Archive of Our Own ^beta

True to his word – always, down to the very letter – Myrcella and her mother are left on the banks of Braavos with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. Mother had pleaded to be able to take Joffrey’s ring, Tommen’s jewelled brooch, her own jewels and clothes of cloth-of-gold, but no.

They wore simple, well made clothes, and Myrcella was glad she wasn’t wearing anything heavy under the hot Braavosi sun, no matter how much wealth she could have carried that way. They have no crowns, no purses, no contacts – mother watches the boat with the Baratheon stag sail away, right over the horizon. Myrcella doesn’t try and get her to move, even when the fish-sellers and sailors keep on stepping on her heels and squeezing round her sides. But she doesn’t look herself – she can’t. She had been a Baratheon, once.

A year ago, a moon ago, even, she had been Princess Myrcella Baratheon, daughter of King Robert. She had been quiet and clever and quick, and she had been half a mother to Tommen, her sweet, gentle little brother, and half a mother to Joffrey too, in a way, as their own had no desire to even gently chastise him. She had never believed the stories, never. Her father hadn’t been present, particularly, and when he was present he wasn’t all that nice, but he was her father. He was her father.

Stannis hadn’t even let her take the doll that papa bought her for her nameday, the last present he’d ever given her. She had no right to King Robert’s love, he said, no right to his name nor his wealth nor his throne. She never had. That had not been the worst of it, though. The worst had been the day that they took Tommen out and took his head as he cried for her. Joffrey, she hadn’t seen, he’d been stabbed right through the heart as Stannis’ troops had stormed the Keep. Jaime, she had, and she’d shook as her favourite uncle – and he was, he was her uncle, no matter what Uncle Stannis had forced her mother to lie about in confession – but he had been strong, and brave, and like a knight from the songs.

But Tommen, Tommen had been scared. Tommen had cried and wet himself and Myrcella had screamed for them to stop, please stop, but they hadn’t. The next day, she had waited for them to come and take her head too. She had wanted them to. But when the door opened, it had been her mother, her mother with her face sapped of all it’s beauty, replaced by pure grief. Myrcella had stroked her mother’s golden curls, knowing dimly that her mother should be comforting her, not the other way around. They had been together, in that room, for a week. No news, no visitors. On the eighth day, Stannis had come.

“I have decided to spare you and your daughter the sword,” he told mother as if it physically pained him to say the words, “and you will instead go to Essos, never to return to my kingdom. You are no longer a Lannister, no longer a queen. Your bastard is no longer a Baratheon.”

Stannis and Myrcella had both stared at mother, she remembered. Mother had looked hollow, and almost skeletal, and Myrcella had wanted to shake her as the seconds ticked by. Say something! She had wanted to scream, tell him he’s a murderer, a kinslayer, make him want to die like you’ve done to a thousand men before!

But mother doesn’t say anything. Stannis had turned to go, and Myrcella hadn’t even realised she was speaking until she did. “You’re a monster,” she had said to him, and he’d stopped sharp and turned back around. He looked almost shocked, his eyebrows rising a fraction of an inch. Tears had risen in her eyes, and her voice shook, and she was so angry with herself, because she didn’t want to cry at him, she wanted to destroy him. So she carried on, voice wobbling but slowly growing louder and louder. “You’re a kinslayer, and a murderer, and I hope everyone you love is taken from you.” Here, she sobs, but carries on, “I curse you, I curse your name, I curse your line, I curse your kingdom, I curse your god. I hate you." She says the last three words in a scream.

A beat, where all three of them are still, just looking at each other.

Myrcella almost hopes he’ll take it all back, apologise, let them stay or go to stay with Grandfather, or even kill them, let them die as Baratheons, as Lannisters, but his lips twist. “You will leave in the morning.”

The door closes behind him, and belatedly, Myrcella jumps to her feet. “You killed my brothers!” she screeches, beating her fists on the door, “You stole my throne! You lied about my mother! I hate you! I hate you! I'll kill you!”

“Peace, Myrcella,” her mother had said then, quieter than Myrcella has ever heard her speak before. “Peace.” She looks at her, right in the eyes, and sees nothing there.

