Myrcella II
The sun spilled through the high windows of the Red Keep, painting the stone floors with golden light. Myrcella sat at the small wooden desk Bryan had found for her, poring over a book of ancient Valyrian. Her quill scratched against the parchment as she copied the words, mouthing them softly to herself. The letters were elegant but strange, full of curves and flourishes that seemed to dance across the page. She was proud of her progress, though it came slower than she liked.
Her mornings had fallen into a rhythm since Bryan took her as his ward. She rose early, bathed in the cold water provided by the servants, and began her lessons before the first bell rang. The rest of the day unfolded much the same: books, languages, and spells she couldn't quite master.
Magic eluded her.
No matter how many times Bryan explained the incantations or demonstrated the hand movements, nothing happened when she tried. Once, she'd been so frustrated that she nearly threw her spellbook into the hearth.
Still, her lack of progress gnawed at her. If Bryan could summon wards and sparks of light, why couldn't she?
The thought stayed with her as she moved to the window, gazing out over the Red Keep. The council would be meeting soon, its lords and ladies gathered to decide the fate of the realm. Myrcella's heart tightened at the thought.
Who would sit the Iron Throne when it was all over? Would they show her family mercy?
Mercy. She hated how small the word sounded.
Her afternoons were the only part of the day she looked forward to. Bryan always returned from his midday duties to sit with her, sometimes bringing books, other times his strange and often amusing lessons. He made her laugh, though she rarely let it show. She wasn't sure if she trusted him yet. He seemed kind enough—perhaps too kind. Bryan was no knight, nor was he one of the great lords of the realm, but there was something about him. He reminded her of Tommen in a way: earnest and thoughtful, yet with an edge of quiet steel.
She toyed with the idea of sneaking out of her chambers this afternoon. Her newfound freedom allowed her to roam parts of the castle, though there were always eyes watching. She could visit her mother, locked away behind heavy doors, or try to find her father, if the rumors were true that he was still imprisoned below.
But no. She had learned enough from watching her family's missteps to know better.
Better to wait. Better to keep her head low and play the dutiful guest. A Lannister's smile could disarm even the sharpest blade, her mother always said.
The godswood was quiet this morning, save for the whisper of the wind through the crimson leaves above. Myrcella sat beneath the heart tree, its pale bark smooth and unmarked, her hands resting on her knees. She tried to focus on her breathing, to let go of her restless thoughts, as Bryan had taught her.
Yet peace eluded her. The Great Council dragged on, and though Bryan assured her it was better she remain here than locked away, she couldn't help but wonder what fate awaited her family. Her mother, imprisoned in the Red Keep. Her uncle, her brothers... their futures hung on a knife's edge.
She didn't hear them at first. A faint rustle of leaves might have warned her, but she thought it only the wind. Then, a shadow fell over her.
"Well, well, what have we here?"
Myrcella's eyes snapped open. Four women stood before her, their presence as jarring as a thunderclap.
The first was tall and broad-shouldered, her dark hair tied back, a spear slung casually over one shoulder. Her sharp features twisted into a sneer, her stance that of a predator sizing up its prey.
Beside her stood a lithe woman with olive skin and almond-shaped eyes. She wore flowing silks that shimmered in the sunlight, her fingers idly coiling and uncoiling a whip as her lips curved into a smirk.
The third was deceptively sweet-looking, with golden hair that fell in soft waves and eyes as blue as a summer sky. But her smile, soft as it seemed, made Myrcella's stomach twist with unease.
And at their center was the most beautiful woman not named her mother. She was close to the age of the sweet-faced one, her hair as dark as the heart of a midnight storm, her figure voluptuous and commanding. Her golden jewelry glinted in the dappled light, and her gaze—smoldering, appraising—held Myrcella captive. She was beautiful, dangerous, and utterly unlike anyone Myrcella had ever met.
The beautiful woman tilted her head, a lock of dark hair slipping over her shoulder. "You don't look like a northerner belonging here," she said, her voice warm honey with a bite of iron.
"She's no wolf," the spear-woman said. "Too soft for it."
"Too golden," the whip-holder added, her smirk deepening.
