[Right][h2]Oldtown[/h2] [img]https://i.imgur.com/xG4CvcW.jpg[/img] [Sup]Collab with [@Ruby] [@Vanq][/sup] [/Right] The Starry Sept had not offered her comfort in many years, and today it offered only grief, regret, and shame. Her eyes passed over the black marble walls, the stained glass windows of the seven pointed star, the altar where her kings had been anointed; where she had been wed. Now it was where her father would lie in vigil. It was as if someone had reached into her chest, wrapped a mailed fist around her heart, and squeezed. Ceryse was alone, or nearly alone, as the Silent Sisters tended to her father’s body. It wasn’t right for her to be here, but no one had barred her entry. She [i]was[/i] still queen of the realm. It had not even been a day since she had seen him last. Manfred had looked at her in such a way that all the earlier vitriol and anger melted, at least for a moment. The shame had come instantly, no longer a woman of middle years but a girl shirking in the shadow of her father’s disappointment; of his love for her even as he should reprimand her again. They had not apologized, had barely spoken a word to one another. His aged hand, wrinkled and stiff, had found hers and wrapped tenderly around it with a gentle squeeze. It had been enough. Now, Ceryse wished only she had said everything that had been in her head, floated across her tongue, only to be stopped by obstinate lips, unwilling or unable to swallow her pride enough. Had she even said she loved him, when they parted at his chamber doors? The scene played over and over in her head and she wished she had wine to wash it away. It hadn’t been his fault, though she had blamed him and everyone else for the pain and shame she had been dealt by the Seven, by Maegor, by fate, by awful luck. Ceryse was already dressed in black, simple silk, no ostentatious adornments of fire or dragons. The brief rage-induced euphoria of the night after she had left her father had been dashed so quickly when she was disturbed from her slumber. She had never strayed before. Not for all the time that Maegor had done as he wished, not for any of the time that he had ignored her and her bed. It was impulsive, all of it, though men would whisper that she had been in her cups she had been of clear and sound mind. Everyone had a breaking point. And the Volantene man had been so eager to prove himself a worthy sin. She had been woken having barely slept, still entangled in sheets and limbs, to find that her world had shifted completely. It was her fault, she would be blamed. They accused her of giving the dragons cause against her, now she had killed her father. She tried to find a way to defend herself against what she knew would be said but could only find herself agreeing with the invented charges. Self-loathing reinvented itself as rage renewed against all those who had wronged her, that had led to this exact moment. The Hightower flame burned brightly within her, perhaps it was not fire and blood, but it could burn all the same. The gloved hands rested atop the star-shaped crystal pommel as the longsword touched the floor with a gentle clank, the man in armor and mail and robed with rainbows gave a deep breath, before a deeper sigh. The Grand Captain of the Warrior’s Sons, Ser Morgan, once of House Hightower, held a deep voice with a pained tone, “Fool man, may the Father judge you justly.” Though it took him a moment, after a few prolonged moments, Ser Morgan tilted his shaved head in her direction, and spoke quietly, “Is it true? Did he and his forsaken foster daughter really threaten the High Septon with an army? I mean, I can believe the man who was once my father was an overly proud, overly brash, arrogant brute…but even that seems a step too far for him.” There was another beat, but one far shorter, one that came only with a hair’s hesitation for him to add, “…you didn’t really…with the Volantene man, it’s just the things being said…” “All of it is true.” She whispered it sharply, unsure if her voice would carry enough for him to hear her admission and regretted it instantly. “Our uncle,” presumptuous pride still to deny him his title, “had earned the threat.” Her relationships with her family had grown so strained, tattered and beyond repair. She lifted her head so her gaze could meet his cautious eyes. He didn’t really want to know the truth, did he? Such a highly honored man of the Warrior’s Sons, sworn sword of the Faith, but his judgment as a brother would wound her more. “My husband takes a second wife and I am to be judged for one small moment of…respite?” Her head shook softly. Servants had seen them together, it would not take long for the truth and then some to spread across all of Oldtown. “Haven’t I been punished enough?” She looked past him again, to where her father lay. “Damn him to seven hells for leaving us this way.” The bitterness in her voice cracked. “What will you do now, Morgan? Family or Faith?” Her eyes were earnest, searching his face for the boy she had once known. “Seven Hells, father…” The Grand Captain of the Warrior’s Sons