Myrcella I

The dream was always the same. A hall of golden light turned into a battlefield, the cries of warriors mingling with the sound of clinking chains. The throne room, her throne room, filled with wild Northmen, their wolves' heads flying high, their swords thirsting for blood. She felt the cold iron bite into her wrists as they bound her in chains. Her family was nowhere to be seen. Only Robb Stark stood before her, fierce and beautiful in his wildness, his blue eyes flashing like the summer sky.

"You need not fear them, Myrcella," he told her, his voice full of quiet command. "Your wicked brother will be put in chains like the rest. It is you who will ascend the throne. I will protect you, serve you, until my last day. And if you bless me, I will gladly wed you."

His lips brushed her hand, warm and tender, and in that moment, she felt something stir within her—a spark of something long buried.

She had smiled then, as she always did in the dream. He would be her protector, her husband, her king.

But then, as always, the dream shattered. She woke up, alone, in her quiet room.

It had been a strange dream, and yet it was not so far from what she desired. Robb Stark, the noble lord of Winterfell, would free her from the chains of her brother, Joffrey, and the prison of the Red Keep. She would be safe. She would be free.

Her heart ached for her family. She missed them—her father, Uncle Jaime, and even Tommen and Myrcella's sweet, cruel brother, Joffrey. Though she did not miss his tantrums, his angry words, or the way he had treated her like a fragile thing. He was cruel, his temper sharp, always looking for ways to remind her of her weakness. No, she didn't miss that part.

The only thing she truly wished for was the comfort of her family's presence. The sound of their voices. She wanted to see them again, but she was forbidden. The only person who had visited her since the Northmen took control of the Red Keep was Lord Bryan and Lord Robb.

Bryan had made it clear, on the second day of her capture, that she was no longer confined to her room. She was free to move about the castle, though he had warned her that she best stay near him, a ward of sorts. She no longer had to remain locked away in the confines of her quarters, though she was still wary of the way the servants watched her with distrust. They whispered as she passed, behind their hands, with looks full of judgment and hate.

"Abomination," one of them muttered, her voice heavy with disgust. "The bastard daughter of the Queen and her brother."

The words stung like cold needles in Myrcella's chest. How could they say such things about her? She wasn't a bastard. She wasn't an abomination. She was the daughter of a queen—their queen—and King Robert Baratheon, one who was above the petty whispers of these small, frightened people. She wasn't what they said. She wasn't.

Yet every time she passed a servant, she heard it—another low murmur, another cruel remark. The words blurred together, but they were always the same.

"Myrcella Waters"

She felt like she might suffocate beneath their gazes, as though the weight of their words could crush her if she let them.

When she became Lord Bryan's ward, he had promised to protect her. And so far, he had kept that promise. He had taken her under his care, teaching her things she had not expected to learn: histories of faraway lands, languages long forgotten, and the strange symbols of Asshai. Bryan had an odd way of making everything seem so important, as though there were a reason behind every lesson, a purpose beyond the knowledge itself. And despite the silence and the mystery that clung to him like a shadow, Myrcella could not help but trust him, even if she was not entirely sure why.

She had even asked him—when the rumors of her mother starving herself had reached her ears—if he would go check on Mother. Bryan was allowed to go anywhere. She could not bear the thought of her mother wasting away alone in her isolation. Bryan had agreed to visit Mother and bring her food, though he warned Myrcella it would be unwise for her to attempt to see her mother while she was dealing with the shock of everything that had happened. He had promised he would make sure her mother ate.

Myrcella tried to lose herself in the books that Bryan had left her, her small fingers tracing the strange characters of High Valyrian, struggling to make sense of a language that seemed like ancient magic. But her thoughts were restless, and soon, her gaze turned back to Bryan. He was quiet as always, watching her with those piercing blue eyes, ever polite, but so enigmatic.

Why did he seem so intent on teaching her, making her read so much? What was it that Bryan truly wanted from her? He ate with others, but he also ate more by himself. She noticed he would keep snacks with him. He was constantly reading and carrying a book. He had to visit the chamberpot frequently, even more frequent than father. He was such an odd man, so strange in his ways.

Sighing, Myrcella turned her attention back to the page, but it was no use. Her mind kept returning to one question, a question that had been bothering her for some time.

