A Young Girl's Game of Thrones by Failninjaninja

I stirred awake. I was groggy and stiff. I blinked a few times and saw my brother's tear-streaked face above me.

"Myrcella! Myrcella, you're awake."

Tommen wiped the tears from his eyes. I heard shouts and the clash of steel upon steel. Shit, what was going on? How long had I been sleeping?

"Where are we?" My voice croaked a bit. I spied a cup and took a hesitant drink from it, and then gulped down the rest.

"Maegor's Holdfast. I'm sorry, I don't know what to do. Ser Guy is out there; he says he will hold them off as long as he can. Ser Arys is outside too. I… I don't want to die."

I sat up and removed the blankets. I was in a plain dress, my knives no longer on my person. I glanced around and saw them on a nearby table along with my boots.

"Tommen, I'm awake now; I'll do whatever I can to keep you safe." I hastily moved to gather my throwing daggers and put my boots on as I talked. "What is the situation?"

Tommen looked on the verge of weeping again. "I don't know much. Ser Guy said that they took the walls faster than expected, and he suspects betrayal. He said that they somehow snuck their way across the drawbridge. Ser Guy and Ser Lyle were arguing about what to do. Lyle wanted to take back the entrance and hold there, while Guy wanted to hold them here."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. How had the situation deteriorated so much? I felt my strength rapidly return to me, which was good because I also heard wood splintering.

"Tommen, brother, stay here. I will find out more, and then get you out of here."

I opened the door and saw a bare handful of defenders. The other door leading into the room was being hammered by an axe. Ser Arys and Ser Guyard Morrigen were fully armored and ready to block whoever came through. I saw Ser Lyle, prone on the ground. His helm was off his face, and he looked pale. He wasn't breathing. I looked for a wound and found it near his armpit. The puncture had not struck anything vital from what I could tell, which could only mean he died from poison.

Poison

Anger stirred in me. Poison was why I was in this mess. And poison had taken one of my Stormguard from me. I had tried so hard to train them up, and I had a perfect record – until now! Everyone could see honor and glory awaited those chosen to be part of my guard. Now, with this, it would be so much more difficult to retain everyone's loyalty. My hands clenched into fists. He had been my subordinate, one of the people who had done his duty and fulfilled his obligations as good employees should. I was furious that one of my people I mentored had been cut down before his time. Seething rage gripped me.

The door cracked open, and our few remaining guards fought the attackers. My eyes flickered over our enemies – a mixture of Gold Cloaks, who I assumed must be traitors, and some of the Dornish. I instantly saw the figure of Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, the man who had a reputation for poison.

I spun up my reflexive enchantments. My hands found my throwing daggers, and I launched two of them with an overpowered force vector, one at that poisoning son-of-a-bitch, and the other at a Dornish spearman. Oberyn managed a partial deflection, but such was the force of my magically augmented throw that he fell backward in a crash into one of his own allies. My other dagger flew true and killed the spearman.

I wanted to use shock and awe to sweep my enemies aside. I needed to find out what was happening, but first these needed to be dealt with. I also just really wanted to scream in frustration at this giant mess. Using my sound amplification, I gave a shout, and then launched myself at the stunned enemy.

My hand flickered, and another throwing dagger buried itself in an enemy. Then I arrived upon one fighting Ser Arys, my dagger thrust with sufficient force to part his chainmail, thanks to a force vector. Pulling free my dagger, I turned and pushed off the ground with another vector and rammed my blade into an exposed neck, and then another vector to push me to the side, and then another to rocket me forward to cut down what looked to be an Essosi mercenary.

I was dimly aware of Tommen's sworn shield hammering down a Gold Cloak. The Red Viper was up, having picked up a fallen sword from the ground. He had a round shield and was looking at me with astonishment on his features.

I sent another dagger at his face, but he was able to bring up his shield to deflect it. The force of the throw unbalanced him, despite the relative lightness of my dagger. I dashed toward him, a mild vector increasing my speed while his vision of me was still occluded by his own shield. As he lowered his shield, I was on him, striking down at the lighter armor of his leg.

The man's reaction times were absurd for someone not running magical enhancements on their reflexes. He moved his leg back as he struck out with his sword. I vectored again past him, and his sword swished in a miss. I threw my last dagger, other than the one in my hand, at him. His shield was on the other side of his body, and there would be no time for it to intercede. Instead, he turned his head, attempting to dodge it.

