When The Throne Bleeds

3. A Royal Taste

Winterfell was packed with frantic servants, every one of them hurrying out to ensure that all the preparations had been taken care of. The King was minutes away, the faint echo of a hundred marching boots rumbled inside the castle. Half the inhabitants had already flocked to the large courtyard from where the King would enter, their faces impatient to have their first glimpse at the southerners.

Irida sighed as she put on an olive gown, borrowed from Sansa. It was old and worn-out, with a few threads coming undone from the weaving. She suspected that Catelyn had a hand in choosing the dress. Irida braided her straight black hair, twisting and pinning it at the back of her head. She has been assigned no handmaiden, once again, an act of Catelyn's, she suspected.

Irida smiled at her reflection in the stained mirror. After eight years of dressing on her own, she wasn't sure if she would appreciate the assist of any handmaiden. Humming to herself, she tied the strings of her fur cloak, warm and heavy on her shoulders. She saw Jon enter her chamber in the mirror, and she turned around sharply.

"Do you not know how to knock?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "You're my sister."

"I know I'm your sister. Doesn't mean you'll come barging in my room whenever you want." Irida narrowed her eyes at him, irritated.

Jon merely shrugged, looking her up and down. "You look well."

"The word you're looking for is 'exquisite'." She shot back, a smile tugging at her pink lips.

"No, the word I was looking for is 'average'."

Irida whipped her head at him, mouth wide open. "One of these days, I'll shave you bald. Let's see you survive without your pretty black hair." She threatened mockingly.

"I'd like to see you try."

"There's no need for it now, though." She glanced at his trimmed black curls, shaking her head in pity. "You have to tell me why you let Lady Stark cut off your pompous black hair. Here I thought you wanted to grow it till your knees."

With this, she pulled him out of her chamber.

The King was almost at the gates of Winterfell and Irida and Jon rushed outside to stand beside the servants. Being bastards, they couldn't be presented as a Stark. Their place had always been among the commoners.

Irida looked on curiously as the retinue entered the gates, crowding the inner space. Everyone knelt for the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

As she bent her knee, she remembered stories about Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name and an idiot who had been placed upon the Iron Throne. A drunkard who spent his days in the arms of whores, he had ruined the Seven Kingdoms with rule. And it was clear why, he never wanted to rule.

He was a conqueror, not a ruler. Conquerors cease to realise the pain and sacrifice of ruling. They get hungry for power and more of it, not for peace. A good conqueror had never been a good ruler, ruling was more patience-testing than it seemed.

She raised her eyes and saw the King hug her father, both of laughing genially. They had always been more than friends, they had been brothers. They had fought side by side during Robert's Rebellion, saving each other's lives countless times. How could the King not have affection for her father?

Jon nudged her and pointed towards a woman who had just come out of her golden coloured carriage on wheels. She stood regally, looking around with poorly masked distaste. Queen Cersei.

Irida had already observed the Queen up close before. Cersei Lannister. Or Baratheon. If it came to a choice, she was almost sure that Cersei would not hesitate to abandon the Baratheon name. The tales of her beauty were true, she looked like a divine northern goddess with the newly made fur cloak on her slender shoulders. The Queen glided in her golden dress towards the Starks, greeting them in a rather reserved manner.