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Even after two years, Myrcella has never quite adapted to Miami. The near constant sunshine, the heat, the humidity, it is nothing like home. She misses Manhattan with a physical pain some days, longs for the familiarity of her bedroom in the apartment overlooking the park. She misses Uncle Tyrion and Uncle Jaime; she misses when her mother would be in a good mood and would take her shopping for new shoes and even misses her father, who would sneak her sweets when her mother said no more. Most of all she misses Tommen and the rooftop patio where they would sit for hours and talk about anything in the world. Sometimes one of her father's men, usually Arys or Balon, would be with them and they'd all play cards. Myrcella finds herself even missing those men sometimes.
Myrcella doesn't belong here. She doesn't blame the Martells for that; god knows they've gone above and beyond anything they had to do for her. Trystane leased her condo in his name and made sure the bills were always paid; Arianne gave her a job at Sunspear even though she was qualified for literally nothing when she first arrived. Half of an art history degree and one summer serving as a counselor at tennis camp didn't exactly prepare her for being Arianne's personal assistant. But Arianne was patient, kind; she felt bad for Myrcella, and though Myrcella despised being pity, she wasn't exactly in a position to turn it down.
It is not as if life in New York was perfect. Having Joffrey as an older brother was like living with a time bomb. There were times he would be a normal brother, and those were the times she tried to focus on now that he was gone. But more often he had been brutal, downright monstrous; she lost count of how many times he hit her, pulled her hair, slammed her into walls. Once he choked her for going into his room; just as the world began to dim, Barristan pulled him off of her and called Pycelle, her father's personal physician. Mottled bruises surrounded her neck for weeks; her mother told the school she had mono and they spent the time it took her to heal in the house in Connecticut. Grandfather Tywin made Pycelle give Joffrey something to calm him down, but it was decided Myrcella would be sent away to school. She remembered how furious she was to be sent away when Joffrey was the one who did something wrong, but Myrcella isn't sure why it surprised her; Joff had always been Mother's favorite and he was the one who was going to take over the business. With Robert dead, Joffrey had to stay in the city and learn from their grandfather, and Myrcella hated Joffrey for that.
Like her mother, Myrcella was sent to Miss Porter's, and she liked it well enough. Myrcella had always been popular, and it was no different there; her mother and Tommen visited, and sometimes her uncles came too. Everyone knew she was Myrcella Baratheon as in Robert Baratheon; they knew her father's name was often attached to criminal enterprises but Myrcella repeated the line she had been taught from birth: “My father's business is import/export.” Her classmates didn't believe it; hell, Myrcella didn't believe it. Believing the lie didn't matter nearly as much as telling it.
Robert died her freshman year, and the papers were full of more stories about his business, his associates, rumors as to who would take over. When Tywin was named executor until Joffrey came of age, Myrcella knew her mother was furious. Myrcella didn't always get along with her, but no one could deny Cersei Lannister was savvy when it came to business. After all, it was Cersei who graduated from Harvard Business School while Uncle Jaime dropped out in undergrad and Uncle Tyrion blew his tuition bumming around Europe for a few years.
Her decision to attend Wellesley instead of Harvard infuriated her mother, but Myrcella had no desire to live in the Lannister tradition. She liked pretty things, like going to parties and enjoying her life; it wasn't as if she wanted to someday work for her grandfather or Joffrey or even Uncle Kevan. Myrcella wanted to be frivolous in a way her mother never could be, wanted to live her life for pleasure instead of power, and it seemed simple enough.
She met Trystane Martell during spring break of her sophomore year in a club in Punta Cana. He was easily the sexiest guy in the room, and her friends were all swooning when he invited them to join him in the VIP room. All of her friends were firmly upper-middle class, but even they were awed by Trystane's displays of wealth: the never ending bottle service, the way he tipped waitresses with $100 bills, the designer suit and $20,000 watch on his wrist. Myrcella was used to guys like Trystane, ones who flung around their money in hopes it would get them laid, and normally she would've found it irritating. But he was sinfully handsome and she was on vacation, and even if he did end up being just another rich douchebag, what did she have to lose?