It was a partial success; my dagger clipped his half-helm, and his neck wrenched from the impact. He let his body fall with the momentum, coming back to his feet at once in a smooth roll. Ser Arys bellowed a challenge as he swung at Oberyn, who bit out a curse and pivoted deeper into the room, keeping his eyes on me while fending off the last remaining Kingsguard.

Three more Dornish spearmen entered the room, and the twang of a crossbow went off. The bolt buried itself into an enemy's chest, and he fell with a cry. I blitzed them with a forward vector. A spear came up to skewer me, but I was easily able to avoid it with my borderline supernatural agility. Another vector sent me to the side, and then I ripped out a jugular with my knife. The last remaining enemy tried to spear Ser Guyard, but the accomplished knight was too great of a foe.

More men tried to push into the room through the entryway, and I scooped up one of my thrown daggers and sent it into the eye of the first one through. I saw a female Dornish soldier shout out.

"Father!"

"Obara, find the Starks; ware Myrcella's daggers!"

If I live through this septic tank sized shitstorm, I'm going to start carrying around scores of daggers instead of six.

I picked up another of my daggers and let Guyard hold the door. The Red Viper was too dangerous of a fighter. Despite the shock of my appearance and my abilities, he had fended off my attacks decently well. I moved to flank him and faked throwing my dagger at him. He flinched his whole body to the side, and while he was moving in that direction, he was off balance. I threw my recovered blade with an enhanced force vector. The blade parted the armor around his leg and sunk deep into his calf. He gave a snarl of pain and fell to the ground. Ser Arys's sword came up and smashed into Oberyn's hastily-lifted shield.

I stalked around, took a quick glance at Ser Guyard to make sure he was good, and then went in for the kill. Oberyn was attempting to strike back at Arys with his sword, but the Kingsguard was too good to be vulnerable to a man sitting on the ground.

To the last, the Red Viper fought. He sensed me coming and tried to twist his sword to meet me, but the angle was awkward. My knife kissed his neck and slit his carotid artery.

"That was for Ser Lyle Crakehall."

Bodies choked the entryway. I took the time to stand up and gather my daggers.

"Ser Guyard, back away, let them come through," I commanded, my voice lightly amplified by my magic.

He obeyed and stepped back. The enemy hesitated to come through, but finally a few brave souls charged forward, a battle cry on their lips.

Their bravery was futile. I was on them like a wolf amongst sheep. None had the incredible reflexes of the Red Viper, and their eyes couldn't believe the speed at which I could move in a direction. Perhaps if my foes could have watched me, studied how I fought, they could have adapted. They died too quickly for that. Thrown daggers, too quick for them to shield, ended some, while others died up close and personal. What mattered was that, in the span of ten seconds, another half dozen lay dead, and I was in the hall.

"OURS IS THE FURY!" I screamed again, and my blood-drenched form sent the enemy fleeing. Naturally, I vectored forward and killed several more with my dagger, before returning and retrieving them. Ser Arys looked grim, while Ser Guyard had a look of fear in his eyes as he looked at me.

"What is the situation? Has the Red Keep already fallen? Where are the rest of my Stormguard?"

My blood was up; I was furious. Ser Lyle was dead, and the enemy had been a couple of soldiers and two knights away from slaying Tommen. My brother.

"The Red Keep should not have fallen," Ser Arys replied. "Last I knew, which was a couple of hours ago, Lord Tywin and Ser Addam had thousands under their command. I suspect this is the work of treachery, of men smuggled in, maybe in ones and twos, for weeks ahead of this assault. See how many of the dead are wearing Gold Cloaks."

A suicidal assassination attempt would be something people with fanatic loyalty would do. But dozens upon dozens? That seemed unlikely.

"Tell me everything you know about the situation since I lost consciousness."

I didn't want to be idle. I had the ability to provide a critical edge in any of these close quarters fights. If we were truly outnumbered, my magic would run out. It had grown in leaps in recent years, but the way I was burning through force vectors, I would have to start limiting myself if this became a protracted affair.

And I still want something in reserve for the breakout from the city. Cersei, when I get my hands on you, you will be envying Oberyn's fate!

***

​

Robb raced down the corridor, Jory by his side. His father was close – it had to be. He rounded the final turn and came to the door. He immediately put shoulder to door to try to break it open. It did not give, meaning that it was locked and likely barred.

"Who is there? Be you with Tommen or Stannis?" A voice could be heard from inside.

"With King Stannis," Robb answered without hesitation. "Is Lord Stark within?"

Robb heard whispering from behind the door.

"We have no wish to die for a lost cause. Lord Stark is here, and other than some lingering injuries, he has not suffered. Give your word to allow us to live and be pardoned, and we will open the door."

