A Whirlwind

by chss

Summary:

Sometimes, you meet a hot guy at a party and just have a good time. Other times, that guy turns out to be from a family yours doesn't exactly like, but you fall in love anyway, and then you find out that your uncle is your dad.

Myrcella really hadn't expected her first two months at uni to go this way.

Notes:

I make no guarantees that this makes any sense at all if you don't know what's going on already.

Titles based on a song with very Myrcella energy.

Chapter 1: Not Stuck on the Past

Myrcella was very, very excited to be at her first student party.

It hadn't been easy to even end up there. The party wasn't the problem – her mum didn't care and besides, she was 19 – but studying at the Institute for Politics and Policy had been controversial within her family. She'd been surprised by how much they'd been against it, really. It was prestigious.

Maybe in the wrong way, though. Her mum and her granddad and Joff all considered it a waste of time, for her. Why do something brainy if she could just get a nice degree in a subject that wouldn't give her any ideas?

They hadn't put it in those terms, but Myrcella knew that was what they'd meant. So she'd just applied for the International Relations programme without telling anyone and then accepted the place and then told one of her mum's assistants to transfer the tuition fees in a matter-of-fact voice.

She hadn't been happy about it, but it clearly wasn't at the top of her list of concerns.

And now she was here! Lots of first year students in a house not far from the university. She'd considered student accommodation, too, but had ultimately decided that there'd be a lot less screaming if she stayed with her mum and Tommen for now and then moved into her own place later in the year. The idea of her living in the same building as normal people would've just been too much.

Well, whatever. Everyone here was great. Mostly first years like her and pretty much all of them from either the International Relations or Westerosi Studies programmes.

Some people knew who she was and others didn't. Myrcella preferred the latter option; just telling anyone unaware that she was from King's Landing and leaving it at that. She had a beer in her hand and made her way through the crowd – at anything like this, where everyone was new, just beaming at someone and saying hi was enough to start a conversation.

They'd come from all over the Union and some were from other parts of the world, too. Despite its high tuition fees, the IPP wasn't an exclusively rich-people thing; most students attended on scholarships. It was nice to talk to those who weren't the children of politicians for once.

A million conversations later, buzzing with energy from all that, she went to get herself another beer and bumped into a guy who was doing the same. Following her playbook, Myrcella gave a wide smile, said: “Hi! I'm Cella.”

He grinned back. She'd spotted a few hot guys this evening, but liked that grin in particular. “Nice to meet you. I'm Trys.”

Dornish. She could've guessed from his looks, though you never knew in King's Landing. He had light brown skin, short black hair, and warm, dark eyes. A nice face, too; maybe still a little bit boyish, making her pretty sure they were the same age. “Where are you from?”, she asked anyway.

Trys grinned even more. “I know that's what everyone's asking each other tonight, but come on. You can hear that.”

“Where in Dorne are you from?”, she specified.

He liked that. “Sunspear. What about you?”

Really warm eyes. “Where do you think I'm from?”

A hum, then he looked her over as if that would tell him anything, concluded: “You're from here.”

Maybe he'd worked out who she was. “How did you know?”

“So that was right?” He had a swig of his beer and she realised she hadn't even got another one yet. “Lucky.”

Myrcella had to laugh. “You just guessed?”

He shrugged, unrepentant. “Yeah. But if I'd been wrong, you'd have been flattered. Most people who aren't from King's Landing want to seem like they are once they move here.”

She walked past him to the fridge, got that beer. “As a real King's Landinger, I can confirm. Do you know a lot of people in the city?”

“A few. Which programme are you in?”

Opening the bottle, she said: “International Relations.”

“I'm in Westerosi Studies. Pretty sure we'll have a few classes together.”

When she turned back around, there was a loud laugh from the door to the kitchen and Myrcella saw him look in that direction. The new angle suddenly made her think that there was something familiar about his face.

Maybe he was thinking the same about her, but if he wasn't asking, then she wouldn't, either. “Most of the ones this term.” Introductions to everything; their programmes would diverge more after that.

He nodded. “I'm a bit scared of Macroeconomics.”

That wouldn't be the hard part, at least as far as she was concerned; Myrcella had already learned the basics in school. “It's not too bad. Just graphs.”

“That's the problem”, he said. “If I was good at maths, I'd be studying something else.” Then he tilted his head, added: “Probably not, to be honest, but I'm just really bad at maths.”

She had to smile. “It's not actually maths, for the most part. But let me know if you need any help.”

Trys grinned again. She liked his lips, too; very suited for smiling. “That's confidence. Anything you'll need help with?”

Actually: “How's your Valyrian? Mine's shit. I couldn't pick the beginner class because I took it in school, and I don't like my chances in the intermediate one.”

“How's my Valyrian?”, he repeated, then said something.

Unfortunately: “I didn't understand a single word of that.”

He leaned against the counter. “Alright, you'll really need some help then.”

No question about that. “So you're fluent?”

“My mum's from Norvos.”

Okay, that made her feel better about it. “That's an unfair advantage. What did you say?”

He drank from his bottle, then: “That I'll be happy to help a pretty girl practice.”

It was a little embarrassing that this actually made her giggle, though he took that in with a smile. “Smooth”, Myrcella said.

“Seems like it worked. Do you -”

“Seven hells, look at that!” This had come from the door. It was a girl called Tarla who she'd talked to before; her mother was a journalist in Casterly and she'd immediately recognised Myrcella. “You two getting along. Bring your families together and we'll have peace in the Union.”

Oh, no. She didn't like where this was going. “What do you mean?”, Trys asked.

Tarla's eyes went wide. “Hold on. You don't know?” Apparently, that was very funny. “Trystane Nymeros Martell...”

Fuck. She tried to make her shut up with a look.

“... meet Myrcella Baratheon.”

They were both dumbstruck for a second.

Gods. The First Minister's son. His opinion of her had probably just fallen through the floor.

Tarla snorted, then left.

“Wow”, Trys said after a second. “She really enjoyed that.”

Myrcella needed a big gulp of her beer. “Yeah. Listen -”

“Whatever”, he interrupted. “I mean: do you care?”

“About which part?”

“The one where our families hate each other.”

Not even an exaggeration. Still, she liked that he'd asked, because maybe... “That's not our fault.”

Trys smiled. “It's not. Not our problem then, either, right?”