"She's a lion cub," said the sweet-faced one, her tone dripping with mockery. "A stray, lost in the woods."
Myrcella rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts. "I am Myrcella Baratheon," she said, lifting her chin despite the trembling in her voice. Why did she say that?
"Baratheon," the whip-holder said, drawing out the word as if tasting it. "Is that what you call yourself?"
The others laughed, the sound sharp and cutting.
"I was thinking," Myrcella said, trying to steer the conversation.
"Thinking!" the spear-woman barked, her voice rough with disdain. "What use is that? You're not likely to save anyone, little lion."
"It helps me feel at peace," Myrcella said, though her voice faltered.
"Peace!" the whip-holder repeated, laughing again. "You hear that? Peace!"
"Peace comes from the edge of a blade," the spear-woman said, tapping her weapon against the ground.
"Or from other pleasures," the sweet-faced one added, her eyes glittering. "But you're far too young for that. Too young for a man, but not too old for a dagger."
The laughter that followed was cruel, cutting through Myrcella like a blade. She pressed her lips together, willing herself not to cry, but the tears came unbidden, stinging her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.
"Stop it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please, stop."
The laughter ceased abruptly.
The beautiful woman stepped forward, her expression softening as she reached out to wipe a tear from Myrcella's cheek. "We don't let little girls cry in Dorne," she said, her voice gentle now. "Even lion cubs."
The spear-woman frowned, looking away, while the sweet-faced one sighed and shook her head. The whip-holder twirled her weapon absently, her smirk gone.
"Why are you out here all alone?" the woman asked, crouching to meet Myrcella's eyes.
"My teacher said to come here to find peace," Myrcella said again, her voice steadier this time.
The woman studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Peace," she said softly. "A strange thing to seek in a place like this, but perhaps not so strange for you."
She straightened, her presence as commanding as ever. "Come, sisters," she said, turning to leave. "We've had our fun."
The beautiful woman with the dark hair turned back to Myrcella, her amber eyes catching the dappled light filtering through the trees. She offered a hand, her long fingers adorned with gold rings. "Come with us."
Myrcella hesitated, glancing back toward the Red Keep. The godswood felt safe, secluded, but beyond its borders, the castle hummed with whispers and judgment. "Why? Where are we going?"
The dark-haired woman tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "To show you something. Don't you want to learn?"
"I'll get in trouble," Myrcella said softly.
The spear-woman snorted. "You're a bastard now, little lion. No one's watching you as they would a princess."
The word bastard stung, even though she knew it was true. She wasn't Myrcella Baratheon anymore, not in the eyes of the realm. She was Myrcella Waters, an illegitimate daughter, less than her brothers, less than everyone.
Still, curiosity bloomed in her chest. She looked at the hand extended to her, then into the woman's golden-hued gaze. Finally, she reached out and took it.
"Good," the woman said, her smile widening. "I am Arianne, daughter of Doran Martell. These are my cousins." She gestured to the three other women. "They call them the Sand Snakes."
"There are more of us not here," said the one with the whip, her almond-shaped eyes glinting with mischief. "Obara is the eldest." She pointed to the spear-woman, who scowled but gave a curt nod. "I am Nymeria. And this is Tyene."
The sweet-faced one with golden hair dipped into a graceful curtsy. "A pleasure," she said, though her tone still held an edge of mockery.
Arianne tugged Myrcella forward, her grip surprisingly strong. "Come. Let us see if this lion cub has claws."
They led her to a shaded courtyard near the outer edge of the Red Keep, a place half-overgrown with ivy and dotted with broken tiles. Obara handed Myrcella a small, thin-bladed dagger, its hilt wrapped in worn leather.
"Hold it like this," Obara said, gripping Myrcella's hand to adjust her fingers. "Not too tight, not too loose. You want to feel it move with you, not against you."
Nymeria chuckled. "Careful, Obara. You'll scare the poor girl."
"She needs to be scared," Obara shot back. "Fear keeps you alive."
Tyene knelt beside Myrcella, her soft hands brushing against her own. "Don't listen to her. You'll do just fine. Just watch, learn, and move quickly."
