The seven-walled Royal Sept serves as the centre of worship for the King and his kin, along with the denizens of the Red Keep. It is, like all septs devoted to the Faith, a solemn place of beauty; leaded glass windows admit light which plays about the sept, scattering through the prisms of the sacred crystals and casting dazzling rainbow patterns upon the smooth vaulted ceiling. Each of the seven aspects of the divine are here revered: the smiling Mother, the bearded Father, the valiant Warrior, the beautiful Maid, the enigmatic Stranger, the masterful Smith, and the wizened Crone each have their own ornate statues and altars, all inlaid richly with mother-of-pearl, onyx, and lapis lazuli. The low sound of sing-song voices raised in worship can often be heard, and the air is heavy with the smell of incense from holy censers.
Long benches of polished dark wood bear soft cushions of black velvet, upon which attendees may sit while at worship. At the head of the sept is a raised dais, the station of the septon; before each of the seven altars are candelabras and gilded lanterns. A small and nondescript door at the rear of the sept grants access to the vault and living quarters for the brothers and sisters of the Faith; the large golden doors of the main entrance lead out to the castle yard.
[Jannia]
Footsteps, careful and shuffling, offset the ceaseless drumming at the roofs over the mourning throng’s heads. Thick, grey clouds choke the skies above the Royal Sept, the Keep itself, and all its environs, competing with the realm of the mortals in shedding tears. It is a cold, almost violent rain - one can see through the leaded windows. One of those heralds of winter, that impose a wet blurriness and banish nigh all light.
In the Royal Sept, the marble looks paler, the shadows falling for lack of sun are heavy and multiplying by the hour, advancing with as little mercy as the Stranger might. The censers, due to the zealous effort of the septons, attack with copious amounts of incense that pairs with grief to feel that much more intolerable.
Almost all eyes are on one sight, terrible as it is jarring. Daena the Defiant, of the loud laugh, of the fearless smile, of step brisk and posture unyielding, lies still, lies lifeless. A bier of ebony, draped with black velvet sporting the Targaryen dragon has replaced her bloody bed. She is, one may see if they peer through the sheer black cloth that covers Her Grace, decked in the black she much favoured, with red accents; bits of onyx and ruby sparkle weakly, if stubbornly, at the hem and sleeves.
Silver-gold hair spills around her in waves, mercifully pretty, for the skin has gone from sun-kissed to white, to ashen-grey. In truth even those mar the Dragonbane’s daughter only so much. Perhaps her father, whose gift, the golden pendant of the dragon, now lies on her chest, extended what more grace he could from the heavens.
And there’s another; half hidden, tucked in Daena’s arm, a bundle, a face tinged with white and grey like its mother’s, the daughter of Crown and North, the dragon in the womb, if the wags are to be believed, that never was. They’re as the Gods will receive them, mother and daughter, together.
Around them, to keep watch and give due honour, the silent speakers of the court’s grief, seven black shadows. Not the sisters, now well-hidden for they know how little men like them. Ladies of the court, ladies of all the realms, with heads carefully bowed, holding the dragon princess’s vigil, her retinue while their peers file by.
[Balerion]
Septons and septas move at the edges of the chamber with hushed purpose, feeding censers, murmuring prayers, and keeping the holy fires awake. Their voices are low, almost lost beneath the rain, so that the rites sound less spoken than remembered.
[Elyse]
The ladies of the Caswell household have come to pay the respect due to the passed princess. Elyse, dressed in black silks embroidered with white lilies and a high collared white shift, and little Elsabeth in a warm woolen gown of deepest black with white and yellow flowers; mother and daughter both solemn and respectful. Elsa’s hair is braided and pinned up, while Elyse wears her dark curls in a net of white threading which has onyx stones that add a faint sparkle when she shifts in the candlelight.
While Elsabeth stands at her nursemaid’s side in the pews, Elyse has taken a honoured place in vigil, a candle in her pale hands burning brightly against the oppressive darkness outside threatening to overtake the Sept.
[Arwen]
Arwen Westerling’s lily-white complexion seams starkly pallid in comparison to her attire. Her hair is hidden, bound and braided beneath a coif, itself covered by a pleated crepine of dark silk, beneath a paste of white satin with gilded billaments. A veil of costly black velvet is attached to the back of the headdress.
Her dress today is, rather unusually for the western beauty, made of black satin, stitched over with the thinnest black lace imaginable, while black velvet covers her trumpet sleeves. Her high-necked ruffle is white, while the underskirt is of a rich scarlet samite, striking against the darks of her attire.
