golden

[myrcellabrtheons]

march 8 - march 22

previous total  :  105 replies ( three )  :  15 self para ( one )  : 20 starters ( none )  :  0 points spent : 0

TOTAL :  140 POINTS

[myrcellabrtheons]

self para ; king’s landing

      it’s been years since she’s stepped foot in the red keep, yet the great castle on the hill has not changed much in her absence. walking its halls makes her feel like a child again, racing through the castle as she chased tommen, laughter filling the walls. life had been so different then, the naivete of childhood shielding her from the realities of the world. the castle may have remained unchanged, but myrcella had certainly not. she felt like an entirely different person to the girl who’d left this place bound for dorne and the unknown. it had changed her ; now she wondered who she would be if she’d been allowed to remain. would she have flourished under her mother’s care? or would cersei’s influence have corrupted her into someone she could not recognise? 

       yet her return was hardly a happy one. they’d all but fled dragonstone, her mother insisting upon the safety of the red keep after the slaughter. still she could not sleep without seeing it - one moment she’d thought she was safe, not thinking of danger in the slightest, and then everything had fallen to pieces. her handmaiden had been helping her dress for the day, and then dark shadows had sliced through flesh like it was nothing at all. myrcella had screamed, unable to stop herself... she’d tried to save the girl, desperate hands reaching for her, pressing on the wound as young woman took her last breaths. it had done little to prevent her death - nothing she could have done would’ve saved the girl, but for all myrcella told herself that, she could not help but feel guilt. all she’d gotten for her efforts was a bloodstained dress and hands that still felt slick with blood. 

       for all that they said king’s landing was safe, myrcella could not quite believe it to be true. shadows could find them anywhere ; what defence did they have against strange and foreign magics? none at all, it seemed. as soldiers fortified the walls of the city and the keep itself, she wondered what good it would do. could they truly hold back an army of the dead? could they fight shadows that could slay a dragon? it seemed almost without hope. what chance did they stand, against all those who wanted to see them fall? 

      from her little garden, where she’d spent so many days as a girl, myrcella could see the world pass her by as she sought refuge it. it had been kept well in her absence, still as beautiful as when she’d left, though the flowers did not bloom so brightly now that winter was upon them. still it made myrcella smile to see it. had her mother done this for her, kept this piece of her alive even when she was half a world away? for all she did not agree with many of cersei lannister’s decisions, she also knew that her mother loved her. perhaps she did not always show it in the best of ways, but that did not lessen the emotion behind it. 

          in the quiet, peaceful space, she could at last think clearly to herself. they were all in dire peril, and this truce was, myrcella believed, the wisest political decision her mother had ever made. perhaps she did not give cersei enough credit ; she could be practical, when necessary. or so she hoped, anyway. the uncertainty of their future remained, but for now they were a united front. if they survived this fight with the dead, if they found a way to beat back these mysterious shadows...then they could concern themselves with who sat on the iron throne. for her part, myrcella could not care less for it. let anyone else take their place upon it, so long as they let her live.

[myrcellabrtheons]

youngeir‌:

        ‘      aye,   just   brandon   is   fine.      ’      he   qualifies   being   as   such   for   context,   but   he   would   always   be   just   brandon.   at   least,   that’s   what   he   would   tell   himself,   as   the   possibility   of   losing   his   father   and   taking   on   his   mantle   is   not   something   he   will   allow   himself   to   consider,   especially   considering   the   current   threats.   he   would   one   day   be   the   norrey   himself,   and   no   longer   just   brandon,   but   he   would   avoid   that   thought   as   much   as   he   could.      ‘      we   travel,   but   mostly   we’re   in   the   high   mountains,   just   before   the   gift,      ’      he   answers,   his   tone   even,   but   even   he   is   aware   talking   about   his   home   opens   his   soul   in   a   way   that   isn’t   safe.   it   was   how   the   other   baratheon   princess,   stannis’s   daughter,   was   able   to   grow   on   him.   he   puts   up   a   shield   to   protect   himself   from   another   such   invasion,      ‘      aren’t   princesses   supposed   to   know   their   people      ?      ’