She smiled back. “Don't see why it would be.”

 

The next morning, she was a bit hungover and put her mum's preferred cure together; throwing a vitamin tablet into coconut water. Myrcella wouldn't take her advice on most things, but the woman knew a thing or two about drinking.

And there she was, coming into the kitchen and giving her look because she knew what she was doing. Then she sniffed. “Did you smoke?”

Her hair did smell bad. “No. Just people around me.”

“Don't start. It ages your skin.” Myrcella thought that lung cancer was scarier than wrinkles, but whatever. “Your father's complaining that you're not picking up his calls.”

Tough. She watched the tablet dissolve. “I don't want to talk to him.”

Her mum took a plastic cup out of the fridge; probably a diet superfood no-carb porridge or something. “Neither do I.”

She stirred her coconut water. “Then don't?”

“Until Tommen turns eighteen, I'll have to.”

He did have visiting rights after the divorce, though he didn't use them beyond occasionally summoning Tommen to Shipbreaker's Bay. “It's not like he actually cares. Probably wants me to bring a couple of my friends to his house.”

Their shared dislike for Myrcella's dad was the only thing they ever agreed on. “I wouldn't be surprised.” She got herself a spoon, added while she left: “Wash your hair; you smell like an ashtray.”

 

Another missed call when she got back to her room. Could you get a restraining order against your own father?

Not that it was that dramatic in the end; he only went through these phases once in a while. The easier thing to do would be to block his number.

So she did.

Myrcella drank her (really vile-tasting) hangover cure while organising her reading. One week into the term and she already had about a hundred pages to get through – that called for highlighters and bullet points and a schedule with planned breaks.

She really tried to get into it and normally would've, but the drink didn't help much and she kept getting distracted; felt like her brain was a bit foggy. A shower really would make her feel better, she decided.

Though that also distracted her. Yesterday, she'd talked to Trys for a while longer and eventually they'd laughed about how they hadn't recognised each other. He'd told her that she just didn't look like “Baratheon”, in his words, at all.

Not the first time she'd heard that, both about herself and her brothers. And she'd heard whispers of something else, too.

It wasn't weird that she resembled her mum a lot. It was weird, though, that all three of them looked like her entirely; no trace of their dad anywhere. She didn't see it in Joff, or herself, or Tommen in any way.

Almost like he wasn't really their father.

Almost like their actual father was someone who looked a lot like their mum himself.

Myrcella would've never even started to suspect it if she hadn't heard the rumours. A friend from school had texted her saying she'd overheard her parents (DPW people, obviously) talking about it; followed by a ‘hells this is so dumb’.

That hadn't been her reaction, though. Because Myrcella thought it made a lot of sense.

Exhibit A: the way they all looked. Exhibit B: the fact that her mum really fucking hated her “dad”. Exhibit C: Uncle Jaime had been secretly living just down the road for years and was also possibly the only person her mother liked.

At this stage, she'd be more surprised if it wasn't true. And she wanted to find out.

 

Not yet, though, because it was also a weird and scary thing to think about. She ultimately finished her reading that weekend.

Intro to Political Science lecture on Monday at nine in the morning, unfortunately. Trys came in at the last second, sat down next to her with a reusable cup that emitted the smell of coffee, said: “It's way too early for...”, he looked at the slides and his face lit up, “Barth. Actually, scratch that; should be interesting.”

She regretted not having got a coffee of her own. “You take your notes by hand?”, she asked, nodding at the slightly disheveled notebook he pulled out of his bag.

“Easier to remember that way.” He glanced at her laptop. “I would've said you're a highlighter girl.”

Myrcella had to laugh, admitted: “I am. I write them down again when I get home.”

Trys seemed to think that was funny. “You won't keep that up beyond like the third week.”

“Watch me do it until the day I hand in my thesis.”

He didn't believe her, but that was when the lecture started. Myrcella got a packet of mixed nuts out halfway through; always thought it was easier to focus with something to snack on. She noticed Trys eyeing it for a while until she pushed it over to him, which got a smile.

Being next to him was also a bit distracting. Myrcella liked that he'd just come to sit there. She was very careful about not having their hands touch when reaching for the nuts.

When the lecture was over, he asked if she wanted to come along for drinks with a few people that evening.

Easy to answer.

 

“We should go to Fishmonger's Square on Croneday”, Tarla said.

They were on the terrace of a bar down by the harbour. “Should we, though?”, Trys asked. He was drinking wine like literally no other guy she knew would in this setting. “I heard it's really annoying.”

Everyone looked to her; the only one from King's Landing. “Really annoying”, Myrcella agreed.

“It's meant to be good for networking.” That had been Deran, who was from Stokeworth and had so far stuck out to her by asking a question in every single lecture.

Laela; half Pentoshi but from Gulltown, looked very unimpressed. “Who wants to network with first years? Calm down and leave that for, like, third year or something.”

Deran was a bit annoyed. “Not sure how to find that internship in second year, then.”

Myrcella caught Trys' eye and could see that he, too, was trying to stay out of this discussion. Not that Tarla let them: “Some people don't need to network, obviously.”

Damnit. “Actually, Myrcella”, Deran said, “you know lots of Members of the WP, right?”

Next to him, Laela rolled her eyes and took out a pouch of tobacco. “I wouldn't say I know them, really”, Myrcella said.

“Your dad was President”, Tarla pointed out.

She had a sip from her drink; sparkling wine and an orange Braavosi liqueur. “He was, and then he had a massive scandal when everyone found out he spent more time assaulting interns than governing.”

That made them uncomfortable, but it was probably better to make clear what she thought of him right at the start. It didn't stop Deran: “But your mum is -”

“I'm not DPW and I'm not doing anything for Lannister Industries.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” Laela lit her cigarette.

What Myrcella really wanted to know was what Trys thought of this, but she couldn't tell. He was watching the conversation unfold with his glass of wine and barely any expression at all.

Tarla was drinking the same as her; pushed the ice cubes around in her glass. “Aren't you DPW, Deran?”

He wasn't happy with how any of this was going, it was clear. “RM, actually.”

Laela groaned.

“What about you, then?”, Tarla asked her.

“PWPW.”

Deran stared at her. “You can't be serious.”

She blew some smoke up towards the sky. “Dead serious.”

