A/N: Hey guys! Wow, I didn't expect to see such a response to this story! Thank you so much! Here's the first chapter, it's a little short, I admit, but fret not, chapters will get longer as the story progresses.

Also, I thought I should make some things clear: this story doesn't have a pairing yet, which means that Esmae might end up with anyone, really...It also depends on you guys, I intend to listen to what you have to say! Another thing is that this fic will mostly follow the show with something from the books thrown into the mix here and there, but mostly the show. I really appreciate your interest and comments, for they are what gives me the motivation to write instead of lazing around and complaining about having to write.

Alright, without further ado, here's the chapter!

Jon Arryn was dead.

Esmae Baratheon lingered in the doors of the Throne Room, watching the Silent Sisters with a distant look in her calculative eyes. She could be cruel and she could be heartless, and she didn't care enough to try and conceal it even at the man's funeral. However, Esmae was not by any means stupid and was fully aware of the grave consequences his passing would undoubtedly entail.

Jon Arryn was a good man — a sort rarely encountered in their midsts, and, what was even more important, he used to keep the King safely at bay. Losing an honorable man was a tragedy, but losing an honorable man, who didn't let her father drink himself into oblivion and waste the crown's money on whores and gruesome tournaments was an issue. An issue that Esmae had to take care of before the Queen managed to take any action.

Esmae often found herself admiring her mother. When the princess was younger, she would listen to uncle Tyrion telling her and Joffrey stories about the greatest Queens the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen — Vysenia and Rhaenys, two sides of the same coin: beauty and rage, sternness and mischief. Oftentimes Esmae couldn't but compare them to her mother, for she was as beautiful and sometimes, if she'd had enough wine to drink, as playful as the sweet Rhaenys and could be as fearsome and unrelenting as the warrior-Queen Vysenia.

Cersei Lanniser was powerful; she reveled in this power and wielded it like a Valyrian sword, cutting through everything and everyone that stood in her way with a single swing of the blade. Another thing about Cersei Lannister was that she was no stranger to getting drunk — on wine and power alike. And that was exactly what Esmae feared the death of Jon Arryn, however natural, would cause.

Esmae raised her eyes from the captivating ministrations of the Stranger's wives and caught a glimpse of her mother's golden mane. She felt one of her eyebrows arch in surprise — Esmae didn't take Cersei Lannister for a sentimental type. Working her features into a solemn expression, the princess discretely walked towards her mother and joined her, all in complete silence. Cersei didn't acknowledge her daughter's presence in any way, and Esmae knew it to be a good sign — had it been anyone else but family, Cersei Lannister's guard would have been up in an instant.

"It is a shame," she finally said without taking her eyes off of the ceremony, "your father valued him greatly."

"He served him well," Esmae nodded and waited a moment before speaking the next words, "I am yet to express my condolences to Lady Lysa. I didn't wish to bother her, she was grieving so, and their little boy…"

"I'm afraid you'll have to write her a letter," Cersei answered, her voice distant. If Esmae didn't know her mother, she'd think she looked distracted. Or was it worry?

"Oh?" Esmae wondered innocently.

At last, the Queen's eyes left the procession and moved to study her daughter, "Lysa Arryn has decided to return to the Vale. Her son is the Lord now, it was time he visited the land he is to rule over."

Esmae felt a little tug on her lips at her mother's explanation — she wondered how much time it took her to come up with it. Lysa Arryn was a woman mad, and the only thing that would make her travel so far with her sickly child, and at such short notice at that, was the constant paranoia of getting murdered. A quite justified one, Esmae mused.

"What a strange woman," she sighed, watching the Silent Sisters circle Jon Arryn's body, "It appears she was in such a hurry to claim her role as Lady Regent, she forgot to lay her husband to rest."

Esmae stole a look at her mother, but Cersei remained impassive, giving away nothing, "She always has been rather…unstable."

"I suppose so," Esmae relented gently.

No, she decided, it was not her mother's doing. For Cersei Lannister looked as puzzled by what had happened as the rest of the court. She didn't have that knowing twinkle in her emerald eyes that always gave Esmae a maddening sense of inadequacy — like she had missed an important turn in the game and was slacking behind. She didn't like that feeling at all.

A sound of languid steps echoed through the passage.

