Myrcella's POV
I was sitting beside my mother, close enough to hear the faint tremor in her breathing, close enough to feel the heaviness pressing down on her shoulders like an invisible weight. Her head was lowered, fingers dug into her temples as if she were physically holding herself together. It wasn't a graceful pose. It wasn't dignified. It was the posture of someone who had been fighting too long without rest and had finally felt the first real crack in her armor.
She looked depressed.
No—that word didn't even begin to cover it.
She looked like a general who had mapped out a flawless campaign only to watch every carefully placed piece fall off the board at once. Like someone who had spent years building a palace out of stone, only to realize the foundation had been sand all along. Her shoulders trembled slightly. Her breathing was uneven. The silence around us felt thick and suffocating, like even the air didn't dare move.
