Location: Inside the City: Before the Sept
Few visitors visit this small, cobbled plaza, and those that do all make their way into the sept to worship. The stones are kept clear of autumnal mud, since the seven must be respected, but this is facilitated by the scant attendance. Every so often, a septon or an acolyte might choose to exit or enter via the plaza, but little other livens up this location. A pool sits in the centre of the plaza, and the colours that swirl within its water have given it the name of the rainbow pool.
In the section of courtyard where the street ends, a pair of the old benches have been placed for the people of the city to watch the construction, which continues apace. The site is carefully guarded so no one can come too close to King Baelor’s grand design as it creeps ever skyward to the glory of the Seven.
Fair weather clouds drift through the blue sky from the west. The wind is gusty and cool.
—-
[Balerion]
Visenya’s Hill has never borne such a silence. Ever since word spread that the king, in his graciousness, had decided that the city who loved Princess Daena should join in witnessing her funeral pyre, thousands have lined the broad streets from the Red Keep to the great marble skeleton of Baelor’s rising sept, packed shoulder to shoulder beneath a pale autumn sky. Bells toll from distant septs in slow and mournful cadence. The unfinished domes and scaffolds ahead loom white and skeletal above the plaza, draped in black and crimson silks that stir in the chill wind like funeral banners upon a battlefield. The rain that marked the final day of vigil has fled away before a bright, brisk autumn noon.
[Balerion]
The procession winds upward at last through seas of commoners and courtiers alike, making its way up the hill. From horse back, liveried serving men dip their hands into sacks tied to their saddles, and throw out thin, small silver coins stamped with the likeness of Daena on one side, and the Targaryen dragon on the other; the royal mint in the city has turned out thousands in a brief time, at the king’s own command, and suffice it to say the Master of Coin did not gainsay him. The crowds surge, scrambling for the coins, a memento of the departed princess and their presence here on this solemn day.
[Balerion]
Septons come first, barefoot and solemn, their voices lifted in prayer. Behind them march the white cloaks of the Kingsguard, gleaming bright as fresh-fallen snow in the bright daylight. Then comes the bier itself, borne high and slow beneath a canopy of black velvet sewn with the three-headed dragon. Princess Daena Targaryen lies in state amidst a bed of autumn roses, silver-gold hair fanned out beneath her, her stillborn daughter cradled in her arms as though merely asleep. Behind come the king, and Daena’s sisters, her cousin Prince Daeron with Princess Mariah, the children. The Hand of the King, Lord Bracken, and his lady wife follows, ahead of the rest of the small council. Other nobility follow behind as well, high and low, an endless stream yet dwarfed by the great throng already gathered, a path through the plaza to the high steps of the sept kept open by the gold cloaks.
[Aimery Fell]
The crowd at the top of the hill where the pyre awaits, raised high on a broad platform so that all may see even from a distance as Daena the Defiant and her babe are swallowed by the fires that are the Targaryens’ birthright, is near as thick as those lining the streets. There are many among the highborn who have chosen to wait there rather than follow the procession through the press of an entire city in mourning. And many among the better born of the smallfolk as well merchants and the like, for all that the highborn wait apart from them, before the steps of the unfinished sept.
Among them are the lord and lady of Felwood clad in sober hues, the black dominating the green. Before them—solemn, even if they shift restlessly from time to time—are their two older children, their mother’s hands on a shoulder apiece.
“A day for the Princess to ride out on a hunt.” The Stormlands lord tilts back his head to gaze at the clear skies, bathed with light as warm and thick as honey.
“Instead, she goes to the Gods.”
[Balerion]
Autumn flowers strike the stones before the procession in soft bursts of orange, red, and pale yellow. Some are fresh cuttings from noble gardens. Others are little more than roadside weeds tied together with twine or precious ribbons. Men and women weep only as it passes. Some kneel in prayer, others reach a hand out, others still stare mutely, overcome by that bright spirit of flame, defiant and irrepressible, extinguished.
[Omrys Baratheon]
Standing calm and quiet in his black samite, Omrys is looking at the procession with intensity, misty-eyed and tongue-tied. If all the standing this day and the last has taken its toll, he bears it expressionlessly as he does the chill wind that is sending his black cloak into waves of fabric. With him is his squire Lorence, dressed in black as well.
[Orson Baratheon]
“What is that, Father?” A hushed young girl’s voice tugs upon her father’s doublet. “Are those coins?” Her bright blue eyes look at the coins, dots in the clouds, and bright sparks on the floor. Smallfolk gather around them, though some of them are not eager.
Her father, Orson, slowly nods at his oldest, a look of sadness upon his kind features. It was him, and her mother, Ryone, at her other side. Her left hand was upon Father’s back, her head nuzzled upon his arm.
All four dress in the colors of grief, Baratheon black. No gold for their banners adorn them.
Olrys was on his father’s left side, and he looks up to his father, quizzical to notice how his father’s expression was not his own. It was Ser Orson now, not Father. The boy notices, now, the white cloaks of the Kingsguard, Knights of renown and myth, all with faces of stone.
“She would have loved that.”
It was Father’s words on the subject. It was enough for Olrys, Disa, and Ryone herself to look at Orson.
“She would have.” Orson repeats himself, and looks up to the clear skies above them.
[Balerion]
Whispers move through the crowd in ripples behind clasped hands, whispers that this unusual public funeral was the notion of Lord Bracken, a distraction from more prosaic concerns that wrack the city and the realm.
“... king agreed ...”
“... dead princess and babe, it’s judgment, the judgment of the gods f’r—”
“Hush, fool! Want the gold cloaks hearing such talk? You’ll be lucky to be left any teeth”
“... raven to Winterfell, my cousin who cleans the rookery swears, it’s true…”
“... the poor boy ...”
