Myrcella Baratheon found Winterfell to be surprisingly bustling. It was no King's Landing. But then, nothing was, except perhaps Oldtown. The only other Great Castle she'd visited was her Mother's Casterly Rock. Compared to the Rock, Winterfell barely fell short. She didn't mention such an opinion to Mother, of course, for Mother would undoubtedly not take it well. But Myrcella was impressed all the same.
Winterfell was massive. Larger by almost half again than the Red Keep. And blessedly, without the smell of King's Landing to torture every nose in a dozen miles. Instead of being surrounded by a city that never slept, Winterfell sat within the much smaller Winter Town. The town was more than enough to support the seat of House Stark with its smallfolk. And Lady Sansa told her it only grew come autumn and winter. As it was during the current heights of summer, only one house in every five was occupied.
The castle itself was gray and imposing, solid and unassailable. Its walls were tall and thick, twofold, and with a moat between them. A great many towers reached above them, with wide, flat roofs, and all packed together within the safety of the inner walls. It stood with undeniable strength, seeming to overlook its entire domain. It needed no fancy flourishes to display its greatness. Drab blocks of stone as tall as any giant and construction to weather the longest of winters were enough.
Myrcella remembered the land around Winterfell from the last legs of their trek north. They were populated by farm after farm, all fielded and worked near-religiously to ensure every single harvest. To the west and north, a forest began and seemed to stretch on forever into the distance. The rest of the land was all rising moors and high plains. Even now, during the longest summer in living memory, it snowed regularly in the North.
Mother thought it to be a dreary and dreadful sight. She wasn't happy at all these days, not with the 'barren' North, nor with being forced to make their trip in the first place. Not even the ancient and noble House Stark escaped her scorn. Or perhaps it should be said that they especially didn't escape… Mother made her feelings on the 'Northern barbarians' clear. She would, quite literally, rather be anywhere else.
Joffrey, of course, agreed wholeheartedly and was even less subtle about making his opinion known. Last night's feast wasn't a good showing, even by Joffrey's standards… But Tommen, at least, was just happy to get out of King's Landing and the Red Keep. He saw their trip as an adventure and a chance to see something new. When he wasn't with Joffrey, he was as cheerful as can be, especially glad for the time they were now able to spend with Father.
Myrcella's opinion leaned in line with Tommen's and then surpassed it. She found the North to be beautiful. It was a cold, patient sort of beauty. She especially liked the scenic vistas in the morning light. Snow came during the night. It blanketed the land in pure white, pristine for as far as the eye could see. Her breath would mist in front of her face as she took it in with the dawn, and Myrcella wouldn't be able to stop her smile. Then, even the cold — by all means, the worst it should have been for the day — didn't feel so harsh.
The royal visit was no small matter. She didn't know how long they would stay. Father was determined to bring the Lord Wolf south with him when they returned. But he was in no great hurry. So the Starks of Winterfell played the consummate hosts. It wasn't enough for Mother and Joffrey, but nothing would have been. Myrcella was content with the arrangements that'd been made.
Even the day after they arrived, things were still being done. Arrangements arranged and preparations prepared and the like. And that was all on top of the usual upkeep of the massive castle. The busyness might've had another cause as well. A storm had rolled into Winterfell last night, late and sudden. Yet, it hadn't rained. Instead, the clouds flashed with lightning and booming thunder that seemed to rage against the heavens themselves.
Myrcella had her suspicions about the strange storm. Father was anything but subtle, after all, and he'd disappeared with Lord Stark before the night's feast had ended. Still, before dawn, the storm passed as quickly as it came. And as the keep and its guests broke their fasts, Father and Lord Stark were with them as if nothing had happened.
After last night, Myrcella was more than happy to move on to the rest of their visit. If she could, she would have purged the feast from everyone's minds. Joffrey had made a fool of himself and an enemy of the Stark Heir. In an ideal world, Myrcella would've spent the entire feast conversing with the dashing Young Wolf. Joffrey ruined that. Infuriating, worrying… and absolutely nothing new.
Mother had been her usual self, along with all the trouble that usual self brought. She could never resist asserting herself, even over others in their own home. No, especially then. Lady Catelyn was a strong and good woman to weather it with only a slightly strained smile. At the very least, the Ladies Olenna, Margaery, Luna, and Narcissa could give just as good as they got. Lady Luna especially seemed to have a certain way of getting under Mother's skin.
Joffrey had been raging and muttering up a storm to match the one outside when they retired to their quarters after the feast, "I am the Crown Prince…! Damnedable mutt…! Wretched fucking barbarian…! Stupid sexy bastard…!"
… Myrcella could at least give her older brother that much. Both of the older Stark boys were incredibly attractive. Jon Snow was gorgeous — dark, brooding, and oh-so-pretty — but his attention had been almost entirely focused on his half-sister. Young Lady Sansa was beautiful as well, red-haired and regal. Their relationship might've been unorthodox, taboo, tragic, and perhaps even doomed, but Myrcella couldn't help but root for them in secret.
Yet it was the Young Wolf who set Myrcella's heart aflutter. He reminded her of a great big puppy. She could just imagine him with a dopey grin and a lolling tongue. He was warm, charismatic, and carefreely confident. Until Joffrey, that is… Then, the Young Wolf showed his teeth, and Myrcella found her breath stolen from her breast, unable to look away.
Defending his bastard brother, Robb was as protective as he was in control of himself. He didn't lash out, and he even managed to excuse himself before Joffrey goaded him into erring in public. And his parting blow was magnificent in Myrcella's mind. He'd taken the Hound from Joffrey. That and the implication that he didn't have nearly the control he thought he did enraged Joffrey more than any insult Robb could have levied.
