[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/OJKyTUC.jpg[/img][/center] [right][sub]Princess Ceryse Targaryen // [@Vanq][/sub][/right] [color=darkgray] Before the door to the solar was even closed, it had begun. Though the High Septon and Lords Oakheart and Rowan beat them there, it was calm until Manfred ushered the two women inside. For once, it wasn’t Ceryse, it was Vittoria. “You’re not ‘losing’ me, Lord Manfred. That’s non-sense.” Manfred’s response made Vittoria literally jump in the air, as the door to the solar slammed with such a force it thundered, and jolted even the older men who sat around the far table, near the fireplace. Ceryse and Vittoria sat upon chairs, Manfred content to stand—pace, in all honestly. His tone followed the slamming of the door, thunder rollicking throughout the impressively sized solar of the Hightower. Books shelved on one side, his writing table nearest the only window in the room, his cushioned high chair behind it. “ARE YOU DAFT GIRL!?” Smug was the only impression she had when the High Septon spoke. When the High Septon anything, when Vittoria thought about it, “The entire hall saw you fawn over the Baratheon boy, girl.” “I’m a woman grown, High Septon,” for the first time in her life, she addressed the High Septon with heat in her big brown eyes. “Aye, past time you married, no less. Are we not allowed to mourn you?” Vittoria balked, looking to Ceryse for a second, before back to the Princess’ father, “I’m not dying, Manfred.” His fist slammed into the writing table that he just happened to be pacing by, “HE WILL STRIP YOUR TITLES, GIRL! YOU DO UNDERSTAND THAT, CORRECT? YOU CANNOT BE HIGH MARSHALL FROM THE STORMLANDS. YOU CANNOT COMMAND HIGHGARDEN’S ARMIES AS THE WIFE OF A BARATHEON! DO YOU GET THAT!?!” “…nor should you,” Lord Oakheart added on, dryly, though Vittoria and Manfred, both, ignored it. “Of course, I know that. It’s MY life.” Though she didn’t yell, there was an intense exaggeration on the word ‘my’ when she spoke it. As if to remind the Lords present that they were playing with a life that, will of the Gods, belonged to her and her alone. “…will he strip her titles? Truly? Lord Theo has made some curious decisions in the past, let us all agree…” Lord Rowan played at the bottom of his doublet even as he made the comment. Between the two, Lord Oakheart was a lean man, even in his graying years. Lord Rowan was nearly the same age, but shorter, squatter, with a scruffy beard than the well kept mustache of Oakheart. Vittoria wanted to order a cavalry charge on them both. Manfred’s face twisted, his tone as weary of the nonsense as it was still loud, even if the thunder had left it. “Of course, he will, Rickard. Theo’s not a bloody idiot.” “You do seem to take up for the man more than I recall, brother.” Before Manfred could snap back, the High Septon simply moved on, retrieving the parchment from the sleeve of his finely embroidered robe, holding the rolled parchment in the air to announce it, “We have word from Casterly Rock. The heir to the Iron Throne is dead. The Valyrian filth claims our own good Poor Fellows guilty of the deed.” Torgen Oakheart snorted, “They can’t take an ounce of responsibility for anything, can they? As if the Poor Fellows were outraged for no reason at all?” “You, Princess,” the High Septon began, finally leveling his small blue-gray eyes on the woman, “and your little sinner’s stunt has given the Targaryens cover. They will claim you are bedding foreigners. They will claim you are competing with Lady Vittoria for suiters.” “Certainly looked that way,” Lord Rowan muttered, as he took a cup from the table’s center and poured it himself. Manfred’s breathing labored as he, finally, sat upon his tall chair and grunted in disgust. “…so what, brother? You abandon your niece because of a bloody stunt?” A look was exchanged by the two Lords and the High Septon at the round table next to the fire in the fireplace. The High Septon shifted his weight, even if just so, sitting up just a little taller than he had before. “Of course, I will not brother. We will call tonight a grieving, devastated woman in her cups.” Oakheart shrugged, “Women are emotional, silly creatures. It is easily believable.” Vittoria’s eyes snapped up at the man. They didn’t move, as brown eyes darkened into a hard stare. “For the Lords of the Realm, certainly,” Rowan agreed, as he drank. The High Septon swept a hand over his chest, flattening his robe as he considered, “This may be. There is word, as well, that the King is ill. Should the King fall, the next in line would be one of the young ones…” “…Visenya’s tight arse won’t let that happen. It’ll be her boy.” Manfred’s dark grumble was immediately seized on by the High Septon: “Indeed, brother, indeed! They will use tonight as an excuse. None that aren’t already on their godless side will consider it, sure enough, but all they