Myrcella nodded, swallowing hard. Her first attempt to mimic Obara's movements was clumsy, the dagger slipping from her grip and clattering to the ground. Laughter rang out around her, sharp and cutting.
Arianne stepped forward, placing a hand on Myrcella's shoulder. "Try again," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "A warrior does not give up after one failure."
By the time the sun had begun to climb higher in the sky, Myrcella's arms ached from the effort, and her fingers were raw from gripping the dagger. The Sand Snakes were relentless, pushing her to repeat each movement again and again until her body began to remember what her mind could not.
It was then that Bryan appeared, his frame casting a shadow over the courtyard. He leaned against a stone column, arms crossed, watching them with an unreadable expression.
"What is this?" he asked, his tone sharp.
Arianne turned to him, her dark eyes sparkling. "We're teaching your lion cub how to wield a dagger. Would you prefer her helpless?"
Bryan's gaze flicked to Myrcella, searching her face. "Are you all right, Myrcella?"
Myrcella nodded quickly, brushing a stray curl from her face. "I'm fine," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "At peace, almost." She felt there was nothing more she could do at this moment than she had.
Bryan didn't seem convinced. His eyes lingered on the dagger in her hand, then shifted back to Arianne and her cousins. "Don't push her too hard," he said finally.
Nymeria smirked. "She's stronger than she looks."
Arianne placed her hands on her hips, her expression unreadable. "He's protective of you," she said, her tone almost teasing. "But if you truly wish to survive in this world, Myrcella, you'll need more than his protection. You'll need to fight."
Bryan's sigh cut through the quiet courtyard like the scrape of steel against stone. He straightened, his eyes settling on Arianne Martell with a weariness that seemed at odds with her playful smirk. "What are you planning?"
Arianne's dark eyes sparkled with amusement. "Planning? Nothing, my lord. We're simply taking an interest in the little lion cub you've been guarding so closely."
Myrcella felt the weight of his glance shift to her, and she straightened her shoulders instinctively, gripping the dagger still clutched in her hand.
Arianne stepped closer, her every movement deliberate, a sway of her hips that drew attention as surely as the sun lit the sky. "I've sought you out several times, you know. Yet every time, I've been told you're unavailable. Unwilling, even. Have I offended you without knowing it?"
Bryan exhaled heavily, his expression neutral but his tone strained. "You haven't offended me, Lady Arianne. I've been busy."
"Too busy for a woman who came all this way to make your acquaintance?" Her voice was honeyed, her words laced with both mockery and allure. Myrcella watched, wide-eyed, as Arianne leaned closer to Bryan, her fingers brushing against the sleeve of his tunic.
Bryan stepped back, his tone curt. "It's probably best we talk alone."
Arianne's smile didn't waver. "As you wish."
Bryan led Arianne and Tyene down one of the Red Keep's winding corridors, his steps steady but purposeful. Myrcella followed at a careful distance, her heart racing with equal parts apprehension and curiosity. When they reached a door set into an alcove, Bryan paused, pushing it open with deliberate caution. Arianne and Tyene slipped inside, their whispers fading into silence as the heavy door thudded shut behind them.
Bryan turned to Myrcella, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. His voice softened, though his expression remained serious. "Will you be safe to wait with the others?"
"Yes," Myrcella said quickly, her emerald eyes darting back to the Sand Snakes.
Bryan went in to deal with Arianne and Tyene.
Myrcella crept closer, her heart pounding. Pressing her ear to the door, she strained to hear the conversation within. The voices were muffled but distinct.
"Do you always play so hard to get?" Arianne's voice was low, playful, and tinged with amusement.
Bryan sighed, the sound weary. "I'm not playing, Arianne. There's too much at stake for games."
"Oh, but the stakes make it all the more exciting," Arianne purred. "Tell me, is it my touch that unnerves you, or my reputation?"
Tyene giggled softly. "Maybe he's afraid he wouldn't last long in our company."
"I'm not afraid," Bryan replied, his tone sharper now. "But I also know better than to tangle with snakes unprepared."
Arianne's laughter was warm and throaty. "We don't bite unless invited. Isn't that right, Tyene?"
