The seven-walled Royal Sept serves as the centre of worship for the King and his kin, along with the denizens of the Red Keep. It is, like all septs devoted to the Faith, a solemn place of beauty; leaded glass windows admit light which plays about the sept, scattering through the prisms of the sacred crystals and casting dazzling rainbow patterns upon the smooth vaulted ceiling. Each of the seven aspects of the divine are here revered: the smiling Mother, the bearded Father, the valiant Warrior, the beautiful Maid, the enigmatic Stranger, the masterful Smith, and the wizened Crone each have their own ornate statues and altars, all inlaid richly with mother-of-pearl, onyx, and lapis lazuli. The low sound of sing-song voices raised in worship can often be heard, and the air is heavy with the smell of incense from holy censers.
Long benches of polished dark wood bear soft cushions of black velvet, upon which attendees may sit while at worship. At the head of the sept is a raised dais, the station of the septon; before each of the seven altars are candelabras and gilded lanterns. A small and nondescript door at the rear of the sept grants access to the vault and living quarters for the brothers and sisters of the Faith; the large golden doors of the main entrance lead out to the castle yard.
The heavy morning air is kept at bay in this place of worship, filled with the song of the devoted and the smell of incense from the Septons service. It is no more active a day than any other, with people bent in prayer before one of the sacred Seven aspects of the Faith.
Before the statue of the Crone, the massive figure of a knight kneels, taking up most of the space before the statue. His deep voice echoes off the walls, filling the room, almost drowning out the songs of the faithful. He wears the colors of House Baratheon and can be no other but the man called Stormbreaker.
“...give my cousin the wisdom to see the error of her ways! I know she knows not what she does. Lead her from her wantonness with that blasphemous wretch that has tempted her!” Lowering his head from his beseeching prayer, the knight bows his head and remains silent for a long moment.
The exhortations from the giant Baratheon knight cannot but help draw attention. Some of the noble ladies and brave knights at the service look vaguely askance, but only for that moment when they furitively steal a look before trying to act as if they do not notice, either out of a sense of a decorum or a healthy sense of self-preservation. There are novice assistants to the chief septon who look less happily on the man, but they take their lead from the septon, who gives the man a cool look before raising his voice to try and defeat Ser Sarmion’s. It is a losing battle, and his homily upon the trials of the gods-blessed Hugor begins to drift into lame uncertainty.
There is one other in the crowd, whose purple eyes stare, his slightly open mouth revealing interest, and then when shut again shows a forceful effort to attend to the septon’s straggling, quarrelsome, over-loud (yet not loud enough) words.
A side door to the sept opens quietly and a a tall, dark-haired knight emerges from it. He wears a simple cream-colored tunic, the breast of which bears the triple ravens of House Corbray. The Vale knight closes the door softly behind him and appraises the room quickly, gaze lingering a moment on the supplicating Stormlands knight, before striding purposefully toward the statue of the Stranger. The Corbray kneels before the enigmatic figure and bows his head.
His prayers, if he offers any, are silent.
Looking up into the face of the Crone, the giant knight rises to his feet, then stoically lights a candle before purposefully striding to the Mother’s alter. There he kneels, giving no heed to those who have placed themselves ahead of him. He clenches his hands together, placing them upon the mother’s feet, his dark blue eyes closed as he bows his head.
The Stormbreaker’s voice echoes through the hall, ringing from the rafters, unchecked, a volumnous bass murmur that edges out any higher timbered voice within the Sept.
“Mother! Take your errant babe to your breast and keep her from the wickedness that has so tempted her! She has been motherless for most of her life and I am but a man, a warrior, and unschooled in the ways of womanhood. I have done the best by my sisters, my nieces, and my wife… I beseech you to turn your eye upon her so that she might know to turn he eyes from the blackhearted villain that has tempted her into wickedness!”
The septon’s speech to the gathered faithful ends with a whimper, as most of them turn their attention to the renewed outburst of prayer, and find it harder to be mindful of the sermon that they had come to hear. Lips pressing together in annoyance, the septon lets them know that he is done, and they may be depart. He gives Sarmion another look, mutters something under his breath, and turns away. The novice follows with him, and much of the rest of the congregation begins to disperse. The looks towards Sarmion are plentiful, but brief; no one disturbs him.
Until, that is, a young and wavering voice sayss, “The gods will hear you, ser, even if your voice were as quiet as mine.” It is Baelor, Prince of Dragonstone, this time without his sworn sword Ser Doran Dondarrion in his company. A thin-boned youth of about fourteen with long, silver-gold hair and purple eyes that could be beguiling, but instead are serene and full of quiet certainty.
Paused in the act of lighting the candle to the Mother, the knight turns to look upon the Prince and those gathered here as if only noticing them for the first time. The massive Baratheon steps from the alter to kneel before Baelor, his deep voice echoing from the marble floor at the young Targaryen’s feet.
