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The pungent scent of incense wafted through the sept at Highgarden, lingering in Myrcella’s throat as she stood before the altar betwixt the Mother and Father. Light struggled to shine through the stained-glass windows depicting their visages, the darkness of the stormy seventh hour of the evening requiring thousands of tall beeswax candles be lit. They cast a suffocatingly dull glow over the massive white marble chamber that caused her eyes to ache. Each breath Myrcella took was stunted by the white silk gown she wore, the bodice laced tightly to accentuate the budding curve of her waist.
The sound of raindrops pounding against the domed roof of the structure was overpowered by song, the occupants of the castle sept dedicating themselves with vigor to welcoming the marriage of the realm’s prince. The women sounded like screeching birds while the men sounded like roaring bears, the out of tune hymn grating against Myrcella’s ears, dissonant and head spinning. Still, she followed along in time with the rest, the words numbly pouring from her lips, trained into her since birth. The man beside her was silent, his mouth still as the ice he hailed from as he refused to sing along. Myrcella suspected he did not know the words, nor did he care to. He was a heathen of the North. What heathen knew the proper ways of southron marriage customs?
No matter what the newly crowned queen claimed, her nephew was no proper southron prince of song and legend. His disposition was too dour, his face dark and scarred. His voice held a distinct brogue, and his countenance was that of a wolf, not a dragon.
Before, they called him Jon the Whitewolf. Jon the Undying. Jon Snow the King of the North and Trident. Now, as the crown prince of the realm, the Dragon Queen insisted he be called Jaehaerys Targaryen, a prince and only a prince. Rumor said the change in title spared the North dragonfire; the prince possessed control over the great beast Rheghal, but Drogon, the Queen’s dragon, dwarfed the other beast in spades. It mattered not to Myrcella; no man was so noble as to give up kingship in order to spare his family. A bastard begot by sin was bound to commit sins of his own. Wolves and dragons desired flesh, and Myrcella was only a fawn.
The overwhelming presence of the Queen pressed against Myrcella’s spine, heavy and aching. Daenerys Targaryen was beauty incarnate, with skin like milky glass and silver hair spun like delicate silk. Though she was shorter than Myrcella, she made up for it in sheer presence alone, as large as her dragon in spirit and just as stubborn, besides. Perhaps the Queen would eat Myrcella just as her dragon ate the Myrcella's mother?
Cersei Lannister surely died screaming. The climax of the hymn sounded similar.
Mother bless this union
Mother bless this union
Myrcella sang as she stared up at the likeness of the Mother. Depicted on the window was a young woman with blonde hair down to her feet. Rain trickled down the glass, and in the low glowing light of the candles it looked like tears. For a moment, Myrcella wished she was born with a crown of gold just as her brothers were. To be accused of being a bastard born of incest was a kinder fate than her own. Yes, Joff and Tom died, but their endings were quick, over like a flickering flame snuffed out of existence in an instant. Joff choked while Tom jumped. Uncle Jamie saved her from burning. Uncle Tyrion saved her from having her head cleaved from her neck, but at what cost? Why could they not let her join the rest of her family? Myrcella decided three moons ago with the arrival of her moonblood that she hated them both. She was only facing the dragons because of their supposed mercy. Jamie did not live to feel her scorn, long dead in the battle to defend humanity. Tyrion, however, lived to feel her wrath. It was he who proposed this cage. It was he who bartered her away at the price of the Westerlands after taking over her birthright, Storm's End. Myrcella never claimed queenship - her mother placed the bloody crown on her head - but it meant she was a piece to be played by those most selfish. If left to her own devices, Myrcella would have given it up. She would have joined the Silent Sisters. She would have fled to Essos. She would have driven a blade into her belly if she weren't so afraid. How could any of them have loved her? They resigned her to this fate.
Myrcella traced her eyes over the Father. The glass formed to show another blonde, the man bearded and wise. His body was the epitome of strength; though not as blatant as the Warrior’s. The Father looked nothing like Robert Baratheon, the fat old king. Her own father. Myrcella hadn’t thought about him in years. She must have loved him, yes? Despite lacking the ability to recall such a feeling? He might have loved her. He gifted her a garden on her seventh name day. She remembered a shrub trimmed to resemble a young fawn, sweet and calm. He held her hand when he was dying and called her his Fawn. He beat her mother bloody with the same hand she held during his last breath. Robert Baratheon was interested in her as an object of his own making, left to be watched and monitored. He told her he would keep her safe. He told her he would kill any man who brought her dishonor. Where was he now? Where was anyone who could help her?
Father judge us truly
Father judge us truly
The fawn must have burned with the rest of the Red Keep during the Great Burning. Myrcella suddenly longed to have been the one to burn it, instead of her mother. How strange to be known for burning down a city as a lion instead of a dragon. Cersei Lannister should have been born a Targaryen. Then, the Stag King would have killed her, and Myrcella never would have been born. Decidedly, that was a much better fate as the responsibility of life would no longer be in her hands. Throwing herself off the ramparts of any great keep remained a possibility, if only her fear of the Seven Hells allowed her the option.
The Stranger is long for us
The Stranger is long for us
The hymn came to a slow close, and Myrcella suddenly found her shoulders barren. Her maiden cloak rested in the arms of Edric Storm come Baratheon, the boy standing in the place of her father, the head of her house. At seven and ten, only a scant few pitch black whiskers grew on his chin, though he loomed at the same height as their shared father. Traitorous bastard, she longed to scream. Dearest brother, she acquiesced stiffly every time they spoke.
Myrcella's head spun, and her vision swam as red and black replaced black and gold. Somehow, the new cloak was heavier than the last despite both being made from silk, weighing her down so much so she thought she might smash through the white marble flooring. Her father would be incensed over the Targaryen colors placed upon her back, screaming and raging like a storm. Ours is the Fury. He would strike down Jaehaerys Targaryen without a second thought, and Myrcella would graciously thank him for it. Woulds did not exist in reality, however. Myrcella was never going to be saved.
For a moment, she recalled the boy Jon Snow, the bastard her mother sneered at all those years ago during their visit to Winterfell. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Back then, Myrcella believed in the goodness of princes. Now, she understood the truth. Men raped little girls. Men killed little girls. Men proclaimed themselves as princes and kings and burnt down entire cities. She would have to open her legs to a man she knew nothing of beyond terrifying rumors. They never spoke before their brief betrothal. He said all of eight words to her afterward when she attempted to walk the massive gardens of Highgarden all alone. Do not leave the keep alone, stupid girl. His word was to become her law, and he thought her a stupid girl.
Numbly, she turned to her new husband and murmured along with him, “With this kiss I pledge my love.”
The man leaned in, in, in, stooping down closer, closer, so close she felt his breath against her face. It smelled strongly of chewed mint. A blessing if one desired a kiss. He’s only six years older, she thought, her mind scrambling to find the positives. It was no comfort. Any thought of his age only reminded her of her recent name day – three and ten. Her hips were much too small for the babe the Dragon Queen claimed would unite the realm.
His lips were as cold as the hand cupping her chin. Icy. Undead – Her stomach lurched – His beard scratched against her cheeks – Her skin broke out in unpleasantly tight gooseflesh – His fingers were akin to talons – She wanted to die – His teeth were fangs – Maybe he would eat her in one bite – He was going to steal her breath away – Please, let her die –
The kiss ended.
The crowd cheered.
Myrcella wondered if the rain would ever stop pouring.