MYRCELLA

Peckledon Castle, like so many in the Westerlands, sat atop a high and precipitous fist of jagged greyish stone, its many turrets and towers filed to sharp, individual points. A lone ugly road led up to the gatehouse, wedged between steep cliffs. Watchtowers safeguarded the whole way up, manned by soldiers in the purple-and-yellow livery of House Peckledon.

When Myrcella asked Josmyn Peckledon what the words of his House were, she was surprised by their brevity: Unflinching. Yet now she saw why. They had visited Silverhill and Sarsfield both thus far, and a ranging was headed to Cornfield and Castle Myatt along their southern border, and a second to Paynehall in the east. But all of those castles were places of pleasure, to some degree. Peckledon Castle seemed different: older, grander, and most importantly, stronger.

Lord Martyn Peckledon received them in the castle's great hall. His father had died at the Tumblestone, and both his younger brothers – Jasper and Josmyn – had fought for King Tommen, so it seemed that his loyalty was bound to her. Lord Peckledon's fidgety young wife might have felt differently, sneering at Myrcella from under heavily arched eyebrows, but whatever brief authority she might usually have held over her lord husband had vanished.

Bread and salt was passed round. "Be welcome to my hearth and my table," Lord Peckledon said. "Your Grace, we are, of course, your humble servants."

"That is good to hear." Myrcella was still not yet a crowned queen, but she did not object to the address. She would have to get used to it eventually.

After the pleasantries were made she had Lord Peckledon take her up to her chambers, in the keep's highest square tower. There would be a war council in the castle below, but Myrcella had nothing to offer on the subject of troop movements, and was much too busy to waste hours listening to things she did not really understand. Instead she went to her writing desk over by the window and took out her notary books. Down one side the parchment sheet displayed a list of sigils, shields bolted to a paper wall, with the names written underneath. Beside the sigils she had drawn a grid of filled squares: one hundred men, two hundred men, three hundred men, four hundred men, and so forth; a rudimentary system of counting. The Peckledons, for example, filled six squares. But then a further five squares were present, but empty: the Peckledons had eleven hundred men for her cause, but had only given six hundred of that. Which meant there were still five hundred men somewhere, loyal to her mother or elsewise. Harys Swyft, that chinless craven, had squirreled away nearly a thousand men she did not know about, and—

"Your Grace?" Tybolt Serrett, the young heir to Silverhill, stood in the doorway, looking small and nervous. "I… I was wondering if you had the ledgers. The notary books, I mean. I was going to work on them."

"I thought you were at the council."

"Wars are not my strength, Your Grace."

"Hmm. Nor mine, Master Serrett. But you are good with numbers, they say."

"Better than I am with a sword, Your Grace."

Myrcella nodded to the chair opposite her desk. "Then come in, by all means. I'm trying to make sense of them myself." It was only then, glancing through the shutters, that she realised it was raining. How long have I been here? And doing what?

"I don't find those very useful, Your Grace," said Tybolt. "If you don't mind me saying so."

"Why should I mind that?"

"Well…" He chewed his lip. "They were your idea, weren't they, Your Grace?"

"They were. Though I doubt I'm the first to come up with this revolutionary new system." She stared at him, then realised something strange. He will not meet my eyes. Or cannot. "Are you afraid of me, Master Serrett?" she said sharply.

She didn't need him to speak to know his answer, only the pause before he spoke. "That was never my intention," she said. "Why are you afraid?"

"I don't know, Your Grace."

"Maybe that's why you're afraid. Fear of the unknown." She paused. "I get that sometimes. With these ledgers. Not knowing whether any of this shading is true or false. You may be right, Tyg."

"Tybolt, Your Grace."

"What?"

"I'm Tybolt. You called me Tyg."

"Oh. Sorry. I meant…" Her words died off. Had she meant Tybolt at all? Or had she forgotten? Tywin, Tybold, Tygett, they had all become one and the same in her head. Tytos, Tybolt, Tyrion, Trystane, Tommen.

"I was sorry to hear about him too, my lady," said Serrett. "Tyg was… a good friend. And a good archer."

"Yes," said Myrcella. "He was both of those things." Suddenly the air felt tight, and she had to walk to the window and take a few good deep breaths before she felt like speaking again. The sudden dizziness had not come about because she felt guilty about what had happened to Tyg, she knew. It was because of how easily she had forgotten him. In the end she had meant everything to him – a cause to live and die for – but to her he had been little more than her instrument.

