4,206You're all about to experience the triumphs and defeats, the epic highs and lows of a fanfiction gone off the rails. Quite literally. This is a tumultuous chapter that has some very heavy moments. Please keep that in mind as you read.
Chapter Sixty-Six
The Children
Jaime
His father's solar was for his use now, or so everyone told him, but he felt a child again every time he stepped within. It was not just the lingering presence of Lord Tywin Lannister that gave Jaime pause. There were simpler things, small reminders of a life that once was. The gap between bookshelves that Tyrion had managed to wedge himself between. He'd gotten stuck, and was only discovered when their father heard the furniture snoring. Cersei's favorite chair, where she would read while her useless twin played with swords, and where she would pout when told she could not join him. Their mother's portrait…
Lady Joanna commanded the attention of the entire room, with eyes that followed one's every move and a soft smile that spoke of hidden secrets. His father had commissioned a painter from Lys for the wedding. The work was worth more than the keeps of minor lords.
Jaime did not recognize the woman in the frame. There was something brighter about his mother in his mind's eye, hair like the sun, eyes the sea in a storm. But it was the romanticized memory of a young child, so perhaps it was her all the same.
He did not wish for his mother to witness him ruining everything she had helped build, so he would hide in one of the smaller chambers, but this was not a day for being a shy boy of six. The solar contained a large map of the realm, and he needed it if he was to move forward with their plans.
"I wondered how your father got anything done in her presence," Kevan said softly, catching Jaime's wandering gaze. "I found him looking at her more often than not, not that either of us would acknowledge it."
"The great Tywin Lannister doesn't get distracted," Jaime replied, only half joking.
"Perhaps not, but the widower of Lady Joanna certainly does."
Jaime could not bear to look at neither his mother nor his uncle, nor face the idea of his father being anything less than the resolute statue he'd prided himself on being, so his attention turned to the war table.
It was significantly less complicated than when he left the capital. The Riverlands were firmly under Frey control, and the North under the Boltons with only pockets of resistance that belonged to Stannis Baratheon. It felt like a dream seeing Stannis so soundly defeated. Once he had held him captive with no chance of escape and threatened to raze King's Landing back to the sea with one of the most powerful armies in the realm. Now he was an old man freezing to death in the wilderness with only the crows for company. Dragonstone was all but abandoned, the Crownlands collapsed, and Storm's End was the last bastion of his power in the otherwise conquered Stormlands, which Mace Tyrell was set to besiege once again, to regain his dignity if nothing else.
Were it not for his continued desire to run the man through with his sword and blot his name from memory, Stannis might have had his pity.
"Have we any word on the Greyjoys?" Jaime asked, shifting his attention westward. It was his next impossible task after all. Allowing the squid to run amok in the North had been advantageous when Robb Stark still lived, but they were the Crown's problem now. And as history served, once the North held no further interest to them, the rabble would seek richer targets in the Westerlands.
Kevan's sigh told him more than words would.
"Little," his uncle conceded, hovering beside the Iron Islands. Strange how a place so small could be the bane of so many. "Asha Greyjoy fled as soon as her uncle was crowned king. She was last seen south of Oldtown. As for Euron, there has been no word. Pyke is quiet, there have been no raids, and no sign of his ship. It worries me."
Jaime silently agreed. He'd not seen Euron during the rebellion, but he knew of his reputation. Unpredictable and cruel, yet charismatic to a fault, he embodied the best and worst traits of the Ironborn. If they were lucky, uprooting him would only prove to be immensely difficult.
He traced his golden hand along an invisible line connecting the Iron Islands and Casterly Rock. "We can't send our fleet in blind. No one knows these waters like the Ironborn. We'd be slaughtered, and leave Lannisport's defenses weakened. We'll need ships from the Reach, and patience. The Iron Islands need our land more than we need theirs. Euron won't make a mistake, but someone else is bound to."
Waiting always felt like helplessness to him. If he could not defeat his enemy right then and there, then he was weak. It was a foolish notion meant for boys far greener than he, but Jaime still felt its pull. Now he was simply less inclined to give in to the urge toward action. However large Westeros was, the Sunset Sea was vaster, and a lone ship in search of another would make as much difference as a drop of water in that sea.
Stannis Baratheon had granted them a small boon by fleeing to the North. The Blackwater could spare ships to guard the waters to the west.
"Taking caution is not regarded as well as it ought to be," Kevan spoke softly, as if sensing his thoughts. "You've done well."
Jaime shook his hand. "A lesson finally learned, I'd say."
He looked to his uncle then. Ever-present in their lives, it was easy for the Lannister siblings to take him for granted. Gerion had been the favored uncle with his laughter and unruly behavior, and Tygett was respected for his fighting prowess and ability to say 'no' to their father. Kevan had simply faded into the background. Cersei had condemned Kevan's willingness to be nothing more than a bystander in his own life. But he had never spoken poorly of them, and was kind when he need not be. He'd deserved better from them all.
Myra was bound to adore him after a time.
"How well do you fare with the other?"
Jaime snorted. "Depends on how good of a liar I am."
Kevan smiled gently. "There is no shame in it. Not all great achievements require the sword."
No, just a writing hand, which I've conveniently lost as well.
