Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13330143.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Myrcella_Baratheon/Robb_Stark, Catelyn_Stark/Ned_Stark, Cersei_Lannister/
      Jaime_Lannister, Robert_Baratheon/Cersei_Lannister
  Character:
      Robb_Stark, Ned_Stark, Myrcella_Baratheon, Renly_Baratheon, Tommen
      Baratheon, Joffrey_Baratheon, Tywin_Lannister, Jaime_Lannister, Cersei
      Lannister, Robert_Baratheon
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Age_Changes, House_Lannister, House_Stark, House
      Baratheon
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-10 Updated: 2018-01-25 Chapters: 15/? Words: 16745
****** Tempered ******
by The_Jingo_(The_King_in_White)
Summary
     Myrcella is born first. The Young Wolf comes south for a wedding, and
     in the shadow of the Red Keep Robb is forced to question the value of
     northern honour.
***** Robb I *****
The crash of the gangplank hitting the dock could barely be heard over the
rushing waves of Blackwater Bay and the shouts of sailors swaggering about the
harbor, but to Robb Stark that crash was as loud as the crack of thunder.
Swallowing dryly, the Stark heir offered his father a wan-faced smile and
stepped off The Purple Mermaid.
"Ned!" A tall, lithe man shouted as he stepped out of the crowd and raised a
hand in greeting. He was clad in soft green silk with prancing golden stags
embossed on the breast; his hair as dark as midnight and his eyes a bright sky
blue. Given the man's youth and sigil, Robb guessed that their party was being
greeted by the King's younger brother.
Father didn't turn to recognize the man until after he'd finished directing the
unloading of their luggage, a long moment during which the newcomer only looked
indulgent, but once he did a small smile adorned his solemn face. "Renly." He
confirmed his son's guess, grey eyes scanning the dock before settling back on
Renly. "It's been a long time."
"So it has." Renly agreed, stepping forward to clasp Father's forearm man to
man. Then he shifted his attention to Robb, grinning jovially. "And I take it
this is the lucky lad?"
The reference to his impending nuptials turned Robb's mood sour again, but he
didn't let his discontent shift the polite smile from his face. "An honor, my
lord." He extended his hand first, deferential but not simpering. He might be
the heir to Winterfell, but Lord Renly was currently a Lord Paramount, and he
ought to show some respect.
When Renly accepted his hand and shook, Robb distantly noted that the man's
hand was soft and uncalloused. No doubt Renly had been trained to some degree
with weapons, as all lords were; but a warrior he was not. Given King Robert's
reputation and Renly's own height and breadth of shoulder, that realization
came as a bit of a shock to the Stark heir.
A sharp puff of air ruffled the grey linen of Robb's as Grey Wind padded down
the gangplank, the direwolf's waist-high bulk bumping into his master as he
came to take a peek at the stranger standing so close to the Starks.
"Gods!" Renly breathed, taking half a step back as shock and fear flashed
across his face. But just as quickly as it came, the horror was gone and
replaced by a bark of laughter. "You grow them large in the North I see."
"So we do." Father agreed wryly, giving Grey Wind's shoulder a gentle shove.
"Away with you." He ordered, clicking his tongue when the wolf only looked back
at the Warden of the North with mournful amber eyes. "Go lay down."
Grey Wind gave a quick huff but obediently trotted over to mount guard over the
rapidly growing pile of their unloaded luggage. The direwolf had only moved a
few quick bounds away, but the distance was enough to ease the slight tension
from Renly's frame.
Renly gave a slight shake of his head before addressing the Warden of the North
again. "Robert wanted to come down and fetch you himself, but there were some
matters of state he needed to address. You understand, of course."
"Of course." Father echoed, no looking the least bit offended. "And how is
Jon?"
"Still as hearty as a horse."
As Renly descended into conversation with his Father, Robb found his attention
wandering away. He knew he should be listening closely to his elders like a
good dutiful son, but thoughts of the princess kept popping up in his mind to
distract him.
Myrcella Baratheon. It was six moons after the raven from the King arranging
the marriage and her name still tasted like poison in the back of his throat.
It wasn't that Robb was afraid of pledging himself to a troll, since Cersei
Lannister was supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms and
her daughter was her spitting image. Rather, he resented being caged into a
marriage so suddenly.
Robb had grown up being told by his parents that while he would have to fulfill
his duty, he would only do so with a woman he had met beforehand and found
pleasing. Politics were important in a marriage, but so was compatibility, and
he'd always wanted to have a marriage full of affection like his parents'. And
that was when he deigned to think of marriage at all; since it had always
seemed to be something to worry about a few more years down the road.
Yet here Robb was, fourteen namedays and betrothed to the daughter of the Demon
of the Trident. Gods old and new have mercy.
"Come on lad, no time for dallying." The sudden address from Lord Renly was
enough to snap Robb out of his daze. "His Grace might have been too busy to
come down here himself but there's no doubt that he's eager to meet you."
Numbly, Robb felt his lips pull into a bland smile. "Of course, my apologies."
Whistling to Grey Wind, Robb settled a firm hand around the direwolf's leather
collar and follower his father and Lord Renly through the crowd. The famous
stink of Flea Bottom was getting to both man and beast, and the sooner they
were ought of it the better.
"I'll ride in the second one with Grey Wind." Robb offered as soon as they
reached a trio of elegantly sculpted carriages. He hadn't missed the way his
hound unnerved the King's brother, and while hopefully the man would become
accustomed to the wolf's presence in time, Robb wasn't going to push his luck.
"It's best not to leave him alone in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar
people, don't you think?"
His father considered the pair with his heavy grey gaze, long face solemn and
weathered. "Very well." He allowed after a moment. "But only if you promise to
keep careful control over him. Otherwise I will have to ride with him. As I
told you and your siblings before, your direwolves are not mere pets."
It was a fair warning, but it still chafed the heir to Winterfell. Hadn't Robb
proven to his father by now that he could be trusted with something so simple?
And besides, his father obviously wanted to ride with Lord Renly and hear more
of the capital. But his father was still his father, so rather than voicing his
irritation Robb only squared his shoulders and met his father's eyes. "I
promise."
***** Ned I *****
Not even the slight breeze ruffling past Ned Stark's face could mask the stink
of Fishmonger's Square.
Their open carriage clattered over the cobblestones, bouncing faintly over the
uneven road as they began the journey up The Hook to Aegon's Hill High.
"Is Robert well?" the Warden of the North asked quietly once the noise of the
city was loud enough to conceal his words from the coachman. It wasn't like his
old friend to miss his arrival, and Robert had never had the patience for the
minutiae of ruling. So being absent for reasons of state was unusual to say the
least.
Renly huffed a laugh, lounging against the backrest and waving at the smallfolk
they passed. "Don't worry your head about it, Ned. My dear brother is just
sleeping off last night's wine. You know how he can be. It's nothing unusual."
Indeed it wasn't. There was nothing Robert Baratheon enjoyed so much as a good
fight followed by a night of wine and whores. But that didn't mean Ned was
going to disrespect the King by voicing his agreement. "What can you say about
the Princess?" he probed instead, changing the topic.
"Myrcella?" Renly blinked, sparing a side glance for a northerner. "My niece is
a sweet girl." He offered after a moment. "Very pretty and very clever, with
none of her mother's poison. Your son is going to be a lucky man. Unlike
whichever poor girl ends up marrying Joff. Let me tell you, that boy's mother
has spoiled him beyond belief."
"Is that so?"
Humming an agreement, Renly crossed his leg over his knee and turned in his
seat to better face Ned. "But that's enough gossip. I wanted your opinion on
something." He slipped a hand inside his doublet and pulled out a gold gilt
locket. "What do you think?"
Ned cocked an eyebrow in confusion when Renly popped the locket's cover open to
reveal a small portrait of a brunette with long curled hair. "A fair girl, I
suppose. Why do you ask?"
Rather than appease the Baratheon lord, Ned's short comment only made him look
dissatisfied. "Is that the only thing that comes to mind?" he asked
cryptically, snapping the locket closed and tucking it away. "I suppose it was
a bit of a long shot regardless." Renly muttered more to himself than to Ned.
The grey light in Ned's eyes sharpened as he wordlessly sought Renly's blue
gaze. There was no need for curt words, since after a heartbeat the younger man
caved under Lord Stark's forbidding mien.
"There's no need to look so suspicious Ned." Renly chuckled, running a hand
through his dark hair and settling the other on his knee. "It's just been said
that Margaery Tyrell bears some resemblance to the Lady Lyanna, and I thought
if the rumors were true that you would recognize it instantly."
"I see." Ned said coolly, resisting the urge to twist his fingers into the dark
cotton of his trousers. It was understandable for Renly to want to satisfy his
curiosity, but thoughts of his sister still hurt after fourteen years. He still
dreamt of blue winter roses, desperate promises, and the bed of blood.
Finally they clattered through the front gates of the Red Keep, moving through
an arch of dark sandstone and into a courtyard stuffed with nobles and
servants.
"I'd try not to act shocked." Renly forewarned cryptically as the carriage
swayed to a stop, and then the Lord of Storm's End was leaping from his seat to
seek out a comely young lad with curly honey-shaded hair.
Ned stood at a more sedate pace, glancing back to confirm that the carriages
bearing his son and his luggage were safe and close at hand. Call it prejudice
or healthy suspicion, but the Lord of Winterfell hadn't felt safe since the
moment their ship had begun to sail up the Blackwater. The Capitol might be the
seat of the King, but it was the Lannisters who held power in the streets.
And to think Ned was commanded to leave his son here when he returned to
Winterfell.
Then a voice he hadn't heard in years boomed "Ned!" and he was just barely able
to conceal his surprise by taking a knee. "Your Grace." He returned numbly,
barely hearing when Robert exasperatedly demanded that he get off his 'frozen
knees'.
By the Gods! The last time Ned had seen his foster brother had been during
Greyjoy's Rebellion nine years past. Back then Robert had been clean shaven and
heavily muscled with only the odd streak of grey in his coal dark hair.
In the time since the King had gone to seed; he must have gained eight stone in
weight. Formerly smooth cheeks were covered by a fierce black and grey peppered
beard, and Robert's blue eyes were ringed with dark shadows. Robert was even
sweating through his silks like a pig, and Ned felt a great wave of
disappointment and pity rear in his chest.
Time was cruel.