"You two are a perfect picture of grief," a voice observed, causing the mother and daughter to raise their eyes at the intruder. When a Westerosi maiden dreamed of a noble knight in shining armor, she dreamed of one knight in particular — Ser Jaime of House Lannister. It always amused Esmae just how much good looks could forgive — she knew it firsthand. People always saw what they wanted to see and stayed blind to things that displeased them — it was a terrible way to live, wrapped up in the lies of one's own making, but not the worst way to survive. More often than not, however, it was what got you killed.

"Worry does not become you, niece, and the King is yet to make you a match. Try to be more cheerful, no husband wants a wife whose face is wrinkled by a constant state of distress."

"I should hope a King for a father and a generous amount of gold will make up for that," Esmae replied sweetly.

Jaime smiled at her witty retort and didn't miss the smirk that appeared on his sister's face. It was plain how much Cersei cared for her children — as a lioness should — her eldest daughter, however, held a special place in her heart. It was for this reason that she could sometimes be harsh with Esmae, seeing too much of herself in the girl as the years went by.

Nobody liked to acknowledge their faults, much less Cersei Lannister, and she happened to give birth to their pure embodiment. It was in moments like this, however, moments that showed how strong and sharp-minded her daughter was, that the Queen felt reassured — one's faults could easily turn into weapons if used correctly.

"I'm going to take my leave now," Esmae announced with a sigh and planted a kiss on her mother's cheek, "I suppose I will see you at supper."

She knew when her company was not needed.

Esmae watched her somber reflection in the looking glass while her new handmaid was fussing about the elaborate dress she had chosen to wear to the supper. It was a fine gown of rich sapphire color with long, flowing sleeves that almost reached the floors in a beauteous cascade. The princess could easily see the struggle in the girl's graceless moves — she was new to the court, no doubt, a little unscathed flower, mayhaps even from Highgarden, if her green, floral dress was anything to go by.

"What is your name?" her question startled the clumsy handmaid. She raised her eyes timidly and quickly drew them away, getting caught under Esmae's scrutinizing gaze.

"Melysa, your Highness," she mumbled.

"I haven't seen you before. You're new to the capital, I take it?"

"Y-yes, Princess," Melysa tried to adjust the corset and failed miserably at it.

Esmae fought the urge to roll her eyes. She padded the handmaid's hands away with an exasperated sigh and took to adjusting the dress herself — it was the only way if she wanted to leave her solar in the near future. Melysa's face grew almost Lannister red as she stepped, or rather jumped, away from her mistress to get out of her hair.

"Have you ever got dressed by yourself, Melysa?" Esmae asked rather conversationally, putting on a gilded filigreed belt around her narrow waist. After quite a prolonged silence, she sought the handmaid's eyes in the mirror's reflection and saw her lower them in shame, "I see. What have you done to cross your family so?"

Melysa's doelike ember eyes widened in horror, "It is an honor to be in your service —"

"I appreciate the attempt at flattery. However, we both understand that a young lady such as yourself would much rather wander about the Keep making eyes at knights instead of serving the likes of me," Esmae took another look at herself in the mirror and finally turned around to face the mousy girl with a deceitfully sweet, patronizing smile, "Tell me I'm wrong," noticing her hesitation, Esmae added, "It is not an order."

"It is the greatest honor to serve as your handmaid, your Highness," Melysa hurried to assure her, round eyes dancing around the room, "I wish it had been I to have come up with such a wonderful idea. Alas, it was my mother."

Esmae sighed, "Oh well, I am quite positive my mother had a hand at this as well."

Before Melysa could recover from her momentary stupor at the princess's sudden assumption, Esmae made to the door, her dress flowing in her wake. She knew that behind it there stood a stout, nameless guard, so very discreetly assigned by her mother. Cersei was having quite the fit of paranoia after the sudden, yet, as everybody made sure to concede, expected death of the beloved Hand.

Before walking out the door, however, Esmae turned to the new handmaid with a twinkle in her emerald eyes that made her resemblance to the Queen truly uncanny.

"Perhaps we can show our mothers what a truly keen idea it was to bring us together, lady Melysa. Meanwhile, you'd do well to learn more about the elaborate workings of a corset," with that she opened the door and walked out, paying no mind to the guard. Esmae had a lot of things to ponder, and the newly appointed handmaid was now at the very top of her long list. She was a pretty little thing with long, wavy chestnut hair and the strikingly innocent, if not lost, look in her eyes, so favored by men. Except, unlike many courtly ladies, it seemed that Melysa didn't need to put on the façade of virtuousness — it came as naturally to her as her utter uselessness as a handmaid.