[Halanna Bracken]
Lady Bracken dabs her eyes as the procession draws closer to the pyre, her other hand holding that of her elder son. Jonos looks to be imitating his father as closely as possible in both clothing and his serious, solemn demeanor. Her oldest daughter walks on Halanna’s other side, she and her mother in matching black velvet gowns slashed with a gold-tinted cream, and all of them a step behind the Hand.
[Jannia Buckwell]
Some have made themselves a mournful semblance of a welcome party, congregating in pride of place, or platforms, or jostling with one another behind the slim golden wall of the City Watch. Others have dutifully fallen in line since the princess left the Keep, for the last time, and have followed the winding procession through the crooked paths and cobbled streets of King’s Landing, a dutiful coterie for one final time. The women of the royal household have, wisely or for lack of choice, largely elected to be among that latter, accompanying number, and Lady Buckwell features rather prominently among them.
Today, she is the only consort of the Antlers come to see the tragedy’s end. Lady Taria’s age and despondency have put this journey beyond her reach, for the nonce. So Lady Jannia stands tall, controlled, respectful, for the both of them, clad in unadorned black paired with a black wimple and veil secured with her sole accoutrement, save her favoured rings, the antler-shaped headband.
On the party goes, through the flowers, whispers and tears; the marble skeleton towers above.
[Jonn Lannister]
Also atop the hill stands Jonn Lannister, clad in somber black robes shot through with cloth of gold. He is accompanied by his giant Tyroshi sellsword and longtime boon companion, Lyam of Tyrosh. A known devotee of the Lord of Light, the man towers head and shoulders above his employer, his eyes fixed almost fervently upon as yet unlit pyre.
[Mylessa Fell]
“Perhaps they have permitted the sun to shine as a path for her shade to follow,” Lady Fell muses quietly beside her husband, her expression drawn and sorrowful.
She bends to murmur a soft word in her children’s ears, then encourages them to stand a little straighter as the procession advances. They each clutch sprigs of Felwood evergreens and autumn flowers wound by black ribbons.
“Mind that you toss them gently as they pass,” Mylessa’s kind but firm tone addresses both children, but her gaze lingers longest on her eldest son until he seems to feel her stare and looks back with a quick nod.
[Balerion]
The marble steps of Baelor’s unfinished sept have been made a stage for grief. Above the packed plaza rises a black-draped platform and, upon it, the waiting pyre: cedar, ash, and perfumed wood stacked high beneath the place prepared for the princess and her child. The young High Septon stands before it in crystal crown and cloth-of-silver, the Most Devout arrayed in solemn ranks at his side, awaiting to receive them, and their royal kin.
[Mathin Lannister]
Mathin has arrived early enough to find a place near to the raised pavilion. His reputation is well-known, his flame-ravaged face even more so; even as the crowds pack in around the platform, none dare come too close to him.
He waits for the fire.
[Jorin Darry]
Serving as escort for Lady Buckwell in the absence of other family, Ser Jorin Darry stands beside her, hands folded before him in his own ensemble of black, very much the color of the day. He watches the procession solemnly, briefly glancing to his side opposite Lady Buckwell, where his own squire stands leaning over to murmur something quietly to the lad, which earns a respectful nod back, and for any sharp-eyed soul that might be watching or nearby, a slight shift in the boy’s legs, his knees no longer locked.
[Lenora Lannister]
As befits her, tragically short lived, position within the household of the departed Princess, Lenora Lannister moves in the procession with the other women of the Royal household. Her gown is almost entirely black, with only hints of silver, small pieces of previous metal designed to keep the delicate black lace in place against the elements. Her hair is shielded in a similarly solemn coloured veil.
The young woman features remain frozen in an expression of well…nothing, as they have for all the proceedings since the fateful labor. Tears do not seem to well in her eyes or roll down her cheeks, but not does she really seem to react to anything else around her, but the necessary steps to carry on her role.
[Aisling Dayne]
Among those in the procession are Lady Aisling and Ser Aidan, their young daughter Amya with them as well. Garbed in somber black, Aisling looks pale as snow, a black lace veil hiding both the black and the silver of her hair. Though she paid her respects during the vigil, she was not among the ladies who maintained it, even though she spent time at the princess’s side during the ill-fated birth. But being a follower of the Old Gods rather than the Seven, perhaps it was not such a strange choice.
[Nerys Hill]
Standing where she can watch the procession without being part of it directly, the Prester bastard is flanked by her weeping septa and a pair of Prester guards. She has ensconced herself among the nobility, rather than the smallfolk. With her head bowed as the late Princess and her babe pass, her raven tresses blend into the white-spotted black of her cloak, all but the white streak that falls down the left side of her head, near the front. Her hands are formally clasped. Her eyes are dry, but get expression is solemn.
[Balerion]
As the bier reaches the foot of the steps, as liveried men throw out more coins to the waiting crowd, the bells that have been tolling throughout the city continue to ring. But then they are joined by a louder, nearer bell, a great bronze bell that the Faith has hastily set up within the great skeleton of Baelor’s sept, meant to one day stand in one of the seven completed towers. It rings out, to the surprise and awe of many, who did not expect it. Again and again it tolls, and one by one of the bells of the rest of the city fall silent, until it rings alone.
And then it, too, is silent. The Kingsguard dismount their horses. Three of them move to join the king and the royal kin, while the others—led by the Dragonknight—arrange themselves around the bier as serving men move to now prepare to lift.