Myrcella found her mind wandering away from the moment and the current conversation. The menfolk of the castle had gone to hunt that morning after breaking their fast. That left the womenfolk in the castle to entertain themselves. Lady Catelyn offered a room to sit, sew, and have tea or wine in. Mother took her up on the offer, practically requiring everyone to be there.
There was Lady Catelyn and Lady Sansa, both sewing and embroidering peacefully. There were the Ladies Tyrell, both shrewd players of the game and more than capable of rivaling Mother. Though she would never say it, Myrcella imagined her Queen Mother was glad for the challenge. Then there were the Ladies from Hogwarts. Lady Cho, who was currently 'fostering' in Winterfell with her promised Lord Cedric — a handsome and kind man, by all accounts.
The Ladies Amelia Bones and Phoebe Parkinson cared dutifully for their children by Lord Sirius Black. Both were imposing women but in very different ways. Lady Amelia was intimidating and stern. Myrcella imagined that not even a charging Knight would make her flinch. Lady Phoebe was unassuming in the way that was most dangerous at court. Demure and intelligent and never to be underestimated.
Lady Narcissa matched Lady Phoebe rather well. She was caring for a babe as well — her son Aries, fathered by Atlas, to whom Myrcella had grown somewhat acquainted. With her, Lady Fleur was the most beautiful woman Myrcella had ever seen. She was the maiden descended, with silvery-blonde hair and the body of a divine nymph. The only 'fault' that could be found with her was her rather… extravagant personality, one which meshed all too well with Lady Sansa.
The last of Atlas' Ladies — a way of thinking that Myrcella was still getting used to and likely never would in full — was the unknowable Lady Luna. She was an enigma wrapped in a paradox stuffed in an ever-present surprise. There was no telling what she would say next. The only constant Myrcella found was that she couldn't hate the queer young lady, even if she tried. The same certainly couldn't be said for Mother…
"-And Father says Robb will wield the Original Ice now!" Sansa gushed, and Myrcella found herself pulled back to the present by the mention of the Young Wolf's name.
"Indeed," Catelyn nodded, not missing a single stitch in her embroidery. "He's more than earned the right in Ned's mind. He says Robb will be a better sword than him in no time at all. I'm led to believe that the original is more suited for combat than the current Ice. My Ned manages, of course, but it took him much work to wield the greatsword as if it were any other."
"Lucky…" Little Lady Arya grumbled. "Not like he has certain advantages there or anything…"
"None of that, Arya," Catelyn chided gently. "Your brother is worthy, with his 'advantages' or without."
"Envy and jealousy are unbecoming of a young lady, sister," Sansa said imperiously.
Lady Fleur laughed at that, "Quite the opposite, my prodigious pupil~! It can be our greatest weapon. There are signs of love, signs that we care more than they could ever truly know~! Let your man see your envy and jealousy, and he shall know you love him all the more. And of that love, we should never make them doubt~!"
Fleur's words caused Sansa to shift her tune instantly. She nodded along, practically enthralled by the lesson. Mother rolled her eyes, drowning her undoubtedly cutting comments with deep sips of her wine. She clearly — at least to Myrcella — disagreed, but Myrcella couldn't see why. Fleur's words made a certain sort of sense to her mind. Surely, a Lady should have a way of making her love and momentary displeasure known in one fell stroke?
Truthfully, Myrcella didn't even know if her Mother got jealous. Angry and outraged, yes. But jealousy implied a certain love held that she'd never seen from her Mother. Not toward Father. Myrcella was almost sure that Mother had never made a goal of gaining Father's attention. Even when he was at his worst — drinking and whoring right in front of her — Mother only seemed to function on spite, indignity, and loathing. Never the jealousy and envy that Myrcella might associate with love.
It was a sad thing, Myrcella thought, to know one's parents held little love for each other. She realized it when she was still rather young, long before Father changed for the better. And by then, it was much too late to salvage their relationship, even if both parties were willing to put in the work. Myrcella's only consolation was knowing that they both loved their children and that Father was leagues and leagues better than he once was.
"Ugh," Arya groaned. "Boys, boys, boys, blah! Can't we talk about anything else?! Anything important?!"
"Love and marriage are important interests for a lady!" Sansa fiercely defended her interests.
"Yeah, Ary'," Lady Cho giggled. "Imagine a 'boy' who would indulge your adventures, who would spar against you and fight alongside you. Wouldn't you find him rather interesting to talk about~?"
"I suppose…" Arya muttered. "Not like such a boy exists, though…"
"If they don't exist, make one," Lady Amelia said gruffly.
Arya stared at her, bewildered, "You can do that?"
Lady Phoebe favored her with a conspiratorial smile, "Would you like to learn how, little wolf~?"
"Phoebe, do you truly need a Stark student like Fleur?" Lady Narcissa asked with a sigh.
"Yes!" Arya quickly cut in. "I wanna learn how to make boys go on adventures with me!"
"She's got the spirit," Phoebe smirked, "And I like a challenge~…"
"With Celeste having Sirius' genes, you'll need the practice," Narcissa quipped.
"And besides," Lady Margaery interjected with a nonsequitur, her mind clearly… elsewhere by the tone of her voice. "Men can be plenty useful~… Firm and unyielding~… Hard, even~… Why, the imagination simply runs wild if one considers the possibilities~…"
Lady Luna nodded sagely, "Titties are great, but I like big, hard cock even better. Well… Atlas' cock. I like Atlas' cock better. It's got some proper heft to it~!"
