then why can the queen not also by the Hand?”

Rising from her chair, Myrcella crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head with a shrug. “Because I do not want it. I never even wanted a crown. I know everyone calls me the Kingmaker, but I did not do it for you or for our children; I only did what I did to keep our children from Joffrey.”

“I know that.”

“You know it, but you do not understand it.” Sitting on the bed, Myrcella rubbed her face with her hands before pronouncing, “You do not know what it is like to be a woman and to be a Lannister on top of it. Your men may like me, but if you name me your Hand, it will weaken you in their eyes and make them suspicious of me. I'm the daughter of Cersei and Jaime Lannister. No one is like to forget that.”

“And I have told you half-a-hundred times I do not care about that.”

“Just because you do not care about it does not mean it ceases to matter to others.” Letting Robb tilt her head back so she was staring up into his eyes, she sighed, “I know who I am, Robb, and I am not ashamed of it. Let some deserving man serve as your Hand, and I will be content to host their pretty wives and smile.”

“You are worth more than that.”

Drawing him down for a kiss, she assured him, “I will not be the first capable woman who wastes her days sipping tea and embroidering shirts.”

But I will be the first who chose uselessness when a kingdom was offered.

She was in the godswood with Ghost and Grey Wind when Prince Rhaego found her. His silver hair matched the melting snow on the ground, and he looked semi-ridiculous in this outfit of furs and boots; not even the men at the Wall had worn such heavy furs. Daenerys said the Dothraki Sea did not get cold the way Westeros did, that Slaver's Bay became cool but high snows never fell; Myrcella thought it sounded nice to live in a place where winter never beat people so viciously.

Rhaego was accompanied by two Dothraki men, the ones Daenerys called her bloodriders. The queen said they spoke the Common Tongue but Myrcella only ever heard them speak Dothraki. Irri, one of Daenerys's handmaidens, taught Myrcella a handful of words to help her with Daenerys's people, but her accent was atrocious and often earned more snickers than understanding. When the men saw the wolves, they pulled their arakhs, and Myrcella held up her hands.

“They won't hurt you,” she immediately said.

One of the bloodriders spat something in Dothraki but Rhaego interrupted him in the same language before stepping forward tentatively. “Mother says your husband's wolves are like our dragons. She says they are parts of the Starks.”

“All of Eddard Stark's children have a direwolf.”

“Now that Jon has Rhaegal, what will happen to his wolf?”

“I imagine he will keep Ghost as well. If his dragon is the Targaryen part of him, then Ghost is the Stark part.” Scratching the top of Grey Wind's head, Myrcella told the wolves to return to the castle, and they immediately took off into the trees, loping playfully through the snow. “Have you come to pray to the Old Gods?”

Rhaego shook his head. “My mother worships the Seven and my father kept to Dothraki beliefs.” His handsome face darkened. “Or so I am told.”

“You do not remember your father?”

“He died the day I was born. A maegi promised to save him from blood poisoning but it was a trick. His name was Khal Drogo, and he was the greatest khal in the world. His braid was longer than any other man's and full of bells.”

Myrcella knew from Obara that the bells in a Dothraki's hair signified how many men the person had killed; she could hear the tinkle of the single bell in Rhaego's braid. “I am sorry you did not know him.”

“I came into the forest because I was bored and Ser Jorah said his people keep the Old Gods. I wanted to see a heart tree.”

She gestured to the tree beside her, its face brightly red in the white of the land. “Here it is.”

The boy stared at the tree for a moment, touching its face with gloved fingers, before asking, “Do you truly think the Old Gods are in this tree?”

“I believe they can be in the heart tree as much as I believe they can be in the Great Sept of Baelor.”

Rhaego nodded before asking, “What did you ask the Gods for?”

“For the war to end without the people I love dying. For the war to end.”

“I would like that too.” Idly kicking snow with the toe of his boot, he asked, “When the war is over, can your sons come to court so we can play?”

For the first time Myrcella truly looked at Daenerys's son and saw just how young he was. Even at two-and-ten, only a few years younger than she had been when she wed Robb, Rhaego was still a child who was being asked to ride a dragon into battle, to take back a kingdom which meant nothing to him. Ser Barristan told her Rhaego was the subject of a prophecy, that he was “the Stallion who Mounts the World,” but Rhaego looked less like a warrior and very much like a boy who would prefer to have snowball fights and smile at girls.

“I am sure they would like that.”

As she walked with Rhaego back to the castle, she thought of Steffon, so far away in Eyrie, and wondered how heavily the crown would rest upon his head one day.

Robb and his men were to depart for the Twins in two days time, and the stress of it began to weigh upon Myrcella. She did not dare voice her fears, not when everyone she loved was preparing to go to war, and so Myrcella found herself drinking strongwine that evening in one of the empty parlors. Despite the presence of wine and mead at every meal, Myrcella never much had a taste for it; too many nights of watching Robert stumble and bellow after indulging too much had soured her on it. But as she swallowed the strongwine back, she found the tension starting to leave her body, her thoughts clouding enough that the ever-present twist of fear in her chest began to loosen.

She was well on her way to completely intoxicated when Theon stumbled into the room. His eyes widened at the sight of her drinking directly from the skin before he drawled, amusement thick in his voice, “Are you drunk?”

Trying to look intimidating despite the fact the world was starting to blur, she retorted, “You may stay and drink or leave me in peace, but you cannot stay and lecture.”

Theon held up his hands in surrender. “I would never, Your Grace. May I have a drink?”

Myrcella handed him the skin, watched as he took a heavy pull from it. His eyes widened a bit as the liquid hit his tongue before he passed it back.

“That's Dornish strongwine. You're going to get sick if you finish all that.”

“That sounds remarkably like lecturing.” Clutching the wineskin tighter, she declared, “I am not going to share my wine with you anymore.”

Theon smiled as he sank into the chair opposite her. “You are a mean drunk, Cella. I hope you know that.”

“Drinking always made Robert so happy. I thought I would try it.” Wiping stray drops of wine from her lips, she bluntly asked, “Why have you never married, Theon? You are over thirty, and there are women who would wed you.”

Theon's face darkened a moment before replying, “I suppose I have not found a lady I have wanted to keep forever.”

“It is hard to find ladies in brothels, I suppose.” Ignoring his irritated expression, she continued, “You are a good man. Promise me you will not die when you go North.”

“I will not die,” he dutifully replied. “Nor will I allow Robb to die.”