Tyene's reply was laced with mischief. "Unless we want to, of course. He looks like he like the type to get bit. Maybe by two snakes at the same time."
Bryan groaned, and Myrcella could almost hear him pinching the bridge of his nose. "Gods help me," he muttered.
"Bryan," Arianne said, her voice dropping to a honeyed whisper. "You'll find I'm much sweeter when you stop resisting."
"I think we've sweetened him enough," Tyene added, her tone sly. "For now."
Myrcella's cheeks burned as the words sank in. What were they doing in there? She imagined their teasing smiles and the way Arianne had touched Bryan's arm earlier, and her stomach churned with embarrassment.
Afraid she'd be caught, she slipped back down the corridor, the snatches of flirtation replaying in her mind.
It wasn't long before Bryan and Arianne reappeared, Tyene following a step behind with a knowing smirk on her lips. Arianne's dark eyes sparkled with amusement as she leaned into Bryan, her hand brushing his arm in a way that seemed almost proprietary.
"We've come to an agreement," Arianne declared, her voice smooth and honeyed, as if the words themselves were a private jest.
"What sort of agreement?" Myrcella asked, tilting her head, curiosity and unease warring within her.
Bryan's gaze flickered to her, his expression carefully neutral. "One that will keep things…manageable," he said, his tone clipped, though his ears reddened faintly.
Arianne let out a throaty laugh, her fingers lingering on Bryan's sleeve for a moment longer than seemed necessary. "Your lord protector is a man of many talents, little lion," she said, her words thick with suggestion. "Perhaps we'll find reasons to come to…agreements again."
Tyene giggled softly, her voice like the chiming of bells. "Many reasons, I think."
Bryan cleared his throat and stepped back, his movements deliberate as if to put distance between himself and their teasing. "Thank you for your…assistance," he said, his tone formal and measured. "I'll see to it that your efforts are not overlooked."
Arianne inclined her head, her smile a sharp contrast to her feigned deference. "Of course. Until next time, Lord Bryan."
Bryan gestured for Myrcella to follow him, and they began walking back toward the Red Keep. She stole a glance at him, noting the tension in his jaw and the way his strides seemed quicker than usual.
"What did you agree upon with Lady Arianne and her cousin?" Myrcella asked after a moment, her voice careful, though her question carried more weight than she intended.
Bryan hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line before he answered. "It's…complicated," he said finally, a hint of discomfort creeping into his voice. "I'll tell you more about it later, when the time is right."
"You're embarrassed," she observed, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite her best efforts.
"I am not," he shot back, though the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.
Myrcella said nothing more, though her thoughts churned as they continued their walk. Arianne's flirtatious demeanor and Tyene's playful remarks replayed in her mind, leaving her with more questions than answers. Whatever had transpired in that room, she doubted it was as simple—or innocent—as Bryan wanted her to believe.
Her days unfolded in a blur of lessons, training, and quiet observations, each one a mix of frustration and fleeting joys. Bryan remained patient, even as her attempts at magic yielded little more than flickering candles and the faintest tremors of warmth in her palms. He never scolded her, though his encouragement often felt like a double-edged sword.
"You're working hard, Myrcella," he would say, his voice steady as he demonstrated again how to channel energy through her hands. Still, she had no results.
She loathed how easily it came to him. She envied his ability to conjure light, to breathe life into fire as if it were his birthright. For her, it remained a riddle she couldn't quite solve.
When Bryan noticed her growing frustration, he would suggest breaks, urging her outside to stretch her legs. She found solace in walking the grounds, feeling the wind on her face and the crunch of earth beneath her boots. Her favorite moments were spent sparring in the training yard. Bryan himself was competent enough but not a capable trainer, but she delighted in his proposal to bring in others to help hone her skills.
"A northerner, perhaps," he mused one afternoon. "There are a few here who could teach you how to hold your own."
"I'd rather train with the Martell women," Myrcella countered, a mischievous glint in her eye. "They're more fun."
Bryan hesitated, his brow furrowing in that way it always did when he was trying to weigh the risks. In the end, he relented.
"They can be your partners, but I'll be watching," he warned.