With a sigh, Jaime walked over to his father's desk. Piles of parchment awaited him, words of thanks, flattery, demands, questions, all things he'd rather not acknowledge existed. He picked one up on a whim, squinting at the words until he made sense of them. It was an affliction he'd had since childhood, and one he often forgot as he'd avoided reading at all costs.
He wondered if his wife would enjoy being both his scribe and letter reader.
"This work is better suited to Tyrion. He would do this for fun, which was always the most freakish aspect of him."
He did not need to see his uncle to picture the chastising look set upon his face. It made no matter to him. Tyrion would have laughed. Once.
"Perhaps it is. Perhaps not," Kevan said, joining him. "But if you're going to spend all your days ruminating on your ineptitude, then it certainly will be true."
"I'm impressed, Uncle. I almost thought Father was standing beside me."
Kevan was not thrown by his remark. He knew his nephew too well.
"Not everyone can be Tywin or Tyrion. You have advisors for a reason. Listen to them. And in the meanwhile, try to figure out who Jaime Lannister is. You'll find this task much less daunting once you do."
If only he hadn't been asking himself that question since he'd torn that white cloak off his shoulders.
Jaime did not get lost in Casterly Rock - no amount of time spent away could erase the familiar passageways from his memory - but he often was looking for things that were no longer there. A tapestry that once loomed over his bed. A statue he'd chipped as a boy when he'd practiced his swordsmanship in the halls. A door marked by a notch that had been replaced.
Myra was the fortunate one. Better to have never experienced the castle than wrap her mind around all the ways it was no longer the place she once called home.
He knew very few of the faces within his halls. Those he had grown up with had either moved on or died. A few crotchety servants felt familiar, but he had no name or memory to match them with. Only the keen sense that he was forgetting something. But they all knew him, by his hand, his name, his reputation. It gave him a distinctly uncomfortable feeling that he'd never quite felt in King's Landing, mostly because he'd been a decoration collecting dust then and now he was the one with power.
It was during those moments that Jaime realized he truly knew nothing of Cersei. He'd never felt less powerful than he did now.
Entering his chambers, Jaime collapsed onto the bed with a sigh. Kevan's words were still gnawing at him. He felt far too old for this. He'd known who he was the instant the master-at-arms shoved a sword into his hands. Perhaps once his left hand was stronger, it would come to him. But with Brienne and Daven gone and Addam in charge of the guards, he was left with few options. He supposed he could test Jory's mettle. It'd certainly make for a sorry sight.
He must have slept then, for his eyes opened to the sight of his lovely wife seated beside him, bathed in the glow of firelight. Her smile alone eased his burdens, reminding him of why he was there in the first place.
She liked to think that being in Casterly Rock was doing him good, but she had not seen the change in herself. Myra was more confident, at ease, especially after speaking with her bannerman. It took less than a week for her to have full command of the servants and she was already in the process of opening up the castle more. With the war and his father's occupation as Hand, much of it had been sealed off, the rooms useless with no one to occupy them. Myra Stark was about to change all of that. The keep might even feel welcoming, if that was possible.
At least one of them knew what they were doing.
"You're beautiful," he mumbled, running his hand along her arm. Gooseflesh appeared on her pale skin. He scrunched his nose, thinking. "Have I ever told you that?"
"Hmm…" Myra hummed, dramatically bringing her hand to her face. She already knew the answer. Every woman kept a ledger of these things to drum up whenever the occasion called for it. "No, I don't believe you have. You're a rather wretched lover, Jaime Lannister."
"Says the woman I managed to court amidst sticks and mud."
She raised her eyebrows. "Oh courting, is that what we're calling it?"
"That's what the histories will call it. We can leave the gruesome details for the ancient maesters in Oldtown," he replied, tugging on her arm. "Come down here. You're too far away to appreciate properly."
With a roll of her eyes, Myra promptly fell against the mattress, unable to hit him with a witty reply as he'd already captured her lips. There was no complaint as she quickly fell into rhythm with him. Their knowledge of one another was deep and complete, yet he never tired of it. He loved anticipating her every move; he loved that she shifted to where she knew he would be. No two people had ever known one another in such a way.
Gods, wasn't he being pitifully poetic.
Myra smiled against his lips, bringing him to a stop as he looked at her. She was flushed, lips swollen, dark locks tangled across the pillow, and she was absolutely beautiful.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he whispered, leaning down to kiss her again. But as he began, she smiled once more and left him unable. "Actually, you're far too happy."
He could not tell if her offense was mocking or not. "I know you take us Starks for a dour people, but we are capable of happiness."
"There is happiness and then there is whatever has possessed my wife which makes it incredibly difficult for me to make love to her," Jaime replied, burying his head in the crook of her neck. "You'd better tell me what it is so I can promptly ruin it for you."
He heard Myra sigh then, and the lightest of touches pushed him away. She pressed a finger to his lips before any of his ill-formed apologies toppled out, once again saving Jaime Lannister from making a fool of himself. There was no anger in her eyes, nor frustration, but the happiness had lost its edge, allowing trepidation to take its place.
She rolled onto her back, holding his hand in both of hers. "I learned something earlier."
Ever the champion of delaying the inevitable, Jaime smirked. "Don't tell me Maester Creylen learned how to make me a new hand. The man can barely see two feet in front of him."