Robb replied, "I am Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark. I give you my word that you will be treated well and freed without ransom or further penalty if you open the door now and do no more harm to any loyal to the King."

Movement behind the door as something was moved. Jory stepped in front of Robb.

"If it is a trap, better it be me than you."

Robb narrowed his eyes but knew how stubborn Jory could be when it came to protecting the Stark family. The door opened, and two Lannister guards were behind it. They wore crimson cloaks and had lion-headed helms. Robb surmised they were likely officers, but not knights.

"Jory?" Eddard said, and then looked past him. "ROBB! Gods be praised."

Robb rushed past Jory, who bit back a curse as he moved to take the weapons from the Lannisters that Robb completely ignored. Robb embraced his father, who winced slightly.

"Easy there, my ribs are nearly healed, but not fully."

A cry echoed through Maegor's Holdfast. It sounded back whence Robb had come. They shared an uneasy glance as Jory and the other guards finished removing and searching the two Lannister guards.

"Will you honor your word, my lords?"

Eddard looked at him. "A Targaryen once said, 'There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath.' Robb's word is as good as law, but stay close so we can explain to any of our men." He looked back at Robb. "Has the Red Keep already fallen?"

"No, Varys sneaked us in. We've taken most of the gates, but the Old Lion is using wildfire. Fortune favors us; it seems to have backfired on his own soldiers."

His father looked surprised. "Varys? I don't trust him, but whatever shadow-games he is playing, it seems to have helped. Once the King takes the city, I intend to advise him to be rid of the Master of Whisperers."

"OURS IS THE FURY!" A roar once more echoed, the voice unmistakably feminine despite its intense volume.

One of the guards exhaled. "She wakes. Seven be praised."

Unease crept through Robb's body. He remembered Ser Marq Piper being outmaneuvered. He remembered the stories of Harrenhal falling in a single night. He remembered the tale of Myrcella's execution, and her miraculous survival. He heard the awe in the soldier's voice.

"We should move. Ser Oberyn was pushing through to get to Tommen. He may need help." Robb and the others moved out of the room. He saw his father arm himself with a dirk and one of the swords that belonged to the Lannister guards.

They heard boots on stone, and then Obara Sand rounded the corner, breathing heavily. She had a couple of Dornish spearmen with her.

"My father needs help. He told me to tell you to fear Myrcella's daggers. She throws them with such force…" Obara's face looked haunted. "Those daggers, they moved faster than the eye could see. My father was thrown back with their force when he took one on his shield."

Robb looked to his father. "Father, how is this possible? Is it like…" he paused and glanced at Obara.

"Direwolves and giants exist; priestesses who can see the future in flames do so as well. The Faceless Assassins are said to be able to steal people's faces – tales told by those who wield power and influence, not drunkards in a tavern. I've seen Dawn wielded in battle, and it moves like Valyrian Steel. Perhaps the Lannisters have found some other rare metal." His father looked troubled. "Or perhaps, like Lady Melisandre, she has a power that comes from the Gods."

The sounds of fighting picked up, and as they came to the final hallway toward the King's room, they saw dead men. One was missing his lower garments; the rest were fully clothed, but all had been killed.

Obara ran through a shattered doorframe and then gave a cry of sorrow. Robb stepped in behind her and saw Oberyn, a Prince of Dorne, lying dead in a pool of his own blood. There were a couple of Lannister guards dead, but the majority of the fallen were Dornish, Essosi, and Northern.

"Myrcella must have taken Tommen with her. Perhaps she sought to try to break free from Maegors's Holdfast. Father, we left Robett Glover and three score men to hold the drawbridge. Without ladders or proper siege equipment, the Lannisters cannot retake this place quickly, but should they be attacked from behind…"

"Do you know how many men she still has?"

Obara looked up from her father's corpse. "There should be few men, but I don't see any of the noble ladies and their attendants here. We heard their screaming earlier when the turncoat Gold Cloaks moved past, searching through here. Look – there are almost no spears, swords, or daggers on the ground."

The Lord of Winterfell spoke gravely, "We must move quickly. The walls can still be scaled by rope and determined men. Sixty can hold them easily, but not if they contend with a force on their backside. We must move!"

Unarmored women with spears, maybe some servants with crossbows and swords, were unlikely to be all that dangerous… but Tommen would have had some final guardians, including at least one in white plate. Add Myrcella and her strange, forceful daggers, it could prove their undoing.