Though an expert at poised perfection and keeping her face an unreadable mask, even the fashion conscious Arwen could not completely hide her grief, as the telling red rims of her eyes hint to tears still spilled not too long ago. Uncaring, the normally vain Westerwoman simply continues to stand as silent as if she were a statue. Her own children are off with her coterie of attendants, too young to fully grasp the situation.
[Jannia]
One of the women stands by each foot, one by each side of the midriff, one by each shoulder. And there’s a seventh, placed before the late princess’s head. She’s as easy enough to notice as the rest of them, and for that the effect is that much starker. Lady Taria appears to have shrunk, withered like a fallen petal. Spotted, bony hands grip at a cane so firmly the knuckles are snow-white.
She was there when the charming Daenaera reigned over the court, there when the princesses were darling little girls, jewels of the realm, women grown. It might be rather fortuitous how so many years have passed since her own, dear Jathany, perished in the childbed - not too many will remember, and draw the dreadful comparison. It might, on the other hand, matter not who whispers of what.
On this day, the industrious mother of the Master of Coin looks every bit her one-and-eighty years of age. Every wrinkle is deeply carved, the stoop that much sharper, the green eyes like soulless chips of glass. They stare ahead, at nothing.
[Balerion]
Ever since the silent sisters delivered their charges here to the royal sept, nigh-endless have been the visitors from the court, high and low: even the king has come (yes, even he), among the first when Daena’s cold body was placed there with her child. But he left after only a brief time, and other courtiers with him, making way for others still. At the small hours, even grooms and huntsmen who had tended her horses and hawks have been said to pay a visit, and maids and washerwomen, scullions from the kitchens, guardsmen, household knights, and more, and more.
[Mylessa]
Lady Fell stands her vigil at Princess Daena’s feet, her head bowed as she mouths a silent prayer for both woman and babe. Her red-gold curls have been braided back from her face and left to fall loosely down her back, beneath a black veil that frames her grief-stricken face starkly.
She, too, holds a candle in her hand. It flickers briefly as a wave of mourners pass, and so she cups her hand around its flame to keep it steady.
When her gaze lifts, it lingers briefly on each lady who stands this watch with her.
[Halanna]
Lady Bracken has been one of the black-clad figures beside the princess since the beginning of the long day of mourning. A companion of Daena’s in girlhood, separated from her service by the advent of the Maidenvault but always a friend, Halanna wears her grief in black velvet, a pale golden cream satin underneath peering out from slashed sleeves and hems. Her husband and elder children passed through earlier, in the king’s coterie, the younger babes are too young for an event such as this.
While she holds her posture well, every now and then a tear will trickle down her cheek unbidden, or a dark handkerchief will rise to discreetly dab at her eye or nose, her cheeks and nose tinged with a much blotchier red than usual and her lashes damp. Every so often her gaze drifts from the candle she holds to the babe that should have been, and her tears grow a bit stronger until she is able to gather herself once more.
[Omrys]
Draped in rich black cloth making his jewelry stand out even more, Omrys is solemn and stonefaced, not a hint of his familiar smile. His polished black boots make sound on the floor yet there is no spring in his step. He makes his way to the bier, nodding to nearest ladies in turn but doesn’t speak.
He stands by the head of departed Princess and as he looks upon her mien tears stream down his face, he looks up, up, away and cuts woeful moan in his throat putting the air to better use “Sky has lost the brightest star, Realm has lost fiercest of dragons, we have lost the finest of women!”
He looks down again and briefly brushes his fingertips against silvery locks, sighs and wipes away his tears with his hand and moves back a step, another one, to let others pay their respects, never taking his eyes off Daena. Several more steps and he turns and moves further away.
[Elyse]
“Her Grace was born too late to be a dragon-rider, but she would have been the finest of them,” Elyse says softly. Her melodic voice holds sorrow and a hint of pride. “Unfettered. Free amongst the clouds, the wind whipping her hair as she laughs. She was unstoppable while she lived; no man could tame her. But aback a dragon she would have given even the Stranger pause.”
[Jannia]
As it happens, this guard of sorrow counts among them, not far from Lady Halanna, a second Lady of the Antlers. The many hours bygone notwithstanding, Jannia remains rooted in place, painfully upright, grim and blanched. There’s a deep frown settled on her brow, a sharp downwards cast to her lip. Whether bloodshot eyes, barely visible what with the bowed head, are due to tears or rest, one can only guess. Presently she seems to have hardened away from shedding any. In times of hardship, some are inclined to tears…Lady Buckwell, bit by bit, has become rather more predisposed to coldness.