"It's good to see you again, Ned." Unlike Robert, Jon Arryn was all skin and
bone. The Lord of the Vale's blond hair had gone white many years ago, and
during the Rebellion he'd only had half his teeth. In the decade and a half
since Jon had lost almost all the muscle on his frame, and his mouth was nearly
toothless. The wrinkles in his face were deeper, and the liver spots on his
hands larger, but Ned was still glad to see him.
"Jon." Ned greeted back, disregarding propriety to wrap the spindly man up in a
brief embrace. With Jon before him and Robert by his side, Ned almost felt like
a boy in the Eyrie again. "It's been too long." But the faint tremble of
exhaustion in Jon prevented the fantasy from being more than a brief thought.
Jon Arryn would never sweep his two wards up into his arms and hug them
fiercely as a proud father would. It was doubtful Jon could even do so with his
own six year old son at this point.
After another quiet moment, Ned released the older man and turned to beckon
Robb closer. "I'll reintroduce you to my son."
***** Myrcella I *****
With all the backslapping and carrying on between her father, Lord Stark, and
Jon Arryn, the Lion Princess found herself standing off to the side and
completely forgotten.
Which was just how she liked it.
With the eyes of no one important on her, Myrcella was able to suck in a
steadying breath and stop nervously digging her fingernails into her palms.
Thank the Seven that her betrothed hadn't decided to try and search for her
yet. It gave her time to study the auburn-haired boy.
Myrcella certainly didn't want to marry the Stark boy and be sent far away from
her mother and Tommen to live in a frozen hell, but when her father had his
mind set on something it was almost impossible to change. At this point she was
just hoping that the Starks were more like what her father boasted and less
like what her mother said.
When her father had first decided that she was going to marry the Stark heir
her mother had been furious. For weeks every day was full of horrible tales of
the barbarous northmen. There was House Bolton who flayed people alive and wore
their skins as cloaks. There were the cannibals of Skagos and the brutish Umber
wildings. Even in the southern part of the North it was no better, what with
the crannogmen eating bug and other disgusting things.
Robb Stark didn't look like he ate the flesh of men or drank fermented
frogspawn, but Myrcella knew that looks weren't everything. Her younger brother
Joffrey could act like a saint when he wanted, but she'd seen him bullying
Tommen too often to believe his act. Robb Stark might just be the same kind of
person.
"Come on, come on, I'll show you to your rooms Ned." The King chuckled
throatily, slapping Lord Stark between the shoulders with one beefy hand. Then
he dragged away the quietly protesting northern lord, leaving the rest of the
royal family standing alone with a suddenly anxious looking Robb Stark and an
amused Jon Arryn.
Mother only looked down at him and gave a disdainful sniff before sweeping
away, Uncle Jaime hot on her heels. "Come children."
Myrcella hesitated, fighting the urge to wring her hands as Robb Stark's gaze
finally settled on her standing between her brothers. The redhead's bright blue
eyes were sharp and assessing, not quite hostile but nowhere near friendly. The
eyes of the wolf.
Smiling politely, the princess bobbed a short curtsey and fled the courtyard
with her brother's hot on her heels. Lord Arryn would look after Robb Stark
like the boy was his own grandson, so there was no reason for her to worry
about him until suppertime when her father threw a huge welcoming feast for the
Starks.
"I say, didn't they look positively brutish?" Joffrey laughed as they stepped
into Maegor's Holdfast. "And did you see that great beast they had chained up
in the carriages? Do you suppose they're so useless on the hunt that a hound
won't do and they need a real wolf?" Under the mockery Myrcella could hear the
jealousy, which made her shudder. Gods preserve them if Joff got it into his
head that he needed a pet lion or something else so foolish.
"I thought they looked nice." Tommen disagreed, reaching out to take Myrcella's
hand like a kitten looking for its mother. "I always thought northmen would
look mean, but Lord Stark just looks tired and sad."
Surprisingly, Joffrey didn't take the chance to mock his younger brother,
instead only shrugging a shoulder in agreement. "Well I suppose the wolf boy
doesn't look half bad. Look on the bright side, sister. At least you won't be
whelping pups for some ugly stinking wildling."
Heat flooded Myrcella's cheeks. "Enough, Joffrey! You keep your mouth clean or
Father will have Uncle Jaime washing it out with soap again."
Joffrey rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, splitting off from his two
siblings to wander down another corridor alone. "I'll see you in a few
candlemarks, you crybabies. Make sure you aren't late. We wouldn't want to keep
our 'guests of honor' waiting, would we?" With that final taunt he turned a
corner and vanished from their sight.
===============================================================================
"Now remember darling, you are a lioness. Be brave but cunning. All men are the
same, easily controlled once you discover their weakness. Just smile prettily
and bear with it for now, and I promise I'll find a way to get this ridiculous
arrangement ended. No daughter of mine is going to marry some northern savage."
The hardness in her mother's voice was at odds with the softness in her hands
as Myrcella's mother combed her fingers through her daughter's hair and
arranged the blonde curls into an elaborate coiffure.
Myrcella swallowed thickly, not even sure she wanted such a thing to pass. If
the betrothal with the Starks was broken, how long would it be before her
father found another man he wanted her to marry? And if her mother got to
choose Myrcella knew she'd be betrothed to one of her Lannister cousins, but
the only boys she knew close in age were Tyrek and Lancel, who were both stupid
and arrogant.
At least there was a chance that Robb Stark might be better than Tyrek and
Lancel.
With a final twist her mother finished styling her hair, and Myrcella turned to
look into the silver backed mirror that her Uncle Renly had gifted her for her
nameday many years ago. The polished young woman that looked back was a
familiar stranger; who wrapped up in a conservative red silk dress with
carefully braided curls and flashing emerald eyes.
She was a miniature of her mother; looking every bit a true Lioness of
Lannister. Now if Myrcella could just make herself feel as brave as she looked,
she might just be ready to go down to supper and even speak to the stranger she
was supposed to marry once she flowered.
Sadly, time waited for no one; not even fretting golden princesses looking for
a bit of courage. So with a final throaty swallow Myrcella smiled sadly at her
reflection and trailed after her mother into the wolf's den.
***** Robb II *****
The heat of the dining hall combined with the tightness of his grey and white
doublet was enough to choke Robb. He wanted to rip the damned thing and flee
out into the cool summer night, but such a thing wasn't lordly. So instead he
shoved down the discomfort and took a sip of the too-sweet Arbor red that was
served at the King's table.
Keeping his gaze either on his plate or down towards the minstrel playing a
soft tune in the corner of the room, Robb did his best to follow the story of
the most recent tourney that Lord Renly was nattering in his ear about. The man
seemed friendly enough, and at least when he was listening to an account of
Thoros of Myr's flaming sword he didn't have to look over at his betrothed. The
avoidance was a little childish, but Robb was still struggling to find his
footing in a strange city full of strange people.
Not to mention he had the feeling the Kingslayer would open him from balls to
brains if he stared at the Princess too long. God knows the Queen barely paused
in her efforts to glare a hole through his head. He might be between his own
lord father and the Lord of the Stormlands, but Robb felt distinctly unsafe.
Or maybe Robb was just being overly paranoid, believing too much in the torrid
tales of the court that had found their way North over the years.
"As I always say, there's nothing quite like a good tourney." Renly sighed
wistfully, running a thumb over the clean-shaven cut of his jaw before lowering
his voice conspiratorially. "I don't suppose you'd consider giving it a go,
would you? Ser Loras can only be a nameday or two older than yourself and he's
a sure hand at the joust. And it isn't as if you would need to be overworried
about a poor showing considering your age. No one would be expecting you to be
the next Dragonknight in your first tourney. What do you say?"
Robb took a large bite of roasted venison to avoid having to immediately
answer. The proper answer; the Stark answer, was to reject tourneys as little
more than foolishness. Grown men hammering away at each other with sticks would
never approach the visceral feel of real battle. But there was the other part
of him that couldn't help but be excited at the thought, the part that craved a
little glory and time in the sun. Robb wondered what it would be like to have
the crowd screaming his name.
"I think." Robb began after swallowing the thoroughly chewed bit of meat and
lowering his own voice. "That my Lord Father is unlikely to give me leave to
take part in such things. I wouldn't place your hopes on seeing a Stark knight
in any joust so long as we remain in the capitol, my Lord." It wasn't a promise
of disobedience by any means, but that didn't stop Robb from sending his father
a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.
Luckily, Robb's father was too deep in conversation with the King to pay much
attention to an quiet exchange between his heir and the Master of Laws.
Relaxing a touch, Robb took another sip of wine and then turned to Lord Renly
to meet the man's grin with a polite smile of his own. It wasn't that he
intended to go against anything his father asked him to do, but Lord Renly was
good company by even the Lord of Winterfell's standards. Surely it wouldn't
hurt to exchange a idle suggestions with the man?
Renly tapped the side of his nose once before turning to make a silly face at
the young Prince Tommen. "As long as you're that careful with what you say, you
might just make it here, Stark." the dark-haired man muttered under his breath.
Frowning, Robb thought to ask for clarification on that little barb, but before
he could get anything out King Robert was lurching to his feet with a bellow.
"That's enough of that, wouldn't you say?" the fat King boomed at the minstrel,
who froze in fright. "I feel like I'm at a fucking funeral with you plucking
away at that thing. Play us something with a little more life to it, eh?" Then
he took a huge swallow of dark red wine, the wet trickles running from the edge
of the goblet and down into the King's thick beard.
"A bear there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair.
The bear! The bear!"
Father and Lord Arryn wore expressions of bemusement as King Robert began to
bellow out the lyrics of The Bear and the Maiden Fair. A cruel smirk lit the
Kingslayer's face and the Lion of Lannister tapped a boot in time with the
minstrel's lute. The Imp and Lord Renly laughed out loud and joined their
voices to the ribald ballad, while Lord Stannis ground his teeth. Even the
Princes thought it was great fun, ignoring the furious Queen's shushed demands
for them to behave.
"Oh come they said, oh come to the fair! The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear! All
black and brown, and covered with hair!"
What held Robb's attention wasn't the impromptu performance that the King
decided to put on. The Young Wolf noted that servants and the guards adding
their voices to the monarch's throaty song, and even Cersei Lannister's
legendary fury only garnered a side glance from him. Rather, what held his eyes
was the utterly humiliated expression adorning his betrothed's face.