They ran through the halls, and then up the stairs to the battlements of the only entrance into Maegor's Holdfast. Renewed sounds of fighting could be heard. They came up through the final staircase, and Robb saw they were nearly too late. Over a dozen of Glover's men lay dead. In an instant, his sharp eyes took in all the details. He could see ropes with hooks on them latched to the battlements, with enemies trying to ascend. He saw men bravely try to cut down the ropes, only to be met with a flight of arrows from the Lannisters in the Red Keep.

Robb saw a man wielding hammer and shield, and behind him in the corner was Tommen Waters. He saw the deadly form of Ser Arys Oakheart lay about him with deadly proficiency. He saw dozens of women armed with spears trying to do what they could to help. He also saw Glover, dead, his visor shattered, and a copious amount of blood coating the front of his helm.

"WINTERFELL!" He shouted and charged forward with a grimace, hoping the women in his path would see sense and flee, or at least lay down their arms. A few did, but others cried out, a scream of rage and fear as they defied the odds. With great disgust with himself, he deflected a spear and then slicked through one, two, and then three women. Two of them had probably been maids, and one had been a stately, older-looking woman.

Bile filled the back of his throat, but he had little time to focus on it as he saw in his mind's eye Jory lose his life to a dagger. Robb threw himself to the side and collided with the man, and the dagger deflected off his shoulder pauldron, further spinning him around. Robb grunted as another maid tried to spear him while he was on the ground, but good plate would not have yielded to any spear, not even if wielded with the Mountain's strength, let alone that of a woman's. A trained warrior would have aimed for the joints, but she was clearly not trained.

Robb got to his feet and ripped the spear from her grasp, shoving her away. His eyes scanned to see where the thrown dagger had come from. His brief glimpses into the future did not work like normal sight. A man to his right collapsed, and as his body fell, Robb caught sight of Myrcella Baratheon.

He could not say what color her dress had once been, so dripping with blood. She was breathing heavily; her eyes roved the battlefield as she advanced. What horrified him the most was that, instead of the serene face of the 'Perfect Princess,' her lips were stretched far too wide for her visage. Her teeth were reddened with blood spatter, and she moved with the seamless grace of a natural predator. An economy of motion that made him tighten the grip on his blade.

Jory also got to his feet, and two more of Robb's soldiers charged toward Myrcella. No thrown daggers greeted them; instead, she dodged, dipped, and weaved away from their blows. Her counterattack was swift; the dagger, the hand that wielded it, and her arm seemed to blur as it punctured the mid-section of her foe. She whipped her dagger out and around, sending blood arcing off the blade into the helm of the second soldier. Robb charged forward to try to save his underling, but Myrcella had already used the man's momentary blindness to move forward and cut the inside of his thigh.

Robb slashed diagonally at her. She twisted away from the strike and was already bringing her dagger to bear. Robb shielded his body with the armored gauntlet of his free hand, and Myrcella's dagger clanged into it with considerable force. The heavy armor held, even if his arm was forced back.

"Tell them to surrender, especially the women; this is needless butchery!" Robb shouted at her as they circled.

"You are well armored, and I am weary." Her voice sounded hollow. "But your father is not so protected."

Robb's eyes widened in horror. He saw his father holding his side with one arm as he sought to help Obara against the knight with the hammer and shield.

"Stand down," she commanded, fire creeping into her voice. "You know the worth of my word, Robb Stark. Become my prisoner, and I will see that you and your father are not harmed. Defy me in this, and Eddard Stark dies within moments."

His father was a warrior. Yes, he was wounded and unarmored, but Myrcella was outnumbered, at least for the moment, and did not seem to have more than one dagger on her. He could keep her busy by attacking her, and she wouldn't be able to fulfill her threat. As he made up his mind, he saw a vision of dagger finding his father's heart.

His sword clattered to the ground.

"MEN OF THE NORTH, HALT. LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS!"

His father backed away from the knight with the crow tabard. With space, he looked to Robb. "What are you doing?"

"Father, trust me. I know. Please." Robb held his breath; his father was Eddard Stark, Hand to the King, Warden of the North, and his Lord Father. It was not Robb's decision to make.

"I trust you." In a louder voice. "Do as my son commands. Lay down your arms; we are surrendering."

There were only a few Lannister soldiers besides the women, though at least half of the maids who had fought were now dead or seriously injured. Ser Arys lowered the drawbridge, and the Lannister soldiers under Ser Addam's command quickly took Robb, his father, and a furious Obara into custody.

"You cowardly dogs! A lowly-kenneled bitch has more balls than you, Robb Stark! My father thought you worth something, he trusted you – he was wrong. The war could have ended here and now – you lay down your arms?"

