Words are insufficient to describe the stupendous scope and awesome sight of the Royal Throne Room. Impossibly high vaulted ceilings loom over a chamber large enough to accommodate the hundreds of lords both great and small who customarily wait upon the King. And gazing down with sightless malevolence are nineteen dragon skulls as black as onyx, polished smooth so the bone seems to shimmer. Three thousand years old and monstrous enough to swallow an aurochs whole, their curving teeth like black diamonds are eternally bared.
Through the high narrow windows, the light of day spills across the floor, laying dark red stripes upon the walls where the King rules from his Iron Throne and the heads of dragons hang. The throne itself is a monstrosity of spikes, jagged edges and twisted metal, made of a thousand blades of conquered foes and heated in dragonfire. Tales tell that the throne was fifty-nine days in the hammering, and that it has killed more than one man. Aegon the Conqueror had it made, saying that a king should never sit easy, and it seems unlikely one ever will.
There are no benches for the King’s court and petitioners. Save the council, all are expected to stand respectfully, or to kneel before the Iron Throne. The seat of the King sits upon a high iron dais, with steep and narrow steps leading up to it. The marble floors of the chamber are arranged in elaborate mosaics, and a single crimson carpet divides the massive room. Two galleries for smallfolk, merchants and lesser lords overlook the Throne Room upon east and west, and are accessed by spiral staircases of iron. To the rear are a pair of tall wooden doors leading to private chambers. Southward are the great entry doors, oak and bronze, guarded at all times.
Orson Baratheon dresses in his finest garb, in the colors of his House, with his chain of office safely hidden away underneath the doublet. He stands relatively close to the throne itself, taking note of its notorious scope and size. For the times he has seen it, it never ceases to amaze him. With that in mind, Orson decides to take its place and patiently wait.
In quite their smartest courtly buff and buskins, two male courtiers of House Hunter - lacking a third, Ser Eon, oft absent among his men of late - meander at court and king’s pleasure. In the demeanour of the elder, Harlan, neither knight nor yet (as yet) a lord, there is much of confected ease and false lightness of carriage, a thin smile that seems distinctly more careful than useful. Just this day, his breath savours more of mint than of wine, but his eyes look, if anything, more enshadowed and brighter with a higher, sharper feverishness than usual.
Hanging close by his father’s side, Roland stands straight-backed in his finest velvet and fur. Youthful excitement and no small amount of knightly pride are evident as he awaits the king’s arrival, expression cheerful and intent on taking it all in - Kingsguard, lords and fellow knights, both known and unknown. He nods to several familiar faces throughout the crowd, and keeps an eye on his father - but makes no attempt at small talk with the man, perhaps knowing the futility of engaging him in bland comments on the king’s health.
“Which one of ‘em was it whacked you about the shoulders into knightliness again?” Harlan asks of Roland, about the Kingsguard, with airy, and probably rhetorical, irrelevance. “Oh look, there’s the new Huntsman.” He speaks in what may, ill-fatedly, have been intended as a whisper. “Spoke against his place, of course, but I have to admit the fellow’s behaved with a sort of decency ever since, in defeat and in success. Not a decency I could imagine our hotblooded Corbray ever showin’, if I’m honest. And honest I ever am. Aha, and, there’s young Prester. Someone in a winesink said his wife was ill abed. Not a man to let such thinks keep him from thrones, is that one. He rose to Warden of the Kingswood once, you know, while you were still off tagging along with Ser Alyard on some blasted boat, my dear Rodulph.”
“... mayhaps an effort to make a peace ... Lys and Pentos ... Stepstones ...”
“... whispers that he’s set to wed Daena off ...”
The rumors hang thick in the court, as the king’s presence is awaited. Most of the small council is present, save the king, the Hand, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Preston Wayn leans heavily on his cane in one corner, nameless, unassuming men in drab court garments standing with him. Lord Ryger holds a little court of his own, surrounded by younger courtiers keen on advancement and knowing where best to spend their flattery. Beron Buckwell holds quiet colliquy with one of his men… and occasionally, surreptitiously, eyes the comings and goings in the hall. The arrival of the Prester heir, for example, draws his eye for a few moments before he turns back to his companion and makes some remark.