… Truly, there was no predicting Lady Luna. Myrcella's jaw dropped open to gape at the waifish blonde and her scandalously filthy mouth. Mother outright choked on her wine. Margaery fanned herself but didn't look nearly as shocked as Myrcella and her Mother. In fact, none of the others seemed all that surprised. Lady Olenna simply rolled her eyes. Catelyn and Sansa both blushed slightly but acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was said. Fleur, Cho, and the older Hogwarts Ladies didn't even flinch.
Arya scrunched up her nose, "Eyuh, did you have to, Luna?"
"No," Luna shrugged. "But I did anyway."
"She always does anyway," Narcissa deadpanned.
Mother finally regained her bearings, adopting a disapproving expression that Myrcella knew all too well, "I believe I have to side with your youngest daughter's original statement, Lady Catelyn. This topic is entirely unproductive. I find it rather droll."
"Perhaps if you had something to do other than choke on wine, you wouldn't find it so," Olenna sniped.
"Would you like something to occupy your hands, Your Grace?" Catelyn asked.
Mother's disapproval deepened, "A Queen does not sew. She holds court."
Myrcella sighed and took it upon herself to play mediator, "Another topic, then. Tell us about this sword if you would, my ladies. I'm afraid the reaction this morning was mostly lost on us."
"Oh, it's a splendid thing!" Sansa beamed. "Ice has been the ancestral sword of House Stark since the Age of Heroes!"
"The current Valyrian Steel Ice was named after another sword?" Myrcella asked, earnest and honestly curious.
"Yes, indeed!" Sansa nodded rapidly. "The original was thought lost nearly a thousand years before the Conquest. In all honesty, the Valyrian Steel version is a poor substitute."
"Valyrian Steel? A poor substitute?" Mother scoffed.
"As fantastical as it sounds, yes," Sansa confirmed. "It was said to be a sword akin to Dawn. Only instead of being forged from a fallen star, it is ice-made-steel. It survived the original Long Night and aided the Stark Kings of Winter for thousands of years after. It is even told that the blade was forged by Bran the Builder himself!"
Ah, it seemed Mother was capable of envy after all. She looked positively green at the thought of such a legend now back in the hands of another House. Myrcella thought it was only natural, really. The Starks were a lineage easily on par with the Lannisters or the Durrandons before the Baratheons. Despite what Mother likely wished, her House couldn't be the only prestigious and legendary one in the realm.
Fleur tittered to herself, "My Atlas hasn't stopped drooling over the blade since this morning."
"It's a very pretty thing to look at," Luna cheerfully agreed. "The way it sparkles and karkles and garkles when the magic from the Heart Tree hits it just right is spectacular!"
"The way it what…?" Mother muttered, utterly uncomprehending of Lady Luna's special brand of madness.
Olenna moved the conversation right along as if the Queen hadn't said anything, "It's legendary and special but not entirely unique. Every Kingdom from before the Conquest has tales of its own legendary weapons."
"Truly? That sounds fascinating," Cho leaned in with palpable interest.
Margaery nodded, "I know that there are legends that the Gardner Kings once passed down a wooden sword that cut like Valyrian Steel. It was said to have been grown from a sapling by Garth Greenhand himself."
Olenna continued for her granddaughter, "The Starks of the North had their Ice. The Lannisters of the West had a sword of golden steel. The Vale — long before it was 'of Arryn' — had a lance of impossible rune-forged bronze from House Royce. The Durrandon Storm Kings had a hammer of stone that never sheared or shattered, much like their Storm's End. And the Dornish had House Dayne and their Dawn. Until now, it was the only one that remained."
At the mention of House Lannister, Mother preened as if everything had been set right in the world, "I wouldn't have expected you to be so knowledgeable on this subject, Lady Olenna."
Olenna gave next to nothing away as she replied, "Recent developments have had me brushing up on the legends of Westeros. I believe they might just be unexpectedly useful going forward in this rapidly changing world we find ourselves in."
Mother's eyes narrowed at Olenna's statement, expecting something more to her words. Or perhaps hearing it already. Myrcella couldn't quite tell. She was usually quite good at reading her Mother. But the Ladies Olenna, Margaery, and Luna made it an interesting challenge. All for different reasons as well, she noted. Not least of all being Luna's uncanny ability to drive Mother to unseemly twitching.
"Olenna's been a great help to Hogwarts' research endeavors," Luna happily informed. "Through her, Hogwarts has stolen a good three dozen texts from the Citadel that we wouldn't have been able to requisition otherwise~!"
"Hush, child," Olenna shushed her gently. "What did I say about attaching my name — rightfully or not — to your efforts against the Citadel?"
"Ah!" Luna exclaimed, suddenly nodding as if remembering something important. "Right! There is no war against the Citadel. There is no war in Oldtown. Grand Theft Citadel, who?"
"Grand Theft, huh?" Myrcella blinked, trying and failing to wrap her head around that distracting 'slip'.
"Who?" Luna cocked her head innocently.
They stared at each other, Myrcella in confusion and Luna in unimpeachable innocence. Suddenly, Myrcella felt silly for even asking. This lovely girl couldn't be involved in a grand thievery conspiracy against the Citadel of all institutions. Then she remembered Luna's quite literal words and only drove herself to further confusion.
"It seems that the tales of legendary weapons are primarily a First Men phenomenon," Cho noted, paying no mind to Luna's shenanigans. "I also noticed you didn't say anything about the Riverlands."
