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The sound made Jaime Lannister scowl beneath his helm. The constant giggling from little Myrcella as Robert Baratheon no doubt was flinging her around without a care in the world in the same room that Cersei was shamed almost nightly, pretending that the oaf had any form of paternal bone in his oversized body. The Kingslayer couldn’t decide if it felt worse listening to the moans of whichever whore had been dragged across from the Street of Silk, or listening to the joyous laughter of his… he refused to think on it, Cersei had made his role in the children’s lives abundantly clear from the moment Joffrey had spilled from between her legs.
As ever though, soon the laughs turned to wails, and the roar of the King soon followed. “KINGSLAYER!” Opening the door and putting on his courtly smile, Jaime noticed the scraped knee of the Princess almost immediately, with her having hunched her dress up to rub the injured area. “Take the child to her mother.” Robert commanded, and Jaime obeyed.
“Come, Princess.” He held out his hand, expecting her to simply take it and walk, but the young girl had other ideas, her wide, green eyes looking up at him, begging, and her arms stretching out towards him to carry. Rolling his eyes, he bent down and gently picked Myrcella up, noticing the small drop of blood forming on her wound. “Your Grace.” He bowed his head towards the King, now infinitely more interested in his goblet than the child.
Leaving the room, Jaime couldn’t help the surge of protectiveness that coursed through his veins, stopping his movements twice to dab the blood with his white cloak. He wasn’t a father, not really, but as Myrcella nestled into the crook of his neck, Jaime Lannister could pretend.