       there are few people in myrcella’s life who she calls merely by their name. so often she is constrained by titles and formalities, now more than ever. even her younger brother is king tommen now, though in private at least she is not bound by such constraints. in her head myrcella tries to conjure a map of the north, picturing where his lands might fall. the norrey must have been about as far north as any could be while still remaining within the seven kingdoms. a mountain clan, which explained his differing dress, at least... his remark strikes her deeply. ‘ we are, ‘ myrcella replies, tone even for all that she’s clearly affected by the question. ‘ but even a princess cannot possibly know every inch of her kingdoms. ‘ it is a weak defence for all that it’s true. no one ever bothered teaching her much about the north, at least not in any particular detail. she could name many of the larger houses, their seats, their arms - but all of that did not tell her much of its people. ‘ i have only been north of the neck once in my life, when my family visited winterfell, ‘ she continues, and her frustration in her own lack of knowledge is becoming more evident, her defence meant more for herself than for him. ‘ i have spent most of my life in dorne, ‘ myrcella adds, her final attempt at explanation. ‘ it is rather difficult to learn about a land when you are on the opposite side of the seven kingdoms, is it not? ‘

[myrcellabrtheons]

ofblackwinds‌:

       her raid of the port at casterly rock had gone down as infamous. never before had an ironborn raiding party gotten so close inside of the lion’s den without being made prey in their attempt to get away. most of what they had taken had been long sold off by now - the luxury of the westerlands had no place permanently on the isles - but asha had deigned to keep the knife. pride, perhaps, wanted her achievement to be known, to inspire awe in islanders and fear in those of the mainland. this girl was brave to question her, asha would give the little yellow-haired lady that. 

        “im sure they would.” asha’s voice dripped with sarcasm and her low tone was more threatening than it was accommodating. “and it is lovely of you to offer, but i should hate to part with it now, even if the lion carving is rather ugly and the blade dulls so fast these days.” she held the winking silver blade up to the light, enjoying the reaction very much. “besides, the trouble was half the point of taking it.” she laughed, only to herself really, and lowered the knife again. “what is your interest anyway - surely there are not many who would care so much for a dusty old heirloom nobody’s seen in years.”

        the other was bold, that was certain, and seemed everything that myrcella had been told about the ironborn and more. she was reckless, it seemed, with no care for who she might insult or how it might come back to bite her. myrcella grit her teeth, trying her best to ignore the blatant insults to her family. she could not afford to lose her temper over this. it would make her look nothing but a spoiled princess, and that was something she wished to avoid. ‘ if you dislike it so much, then why keep it? ‘ she said, voice taut with her barely hidden annoyance. ‘ it is little use to you, yet to others i believe it has far greater meaning. ‘ yet myrcella was beginning to suspect all the logic in the world would not help her here. if this woman wished to cause trouble, then she was certainly succeeding. it was tempting to leave her to cersei lannister’s wrath, no matter how much that would jeopardise these peace talks. 

        ‘ i am not certain you understand the trouble you seek. there are some who would be rather unhappy with you, if they knew, and their response would not be as amiable as my own. ‘ it was not really intended as a threat - merely a reminder that if this woman wished to play this game, she would have to be willing to face the consequences. ‘ i would think my interest was obvious, ‘ myrcella added ; with golden hair and fine silks, it could not be difficult to guess who she was, or at least which family she came from. ‘ it belongs to my family - so yes, i have a care for it. even if it is a dusty old heirloom, an heirloom it remains, with much history attached. to some that is rather important. ‘ myrcella knew that it held some value, for all that she had little use for an old knife. perhaps that was merely sentimental, but the value remained, and to her mother at least it would be enough to start all kinds of trouble in order to gain its return. lannisters did not take slights lightly - and nor did they let themselves be humiliated without retaliation. 

