Prologue
Part III: The Siege
“What, then…” Uncle started, “No, wait, nevermind.”
Myrcella looked down at him, focused on his face some more and asked: “What would you like to ask, uncle?”
“It’s about you. I wondered… what is it, that you want? Nobody in the palace ever seems to bother asking you about anything, and yet, you do not seem all that impressed by our ‘mighty’ palace any more… if I knew any better, I would say that you are getting bored.”
She smiled, a little amazed that someone actually showed some interest, and said: “Well… I’ve always wanted to see Dorne…”
“Dorne?! You would really want to go to that snake pit?! I know I meant to send you there, I mean, it is the safest place for you, but…”
Even though he tried to sound incredulous, it seemed a little fake. Through the cracks of his being ‘upset’ he looked proud. Proud, and sad, for some reason.
“I would like to see the cities,’ Myrcella, ‘they say it’s always too hot in Dorne, but I’m not so sure, how can you know until you have been there? In the west, shouldn’t there be nobles with white hair and spear-dances and all those beautiful orange cloaks? And, the Dornish… they’re all so… brown. They’re so odd!”
Tyrion once again seemed absent, a little weary, as he heard her talk. When the words’d stopped flowing from her mouth, he said: “You now, your mother would never let me, but how do you say we go there anyhow? Right now? Just you, me, and your little brother? Joffrey would not scare you anymore!”
“A visit? I’d like that!”
‘Good.’
He hesitated, biting his lips. There something off about him, in the way his shoulders hung down a bit more than usual, in the way he looked away when she looked about him. He looked… defeated.
“Something has happened,” Tyrion said, “Something has happened. You musn’t tell your mother I told you this, she’d kill me.”
She was puzzled, and said: “Oh?”
Tyrion said: “I told you everything was going to be alright. That, it would seem, turned out to be a lie. Robb Stark has butchered your grandfather’s forces at Apt, and he’s coming north now, finishing off the remainders. Thirty thousand men… scattered and killed in days.”
“Dead?” Whispered Myrcella, pity the first thing she felt, followed up by a crushing sense of disillusionment. Shouldn’t it be the good ones that won the wars? How could a traitor come out on top, how could it be that the seven were favouring a heathen? The tears did not come, yet, because fear would still be absent for a few precious seconds.
“That, or deserted. It doesn’t matter, Myrcella. Listen, listen very carefully. The Stark boy knows your grandfather will go west and raise a newer army. We underestimated him once, we won’t do it again. He will besiege this city, and we won’t be in time to stop him. King’s Landing will fall, and while I would like to laugh at the look on Joffrey’s face when it does, I would be too busy getting my head choppped off to do so.”
By now, every single word started to feel like the blow of a hammer to her stomach. Tyrion continued: “Stark has turned out not to be an idiot, and now it seems we are. He knows the nobles will try to flee the city now, he knows-”
DOONG, DOONG, DOONG, DOONG
Tyrion’s face turned to ash.
“It’s too late,” He mumbled, “The bells are ringing. He’s already here.”
*
“Do ye’ have to be such a fucking idiot about it?!” Hosten snarled at his king as the boy slipped again.
“Gods, Hosten!” Robb panted, “Do you have to be such an ass about it?”
In way of answering, Hosten broke through his block and whacked him on the head. The training sword’d been made of dull wood, but the hit still knocked Robb flat on his back with a surprised yelp. Hosten shouted in victory, and as the usual onlookers cheered, as ever, on his victory, he said: “Yea’, I have to be. Yer Grace, you’re not a good fighter, and yet ye’ rush into danger at the first whiff of it. If anything, you need a bodyguard, someone to step in for you ‘n save your life if you get in danger!”
Although in pain and laying on his back, Robb smiled and mumbled: “And… you would pick yourself?”
He winced. Hosten said: “If ye’ would get less reckless, yea’, I would.”
But the king shook his head as he got up.
“If, by some fault of mine, I were to get into danger, that would be my responsibility. It is bad enough that I ask you to fight for the north, but you certainly don’t have to die for me. You are nearly an old man already, but I’d see you get a little older still.”
Hosten almost threw his hands into the air to beg the gods for leniency, but in the end just said: “Damn you, Your Grace! You’re an idiot!”
Robb shook his head.
“I am not. When we storm into the city tomorrow, when we put Joffrey’s head on a chopping block… I will find out who ordered the death of my sister and I’ll kill him myself!”
Hosten nodded thoughfully as he considered the words and picked up his king’s training sword. As they walked out of the dueling range, he asked: “What do you intend to do about the Lannisters? Ye’ still want to kill ‘em all?”
The king seemed to grit his teeth at the statement, but he answered: “I spoke in a rage when you and uncle brought me the news of her death. If I am honest, I am just not sure. I remember Joffrey’s little brother and sister, Myrcella and Tommen. They were, and maybe still are, sweet children. I can’t hurt children.”