Aegon IV, stony faced, moves up the steps, Queen Naerys in her mourning gown behind him, and the rest follow, down to the boys, down even to the bastard Daemon Waters. Even the Hand and the small council joins them, as they mount the steps. The High Septon can be shown with Septon Elwood at his side, offering the blessings of the Seven to them, as they array themselves and wait.
[Balerion]
From below, thousands watch the king, queen, princes, princesses, lords, and councillors take their appointed places beneath the unfinished towers. Some look for grief, some for weakness, some only for a better view; but the talk dies down as the bier begins its stately ascent up the unfinished steps, carefully carried.
[Jannia Buckwell]
Now, the grand, tightly formed procession starts slowly melting and flowing this or the other direction, all parties likely seeking to assume the places of decent view or well-suited to their rank. Jannia, with a wordless nod to Jorin, leads the pair of them a certain, not great by any means, number of feet from the marble steps, close and prominently enough so there’s some slim chance of catching the royal -in her case, probably Elaena’s eye.
Though, for the nonce, she does not seek it. A bob of the head at the direction of the bier, paired with a long look, and she waits. For the child High Septon’s sweet voice to fill this place of grief, where the House of the dragon was rid of a traitor, only to now gather to bid one of their own farewell.
[Nerys Hill]
Nerys turns to Farin to whisper briefly to him, then leans her ear in to hear the response. Her brow furrows at her father’s words, but she inquires no further of the impeccably stressed man, draped in mourning colors though he be. His expression is even more dour than usual, if one can imagine such a thing, as the bier nears the end of its journey.
[Orson Baratheon]
It was his goodcousin’s words that woke him up. It was his son’s eyes, his own Baratheon blue, staring up at the man, and his daughter’s small hands holding his doublet. His wife’s hand did not leave his back.
“Remember what Andrion said, husband.” It is Ryone’s voice, soft, that cuts through the sound of the horses, Kingsguard horses, and Kingsguard platemail, boots, and chain. It is then that Orson hears the bells, loud and loud, around them all.
“Disa. Olrys.” Ryone had bent down to speak to the children. “Help Mylessa, and the children. She would be glad to see you both. I’ll be with your father. Remember to not be loud.” The children scooted across the crowd.
“Thank you.” Orson softly clears his throat. Ryone nods in approval. “I’ll talk to them later.”
“Cousin Mylessa.” Disa speaks first. “Mother said to help you, if you needed us to.” Olrys looks around the crowd, emerging from pillars and more people. It is a confused look on his face.
[Mathin Lannister]
As tears begin to flow from those gathered near the platform, Mathin’s attention is drawn to the bier. How curious it is that a dragon so full of life now looks so ordinary in death. He makes no comment on it but does catch sight of Septon Elwood, these days always so close to the High Septon.
[Jorin Darry]
Moving along with Jannia at her nod, Jorin once again takes up his position beside her, sparing again a glance for the squire accompanying him to make sure he keeps up. As he settles into this new space, he does spare a brief glance towards the royals. Not gawking or even assessing, just taking the assembly in for a moment before his attention too, returns to the bier as the Knights of the Kingsguard assemble around it.
[Balerion]
As the servants bring up the bier to the steps up top the platform, there’s a motion from the High Septon, who moves forward. Raising his crystal-topped staff up, and bowing the head made heavy by the crystal crown he wears that shatters the light of the Seven into their myriad colors, he offers a private benediction. And then with a nod, the servants continue, even slower and with greater care, to bring the bier up to the pinnacle. The crowd lets out a collective sigh, for the body of the princess is angled such that it will be the last clear sight they will have of her before she and the infant are consigned to the flames.
They reach the top. The bier is carefully put in its place, and one by one, the liveried men depart the bier. Away to one side, torches can be see readied, mounted over a great bronze brazier. There were rumors that the pyromancers had offered wildfire for the occasion, but the Most Devout firmly rejected it, out of piety or simply a desire to run no risks of that virulent green flame catching fire to the scaffolding.
[Halanna Bracken]
Lady Bracken’s eyes drop to the ground as the bier is settled, her shoulders hunched, and for a moment she looks liable to crumple. Yet perhaps she simply needed to steady herself, for after a few taps of her handkerchief she draws herself back up to a prim and perfect posture, though her face remains blotchy and pale. Her son keeps one hand discreetly clenched in her skirts as the family watches on.
[Mylessa Fell]
Lady Fell welcomes the Baratheon children into her fold with an open arm. She murmurs first to Disa, “Would you hold little Amyria’s hand?” The little Felwood girl watches the presentation of the bodies and readying of fire wholly transfixed. Her hand hangs limp as her lady mother transfers it from her own to the elder girl’s.
She guides her eldest son, young Ammon, to stand next to Olrys, with a quietly whispered word of encouragement: “Here now, this is how young men of nobility show their strength, by standing together.”
As Lady Mylessa straightens, she glances over to Ser Orson and his lady wife with an appreciative smile. It fades slowly as she turns back to watch the rites, threading her arm around her husband’s.
[Aimery Fell]
There is a dull, formless sound that fills that solemn space before the unfinished glory of Baelor’s sept. It is the sound of this vast throng of humanity, for all that few speak—the echo of half-voiced grief, for the love the city bears Daena the Defiant.
Into that space steps the young High Septon once he has spoken with the King. The boy raises his head—and by some alchemy of this hour and the weight of his duty, he seems transfigured, truly holy for all that his face is rounded yet with the plumpness of youth. His voice trembles as he raises it, then firms, grows clearer, a hint of his childhood purity in it:
“The Gods look down upon us today as we grieve Her Grace, beloved to them. Let her and her babe find peace in the flames, for they are of the blood of the dragon.”