The garb reflects that utter severity; black, with heavy skirts and tight sleeves, and no adornment save the onyx-and-ruby brooch of her royal mistress on her chest. It pins in place the edge of the silken black veil covering her pleated hair, secured with a simple steel circlet.
The scrutinising gaze that she, at that point, carefully seeks to aim at Taria is torn away by a wail. She looks at the Baratheon up and down without sympathy, eyes darting between his retreating form and the locks mercifully shielded, from direct touch at least, by the cloth. The slightest step to the right. Caught in frigid ire, she acknowledges Elyse’s words with but blinking.
[Arwen]
Halanna’s tears elicit one from Arwen as well, which seems to snap the beauty from her thoughts, as she looks gently towards the women about her. The candle in her hand prevents her from reaching out, and so instead she offers a sad knowing smile, before she looks into the small flame cupped by a delicate hand.
Omrys’ little spectacle, however, has the Westerwoman’s blue-green eyes bore into the man, until she almost hisses as his hand reaches out, just barely containing herself.
“How dare he?” She whispers after he moves on, the indignation in her voice like cracking ice beneath one’s foot…
Thankfully the Meadowlark helps bring back at least a semblance of propriety, with Arwen sighing softly, before turning to her friend with a smile. “Well put. She was, perhaps, herself a bit of a dragon, nay?” She softly says fondly, sharing a look with Jannia and hoping to catch Halanna’s eye.
“I can almost hear her scolding us for all these ‘useless tears’.” She offers with a bitter chuckle as she herself now needs to reach for a silken handkerchief herself.
[Balian]
More, and more, and more have filed passed that bier. And now, too, the heathens, for the scions of Raventree have come to pay their respects.
Balian Blackwood leads his family into the sept and steadily towards the bier. His niece, Desmona Corbray, holds tight to his arm. He keeps a guiding hand on young Gwayne’s shoulder.
He leans close to Gwayne’s ear as they approach. “Don’t look away, lad. Be brave,” he whispers.
[Halanna]
“I wish she had more time to be queen,” Halanna says softly. “For much the same reasons.” She swallows. Her gaze drifts to follow the Baratheon, but she seems to leave any affront at his gesture to Arwen and Jannia-perhaps she is too grief-tired to find her anger, if she would have any.
“With a dragon, however, I imagine she and her brother would have aimed for Dorne just between themselves, and likely had it.” There is no need to say which brother-the other would no doubt have tried to make the dragons into septons.
As Balian approaches, Lady Bracken glances over-Desmona and the boy get a brief nod, but she offers nothing else.
[Jonn]
Jonn Lannister stands at the feet of the but recently vibrant form of the defiant dragon, near to his cousin the Lady Fell. He bows his head, his gaze passing across from feet to head.
“Poor soul,” he murmurs scarcely above a whisper, “She was just too high strung.”
Tight against his side stands his youngest child, the inimitable Gemma. Her bright eyes range, not across the body of the deceased, but the ladies holding vigil. Searching no doubt for her elder sister. Tears leak from the youngest lion’s eyes, which she wipes away with all the irritation of a seven year old child whose body reacts naturally to things she is too young to understand.
The heir of Casterly Rock looks up sharply at the Baratheon standing at the Princess’s head. His lips compress into a thin line.
[Mylessa]
Mylessa avoids meeting the Baratheon knight’s gaze as he passes—but when his grief overwhelms him, she cuts a sharp glance his way and begins to move a hand as if to signal for calm.
But he has already moved on, and so she notes her Lannister cousins’ presence instead with a changeable smile: in one moment reserved and polite for the father, and in the next soft and reassuring for his daughter.
[Jannia]
Whispers, and movement, and a sharp cry here or there, they all combine to draw Lady Taria out of the mournful fog. She turns slightly, still swaying with the effort, her limbs likely stiffened by the stillness. “What is it? Someone fiddled?” A finger beckons Jannia closer, impatiently. She does not quite wait for an answer, forcing herself to turn yet more, take in Daena’s sight.
A shaky breath leaves the old woman, the more her eyes pore over the locks like beaten metal. And then, she resolves to examine: the combing, the pendant’s placement. A hand seems to be trying to trace the creases of the black cloth from afar, without touching or hovering. Her scrutiny ends with a weak smile.