need are excuses. They will want King’s Landing, they will need it. Yet after word of tonight gets out among the Faithful…it will be difficult…” The High Septon hemmed, hawed, and Lord Manfred lacked any patience for it, “What will it take, brother? Name your price.” The High Septon gave but a shrug, staggering his speech as he did, “I, well, I wouldn’t say there is a price to such a thing, brother. This is no negotiation—” “—is it not? Has it not been since you became High Septon and I became Lord of Hightower?” The High Septon’s beady eyes almost seemed to stop dead, until his white, bushy brows fluttered a moment, and he swallowed whatever discontent he might have wanted to say in response. “It will be necessary to prove that the Hightower is with the Faith, that the city is united, still. To this end, there is the matter of Commander of the Watch left unfilled.” Manfred slapped the writing table, nodding, “Name them. I don’t care.” “Lord Alaric.” Manfred guffawed so hard, he nearly spat, “The man is MAD, brother. A fanatic! You cannot reason with him.” The High Septon only appeared to smile, more satisfied than seemed safe, “I have no problem with Lord Alaric.” “He’s not Lord, brother, he’s a commoner who thinks entirely too highly of himself.” Lord Oakheart was, by now, filling his own glass, “I find Alaric to be a good man. A man of sharpened steel, no doubt, but of true faith.” “Aye, exactly the kind of man the city could use,” Rowan nodded along. For a second, Vittoria thought Manfred might launch himself at both of them. It was no secret how little Manfred cared for the opinions of ‘country’ lords when it came to the running of his city. Even her own father, the Warden of the South, typically got little traction on such matters from Manfred. Of these two, she imagined Manfred wanted to hear nothing of it. “…fine.” Ceryse allowed abuse upon abuse to be hurled at her and Vittoria. She would never forgive her uncle for what had happened to her because of his choices. Her father’s anger had nearly been enough to cause remorse, but that melted away now that they were in this room. And now that she saw the powers shifting yet again. Men, always men, seeking short-term gains with no regard for the lives they ruined or the chaos they set in motion. And then, as if she was no longer in the room. The heir dead. Aenys ill. She had been wed to Maegor for over fifteen years, had watched the family, seen their contempt for Aenys’s children. If their king fell, there was no doubt, Maegor would be back. With his whore. And what would these men expect of her then, return to him? Take her place by his side while he kept [i]that[/i] woman in his chambers? Would they expect her to suddenly care about representing their interests again? Her hands gripped the arm rests, her knuckles white as they debated some foolishness or another. “You fucking fools.” She bristled, her voice quiet but seething. Whatever her father had agreed to would undoubtedly come back to haunt him, hadn’t all their decisions. She turned to Vittoria, ignoring the men’s anger at her speaking up - at her continued lack of decorum. “Escape from this wretched place, love. They will destroy you if you stay. They will use you and then discard you when you are no longer convenient. Let my life be a warning to you.” Ceryse turned her attention back to men who seemed caught between stunned silence and sputters of rage. “Not a single one of you is innocent. But Uncle, oh Uncle - you are the worst of this lot. You [b]sold[/b] me to the dragon bastard. Can’t have the boy marry his niece, no that sin against the gods is a step too far. Not after we all bowed and scraped our knees to the man who married not one but two sisters.” She was snarling, ignored any attempt to cut her off, her voice rose with each accusation. “And you were so handsomely rewarded, were you not? Your life, gold, and lip service to the Faith. Of course, we cannot forget how much House Targaryen respects the Faith. They respect you so much, that they tasked one of your fucking septons to lay hands on me. That’s what they say in polite company isn’t it? Well I can assure every last one of you here that his methodology was far more [i]intrusive[/i]. And when I had had enough? Did you welcome me back? No! You have treated me as if I had greyscale.” She stood, her hands placed on the table, arms quivering from rage. “You think you see the coming battles and you worry that my reputation is what will ruin you? Fucking fools.” Blood pounded in her ears and she couldn’t risk turning to see how Vittoria handled her outburst. “If you want a sinner’s stunt, I will give you a sevens’ damned sinner’s stunt.” The High Septon was so quickly to his feet, his hands had to quickly reach to his crystal crown in place on his red and getting redder head as the anger nearly threatened to undo him. Such an act robbed him of first