Author's Note: I'm living dangerously in posting a second WIP for ASOIAF, but I've had this first chapter sitting in my files for a ridiculously long time, so I thought I'd post it, which then might make me get a move on with chapter 2! Robb x Myrcella was my gateway into ASOIAF fanfic, so it's strange that it's taken me so long to write anything for the pair of them. So, yes, creeping out from my happy little corner of Jon x Sansa to post this!

Regarding the plot, I stray firmly into wish fulfilment territory with this pretty cracky plot but I hope you enjoy.

This is not beta'd so please excuse the mistakes.

Disclaimer: I'm not GRRM and I make no profit from playing in his sandpit

The howl of the wolf startled her. The night was drawing in and Myrcella was still lost in the wide expenses of the Wolfswood. The late summer snow made finding any identifiable location even more impossible and she wished she hadn't let her horse throw her. At least it would have known the way back to its stable.

Myrcella also cursed her stubborn temperament. Uncle Tyrion had forbidden her to ride out, saying that the weather was closing in. But all Myrcella had seen was the bright blue sky, the first day of sun for over a week, and she had been determined to take advantage of it. Her family might say that all Dorne had given her was a marred face and a wilful nature, but it had also given Myrcella a taste of a freer life and she had chafed at her trammelled existence since returning to the bosom of the Lannister family.

Now, she wished she had listened to her uncle or, at the very least, taken an escort out with her, instead of trusting in her skill on a horse and the basic navigation she had learnt alongside Trystane.

Stupid! she thought. Those lessons hadn't taught her just how close a dense forest could be, or how alike trees could look.

Leaning back against a tree, she took several deep breaths, attempting to slow the rapid breathing that signalled the start of a panic attack, and looked around, determined to try and find something to help her. Her eyes drew a blank and a sob escaped her throat as she drew her cloak closer around her, as if the crimson colour of house Lannister could somehow protect her.

Her uncle may be Lord Protector of Winterfell, but this was still Stark country and the wolves that roamed these woods had taken many a Lannister man.

Another howl rent the darkening sky, closer this time and Myrcella's heart sped up. A scratching of claws on ice had her shaking hands scrabbling at the tree trunk as she attempted to find purchase so she could swing herself up into the branches, out of the reach of any wolf packs looking for a meal. But all she felt was the smooth bark, nothing she could use to lever herself up.

Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer to the Warrior to keep her safe. The harsh panting had them flying back open again. The first thing she saw was the enormous wolf - larger than anything she had ever seen, it was the size of a small horse and would easily top her shoulders. Her breath hitched and her mouth dried in fear. Yellow eyes stared at her out of smoke grey fur, a growl rumbling from its chest, lips pulled back in a fierce some snarl.

This is it, Myrcella thought. I survived the Dornish desert and Darkstar's blade to end my days in the jaws of an unnatural wolf in the snows of the North.

Some would say that it would be a fitting end for a daughter of House Lannister, certainly those who remained loyal to the Starks. After all, her family had orchestrated the downfall of House Stark and now ruled their stronghold through marriage with the last remaining Stark daughter.

There was a scrunch of boots on snow and a hand reached out, gripping the wolf by the scruff of fur at its neck. The rest of the man stepped out from behind a tree and Myrcella's eyes traced over the restraining hand, up the arm, across the shoulders and neck and into a pair of vivid blue eyes she could have sworn she had left in Winterfell that morning.

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion as she tried to discern more of the man's features, but a hood was drawn close over his head and furs muffled his face. She could feel the intensity of his gaze, and she pulled her cloak around her more closely.

"What are you doing out here? Where is your horse and escort?"

The voice was that of a nobleman, northern though the accent was, and it puzzled Myrcella even more. The only castle within an easy ride was Winterfell, but this was not one of her uncle's men. Despite how nervous this unknown man made her, she had no choice but to answer him and hope he would guide her back to the castle. She refused to think of other actions he could take, in revenge for her family's defeat of the North. Too many Northmen had died at the Red Wedding, and the Lannister's role in that atrocity was known throughout Westeros.

"My horse bolted and then threw me. I am staying at Winterfell, is it possible you could show me the way back?"

His body visibly tensed at her words and her anxiety increased. It was not as if she could lie about her origins, dressed as she was in a crimson cloak lined with gold tinged fur.

"I know the way to Winterfell, but you are miles away and it is far too late to try and make your way there this afternoon."

The darkening gloom gave credence to his words but there was something about him that made her shiver and not trust him to return her even if it was the morning.