Finally, she couldn't contain it any longer. She looked up at Bryan, who stood by the desk, watching her with his unreadable expression.

"Bryan," she began, her voice small but steady. "Is Jaime really my father?"

The question hung in the air between them, a fragile thing, full of the weight of every whispered remark she had overheard. Myrcella's heart raced in her chest as she waited for his answer, knowing that it might be the answer she both wanted and feared.

The question hung in the air between them, a fragile thing, full of the weight of every whispered remark she had overheard. Myrcella's heart raced in her chest as she waited for his answer, knowing that it might be the answer she both wanted and feared.

Bryan stood silent, his eyes distant for a moment, as though the question had carried him elsewhere, to a place beyond her reach. Finally, his voice broke the silence.

"Who raised you?" he asked.

The question caught her off guard. She had never thought of it in those terms. Who had raised her? Her mother, yes, but there had been so little of her presence, so much of her absence.

Myrcella had always been left to learn from the world around her, from the whispers of servants and the cold words of her brothers.

She thought hard. Really thought about it.

Her mother, Mother, had taught her many things—of beauty, of power, of how to command attention. But Mother had been a distant figure in her life, consumed by her own ambitions, her own desires. There had always been something more pressing than Myrcella. The days she remembered her mother most were the days she had been alone, the days when Mother was locked away in her chambers or away in court.

Pycella had been there, too, a constant, yet even Pycella was a distant shadow, hovering, more a companion than a teacher. The two girls had shared whispers and stories, but Pycella never spoke of lessons beyond the ones they learned from watching their mother's cunning.

Jaime, her uncle, was gentle, so gentle, but even he had seemed to prefer the company of her brothers. He had been a silent protector, but more so for Joffrey, and Tommen. His eyes had lingered on the cruelty of the firstborn, not on her. His hands had soothed Joffrey when he threw his tantrums, and he had smiled at Tommen with pride. But he had never looked at Myrcella as though she were something worth his full attention. Jaime had never been a father to her. Only a presence.

King Robert, her father by name, had loved her dearly, as he did all his children, but his affection was empty—constantly showering her with praise and adoration, but never really seeing her. She had always been an afterthought to him, a distant child who could never fill the void left by Mother's coldness.

The maids, yes, they had raised her in the practical sense. They had seen to her every need—dressing her, feeding her, tending to her every whim. But they had never instructed her. They had cared for her body, but not for her mind. They had been servants, not teachers.

Myrcella's gaze fell, her eyes dropping to her lap. "I don't know," she said at last, the answer tasting bitter on her tongue. "I don't know."

Bryan grew melancholic. He did not push her further. There was something about him that was always patient and hopeful, but if she had not always been taught men and lords do not cry before little girls, she would have sworn his eyes watered like fresh morning dew.

The silence between them lingered. Myrcella found herself staring at the book in front of her, though her thoughts were far away.

Time passed, and Bryan began his lessons anew. He had always insisted that Myrcella's mind be sharper than Tyrion's, that she be able to speak with the great minds of the world. Today, they sat again at the desk, surrounded by the strange texts he had left for her to study. Her fingers traced the ancient symbols of High Valyrian and Asshai'i, struggling to make sense of the convoluted scripts. The ink blurred beneath her fingers, her mind rebelling against the effort.

Bryan watched her, ever silent. His gaze never wavered. Every once in a while, he would pause, leaning closer, and point to a character, making her repeat the sounds, the meanings, until they were burned into her mind. It was a slow process, but each session left her more determined.

He paused her reading once, his voice breaking the quiet. "You know, Myrcella, this language will be useful one day. Knowledge like this can open doors that few can even dream of."

Myrcella nodded, but her eyes stayed on the page. She was beginning to understand, but her heart wasn't in it. She felt too distant from everything—her mother, her family, her past. Her life had become a blur of lessons, of books, of whispers.

Finally, Bryan spoke again, his tone more practical now. "I will quiz you now. High Valyrian and Asshai'i, both."

Myrcella's stomach tightened, but she nodded. The test was an unspoken challenge, one that she knew would define her progress.

She read the first set of characters, each stroke a struggle against the mind-numbing confusion she felt. Her second attempt came quickly, but her hand shook as she marked the final symbols. Bryan did not comment, but his eyes narrowed as he looked over her work.