“Make sure he does not take another wife as well,” she retorted, and Myrcella was surprised by the bitterness in her voice. She had never fully discussed Jeyne with Robb, especially since her death, and, though she was doing everything she could to nurture Ned, there was still a burn in her chest at the reminder of Jeyne Westerling.

Mayhaps I am more like Lady Catelyn than I believed.

Theon reached over, taking the wineskin from her hand; she could tell from his expression he had no intentions of giving it back. “Don't get angry because you don't want to be scared. It will get you both killed.”

Flushing from embarrassment, feeling as chastised as a child, Myrcella stumbled to her feet, nearly tumbling over. Theon rose, bracing her by the elbow, and she sagged against him, grateful for the support.

“Please do not tell him what I said,” she murmured as Theon began to escort her back towards her rooms.

Theon nodded. “It would serve no purpose.”

“But I did mean what I said: you should marry.”

His laughter was as bitter as her snipe about Robb. “I have nothing to offer a lady. Asha sits upon my throne, and, though I am no longer a hostage, I have nowhere else to go even if I wanted to leave. The North will never see me as anything but a treasonous Greyjoy and the Iron Isles will only ever see me as a greenlander. If I am lucky, Robb will arrange a marriage for me with some witless maid no other fool wanted.”

Myrcella instantly thought of Lollys Stokeworth. “I will find you a good lady to love.”

“Oh, my heart was stolen long ago by a sweet, little princess who married my brother.” Theon smiled disarmingly, the echo of pain visible in his eyes even through her haze of drunkenness. “I shall never love again and must content myself with wenches and dishonorable ladies.”

“You would not want my love, Theon. The price is far too high.” Nearly tripping up a stair, she slurred, “If Robb had married someone else, even if he had married Jeyne to start, he would be in Winterfell right now with Eddard and Rickon and all the rest. He would be safe and sound. Everyone would be safe and sound.”

“Robb is happy to pay it.”

When she tripped again, her face narrowly avoiding a stone wall, Theon swept her into his arms; Myrcella wanted to protest, but her stomach was churning. Closing her eyes, Myrcella did not realize she drifted off to sleep until she awoke to Robb's hands on her face, concern on his face.

“My head hurts,” she whimpered, and Robb cracked a smile.

“Strongwine does that.” Slipping his hands beneath her back, undoing the laces there before drawing the gown carefully from Myrcella's body, Robb said, “I cannot remember you ever having more than a few glasses of wine in all the time I've known you.”

Trying to wrestle herself free from her shift, she mumbled, “Everyone looks so happy when they drink. I thought it would make me forget for a little bit.” She dropped back against the pillows, tossing her shift to the floor, now clad in only her smallclothes. “I do not want to be left behind.”

Robb brushed a soft kiss against her brow. “Never again, my love.”

The next time Myrcella woke, it was to vomit everything in her stomach. Robb roused beside her, calling a servant to bring fresh water; by the time Myrcella was finished and the servant took away the basin, her throat burned like fire and her stomach ached.

“I shall never drink again,” she moaned as she rinsed the sour taste from her mouth.

Robb rubbed her back comfortingly. “It has happened to us all, sweetling. When you are feeling better, I shall tell you a very funny one about Rickon, a mule, two ladies from Acorn Hall, and a very angry miller.”

Setting back into the furs, Robb cradling her against his chest, she whispered, “I miss Rickon so much. Every time I see Arya or Gendry, I look for him. I loved him as well as Tommen.”

“I know.” His fingers carding through her hair, he divulged, “The day word of the siege reached us, I could not find him anywhere. When I finally found him, he was in a grove of trees just...hacking with his sword, crying harder than he had since he was a babe. He was shouting how he was going to kill everyone, how he was going to take Roose Bolton's head with Ice, how he was going to burn King's Landing to the ground. And then he said, 'How could he kill her? She was my best friend.'”

Myrcella pressed her face against his shoulder, tears stinging her eyes. “You must kill the Freys for what they did to him and Shaggydog.”

“I will,” Robb solemnly swore. “And for Littlejon, for Dacey, for every man who went to that damned wedding and found themselves betrayed. Then I will march north and make Roose Bolton pay for all he did; I will pull the Dreadfort apart stone by stone with my bare hands if I must.”

“Dreadfort should be Theon's,” she murmured as sleep began to pull at her again. “He deserves a home of his own when the war is done.”

“Everyone deserves a home.”

“Careful, Your Grace. You are starting to sound more like a septon than a king.”

Tucking the furs more securely around their bodies, he teased, “If you were not so sickened from wine, I would prove to you how unlike a septon I truly am.”

Myrcella drifted off to sleep, her dreams full of Winterfell, direwolves, and the little boy who once declared he would duel Robb for the right to marry her as long as she promised to never make Shaggydog sleep outside.

Jon found her as the men were preparing to depart from Riverrun. Myrcella could not bring herself to go out into the yard, afraid she would cling to Robb and beg him not to go, and so she remained in one of the solars, watching as Rhaego petted Viserion as if he was nothing more than one of Tommen's kittens.

“They don't scare you,” Jon commented as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her, pointing to Viserion and Rhaegal.

“They scare me,” she corrected, absently reaching down to scratch Ghost's head. “It is just that the size of them does not surprise me. There are dragon skulls in the lower levels of the Red Keep.”

Jon nodded. “It is strange. When I am with Ghost, I have this connection to him like the one Robb has with Grey Wind or Arya has with Nymeria; even Sansa talks of her bond with Lady. But when I go near Rhaegal, it is as if there is something...more.”

“Blood of the dragon.”

“But did Lyanna Stark willingly create a child with the dragon prince or did he take what he wanted?” A flicker of a bitter smile tugged at his lips. “Dany had black armor inlaid with rubies made for me, armor like Rhaegar's so all of Westeros knows I am King Jon Targaryen, the Prince Who Was Promised.”

“You do not believe it?”

“My blood may be Targaryen, but my father was Eddard Stark. I can be dressed in Rhaegar's armor, I can even share the Iron Throne with Dany, but I am a Stark of Winterfell.” His eyes met hers meaningfully. “Like you.”

“Like me,” she agreed. As Rhaego hopped upon Viserion's back, Myrcella teased, “Tyene tells me you have spent many a night in the Queen's bed.”

Jon's cheeks burned crimson. “Tyene is a gossip.”

“But not a liar.”

“Robb thinks it is disgusting because, if Rhaegar was my father, then Daenerys is my aunt. I have the better claim for the throne, he says, and I do not need to warm Dany's bed to claim it.”