There was something else, too. She had never asked him why. Why in seven Hells, knowing all her changeable moods and all the poison in her heart, would he ever choose to love her?

"Tybolt," she heard herself say. "I have a question for you."

"Your Grace?"

It just spilled out. "About my brother."

Serrett drew a breath. "What about him, Your Grace?"

"It is…" Why am I confiding this here, to Tybolt Serrett of all people? "…he was able to win your support in the war. All of the Companions, and many of his lords too. He was very good at that. I just… I was just wondering how I could be more like that. More like him. Now… I am of a feebler sex, I cannot fight beside you as he did, but… is there anything you think I can do?"

Serrett considered a moment. "Are you asking my honest opinion, Your Grace?"

"I am."

"Then you should consider this first and foremost: you are not your brother, you are not like him, and you never will be. In age, sex, disposition, you are different. But we would not expect you to be him, either. The king… King Tommen was… he never wanted wars, Your Grace. But they were delivered to him by Lord Stannis and later by your lady mother. Every time he waited till the last opportunity before he chose to fight, and even then, he was concerned more with defending his people than he was with killing the enemy. At Sarsfield, he chose the course by which we would lose least men – tried to, at least – even if it meant we were less likely to win. Now… that might have been unwise, in the grand scheme of things. But it was the fact that he cared that set him apart. We never saw Lord Tywin, nor Ser Kevan, nor any of the others, true. But they never saw us either. Or they did, and did not care. With the king, though… I remember, on the road back to Lannisport, we lost our first man. He was a kitchen boy, that was all. Ordinarily he would have been burned in a field somewhere. But the king had us wrap his body up and treat it properly, and then he had it escorted back to Lannisport, and his mother, who wept on seeing it, I heard. He wrote her a letter too. He didn't have to do it, but he was good in that way." Serrett shrugged. "I am not too eloquent. But I think that is what King Tommen meant to us."

Myrcella looked down at her hands. "While he was here being… good, I was in Harrenhal, in the viper's nest. I plotted, and I planned. The things I planned were evil things, I know that now. I would have killed a boy: one as small and afraid as my brother. And after that, no doubt I would have done worse things."

"They say the best men are moulded out of faults," said Serrett.

"They say the Father is unfaltering in his judgement," replied Myrcella. "Well. Maybe he is. Maybe he just got confused somewhere. Maybe I was saved by my brother's virtue, and him struck down by my wrongdoing. A Myrcella for a Tommen and a Tommen for a Myrcella."

"I do not know, Your Grace."

Of course not. Servants never did.

Just then there was a knock on the door. And then Rollam Westerling came in. "My lady," he said. "We have a visitor. She says she wishes to see you, and only you."

"A visitor?" Myrcella asked. "What – from the other rangings?" Has something happened to them?

"No, my lady. She came from the east."

"She?"

Rollam nodded. "Yes, my lady. A woman. Alone. In armour, though, and carrying a knight's sword. Valyrian steel, she claimed. Her arms were—"

"No need to tell me. I know what her arms were. I know who she is." But what in seven Hells is Brienne of Tarth doing all the way out here? Only one way to find out. "Send her up," Myrcella said. "And then you may go, Rollam. And you too, Tybolt."

"I'll take the ledgers with me," Serrett said. "If it please Your Grace."

"If it… yes." Myrcella saw them out. Then she waited inside the doorway for a long minute, listening to the steady rain, until that sound fell away beneath footsteps ascending the stairs. Then Lady Brienne emerged, wearing the same blue steel armour Myrcella had last seen her in on the day of her trial, wearing her sword with its lion's-head pommel in her scabbard.

"My lady," said the lady knight, inclining her head a little.

"Your Grace," Myrcella replied. "I am 'Your Grace' now."

Brienne paused a moment, then nodded. "If you say so, Your Grace. I have come with a message from Lady Sansa—"

"I find it strange that she sent you. Then again, I find it strange that you would come here to me at all."

"Truth be told, my lady, it is your uncle I seek. Ser Jaime. But from what I have heard, he is not at Casterly Rock—"

"But my mother is."

"Lady Sansa's message is one she could not entrust to your lady mother—"

"Oh, so she trusts me now, then."

The Tarth woman persisted. "If I may be frank, my lady—"

"—Oh, please do."

"—some might say that you owe Lady Sansa a debt. She spared you from the justice of the Vale, after all."