While Orson might catch a word of two from the court, while the court emerges from wherever they might be. “They are companions, Balon. Keep an eye. In time, that could be you there as you gain your spurs.” He tells his squire. Balon, in the meantime, simply looks at the Iron Throne, lost in its rugged marvel. Orson, however, looks at the Hunters and nods respectfully to them, mayhaps more to Roland than to Harlan.
Roland almost replies to his father’s question but the older man is continuing his rambling train of thought. “If Ser Dermett could not keep his post, Ser Orson is a good replacement. The court hunts seem to cause all manner of excitement. We could do with a bit less of that, in my opinion…” Trailing off, Roland follows his father’s gaze to Ser Farin but instead his eyes find Lord Ryger in the crowd, whose person and attendants hold the young knight’s interest. “You spend too much time in wiinesinks, my lord,” he mutters dryly. Catching the courteous acknowledgement from the aforementioned Ser Orson, Roland returns the respectful nod, along with a polite smile.
“Funny fella, the Master of Whisperers,” comes Harlan’s next lightning flash of observation. “If you wanted to make friends with the chap, and went up to chatter with him in front of all the court, you’d prove yourself little use to him, stands to reason. No wonder his entourage all look so glum, eh?” As for the Baratheon Huntsman, he receives a radiant if somewhat fleeting grin from the older courtier, renowned debauchee, and (still, despite everything! or anything!) Hunter heir.
Lord Ryger holds Ser Farin’s attention for a moment; Preston Wayne only in passing, before his gaze comes to rest on Beron Buckwell, whom he regards for a moment, from afar, sizing the man man as best can be done with the distance and coutiers between them. And then his attention is elsehwere again, drifting from time to time back to the hulking monstrosity of the throne itself.
“I seem to recall another lame Master of Whisperers serving under King Viserys - at least I think so.” Roland puzzles over the details for a moment before continuing. “A Strong, I believe. The one who smuggled Aegon the Second out of the Red Keep to Dragonstone. Perhaps it’s a requirement for the job.” He considers the man from afar for the briefest moment before going back to scanning the crowd, eyes bouncing from noblemen to skulls to throne. “No doubt I’d be little use to him. Drab and unassuming seems to be the desired type.” Then the doors open, the king arrives in a preponderance of godliness and all chatter stops.
“Look sharp, Balon.” Orson pats the young squire on the shoulder and he sees the boy stand tall and at the ready to receive the King as Prince Aemon arrives first. The pair fall silent as the group arrives, King Baelor last. Somrthing to note is that as time went on, whatever chain Orson was given as the Royal Huntsman is now visible, dangling gently from his neck besides the stag pin cleaved to his breast.
Harlan smiles genuinely enough at his son’s witty point about cripples in espionage, but the royal entrance dries up his reaction, and turns him a faint, gill-like greenish shade. “...all yours from here on, m’boy,” Harlan mutters edgily. “The Seven speed your way, as they seem to be the pillars that sustain the throne. I shan’t go far, but I have a presentiment I shall prefer watching this little affair at a distance…bloody Elwood’s can’t be far off, for a start. Send him,” he gulps, “a brother’s and a nevvy’s best, if he shows.”
And off he saunters. Say what you like about House Hunter’s livery, more practical than comely, but it proves its worth in cloth-of-gold when it comes to blending in…or, in this case, blending out.
The king, having reached the throne’s seat, turns. He surveys the crowd with his beatific smile and his dreamy eyes, and raises a hand in greeting, or perhaps benediction. “Seven blessings to you, my lords,” he says, in his reedy voice. And then he seats himself, with the care of someone not yet fully healthy, or perhaps with the care of someone who knows how sharp the blades still are more than a century and a half since Aegon the Conqueror had he throne made.