“My parents were twins, so I cannot cast a stone. But I do not think you stay in Dany's chambers because you are so desperate to have a crown.” Turning, wrapping her arms firmly around Jon, she declared against the thick wool of his shirt, “I do not care if you are a Targaryen, a Stark, or a baseborn bastard. Just come back because I could not stand to lose another brother.”

Jon squeezed her tightly, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “I had hoped you would do me a favor.”

Myrcella lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Anything.”

“I cannot bring Ghost aboard Rhaegal, and he does not listen to Robb half-so-well as he listens to you. I was hoping you would care for him until I return.”

“Of course.” Resting her head against his chest again, she sighed, “Do not die again, Jon Snow, or I will be very angry.”

“I shall do my very best.”

“Stealing my wife, Snow?” Robb asked as he entered the room, his armor already in place, looking every ounce the king he was. Myrcella thought of the last time she saw Eddard Stark, how large and imposing he seemed as he tried to fight back Roose Bolton's men, how certain she was he would use his greatsword to send the men of the Dreadfort back. Robb did not appear intimidating to her – he never had - but she knew he would do whatever it took to return the Starks to Winterfell.

“Mayhaps she is stealing me,” Jon japed as he pulled away, bending to ruffle Ghost's fur before rising. Brushing a kiss against Myrcella's forehead, he said, “I should get my armor from Gendry. Take good care of Ghost.”

“Take good care of Robb.”

Jon grinned as his eyes briefly landed on Robb. “I will try, but he is not nearly as well-behaved as Ghost.”

Robb's laughter followed Jon out of the solar, and Myrcella tried to steel herself for this good-bye. She thought of Cersei Lannister, of the way she would never cry out when Robert's hand connected with her cheek, of the utterly placid expression she wore even when the world was collapsing down around her; in that moment, Myrcella wished she had more of Cersei in her.

Robb smoothed his hands over her hair. “You needn't worry so. I will have more than enough men to support me and a bloody dragon as well. Besides, once the Greatjon is free of his cell, he will do more damage than Jon's dragon ever will.”

Hating the plaintive tone of her voice, she asked, “Why can I not come? Arya says I am as good with a sword as any of your men, and I have Jaime's blade - “

“And should something happen, you will be Queen Regent until Steffon is of age,” he interrupted, his voice kind but firm. “Gendry is remaining with you as a member of the Kingsguard until we can appoint a true guard. If I should fall - “

“Robb - “

“If I should fall,” he continued, raising his voice to cut off her words, “Theon and Jon will take the men North to reclaim Winterfell. Robert Arryn is marching the Vale's forces to join with ours in the North while the Blackfish guards Steffon in the Eyrie; when Winterfell has been secured, the Blackfish will return Steffon there. Sansa has the children on Bear Island with Mother; Maege is leaving a contingent of men there before marching to meet us with the mountain clans. The Reeds will hold the Neck; once we pass, there is no way for a Southron force to reach us.”

“Robb - “

He gently pressed his fingers to Myrcella's lips. “Let me finish, love. Sansa has offered to foster Ned if you do not wish...I have left instructions that you are to appoint the small council. If you remarry - “

“Stop it!” she cried as tears flooded her eyes. “You are not going to die, and I am not going to remarry! You are going to take back our home, and we are going to rule the North! Now kiss me and go take the Twins.”

Robb smiled, his own eyes moist with emotion before obeying, his mouth firm and insistent against hers. Myrcella wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to draw him nearer, and she felt his hands clutch at the material of her skirts desperately, undoubtedly reminded of their last goodbye, of all the pain which followed. She could taste the salt of their combined tears on her tongue, his fingers biting into the soft flesh of her hips, and Myrcella forced herself to pull away.

“I shall see you when the war is over,” he vowed, only the slightest of uncertainty in his tone.

“I shall be waiting.”

When Robb's men left for the North, when Daenerys's men left for King's Landing, when Arianne's men left to join with Renly at Storm's End, Myrcella sat with Ghost in the nearly empty dining hall pushing her food about her plate. Lady Roslin and Edmure's children were somewhere in the castle, Roslin as aware as Myrcella that, for her husband to win, her family must lose; Myrcella wanted to offer her kind words, but Roslin had cared deeply for Jeyne and missed her presence. When Gendry finally joined her, taking the seat opposite of her, his plate piled high with food, Myrcella looked up and noticed, not for the 100th time, how much Arya's lover looked like Renly, like what Robert must have looked like when he was young.

Though never gregarious, Gendry was rarely downright unfriendly, especially after years spent at Riverrun and amongst Robb's men. Arya good-naturedly complained he was stupid, but Myrcella was observant enough to know there was nothing stupid about Gendry Baratheon; he was quiet and a bit gruff, but he was as loyal to Robb as Theon, Jon, or Bran. Tonight, though, Gendry's expression was deeply troubled, downright angry, and Myrcella suspected she knew precisely why.

“I did not want to be left behind either,” she offered, pushing her beets aside the way Tommen once did.

Gendry raised his blue eyes, his guarded expression faltering a bit. Finally he said, “Arya has never ridden into battle without me by her side.”

“How did you even meet Arya?”

Swallowing back some mead, he said, “I was an apprentice in King's Landing when Arya came in with this little sword Jon Snow gave her; the blade broke somehow and she wanted it fixed. My master wasn't in the shop, and she offered me a handful of dragons to repair it without telling anyone, which I did. But every day she came to the shop to make sure I would not cheat her, bold and mouthy as could be. Even after I fixed it, she kept coming back; she didn't care much for court and wanted a friend. One day Lord Stark followed her in. He took one look at me, knew whose bastard I was, and next thing I knew, I was being sent here to be the new armorer.”

“And Arya?”

Gendry cracked a smile. “You've never heard this story?” When Myrcella shook her head, he explained, “Joffrey found her play-jousting with Bran and Tommen one day, and Arya said she could ride a better tilt than he could. When she unhorsed him before most of court, Joffrey was humiliated, your queenly mother was furious, and Lord Stark sent her here to keep Lady Tully company.”

Myrcella laughed at the image of Joffrey unseated by Arya. “And the rest is history?”

“I suppose.”

Hesitating only a moment, she asked, “Why do you not marry her? By rights, you are the Lord of Storm's End. Renly would - “

“I am no Baratheon, king's words or not. I know nothing of the Stormlands and no man is going to bend the knee to the son of an alehouse worker.”