“They killed Tommen and Joff and Uncle Jaime,” Myrcella weeps, and finally, finally her mother pulls her into her busom and strokes her hair, rubs circles on her back. “They’re dead. They’re all dead.” Mother had said nothing back.

They’re all dead. Myrcella snaps back to the present as she almost collides with a oyster-seller. She walks quickly over to her mother, and glances up to see the boat has vanished. “Mother,” she says softly, taking the older woman’s hand, “we have to move.”

Mother finally allows herself to be led as the sun begins to sink in the sky, although Myrcella has no idea where she’s going, where they’re meant to find help, shelter, food. She wanders, following the gutter waifs and scraggly beggars, knowing from her experience with Flea Bottom that the poorest always have a place to get what they need, however they can.

“Stay here,” she breathes to her mother as they come across a writhing underworld of scum, dirt and lust, before trying to let go of her hand. Mother clings on tight. “Mother?” she says, almost hopeful.

“You can’t go into that scrum on your own,” her mother whispers, straightening. “Gods knows what could happen.” Myrcella doesn’t smile, but she wants to. Instead, she nods and keeps her grip on her mother’s palm, and they dive into the hive of darkness.

They go to five different people until they find someone who speaks the Common Tongue well enough to help them. “You need somewhere to sleep?” the girl says, her accent heavy but just about understandable, “There are only two places you go if you have no money. Either, under the stars, or to a brothel.”

Myrcella swallows heavily, and looks back to her mother. She has gone back to her vacant staring again, gone back to her dreamland where nobody is dead and they’re all safe again. She cannot take a night under the stars. She needs rest. “Where is the nearest whorehouse?” she yells to be heard over the din.

Some confusing directions later, Myrcella finally finds the place. It has a crowing rooster on the sign, a name that includes the word ‘cock’ and a landlady who looks Myrcella up and down like a piece of meat. “You’re too young,” she says finally, “I wouldn’t sleep at night if you went with a client. But...” she looks at mother, with her golden curls and aristocratic features, and smiles, “she wouldn’t trouble my conscience.”

“No,” Myrcella begins, “I’m older than I look-”

“I’ll do it.” Mother says, and Myrcella stares at her.

“You’ll have to do two clients for the two of you to stay the night, even if it’s just in the one room, you understand?” Mother’s neck tightens, and her expression twists, before smoothing out.

“I understand.” She says.

The landlady drops the key in Myrcella’s outstretched hand. It’s got a golden shine to it, in the right light, but its just rust. Myrcella all but runs to their lodging for the night. Mother, for once, seems to come back to herself for long enough to get Myrcella down to her smallclothes, brush her hair until it gleams, make her up a pallet inside the armoire, and tucks her into her makeshift bed. Myrcella can’t remember the last time she did that, even back home in her four poster featherbed. “Just go to sleep, my darling,” Mother tells her softly, “don’t listen.” She closes the doors, just leaving the smallest gap. Then, she leaves.

But Myrcella can’t help but listen. There are two different men, both of them loud, both of them huffing through groans about Mother’s teats, her arse, her hair, and both of them yell when it’s over, and the floorboards creak and the armoire groans and the bed sounds like it’s about to break. Myrcella clenches her eyes tight shut, and tries to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

She crawls out of her bed, if it can be called that, just before dawn. For a moment, she doesn't know what woke her: the tavern below them is still bustling but it had been when she slept. It's warm, in her almost-bed, and for a moment she doesn't process the dry sobs coming from the bed.

She crawls over to her mother's prone form, and slips in beside her. The wafer thin sheets aren't enough to stop her feeling the wet bits, the hard, dry sandy texture of the bed. It makes her skin crawl, but she still puts her forehead inbetween her mother's warm shoulder blades.

"It's okay, mama," she whispers, but that just makes mother cry harder. "Do you miss papa and Joffie and-" Tommen's name sticks in her throat, and her own eyes fill with tears.

A breath, and then, "I miss Jaime. I miss Jaime, and Joffrey, and Tommen."

Myrcella doesn't miss how she never mentions father.

So, they have to survive. There are no other options.

