'When I was a child, I saw a man decapitated in a mêlée. And there was blood. When it happened…when I saw…I bent over in the royal box and threw up all over my dress, and Mother dragged me back to my chambers and screamed at me: 'you're a princess,' she said, 'princesses don't vomit in public.' I've dreamed about that day almost every night since then. I've dreamed…'

Myrcella's voice was as empty as the eyes of a dead man; and her face was as smooth and calm as granite; and as Tyrion glanced around him at the dolls and books and prettiness scattered about her chamber; he could scarcely believe that these twinkling and smiling and laughing objects belonged to the dazed and emotionless young woman sitting on the bed by his side, the covers embroidered with water lilies.

'I've tried to put it from my mind,' Myrcella continued, corpse-like in her indifference, 'I've seen worse in almost every tourney since then, but still, I've dreamed…and for weeks now I've dreamed that it was Mother getting her head chopped off; for weeks and weeks now, I've dreamed.'

The calm with which she spoke was terrifying; like the cold, instinctive serenity of a lioness waiting to spring; but as her thoughts turned to the dreams in which her mother died a traitor's death, Tyrion saw the realisation of what she had done rising in her green eyes; menacing and inevitable as a sunset; and cracks were beginning to form across the granite of her face and voice; making her shake and fall.

'In my dreams I saw her hair drenched in gobs and rivers of blood,' Myrcella whimpered, her voice trembling, 'her mouth was still open from where she had been screaming, and there was a smell and a mark on the back of her dress from where she had soiled herself, and the crowd was screaming too as Ser Ilyn held her head up for them to see and – oh, Uncle Tyrion –'

Tyrion felt his heart twisted and maimed as the granite crumbled to dust; and when she began to cry; the sobs raking deeply and miserably at her chest and stomach just as the arrows had raked at Cersei's; Myrcella was once again a sweet, innocent child who would not harm any living thing. When Tyrion took her in his arms and held her, she huddled against him like a child as she wept; and even though she was taller than him, she felt very, very small.

'I thought that they would strangle her,' Myrcella sobbed pitifully, 'or poison her, something…quiet….and dignified; something that would make it look as though she were sleeping –'

Tyrion shushed her, moved by her innocence in thinking that poison or strangulation would make it look as though Cersei were sleeping.

'But then when Mother was condemned and they said they would chop her head off, I saw the look on her face when they said it; the way she was looking; at me and at everyone; and it was exactly the same way she looked when I threw up all over my clothes and when Tommen ran away at Grandfather Tywin's funeral, exactly the same, and…oh gods…'

Myrcella's green eyes were crimson with tears, and her mind was crimson with grief; she broke suddenly away from Tyrion as though she could not bear the touch of another human being; and she cried into no one but herself; the words tumbling rapidly and incoherently out of her like a stream running red with blood.

'I couldn't bear it, Uncle Tyrion; I couldn't bear it, and I knew that she wouldn't be able to bear it either, because it would humiliate her so much; the dishonour of dying that way and having that done to her and what it would do to the family; worse than the dishonour of the sentence because people remember the execution; not the sentence –'

'Calm yourself, sweet child, you do not need to tell me all this now –'

'I couldn't, I couldn't, and it hurt so terribly because I knew what getting her head chopped off would be like; I knew it from my dream; I couldn't bear the thought of it and I knew that she couldn't bear it either, and that she'd want to die some other way; any other way, so I…I wanted to send her poison in…in some wine because she'd see that the gift was from me and she would know, and….she would know that I loved her like she loved me; and that I was helping her like she helped me when Uncle Stannis came –'

'What do you mean?' Tyrion interrupted, an awful suspicion clawing at his chest, and a fear that having said this much, she would refuse to tell him more.

But Myrcella was plunging on regardless.

'Before Grandfather Tywin arrived,' she babbled, 'when we all thought we were going to die, Mother locked me in my chambers and gave me a little vial of clear liquid. 'Don't let yourself be taken,' she said…and she took Tommen and left me there. I stared at that little bottle all night, listening to the sounds of the battle; telling myself it was water. I knew it wasn't water.'

Tyrion felt sick.

'When the city was saved,' Myrcella raced on, 'I gave it back to her, and she looked at me like she was proud of me, and she said, 'someday, child, you may have to do the same for me,' and when she was condemned to death I knew that I had to help her the way she tried to help me; because she would do the same for me; she deserved…she deserved to die like a queen, with dignity, with her body whole, not mutilated and…chopped up like meat, I…I didn't know that arrows caused so much blood, I swear I didn't, otherwise…but…but I knew that I couldn't put poison in a bottle of wine and send it to her, because everyone would know that it was me, but I didn't want to give up; I had to help her; I didn't care if the gods would curse me forever as a kinslayer because it wouldn't matter if I was doing it for love; you do agree with me, Uncle?'

Tyrion nodded gravely, his heart black.

'Then last night on my way to sept, I passed your window and I heard you and Uncle Jaime shouting – and I heard, I heard – '

Oh…fucking…gods.

Tyrion stared at her, hardly daring to do so for fear of discovering what he already knew. Myrcella's face was white with grief…and betrayal…and something worse than either of them: disgust. Her eyes seemed to holler at both Tyrion and herself from somewhere deep down in hell, her mouth was set in a grim line, and every inch of her was shaking; as though her soul were screaming to be released from a body it detested.

