II-27: The Prince
The Red Keep stretched vast and lonely around Tommen, its towering walls of red stone reaching up toward the warm autumn sky like the illustrations of magic castles in his favorite books. He'd slipped away from his lessons with Grand Maester Pycelle as soon as he could do so politely, the old man's drooping eyes and endless droning about the Dance of Dragons making his head feel stuffed with cotton wool. Even Ser Pounce wouldn't sit still for so long, he thought, remembering how his beloved cat would sometimes stretch and yawn during his own attempts to teach him proper princely behavior.
"If you'll excuse me, Grand Maester," he had said in his most courteous voice, the one Mother said befitted a prince, "I need to visit the privy." The words had tumbled out in a rush, his cheeks flushing pink at the small deception. Mother says princes must never lie, but this wasn't really a lie, was it? The Grand Maester had merely muttered something through his whiskers, likely too surprised by Tommen's unusual restlessness to properly object.
Ser Boros Blount had started to follow, his white cloak swishing against the stone floor, but Tommen had drawn himself up to his full height - which wasn't very tall at all, really - and said in his most princely voice, "I shan't be long, Ser Boros. Please wait here." The knight had looked so confused at being commanded by the usually compliant prince that he'd actually stopped in his tracks, his mouth opening and closing like one of the fish in the castle pond.
Now Tommen wandered the corridors alone, his soft leather boots nearly silent on the stone floors. The castle seemed different without a Kingsguard shadow, more mysterious and full of possibilities. Tapestries depicting great hunts and battles lined the walls, their threads of gold and silver catching the light from the high windows. I wonder if any of them show the places Bran and I talked about exploring, he thought wistfully.
It had been a whole week since their return from Winterfell, and the memory of the North's crisp air still made his chest feel tight with longing. Mother spent all her time with Uncle Jaime, their golden heads always bent close together in whispered conversation. Probably discussing boring grown-up things, he thought, though something about the way they whispered often made him feel strange, like when Ser Pounce knocked over his favorite toy knights and pretended he hadn't. Myrcella was forever trailing after Sansa Stark, the two of them giggling about songs and stories they never seemed interested in letting him hear. Even wild Arya, who sometimes used to show him how to throw snow properly, had vanished into whatever corners of the castle she'd claimed as her own.
And Father... Tommen's thoughts faltered. Father was always hunting or feasting or shouting about something, his booming voice echoing through the halls like thunder. The young prince couldn't remember the last time Father had even noticed him at dinner.
A frown creased his brow as thoughts of his older brother crept in unbidden. At least Joffrey's too busy being cruel to someone else to notice me, he thought, then immediately felt guilty at the errant musing. Mother said he should love his brother, but it was hard when Joffrey had once threatened to skin Ser Pounce just to see him cry.
If only Bran were here, he wished, remembering how the Stark boy's eyes had lit up when they'd discovered a crumbling gargoyle in Winterfell's walls. The familiar sounds of the castle - the swish of ladies' skirts, the murmur of courtly gossip, the distant clash of practice swords in the yard - faded away as he ventured deeper into the lesser-used passages. The portraits of dead kings stared down at him from their frames, their painted eyes seeming to follow his movement in the flickering torchlight.
Bran would know what to do here, Tommen was sure of it. His northern friend would see these halls as an adventure waiting to happen, not just another lonely afternoon. His small fingers traced along the rough stone walls, pressing against each block and crack, searching for anything that might move or shift. Why can't I find a secret passage like Bran would? he wondered, his touch lingering on a particularly promising loose stone. It should be easy.
A whisper of cold air brushed against Tommen's cheek, making him pause mid-step in the dim hallway. The torchlight danced across the ancient stones, casting strange shadows that reminded him of the dragon skulls in the cellars. His small fingers traced the rough wall, following the draft like a cat hunting for mice, when suddenly - there!
The stone beneath his touch shifted ever so slightly, drawing a small gasp from his lips.
A secret door, just like in the stories! His heart fluttered like a caged bird as he pressed harder against the stubborn stone. Bran would be so proud, he thought, remembering how his northern friend's eyes would light up at the prospect of discovery. The wall groaned in protest as he pushed with all his might, his arms trembling from the effort. "Please open," he whispered to the stones, as if courtesy might convince them to yield their secrets.
When the hidden door finally swung inward, the musty air rushed out to greet him, heavy with the smell of forgotten places. Cobwebs stretched across the revealed passage like the delicate lace of Myrcella's favorite dress, only grey with dust instead of white with silk. The narrow corridor beyond reminded him of the tales Bran had told of Winterfell's crypts, though this passage felt warmer, almost alive with the castle's breath.
"Is anyone there?" he called softly into the darkness, his voice quavering despite his attempt to sound brave. The words bounced back to him strange and distorted, as if spoken by someone else entirely. Would a ghost answer if I asked politely? he wondered, then quickly pushed the thought away.
Tommen held his breath as he stepped through the doorway, flinching slightly as the wall sealed shut behind him with a sound like a dying whisper. Only the thinnest slivers of light filtered through unseen cracks, painting the passage in shades of twilight that made everything seem magical and slightly frightening. He stood perfectly still, waiting for his eyes to adjust while trying to quiet his rapid breathing. The air felt thick and heavy in his lungs, like when Mother made him wear his stiffest doublet for formal occasions.