Esmae didn't hate Joffrey. He was her younger brother after all, and she had long before his birth, laying a hand on her mother's swollen stomach, promised to stay by his side and protect the future King of the realm at any cost. Of course, she was but a three-year-old then, driven by infantile idealism and sweet ignorance as well as inability to see into the future, where the little bundle inside her mother grew up to be a complete lunatic. Still, she couldn't bring herself to hate him, however hard she tried, and try she truly did: when he killed the cat father had given her for her ninth nameday, when he almost shot one of her handmaid's in the head whilst trying out a new crossbow (the arrow ended up in her shoulder instead, and the girl almost bled out to death), or whenever he would make a particularly distasteful comment about her. "Princesses are said to have golden cunts," he had once declared at supper, while their father was feasting on something other than food in the confines of his rooms, "And we've got two in the family! Myrcella can be a spare if yours ends up being as cold and prickly as yourself, sister." Esmae remembered the look on her mother's face at these words — she could see her eyes going blank, left brow raised as she fixed them upon the goblet of wine clutched in her hand. The only sign of anger was a slight twitch of the mouth that Cersei masterfully concealed by taking a sip of her personal calming draught.

It was the same face she had right now after her husband had broken the unexpected news — they were riding to the North. But while with Joffrey Cersei concealed her true emotions out of unconditional love, the only thing stopping her from speaking her mind with Robert was the fear of angering her lawful husband — however incompetent he was, Robert Baratheon was still the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and even her father's gold wouldn't save her from the rage of the man who had mercilessly killed Rhaegar Targaryen with a war hammer.

"The North, my love?" Cersei asked as she set down the goblet, her fingers still playing with the stem.

"Why would we go to this Gods' forsaken land, father?" Joffrey asked in his usual whiny manner, "they are all illiterate barbarians, no better than the wildlings —"

"Hush, boy," Robert said firmly, his face even redder from the strain of the responsibilities that had fallen on his shoulders in the wake of Jon Arryn's death, "Northerners are ten times the men these Southern shits can ever dream of becoming. We could do with more such men here in the capital. Good men, honorable men, men I can trust. Not all those sissies running 'round in their fancy shining armors, the wee peckers, who think themselves knights," the man huffed, "Like your own uncle Renly, the little wimp," Robert shook his head and laughed, "He reckons I'll make him my new Hand. D'you know what I told him?" The question was directed at Esmae.

"What did you tell him, father?" she asked, feigning interest in the incredibly fascinating narrative.

"That I need no help in fucking up this Kingdom, 'been doing fine on my own!" Robert guffawed under Cersei's seething glare.

"Robert, surely Tommen and Mycella could do without your foul language," she hissed, venom dripping from every word.

The two youngest children were sat close to their mother, usually silent during such conversations. Any other time, however, Tommen would talk non-stop about the absurd stories he had read in the books given to him by uncle Tyrion, which usually ended up with Tommen crying because of something Joffrey said. Of course, the blame was laid on none other than Tyrion himself, for he seemed to be the root of each and every problem in their family.

"The Kingdom is in need of a new Hand," Robert said solemnly, no trace of humor in his voice, "and I have already made my decision. We're riding to Winterfell and I am going to ask Ned Stark to be the Hand of the King."

"A Stark?" Cersei almost spat out the name, "You are ready to ride to the North and yet you dismiss my father without a second thought?"

Esmae was familiar with the current look on her mother's face as well and knew that if the discussion progressed in a similar manner, there would be hell to pay. Cersei was dangerously calm, her voice bordering on a growl that threatened to grow into a raging roar of a lioness.

"Or have you forgotten what my father has done for you? For our family? If it weren't for him, you would never have won that war — "

"If it weren't for Ned Stark I would have been dead right now!" Robert bellowed and slammed his large fist against the table, making everyone, except for Cersei, who did not even blink, jump up. The Queen understood that it was a battle she would inevitably lose — it always was when it came to the Starks. And she gave up fighting it many years ago.

"We're riding North in a fortnight," Robert said at last, a steely finality to his words, "Ned is family, as was Jon, and I trust this man with my own life. He helped me win the bloody Iron Throne and he will damn well help me keep it."

"And if he refuses?" Cersei asked, her voice mocking, face a picture of arrogance, "Northmen are stubborn folk, have you thought that he might not want to abandon his lands and ride off to the South?"

"He will not refuse."

And somehow Esmae knew it to be true.