Myrcella III

Myrcella stood before the door to her mother's chamber, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. She had been waiting for this moment, for the chance to see Mother again, but now that it was here, she felt a pang of uncertainty. Her mother's sharp eyes, once so full of fire and ambition, had grown dull with confinement. Mother had been locked away for months, and though her beauty had not faded, the restless energy that had once emanated from her had withered like a dying flower, its petals curling inward with every passing day.

The guards at the door stepped aside as she approached, and Myrcella entered, her heart heavy. Mother was sitting by the window, staring out at the red walls of the Red Keep, her golden hair falling loosely over her shoulders like a curtain. She did not turn when Myrcella entered. Instead, she simply spoke, her voice quiet but still commanding, like the last whisper of a storm before it fades into calm.

"Oh Myrcella," Mother said, her tone tight with frustration. She looked at the door expectantly. When Bryan did not walk-in, she repeated herself. "Oh Myrcella." Her voice was sweeter now. She was happy to see Myrcella. "I thought you would have come sooner, but I am glad you are here."

"I... I had to wait for permission," Myrcella replied softly, her eyes tracing the lines of her mother's face, studying the exhaustion there. "But I'm here now."

Mother finally turned her gaze to Myrcella, her sharp green eyes locking onto hers, assessing her as she always had, but with an edge of desperation that Myrcella hadn't seen before.

"Bryan." Mother's voice dropped to a whisper, laced with suspicion. "What is it he's offering you, Myrcella? What have you become to him?"

Myrcella straightened, her back stiff with the remnants of the pride she had held before her mother's questions could break through. "He's kind to me, Mother. He wants to help us, and he is helping us."

"Help?" Mother scoffed bitterly, her lip curling in disdain. "You think he's helping us? Don't be fooled. He's a snake in the grass. A jolly one, to be sure, but no less dangerous. Be careful you don't become his pet, like the servants."

Myrcella bit her cheek, resisting the urge to protest, to explain that Bryan had been nothing but kind.

"Promises," Mother sneered. "Promises are nothing but words. He's tricked you, Myrcella. He's filled your head with lies. If you trust him, you're just as foolish as all the rest. I've been here long enough to know that nothing in this place is what it seems." Her eyes burned with an intensity that Myrcella had never seen before, a fire that had not been extinguished by months of imprisonment. "And trust no one, Myrcella. Not him, not anyone."

"But, Mother—" Myrcella began, but Mother cut her off, her voice cold and hard.

"No," she said, stepping closer, her gaze boring into Myrcella's with a fierce, almost painful intensity. "You're smarter than this. You know better. Don't let them pull the wool over your eyes."

"Why won't you trust him, Mother?" Myrcella whispered, her voice small now. "He's trying to help us."

Mother shook her head, a tired smile flickering on her lips. "I'm trying to help you, Myrcella. But you're too blind to see it. You're in danger here, and you don't even know it."

Myrcella swallowed hard, the weight of her mother's words pressing down on her. She had never seen Mother like this before—broken, paranoid, and desperate. It made her own resolve falter, just for a moment.

"Mother, he is teaching magic," Myrcella said softly, the words escaping her before she could stop them. "It's not much, but I can light a candle with some words and a gesture."

With a soft breath, Myrcella whispered the words Bryan had taught her. A single gesture of her fingers, the ancient syllables forming in the air. The flame at the tip of the candle sparked to life, its light growing steady and bright. The fire flickered and burned, wild and defiant.

Mother's eyes went wide, her lips parting in a sharp intake of breath. For a moment, there was silence. Then, a soft exhale from her mother, a mixture of awe and disbelief.

"You can use it," Mother murmured, her voice softer now, as if the reality of what her daughter had done had shaken her.

Myrcella set the candle down on the table, the flame dancing in the still air. Her hands were still steady, despite the flutter of her heart.

Mother ran a hand through her tangled hair, her gaze distant as she seemed to process what Myrcella had done. The storm inside her calmed slightly, but the storm of her thoughts never ceased. "You need to use it, then. Use your influence over Bryan. Keep us safe." She leaned forward, her voice dropping low, as if they were conspiring. "Not just me. Not just you. But your brothers, Uncle Jaime, Grandfather Tywin... the family."

Myrcella's pulse quickened. Her mother's desperation was palpable, as though she were reaching for something just out of her grasp, something that would free her from this cage they were all trapped in. But when she spoke of Jaime, Myrcella's lips parted, a quick retort bubbling up.