What if there are ghosts? The thought crept into his mind unbidden, making him shiver despite the warmth. But then he remembered Bran's excited descriptions of exploring the crypts beneath Winterfell, where generations of stone Starks kept watch. Bran wasn't afraid of ghosts or darkness, he reminded himself firmly. "I am a prince of the Seven Kingdoms," he whispered to himself, trying to capture some of his father's booming confidence in his own small voice.
His fingers trailed along the damp stone as he took his first tentative steps forward, the texture rough beneath his touch. Everything seemed muffled here, as if the very walls were holding their breath. Should I go back? The thought tempted him deeply. The familiar bustle of the court felt leagues away now, replaced by this pressing silence that made every tiny sound seem important.
But the thought of retreating made his cheeks burn with shame. Bran climbed the highest towers of Winterfell, he remembered, and he never turned back. His friend had explored every corner of his home, driven by an endless curiosity that Tommen envied and admired in equal measure. The close walls reminded him of playing hide-and-seek with Myrcella, only darker and more thrilling.
Each careful step carried him deeper into the passage, his soft leather boots making only the faintest whisper against the stone floor. The musty air reminded him of the library when Grand Maester Pycelle opened the oldest books, a small cough spilling from his lips. Father says a prince must learn to face his fears, he recalled, the few words of his kingly father bolstering his courage as he moved a few steps deeper into the labyrinthine guts of the Red Keep.
A sound whispered through the darkness, making Tommen freeze mid-step. His breath caught in his throat as the echo bounced off the ancient stones, returning to him strange and distorted, like the way his voice changed when he spoke into an empty wine flagon. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, the way Ser Pounce did when stalking birds in the garden.
"Hello?" he called out softly, then immediately wished he hadn't. His voice sounded small and frightened, not at all like the brave prince he was trying to be. A nervous laugh bubbled up from his chest, but it died as quickly as it came when the sound echoed back, twisted and wrong in the pressing darkness. The weight of his solitude settled over him like a heavy velvet cloak, making his shoulders hunch inward.
I'm really alone, he realized, his heart fluttering like a trapped bird in his chest. The darkness seemed to press closer, as thick and heavy as the fog that sometimes rolled in from Blackwater Bay. Fear crept through him, cold as the metal of his father's crown, making his hands tremble where they rested against the damp stone wall. Should I go back? The thought tempted him, sweet as the honeycakes the kitchen servants sometimes snuck him when Mother wasn't looking.
"Maybe... maybe I should get a torch," he whispered to himself, his voice barely louder than a mouse's footsteps. "And a guard. Uncle Jaime would come, wouldn't he?" But even as he spoke the words, they felt wrong in his mouth, like admitting defeat in one of Joffrey's cruel games.
Tommen turned back the way he'd come, his fingers trailing along the walls that felt old and ominous. The stones were slick with moisture that smelled of earth and something else, something sharp and metallic that reminded him of the time he'd cut his finger on one of his toy knights. Each careful step echoed softly in the narrow passage, like droplets falling into a deep well.
His earlier excitement had faded like morning mist in the sun, replaced by a nervousness that made his stomach feel funny. This was a mistake, he thought, remembering how Mother always said a prince should think before acting. The light ahead grew stronger, promising the safety of the familiar castle corridors, when suddenly his foot caught on something hard and unyielding.
The world tilted sideways as Tommen lost his balance, his arms windmilling like the great blades of the mills he'd seen on their journey north. He fell forward with a startled gasp, his knees and palms scraping against the rough stone floor. The impact forced a small cry from his lips, more frightened than hurt, though his hands stung fiercely. Dust filled his mouth, tasting of age and forgotten secrets, making him want to spit like the stable boys did when they thought no one was watching.
He lay there for a moment, fighting back tears that burned at his eyes. They weren't from the pain of his scraped palms and knees – he'd had worse falls learning to ride his pony – but from the sudden, overwhelming fear that gripped him. Bran wouldn't cry, he told himself firmly, though his lower lip trembled traitorously. No, Bran would-
His thoughts scattered like startled pigeons as his hand brushed against something unexpected – smooth and warm, so different from the cold, rough stones surrounding it. The discovery pushed his fear aside like Ser Barristan clearing a path through a crowded corridor. Tommen's fingers scrabbled through the dust and debris, searching eagerly until they closed around the object that had caught his attention.
His eyes widened in the dim light as he lifted his prize. It was a stone, but unlike any he'd ever seen in the castle gardens or even in the clever mechanical books Grand Maester Pycelle sometimes showed him. This stone was the deep red of the castle's walls, but it seemed to catch what little light there was and hold it, gleaming like a star fallen to earth. It was ribbed and layered but otherwise perfectly smooth, as if it had been polished by a thousand hands, and it pulsed with a warmth that seemed to seep into his very bones.
"Shiny," he breathed in wonder, the word escaping him unbidden. It was the sort of thing Myrcella would tease him for saying – she was trying so hard to be a proper lady now – but in the darkness, it felt right. The discovery washed away his fear and shame like the tide clearing footprints from the shore, leaving only excitement in its wake. I have to show this to Myrcella, he thought eagerly, imagining how her eyes would light up like they used to when they were younger and would spend hours hunting for pretty shells in the gardens.
Tommen pushed himself to his feet, brushing at his dusty breeches with his free hand while keeping the stone clutched tight against his chest. For some reason, the young prince felt a little braver with the stone in his hands, almost like a knight.