Myrcella was brought up to be many things - she was raised to be an assertive speaker, a regal presence, an able dancer. She can read and write, an asset in any advanced society, but she has never had to use these skills - these meager, wanting skills - to live. She's never had to make her own food or buy her own bread, never had to wash her own clothes or even dress alone.

I am young, Myrcella reminds herself, I can learn yet.

And soon enough, she wears calluses into her palms, finding work by the day, most reliably as a runner for rich merchants who need idle hands to carry their goods from the market to the ships and back again. Her fair skin burns at first, and she can't sleep for two nights thanks to the pain, but slowly she stops going pink and instead bright brown splotches - freckles, she has never had freckles - take their place on her cheeks. A month in, Myrcella has picked up enough Braavosi that she can hold a conversation, and she's earned enough money to buy her and mother winter clothes as the weather grows colder. Winter is coming, those had been the Starks' words. If only Myrcella had realised that winter was coming for her, for her life of plenty and peace.

Mother finds it harder to adjust than Myrcella does.

After the first night, they only have to go back to the brothel a few times when Myrcella hasn't found a daily employer, and the weather isn't good enough to sleep under the stars. Myrcella would rather sleep in the downpour than put her mother through that again, but mother tuts, no, sweetling, she says, almost like a real mother, you'll catch a chill. Honestly, Myrcella doubts if she will catch cold after a single night in the rain. Half of the reason that she has enough work to get by is that she seems to have developed an immunity to a lot of the colds and flus that periodically shake Braavos' gutters; the people have never had a chance to build up strength against illness, but Myrcella has lived all her life in the Red Keep, in King's Landing, a breeding ground for disease and multiculturalism, and whilst her fellows are doubled over vomiting, she is up and running.

It's a rare occurence that mother remembers which of them is supposed to support the other. Myrcella hates herself for the bitterness she feels. This is not mother's fault; none of it. It's Stannis' fault: he had been waiting for papa to die, waiting to slander mother and kill his rivals for the throne. Myrcella still doesn't understand why: she knew father and he didn't get along, but she would never have expected such a betrayal from the man. Uncle Renly had been even worse - she had gone to him, crying, because her father was dead, her father was dead, and instead of embracing her, comforting her, he ordered the guards to seize her. None of it makes sense. They had been a family. Not a perfect family, but a family. Family didn't imprison one another, kill each other.

No matter how much money she makes, however, no matter how many little starry coins she collects, they're still stuck in the gutters, at the bottom of the food chain. Myrcella understands Flea Bottom better now; once she had foolishly asked her father why those people didn't just move somewhere else. "Sometimes," he'd told her, "there is nowhere else to go."

But father had been wrong. Or at least, there were exceptions to the rule. Lann the Clever had been born to smallfolk, until he stole Casterly Rock, and the Casterlys had once been mere miners. As the times passed, it became harder to rise above your station, but not impossible. She thought of Ser Davos, Stannis' onion knight. He had been born in Flea Bottom, without even Myrcella's advantages of an education, and he'd become a knight and a lord. The greater the risk, the greater the reward. Lann the Clever would have died if his plan had failed. The Tyrells could have been turned to ash by dragonfire, but instead, they took a gamble. They rolled the dice, and they ascended from Stewards to Wardens.

Myrcella tells this all to her mother excitedly, because she has nothing better to do anymore than think - she spends the day running, but her mind is somewhere else, remembering every lesson that she was ever taught, be it by maesters or septas or servants. You had to do more than just get by, she tells mama, you have to thrive.

Mother looks at her with empty eyes. "Sweet thing," she whispers in that hoarse voice of hers, as if all the joy and life has been sapped right out of her, "I can't. I can't. I'm tired. Please don't."

That is when Myrcella realises that her mother is gone. Her mother, her fiery, furious, fantastic mother, whose eyes shined like emeralds and teeth shone like pearls, her mother with her biting retorts and brilliant curls, her mother was as good as dead. Stannis had killed her spirit, if not her body. Myrcella is an orphan, as good as one, on the streets of a foreign land. And she can never go back home. Not unless she has an army at her back. If she's going to ascend, if she's going to climb back to the top and destroy Stannis - she's doing it on her own.