"Father," she said, her voice firm despite the rush of emotions inside her. She wanted the charade to end.

Mother's face twisted with disgust. "Don't you dare call him that," she hissed. "You are a princess. Do you hear me, Myrcella? You are a princess of House Lannister and Baratheon. Do not let anyone hear you call Jaime your father, especially not anyone outside this room."

Myrcella felt a tightness in her chest at her mother's words, but she held her ground, her eyes steady. "I am not a fool, Mother. I don't go around telling people I'm the incestuous baseborn child of twin brother and sister. I hear the whispers. They are loud enough without me feeding into them. But," she added, her tone softening. Mother did not want to talk about her parentage yet. She was not ready. Even her mother looked at her like she was a monster. Wielding fire and born of incest, she was Visenya reborn in the eyes of the realm. If she was lucky, Robb would take her as his lady wife one day like she dreamed. Then she'd be the wife of a conqueror. But if her mother could not face the truth with her daughter, then Myrcella wanted to simply enjoy her mother's company. "I am here now, with you. I want to have a little fun. Eat. Chat. Gossip, if that is what you want."

Mother blinked, caught off guard by her daughter's sudden assertiveness. For a moment, she seemed unsure of how to respond, the fire in her eyes flickering, before a low, reluctant chuckle escaped her lips.

"Perhaps you are right," Mother continued, her mood shifting with a slight sigh. "Perhaps I need a chance to forget this place." She stood slowly, her movements languid, and poured herself a goblet of wine, the red liquid splashing into the glass. "But don't think for a moment I've forgotten what's at stake."

Myrcella nodded quietly, her hands folding neatly in her lap as her mother took a seat beside her. Mother broke bread between them, a simple gesture, but it made Myrcella feel the stirrings of some long forgotten normalcy. The mundane.

"So," Mother said, taking a sip of her wine, her eyes flicking over to Myrcella with a mischievous glint in her gaze. "What gossip does my lovely daughter wish to share with me?"

Myrcella couldn't help but grin, the excitement of sharing a secret warming her as she leaned closer to her mother. "Well," she began, her voice lowering conspiratorially, "Bryan had a secret meeting with Princess Arianne Martell. I'm not sure what it was about, but there was something in the way they spoke to each other. It didn't seem like just a friendly visit."

Mother's eyebrows arched, interest piqued. "Arianne Martell? You are telling me Bryan is involved with the Martells?" Her lips curled into a smile. "Perhaps he's planning his own alliance, then."

"Maybe," Myrcella said, though she was less certain. "But that's not the only gossip I've heard. You wouldn't believe what I heard servants speaking about the other night. Viserys Targaryen, of all people, sneaking around the gardens with several noble girls. All at once. He's so open about it—he doesn't care who sees."

Mother's face hardened, her lips tightening into a thin line. "That is brazen," she muttered. "Does it look like he'll be king?" She took another drink, her eyes glittering with a dangerous amusement.

"No," Myrcella said. "The lords whisper many names. I hear Joffrey's the most. They talk about stability."

Her mother choked on her wine. She held back what she wanted to say. "That would be wonderful," Mother awed. "But it seems unlikely. If he had more supporters, why has no one tried to free? There are schemes about, even if we know nothing."

Myrcella sighed at that. Mother was right, of course.

"Ohh!" Myrcella cheered. "Margaery Tyrell is needing to be betrothed again. With Renly's passing, the Tyrell's need to back someone else on the throne. There are rumors she is meeting with the Martells, Starks, and even Uncle Tyrion."

Mother's face looked disgusted at that. "Has he been free this whole time?" Mother asked. None of her disgust towards Lord Bryan, the Starks, or anything has compared to Tyrion. She wondered if Mother assumed killed before now, since she never mentions him.

"I know not, Mother," Myrcella reassured. "I have been forbidden to speak with family unless accompanied. And they have not tried to speak with me. I guess to distance themselves from lies and slander."

Mother chuckled. "If he is acting as lord," she sighed, "He is either more clever or more foolish than I previously thought." Her mother looked lost in thought, searching for the plethora of ways to curse about Uncle Tyrion.

They ate in relative silence after that, the conversation easing into a comfortable rhythm. For the first time in a long while, Myrcella felt like a daughter again, and Mother seemed more like Mother. The worries of the world outside could wait. For now, they could pretend, just for a fleeting moment, that it was just them—two women, sharing a meal and secrets, while the flames of their world continued to burn in the background.