response. That fell to the slender, narrow nosed, Lord Oakheart’s pithy comments: “Oh, this madness once again,” his eyes rolled, his dismissive chuckle unfurled in full, though those eyes of his double-backed to the stare still on him from the Lady Vittoria. Lord Rowan stood to leave, “We will be calling banners to protect the Faith,” he said, to Lord Manfred, the Lord of Goldengrove’s eyes hesitating on the large Lord of the Hightower to see if Manfred would react, but found only a blank stare. Without resistance, Lord Rowan’s focus shifted to the Princess, “You were asked to do your noble DUTY. Gods [i]forbid[/i]. And now you presume to talk to His Holiness as if he is some vile, ill-intended plotter?” “We will not have this,” Lord Oakheart nodded, standing as well, “We will be calling our banners,” he might have said it to Manfred, but his eyes had stuck on the stare from Vittoria Tyrell, until he ripped his eyes away, and looked to Manfred. The High Septon glared at his niece. “…you have done foolish things before, child…but this…” “If none else will, we will protect the Faith from Maegor,” Rowan doubled down, all but glaring at Manfred Hightower. The sound that came could have split ears. It was no righteous, thunderous, fury. It was higher pitched, a [i]slap[/i] that came loud enough to see men wince. [i]Slap.[/i] Flesh on wooden arm rest. [i]SLAP. SLAP.[/i] That it came from Vittoria Tyrell might have been the surprising part, had it not been for the eruption of loud, unbridled, laughter from the youngest person in the room. After the slap, the right hand that had rapped upon the chair’s armrest balled into a fist that bounced once, twice, in the air before her index finger was left pointing to the three men. Her jaw tightened, her tongue rolling across her left cheek as the highest of humors left her eyes positively brightly wide. It was through the settling of laughter she spoke, after the briefest pause, “…you know he begged?” When looks of confusion were their response, she leaned forward in the chair, her hands wiping across the space before and below her, above the floor at her feet. “Right there, at my feet. Begged me.” Another bit of laughter came out, a single chuckle, before it, too, settled into a tone livelier than any of these men had ever heard from her before, “Free Cities sent wave after wave. Champion, after champion.” The fingers of her right hand rubbed together, fast, like a soundless snapping, as her left hand brushed hair behind her shoulder, her head cocked just so to the side as she regarded the three men again. “The Hand of the King wouldn’t let me near his war council. Nearly a month of losing men, gold, smallfolk lives—only on the verge of embarrassment did he turn to me. I had Harren the Red cornered in less than a fortnight…you know the Vulture King wouldn’t go near Sam the Savage and I?” Her lips tightened, her jaw locked as her head shook, once, hard, in exaggeration of ‘nope.’ “Wouldn’t let me catch him. Knew it was coming……” The pause that followed was so quiet, she heard nothing but the cracking of the fire in the fireplace, her humor and joy gone from her face as she stared at them, nodding. “Call your banners for the Faith. Nice of you to finally stir yourselves. I’ll call the banners of the Reach. To protect the Faith, to protect the Realm.” Rickard Rowan looked as if she struck him. “…is that some kind of threat?” “We are not scared,” Torgen Oakheart said it with a bark of contentious laughter, though his face showed no humor. “This is madness—” the High Septon began. “—the Hightower will burn blue tonight. We will be with you, High Marshall.” The three men turned to Lord Manfred and protested as a chorus of bemoanings and outrages. To all three, Manfred Hightower simply stared, blank as before, “You all have a busy night ahead of you, then. Go with the Gods…and go now.” “If she is to be Queen, brother, the—” The words cut off the moment Lord Manfred turned his head and caught the gaze of his brother. “My daughter is home. My daughter will stay home until she wishes to leave so long as I live. Goodnight, brother.” The three men all but flew out the door in a rage. Vittoria Tyrell never moved from her seat, staying silent as the men left. When they were gone, Manfred called in the guards at the door: “Have them light the flame blue,” once they left, his eyes moved to Vittoria, “do not fuck this up. Daughter, see your tired father to bed, please.” “We’ll talk,” Ceryse promised Vittoria. The High Marshall of the Reach didn’t leave the room until they were gone, Manfred looked…paler, smaller, somehow. Worry gave her enough pause to carefully take in the man’s solar before she left it, every scent, every parchment, the wines there, his tall chair…she almost didn’t notice the shadow at the door until it moved. “Vittoria,” Martyn Hightower started, his face full of intent, “let’s talk.”[/color]