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After everything that happened, a tourney felt most odd.
She had enjoyed it, many years ago, in another life; a child still, when then supposed father would use any and all excuses to celebrate. Watching the jousting had been a favorite; at times, she had imagined what it would be like when she was older, hoping to be Queen of Love and Beauty and give her favor to one of the competitors. Myrcella never deluded herself with thoughts of living a life such as in the songs, but it felt like a harmless thing to wish in secret at times. Back then, it was said she had all of her mother’s beauty, and her mother was the most beautiful woman in all Westeros. Perhaps she could’ve grown to be even more beautiful, yet that was not what happened. Instead, she lost an ear and gained a scar before reaching maidenhood, extinguishing all chances of growing to be truly beautiful.
It makes you look fierce, they’d say in attempt to please her without obvious lies (as if she needed marred face to be fierce, as if lioness’ fierceness was not gleaming in emerald green eyes, as if it wasn't in the sharp bite of witty words). Myrcella needn’t a scar to impose respect or be threatening — never needed. If she wasn’t, it was but a matter of not wanting to be. Lack of cruelty did not mean a lack of claws, they all seemed to forget; and if she was sister to gentle Tommen, she also shared blood with vicious Joffrey. Youngest and eldest were the extremes. She, in the middle, was a balance of both.
She knew well she was no longer beautiful, yet it never weighted down on her poise or the way she carried herself, as neither did accusations of bastardry or recognizance of true parentage. Myrcella never deluded herself with thoughts of tourneys and flower crowns now; if those ever came, it would be but duty on her betrothed’s part to crown her such, never more. To crown an unsightly maiden Queen of Beauty would only ever be a jest, otherwise, and none would dare slight the young lioness so. Hers would be a flower crown of Duty and Courtesy, if it ever came, but she did not mind. There were many matters of greater importance than a crown of flowers handed over in a tourney, after all.
The tourney is held as symbol of making amends. The North was its own ruler now, and the Seven Kingdoms, though styled as such most times, were in fact six. After Dorne, Myrcella does not find it odd to see Arya Stark ride in the joust; Elia Sand is there, too, despite southron exasperation. Neither of them seems bothered, and Myrcella admires them for it. Both joust very well, but Arya shines, fast and ferocious, all of her opponents falling, one after the other, without presenting great obstacles to her. The Stark makes it seem easy, fluid; her victory comes as no surprise, though there are whispers still. Myrcella wonders if the other will crown a King of Love and Beauty, then, without as much as a guess of whom Arya intends to gift that crown to.
Myrcella’s courtesies are always most polished, manners adapting to situations without a problem. She’s used to concealing, to seem proud and proper always, to remain unfazed through everything ———— yet when Arya Starks stops that horse in front of her, the pretty crown made of little sunflowers and daisies gently placed upon her lap, carefully built mask vanishes, even if for a second. Emerald eyes widen with surprise, gazing into Arya’s grey with disbelief. She doesn’t know what to make of it. Is the Stark trying to make a gesture towards friendship between their houses once again? Is her intention to mock Myrcella by giving that which is supposed to be gifted to the most beautiful lady to her instead, she who is maimed and scarred and certainly not beautiful?
The whispering of gossip that followed Arya’s victory is only fueled, but Myrcella says nothing — cannot say nothing, cannot do anything but look at the other girl, surprised and questioning and intrigued. Grey that meets her green is nothing if not honest, though, and there is no hint of jest in the northerner's eyes. After a moment, the Stark rides off, leaving no answer or indication of meaning. The crown of flowers on her lap feels much too heavy; there is no gesture on the part of the Lannister girl to pick it up and wear it, and it is her brother who finally places it upon her head, so careful as if it were a crown of gold.
What were Arya’s true intentions she does not know, but even if for a moment, it makes her feel beautiful again.