[myrcellabrtheons]

bastardslocke‌:

“lovely indeed,” she agrees, raising one hand to rub at her eyes, “when you can make sense of the pages.” the bitterness leeches back in, clouding her mind, tainting her words once again. “i do prefer the books of history. even the songs - even those are tales of what has happened. they may be painted differently, but the past is there. prettier. but they still teach you something.” the tales of the past, niyleah believes, can be warnings of the future. or lessons, for the present. “dorne?” the south of south, the freest part of westeros. what had the princess been doing there? “you can do many things in trousers that skirts and dresses do not permit. but you can do many things in skirts and dresses that would be very difficult in leggings.” and niyleah has long been a strong advocate for both - where they offer the most usefulness, of course.

the thought of a land more free, more open makes her smile a little. “the same is true of the north, princess. perhaps the dornish are even more accepting, but there are many things that women can do there, if you pick the right place and time. i have wielded knives, swords, and bows. i have drunk in halls with men. i’ve done a great many things a lady should not… i enjoy those freedoms. perhaps dorne is the place for me.”

      myrcella’s brow furrowed slightly as she made sense of the other’s words. now her anger made a little more sense - if she was not well versed in reading, it must surely be frustrating. she knew, of course, that many did not grow up knowing such things, but she did not know many of them. her own education had been extensive, the finest king’s landing and dorne had to offer a girl. indeed, myrcella could barely remember learning to read - had she struggled with it, or had it come easily to her? perhaps her mother would know, though she was not entirely sure that cersei had not simply left such tasks to her septa. a queen had better things to do than watch over her daughter’s menial tasks. ‘ oh, certainly - history is often more fascinating for being true. ‘ there was a great deal to be learned from what had come before them, and now more than ever myrcella found herself searching ancient tomes, searching for answers to all her problems. 

      ‘ i have never found much comfort in trousers, myself, ‘ she admitted with a shrug ; myrcella had been born to wear silk dresses and finery, and even when presented with the other option skirts seemed to serve her better. if she were more inclined to run and fight, though, she could certainly see where pants may come in handy. myrcella gave the young woman a curious look. she still felt as though she knew so little of the north, and part of her wondered if that was why this war continued. their ignorance of the northerners and what they desired - it could only lead to more catastrophic misunderstandings. ‘ if that is what you enjoy, then yes - i imagine that you would thrive in dorne. though only if you appreciate the heat, for it is inescapable there. ‘ 

[myrcellabrtheons]

feburary 23 - march 23

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TOTAL :  105 POINTS

[myrcellabrtheons]

youngeir‌:

         ‘      brandon   of   the   norrey.      ’      his   words   reveal   him   as   different,   just   like   his   appearance   ;      not   a   noble,   though   he   received   that   treatment,   and   not   a   smallfolk   either.   brandon,   however,   is   suprised   by   receiving   an   apology   from   a   princess.   his   own   bias   is   far   too   ingrained   for   this   to   be   a   moment   of   self   reflection,   a   turning   point   towards   acceptance,   but   it   does   make   him   work   to   continue   to   justify   his   beliefs.   it   can’t   be   genuine,   he   decides,   they   likely   teach   their   children   to   lie   well.   at   her   question,   his   brow   furrows,   looking   to   the   other   members   of   the   guard.   he   makes   eye   contact   with   another   and   receives   a   shrug,   but   also   a   nod.   he   offers   one   of   his   own   in   return   and   then   returns   his   gaze   to   the   lion’s   daughter.      ‘      aye,   i’ll   bring   you   back   to   southron   chambers.      ’

          though myrcella nodded at his introduction, the words meant little to her. she knew house stark, and a handful of the larger northern houses, but the norrey was not a name she recognised. promised to dorne as a child, she’d had little occasion to learn the intricacies of the north. at times like this, it frustrated her that she had not learned more of the world, sheltered in the water gardens away from all thoughts of war as she’d been. still, the princess is grateful for his assistance - she need not fake her gratitude. ‘ thank you, brandon of the norrey, ‘ myrcella replies carefully ; with this northerner it feels as if it would only take one misplaced word to make him despise her. of course it is just as likely she is wasting her time. chances are, he hates her already, purely because she is a lannister. ‘ might i ask - ‘ myrcella begins, still so careful with each and every word. ‘ i know so little of the north. where is the norrey? ‘ 