It was the best sex of her life. For the next three days, Myrcella rarely left Trystane's private cabana, and it didn't even matter to her that she didn't know his last name; nothing mattered but the pleasant warmth which enveloped her in Trystane's presence. On the day before she flew back to Massachusetts, Trystane gave her a business card and told her that, if she was ever in Miami, to give him a call. She was flattered he wanted to see her again, but Myrcella knew he wasn't the kind of guy she wanted to date. It wasn't until she was on the plane she even really read the black card embossed with orange print: Trystane Martell.
She didn't know much about her family's business, but Myrcella knew the name Martell. Startled, she tucked the card into her purse and never planned on thinking about him ever again.
Four months before Joffrey died, she came home for the summer. It was Grandfather Tywin's birthday, and they were seated at the long dining room table when the smell of the shellfish suddenly made her sick. Myrcella barely managed to turn away from the table before vomiting onto the expensive Oriental carpet, and Tommen, the sweetheart that he was, caught her long curls as she emptied her stomach. While her grandfather looked on in disgust, her mother screamed at the maids to clean up the mess before ordering Myrcella to bed so Pycelle could see her. When he asked her if there was any chance she was pregnant, Myrcella saw her mother's face drop, twist into such disappointment and horror that it immediately made her sob.
Pycelle told Tywin; Myrcella knew he would. She was summoned into her grandfather's office for the first time in her entire life, and her mother looked so small as she sat on the leather couch, Uncle Jaime sitting beside her with an arm around her shoulders.
“Who?” was all her grandfather said and she knew she had to lie, knew nothing good would come of them knowing about Trystane.
“I don't know,” she lied. “Some boy from Spring Break, I don't remember his name.”
They arranged for her to go to a clinic early in the morning. When the procedure was finished, Myrcella rode beside her mother in the limo back to the apartment, and there was such venom in her mother's voice when she hissed, “How could you be so stupid?”
A week later, Myrcella returned from her follow-up appointment to find the apartment empty save for her grandfather. Two suitcases were packed, waiting by the door, and her heart dropped into her stomach as her grandfather told her she no longer lived there. Her credit cards were canceled, her trust gone; Myrcella had no idea how he did it, but even the money she received from her father's estate was gone. When she asked where her mother was, where Tommen was, Tywin told her it was no longer her concern and then had Arys Oakheart escort her from her home. She could not even cry, she was so numb, and, as she stood on the sidewalk with her bags, Myrcella did not know where she could possibly go.
She knew practically no one in the city; her cell phone was turned off and the only money she had to her name was the cash in her wallet, which was less than $100. As she counted out her money, she saw Trystane's crumpled card in the bottom of her purse. Digging change out of the bottom of her purse, she dialed the number on a disgusting payphone and prayed someone would answer.
When she told him who it was, it was obvious he did not remember her name. It was only when she mentioned Punta Cana, it seemed to click, and then it all came spilling out: the pregnancy, her abortion, being kicked out, having nowhere to go. She continued to feed quarters into the phone until Trystane told her to get to the airport and a ticket would be waiting for her. When he asked her last name, she could feel the pause he took before repeating to get to the airport.
Trystane was waiting for her at baggage claim in Miami, smiling a bit falsely as he raised his hand in greeting. He hooked an arm around her, giving her a squeeze, and said, “You'll be okay, babe.”
The Martells were kinder than they had to be; Myrcella was well-aware they were under no obligation to help her, especially after what her grandfather had done to their aunt and cousins. She appreciated them, she respected them; and yet, when Joffrey was killed, she waited for her mother to call her back to New York, to let her be a Baratheon again. When no call came, Myrcella called only to be told her mother was under sedation; Tommen grabbed the phone from the maid, desperately saying her name and Myrcella began to cry before they were disconnected.
“They're not good people,” Trystane told her when he caught her crying. “The Lannisters are monsters. You're better off without them.”
