A/N: Hey guys, thanks for all your favourites and follows! Also, sorry for any mistakes. It's 3 in the morning and I'm barely awake posting this.

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.

When Maester Pycelle ran out of the traitors' names, he tucked the list back into one of his sleeves and went on to make other, more positive announcements. The positive character of those was widely subjective, however. Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the South would take up the office of Hand of the King in Eddard Stark's stead, which came as no surprise to anyone present. It was well known that Cersei had wanted her father to be appointed as Hand after Jon Arryn's death, and how disheartened she had been to learn that Robert had given the position to Lord Stark.

The next announcement, however, sent a wave of whispers and gasps across the lords and ladies. Esmae just let out an annoyed sigh.

"In the place of the traitor Stannis Baratheon, it is the wish of His Grace that his lady mother, the Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, who has ever been his staunchest support, be seated upon his small council…" She knew her mother would find a way to remain on the small council now that the new Hand had been named.

Janos Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch, or the venal rat as Esmae liked to call the red-faced halfwit, was granted a lordship and the ancient seat of Harrenhal, or rather its ruins, for his noble service or very blurry moralities.

"Lastly," Grand Maester croaked, "in these times of treason and turmoil with our beloved Robert so lately dead, it is the view of the council that the life and safety of King Joffrey is of paramount importance…"

Esmae frowned.

"Ser Barristan Selmy, stand forth," Cersei called out.

The Kingsguard left his place at the dais and kneeled before the king and the Queen Regent, "Your Grace, I'm yours to command."

"Rise, Ser Barristand," she said, "You may remove your helm."

The old knight did as was commanded and took off the high white helm, the look on his face that of bewilderment.

"You've served the realm long and faithfully. Every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks. But it is time to put aside your armour and your sward. It is time to rest and look back with pride on your many years of service." The court broke down in whispers.

Esmae felt her heart ache when she looked at Ser Barristan. The great knight appeared equal parts speechless and embarrassed, "The Kingsguard is a sworn Brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life. Only death relieves us of our sacred trust."

"Whose death, Ser Barristan?" Cersei countered airily, "Yours or your king's?"

"You let my father die," Joffrey accused from his mighty seat. He is not your father, Esame wanted to scream. Wanted to see the look on Cersei's face. Wanted everyone to know the truth about the man, the boy, they kneeled to. "You're too old to protect anybody."

"Your Grace…"

Cersei cut him off, "The council had determined that Ser Jaime Lannister would take your place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

"The man who profaned his blade with the blood of the king he had sworn to protect," Ser Barristan seethed.

"Careful with your words, Ser," Cersei warned.

"We have nothing but gratitude for your long service, good Ser" Lord Varys spoke up, his voice gentle and suave, "You shall be given a stout keep beside the sea with servants to look after your every need."

The disdain on Ser Barristan's face was enough reply to their generosity, "A hall to die in, and men to bury me," he reached to unclasp his cloak. The court gasped as the garment of snow fell on the marble floor, "I am a knight," he told them and undid the fastenings of his breastplate, letting it fall to the floor with a loud clatter, "And I shall die a knight." Next followed his gloves, then his helm as he looked up at the queen and her son in defiance.

"A naked knight, apparently," Lord Baelish quipped and the crowd laughed. But what must've hurt more, Esmae thought, was the mirth in his fellow brothers' eyes. The men he had trained and mentored. Only Ser Arys showed no emotion, standing stiffly as he always did.

Esmae ached to speak up buy knew that it would do little to help. An act of open defiance to the king would put her loyalty into question, and that was the last thing Esmae needed in the current circumstances. Unable to look at the old knight any longer, she let her eyes wander around the room, looking at the deranged, smiling faces of the lords. They won't be laughing when it will be them facing the king's judgment.

Esmae's eyes stopped at the beautiful hairdo of bright auburn. She knew that Sansa Stark had been given freedom of the castle for her good behavior. Cersei was nauseatingly sweet to the girl, like one would expect a butcher to treat the animal he is to kill — fear made the meat taste bitter. This freedom, however, came with a set of guards that were to limit it when needed. Esmae wondered what had made Sansa come here of all places. She would've thought the girl would do everything to avoid Joffrey.

The laughter instantly died down when Ser Barristan drew his sword. Some of the girds jumped forward to confront him but the old knight did nothing, giving them but a look of pure contempt, "Even now I could cut through the five of your like carving a cake," he spit out and tossed his sword to the foot of the Iron Throne, "Melt it down and add it to the others."

