Chapter Text
Myrcella startled at the sound of Jon Snow’s raised voice, the slam of his hands against the sturdy wood of the long table, her eyes flickering to the boy, nearly a man as he all but fled the Great Hall. She wanted to follow for some reason, but it would not be proper and even if it were her mother would have bitten her head off for making such a scene, for following after a bastard.
But she liked Jon, with his soft inky black curls and soulful dark eyes that reminded her of oddly of grapes. The deep—nearly black—purple ones that burst easily between her teeth and make the sweetest of wines. And his laugh, she had heard it only once, but it rang through the quiet air of the Godswood as he played with his snow-white direwolf unaware of her hiding behind a pillar at the entrance, peeking past unable to squash her curiosity. It was warm, rich like velvet, and deeper than either of her brothers’. Though she guessed that was to be expected. Jon was five and ten, nearly a man grown while Joffrey was a year younger, his voice not yet changed, and Tommen was still only ten namedays old.
He was kind too, and quiet, keeping out of the way, but never outright ignoring her, answering her questions softly, his northern brocade coating each word and making them sound far more interesting than they had before. She found she could listen to him talk for hours if only he would. There was a melody to his speech, the rises and falls, the dropping of end sounds and shortening of vowels. It was different from what she was used to, but that was what made it all the more special. Myrcella wanted to hear more, wanted to hear what he had to say. She had gotten the distinct feeling that Jon felt unheard, as she often did, perhaps that was what she would use to start a conversation? No, she must be smarter than that, why would he ever want to speak about that with her?
Robb was talking to her, she realized, wrenching her attention away from Jon and back toward the eldest Stark. He was handsome, with auburn curls and Tully blue eyes, a strong jaw, and an easy smile, but he did not hold her attention, not like Jon did. She nodded her head in response to his words and tried to banish thoughts of his half-brother from her mind. Her mother was right, she was too caught up in her flights of fancy. If she was to develop feelings no matter how small for anyone from the North it should be Robb, a trueborn, Winterfell’s heir, not Jon, a bastard boy with an unnamed mother.
Lady Stark apologized for the outburst and Myrcella’s mother made a snide comment about bastards disguised as understanding and sympathy, but Myrcella saw the way her mother’s hand gripped her cup, her knuckles white. The crimson liquid within in danger of spilling as her father laughed boisterously, his shoulder knocking into her mother’s as he pulled a serving girl into his lap. Joffrey snickered at their father’s actions, earning a glare from their mother.
Myrcella wished her father would not do that, would not shame her mother in such public ways. Truly she wished he would not shame her at all but had long given up on that by now. She glanced down at her plate, half-eaten, her wine glass empty, a lightness in her head and a queasiness in her stomach. She did not have the tolerance for wine her mother, father, and elder brother had, preferring pomegranate juice or tea, but it had not been offered, and she was much too polite to ask for it.
She excused herself from the table claiming exhaustion, and made her way out of the hall, hoping that perhaps her Uncle Tyrion would be hanging around, and she could sit by his side, pretending her father had not once again made public his preference for whores over his own wife. He was always able to make her feel better, telling her tales of great heroes, or of her Uncle Jaime when he was young.
Myrcella drew her thin cloak around herself tightly as she stepped into the yard, the snow crunched underfoot, the abandoned space dimly illuminated by torchlight and the moon. She spotted Tyrion first, his shorter stature was one she had grown attuned to, her eyes searching for him in every room, in every crowd, just as her Uncle Jaime’s did. It made her happy when Tyrion pointed that out to her, made her feel special and connected to the man her mother favored above all else, perhaps not above Joffrey but certainly above her and Tommen.
“Uncle—” Her voice died as she spotted who stood with him, arms crossed over his chest, a training sword plunged into the snow-covered dirt beside them.
Jon looked up before Tyrion could turn and when their eyes met, she felt her breath stolen from her lungs. She had caught him off guard, and for a split second she saw his true face. The unshed tears in his eyes, the flush of his cheeks as he realized who called out into the night, the strength of his jaw, clenched in anger. He ducked his head, his curls falling forward hiding his face as Tyrion turned a smile on his face.
“Little Myrcella, have you come to drag me back to that horrid feast?” He remained smiling as she approached, and Jon stiffened at the proximity.
“No, I fear the wine has unsettled me, so I decided to return to my chambers early.” She said, giving Jon a small smile in greeting.
Tyrion shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Is that what we are calling your father now? The wine? I would think it more suitable for your mother, but who am I to say?”
“No, no, truly it is the wine.” She assured him, clasping her hands together in front of her, blinking back hot tears.
Tyrion’s hand rested upon hers. “Myrcella…no one will judge you for your tears, not here. You are among a dwarf and a bastard, no shame of yours can outweigh ours.”
Myrcella felt her cheeks warm both in embarrassment and anger as Jon looked between her and Tyrion with an uneasy expression. “He pulled another serving girl into his lap, groped at her as if he were in a pillowhouse, he nearly spilled Mother’s drink, and Joffrey found it all so funny, I hate him.”
Jon shuffled his feet, keeping silent as Tyrion sighed. “Myrcella this is the way men are—”
“You are not like that, nor is Uncle Jaime, or Uncle Stannis, or Uncle Renly, or Lord Stark, they would never do such things.” She interrupted, feeling much younger than three and ten as she stomped her foot. “And none of the other men laughed at Father’s antics, well they did not truly laugh, they gave a false laugh, one meant to stave off his anger.”