“But you love her,” she stated with certainty. “You would die for her.”

Gendry was quiet for a long beat before divulging, “When the siege of Winterfell happened, when Lord Stark died, she came to me in the forge and drug me to the godswood. She made me take off her cloak and put mine on her shoulders, and then she said we were wed.” He shrugged. “Arya does things as Arya wishes.”

“I envy her that.”

Gendry refilled his cup, his face serious. “I swore to your husband I would let no harm come to you. And I swore to Arya I would let no harm come to your children.”

“I appreciate that.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Appreciate it all you want, Your Grace, but I am telling you this because I do not like to break my promises. And while I do not know you well, I have seen you swing your sword with Arya enough to know you could easily seek out trouble.”

“I will seek no trouble,” she promised.

But I will face whatever trouble finds its way to me.

The raven arrived a fortnight after Robb's army marched, the letter sealed with a wax direwolf. Myrcella tore it open like a child with a present, desperate to read Robb's words, to read any words about what was happening.

Daenerys's raven arrived three days later, a red seal with a three-headed dragon adorning the letter, her bold hand declaring that the Crownlands had fallen and King Joffrey and his supporters were in cells.

Myrcella scribbled her promise of arriving as quickly as her horse could carry her before ordering Gendry and the men left to protect her to ready for a ride to King's Landing. Someone would need to speak for Tommen, for Tyrion, for sweet Elaine Tarly and her babe, for Margaery Tyrell and Ser Arys Oakheart.

And if anyone was going to see Joffrey pay for the evils he had done, it was Myrcella.

Myrcella barely recognized King's Landing as they rode into the city; when she last left King's Landing, people were literally starving to death in the streets, unrest heavy with Joffrey's ascendance to the throne. Now, with the Dothraki and Unsullen in the streets, food being distributed by Daenerys, there were no beggars crying for coin, no men who looked ready to attack in hopes of stealing their riches. As she rode through the streets, Ghost keeping pace beside her, the crown she rarely wore atop her head, people turned to look at her; she saw them point and whisper, undoubtedly noticing Jaime's sword on her hip, her Lannister looks and her Stark wolf.

When the first person bent the knee, Myrcella thought Daenerys was in the crowd. It was only when the others began to do the same as she rode past, their heads bowed in deference, Myrcella realized they were bending for her, for the Queen in the North come to court.

Ser Barristan met them at the entrance to the castle, clad once again in his white armor and cloak, and Myrcella could not help but smile as he helped her from her horse.

“I trust your trip was well, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said as she smoothed the lines on her gown, his nose wrinkling briefly at the sight of Jaime's sword.

“Yes, thank you, Ser Barristan,” she replied, the words more automatic than anything, the courtly manners unconscious as ever. As Ser Barristan lead her to the throne room, Gendry and Ghost on either side of her, Myrcella noticed the Lannister and Baratheon tapestries had been replaced with Targaryen ones, all trace of lions and stags erased. She heard Gendry gasp as they entered the throne room, dragon skulls once again lining the walls, and Myrcella heard murmurs of shock from the assembly of people inside at the sight of her.

They thought me as dead as Robert. And those that knew I lived, think me as nothing more than another Lannister.

Daenerys sat upon the Iron Throne clad in a gown of crimson and black, her dragon crown atop her silver hair, a smile stretching across her face. “Queen Myrcella, we are so grateful you and Ser Gendry could join us while your husband is in the North.”

Myrcella dropped into a curtsy, ignoring the looks of the familiar men and women in the hall. “Thank you for the invitation, Queen Daenerys.”

“Would you like to rest before we begin?”

Myrcella rose, shaking her head through the exhaustion in her limbs. “No, Your Grace, I am ready to begin.”

The members of Joffrey's small council came first, a mixture of men Myrcella knew her whole life and newer men she barely recognized. Lord Varys and Mace Tyrell were pardoned; Lord Baelish was sent back to the Fingers and Grand Maester Pycelle, to Oldtown. Myrcella did not know the other men, but one swore he would return his family to Essos and the other took the knee. Margaery Tyrell came next, looking as plain as Myrcella had ever seen her, but, while her face was plainly deferential, Myrcella could still see the wonderfully scheming girl she loved so in her eyes. When her pardon was announced, her queenly title stripped, Margaery thanked Daenerys effusively.

“If I may, Your Grace,” Margaery ventured, voice still soft and subservient, “I would ask permission to remain at court. I would serve you well, Queen Daenerys, and Queen Myrcella will attest to my loyalty to your reign.”

“She is correct, Your Grace,” Myrcella agreed. “Margaery was one of your most loyal supporters while I was at court.”

Daenerys was quiet for a moment before nodding minutely. “Rise, Lady Margaery. I will grant your request. Ser Loras, please escort your sister to one of the rooms for my ladies.”

As Margaery dutifully took her brother's arm, Myrcella could see the grin in Margaery's eyes. Always growing, indeed.

Tommen was brought next, and Myrcella nearly rushed from her seat to embrace him. He was as tall as Jaime now, though still plump; his hair was a bit too long, his cheeks covered in several days' growth, and his fine clothing was dirty. His green eyes widened when he saw her and he tried to move forward, shouting her name, when two of Daenerys's bloodriders caught him, forcing him to the knee.

“Do not hurt him!” Myrcella cried, rising to her feet. “He means me no harm!”

Tommen's face crumpled as the Dothraki cautiously stepped back. “They told me you were dead,” he said, his voice trembling as it had when he was small.

Before Myrcella could reply, Daenerys said, “Tommen Baratheon, you have been called to court to answer for the crimes of your family. I have been told you raised no arms during your brother's false reign. Is this true?”

Tommen cautiously nodded. “I was at Casterly Rock with my wife and son.”

“Do you believe Robert Baratheon was the True King of Westeros, that your brother Joffrey has a right to the throne?”

Tommen was quiet for a long moment before he answered, his voice stronger than Myrcella ever heard it. “Even if Robert Baratheon was the True King, Joffrey would have no right as he, my sister, and I are not of his seed.” Meeting Daenerys's gaze, he declared, “I do not want your throne, Queen Daenerys, nor will my son. I will not try to save Joffrey after all he has done. But if you need to have my head, I only ask you spare my lady wife, who would never commit treason, and my son, who is only a babe.”

Daenerys was silent for so long, Myrcella announced, “The North will take him, Your Grace, he and his family. We will make sure he commits no treason.”

“And if he does? Would your husband take your brother's head?” Daenerys challenged.