Myrcella's footsteps echoed in the stone halls as she descended into the dungeons, her heart heavy with an unease she couldn't quite shake. The walls around her were thick with damp, the air cold and musty, as though the very stones held memories of suffering. Her mind flickered back to her mother's warnings, to Cersei's fearful insistence that they trust no one, not even those who claimed to be allies.

But she had not come to the dungeons to confront enemies or schemes. She had come to see her family, to feel something that resembled normalcy, to glimpse the faces of those she loved, even in their confinement.

It was Tommen who first noticed her, his soft voice breaking through the quiet murmur of the dungeons. "Myrcella?" he called, his voice hopeful, almost childlike in its innocence. "Is it really you?"

Myrcella's heart clenched at the sight of him, his boyish face still carrying the sweetness she remembered. He was sitting against the cold stone wall, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes wide with unrestrained excitement. It was as if he had been waiting for a moment like this for months.

"Myrcella!" Tommen jumped to his feet, a burst of energy flowing through him as he hurried toward her, his chains rattling against the stone floor. "Please, can you get me out of here? Just for a little while? I want to eat something good. Please!"

Myrcella smiled, her heart aching at the sight of him, so full of hope and light in the darkness. She stepped forward, her arms outstretched as she held the basket closer to the bars. "Of course, Tommen. I couldn't come without bringing food. You must be starving."

Tommen's eyes glistened with gratitude as he reached for the basket eagerly. "I am," he said with a grin that was too wide for his young face. "The food they give is rubbish. You're the best, Myrcella."

Myrcella felt a pang of guilt, realizing just how much they had been deprived. She handed him the bread first, along with a small chunk of cheese, and watched him tear into it with a hunger that made her want to weep.

Tommen looked up at her between bites, his mouth full but his words still clear. "It's okay," he said, swallowing hastily. "I'm just happy to see you. You make this place better."

Her heart twisted with sorrow, but she masked it with a smile. "I'll try to make it better for you, Tommen. Just stay strong, alright?"

Tommen nodded earnestly, his face brightening for a moment before a shadow flickered across his eyes. "I wish we could all leave this place," he muttered, almost to himself. "I don't want to be here anymore."

"I know," Myrcella whispered, reaching through the bars to gently touch his hand. "I wish I could break you out of here. All of you."

As she lingered by Tommen's side, the dungeon grew colder, and the silence was broken only by the distant drip of water and the faint sounds of prisoners stirring. She turned, knowing she had more to do, more to face, and walked down the hall to the next cell.

Tywin Lannister was seated in a stone chair at the far side of his chamber, his sharp eyes watching her approach with the calculating gaze of a lion sizing up its prey. He motioned for her to sit, and she did, pulling up a chair that scraped loudly against the stone floor.

"You've brought food?" Tywin's voice was low and measured, his eyes flicking to the basket, his expression unreadable. "Good. At least you still have the sense to care for your family."

Myrcella set the basket down between them and folded her hands in her lap, her nerves making her fingers twitch. "I... brought what I could," she said softly.

"What is the state of the realm?" Tywin's tone was sharp, impatient.

"There is... there is a Great Council," she answered, clasping her hands together to stop them from trembling.

"I know that," Tywin snapped. "Who is being elected?"

"It was Renly," Myrcella said, "until Stannis killed him."

"I'm aware of Renly's death," Tywin said, his lip curling. "Who now? Who is currently being chosen as king?"

"I don't know," Myrcella admitted, lowering her gaze. "The only names I hear are Joffrey and Viserys Targaryen."

"Who are their allies? Who is voting for Joffrey?" Tywin's words came quick and sharp, each one like a lash.

"I... I don't know that either," Myrcella stammered. "I'm not privy to those councils."

Tywin leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Then why are you here? Who is planning to free us?"

"No one has told me," Myrcella said. "I'm just... I'm just happy to see you. It's been so long."

"Happy to see me," Tywin repeated, his tone mocking. "And why, pray tell, are you allowed to see me now after months of being barred from these cells?"

"I've gained the favor of Lord Bryan Ersae," Myrcella said hesitantly. "The sorcerer. He arranged for me to come here."

"Favor?" Tywin's voice was colder than the dungeon air. "You've gained his favor. Then use it. Use it to free us."