[myrcellabrtheons]

ofoldtown‌:

          “i am no ser, princess.” satin corrected with a dimpled smile. “just satin is fine - i have no claim to such a noble title as that.” she was so far from everything he knew, this soft-spoken princess with her manners and grace and kindness. he felt a little bad, for his complacency in the jokes that had been made at the expense of myrcella and her siblings - the men of the watch liked no better pastime than to stand around cursing those whose lots in life had been cast more fortuitously than their own. it was easy to stand in the freezing cold, condemned to a prison sentence at the end of the earth, and joke about how queen cersei’s children were bastards more lion than stag. satin had never made those jokes himself, he’d never felt it his place to joke about royalty, but he would admit to laughing along. bastard or not, myrcella was about the gentlest soul he’d ever encountered, and satin was the last person who would hold someone else’s parentage against them. “it was not so bad. i am grateful to have a chance to come south again - i had thought i’d never see anything but snow again so this is a nice change of pace.” the journey had been arduous enough, but satin had reveled in the chance to see the world in colour again. “dorne is so far away - i always dreamed of visiting one day, but the chance never presented itself.” he bit nervously at the inside of his cheek - how did one converse with someone so astronomically more important than themselves. “did you like it there, princess? from the stories i’ve heard it is paradise, but i suppose you would know better than most.”

         myrcella nodded slowly - if he wished her to call him such, she’d honour the request. ‘ satin it is, then, ‘ she confirmed with a nod. it was an odd choice, to name a child after fabric, but what did she know of the naming habits of commoners in the reach? very little indeed. her curiosity was insatiable, always urging her to find out more, but myrcella did not want to be rude either. pestering some poor young man with questions about his life would surely classify as such, princess or not. his words make her shiver unintentionally ; she could not imagine what it must be like, to live in a world of nothing but snow. even winterfell in summer had seemed cold to her, this southron girl who could not remember a true winter before this. even now she longed for the dornish sun warming her fair skin, leaving small freckles on her cheeks that had made her mother scowl. ‘ it must seem quite warm here in comparison to the wall, ‘ myrcella mused - she felt chilled in this old castle, where the ocean’s cold breath seemed to permeate every hall, and yet compared to the enormous wall of ice he called home, it must’ve seemed like summer. her thoughts turned to dorne once again, and a distant smile emerged on the princess’s lips. ‘ i spent most of my time in the water gardens - and i believe they are as close to paradise as any could imagine. ‘ dorne had worked its way into her heart over her years there, and she missed it dearly. yet how could she have stayed, when prince doran had declared for the dragon queen? 

[myrcellabrtheons]

feburary 23 - march 23

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TOTAL :  95 POINTS

[myrcellabrtheons]

bastardslocke‌:

the southron girl’s eyes ring of surprise, whether at the trousers, at the venom of niyleah’s voice, or the slamming of the book. “you did not interrupt me,” it was the pain of reading, the blurring of the ink in her vision, the strange symbols that cannot be words - not words she knows, not ones she can decipher. her skin itches in frustration. would that myrcella baratheon had not chosen that moment to appear. would that her temper was not so bloody and quick. “you are a reader yourself, princess?” the words are less angry, now, but no more kind. they simply are words. her breathing becomes a task, one she must focus on. her gaze drops, to the ground, to the soft fabric about her legs. “i do not usually dress so if i am expecting company such as yours. the boyishness must be foreign to you. northerners even find me too much, at times, so for yourself…” niyleah tucks the book behind her back, and pushes her shoulders back. “one must behave like a man, on occasion, in times like these.”