She relinquished his hand in order to smack him on the chest.
"No, it's…" And then she was smiling again, softly, but bright as the sun. Rather than elaborate, Myra moved his hand to her stomach and let it rest, watching him with an expectant gaze.
He knew in an instant, yet the knowledge froze him and held his tongue captive. But not his heart. It beat with a ferocity that threatened to cave his chest.
A child. Not any child, but his child, truly and freely proclaimed. Not one he would have to hide from, lock away his emotions lest a wrong word or deed condemn them both. They were his, from now until his last day, and it filled him with a joy he could neither fathom nor contain. Now he understood his wife.
"You're certain?" was all he managed to whisper, though the words were quiet and surely lost to the sound of his heartbeat.
But Myra smiled anyway and nodded. "At least as far as a half-blind maester can know."
Freed from whatever held him, Jaime kissed her fiercely, holding her tightly to him. He could feel the tension leave her body as she wrapped her arms about him. Of course she had been nervous. Hadn't he said he did not know how to feel? But now he did, and it dulled all the other joys of his life in the face of its brilliance. What was his knighthood compared to this? What were all the battles and glories of war next to what his wife had just given him?
He released her, breathless, and moved out of her grip. Sliding down the length of the bed, Jaime wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his head upon the source of their joy.
This was it. Their future and way forward, perhaps even a means to rid Myra of the guilt she carried once and for all.
Gods, his father might even smile.
His wife's fingers moved into his hair, and he hummed.
"Jaime Lannister, you are far too happy," she said with a laugh that he quickly joined.
Tyrion
He knew well the way to the cottage. In countless dreams, he had returned to its thatched roof and white stone walls, lured by the echoes of Tysha's singing. The sea pounded against the cliffs below, thunder on a cloudless day, but it could never drown her words. They had been etched upon his soul, never to leave him be.
There ought to have been smoke curling from the chimney, smelling of burnt bread as a foolish young boy attempted to make food for his gentle and loving wife. Her laughter should be pealing across the countryside, cutting through the meadow of wildflowers that surrounded their humble home. Music, merrymaking, lovemaking, all the simple and sweet innocence of new love. But the cottage of his memory was no more.
The roof had collapsed and rotted, the walls crumbled to dust. The north side bore the scars of fire, and a rage stirred in his heart at the likely sinister origin. This was the legacy of Tyrion Lannister, and what a terribly fitting thing it was.
"This the place?"
He'd never hated Bronn more than he did at that moment. It was the least offensive sentence the man had ever uttered, yet he might have killed him for it. Podrick had understood the importance of silence, but he was long away to the North. Bronn had been the only one he could trust for this, as far as his trust went nowadays.
"It is," he found himself saying. Had he been a larger man, he might have attacked the former sellsword, but he was not, and because he was not, he was a talker. Even when they had found Tysha being accosted, all he had done was talk. He was the hilarious distraction meant to bide time for his dashing brother to run them through with his sword.
But it had been him that Tysha had clung to. He held her as she wept and dried her tears. He made her smile and laugh, and chased away the horrid memories the attackers had left her with. She sang for him…
"Leave," he spat as a wave of nausea knocked him off balance. "Go back to the Rock or Lannisport. Come back later or don't. I care not. I want to be alone."
"You sure that's a good idea?"
Bronn was never affected by what anyone had to say. He would brush off insults with jokes or half-serious threats. At worst, he would get angry and follow through on those threats. When Tyrion turned to face him, it was the first time he'd seen him flinch.
"Go. Take the horse. I've walked farther."
He staggered to the remnants of the cottage, utterly unaware of his surroundings. Bronn could have still been there, watching him from the goatherd's trail they'd followed and he never would have known.
Tyrion placed a hand on the still standing threshold, peering into his former home. What furniture had been inside was gone, the space now decorated with rat nests and filth. Only the fireplace resembled his memories, and as he watched it, flames burst forth from the hearth. Tysha sat before it, naked and glowing, blue eyes warm and inviting.
"Have you never cooked a day in your life?"
"Never," he whispered to her ghost.
"I'll have to show you. Don't want to burn our home down."
"I'd like that. Not burning our home down that is, but the cooking part."
She laughed, like soft bells on the breeze. "I know."
When Tysha faded, Tyrion wailed, clinging to the wood of the doorway, snapping his fingernails as he sought to drive them deeper.
Gods, she had loved him! And what had he done for her? He allowed his father to abuse her, to have her raped again and again, to have himself commit the same heinous act. She had loved him and he couldn't even defend her. The moment Jaime had told that lie, he had believed him, because he was a dwarf and who could ever love him?
Tysha had loved him and he'd spat in her face. He was no better than his father or his brother.
Leaning against what stones were left, Tyrion shuffled toward the back of the cottage, where the striking view of the Sunset Sea opened up to him. He'd been so proud of it, and she'd kissed him again and again, exclaiming there'd never been a home half so lovely. This was all he needed, he had told himself, a pretty sight and a pretty wife who loved him as though he might be just as pretty.
The sea boomed a hundred feet below. If it took him and the entire cliffside in that moment, there never would have been a happier man.
Instead, Tyrion toppled over, having run out of stones to lean on. He collapsed in a heap upon the grass, groaning and sobbing.