The Sand Snakes proved as spirited as ever, their training sessions full of sharp quips and sharper blades. Obara's lessons were brutal, Nymeria's elegant, and Tyene's disarmingly sweet. Myrcella learned quickly to never let her guard down, even when Tyene smiled like an angel.
Despite these distractions, her mother remained a thorn in her thoughts. Every visit to Mother's chambers left Myrcella feeling hollow, as if she were intruding on a lioness trapped in a cage. Mother's words were sharp, her demeanor restless.
"Bryan," she would mutter, pacing the room. "He plays a longer game than anyone sees. A man like him doesn't take a ward out of charity. Mark my words, Myrcella—he means to wed me. To secure himself a place in the game."
The idea amused Myrcella more than it should have. Bryan, her father. It was absurd, but the thought brought a smile to her lips nonetheless. There were far worse men Mother could choose.
Bryan himself was a puzzle. Once a week, he left for a brothel in the city, where he met with a blonde woman named Marei. She bore an uncanny resemblance to her mother. Golden mane and emeralds for eyes, and more.
Her curiosity deepened when she noticed him frequenting the Alchemists' Guild. He was given a sword by Lord Robb the Handsome. Then there were his visits with the strange Archmaester Marwyn the Mage, the red priestess Melisandre, and even the Sand Snakes on occasion. One night, Nymeria and Tyene arrived at Bryan's chambers carrying books bound in leather so old it looked like it might crumble.
"What did he give you in return?" Myrcella had asked Nymeria afterward, half-teasing, half-serious.
Nymeria's lips curled into a smirk. "Wouldn't you like to know, little lion? I don't know if someone your age should know such things."
Tyene giggled beside her, a sound like silver bells. Myrcella couldn't help but wonder if Bryan's rumored prowess extended beyond the sword and the spell.
Bryan gave little response to them other than a thank you and began reading right away.
The books the Sand Snakes brought lingered in Bryan's chambers like silent sentinels, their cracked spines and faded covers whispering of secrets Myrcella could only dream of uncovering. She noticed how carefully Bryan handled them, his fingers tracing the faded glyphs on their pages with a reverence she'd never seen him afford anything else.
At first, she only caught glimpses—a flash of a diagram etched in red ink, symbols that twisted her thoughts when she tried to make sense of them.
She approached the books with a mixture of caution and curiosity, as though they might come alive and bite her. The one open on his desk was written in a script she vaguely recognized from her lessons: High Valyrian. The ink was a faded black, the words forming jagged lines across the page. Myrcella traced them with her eyes, piecing together fragments from what little she had learned.
One lay open in front of her—a tome in High Valyrian, its script almost as ancient as the dragons themselves. The words twisted and danced on the page, curling into shapes she had never quite mastered in her lessons. Still, she recognized enough to understand the fragments of meaning.
Blood. Life. Sacrifice. The ink smudged beneath the pressure of the old quill, a dark line like a shadow across the words. Myrcella felt her breath quicken. These were no ordinary words. She flipped the page, her heart racing as she glimpsed strange, almost unrecognizable symbols—a circle inscribed with jagged lines, blood droplets falling into its center. She had seen nothing like it before, not in the texts she'd been shown by the maesters.
Her eyes skimmed over more passages, eyes widening as she read what Bryan had underlined in the margins. The blood must answer the call of flame, one note read. Another: Through sacrifice, one may bind the soul to the heavens.
The words made little sense on their own, but the meaning behind them felt... wrong. Myrcella's hands trembled slightly as she turned the next page, her fingers touching a particularly dense passage filled with runes she could not even attempt to pronounce. And yet, the diagrams in the margins were clear: one of them showed a dark figure kneeling before a blood-red moon, while another depicted what appeared to be a circle of fire.
She closed the book quickly, a shiver running down her spine. Her thoughts swirled in confusion. What was Bryan seeking? What was he trying to understand—or, worse, to unleash?
Her gaze flicked over to him, but Bryan seemed completely absorbed in the book in his own hands, his brow furrowed in concentration. He didn't look up, not even when she lingered, staring at him for a long moment. He was reading, his attention fixed, but she had the strange sensation that he wasn't really there—that his mind, like the pages he read, was somewhere far, far away.