Olenna shrugged, "If there are tales from the Trident, I could not find them in any significant detail."
"My homeland is a historically… troubled place," Catelyn sighed. "In my childhood, I heard tell of a legendary weapon in the same vein wielded by House Mudd. It was a mace, a sword, a spear… Whatever the truth was, the weapon and its story were lost when the Andals came, and House Mudd fell."
"My condolences for your loss, Lady Catelyn," Mother tutted.
Myrcella barely concealed a sigh. She knew that tone. It was a false tone, one Mother used when she felt like she'd won something. As the only Lady whose Kingdom couldn't boast concrete stories of a legendary weapon, she was looking down on Lady Catelyn. It was times like this that Myrcella felt most ashamed of her Mother. Catelyn had been nothing but the most gracious host to them and their family, and still, Mother couldn't help but poke at her.
Thankfully, Catelyn took no great offense to the verbal jab, "I don't bear any misplaced longing for a weapon that might've never existed, Your Grace. Furthermore, the Tullys have little connection to the ancient Kings of the Trident. House Mudd was swept away by time, and the rivers of the Riverlands flowed ever-onward without them."
If Mother was displeased with Catelyn's lackluster reaction, she didn't get a chance to show it. Ser Arys and Uncle Jaime came into their sitting room then, leaving their guard posts at the door. Ser Arys bowed and apologized for the interruption.
"My Ladies, I regret that I must interrupt you, but the King and company shall be returning shortly."
"And?" Mother raised an imperious eyebrow. "It's a hunt. He's bound to entertain himself with celebration and revelry until we're done here. What's this really about, Jaime?"
Uncle Jaime flashed one of his smug and supremely confident smirks. Immediately, Mother relaxed, put more at ease by the sight. Her twin always had that effect on Mother. The smirk even drifted over to Myrcella, and she smiled at her uncle in return.
"King Robert seems to have something to announce," Uncle Jaime said. "He wishes for all of you to be present in the courtyard to greet him and hear what he has to say. The hunt was cut short, so it must be important."
Mother clicked her tongue, "He already sprang the question then. Very well, we'll let him have his Hand announcement. Come, my ladies. We shall greet the menfolk upon their return as requested."
Sansa gasped excitedly as they all stood and began making their way outside, "So it's true? Father will be the Hand of the King?"
"Undoubtedly," Mother said, barely hiding a scowl. "And such a prestigious position couldn't be offered in a mere letter. Instead, we were forced to make this trip."
"That is… good news…" Catelyn smiled, but the expression was slightly strained.
Mother laughed lightly, actually commiserating with Lady Catelyn, "Yes, that about sums up my feelings on the matter."
This and that conversation continued on their trek to the main courtyard of Winterfell. Myrcella let it fall into the background of her mind. Her focus was taken up on imagining what would come next. Lord Stark would be coming south with them when they returned. It would be good for Father to have his foster brother by his side. But historically, Northerners did poorly when they served as Hands of the King. Lord Cregan Stark and his brief 'Hour of the Wolf' was easily the most infamous example. At the very least, Northern Hands were always… eventful, with Northern and Southern values clashing at the highest level. And Myrcella didn't expect Lord Eddard's Handship to be any different.
There was much going on in the realm at the moment. They saw it firsthand on their trip north through the Riverlands. Chaos and strife would likely be the name of the next few years. In a way, Myrcella expected that it was exactly what Father needed. He needed something to focus his attention so he didn't regress. For now, it very much seemed that the return of magic would provide that something. It would undoubtedly become the most pivotal challenge of Father's reign. How he dealt with everything it brought — rising House tensions, uncovered ambitions, magical smallfolk and nobles alike, drastic shifts in the Faith and the Citadel, and upstarts from Dorne to the Wall — would be his legacy, just as much as Robert's Rebellion was.
Then, there were matters of the court to think on — more pressing and personal concerns. The prospect of Northerners in King's Landing couldn't be dismissed. Would Lord Eddard bring his family with him? The Starks famously claimed that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, but Lady Sansa and Lady Arya might come along. Perhaps the pretty Jon Snow as well? Myrcella felt it would be a stretch to hope for the Young Wolf, as much as she wished to spend more time with him. But even without the Heir to the North, much would be changing in the courts of King's Landing. The North's star was undeniably on the rise, and many would seek to get into the new Hand's good graces.
What was she to expect upon returning home? Sooner or later, Joffrey's true nature would see the light of day. And not just what he'd already shown. How would Father react when his heir's hollow cruelty could no longer be ignored? How would Mother? And furthermore, what schemes would Mother concoct to assert her power in the capital? There was even the very real chance of Witches and Wizards from Hogwarts turning everything they knew on their head. The realm was only now awakening to magic, but Hogwarts had already harnessed it and would undoubtedly play a key part in leading the way to the future.
Unbidden, Myrcella found herself worrying at her lip. It was a terribly unseemly habit, Mother said. One unfit for a lady, much less the princess of the realm. But Myrcella couldn't help herself when her mind was working. Mother would likely prefer if she didn't think at all, a dark part of her mind reminded. Or at least, never on anything important.
But 'not thinking' was the last thing Myrcella wanted. She was a princess, and she should be able to represent her family well as such. Father would never be a capable administrator, but he was quickly becoming a good King in his recent sobriety. He was a man to look up to, a warrior who represented strength and stability, a King who held all Seven of the Kingdoms together. He was a symbol at the top of it all, a triumphant royal stag. And Myrcella had been well-drilled on how important symbols were for the politics and powers of Westeros. The rediscovery of the original Ice, for example, would secure Stark rule over the North for a thousand more years on its own.