“Thanks be.” Her tone is low, cracked. “Quite perfect. Her sires wait for Her Grace. She must be perfect.” Slowly, effortfully, she begins resuming watch, wiping one eye with a sleeve.
[Jannia]
Jannia, on her part, removes one hand from her candle, extending it. “Lady grandmother, mayhap you-”
“Oh soothe, Jannia, don’t take that matronly tone with me. What am I before the one lost. I shall stay.” And there, at the defiant raising of a trembling chin from Taria, ends the matter.
[Balian]
As Baratheon departs, Blackwood and Corbray take his place.
“She was her father’s daughter,” Balian says, and he pulls his niece and nephew a little closer—perhaps three deaths in a sevenday is an ill omen for followers of the true gods.
They stand silent by the corpse for a few moments before Gwayne looks questioningly up. Balian nods. “Say the words the septons taught you,” he says and Gwayne mutters a prayer.
“Father Above, judge her justly….”
And when that prayer is done, they move on in the Baratheon’s wake.
[Jyana]
With the ladies holding vigil, Jyana Lannister stood beside Mylessa at the other foot of Daena. She gives her husband and daughter a brief, tight smile as they are seen, but returns her attention to the deceased. Mostly. She cuts a sharp look, mirroring Mylessa’s, at the Baratheon knight for a moment, but is quick to school her face back as others attend.
[Otho]
Otho awaits his turn and follows after Balian and Gwayne. The Valeman is dressed even more somberly than usual, and gives a nod to the ladies holding vigil about the princess’s body. He spends a few moments giving a quick, quiet prayer. He gives a deep nod to Daena and those standing vigil before following the other noblemen.
[Arwen]
Having quickly composed herself once more, Arwen looks as the Buckwells speak, before she turns her gaze towards her family gathered at the feet of the deceased Princess, a warm smile offered to her kin. Her good-nephew is offered a nod of greeting in turn.
[Elyse]
Young Elsabeth, all of nine tender years, shatters the solemn silence with an earnest question, “Why did all the dragons die?” Her septa lays a finger on the child’s lips to indicate the girl should be silent.
Elyse smiles at her daughter with a faintly bemused expression. “I’ll tell you the tale later, sweetling. Just know that if anyone deserved a true dragon, it’s Princess Daena.”
[Jonn]
Gemma Lannister seems ready to pipe up in response to young Elsabeth, but is forestalled by her father’s gloved hand flexing atop her head.
“Go to your mother,” Jonn instructs her before releasing his grip. He gives a small smile to Mylessa and Jyana before turning to depart, leaving the girl hopefully in the charge of her mother.
[Balian]
Balian guides his family away from the bier, offering his acquaintances small nods as he passes. But as they approach the exit, Desmona whispers a few words to her uncle and leaves his side. She returns to the fore of the sept while Balian and Gwayne exit to the courtyard.
[Jorin]
For most, the colors of House Darry are dour enough already, but while Ser Jorin Darry normally favors balance in their usage for clothing, today he finds himself in mourning garb, and far sooner in his journey to King’s Landing than he would ever have liked. Swathed heavily in the black of the Darry plowman, with brown trim, Jorin’s expression is a genuinely somber one as he shuffles forward amidst the line of nobles waiting to pay their respects. His movements are rote, and his thoughts veering close to distressingly familiar circumstance.
[Balerion]
The sound of the rain, on roof and window, grows louder as time passes. The prayers of septons and septas alike grow just a little louder, over that melancholy din.
Then there is a rustling, and the sound of opening doors, the patter of rain growing louder as figures enter: knights of the Kingsguard, first; Ser Jaesin, Ser Sorin, and Prince Aemon. Then the royal princesses, the sisters Rhaena and Elaena, come to stand vigil for their sister. And another princess: Mariah of Dorne.
And then a queen: Naerys, having abandoned in her whites and blues in favor of modest sorrowful black, a veil over her fine hair. She, and Mariah too, will join the vigil. Behind them follow Prince Daeron, and the little princes Baelor and Aerys and Rhaegel, in the company of ladies-in-waiting holding their hands.
[Halanna]
Lady Bracken offers her own place to Princess Elaena as the royal party draws near, handing off her candle to the next most defiant of her family. She curtsies deeply, especially to the queen, before stepping away to the pews to linger a while longer before taking her leave.
