[center][img]https://imgur.com/dFePulk.jpg[/img] [b]C A S T E R L Y R O C K[/b] [sub][color=gray][b]Seat of House Lannister[/b][/color][/sub] [url=https://youtu.be/TZ64AkvFB9o]♫[/url][/center][right][@Vanq][@Ruby][/right] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center] [color=gray]Light from the flames of a brazier flickered, reflecting in the eyes of deep purple. These were the unnerving eyes of Lysara - a woman, though petite, who stood taller than most men. Her long hair of jet black came to just above her waist, and she wore a translucent robe of burning orange with a blood-red dress beneath. Her figure was instantly recognisable, and had become an increasing controversy in the halls of the Rock as her following grew. What was about to happen would only further stoke the flames of the devout. They stood atop Casterly Rock, at the peak overlooking Lannisport below. The skies above had darkened as daylight started to retreat and there was a calm wind in the air. The rest of the scene was anything but. On the edge of the Rock, seven wooden stakes had been erected, with bundles of straw at the base of each - and being tied to these were seven, bald men in robes of grey and black. Some bore the seven-pointed star knifed into the flesh of their forehead. These were Poor Fellows, those that had been unfortunate enough to have been caught after their assault on the royal troupe. Gathering in a semi-circle before this, a large crowd was assembled - a thorough mixture of both Westerosi and Essosi. At the forefront, still in his armor of polished gold, stood Loreon Lannister. Beside him, the Princess Rhaena. It was only a few hours prior that Lysara had heard the pleas from Loreon to save the life of the ailing Aegon. She reluctantly agreed to try - but knew the boy drew closer to his last breath, and no visions had told her of the need to prevent such. It was another reason entirely that had driven her to agree. [i]“Lord of Light, look down upon us!”[/i], Lysara began her prayer. Her words were loud, yet pleasantly melodic - entrancing, even. Those assembled fell quiet. [i]“Yours are the stars that guard us in the night. Yours is sun that warms our days!”[/i] A distinct unease lingered in the air, brought by the Westermen gathered to observe the sacrifice. Most had heard the prayers of Lysara in passing, but none had ever seen this - a human sacrifice, endorsed by [i]their lord[/i]. Ser Olyvar Estren stood among them, his hand brought tightly around the hilt of his blade - not from fear of harm against his lord, though perhaps it wasn’t all too unlikely, but from habit. It was his clearest tell when uncomfortable. [i]“Lord of Light, look down upon the Prince Aegon Targaryen! Shine your light, and lead his soul from darkness! We beg our Lord to share his fire, and light a candle that has dimmed!”[/i] Hobbling up to the side of Ser Olyvar came an elderly man, a veteran of no less than six and seventy winters. With his robes of brilliant, pure white and a seven-stranded belt of varying colours, this man was instantly recognisable as Septon Alfyn. His thick brows of grey had not been clipped for far too long, and it was a surprise that he was able to even see. The rest of his wrinkled face was bald - with a mouth crooked into a permanent frown, and a back that hunched forward from the weight of his own body. The man had known the last King of the Rock, was present for the births of all his children and remained a permanent fixture at Casterly Rock. “We must stop this, Ser.”, he hissed through what teeth remained. Olyvar said nothing in reply. [i]“From darkness, light! From ashes, fire! From death, life!”[/i] The prayer by Lysara reached a crescendo, and the torchbearers were gestured to light their respective stakes. The sacrifice was to begin. Princess Rhaena Targaryen had heard stories of the Red Priests and Priestesses, of the followers of the Lord of Light. Her belief, or lack thereof, mattered little at the moment it had been offered as one last hope. When Lord Loreon had insisted they had power to restore men to life, Rhaena would have agreed to nearly anything. And this? This was justice. These men were savages. Traitors. If she could not burn them herself she would watch them burn in offering and pray to whatever gods that would listen. She knew others did not share her comfort with this. Even amongst her ladies, when she shared what they would attend this evening, they seemed aghast even if they did not openly speak against it. The Lord of Casterly Rock had proven himself so far, and she would see to it that he was rewarded when Aegon was returned to his health, though that was likely to be offered in the way of men and dragons than gold and jewels. Standing tall, no matter that the pain in her arm had come alive again from insisting on changing