MYRCELLA

Ser Godry Farring raised the cup of wine to his mouth with gloved hands and took a sip. "I regret that I must report no change, Your Grace."

"Nothing?" asked King Stannis, sounding not altogether surprised.

"Nothing," the knight confirmed. "Their archers are in the same positions they were in the day before. And the day before that. And, if you asked me to make a wager now, I would say that they are unlikely to move anytime soon."

Myrcella saw Stannis's eyes briefly shift to her. See, they said wordlessly. I told you so. You should have known better than to trust in the Kingslayer, and I should have known better than to trust in his daughter. Then he went back to Ser Godry: "And of the wights?"

"Nothing either," said the knight. "Thank the gods."

"I am quite sure the gods had nothing to do with it," said the king. "Nonetheless, I share your thankfulness. With the wights, at least. As for the Lannisters, it would seem the likelihood of battle is growing by the day. You will forgive my scepticism when I say it is unlikely that the Kingslayer will change his mind. Unless anyone would care to disagree?" And this time when his eyes fell upon Myrcella, it was very much deliberate.

She did not speak.

"Your ploy," Stannis told her, "has failed dismally, it would seem."

"I made you no promises," said Myrcella. "I only said Ser Jaime's conscience might be driven to action. Not that it would."

"Perhaps," said Ser Addam Marbrand. "We should consider what will be, not that which will not. As it is, we have little in the way of a proper plan against the city's defences. Ser Lyle and I might be able to inspire some support among certain factions. If we could be smuggled into the city—"

"—where you might betray us all over again," said Ser Godry.

"Do you have a better plan?" Lyle Crakehall said harshly.

"Any plan which does not involve allowing you to betray us is a better plan."

"Even a plan which consists of nothing more than sending waves of our men to die beneath the city walls? I have seen those engines they have mounted on the ramparts, ser. They will tear our forces to pieces."

"And you hope that you might get on the other side of them early, is that it? I will not have it."

"I will not have this." Stannis did not shout, but they all heard him. "We attack together, or not at all. The Lannisters have tomorrow, and then until dawn on the day after that. By tomorrow night we will have a plan of attack drawn up."

"We might delay," suggested Marbrand. "The soldiers inside the walls are not fond of Cersei, and the city's rations are not as large as you might think."

"They are certainly larger than ours, though," said Ser Davos Seaworth, Stannis's right-hand man. "We are beyond half rations already. Give it three days, and it will be our men deserting, not theirs. Besides, the king has already given his ultimatum. To go back on it would be to break his vow."

"If a vow was never made in truth, it is no vow," Marbrand said. "Princess Myrcella is no prisoner. Therefore Lord Stannis has, in a way, already lied, and is thus not bound—"

"Be quiet, ser," said Myrcella. She knew no good could come of Marbrand's continued disagreement. "Much as both of us dislike admitting it, unity with Lord Stannis is the only chance we have." For now. "Furthermore, treating further with Ser Jaime, or expecting any sort of reaction from him, is pointless. The man is a spineless coward. He will be as much help to our cause as my mother herself.

Marbrand nodded, but still looked unsure. "This battle will not be like the others," she said. "It is important not to forget that. Those battles were far from Lannisport, and far from endangering the populace. But now the war is coming home."

"It is coming home," agreed Ser Lyle Crakehall. "Home to the city many of Cersei's men have known all their lives. All we need to do is make one decisive breach, and then their fear will overwhelm them. They will come to our side, for certain."

"First we have to make that breach," said Stannis. He gave Myrcella a dark look. "Well. Since your ploy failed, I do not think this plan is any worse. Ser Lyle, Ser Addam, remain. I wish to consult with you."

She was not about to argue. Myrcella went out, back to her tent. She did not go alone, of course. The gods never gave that sort of mercy. The lummox Brienne of Tarth pursued her all the way to her bed. "My lady," she said, strictly. "We must talk."

"We are talking."

"About your uncle. About Ser Jaime."

"About my father, you mean? There's no need for you to delude yourself about his morals anymore. He is undeniably guilty of sin, and sins far worse than any of the rest of us."

"You are too harsh on him, my lady."

The anger that had been boiling within her every since the parley simmered forth. "Too harsh? You call me too harsh, you in your righteousness! Whereas Ser Jaime's shit is solid gold, I'm certain, as surely as his hand is. Well, let me inform you that his shit is just that, and its as soft as his spine! You saw him at the parley field, bleating her words, doing her unquestioning bidding! When Stannis told of Uncle Kevan's death, he barely moved a muscle.

"And here you sit, calling me harsh in my condemnation! I am sorry if I do not forgive every wrong that is done to me, Lady Brienne! I am sorry that I do not meet your high standards of chastity, charity and righteousness! I am sorry that I allow myself to express a man's opinion, without donning the garb and style of a man as you do!"

Brienne did not flinch once throughout her speech, nor did she falter in her reply. "You are too harsh, my lady. And forgive my presumption, but I do not think you view him as unkindly as you would have us all believe."