"Only because it was in her own interests." Myrcella scowled. "I am no fool. If it had not gone according to her plan, she would have let me die without batting an eyelid. And if she even suspected me in the slightest of poisoning Robert, she would not have helped me, either. And unless you are a fool, Lady Brienne, you will have worked out what that means."

Maybe the Tarth woman had. But she gave no sign of knowing, and if she did, she chose to ignore it.

Myrcella sighed. "On to important matters, then. This message of yours."

"Yes." Brienne of Tarth took a breath. "This may sound outlandish, my lady. Or even impossible. You may wish—"

"All I wish is for you to get to the bloody point—"

"The dead are marching on the south."

Not in a thousand years did she expect that outburst. Yes, she had heard the rumours, but… The dead are marching? It was too much to believe. Is she lying, or just mad? The simple way the world worked dictated it must be one or the other, but Brienne of Tarth had said it entirely sincerely, and besides, she was too dim to have any tact. And if she was lying… well, what would be the bloody point of it? "…I see," Myrcella said.

"With respect, my lady, I don't think you do," said Brienne.

Hmm. "You are right. I don't. To be forthright with you, it does sound mad."

"My lady." Brienne touched two fingers to the hilt of her sword. "Your uncle gave me this sword in good faith, to honour a vow he had made to Lady Catelyn Stark, and in turn I made a vow to him. Oathkeeper, it is called. I mean to honour that name. And so I swear to you, on the Seven, on this blade, on the grave of Lord Renly, whom I first served, and on my name and my house, that what I say to you is true. The dead are coming. Lady Sansa received letters from her brother, Lord Brandon, and her bastard half-brother Jon Snow, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch—"

"I know."

"You do?"

"Eleyna Westerling told me. She said that he was sent letters, too. Tommen was going to send Bran help, but he never did. Now, maybe he believed the letters, and maybe he didn't; but either way, it doesn't matter to me. My war is with my mother—"

"With respect, my lady, any feud you have with your mother pales in the face of this."

Myrcella flared with anger. "And who are you to tell me that? She killed my brother. Doubtless she'd kill me too, to get her hands on a crown."

Lady Brienne nodded. "I did hear this story, on the road. I am sorry for your loss. I know your uncle Jaime loved your br—"

"If he did, he would be here. Or he would have died with him."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"No," she said venomously. "And I don't care either."

"With all respect, my lady, I think you do."

Myrcella wanted to hit her – mostly because she was right. "Well," she said. "He isn't here. But in the common interest, humour me. What is this grand quest of yours, Brienne of Tarth? And on that matter, who in seven hells are you? While I was at Harrenhal, I heard the words 'Kingslayer's whore' bandied about, but my mother has already taken that title, so they must have been mistaken."

Brienne paused. "I am no whore. But I am a friend to Ser Jaime, and he is a friend to me."

"A friend? What sort of friend?"

"Ser Jaime and I share a history. Lady Catelyn commanded me to bring him back to King's Landing during the War of the Five Kings, in exchange for the freedom of her daughters. I was there when Ser Jaime lost his hand. He told me why he killed Aerys, and later he rescued me from Vargo Hoat's bear pit. Then—"

"You call him 'Ser Jaime'," Myrcella said curiously.

"He is a knight."

"Most people would disagree."

"Most people are too quick to judge."

Is that a barb aimed at them, or at me? Brienne looked too dumb to be capable of both. But at the same time, she looked too dumb to be lying, too. Myrcella decided to test her. "As Ser Jaime's… niece, one might argue that if there is any way for you to find him, it is through me."

"I might agree, my lady."

"I do not know where Ser Jaime is, that is truth. But what I can do is offer you my hospitality, and what few resources I do have. We share a common goal of finding my uncle, even if it is for different reasons."

"Thank you, my lady."

Myrcella glanced out the window at the darkening sky. "It grows late. We'll speak again tomorrow, unless there is anything else—"

"There was one thing, my lady. I had heard a rumour that Lady Margaery was travelling with your party. I would consider it a great favour if you would allow me to see her. To offer my sympathies at her own losses."

"Well you might," said Myrcella, "but Lady Margaery is not here. I have sent her, in the company of Eleyna Westerling and twenty knights, back towards the Riverlands. I have, I suppose, commended them to the mercy of your Lady Sansa."

"That seems… a wise course, my lady."

"I didn't ask your opinion." She was fast growing tired of Brienne of Tarth. More than that, she was growing tired of everyone. "You may go, Lady Brienne."

"Go where, my lady?"