into something she felt more appropriate for the occasion. Her women had helped her into the ceremonial armor that was meant to call up the memory of her grandmother. The black and red metal against the flames before her cast her as far older than her years, ferocious, nearly feral in her unabashed anger at seeing the men before her. She heard the Septon approach. Rhaena had hoped that the man would show his face, before the torches could be set to the pyres, the princess stepped away from Loreon, towards the Red Priestess. In a clear voice, she called for a halt. “Septon Alfyn.” Perhaps the man thought her to be taken with sudden reason. Perhaps he thought the Seven had heard his prayers. “Septon, you argued that these men could only be condemned by the Faith. Do your duty to the crown, and condemn these men to die.” When he did not immediately respond, she pantomined that perhaps he could not hear her and quickly closed their distance, her lips pressed to the old man’s ear. “Condemn them to death or I will have you burned for treason, you pathetic cunt of a man.” The aging Septon stood firmly as the Princess gave her ultimatum. His body shook from the tremors of old age, his back could no longer bear the weight upon it, and his pains grew by the day. In this moment, none of that mattered. He moved forward to stand before the crowd, his steps small and labored. “All of you-…”, he was racked by a cough as soon as he began, his voice struggling to find the power it once held. “… All of you were named in the Light of the Seven!” Gradually, he found his strength. “You were shown the Mother’s Love, and the Father’s Justice! Will you now spit on their memory?! Are you so eager to blaspheme!?” Behind him, the Poor Fellows began to find some courage. Most had been muttering quiet prayers on their pyres, sweating profusely and awaiting the coming flame with terror - but behind Alfyn, they began to rally with hollers of abuse to the Princess. [center][b]“WHORE!” / “ABOMINATION!” / “YOU ALL HAVE SINNED!” / “MONSTER!”[/b][/center] They made a chorus behind the words of Septon Alfyn, who continued his appeal to the Westermen in crowd. “We must end this, and pray for forgiveness!” “Ser Robin.” Rhaena watched with a growing rage at the chants coming from condemned men. But one kingsguard was more than sufficient for one pathetic septon. Rhaena would have done it herself, were it not for her arm. No, she would need to rely on her white cloak for some of this, it was his duty surely, charged to her command. The Kingsguard had not been pleased to leave Prince Aegon’s side, but there was little he could do to protect the man anymore, especially not when the Princess was insistent on placing herself in this dangerous place. Robin Darklyn stepped forward, and though he knew what would be commanded of him, he waited for his Princess to speak it. He was a man of the Faith, seeing these men set to death in such heretical practices pricked at his conscience. But, he had sworn his holy orders to protect King Aegon and then King Aenys. He had promised his king to protect his children and he had failed. And the Poor Fellow’s attack had been brutal, beyond brutal, no matter his own private thoughts on such things. It was not his place to question. “Bind him to a pyre and fetch me a torch. I will exact justice myself.” Rhaena turned back to the crowd, her voice raised again. “This man is a traitor, he is found guilty of treason in the eyes of man and dragon and will pay the price.” She ignored, with great effort, the insults lobbed at her. They would pay for it, soon enough. Lysara stood quietly, patiently, her hands clasped together. She had watched the scene unfold from the sidelines, more than content to let the man dig his own grave - or in this case, build his own pyre. He had demanded her leave from Casterly Rock more than once, and she found his prattling and pathetic prayers to be insufferable. Now he would join his brothers on the pyre. She sensed his fear building as the Kingsguard dutifully - if reluctantly - marched toward him. She chose this moment to approach, gliding toward him with her dress of burning reds and orange trailing behind her. She spoke lowly at first, taunting him alone. “You reek of fear, old man, but do not worry…” and now her voice was raised, taking control of addressing the crowd once again. “For the night is dark and full of terrors, and the flames will burn them all away.” Several members of the crowd agitated as Darkrobin neared the Septon. The Lannister men-at-arms drew their blades halfway, and all eyes fell upon Loreon Lannister - waiting, no, expecting him to give an order to halt this. He was their defender, the Shield of Lannisterport and the West. Alfyn, for his part, called to him directly. “My lord, I held you as a babe - and your brother and