Meanwhile, Mother was content to rest on her laurels. She was barely more than a trophy, not even a figurehead, for that implied that people would rally around her. She'd accomplished no great feats as Queen. No public works or charities or even diplomatic relations. All she brought was what she was. Daughter of Tywin Lannister. Sister of the Kingslayer. Wife of Robert Baratheon. Mother of the Golden Prince. She was shallow, unremarkable, and, though Myrcella hated to admit it, cruel. Myrcella feared nothing more than ending up like her Mother.
She had ideas in her mind to prevent it. Ideas that began before their royal procession but were only bolstered and expanded upon as she saw more of the realm. The trip north had undoubtedly only shown her thin, thin slice of reality outside the Red Keep. But it was a thin slice more than she had seen before. Myrcella would likely never be Queen, but she wished to be the best princess she could be. She wished to do everything she could, everything her position would allow, to help ensure her Father's legacy. The man he'd become this past year had made him more than worthy of that in her mind.
'It's a sad thing,' Myrcella thought as they reached the courtyard. 'When the daughter is already more celebrated than the mother. The part my song played in Father's legendary duel and return to form against the combined Bracken-Blackwood scions likely made sure of that. A boss battle, indeed…'
They didn't wait long for Father and the other men to arrive. Soon enough, they rode through the gates of the courtyard. Father and Lord Eddard rode side by side, and Myrcella thought they made for a magnificent sight. Doubly so with Ser Winter trotting along beside Lord Eddard. The massive mother wolf was nearly of a size with their horses.
Their heirs rode behind them, but the contrasting distance between Robb and Joffrey was visible to the eye. As was the fact that Robb kept his direwolf pup Greywind between them. The noble beast had already grown to the point that it reached Myrcella's waist. The other men weren't far behind, the hunting party consisting of Stark, Lannister, and Baratheon men, along with the few guests from Hogwarts.
Atlas and his father Sirius, who'd been entrusted with Tommen and little Rickon Stark respectively, rode along on those strange Wizard steeds of theirs. Cho's Lord Cedric Diggory stuck with Jon Snow and Uncle Tyrion, their pretty looks contrasting oddly with the Imp's unfortunate visage. Father led the celebratory mood with a grand smile, but none of them seemed all too disappointed that their hunt was being cut short for his announcement.
It quickly became apparent that Father couldn't even wait to dismount before speaking his piece, "Wife! Daughter! Ladies! I have good news to share!"
Standing beside her, Myrcella could practically feel Mother suppressing the need to roll her eyes. Still, she managed to smile politely, "Do go on, husband."
The men swung themselves down from their horses (and the strange, flickering enigmas that the Wizards favored). Father continued, slinging a thick arm around Lord Eddard's shoulders as they approached.
"He said yes! Ned is to be my new Hand. He'll be returning to King's Landing with us, and I already know he'll be bloody fucking brilliant in my service!"
"It's an honor, of course, Robert," Ned said, the barest hints of a smile on his usually icy face.
"Damn straight! And to celebrate the hot foster brother-on-brother action to come-!"
At that, Ned groaned and groaned hard, "Don't say it like that. Please, for the love of the Old Gods and the New, never speak those words in that order again."
Father laughed, unfazed by the interruption, "HAHA! Oh, lighten up, Ned! Your King is allowed to make a few shite jokes here and there! Why, it's the best perk of the crown!"
Ned's groan turned into a sigh of fond exasperation, "Just tell them what's been decided, Robert. There's no need to keep them waiting and guessing."
"Aye, as you say," Father grinned and nodded. "To celebrate the new Hand and affirm our rekindled brotherhood, I've decided a match is in order. Ned and I will be brothers in good-fatherhood too, now!"
Despite herself, Myrcella felt horror bloom in her gut. Horror for Sansa. She didn't deserve Joffrey. By the Maiden, no one deserved Joffrey! Glancing over, Myrcella could see the same emotion come over Sansa's face. She was like an open sleeve, terrible at hiding her emotions as horrible realization set in. Meanwhile, Mother looked moments away from preening at the 'victory' she'd won, uncaring or perhaps even unaware that it meant throwing an innocent girl to her beast of a son. Then Father continued, and that assumption was dashed to the winds.
"I've noticed that my 'Cella is already taking fondly to Ned's Robb!" Father declared. "And I can think of no other young man I'd rather have as a goodson! A Princess to the Starks for a Hand to the King! Myrcella Baratheon will wed Robb Stark and our families will be tied together like they always should have been!"
In an instant, the emotions among the ladies flipped entirely. Catelyn let out a subtle sigh of relief. Sansa's horror disappeared in a blink, and joy took its place. She seemed ecstatic to have Myrcella as a goodsister. At the same time, Mother went straight past horror and into a poorly restrained rage.
Myrcella herself was stunned by the news and reversal. Father's declaration filtered into her mind, and something in her stomach fluttered. Truly? Could it be…? On one hand, she was being given away. She almost certainly wouldn't return to King's Landing with the rest of her family, and her whole life would change from this moment on. On the other… she didn't truly mind who she was being given away to…
Myrcella's eyes sought out Robb — her husband-to-be. He gave her a soft, shy smile, so out of place on his usually confident face that Myrcella couldn't help but find it beautifully, heart-skippingly adorable. The 'something' inside her continued to flutter with a vengeance as naive, half-baked dreams of the future suddenly centered themselves around a single, certain face.