When he managed to open his eyes, Tyrion found a pile of overturned dirt. It was not recent. Grass had grown wild upon it and little yellow flowers sprouted throughout. But he knew well the shape of a grave, and a cold fear clutched him as he beheld it.
Crawling on his hands and knees, Tyrion searched for a headstone or marker of any kind. One of the white stones had been placed near the grave, and Tyrion tore away at the vines that had consumed it, looking for writing. And there, faintly scrawled on the rock, poor but legible, was a single name.
Tysha.
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. In a frantic panic, Tyrion dug his hands into the dirt, ready to exhume whoever was beneath, to prove that it could not be her. It was not her, just another cruel act by his father. That was all this was, more pain and suffering at the expense of his unwanted son.
But his hands would no longer move, because deep in his heart, the truth of the matter was already settled. Tywin Lannister would not bother to bury her. Had she died then, he would have had her tossed into the bay and left for the fish and gulls to feed upon. Her death now meant less than nothing.
No, this was a jape only life could bring him, because all beings laughed at the misfortunes of the Imp.
With a cry, Tyrion freed himself and fell back against the stone. He held his dirtied hands before him, obscured by unshed tears, and opened his mouth to scream. A single, strangled sob escaped, but nothing more. There were only his silent wails, and the rumbling of the sea below, apathetic to the little lives of men.
Sunsets had been Tysha's favorite. No matter what they were doing or what state of dress they were in, the young couple would always stop to watch the sun dip below the horizon. What colors they had witnessed, more than Tyrion had thought possible. Once a Lannister war galley had passed by, striking a great shadow toward their cottage. He'd been afraid it was his father come to take them, and his wife had to kiss his fears away.
"Do you know what's out there?" she had asked him once. He was a young lord, after all. Surely he had all the answers.
"No one does," he'd replied. He'd read the histories a dozen times, looking for a clue as to what was beyond the sea, that constant presence in his life, but no maester could say. There weren't even any tales spoken by the sailors, only that the brave few to venture were lost to its embrace. It was one of the greatest mysteries of their time.
"Maybe there is nothing. Just endless sea."
Resting his head against that stone, Tyrion chose to watch one last sunset with his wife. He could hear her ghost speaking to him, and he replied when he could, though often his voice failed him. She asked about the realm and his life, even about his brother. Mostly she asked him why, and that was when his words threatened to choke him.
No ships drifted by, no sea creatures breached. They were utterly alone, two sad and broken souls lost in the world.
"I loved a maid as red as autumn," Tyrion murmured as the last rays of light disappeared. "With sunset in her hair."
"Oi, what are you doing!?"
Tyrion hardly had the chance to turn to the source before he was soundly thumped on the side by a walking stick. With a yelp, he scrambled to his feet, narrowly avoiding trampling over Tysha's grave. Another smack on the back had him tumbling down into the grass.
"You keep away from her!" the voice shouted. Looking over his shoulder, Tyrion spotted a young man squared up, ready to hit him again. His face was overwhelmed with fury. "Her grave's not for some wandering drunk to sleep on! Have you no respect for the dead?!"
"I've no respect for anyone. Nor you, it would seem," Tyrion grumbled, standing and brushing himself off. "You might have just told me to move."
"And you might have just let my mother's grave be!"
Tyrion nearly collapsed on the spot, his legs had gone weak, his heart pounded against his chest, roared in his ears, demanding its release. She'd had a child.
"You're her son?" he managed to say, voice cracking. This caught the boy off guard, and he stood straight then, lowering the stick. He was as tall as Jaime, and even in the fading light, it was clear his curls were blonde. Were his eyes green as well?
"You knew her?" the boy asked.
"I did, in a fashion." Tyrion's voice had withered to near nothing as his mind wandered. How many men had their way with his wife? How many could have possibly fathered this boy? But Tyrion had spent two blissful weeks in her embrace. Surely, that meant…
"She never spoke of before," the boy admitted, eyes cast downward to the grave. He picked the flowers and placed them gently on the headstone. "She always told me life began when she had me, and the rest no longer mattered."
"Her life before was cruel. It is good that she could begin again," Tyrion mumbled, swaying in the breeze. "Tell me, was she happy?"
The boy paused, troubled by his question. "I think she was, sometimes, but she was sad a lot too. She never mentioned it, but I could see it."
Tyrion nodded, mouth trembling as he held back tears. "Why was she buried here? It is a terrible place."
"She wanted my father to know, should he come looking."
The boy watched him, resting his arms upon the stick. He did not ask the question Tyrion thought he might, but why would he? Who would ever be with a dwarf? How could a dwarf father someone so tall? No, the boy must have believed him to be the last person Tysha was referring to.
For a moment, Tyrion thought to say something, to tell him the truth, or what he thought it might be. He saw a happier path before him, filled with possibilities, but then he saw Cersei. He saw Joffrey dead in her arms, and then he saw this boy. Should he claim him as his son, he would damn him.
"I hope he finds her then," Tyrion replied, nodding once. His steps were heavy as he turned away, his heart threatening to drag him down into the depths of the earth.
"Do you have somewhere to stay?" the boy called out, prompting Tyrion to turn back. "I have an inn in Lannisport. It was hers once. I could find you a room. She wouldn't want anyone she knew left in the cold. And it might make up for the…"
He trailed off, lifting the walking stick in shame.
