Smaller in death, a scar marring her perfect face, a circlet of gold lions resting on curls that used to shine, Myrcella is still. She lies at the feet of the throne, wrapped in silks, a queen that never had the chance to rule her kingdom. Beside her, her mother sits with her back against the tangle of steel, keeping silent vigil and waiting.
He comes to her soon enough, armour ashy and dented, a bloodstained sword gripped in his false hand . He’s tired and weak and fighting the wrong battles, her fool of a brother, her fool of a knight.
They stare at each other, their dead child between them, and every inch of her aches as she remembers, remembers just how this has happened before. And it will happen all over again, she knows, she welcomes it, the chance to feel something other than broken.
His hand - his good hand, his whole hand - runs through the hair on her head, the little that has grown stubbornly back and then they’re swallowing each other with greedy mouths. She leans against the throne and the blades bite into her back but she doesn’t care, not one bit, not when his teeth sink into her lower lip and pull.
He fills her up, hurting more than loving her, but that’s always been the way, hasn’t it, they have never been kind to one another. She marks his skin with bruises, talons sinking into pallid flesh and though she thought she had no more tears to spend, her face is damp and she tastes salt as she presses her lips to his eyes. It’s almost a relief when the pain (or pleasure, she can’t tell the difference now) builds up and she moans into the hollow of his neck, clinging as close as she can.
He holds her close too, closer than he should, the golden hand crushing her throat and keeping her from breathing out his name. She thinks about giving up but Cersei Lannister has never been one to keep from fighting. So she claws at him, tearing at his face, her fingers locking around the sword at his feet.
His blood is warm as it spills on her dress.
Her last thought is how comforting it is to leave this world, wrapped in her brother’s embrace.
Smaller in death, a scar marring her perfect face, a circlet of gold lions resting on curls that used to shine, Myrcella is still. She lies at the feet of the throne, wrapped in silks, a queen that never had the chance to rule her kingdom. Beside her, her mother sits with her back against the tangle of steel, keeping silent vigil and waiting.
He comes to her soon enough, armour ashy and dented, a bloodstained sword gripped in his false hand . He’s tired and weak and fighting the wrong battles, her fool of a brother, her fool of a knight.
They stare at each other, their dead child between them, and every inch of her aches as she remembers, remembers just how this has happened before. And it will happen all over again, she knows, she welcomes it, the chance to feel something other than broken.
His hand - his good hand, his whole hand - runs through the hair on her head, the little that has grown stubbornly back and then they’re swallowing each other with greedy mouths. She leans against the throne and the blades bite into her back but she doesn’t care, not one bit, not when his teeth sink into her lower lip and pull.
He fills her up, hurting more than loving her, but that’s always been the way, hasn’t it, they have never been kind to one another. She marks his skin with bruises, talons sinking into pallid flesh and though she thought she had no more tears to spend, her face is damp and she tastes salt as she presses her lips to his eyes. It’s almost a relief when the pain (or pleasure, she can’t tell the difference now) builds up and she moans into the hollow of his neck, clinging as close as she can.
He holds her close too, closer than he should, the golden hand crushing her throat and keeping her from breathing out his name. She thinks about giving up but Cersei Lannister has never been one to keep from fighting. So she claws at him, tearing at his face, her fingers locking around the sword at his feet.
His blood is warm as it spills on her dress.
Her last thought is how comforting it is to leave this world, wrapped in her brother’s embrace.
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YOU ARE SO PERFECT
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