“Forgive me, your Grace, I did not mean to disturb your devotions, but to pray for the sake of my cousin,” shaking his bowed head, Sarmion adds, “She is beyond my power to protect from herself. He who has lead her astray has the protection of the King and I cannot touch him.”
Looking up, his dark blue eyes regard the Prince, as he says, “I have offered a prayer to the Warrior to stay my hand from slaying this man who has dishonored my cousin, your Grace. But I fear my rage will get the better of me.”
Not all the disapproving looks come from the septon. An irritated frown mars the Vale knight’s countenance as he turns to stare at the Baratheon. A frown which is entirely belied by the intense blaze of curiosity in the Corbray’s eyes. “There’s a story here,” the look says, and his intrigue becomes even more apparent when Prince Baelor speaks up. He idly lights a candle to the Stranger, head turned to discreetly listen to the exchange between Sarmion and the Prince.
“We have all sinned against the gods,” the heir to the Iron Throne, no more than a boy, says with absolutely surety. “Their love and wisdom is great, however, and the repentant will always find their way back to their bosom. You must trust in them, ser.” He looks towards the doorway, and then back to Ser Sarmion. “Perhaps you should speak to the septon, after your prayers are complete. Whenever I am confused or uncertain, they provide the clear light of truth.” Another lingering glance at the doorway, and then Baelor says, “I will join you in a quiet prayer before the Stranger, if you have not done so. There are many who do not give him much devotion, yet he is the one who welcomes the lost and leads them home.”
“I hope they shall, your Grace,” the Stormbreaker says rising to his feet. He towers over Baelor, his massively muscled form an imposing sight, even with his broad shoulders bowed in deference to the heir. His deep voice entones, “I pray to the Stranger for the sake of my wife, my Prince. She was taken by one such as he who now poisons the mind of my good cousin.”
Sighing, his blue eyes dark with frustration, Sarmion adds, “That one such as he should now take from my cousin her chastity is a slight that I cannot bear for her sake.”
Looking towards the alter of the Stranger, where the Corbray knight now stands, the Baratheon motions toward him, “Even the Vale knights do nothing and she of House Arryn. I mean to take this to Lord Jonothor, though him being of so placid a mind, I cannot hope it will stir him to much action.”
Rising to his feet at the approach of Sarmion and the Prince, Astos bows before the heir, offering a murmured, “Your Grace” by way of greeting and obeisance. At the Stormlands knight’s words about the Vale, House Arryn, and Lord Jonothor, the curiosity of the Vale knight gives ground to perplexity. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but a quick glance at the Prince and he thinks better of it, instead stepping aside to make way for the pair at the altar of the Stranger.
The Corbray knight turns himself back toward the statue, ostensibly returning to his orisons, though the frequent furtive glances he directs at Sarmion say otherwise.
Baelor listens with his own placidness, and after hearing it all he merely says with his wavering, reedy voice, “Well, I shall pray before the Stranger, to lead your cousin to righteousness. And the man you blame, too. He has the love of the gods as we all do, however little we may deserve it, ser. If he has failed his test of tempation, we must pity him, and pray for him.” Baelor moves to where the Corbray knight is at his devotions, and gives the man a beatific smile. “The Seven’s blessings on you, ser knight. In your devotions, if you may spare a few words for this great knight’s poor cousin, it would be a kindness. The gods are pleased by the prayers of their devout warriors.” He kneels, then, before the Stranger, and clasps his hands—chafed red by his earlier pious prayers, as they rubbed and clenched together in the transportation of his zeal—about a fine crystal he pulls from a purse at his belt.
“You will forgive me, your Grace, if I do hope the gods do not waste their love upon the blasphemous Dornish,” the Stormbreaker says lowly. Following, he mutters to himself, “I know not what their Septons preach but I cannot think it is from the same book our prayers are from.”
Finally, he kneels beside the smaller figure of the Prince, clasping his hands, and bowing his head before the Stranger.
At Baelor’s request, Astos blanches a bit, but recovers his composure quickly. “Of course, Your Grace,” he accedes, and kneels once more. His wiry and lithe frame rests in stark contrast against the hulking Stormlands knight beside him.
Turning his head slightly, Astos murmurs quietly, “Might I know for whom I pray, Ser? I have kin among the Arryns, and it might be that we would have common cause.” He attempts to keep his voice low, so as not to disturb the prayers of the Prince.
“A sinner, ser,” Baelor says immediately. “We pray for a sinner. The gods do not care, high or low, kin or stranger—we are all one in their eyes.” And so he prays.
There is a long silence and it seems the Stormbreaker had not heard the Corbray knight. Then the Prince speaks. To his voice, the Baratheon adds in hushed tones, or as hushed as that powerful and deep voice can be made.“Then pray for my Lady Aunt’s granddaughter, ser,” Sarmion utters, his head bowed, “Jyana, daughter of my cousin Allane Royce by Ser Ober Arryn.”