Myrcella stared right at Robb with flushed cheeks, blown wide emerald eyes, and
slightly parted lips. It reminded him of Sansa and how his sister would be
deeply embarrassed every time Arya acted like a little wildling rather than a
proper lady of House Stark.
And for the first time since laying eyes on his wife-to-be, Robb didn't
consider her as an inconvenient imposition in his life to be resented. Rather,
he felt a touch of pity stirring in his breast.
"Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air! My bear! She sang. My bear so
fair! And off they went, from here to there, The bear, the bear, and the maiden
fair."
***** Renly I *****
The day, Renly decided, could have gone worse. The feast had been a bit of a
disaster, as anything formal involving Robert tended to turn out, but Renly was
used to it. The best thing to do was simply to stay on Robert's good side and
indulge his older brother's hearty spirit. Cersei had never learned to do that,
hence why Robert didn't give a whit about her or her golden cubs. And the
things a man didn't care about were the easiest to convince him to throw away.
It was unfortunate that Margaery looked nothing like Lyanna Stark, because
Robert's obsession was an unerring as the sun. But even if she didn't look like
the ghost of Rhaegar's lover, Margaery was still young and beautiful. And that
was really all a woman needed to be for Robert to want to bed her.
Marrying Margaery off to Robert would be a little harder than slipping her into
his bed, but not impossible. Robert and Cersei hated each other fiercely, and
the King would probably see it as getting one over on the lions if he set
Cersei aside to marry a younger and more pleasant girl. It was a win for all
parties that Renly cared about. Robert got the girl, Renly and Loras got the
power, and even Margaery got a bit of glory for herself.
The only ones that would lose out would be the Lannisters, which was just as
well. They were too powerful already.
"I heard that the feast was great fun." Loras murmured sarcastically,
unbuttoning Renly's doublet with practiced fingers. "A true showing of the
class and culture of His Grace's court."
Renly gave a one-sided smirk, reaching out to pinch the skin of Loras' hip. The
string was enough to make the knight recoil, and Renly took advantage of the
Tyrell's temporary retreat to shrug off his tunic and leave the green silk
crumpled in a careless heap on the floor. "Now, now, little thorn, I'll have
you know it was the epitome of decadence. The Valyrians themselves would be
jealous of our luxurious debauchery."
Then Renly strode over to the window, letting Loras' disbelieving snort go
unanswered as he peered out over the night covered capitol. Anyone passing by
would see the King's own brother standing half-naked at the sill and would
relish the chance to start a few juicy rumors about his sexual prowess. Let
them. Seven knew that the people could use the entertainment, and it would make
them all think he was just another whore-loving sot.
It was better to be underestimated in the Game of Thrones.
"I also heard that you were getting cozy with the Stark boy."
"Is that jealousy I hear?" Renly laughed, deciding it might be best to shut the
drapes after all. Some rumors were just good fun, but others could be damaging.
Then he spun in place to pin his lover with a heated stare.
At Loras' disdainful sniff the Young Stag prowled across his bedchamber, the
muscles of his abdomen playing beneath clean hairless skin as he stalked
towards his prey like a hungry carnivore. "You should know by now that you're
the only boy I'm getting cozy with."
Then Renly pounced, meeting his lover with a bruising kiss that tasted of the
rosewater. All the Tyrells seemed to drink it like a tonic, and the scent clung
to Loras' skin and even to Renly's own hands when he fisted his hands in the
younger man's thick brown curls.
"You're a tease." Loras sighed when they pulled apart, lips bruised and with a
tent already straining at the knight's breeches. He knew Renly well, and knew
that they weren't liable to take their passions any further.
Especially when Loras was expected to depart shortly for more half-hearted
attempts at keeping up the façade of his interest in women. The kiss was just a
way for the Lord of the Stormlands to express his enduring appetite for Loras'
body.
Robert and Renly were more alike than most suspected.
"I suppose some might call me that." Renly demurred, undoing his laces and
letting his trousers drop. The man stood unashamedly naked, lightly muscled and
cleanly shaven, and looked half a man and half a god. Renly could look just as
at home on the Iron Throne as he could at a pleasure house in Lys. "But to get
back to your question, yes, I suppose I was getting to know Robb Stark."
Honey brown eyes admired the way the taut muscles of Renly's arse flexed as the
man padded across to the wardrobe.
As he began to root through the drawers for his favourite silk night shirt. "I
feel like we might have a bit of an opportunity with him. I'm tempted to say
there's less of the North in him than his Father, but that wouldn't sound quite
right. No… Less of the Ned might be better."
"Less of 'the Ned'?" Loras queried, utterly baffled. "Have you had too much
wine, Renly?"
'I'm quite alright, thank you." Renly shot back irritably, pulling a faded blue
nightshirt down over his head. "And yes, less of the Ned. Before Ned became
Lord Stark it wasn't unheard of for the Lord of Winterfell to play the game.
Rickard Stark created the alliance that overthrew the Targaryens. The Old Man
of the North made the Dragonbane dance like a puppet on his strings. I'd say
less of the Arryn, but even Jon knows how to play the game. Ned just can't, for
some odd reason."
Skeptically, Loras folded his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow at his
lover. "And you think the Young Wolf is going to be the next Cregan Stark, is
that it?"
A bubbling laugh burst from Renly's throat. "Heavens, no. I just don't think
he's destined to be the next Ned, or worse, Stannis. Ned is a good friend to
Robert, and I don't see why Robb Stark can't do the same for us."
"For us?"
"Of course for us." Renly grinned, storm blue eyes burning bright. "You and I
are partners, are we not?"
***** Myrcella II *****
"Please close your eyes, Princess." Sarisa murmured lowly, holding up a
porcelain jug filled with slightly steaming water.
Wordlessly, Myrcella followed her handmaid's request, and as the downpour
washed the last remains of lavender soap from her hair, she wondered if her
mother would ask her to attend her for the entire day once again.
The first day after the embarrassing dinner with the Starks, Myrcella had been
glad of Mother's orders. There was no one better to teach her how to be a lady
than her mother, and the excuse to avoid Robb Stark's judgement of the whole
thing had been relieving. But after three weeks spending every hour of the day
in her mother's solar, Myrcella was getting more than a little bored.
She was starting to wonder if it might be better to simply put up with Stark's
scorn. Myrcella had already learnt from her mother that not everyone in the
Seven Kingdoms was going to love her, and if Robb Stark decided he didn't like
her – well, that was his problem.
Yes, Myrcella decided, feeling a little fierce. If Robb Stark wanted to be a
stupid bully like Lancel, that was on him.
Lurching up in the bath, Myrcella accepted Sarisa's hand out. "I think I should
like to go see the Lord Hand today." She declared as her handmaid gently
toweled her gold curls dry. "He promised to tell me more of the history of the
Vale a moon ago and I haven't had that lesson yet."
Sarisa quirked her mouth into a small smile, the fine wrinkles of middle age
making her look kind and stately rather than worn or ugly. "In that case
Princess, might I suggest that when your mother summons you this morning that
your rooms be empty?" It was a daring thing for a servant to say in a castle
ruled by Cersei Lannister, but Sarisa had been Myrcella's handmaid and
governess since before the young girl could remember.
Myrcella was more than fond of her handmaid and wasn't about to go telling
tales about her. "I shall do just that then. Could you bring me my dress? One
from Uncle Stannis?"
The Lord of Dragonstone wasn't the kind of man anyone would think of when
buying a girl's dress, but Myrcella found that he did have good taste. Father
didn't care to pick out clothes for her, while Mother always insisted on
Lannister colours. Uncle Renly brought her gifts sometimes too; usually the
latest colors and fashions out of Highgarden. It was Uncle Stannis that gifted
her the black and gold of their house.
"Ours is the Fury." Myrcella whispered, jutting her chin stubbornly as she
waited for Sarisa to come back. She wasn't just a lion of Casterly Rock. She
was a stag of Storm's End. Both sides of her ancestry were brave and powerful,
and she would be too.
Robb Stark. Pah.
Accepting the smallclothes Sarisa handed her, Myrcella shimmied into the cool
cotton before holding her arms out and letting her handmaiden button her into
gleaming black silk. The collar on it was higher than what Mother or Renly
usually picked out for her, and the cut of the skirt was long and conservative.
A girl's dress, some might call it, and Myrcella was fine with that. She only
had the first bud of her bosom and hips anyway. Better to look a little young
than to look like a child playing dressup in her mother's clothes.
As the last set of buttons were done up, Myrcella let out a relieved sigh and
turned to smile at Sarisa. "That's good enough, I think. As soon as my hair is
brushed I give you leave to take a few candlemarks to go down to the kitchens
and see your husband. I'll be with the Hand for the rest of the morning at
least."
Waving off the token resistance, Myrcella went poking through her desk in
search of a few silver stags. She found a gold dragon and gave that to Sarisa
instead, trotting out of the room with her head held high as soon as her
sunshine curls were put in order.
===============================================================================
Jon Arryn had a nearly toothless mouth that stunk of old cheese, but his old
hands were soft and his eyes were kind. Every time she went up to the Tower of
the Hand to see him, he'd smile, ruffle her hair, and give her a sugared candy.
Sometimes Myrcella wondered if he still saw her as the six year old girl that
used to climb up in his lap and ask for stories of the Falcon Knight.
"Good morrow, Princess." The Hand of the King waved, blue eyes flickering up
briefly from the book of accounts as Myrcella slipped into his study. "It's
been too long since we've spoken. How have you been?"
Smoothing down the hem of her dress, Myrcella grinned widely, her even white
teeth flashing in the sunlight that streamed from the great open windows. "I've
been well, Uncle Jon." The Lord of the Eyrie was more akin to a grandfather
than an uncle, but Myrcella and Tommen had always called him Uncle at the man's
own suggestion. Grandfather would be disrespectful to Tywin Lannister, he'd
claimed.
Jon cocked one snowy eyebrow and absently twirled his falcon feather quill.
"That's good." He allowed, likely unwilling to speak badly of weeks solely in
his queen's company. It saddened Myrcella that her family couldn't seem to
simply get along. "And your betrothed?" he questioned slyly, an amused glint in
his gaze.
Myrcella floundered. She couldn't just come right out and say that she'd been
avoiding Robb Stark, could she? Jon Arryn loved both Robert Baratheon and Ned
Stark like his own sons, and probably thought the match had been glad tidings.
