So, when the service came to a close, many waited for the king and the royal kin to depart first. But Baelor went instead to the statue of the Seven, forcing everyone to wait as he knelt before it, and prayed a silent prayer, and bent to kiss its marble feet with a look of utter devotion in his eyes. Only then did he leave: out of the warm, dark enclosure of the royal sept, and out into the chill, damp, grey day. Some flee early, for the rain, but others—courtiers, largely—linger, waiting on the king, who seems distracted.
Not everyone is averse to waiting on the King; some, like Reyna Saltcliffe, have cause to be enormously thankful for good fortune among the bad. She still stifles a deep cough behind a scrap of linen hemmed with lace, and is quite content to remain in the warmth until she must go out. Once out, the cough abates some, perhaps irritated by the incense. She stands a moment with her husband, a gloved hand on his arm as she catches her breath and he frowns at her in concern before finally detaching himself to answer the hail of another farther on.
The Lord of Southshield seems to be in a rather somber, distracted mood as well. Dressed head to toe in black wools and velvets, that usual armlet slid high up his left arm, Lord Serry presents a rather stark, sober image. Though hardly as pious as the King (though, then again, who is?), Justyn murmurs the prayers with zeal, eyes closed more oft than not. Justyn lingers close to the King, steadily becoming an almost regular presence in the company of the King, perhaps largely thanks to his interest in the Lady of Southshield. Speaking of that Krakenspawn, she is notably absent this morn, and when pressed by some tactless courtier during the sermon, Lord Serry shot the poor man a bone-chilling look before giving him a dismissive wave - one perhaps suggestive of ‘later’. As the Court exits out of the doors, having waited for Baelor to finish his own, personal prayers, Lord Serry is not far behind.
A sigh of admiration escapes Jannia Tully’s smiling lips, “What a lovely sermon.” she says to those who choose to listen. Her curled near chestnut hair is pulled up into a net of silver, a gown of periwinkle sits on her person. Modest in its cut -as is all her gowns- as it is high on her chest and longer at her feet trailing slightly behind as she follows the procession out of the sept with her copy of the ‘Seven Pointed Star’ under her arm. She stops on the steps of the Holy building, waiting to see if His Grace has anything important to say to the collective. Periwinkle eyes scan the faces in the crowd of the faithful spotting a few familiar faces nodding her head in respect. Clearly happy to be there, not a bit off put by the Kings impromptu prayer as some; Jannia brings her eyes back to the gathering near the King, and the King himself.
“Your grace?” Prince Aemon the Dragonknight—one of the two knights of the Kingsguard guarding the king—says to him, his voice gentle. “The sermon’s done, your grace. Or do you wish to speak to the Septon? Shall I ask Ser Sorin to fetch him?”
A distracted response eventually follows, as Baelor looks back to the Dragonknight. “What? No, ser. No.” He looks around, seeing and yet not seeing those who linger near, his thoughts transported elsewhere.
Two white cloaks, ladremember this, mayhaps you will tell your sons sons of this day when youre Lord of Brightwaterand your hair is gray.
Reyna, who has fetched up near Jannia beneath a sheltering overhang of the Sept’s roof, coughs again before turning to the younger woman. “Very restful,” she agrees, reaching with her free hand to draw her hood a little further over her head. “I could wish it longer with this chill in the air. It was blessedly warm inside.”
His posture only the slightest bit lax, and a worried frown etched onto his otherwise stoic features, Lord Serry gazes idly about the yard as the King converses with various high members of his Court. Occasionally some phrase or another captures the young lords interest, sending those hazel green eyes toward whomever spoke, but largely he seems just as distracted as his King. Though to a lesser extent, it might seem, as he has the grace to take note of the Queen and offers her a gracious bow more than appropriate to her station as she departs.
Sarah, Jannia’s faithful maid comes up behind Jannia and puts her cloak over her shoulders. She fastens the heavy woolen cloak together with a silver trout pin, and steps away from her lady when she has finished. Jannia nods in thanks to Sarah, turning her gaze to the Lady Reyna, she smiles, “Aye my lady, it was indeed.” She smiles and donning her hood, a look of concern creases her brow, “Are you well, my lady? It was quite smokey in there.” She looks over Reyna in her prettied attire, “I must admit, I was starting to have troubles. Though the fresh air has cleared that away swiftly.” Jannia’s eyes scan back through the crowds, she spots Humfrey and nods with a bright smile, hoping she has caught his attention.
