“I do not want to be his wife.”
Jamie looked at Myrcella curiously for a moment before tilting his head, as if to say ‘go on’.
“I know nothing of Robb Stark,” Myrcella whispered, tears burning at the back of her eyes. “Except that he would rather wed anyone, even the Poole girl, than me… I do not wish to have my lord mother’s life with the King. I do not wish to be unhappy.”
“You silly girl,” Jamie chuckled, tucking a golden strand behind her ear. “You are not your mother and Robb Stark is not your father.”
“You don’t understand Uncle Jamie,” Myrcella cried, not finding any humor in her situation. “You should have seen him at the feast, he would not even look at me.”
Jamie sighed, releasing his sword from it’s place on his hip and holding it out to her. “Come now Little one, take it.”
Myrcella hesitated a moment before taking the heavy steel into her two delicate hands, palming it carefully to make sure she did not wound herself. Jaime softly took hold of her hands, and titled the blade until she saw her reflection in the clean metal.
“What do you see?”
“I see myself.”
“You know what I see?” Myrcella shook her head.
“I see Princess Myrcella Baratheon. With hair the color of the sun and eyes as green as the southern sea, destined to be even more lovely than her mother, the Queen.”
“Now do you understand Little one,” Jamie kissed the top of her head, taking his sword back from her hands. “Robb Stark would be a fool to deny you anything. Even his love.”