Roland only nods to his father’s parting instructions, face blank save for a slight frown at the corner of his lips - disappointment, annoyance or simply resignation, who can say. He turns to try to pick out his uncle from the gaggle of Most Devout, but is quickly distracted as the king makes his way up admist the hazardous blades. His attention is riveted, but as Baelor gives his blessings, Roland bows his head to mouth his own short prayer. Piety observed, he shifts among the crowd of lords and knights, eyes locked on the king as all await his next words.
The Prester knight’s lips qo quirk into some symblance of a half smile, though, noting the irony of the vision of this King, of all Kings, against the backdrop of the iron throne.
“I shall take a septon’s vows,” he finally announces. Simple words, for something many men have done before… but has ever a king done so?
There are audible gasps, here and there, but the most practiced courtiers seem to take it in stride. And yet… can a king be a septon? Shall Baelor abdicate? If so, it would be his uncle who would rule—
“The High Septon and the Most Devout have consulted the holy texts, and all the rulings of the High Septons who have come before. Though I will swear holy vows and live the simple life of a septon, I shall retain my crown, to serve the Seven Kingdoms as Protector of the Realm and as a shepherd to its flock.” So decrees the king.
Then, further, in a barely audible aside to his squire, “The shift of power is official, then. This will be…interesting.”
Roland’s face turns dark with confusion as the crowd gasps, eyes still on the king. But as His Grace explains the legalities, his expression clears even as his shoulders twitch in an aborted shrug. Clearly the Hunter knight does not judge this a large change in the status quo - though the glance he shoots to the proud group of Most Devout is troubled.
No wonder Viserys’s face is so carefully composed… nor why the High Septon seems so pleased. As the king climbs down the steps, his first act is to go to the High Septon, and kneel and kiss his ring.
The indignation and muted outrage can wait.
Quietly, as a maiden should be in the presence of so many great men, Farena Lydden observes the king. Even her chastely cut gown and maiden’s curls, however, cannot mask the dark eyebrow that arches its way above one eye. It is there but a moment, however, before her eyes seek other men. Those who scoff or mutter openly- these are noted, as are those who smile with pleasure at the king’s humbling of himself. And so the lady smiles too, with pride for the Seven- one hopes.
Off among a throng of nobility, standing in attendance of His Grace’s court, a Darklyn resides with silent patience as Baelor speaks. And when the gasps of shock rise up around him, Durance shifts attention curiously between the Hand and his King, then over to the High Septon and Most Devout, but his expression remains blank, his opinion clearly reserved for different company.
It is only when the King makes his decent from the Iron Throne, that Durance decides to speak—
“Shall they be holding court in the Royal Sept now?”, he asks in a little more than a whisper, barely audible to even those in close proximity. “Or—Gods be good.” Durance wills himself to look away; to the floor, at his boots, anywhere but the High Septon.
The troubled, conflicted expression on the young knight’s face is not eased by the easy humility of the king, but after a moment Roland turns away. His concerns are those of a young underling; no doubt older and wiser lords will be arguing and addressing the particulars of such a decision in the coming days. Satisfied that his opinion is neither required not wanted, Roland instead shifts - the better to hear the mutterings of those around him. As the king and his retinue depart, Roland looks around for such older and wiser heads, hoping to get their first impressions. Spying both Ser Ryckon and Ser Farin nearby, noble enough knights his seniors in command and age respectively, he puzzles momentarily on who to approach.
“My Price,” he offers, quickly, knowing his time to be brief before someone more important than he steals the man’s attention away, “What fine news for us to receive this day…with so little else to report, things must be progressing smoothly on all other fronts, I would naturally assume?”
Returning Ser Farin’s nod, and seeing his intended target, Roland moves instead to join Ryckon. “My lord,” he greets politely, turning to keep one eye on Ser Farin and the Prince Hand. “What do you make of today’s announcement?”