Myrcella didn't speak. She didn't need to. Whatever secrets these books contained, she was not about to share them with Bryan. For now, she simply returned the tome to its place on the table, her thoughts churning as she quietly sat back and watched him continue reading.
She was no going to play with magic she did not understand. She would continue the waiting game.
Weeks passed.
Myrcella awoke to the sound of hurried footsteps echoing through the hallways, the heavy thud of boots against stone pulling her from the fog of sleep. The dim light of candles flickered in the dark, casting strange, dancing shadows across her mother's face as Mother shook her gently.
"Come, Myrcella," Mother's voice was sharp, laced with urgency. "You must come with me."
Her mind was slow to catch up, the world around her still wrapped in the hazy warmth of sleep. She tried to push herself up, but her body felt sluggish, as though it were still tethered to dreams. Her eyes struggled to focus, catching only the outlines of the ornate tapestries that hung along the walls. She followed her mother's lead as Mother guided her through the twisting corridors of the Red Keep.
The sound of shouting grew louder as they moved closer to the heart of the castle. Myrcella stumbled slightly, her bare feet cold against the stone floor, her breath still fogging in the cool air of the hallway. Guards were shouting now, their voices frantic. Her mother's grip tightened around her arm, but Myrcella hardly noticed. She was still half-dazed, her thoughts scattered, unsure of what was happening.
It wasn't until they reached the courtyard that Myrcella saw it.
Bryan stood in the middle of a swirl of shadow, his sword raised high as he faced the dark, swirling figure that loomed before him. The shadows themselves seemed to pulse, moving with a life of their own. Myrcella blinked, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Her heart pounded in her chest, but the sight was so surreal that it was hard to grasp the full weight of it.
The guards were shouting again, but their voices sounded distant, muffled beneath the roar of something much darker. The air was thick with a kind of cold, unnatural presence. Bryan's face was set in grim determination, his movements sharp and purposeful as he fought the darkness. Myrcella watched, transfixed, as the shadow seemed to shift, reforming into something more human, its shape familiar—like Stannis Baratheon.
For a moment, Myrcella's chest tightened in disbelief. Was it him? Could it truly be Stannis? But no. She knew it wasn't him. The figure was almost like death itself, an unnatural presence rising from the very depths of the shadows.
Bryan moved with such speed and precision, his sword cutting through the air in arcs of pale moonlight. He didn't hesitate, didn't falter. The figure wavered, but Bryan's blows were relentless. Each strike seemed to carve through the air, cutting the shadow down until it dissolved, vanishing as quickly as it had come.
Myrcella stood frozen, her mouth dry, unable to move. The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun, Bryan's blade gleaming in the low light, dripping with the remnants of whatever dark magic had been used against him. He stood, panting, his eyes scanning the courtyard with an unreadable expression before he turned to face the guards.
Bryan lowered himself to one knee, as he always did. Robb's gift placed onto the ground with the threat gone. "Go," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Back to your room. Now."
Mother pulled Myrcella closer to her, her hand still gripping her daughter's arm, and for a moment Myrcella allowed herself to be led away, her head still spinning from what she had witnessed. The sight of the shadow, the way Bryan had fought it... it didn't make sense. It couldn't have been real, could it?
Her mind tried to process it all, but the pieces didn't fit together. She remembered Bryan's warning to Melisandre, a half-formed recollection that seemed distant in her memory. Don't try anything foolish. Not with shadow magic. How had he known? How could he have possibly known that this would happen?
Myrcella shivered. She glanced back at Bryan, who was speaking with the guards, his back straight, his steps sure, as if nothing at all had happened. The whole encounter had been over in a heartbeat, yet it felt like a dream that she could not quite wake from.
Could it be? Could Bryan be something more than just the man who had become her protector? A god, perhaps? One of the Seven incarnate, the Stranger himself? Yearning to find his way back to the heavens. The thought sent a chill through Myrcella, as though some part of her had come to the terrifying realization that she has only begun to scratch the surface.
That night she slept the best she had in months. Death watched over her as her silent protector. Death taught what she needed to learn. Death would not harm her. Death was her friend.