“The North has no place for oathbreakers. I give you my word: if Tommen tries to rise against the Iron Throne, I will take his head myself.”

Daenerys studied her for a moment before declaring, “I pardon you, Tommen Baratheon, of your crimes in service to the False King, but you will live out your days as a hostage of the King in the North. Return him to his wife and son but keep a Northern guard upon him until he is taken to Winterfell.”

Tommen stumbled a bit as he rose, his eyes finding Myrcella's, and she wished she could rush to him, assure him he would be comfortable and safe with her. He smiled, mouthing thanks, before being rushed away, Tyrion coming to rest in his abandoned place. Unlike Tommen, there was nothing particularly fearful in his demeanor; much like Jaime, he came before the Dragon Queen which an impertinent smile and Lannister bravado.

As Daenerys listed the crimes of which he was accused, Tyrion yawned before winking at Myrcella, a smirk on his face; Myrcella could see the anger starting to rise in Daenerys at his refusal to be cowed, and Myrcella wanted to shout out a warning, wanted to keep Tyrion from his older brother's fate.

“Am I amusing to you, Imp?”

“All I find amusing, Your Grace, is you think I possess enough power to overthrow dragons. You must have me confused with my brother.”

“I took your brother's head.”

Tyrion's face darkened, the first true hints of his rage flickering in his mismatched eyes. “Yes, I know. I received his bones. How kind of you, Queen Daenerys.”

“Tyrion,” Myrcella began, warning thick in her voice.

Tyrion did not listen. “You may kill me, but I will not stand here and beg. Even an imp has pride. My only crime is being a Lannister. I was your brother Viserys's age when your father was slain; I would say something kind about him, but, truth be told, he was a cruel, little bastard. I didn't help Robert fight his rebellion, didn't hold a command in any of Joffrey's armies, and, when your men sacked King's Landing, I didn't do anything but walk into my cell. So take my head for being a Lannister, Your Grace. After all, it is what your father would have done.”

Myrcella was certain she was going to declare his life forfeit, waiting with bated breath for the pronouncement. It was only after an uncomfortably long silence, Daenerys said, “Tyrion Lannister, I hereby strip you of all lands, moneys, and holdings. You are banished from the Six Kingdoms of Westeros; should you be found in any kingdom by the next moon, your life will be forfeit.”

“What of the North, Your Grace?”

“I am not Queen in the North, Imp.”

Tyrion turned to face Myrcella, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Am I welcome in the North, Queen Myrcella? I have many skills which could be of use to the North.”

“You are welcome,” Myrcella said, ignoring the look of distaste on Daenerys's face, “under the same terms as Tommen.”

Cersei fought as they brought her before the Iron Throne, shrieking for the guards to release her. She was more unkempt than Myrcella ever remembered seeing her, her hair wild and uncombed, her dress filthy and torn; there was a wildness in her eyes which scared her. Jaime once told her his time in a cell did not bother him much because soldiers were prepared to be held; Cersei had not been conditioned for a cage which was not gilded.

Daenerys said Cersei's name several times but Cersei did not respond, her gaze focused on the sword at Myrcella's side, Jaime's sword. When Daenerys ordered she be returned to her cell, declaring her to be mad, Cersei suddenly reared forward, voice echoing in the chamber as she shrieked, “I should have smothered you at birth! Jaime was worth ten of you, you treasonous whore! Kinslayer! You shall burn in all seven hells for what you have done!”

“Take her out!” Daenerys shouted as a wave of comments began amongst the people.

Myrcella could feel the eyes of the court upon her, waiting for her reaction. She wanted to shout how she tried to save Jaime, how she would have done anything to keep him alive; she wanted to smack Cersei the way Robert had and scream how unfair it was of her to bear Jaime's children and pass them off as Robert's, to love a monster like Joffrey and completely disregard her and Tommen. But most of all Myrcella wanted to ask her why: why Jaime, why Joffrey, why did she act so recklessly and maliciously when it was not needed.

But Myrcella did none of that. Instead she reached down, anxiously twisting her fingers in Ghost's fur, and schooled her face to reveal nothing.

Daenerys gave her the Tower of the Hand for her quarters, but Myrcella could not sleep. Come morning, Joffrey, Tywin, and Gregor Clegane would be brought before court for their sentences; Myrcella did not even try to convince herself they would be spared. The Mountain deserved death for what he did to Elia Martell and baby Aegon, and Myrcella knew from Arianne that Oberyn was going to provide that justice, the same with Tywin who ordered the murders of Rhaegar's family. As for Joffrey, even if Daenerys did not put him to death for his activities as False King, Myrcella knew she would insist he be put to sword for engineering the Red Wedding, for releasing Bolton upon the North. Joffrey Baratheon, the False King, would die tomorrow, and Myrcella could not bring herself to summon up even a sliver of compassion for him.

The men guarding the black cells did not want to let her pass, shifting uneasily and sputtering about needing permission from Queen Daenerys. Myrcella found it surprisingly easy to adopt Cersei's voice as she ordered them to let her pass or she would talk to the queen. Even with a torch, it was difficult to see, but Myrcella remembered the black of the forest outside Winterfell, the blind darkness of the Wall; cells did not scare Myrcella.

Joffrey was housed in the cell nearest the entrance, and he flinched from the light when she raised her torch, shielding his eyes. He was positively filthy, a patchy beard on his face, and, when he saw exactly who was standing outside his cell, his eyes widened in an approximation of fear.

“You are dead.”

“Once I suppose I was,” she agreed, sinking upon a stool she borrowed from one of the turnkeys, “but I rose again. Mayhaps if you had sent better men, I would have known true death.”

Joffrey's face darkened. “You are not real. I have been ill fed here; you are a hallucination, a fever dream.”

“Do you often dream of me? Are they dreams of regret for what you did or dark dreams of what you wish you did?” When Joffrey said nothing, she assured him, “I am no dream, brother. I am Myrcella Stark, Queen in the North, and I have come to see you before the Dragon Queen ends your pitiful life.”

“She will not dare - “

“You have no friends in the Kingdoms,” Myrcella cut in, settling into the role of taunter far better than she expected to. “Dragons are powerful allies, and, even before she left Dragonstone, all but the Westerlands aligned with us. No one is coming to save you. And if you request a trial by combat, Ser Barristan will gladly open you from my navel to neck.”

“You cannot scare me,” he lied. “I do not tremble before Northern whores.”