The Vale knight winces at Prince Baelor’s mild rebuke, then nods, eyes widening, at Sarmion’s revelation. “I pray that the Stranger helps my Lady Cousin find her way,” he replies, as much to Sarmion as to the statue. The tone of his voice indicates that it won’t just be the Stranger interceding.
If he hears Sarmion’s rumbling murmur, Baelor does not show it. He is still at first, as he prays, head bowed. A long minute passes. And then ... a slight quickening of breath, and a catch in it as a faint shudder runs through him. His head turns up to look on the blank face on the stranger, but those purple eyes are squeezed shut. Joining the sound of his breathing in the hushed transept is the quieter sound of flesh rubbing flesh, as his clasped hands begin to clench and move against one another. The intensity of his devotion is palpable.
Opening his eyes, the Baratheon knight looks upon the Prince, his brow furrowed. He remains with hands clenched before the altar and after a time, bows his head once more.
Sarmion casts sidelong glances at the Prince’s disturbed behavior.
Astos’s eyes close and his lips move in brief soundless prayer. When he opens his eyes again, he glances at his companions-in-prayer and gasps at the Prince’s behavior. He outright stares for several seconds before remembering his place and bowing his head, though he casts his gaze at the Prince several times further.
When at last the prince’s hands still, and his breath grows quieter, he opens his eyes. They give the impression of seeing nothing before him, or perhaps seeing beyond what is present. He bends forward, and places a kiss upon the bare carven feet of the Stranger. “Ser,” Baelor says, addressing the praying giant, the wavering voice full of zeal. “Ser, I have seen the way. Do not fear. All will be well.” And he looks to Astos, and repeats, “All will be well. The gods are good.” His joy, incandescent, could light a sept better than a thousand candles.
Only the briefest flicker of his gaze betrays Sarmion’s unvoiced thoughts as he stares with bent head at the foot of the altar. Closing his eyes, the Baratheon says, “The Seven be praised!”
Then, he lifts his head to look at the prince with a perplexed frown, “I thank you, your Grace. But how do you know this, my Prince?”
Baelor’s exhultation seems to be infectious, for a broad smile creases Astos’s face. “Gods be good,” he repeats, glancing askance at Sarmion briefly. “I am happy to hear it.”
“How else, ser? They told me. They spoke in my heart, as they speak to us all as we pray, our thoughts bent on them. They spoke to you, but in your agony you did not hear. It was the gods who led us to this place, together, so I might be the ear that hears their voice.” He turns that bright, near-dazed gaze upon Astos. “And here, they have given us a witness, a stout heart, a bannerman to her kinsman the great lord Jonothor.”
His gazes turns inexorably to the altar of the Stranger, and his eyes squeeze shut for a moment. Tears wet the dark golden lashes. “I will tell her. I will tell her she is a sinner, and that she does a great wrong, tempting a man to sin. Her beauty is a test, for honest men and for herself both. She has succumbed to vanity, I know it, and does not know she sins—but I will tell her, and I will pray with her, and I will say how her cousin Ser Sarmion fears for her chastity. The gods will speak to her, and she will save her chastity, and no longer lead men astray.”
“Thank the gods!”
Sarmion says, his outburst filled marked relief. He clutches his hands to his chest, then, and bows his head as he looks at the floor.
He clears his throat, as if trying to stem some tide of deep emotion.
“Gods be good,” Astos says again, in a breathless whisper, amazement writ on his face. “I know my cousin. I know she will see the error of her ways, with you to guide her, Your Grace.” There is no sycophantry, only the forthright earnestness of one awed by Baelor’s devotion. A second thought seems to cross the Vale knight’s mind, and again, he looks as if he’s about to speak, but holds his tongue. Instead, he bows his head and offers another silent prayer to the statue of the Stranger.
“I will light candles, as thanks to the gods,” Baelor says, almost unhearing. He finally turns his gaze to the two men, but it is an afterthought, and the vagueness of his look is matched only the joy of his smile. “And you, sers, you must trust to me. It is a task I will do gladly! They say she is a jewel, glorifying her beauty; but the true beauty is in the heart, when the gods fill it. She needs that light, to prosper in righteousness.”
Bestirred to action, Sarmion raises his head and unclenches his hands and moves to light a candles as well. Looking up into the face of the Stranger. His face is clouded with some dark emotion as he lights on candle, saying in muttered tones, “Look after my Demerei, I hope you have taken her to a place of peace where she can find the joy I could never bring her.”
Then, he lights another candle and looking at the Stranger’s face once more, adds, “And guide my cousin Jyana back from her wayward path. In her arrogance she has presumed much, but you have sent her one who may help her find her rightful place.”
Frowning, the Stormbreaker then bows his head, lapsing into sullen silence.