Hosten shrugged.
“It might be better to let someone than yourself handle ‘em when we get into the city, then. Doesn’t do you good to let claimants to a throne live if they will have a blood feud with ye.”
Robb turned on him and grabbed his shoulder. In his eyes, the embers of rage had blared up with new intensity.
“I hate the Lannisters for killing my sister, because they would kill an innocent child! And you would have me do the same thing?! Where is the honor in that?”
Hosten scowled and said: “Shut up, boy! We all know what’ll happen to their mother, and their father, and their status! Tommen and Myrcella Waters will be known as bastards, their parents executed by you, and all in the realm will mock ‘em as the spawn of sister-fuckin’ that they are! It would be a mercy to kill the little shits, and you-”
Robb shook his head.
“No, my friend. No.”
And he made his leave.
Hosten stared at his friend as he left. In a way, Hosten had become a privileged man, since the king had asked him to train with him, a month ago, when the army’d arrived at King’s Landing. Now, in the midst of all the plucky tents, as he felt powerless to stop the man he’d grown so close to from ruining himself, he realized once again how much he cared for the little shit.
In the midst of all the more sensible, older men, trying to drag him down to their level of petty intriguing and boring sensibility, the Young Wolf was a bastion of honour and kindness. A noble raped a peasant girl? He’d be executed. A thief stole a loaf of bread out of hunger? Instead of hacking off his fingers, he’d have to spend a month working for the army, and be paid in food. It enraged most, yet it amused Hosten.
With him, the king’d shared his insecurities, his fears, his hopes, his dreams. And now that they were so far south, and Hosten’s family had been so far away for two years… he had to admit a rather large part of him viewed the chivalrous idiot as his own son.
Yet it was always a bit awkward when your ‘own son’ could very well get you all killed.
*
When the North finally assaulted King’s Landing, the city was already in its death throes. No one had bothered to prepare for a siege, since no one had even bothered to prepare for the possibility that the royal armies might be defeated. Joffrey’s mad rantings had become more than notorious: they were infamous. Seeing traitors in every corner of the city, men had been executed for random offences that didn’t actually seem harmful. When Petyr Baelish disappeared, rumored to have fled to his estates in the Vale, Joffrey had the Goldcloaks raid his brothels and massacre both seasoned whores and perfumed boys alike, no one had been very surprised. Just scared.
The people of the city had begun to starve, and the moans of the dying were sometimes so strong that they carried over into the Red Keep. Some, if not most of the starved, were actually relieved the fury of the northmen was about to descend on to them: even if they didn’t know that Robb Stark was actually a kind man, who’d ordered food to be sent into the city when taken and sacking to be restricted to the noble’s quarters, they thought that a sharp sword would at least put them out of their misery soon. In months, their will to survive had been eroded into a vague shadow still whimpering in the corners of their mind, soon to be stamped out by it’s dark twin: misery.
These tidings had reached Myrcella’s ears through the tongue of her uncle, who seemed to leap at every opportunity to keep her and her brother close. In the palace, desperation ruled. Everyone tried to hide it, but it was to be seen in their pale faces, their empty eyes, if only you could see. And Myrcella could see.
“Am I going to die, mother?” She’d asked her. There had been no answer, but there had been a shifty look to the cupboards next to mother’s bed. She’d investigated when she was gone and found a small bottle, filled with a liquid, colour-less like water. When she’d told uncle, he’d said: “Your mother has already been rather petty, Myrcella. Because she enjoys her little plays of power, she thinks everyone else does. She thinks Stark is out for revenge and she won’t have it. She’ll kill you before that happens. What you found is poison.”
What to do when you found out your mother wanted to kill you? Tyrion had moved her and Tommen do different chambers, gotten into desperate shouting matches with mother while they stood next to them, crying, but he was Hand of the king and he won out in the end. But no one could protect you from Joffrey.
“Sister!” He hissed when he came into her room, “Sister!”
He was drunk, he stank of wine. She had been laying in bed when he burst through the door, stumbling a little. His voice was tinged with the same fear as everyone else, but his face was distorted by anger.
“SISTER!”
She came out of bed, trying not to tremble, curtsying deeply. In the end, though, as Joffrey grabbed her by her shoulders and pushed her back on the bed, she still kept her chin up and kept their eyes locked.
“Stop that!” Joffrey whined.
He hit her with the flat of his hand, and though his soft hands and weak arms barely left a mark, it was enough for one of his guards to step forward and mutter: “Your Grace…”
Vaguely, through her tears, Myrcella noticed how miserable he sounded. But if he had truly been honorable, he would have helped her, wouldn’t he?
“STOP LOOKING AT ME!” Joffrey screamed, finally starting to tear at her nightgown, ripping it to shreds in his haste. He fumbled around with his pants, completely letting go of her, but she knew she couldn't run, that she would be stopped, and then everything would be worse, so much worse...