Tarla shook her head. “Whatever. Going back to internships, though – I get that you don't like your dad, Cella, but it would be really helpful for the rest of us if you'd, I don't know, ask around a bit next year.”

Myrcella wanted to move away from everyone her parents knew; not towards them. “Look, it's not like -”

“It is, though”, Deran said.

This was starting to stress her out. “You don't even know what I was going to say. I can't just make a call and get you an internship.”

Tarla didn't buy it. “Considering who your granddad is, you literally can.”

“Guys.” Trys. “These internships are in a year and a half. And”, he leaned forward, “let's keep in mind that we don't exactly know everything about each other's family situations.”

That made her wonder what the Martell family was like. She hoped for his sake that it was less dysfunctional.

Both Deran and Tarla looked a bit guilty; Laela seemed entertained.

Myrcella sucked on her straw, then asked: “Did anyone get that reading for History?”

Trys sighed. “Hells, I could barely read the pdf. You'd think they'd manage to scan a book in a way that lets you make out the words.”

The others had to go along with the topic after that. As it turned out, Deran had tracked down the actual book in the library.

 

I just don't get the citation thing, Trys texted her a few days later.

What if it's three authors??

Myrcella snorted, shook her head. She shouldn't reply now – shouldn't even have looked at the message; she was trying to understand Valyrian grammar and still had twelve minutes left that shouldn't have been interrupted. Her phone was on silent.

But... well. Maybe she'd been checking, sometimes.

She sent him a link explaining it, he reacted with a heart.

And maybe she could justify this because: I'm about to cry over declensions

A sad reaction to that. Yeah they're hard. Also tbh I can't really explain them

Great, she wrote back.

He replied: It's just about practice

And that was an opportunity for: You said you'd help me

I can talk to you in valyrian. Can't explain it though

A start. Myrcella hesitated for a second, then decided that there was no reason to because she was pretty sure he was interested: Let's get a drink on maidenday?

Sounds good. She smiled.

Like 8?

You pick where, you're the one from here

It was a good question. 8 works, she wrote, then: In front of the great sept

She could imagine his surprise. Are we drinking with the high septon?

Something like that, Myrcella wrote back, and was glad that nobody could see her huge grin.

 

They didn't drink with the High Septon, obviously. They also didn't speak any Valyrian.

What they did was go to a bar high up on the terrace of a building next to the Great Sept. Its main draw was the view and maybe it was a bit touristy, but she liked it anyway.

“Why the IPP, actually?”, she asked.

He had a glass of wine again. Trys was the only nineteen-year-old she knew who could look at a wine list and understand it. “I guess what you mean is: why not Sunspear?”

Myrcella swallowed a bite from a cracker. “Yeah.”

It was a hot day; classic late summer in King's Landing. Trys looked very good in a white t-shirt. “I feel like I should say that I wanted to get out of Dorne or get away from my family or something. Would be bullshit, though.” He picked an olive up with a cocktail stick. “It's the best Westerosi Studies programme. That's really just it.”

She hadn't exactly thought about the Martells much before they'd met. “Then you don't want to get away from your family?”

“No. Can't actually complain about them.” Trys shrugged. “This wouldn't be the right place anyway. My sister lives here and one of my three million cousins as well. That cousin also went to the IPP, same as my uncle.”

None of that was surprising, except: “Your uncle?” Myrcella tried to parse that. “Oberyn Martell went to the IPP?”

Trys blinked, then laughed. Not in a mocking way, though. “He didn't. I meant the other one; Rhaegar.”

Right. “I'd completely forgotten that you're related to the Targaryens. Shit.”

That made him laugh more. “Technically only related to two of them, but yeah. They're nice.”

Not a word she'd ever heard in connection to that family. Myrcella drank from her own glass; a cocktail with rum and peaches. “So how many cousins to you have?”

“Ten actual first cousins. On the Targaryen side, there are also the other -” He very suddenly stopped himself. “The other two; Rhaegar's siblings, who we'd basically count like that.”

She wouldn't press whatever that had been. Maybe it was hard to talk about. “Cousins seem fun”, Myrcella said instead. “Neither of my uncles has any kids.” Or maybe one of them had three.

She didn't really know the Baratheon ones. Tyrion was married, but she'd barely ever met Tysha – it was a bit like he was keeping her as far away from their family as possible, which made a lot of sense.

“They are fun”, he said with a smile. This was when Myrcella realised that he meant it: Trys actually liked his family. “I – okay.” He had a sip of his wine. “I'll really get it if you don't want to talk about this, especially with me. But... you don't get along with any of your family, do you? Not just your dad.”

She sighed. Myrcella knew what he'd meant by not talking about it with him specifically: the entire stupid family feud thing. She didn't feel like she owed anything to them, though. “My younger brother's fine”, she said. “Tommen. He's fifteen, so, you know. And my uncle Tyrion is really funny. The rest...”

He looked at her and she really liked what she could see in his eyes. “You don't have to say anything. We met like two weeks ago.”

They had. She also needed to get this off her chest, and if it was to Trystane Martell of all people, then so be it. “My dad, obviously, is a disgraced sex pest. My mother's unstable. My older brother is just really nasty. Kind of wish I could do something against him because someone like Joff should never, ever, hold office.” He'd be elected anyway, running in the only safe DPW seat in King's Landing. “My other uncle doesn't give a shit about anything. And my grandfather's just straight-up evil – that's really the best way to describe him.”

Way too much to be dumping on someone on a first date. Trys seemed fine with it. “That's such a shit situation to be in”, he said. “Would fuck most people up. But then there's you making up your own mind and doing your own thing. I think that's really impressive.”

Myrcella wasn't used to this; felt herself smile and couldn't really do anything about it. “Why are you so nice?”

Trys laughed again. “Shouldn't I be? Wait, I'll find something mean to say.” He looked over to the Great Sept's spires with a theatrically pondering face, one of his hands playing with the cocktail stick. She noticed that he had really good hands, and arms. “Ah, I've got something”, he announced. “You're too organised. Those notes you shared in the Econ group made everyone else feel self-conscious.”

She groaned. “That's not mean.”

“Worst thing I could think of.”

Gods. “You're the perfect politician's child”, Myrcella told him, grabbing another cracker. “I bet you can charm anyone.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So you think I'm charming.”

Nobody had ever just flirted with her that openly. Not that she minded. “I do, yeah.”