closed his eyes and sighed, once more, a level of frustration boiled by a hot undercurrent of anger, the leather of his gloves making a small sound as his grip upon the blade’s pommel and handle tightened. The longsword clanked against the ground once more, though this time, not as gently. “The High Septon,” he said it, sharply, correcting her lapse of addressing the man who was also their uncle by his proper title, “is the voice of the Seven on our mortal plane. There is nothing the Seven could have done to warrant being threatened with an ARMY, Ce—your Grace.” He all but grunted her title, teeth clinched, not wanting to descend to the level of letting emotion get in the way of what was right. His nostrils flared, and his head shook, a small, quick, thing of a man in his thoughts, “no, Manfred Hightower always had an ego the height of the Hightower. And her…” He gave a low, scornful, breath of a chuckle, “You well know her arrogance from how she was in her youth but from what I hear, every victory she has claimed, however dubiously claimed, likely belonging to Den Tarly or Thad Rowan, has only seemed to make her worse. Your husband may not even have the ego she does. At least he was exiled.” Outward his breath came again, as if Ser Morgan was venting the heat inside him, to find an inner calm, “A sin in response to a sin is still a sin, your Grace. We will see to it that your husband is held to task for what he has done. You cannot degrade yourself, you are the Queen of Westeros now, and we will protect you.” He nodded, firm, before his head turned to meet her eyes at the question of Faith or family, “You would ask me that? We both know Martyn is a fool who worshiped the flawed man who sired us. Martyn will simply go right along with whatever things that man promised that unnatural girl. And that being an army against the Faith?...I am the Grand Captain of the Warrior’s Sons, your Grace. I cannot abide such a thing.” A rebuttal stuck at the tip of tongue, the boy was long gone. Worn away by a pious zeal that she would never understand. The hypocrisy was endless, but his confidence in himself and his beliefs did nothing except throw fuel back onto the fire. “How dare you. Vittoria has more than earned her reputation, exceeds what is spoken of her while lesser men try and claim her glory for themselves.” The woman she would have loved to call sister or even daughter was hers alone to judge, and only for the girl’s own benefit. Where was she now? Had she already heard that Manfred had died? She prayed the girl found a few more moments of peace. The comparison to Maegor struck her like a slap across her face. Redness crept up her neck. Protection, from what? A husband who had abandoned her? “You are Morgan Hightower, always a fool-headed boy and now a fool-headed man who’s replaced his mind with blind faith.” Before she could trade any further barbs, she caught movement from the corner of her eyes. No one else should be here. They shouldn’t even be here. Ceryse turned her head to see several septas behind her and to their sides. Her eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, the hair on the back of her neck bristled. “I am the rightful queen of Westeros, bonded by marriage to the dragon to whom the faith bent and anointed. You will do as your queen commands and escort me back to the High Tower. Now.” She commanded, but rage edged her words with something too much like desperation. His head bobbed to the side in a side-ways half-nod, “Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps I wrong her. I am just a man, fallible as any other, I do not claim to be anything else, but I do not threaten the Faith with an army…as you say she has done.“ In the wake of her growing anger, Ser Morgan stared at the dead man in the center of the great Sept, the man who once seemed as large to him as the Hightower. To the woman who was once his sister, he sounded only sad. “Vanity and pride are no weapons in the Light of the Faith. We are all equal in the eyes of the Seven, your Grace.” The figure that appeared was taller than the Grand Captain though slightly thinner, his armor more plain with black boots, gray mail, gray plate, and gray half-helm with a woolen blue cloak. The only thing marking him any different than any other member of the City Watch was the blue lining of the breast plate, and the golden clasp fastening his cloak. His eyes were so dark they were pools of ink, matching the hair that fell nearly to his shoulders, and the full beard that covered his face. He moved with a grace that seemed as uncomfortably natural as a storm on the distant horizon. The voice that followed was chilling, calm under any circumstance. “She’s in the city, and we know how to get close to her. It’s time.” Black eyes moved with a preternatural calm to meet Ceryse, with a smile that seemed to haunt full lips half-hidden under mustache and beard the color of starless, moonless, night sky, “So good to have you with us, your Grace.” Ser Morgan lifted his longsword, and followed the other man out, leaving only Ceryse and the Septas.