sister, both! I have loved you, as the Mother does us all! Stop this! Stop [i][b]HER[/b][/i]!”, his feet moved to stumble backward a few steps, but by then the knight had already grabbed his arms. His struggle made him an object of pity to most. Alfyn writhed as much as he could in his advanced age, but could conjure no real resistance or strength. His speech fell from the powerful prayer only moments before into garbled begging and pleading. In the crowd, Lord Westerling - a gruff man of dark hair, and the veteran commander of their armies, spat on the ground. Some had opened their palms to the pyres, standing in subservience to their Lord of Light, but most shifted on their feet, uncomfortable and unsure of what they were expected to do. What had become of Casterly Rock? Ser Olyvar Estren, the man who held Loreon as his own brother, broke from the mass of observers and hurried to his lord. “Give the order, brother.”, he whispered urgently. “Have them end this. It is too far.” Loreon gave no response - his body fixed and unmoving, his eyes glazed with the clear reflection of burning flames. He was entranced, taken by a vision in the flames that had finally come to him. For years, he had gazed into the embers and seen nothing - but now, finally, the Lord of Light had revealed himself. It was mesmerising. Loreon saw himself holding Brightroar high, the valyrian steel of the blade covered with hot flames. He heard the cheers of a crowd below, shouting his name with adoration. He felt pride and heroism swelling within him. Lysara had told him, but he had never believed - not until now. It had become clear to him, clearer than anything before. He was the savior of Westeros - the one to be their champion against the coming darkness of the long night. He had been chosen by the Lord of Light. Stuck in this trance, no order came to save the Septon or the Poor Fellows already on their pyres. Rhaena watched the pleas go unanswered. She wasn't sure what had overtaken Lord Loreon, but it was sufficient that he would not interfere, even if an overt condemnation would have served her better. The septon was as pathetic as she had initially judged him. A dark grin, nearly a grimace, formed on her face and she flicked the hand of her good arm at Darkrobin, a command to finish what she had demanded of him. The septon could do little but go limp beneath the Knight's strong grasp. His feet dragged in the dusty earth below him, scraping across small rocks. He looked frantically for anyone to save him, if not Loreon then where was Tytos or Lyman to see sense. Where were the proper lords of the westerlands to end this madness. His desperation was nearly enough to elicit a vicious laugh but the Princess suppressed it into a snarl instead. He was bound to a pyre with ease, the fight seemingly gone out of him. Rhaena approached once he firmly lashed in place and Darkrobin had gone to secure the torch for her. She held it, the heat and flames licking at the air around her. If she closed her eyes she could nearly imagine it as Dreamfyre ready to set the man ablaze. Instead, she turned towards the Red Priestess, Lysara, and nodded that she was ready. "Dracarys!" It was a command for herself and for the rest of the men to have their justice served. She touched the torch to kindling, watched it hungrily envelop the dry wood of the pyre. She wanted him to suffer but in his state she was certain he'd be dead of shock before truly feeling the flames blacken his skin and render fat from flesh. Rhaena pressed the torch to the man's chest, watched the pain overtake him, before at last, she felt strong arms on her, pulling her away. "You will be devoured by it, Princess, come a few steps back." Darkrobin was in her ear, pleading with her to move so that he would not need to pick her up and risk injury or a greater scene. She obeyed, with great reluctance, for each step back her body urged her to lunge forward and spit at those who had wronged her so deeply. The pained screams and agonied cries echoed across the mountaintop, finally breaking Loreon from his trance - immediately shocked by the sight of Princess Rhaena torturing the Septon he’d known from birth. Lysara, observing him, moved closer and set a hand on his arm. Her steady chant grew louder, and louder still. “From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life.” Some of the crowd, those few followers of R’hllor among them, began to speak as one. “From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life.” Loreon remained quiet, his eyes frantically darting from one pyre to the next. He felt the eyes of his nobles watching him, the presence of Olyvar beside him. Among this chaos, this frantic panic, it was Lysara who comforted him with the hand on his arm - and the vision began to flash in his mind once again. He calmed, and