No Rest for the Wicked ━━ Game of Thrones

Squires and Gardening

Esmae was born a summer child. With soft chestnut hair that shone a bright ember under the blazing southern sun and luminous eyes green as the vernal leaves, she was the very embodiment of warmth and prosperity. It was therefore quite ironic that the Princess hated the southern heat dearly and often wished she lived someplace norther, where it didn't smell like sweat, melting shit and despair — a quite odious cacophony of smells that welcomed anyone who entered the capitol.

Esmae's dress was a weighty confection of burgundy velvet with tagged sleeves and an intricate belt chased with an elaborate floral design. A gown of great beauty indeed, it was, however, quite unsuitable for wandering about the Red Keep in the middle of the day — her skirts were fast covered in dirt and there were already pearls of sweat shining on her forehead. Despite it all, Esmae was full of resolve to reach the stables and would have nothing stand in the way of that.

The first thing she felt was the smell — the unmistakable odor that could only come from horses and the scorching heat that together made for a positively great environment indeed. It was when the initial shock had finally passed that all other senses returned to the Princess and she saw a young squire fussing about one of the beasts.

"Hello, Fenwick."
The boy almost dropped the saddle that he had been trying to adjust on a beautiful, stout stallion — Esmae appeared out of nowhere with a mysterious smirk on her face. She looked terribly out of place, standing in the middle of the stables in her rich burgundy dress and golden jewels, her hair arranged in a neat and elaborate southorn updo.
"No," the boy declared as soon as he saw the Princess, his eyes wide and pleading. Esmae quirked her eyebrow, and the poor squire's face instantly paled, "My Princess," Fenwick spluttered, remembering himself.

"I am in dire need of your services."

Fenwick Swann was a green boy of five and ten, who had been sent to squire for Ser Jaime Lannister some three years ago. He was the youngest of four sons and least perspective as well, according to his Lord father, who would rather see his son sent away than harbor him in Stonehelm for longer than necessary. Having no great skill with a sword and no desire to become a knight, Fenwick didn't particularly stand out amongst the many squires of her uncle, and was quite content with it — he liked blending in with the background. This talent proved to be his greatest asset and the very thing that, ironically, caught the Princess's attention. The first time Esmae noticed him was during the tourney held for Joffrey's fourteenth nameday — she was fascinated by the way the little squire admired her uncle. She didn't attach any import to it then, for Jaime Lannister — the Golden Lion — was undoubtedly a sight to behold. However, with time Esmae couldn't help but see Fenwick everywhere she looked, and while she watched him with narrowed eyes full of suspicion, the squire's attention was glued to her uncle. And the look in the boy's eyes was no longer admiring but rather longing — Esmae's knew that look all too well, for she herself was guilty of nursing a mild infatuation with Ser Jaime Lannister when she was younger. It was the look her uncle Renly often gave his squire Loras, and uncle Tyrion to every woman he interacted with.

Esmae thought that love was beautiful, especially so in its tragedy; sweeter when prohibited and painfully bitter when unrequited. And while she truly felt for the little squire, Esmae also understood that love was a handy tool to use and wouldn't shy away from doing so for her personal gain.

For Esmae didn't believe in honorable loyalty or in the power of fear. She trusted in debts, money and the power of the Seven, who were the only ones able to save those foolish enough to have crossed her. She did not have whores to command and little birds eating out of her hand. No, the princess had people who owed her, and that was worth far more than the gift of protection or the tremble of fear. Everyone could be turned against anyone for the right price, be that their life or something more valuable — Esmae had quite a knack for determining that with enviable ease.