He takes a deep breath—and then half-sings, half-chants a gossamer-fine threnody; it is the same prayer Septon Elwood had declaimed at Ser Morgil’s vigil, and yet gentle where that was fierce:
““Father Above, judge us with clear eyes,
Grant us wisdom to know the just path and courage to walk it.
Mother Merciful, gather the weary with your gentle hands,
Give comfort to the sorrowing and warmth to the lost.
Lead us to rise in defence of the innocent and the weak.
Maiden Fair, keep alive the light of hope and joy,
Guide the young through the shadows of a wicked world.
Smith Righteous, temper our spirits as iron in the forge,
Grant us the strength to build, to mend, and to endure.
Crone Wise, lift high your lantern before us,
That we may see truth plainly and not wander into folly.”
He pauses—and then ends on a falling note, calling upon the one who is rarely invoked.
“Stranger, whose face none may escape,
Teach us humility before the wonders of life and death,
And grant peace to those who pass beyond our reach.”
[Omrys Baratheon]
As he looks upon Princess Daena one last time, tears roll down Omrys’ cheek, he doesn’t wail he leaves that to women and makes nary a sound and no movement. As High Septon begins he sniffs and continues weeping.
[Jannia Buckwell]
Heads around Jannia bow, in contemplation or prayer or to hide tears and stifle sobs, and in that motion, though otherwise more grim than sorrowful, she mimics them. The stillness, without a word, or sideways glance, broken only by her hands as they clasp before her, persists until his High Holiness has said his last piece. She half-sighs, half-exhales.
“Far be it from me, Jorin, to cast any judgment on the Faith and the Seven’s Voice, of all folk, alas, the prayer would require one more line.” A quick, stealthy look towards the royal House carefully arrayed.
“That the Gods grant the living, too, /peace/. Mayhap endurance is its mother.”
[Jannia Buckwell]
There she ends, for the nonce, her whispers. There’s a king’s daughter to commit to the flames, and to rest.
[Jonn Lannister]
Lyam of Tyrosh’s massive paw tightens upon the shoulder of Lord Loreon’s heir. Jonn’s eyes, previously narrowed as he marked the royal procession, are squeezed shut in a wince. The Tyroshi’s eyes widen in what some maesters have termed the “oceanic feeling” and he mouths silent words, ostensibly a prayer to the foreign red god.
[Aidan Dayne]
The head of Ser Aidan Dayne is bowed in prayer, as the High Septon offers his words for the princess and her babe. When he lifts his head and open his eyes, it’s with a murmured echo of that last line.
[Aimery Fell]
The lord of Felwood gently disentangles his arm from his wife’s and takes a step to the side even as the last note of the High Septon’s prayer fades away.
And then checks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—for it is not often he comes across a man who can look him in the eye. He takes in Lyam of Tyrosh thoughtfully—then nods to him before looking past him at Jonn.
“Did you know Her Grace, my lord of Lannister? I met her but the once. She had a swift spirit.”
[Nerys Hill]
Farin and Nerys bow their heads during the High Septon’s prayer, as is appropriate. Once the maiden lifts her eyes once more to view Princess Daena and her babe for the final time, Septa Grisel pauses her own weeping to ask, “Shed you not a single tear for the princess, nor her child? What of the royal family and her ladies in waiting?”
Nerys glances at the older woman briefly, her lips tightening for a moment in response. Turning her attention back toward the dais, she replies coldly, “Will my tears bring either of them back, Septa Grisel? Will they turn back the judgment of the Seven? Will they provide assistance to the royal family or the late princess’ ladies in waiting? If not, what care have you for the dryness of my eyes?”
[Aisling Dayne]
Lady Aisling’s head is bowed as well, but whether her prayer is the same as that of the High Septon and her husband, one cannot tell. Her hands rest on the shoulders of her daughter and her own shoulders are stiffly held as with pent up emotion.
[Orson Baratheon]
“Oh-” Disa truly concentrates, and manages to thread her hand around Amyria’s much small hand. “It’s okay.” Disa hushes her words to the babe, in all her wisdom of a nine year old. “We’ll get lemoncakes later.”
Olrys, however, was astounded such a young man as Ammon could meet his gaze straight on. Olrys, in shock, turns to his father. “He’s tall.” Olrys mouths, and Ryone gives him that look. Olrys turns, straight-backed, and stares ahead at commotion.
“He thinks he’s taller than everyone else. Imagine his surprise. At least he’s not throwing things at people.” Ryone sighs, whispering her words to her husband.
Orson smiles thinly in reply. “He thinks he’s a man, fully grown.”
[Balerion]
And with the prayer done, three torches are brought already lit from the brazier. One is brought to King Aegon. One is taken by Princess Elaena, who moves to stand with him. And one is given to Princess Rhaena—
But no. She hesitates, and shakes her head. She has been cruelly affected by her sister’s death, has been seen weeping often at prayer, counselled by septas and septons, to little avail. She has managed to come for her sisters’ sake, but to set a hand to the fire—
Queen Naerys moves to her side, touches her arm, speaks to her. So, too, does Elaena. Aegon can be seen muttering gruffly, and still, Rhaena cannot. Naerys looks up to the king, pale and melancholy, and starts to speak.
Then a voice speaks up, and they turn. The boy, Daemon Waters, all of six years old, steps forward and speaks again. It can be heard, for his voice is loud, high, piercing the quiet of the crowd, at least for those nearest the steps: “I’ll do it,” he says. “I’m not afraid.”
[Jorin Darry]
Jorin bows his head and closes his eyes as the voice of the young High Septon rings out over those assembled. He again looks towards the bier as Jannia’s hushed words reach him. Hazel eyes flicker to his aunt, accompanied by a brief, barely perceptible nod that seems to speak of agreement. His attention is then drawn towards where the Presters stand, though he cannot make out the words being spoken. For a moment he studies them, but then the matter of the Princess Rhaena begins to unfold and like no doubt many others his attention returns to that drama unfolding, until an expression of open surprise paints his face at Daemon Waters’ declaration.