The strange man held a hand out and said, "Come. I know somewhere you can stay."

Myrcella hung back, her instincts telling her not to go with him.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked, impatience colouring his tone.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

He looked her up and down with a brief laugh that may have set her at ease if she had not seen the disparagement in his blue eyes. "You do not. But if you stay here, you will either freeze or be a tasty meal for a wolf."

As much as she didn't want to admit it, the stranger was correct. She could not fend for herself. She had nothing to start a fire with and no provisions, not even a water skin, which had been hanging from her saddle. Reluctantly she moved forward and placed her hand in his, hoping she would not come to rue the decision.

His fingers closed around hers, engulfing her small hand and apprehension slipped down her spine. Why did it feel less like help and more like a shackle? She twitched her hand, looking to see if she could slip it out of his grasp and his fingers tightened.

"I can walk perfectly well, Ser," she said. "You do not need to keep a hold of my hand."

"The way is slippery," he said, but his explanation did not settle her nerves.

They walked for what felt like hours. Night fell completely and Myrcella was finally glad of the grip of his hand as she struggled to see, the flickering light of his torch did little to illuminate the forest floor. Every now and again, a pair of eyes would gleam out of the darkness, and whilst apprehensive, she now appreciated the timely appearance of the stranger, knowing she would not have made it to the morn on her own.

Finally, a small light appeared in the distance and her pace picked up at the thought of warmth and food. She had eaten nothing since breaking her fast that morning in the Great Hall. The giant wolf bounded ahead of them, startling a shout out of a sentry ahead.

Following in a more sedate manner, she was led up into the mouth of a large cave and her anxiety increased. Had she fallen in with bandits? She had no hope of trying to disguise her origins, even if she had not told the man that she had come from Winterfell, not with the colour of her cloak or the gold lion clasp that held it together. She wished she had worn a plainer cloak – one that did not scream who her house was – but this was her warmest and the North was far colder than anything she was used to, especially after living in Dorne. She had forgotten the cold in the seven years between her first visit to Winterfell and now. When she had arrived, Uncle Tyrion had laughed at her shivers and told her she was lucky the winter had passed if she thought this was cold.

But her warmest cloak now felt like a curse with its Lannister trimmings. A daughter of the wealthiest house in Westeros would be worth a pretty penny, especially the sister of the king and the niece of the Lord Protector of Winterfell. That was if they planned to ransom her. They could do far worse and call it revenge.

The stranger pulled her past curious eyes towards the back of the large cave. At first, it had looked like one large chamber, but as they swerved around a jutting rock, it extended even further back, with several rocky passages could branching off and soon she was travelling through one into a small cave chamber where a group of men sat, pouring over a map spread over a large, smooth boulder.

"Uncle!" the man called.

A tall man with grey hair, bushy eyebrows and the same blue eyes she could see on her captor turned, smiling in greeting but then, as he turned to see her, his eyebrows rose.

"Caught yourself a lion, nephew?"

The man pulled his furs aside to reveal a wolfish grin and familiar features. "Aye, this little lioness was stumbling around with no horse or guard. Grey Wind nearly took a bite."

Myrcella's heartbeat stuttered at the name of the wolf. Even if the name had not been made famous in songs, she had heard it years ago, when, as a child, she had thought the young heir of Winterfell a handsome lord and had briefly dreamed of a betrothal. Her gasp rang out as his cloak fell back, revealing hair that shone copper in the firelight.

"That's not possible!" she exclaimed, her hand on her collarbone as she tried to regulate her breathing. "You're dead."

"Oh, I assure you, Princess, I am no phantom."

"But you died," she repeated, stupidly.

Robb Stark gave a brief bitter laugh. "Now, what was it they said about me? That I could not be killed? I guess they were right."

Finding it impossible to tear her eyes away from him, Myrcella tracked all the changes to the last time she had seen him. Gone was the pleasant laughing boy who had been so charming and kind, taking the time to listen to her shy answers to his questions. Now he was every inch a man, taller, broader with hard eyes that stared out of his face and a long scar that wound it's way from his temple, disappearing into the ruddy beard. Not so much the Young Wolf as the Winter Wolf, she thought.

Her worries earlier that day seemed faintly entertaining now. If only she had fallen into the hands of bandits. They, at least, would have been appeased with Lannister gold. Robb Stark would settle for nothing less than vengeance, she was sure.

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked quietly, proud that her voice had not trembled or shown her fear.