Trys grinned, their eyes met, and she knew she had it bad.

 

 

Chapter 2: Don't Ever Accept Less

They stayed at that bar for pretty long. Longer than she'd planned, in any case, but Myrcella didn't feel like saying goodbye at all.

So they didn't when they left, either; instead she showed Trys around a bit more. The centre was always beautiful at night, especially if you knew the most picturesque streets.

“I've never been to Dorne”, she said. “What's Sunspear like?”

“Not that different.” That surprised her. “Hotter, sure. Also smaller and louder and the old part is just less old – there wasn't a lot there for centuries after King's Landing had already become a major city. It's more colourful and chaotic and it always smells like food.”

She smiled at how obvious it was that he loved the place. “That sounds pretty different.”

Trys made a gesture at the city as a whole. “Those are the differences. But Sunspear and King's Landing are also just both major port cities by the Narrow Sea; I think that's why the vibe is pretty similar in the end. Especially if you get out of the centre and go to Godsgate or somewhere. Tons of Essosi here as well, and so many Dornish people.”

“Are there?”, she asked, a bit sceptical because she'd never noticed it.

He nodded. “Everywhere. Probably don't stick out to you, but I can spot them from a mile away. It's like when you go abroad and just recognise the other Westerosi tourists.”

That made sense to her. “Then you like King's Landing?”

By now, she was pretty sure that he'd turn that into another compliment, and obviously: “Yeah. Nice city, interesting courses, beautiful girls...”

Myrcella laughed. “So you've upgraded me from ‘pretty’ to ‘beautiful’?”

One of his trademark grins. “I thought you were beautiful from the start. Was just holding back.”

A funny thought. “You know how to hold back?”

“Barely.” They were slowly making their way down the hill through winding, narrow streets. “Do you like King's Landing, though? If you wanted to get away from your family, you could've moved somewhere else.”

Not really. “I do. Like the city, I mean. And the only other option would've been Casterly.”

Trys frowned. “Why?”

“It's not like I have my own money.”

That still seemed to confuse him. “And they wouldn't give you any if you went somewhere else?”

It was pretty clear to her, anyway. “They wouldn't.”

“Shit.” He looked at her. “So you can't actually get away?”

“I'm...”, How to explain it?, “gradually inching away and hoping they won't notice.”

He stopped walking, turned to her. “Seven hells, Cella. I meant it when I said that's impressive. You're impressive.”

She should probably be suspicious. Nobody was actually that nice and direct and sincere.

Except that Trys was. Myrcella didn't really know what to say but had a different idea; took his hand and pulled him along.

She didn't explain why, but he went with it, his hand feeling warm in hers. He didn't even ask when they went through a door in one of the buildings; reliably unlocked. It led to a courtyard that she'd been to many times before – though she hadn't really planned to bring him here, it seemed like the perfect thing to do all of a sudden.

Trys still didn't ask any questions when Myrcella got her phone out, switched the flashlight on, and stuffed it down her shirt so it was held up by her bra, but the light stuck out.

He did look, though. “So many things to say.”

“You'll wish you could do this in a second. Also, you go first.” She pointed to a thin metal ladder on the wall.

His eyes followed all the way up there, as much as he could see in the dark. “Says the one with the flashlight in her bra. If I fall on you, we're both – maybe not dead, but we won't be having a great time.”

Myrcella wasn't overly concerned. “I've done this a million times with a lot of people, really drunk. And you're not looking under my skirt yet.”

He grinned, repeated: “Yet.”

The fact that this suddenly motivated him to start climbing made her laugh. Also, he had a nice arse.

They made it up in one piece, though some of the rungs were a bit shakier than Myrcella remembered. From up on the flat roof, they could see a lot of King's Landing. “Pretty”, Trys said.

She put her phone on the floor, sat down. “Right below us is actually an office, so there's nobody there at night. My friends and I came here to drink a lot before we turned eighteen.”

“It's a good spot.” He sat next to her. “We always went up the old guard towers and city walls. Just thinking about that makes me taste cheap beer and snake skewers.”

It had been cheap beer for her, too, though: “Never had snake.”

Trys shook his head. “How? You can get it like everywhere here.”

True, but she'd always been a bit intimidated. “The skewers are really spicy, aren't they?”

He hummed. “By Andal standards, sure. You can ask for them mild; it's not even embarrassing if you're a blonde girl.”

“You have lots of experience being a blonde girl, then?”

Never shy, Trys reached over and very lightly twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. “I have one blonde cousin, if that counts?”

Myrcella did not mind, at all, that this brought their faces closer. This rooftop was an obvious make-out spot and they both knew that. “It doesn't.”

She really liked the way he looked at her, again. “Fair.”

There were some things she could've replied, but Myrcella was too distracted by the way his lips looked and the thought that she really wanted to kiss him.

“I really want to kiss you”, Trys said.

“Weird. I was just thinking the same.”

It was sweet and gentle and probably would've turned in a different direction if her godsdamned phone hadn't started ringing.

If this was -

No, it couldn't be; she'd blocked him.

And so it wasn't her maybe-dad, she saw when she reluctantly broke the kiss and grabbed her phone. It was Joff, which wasn't any better. “What?”, Myrcella asked.

“Where the fuck are you?”

“Out.”

This shouldn't be an issue; it had never been before. “Well, come here”, Joff said. “Mum's having a nervous breakdown about – doesn't even matter, but I need her to sign things and she isn't doing it.”

Not something she even wanted to think about right now. “So? Fake her signature.”

“That's what I want you to do. Yours is more convincing.”

Hers was perfect. “Tomorrow? I'm like on the Sevenhill right now; won't be back for a while. What do you even need signed?”

Joff sounded smug: “Just got back to mine, so you're not very far, and I need it by tomorrow morning. It's just some municipality shit to prove that I live by the coast.”

He didn't. Joff was registered at their mother's house, pretending he was staying there with all of them, so he'd be able to run for that seat. He actually lived in his own flat in the centre. “Just do it yourself”, she said, reluctant to do anything that would help him run.

“I also have the permission slip for Tommen's school trip.”

Piece of shit. Joff meant that Tommen wouldn't get that back if she didn't sign those forms. “Fine”, Myrcella sighed with a regretful glance at Trys. He looked like he was trying not to listen in, impossible as that would be.

