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...
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The throne room had always been Esmae's least favorite place in the palace. It was cold despite the fires that set it alight, empty, however crowded it got, and filled with a quiet that seemed louder than the cheers of courtiers. Robert's court had always been a cause for celebration.
The king reveled in the love of his subjects, feigned or not, and liked to put on a spectacle for everyone to enjoy, be that a jester or a skilled singer who had been snatched from the streets of King's Landing and threatened into performing for the king. Robert Baratheon had almost succeeded in bringing joy to the place that had seen too much sadness. Almost vanquished the ghosts that wandered the halls and the smell of burning flash that lingered in the air. Almost.
Until all his efforts had been wiped away by the smirking creature that was currently seated in the spiked throne looking down on the gathered crowd with a tangible superiority. Impostor. Oh, how Esmae wished that one of the blades would miraculously run through his gut and color the floors of the throne room in crimson yet again. It was the Lannister color, after all.
The thought brought a twisted smile to Esmae's lips that grew into a snarl as her eyes turned to her mother. Cersei must have thought herself a mastermind and everyone a fool, sitting there with an enigmatic smile on her lips, high and mighty. Superior. Kingslayer.
Esmae felt her hands curling into fists, nails biting into her soft flash. The pain did well to take away some of the anger but left just enough for her blazing stare to draw Joffrey's attention. The little fraud turned his nose up even higher and smiled. He smiled.
"Grand Maester Pycelle," Joffrey called to the ancient man who stood at the center of the room awaiting the king's instructions, "I command you to read my decrees. It is a king's duty to punish the disloyal and reward those who are true."
Unlike you.
The Maester began to read out the names of all the enemies of the crown in his creaky voice. The list was long which shouldn't have been a surprise, for all one had to do to make it was to deny their fealty to the new ruler. Equally unsurprising, the number of such persons was quite high. But there was one name, one name in particular that sent shivers down Esmae's spine. Renly Baratheon.
Oh how foolish she had been to deny his invitation. How very naive. Of all the times she could've been stupid, Esmae had chosen the one that could cost her her life. She had made a deathbed promise to her father. She had promised to be there for Joffrey and try to shield him from the lions. But life was nothing if not mockingly ironic, twisting fate in spectacularly wondrous ways. One day you are the hunter. The next, you are the hunted.
Esmae felt the weight of her father's words being lifted from her shoulders. Joffrey was no son of Robert Baratheon, rendering her solemn promise to him null and void. She was bound by no vow, which meant many a great thing. But most importantly, it meant that Esmae was free to leave.