“I have not come to scare you. I have come to say the last words I will ever say to you, and I want you to hear them.” Leaning close, her voice as cold as the Wall, she said, “I want you to know you did all of this. The North and its allies would never have joined with Daenerys if you had not decided to take my son simply to be spiteful. I would not have delivered the North, and I want you to know without a shadow of doubt that it was I who told Arianne Martell I would deliver the North, that it was I who brought the Stormlands to the war. I plotted treason in the Keep while you dismissed me as a Northern whore, and I did it happily.”

“Shut up!” Joffrey shouted, smacking at the bars.

“On his deathbed, Robert told me you would fuck the kingdom to all seven hells and he lamented the fact I was not a boy. And Jaime, he knew what a twisted monster you are. You will die as the False King, a shadowy blight on the history of Westeros, and I will reign in the North while my sons and their sons are the Kings of Winter. I want you to go to your death knowing I beat you at the game of thrones and you were so blindly stupid, you did not even know I was playing.”

“Shut up, you fucking whore!”

Myrcella rose from the stool, staring at the man who had tormented her so much of her life, who lurked over her shoulder always threatening to attack again. “You had good, honorable men like Eddard and Rickon Stark murdered. You raped me when I was a child, and you did it with a smile on your face. You deserve more pain than you will ever be given, but I will settle for seeing your head on a pike, your eyes eaten by crows, and your name utterly forgotten.”

Turning, refusing to look back as Joffrey pathetically cried her name, Myrcella left the dungeons of the Red Keep, returned to her chambers, and slept soundly for the first time since the war began.

She did not go to court to watch her grandfather and brother be condemned to death. She did not go to look upon Joffrey's head mounted alongside Tywin's and the Mountain's. She did not light candles to the Stranger or pray at the heart tree.

What Myrcella did do was tell Daenerys the North would not welcome Cersei Lannister, guaranteeing her mother would be exiled to Essos.

In the end it did not matter. Daenerys questioned every man in the Red Keep, but no one would tell who put the poison in Cersei's soup. Tyene said the poison was something called “the Strangler,” a particularly nasty poison which killed quickly and efficiently. Myrcella stared upon her mother's body with a peculiar sense of detachment before instructing for her body to be cleaned and placed in a casket.

“I am sorry, Myrcella,” Daenerys offered later after inviting Myrcella to sup with her.

“She did not know how to live without Jaime. Mayhaps it was better this way.” Myrcella knew the words were truth; her mother would not have been able to bear living without Jaime and Joffrey.

“There is the matter of Casterly Rock,” the Dragon Queen said after a moment. “Ser Jorah says I should give it as a worthy man. Ser Barristan says it should be razed like Castamere. Already Mace Tyrell has put forth Ser Loras as a worthy Warden of the West, and Trystane Martell has also been put forth as an option. Who would you suggest?”

“My good-sister Sansa is wed to Quentyn Martell. Quentyn is far more reserved than Trystane or Arianne, but he is loyal and smart. Sansa has been on Bear Island in hiding, but she has a familiarity with Asha Greyjoy which could be useful with the Iron Isles so near. They would be good Wardens.”

Daenerys nodded in understanding. “I will take it under advisement.” Sipping her wine, she said, “It is a pity.”

“What is?”

“That you are Queen in the North. I would quite like for you to remain at court.”

Myrcella smiled wryly. “You are the only one, Your Grace. I make people nervous here.”

“You are not the only one.” Daenerys sighed. “I thought peace would feel more peaceful.”

“Mayhaps when spring comes.”

If it ever does.

Jon returned on Rhaegal's back just as the snows started to melt, the dragon's wings blotting out the sunlight. Myrcella resisted the urge to rush to him, to demand every detail of the Northern conquest; he was no longer her friend from the Wall and she was not just Robb's wife any longer. Men took the knee now as Jon Snow – now King Jon Targaryen – strode past them, the rubies in his armor glittering in the sun, his Valyrian blade strapped to his back. The story of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark was now legend, whispered and elaborated on with every passing day; it did not cease to amaze Myrcella how people swore they knew what happened when very few people remained from before the Rebellion.

He came to her in the Tower of Hand, dropping down to playfully tussle with Ghost before smiling at her. His beard was thicker now, closer to how Eddard Stark once wore his, and his curls were even wilder than they had been at the Wall; it simultaneously made him look older and younger than ever.

“How would you like to go home, my lady?”

Myrcella shivered at the word. Home...The hills, the godswood, the hot springs, the warm stone walls and familiar hallways, the scent of winter mixed in with freshly baking bread and a smell which was distinctively Winterfell. Home was Robb and their children, Old Nan and her stories, Hodor and his gentle ways, Lady Catelyn and her small smiles, Jory Cassel and his infinite patience, Grey Wind romping through the snow. All Myrcella wanted was home, so hungry and desperate for it, it was a physical pain.

But instead all she said was, “Yes, please.”

Daenerys summoned her to her chambers while the carts were loaded for the trek North. Myrcella tried to hide how bizarre it was to stand in what had once been Robert's chambers and see no trace of him, only Dany's mishmash of decorations from all the places she had been. The Dragon Queen did not look particularly queenly today; she was in her Dothraki garb, her feet bare, and her long hair hung in a loose braid down her back. Myrcella smiled when Daenerys hopped from the bed, handing her a large package tied with ribbon.

“I know things are different in the North, but I had some things made for you. If you are going to return to Winterfell a queen, you should look like one.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Dany,” she corrected gently. “Is there nothing I could do to get you to remain here?”

“Nothing could make me stay. It has been years since I have seen my children, and the North is my home.” Myrcella squeezed the package against her chest as she declared, “And if I learned anything from my mother and Margaery, it is that two queens in the Red Keep is unpleasant for everyone.”

Dany chuckled, recognizing the truth in the statement. “You will always be welcome here, Myrcella, you and your family. The Targaryens will not forget all the Starks have done for us.”

Over the past few months, Myrcella had spent a fair amount of time with Daenerys, and, though she was not sure she would ever truly be able to forgive Dany for taking Jaime's head, she also liked the Mad King's daughter. And Myrcella knew from her conversations with Jon that he was going to wed Daenerys Targaryen, was going to remain in King's Landing and help rule the South. Daenerys Targaryen was going to be family, and Myrcella was going to need to learn to make peace with what had been done to Jaime.

“When things are settled, mayhaps we will even come visit you in the North.”

“I would like that.”