With that, Ser Barristan Selmy, the man who had been her father's loyal protector and good friend, the man who had been kind to the lonely princess when she had asked him if she could see the king when he was clearly preoccupied, the man who would humor Tommen's incessant questions about knighthood and who loved them as family, walked out of the throne room. His steps echoed through the deafening silence and slowly died down.

"If any man in this hall has other matters to settle before His Grace, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence," the herald spoke.

For a good minute it seemed that no one would dare say a word after such a scene but Esmae noticed a small movement in the crowd. Oh, for the love of the Seven…

"Your Grace," Sansa's trembling voice called out.

"Come forward, my lady," Joffrey beckoned with a smile.

As soon as the herald announced her name, the murmuring ensued. Lady Sansa stepped forward, albeit hesitantly, all eyes on her small frame. She had always been petite, but now the girl looked even smaller, frail and weak. It seemed the weeks of imprisonment had had their toll on her.

"Do you have some business for the king and the council, Sansa?" Cersei asked.

"I do," Sansa knelt before the throne and looked up at the king, "As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark who was Hand of the King."

"Shall I remind you, young lady, that your father has committed terrible crimes," Great Master Pycelle intoned. "Treason is a noxious weed. It should be torn out. Root —"

"Let her speak," Joffrey snapped at the old man and turned his attention back to Sansa, who was already swooning. Is she not right in the head? "I want to hear what she says."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"Do you deny your father's crime?" Petyr Baelish asked from the council table.

"No, my lords. I know he must be punished," Sansa admitted tremulously, "All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was king Robert's friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand until the king asked him. They must've lied to him…Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or…somebody… they must've lied…"

"He said I wasn't the king," Joffrey reminded her shrewdly, "Why did he say that?"

"He was badly hurt," Sansa was quick to reply, "Maester was giving him milk of the poppy, he wasn't himself. Otherwise he never would've said it."

"A child's faith," Lord Varys sang, "Such sweet innocence. And yet they say that wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes."

"Treason is treason," Maester Pycelle said.

Joffrey leaned forward in his throne, "Anything else?"

"Only…that as you love me, you do me this kindness, Your Grace," Sansa replied.

Esmae couldn't believe the girl to be quite so daft. Surely, at that point it had to occur to her that there was no affection for her in Joffrey's heart? Thus she came to the conclusion that Sansa Stark was either spectacularly slow or incredibly smart. Both of those things, however, were hard to believe.

"Your sweet words have moved me," Joffrey had finally concluded, "But your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I'm the king. Or there'll be no mercy for him."

"He will," Sansa said eagerly, a small smile blooming on her face, "Oh, I know he will."

Maegor Targaryen had been a cruel and ruthless man with a penchant for paranoia, three qualities that together made for a terrible ruler. A vile tyrant, he took great pleasure in hurting people and seeing them suffer, which was made possible by the construction of the four-leveled prison underneath the castle, each more dreadful that the other. The fourth level was said to be the pit of seven hells; a place filled with screams and stanched with the smell of blood.

Eddard Stark had been thrown into the Black Cells, one level above the torturous abyss. Esmae knew that because Cersei liked to talk when she had enough to drink and was prone to share some bits of information, forgetting about it the next day. And Esmae needed to see him. Unfortunately, she couldn't go down there by herself without drawing attention, and the only person who could help her go unnoticed was Lord Varys.

She had had Melysa deliver the message to his little birds. Away they had flown, bringing the words to their master, who hadn't taken long to give his reply. Lord Varys had agreed to help her. It scared Esmae, the ease with which he gave his consent. The Spider wanted something in return, and she feared of what that something could be.

Esmae had left her rooms after the dusk set in without much trouble. Joffrey had ordered for his Kingsguard to do their duty — guard the king, whose safety was paramount, especially after the untimely death of the previous one. Esmae couldn't say she minded that. Not one bit. Lately she would catch Ser Arys studying her every move, listening to her conversations with unusual intent and always wondering where she was headed. It was quite liberating to know that no one stood at your door while you slept. It was also quite liberating to know that no one would stop you from sneaking out.

And there she was, standing at the entrance of the cell, looking into its darkness. A faint, dying fire shed some light onto the straw that covered the floor, the cold stone walls with no windows and the figure of a man in the corner. He didn't notice her, his head hung low. Esmae stepped inside despite the horrendous smell of dirty flesh and urine. There was no time to worry about her gentle sensibilities.

Her skirts rustled against the straw, and the noise made Eddard Stark look up. "Another visit?" he rasped, voice dry from disuse.