slowly, unsteadily, began to recite the chant. “… from darkness, light. From ashes… fire. From death, life.” [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center] Tytos Lannister was a tall, portly man. His belly round and his face soft, plump with red cheeks. The hair on his head had long started to recede, and his beard too was ever more patchy by the day - even if it did retain the golden blonde known to Lannisters. On his hand, a ring of solid gold moulded in the shape of a lion’s head sat on his ring finger - a sign that it’s wearer was the Castellan of the Rock, and second-most powerful man of the Westerlands. Many would say that it was he who ruled over the region, and they would not be entirely wrong. It was Tytos who held the Westerlands together, assuring lords of Casterly Rock’s continued rule - and indeed, the scandals of his halls aside, their rule over the realm continued to be competent and steadfast. For those outside of the Rock itself, life had continued much the same as it had for the past four decades of Targaryen rule - with a generous programme of investment instituted by the late Lord Loren, his elder brother. Now he was left to clean up the mess made by his nephew. It was this endeavour that had driven him to his latest act, as one of the Maester’s responsible for the treatment of Prince Aegon left his quarters. Tytos had been assured he was dying, that it would require an intervention from the Gods themselves to save the boy. Tytos wasn’t willing to leave his fate to the Gods. He would decide, and the boy would die. He [i]had[/i] to die, if the widowed princess was to make a bride for his nephew, and a heavy dose with milk of the poppy would guarantee it. His thoughts turned to his niece, the Lady Lorelai Lannister. Favored of Lannisport and the keeper of whispers. There was [i]nothing[/i] she did not know, which meant she would be next. It brought him no pleasure to think of kinslaying, and of ending the life of the girl he held in his arms as she grew - but the fate of their family depended on him, not her, and she would surely discover his involvement with the death of Aegon eventually. Not to mention the threat she posed to his contingencies, his plans for ‘dealing’ with Loreon should it be needed. He had no choice, really. It was a necessary act, or at least, so he told himself. Further scheming was interrupted by the hurried arrival of a courtier, yelling about the sacrifices currently taking place - an affair he had elected to remain entirely absent from. He would be cleaning this mess for months to come. [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center] Rhaena trembled in place, anger and grief tearing at her, unsure which had more control. Melony Piper had been in Lannisport already; she had rushed to the princess’s side as soon as she had been found and told of their unexpected arrival. None of the three ladies could provide their princess any comfort beyond their presence. They huddled together, too young to have to know such anguish. Hope from the sacrifice had been quickly dashed. Men had burned but the Red Priestess’s god had done nothing. Aegon was dying still, more quickly than before. He would die that night. There was no time, not even on dragonback for their family to reach them. Poor Melyssanthi, her grief would surely erupt in an anger like Rhaena felt boiling just beneath the surface. Viserys, who would now bear the weight of being heir. And the little ones, the ones who had looked up to Aegon with awe. Her father, she tried to empathize but could not stop her anger from tainting that either. The Faith and the Poor Fellows struck their blows but only because he had denied her Dreamfyre. Were it not for that Aegon would be alive and the pious men just burned corpses outside Oxcross instead of a few on top of the Rock. “Keep him on milk of the poppy, maester, allow him the peace I am denied.” Her voice was raw, rough. “And have word sent to Dragonstone. My father, your king, must be told that his son and heir has been murdered most callously by the Faith we have compromised with for too long.” [i]And if he does not act, I will, again, and far more than a handful of men will burn for it.