"Myrcella won't be returning south with us, of course. Her place is now here in Winterfell," Father continued, confirming what was already quite clear in Myrcella's mind. "I don't expect them to wed for some time yet. But when they do… perhaps a smaller ceremony here in the North under the traditions of Robb's House and then a grander one to be hosted in King's Landing for the rest of the realm…?"
Those words, it seemed, were the final straw. They made the future all too real for Mother. Beside her, Myrcella could practically feel the moment she snapped.
"NOOOOOOOO!" Mother shrieked. "You won't take my daughter away from me! You bastard! You craven fuck! You shit excuse for a King and father! TAKE IT BACK!"
Mother's final words — a command to the King — resonated and echoed through the cold, empty air. They rang with gold, as Myrcella's songs did, but it was a dull, tarnished gold. It didn't shine or shimmer. It merely weighed oh so heavily on every soul there. Father stiffened as if gripped by something unholy.
"Oh, Gods, Mother…" Myrcella heard a horrified whisper, barely realizing that it came from her own lips. "What have you done…?"
The Queen's magic puppeted the King with stiff movements and jerky limbs. Father raised his arm. His mouth practically cracked open. Confusion turned to the same horror Myrcella felt as everyone else saw Mother's command for what it was: not merely the futile rage of an incensed mother but an undeniable crime against the crown in action.
"I… rescind my… decree-…" Father's words came out stilted on a heavy, unfamiliar tongue. Myrcella could only desperately hope that he was struggling with all his might inside his mind.
Then, like light from the heavens, the spell broke. From several places and at several angles, bolts of red light hit Mother. She collapsed like a puppet without strings. Uncle Jaime just barely caught her before she could hit the ground. Father fell to his knees, panting and heaving. The actors quickly made themselves known.
Lady Cho moved to comfort Myrcella, stowing her Witch's stick along the way. Myrcella didn't even realize she was crying until Cho began gently wiping tears from her face. Cedric and Sirius moved to help the King stand on his own two feet again. And Atlas and Luna stepped up to Mother, staring down at her with intense expressions and completely ignoring Uncle Jaime's glare.
"Merlin, that's an ugly thing," Atlas muttered, sounding very much like he wished to swear. "I feel icked out just looking at it. Err… her, I guess."
"Nasty, nasty, nasty," Luna agreed, giving an uncharacteristically sober nod. "Take, take, take, and no give at all. All control and no play makes a very naughty Queen."
"What have you done?!" Uncle Jaime hissed. "Did you kill the Queen?!"
Atlas shook his head, "She's alive, just asleep for now. I don't know how long that first condition will last after Robert gets his hands on her."
Uncle Jaime paled at that reminder, and Myrcella couldn't help but feel the same. As terrible as she could be, Mother was still Mother. Myrcella had to believe she loved them. She had to, in her own twisted way. To the point of madness, even, for Mother must have been driven to her terrible crime for Myrcella's sake.
"Shh~," Cho soothed as Myrcella began to choke on nothing. "It'll be okay. It'll all be okay. Worse things have happened. You'll get through this, just like everything else."
It barely helped, especially after Father stormed over with lightning and thunder in his eyes, "That utter, black-hearted, fucking bitch!"
It said something when Myrcella couldn't even refute him calling Mother that…
"I should have her head mounted on the fucking Iron Throne for this!" Father continued with a storm raging inside him. Most terrifying, they were only seeing the edges of it, just lightning within distant clouds.
His call for execution sent Myrcella rushing forward to Father's side. She clutched at his clenched fist, "Father, no! Please-! Please don't…!"
"Your Grace, I must plead for leniency along with the Princess," Uncle Jaime insisted.
"As do I, Robert," Ned stepped forward — a strange ally to their current cause for mercy. "You have every right to see her executed, but you really, truly shouldn't. Think of what the Old Lion would do. Even if he was in the wrong, you'd invite civil war and questions to your reign. The cracks would show before long."
A thunderous scowl established itself on Father's face and seemed as if it would never leave. Myrcella tried again, pleading, "Please, Father. Mercy. T-Tommen's crying…"
"Oh, sweet 'Cella," Father sighed, his justified rage breaking, evaporating apart like storm clouds. "You're crying as well… Truly, you're a hundred times better than your mother could ever be."
Surprisingly gentle hands wiped at her tears, and Myrcella leaned desperately into her Father's touch for support in the chaos. He was a rock in the storm, "I-I-… She's still my mother… As heinous as her crimes… I don't wish to see our family torn apart more than it already is…"
Father hugged her then, and Myrcella sobbed into his giant embrace. Holding her up when her legs failed her, Father turned his attention back to the situation at hand, "Something still has to be done. This can't go unanswered. Or unpunished. At the very least, I'll need her tongue."
Ned winced — Myrcella could hear it in his tone, "That's not a good look either, Robert. A King calling for his Queen's tongue? It's practically unheard of."
"It's a magic fucking tongue, Ned!" Father boomed — somehow, Myrcella only took comfort in the vibration from the safety of his arms. "This whole situation is fucking unprecedented! I can't in good conscience leave the damned thing in her damned mouth so she can use it on some other poor damned soul!"
"Perhaps a less bloody solution then," Atlas suggested — then and there, Myrcella could've hugged the Wizard silly.
"Aye? What do you have in mind?" Ned asked.
"We can always permanently silence her," Atlas said — Myrcella didn't have time to grow horrified at the implication before he corrected her assumption. "Quite literally. Magic to punish magic. We'll weave a spell over her so she can't speak or make any noises with her magical tongue. Then, you can do what you will with her. Lock her away somewhere close at hand, perhaps? Out of sight, out of mind. And she'll be as neutered as she could be."