Esmae stepped closer and slid off the black hood from her head, the fire from the torch she was holding spilling light on her face, "I'm afraid this is my first."

Eddard's eyes widened in surprise as he studied her as if trying to decide whether she was real. Esmae supposed that after so much time spent in the darkness, one began to see things. To lose their mind.

"Your Grace," he breathed in shock, "Is that…" he gulped and looked her over again, "Are you really here?"

"I am indeed, Lord Stark," Esmae eased a skin of water out of her robes and handed it to the man before her.

Eddard accepted the offering with no qualms and guzzled it down. It was a terrible sight — a man so honorable and just reduced to a sickly beggar. Esmae almost felt bad for him, except she had warned Lord Stark to be more careful and he hadn't listened. He had brought this upon himself.

"Sansa…" Eddard croaked out when the skin had been emptied, "is she —"

"She remains unharmed," for the time being.

"I ought to have heeded your words," he said hoarsely after some time of silence.

"It does not do well to dwell on the past, my lord. Better think about the future."

Lord Stark huffed out a coarse laugh, "Mine is already decided."

Esmae sighed. Eddard said nothing. A cold silence engulfed them, only the sounds of Lord Stark's ragged breathing disturbing the quiet.

"I found the book," Esmae told him.

He raised his sunken eyes at her yet again, the grey orbs glistening with apprehension and interest.

"And the bastards," she continued. At that, Eddard's eyes widened. Perhaps he was thinking of how scandalous it was that the gentle princess had visited a brothel.

"Then you know the truth," there was a certain resignation to his voice.

"There is no single truth, Lord Stark. I know a truth, and I'm sure that my mother has one of her own."

Eddard stayed silent for some time, before he spoke again, "I've failed your father. He knew…he knew something wasn't right and trusted me to keep the realm safe and I let them — "

"He would've been killed nonetheless, my lord. There was little any of us could do." Esmae's steely voice cut through, "My father made a lot of wrong choices, Lord Stark, becoming king being one of them. But making you his Hand, putting his trust in you, might just have been one of the very few things he did right."

The look in Eddard's eyes made Esmae uncomfortable. The steel reflected surprise and fascination, the cold surface glimmering with respect.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"Don't thank me yet, my lord," Esmae told him, "Your daughter begged for the king's mercy. Joffrey has promised to grant it to you if you tear your honor to shreds and admit to being a traitor," she watched Lord Stark intently, but the man's face remained blank, "I hope this time you are going to make the right choice."

"I am not sure which is the right choice anymore."

"I'd think it's quite easy — the one that doesn't get you killed. You're going to be proclaimed traitor either way, Lord Stark. But I hear traitors with a head on their shoulders have more fun."

"You would have me confess?"

"No, I wouldn't put my trust in Joffrey's false promises. Who's to say he won't change his mind?"

"But Sansa…"

"Will be alright," Esmae told him, "I'll see to it."

"How?" He asked curiously, "What do you intend to do?"

Esmae thought for a moment, fires dancing in her emerald eyes, "Wait. I intend to wait."

The forest was dark and quiet but for the rustle of wet leaves underneath her feet and the howling of the wind. Easton felt cold and bare in a thin shift as she walked through the green thicket, trying to see through the bushy wilderness surrounding her. In the darkness, she could notice a thin coat of snow covering the ground. Dancing flakes fell from the starlit sky glistening in the gloominess of the dusky forest akin to a myriad of fireflies. Winter had come.

Esmae felt lost but strangely at peace, as if she knew the old trees surrounding her. As if her feet knew the soil she was walking upon. As if her eyes were used to the darkness. Her ear instantly caught a sharp crack that resonated through the forest — a branch broken. Esmae's head snapped to where the sound had come from, and through the murkiness she could make out a light silhouette.

Esmae called after the intruder but the answer was only a ringing silence. So she walked off the beaten path and wandered into the wilderness to follow the sound. Esmae shielded her way through the claw-like branches and found herself in a moonlit clearing. In the very heart of it stood a magnificent stag.

Esmae halted, frozen in place by the sight, watching the gracious animal feed on the grass. Careful not to scare it away, she made a cautious step forward and then another, moving closer and closer to the horned animal. And then she stopped.

First, she heard the growl. It vibrated through the still air and made the ignorant stag raise its head in alarm. Then, she saw the thick main that adorned the feline face like a halo of sunshine. The lion's green eyes flashed in the darkness like two emeralds, and they were set on her. He growled again, this time baring his sharp fangs.