"I'm trying," Myrcella said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"There is no trying," Tywin said, his voice rising. "You must do it. Do you think the realm will wait while you dawdle? Do you think our enemies will grant us mercy because of your delicate courtesies?"

"I don't want to misuse his trust," Myrcella said, her words rushing out in a desperate attempt to explain. "I've seen what he can do. I saw him fight a shadow—a demon, the one that killed Renly. He's not just a man, Grandfather. I think... I think he might be the Stranger made flesh."

Tywin's laugh was sharp and humorless. "The Stranger made flesh? Are you such a halfwit that you believe baseless thoughts? He's a man, no more. A man you must use to secure our freedom."

"But he's kept me alive," Myrcella said, her voice trembling.

"Enough!" Tywin thundered, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He rose from the bench, towering over her despite his chains. "He keeps you alive because you are useful to him. But usefulness is fleeting. Do you think he'll hesitate to discard you the moment you cease to serve his purpose? You must act, Myrcella. Free us before the real Stranger comes for us."

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but Myrcella refused to let them fall.

"You need to do more," Joffrey chimed in, his voice rising. "You need to convince this Bryan that I'm the true heir to the Iron Throne. He's clearly swayed by fools and traitors, listening to the Starks.. Tell him the truth. Tell him I'm Robert's son."

The words hit her like a blow, but she didn't flinch. "We are not," she said quietly, her hands clasping each other so tightly her knuckles turned white. "You can't win the throne with a lie, Joffrey." Even if he is acknowledged as Robert's son, the whole realm knows what he is. What all three of them were.

Joffrey's face twisted into a sneer, his pale blue eyes narrowing. "I am Robert's son," he hissed. "Say that again, and I'll—"

"Enough," Uncle Jaime said, his voice calm but firm. He rose to his feet and placed a hand on Myrcella's shoulder. "Leave her be, Joffrey."

"She's useless," Joffrey muttered, turning away, but his words hung in the air, stinging like nettles.

Jaime crouched slightly to meet Myrcella's gaze. "How have you been?" he asked gently, his voice softer than she'd expected. Father.

"I'm... managing," she said, though her voice wavered. "I've been training. With a dagger. And the sorcerer is teaching me magic." She hesitated before saying the word, unsure of how he would react. "I want to be strong enough to free you. All of you."

Father's smile was small but genuine. "Good," he said. "You've always had a strong heart and clever mind. Strength will follow."

"Do you have any advice?" she asked, her voice tinged with hope.

Father's gaze turned thoughtful. "Always follow through," he said after a moment. "Every great swordsman sees the weapon as part of himself. When you swing, there can't be hesitation or doubt. You need to balance your body and mind. Follow through with every strike."

Myrcella nodded, committing his words to memory. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but Joffrey's voice cut through the moment like a whip.

"This is pointless," Joffrey spat. "Stop wasting time on stupid things, Myrcella. Any blade is useless in a girl's hands. You're supposed to be here for a reason, not—"

"I said, enough," Father said again, but Myrcella could feel her composure slipping.

Joffrey's voice grew louder, his accusations more biting, each one a dagger to her heart. "You're useless, just like the rest of them. A pretty little doll, good for nothing but looking sad and getting in the way."

"Stop," she whispered, but he didn't. The flood of insults and commands broke over her like a storm until, at last, the tears she had been holding back spilled down her cheeks.

Tywin spoke, his voice was low and cutting. "Stop crying, girl. Why is every girl of my seed worthless? No better than your mother."

Tommen's voice, small but steady, broke the tense silence that Myrcella had left in her wake. "Stop yelling, Joffrey," he said, his words carrying a quiet authority that belied his usual meekness. "You're stuck in here, same as the rest of us. Leave her be."

Joffrey's face twisted in a sneer, but he said nothing, perhaps too stunned by his younger brother's boldness to muster another insult.

Tommen turned to Myrcella, his round face softening into a smile. "Thank you for bringing food," he said, his voice earnest. "I love you, Myrcella."

Myrcella felt her throat tighten. She stepped closer to the bars of his cell, placing her hand against the cold iron. "I love you too, Tommen," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jaime stepped forward, his golden hair catching the dim torchlight. His expression was unreadable, but his voice carried warmth Myrcella had rarely heard from him. "I love you too," he said simply, the words weighted with truth.

Myrcella turned to him, her emerald eyes glistening. "And I love you, Father," she said, her voice breaking slightly on the word.

