Mother loves him dearly, she does. He knows because she kisses him goodnight and tells him to be brave, like Joff. Cella loves him best, though, because she never compares him to Joffrey and she lets him sleep in her bed when there's thunder. She's a sweet sister, a lovely sister, and she looks very much like Mother and himself. Her cheeks are as full as his own and her lips as pink and red, and her hair is thick and curly and it falls over her shoulders in a mass of gold and sunlight. She's soft and creamy, her skin freckled and her eyes sharp and she's much smarter than him.
He cries when she goes away, he cries until the moon is high on the sky and his head hurts terribly. Myrcella was his only friend, for Sansa doesn't like him very much, and now he's all alone. It weights heavy on his shoulders, it chokes him and it scares him, how she's far away from home and how she was not scared at all to leave and never return. He hates Joffrey for sending her away, for hurting him so —Joffrey who had danced with Cella once, who had twirled her under the shade of a tree and had made her laugh until she had fallen to the ground, shaking and crying and happy; Joff, who had helped him hide the bed linens when he had wet himself at night so Mother wouldn't know, claiming that it was his duty as the elder brother to protect him; Joff, who had turned vile and mean and violent, who had scratched at his back with dull nails and had pinched him until his skin had turned purple and green and blue, and then he had taken Myrcella for himself and had barred the door of his room, leaving him alone outside, while he had hurt Myrcella, sweet and beautiful and soft and golden Cella.
He hates Joff because he is evil and Tommen was fashioned for love, Myrcella said so, and he can't stop loving him, no matter how many times he hits him or chains his wrists to the bed or threatens him with that stupid sword of his; he remembers when they used to be happy, when he used to be Joff, the boy, not Joffrey the Prince or His Grace, now that he wears the crown on his head.
And it kills him, how sour hatred tastes.