“I, your uncles, and Lord Stark are not like other men, you cannot use us as an example Myrcella, or you will be sorely disappointed in your future husband.” Tyrion said softly, with a wry smile.
Myrcella turned to Jon, feeling brave. “Lord Snow, you would not shame your wife in such a way, would you? You would not bring your whores to your marital bed night after night or take servant girls upon your lap in front of the whole court.”
Jon’s face bloomed multiple shades of red, his eyes dropping to the ground. “I cannot imagine I would ever find myself in front of the whole court, My Lady, nor can I imagine having the coin to bring…prostitutes to my martial bed so often, but even if I did find myself in the situation in which you described, I cannot see myself doing so. If I were to take a wife, it would be her who I take to my bed, her who I would sit by in court, no others.” He looked up sheepishly, the tips of his ears still red. “I believe I would be hard-pressed to find a lady wife considering my standing though, so if I were to find one, I would count myself among the luckiest of men.”
Something in her chest fluttered and Myrcella realized it was her heart, a warmth she had not known before rising to her cheeks. For a moment the moonlight bathed Jon in an ethereal glow, snowflakes dusting his form, making him look much like the prince from her stories. “I see…”
He ducked his head again. “Of course, I speak only in hypotheticals and cannot compare myself to the likes of my Father and your uncles.”
“No!” Myrcella said far too abruptly, making Jon’s head snap up. “I—I mean only to say you should not speak so harshly of yourself. I know we have only been here a short while, but you have proven to be an honorable host, and if my uncle finds you worth speaking to, then you must be someone of strong character.”
“You give me far too much credit, sweet niece.” Tyrion snorted and Myrcella nearly jumped out of her skin. She had forgotten he was there. Just as she had forgotten, they were still in the training yard of Winterfell, with the snow falling and the wind blowing.
Myrcella pouted at him as she drew her cloak tighter against the wind, noticing Jon’s eyes flicker to her lips for a moment before he pointedly stared at the space beyond her shoulder. “Uncle, that is not true, I know you are far too particular to willingly seek out someone of ill character. Especially when you could be drinking instead.”
Tyrion laughed and patted her hand. “I yield. Now tell me, do you still feel unsettled?”
Myrcella smiled; he had once again banished her heavy feelings. “No, though I am a bit cold.”
“Snow, give her your cloak.” Tyrion ordered lightheartedly, though he did not need to, as Jon had already unclasped his cloak and draped it around her shoulders the moment the words left her lips.
It was heavy, and far too long for her since Jon stood a good head or so above her, but it was warm, smelled of the forest, and something else she could not identify but found quite pleasant. The soft fur tickled her skin as she gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Lord Snow.”
“Jon, My Lady, it is simply Jon.” He said, his eyes on the clasp of his cloak, two wolves, their jaws interlocking as he ensured it was secure around her.
“Well then…thank you, Jon.” She said softly, testing out the sound of his name, enjoying how it felt as it left her lips.
He shivered and for a moment Myrcella felt bad for having taken his cloak, then he shook his head and straightened, but his hands stayed, long fingers still clinging to the clasp. “It would not do well for you to be seen with me any longer; your uncle should escort you to your chambers.”
“Yes, well, that would require you letting go of the cloak.” Tyrion said, a twinge of amusement in his tone.
Jon released the clasp as if it burned him and took two hasty steps back, his foot catching on something buried in the snow. As he fell back, he panicked and reached out, his fingers snagging on his cloak and Myrcella went with him, landing atop him with an undignified shriek, bumping her nose against his cheek at an awkward angle, her lips brushing his heated skin. He was warm, so very warm, even through her cloak she could feel the heat. Was this normal? She had not had the chance to lay atop many men, truly none, unless she counted the times when she, Joffrey and Tommen were younger and would roughhouse. That was before Joffrey turned cruel, well crueler.
“Princess, are you hurt?” Jon asked, his eyes wide with fear, cradling her head, his large hands were warm too, and as he gently trailed his fingers down her head and neck, she fought the urge to lean into his touch. They were so close, and she wore her favorite perfume today, made from honeysuckles, she wondered if he could smell it, if he thought she smelled nice, gods what if he thought she smelled bad?
“No, no, I am well, are you?” She tried to scan the snow around them for any blood, to push any thought of her smelling good or bad away, and found that the snow was as devoid of red as before.
He shook his head, curls dotted with snow. “Only my pride.”
She giggled, and the sound seemed to shock him, a light coming into his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. Oh, and he had very nice lips, she noticed. Full and not as chapped as she might have believed them to be, considering the cold weather. They looked soft, and a part of her wondered what he might do if she kissed him.
“Myrcella, are you sure you are well?” Tyrion asked, his hand on her arm, helping her stand.
Jon stood as well, the tips of his ears bright red, he brushed the snow from his clothing and bowed his head. “My sincerest apologies.”
“There is no need, it was an accident.” Myrcella said, her heart pounding in her chest, the warmth of his skin still lingering through her cloak. She was sure she was blushing.
“I do believe now it is time we retire to our chambers.” Tyrion said, taking her hand in his and leading her away from Jon.