Nerd In the North: 3-20

III-20: The Prince II

Tommen’s fingers traced the stone as he walked, the tips dragging just enough to catch on uneven patches, letting him feel them, count them. One, two, three—skip the cold wet bit—four, five, six—there. 

Solid again. Good.

His lantern swung beside him, sending shadows flicking across the walls. Quick, sharp, like little dark figures darting between the stones. His own shadow stretched ahead, too long, wobbling whenever the lantern jostled. Sometimes, if he moved too fast, it almost looked like it was running away.

He didn’t like that thought.

But there was no one here.

No one anywhere, really.

The Red Keep had been so quiet lately. It used to be filled with sounds—clattering dishes, laughing courtiers, Ser Mandon clanking past in all his armor, so stiff-backed he hardly bent when he walked. Now, even the halls felt… thinner. 

Stretched. 

Like something big had been pulled out, leaving only a hollow space behind.

He didn’t know what, exactly.

He’d asked once. Just once.

Ser Boros had sniffed and said, Her Grace did what was right, Your Highness, in that thick, stuffy way of his, like the words tasted bad.

Right.

Tommen didn’t know what right meant, not this time. He liked Lord Stark. He had a kind face, a heavy hand on the shoulder, a voice like the deep roll of a drum. But all everyone did was whisper now. When he passed by, servants would hush themselves mid-sentence. 

He knew Joffrey was happy. Mother too.

But Myrcella had only looked at him, lips pressed together, before saying, It’s better not to ask, Tommen in that careful way she did when she didn’t want to upset him.

So he didn’t.

But that didn’t stop the quiet.

He curled his fingers against his chest, pressing the small red stone beneath his doublet. Warm. It was always warm. Even when the tunnels weren’t. Even when his hands were cold.

He liked that.

The tunnel bent sharply ahead. The air changed. Thicker. Damper. Wrong.

Tommen’s nose scrunched. It smelled bad. Not bad bad, not like the kennels when it rained, or Joffrey’s hunting clothes when he came back all sweaty and grinning, but… off. Like when you got too close to a torch and your nose felt funny.

He kept walking.

The tunnel opened, widening into a tiny alcove.

Something sat on the ledge.

Tommen stopped.

A jar.

Green. Deep, rich, not dull like the old glass in Mother’s solar, but smooth, perfect, polished, like Myrcella’s eyes when she smiled.

His lips parted slightly.

What was that doing here?

He stepped closer, tilting his head.

It looked strange in the lantern light—almost like it glowed, just a little, a whisper of a shine.

His boots scraped stone as he peered up at it. Too high. Just a little.

He set the lantern down, carefully, like he was tucking in a kitten. Stretched onto his toes.

His fingers brushed the jar’s surface. Smooth. Odd. Warm.

Just like his stone.

His lips curled, triumphant.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

His heel slipped.

His stomach lurched.

His hand jerked, knocking the jar—

His foot swung—

His lantern tipped—

Glass cracked.

Green liquid hit the stone.

His breath stopped.

Oh no.

—

Myrcella walked quickly through the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, her steps light but urgent, skirts whispering against the cold stone floor. The torches flickered in their sconces, casting long shadows that stretched and trembled with her movement.

Ser Arys walked a step behind her, his armor softly clinking. A presence. Steady. Reassuring.

Tommen was getting better at this.

Her fingers curled slightly, gripping the fabric of her skirts. He had always been playful, prone to slipping away when he wasn’t meant to, but this was different. He had changed. Slipping away was no longer mischief—it was purposeful.

And no one else seemed to notice.

“He can’t have gone far,” she murmured, more to herself than Ser Arys.

“The prince is clever,” Ser Arys said, voice even. “Yet the Keep is vast, Princess. He could be anywhere.”

Anywhere. Or somewhere he shouldn’t be.

The thought was unwelcome. Myrcella’s lips pressed together as she turned another corner, her steps quickening.

She hated how empty the castle felt. The Red Keep had always been full of noise—laughter, footsteps, the distant ring of steel in the yard—but lately, there was a hush in the halls. 

Father lay still in his chambers, unmoving, the great stag felled. The maesters said he was healing, but kings did not take to bed. Not Father. He was Robert Baratheon. He was supposed to be too strong to fall.

But he had.

And Lord Stark—Sansa’s father—had been locked away. 

For treason.

The word felt heavy. Stiff. She had liked Lord Stark. He had looked at her and Tommen with steady, quiet eyes, as if seeing something no one else did. He had never been unkind. She didn’t understand.

Joffrey had said he was a traitor. Mother had smiled more, too much, when he was taken away. 

Sansa had stopped looking anyone in the eye and her sister had vanished, lost in the chaos of that horrible day.

Myrcella didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t like the answers she was given.

She shook her head ever so slightly, as if to clear it, golden curls bouncing with each and every movement. They’ll both be fine. They had to be.

Then—

A sound.

Deep. Low. A distant rumble that pressed through the stone beneath her feet.

She halted mid-step, breath catching.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Ser Arys slowed beside her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Hear what, Princess?”

She turned her head slightly, listening.

Then it came again.

Louder.

A deep, muffled boom that rolled through the walls, the ground beneath her vibrating with the force of it.

Her heart quickened.

Then—

Light.

Blinding, brilliant green.

The wall behind her exploded.

The force sent her stumbling backward, the impact slamming into her like a solid wave. Heat seared across her skin, thick and suffocating.

Ser Arys caught her, barely, his grip firm around her arms as the acrid stench of burning stone filled the air.

For a moment, all she could see was fire.

Wildfire.

Green and wrong, twisting and curling with a hunger that didn’t make sense, that wasn’t natural.

The roar filled her ears. The heat pressed against her, clawed at her skin.

And beneath it, barely audible—

A scream.

Her stomach twisted. Her fingers locked around Ser Arys’s arm.

She knew that voice.

Her breath caught, her heartbeat a violent thrum in her chest.

Her lips parted—

And this time, when her voice came, it was raw, breaking—

“TOMMEN!”