Jon would disapprove of her treating the Stark heir like a leper.
"Unfortunately, I haven't had the chance to speak properly with him quite yet."
The blonde finally forced out, fighting to keep the happy smile on her face.
"It's just that I've been so busy learning the dutires of a lady from my mother
these past few weeks that I haven't had time for anything else."
"Is that so?" The humorous hum in Uncle Jon's voice only deepened, and he
stroked at his beardless chin in mock thought. "Well it's a shame of course,
but Robb's a good lad. He'd understand you had your duty to your mother and
won't take offence. Luckily, there's a chance for you to rectify that… ah,
misfortunate circumstance."
Then Jon deliberately shifted his stare over at the open window, silently
inviting the Lion Princess to go look for herself.
With a sense of trepidation, Myrcella drifted over to the sill and looked down
just in time to see Tommen waddling after Robb Stark with a wooden sword.
***** Robb III *****
Prince Tommen's pudgy face was flushed red and soaked in sweat, with gleaming
beads of moisture shining in the sunlight as he worked through the drill Robb
suggested. The Heir to Winterfell was no Gerold Hightower, but he was able
enough to instruct a seven-year-old boy.
"Ten more, my Prince." Robb offered idly when he noticed Tommen's efforts
slowing. "Then we can break for a drink."
Tommen gasped desperately for air, but managed to force his trembling little
body through the motions before collapsing on his back in the dirt. "Did I do
well?" the boy wheezed, desperate for approval.
"Aye." Plucking a beaten pewter mug from where it hung on a nail hammered into
the tiltyard fence, Robb dunked it in the barrel of lukewarm water left out for
training knights. It might taste a bit off to a pampered Prince, but in the
redhead's opinion Tommen would do well with a little hardship.
Robb waited until the Prince lurched to his feet before passing the boy the
water, watching as Tommen quaffed it down without hesitation. "You're
improving." He praised vaguely, seeing similarities between the King's younger
son and his own brother Bran. Tommen was softer and more bookish, but just like
Bran he loved tales of valiant knights and wanted to become one.
Or at least Tommen did when he wasn't clinging to Cersei Lannister's skirts.
"It would be best to rest for a quarter of a candlemark or so before starting
the drills again, wouldn't you say, my Prince?"
"Yes, Lord Stark."
"Just Robb is fine."
"Yes, Robb. You can just call me Tommen!"
It had been an odd set of circumstances that led to Robb supervising the little
prince as the boy sweated through his silks and rolled in the dirt.
Three days past the King had decided to join Robb and his Father for supper,
moaning on about how he'd miss Father when the man returned to the North in
another week. The moaning had turned to stories of their shared boyhood in the
Vale, which turned into the King complaining about how foppish his sons were.
Eventually King Robert, in a drunk fit of fancy, had commanded Robb to take his
sons under his wing and teach the boys how to act like good Northern lads. Robb
was slightly baffled about what that would actually involve, and had settled on
working the Princes on the tiltyard and hoping that would satisfy the King.
Joffrey had refused when Robb invited him to the tiltyard, sniffing
disdainfully and stalking off, but Tommen had been practically wetting himself
with glee. Robb wasn't sure if it was the chance to learn knightly skills or if
it was just the chance to spend time with a mentor, but in the end Tommen had
attached himself to the Stark heir like a burr and followed him around from
dawn to dusk.
"Alright, Tommen." Robb began dubiously, sparing a quick glance around the
tiltyard to make sure no Lannister stooges were going to tear a strip off of
him for his so-called disrespect. There were a few guards in Baratheon livery
watching the two young noblemen, but no Lannisters, and Robb let himself relax
a bit. "Next we'll run a few laps. Just try to keep it at a steady pace. We
want endurance, not speed. Sometimes a knight has to run many miles to join a
battle on time."
It was a bit amusing to see the Prince of the Iron Throne lap up his
suggestions like ambrosia, Tommen immediately launching his plump frame into a
clumsy jog around the tiltyard. Robb let the boy run a few circuits before
joining in, trying to match the much shorter boy's pace without looking like a
mummer taking tip-toe steps.
"We'll run about the yard twenty times before stopping."
The panting Prince just nodded, unable to force out any words with the way he
was huffing and puffing. The level of exertion Robb was putting the boy through
was completely unfamiliar to Tommen, and it showed in everything from the sweat
soaking through his too-fine-for-the-yard green silks to the desperate wheezes
for air the Prince took.
"You're almost done." Robb encouraged when he saw Tommen beginning to flag at
the halfway mark, silently deciding to pretend they'd run eighteen laps. A boy
as young as Tommen was likely to be so distracted by the actual running he'd
lost count, and Robb would rather avoid the little lion working himself into a
faint. "Two more."
Tomman collapsed in the dirt once more as soon as they finished those laps,
dirtying his fine doublet even more and making Robb wince. Maybe it was just
the Northern frugality in the Stark heir, but he inwardly recoiled at the
thought of so easily ruining such expensive clothes.
Taking inspiration from the warmer days back at Winterfell, Robb pulled his own
cotton tunic over his head and hung it on the tiltyard fence. "It gets too warm
here when you work in the tiltyard." He explained when Tommen gave him a
confused glance. "Once you start to sweat you're better off going shirtless."
Nodding fervently at his new idol's suggestion, Tommen wriggled about in an
effort to yank off his doublet, finally succeeding with the popping of a button
that made Robb wince. A proud expression crossed the boy's pudgy face as he
held out the green silk.
Robb smothered a chuckled at the silliness of it all, taking the proffered
doublet with grave solemnity and hanging it on the fence next to his own blue
tunic. "The breeze feels nice, doesn't it?" he offered a hand to the Prince to
help the boy up.
"It does." Tommen agreed enthusiastically, inspecting Robb's bare torso with
such an amazed look that it started to make the Stark heir uncomfortable.
"Where's your hair Robb?"
"My what?" Robb snorted in disbelief.
"Your hair. Mother always said that men from the North have lots of hair on
their bellies. Even more than Father does!"
The thought of Cersei Lannister lecturing her little cub about how much hair
men from the North grew on their chests was enough to make Robb bark a short
laugh. "Oh we do." He decided to indulge the boy a bit. "But it only comes in
once we reach twenty namedays. Then it all sprouts in at once."
"Truly?"
"Good Gods!" A third voice broke in sounding completely mortified, and Robb
spun in place to find his betrothed standing at the end of the tiltyard with
her hand shading her eyes.
"Hullo Cella!" Tommen yelled, waving with glee. "Robb's teaching me how to be a
knight!"
Seeming to struggle inwardly with indecision, Myrcella squeaked out. "I can see
that." And then she squared her shoulders and began to move towards the pair of
shirtless boys.
***** Myrcella III *****
The heat in her face was enough to make Myrcella nearly faint.
When she'd first caught sight of her betrothed and her brother wandering across
the grounds of the Tower of the Hand with wooden swords, she'd been baffled.
She hadn't talked to Tommen in a few days, but that last time she had seen him
her brother claimed to have never even spoken to Robb Stark before.
Yet now they were apparently roaming the tiltyard together shirtless and
working up a sweat.
It wasn't the first time Myrcella had seen the naked chest of a sweating man.
Her own father had used to visit the yard when she was younger, and every other
day she could find Uncle Jaime scowling as he beat down Ser Blount and Ser
Greenfield. There had even been those days when she was younger where she'd had
to bath Tommen herself when her little brother refused the help of his
servants, so Myrcella had some experience with seeing the bare torso of a man.
But none of those men had been Robb Stark, who was supposed to one day be her
husband.
Before the moment Myrcella had laid eyes on Robb's half-naked flesh, she hadn't
really considered him a person before. Robb Stark had only ever been an
obstacle. A handsome obstacle, in the way that she would admire the savage
beauty of the sea, but still an obstacle. He had been a thing to overcome
rather than a person.
It is a sin to be wanton, the princess reminded herself silently as she shaded
her eyes. She did it partly to keep the midday sun out of her eyes, but mostly
to hide most of the Stark heir from her sight. The only thing she could see
past her lowered hand was Tommen's beaming face and Robb's pale muscled
stomach.
"Have you been hard at work this morn, Tommen?" Myrcella asked, trying to force
back the shock of realizing that Robb Stark could give her the same fluttering
feel in her tummy that Ser Loras or Ser Arys did.
Tommen puffed up proudly at the question. "I have. Robb told me yesterday if I
keep working hard one day I might be as good a knight as Uncle Jaime."
"He's right." She agreed easily. In truth Myrcella doubted that Tommen would
ever be as famous as Uncle Jaime, who everyone called the Lion of Lannister to
his face and Kingslayer behind his back, but it was good for her little brother
to have a dream. "So long as you work hard and don't give up, you'll be a
splendid knight one day."
"Maybe they'll call me Ser Tommen the Golden Stag." The young prince sighed
dreamily.
No longer able to ignore her Northern betrothed and still follow the rules of
courtesy, Myrcella swallowed thickly and lowered her hand. "And how do you do
this fine morn, my lord?" she asked with her heart thumping madly in her ears.
It was the first time she had actually spoken to Robb Stark.
"I am well, my princess." Robb intoned softly, reaching out to take Myrcella's
soft hand and press a brief kiss to the back of it. The whole time his wolf's
gaze never shifted from her emerald eyes, scorching like a bright blue flame.
"And you?"
Myrcella wondered if it was possible for someone to ignite her with the heat of
their stare alone. Maybe the flame would light beneath her ribs, blazing slowly
at first but gaining speed until she was totally devoured and there was nothing
left but bone and ash. The burn she felt in her skin from her betrothed's gaze
was enough to throw her off balance, and after a few idle courtesies she could
barely remember giving she fled the yard.
Gods be good. There was something odd about Robb Stark. He wasn't the most
commanding person she had ever met; that was her grandfather Lord Tywin. Robb
Stark wasn't the most intimidating person Myrcella had met either; Gregor
Clegane had that honor. But there was a sense of earthy wildness in his blue
eyes, which she'd only seen faintly once before in Lord Stark's gaze.
Briefly, Myrcella wondered if Robb Stark had the blood of a wolf in his veins
in addition to an enormous direwolf as a pet.
"And where are you off too in a hurry, little lioness?"
There was a flash of white steel plate in the candlelight as her Uncle Jaime
swept her up in his arms, briefly bringing Myrcella close to his broad chest
before settling her on a worn stone windowsill.