“Great. Hurry up; I'll have company in like half an hour.”

Disgusting. She hung up, said: “I'm sorry. I have to go do something bad for my horrible brother.”

Because he was heartbreakingly non-horrible, Trys kissed her cheek and pulled her up. “You'll have your reasons.”

It only made her want to stay even more. Myrcella couldn't, though, and so they climbed back down. She promised to text him and absolutely meant that.

 

Myrcella signed what Joffrey wanted her to and then Tommen's permission slip as well; took that one back home with her.

Her mum was still in the middle of that breakdown. Jaime was there, too; she could hear her scream from the office and him occasionally interjecting something, sounding like he was trying to calm her down.

She pressed her ear to the door. Hard to tell what this was really about but clearly, both the North and Dorne were involved. A rather long rant about Robb Stark and his ‘little ginger slut of a sister’ (Myrcella increasingly regretted having stopped talking to Sansa; it wasn't like she'd been wrong), and also something to do with a ‘Dornish whore’ whispering in President Oakheart's ear.

Well, then. Myrcella crept upstairs and slid the permission slip under Tommen's door.

 

There were two things she couldn't get out of her head. One was Trys with his smiles and soft lips and nice hands and warm eyes and -

Fuck, she had it bad. She'd dreamed of him, too; of staying on that rooftop for longer. Myrcella wanted those hands and lips everywhere.

Her massive crush and horniness aside, there was also the question of her parentage. She was still scared of facing that, so she buried herself in her uni work instead.

Would it be too fast to text Trys? No, whatever. She did, but found out that he was meeting his sister. He suggested Fatherday, which seemed like a bad idea, with that lecture on Motherday in the morning.

So that was when they next saw each other. He came in at the last second, again; she moved her bag from the seat she might've reserved for him that way. “Hi”, he said.

Myrcella had to smile. “Hey.”

Too bad that Tarla was sitting behind them. “That's so cute, I can't.”

“Fucking hells”, Laela said. “Mind your own business.”

“Let me know when you get engaged”, Tarla went on. “My mum would love to break that story.”

Oh, shit. Myrcella froze when she saw the problem – if Tarla had noticed and told her mother who was a journalist in Casterly and...

Trys turned around to her. “What are you doing right after this?”

“Going to the seminar for History?”

“I'll walk with you.”

That had sounded a bit like a threat. As the lecture started, she texted him: What will you tell her?

It would've been hard to imagine him actually intimidating anyone, until about right now. She just needs to get that this isn't a game, Trys wrote back, looking very relaxed.

Vague, but if it did anything, she'd be fine with it.

 

They all went out the night after that; wouldn't have classes the next day until the afternoon. Trys had told her that Tarla would keep quiet, and there was a noticeable lack of smug comments from her side as well.

“Deran's driving me fucking insane”, Laela told her. Shouted, really, because they were standing by the bar in a club. “RM! And he's so”, she picked the shot glass up, “fucking”, she downed it, “annoying in lectures.”

Myrcella tried not to laugh. “Yeah. You hate him.”

Frantic nodding. “And have you seen his stupid hair?”

“So stupid”, she said, then drank her own shot, burning in her throat.

Laela pointed around. “Literally any guy here would be better.”

She nodded behind her. “He's over there, by the way.”

Impossible not to laugh when Laela swerved around. Trys appeared, then, taking Myrcella's hand and pulling her to the dance floor.

Of course he could dance! There was the hammering music, and the flashing lights, and the way he looked at her, and how he moved – she just had to grab his head and kiss him.

Trys was entirely on board with that, his hands going to her waist to pull her closer. He could kiss, too, now that they weren't interrupted after three seconds.

When they left, hours later, she asked: “Where do you live?”

“Like ten minutes from here, that way.” She hesitated and he smiled, added: “Look, if you want to come with me, I'm not going to say no.”

Always so forward. It really made things much easier.

Myrcella took his hand and started walking.

 

They were pretty much inseparable from then on. She knew they hadn't known each other for long, at all, and that it was maybe stupid, but Myrcella was very sure that she was in love.

The problem now was that she'd have to hide it from her family, considering that they'd lose their entire minds if they found out. And: “What do you think I look like?”

This was about a week later, on his flat's balcony. Trys just lived by himself; had skipped the whole shared house situation. At her question he looked up from the assignment on his laptop, smiled. “How sappy do you want me to be?”

She groaned, shook her head. “Not what I meant. It's...” Absolutely not something she should tell a Martell, under any circumstances, but here they were: “I look like my mum, right?”

“Yeah? Very Lannister. Just more stunning.”

Myrcella had to smile as well. “Sure. But: I don't look like my dad.”

“No. Pretty lucky, I'd say.”

“He was actually handsome when he was younger.” Also not the point. “The thing is: I don't look like him and my brothers don't, either. We all look very Lannister, like you said.”

Trys pushed his laptop away. “Genetics are weird sometimes. My siblings and I all look extremely Martell, too, though Arianne's small like our mum.”

It could be. “What does your mum look like?”

He reached for his phone, searched for a few seconds, showed her a picture. Myrcella took it, looked back at him – “I can see it, actually.”

“Yeah, it's there a little. Same nose. So what's this about?”

She sighed, then blurted it out: “There's a rumour that we're not really his kids. And it makes sense, right? You'd think at least one of us would look at least a tiny bit like him? And all three being blond...” Now that she was talking about it, she couldn't stop. “Plus my mum hates, and I mean hates him, so I wouldn't be surprised if she'd done it on purpose. One hundred percent the kind of thing she'd do. And here's the really crazy part: some people say we're my uncle's kids. Jaime's. And that also makes sense because they're really close, he lives here in secret, and it would explain why we all resemble her – them – so much. He's her twin and basically just her as a man, physically.”

All of that took him a moment to process. Then he said: “He lives here in secret.”

She nodded. “Not secret secret, but everyone's very low-key about it. Officially he's got a job with granddad's company in Casterly that he does fuck-all for. Lives five minutes down the road from us.”

“I mean. That's kind of a big clue.”

“I know.”

Trys didn't seem that disturbed, somehow. “Obviously, you really want to know this. So find out. Can you just ask her?” At the face she made, he suggested: “Ask him?”

Probably yes. Jaime wasn't good at lying. “But what if it's true?”