“Well enough, Lady Jannia,” Reyna says with an amiable smile. She starts to say more, then raises a brow at Humfrey. “It is daring to say so within sight of the Sept,” she notes, brows still raised. Then she shrugs at Jannia. “I have ever been prone to weakness in my chest,” she says, seeming less troubled about it now that her husband is not sending dour glances her way. “Since the fires, more so. It always goes away.”
Reyna smiles and bends into a curtsy when she sees the others do so for the Queen; her back has been to Daena the while, so it comes belatedly. “I must go and join Dagur. Good day, Lady Jannia, Ser Humfrey.” And she starts toward the Iron Serpent on a path that takes her near to the King, so she sinks there into a low curtsy before moving on and bending her head to the worthies around him.
“What did you think, my lords and ladies, of the sermon?” Baelor asks, in a way that suggests he already knows the answer. “Its theme, the sweetness of the Maiden and the kindness of the Mother, was very moving.”
Jannia follows Reyna’s lead and curtsies for the departing Queen, and answers the Lady Reyna, “It was blessedly warm in the Sept, and this rain and cold chill is just dreadful. Yes, I can say that has been the case for me as well my lady, though I suppose it was made worse by the fires” She shakes her head making the small tendrils around her face wave back and forth, she smiles as Reyna makes her leave, “Good day my lady, be well.” She looks to Humfrey and smiles; shaking her head at his words on the tome she holds in her hands, “I suppose for some it can be seen as such ser, though I can say it is not the case for me.” She smiles, “How fare you ser?” she asks of the Westerling knight, though her eyes are torn away as her name is called. She nods to Ryckon as he approaches, ” Ryckon, how be you this day? The days seem to be getting shorter, and much colder my lady, winter should be upon us soon. Well as far as have heard the Maesters chittering as of late.” She beams forth a smile for the two men that stand near to her.
As the King speaks Jannia offers her words, along with a curtsy and a smile, she rises, “T’was lovely Your Grace. The Septon has a gift indeed, it is as if the Seven speak their words through his lips to our ears. Moving to say the least, the Maiden be she ever a guide to the young ladies at Court, the Mother ever so compassionate, and the Crone ever so wise. Truly inspiring Your Grace.” She nods to her words, falling silent as to let others speak, giving Humfrey a small glance before turning her attentions back to the crowd.
Lord Serry looks over to the Corbray man, managing a shadow of a smile to him. With a sigh, he confirms, “My Lady is indisposed, indeed. I fear the coming of winter has given her…” He trails off, considering his words, “A terrible chill.” And based upon his grimace, one might easily assume he is playing down the truth of the matter. Still, he assures Astos, “She will be well in time.” He nods slowly, almost as if to convince himself of that fact as well.
At the mention of the King, the Lord of Southshield looks over to the man in question, gazing ponderously at Baelor. Before Justyn can give any answer to the Corbray’s question, however, Baelor speaks up, asking a general question of the crowd. Justyn replies, “It stands in stark contrast to the good Most Devout’s sermons, I dare say. A lovely compliment to such - upon on how forgiving the Seven can be despite how oft we transgress against them. It is inspiring in times such as these, I dare say.” Lord Serry gives a solemn nod at that, then falls silent.
Reyna, who is near enough still to give the King an answer, waits for some of the others to speak and offers him only this: “A balm, Your Grace, in such troubled times.” She has turned back to speak to him, and is near Aisling Ryswell when Dagur rejoins her; he does not offer his appraisal of the sermon, and is known for his paucity of speech in court settings. “Lady Aisling,” she says in a low-voiced greeting. “It’s been a long time.”
Prince Aemon’s expression is an unreadable mask, but his eyes flick again to Prince Viserys… and with a murmured word to white-clad Ser Sorin, he moves to where his father the Hand is speaking, to whisper in his ear. Viserys’s reaction? The thick brows furrow, and with a brief word to Ryger and Wayn, the three men of the small council move nearer.