"That's quite alright. I have a hearth to return to, and you should feel no shame in defending her honor," Tyrion replied, pausing. "What is your name?"
"Tywell Hill."
There were no more tears left when Tyrion returned to Casterly Rock in the dead of night. There was no despair or agony. His heart had finally hardened, and taken away all those burdens. He was finally the son Tywin Lannister wanted him to be, and may he burn for it.
Margaery
She missed Highgarden. Not in the way a child might crave their mother's bosom. Home had little in the way of comfort there, and her grandmother had taught her well to take solace in herself. No, she just rather hated waking to the smell of shit every morning.
The lords and ladies could be content in thinking their queen took joy in the terraces of the Red Keep, but they were pale imitations of the carefully curated gardens of the Reach, as large as King's Landing itself with mazes, orchards, and a beautiful fountain at the center. This collection of weeds, however, was best at masking the stench of the city below, although a solid wind from the Blackwater could still churn a foul scent.
When spring returned, she would have everything uprooted. Though that was currently the least of her problems.
She took a bite from her apple, watching her ladies-in-waiting giggle and fuss over King Tommen. He had five cats now, and proudly displayed each one to the coos of his audience. None of the furry beasts took issue with his handling of them. He had a gentle nature his brother had never possessed. Joffrey would have skinned them all if he could. He'd threatened as much in their presence once.
Strange how she missed him. Oh, he was a vile, spiteful, little monster, but he was old enough to be of use at least.
"That's quite the face for someone who's won the war," Loras commented, standing beside her. His kingsguard cape was still new and startlingly white in the morning sun. He was difficult to look upon, so she kept her gaze fixed on her tiny husband.
"Surviving another day isn't winning, Brother," Margaery remarked, tossing her apple into the brush. Twigs snapped as something rushed to grab hold of it. "It will be years before I can consummate my marriage, and until then my title is little more than a courtesy."
Tywin Lannister was king. It had always been whispered, even when Aerys ruled, but now he sat the Iron Throne truly, and looked more suited to the role than any within memory. But the realm's memory was short, and even he would be forgotten in time, when the rot set in and his bones turned to dust.
"Our father supplies the capital with food, his gold keeps the Iron Bank at bay, and-"
"And Cersei would see us all thrown into the streets regardless. Her father is the only one keeping her madness in check. Should he die before I am properly queen, it will all be for nothing."
She spun the ring that had been gifted to her around her finger, thinking. She wished her grandmother had not returned home. It was her counsel she desired most of all.
"Then she best marry Willas soon."
"Our dear brother deserves better than that. Besides, she'd poison him first."
Margaery had no intention of seeing her older brother marry that woman, not as long as she carried the moniker of queen. It was only a matter of figuring out how.
"You're scheming again," Loras said.
"According to you and Garlan, I'm always scheming."
"Yes, but it's louder this time."
Margaery chuckled at her brother's ability to differentiate between silences and stood, making her way over to her husband and king. Tommen had tired, and was listening to Elinor tell a story with half-closed eyes. He was sweet, and she had no doubt he would grow into a handsome man like his father. Still, she wished Myra had been able to take him. The idea of bedding a boy she currently had to mother did not appeal to her.
"His Grace is tired," Margaery spoke sweetly, sitting beside him. She brushed the blonde curls from his face and watched as he smiled.
"We could not get him to stop practicing his swordwork this morning," Alysanne said with a bright smile. "Said he wanted to impress his queen."
"I'm getting better at it," Tommen murmured.
"Of that I have no doubt. Your father was a great warrior after all," Margaery replied, helping the young king to his feet. "Might my husband escort me back to my chambers? The keep is so large, I fear I may get lost."
All signs of weariness gone, Tommen grabbed Margaery by the hand and led her back into the Red Keep with Loras in tow. Her ladies were left to scoop up the kittens and follow when they could.
The capital had grown quiet as of late. With the trial and second wedding concluded, there was little reason for many of the lords and ladies to remain. Autumn had been declared and households had to prepare for the coming winter. Still, Margaery often found it too quiet within the keep. Perhaps it was simply the memory of war hanging heavy over all within, or perhaps something else was at work. After all, the realm was hardly at peace. It was simply taking a moment to catch its breath.
Cersei Lannister appeared at the end of the hallway, followed by Boros Blount, a man Margaery knew to have ill-placed loyalty. With Jaime having successfully left the Kingsguard, she had often wondered if there was a way to continue the culling.
"Mother!" Tommen shouted, running to Cersei. His mother did not embrace him, but she did kneel and hold his arms gently. It was uncharacteristically warm of the queen mother, and it had Margaery on edge.
"What a coincidence, Your Grace," Margaery said with a bright smile, her voice light and welcoming. She knew how it grated her. "What brings you to the gardens?"
"I had hoped to see my son at practice. I've heard he's become quite the swordsman," Cersei replied almost too diplomatically.
"I'm afraid he's already done so much today. He was falling asleep earlier and-"
"I'll show her!" Tommen shouted, ruining their chance of escape. So the lion had overcome the rose. "Come, Mother, let me show you how good I am!"
"I would love that," Cersei said, her smile saccharine as she took her son's hand and let him lead her away. Margaery could see Loras looking at her out of the corner of her eye. She shook her head slowly and proceeded to follow.
