Myrcella seethed as the curtain shielding her from the night's festivities was once again drawn aside to reveal a furious-looking Tommen flanked by two disgruntled Kingsguard.
'Myrcella!' Tommen exclaimed, heatedly stroking the kitten in his arms, 'I have had men searching for you all evening; I feared – '
Myrcella, not moving from her seat, simply stared at him.
'It's hardly my fault your spies are ineffectual.'
Tommen looked at her strangely, as though he had expected more rancour.
'I will certainly speak to them about it,' he mumbled, and gently tapped the kitten's nose with one finger. It bit him in response.
Myrcella watched Tommen scold his kitten for a few minutes, before drawling, 'what do you want, Tommen?' though she knew perfectly well what he wanted.
'It's time to announce your betrothal,' Tommen said, in a rush, 'custom requires you to come be present, in the flesh, if nothing else.'
'Well, I won't come,' Myrcella graciously replied.
Suddenly, Tommen's young face darkened, in the same way that clouds darken sunlit ground on a warm day. She watched him hesitate, briefly, and place the kitten on the ground. It scuttled away, as though glad to be free. Then, Tommen took two steps forward, and, placing one hand on each arm of Myrcella's chair, leaned over her and said, in a voice that was not his:
'You can come, or be carried.'
Myrcella looked carefully up at him, and no longer saw her brother.
When she felt the tears coming, she let them fall, and didn't care who saw them. He was really going to make her. He would drag her, force her, and if her future husband was not pleased with her, Tommen would take his side.
Myrcella directed her gaze at her feet, so that Tommen would not see her tears. She stood, pushed past her brother, and entered the hall to rapturous applause. She wondered what she looked like to the rest of them. A sweet, stupid little girl with angelic golden hair who hadn't murdered her own mother. Disposable. A brood mare. She scanned the crowd of Dornishmen and wondered which of them she was to be sold to in this finest of marketplaces. She didn't much care. They all looked the same to her.
When Tommen took up his place next to her, and began speaking, she heard only certain words: 'statecraft', 'unity', 'alliance', 'diplomacy'. The crowd was listening intently, including Lady Arya and Uncle Jaime, who, seeming to sense her gaze, let his eyes rest upon her with something like pity. She looked away.
'It is therefore my great pleasure to announce that my royal sister, the Princess Myrcella of the House Baratheon, is to be joined in marriage to the Prince Trystane of House Martell.'
The crowd of nobles erupted once again into applause, and Myrcella wondered, briefly, if people would ever learn. Recent Westerosi history would seem to suggest that weddings were occasions to be celebrated soberly, and from a great distance.
Her betrothed emerged from the crowd, his eyes downcast, his posture was unnaturally straight, as though he were trying too hard to walk with dignity. And as he came into the light, and she was finally able to see his face, she saw that it was him; her brief companion in finding a place to hide.
She felt embarrassment surge through her. Tommen, still pontificating, called both of them forward and joined their hands as the crowd applauded.
Trystane looked as angry as she felt. It boiled out of him. She watched his eyes as he watched hers, and found herself feeling frightened of him.
Trystane looked back towards her hiding place and said in an ironic voice.
'We should have stayed where we were.'