"Fine. Acceptable," Father grunted. "She can be locked in the bloody Maidenvault. The Golden Lion Queen, now Queen of the Vault. There's an irony there that certainly appeals."
"Thank you, Father," Myrcella hugged him tighter. "Know that I know she was in the wrong… Still, while she might forget your mercy, I never will."
Pulling back, Myrcella saw that the King's punishment had been heard by all. Already, nothing would ever be the same. Mother was still passed out cold. Terrible as it was, Myrcella couldn't help but hope she stayed that way… Uncle Jaime just looked relieved that his twin would live. Uncle Tyrion watched on with a macabre focus on his unfortunate face. Tommen was sniffling but trying his best — oh, how he tried — to be strong. And Joffrey… Myrcella had never seen him look more furious, more cruel, more true to his hollow, hateful self than now.
Everyone else in the courtyard still seemed to be caught up in shock and horror from Mother's terrible crimes. Magic had been levied against the Crown and King. By the Queen, no less… None would forget the scene any time soon. Myrcella couldn't bring her eyes to seek out her betrothed. Robb must hate her now for her Mother's atrocity. She didn't even stop to ask or care if Myrcella might actually like her match before springing to awful action. Oh, Mother… Must you ruin everything you touch…?
IIIII
"Alright, gentlemen!" Atlas announced to the yard and every competitor within it. "I want a good, clean, honorable fight here today! Call your hits and accept defeat graciously. I'll be watching to be sure you do. The magic on your weapons will prevent fatalities, but that's no excuse to stay on after you've been defeated."
"Oi, there's not a gentle bone in Blackwood's body!" Ser Harry of the Kingsguard jeered back goodnaturedly.
"Like you're one to talk, Bracken!" His counterpart, Ser Lucas, jeered right back.
The mood seemed light at first glance. And that was very much the point of the entire endeavor. After Mother's crimes the day before, something had to be done to occupy people's minds and attention. It was Myrcella's betrothed who came up with the wonderful idea that Winterfell currently embarked on. A tourney. Or a pseudo-tourney, at least. It gave the fighting men something to do and everyone else something to watch. It warmed Myrcella's heart that Robb was trying his best to ensure her Mother was the last thing on people's minds.
There were games to enjoy. Unorthodox and novel games. Not merely a joust and a melee. While Robb came up with the idea, the Witches and Wizards of Hogwarts pitched in as well. They brought new mediums of competition and fresh takes on Westerosi tourney traditions. Father practically leaped at the chance.
It was a tourney unlike any Myrcella had seen. Thanks to the Wizards and Northern sensibilities, it wasn't nearly as pompous and stuffy as usual. They insisted that anyone should be able to enter and earn glory. Father agreed, altogether ecstatic about the chance to indulge in one of his greatest joys.
The joust and traditional melee were simple to arrange with the Wizards' magic. But there were other games to make up for the lack of noteworthy competitors there. One was a freeform archery competition with moving, animated targets that the hunters of Winter Town could join just as readily as the Lords. Another incorporated accuracy and skill of arms with thrown weapons in the same way. There was an amusing event that tasked men with standing on a rapidly rolling log, with the last man standing being declared 'King of the Log'. There was even a fishing game, played in an impossible, magical well to many a fisherman's entertainment. Myrcella found that last game to be surprisingly fun.
Yet Father's favorite of the unorthodox games was the 'Test of Strength'. In theory, it was simple. Yet it seemed perfectly tuned for Father. A man was given a large, unwieldy hammer: the first test, for even hefting it was a notable feat of strength. They were then led to a device of magical make and directed to slam the hammer down as hard as they could manage. The device lit up in correlation with each man's strength. So, of course, Father kept coming back until he shattered it where it stood.
He laughed rapturously when he did, buzzing with lightning and legendary strength, "Fuckin' aye! That's the fucking good stuff! Hahaha, you Wizards should bring your magic to every tourney I host! Gods, I haven't had this much fun in ages!"
In all, the mood in Winterfell had risen to enjoyable heights yet again. At the very least, everyone could pretend the day before hadn't happened at all. Even Joffrey and Tommen got swept up in trying to prove themselves in the games appropriate to their ages. Yet, if Myrcella was being honest with herself, she couldn't completely enjoy the festivities.
Mother lurked in her mind like a dark specter. Her punishment had already been carried out. Atlas saw to it himself. With a tap of his weirwood and obsidian staff glaive, Mother's wretched magical tongue was sealed. She would never say another word, never work her cruel magic on another soul. But at least her tongue and life were still intact. Thankfully, she hadn't woken yet. Myrcella dreaded the moment she did. But she didn't disagree with Mother's punishment. She deserved much worse, in truth. Only Father's mercy and love for Myrcella and Tommen kept Mother's head attached to her shoulders.
Still, while thoughts of Mother lingered about her, Myrcella tried her best to enjoy the tourney. The main event was set to start at any moment. It was to be a melee, but specialized and different from what Myrcella was used to. Another contribution from Hogwarts. The competitors were split into two armies in miniature, set to face off against each other. Each man who yielded or fell would earn the opposite army a point. Additionally, each army had a banner behind their lines. Their foes would be trying to steal it, and upon bringing it behind their own lines, 10 points would be awarded, and the game would be brought to a close. At the end, the army with the most points would be declared the winner.