Men and women of note are scattered throughout the crowd, among them Ser Kendros Goodbrook, the Longaxe. He listens to the king with some interest, but otherwise occupies himself by drumming his fingers on the pommel of his sword.
Reyna frowns a little at the murmurs surrounding the King, but she shakes her head at Aisling. “Not so difficult as they might be. We are all well, and have the means to rebuild. Meanwhile, my brother is housing us in great comfort.” Dagur makes a sound at this, his own opinions of living at Highgarden-in-King’s-Landing all too clear. “You have been well?” She asks it sincerely, but half her attention is on the men of the court nearby. “Any idea what’s afoot?” she asks, lowering her voice to near inaudibility.
“And what has the Mother said to your Grace?” Lord Serry ventures to politely ask, arching a slender brow, “What way is there that shall see these murders, these terrible atrocities ended?” Though his demeanor is a bit reserved, perhaps doubting that there -is- such a way, the Lord of Southshield remains interested to hear what the King has thought of nonetheless, eager to hear some brilliant solution.
Jannia’s eyes flick back up to Humfrey after the King speaks again, “It was more than that, but yes a comfort at the very least. Though His Grace is right, it seems the problem with the murderer is more than the watch can handle on their own. I am anxious to see what His Grace has in mind to solve this very troublesome issue.” Realization crosses her face, “Others sworn into the Kingswood, that is promising news, I am glad to hear there are more men added to defend the wood and the people that travel through it.” Jannia’s eyes flit to the crowd, looking at the peoples reactions, echoing the Lord Serry’s words Jannia nods at his question, “Yes your grace, I am anxious to hear…” she trails off not wanting to impose, periodically glancing back to Humfrey shifting in her spot uncomfortably.
Prince Viserys’s expression at that is… unreadable, a craggier, less handsome version of his son’s own expression as he now stands his post by the king. “It is dearly to be wished, your grace, to know what it is that you will. We stand ready to see it done.”
A simple nod from the reed-thin, pale young king. “That man—Ser Trebor?” he says, gesturing towards him. “Come forth, ser. I have need of you as well, for you must carry this to the commander of the Watch.”
Reyna frowns a little and looks from Aisling to Dagur, who is stone-faced and silent. She studies the faces of the men—the Dragonknight, the Hand, the members of the Small Council—and finally looks to the King. “Forgive us our ignorance, Your Grace,” she ventures once Trebor has come forth. “But what is it Your Grace wishes done?” Her words are only an echo of so many others, however: of the Hand’s, of the guardsman. She glances past the King toward Jannia and Humfrey and Ryckon, and across the gathered faces as if the answer might be writ there somewhere.
Jannia watches intently as the King makes his demands, she watches Ser Trebor move through the crowd from her vantage point on the steps of the sept. “Hmm, very interesting.” She says quietly, chancing to watch the goings on around the King.
Ser Kendros stands stone-faced, saying nothing. He waits, expectantly for the King’s pronouncement, but the look of disapproval on his face at the clamoring of the courtiers is evident. Ser Trebor’s query prompts a scoff. “Hopefully that his services are no longer required, gods be good,” he says, but it is a murmuring muffled by the noisome court.
Jannia shrugs at Reyna with a slight raise of her shoulders when she notices the lady’s eyes upon her. She heaves and audible sigh wishing she had the answers for her. She nods to Ermen as he edges closer, “Ser Ermen, I hope you were able to meet up with my kin as of late?” She half smiles nodding to his words, “Yes, my sentiments exactly ser, it has gone on for far too long with no resolve. I am glad to hear His Grace take action in the matter, it lightens the burden it has placed on my heart for the poor lost ladies, and Ser Tancred.” She nods lightly, and sighing again slightly with an air of sadness dashed with relief.
A beatific smile, and that bright light in his eye again, the certainty and the adoration of the Seven in him. “My lords, my ladies, we shall see the brothels closed… and we shall see those poor women put away from the temptation they find in a city full of men: they shall be put out of the city, to find themselves husbands and honest labor in the humble villages and hamlets, or to turn their souls to the Seven and serve in the motherhouses.”