“Tommen isn't like that. Tommen is good. I don't want them to make him like that, like Joff was.”
Quentyn is the one who gives her the phone. Of all of the Martells, Quentyn is the one Myrcella is most uncomfortable around; he is equal parts awkward and intimidating, and she isn't sure what to do when he gives her the burner phone. It's untraceable, he tells her, and not even the Lannister security forces will be able to trace it. Tommen has a new cell number, and she isn't sure how Quentyn even got it but she cannot express her gratitude enough.
They talk every night. Tommen is miserable by himself and wants to run away, but Myrcella knows they won't let him go. It is only after Uncle Tyrion is accused of killing Joffrey that Tommen calls her in the middle of the night and asks, “Do you think Robert was really our father?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw them kissing.”
“Who?”
“Mom and Jaime.”
“What kind of kissing?”
“The kind you don't do with your brother.”
They don't talk about it again. From the moment Tommen tells her what he saw, Myrcella knows in her gut it's true; her parents always hated each other, ever showed each other any kind of kindness. But Uncle Jaime, he was always around, always with her mother. She doesn't say anything to Trystane or Arianne, but she wonders if other people suspect the same, if everyone knows where she and Tommen really come from.
When she gets to the office, she instantly knows something is going on. It is only nine in the morning, and already Arianne is in her office with both of her brothers and the oldest of her cousins. Myrcella only met Oberyn Martell once before he was killed; while Doran was based out of Florida, Oberyn was in charge of The Red Viper, the Martells' casino in Vegas. But what Myrcella did know was his daughters were definitely not to be fucked with; she'd once seen Obara break a man's hand just for brushing against her ass.
Logging onto her computer, Myrcella sees she has an alert waiting. She has set up her computer to flag anything Baratheon or Lannister related, and today brings a handful of stories: Willem Lannister murdered in Philadelphia, Stannis Baratheon trying to bring suit against her mother in federal court, Gerion Lannister officially being declared dead after seven years missing. None of it throws up any red flags; they've all thought Uncle Gerion was dead for years, Uncle Stannis will never stop suing for what he thinks is rightfully his, and Willem has been dealing drugs since they were kids. And yet none of it explains why the Martells are gathered in Arianne's office.
Myrcella pulls her phone from her bag, quickly tapping out a message to Tommen asking if he knows what's going on. It takes only a moment for Tommen to respond, and, when he does, it steals Myrcella's breath.
Uncle Jaime's been kidnapped and they sent Mom his hand.
Myrcella looks towards the door of Arianne's office and wonders if they did it, if they're responsible for dismembering and potentially killing her uncle. She wonders if it's even right to feel worried and scared for Jaime; he was part of the group that raided the Targaryens' home and, even if he hadn't been the one to kill Elia Martell and her children, he hadn't stopped it either. Jaime has just as much blood on his hands as her grandfather, as any other man in the Lannister family. If the Martells wants their vengeance, Myrcella cannot blame them.
But that doesn't make her feel any less ill when Arianne's door opens and the Martells file out, greeting her warmly before continuing on with their days. No matter how disillusioned she is with her family, she does not want to be part of destroying them.
Even if she hates it, even if her name is Baratheon, Myrcella knows she is Lannister to the core, and, as Arianne perches on the edge of Myrcella's desk, she wonders if Arianne knows that. She wonders what will happen to her if the Martells think she has betrayed them.
“You okay?” Arianne asks, scooping a handful of candy from the dish next to Myrcella's monitor.
The smile she gives to Trystane's sister is one she learned at her mother's knee, a smile which hides all manner of pain, anger, and frustration. “Never better.”