With the King now departed, Ser Durance returns his attention to the throne. Empty and imposing. The gathering that is court returns to it subtle buzz, a humming of nobles speaking in hushed tones, offering what greetings to others so they may know who attended and who had not.
Durance offers none of that. Instead his gaze falls from the throne to the Hand, and those who gather around him. Pressing forward through the crowd he notices familiars here and there, Ser Ryckon most prominant among them. A nod would be all the Westerling would receive before the Darklyn continues on—not to seek attendance, merely to stand in such.
As it is, Viserys turns to another courtier approaching, a supplicant perhaps, or a lickspittle bent on flattery
As it is, Viserys turns to another courtier approaching, a supplicant perhaps, or a lickspittle bent on flattery; it is hard to say, as he walks away a short distance with the man.
“It seemed more fitting, being off duty and dressed for court.” Roland in his velvets gives the commander’s black uniform a long glance. “Though you do wear the cloak well, ser.” To Ryckon’s careful warning Roland’s face darkens to match, a small scowl forming. “I am beginning to see why some lords loathe court so much.” He watches Ser Farin wrap up his business with Prince Viserys, then moves on to surveying the other milling lords.
As it happens, the young Florent is not so very far from Ser Ryckon, who has gathered a meager crowd of his own…
“Those who loathe it simply fail to see the opportunity it presents.” The feminine voice cuts in from the sea of mostly male voices as the figure of Farena Lydden glides nearby. “Apologies, my lords- I do not wish to interrupt.” She dips a modest curtsy, which reveals the septa that lurks behind her. “Farena Lydden. A pleasure, I am sure, my lords.”
Roland hums vaguely to Ryckon’s characteristically rambling speech. “Who could choose sides between the king and His High Holiness? No, it is only that one must hold back a comment or two, for fear of others misconstruing…” Farena’s arrival cuts off any other opinions he might’ve elaborated on. The young knight gives a low bow to the lady as he’s introduced. “Opportunity abounds at court, my lady, but sometimes the flattery and lies crowd out simple straightforward truths. I judge that a great loss to civil discourse.”
As the Prester knight concludes his business with the Hand, Ser Durance turns back to the crowd, shifting himself through noble company with a quiet courtesy or two along his path to Ser Ryckon.
“Ser-” His greeting (the first of this royal court) cut short by the abrupt introduction of lady Farena, though he remains polite. “Indeed, my lady. What of this opportunity? The kings will be done, yes—but what purpose does it truly serve?”
The Lydden maidens smiles to each man, listening attentively to their words and waiting for a proper opening to speak again, so as not to interrupt. “One could say that the king must always be at the service of the Seven. Our king simply makes his dedication… more overt. So long as the Hand and the council do not replace governance entirely with prayer, but let it inform their decisions as the gods will and the King conveys, the realm shall run as it must. And he has been honest with us in this, and did you find yourselves pleased with it?”
Farena smiles more widely as Farin elaborates on her point. “My thanks, my lord of Prester. I trust I speak for my septa’s pleasure that my opinions should reflect that of a man such as yourself.”
Roland nods to each man as they appear, though he knows Ser Durance only by tourney reputation. “Lady Farena speaks wisely, but even small changes in influence multiply, when it comes to dragons. No doubt the concerns of Faith and realm are often matched, but when they are not… Well, as the lady says. I trust Prince Viserys and the small council to keep it all well in hand.”
“/Yes/, Ser Roland, /Dragons/. Of both varieties, and that is the point. One is power, and one is wealth, and both are on the move. There will be men who are on the losing side. Will you be one of them, or will you seize opportunity?”
As for Ryckon, Farin does not respond to him directly, but rather gestures his way for his Florent charge. “See, Erton? You are not the only one who has heard it a thousand times…”
Again, Lady Farena waits, as she is bid. The conversations of men must take precedence, though she does not appear to be in any way aggrieved by it, merely listening quietly and nodding here and there. “My lords flatter me to give my word any consideration. As Ser Ryckon and…” she pauses, searching for a moment and not quite managing the name “...my lord of Hunter have said, the King may rule as best the Seven bid him while the more mundane concerns of man are handled, as they long have been, by others.”