[Elyse]
The lady of Caswell draws herself aside to permit the royal family to take their places at the side of their beloved sister and cousin, and the little princess denied a future. She and the lady Haleanna have similar thoughts. Her flickering candle is offered to the Targaryens to keep the vigil. Elyse bows her head with both reverence and sorrow as she rejoins Elsa.
[Arwen]
Arwen looks towards the doors and seems to visibly brighten at sight of her mistress, Mariah’s pin glittering at the beauty’s breast. Still holding her candle, the Westerwoman offers an elegant curtsy to the approaching Royals, murmuring a string of mellifluous “Your Graces” before subtly indicating to the Princess of Dragonstone that she is more than happy to relinquish her place for her lady.
[Jannia]
With the corner of her eye, fighting off a snort of surprise and incredulity at the Caswell damsel’s innocence -it takes a child, of course, to melt at least bits of the ice- Lady Jannia watches the Blackwood party break in two. For a brief few moments, she locks gazes with Desmona. And, almost imperceptibly, nods.
But there are sundry to spare a moment’s attention too, many crowding with frowns and misty eyes to kneel before the princess one last time. It tests Jannia’s schooled expression, to see her nephew be one; whatever she thinks she does not voice, and has little time to. The sept fills with blood royal, and the guard of noblewomen starts melting out of their way.
From Jannia, there’s no reaction, save raising her eyes for whatever silent command Their Graces might offer. It is Daena she stands watch over, but Rhaena and of course chiefly her lady Elaena that time and effort -and temperament, even?- has seen her drift closer to.
[Balerion]
Both of Daena’s sisters are red-eyed, but they wear it differently: Princess Rhaena’s grief is writ plain on her face, and even the first glimpse at her sister’s still, cold form sets tears to flowing again. Yet she murmurs a thanks to Lady Elyse. Elaena’s is harder to discern, behind the controlled tightness of her expression. She takes Lady Bracken’s candle stiffly, with a stiff brief nod, and no words. As Rhaena pauses, not yet taking her place, Elaena comes up beside her instead. “You know what Daena would say,” Elaena tells her sister. “Come, lets places herself at either side of her face—mayhaps we’ll hear her shade.”
But as they come up, Elaena sees Taria Buckwell weighted down with her age and grief, and glances at the others. She does not say anything, at first.
[Mylessa]
Lady Fell lowers her hand and opens her palm to help guide Gemma to the empty spot between she and her mother, the smile of reassurance fixed in place.
But then she is bowing out of her place in the vigil to make way for the queen to take a place beside her cousin’s body, for her lord husband has joined the newest throng of mourners to pay their respects, their eldest children and his squire with him. Young Ammon walks with a stoic confidence that mimics his Lord Aimery’s respectful reserve. Little Amyria, on the other hand, barely holds back tears as she clings to Caythan’s side, who gives her a small smile of encouragement that fades quickly when he looks to the dead princess and her stillborn babe.
The girl breaks away to bury her face in her mother’s black skirts as Lady Fell joins her family on their way to pray in the pews.
[Balerion]
The queen and Princess Mariah also seem ready to take the place of those holding the vigil. The princess from Dorne speaks briefly with Prince Daeron, who nods, and leads the little boys all in black away to the foremost pew; they are well-mannered, for the most part, though at one point Rhaegel speaks too loudly, some nonsense rhyme, and is quieted by a lady-in-waiting.
Others too, shuffle in then, including another little boy: Daemon Waters all in black velvet, long silver-gold hair falling past his shoulders sodden from the rain. With him are a man-at-arms of the Bracken household, and a lady of it as well.
[Jannia]
And the princely words are the permission, or order, sought. For one of the two places Elaena speaks of is hers. Jannia dips her head, deeply, with ceremony. Another grave bob to Daena the Defiant, now bathed by a wan ray of light, pallid as is her form now that life has left her. And she retreats, down towards the mourners, out of the royal women’s way.
A telling look, a cocking of the head as she passes by Lady Desmona, another soul nursing grief, a friend’s loss. The Corbray woman smiles tightly, and steps forth so as to, Their Graces and other permitting, do her own last duty.
Lady Taria, however? She moves only to dip into a curtsey that must be no small feat for her years. The cane wobbles as does her form. She has caught Elaena’s eye, and her own teary ones make her case.
“I beg Their Graces to allow me to continue my guard.” It is said steadily enough, cracks threatening the voice only once or twice.