             it is saddening, to be met with such hatred from someone she has never before even met. she does not know the young woman’s age, and they can surely be no more than a few years apart, yet already myrcella doubts she has found a friend. such a thing is impossible, when she is hated for merely existing. ‘ very well, ‘ she murmurs, conceding the point, even if she was not sure she believed the other. the princess took her less venemous words as a peace offering, and gave her sweetest smile in return. ‘ yes, i am. it is quite wonderful, to read stories of others’ adventures, is it not? ‘ myrcella had always enjoyed such things, no matter where in the world she was. her gaze follows the young woman’s, lingering on her trousers once again, before she shakes her head. ‘ it was unexpected, but not so foreign, ‘ she replies, for she dislikes being thought to be ignorant. ‘ i have spent a decade in dorne, where many young women choose to dress so. even i have tried it, though i was not fond of them. ‘ she’d felt oddly restricted, the pants seeming to fit all wrong even though they’d been made for her. but then, she was a princess - perhaps it was better she preferred skirts. 

      speaking of dorne was bittersweet. she missed dorne’s constant heat in moments like these, when chilling winds blew through dragonstone’s walls. but then, she had no choice but to leave. they had declared for daenerys - what else was she to do? ‘ the dornish are far more...open to young women experiencing more of the world. some even train to fight as warriors beside the men, ‘ myrcella continued, finding it pleasant to share tales of the now distant land. she’d been given a few lessons in weaponry herself, when she was to be a dornish wife. gentle-heared as she was, myrcella had disliked them, never managing to find a weapon that felt right in her hands. still, the knowledge had done her some good. she’d escaped dorne with a scarred cheek, instead of a slit throat, because she’d known how to hold a blade. for that, she was grateful beyond belief.

[myrcellabrtheons]

unbvrnts‌:

                            𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒     𝐖𝐀𝐒    a     frightening     sight     to     some     (     more     so     than     the     dothraki     at     times     ,     some     would     say     )     &     to     her     it     was     easy     to     spot     fear     ,     it     is     in     straightened     shoulders     ,     labour     breaths     ,     widened     pupils     ,     daenerys     could     always     tell     &     all     she     had     to     do     was     turn     her     eyes     on     the     golden     cub     of     a     lannister     ,     a     tilt     to     her     icy     locks     as     a     brow     raised     .     she     was     bold     ,     she’d     give     the     girl     that     much     ,     at     least     .     to     daenerys     ,     it     mattered     not     that     they     were     enemies     ,     she     was     a     child     under     the     influence     of     sinister     greed     ,     to     the     rightful     queen     ,     myrcella     was     merely     a     pawn     in     cersei’s     game     .     ❝                 one     must     get     used     to     them     ,     they     will     not     be     going     anywhere     .     ❞     the     dragon     queen     was     confident     in     her     words     &     she     have     every     right     to     be     ,     she     held     something     much     more     valuable     than     any     of     the     other     claimed     kingdoms     ,    DRAGONS     .     though     she’d     allied     with     the     north     ,     so     really     ,     it     was     them     against     the     lannisters     &     daenerys     was     not     about     to     let     the     villainous     lioness     that     was     cersei     lannister     sit     on     that     throne     for     much     longer     ,     threat     of     whitewalkers     or     not     .     ❝     you     are     lucky     i     was     around     ,     in     fact     ,     they     have     no     use     for     curiosity     &     we’re     already     at     war     with     your     mother     ,     we     don’t     need     you     lost     in     that     at     the     hands     of     my     people     .     ❞      the     dothraki     were     wild     ,     but     they     knew     better     to     cross     their     khaleesi     in     a     foreign     land     .     she     may     of     warned     them     prior     not     to     mingle     with     the     light     skins     they’d     see     ,     to     stick     to     dothraki     ,     but     myrcella     needn’t     know     that     .     for     all     the     cub     knew     ,     daenerys     saved     her     life     .     even     if     it     were     only     half     truth     .