To Farin she smiles once more. “My brother is well, thank you. Quite busy, of course. There is never rest for a lord. I was pleased he could permit me to join my sister, Lady Ryger’s, household here. She and the Master of Laws have been most generous in their tutelage and hospitality.”
Roland smiles genially at Farena as she forgets his name - it happens even to his father, so he cannot protest - and then mentions being in Lord Ryger’s household. But Ryckon’s admonishment and Farin’s gleeful political riddles drag his gaze back to the Iron Throne and the two seats that remain on either side. “It seems to me dragons fly together, when they are not dancing - and these two do not seem the sort. As for power and money - well, those are both very nice but my main motivation is serving the king and the realm.”
After a moment of contemplating such, Roland seems to suddenly realize the hour. “I have other duties to attend. Sers, my lady - thank you all for your wisdom.” With a nod to the knights and a bow for Lady Farena, Roland turns and makes his way for the doors, casting about for his father’s scrawny figure as he goes.
Then, back to Farena, “Undoubtedly busy,” the lordling concurs. “I have just returned from the West myself, where my sire and grandsire lay deathly ill in their beds - I spent some time acting as Lord, and I know well what the man goes through. Bless him, I say, for his allowance of my lady’s presense at court - I can already tell you will be well received. And with the Rygers! You could hardly ask for better,” he offers, genially, before adding, as is his wont, “...outside of a Westerland house, of course.”
To Ryckon, as a quick aside, “Is that so, Ser Ryckon? I have a cousin you should dearly love to meet, then…”
“Good day, Ser Roland,” Farena bids the young knight with a smile and a curtsy after Ryckon’s helpful correction. To Ryckon himself, she nods. “How gracious of you to say so, ser. Indeed I have met young Tymos, though I fear he and Ser Willard are oft too busy to grace the ladies of the household with their presence.”
Farin gains a more concerned sort of nod from the lady. “I had heard there was an illness at Feastfires, and I am glad to hear that you were not yourself afflicted. I am sure the court shall benefit much from your wisdom now that you have returned.” Her smiles widens at the mention of her position. “I am merely grateful that my sister could afford me such an opportunity. After all, I am of an age with her own children and she has their own concerns to think of, not mention Lord Ryger’s own duties.”
The lady gets a small smile of gratitude for her concern - though the Prester heir expresses gratitude with facial expressions so rarely that it might well be mistaken for any number of other things. “It is kind of you to be concerned so - but the illness has passed, and left our home more intact than we dared hope. My lord father did pull through,” he admits, likely sounding happier about it than any heir truly is. “As for /you/, my lady, in the event you do ever find your own concerns too far removed, my lady wife is well connected in the city…and I am sure she would enjoy providing you succor on any way you may require. Not that I believe you shall be in such need - the Rygers are well known for…taking care of their own.”
“Indeed, Ser Ryckon. The highest of duties carry the greatest risk- and the greatest reward.” Farena continues cheerfully, her hands remaining clasped at her waist. “Ser Farin, the gods must bless the Presters to grant such a boon after a time of great tribulation. And I should be glad to make the acquaintance of your wife. So many of the visitors to Lord Ryger are men who care little for the conversation of a lady while they wait for their claims to be heard.”
“Thank you very much, Ser Ryckon. It was a pleasure to meet you as well. I am sure we shall see one another again.” The lady smiles and curtsies, but does not blush herself, simply waiting to nod and curtsy again to Farin. “Of course, my lord, I should be happy to do so. Fare you well.” If she is put out by both men departing so quickly she shows it little, instead turning her charming smile back on the crowd at large and making her way back through it toward the Small Council table where her goodbrother certainly lingers.