He raises his thin voice, to carry. Viserys looks rather grim at it, but says nothing. Ryger, the Master of Laws, flushes and begins to speak when Viserys puts his hand on his arm, and gives a shake of his head. “Your grace,” the prince says to Baelor, “we must discuss how to do this further. It is one thing to say it, but we must consider the manner of it. Have Ser Trebor instead take word to Ser Richard that we have urgent need of him, rather than ordering him to begin this cleansing of the city.”
If possible, Dagur Saltcliffe goes even stonier. It seems a wonder he is able to bend his face enough to murmur into Reyna’s ear as his wife’s hand goes to her mouth. She starts to speak, but his hand on her shoulder stops her, and she looks up to murmur back instead, shaking her head as they all try to comprehend this new decree. “But who would take a woman like that to wife?” she says audibly, her face creased in a worried, bewildered frown as she looks back toward the king in the tumult his words have created.
His Grace’s pronouncement causes even the Longaxe to start in; his eyebrows shoot up and his eyes open wide. Shock, and perhaps dismay. Ser Kendros is not known as a man who frequents brothels, yet he is still surprised. “Will this not entice the fiend to seek out a more respectable sort of prey?” Goodbrook’s heir queries; though it is merely a lone voice among a clamor.
A madman, or a Targaryen king whose piety seems to know no limits; the difference between the two seems scant. Certainly, Aisling Ryswell looks as if the king might as well have sprouted dragon wings and flewn away, such is the astonishment on her pale features.
He seems unshaken by the many who protest, so sure is he. He nods to Ser Trebor and says, “You have my thanks, ser,” and to the silent Viserys he turns to say, “We shall convene tomorrow, my lords. Let us consider what must be done, so that it will be best done. We must send for his High Holiness, as well, for he must learn of this, and prepare the motherhouses and the septries, the poor septons and the septs, to give these women their succor as they find the path to righteousness.”
The Lord of Southshield blinks, initially being quite surprised at the proposal, it would seem. Yet, as time goes on, he seems to grow more understanding of the proposal, murmuring, “That… could work…” He does, however, give a slight nod of agreement to Humfrey and to Kendros, but the King counters their remarks, and thus silences whatever Lord Serry may well have intended to say. Indeed, all that Justyn remarks, his expression deep in thought, is a quiet, “We must ensure that the way is made safe, lest we inspire this murderer to take after the fires of many weeks ago…”
Her complexion goes a bit pale, and her cheeks red at Humfreys declaration. She tries to no avail to shake the shocked expression from her face with a deep breath. Jannia’s eyes slide over to Ryckon, the usually silent squire to Ser Farin’s comment brings a rise to her brow. Neither confirming nor denying the squire’s comment on Lady Kellyn, she just stares at him for a moment before tearing her gaze back to the commotion that is going on around her.
Finally a voice has her eyes settle back on the King, he assures the court that his plan is just. At first Jannia only half believes him as the color returns to her face, as he finishes though she sighs in submission. “There, you see, his plan is just. More men to protect the noble ladies of court, instead of worry of the ladies down in the street of silk. It is wise to not have the guard spread so thin. It seems logical to me.” She eyes the men about her, gauging their reactions.
Reyna just watches the King, the frown still on her brow. Her scrutiny ends only when she starts to cough again and must draw her handkerchief out of her cloak. But the King’s voice reaches her, and perhaps soothes her worry, for her brow clears with the fit of coughing, and she nods. “All will surely be well,” she murmurs, glancing at Aisling.
Ser Kendros’ frown has turned over to a glower; yet he does not appear fool enough to quarrel with the King. He says nothing further, rather directing a pleading gaze at Prince Viserys.
Pink rises up in the cheeks of the Tully lady, even her maid is blushing, “Ser Ermen, not quite the thing to say in the presence of a lady, more so in front of the sept, worse off, in front of the King and court.” She looks at the Frey knight as her words slide out of her mouth, matter-of-factly. Not a bit of anger touches her face, but her embarrassment is clear, she looks away from Ermen to Ryckon as he speaks. “Yes Ryckon, doing this narrows the search. Think on it if you will, the city watch not having to maintain the street of silk means more to guard the highborn ladies, the only ones that would be in danger if the whores were to leave.” She smiles to him only lightly as to not make him uneasy, “With less to watch, they may capture the madman sooner.” She looks for recognition on the young squires face.