"Try again," he said, his voice steady, betraying no hint of disappointment.

Myrcella's heart hammered in her chest. She wiped her hands against her skirts and closed her eyes. This time, she focused, cutting through the haze that had clouded her thoughts. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the marks she had left, the neat strokes of ink, each character perfect.

Bryan beamed. "Well done, Myrcella."

Her lips trembled with a smile of her own. She felt a warmth rise within her, an unfamiliar feeling of pride.

"Now," Bryan said, rising from his seat, his voice once again cool and commanding. "You have done well. You are ready. We shall venture into the city today."

Myrcella's stomach fluttered with nerves. "Venture into the city?"

Bryan nodded. "You will accompany me around King's Landing. But," he added, "you must disguise yourself. Being a Princess would attract far too much attention as you are." Former Princess. She kept her correction to herself.

Bryan turned toward the wardrobe, selecting a simple dress, one that would hide her features more than it would show them. "Change into this. And remember, Myrcella," he said, his eyes locking with hers. "The streets are not always kind."

She swallowed hard, nodding as she took the dress from him. As she began to change, she could feel the weight of his words pressing on her, but also the weight of the world outside those walls. The world that she would soon face.

As they walked, the towering walls loomed like silent guardians, casting shadows over the cobblestones where the world beyond spun in ways she had never truly understood. Bryan walked beside her, his stride steady and purposeful, as though he had tread this path a thousand times. His gaze, sharp and unblinking, remained forward, but Myrcella's eyes darted about nervously, watching the world unfold in front of her.

As they passed the Northern Lords, she felt their eyes upon her—heavy, knowing eyes. She could feel the weight of their recognition, the silence that fell in their wake. They did not stop her, did not acknowledge her as she walked beside Bryan, but she felt the ripple of their gazes like a brand across her skin. They saw her—daughter of the queen, an abomination in their eyes, a reminder of the incest that had tainted their southern rulers. But they let her pass. None dared speak against her in Bryan's presence.

As they moved through the market streets, the noise and bustle were almost overwhelming. Shouts from street vendors hawking their wares, the clink of coin changing hands, the clamor of children running through the crowds—all of it was so different from the stillness of the Red Keep.

But as they made their way through the throngs of people, something unexpected happened. Two men—rough-looking, with the air of beggars or criminals—stepped into their path. Myrcella tensed instinctively, recognizing the danger in their approach.

"You want to pass?" one of them demanded, his voice thick with the accent of the lowborn. "That'll cost you. Silver stags. You ain't walking through here for free."

Bryan did not flinch. His hand dipped into his coin pouch, and with a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed a few silver stags at their feet. The men grinned, their greed evident.

"Nice little sum," the other man muttered, eyeing Myrcella with a predatory gleam in his eyes. "But perhaps there's a better offer you'd like to make. You know, for her…" He looked at Myrcella, a sick grin curling on his lips. "Your daughter. Pretty thing she is. Could fetch a fine price, I imagine."

Myrcella's breath caught in her throat. She could feel the cold sweat on her palms. Her pulse quickened as fear tightened its grip on her chest.

Bryan's hand tightened around his staff, the long, dark wood a stark contrast against the sunlight. Without warning, he struck, the staff coming down with a thud that sent the first man reeling, crashing into the cobblestones. The second man barely had time to react before Bryan's staff swept across him, knocking him off his feet with a swift, punishing strike.

Bryan stood over them, his face a mask of fury.

"Harm a child," he said, his voice low and cold, "and I'll leave you for the rats."

The men scrambled, cursing, but they did not dare make another move. Bryan took the silver stags, scooped up their daggers, and without a second glance, continued on his way.

Myrcella stayed close, her heart still racing. She had seen Bryan strike those men with the speed and precision of a warrior. She had always thought of him as a quiet, ponderous man, slow in his movements, but there was a viciousness to him when provoked, a cold fury that chilled her to the bone.

"Are you well, Myrcella?" Bryan asked, his voice suddenly softer.

Myrcella nodded, but her thoughts were still whirling, her eyes still lingering on the two men who had dared threaten her.

"I'll be fine," she said quietly, though she knew it wasn't the truth.

The day stretched on, the city unchanging in its chaos. They moved through narrow alleys and bustling squares, and Bryan's business took him to strange places.