"Run!" Esmae yelled at the stag. But the animal didn't budge. The lion moved towards its simple prey, prowling on his great paws, "Run!"

Before the lion managed to make his attack, Esmae picked up a rock from the ground and threw it in the stag. Finally, the animal jerked and ran off, the sound of hooves echoing through the quiet. The lion stopped and snarled in Esmae's direction before he started moving stealthy towards her.

Esmae knew she was in danger, knew she had to run but found that she couldn't move. Meanwhile, the lion grew closer and closer, his eyes bright and wild. She took s deep breath, sending a puff of hot air in the cold.

The lion roared and made his jump.

Esmae woke up with a gasp. Her hand instantly reached for her throat where she could still feel the beast's sharp claws tearing though her skin. But it was intact, silky and soft underneath her fingers. Lions, unfortunately, lurked in the shadows still.

The chambers were engulfed in a gentle morning light, and the busy sounds coming from the window told Esmae that the day had long broken. As if on cue, a pair of handmaidens came rushing through the doors, none of whom, curiously, was her dear companion.

"Where is Lady Melysa?" Esmae finally asked when the two girls finished fussing over her dress. They had chosen one of light purple, made of gentle flawing fabric embellished with golden water lilies.

"We do not know, Your Grace," one of them replied.

With a frown on her face, Esmae sat still while they braided her hair, and nearly jumped on her feet as soon as the handmaidens' work was done. She stormed out of her chambers like a force of nature but stopped when she heard the familiar clanking coming from behind.

"Ser Arys," Esmae greeted him, ignoring the feeling of gratitude at his sudden reoccurrence.

"Your Grace," he bowed his head.

"Did you see one of my handmaidens, Lady Melysa, by any chance?"

"I'm afraid I did not, Your Grace."

Esmae's frown deepened.

"Is something the matter, Your Grace?" the knight's voice sounded strained, as if the words seemed foreign to him.

"She has never done this before. I fear something might have befallen her."

"An illness, mayhap?" Ser Arys wagered.

Esmae nodded absently, thoughts busy with all the tragic scenarios of her dear handmaiden's death, "Yes, mayhap," she sighed, "We shall go and enquire with the Septa."

The Kingsguard nodded, his stance rigid again, and followed the princess down the corridor. Esmae knew that Septa Eglantine would be in Myrcella's chambers for the sewing lessons that she herself had thankfully long abandoned.

"Yes, Your Grace, I have seen the girl this morning," the septa told her.

"Did she look alright?"

"Your Grace?" the plump woman asked in confusion.

Esmae stifled an annoyed huff, "Did she seem unwell to you?"

"I don't think so, Your Grace. The young lady appeared to be in perfect health, from what I could see."

"How unhelpful," Esmae muttered as they walked away, "She is useless, I told mother so. No one in this castle listens to me."

"Would you rather Lady Melysa was indisposed, Your Grace?" there was a tinge of mirth in Ser Arys's voice.

"At least that way I would've known what happened," the princess sighed, "Alright, let us go to the kitchens."

"The kitchens?"

"Lady Melysa always brings me some breakfast so that I could avoid spending it with my mother," Esmae explained nonchalantly and hurried in the direction of the great hall. She quickly spotted a pair of serving girls outside of the kitchens and didn't hesitate to stroll up to them.

One of the young girls had almost dropped her platter at the sight of the princess in this area. They were, however, much more helpful than the old septa.

"Y-yes, Your Grace, the lady Melysa came down to the kitchens to get Your Grace a bowl of porridge. She also asked for the Dornish grapes, but the kitchens were out of those, and —"

"When was that?" Esmae cut her off.

"Not long after the down broke, Your Grace."

Not too long ago, then Esmae thought. Then her eyes fell on the platter in the serving girl's shaking hands. It was filled with a skewer of wine, cheese and a serving of Lamprey pie. There was only one person who could ask for it at such an early hour.

"Is this for king Joffrey?" Esmae asked warily.

She knew how Joffrey loved the dish because it was one of the most expensive delicacies only the nobility could afford. In reality he hated the very taste of it and only ever ordered it to be made when he wished to flaunt his importance.

"Y-yes, Your Grace. The king wished to have his meal in his chambers," the serving girl stammered.

Esmae's face grew hot from the boiling anger within her. Without another word, she rushed towards the other wing of the Maegor's. Esmae lifted her skirts and quickened her pace, her mind too preoccupied to think about Ser Arys, who was trying to keep up with her in his heavy armor.