Tommen wakes up to Osmund Kettleblack bursting into his dorm room, throwing his jeans at him and telling him to get dressed. He is disoriented, but this is hardly the first time this has happened; when Joffrey was poisoned, Tommen was only three weeks into his freshman year at Harvard. Everyone already thought he was a freak, arriving at college with his own personal bodyguard, his grandfather's name plastered across the new business building, and an article in The Boston Globe recounting the latest in the knockdown, drag-out fight between his mother and Stannis. Tommen knew he couldn't be like everyone else, but he hoped everyone would eventually get used to the slight weirdness that came with being the son of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister.
And then Joff was killed, he was hustled out of the dorms by a team of Lannister men, and that was the end of that. The few parties he'd been invited to, the few girls that expressed interest, all of them wanted him to be some kind of Sopranos stereotype, the kind of guy who cracked skulls, challenged other guys to fights, and carried a gun. That wasn't who Tommen was; it wasn't who Tommen wanted to be. And once his classmates realized that, they were happy to go back to ignoring him.
As with the last time this happened, Tommen isn't given much time to get ready. He quickly throws on his jeans and a shirt, shoving his laptop and a few other things into his backpack before the Lannister men surround him, escorting him to the bulletproof town car which will take him to the Lannister family compound in Greenwich. It isn't until they are speeding down the interstate he asks what has happened, and it is then Osmund tells him someone has kidnapped Jaime.
Tommen has always loved his uncles. Robert was never around much when he was a kid, and when he was, he was usually drunk or in a rage about something. While Stannis was hardly a barrel of fun, it was a special treat when Renly came to visit. But while his Baratheon uncles were only in his life sporadically and Tyrion flitted about the world as he saw fit, Jaime was always there. Sometimes his uncle was the only one who could make his mother smile, and Tommen loved it when she smiled; when Cersei was in a good mood, it was like the whole world lit up, and her attentions were for all of them then instead of just Joff. But the older they got, the less Cersei seemed to be happy and the more she seemed to be burdened with worries. Uncle Jaime never worried; it wasn't his way and Tommen wanted to be so much like him.
He doesn't understand how this could happen. His uncle was a fucking legend; he was the guy who made his bones at fifteen and got brought in to the Targaryen inner circle by Arthur Dayne, the guy who took out Aerys Targaryen at seventeen. Jaime Lannister is the criminal other criminals fear; Tommen cannot think of anyone who would have the balls to come for him.
The whole family thinks he's an idiot. Joffrey was their golden boy, the one who was meant to inherit everything and continue the grand tradition of swaggering assholes drunk on their own importance. Myrcella was the golden girl, the one who got to be pretty and playful without anyone holding it against her. But Tommen, he was just the spare, the one who didn't fit. It isn't that he doesn't think his mother loves him; Tommen knows she does. But he was a fat kid who had none of Joff's athleticism, none of Myrcella's easy grace; he tried so hard at everything he did with only marginal success, and being likable wasn't exactly a trait that was respected in the Baratheon-Lannister household.
When Myrcella went to boarding school, Tommen practically disappeared within the family. He did well but not outstanding at the all-boys' school he attended in Brooklyn; though his SAT scores were higher than both Joff's and Myrcella's, he knew from eavesdropping that the only reason he got into Harvard was because he was a legacy whose family could pay full sticker price. The summer they sent Myrcella away, Cersei insisted he work out west with Uncle Kevan at the Lannister Mining office. Tommen had no interest in mining gold, but he understood in that moment why he was sent; no one respected Uncle Kevan either and one day Tommen, too, would be given some insignificant part of the family's empire to manage in order to keep him busy.
No one ever gives him any credit. No matter how hard he works, no matter how much he tries to earn his family's respect, it never goes anywhere. His mother has never quite recovered from Joff's death; she alternates between being frustrated he isn't Joffrey and wanting to treat him as if he is still a child. Sometimes she cups his face between her palms and smiles sadly, tells him how much he looks like his father.
Tommen knows she doesn't mean Robert.