They met with hedge wizards—men whose robes were as ragged as their reputations, their magic uncertain, their motivations unclear. Bryan spoke with them in low tones, negotiating over potions and spells that Myrcella couldn't begin to understand. She hadn't seen magic before. Not real magic anyway. There were performers at Father's feasts, but these hedge wizards were different. There was something crude about their magic.

One man, with a wild mane of unkempt red hair, handed Bryan a small vial filled with a swirling, iridescent liquid. "For the pissin'," he said, his voice gruff. Bryan gave him some coin and they left.

Next, they visited the alchemists' guild, a place that smelled of sulfur and burned herbs. The guild members were too refined for Myrcella's tastes—too proper, too obsessed with their work. Bryan handed over a large sum of gold, and they spoke in cryptic tones about things she didn't understand. One alchemist, with spectacles perched on his nose, made cryptic promises about items he could not yet produce, urging Bryan to return in a week. "Alone," he added, his eyes flickering nervously over Myrcella.

Bryan did not seem surprised by the request. He merely nodded, already turning to leave. But Myrcella couldn't help but wonder what business Bryan had with such people, and why they seemed so secretive. He was always moving toward something greater, something mysterious. He was a real sorcerer. Why did he spend time with frauds?

Later, Bryan wrote several letters, each sealed with his personal seal, a golden bear. The contents, Myrcella knew, were not for her eyes. He had already sent letters to Astapor, promises of things Myrcella couldn't comprehend—gifts, she assumed, though what they were, she had no idea. Bryan had never shared his plans with her, though she wondered if he ever would.

Their final stop was at the Great Shepherd's temple, a place of quiet reverence. Bryan listened to the prayers in Lhazareen, and Myrcella saw something there that shook her—his eyes were full of emotion, his face softening with the words. After a moment, Bryan placed a large sum of coin in the hands of the priest, instructing him to copy their holy text. The priest bowed low in thanks, but Myrcella could see the deep sadness in Bryan's eyes.

It was a side of him she had never seen before—fragile, vulnerable, filled with an unspoken grief. It was a grief he did not speak of, but Myrcella could feel it like a weight pressing down on him.

She felt strange around him now. There was something about Bryan that she couldn't quite understand, something both terrifying and fascinating. He was broody, serious, and yet full of a kind of curiosity, a restless desire to achieve something far greater than himself. He was not like the others who lived in the Red Keep, not like the nobles who played their games for power and wealth. Bryan seemed driven by something else, something deeper, though what it was, Myrcella couldn't say.

She stayed close to him, watching him with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

By the time they reached the Great Sept of Baelor, Myrcella was weary, the weight of the city's noise pressing on her. Bryan, however, remained unshaken, walking with purpose, his eyes scanning the crowds as if he were searching for something beyond the common folk.

They visited temples for the Lord of Light, and smaller shrines to other gods, places where the poor and the downtrodden prayed in hopes of a better life. Bryan listened quietly, his gaze never wavering as he passed from one place to the next.

When they reached the temple of the Great Shepherd, however, something changed. The air felt different, heavy with a strange kind of reverence. Bryan stopped in the doorway, his eyes widening as he listened to a message in a language Myrcella did not understand—Lhazareen, they called it. The words seemed to strike him deeply, for he lowered his head, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Myrcella watched him, confused. She had never seen him react so... raw. She did not know how to approach him, but he did not seem to notice her presence at that moment.

He stood there, in the midst of the few worshippers, as if lost in something far greater than himself.

When they finished, he spoke to the priest, his voice barely a whisper. "Take this," he said, handing them a generous sum of coin. "I'd like a copy of your holy text."

Myrcella, still standing at the threshold, could only stare at him in silence. He was so different from the man she had known, so filled with purpose and emotion that she could not quite fathom it.

Bryan left with Myrcella, smiling in a way that she had not seen any man smile before. It was like he had fallen in love. He walked this way all the way back to the Red Keep.

The sun had risen over the Red Keep, bathing its blood-red stones in golden light, but Myrcella's sleep had been restless. Her dreams had come again, vivid and cruel. She was dragged through the halls of the Red Keep by faceless northern men, their hands rough and unyielding. She fought, but it was as though she had no strength in her limbs, her cries echoing unheard. They took her to her chambers and threw her down, and just as their shadowy forms loomed over her, he appeared.