“Then you're not Robert Baratheon's kid. Wouldn't that be kind of a relief?”

Myrcella had to laugh. This was all crazy. “I guess? Except for, you know. Being my own cousin.”

Incredibly, he shrugged. “Lots of people are.”

She put her head in her hands. “I just don't know. I...” He was right: “I have to find out.”

 

So Myrcella went to Jaime's.

Part of her felt like she already knew the answer.

Still. She rang the doorbell.

Jaime opened it, blinked. “Why are you here?”

She pushed past him. He lived in a villa just like their own, though it was a lot smaller.

The fact that he was perpetually single and she'd never heard about him with anyone else also should've been a tip-off. For the last few years, she'd just assumed that he was gay and hiding it because her grandfather wouldn't exactly be pleased, but... maybe not.

There was probably no better way to do this than to just get it out. Myrcella went through to his living room – very bachelor-pad like, with a huge tv and film posters – and turned around to face him as he walked behind her. Then she simply asked: “Are you our dad?”

Not just bad at lying directly. His face showed the answer.

“That's a yes.”

Jaime caught up: “Why would you think -”

“No, come on.” She stared at him. “Can you please just say it? I need to hear it so I know I'm not going crazy.”

“Look, I know there are rumours -”

Myrcella shut him up with a gesture. The fact that she could just do that didn't exactly make her think more highly of him as a father. “There are rumours, yeah. It's also really obvious if you think about it, like, at all. Say it.”

It was so fitting that her mother would have a long, secret affair with someone like that. She had to love that she could just walk all over him. “It's true.”

That made her need to sit down. “Hells.” Myrcella suddenly had to stare at her own hands, her arms, her legs; wonder if there was something wrong she hadn't noticed.

“You can see why we kept it a secret”, he said.

She laughed; couldn't do anything else. “I can. Fuck.” Something occurred to her: “Does granddad know?”

Jaime was still just standing there. “No.”

“He'll have a heart attack if he finds out. And a lot of people are talking about it by now.”

“Well.” Did he just not care? “How sad would that really be?”

Myrcella wasn't even surprised. “Okay.” Gods, this was all so fucked up. The whole family was. Most of them hated each other, except for the two who...

She felt sick.

“Valyrians -”, Jaime started.

“Seriously?” Kind of outrageous. “Half the shit the Express and DPW people said during the scandals were dogwhistles about the Targaryens and incest. Express still does it now sometimes. Oh, Seven save us, there's a zero point zero two percent uptick in sibling marriage in Dorne; Westeros is doomed.”

He snorted. “I don't actually disagree with you, there.”

His point was that he'd never had anything to do with that, and it was true. Raging at Jaime over the Express or the DPW would be like blaming Tommen for Joff's... entire personality. Myrcella wanted to be angry at him, though, because: “Do you see any of us as your children?”

Jaime looked away, was quiet for a second. “You're Cersei's children”, he finally said.

“At least that was honest.” Fucking hells.

She just walked out, then. He didn't do or say anything to stop her.

 

 

Chapter 3: Draw a Line

Myrcella kept walking, and walking, and walking. It was kind of a nice day.

Now he'd tell her mum that she knew, obviously. She guessed that Joff did already; it was too much of a risk for him to not be aware of it.

Gods. She didn't even know what to think or feel.

Eventually, she realised that she'd walked all the way to the shore. There wasn't much of a beach here; mostly rocks.

There was only one person she wanted to talk to, so she texted Trys, then sat there and stared out over the bay.

He got there quickly. Myrcella couldn't help but smile when she saw him approach, sat down next to her. “It's true”, she said.

Trys just hugged her. That was when she started to cry.

He stroked her back and whispered all kinds of nice things that she didn't really hear. It still helped.

She had to touch her face; trace her own features. “What even am I?”

“You're Cella”, he said. “The rest doesn't matter.”

She wished she could believe that. “I'm definitely not Myrcella Baratheon. Waters, I guess, or...”, ew, “Lannister. I'll say it now: if this ever comes out, I'm not taking that name.”

He kissed her temple. “Let's face it: it probably will. And then you just do what you want.”

How was he so relaxed about this? “My parents are siblings. Twins.” She looked out over the waves as if they had anything to say about this.

Trys hummed. “Remember how I'm related to the Targaryens? Trust me, they're fine. My two actual cousins on that side are married to each other and they're some of the nicest people I know.”

“Aerys was insane”, she pointed out. “Weren't his parents siblings? Your cousins' aren't, or they wouldn't be your cousins.”

Picking up a pebble, he said: “I think his parents were, yeah.” He threw it up into the air, caught it. “But his kids, with his sister – Rhaegar and Dany are both super smart, good people, and definitely not insane.”

That did actually make her feel better. “Is ‘Dany’ Daenerys?”, she asked.

He grinned. “Yeah. Is your mum freaking out about her?”

Oh, yes. “She freaks out about everyone and everything.” Myrcella leaned against him and as if on cue, her phone started to ring. She sighed, pulled it out of her pocket, showed the Mum on the screen to Trys.

Then she just muted it and kissed him.

 

Not that she could avoid it forever.

“Where were you?”, her mum asked when she got home the next day. “And why the fuck didn't you answer my calls?”

She should really move out. “Had a bit of a thing to deal with? I'm sure you heard.”

A joyless laugh. “Yes. Couldn't just let that rest, could you?”

“No? It's about me.”

They both stopped when they heard Tommen's steps come down the stairs. He mumbled a “Bye” and left.

“You should be happy”, she was told as soon as the door closed behind him. “You're not Robert's!”

To be fair: “Yeah, that's the good part. The bad one is where it's Jaime instead.” Myrcella shook her head. “I mean, seriously? He's just... nothing. Is there anything he cares about?”

Her mum took a step closer; was very pissed off now. “He cares about me, which no one else -”

“Should've known. He looks like you and worships you. It's just narcissism.”

She almost slapped her for that. “You shut your mouth.”

There wasn't actually anything else she had to say, so Myrcella went up to her room and started working on an essay.

 

Uni helped, in a way. Political theory and patterns in global history and demand curves all provided decent distractions. There was a reading about public discourse during the scandals that actually put some things into perspective.

She talked to Tyrion, too. He'd known for years and had a lot of things to say that were maybe wise or maybe only sounded like it.