Daenerys moved forward, offering Myrcella a brief embrace; Myrcella smiled at just how small the Dragon Queen was, the top of her head barely reaching Myrcella's chin. “In another life, Myrcella, I believe we could have been excellent friends.”

“This life is not over yet, Dany. There is still time.”

Later, as Myrcella rode the fine, new horse Jon secured for her, she spared a backward glance towards the Red Keep, towards all of King's Landing. In the distance she could still see what remained of Gregor Clegane's head, the blurry shapes of Tywin and Joffrey. Turning her attention back towards the road, Myrcella grasped the reins a bit tighter and urged her horse on a little faster.

Winterfell was waiting.

When Winterfell came into view, Myrcella no longer felt the overwhelming exhaustion that the month-long journey caused; she did not think about Tommen or Tyrion, Elaine or her baby. All Myrcella could think was home, and she dug her heels in hard to the sides of her horse, taking off into a run. She heard Gendry swear behind her as his own horse took off, shouting her name to get her to slow, but Myrcella refused, not when she was finally home.

Myrcella vaguely knew the men at the gates as members of House Karstark, but she could not recall their names; both took the knee as they let her pass, and, when she entered the yard, slipping from her saddle, she knew no one was expecting her party until later. As Gendry finally caught her, breathing hard from the pursuit, Myrcella prepared to apologize before she caught sight of Brynden coming out of the glass gardens; she cried his name, tears flooding her eyes. The last time she saw Brynden, he was screaming her name, his little hands reaching for her as Jory rushed him away; he was five now, still only half the size of his brothers at that age, but, as his green eyes widened, Myrcella knew he remembered her.

“Mother!” he screamed, rushing towards her as fast as his legs could carry him. Myrcella met him halfway, scooping him into her arms and holding him tightly against her breast. She tried to forget those awful months when she thought she would never hold him in her arms again, when he and the girls were lost to her.

I will never let you go again, she vowed as she pressed kisses to his blond curls.

“Mother! Mother!”

Myrcella pivoted to see Steffon and Rickard rushing towards her, dropping their bows as they ran; she could see Robb and Theon following the boys, their own bows slung over their shoulders, but her eyes were only for her sons as Steffon and Rickard attached themselves to her legs, squeezing her tightly. Both were tall and healthy boys, though Rickard's hair was longer, worn in the same fashion as Bran, while Steffon's dark hair was closely cropped to his head. Myrcella bent to place Brynden back upon his feet, allowing Steffon and Rickard to hug her properly, and she could only cry harder when Steffon – always the more sensitive of the two – clumsily wiped at her cheeks and said, “Don't cry, Mother.”

Robb pulled her to her feet when he reached them, lifting her as easily as she had Brynden; Myrcella gasped at how passionately he kissed her, surprised at how affectionate he was being before the rapidly filling yard, but she clung to him, shivering at the blatant hunger in his blue eyes.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” he purred, and Myrcella was certain she loved him more in that moment than she ever had.

Lady Catelyn embraced her tightly when she entered the castle, whispering how happy she was to see her, and Myrcella clung as tightly to Catelyn Stark as her boys had to her; she wanted to apologize for not doing more to save Eddard, for putting Rickon in danger, but the moment she said, “I'm sorry,” Catelyn cut her off, ordering her to never apologize to her for things which could not be controlled.

Catelyn took her to the girls, both fast asleep in the same bed, Joanna's red hair tangled with Lya's black hair. Myrcella sat on the edge of the bed, running her hands over their heads, marveling at how big they had gotten; when last she saw them, they were still babies and now they were little girls. She could see so much of Elenya Westerling in Lya's sleeping face, but, as her eyes fluttered open, Myrcella could only see Rickon.

I will tell her stories about him, Myrcella decided as she tucked the blanket more securely around the girls. I will make sure she knows how wonderful Rickon was and how he used to sneak into the nursery to hold her. I will tell her how he died a hero and would have loved her as well as any father in Westeros.

But all of that could wait. For now, all that mattered, was Myrcella was home and her children were safe.

The raven arrived just after all the trees bloomed green again. Myrcella accepted the letter, sealed with the three-headed dragon, and opened it with slight trepidation. Reading the words, she went to find Robb.

All of the children were in the yard: Steffon and Rickard were training with Jory, Brynden and Joanna were playing Come Into My Castle, and Lya had hold of Ned's hand, leading him around on his unsteady legs. Myrcella asked one of the servants if he had seen the king, and the man pointed to the godswood.

She found Robb before the heart tree, calmly polishing Ice as he sat against the ancient tree. He looked up at the sound of her footfalls, his smile wide until he saw the letter in her hand. Myrcella caught the brief flash of fear in his eyes as he asked, “What is it?”

“Nothing bad.” Coming to stand beside him, she handed him the letter. “Queen Daenerys is with child. Jon has invited us to court when the child is born.”

Robb quickly read Jon's words, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “He sounds happy.”

“Jon will make a fine father.” Carding her fingers through Robb's auburn curls, she murmured, “I do not want to go back to court.”

“It is not the right time,” Robb agreed. “I'll write Jon, explain everything.” Setting the letter on the ground, Robb slid an arm around her waist, one hand rubbing the six month swell of her belly. “And how are you feeling today?”

“Like I have a child kicking me in the ribs every few minutes. This one is active.”

Robb kissed her stomach before drawing her down into his lap. Myrcella felt the familiar frustration of not being able to get as close to him as she'd like, her stomach too much of a barrier this far into her pregnancy; though Maester Erik insisted there was only one child in her womb, Myrcella had not been so big since carrying the twins and her discomfort was nearly constant.

His large hands moved restlessly over her middle, the baby tumbling in response to his touch. “Will this be our last?”

She shrugged, absently kissing his forehead. “After every baby, I wonder if this should be our last. When Joanna was born, I was certain she would be the last, and then came Ned and now this one.” Humming in pleasure as Robb's lips found the sensitive spot behind her ear, she murmured, “Mayhaps if I did not enjoy making the children so much, it would not be a question.”

Robb laughed softly as his fingers found the ties of her gown, loosening the laces to draw the top of the gown down, bearing her breasts. Myrcella inhaled sharply through her nose as his tongue playfully traced the curve of her breast before sipping her nipple between his lips. A warm spring breeze made her tremble as Robb shifted their bodies, Myrcella now straddling his thighs as he laid back upon the newly grown grass.

As she began to tug at his laces, Robb teased, “Your blood gets much hotter when you have a babe in you.”

Myrcella smiled as she took him out of his smallclothes, stroking him with a sure hand. “And you hate it so.”