[Mylessa Fell]
Lady Fell’s hand draws back from her husband’s arm and clutches at her chest as she witnesses Princess Daena’s surviving boy—the same age as her own son, to the day—stand as tall as a man in this moment.
“Seven bless,” she whispers tightly, her glance traveling across the faces of those in the crowd nearest to her to see how the moment might move them.
[Jannia Buckwell]
Some stand amazed, others in awe, and perhaps a few here and there brave breaking the silence to huddle together and murmur for this little lad, a true son of his mother. Jannia looks on with a pursed lip, and open sorrow tests her expression as it hasn’t been seen to, this particular day. There’s dew, even, in her eyes, however briefly.
“Poor, brave child. Has the grief found purchase yet? Does he understand?” Her muttering breaks as she stifles a sigh. “Thanks be for his aunts, and the queen.
[Balerion]
There’s an awkward silence from the Targaryens. The High Septon starts to say something gentle, one of the Most Devout is trying to get the king’s ear and putting the High Septon himself forward, Queen Naerys looks at the boy with an unreadable expression—
Gruffly, Aegon cuts through it all. “Give him the torch,” he says. There is no gainsaying his command, and it is done. Rhaena sobs, and turns away, and Naerys consoles her. The child takes the torch in both hands, holding it out before him, looking at the flames. A moment’s hesitation, then the king puts a hand briefly on his shoulder, “You’ll walk between your aunt Elaena and I, boy. Watch your steps, and do as we do.” A look to his cousin, who holds her torch steadily, tears held back in those purple eyes, and crouches down to speak quiet words to the bastard boy.
Daemon nods his acknowledgment, and turns to look at the pyre, and the steps leading to its top.
[Balerion]
“His mother’s son,” murmurs a voice from somewhere in the press. Whether it is pity, praise, or warning is hard to tell, and no one nearby asks the speaker to explain.
[Halanna Bracken]
“He has her bravery,” Halanna mutters to herself. Her hand finds her own son’s shoulder, and squeezes.
[Balerion]
From the crowd of courtiers, there are whispers, murmurs. “The Young Dragon, come again,” one knight remarks to a companion.
[Lenora Lannister]
Some may say Lenora Lannister remains stoic, even uncaring, through the heartfelt dramatics of the Royal household. In truth, she is simply vacant, her eyes unwaveringly on the pyre-to-be.
[Jonn Lannister]
Slowly do Jonn’s eyes crack open as Lord Fell addresses him. “My daughter was in her service,” he says with a jerk of his head towards Lenora. “And loves her well, as far as I know.”
Now young Gemma Lannister has come to stand protectively near her sister. She seems unaware of what is happening or why, only that it has had some effect upon the older Lannister girl.
[Nerys Hill]
Whatever the septa might have replied to Nerys is halted by the hullabaloo at the dais. When the young boy makes his declaration, the Prester group’s eyes all fixated on him. Even as the matter was settled and instruction given him by the king, the Prester bastard watched the royal bastard nearly unblinkingly, her expression unreadable and body still as a stone despite the cold.
[Jorin Darry]
“He understands, I think. Better than I did, and younger too.” Jorin replies to Jannia, watching the scene unfold, until the King settles the matter. No tears fall, but his eyes do perhaps carry a bit more water at their edges, and his expression breaks towards genuine sorrow as memory of his own loss at a young age comes to the fore.
[Balerion]
There is little delay once the torch is in the boy’s hands. King Aegon starts up the steps with Princess Elaena on one side and Daemon Waters between them, the child watching his footing as he has been told. At the bier, the king and the princess set their torches to the waiting wood, one here and one there:
Initially, the boy does not move. His gaze has gone upward, to the silver-gold hair and pale profile he can just see above the flowers.
Then Daemon looks to Aegon, and to Elaena, and does as they have done. The flame takes slowly at first, then with more appetite among the cedar and perfumed wood. The three cast their torches into the pyre in turn and come back down from the bier, smoke beginning to rise behind them.
As they descend the steep steps, more challenging for the boy, he reaches out a hand by instinct, as he would have done with his mother if she were here.
And so the boy and the king descend the steps, hand in hand.
[Mylessa Fell]
As the young boy approaches his mother’s funeral pyre with the torch, Lady Mylessa shifts to stand behind the cluster of Stormlander children gathered about. She notes how intently her son watches the bastard boy and moves to put a hand on his shoulder—but he shrugs it off without a look back, and affects a squared stance much light his lord father might.
And now they all watch as flames begin to lap up the wood, the wrappings, and then the bodies themselves. “May the Mother welcome them both in grace,” she murmurs, though like her son, her gaze follows the boy as his steps away—and the king who walks beside him.
[Arwen Westerling]
Dressed in black mourning samite, the future Lord and Lady of the Crag stand just behind and beside the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone, that each respectively serve. Arwen pays particular attention to young Daemon, a silken handkerchief soon at her eye, as she focuses once more upon the pyre. That and seeing to it that her mistress is well looked after. Helpful distractions are like precious jewels on a day such as this, anyway…
[Omrys Baratheon]
Omrys looks at the spreading flames, and cries, even a sob or two escaping. As the flame engulfs the bodies, he wipes his eyes with his hand and watches the pyre as it grows taller and taller, errant tears still streaming down his wet cheeks and landing of a thick black woolen cloak or fine black samite doublet. He places his hand on Lorence’s shoulder as if to lend comfort, though his squire is handling the situation more calmly than he is.