Following suit, Astos lights a candle as well, murmuring, “Guide Benfrey to the path. And lead me to what I seek.” The latter is spoken with an angry edge, and Astos’s fists clench in quiet anger. The Corbray knight hangs his head in silence for several long moments before turning to regard Baelor and Sarmion once more.
Baelor lights a candle to follow suit, and rises from his knees. One hand is still clenched about the crystal, and the other is redder than before thanks to his chafing. “The blessings of the Seven on you, sers. With such defenders, the faithful will always be safe.” And so he wanders away to the other altars, to light candles in turn, and offer up praise to the gods who have spoken to him.
Rising to his feet in suit, Sarmion bows his head, “Thank you, your Grace. Their blessings be upon you as well.”
Rubbing his face with his heavy hand, the Baratheon knight watches the Targaryen wander off. The Stormbreaker clears his throat as if to stave off a cough.
Looking at the Corbray with a strained expression, he offers, “I must’ve gotten too carried away with the praying,” as if to stave off curiosity.
As the heir walks away, the quasi-beatific expression Astos had been wearing drains from his face. After Baelor is a safe distance away, the Vale knight scoffs and rolls his eyes, momentarily forgetting Sarmion. When the larger man speaks, Astos starts slightly, apparently having been lost in his own thoughts.
“Think nothing of it, Ser,” he responds, waving away Sarmion’s explanation. “I’d be upset if my lady cousin was courting a Dornishman.” Realizing the foolishness of the statement, he chuckles, though his face flashes with anger. “I -am- upset that my lady cousin is courting a Dornishman. I will be sure to speak to her,” he promises darkly.
“You do not know the kind of sentiment that fills my heart,” the giant Baratheon snarls, “When I heard that a woman of my blood has been at sport with a Dornishman.”
Looking back at the Stranger, Sarmion shakes his head, adding, “I would kill this Dornishman, were he not in the King’s protection.” Turning pensive the Stormbreaker says, “I would kill all of the Dornish here, were it not for the King’s protection.”
“Trust, Ser, that I share your sentiment. My brother was murdered by one of those dogs,” he growls, fists clenching again. “Jyana knows this, has promised to help me ferret out his slayer, yet she still perpetrates this, this . . . betrayal.” The Vale knight glowers darkly, adding, “I’ve yet to meet any of the hostages here that wasn’t the lowest form of scum. They strut and swagger and provoke, working to turn us against one another.” He falls silent for a moment, then spits, “Would that they were put to proper justice, the lot of them.”
“Well spoken,” Sarmion says, nodding in approval, “As a Vale knight should be spoken.”
Shrugging his massive shoulders, then, he says, “I fear our young cousin is too proud. She has taken the part of the Dornish over her kin before. And as I cannot kill them,” he looks around the sept and waves his hands in a hopeless gesture, scowling, “I must needs turn to prayer. Which our young prince has answered, bless him.”
Then, he turns his looks on Astos and says, “This Dornishman, though… You might tempt him to his proper fate, ser.”
“I can assure you that nothing would please me more, Ser,” Astos responds, hand reaching reflexively for the pommel of a sword that’s not there, swordbelt eschewed for a visit to the Royal Sept. “While I’m -sure- our blessed Prince Baelor will have wondrous effects on Lady Jyana,” he drawls sardonically, “a more direct approach regarding the Dornishman might be prudent.”
The Vale knight pauses thoughtfully, before continuing. “Which of the bastards is it? I’ve had the displeasure to run across a few of them since I’ve come to Kings Landing,” the Corbray explains.
Looking about the Sept, Sarmion moves to guide the Corbray knight away from the altar, towards the door. Lowering his voice, a feat that does little to help it carrying in so volumnous and accoustic a place, the Stormbreaker says, “Now is not the time nor here the place to discuss it, ser.”
Glancing back into the Sept, the Baratheon knight adds, “Let us see what affect Prince Baelor might have on the girl. No doubt you might find out yourself, though she may never tell you. Half the tongues at court are wagging about Jyana and this man’s friendship.” His lips curl at the word, but he continues, “Let us speak of this some other time. I cannot move against him. All know my hatred for the Dornish, so if this man dies in my presence all would look to me at blame and I would be stripped of all favor from the Court.”
Stepping away, he leaves the rest unsaid, adding only, “Let us speak of it again, in some more fitting place for such business, ser.”
Walking alongside the Stormlands giant, Astos looks somewhat abashed over his eagerness, listening intently. As Sarmion finishes, Astos nods, replying, “Of course, forgive my uncouthness. I shall see what I can find.” He bows before the Baratheon, then furrows his brow, straightening. “And forgive my rudeness, I haven’t properly introduced myself. Astos Corbray, at your service, Ser.” He bows once more and turns to go, adding, “Until we next speak, Ser.”