"I need to see the king," Esmae demanded through slightly ragged breath, staring at Ser Meryn with disdain. She always despised the man for his unnecessary cruelty and incessant leering. Esmae noticed the way his beady black eyes always followed Myrcella. There was something dark and unsettling behind them. He and Joffrey made for a spectacularly unfortunate pair.

"The king is not to be disturbed," Ser Meryn droned, not even sparing her a single look.

"It is urgent, Ser," Esmae seethed.

"Alas, Your Grace," there was little regret in the Kingsguard's voice or in his eyes when he finally deigned to look at her, "The king is preoccupied at the moment."

Esmae's hands curled into fists, "I order you to open these doors right this second, Ser Meryn. Or the queen shall hear of your blatant disobedience and your white cloak will grace the floors like your head a spike. Now, is the king still too preoccupied to see me?"

Ser Meryn's nostrils flared as he stared her down, mouth twisted in a snarl. His eyes then lifted to Ser Arys, who was standing behind Esmae's back. Somehow, she knew that if it came to it, Ser Arys would no doubt slice through Ser Meryn with his sword before the former could even draw his.

At last, the Kingsguard opened the door, albeit with much reluctance, "Her Grace, Princess Esmae," he announced.

Esmae passed by Ser Meryn with demonstrative dismissal and stepped inside, the door closing behind her. Suddenly, she felt trapped. She had never been in Joffrey's chambers alone before, only when they were children. Now, it was as though she had entered the cage of a wild beast that was lurking in the shadows, ready to attack her. But the beast was not hiding — Joffrey was sitting on a divan, his green eyes trained on her. Much like the lion from the dream.

But Esmae's attention was drawn to the slender figure sitting beside him. Lady Melysa looked a fright, her limbs almost visibly shaking.

"What are you doing here?" Joffrey asked, voice full of contempt.

Esmae ignored him and turned to her handmaiden instead, "Lady Melysa, I think we should go."

"She shall do no such thing," he cut in, "The lady is here upon my invitation, the king's invitation, and she shall remain here until I say otherwise."

"What does the king want with my handmaiden?"

Joffrey smirked and leered at Lady Melysa, who crumpled under his gaze, "I do not know yet. Perhaps, it will come to me later."

"Don't be absurd, Joffrey," Esmae bit out, "Let the girl go, can't you see she's afraid?"

Joffrey smile was sickeningly sweet as he looked at Melysa, "Is that true, my lady? You fear me?"

"I…" Melysa croaked, "It's…"

"Enough," Esmae's voice thundered. She came close enough to snatch Melysa by the arm and drag her up and away from the prying hands of the boy-king, "We are leaving."

Fuming with anger, Joffrey jumped to his feet, "Cease her!"

The Hound, who had been standing in the corner this whole time, moved towards the princess, his steps heavy.

"Don't you dare touch me," Esmae hissed at him and then said to Joffrey, "Do you think you can scare me, Joff? With your little pet dog?"

"I said cease her," Joffrey ordered.

Esmae jerked away from the Hound's hand but was soon trapped within his iron clutches. Lady Melysa was looking at her in horror, eyes round and helpless.

"You talk too much, Esmae," Joffrey said as he slowly made his way towards her, "All you ever do is talk, talk, talk…because words is all you have. But words can't do much, can they?" he sneered, enjoying the sight of her helplessness in the Hound's hands, "Fret not. It appears mother has some plans for you, so I guess you are not completely disposables after all. Doesn't mean I can't teach you some respect."

Esmae laughed, "Respect? Oh, dear brother, I will never respect you." Bastard. Bastard. Bastard, "You may have stolen the title but respect is earned, Joffrey. And you have done nothing to merit a single drop of it," she spit out right in his smug little face.

"I have stolen nothing, the crown is mine by birthright!"

"Is it?" Esmae whispered, "Is it really?"

The slap landed on her right cheek, setting the skin on fire. Esmae heard Melysa gasp in horror, but she didn't say a word. Didn't even whimper.

"This is your first warning," Joffrey threatened, "Next time, I will have you hanged for treason. Let her go, dog," he gestured to the guard. As soon as the Hound eased his grip, Esmae jerked away, closer to Melysa, "Now get out of here, both of you. You tired me," Joffrey waved them off and swanned back to the divan.

Without so much as a look in his direction, Esmae grabbed Melysa and pushed her towards the door.

"Your Grace…" the girl whispered.

"Not a word," Esmae told her when they walked out.