Shocked out of her blind dash away from the tiltyard, Myrcella realized that
she must have wandered into the familiar confines of Maegor's Holdfast. In
fact, if she followed the next three left turns she'd end up in her mother's
solar.
"I'm just wandering, Uncle Jaime." Myrcella lied, shifting her gaze off to
stare at a faded hunting tapestry. In hindsight her thoughts and sudden panic
were completely silly, and she'd probably seem touched in the head if she
started going on about wolf blood and Robb Stark's eyes.
Jaime snorted disbelievingly, looking down at her with a sharp glare. "I don't
think so, Cella. Your ears always turn pink when you lie. What's happening? Is
someone bothering you?"
"No!" She denied hotly. "Nothing is wrong. I just wanted to be by myself for a
little bit."
The expression that crossed Uncle Jaime's face was completely frustrated, but
after a tense moment he stepped back and bowed politely as Myrcella knew he
would. Her uncle cared about her, but he never had more than a moment to spare
for her, so if she refused to talk to him Myrcella knew that Uncle Jaime
wouldn't be able to push for an answer the way Mother or Father would.
"My Princess." Jaime murmured, visibly clenching his jaw after sending a
cautious glance down the corridor. "I must attend my duties, but you know you
can come to me if anything at all is wrong."
"I know."
The muscle in Uncle Jaime's jaw tightened, and he looked completely
unsatisfied, but in the end he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving
Myrcella alone to mull over her thoughts.
***** Jaime I *****
"So do you have something to say or are you just trying to encourage the shit
to move through your bowels?"
After giving his younger brother an irritated sneer, Jaime turned on his booted
heel and kept pacing back and forth in front of the mantle. He felt like a
caged lion, peering out between the bars of his prison and hungering for a
taste of freedom. "I hate this city."
"You and everyone else in it." Tyrion pointed out baldly, gulping back another
mouthful of strongwine.
If their mother had still been alive she'd have been horrified at her son
drowning himself in his cups just after noon, but Joanna Lannister was long
buried. They only had their father, who would be glad to pay for all the wine
Tyrion could choke down in the hopes the Imp would die of alcohol poisoning.
Silence hung between the two brothers, one watching with mismatched eyes as the
other stomped out his frustrations into the sandstone floor. "Care for a
taste?" Tyrion offered rhetorically, topping his own goblet back up so that
Jaime could snatch it from his hands and take a long swallow.
Jaime wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, dropping the empty silver
goblet back on the table. "I don't suppose you've gotten one too?" the
Kingslayer asked. Both of them knew very well that 'one' meant yet another
letter from their father urging Jaime to leave the Kingsguard and take up his
supposed destiny as the heir to Casterly Rock.
Tyrion just grimaced, silently affirming. Where Jaime got direct demands to
return, Tyrion received letters urging him to be 'useful for once in his
miserable life' and use his influence over his older brother to try and cajole
Jaime. He was supposed to be the honey to their father's vinegar, so to speak.
Waking up to a letter stamped with the Lion seal had ensured Jaime would have a
shite day, and encountering Cersei's daughter looking spooked in the halls only
made it worse. When Tommen or Myrcella had troubles, it exasperated Jaime
because he wasn't allowed to offer real help. Anything more than a quick word
here or there had Cersei breathing down his neck.
Jaime loved his sister, but she was overly paranoid. If he attempted to be more
than a distant uncle to the children, she was up in arms wailing about how he
was being reckless. As if someone would instantly point fingers at them simply
because he tried to show affection to her children. It was nothing more than
any normal uncle would have given them.
With enough wine in his belly Jaime was able to convince himself he didn't care
about them, telling himself they were nothing more or less than a squirt of
seed in Cersei's cunt. But Jaime wasn't Tyrion, and it was too early in the day
for him to be anything but coldly sober.
The gods had truly cursed him, giving Jaime paltry moments with his sister over
the years while demanding much in return. How many times had he had to stand in
the corner silently while that drunken oaf pawed at Cersei? Three golden cubs
his sister had mothered, none of whom Jaime was allowed to truly know.
"So," Tyrion began conversationally, propping his stunted legs up on the table
and leaning back in his chair. "I see Tommen decided he's going to adopt that
Stark boy as his newest older brother. How long would you give him before he
starts howling at the moon?"
Jaime's lip curled in disgust. It wasn't enough for Robert to constantly spend
his days whinging on about the wolf girl, now the fat sot had decided he needed
to have the wolves running around the capitol? He still remembered that damn
Ned Stark bursting into the throne room after he'd killed Aerys, judging him
with those self-righteous grey eyes. No doubt the man's son was just the same.
"Let's just hope that day never comes." Jaime muttered, running his hand over
his face. "Bad enough we've got one wolf pup around for the near future. A
second one and I just might go mad. I can already hear them bleating on about
honor this, duty that. Now all we need is for someone to get it in their head
we need more Stannis about."
Tyrion guffawed. "Can you just imagine that, though? You walk into the Small
Council meeting with Robert and you have three little Stannises all lined up
thundering on about how we must close all the brothels and restore morality to
this den of vice. Gods, if you have five of them you might even succeed."
"Robert would take his warhammer to them before they left the council chambers.
There would be the second good deed he's accomplished in his lifetime." Jaime
shuddered.
"I wouldn't think he could still lift the damn thing."
"Oh he can. His heart seems fit to burst after a few swings, but he can."
"I'm shocked he can get anything up." Shaking his head with a smirk on his
face, Tyrion took another sip of deep crimson strongwine. Their irreverent
conversation about the monarch would be enough to get them thrown in the stocks
if they were anyone but the sons of Tywin Lannister. "Speaking of King Sot,
don't you have guard duty to get to? We don't want to give old Barristan yet
another reason to try and get you stripped of your cloak."
"He's welcome to try, but no. I don't start my watch until supper. Until then I
have naught to do but idle away with you." Jaime finally threw himself into the
armchair across from Tyrion, having worked out his earlier frustration.
"You could try the tiltyard?" Tyrion suggested, shifting his gaze to stare
longingly at the bookshelf before returning his focus to Jaime. "I don't mind
your company but I'm sure there are more exciting things you could be doing
besides conversing with a bookish little Imp. Tis not like we can go to the
whorehouses together, for obvious reasons, and you don't want to drink the
hours away either."
Jaime narrowed his eyes into a fierce glare. "There's nothing wrong with your
company, Tyrion, regardless of what anyone else wants to say. If anyone tells
you differently, you let me know and I'll be more than glad to have a talk with
them. Besides," he paused, mellowing slightly. "There's not much going on in
the tiltyard today beyond Tommen and the Stark boy playing with sticks."
"You could always go a round or three with them." Tyrion pointed out, winking
when Jaime only looked at him like he was crazed. "They would certainly benefit
from crossing swords with the great Lion of Lannister, and you never know, that
Stark boy might be less like his father than you assume."
Jaime simply scoffed.
***** Ned II *****
"Quiet now boy, or you'll spook the game." Robert hissed in a sharp whisper at
Lancel, blue eyes flashing with barely contained fury. Clenched in one beefy
hand the King held the reins of his sorrel palfrey, with the other fisted
around the grip of his red oak recurve bow.
The Lannister squire swallowed nervously, lowering his gaze and keeping silent.
Ned would have felt bad for the boy if he hadn't seen the Westerlander
strutting about the Keep making jests about 'stupid, savage Northmen' just that
morning.
Nudging his own mare with his knees, Ned followed Robert deeper into the woods
and tried not to think too deeply on having to leave his son in the viper pit
of King's Landing for an unknown length of time. After the deaths of most of
his family before and during the Rebellion, Ned had been extremely reluctant to
foster any of his children away from Winterfell. But when the King offered his
only daughter's hand to his heir and suggested fostering said heir, refusal was
not truly an option.
Leaves rustled as their hunting party moved through the ferns, the King
followed by Ned and Robb, who were in turn trailed by a dozen other minor
lordlings, six squires, Ser Barristan and Grey Wind. Ned couldn't help but
wonder how Robert expected to catch any game with the vultures of the court
clinging to his coattails.
When they had been boys on the hunt Robert never really cared if they actually
caught any game or not, finding enough simple enjoyment in the clean air and
company. The man Robert had become after a dozen years on the Iron Throne
however was only sated if there was blood at the end of the hunt.
Catching Robb's eye when his son ambled up next to him, Ned smiled grimly at
the naked skepticism there. Indeed, hunts in the South were nothing like the
search for game in the North. Back in Winterfell every slain elk was used in
its entire, from the coat to the bones, to prepare for winter and provide for
the people. In the South hunting was mere sport, and like as not anything they
caught would be served on the King's table with the remnants thrown into the
Blackwater.
It was a very different world they'd been called into that day moons ago when a
letter with the King's seal had come to Winterfell. A world that Ned would be
leaving in the next few days but one where Robb would remain, likely for years.
He hoped that the South wouldn't corrupt his son and make him unrecognizable
when Robb finally came home.
"Steady." Robert muttered, his voice still carrying despite the King's effort
to muffle it. The entire hunting party came to a quiet stop marked by the
whickering of Ned's own gelding. "There's a boar just over the next ridge.
Lancel will flush the big bastard this way. All of you are to stay out of my
way, this is my kill." Then ignoring Ser Barristan's protest the King clambered
down to crouch behind a thick cluster of ferns.
Ned fought the urge to groan. It was just like Robert to throw his life in
danger without regard for the consequences. What would become of the Seven
Kingdoms if the man went and got himself gored to death? The Iron Throne would
be given to a spoilt little boy while the Seven Kingdoms passed into the hands
of Tywin Lannister. Discreetly, the Lord of Winterfell reached for his bow,
nocking an arrow. If it looked like the boar would overcome the King, he'd
shoot.
Robert would be upset for a few candlemarks that Ned had wounded his kill, but
he'd live, and in the end there would be no lasting punishment from his foster
brother.
Robb sighed, blue eyes narrowing. "It's coming." The redhead gripped the reins
of his steed tighter, not reaching for his bow the way another lord might.
Instead he merely clicked his tongue, and then Grey Wind moved up ahead through
the bushes.
The direwolf had vanished from sight by the time the squeals of the boar made
their way to Ned's ears. Branches snapped and leaves rustled ahead and to the
right, the beast's passage carrying it parallel to the hunting party. A single
heartbeat pulsed in Ned's ears, and then Robert burst forth with a savage roar.