Then there was Trys. Sometimes she thought he was too good to be real; started having a vicious, nagging doubt in the back of her mind. It really could all be a Martell ploy to hurt her family – she'd already told him so much.

Except that she was pretty sure that she wasn't an idiot. He meant it when he said he loved her.

Myrcella realised, over the course of several weeks, that it didn't change anything. She was still the same person, obviously. Robert Baratheon had never been much of a father, so that wasn't a loss either.

One evening she was at Trys', as so often (her mum definitely knew that she was seeing a guy, but stuck to her long-held principle of not caring as long as it didn't end up in the media and she didn't get pregnant). “I'm going to Arianne's for dinner tomorrow”, he told her. “My cousin Alleras is coming as well; don't see him much up here.”

She was on his bed, trying to decide which show to watch. “Am I ever going to meet her? Arianne. As your girlfriend, I mean; I've technically met her before.”

Trys let himself fall onto the bed. “Whenever you want.”

That had sounded a little bit apprehensive. Myrcella looked at him. “Do you think she'd hate me?”

“No.” He arranged some pillows so he could lean against them. “Not really, anyway. She'd be suspicious, to be honest, but she'd get it.”

None of these shows looked good. “But?”

Trys smiled. “But she'd definitely do the scary older sister thing. She's like twelve years older than me; I'll always be a baby in her head.”

Myrcella wasn't impressed. “I can handle a scary older sister.”

“So do you want to meet her? I could tell her tomorrow; then she'll want to.”

Now that the prospect was actually there... “Let's maybe wait a bit longer.” Arianne Martell did seem slightly terrifying; they'd met at several events and she'd always thought she was scarily in control of everything. Also, Myrcella thought that she had enough to deal with already.

He put his arm around her. “Really up to you. Let's just watch that; Oberyn knows the people who made it.”

 

A night out two weeks later would turn out to be one of the most consequential of her life. Myrcella didn't know that yet, though; thought it was mostly remarkable for the fact that she finally tried snake skewers at the end of it.

“Can we get a mild?”, Trys asked the guy running the stall.

That got him an appalled stare. “Mild?”

He laughed. “Not for me! Her.”

The vendor looked Myrcella over, nodded.

“That was ridiculous”, she said as they walked back to their friends with the skewers. “So what, I can't eat spicy food because I'm Andal? Or because I'm a girl? It's all just machismo.”

Trys made a vague sound. “Yeah, to an extent. Not much of a gender thing, though; don't forget we're talking about Dorne here.” His own skewer was drenched in angry red sauce. “But remember how one of my cousins is blonde? Looks super Andal. Has a lot of fun messing with people who don't think she's Dornish.”

She bit into the skewer and would not say out loud that she thought this was already pretty spicy. “Pretty good”, she admitted, looked at his. “How big is the difference, really?”

He grinned, offered it to her.

Hells. “Does anyone have some water?”, she had to ask, coughing and maybe embarrassed.

Tarla did. “Look at me, not even saying anything about you liking Dornish sn-” She held her hands up at Trys' look. “I know. Really cheap.”

Laela and Deran were both too busy trying to pretend that they hadn't made out in the club to pay them any attention. Myrcella knew they hooked up sometimes and wondered if they argued over politics during it.

She handed the bottle back to Tarla. “Thanks. Not for the comment, but for the water.” Her mouth was still burning. “How the fuck do you eat that?”

Trys found it all pretty funny. “Easy. But yeah, you can't be offended at getting the Andal version.”

“I guess not.”

Tarla grinned at Deran and Laela, said: “Can we finally take a picture? You never let me. And no, I won't post it anywhere.”

They made her promise that a few more times before agreeing. The whole point, for Tarla, was clearly making Deran and Laela stand next to each other. Trys put his arm around her without thinking about it, and that would change everything.

Not right then, though. Tarla sent it to the group chat, they noticed that the sun was going up, then everyone agreed to go home.

Or to Trys' place, in her case. Myrcella spent more time there than at her mum's by now.

She liked this hour. Shifts in the city were changing at this time; people going home from parties or finishing work while others started. Lights flicked on in shops for people to clean them, street food places closed while bakeries opened, news stands were being stocked -

Trys stopped in front of one of them, almost dropped his rare post-club cigarette. “Shit. That's Dany.”

Myrcella followed his eyes to the World's weekend magazine. On the cover was the word DANY, so she could've guessed that much herself, and the picture of a stunning Valyrian woman in her twenties sitting in an armchair.

He bought a copy, but they didn't read it before going to bed.

 

The next morning, she woke up from a soft curse next to her. Trys was sitting up in bed with the magazine in one hand and his phone in the other; noticed she'd woken up, and said: “Fucking hells, this is amazing.”

She tried to come back to reality, mumbled: “What?”

“I – okay.” His phone was buzzing up a storm. “Gods. Wow. I'll make coffee; don't read it yet.”

The temptation was very strong, with the magazine right next to her. Then again, she was still too sleepy to really bother.

Trys let her drink half the coffee first. When her mind was clear again, he said: “Alright. So there's some stuff in here. I knew one thing and, erm.” He had a sip from his own cup. “Never told you, sorry. Wasn't supposed to, but it also just didn't come up and didn't matter.”

Maybe it was still a bit much for her brain. “What is it?”

“You know how my two cousins on the Targaryen side are the children of my aunt Elia and Rhaegar? Found out like a year ago that he has another kid from an affair during the scandals; a son who's the same age. The guy's called Jon Snow and his mum is Lyanna Stark.”

That was... mildly interesting. “Lyanna Stark.”

A nod. “Eddard's sister.”

It clicked, then. “Jon Snow! Yeah, obviously. Works for the Watch. Sansa's cousin who she lives with. Or lived with; don't know if she still does.” Myrcella tried to comprehend that. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Well, that's the one thing. Met him at Aegon and Rhae's wedding last year. The bit that I didn't know, though: he and Dany are together.”

Myrcella drank the rest of her coffee. “She's – his aunt?”

Trys shrugged. “Targaryens, what can I tell you.” He held his phone up, showing an endless stream of messages. “Cousin group chat is on fire. I mean...”, he scanned the top, “Rea knew because she saw them kiss at the wedding? And she didn't say anything. Respect.”

Okay, well. She didn't have much of an opinion on any of that, but the good thing about it was that everyone would, presumably, be too caught up with this to pay any attention to her and Trys for a while longer.