In time, Loras was practicing with Tommen while Boros Blount watched, no doubt braced to knock her brother into the dirt at Cersei's command. Her ladies-in-waiting were on the other side of the training grounds, occasionally cheering, but mostly flirting with the other knights who'd been practicing. They always proved to be the most capable distractions.
Tommen had grown some, fitting into his cushioned armor better than before. He moved faster as well, more confidently, though he was still prone to tripping on his feet. Loras was an excellent teacher. The king would need to be able to defend himself one day, perhaps even against his own Kingsguard.
Cersei stood beside her, still dressed for mourning, clashing with the pastel greens of her own dress. She was not looking at her, but Margaery knew well that it was not Tommen she was watching.
"Tommen bested a page the other day," Margaery started, wanting nothing more than to get the whole thing over with. "The boy was twice his size. The whole courtyard rose in applause."
"Of course they did, he is their king," Cersei replied flatly. Margaery almost smirked. Yes, there was the woman she knew.
"My father says that-"
"Your father will be gone in a fortnight, along with your other brother and their army." The queen turned to her, smiling and smug. "It seems to me you're running out of friends in the capital."
Margaery smiled back. "I find that there is never any shortage of friends to be found at court, so long as you are open to them. Wouldn't you agree?"
Tommen fell into the dirt, and Margaery saw Cersei tense, but the queen refrained from making a scene.
"You're just another woman in his life." Cersei spoke so softly, Margaery strained to hear. "Ladies and whores will be throwing themselves at him as long as he draws breath, and if he wishes to be with every last one of them, there is nothing you will be able to do. You will smile, you will tell him what a wonderful king he is, and you will be alone. It doesn't matter how kind you are to him. You are still the woman he was forced to be with, and for that, he will come to hate you. Remember that."
Tommen rushed over to them then, and Cersei went to embrace him, dirt, sweat, and all. She spoke the kind words that Margaery had showered him with, and she saw the king beam brighter than he ever had. A very real chill crawled up her spine, but when Tommen turned her way, she made certain he saw her smile.
Myrcella
Late night Cyvasse matches had become commonplace. Sometimes Trystane would remain, but he lacked the focus and held little interest for a game he was not playing. Doran had always chuckled at that. Arianne was a mind always thinking, always two steps ahead. Quentyn, a solemn boy who took every duty seriously. But Trystane? He was the wind, never content to stay in one place long. He took after his uncle in that way, Doran admitted to her, and would undoubtedly follow in his footsteps one day.
"I should like to go with him," she said.
"And he will no doubt bring you," the prince replied, watching the board. Though his body had failed him, there was still a light in his dark eyes, intelligent, if not a little mischievous. His youth remained to him inside, and games of strategy always brought out his best.
Myrcella toyed with the green elephant piece in her hands, the disappointment of losing it so early already a distant memory. There were other thoughts to occupy her now, terrifying, treacherous thoughts. There were secrets in her life that she knew must be kept, for her sake and her brother's, but affection complicated everything. Perhaps that was why her mother acted as she did. Life was simply easier that way.
"What is on your mind, Myrcella?" Doran asked, not unkindly. The light from the hearth warmed his features, erasing the years and heartache.
She could not hold his gaze. "Am I so obvious?"
He smiled. "I have left myself open to attack two turns now. The entirety of the Water Gardens should be hearing your victory cries. Instead, you hardly speak. What troubles you?"
"I-I shouldn't speak of it," Myrcella mumbled. She thought of Joffrey in the sept, bleeding onto the floor. She'd wanted to get closer to him, driven by a need to know if it was true, but when the onlookers parted, it was Tommen in her mother's arms. "There are other things to worry about."
Doran nodded, leaning back in his seat. In the silence that followed, there was only the crackle of the fire, and a cool breeze that left her covered in gooseflesh. Myrcella tightly grasped that elephant, thinking she might crush it, even if it was made of pure jade. Maybe her hand would break first.
"You wish to speak of your father, and how I may not approve of him."
Myrcella thought to mention she knew what Robert Baratheon had done, and how nothing could begin to mend that hurt, but when she looked in the prince's eyes, she knew it was not the king he spoke of.
"How long?" she asked.
The prince took his time answering, playing with the catapult on the board. "I have had my suspicions for some time. Oberyn for far longer, but he is also prone to believing the most outlandish gossip because it makes him squeal like a little girl."
Doran winked at her, and Myrcella found herself smiling, her grip on the elephant loosening.
"I did not know for certain until he came to the Water Gardens. The way he looked at you, it made everything obvious. That was a father experiencing his daughter's love truly for the first time."
Myrcella shook her head. "Then why continue with this? You know the truth. I'm useless to you. If you were to ship me back to King's Landing, neither my mother nor my grandfather would take issue with it. I think they might actually like each other for once if you did."
Doran's smile was warm, but sad. "Because I see the way you look at Trystane, and how he looks at you."
"How we look at one another hardly matters," she replied, casting her eyes downward as heat rose in her cheeks. They used to stare at one another from across the cyvasse board, silently daring the other to give in, until one day she found she could not look him in the eyes any longer. Now his were the only ones he looked for whenever she entered a room. It was confusing and frustrating and if given the choice, she'd never give it up.