        myrcella felt she was being assessed by the dragon’s gaze, and so she painted on a soft smile, as she was so very practiced in doing. cersei lannister had not needed to teach her that - myrcella had learned how to smile prettily all on her own. it had kept her from trouble as a child who’d dirtied her dress playing games, had soothed joffrey’s temper when she’d forgotten to mind her words around him, had made the dornish accept her despite knowing she was the kin of their greatest enemies. she could smile for daenerys taryaryen too, if that kept her alive. 

       still, her words worried the princess, and the peaceful look did not quite reach her eyes. ‘ will they not? ‘ she asked, all innocence, but there was turmoil beneath. myrcella did not know the dothraki well, but she certainly had heard a great many stories about them, and few of them were flattering. the thought of them remaining in westeros was...concerning. ‘ i would think they would prefer to return to essos, my lady. after all, that is their home. ‘ it was the closest she dared come to defiance. perhaps daenerys simply did not realise that the westerosi may accept dragons, but dothraki? that was another matter entirely. 

.      the less than subtle threat sets myrcella even further on edge, and she wonders if daenerys is wise to do so. perhaps she is mistaken, and the queen wanted thanks for her intervention, but myrcella would never have been in harm’s way without her men’s presence. if she could not control them...well, that was an entirely different concern. ‘ i imagine if i came to harm at the hands of your people, they would not live to regret it long, ‘ she said, still maintaining the sweetest voice she could. daenerys may threaten her, but myrcella could return the same, if she must. ‘ my mother may not have dragons, but i assure you, a lioness can be fearsome indeed without their help. ‘ that was no lie. cersei lannister had condemned her own brother to death when she believed he’d killed her son. what would she do to someone who harmed her only daughter? horrible things beyond her imaginings, myrcella presumed. her mother was guilty of many crimes, she held no illusions about that, but when it came to her children, her love was undeniable.

[myrcellabrtheons]

ofblackwinds‌:

         asha held more hatred in her heart than most, and a lot of those grudges that had gone dormant with time had been reignited with vigour being around these mainlanders. she hated the starks for stealing theon from them, she hated the baratheons for leading the force that crushed the rebellion, the lannisters for taking the lives of her elder brothers, the tyrells for sending the redwyne fleet to sink ironborn ships on their behalf. the summit was a minefield of those hallowed names, and asha was confronting them all with her usual air of smug indifference until her time came to strike. 

           perhaps a more diplomatic woman would not have flaunted stolen goods around so many who might recognize them, but tact had never been the way of the krakens of pyke. to raid was their way of life, and what was stolen became proof they were living by the ways of their god. “this?” she asked, smug as anything as she used the tip of the fine blade to run under her nails to remove the sand that had become trapped there. a pitiful use for a noble blade, adorned with the lion of house lannister and the wealth of the rock. “found it lyin’ around, took it for a souvenir from a trip to casterly rock.” she held it up to the light and smirked at the girl with her lannister yellow hair. “bit bloody gaudy for my taste, but it’s nice enough, don’t you think?” 

             myrcella knew too well, unfortunately, that her family were not particularly popular with the many others who they now were surrounded by. this peace summit felt fragile as glass - one wrong move, and it would all come crashing down. yet it seemed this woman had little care for maintaining peace, if the way she was flaunting a stolen blade meant anything. finally myrcella took her eyes off the weapon, to better assess the one who wielded it. she was not a woman like myrcella was familiar with in the slightest ; she was rough as the sea on a stormy day. and she was a thief, it seemed - one who had been to casterly rock. not many were so bold. an iron islander, if her judgement was correct - presumably an important one at that, if she was here. 

           that hardly excused her behaviour. ‘ yes, that, ‘ myrcella responded, her usual sweetness soured by her annoyance at the clear disrespect. house lannister may be hated, but to steal their heirlooms and use them to groom oneself...to myrcella it felt nearly as bad as if one were to desecrate the sept of baelor. she could not quite fathom it. ‘ your souvenir is stolen - and i would wager its rightful owners would like it back. ‘ indeed, she was lucky it was myrcella, and not her mother or father uncle who had seen the stolen treasure. like as not, they’d have resorted to violence rather than reason, to secure its return. ‘ perhaps you should allow me to return it to them, and save you rather a great deal of trouble. ‘ it was, truly, a kindness of her to offer - and the only such offer she was likely to receive. the rest of her family would be much less diplomatic, and none of them could afford to start a fight in this place.