Ser Arys was still at the door, his face hard and unreadable. But his brown eyes, she noticed, looked darker than before. Angrier.

Esmae sat at the vanity table and stared at her reflection, unblinking. Her skin was pale and smooth as marble but for a faint bruise that was slowly appearing on her cheek. Melysa was doing her best to cover it with a deft mix of powder and rose water. The girl still looked quite shaken from what had happened, her eyes red from unshed tears.

"Lady Melysa," Esmae called, but the handmaiden kept on working on the bruise, "Stop." The poor girl jerked her hand away from the princess's face and stepped back.

"Look at me, Melysa. Did he touch you?" she shook her head slowly. "Did…" Esmae took a deep breath, hesitant, "did someone?"

Melysa didn't say anything for quite some time, her head bowed down. But soon Esmae noticed the quiver in her shoulders and the tremble of her lower lip — Melysa broke down in silent weeps, "Forgive me, Your Grace —"

"It was why you were sent here, wasn't it?"

The handmaiden nodded frantically, hand pressed to her lips to suppress the sobs, "It was…" she whispered, "…it was my betrothed."

"Oh, Melysa…"

"He was so handsome, so gallant…" Melysa murmured through her tears, "but it was only his face that was beautiful, only his words that were kind. I let them deceive me, and he…he said it would be alright…"

Esmae suspected how the story ended but was too afraid to ask, "He…"

"Married another," Melysa replied, more composed this time, "And my parents sent me away to avoid the shame."

The way he defended her honor against Ser Migil? I wish the men in our times were as gallant, she suddenly remembered Melysa's words.

Esmae had been trying to figure her out for months, failing to see through her smiles, through her kindness and the extended hand of friendship. Never had it occurred to her that there was nothing behind all those gestures — something Esmae could never have imagined. A person true to themselves and true to everyone around them. A little girl with a broken heart and stolen honor. Her friend.

"Your Grace," Both Esmae and Melysa turned her eyes to the open door, the moment broken, "Lady Sansa is here to see you. Upon your request," Ser Arys added with a slight nod as if reminding the princess of her invitation. Truly, Esmae had almost forgotten about it.

She looked at Melysa and gave her a curt nod, accompanied by a gentle smile. The handmaiden bowed her head, her eyes still glistening with tears, and made to leave the chambers, "Yes, she may come in," Esmae called. She inspected her face in the mirror to make sure the bruise was covered and rose from her seat.

"Your Grace," Sansa bowed when she walked through the doors, her auburn hair looking like wild tongues of flames in the dim lightening of the room.

"Tell me, Lady Sansa, how are you faring?" Esmae walked towards the table to pour herself a goblet of wine.

"I'm quite well, Your Grace," the girl replied in her clear, soft voice that was made for sweet songs, "The queen has been very kind to give me freedom of the castle."

"Kind indeed," Esmae nodded and took a sip from the goblet, "And what of your friend? The girl from Winterfell — Joanna, was it?"

"Jeyne, Your Grace. I've been told she is safe in the city, under Lord Petyr's care. She could no longer stay in the castle," Sansa said, her voice cracking a little.

Yes, Lord Petyr's care is known to be quite thorough.

"How generous of him to offer his help."

"Incredibly generous, Your Grace," Sansa nodded in agreement.

"It was very brave what you did, Lady Sansa. Speaking on behalf of your father," Esmae told her.

Sansa's cheeks flushed. "Thank you, Your Grace. I simply knew that Joffrey would show his great magnanimity. He is a great king."

Esmae let out a tired sigh and took a fair swig, "No, he isn't."

Sansa's face instantly fell, "Y-your Grace?"

"I asked you to come here for a reason, Lady Sansa," Esmae's words cut clean, leaving no room for further argument, "Everything is going to change very soon. The solid ground you're standing upon will turn into quicksand, and in the blink of an eye, you'll find yourself deep underneath it, fighting for a breath of air and slowly suffocating. Imagine me as the hand reaching through the darkness to pull you back up," she was looking at the Stark girl with burning intent, "Will you take it?"

"Your Grace, everything will be alright, you'll see," Sansa assured her, not a single tremble in her voice," My father will confess, and when he does, Joffrey and I will get married, and all will be well again."

Esmae regarded Sansa for some time, a look of resignation on her face, "You truly love him," she said.

"Of c-course I do, Your Grace."

"Tread slowly then, Lady Sansa," Esmae warned her, "You never know when you will fall through."

A/N: Oh my, I wonder what'll happen...