"One thing is for certain, you will not be returning to Winterfell. Not if I have my way," he said before turning to his uncle. "Has Maege Mormont returned?"

"Not long before you," Ser Brynden replied.

"Good," Robb said, calling out to one of the other men to go and fetch her.

Myrcella backed up against the rock wall, her head spinning, as the two men moved over to the map and started discussing something in detail. Her presence had seemingly been forgotten, which suited her. She needed an opportunity to gather her thoughts.

How would her uncle react to this situation? In her opinion, Tyrion was the smartest of her Lannister family. He might lack the fear that her grandfather inspired in everyone, but he had managed to survive five years in a hostile North. Now, what would he do if he were in her place?

A Lannister always pays his debts.

Uncle Tyrion was rather fond of that saying and he had a household guard that was loyal to him through the gold he generously gave them and the honours he gave them. He was aware of how their loyalty was maintained and had made an example of the first sellsword he had taken into his pay.

He had married Lord Bronn off to Jonella Cerwyn, not only giving the sellsword a castle and a title, but making sure he was in easy reach of Winterfell should he need a bannerman who knew which side his bread was buttered. Castle Cerwyn was only a day's ride from Winterfell.

Myrcella would have no problem trading off her name and her family's wealth. Tyrion would pay any promises she made. She would just need to find the weak link in Robb Stark's men. No easy feat, she was sure, considering his presence just a few hours out from Winterfell had gone undetected.

It would be easy for her to become dejected at this realisation, but her grandfather and uncle had both taught her that anyone could be bought with gold. The price just needed to be right.

"Lady Mormont!"

The greeting gained her attention and her eyes fell on the strangest woman she had ever seen, short and stocky with grey hair, and dressed in chainmail that had seen better days with a sword strapped around her wide hips.

Myrcella had heard about the fierce women of Bear Island, her Uncle Tyrion laughing about the reception he had first received from the youngest Mormont, Lyanna, who had scorned paying allegiance to a Lannister, proclaimed her loyalty was to House Stark and had refused to kneel to anyone other than Sansa. Myrcella had always thought that this Lyanna Mormont was lucky Lord Tywin Lannister had not been present as Bear Island may well have found itself razed from the map if he had seen such an insult. However, Tyrion, whilst perfectly ruthless at times, had appreciated the defiance, proclaiming that he had never known when he was beaten, either. Her uncle was also intelligent enough to know that the North could not be punished any more for Robb Stark's kingship. The Mormonts had already lost one daughter at the Red Wedding and their lady had been missing for years. Instead, he had sought to tie the North closer to the Westerlands, and had betrothed Lyanna to Martyn Lannister. Punishment enough, Myrcella suspected, for a proud she-bear.

"Your Grace, you asked for me?" Maege Mormont replied.

It was the first time she had seen Robb Stark addressed by his kingly title. With his uncle only using his given name, Myrcella had not been sure if he was still claiming to be King in the North. But her mother had always said the Starks were stupidly stubborn and never knew when they were beaten.

"This is Princess Myrcella, Lady Mormont. Grey Wind found her wondering the Wolfswood earlier. I would like to put her in your charge," Robb said, the emphasis on her title not lost on Myrcella. As far as she was concerned, the rumours about her birth had been put to bed and she did not appreciate the slur.

Grey eyes as cold as the northern wastelands examined her and Myrcella shrunk into herself under the hostile gaze. "I would be honoured, Your Grace. If you would come with me, Your Highness," Lady Mormont said, a slight sneer on Myrcella's title which had her bristling.

But she stepped forward, aware that antagonising her captors at this moment in time would not be smart. She had to play the long game and see who she could potentially win to her side.

Robb's blue eyes flashed to Myrcella for a moment, taking in the scar that ruined half her face and then up to her eyes. "Keep her close, Maege, and rotate the guards regularly. If she is anything like her mother, then she will not be above using her beauty to gain her freedom."

It had been a long time since anyone had described her as beautiful, not since Gerold Dayne's sword had scarred her so badly. For a brief moment, the vain part of her thrilled at being called so once before it was locked away once more.

"Lyra and Jory will help me guard her. There should be no need for anyone else."

Nodding his acceptance, Robb Stark turned away and moved back towards the boulder in the centre of the room.

"Come along, Your Highness, I'll show where we are sleeping."

With one final glance at the man they had called the Young Wolf, Myrcella stepped in front of Lady Mormont.

Why had she not remained in Winterfell today?