Myrcella POV
The Lannisters broke their fast together at the high table in the Great Hall. None of the Starks were present; Bran's fall seemed to have drained all joy from the castle. Her mother sat straight-backed, nibbling at a piece of cheese, while Tommen ate his beets with obvious reluctance.
Myrcella had not slept well. The wolves had howled all night long—mournful cries that echoed through the stone halls of Winterfell. Even wrapped in furs, she had lain awake listening, her heart tight, while Alysanne and Marei took turns soothing her until sleep finally came in fits.
Bran had wanted to accompany his father and Artys on the hunt but had been told to stay behind. Artys had probably wanted the boy to spend his last days with his mother before accompanying them to the Eyrie.
Only yesterday he had been laughing, speaking excitedly about the Vale. He was to come with them, to serve as Artys's page. He had asked endless questions—about the Eyrie's heights, asking whether the castle truly stood above the clouds and if the Arryns executed men by throwing them through the fabled Moon Door. Myrcella had smiled and promised to show him the Sky Cells from afar, not close enough to put the boy in danger.
Now the boy lay broken. Myrcella had paled when she saw him in his sickbed—his back and legs mangled, his breathing ragged.
She had spent the afternoon with Lady Catelyn and Sansa, sitting quietly while words failed them all. No one knew what to say when hope itself felt fragile.
As Myrcella wallowed in her sorrow, a rider barged in wearing Lannister colors. He did not smile or pause, walking straight to the Queen and kneeling before her.
"Your Grace," he said. "There is word from the Wolfswood."
Cersei lifted her gaze. "Speak."
"Prince Joffrey is… no more," the rider said. "He fell from his horse during the hunt. He is with the gods now."
For a breath, nothing moved.
Myrcella was stunned. Her twin was gone from this world.
Her mother's face went pale, as though all the color had been pulled from it at once. She rose too quickly. Jaime caught her as her knees buckled, his arms closing around her before she could fall.
"No," she said at first—flat, disbelieving. "No. My son!"
Then the sound tore out of her.
She screamed and clutched at Jaime's sleeve, her nails biting into silk. The strength left her all at once, and she sagged against him, sobbing—raw, unguarded, broken.
Tommen, frightened, clutched Myrcella's arm for comfort. She squeezed his hand before moving to her mother and wrapping her arms around her waist, pressing close. She could feel her mother shaking. Jaime held Cersei upright, murmuring low words meant only for her.
Joffrey had been cruel and vicious—Myrcella knew that. She had never loved him. But he was still her brother, her twin. They had come into this world together. For better or worse, he had been her other half.
Now he was gone.
She felt sorrow. Emptiness.
More than that, she felt fear.
The wolves had howled all night after Bran had fallen. Now Joffrey was dead.
Too many ill things had come too quickly.
As Tommen buried his face against her shoulder and her mother's grief shook through her arms, Myrcella closed her eyes and prayed in silence to all Seven gods.
Please let this stop, she prayed—for one person alone.Please keep Artys safe.
She did not know why the world seemed to be unraveling, only that something had changed—and the change felt cold and final.
Winter truly was coming.
As noon approached, her father's hunting party returned. A litter draped in Baratheon colors was carried through the gates, no doubt bearing her brother's corpse. Myrcella felt her mother break into sobs as her uncle Jaime held her tight.
Myrcella's heart skipped when she saw Artys, hale as ever, riding his gelding. The Stark bastard rode behind him. Artys's face was as handsome as ever, but it looked carved from stone.
Artys and Joffrey had disliked one another since they were boys, though it had mostly stemmed from Joffrey's jealousy of Artys—jealousy over being the object of her royal father's favor. Artys's habit of mocking Joffrey at every chance had not helped.
Lord and Lady Stark embraced each other, sobbing over their son, who lay at death's door.
Artys dismounted with easy grace and approached. Myrcella forgot all royal decorum and ran to embrace him. She could no longer be strong for her mother. So much ill had befallen them; she was simply grateful that Artys had been spared.
She cried into his chest as he ran calloused fingers through her golden curls.
"Shhh, Cella," he murmured. "It will be all right now. I am safe. Joffrey… he did not suffer for long."
She knew from the hesitation in his voice that he was lying to spare her heart.
"I am just glad to see you well," she said. "I feared the worst. Brandon Stark…"
Artys's face turned to stone once more. "I want to see him. He was my cousin—and to be my page. Lord Stark was most distraught. What did Maester Luwin say?"
"His back and legs are broken beyond repair," Myrcella said, wiping her tears. "He may not live—and even if he does, he will never walk again. He could never be a knight."
The Stark bastard paled behind Artys at the news of his brother's crippling.
"Where and how did he fall?" Artys asked, wrapping an arm around Myrcella as they walked toward the castle.
"The Broken Tower," she said.