[/i] With Melyssanthi and their dragons they could burn a path through an army. They could travel all the kingdoms, purging the land of the Poor Fellows. Scorched earth for any who harbored them. Perhaps they would even burn the Starry Sept and have their dragons rip the High Septon limb by limb. Her women tried to place hands on her shoulders or arms in comfort but she shrugged them off. “A part of me will die with him, one of three has been taken.” Destiny had been robbed of them and any who held responsibility for it would pay. Rhaena, first born of the first born of the Conqueror, crawled back into bed with Aegon, the boy who would have been king. She cradled his head, silver hair damp with sweat, against her bosom, and wept silently until the last, ragged, breath left his battered body. [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center] “This is stupid.” She said nothing. “…I told you those Red Priests are dangerous.” Still, she said nothing. In fact, truth be told, Lady Lorelai Lannister had said very little for nearly the entire day. She broke her fast in near silence, but for a greeting to her protector, Keeno Sylhan. At midday she spoke to the Old Man, the Crone, the Child, and the Maiden. The Old Man warned her about the heir’s death. The Maiden warned her about the Red Priestess and the sacrifice. The Child warned her about Faith Militant finding ways into the city, smuggled over land and by sea. The Crone patted her hand and told her to watch her uncle. Other than a perched brow, Lorelai had said very little. During the lead-up to the evening, Lorelai said nothing. All the while, Keeno had said more words in a single day than he had said, altogether, in months. The Red Priestess. Burning people. Sacrifice. R’hllor. Don’t trust them. They can’t be trusted. They should be careful, even her brother, Loreon, could fall to, as Keeno so eloquently put it, [i]”their fiery bullshit.”[/i] When Lorelai watched them burn the men, she sighed. When some of those present shouted in damnation and protest, she said nothing. When she watched them burn Alfyn, tears ran down her cheeks, but still, she said nothing. Keeno had not been so quiet, always leaning into her, whispering to her, “No way your brother stops this. He’s bought into that witch’s lies. Probably thinks he’s the next R’hllor, himself.” Part of her wanted to say something, to tell Keeno to stop. But why, she questioned herself? Because he knew the Red Priests far better than she did? He proved that when he leaned over and whispered to her that this was a farce, anyway, apparently only the blood of kings could buy the lives of kings. “They’re all slaves, all the Priests. They work in a caste system like any other.” Aegon was doomed to die. She failed to tell Keeno about the Old Man’s warning. It didn’t seem like it mattered, one way, or another, the heir to the Iron Throne was a dead man. Yet she had never seen Keeno so agitated. She was the only one in Westeros who knew what he had been; a Sorrowful Man. A master assassin. Had been? Still was? Could one just stop being such a thing, she wondered? Could she just stop being a Lannister of Casterly Rock? At the moment, as the tears fell down her cheeks, she seriously contemplated the question. By the time it was done, Keeno didn’t move from her side, but she felt his restlessness all the same. She had been in the very, very back. Shrouded in cloak and hood. Most seemed to miss her, or not quite realize who she was. The cloak and hood were, after all, neither crimson nor gold, but an old gray. Something she wore to sea from time to time. Yet one man, above all, found her. “This was ill done.” The smile she gave was all that remained after such a day, Lord Westerling would simply have to make do with what was left of her, “I am sorry, my Lord.” “Oh?” He sounded surprised, but not genuinely surprised—there was a harsh mockery to his tone, “Was this your doing, Lorelai?” The look she gave him was enough to make him chuckle. “I did not think so, and the tears on your face would certainly suggest otherwise…you know the conversations that will be had. I have heard the King’s…network, it—” “—the Lord’s, Lord Westerling. I would not see you harmed for insinuating there was another King while there are Valyrian dragonriders full of anger and bitterness wallowing in their tragedy about.” His awkward silence was enough for her to simply sniff at one of her tears, and continue, “And let us not pretend those ‘conversations’ are not already being had tonight, Lord Westerling. We have always been very honest with each other.” “…my oldest is six and ten, he is young, but…” She didn’t cut him off this time. He just stopped talking when he saw the look of pure pain she gave him, both of them thinking of Julien Crakehall. “Thank you, my Lord. I know you mean well. I know some of you hope to take me from Casterly Rock, to protect me.” Lorelai heard nothing but that three-eyed raven, now. [i]Caw. Caw.[/i] [i]Help.[/i] She sniffed again, shaking her head, slowly, draining the sound from her ears. “There is no protecting me from this, Lord Westerling.” [i]Or anything else.[/i] “Go home, good man. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.” When he was gone, she looked over to Keeno, who simply stared at her. “Let’s go inside.” It was the softest, gentlest, thing she had heard him say all day.[/color] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center]