Myrcella chewed her lip. Then she picked up a loose parchment from the table and wrote on it. "Give this to Lord Peckledon's steward. He'll find you a place. On the morrow you may ride with the rest of the baggage train."

"Ride to where, my lady?"

"Crakehall. That is where we are going next. I am told that Lord Roland is a friend to our cause."

Brienne thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "I will ride with you, my lady."

"I wasn't asking permission. But really you have no other choice. If my mother hears of you and your intentions, she will have you hunted down." And in that, you may share the same fate as the rest of us, she thought cynically.

Not long after that she went, and Myrcella was left alone in her tower. She was already starting to wish Tybolt Serrett had not taken the ledgers with him. At least then she would have been left with something to do.

She did not have long to feel pity for herself, though, for then there was a knock at the door. For half a moment she startled, thinking it was Tommen, through some impossibility, but then his eyes looked up and his face was different and it was only Ty Frey. He said, "I thought you might like to know what they were discussing."

"They?"

"The war council. Your war council."

"Oh. Them." It did seem like something a queen should remain knowledgeable about. "How was it?"

"Awful and tedious. I wish I was you. I mean, then I could choose not to bother with them."

Was that a barbed insult, too? "You wish you were me? If you knew, I think you would have second thoughts, Squire Frey."

"I think," he said, "you mean Lord Darry."

When he smiles, he looks like Tommen too. She bit her lip. "You presume too much sometimes, Ty."

"Indeed. Are you going to let me in, or not?"

She stepped aside. He walked to her window and peered down. "You have a much better room than the one they gave me. Mine's barely a turret." Back to her: "Can't you do anything like that? You are the queen."

Myrcella felt something go out of her, then. Hope, maybe. "I barely feel like it. What sort of queen spends her days running from one castle to another, seeing enemies in every corner, fearing for her life?"

There was a long pause. Then Ty said, "I don't know. But you're right, I think. When we were on the road… and when I saw you at Harrenhal… well, you seemed like a princess. Definitely a princess. But a queen's different. I never met a queen, but I know that."

"And what about my brother?" She could not hold back. "Was he meant to be a king, or only ever a prince?"

Ty shrugged. "I'm not important enough to be able to answer that. But does it really matter?"

"No," said Myrcella, and it was easier to convince herself of that.

He never left her room that night. Fraught conversation led to nervous cups of wine, and one cup led to another, and then to other things. Come midnight, she found herself lying abed under the crimson curtains of the four-poster, dressed only in her thin nightshift. Ty sprawled beside her, muttering very quietly in his sleep, one bare arm reaching across her waist. The bed smelled faintly of shame and lust. Yet, oddly, sleeping in the darkness, he looked more like her brother than ever. In the light of her candle, his face seemed the same colour as Tommen's had been, the same hair, the same… way of sleeping, entirely lost to the world. Now, said a voice in her ear that sounded suspiciously like her Uncle Jaime, there's a thought. Did you realise who he looked like before or after you slept with him?

"I am not my mother," she said.

All of us have a bit of our mothers in us. And our fathers.

"Not me." She loosened Ty's arm, walked barefoot to the window, and stared out towards the mountains. The peaks closest her were well-lumined. The snow that crowned them glowed iridiscent. But as she looked past them, as her gaze followed those mountains stretching on through the valley towards eternity, their outlines became vague and indistinct. Yellows and whites became purples and blues, and light became obscurity.

You can't deny it, said the voice, What were you trying to do, I wonder? Hoping it'd bring him back to you somehow?

"No… I… I…" But it was true, in a subconscious, not-waking way. It was hopelessly true. A Myrcella for a Tommen. A Tommen for a Myrcella. She had escaped the justice of the gods, and her brother had not – and maybe that was deliberate. Maybe that was divine prejudice, the result of whatever pact he'd made with the gods. A desperate, unselfish sacrifice that she never could and never would be able to comprehend.

It occurred to her, then, in a moment of epiphany, that the people of the Westerlands did need her after all. They needed a queen who would be merciless, and cruel, and mortal, in every way that their king had not been.

But it still didn't make sense. It still wasn't fair. "I did what you told me to," she said, knowing how absurd it was to talk to the mountains, for they could not talk back. "I sent Eleyna someplace safe. And your squire Willem. And Margaery… I could have killed her, but I sent her back, too. I did everything you would have wanted me to do." Her hand hardened around the rail of the window. "I tried mercy. But the fact is, I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd been just and not merciful." But more than that, I wish… I wish…

"You wish you had been better?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I wish you had been."