"...the Seven guide the princess on her journey..."
There Myrcella was, sitting in that little boat, being rowed away from the only home she had ever known. She was near tears, but she sat erect, proud, the consummate princess, and not one fell. She raised a hand to wave at her brothers, but only Tommen returned the motion.
He sniffled, and a few tears slipped down. The septa at his side leaned down to wipe them away.
Cersei heard Joffrey speak a moment later, but she was more focused on her daughter.
Gold their crowns, and gold, their shrouds...
How could she protect Myrcella in Dorne? The danger was at its worst there. Tyrion had sent her beautiful girl into a nest of vipers. He'd done this on purpose, she was sure, just to keep the girl far away from safety here in King's Landing. Specifically, from the safety of the Red Keep.
There had to be a way to get her back, back where Cersei could keep an eye on the good-for-nothing suitors that came to call. If they would come, they could do so where they could be seen, seen and searched and spied on.
She wanted to sit there for hours, but she couldn't.
So Cersei stood, and headed back with Joffrey and the rest of their entourage.
"Hail to the King!"
She tried not to look at the smallfolk lining the streets. Even with the Kingsguard, and the Gold Cloaks, she didn't feel entirely safe here. They smelled like stale piss and shit that had baked in the sun for days. They smelled of dirt, and filth. Unwashed, and unworthy, she thought.
Someone else called out, "Please, your grace, we're hungry!"
Somewhere behind her, she saw Tyrion whisper something to one of the guards, and he went in another direction with Tommen.
"Are you out of your mind?" she snapped at him, "He could be--"
"The crowd is restless, sister, and you have lost one child today already. I would think you'd prefer not to lose another."
"We have the guards. They wouldn't dare."
From somewhere nearby, she heard, "Bastard!" and a moment later, "Brotherfucker!"
"Twenty guards, perhaps, to how many hungry mouths?"
If only she had more guards, she would have had the one to say that strung up by his own guts. As much as she hated Tyrion, however, she knew (and begrudgingly admitted) that he was right.
A splatting noise sounded off behind them, and Joffrey stumbled. A wad of shit had been hurled. His guards drew their swords as he said, "Who threw that?"
"I want the man who threw that! Find him and bring him to me!"
The smallfolk, already angry, struck at the guards. They were repelled, but only barely.
"Just kill them!" Joffrey spat a moment later. "Kill them, kill them all!"
All hell broke loose. The smallfolk surged forward, and the guards cut down two or three after one of their own was clubbed down with a rock. The sight, combined with their hunger and their rising anger spurred those who weren't already eager for blood into action. The guards who'd held the line broken entirely, and were scattered as more and more enraged smallfolk came forward. Rocks, bricks, the daggers of fallen guards--any weapon of any kind that they could get their hands on, they did.
Cersei looked back, about to go down the stairs and pull Joffrey along with her--but she was stopped by Tyrion.
"Move," he shouted, to her as well as her guards, "Move!"
"Clegane will take care of him. Go!"
Cersei had never cursed the weak, womanly body she had more than at that moment. The two guards tugged her along with no more effort than if she were a small child, no matter how loudly she screeched at them to let her be sure of Joffrey.
A strike from above--she felt something hard hit her forehead, no doubt thrown from the smallfolk watching from above, and then sputtered as blood began to trickle from the cut. The guards had her arms, and so she couldn't wipe it away.
Halfway up the steps, both guards stumbled, and she jerked around--desperate for a sight of Joffrey. She could hear him, she could hear her precious son, but where? Where was he? Had they got him? All was confusion and chaos. Between the dull colors of the mob and the armor of the guards, she could no more pick him out from the crowd than she could a flea on the ground.
"Joffrey!" she called. No, no, no. This could not be happening. Even with Clegane, her boy was in danger, and all she could do was run. She turned back--
--stepped wrong, and then fell.
As much as he disliked Cersei, it was still a horror to see a body fall like that down a flight of stairs, however small it might be. Her head struck several steps on the way down. But miraculously, once at the bottom, she moved. Barely.
The two guards who'd been hauling her along ran down the flight and quickly leaned down to pick her up.
Her blonde hair was red in the back, and when he saw her moving, Tyrion rushed forward. "Stop, before you pick her up. Try and keep her awake," he barked to the two guards, "A person with a head wound must NOT be allowed to sleep. Do you understand? However much she snaps at you, do not let her sleep."
He knelt by Cersei, who blanched at the sight of him. "No. No--"
She raised a weak hand to fend him off, but he moved in close, both hands on her upper neck to steady her head. "Sister, stay awake."
"We have to keep moving!" one of the guards barked.
"Take her then, take her! And try not to jostle her about too much, she may have broken something!"
She was right. The witch was right. I was right! He means to kill me, she thought.
All the scheming, all the fear, all the keeping him on the outside, for nothing. As strong as she was trying to be, the thought drained her of all hope.
I am done for, was the last conscious thought she had before all went black.