[Mathin Lannister]
At last.
Mathin’s eyes bore themselves upon the pyre, flickering with ecstasy as the flames reflect in his gaze. He shivers as the fire grows in intensity.
“Yes…” he mutters to himself.
He raises his palms into the air like a supplicant to the heavens.
“The Stranger speaks…” he says.
This time his words are audible enough to those around him, who seem to shrink away from this infamous knight. He pays no mind, so lost is he in the moment.
[Lenora Lannister]
Lenora seems, unusually, not to react to her sister’s presence anymore than any others around her. Eventually she turns her eyes to her sister, her usually warm expression perhaps marred with some coldness the girl is too young to remember her older sister feeling towards her.
But then, among the royals, a bastard boy holds the hand of his cousin and perhaps some thoughts of the bonds of family running deeper than what many may consider only a half-blood shared. Lenora joins her hand with her sister’s and watches in continued silence.
[Balerion]
“... say the dragon has three heads ...”
Some muttered remark, but it’s not alone, others seem to have had the same thought, here and there in the vast sea of people watching. The flames grow stronger, brighter, rising up to the heavens, until the orange-yellow flames drown out the sight of the princess and her infant daughter.
So ends Daena Targaryen, daughter of King Aegon III, called Dragonbane, and his queen, Daenaera of House Velaryon, granddaughter of Princess Rhaenyra who sat the Iron Throne as queen (for a time), great-granddaughter of Princess Alyssa who would have found in her a kindred spirit had that bold woman lived the full measure of her years.
[Aimery Fell]
There is no reply yet, for Lord Felwood is watching the flames take hold of the pyre. A flood of heat washes over those close to the bier, for there has been no meanness in stacking the wood; the flames climb high and then higher yet as they take hold, crackling and spitting with their crown of smoke.
He narrows his eyes against that smoke as the breeze blows it over them, then turns his gaze to follow Jonn’s: “A woeful day for her. And the lad there, far more so. But he has courage, bastard or no.”
[Jannia Buckwell]
The rising, dancing flames command attention. Jannia too looks on, the barest of nods signaling her acceptance, or her silent farewell, perhaps both. “Seven keep her, and those left behind who love her.”
In truth, the slight rustling come from the lion cub’s elbowing her way to her sister’s side compels her to cast a sidelong glance, and then another, towards there as well. It’s an effort gently undertaken, only briefly interrupted by the Flamewalker’s hoarse zeal.
“My lady Lenora.” The smile given is sympathetic, the look too, even as her eyes dart between the girl and Jorin.
[Aisling Dayne]
Watching Daena’s kin—cousin, sister and son—light the pyre for her and her stillborn daughter leaves Aisling lowering her eyes to look at her own daughter for a moment. There are perhaps some quiet words spoken to the girl as well, before she looks up again. “Already in life, she burned bright,” she remarks to her husband. “A dragonrider, had there still been such.”
[Balerion]
When they reach the bottom of the steps, King Aegon frees his hand from the boy’s, and looks for someone to take him in hand with his gaze; someone does. Elaena briefly rests a hand on the boy’s head, before sending him off before moving to rejoin the weeping Rhaena, Naerys still speaking softly with her.
The pyre crackles now, smoke rising, and from the crowd are prayers for the Mother’s mercy, for the Father to welcome them, for the king, for the queen, for Elaena and for Rhaena. It is a most solemn occasion, and will not be forgotten by witnesses for all the rest of their days.
[Halanna Bracken]
Releasing her own son to his sister, and stepping past her husband, Lady Bracken glides forward to offer her hand to young Daemon. She looks almost surprised at herself as she does so—-she typically avoids the king’s direct attention, as best she can—-but then again, Halanna was a companion to Daena for many years, and a friend for longer. She bends, a low murmur asking if the boy would like to join her in a prayer for his mother, and keeps his hand as the elder dragons move on to other duties.
[Jonn Lannister]
It is strange. Lyam of Tyrosh’s expression seems to almost perfectly mirror that of his employer’s brother. “The Lord of Light shelters them now,” he whispers breathlessly.
Between the giant at his back, and his brother some distance away, a spasm of vexation crosses briefly the face of Jonn Lannister. “A brave boy indeed,” he agrees with the Lord of Felwood.
[Jannia Buckwell]
“Targaryen to the bone. She needed but the smoke and fire, now, surely, she soars.”
The words come not from Jannia’s mouth, but after a scant moment’s pause, she has no option but to gravely nod her agreement to whoever was it that spoke. There is more approval writ on her features, quite plainly so, when Lady Bracken tends to the princess’s boy, offers yet more of the motherly touch he’ll likely much miss in the years to come.
[Jorin Darry]
Jorin watches the flames rise, though cannot help but turn his gaze towards Mathin when he raises his palms and speaks. Surprise at first, then curiosity at the relatively empty space around the man, before he turns his attention back to the fire.
Then he hears Jannia’s voice once more, looking towards Lenora and offering a respectful half-bow, “My Lady of Lannister. May the Gods…” His eyes look briefly to Gemma, then back to Lenora “and the company of family grant you solace on this difficult day.”
[Balerion]
The flames take full hold of the pyre, climbing through cedar and ash until the bier is lost behind fire and smoke. The heat reaches even those kept back from the steps, and the front ranks bow their heads or raise sleeves to their faces, while the rest of the plaza watches the orange light rise against the unfinished white towers. Daena’s kin stand watching in silence, knowing that one day they, too, will be consigned to the same flames in a custom stretching back to the Freehold of Valyria.
For a time there is little to hear but the burning. Prayers continue in pockets of the crowd, some proper and some half-remembered, while the High Septon and the Most Devout stand before the fire with heads bowed.