“A king suffers the wants of his queen,” he gritted out as Myrcella wiggled her skirt over her hips, enjoying the flash of surprise as Robb realized she was not wearing smallclothes. They moaned in unison as Myrcella sank onto him, and Myrcella began to move her hips in a fast, desperate rhythm, her body on fire, eager for release. Robb pitched his hips up, his hands urging her to move quicker, and Myrcella laughed breathlessly as she imagined what the people of the North would think of their king and queen coupling on the forest floor.

Myrcella came with a sharp cry, Robb following almost immediately, panting her name as his fingers gripped her tightly enough to bruise. She wished she could lay against his chest, listen to his rapid heartbeat as her body calmed; instead she curled against his side, not bothering to fix her gown, the top still rumpled over her belly.

“I never want to go South again,” Robb confessed after a moment. “Jon is my brother, now and always, but I never want to return to King's Landing.”

“Then we won't,” Myrcella agreed easily.

Later, as Robb re-laced her gown, he chuckled against her ear, “I remember when you used to blush all the way to your navel when I would touch you. You were so afraid everything we did together was a sin.”

“I'm sure the septons would say it is.” Twisting her head to meet his gaze over her shoulder, she quipped, “Why do you think I worship the Old Gods now?”

Robb's laughter echoed through the trees.

Her spring baby arrived in a rush, her labor progressing so quickly that, by the time Robb was fetched from the Cerwyns, their daughter was already in Myrcella's arms. She was a Lannister baby, the fuzz on her head the color of spun gold, her alert eyes a shade of emerald; Maester Erik said she was the strongest baby he had ever seen, and Myrcella smiled as the baby easily took to her breast. Lady Catelyn brought the children in to see their newest sister, and it warmed Myrcella's heart to see the care with which her sons cradled the baby.

Robb burst into their room, out of breath with sweat-slicked skin; when he saw the baby, a mixture of regret and excitement filled his face as he crossed to the bed, lifting her from Rickard's arms.

“It is a girl, Father!” Brynden reported.

“A girl,” Robb echoed, smiling into the baby's serene face. “Winterfell needs more princesses.”

“I'm a princess!” Joanna piped up.

“Me too!” Lya added.

Catelyn chuckled as she began to round up the children. “Let us leave your mother and father to the baby. It is nearly time for supper.” As the children dutifully climbed from the bed, Catelyn rose on her toes to press a kiss to Robb's cheek. “Congratulations.”

Robb slid onto the bed beside her, cuddling the baby against his broad chest. Myrcella smiled tiredly as he declared, “I suppose we cannot call her James as we planned.”

“I would have sworn she would be a boy. Joanna was never half so busy in the womb.”

“She is so perfect,” he breathed, brushing his lips against the baby's head. “I swear that every child you give me is more beautiful than the last.” Robb's blue eyes shone with love as he said, “Thank you.”

Myrcella stared at her husband and newest child, her words lost. She thought of Jaime's words at Riverrun, how Robert wanted to marry her to Dorne before his interference, and Myrcella could not fathom what life would have been like without Robb and their children. Myrcella knew she would never have been the woman she was in Dorne, would never have even been given the chance with Trystane Martell. Robb gave her the strength and the courage to become the woman she wanted to be, the sort of woman who could make a man a king, who could survive on the Wall, who could best knights with a sword; Robb made her a Stark, and that name gave her more pride than Lannister or Baratheon ever had.

“She needs a name,” Myrcella finally managed.

“I always liked Elizabeth.” His voice soft and playful, he asked the baby, “Are you Elizabeth Stark?”

“I like Elizabeth.”

Shifting the baby in his arms, Robb said, his voice more somber, “I know you wished her to be a boy, to name her in honor of your...in honor of Ser Jaime. I hope you are not too disappointed.”

Myrcella shook her head. “No, she is wonderful, and that shall never disappoint me.” Taking Elizabeth from him, inhaling the sweet scent of her, she declared, “We can always name the next one for Jaime.”

Robb grinned, eyes sparkling with the mischief Myrcella remembered from before the war. “If you insist upon more children, I suppose I must cooperate, horrendous task that it is.”

The ravens went out that night to announce the birth of Princess Elizabeth Stark. Sansa sent a beautiful doll with golden hair; Arianne Martell sent blood oranges; Margaery sent the finest wine the Arbor had to offer. But it was Jon who sent the gift which was the envy of the other children: a stuffed direwolf with real fur. The toy's coat was as dark as Shaggydog's once was, but its eyes were rubies, the same red as Ghost's. Myrcella set it in Elizabeth's cradle, telling her daughter who Uncle Jon sent it all the way from the Crownlands.

Four moons later, a raven arrived from King's Landing, announcing the birth of Prince Benjen Targaryen.

“Jon sounds ecstatic in his letter,” Robb reported that night as they readied for bed, Myrcella opening the windows to allow the cool night air to enter their chamber. “He says Benjen has the Stark look and is as strong as a mammoth.”

“How is Dany?”

“Weakened from the birth but already recovering. Jon says she was in the birthing bed for nearly two days.”

Myrcella made a sympathetic noise. “I shall write to her then, and we will need to send a gift.”

As she slid into bed, Robb propped himself up on his elbow and revealed, “Daenerys wants to keep strong relations with the North.”

“Which will not be a problem, seeing as how you and Jon were raised as brothers.”

Tracing the line of her jaw, Robb smiled. “According to Jon, she would like to seal our alliance with marriage.” When Myrcella shook her head, unsure what he meant given Rhaego's betrothal to one of Oberyn's daughters, Robb clarified, “They are asking us to consider wedding Elizabeth to Benjen when they are of age.”

She laughed as she rested her head against his chest. “Not even off the teat and already we are discussing their marriage prospects.” Drawing patterns on his chest, she asked, “What do you think?”

“I think I do not like the idea of our daughters marrying anyone, but unless I plan on sealing them away in a maidenvault, we will eventually have to find them husbands.” His voice becoming more serious, he murmured, “And I do not believe the last marriage alliance between Winterfell and the Iron Throne has been so terrible.”

Myrcella kissed the patch of skin before her lips. “No, not terrible at all.”

Robb's arms tightened around her as they drifted towards sleep, Elizabeth asleep in her cradle, Grey Wind's song joining with Nymeria's and Summer's outside the window. In the morning they could discuss Jon's proposal more thoroughly, but, for now, Myrcella was content to sleep in her husband's arms, peaceful at last.