Chapter notes

Prince Doran and Prince Trystane are different people. Not even sorry.

'Is she really that pretty?' Trystane droned; cocking an eyebrow at the miniature portrait with which his father had just disturbed his reading.

Prince Doran's dark eyes flashed in that grave, disparaging way that Trystane had detested for as long as he could remember; his father's brittle fingers gripping feebly at the arms of his wheelchair.

'Her prettiness, or lack thereof, does not interest me,' Prince Doran sternly replied; his words seeming strangely bitter; 'she is only two years your junior, so there will be no need to wait.'

'I intend to wait forever, Father, so perhaps we'd better call the whole thing off,' Trystane declared; going back to his book.

Prince Doran seized the tome from Trystane's hands, placed it in his own lap, and firmly replaced it with the silly, simpering portrait.

Trystane tossed the portrait onto the table. The glass shattered.

'King Tommen sends you this,' Prince Doran proclaimed; ignoring him; 'and I, your father, bring you this, as a token of my command that you take the Lannister girl to be your bride and do your duty by her.'

'I will not,' Trystane responded, folding his arms.

'You will not leave this room until you do,' Prince Doran told him.

Trystane felt himself growing pale with anger. Why did his father always insist on treating him like a child?

'Mother promised me that I could be a maester.'

Trystane watched his father's face darken, as it always did whenever he mentioned his mother; as far away from here as was possible being the only way she could be happy.

'Your mother had no right to make such a promise,' Prince Doran growled; anger turning his voice red; 'and our House can ill support a repetition of your Uncle Oberyn's conduct in that regard –'

'I am not my Uncle Oberyn,' Trystane glowered.

His father glared at him.

'Then cease acting like a petulant child and prove it.'

'I will not.'

'In that case, you will desist from thinking you have any choice in the matter. I am your father; your choice of bride rests with me, and my choice has fallen on Princess Myrcella.'

'I don't love her.'

Trystane was unable to prevent himself from flinging up his hands in fright as Prince Doran's fist swung out of nowhere and hit him viciously across the face with a strength that no man with gout ought to possess.

'Stupid boy,' Father spat at him; the bitterness in his voice like poison; 'do you imagine that I love your mother? Do you imagine that I ever did?'

Trystane felt tears welling up in his eyes as the pain lashed out across his cheek.

'You hate her and she hates you,' he hissed; biting on his teeth; hoping his defiance would mask his tears; and hating him, hating him, hating him.

Prince Doran nodded; the fingers of his hand crooking like claws on the arm of his chair.

'You are quite right,' he affirmed, 'and yet despite my hatred and sense of justice, I was able to summon sufficient energy to produce both you and your siblings.'

'Hm,' Trystane mocked, 'I wonder who you thought about when you did so.'

Prince Doran's hand swung for Trystane's face again; then dropped disdainfully as the latter moved both his arms to shield himself; flinching away from his father, and covering his face in fear.

Trystane waited for the blow to fall.

When nothing happened, he slowly lowered his hands, and found Prince Doran looking at him as one would at a rat feasting upon a priceless manuscript.

'Coward,' the prince spat, 'coward. Of all my brothers, my seed is the one that ends in miserable cowardice. The gods must laugh at me every day of their lives.'

'Have you seen the raven scrolls I showed you?' Trystane abruptly demanded, 'the ones in which my bride-to-be threatens to shoot me?'

Prince Doran rolled his eyes at him.

'I have seen a pitiful, albeit successful attempt by an adolescent girl to frighten a child,' he declared.

'An adolescent girl born of an abomination,' Trystane growled; still fighting the tears would not leave his eyes, 'every breath she takes is an insult to the gods.'

'Your lack of sense is an insult to the gods,' Prince Doran dismissively replied.

'What about Aunt Elia?'

'What about her?'

'Uncle Oberyn clamours daily for revenge and you would have me marry the granddaughter of the man responsible for her death?'

'I would have you do your duty, damn you!' Prince Doran roared; quivering with rage.

The sound; the sight; made Trystane's hair stand on end: his father, sitting there…being…doing…

He looked at the dark eyes that were his, and the curls that were his also. Then he looked inside himself, and inside, he saw nothing.

He left his father there. He walked into the gardens, and saw the sea. And as the expanse of water grew to prison bars, and the scent of freedom faded, he felt a sting in his hand.

A shard of glass from Myrcella's portrait had cut his hand. His blood dripped onto the cobblestones.