"What would you have me do, then?"

The lady knight took a moment to prepare a measured response. Then she said, "I would not have you do anything, my lady. The actions I am about to suggest are ones I will undertake myself. Grant me leave to confront Ser Jaime in person."

"Ser Jaime is cowering behind the walls of Lannisport, and he will certainly not come out – nay, he will not be permitted to come out – to talk with you."

"Which is why I will go to him."

"I do not think you understand – he is behind the walls of Lannisport. As we are not. Or do you intend to somehow infiltrate the defenses put there specifically to keep us out?"

"Siege defenses, my lady, are meant to defend against sieges. Not against lone riders. Our whole army could march up to those gates and we would be repelled. But I alone might stand a chance."

Myrcella laughed mirthlessly at her naivety. "And suppose, by some miracle, you did manage to gain an audience with Ser Jaime. What would you do then?"

"I would reason with him, my lady. First I would make our situation clear, that neither you nor I are prisoners."

"Well. It does not appear that he will be saving us on account of that perception. Continue."

"I would remind him of his duty, my lady. To you, and to his people… and, if I may, to the memory of your late brother, who fought against your mother's tyranny."

"By which you mean, against the 'loving kindness' with which Jaime has slavishly aligned himself." A bitter laugh issued from somewhere deep within her. "Your plan is sound, Lady Brienne, in a world where all men are fools with hearts as innocent as yours. But alas, we do not live in that world. And so I declare your plan to be nothing more than a folly."

"A folly, perhaps, my lady, but what else do we have?"

Myrcella had a suspicion that Brienne of Tarth would not be stopped by her. If she is right about the possibility of her entering the city, then she may be right about other things, if I am willing to surrender sense in the face of hope. And if she is not…

If she is not, what does it matter?

"I will permit it," she said.

The shock on Brienne's face was plain. "You will, my lady?"

"Do not make me feel like even more of a fool by saying it again. But yes, you may go. I will not stop you. Neither will I help you, but I will not stop you."

The lady knight stepped back. "I should prepare, then. We only have two nights left." She hesitated a moment. "If I may be so bold, my lady, perhaps you might write to Ser Jaime, with your own thoughts. I would deliver this letter, and it might be enough to convince—"

"I will not," said Myrcella curtly. "And you should leave now, before I change my mind."

Brienne went. But for some reason, the matter of writing to her uncle remained sore in her mind long thereafter, as the night wore on. What would I write in such a letter? 'I am sorry that I did not surrender as meekly as you did. I am sorry that I was stupid enough to believe you, when you made your promises. I am sorry that you let my brother die.'

He had never spoken a word to her, after he had walked her to her Arryn husband. Not a word of farewell. King Robert was never a father to me, she had said the last time they properly spoke, in her solar at Harrenhal, she half in her wedding gown. That was always you. Had she meant it, then? She knew she did not know. King Robert was never a father to me, Ser Jaime, she would write, and neither were you, even if I wished you were.

She heard a rustling behind her and one of her guards entered the tent. With him he brought Prince Quentyn Martell. "He would not be sent away, Your Grace," the man said apologetically.

"No matter." Myrcella was more curious than anything else. "What can I do for you, Prince?"

"I wish to talk."

"We are talking," she said, as she had to Brienne. "Perchance you have some ridiculous plan you would like to share with me. Perhaps we should tunnel under Lannisport? Perhaps we should try and build siege engines of our own? Or perhaps you'd like to try and seduce my mother? Or perhaps—?" She stopped herself. "That last one was unkind, Prince Quentyn. I apologise."

"It is… no matter." He was too polite to say anything else. "The reason I have come, princess, is that I do not… well, I do not intend to stay, that is the simplest way of saying it. Come the morrow, my men and I intend to leave for the Riverlands. I know that your mother has barricaded the goldroad and the river road both, but I intend to find ways of getting around them."

Should she have been surprised? It had been obvious from the first that Prince Quentyn was not made for war. He sat in some of Stannis's war councils, but he did not speak. And the more she thought about it, the more she realised the truly conspiratorial air of all his secret meetings with his own men, chief among them the giant Yronwood and pretty-faced Drinkwater. And yet there was something that did not make sense: "Why are you telling me this?"

From the quiet way he spoke, it seemed Prince Quentyn was already beginning to regret his decision. "I have been told that you helped Margaery to escape from your mother, in Casterly Rock."

"I did what I could." What I had to, or felt I had to. "You… hope to repay the favour, is that it?"

Prince Quentyn nodded. "I thought you would be more angry. I thought you might tell Stannis, even."

Strange, wasn't it? He was here in his chainmail and leather and she only in woman's wool, but she acted so much more the man. She remembered something her mother had once while said in her cups: I should have worn the armour, and your father the dress. She had meant King Robert then, but it applied to Ser Jaime too, she thought.

"If you thought I would tell Stannis, then why are you telling me?"