[Balerion]
“Lady Taria,” speaks a soft, gentle voice. It is Queen Naerys. “Rest awhile, and then you may take my place before the final hour, when our sweet cousin and her babe are borne out.”
[Jorin]
Jorin finally makes his way to where the Princess and her babe lie in repose, his somber expression shifting towards grief. But he forces himself to look upon them for several moments, and speaks quietly:
“I knew you only in tales and rumors. I pray the Gods receive you and your child with the respect you are due.”
His expression shifts to a sad smile, “For if even a sliver of those tales are true, I know you will certainly let them know of their mistake if they do not.” And with that, he gives a respectful bow towards the pair, and moves on his way, headed towards the pews.
[Jannia]
For all her refined, kindly manner, there’s no gainsaying the queen, and her will. Anyone who thought otherwise, once, need but stroll by the square before the rising Sept of Baelor, where, were it not for the rain, there would perhaps still be drops of Morgil Hastwyck’s blood. With a tired bow of the head, Taria complies as she ought to. And shuffles to the side, and towards the pews, where the young Doryssa Massey, wound tightly with anxiety for her aged mistress, hastens to show her to a pew.
Jannia lets out a breath, shaking her own head to herself as she finds a place by the heir to Darry. “Seven keep us from more sorrows.” By now, she, like others, keeps a half-curious, half-concerned eye on the young Daemon, the fatherless and now motherless child, who would be well within his rights to feel, in his pure young soul, alone and adrift in the world.
[Balerion]
The wet of the rain on his face may mask the tears, but the boy—as red-eyed as his aunts—has grown too tired to sob, it seems, and is quiet now, as he is ushered on to look on his mother and his nameless sister who passed with her. And he has his manners, bowing now, deeply, to the ladies who stand vigil. “Thank you, my ladies, for the godly honor you do to my mother,” he says in a child’s high voice, as if by rote, before he straightens. And then he turns, to look at Daena, and his lip quivers a moment. But he kneels down, hand clasped instead, to offer a prayer, lips moving. The royal sisters look on, and Rhaena wipes at her eyes with a kerchief, and Elaena’s face is a mask but those purple eyes make plain she feels a fresh pang of grief as well, at sadness for the boy.
When he rises, it is Queen Naerys who murmurs to him, “Your mother is with the Seven now, and your sister. They are smiling down, I am sure, and will be with you for all your days.” And then with a nod over his head, she suggests he be taken away. It is Mariah who says, “Go, and join your cousins. They are here for you, as much as for your mother whom they also loved.”
[Elyse]
Elyse keeps her head bowed, her soft voice silent, and her air respectful. But as the time has come and the vigil passed, she withdraws with Elsabeth to let the royal family pay their respects.
[Jannia]
Will the motions of court, and courtliness, be of comfort to an orphan of but seven years? Unlikely, but obeyed and followed they must still be. Jannia drops a brief curtsey to the lad, and smiles the most warm, maternal smile she can muster amidst mourning and death, whether he sees it or not.
“He’s firm”, she all but whispers. “His mother lives on. It’s a kindness.”
[Arwen]
Taking silent instruction from the Princess of Dragonstone, her companion comes to the young princes and their father with a curtsy to assist with in whatever way she can. Smiling softly at the youngest dragons present, her own twins often playmates of the eldest, Arwen offers a nod to Jannia and Elyse each as she comes closer to take her spot among the pews.
[Jorin]
Jorin Darry glances to Jannia and gives her a respectful nod when she draws beside him. At her words, his eyes turn back to where the late Princess lay, and a smaller, barely perceptible nod follows, “May they indeed.” Though full tears remain unshed, there is a mist to his hazel eyes. Eyes that now draw towards the royal party, watching them a few moments, before bowing his head and closing his eyes to pray in silence. When Daemon draws near enough for Jannia’s curtsey, his eyes open at her words, and he offers the child a bow as well.
[Balerion]
And so the vigil goes on, a pall of grief over all. Young Daemon sits awkwardly with his cousins, who seem as unable to articulate their feelings as he is, and in the case of Rhaegel there’s a sense that the youngest of the group has no inkling of the weight of what has happened. The princesses and the queen hold their vigils in silence, with Rhaena and Naerys both deep in prayer. Others come and go, quietly, paying their respects. Septon Elwood, foremost in many of the matters spiritual surrounding this royal tragedy, now comes forward to offer a public moment of prayer, and a hymn for the souls of the departed as they follow the Crone’s lantern to the seven heavens.