[Ryckon Westerling]
Ser Ryckon Westerling stands alone in simple mourning blacks, stony-faced and grim as he watches the burning, bowing his head at the appropriate time.
[Lenora Lannister]
The look on Lenora’s face at the number of imposition on her silent vigil could be, impolite, be described as frustration. She seems almost about to say something unwise, before her eyes close and she sighs deeply. Only Gemma would feel the sudden steeling of a squeeze to her hand. “What else is there?” She muses softly to Jorin’s words.
[Jannia Buckwell]
“Not much, in truth”, comes Jannia’s even response. The pyre now casts bright, relentless yellow-gold and orange shadows upon them all, forcing a retreat; half-a-step back, then with resignation another. “Yet thanks be, that oft proves far from little.” Now her eyes firmly settle on the Lannister maiden, while the flames climb up towards the skies, feeding on the wood.
“My lady. You have done your duty fully and well. One of breeding does not see that as an accomplishment, of course. But accept this word, nevertheless.”
[Jonn Lannister]
Casterly Rock’s newest and as yet unpolished gem squeezes her sister’s hand in response. As she cannot rightly determine the source of Lenora’s emotions, Gemma’s reproachful glare casts a wide net towards any and all that may be responsible.
[Balerion]
At last the pyre begins to settle in on itself with a heavy crack of timber, sending sparks upward in a brief red shower. A murmur passes through the thousands below, but no one pushes forward and few turn away. Smoke rolls out over the plaza, carrying the scent of incense, flowers, and burning wood. Here and there, smallfolk begin to make the sign of the Seven, and some slowly begin to depart, while others stand and watch, moved. A few call out more blessings for the family, even “Long live the king!” and “Long live the queen!”
Up on the steps, Aegon watches for a little while longer, and then mutters something to himself. And then, more loudly for the others, “I will not watch until there are only embers, cousins, but you are welcome to.” And then he looks to the Kingsguard knights. Prince Aemon, fixed to his duty, does not seem to notice—or mayhaps chooses not to. The king makes a face, and tells Ser Terrence and Ser Kenric to accompany him instead, and they fall in with him as he starts down the steps where his horse awaits him.
[Jorin Darry]
Jorin nods in affirmation of Lenora’s rhetorical question and Jannia’s response, and falls silent again as the ladies converse. Should the youngest Lannister lady’s reproachful gaze fall upon him, he can but offer a small, wistful smile and a deep nod of acknowledgment.
[Omrys Baratheon]
Omrys stays in his position as firewood cracks and smoke rolls down. He jams palms of his hands into his eye sockets and rubs with little grace to rub away the tears and sting of smoke. He murmurs something in his halting High Valyrian, his voice cracking.
“Valar morghulis.” He says finally now louder and clearer and takes his eyes from the pyre. Light frown passes over his face as he sees the King making his way to depart already, but he waves it away and comments to his relatives, Fell and Baratheon alike, “She is truly gone. We shall never see her likes again.”
[Lenora Lannister]
Lenora manages a brief nod of her head to Jannia, and Jorin, in turn at their words. “I do not mean to belittle such things as family, but more so what else is any of this for.” She regards the sept in all its glory. “The Gods, I suppose.” She murmurs.
[Mathin Lannister]
Mathin breathes in and out, hoarsely and deeply, as the fire builds to a crescendo. Once it begins to smolder and smoke, his hands return to his side and the tension in his body is relieved. He looks around, the horrors on his face searching for a way through the crowd. He soon resolves himself on a path, a path that leads straight to, and through, his family.
The Lannisters are clustered tight with other noble folk. He offers them no greeting. Instead he walks past wordlessly until a shoulder jostles into Jonn.
[Nerys Hill]
The Prester group makes their way down toward the throng. Once Nerys spots the Buckwell lady and her companions, she says a few words to her father. After Farin nods and continues toward the royal family to offer condolences on behalf of his House, the maiden, her septa, and a pair of guards split off from the others and wind their way toward Jannia, et al. It is slow going with so many around, although the crowds seem to be thinning out, making the trek slightly easier as they get closer.
[Aimery Fell]
He is not a man given to long silences, Lord Felwood. And yet, that is what this hour has brought him to as he returns to his wife and children after taking his leave of the Lannister heir. Smoothing his beard with his knuckles, he gazes at the flames—or perhaps through that shifting veil at the King’s ample figure as he turns and descends.
Then, he bends his head to speak to Mylessa; a moment or two, and they make their way to the Baratheons, the children preceding them with studied solemnity, Orson and Ryone’s returning to them.
“Will we not? Her son bids fair to be as she was. The lad showed her spirit today.”
The look Aimery turns upon Omrys is not unsympathetic although it is mixed with a shade of bemusement: “You admired her greatly.”
It is half a question.
“Did you have occasion to spend time in her company?”
[Balerion]
As King Aegon departs gracelessly, Queen Naerys holds Princess Rhaena still, and calls to her brother Aemon. Some words are exchanged, and the queen and the prince support Rhaena together, until Princess Elaena—surreptitiously wiping a hand across her wet eyes—comes and relives the slighter Naerys. Prince Daeron and Princess Mariah now join them as well. The courtiers seem to take this as permission as well, and now they start to walk down the steps. Some stop to speak with the Most Devout, or even the High Septon, before continuing on. Others hover, waiting, to give the princesses their condolences once more.
[Jonn Lannister]
There are certain instincts that the middle of three brothers develops over the long years of life, and Jonn Lannister is no different. He pitches forward slightly, caught off balance as Ser Mathin jostles his shoulder. “Mind the gap, brother,” he calls after the Flamewalker. “Or someone might mind it for you.” The reminder is not filled with an overabundance of brotherly love.
