Tommen
The sept is smoldering the way the hearth charcoal had on Joffrey's fifteenth name day, back when Tommen was still just the king's brother and the gilded ring of the crown did not weigh so awfully on his head. He had to barricade himself in his rooms that day, to keep Ser Pounce away from his kin's scratchy fingers, because the idea had struck Joffrey that he couldn't have his fun with any other kitten in King's Landing. But Tommen had defended his pet valiantly, refusing to unlock the heavy oaken door even when his brother threatened to have the wood burst in by the Hound.
Joffrey's wrath had been fearsome, but Tommen held his ground. Eventually, his brother had gotten bored of the game and left, Ser Pounce still whole and purring, safely tucked in his owner's lap. Tommen still feels proud of the achievement.
He hasn't been much of a true protector to anything since then, he thinks.
He was all alone in the room that day, as he is now, only the flames are somewhat different. Where before Tommen had found some warmth, some consolation in their playful yellow flicker, the fires eating up the remnants of the sept right now are cold and green and unforgiving, a juggernaut mounted by frosty winds that reach his spot in the Red Keep and whip his face with unmatched ruthlessness.
The king has seen those flames before, swimming in his mother's eyes. The color is identical, as is the cold. There is something in the sight of those green flames that makes his stomach turn and he wishes to look away, but can't.
He overwatches the black scorch numbly. It was supposed to be mother's trial today. Things are always more complicated than he seems to realize. He has spent his reign feeling like the only person never to be taught or told something very important, and he could never quite put a finger on what it was.
Margaery would have told him not to worry. She would have thread her gentle fingers through his yellow hair, more sweetly than mother ever did, and she would laugh his troubles away, then kiss his worries better and mend whatever concerns he may have had. He loves her for this. More than all the Seven Kingdoms. Certainly more than Ser Pounce. Yet he could not defend her, her, not once, not when it really counted.
He cannot fathom what she must be looking like now. He cannot fathom how she could be gone at all. She was just there this morning, getting her beautiful brown hair braided and preparing to leave for the carriage.
She can't be gone. He must have been with her but Ser Gregor wouldn't let him. Mother's doing. All of it. He always wanted to do right by her, by Margaery, by grandfather, back when he was still alive, by all the people of King's Landing. He has never taken any joy in doing cruel things.
The black spot standing for where the sept towered until just a few moments ago seems to be widening, gaping like a beast preparing to swallow. He hopes against all hope Margaery has somehow escaped. But even if she has, mother will surely kill her before she even sets foot on the first step of the Red Keep.
Tommen does not understand. Mother wishes only his well-fare. That's what she's told him over and over. Why would she do this?
Deep down he knows the answer.
Mother is cruel. Mother is more like Joffrey than she is like Myrcella, even though the two of them looked very similar the last time he laid eyes on his sister's cold white face.
"I'm very sorry, Your Grace."
The voice doesn't startle him, but it connects him to reality, somehow, and he loses his detachedness along with something else. Something snaps in him and the crown is suddenly not right for him any longer. It feels designed for another's head, has always felt designed for another's head.
He never wanted to be king. But grandfather put him on the throne, in the throne, alone with all the sharp enemy blades, and mother dragged her finger over his lips and turned his smile downwards and he cannot bear to the thought of her anymore, just as he cannot bear to look at the slow fire.
He knows what to do, then.
He takes the crown off his head and it feels as if the heaviest burden in the world has been uplifted and he is free to breathe again. He rests it on the table, because that would be the kingly thing to do, and he wishes to be that, for once.
He leaps from the tower and the ground rushes to meet him, all traces of green flames gone at long last.