SYNOPSIS. Joyce Baratheon had been named the Dutiful Lady, a title whispered in both admiration and contempt. First named it for her devotion to her dear friend and later her Queen, the name turned sour after speculation of her honor followed a handsome, young, and already wedded Prince when he began giving her his favor over his own lady wife. But Joyce endured, for nothing else mattered to her than those closets to her heart. Her Queen, and soon after, the Princess. They were all that mattered to her.
The Realm's Delight, the poets and bards had named her, and truly she was. Rhaenyra Targaryen was at the very least, a delight to her. Joyce had helped deliver her into the world after all and she cared for her as if she were her own flesh and blood. And in turn, the youthful princess looked up to Lady Baratheon, who had managed to stay unwed all these years after her once betrothed had choked to death at the feast before their wedding. And who her uncle—the only other being the girl held in such same high esteem—seemed to dote upon endlessly. Oh, what wouldn't Joyce do for the young Rhaenyra.
Despite her many efforts, the Queen still had not produced a male heir for the King, despite Viserys's insistence that the time would soon come. Her dearest friend and only daughter seemed to be the sole observers to Aemma's ever-declining health, even despite the Queen's insistence that she was fine. As they worry, the realm holds its breath, awaiting the arrival of the promised son and their future king.
Ουπς! Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ακολουθεί τους κανόνες περιεχομένου. Για να συνεχίσεις με την δημοσίευση, παρακαλώ αφαίρεσε την ή ανέβασε διαφορετική εικόνα.