"What do you know of my wife, Myrcella?"
Once, she'd asked Tyene if his wife was dead, as no one ever spoke of her. The young woman had shook her head solemnly and said it was worse.
"Very little."
She wondered how it was possible to look both happier and sadder with a simple smile, but that was the image of the prince before her: a man weighed down by the happiness of years long past.
"I met my wife in the Free City of Norvos. I was scarcely older than you are now. The moment I laid eyes upon Mellario, I knew she was the woman I would marry. It took a little more convincing on her part," Doran said, his eyes lighting. Myrcella knew that he was no longer in the room with her, not really. He was in Norvos, young, strong, able to walk on his own with ease. The world must have been full of possibilities then. "Marriages for love do not often occur, and they do not often remain, but I would be a fool to not allow the opportunity. The happiness of my children matters more than this mad game we play, and who am I to remove a daughter from her home?"
A smile grew on her face, so large she thought a frown could never possess her again. She leapt up from her chair and embraced Doran, feeling the rumble of his laughter as he held her.
He did not care! He knew and it did not matter! What more could she ever ask for?
A slow, steady clap grabbed her attention. Myrcella yelped as she turned to see a man lounging in the corner of the room. His features were marred by shadow, but a single eye glistened as it watched them.
He held a goblet up in mocking toast. "A thing of beauty."
Myrcella ran behind Doran's chair, heart pounding in her chest. The prince did not relinquish his grasp on her hand. She felt his fingers tighten around hers. Why would he not call for Areo?
The stranger eased out of his seat and drew toward them. He was a tall man dressed in all black, to include the patch across his left eye. The free one shone a bright blue. It matched the color of his lips.
"Family is paramount. That is what they all say, the priests and the pious and the poor. So many liars spouting so many lies. Killing my brother was one of the sweeter pleasures in my life." He sat in her chair, brieflying acknowledging the cyvasse board and moving the dragon. "You've left a poor defense."
"Myrcella," Doran spoke, calm and steady, though she could see the tenseness in his jaw, the way his free hand had become a white-knuckled fist. His gaze would not leave the stranger. "You must leave now. Quickly."
"I won't leave you alone with him," she replied. A lion must not cower in the face of fear, even as she trembled, a leaf battered in the storm.
"It does not matter. I am already dead."
Was that why he remained quiet? She had not seen the man's sword, but if he moved as quickly as other warriors she had seen, it was true. He could cut Doran down before Areo had the chance to step in the room.
The stranger shrugged, neither refuting nor conceding. Even when relaxed, his lips were curled upward, as if the entire interaction was some joke to him. "If the princess does not wish to leave, then she should take a seat. A woman of such noble bearing should not be made to stand while the men speak. It would be unbecoming of us."
He gestured to the chair Trystane had vacated when he grew tired of spectating. Doran attempted to hold her back, but Myrcella shrugged out of his grasp and sat. If the man could cut him down in an instant, she would fare no better. No, she was dead if he wanted her to be, and there was no point in giving him the satisfaction of her terror.
But she could delay him. The more time they had, the more hope there was. What did it matter if she was lying to herself?
"It's your turn," he continued, taking a sip from his goblet. Myrcella caught a glimpse of the viscous liquid, blue as his lips and eye.
Slowly, Doran moved his spearmen forward two paces. She could see his hand shaking.
"Are you sure?" the man asked, eye flitting between the board and the prince. He sighed when Doran did not respond. "Princess, it appears your companion has forgotten the rules of Cyvasse. Correct him."
Myrcella looked between the two men before reaching out to grab the piece. Quick as lightning, the man's hand shot out and took her wrist. His grip was tight and cold, but it did not harm her.
"Use your words, Princess. Men must commit to action."
He let her go then, her hand quickly retreating to her lap. She rubbed her wrist gently, as if he'd burned her skin.
"Move the spearmen back. Use the heavy horse instead," she said quietly.
Doran sighed before doing as she said. When the man applauded the move, the prince stilled, and she saw a hardness set in his dark eyes. "Tell me, what does the Crow's Eye want with Dorne?"
"King Crow's Eye," the man corrected, and something stirred in Myrcella's memory. A boast from Robert Baratheon at a feast long ago, how he'd longed to use his hammer on the Kraken's younger brother. Euron Greyjoy sat before them.
"A king of what? A handful of rocks battered by the sea?"
"So the old viper still has venom, even if it has lost its potency." Euron chuckled, destroying a catapult with his dragon. His eye turned to Myrcella, and she felt her breath hitch. "I am here for something simple. A mother's love, a queen's vengeance, a knife slipped between the ribs, the death throes of the damned."
He went to take another drink, but paused and placed it in front of her instead, another grin pulling at his blue lips.
"Drink."
Myrcella looked to Doran, who gave her an imperceptible shake of his head. But Euron's eye commanded her, and she felt obligation dragging her hand toward the stem. The drink had no scent, but its taste nearly gagged her, rotten and spoiled and foul. Its journey down her throat was slow and she thought she might choke, but then it erupted within her, memories of foods she'd never tasted filling her tongue and tickling her mind. It compelled her to continue, filling her mind with pleasure and heat.
When she'd finished, Euron took the goblet back. His hand moved to her chin, wiping the remnants away. She wished to retch it back upon that hand.