Bryan had not been the Bryan she knew, with his slow movements and quiet voice. He had been a storm. Magic poured from his hands, dark tendrils of power that tore the men apart, their bodies flung like ragdolls against the walls. His face was a mask of fury, his eyes glowing with otherworldly light. When it was done, the room was silent but for her own sobs. Bryan stood over her, his broad frame blocking out the light.

"It's over," he said, his voice deep and resonant, though it did not comfort her.

She woke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest, her skin damp with sweat. Her bedchamber was quiet, the sunlight filtering through the high windows. It was only a dream. She was safe—for now.

The knock at her door came softly, and when she called for them to enter, a maid slipped inside, carrying a tray with her breakfast. Myrcella ate quickly, her appetite dulled by the lingering unease of her dream. She picked at the bread and honey, forced down some salted fish, and drank the watered wine, all while her mind lingered on the nightmare.

The godswood of the Red Keep was small compared to those in the North, but it had a quiet beauty to it. The great weirwood tree stood at its center, its white bark and red leaves stark against the greenery. Its face, carved long ago by hands long dead, watched her with an expression that seemed both serene and sorrowful. Bryan was already there, seated cross-legged at the base of the tree, his staff lying across his knees. His eyes were closed, his head bowed slightly. He looked as though he were praying.

When she approached, he opened his eyes and smiled faintly. "Good morning, Myrcella. You're earlier than I expected."

She nodded, hesitant to disturb him. But he gestured for her to sit beside him, and she did, the grass cool and damp beneath her.

"They've heard you screaming in your room," Bryan said after a moment, his voice low and careful. "The servants. They've told me."

Myrcella frowned, confused. "I don't scream," she said. "At least, I don't think I do."

"Are you having nightmares?" he asked, turning to look at her fully.

"Yes," she admitted after a pause. "I keep dreaming of Robb Stark storming the Red Keep." Her voice trembled slightly, and she hated herself for it. "I don't know why. It's over. But in the dreams, it's never over."

Bryan nodded, his expression unreadable. "That's normal," he said. "What happened was hard for you. It left scars you cannot see, but they are there all the same. I want to help you empty your mind, Myrcella. To find some peace."

Bryan explained meditation. It was similar to what the Septons and Septas asked them to do. She was tasked with quieting her soul. They tried to meditate, Bryan guiding her with his steady voice, but Myrcella struggled. Her mind was a storm of thoughts, and every time she tried to quiet it, something new would rise to the surface. She grew frustrated, fidgeting, unable to keep still.

Finally, she crossed her arms and shot him a look. "If you want to help me find peace," she said, "why do you make me do so much homework?"

Bryan chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Because if you want to have a good life, you'll need to learn many things," he said. "You'll need to grow—not as a princess, but as a person. If you don't, others will decide your life for you. Do you understand?"

Myrcella's gaze dropped to the grass. She picked at it absently, her voice quieter when she spoke again. "Yes. I understand." The words tasted bitter. "I'm Myrcella Waters."

Bryan's expression softened, and he leaned closer, his voice gentler than she'd ever heard it. "You're more than a name, Myrcella," he said. "You decide who you'll become. No one else can do that for you."

He gestured to the weirwood tree, its face seeming to watch them both. "I don't worship the old gods," Bryan said, "but I feel connected to my god here. In this place, I feel at peace. I can be present—truly present—with my worries, my fears, and my problems. And for a time, I can accept that they don't exist here. It's just me. And if you want, it can be you too."

Myrcella grew quiet, his words settling over her like a warm cloak. She closed her eyes and tried again, but the storm in her mind still raged. She opened her eyes, frustrated, and looked at Bryan. "I can't," she said. "I just… I feel so helpless."

Bryan placed a hand on her shoulder, steady and reassuring. "Then let me teach you the words that have helped me. Whenever you feel helpless, recite the words to yourself and your gods." He spoke the words slowly, deliberately, and Myrcella listened, the simplicity of it settling into her mind like a seed. "Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."

She repeated the words under her breath, tasting them, trying to make them her own. They weren't magic, not like the kind Bryan had used in her dreams, but they felt like a kind of power all the same.

For the first time in days, she felt the storm in her mind begin to quiet. Just a little.