Further vitriol was silenced as she was hauled away.

"Why did we surrender?" His father asked him.

"She was going to kill you. You didn't have armor; it would have been easy for her."

He frowned at Robb. "It was a battle; we can't stay our hand for fear one of us will fall."

"If the King takes the Red Keep, it doesn't matter."

Further talk was impossible as they were secured by Red Cloaks. Myrcella gave commands that none were to be harmed and then turned to face them.

"You almost chose otherwise – what made you change your mind?" She asked him.

He hesitated. He was not about to share with the enemy his unnatural premonitions of the future. "I saw what you did to those two men. You aren't armored, and I am; you would be faster to get to my father."

"You aren't telling me something, but I have no time for this. Still, I wish to thank you. Many of the women I rallied here would have fallen if you had not acted as you did. My word will be honored, you will not be harmed while you are our hostages."

Robb exhaled slowly. He remembered meeting Myrcella for the first time in Winterfell. Even back then, she seemed to be so much more knowledgeable and wittier than he was. How could she move so quickly and so gracefully? How could she strike with such force with such a small body? It didn't make sense, and he knew he would replay the battle in his mind over and over while in captivity.

***

​

Lum watched as the wave of poorly-armed smallfolk crashed into the enemy. The enemy soldiers had formed up when they heard the shouting, which was more incoherent raving and loud prayer than an actual battle cry. Lum took careful aim and fired an arrow at a man with minimal armor right before the horde slammed into the enemy battlelines.

In a few places, the weight of the charge managed to win through, but the enemy had knights and men-at-arms in the mix, and they held and killed the unarmored mob easily. Lum was sure this desperate ploy he had committed to was over. Faced with such overwhelming casualties, his horde would flee from the carnage.

They did not.

Lum looked on in amazement as the men, and even many women, hurled themselves at castle-forged steel. He saw a Northern soldier chop down a man only armed with the leg of a chair. He went down but then grabbed onto the leg of the soldier and clung to his ankles. Another man used a small table to ram the Northerner; who, with the trapped leg, could only fall to the ground. Men-at-arms from behind him moved to support him, but even more smallfolk trampled over all three sprawled men. Scenes like that repeated as Lum did his best to find soft targets with his bow until his fresh quiver was empty.

Bronn hovered near the edges of the fight, avoiding being crushed by the crowd, but also taking down several foes. His blade moved faster, and Lum knew he would never be able to match a fighter like him in close combat.

Nonetheless, without more arrows, his only use was to get into the thick of it as well.

"STORM QUEEN!" He roared and charged in. Ser Lum did not wear plate like most knights. He was not used to fighting in it, and his role as an archer did not require it. He had also been moving from roof to roof and would not like the extra weight. He did have a sword and a shirt of mail, as well as a helm. Lady Myrcella always spoke of the importance of protecting the head. Lum hacked down at a pinned man wearing the heraldry of two axes. After striking a killing blow, he slashed into a heavily-armored man, who returned the blow seemingly twice as hard.

He could not say how long he fought; time seemed to move with agonizing slowness, or with the speed of a lightning strike. All he knew was that after a time he had several shallow wounds, a broken nose, and a half-spear in his hand instead of the sword he had begun the fight with. He was confused as to why he was not still fighting. He looked about and saw that Bronn had pulled him free from the melee after cutting down a couple of men next to him.

"They've rallied, and their lines are holding. We did some damage, but this is near done."

Then horns blew from the south. Horns from where Stannis had his army. Lum closed his eyes in despair and exhaustion, but reopened them when he heard Bronn laugh.

"They are retreating!"

The enemy host was doing its best to pull away from the Red Keep. This renewed the effort of the smallfolk horde, and they fell upon the army of Stannis with a renewed fury. Lum saw that soon the organized retreat had turned into a full-on rout. Now the bloodlust of the mob was upon them, and soldiers were buried under common folk who bludgeoned and stabbed them.

Bronn shook his head. "I don't understand it. Why are they retreating?"

"It is her doing."

"She's havin' a rest up there, ain't she? A neat trick if she could force soldiers to retreat from a winning battle while in bed. If she had that up her sleeve, why didn't she use it earlier?"

Lum recognized the jest in the sellsword's voice. But he didn't take offense. Lum didn't know how Myrcella had done it. But he had complete faith that it was her doing. He was tempted to join the army of smallfolk, but it would be best to report in to Lord Tywin, and hopefully the Stranger's Chosen.