The cold steel against her flesh was enough to stir the princess awake.
"You are trying to cut the wrong throat, ser." Myrcella's eyes did not need to open to feel the hard blade pressing softly against her throat. Peering through the dim moonlight and into the darkness leering above her, there was only a deep abyssal silhouette of ebony midnight. The blade stiffened against her, verging to a slight draw of blood, a silent warning to the assassins' target. Carver.
Reaching up ever so gently, Myrcella placed a hand on the bandaged wrist which held her hollowed throat captive. From the darkness eyes stared down at her, she was not afraid. She had indeed threatened a known assassin. A throat at her neck and a murderer at her bed was expected. As sure as the sun was to rise. He was sloppily behind time.
"You are late." She sneered darkly, watching the figure lean back with stiffened, confused resolve. Myrcella pushed against the blade, sitting up to parallel her assassin. Her pawn. His blade followed her movement, staying close to her exposed neck. The tip of his threatened blade teased bare skin, its honed edge leaning into her skin. Myrcella did not waver from the threat, only leaned closer. There was no anxiety rising in her chest, no wonderance for death. Only assurance. The pure believing manifestation that she would get what she wants from him.
Leaning back into the light, Carver's unmasked face was stitched with anger. Writhing with pure, humiliated rage. Bold amber barrelled pupils looking through hooded eyes down at her. His confusion would turn to fury comparable to a sparked ember into flame if she did not move quickly. If she did not give him something- a threat to lure him. A promise to convince him not to cut her throat open.
"You are very bold, princess." He muttered, his eyes rolling to examine her fearless stance. Unwilling to back from the blade standing ready to cut her open to the bone. But she only smiled, her eyes drifting to the shake in his neck and hands. His time in the Blackout Dungeon had made him very weak. She was surprised he made it to her bedside as quiet as he did.
"What do you think of the King?" She asked, peering into the celestially lit night-time beyond his head. Absorbing the poetry and irony of the situation, she pushed herself into reality. The true danger of the plan was not the murder of her brother. It was her being alone in a room with a murderer. Death is but a familiar companion who eventually comes for everyone. Royal, commoner, Apostate or some other mysticality. But her waltz with a blooded dagger and final words would not be today. Even as the silence swelled with an uneasy thickness, an almost deafening sound of nothingness coursing through her veins.
The question threw him off, a rising curiosity lacing his body as Carver leaned back from her. Scuttering from his position on top of her he stood darkly by her bed; brows furrowed. His spare hand on the wall, keeping his limp body from toppling over. Turning his head from her bedridden form. The gentle curvature of the far iron windows spooled in light from the starred night outside. The assassin's broad form threatened to overshadow her, even in its shaking, tortured state. Myrcella could feel the seething hatred. He was her enemy. An enemy that had submitted to her.
Myrcella smirked as she straightened her composure, revelling in his uncomfortable, weakened stature. She waited, waited for his ego to deflate. The bittersweet taste of mischief and planning on her tongue, she was prepared. Her kingdom deserved a ruler, and she would take that position. She would do anything, even break him if she had too
"Cruel." Was all he spoke, his voice shaky and almost breathless. His dark honeyed eyes unwavering, staring deep into the darkness of her form below. So, she stood. Moving closer to stand at his height. Close enough that she could feel the radiation of his body affronted to her. The sight of his leering body sent a chill through her skin, a reminder of her very mortality and how close she was to being burned lest she say the wrong thing. She looked into the very narrowed eyes of a man who had been played a fool. Who had been chained to a wall in the pitch black for hours. Even weakened, he was still a man with a honed dagger in his palm. She dare not glance downward to his twitching, hand holding a blade of abrasive steel that itched to spill royal blood.
"Then it looks like we agree on something." Myrcella maintained her composure, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. Carver stiffened immensely under her touch, reminded of her cruel show of dominance in the Blackout Dungeons. She reached for his knife, and he surrendered it to her. Carver's body shook, the adrenalin finally wearing off. His body was about to shut down. Watching his body twitch and convulse slightly, barely unable to withhold his own weight, ache shot through her chest. Guilt. She had done this, done what her brother would have. The sympathy roared, and so she let herself show kindness. Even if it would soften his resolve towards her.
Myrcella wrapped her arm around his back and whispered to him, in the first gentle tone she had shown him since they met.
"Let me help you." He was not able to say no as he relinquished the weight from the wall, falling deeper into her arms. Myrcella did not rub the wound, only helped him to the chair by her bed. Moving his tired body into the soft recline, he watched her. Exhaustion lacing his body.
"What do you want, Princess?" He sneered, looking up at her from the chair she helped him into, now shrugging away from her touch.
"You came to the castle to present yourself as my personal guard. I am giving it to you. As an assassin you have the skills I need to take over. King Logan will die. When he is dead, you will have everything- free of blackmail." Carver only sighed deeply, his spirit waning and his body collapsing finally in exhaustion. Just as she planned. The princess gave him a wry smile distantly glancing beyond to the window of star illuminated glass.
"Just think… what could a man do with the favour of a Queen?"