Perhaps naturally, the two sides quickly formed on pre-existing allegiances. The Stark men on one side, led by Myrcella's betrothed, and the Lannister men of the royal retinue on the other, led by Joffrey. The newest two Kingsguard split between the two armies — Blackwood for Stark and Bracken for Lannister. Uncle Jaime obviously sided with his House as well, so Ser Barristan was given leave to join the Starks to even the scales. Father bowed out of the event for once, taking his Baratheon men with him to let the youth earn their glory. Instead, he came to watch the event beside Myrcella. His company was appreciated, and they took the time to speak as father and daughter should.
"It's a clever system," Father said absently. "The men are encouraged to defeat their opponents but also to keep their objective in mind. There's even a chance for a surprise victory if one side falls behind but still captures the enemy banner. Good shit, this. Similar to a regular melee but with enough difference to properly distinguish it."
"Will you be adopting it for tourneys in the South, Father?" Myrcella asked.
He turned and flashed her a winning grin, "Oh, most definitely. It's just a shame you won't be able to see it realized for a while yet, my girl."
Myrcella nibbled at her lip, "Yes, I shall be staying here in Winterfell instead. Who knows when I might return south again…"
"A year, at most, I'd say," Father answered cannily. "I'll call for you to be actually wed then. None of us will be able to escape a grand wedding. But until that time comes, you and Robb will just be courting and committed to each other."
"That's… reassuring to hear…" Myrcella nodded slowly. "I'm thankful for the time to get to know my future husband and settle into my future home."
"Hmm," Father hummed but didn't say anything more for a moment.
Myrcella found herself fidgeting slightly, unsure of what to say.
"Does it bother you that I'm giving you away, my girl?" Father eventually asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Do you hate me as your mother does?"
"… Yes," Myrcella admitted quietly before quickly reassuring her Father. "Yes, it bothers me! Not 'yes, I hate you'! I could never, Father! But… you're still sending me away from home… Away from Tommen, away from Mother at such a key time… A part of me can't help but feel as if I'm being thrown away…"
She glanced down at her feet, unable to meet her Father's eyes. But only seconds later, Myrcella found herself pulled into his side in a comforting hug, "Oh, 'Cella, I could never throw you away. I only want what's best for you. I think Robb can make you happy. Genuinely, honestly happy. I've seen the way you look at him, and soon enough, he will too. He'll never refuse you, I'm sure.
"He won't…?" Myrcella voiced nervously. "I-I won't end up with a marriage like you and Mother…? I confess nothing is more terrifying to me than that prospect…"
Father laughed, "Oh, Gods, no! Never like me and your mother, 'Cella! You're nothing like her. You're better. Better than me and her put together. Better than anything this world has to offer. You're sweet, kind, beautiful, and capable of so, so much, my girl. He'd be a fool to turn you away even once. Robb's a good young man, and Ned would never raise a fool. I'm proud to give him your hand. And I know you'll make me even more proud as his wife and future Lady of Winterfell.
"You'll do great things here, Myrcella. Greater things than you could ever do in that shithole capital. You'll be safer here too. Winterfell may be cold, but it's no snakepit because of that. I'll have my hands full with the crown and Tommen when we return. I'd much rather have you safe in the North than worry and worry about you in the South."
"Y-You think we're in danger…?" Myrcella worried.
"Me? Gods, no! Have some faith in your old man, 'Cella!" Father grinned confidently before the expression dimmed slightly. "But I doubt your mother will go gracefully into her confinement, even if I don't think she'll be much of a threat anymore, either. And everything else…? Things are changing, 'Cella. I'll be personally training Tommen when we return, but that'll take time and attention from me. As a Lady, you walk a different battlefield than your brother and I. And if I can't help you as much as I'd wish, I'd rather be sure of your safety."
The reason Father would be training his spare instead of his heir went unsaid between them, but they both knew. Myrcella nodded, "I understand, Father. You truly want what's best for me. For us, both me and Tommen."
Father held her tightly against him, "Never, ever doubt that, my girl."
They stayed like that as the 'Capture the Banner' melee began. Myrcella felt her heart race and skip as she watched her betrothed charge into mock battle. Against Joffrey of all people, as well. It was like something out of a dream. A dashing and determined young lord riding in her defense against the cruel prince she'd been stuck with all her life.
The original Ice shined, shimmered, and sparkled in the noon light. Robb held it high as he charged, a rallying signal for the Stark men as good as any banner. A Northern legend was alive again, and it sat firmly in the hands of their Young Wolf. It also had the effect of focusing his enemies' attention. Every man in red and gold turned toward the Young Wolf and his shining sword. And as Robb held their attention captive, his trusted bastard brother began to press in on the weak flanks of the Lannister line.
"Sharp lad. He's keeping everyone focused on him in the center while Jon wreaks havoc. Brave too. The Kingslayer's focus is no light one to bear," Father nodded approvingly, and Myrcella listened intently as one of the greatest warriors of Westeros picked apart the battle for her.
Then, he nudged her, "But I suppose it's easy to be brave when fighting with a princess' favor on your arm."
Blood rushed to Myrcella's cheeks. She suddenly felt like she would never stop blushing. Her eyes found the familiar forest green of her favorite handkerchief, wrapped as it was around Robb's strong bicep. She couldn't stop an airy, girlish giggle from escaping her lips.
"And I suppose it can't be such a great ordeal to marry a brave and handsome warrior who will fight for my favor, after all. You've given me a good match, Father."
"Good," Father barked a laugh. "And if he doesn't come to love you even more than I do, I'll personally trek my way back north to smack some sense into him!"