Prince Quentyn looked lost, like he had blundered into her tent by mistake. "I thought… it was the right thing to do. To ask you if you wanted to go. To…" He dithered a bit. "…we cannot win, Princess. I am sure you know that. They have more men than we do, and they have the walls. When it comes to battle, they will crush us. And I thought… since you and are… blood…"

"Trystane." It hit her like a punch, sent her thoughts reeling. Dear gods, she thought, did I really forget Trystane? Have I been seeing Quentyn all this time, and always forgetting—

It seemed inconceivable. But merely saying his name, saying "Trystane", sounded strange to her ears. He was from a world ago. From a time when I was content to be only a princess, and desiring nothing more. Before the Rock, before Harrenhal, before King's Landing, in those later days…

Prince Quentyn did not look much like his brother, neither in appearance nor in his person. Trystane's hair had been curlier; he had been darker, having spent his hours in the hot sun of the Water Gardens whereas Quentyn was locked away at Yronwood. We played in the fountains, and we played cyvasse. Trystane had been more confident, more companionable, more like his uncle Oberyn. Always with a smile at some secret joke, whereas Quentyn seemed always nervous of his own thoughts.

"You are asking me because we are… well – siblings." She did not know Quentyn enough to think of him in that way.

"Yes. Siblings-by-law."

"And?"

"And so…" He shrugged. "I thought, if you wanted to leave, I would take you with me. With us, I mean. Back to the Riverlands. Where you sent Margaery. We'd go back, and we'd…" He made an incomprehensible sign.

Myrcella narrowed her eyes. "And that's what you want?"

Slowly: "It is."

"You're lying."

"I'm – what? – I'm not lying."

"Yes. You are. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you want me to come with you. I don't think you even want to go yourself. Else you would have done so already, instead of staying here." The thread unravelled before her eyes; now she understood. "Yes, you want to return to Margaery. But I think you want something else more, don't you?"

Prince Quentyn did not answer. But his silence spoke louder than a thousand words.

"You want revenge. My mother killed Ser Loras – your brother-by-law. She killed my brother too. She killed our hopes for peace between Lannister, Tyrell and Martell. But more importantly, she hurt your wife. Margaery told me. She can't have children, can she? Not anymore. And the child you did have… if you went back to your wife without having avenged your loss – if you turned, here and ran – you would feel that you had failed not only yourself, but her, too."

Quentyn had gone very still. Something moved, some flush under that pale, sunless skin. Behind his eyepatch, she thought she saw something twitch. "Do you want me to stay?"

Myrcella breathed out. "It is not a matter of what I want, prince."

"Do you think Margaery would want me to stay?"

"Margaery would want you home at all costs." That much was true. But she needed Quentyn. He only had about twenty men, but she needed every man they had. "But I think she would do what you want to do now, if only she had your strength."

She watched him fiddle with a link of his chainmail. After an age he looked up at her again. "I have… I have never been much good at revenge, princess."

"You don't have to be," said Myrcella. "You just have to want it." And that was true, too.

She had no more visitors after that. They left her alone to her silence. Only it was not a true silence. It never was. Sitting on her bed, wine cup in hand, she became half-aware of a presence in the room. Something – someone – standing behind her. And at the same time, she knew she could never turn around and look, for then he would no longer be there.

Did you love Trystane?

"Don't—"

Did you love him?

"Of course I did."

She could sense the eyebrows rising. Not the sort of thing he would have done in life, but he was more cynical nowadays. Then why don't you believe yourself? Have you gotten so used to wanting revenge that even the good things are only a means to your destructive end? Trystane wouldn't have wanted—

She rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me what Trystane would have wanted."

Then don't go thinking of me as sanctimonious. You know I'm right, Cella. I'm always right.

"You're not even real," she said.

Sometimes I don't think you are, not anymore. You're not Myrcella. You aren't like you used to be. She… He had one of those nervous, nail-biting pauses of his. She was devoted to Trystane, you know. She loved him so much that after he died she ran away and didn't talk to anyone for a week. She wanted to see a debt repaid, yes, as all Lannisters must, but she wanted him back more than she wanted her revenge.

"Love and devotion. Yes. Well, of course you would think that."

Tommen laughed; something she hadn't heard in a long time. "I'm not real, Cella. So if you don't believe in love and devotion anymore, then why am I telling you about them?"


Author's Very Humble and Modest Self-commentary:

Myrcella is not a character known for her strong belief. She is the sceptic of this storyline, and compared to Tommen, she is certainly less likely to believe in grand ideals like faith and hope. And personally I think she suffers for that, and for her contempt of such ideas.

In this chapter, she is ultimately left with more questions than answers. She is placed under the light (the sunlight of the Martells and the divine light of her own dead brother), and asked to define what she believes in. At the end of Ch. 36, I don't think she really knows, but she is well placed to start questioning it.

And there is one character in the Casterly Rock camp, more than even Quentyn, who is especially well-placed to make her question herself further...

On a less serious note:

Marbrand: "Those battles were far from Lannisport, and far from endangering the populace. But now the war is coming home."

"It is coming home," agreed Ser Lyle Crakehall.

*laughs Englishly*