He thinks of what he saw last year when he was home for Thanksgiving. It was the middle of night, and he couldn't sleep; his mom hated it when he took food back to his room, but Tommen perfected hiding food when he was eight and constantly being threatened with fat camp. As he tiptoed down the stairs, headed towards the kitchen, he heard muffled voices coming from one of the sitting rooms. When he heard Jaime's laugh, he expected to find him with one of their guests like Addam Marbrand; Tommen thought maybe he'd get to listen to them trade stories, maybe even get to have a drink with them. Instead he poked his head around the corner to find his mother in her twin brother's lap, her long hair streaming down her back; Jaime was holing her tight against him, kissing with the sort of slow, leisurely patience of a man who had done this dance a thousand times before.
Myrcella is the only person he ever told; she is the only one who deserves to know. If anyone else found out, if anyone else knew it was true instead of idle gossip...
He wonders which hand the kidnappers removed. It doesn't matter; Jaime is never going to be a crack shot after this, not the way he was. When he was a kid, Tommen loved it when Jaime would let him tag along to the range, sitting on a chair with his earmuffs while he and the guards fired into paper targets. When he left for college, Jaime promised to teach him how to shoot, but it never happened; Jaime was big on promises without any follow through. Tommen didn't even resent him for it; the way his mother couldn't help but desperately try for Tywin's approval was the way Jaime did what he wanted whenever the impulse struck.
But Jaime wasn't the only man in the world who knew how to shoot. Tommen can feel the weight of his gun in his backpack. No one knows he has it; he told Osmund he had a three-hour lab on Tuesday nights and, while he sat in the lobby of the science building, Tommen would sneak out to the range. He isn't as good as his uncle or even as good as the men on his grandfather's payroll, but he can hit his target about 60% of the time and that's what matters.
There are men swarming the yard of the compound, armed like it's World War Three instead of a Wednesday afternoon. He is barely over the threshold when his mother is flying at him, hugging him tighter than she has in years. She looks like she's aged twenty years in a single day, and it's the first time Tommen thinks she's ever looked weak.
She tells him he can't leave the house, and Tommen nods because there's nothing else to do. Later he can hear her ranting through the doors to the den, practically screaming, “It's the Starks! I know it's them!”
Tommen has never been clear on what happened between his family and the Starks. Ned Stark was Robert's best friend, and their alliance controlled the Eastern seaboard after they brought down the Targaryens. But Robert died and then Ned Stark was assassinated, and suddenly Robb Stark and his men were coming for his family. It was the closest thing to an all-out war since '82, and Tommen remembered how he wasn't allowed to go anywhere during that year without, at least, two men on him at all times.
But Robb Stark is in jail for life and there aren't any other Starks left to take over the operation; Roose Bolton controls what used to be the Stark territory, and Tommen doesn't think this is how the Starks would handle it. They were a direct sort. To kidnap someone, to send their hand and make a request for ransom, that was someone who wanted to play games, and everything Tommen knows about the Starks tells him this isn't them.
There aren't many families left who could pull this off. Jon Arryn is dead, and his Tully widow is half-crazy and didn't even put up a fight when the Freys took their East Coast companies. The Tyrells are friends. Stannis would never stoop to something like this, and the Martells would be the obvious answer; everyone knows they're merciless when it comes to their enemies and Tommen has researched enough about what happened in '82 to know they have more than enough reason to come after his family. But they would just kill Jaime, not do something like this and they certainly wouldn't ask for money.
This is someone new, someone unexpected, he realizes, and it scares him.
Fumbling his phone out of his pocket, he texts Myrcella and makes her promise she'll check in every hour. She agrees and asks if there is anything she can do, and Tommen doesn't know what to tell her; it is not as if he knows what to do and he certainly doesn't want to put Myrcella in danger. But someone has declared war on Lannisters, and, like it or not, he and Myrcella are both at risk right now.
Get out of Miami, he orders her. I don't think you're safe there.
No one is going to think to protect Myrcella. They wrote her off years ago after the abortion, and they'd disown him if they knew he was still in contact with her. But she is his sister, and Tommen will do anything to keep her safe, to keep them both safe.
And the safest thing right now is to only be with people they can trust, which, for them, is just each other.