Man and boar met with an shrill shriek, a grey and white blur sharpening into a
heavyset pig that dodged Robert's attempt to gore it. Beady black eyes glared
at the King, glittering malevolently over a mouth crowned with yellow tusks.
Again Robert moved to stab at the boar, and again it stepped back.
With his attempt at an ambush failed, Robert was left overexposed and
vulnerable as the boar moved from shock to aggression. White stripes rippled
along its grey hide as the boar turned to fully face the King, baying out a
bloody promise. Then it moved to charge.
Cursing under his breath, Ned brought up his bow and drew back on the
bowstring.
"Stop." His son uttered with a steely tone. And then Grey Wind burst from the
underbrush, silently leaping through the air to land on the boar's back and
sink his great fangs into its meaty shoulder.
The boar squealed in agony, turning to meet this new foe, only for Grey Wind to
break off and slip back into the cover of the trees. So bewildered by the
sudden attack, the boar forgot about the King until Robert lunged forward and
slammed the point of his boar spear between its ribs. Caught on the prongs, the
beast could do little but writhe in agony in an effort to strike back at the
man.
Grey Wind moved back out of the foliage, licking his chops and watching with a
savage amber gaze as the boar's struggles grew weaker and weaker until at last
it died.
Silence hung over the party like a pall, Ned half expecting Robert to explode
in fury at the assistance of the direwolf. They all watched as Robert pulled
back on his spear with a grunt, stabbing the butt into the earthy loam as he
turned to stare at Robb with an inscrutable light in his stormy gaze.
Then Robert began to laugh uproariously. "Now that's what I call a hound! Did
you see that? Ned, I've got to get me one of those." With the tension broken by
the King's amusement, the small collection of Crownland nobles began to titter.
"Now come on, you arse-lickers." Robert shifted his stare to focus on a middle-
aged lord with greying brown hair. "Pick that big bastard up. We'll be feasting
tonight!"
***** Robb IV *****
The belt of King Robert's drunken laughter cracked through the smoky hall, and
Robb pressed his palms against his eyes in an effort to stop the room from
spinning around him.
"Stark!"
Robb's entire body felt warm and lethargic from the wine, and based on the way
Grey Wind was whining piteously at his feet, his wolf felt the same way. If he
ever found out who thought it would be a great prank to get a direwolf drunk,
he'd string them up by their shorthairs.
"Stark!"
At least his father had retired a few candlemarks past and wouldn't know just
how drunk he'd truly gotten. The stoic Lord of the North didn't scold his
children for drinking too much ale back home, but there was a difference
between Winterfell and King's Landing. Robb didn't want to have to suffer
through a lecture on propriety in the morn right before his father left for
Winterfell. If they had to part, at least they'd part on good terms.
"Stark! Get your arse up here!"
"Piss off!" Robb shouted back, only to look up when the hall went abruptly
quiet. Pale and shocked faces stared back, and with a sinking feeling in his
stomach Robb turned his gaze to look eyes with the King.
Thick dark brows were arched high, crowning a disbelieving expression. Very
slowly, the flabby beard covered skin of Robert's face and neck mottled red.
"Is that how you speak to your King?" he asked very gravely.
Then before Robb could even babble out an apology the King started hammering
his fist on the polished dining table. "Hahahahaha!" The tension swiftly bled
out of the room like the rush of a river downstream, and soon enough other
nervous giggles were echoing Robert's own mirth. "You've got stones, Stark!
That's the funniest thing that's happened around here in a long time. Now, get
up here! All these arselickers are making me sick."
Lurching to his feet, Robb instinctively reached for his half-empty goblet of
Arbor red before thinking better of it. "Come on boy." He muttered to Grey
Wind, wincing when the giant wolf heaved up a little puddle of sick before
staggering after him.
Robb could feel the eyes burning into him as he made it to the head of the
table and threw himself into the empty seat at King Robert's right hand. The
sudden weight against his thigh told him that Grey Wind had plopped down right
next to him and leaned in.
"Good lad." Robert growled approvingly before bellowing at one of the servants
to bring them more wine.
In short order Robb found a brand new gold and ruby encrusted goblet shoved
into his hands, filled to the brim with Dornish sour. The room was spinning too
much for him to want to drink more of his own accord, but he'd probably tempted
fate a bit too much already, so when King Robert toasted the vintage Robb took
a hearty gulp.
Leering at the barely concealed teats one of the wenches dancing about the hall
sported, Robert waved his offhand at the wineskin that had been left in front
of the pair. "They don't make them like that in the North, boy."
"No they don't, Your Grace." Robb agreed staidly, one hand dropping to scratch
behind Grey Wind's ear.
"Bah! Don't start that now, Stark." Abandoning his perusal of a particularly
buxom blonde, Robert favoured his best friend's son with one gimlet eye. "I
have enough lickspittles crawling around here looking to kiss my stones for a
bit of favour, don't you join them. Unfreeze that frozen face of yours and call
me Uncle Rob, or Robert, or even Baratheon for the fuck's sake. Now drink up,
your King commands it."
Robb found demanding informality and abusing the royal prerogative in the same
breath to be hypocritical, but he kept such thoughts to himself and took a
small sip of his wine. "Very well… Robert." He agreed cautiously, relaxing when
the King grunted in approval.
"Ned's leaving tomorrow." The melancholy note was heavy in the King's voice,
and when he went to drink he ended up downing the entire goblet and thumping
for another. Then he burped, the foul stench make Robb want to wrinkle his
nose, before turning to consider the Northern heir. "There's to be a tourney at
Highgarden for the Tyrell girls fifteenth nameday in a few moons, you plan to
join the lists?"
"Aye." Robb agreed recklessly, emboldened by the drink and the knowledge that
once his father left the only one that might gainsay him for doing so was the
King and Queen themselves, and perhaps Jon Arryn as the Hand. His father would
think it Southron foolishness but at least once in his life Robb wanted to be
garbed in glory with the smallfolk screaming his name. "I haven't decided
whether to ride in the jousts or fight in the melee."
Clapping a hand to Robb's shoulder with bruising force, Robert grinned. "Good
man, Stark. I have half a mind to join myself. A word of advice lad, do one or
the other, or you'll be so sore and bruised by the end of the tourney you won't
even have the energy to sit on the privy by yourself. Believe me, I've been
there."
Snorting into his drink at the thought, Robb shook his head. "I'll keep that in
mind."
"Good, good. More wine you spineless shites!" Robert suddenly roared, shaking
the empty wineskin in emphasis. "You have one benighted job! Now lad." The King
dropped his voice again. "You'll need to practice hard. You don't have to win,
but don't get knocked on your arse in the first tilt. And find your way down to
the Street of Steel and get some decent armor made up for yourself. Don't worry
about the coin, just think of it as making up for fourteen days of missed
namedays."
Robb fumbled his goblet with numbed fingers, spilling wine down his front.
"That's generous of you, Uncle Rob." The familial title was odd on his tongue,
but the twinkling in the King's eyes was practically giddy once Robb named the
man as such.
"You think that's generous? I'll do you one better, lad, and make sure
Barristan's got a few hours here and there to give you some pointers. I'll even
lend you the Kingslayer if you think you can stomach the ponce."
***** Ned III *****
"Are you sure I can't tempt you with a Small Council position? Hell, I could
even tell Jon to take some time off and name you Hand. Just think of it Ned.
You the Hand, Me the King, and Jon could be Master of Laws or Ships or whatever
he likes."
"I'm sorry, Your Grace." Ned sighed, keeping one eye on the sailors loading his
luggage onto The Winter Rose. "But I belong in the North; Winterfell is my
home."
Robert snorted, glaring at the distant crowd of smallfolk that had gathered to
gape at the King sending off the Warden of the North. "And the Rock was Tywin
Lannister's home, but that didn't stop him from running the Seven Kingdoms as
Mad Aerys' Hand for years."
"Tywin Lannister is not the kind of man I would like to emulate." Ned pointed
out tightly.
In truth it wouldn't be strange in the least for a Lord to trust his estate to
the running of his steward, keeping in touch through ravens to deal with any
complex troubles. It wouldn't even be unheard of for a Lord and his heir to
both stay in King's Landing at the pleasure of the monarch. But while Ned had
been glad to see his foster father and old friend, he missed his home and his
family more.
It had been too long since he'd seen Cat and the children. And he hadn't
forgotten his promise to Jon to tell the boy about his mother. That promise was
likely all that was keeping Jon from running off to freeze with rapers and
thieves on the Wall. A promise that would change everything once it was
fulfilled.
"Fair enough." Robert agreed grudgingly, looking out over the sapphire waters
of Blackwater Bay and inhaling the sea wind. "But at least don't be a stranger.
I better not have to wait another ten fucking years to see your frozen face
again."
Beneath Robert's bluster was a queerly boyish note, revealing a vulnerability
that a King didn't often have the luxury to display. It stung Ned's heart and
made him remember the days so long ago when they'd been boys together in the
Eyrie. "It won't. Cat and I will come for the wedding."
The King puffed up at that promise, the gloomy air vanishing like the morning
dew. "That won't be more than a year or so! You'll barely have made it back
North to freeze your stones off and you'll be riding back down South. Maybe
you'll bring your eldest girl down to find a match, eh?"
"Perhaps." Ned allowed, nodding sharply when the last of his belongings where
stowed belowdeck. "I'll be seeing you."
After accepting a too-tight hand clasp from Robert, Ned waited until the King
retreated before finally turning to his son. The pressure in Ned's throat was
thick, and he tried not to think on the stinging in the corner of his vision as
he embraced Robb. "Don't forget who you are."
"I won't." Robb promised, his voice cracking. Tully blue eyes glistened wetly
as the separated, and Ned was needled by the knowledge of just how young his
son really was. At best Robb was little more than an innocent boy, green and
untried like the rest of his children. The sons and daughters of summer all,
they were.
But now Robb had to become a grown man who couldn't rely on his lordly father's
protection. Robert and Jon would do their best to protect his boy, but they
could only do so much. They couldn't safeguard Robb against heartache and
betrayal, which were common coin in King's Landing. "Jory has command of the
guards here. I'll leave a full score with you now, and send coin to hire more
once I reach Winterfell."
Surprise filled Robb's face. When they'd set sail from White Harbor they'd
brought thirty of Winterfell's normal guard, clad in bright silver mail and
wolf furs. Ned would be leaving two thirds of them in the South with his heir.