She heard, Tyrion thought, she heard everything. She heard it said coldly and matter-of-factly by two people that she trusts implicitly. She heard everything we said before I closed the fucking window. She heard…everything.

Tyrion looked into Myrcella's eyes, and the horror that he saw there made him choke with tears.

'I'm an abomination,' she whispered in a ghastly voice.

'No,' Tyrion interrupted firmly.

'Tommen and me both –'

'That is nonsense, Myrcella.'

Her trembling had worsened, and her eyes and her face had changed; the cracks in the granite filled up and blasted still further by molten, crimson anger.

'How could they?' she rasped, her jaw so tight that Tyrion feared it might break; 'how could they? How could they…do it? How could Mother do it? How could she betray Father like that? How could she do that with her brother, her own brother, and then…and then let us be born; let Joffrey be born? How could they have grown up surrounded by Targaryens; how could Uncle Jaime have served the Mad King, then betrayed his white cloak and killed the Mad King; and not have known what might happen if they let us be born? How could they?'

She was beginning to frighten him now, spittle flying from her mouth as she spat out every last word with a terrifying disdain and hatred and disgust, and she was trembling so badly that he feared she might have a fit. Tyrion grasped her shoulders, persisting when she tried to shrug his hands off, and forced her to look at him, praying that she would listen.

'Joffrey was a monster,' he said clearly and quietly, 'I will not insult you by saying otherwise. But you and Tommen…you are good, sweet, decent children, both of you.'

Myrcella stared at him for a long moment.

Then her trembling disappeared as quickly as it had come; and left her with nothing but her words.

'I'd rather be dead.'

Tyrion felt tears spill over his cheeks, and he tried to speak to her with as much love and gravity as he could.

'Don't ever say that, my sweet, darling child. It isn't true.'

Myrcella stared back at him, unmoved.

'I'd rather. Be. Dead.'

Her eyes were hard and glacial, and as Tyrion released her shoulders, she continued her story; not looking at him; scarcely able to look at any part of herself.

'Before you closed the windows, I heard Uncle Jaime saying…saying that Mother was going to tell the High Septon what she and Uncle Jaime had… so that Uncle Jaime would be executed too; and I knew that Tommen would be dishonoured and couldn't be king anymore, and that I would be dishonoured too, and that the entire, miserable war would start all over again and that Uncle Stannis would come back; and Tommen, he's – it isn't his fault –'

'It isn't your fault either, Myrcella,' Tyrion interrupted gently

She gave him a small smile, but he could tell that nothing would convince her of the fact. It was too late. Too fucking late.

'My dear niece,' Tyrion continued, 'did you go and speak to your mother about this?'

'I didn't want to see her,' Myrcella growled, with an aggression so sudden that Tyrion jumped, 'but I still didn't know what to do. This very morning I didn't know what to do… how to stop her, how to…how to save her…'

She began to cry again, and Tyrion's heart broke for her as she buried her fingers in her golden hair and yanked hard; as though pain would drive the tears away. She stayed like that for several moments, her fingers clutching her hair; her eyes tightly closed; and when she spoke again, it was with anger rather than sadness.

'I knew that if I talked to her she would definitely tell the High Septon, and everything would be lost. I thought about the poisoned wine again, but it was too late for that; and then…and then she refused to see the High Septon; her handmaiden says she threw a chamber pot at him when he entered her cell anyway, and I thought…I thought that she had changed her mind, and that Tommen and I were more important than…I…I thought that. Like a stupid little girl.'

She spat the words with disdain and venom.

'Then I stopped being stupid, and I knew. I knew that she was going to confess it in front of the entire city and start another war; and I didn't want her head chopped off and I couldn't let her tell everyone what she'd done; and I didn't think the gods could curse me more after allowing me to come into existence, so I took the biggest bow I could find and I…'

She began to cry again, and the sound of it was terrible.

'She's my mother, Uncle Tyrion. She's my mother.'

This time, Myrcella allowed Tyrion to hold her, and as she cried miserably and horribly; her very form seeming to shimmer with self-loathing and disgust at its own existence; Tyrion's chest ached with grief, and his mind almost groaned aloud with helplessness.

He knew that the child's intentions had been noble and honourable; that she had acted in defence of her brother and the realm, and out of love for her mother…but the entire affair did reek a little too much of revenge for his liking. The timing of the killing was…prodigious. Why hadn't she shot Cersei the moment she appeared? Why wait until she began to speak?

Second thoughts? It was possible. And hope. Hope was possible too.

And as for removing an enormous bow from the armoury, and summoning the nerve to use it in front of several thousand people, any of whom could have seen her simply by looking up: the recklessness of it; the daring; the hot-headedness of it…it was Jaime, through and through.

What if she gets it into her head that Jaime needs to die too; that Tommen does; that I do?

If she truly believed that, she would have killed us while we were searching the square. She had ample opportunity.

But what if she gets it into her head that she needs to die, and destroys herself? What if this…episode…translates into madness when she's older? What if it translates into madness before then? What if –

'Why didn't you tell me, Uncle Tyrion?' Myrcella sobbed, 'why didn't you tell me?'

Tyrion shushed her and could not reply; the uncertainty splitting his head in two.

What the fuck am I going to do?