Jaime's face changed in an instant. His lips parted, as if he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. His eyes shimmered with unspoken emotion, and he looked as though he might cry. Myrcella had never seen him look so vulnerable, so human. His hand reached out, brushing her cheek with the lightest of touches before he let it fall to his side.

When she turned to bid farewell to Tywin and Joffrey, the sight of their faces struck her like a slap. Tywin's expression was carved from stone, but his eyes burned with anger, as if her words had been a personal affront. Joffrey, meanwhile, looked incredulous, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. She felt their judgment like a weight pressing down on her, but she stood tall, refusing to let their scorn undo her.

Without another word, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the stone corridor. The further she got from their cell, the easier it became to breathe. She turned one corner, then another, the torches flickering in their iron sconces, casting shadows that danced like wraiths along the walls. Her heart still beat fast, the moment with Jaime lingering in her mind like the warmth of a summer sun. She was so lost in her thoughts she forgot where she was.

Myrcella looked the cell before her was the Red Woman, sat cross-legged on the floor behind the iron bars, her hair a cascade of flame, her ruby necklace glowing faintly in the dim light. Her eyes, scarlet and knowing, lifted to meet Myrcella's as if she had been expecting her.

"Little lady," the red witch said, her voice smooth as silk. "I hear you carry the flame with you. You have gained the Lord of Light's favor." Even trapped in a cell the witch knew.

Myrcella left the dungeons. She did not want to speak to the witch. As she stepped into the sunlight spilling through the castle's open windows, a Lannister soldier approached her, his crimson-and-gold cloak fluttering slightly in the breeze. His face was stern but not unkind. "Princess," he said with a bow, "Lord Tyrion has requested your presence. He wishes to speak with you."

Her heart leapt. Uncle Tyrion. She hadn't seen him in what felt like ages. "Of course," she said, her voice steady even as anticipation quickened her pace. She followed the soldier through the winding corridors, her slippers silent on the stone floors, her mind racing.

When they arrived, the door to Tyrion's chambers stood slightly ajar, and a familiar voice called out before she could knock. "Come in, dear niece! I've not grown so old I can't hear your approach."

Myrcella pushed the door open, and there he was, sitting comfortably in a high-backed chair, a goblet of wine in hand and a mischievous smile on his face. Tyrion looked tired. There were new lines around his eyes, and his hair had thinned slightly, but his sharp wit and warmth had not dulled.

"Myrcella," he said, rising and opening his arms wide. "My favorite niece graces me at last! We must thank your benefactor, Lord Ersae, and our dear Lord Protector Stark for granting me the boon of your company."

Myrcella stepped into his embrace, the familiar scent of parchment and wine enveloping her. She pulled back, smiling. "It's good to see you, Uncle. I missed you."

"And I you, sweet girl," Tyrion said, his tone softening. "It has been far too long. They keep you locked away, as if we might conspire against the stars themselves. It's a relief to know you still walk free."

His words, though light, carried a weight that struck Myrcella deeply. She realized, not for the first time, how isolated he must feel, kept from Tommen and Jaime, his family reduced to whispers and shadows. She squeezed his hand, wishing she could say something to ease the pain she saw behind his eyes.

Tyrion gestured to a platter on the table, laden with bread, cheese, and dried figs. "Sit, eat. I hear you've been busy charming sorcerers and wolves alike. I'll need to know every detail before I grow jealous."

She laughed softly, taking a seat across from him. "I don't know about charming," she said, breaking off a piece of bread. "I've done what I could."

"And help you have, I've no doubt." He sipped his wine, studying her over the rim of his goblet. "Despite what has happened, I've made peace with the Starks since my beloved nephew was dethroned. Largely thanks to your friendship with our sorcerer. He speaks highly of you." Myrcella grew faintly excited. Was she betrothed to Robb like she hoped? And Bryan spoke highly of her? She wondered if that was courtly speak on his behalf or he genuinely thought she was doing well. Half the time she assumed he was trying to placate her like most of the servants did. "But tonight, let us leave such weighty matters aside. I've arranged a little supper. Just you, myself, and a few familiar faces. Rosamund is among them."

"Rosamund?" Myrcella's smile brightened. "She's here?"

Tyrion nodded.

Myrcella's excitement bubbled over. "I'll be sure to dress nicely for supper. I can't wait to see her." For a night, she resolved to set it aside. She would see Rosamund, break bread with her uncle, and let herself feel like a Princess again, if only for a little while.