Jon Snow spoke quietly. "He always climbed there. He was always sure-footed. I never thought—"
Artys paused and placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "We will go visit him once we are clean from our travels. I suggest you come with me, lest my aunt find your presence unwarranted."
Jon gulped. "Thank you, my lord."
Artys nodded.
Before escorting her back to their chambers, Myrcella had already ordered a bath prepared, knowing how her lord bathed nearly every day. Artys was fastidious—he even shaved himself bare—but Myrcella did not mind. She would far rather have a husband who was too clean than one who was filthy.
Artys slid into the bath as Marei scrubbed his back. Myrcella watched from a wooden stool while Artys rubbed soap through his hair, along his neck, and behind his ears.
"Does my lady plan on joining me?" he asked.
Myrcella was so lost in thought she scarcely heard him—until he rose from the stone bath and stood before her, naked as his nameday. He knelt, cupping her face gently in his hands.
"Alysanne," he said, "give the princess a cup of wine with half a pinch of sweet sleep."
"I am fine—" Myrcella stuttered, trying to salvage herself from the predicament of being sent to bed.
"No," he said softly. "I know your fair face like the back of mine own hand. You have scarcely slept."
He planted a kiss on her forehead.
"Rest. We shall talk on the morrow. I know you grieve, my love. I can do naught for it now, as much as it pains me. But rest. I shall see Bran after my bath. We will face the trial before us well rested."
Then, with a faint smile, he added, "Go. Your lord husband commands it."
Myrcella scrunched her brows, but she knew a losing fight when she saw one. With a small huff, she allowed Alysanne to guide her from the chamber.
Artys POV
Artys sat back in the tub, Marei gently massaging his scalp with fragrant oils from the Summer Isles. Artys grabbed the handmaiden by her slender wrists and dragged her in. "My lord," she said with a giggle. Artys dragged the girl to his lap, her silk shift getting wet as it clung to her skin and to her ivory skin and pert breasts. Artys rubbed the small of her back as he looked at the girl's fair face and her emerald green eyes flecked with gold, which somehow seemed familiar. Artys smiled, "You are of age to wed, Marei. I am most pleased with your service. I could find a landed knight, a lord, or a rich merchant in Gulltown for you to wed. I assure you that you will be happy for the rest of your days, or, should you wish, I could give a brothel to run in your own name in Gulltown."
Marei's eyes seemed downcast for a second. "My lord is most generous," she said as she wrapped her legs around his waist and laid her head on his chest. "I wish to be by your side and... the side of the future queen."
Artys's eyes widened. He knew that the girl was intelligent, but this... was... dangerous. Artys's expression lost all its warmth as his hands closed around her pale neck. His thumb rubbed against her ruby lips as his blue eyes bored into her. Bold as ever, she took his finger into her mouth. "I am loyal to you, my lord, and my princess... I only wish to serve you. You took my maidenhead and saw my worth. I would have spent my life in a brothel, and now I consort with nobility. I do not wish to part with you or my princess."
Artys smiled. This one is as wise as she is clever. Artys slipped his manhood into her as she gasped with his girth. "Then you may serve, my sweet." She swiveled her hips and moaned into his ear, "The Falcon King does sound like a mighty name."
Artys chuckled and then silenced her with a hush as he continued to thrust into her. His plan was a success, but he could at no point be seen to be eager. Ned Stark, his uncle, was far more trusted and respected in the King's eyes than he was. Artys would spoon-feed the information to Ned in a manner he would find believable. If Cersei caught wind of Dorne being involved, Tywin would know within a fortnight, and the proud lord would send his forces down to Dorne to avenge his grandson. Artys wanted the Reach and Stormlands to expend their forces, the Reach lords in particular. Once that was done, he could slowly engineer the deaths of Robert and Tommen. Dornishmen were hated by the entirety of Westeros south of the Trident. Poison and other such tactics without honor were well within the low cunning expected of the Dornish.
He had to wait a little, having an heir and making sure Myrcella reached majority before he dealt with Tommen and Robert. Once that was done, he could deal with the rest. Renly would not survive Dorne. An arrow or a poisoned drink would fell him and rid Artys of the biggest threat to his plans. Myrcella would name him Regent, and he could rule in her stead. Artys would name Eddard Stark Hand, as despite his uncle's honor and stubbornness, he was a good man, unlike Tywin, who would try to depose him the day he got the office of Hand.
Artys put his hands behind his head as Marei rode his cock, looking at the stone ceiling of the castle. Bran falling from a tower—they had received news while they were on their way back from the Wolfwood, but Artys had not known the extent of the injuries. One step at a time. He could not heal Bran. If he could, maybe transfuse his blood to him. The serum in his veins might work on him, but Artys lacked the equipment or the knowledge. He did not know Bran's blood type or his, for that matter, nor did he have a hypodermic needle. Artys simply shook his head and enjoyed Marei's ministrations. One day at a time.