If their ship were assaulted by reavers on the voyage North it might go hard
for the Stark lord. And even after the voyage was done, maintaining a permanent
guard in the South would be a bit of a drain on Winterfell's coffers. "Father,
there's no need…"
"You are my son." Ned stated fiercely, setting his forehead against Robb's own.
"My son." Even as a boy he'd never been given to babbling, and as he had grown
older Ned found it harder and harder to put his feelings into words. But if it
kept his boy safe he'd willingly spend the rest of his life in chains in some
Essosi pit. "And remember…"
"Remember?"
Lowering his voice, Ned scanned the people puttering about the docks with a
hostile grey gaze. "Jon and Robert will do their best to keep you safe in this
shithole, but if you feel endangered you ride hard and fast for Riverrun.
Promise me."
Shocked by his father's sudden descent into vulgarity, Robb could only stutter
out a quiet oath to do as his father demanded.
Not entirely satisfied but knowing it was the best he was going to get, Ned
stepped back and knelt to pet Grey Wind. The direwolf was already tall enough
to reach his stomach when he stood, and would grow taller still. "I have to hit
the trail, boy. You'll looked after him, won't you?" he whispered, rubbing
vigorously along the wolf's flank.
Grey Wind whined plaintively, thumping his bushy tail into the planks of the
dock and butting his head against Ned's own. The direwolf's distress was a
mirror of his owner's, and it made Ned's chest tight.
"Goodbye, son."
"Safe travels, Father."
Time passed in a blur then, Ned barely aware of his own feet moving as he
walked up the gangplank and found a place to stand in the stern of the boat.
Men shouted around him and the boat shuddered as it floated down the current
and out to sea.
All Ned had eyes for was the figure of his son, retreating unendingly into the
distance until Robb could no longer be distinguished from the pier he stood on.
And then he watched the pier, imagining red hair and blue eyes until it too
blurred into the vague shape of King's Landing. Eventually the capitol itself
melted away until nothing was left behind them but blue ocean and the cry of
the seagulls.
***** The Old Falcon I *****
When the Stark lad's eyes lit up at the sight of the Street of Steel, Jon knew
he'd made the right choice to cheer the boy up after his father's departure.
"There's no smith quite like Tobho Mott in all the Seven Kingdoms." Jon
declared as they began their trek up Visenya's Hill. "No doubt you've heard
from your father how a smith needs to give up the strength in his steel if he
wants it to look pretty. That's usually the case, I admit, but Mott's work is
strong and beautiful." And expensive went unsaid.
Robb shook his head when a beefy blond smith hammered at a red hot length of
molten iron. "His Grace said something similar. Your own sword was crafted by
him?"
"Aye." Jon confirmed, settling a hand over Robb's shoulder and steering the boy
further up the street. He didn't think Robb was likely to get lost, especially
when they were followed by a gaggle of guards clad in Stark and Arryn livery.
But that didn't mean a scoundrel wouldn't try to cut the boy's purse given the
chance. "It was a gift from my lady wife, but I wouldn't be surprised if
Robert's coin was behind it as well."
Frowning slightly, Robb touched a hand to the coin laden pouch tied to his
belt. "His Grace is generous." He commented lightly, but there was a low
undercurrent of disapproval Jon picked up on. No doubt Ned had raised the boy
to be frugal, and while every young man at some point wanted shiny gem-
encrusted armor, Robb most likely was struggling to reconcile the expense with
his father's teachings.
"That he is." Jon agreed as they stopped at the last shop on the street. "But
he is the King. It's not for us to refuse his gifts if he wants to give them."
That was not strictly true, as Jon himself couldn't even begin to count how
many of Robert's well-meant presents he'd refused, but young Robb was still
half a boy. There was nothing wrong with spoiling the lad a bit. "Now come on,
let's take a peek inside."
With a final pat on Robb's shoulder, Jon stepped forward and through the open
doors of Mott's shop. The ebony and weirwood carved hunting scene crowning the
doors hardly fazed Jon, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Ned's son
boggle at the craftsmanship, and gave a small grin.
"Mott!" Jon's voice cracked as he tried to shout over the sound of hammer and
steel echoing through the shop. "Mott! Are you in?"
Half a dozen freshly wrought suits of mail glittered on armor stands, tinted in
the colours of autumn, with a seventh set half completed. Jon made to call
again, but the sound of the forge fell abruptly silently, and then Gendry
stepped out from the back with a orange shaded helm tucked under one arm.
"M'Lord Hand." Robert's bastard greeted, gently setting the helm with the
incomplete set of orangish mail before dusting his hands on his oil-stained
apron. "Master Mott's down the street speaking with Old Garren 'bout some
shipment out of Dorne. Should be back soon though."
Laying eyes on Robert's bastard was like seeing his foster son young again, and
Jon always did his best to care for them when he discovered them. A little coin
here and there went far for the baseborn.
Waving off the surly boy's apology, Jon smiled. "It's no trouble, Gendry. We
just wished to place an order for some of Master Mott's work."
Gendry just nodded at that, the muscle in his jaw working in the exact same way
Robert's did when the King was deep in thought. It was almost strange how much
Robert's bastards resembled him where his trueborn children were all Cersei.
"You want to wait for Mott to get back, or do you want to tell me what you were
lookin' to buy? M'Lord Hand." Gendry hastily tacked on the respectful address,
looking a touch bashful.
"We're not purchasing ourselves, but rather bringing a commission from His
Grace the King." Jon began carefully, watching Gendry's face like a hawk. There
was no reaction from the boy at the reference to his father. Did Gendry just
not care, or did he not even know who his father was? "He wants a full suit of
armor and new arms crafted for his future good-son, to be ready for the Tourney
at Highgarden in three moons."
"Shouldn't be a problem." Gendry agreed effortlessly, storm blue eyes watching
Robb as the redhead peered curiously at the orange and red tinted armor hanging
from the stands. "You lookin' to buy something to, M'Lord?"
"Hmm? What?" Robb blinked, turning back to consider the King's bastard. "No,
I'm not. Or well, I suppose I am in a way. The armor His Grace wants made is
for me, but I'm not looking to purchase anything besides that at the moment."
"Fair enough." Gendry allowed, dropping his gaze to the direwolf emblazoned on
Robb's chest. "M'Lord Stark?"
"You know your sigils." Robb grinned holding out his hand, which Gendry took
with a surprised expression. "Robb Stark. And you?"
"Gendry Waters."
"Well met, Gendry. Have you been working the forge here long?"
"Aye, been apprenticing since I had ten namedays or thereabouts."
Jon kept quiet, letting the boys forget about his presence as they struck up a
conversation about the merits of different types of mail. It made him nostalgic
to see them slowly get to know each other in the gruff way of boys trying too
hard to be men. It was almost like seeing Robert and Ned in their boyhood
again, and when Gendry frowned in the exact same way Robert did or Robb quirked
an eyebrow in the exact same manner as Ned, that feeling only intensified.
They got on well, Ned's trueborn son and Robert's bastard. Years down the line,
when Gendry was finished of his apprenticeship, mayhaps there would be a spot
for the smith in Winterfell. And if there wasn't, Jon would make sure there was
a place in the Eyrie for Gendry. It was no more than the boy deserved, and
would keep him safe from Cersei's jilted rage.
Seven hells, there was something wrong with that woman. Jon had known women to
be hateful of their husband's bastards, but only Cersei had a reputation for
having them smothered in the crib. It wasn't as if the black-haired get of a
whore would cause the next Blackfyre Rebellion. And it wasn't as if Cersei had
any affection for Robert either, so her malevolence was queer.
Most odd indeed.
***** Myrcella IV *****
Drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Myrcella ducked her head and
let her feet carry her into the godswood.
It wasn't the first time she'd slipped past her guards in the night to wander
between the elms and alders, looking for a quiet place to simply be. There were
many places in the Red Keep where Myrcella could hide away in, but none were
quite like the godswood.
The acre of forest had been set aside by Aegon to appease his subjects that
followed the Old Gods, but in truth the godswood was more like an overgrown
pleasure garden. The vines and moss that snaked around the trunks provided a
thin veneer of wildness over the otherwise gentle greenery, inviting her
further up and further in.
Mrycella stepped around a particularly twisted growth of black cottonwood and
tromped right up to the heart tree. There was no great savage face carved into
the oak trunk, and once she settled on the grass and leaned against the tree,
it felt like she'd fallen into a sacred place between earth and sky.
Stars winked down merrily, and the princess' lips curved upwards in answer.
Myrcella had been a girl of four the first time she had seen her father strike
her mother, blindly running away with tears in her eyes until she'd found
herself tripping over gnarled roots.
Ever since that day the godswood had become her place, a place she didn't even
share with Tommen, where she could retreat and try to find her bearings.
Lifting her hand, Myrcella peered up at the sky through the cracks between her
fingers. "Why couldn't things have just stayed the same?" she wondered.
Ever since the Starks had come down from the North her parents had fought more
often and with increasing ferocity; tonight had been the worst with threats of
annulment that made her mother go white with rage.
At least their fights seemed to be over now, since Myrcella knew that there was
nothing her mother valued so much as she valued her crown. She'd fight Father
for her daughter's sake, but not if it was going to cost her everything else.
"So much for promises of no betrothal." Myrcella sighed, flopping down on her
back. She couldn't even bring herself to be disappointed.
Mostly, Myrcella was just tired.
Letting her eyelids drift shut, Myrcella relaxed and breathed in the smell of
wood and the salty wind blowing in from the Blackwater.
Then a wet tongue slapped against her face.
Emerald eyes flew open, accompanied by a shriek. "Gods!" Myrcella made to bolt
to her feet when it finally settled in her mind just exactly what she was
looking at.
A hefty furred tail thumped against the ground with a rustle of dried leaves,
beating twice as fast as the sniffling sound against her throat Robb Stark's
direwolf made. Cold wetness pressed against her skin as the giant wolf butted
his nose in deeper, whining like one of her father's hounds looking for a good
petting.
Well, why not? The sharp teeth in the wolf's mouth were surely only a snap away
from tearing through her throat and murdering her, so as far as Myrcella was
concerned she had naught to lose.
More bravely then she felt, the princess placed her slim hand against the side
of the direwolf's head and began to scratch behind his left ear. "Seven hells."
