Esmae Baratheon was the golden darling of the Seven Kingdoms, or so the measly common folk liked to call the firstborn child of the glorious king Robert Baratheon and Queen Cersei. The princess, however, was anything but a darling and despised the r...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Esmae was woken up in the dead of night from a commotion without the castle walls. She could hear shouts coming from the lower bailey and left her bed in haste to see what was going on. The guards were gathered near the holdfast, torches illuminating their gold cloaks. Ser Barristan was with them, clearly waiting for someone's arrival.
Something felt awry, that much Esmae could tell. She donned a thick robe of deep red and made haste to leave her chambers but didn't make it far before she was stopped by Ser Arys's low grumble, "You are not to leave your rooms, Your Grace."
The man truly lived up to the sigil of his House and stood planted like a tall tree, just as impervious and unwavering.
"One whose orders?" Esmae demanded, eyes blazing.
"The queen's, Your Grace."
She quirked a defiant brow, "And how do you intend to stop me, Ser Arys? I doubt the king would be pleased to hear that one of his Kingsguard used force on the princess," Esmae's voice sounded weak from the sleep but imposing nonetheless. But her temper did nothing to rustle Ser Arys' leaves which only amplified Esmae's anger. Here she was, seeking to look threatening, and the man didn't even spare her a glance, eyes trained forward.
"I believe the king would want you to be safe, Your Grace," he replied in a gentle, composed manner. How utterly infuriating.
Esmae narrowed her eyes at him, or rather at his noble profile for he was set on not facing her. She had never paid much attention to her sworn shield before. Mostly because Esmae tried her best to pretend he wasn't there, something that proved to be futile for the clacking of his armour served as a constant reminder of the opposite. Ser Arys didn't talk much and seldom got angry. Come to think of it, Esmae had never seen any outstanding emotion on his face. Not that she had ever looked at it, not properly. It was rather comely.
"Safe from what exactly? Has something happened?"
"Nothing you should concern yourself with, Your Grace."
Esmae bristled at the irritatingly cordial reply, "I will be the judge of that if it pleases you, Ser Arys. Now tell me what's all the ruckus about or so help me Gods, I will run off and have you explain yourself to the king."
After some moments of silence, Esmae felt her fiery resolve crumble just a little and thought that she would truly have to go through with the threat. But then happened the unimaginable. Ser Arys turned his head and looked at her. His eyes were warm and inviting, not a trace of irritation or malice in them.
"There was a skirmish," he told her, "Lannister men ambushed Lord Stark and his retinue on the streets."
"Ambushed?" Esmae repeated, failing to grasp the seriousness of the situation in her drowsy state, "Why?"
"I believe it was Ser Jaime who initiated the brawl, Your Grace," Ser Arys said not without a hint of disapproval in his voice.
