“My Lord, your meeting with Septa Rhaena is nigh.” 

Jon twitched slightly at what he heard. He supposed he had forgotten about that. Perhaps because he hadn’t deemed it important. But these days, he hadn’t deemed very much of anything important. When everyone was so much stupider, it felt simply unfair to himself to be troubled by their whiny entreaties. So many people were asking him for help, to do something, but only after they made a fool of themselves. What then is the point in helping, if as soon as things are briefly resolved the men of the world go back to their past ways? 

“You can’t teach a man to fish instead of giving him a fish, if all he does is keep demanding a fish.”

He realized he had spoken the words out loud, and already began a soft moan in annoyance at the confused [i]“My Lord?”[/i] that soon followed. Was he ailing with something? Much as he hated petitions every hour in their ever greater insignificance, he oughtn’t have forgotten this. He doubted the girl would have anything too important to say but to keep a member of the crown’s blood in the same dismissive headspace as a commoner was foolish.

It was also [i]wrong[/i] and the man pinched himself to try to give his body a bit of a shock into wakeful activity. He despised the King, and every day he felt sardonic glee at their growing woes that began to accumulate not too long after his dismissal. 

But though the menfolk had well and duly cocked it up, the ladies could hardly be blamed. He’d be a fool to think they were wholly powerless, but by and large they weren’t at fault for the state of things. To that end, he ought have treated Rhaena more kindly and nobly than he had in letting this meeting fall behind the drawers of his mind. 

“Tell her I will be with her shortly. I- I had a meeting of great importance just prior,yes.  Have the cooks rustle something up. Teas and whatnot. Things to pick at, wine, we ought be as welcoming as possible as befits a woman of such station.” He give a bit of a side-eyed glance at the man listening to his orders, before waving about to indicate that she was respectable for both her royal blood and her ecclesiastic position. 

Spiteful, vengeful, and so much more could describe Lord Hightower, this he knew well enough. But he at least like to think he wasn’t quite a bad person, and hence bid no will to women that never slighted him. Setting aside that he didn’t want her to deliver to kin that he had effectively insulted her and her dynasty he didn’t want to offend the sensibilities of somebody genuinely faithful despite the cynicism that her privilege typically engrained.

Much as he had become a skeptic and ever more a misanthrope, he was still a believer in the Seven. He had read every treatise of the Maesters about contradictions in the scriptures and rituals, he had read every oddity of historic account and the cyclic corruption and knew well how his own distant ancestors had accepted the faith first and foremost solely to prevent themselves from being run down by the lances of the Andals as so many other ancient families of Westeros had been.

But he had more than enough to find that all the alternatives to the Faith of the Seven were so unconscionable that it was a default of sorts. For long he had examined this position in itself, skeptical in it for the reason it was likely just comfort that lead him to such. But with every new book he requisitioned from the Citadel, he found it ever more merited. 

So, even if he cared not for the consequences on this earth for how Rhaena was met, and even if he cared not for her, at the very least he had to be concerned for the reaction of the Gods.

“Dress me in something new, quick. I’ve been in this a bit long.” he murmured, standing up and raising his hands. How many days had it been since he slept? More than a nap in his chair, anyway. 

He wished he was more presentable, a shave and a grooming would do him good as would a bath, but at the very least as servants hurried in with food and drink and a change of flowers he hadn’t remembered asking for, he was at least making clear he was putting in effort. "Your Royal Highness!" He announced with spread arms, furs on his shoulders wriggling alongside the movement of his shoulders. "I wish things were somewhat more worthy of you gracing us, forgive me." an at least somewhat sincere bow followed this. 

Jon realized he ought have asked for simple water to be brought, but it was a bit late for such a thing unprompted, lest that merely draw attention to its presence.