Euron held the goblet out, staring at it a moment, transfixed. He smiled again. "I am here for chaos."
When he dropped it to the floor, a scream echoed in its wake. Dozens more followed, chased by shouts and ringing steel, bodies thrust upon one another. The safety and peace of the Water Gardens was no more, and never would be again.
Myrcella jumped when the door behind them crashed open. Briefly, her heart soared as Areo came into view, his longaxe glistening in the firelight, but his eyes were unfocused and blood poured from his mouth. He was pierced with arrows beyond count.
With a mighty shout, he hurled the longaxe with the last of his strength. It flew past Doran, shaving a lock of hair from Euron's head before piercing the sofa behind him. Areo fell to the ground, choking out unintelligible words as his blood pooled across the marble.
If Euron had feared for his life, he did not show it. His grin was smug as he stood, then maniacal as he swept the board from the table. He grabbed Doran by the neck, slamming the prince and his chair to the floor. The prince opened his mouth in a silent cry, fingers uselessly clawing at the kraken's arm. And all Myrcella could do was watch as the man who called her daughter died, her hand clutching that stupid little elephant.
When Euron turned to her, the blue eye glowed. "Now is the time to run, Princess."
Myrcella fled the chamber into the madness of the world beyond. A servant woman ran by, only for a dark-skinned man to throw his axe into her back. He stared at her with eyes blacker than night, then beckoned her to leave. Twice she slipped on blood soaked tiles, tripped over the spear of a dead guard, but none of the attackers grabbed for her. The few she came across stared and pointed her on, and none of them spoke.
"Trystane!" she cried, her voice returning to her, tears hot on her skin as the sounds of Doran's death echoed in her ears, as Areo's shout chased her down the bloodied halls. "Arys! Trystane!"
A fire had started near the pools, and it rapidly consumed the ferns and palms. Hot winds buffeted her as she fled. Myrcella held her arms up in a poor defense, coughing as the smoke began to choke her.
"Trystane! Obara!"
Bodies floated in the pool she'd so often swam in, and the fountains ran red with their blood. And still people screamed. Children cried. The dying moaned and fell still. A wounded man grabbed her ankle and she shrieked, kicking him off. Another stumbled by her, face half-burnt, unaware of the world around him. All the while Euron's silent forces watched and pointed, and in her confusion and fear, she followed.
"Trystane!" she sobbed, doubling over as she stumbled forward. Would she know his body if she saw it? Had she already passed him by, tripped over his corpse without a second thought?
A hand roughly grabbed the back of her neck and Myrcella screamed.
"Nobility never were very good at running," Euron commented, his tone disappointed and bored. He half-dragged, half-pushed Myrcella forward, guiding her through the remnants of the gardens. The men fell in behind them, a sea of followers who did not make a single sound.
A woman shouted suddenly, and sandaled feet filled her vision.
"Myrcella, run!" she heard Ellaria shout, catching a vision of the woman in a stunning golden garment twirling a spear about her. She pushed Euron back and put him on the defensive, but his men did not interfere. He danced left, then right, pulling Myrcella with, narrowly avoiding the tip of that spear.. If she cut him, he would die, and they would have vengeance.
But instead, he threw Myrcella at Ellaria, and with a cry both fell to the ground.
Myrcella felt his boot gently prod her stomach, shoving her off Ellaria. She rolled onto the ground, unable to move, suddenly so tired, and watched as Euron placed his foot upon Ellaria's neck.
"Run," the woman cried, hands fighting against the boot, legs flailing for any kind of purchase. Myrcella watched in horror. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to scream. She wanted to leap up and claw Euron's remaining eye out.
But she did none of these things.
Euron stared at her, shrugging. "You heard the woman. She wants you to run. Will you not honor her dying wish?"
Myrcella closed her eyes and sobbed, and soon Ellaria's struggles ceased.
They took her to half a dozen rowboats hiding in the tall grass by the shore, and rowed to a larger ship in the distance, its hull painted red, its lone sail bearing the kraken of House Greyjoy. Euron dumped her beside the lifeless body of Arys Oakheart. His jaw was half severed, and his glassy dead eyes stared into her, and she stared back.
No one on the ship spoke, not even Euron. The crew went about their tasks in silence. She heard only the oars upon the waves and the wind whipping against the sail. She clutched the elephant tightly against her, her tears running until they dried, and she waited.
When Euron picked her up again, the fight and the fear had left her body. There was only the husk of a young woman resigned to whatever fate had in store for her.
She watched as the crew dumped Arys' body overboard.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice cracking.
Euron smirked, grabbing her hair and yanking. When her head pulled up, he brought his mouth to hers. His beard scratched her skin, and his tongue tasted of that foul drink.
She'd never been kissed before. Trystane had been too nervous and only left a peck on her cheek.
When he released her, Euron gently tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "I already have it."
Myrcella never felt the blade that cut her neck, nor the sensation of her body hitting the water. There was only the sound of her mother's gentle laughter as they dined with her father by the sea.
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I apologize for not updating sooner. The last few months of 2024 put me through the ringer and I am trying to claw my way back. Probably the lowest I've felt for a decade. So, once again, I am grateful that you have chosen to stay and continue reading this story. It means the world to me. Thank you.