[myrcellabrtheons]

     myrcella sees the great beast first, the grey wolf that rides by robb stark’s side. if one listens to stories, then they may believe the wolf and master were one, that he could turn from man to beast. at this late hour, she might almost believe it - but for all that she likes stories, it is a difficult one to believe. she remembers, distantly, when that large wolf was but a pup, playing with his packmates. she’d been a child, visiting winterfell with her father, and a little frightened of the wolves even then. for she has taken a step backwards before the thought even registers, an attempt to distance herself from the large beast. 

she remembers the creature’s master, too, a handsome youth who’d walked her to the high table in winterfell’s great hall, all while she smiled brightly at his side. she’d thought him quite wonderful, if truth were to be told, the northern boy to who - she’d heard her father say it, causing cersei lannister to swear at him loudly, the beginnings of yet another fight between the king and queen - she was very nearly betrothed. instead sansa had been chosen for joffrey, and brought south to suffer his intolerable presence. even as a child she’d known her brother was cruel, had seen bruises on sansa’s skin that could only have come at his command - yet the little princess had been powerless to do anything. she could not even stop joffrey from turning his cruelty on her, when their mother’s back was turned - how could she help anyone else? 

     so many years have passed since she’d been in winterfell, and as she looks past the great wolf, myrcella can only think that robb stark wears them well, all things considered. yes, he is battle-scarred and hardened, but that is to be expected. he has been fighting a war, while she was hidden away in dorne, sheltered from the worst of the conflict. in comparison her life has been easy, but for the quick and dangerous escape from dorne with her uncle. perhaps it is only fair that she, too, has scars, for this conflict has left none of them truly unscathed. in truth myrcella did not know why they still needed to fight. surely after all this time, it was clear that the north would never surrender their independence. if only her mother could see that, perhaps they’d have ended this war by now. 

      yet instead here they stand as enemies, when their fates may have been so different. it is strange to look at the northern king and remember that their fathers were the closest of friends. cersei lannister had severed that friendship as easily as they’d taken eddard stark’s head - though joffrey had given that particular order, or so she’d been told. one word from her repulsive brother had caused this war, though now it felt as if it were inevitable, and lord stark’s death was merely a spark on dry grass, quickly igniting into an inferno. now his son is a king, the north a kingdom of its own, but for the war that seems to never end. ‘ your grace, ‘ myrcella says, inclining her head in a show of courtesy she is not sure her mother would approve of. cersei would likely call him a foolish boy to his face, no matter the crown he wears. her eyes return to the wolf, whose eyes seem to bore into her soul. ‘ i did not think anyone would be awake at this hour ; i am sorry if i have disturbed you. ‘

@vargher​

[slingsandarrcws]

papers as old as the woman herself shuffle through the air, betwixt fingers thudding with the dull ache in her head. the letters are at the point of nonsense: reading, while pleasurable, is also painful. if only she had been brought up to read, if only she hadn’t been the bastard granddaughter of a braavosi banker. if only. the tome slaps shut - an old, decrepit thing, filled with songs and poems for children and young women’s fanciful daydreams. it is not what she would have loved to read, but it is what the lockes would give her. for now. the sound echoes off of a stone wall, and she rises angrily from her spot in the dirt, not caring if it has dirtied the trousers - a precious, rare pair of trousers fitted to her. one of only three. then she notices the girl, and forces herself to curtsy, despite the trousers, despite the numbness of her legs. “princess,” she says, and the distaste in her voice might have been for the lannister-baratheon or for the frustration at her book equally.  @myrcellabrtheons​