[Halanna Bracken]
Lady Bracken whispers to Daemon again, glancing between the departing royals and the remains of the fire—-asking if the boy would like to stay or go with his kin. There is little hesitation as he chooses to keep with the living, and Halanna escorts him to follow the rest of the party. For once, the Hand falls in behind her with their children in tow.
[Arwen Westerling]
Symeon and Arwen each take their places with their respective master and mistress, as Daeron and Mariah depart, though the Western beauty does offer a cursory glance towards the direction of her family.
[Mathin Lannister]
Those words stop Mathin his tracks.
The tension returns to his body. He stands straight.
And when he turns back to look at his brother, it is not tenderness that lights his eyes. The emotion is pure, unadulterated and raw. He says, “What threat…are you…to me,” before rounding back to take his leave.
[Omrys Baratheon]
“We shall see what the future brings him, I wish him the best, but stand by my words.” Omrys tells Aimery. “Yes, I have, she was a singular presence.”
He puts his hand on Lorence’s shoulder again and they move closer to the Fells. “Tonight, a lot of wine will be in order, to get through this sad day.” He says in almost jovial a fashion, his blue eyes showing sadness but no tears. “Tomorrow even more, to go around the city and celebrate memory of our Princess.”
[Jannia Buckwell]
“The Gods, and all present”, murmurs Jannia, only slightly distracted by the king hastily taking leave of them all. “The dead are due the farewell, aye. The living rather /need/ it, it soothes them. Then, motion among the rest of the royal House. “Ah”, mouths Jannia. “Perhaps, for the nonce, they are comforted.”
There must be some truth to these words where the crowd about them, now shifting, is concerned. The splitting throng makes it easier to spot the Mistress Nerys, and Jannia beckons her close.
“Come, dear Nerys. The hour to return to the Keep nears. In such jostling, I’d have Ser Jorin keep watch over the ladies of Lannister and yourself.”
There is, after all, little to do but trade murmur. Daena the Defiant is one with the fire that burned in her heart and soul while she lived, a memory most vivid and dear cloaked in smouldering embers. The honour due is offered, the time for quiet, soothing tears in private -once more- is next.
[Jorin Darry]
“For the Gods.” Jorin replies to Lenora’s question, tilting his head to indicate the dispersing crowds, “For them. For us, as well.”
He pauses to hear Jannia’s words as well, and then adds, “Though I will admit that I have found the greatest balm for grief is to hold close the warm memories of those we held dear, taken too soon.” As Jannia greets Nerys, he turns and regards the new arrival, and then back to Lenora, and then there’s something of an amused chuckle, as he realizes his earlier hesitation to provide an awkward introduction in the midst of the ceremony has now provided the opportunity for an at least -slightly- less awkward introduction to two ladies at once. Nevertheless he bows at the waist, and speaks, “Ser Jorin Darry, Heir to Darry, and it would be my honor to do so.”
[Jonn Lannister]
Jonn watches his brother’s back with an unblinking stare. The massive Tyroshi paw rests heavily upon his shoulder once more, and then Ser Ryckon is there as well. “No threat, me,” he retorts languidly enough. “A promise, brother.”
He turns to Ryckon. “He overexerted himself. Nothing to be concerned by, Didn’t give his wits time to warm up.”
[Ryckon Westerling]
“Simply overcome by the emotions of the day, I am sure,” Ryckon agrees dryly with Jonn, as his eyes warily follow Mathin’s departure.
[Nerys Hill]
Nerys glances at the Red Keep upon hearing Jannia’s words and presses a gloved hand to the midsection of her bodice. “I am not certain I can stomach food at the moment, but I will certainly join your party indoors, my lady.” Her lips purse upon hearing the other woman order Jorin to escort her and the others. “You are forever assigning lords to escort me, Lady Jannia,” she offers lightly, a small smirk touching her mouth.
To Jorin, she turns fully to face him, then curtsies deeply. “It is a pleasure to meet you and an honor to be escorted by you, my lord. I am Nerys Hill, daughter of Lord Prester.”
[Aimery Fell]
“A moment, sers. My lady,”
Lord Felwood seems distracted, taking his leave of Omrys along with Orson and his wife, leaving Mylessa to carry on the conversation with them as he makes his way through the thinning crowd.
The brief clash between the Lannister brothers draws his attention fleetingly as he passes within a few paces of them; his heavy brow furrows but he does not pause. Instead, he joins the highborn gathering to pay their respects to Daena’s kin as the latter stay to watch the flames burn to embers.
It takes some little while, for there are more than a few of them, and powerful lords among their number. In the end, he stands before the heir to the Iron Throne and his Dornish wife, as well as the dead princess’ sisters. What he says is for them to know; by the grave courtesy with which he bows his head to them and the solemn tone of that deep voice when a stray word or two escapes, it befits the occasion.
Then, he returns to his wife and Baratheon kinsmen with long strides so that they may begin to make their way through the press and back to the Keep.
[Jannia Buckwell]
A show of good manner, from one well-bred youth who rarely errs to another - and yet anything more will have to wait, for the onlookers dissolve as does order, to the extent the stern gaze of the goldcloaks permits. Falling behind princes and princesses of the blood still fielding condolences, or seeking their retinues and familiar faces still, all the nobles turn, one by one, their thoughts and efforts to a dignified return to quarters.
Hoverers and lickspittles, a certain fierce and indomitable she-dragon would call at least some among those present. Still, they pale before the heartfelt prayer, the true, bitter tears, the quiet honour and quiet love that shall be her coterie to another realm. The Red Keep, soon to fill anew, stands dimmer, if taking comfort in a solemn duty well done.