She marveled when the wolf's tongue lolled out in approval. "You look a fright,
but you're just an old softy, aren't you?"
Another warm lick to the cheek was his answer.
Giggling quietly, Myrcella rubbed vigorously at the wolf's flank. She couldn't
deny she was still anxious, but as the minutes ticked on without any aggressive
moves from the direwolf, she relaxed more and more.
The fur was much softer than she expected. It wasn't a downy coat by any means,
but it wasn't the harsh bristles she'd thought it would be either.
"Get off the princess you great lug." Robb Stark sighed as he rounded a bush
and caught sight of his companion practically laying on top of Myrcella. "Grey
Wind, to me."
Grey Wind gave a sulky whine, rolling onto his back, but refusing to move any
further. The sight of the hulking direwolf lazing belly up beside Myrcella made
the heir to Winterfell give a rueful chuckle, drawing his attention long enough
for Myrcella to climb to her feet and hastily attempt to comb some of the
leaves out of her hair.
"Lord Robb." The Princess greeted guardedly, aware she probably looked half a
wilding. The slippers and dress she had dressed in to wander about the godswood
were an old pair, stained with grass and mud and tattered at the hems. It was
an outfit her mother would have thrown out long ago, but Myrcella had hidden
them so she would have something to wear on her secret evening excursions.
Considering the princess with an inscrutable blue gaze, Robb let his eyes shift
from Myrcella to Grey Wind and back again. "He likes you. Your Grace." Then he
grinned, leaving Myrcella feeling like she'd passed some unspoken test.
"Well, um, yes. I suppose." She floundered, looking back down at the wolf when
Grey Wind gave off an enormous sneeze. "Is that not usual?"
"No." Robb denied, still meeting Myrcella's emerald eyes with a hooded stare.
"It's not." He seemed to struggle inwardly for a long moment before exhaling
slowly through his nose, decision made. "Shall I escort you back to the keep,
Princess? It's best not to wander at night alone."
Myrcella stared at the northern lordling's proffered arm, not sure if that last
comment was meant to simply be a general statement or some kind of point about
life in King's Landing itself. In either case, he was not wrong, and refusing
would be rude. So with a thick swallow, Myrcella bowed to courtesy and linked
her arm through his.
They began a slow walk back through the acre of trees, Grey Wind padding
quietly at their heels like the faithful hound he was. "Grey Wind is only one
out of a litter." Robb murmured when the tense silence began to seem unbearable
to Myrcella. "He's the largest of the six, but each of my brothers and sisters
have a direwolf of their own."
It was an innocuous conversation, without any reference to the future they were
expected to share, and that lack of expectation had Myrcella letting down her
guard. "Are they all so well-tempered?"
Robb grimaced faintly. "In truth, they are not. Not even Grey Wind should be
seen as fully tame. They are wolves after all, not typical hounds." The
admission surprised Myrcella, given how Grey Wind had behaved as a friendly pup
might around her. "Sansa's Lady tolerates strangers with some patience for
instance, but Rickon's Shaggydog will bite anyone who isn't part of our
family."
The name made a giggle bubble up Myrcella's throat. "Shaggydog? Truly?"
"To be fair, Rickon has only seen three name days. A scholar he is not."
"Mayhap you have a point." Myrcella's pink lips curved up into a small smile.
"Tommen named his pet kitten Ser Pounce, so I can hardly judge."
"You're a kindly soul then, Princess, to make allowances for their youth." Robb
sighed as they stepped out onto the cobblestone pathway leading up to Maegor's
Holdfast. "I, on the other hand, feel I would be remiss in my duties as an
elder brother if I didn't tease them relentlessly."
Myrcella's sarcastically grave tone made Robb smirk. "Well if it's a dutymy
good ser…."
"I am no Ser Princess, only an unwashed barbarian from the North here to feast
on the skin and bones of naught children." Then contrary to his self-
depreciating jape, Robb dropped a perfectly proper kiss to the back of
Myrcella's knuckles. "And on that note, tis best I return to the Tower of the
Hand, lest people accuse me of taking liberties."
"I can think of no one in the Seven Kingdoms that would dare to impugn the
honor of a Stark, my good Ser." Myrcella shot back, half-teasing and half-
serious as tried to ignore the flush the idea of 'liberties' put in her cheeks.
Her insistence on the knightly title might perhaps be a private jest of their
own in a certain light, and that realization kept Myrcella staring at Robb's
back as he walked away.
Reminded of Grey Wind's presence by a final lick to her hand, Myrcella broke
her gaze to look down. "Go on you. Your master is waiting."
Grey Wind gave a huff, amber eyes glittering in the torchlight as he obeyed the
princess' command and stalked after Robb.
***** Robb V *****
The lance Robb took to the chest felt like it knocked his lungs right out of
him, throwing him from the back of his horse and leaving the Stark heir
groaning in the dirt with his ears ringing. There was no doubt in his mind that
his chest would be covered in black and blue splotches by evening.
"Up you get Stark. I still need to knock you on your arse a few more times
before you can be considered a real jouster."
Glaring up at the clear blue sky through the slits in his helm, Robb lifted on
arm and made a rude gesture, prompting another round of laughter from the
Kingslayer. Gods, the man was a trial in patience, swinging back and forth
between caustic advice and smarmy japes.
Still, even Jaime Lannister's presence beat another afternoon spent cooped up
in the Tower of the Hand with his aunt and lordly cousin. There was something
deeply wrong with that boy, what with the way he went on and on slobbering all
over Lysa's teats and wailing.
If he had to endure another luncheon listening to Lysa's ramblings about her
'Sweetrobin', Robb thought he might truly go mad. At least if his brain leaked
out of his ears while training with the Kingslayer Robb could claim he was
doing something productive.
"Hello? You still alive down there?" Jaime prodded impatiently, bending down to
yank Robb back upright. "Don't lounge around after getting knocked off your
horse, or I'll think there's something wrong with you."
Robb offered a muttered apology, pulling off the dented helm he'd borrowed for
the day's training. It was an ugly little thing, all grey and scratched like
the rest of the armor he'd been lent, and after a few hours in the sun wearing
it his hair was left sweat-soaked and matted.
Gold glinted under the sunlight as Jaime mirrored Robb's action, doffing his
gleaming helmet to reveal glittering emerald eyes. "You want to call it a day
then, Stark?" he asked, looking a bit disappointed at the younger man's lack of
stamina. There was the difference between a green boy and a hardened warrior,
he supposed. "Too much to handle in one go?"
Robb stiffened at that, wondering if the man was trying to insult his
capability. "I can still ride, Ser.." he denied, whistling to call his errant
horse back. He wanted to do nothing beyond lay in his feather bed for a few
hours, but Robb wouldn't let the Kingslayer think he was weak.
The Kingsguard knight cocked an eyebrow, studying the student Robert had
foisted on him before jerking his chin to the side. "We're done with the joust
for the day, Stark. Go drink your fill. Find some leather to wear and a tourney
sword. We'll start some melee drills in half a candlemark. There's more to life
than the joust."
Watching in confusion as Jaime stalked off, Robb wondered if that was the
Kingslayer's attempt at being nice. Neither of them had been exactly eager to
follow the King's command, and they'd spent the entire morning hammering away
at each other to work out that frustration. At what point did the animosity
fade away into some kind of reluctant camaraderie?
Robb shook those thoughts away, hurrying over to the water barrel to take
greedy gulps. He didn't have time to waste wondering over the Kingslayer's
motives.
Drinking until his thirst was slaked, Robb tore off his gauntlet and wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand. "Seven hells." He muttered, splashing his
sweat covered face with the blessedly cool water. "The heat down here is
unbearable."
"That's what you get for having ice in your veins, Stark."
Robb paused, brow wrinkling slightly as he turned. "Lord Renly." He greeted
cautiously, eying the man's perfectly tidy blue silk doublet. The heir to
Winterfell could smell the faint perfume of roses, and it made him want to
sneeze. The Lord of Storm's End was in no way dressed for the tiltyard. "How
can I help you?"
Folding his hands behind his back, Renly looked down at the redhaired young man
and grinned. "Word on the vine is that you're getting quite cozy with the
family, Robb. Robert can't stop singing your praises, Myrcella seems smitten
with you, and even the Kingslayer decided to take you under his wing."
"I'm not sure that's how I would describe it, my lord." Robb demurred, shifting
on one heel and casting a sidelong glance for Ser Jaime.
It was true that King Robert was kind to him, but Robb wasn't stupid, and the
endless stories about life in the Vale only reinforced the fact that the King
was interested more in his father than in him. It was also true that Princess
Myrcella had stopped treating him like he had the plague, but exchanging
courtesies was nowhere near smitten.
As for the Kingslayer, the man only bothered with Robb because of His Grace's
command.
"Nothing wrong with a spot of modesty." Renly allowed, storm blue gaze
twinkling with a mixture of humor and keen interest. "All of that said, I had a
thought to invite you to dine with me and Ser Loras tonight. The Starks and
Baratheons have always been friends, and I'd be a poor friend indeed if I
didn't look out for you now that Ned's gone."
Robb wasn't sure exactly how to feel about Renly. On the one hand, the man was
obviously trying to get something out of him. Favours? An alliance? But on the
other hand he did have a point about their houses being tied, and the Lord of
Storm's End didn't seem malicious; only flighty. "I'd like that." Robb decided,
pulling off his other gauntlet and tucking them both under his arm. "What time
should I call on you?"
"Oh, half a candlemark past the supper bell would be perfect."
"Stark! I'm not sacrificing my time so you can dawdle. Go change already!" The
sudden cut of the Kingslayer's voice was sharp, and the Lion of Lannister
stalked back onto the training grounds with a sour twist of his mouth.
Offering a hurried goodbye, Robb left the two older men alone as he hastened to
the armoury. Just as he went to duck into the open door though, he chanced a
glance over his shoulder and found his eye caught by the animated conversation
Jaime and Renly seemed to be having.
It seemed friendly enough on the surface, with both knight and lord smiling
widely as they spoke. But there was a certain tautness to Renly's mouth and a
clench to Jaime's jaw that made it seem very cold. Family in a way they might
be, but friends they were not.
That realization made Robb's blood chill despite the summer heat, and with a
final curse he stepped into the armoury in search of a change of gear. Whatever
discord there was between the King's brother and the Kingslayer had naught to
do with him, and naught to do with the North.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!