"Death is not the end of struggle, but the beginning of its disguise"
....
"Luck, like a crown, is wasted on those least suited to wear it," the golden-haired prince mocked. He snapped The History of the House of the Dragon shut and dropped it atop a teetering tower of books that leaned dangerously over the edge of the wooden table.
He pushed back his chair and rose, stretching lazily. Strands of sunlight slipped through the silk curtains, catching in his hair and turning it to molten gold. The dim chamber glowed with a soft, ghostly warmth.
"Is it that time already?" Tommen murmured in surprise. The books must have been more engrossing than he had thought if he had spent the entire night reading. The King must be arriving soon, he realized, stifling a yawn. The chair creaked as he leaned back.
Reincarnating as the second prince of the most powerful realm in Westeros had its merits, yet it was not enough. Sixty days earlier, he had awoken in this body, the one he once mockingly called "Pretty Boy."
One heartbeat he had been astride his dragon, the night sky burning beneath him as Valyria's enemies screamed in flame. The next, he had opened his eyes in this quiet world of silk and gold. It was pleasant, almost peaceful, but it lacked the thrill he craved.
Nothing, after all, could compare to watching his foes consumed by fire, hearing their cries drowned beneath the roar of his dragon.
His father in this life was a miserable sight, a man who mixed the worst of both worlds, gluttonous in pleasure and blind in duty. He drowned himself in wine and women, dragging the Seven Kingdoms slowly toward their ruin.
Tommen walked toward the door, his face still wearing a sleepy, careless expression. It was a handsome face, almost absurdly so, the sort that belonged in tales told to children.
He was said to be the very image of his maternal grandfather in his youth, or so his mother claimed whenever courtiers whispered, "Does the second prince not look like his uncle's carbon copy?"
His hair was bright and glossy, falling to his neck. His eyes, pale green like his father's, gleamed faintly in the morning light. He was tall, lean, and deceptively graceful, every movement too perfect to seem entirely real.
The prince cast himself a single glance in the polished mirror, then pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor. The weariness vanished from his features, replaced by a spark of energy, false, mayhaps, yet convincing enough to fool the world.
....
As he was walking down the stairs of the redkeep, curshing it's builder secretly in his mind, he heard a familiar, sweet voice coming from behind "Good morrow, dear brother"
Myrcella increased her pace as she was descending the stairs on same pace as her dear brother "good morrow, myrcella." tommen greeted her back with a smile giving her a small eyecontact of a second' worth.
This small contact made myrcella have a huge smile on her face as she had her own internal monologue.
The siblings looked almost identical, as if they were the same being in different genders, specially their blonde hair and the black leather clothing they were wearing.
"Did you liked the marzipans I sent last night?" myrcella's face tilted and looked at tommen' from the sideways with a smile "Yes, they were delicious, brother"
"I am glad then."
Before long, they were outside Maegor's Holdfast, standing upon the wide green gardens of the Red Keep. The place stretched was really vast, easily larger than dozens of peasant cottages combined.
A cold wind swept across the garden, tossing Tommen's hair into the air. Myrcella watched him from behind, a strange, thoughtful look softening her eyes.
(Myrcella's POV)
The sun had already risen half an hour past dawn. Its golden light spilled over the walls, filling every corner with warmth, yet there was still no sign of my family. Father had sent ravens earlier, informing us that he would arrive at King's Landing, at the Red Keep, with Mother and the King by the end of the Hour of the Nightingale.
Without realizing it, a faint pink blush had already crept across my cheeks as I looked at my brother. He had grown so tall in the past sixty days, his face sharper and more handsome than before. I could not bring myself to name what I felt for him.
I only wished to keep looking at him. It brought me peace in a quiet, unexplainable way. My fingers clutched the hem of my leather dress as my breath grew uneven, each one touched by the memory of the sixty days now gone.
Tommen had begun to act differently around the same moon Father left for the North with the King. That night he had asked me strange questions, about my name and his own, before locking himself in the library until dawn. I could not sleep the entire night.
When morning came, he seemed entirely changed. He took my hand and led me to his chamber, locking the door behind us. It startled me. Tommen had always been shy, painfully so, unlike Joffrey who was a.... cunt.
That day he asked me everything, my favorite color, food, sweets, the things I loved, and the things I feared. No one had ever asked me such things before. Uncle Tyrion was kind, yet even he had never asked about me.
The King is too drunk to care. Mother gives all her love to Joffrey. Father does what he does.
Since then, Tommen and I have spent our days together, studying the history of the Seven Kingdoms, talking about politics, and even practicing archery. Gods! He is gifted with the bow, almost frighteningly so. I have never been as close to anyone as I am to him now.
I looked at my dear brother as dozens upon dozens of servants, along with several members of the King's Small Council, began to gather. They greeted us warmly, all waiting for the King's arrival.
"Good morrow, my prince."
Ser Barristan was the first to greet Tommen, taking his place at his right side. The two exchanged a few words. They had grown rather close during the past sixty days, or so I had heard. Some said Ser Barristan had even begun teaching my brother the art of swordplay.
That, however, was only gossip from a maid. My brother rarely shared what he did not wish to tell.
Impatience soon took root in me as I waited for the King's convoy to appear. It had been a long morning already, and rising before dawn to dress and prepare had left me tired. I stifled a yawn just as the convoy came into view.
The Kingslayer rode at the front, astride a white stallion, clad in golden armor that gleamed beneath the morning sun. His hair caught the light like spun gold, and his green eyes mirrored my own. In him I saw the reflection of our bloodline, pure and unmistakable.
Yet even so, he looked almost plain beside my brother.
(Third Person POV)
Tommen's disappointment was immeasurable, and his spirits sank the moment his eyes fell upon the King. Robert Baratheon, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, was nothing like the warrior he had imagined from the tales. The so-called Demon of the Trident now appeared as a heavy, aging man whose armor seemed to strain against his girth.
He had expected someone fierce and commanding, not a man so clearly worn by wine and years. Still, Tommen did not let his disappointment show. He straightened his posture, ready to greet the King, when a pair of warm hands suddenly cupped his face.
"My sweet boy, what has happened to you?"
Cersei's voice softened as she studied her son, her slender fingers brushing his cheeks. Surprise flickered in her green eyes. He had grown tall in the span of sixty days, and his once-soft features now had a sharper line to the jaw.
"The boy has grown, don't you see?"
Robert's booming laugh echoed across the garden as he clapped Tommen on the back with enough force to make him stagger. Cersei's lips tightened in mild annoyance.
"Let us talk later," she murmured under her breath, before following the King toward the waiting servants and the gathered members of the Small Council.
"May your stay in King's Landing be pleasant, Lord Stark," Tommen said, ignoring his parents' falling marriage. He stepped forward from the gathered crowd, offering the Warden of the North a courteous nod. The King and Queen had already moved ahead, their retinue following in a flurry of gold and crimson.
Beside Lord Stark stood a small girl with short hair, watching the courtyard with wide, curious eyes. A few paces away, a red-haired girl walked beside Joffrey, holding his hand as they moved through the throng. Her smile was bright and eager, and Joffrey's proud grin matched it.
For some reason, Myrcella seemed irritated by the sight.
"I wish that cunt had frozen to death in some northern sewer," she muttered under her breath.
No one else heard her, but Tommen caught the words. He turned his head just slightly, his expression unreadable, though the flicker of amusement in his eyes betrayed that he had heard every syllable.