Soft lilac lace of delicate craftsmanship. Ethereal gold trimmings of hemmed celestite. Myrcella was the makings of a Queen. Her reign would enter the kingdom like a blade shining brighter than the morning sun. Contentedness was not an option when the population lived in squalor and slaves of different races lined the halls like ornaments. A Queen would rule her kingdom like the sun rules the land, bright, ambitious, and generous. Her goals seemed far, her plans for royal personality further. She wanted to be the ruler the kingdom deserved. Her plan having been years in the making since Logan had ascended, then descended into disgrace. For her life and for her crown she would do whatever it took to have both. Preferably at the same time. Somebody had too.
Carver was already waiting for her. His anguished, tired, frowning face looking at her in pure loathing. She had garnered his hate and forced his loyalty. He stood abruptly, his armour gleaming with the pride of a personal guard. Her personal sword. The large decorated great sword strapped between his shoulders itched to spill her blood. But now is forced to work for her. He stared in an abashed taciturn that she almost admired. And now she finally got a look of his whole face, she knew him by his eyes.
"Good morning, Carver." She purred, continuing pace so he would keep to her side. He gritted his teeth and held his stride as he followed, close at her heels. Myrcella smirked at his contemplation, his eyes avoiding hers. She only shook her head in bewildered amusement, leading her new enemy-ally to the apothecary. He'd been tended to, but not by a man she trusts. Myrcella lead him deep into the castle, following winding corridors and descending staircases of deep mossy stone. She soon arrived at Worthee's door, knocking on the rotten wooden door of her personal royal apothecary. Worthee had practically raised Myrcella after Logan took the throne. To Worthee, Myrcella was the daughter he could never have. To Myrcella, Worthee was the father she could never resurrect.
He would be the only other person to know her plan.
Worthee opened the door with a grin, knowing exactly who knocks. The old geezer's willowed face lifted to resemble a small child; primarily toothless and mainly gums. Myrcella could not help the nostalgic smile, she hadn't seen him for so long. Being yesterday.
"Carver, this is Worthee. The man with the incredibly ironic name." She retorted, Worthee giving a playful roll of his eyes as he turned to Carver. The immediate dislike flushed his features as the toothless man gave a narrowed squint. She knew that look; Worthee hated Carver just as Carver hated her.
"So, this is the assassin." He asked with a judgemental look up and down. Carver could not help the squirm overtake him, being under the analytical eye of immediate dislike for no apparent reason.
"Hello Worthee-"Carver attempted to introduce himself, to ease the tension of his narrowed gaze. The old man cut him off before he could say his own name, with a wordless wave of his hand he moved aside for Myrcella to enter first. She entered without a regard for the abrupt rejection of her mentor. Moving inside, she admired the atmosphere… it had not changed. Low lighting, yellowed candles cradled by gentle netted glasses illuminated the area in a gentle hue, the apothecary smelt of lavender and herbal. A bowl of boiled water sitting idly by the table, strewn with different utensils and dried herbs. The hermit had not changed. She sat at the table, pushing aside linens and some metal callipers, Carver came to sit next to her. But Worthee stopped him, with a sassy click of his fingers.
"Strip to your underclothes, and leave your bare ass away from my dining table." Worthee hissed, pointing to his examining table on the other side of the room. Carver looked to the princess, who nodded in encouragement. Worthee scoffed, and took the seat that Carver initially tried to sit himself on. Abashed with clear favouritism, Carver did as he was told, resting his blade on the floor with the rest of his armour. Myrcella just smiled her apology to him. Worthee isn't good with strangers. Let alone young men shadowing her.
"Be sure to check him, Worthee. I don't trust Gaelia with his healing." Worthee laughed, broad and loudly.
"Gaelia is inept. She couldn't heal a stubbed toe if you gave her instructions." Myrcella allowed herself a laugh, placing her hand on his in welcome. The last time she had saw Worthee, he had been balding- but now he had a few silvery strands of hair left, meticulously combed, and cared for. Big blue eyes looked back at her, dulled with the ravages of time and rejection of many women. As he always did, Worthee had an unhealthy swab of tobacco hidden in the pocket of his cheek, chewing, and sucking the tobacco for an unusually long amount of time.
Worthee looked back to Carver once more and just barked a brief laugh, his mouth accidentally slipping a small inkling of greyed tobacco on the table between them. He'd sucked the tobacco clean of nicotine. Myrcella looked down at it in a generalised state of confusion, why bother? It made sense; she had never known Worthee a second of her life where he didn't have a gob of chewing crop in his mouth. It was not new, if anything the odd familiarity of it was almost comforting.
"You really wore him in good, Maisie." Myrcella stilled at his nickname for her. Nobody but him called her that. She ignored it and turned her gaze to Carver. Sitting on the table in nothing but his breeches, she masked the regret. Long, harsh bruises traced his wrists and neck. He was exposed. Her torture of him was exposed. Worthee could see the anguish in her eyes at the sight of it, squeezing her hand comfortingly.
Myrcella reached into her pocket and pulled a pouch of luxury chewing tobacco. She had ordered it in special just for him. Maybe he can finally chew on some tobacco that isn't total slop this time.
"Make sure he is healed properly, Worthee." She whispered, pulling herself to her feet. Worthee's head tilted upon the small, burlap landing on his table. He just gave a childish smile as he took it in his hand. No words were needed to be said. She did not need to give him gifts and she knew that. But chose to. Worthee stood, pocketing the bag as he approached Carver. He flinched as the older man approached.
"Let him help you."