 

It lasted for a day. Her mum and Joff were both very unhappy because the reaction to that interview was mostly positive. Myrcella couldn't muster any sympathy for them.

She slept at home that night; wanted to wake up early because she was almost falling behind on her readings. As she went down to the kitchen to get some breakfast, she head her mum's voice from the office: “Myrcella.”

That was not a good tone. She walked over and peeked inside; saw both her and Joff at the desk. “What?”

Her mum gestured to a chair. “Close the door and sit down.”

“Hells.” She did so, but said: “I'm not going to tell anyone about the parentage thing, obviously.”

She passed Myrcella her phone. “Can you explain that?”

It showed a screenshot of a post from – Deran, that fucking idiot. It was the picture from that night. “That's me out with my friends?”

“And that”, Joff said, tapping against the screen and enlarging the picture, “is Doran Martell's son with his arm around you.”

Maybe she could somehow deny it. Not the obvious arm situation, but that they were anything but friends. It wasn't like they were kissing in that picture.

But she didn't want to. Fuck all of this. “Yeah”, Myrcella said, handing the phone back and looking at both of them. “Trys and I are together.”

Her mum had a big sip of her coffee, which probably also had some liquor in it. Joff snorted. “I didn't think you were that stupid.”

“Why?”, she asked him.

“Myrcella.” Their mum tried to strike an understanding tone, which she was very bad at. “You – seven hells, can't you see? He's the First Minister's son. It's obviously that bitch Arianne Martell who's behind this. She's fucking Oakheart, her baby brother fucks you – really the Dornish way to do it.”

For a second, Myrcella was too stunned to reply. Vile on so many levels. “Okay.” She tried very hard to keep her voice calm, clenching her fists. “That's actually just ridiculous. I know Trys and you don't, it's got nothing to do with him being Dornish, and, to be honest, you're just being crazy at this point.”

Satisfying. “You think you're so clever”, their mum started, then clearly had a lot more to say, but Joff cut her off.

“So you haven't told him anything?”, he asked, also pretending not to be angry.

“No”, she lied. “We don't talk about family stuff.”

He clearly didn't believe her, but said: “Just so you understand – it's really a big risk.”

Their mum had caught on to whatever he'd decided to go with, nodding. “That's why we're so concerned. You wouldn't want this to end up hurting us, would you?”

I don't actually care if this fucks with Joff's career, she wanted to say. “Of course not.”

“Great.” Joff smiled. “Then it could help us instead.”

Oh, no. No. “See...”, their mum leaned forward, also liking this all of a sudden, “you said you don't talk about family things, but it's an important part of anyone's life. Trys is a Martell; he's related to the Targaryens and, as we all just found out, there's even overlap with the Starks – so if you were to talk about his family sometimes and -”

“Absolutely the fuck not.” She couldn't play along anymore. “I'm not spying on my boyfriend's family.”

Joff rolled his eyes. “Don't act like -”

“No.” Myrcella shook her head. “You're both literally insane. Please get therapy.”

It was clear that Joff was about to reply something very nasty, but their mum got there first, putting on a disappointed face. “We need to know if we can trust you, Myrcella. If you can't make this work for us, then we won't be able to do that anymore.”

What even... “You already don't tell me anything. Not sure what that would change.”

Joff tapped his fingers against the desk, loudly. “But you live here. If you won't help us out with him, then we'll have to assume that you're spying on us instead.”

“Exactly.” Gods, they really were batshit crazy, she thought as their mum leaned closer. Myrcella could smell the alcohol in her coffee. “You can make yourself useful as a member of this family, or you can insist on playing the whore for that Martell boy. But in that case, you can't stay here. Make your choice now and be out of my house by tonight if you pick him.”

Wow.

Myrcella had to laugh. It was better than crying in front of them. “You're making me choose between you two”, she pointed back and forth between them, “and Trys? Really?”

“It's not that fucking funny”, Joff hissed.

“It is. It's hilarious.” She stood up and left.

 

It led to her crying to Trys again.

She wasn't even sure why. “I hate them”, Myrcella sobbed. “They're the worst. Just so – mean and terrible and insane.” She sniffed. “Don't know why this even feels so shit.”

“Your mother just kicked you out and your brother supported it”, he said. “Of course it's shit.”

Gods, she loved him. “You're the best.” Then she pulled away because the practicalities hit her: “Fuck. What do I even do now? I don't have anything.”

Once again, Trys seemed remarkably unconcerned. “You have me? You can stay here for a while.”

Not like she wasn't already there most of the time, but: “And then what? Like – I don't have money. I guess I could get a job but...” Never something she'd thought about before. “Can I make enough to live off while studying?”

Trys blinked. “No idea, actually. How much does a student job pay? I have, like, no concept of that.”

That made her laugh again. “Listen to us. Should maybe ask one of the others how normal people live.” Which reminded her: “And fuck Deran for posting it.”

“I'd guess he just didn't think about it. Idiot.” Trys looked at her. “Don't actually need to find out how normal people live, either. My family's money is there.”

She let that run through her head. “Are you saying they'd help me? Myrcella ‘Baratheon’ with the Lannister mum? Or -”, hells, “there'd be a price tag on that, right? In the form of information.”

But Trys shook his head. “Not if I make clear that that's not happening.”

She felt new tears welling up, which was stupid, but couldn't be stopped. What was it like to have a family like that? “Are they really that nice?”

He took her hand. “Arianne's – not always nice nice, but she's got a code. She'll do it for me.” Then he smiled. “Not how I'd planned on telling her about you.”

Myrcella wiped at her eyes. “Let's go to her then, I guess. I want to walk, though; I need air.”

 

They took the long way. Maybe she was putting it off.

She hadn't expected to run into Sansa Stark and her – girlfriend, apparently? Who looked so familiar but she didn't know why, and that almost distracted her from how she was feeling.

Myrcella just told them about it, because why the fuck not. She didn't owe anything to her family.

Except for Tommen. She'd need to call him later.

Couldn't think about that right now, though, because she was suddenly sitting in the kitchen of Arianne Martell's rooftop Guild District apartment. She wasn't much less intimidating in private than at some reception.

Arianne stared at them both. “Explain.”

 

Notes:

Main story picks back up here.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 5 of The Union