[myrcellabrtheons]

        myrcella has always rather loved to read. throughout her life it has been a constant, always there even when everything else was in turmoil. she had relied on tales of others through thick and thin. perhaps that was why the sight of a young woman with book in hand brought a small smile to her lips. how many times had she hidden herself away in some small corner to read, when joffrey was being cruel, when the dornish were too unfamiliar, when she simply wished for some time alone from the world? her eyes widened slightly at the sight of the young woman’s trousers - it was not so uncommon in dorne as it was in the capital, but still it caught her somewhat by surprise. ‘ i am sorry to interupt your reading, ‘ myrcella says ; she had not intended to cause the other to slam her book shut so. it seems she has caused offence all the same, or perhaps the clear dislike in the other’s tone was merely because of who she was. myrcella baratheon, princess of the seven kingdoms, daughter of cersei lannister - no matter where she turned, there was someone who resented her, and there was little she could do about that.

[myrcellabrtheons]

youngeir‌:

          northern   savage   ,      perhaps.   surely   a   few   would   argue   that   of   the   mountain   clans,   who   were   not   unfrequently   at   each   other’s   throats.   however,   not   savage   enough   to   not   abide   by   this   forced   peace   within   the   halls,   or   to   think   that   harming   a   child   would   solve   his   people’s   problems.      ‘      not   a   ser,   my   lady,      ’      he   corrects.   he   sometimes   plays   the   game   of   nobility   with   the   northerners   to   let   them   keep   face,   but   he   isn’t   so   kind   to   a   southron   princess.   additionally,   the   concept   of   knights   and   sers   was   more   foreign   to   him,   and   he   thought   it   would   be   better   he   keep   his   distance   from   such   things.   brandon   was   true   to   the   old   gods,   the   seven   could   keep   their   titles.   brandon   remains   still,   looking   to   see   her   reaction   for   a   moment,   before   posing   a   question.      ‘      is   there   something   i   can   help   you   with      ?      ’

         myrcella holds her fragile smile ; she cannot afford to crumble, not before these northerners who wear their stoic strength as heavily as armour. it was hard not to feel entirely intimidated, even knowing as she did that they would not harm her here.  ‘ i apologise, ‘ she says, quick and seemingly easy. ‘ might i know your name, then, so i do not cause any offence? ‘ she did not wish to give anyone more reason to despise her. she could not help her name, her mother, her hair of lannister gold - but myrcella could, at the very least, be as courteous as possible. as for what he might help her with, well, the sight of these northerners made something quite clear to her. she’d strayed far outside the spaces reserved for her family and their men, and she was not entirely sure how to return. ‘ it seems i have become turned around in this place, ‘ myrcella admitted with a self-deprecating smile. ‘ if it is not too much trouble - i would greatly appreciate your help in finding my way. ‘

[myrcellabrtheons]

@ofblackwinds​

       myrcella was raised on tales of golden lions that had once roamed the westerlands, taught the names of every great lannister in history from lann the clever to right through to her uncle jaime. cersei had made certain she knew her heritage ; for all she was a baratheon in name, her mother had raised her to wear lannister gold. indeed, if she had not been so young when sent to dorne, myrcella could only imagine how much greater cersei’s influence may have been. the separation had afforded her a chance to form her own opinions, to see her mother in a more true light, for better or for worse. still, she could not erase her past, nor her hair of lannister gold. she could not forget her mother’s tales, all the stories of lannisters past, all those golden lions.

       the sight of a knife with a hilt of gold, lion roaring in the bright metal, stirs old memories in her mind. she’d heard of one such knife, a heirloom of their family, passed down from a grandfather’s grandfather. myrcella’s only question was - how had it come to be here? the knife belonged in casterly rock, or perhaps in the hands of one of her uncles, not here, on the dragon’s island, in an unfamiliar woman’s grasp. she speaks before she can think better of it, words almost bursting out of her. ‘ where did you get that? ‘ myrcella asks, no thought for propriety as she takes a step closer to the other.

[myrcellabrtheons]

feburary 16 - 23

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