"No, no! Too warm!" Lysa grumbled, slapping at the maid's arm, a tin bucket of water in hand, full and dribbling onto the floors. The woman nodded clumsily, rushing off, Lysa groaning loudly from her deep leather chair, one hand resting on her forehead and the other upon the thick bump of her stomach, legs spread and elevated on a small stool, swollen feet and puffy ankles hanging. Her sky-blue kirtle was long, hiked up to her calves, but coloured a darker glossy navy from sweat and water. She had tossed away her falcon-embroidered surcoat, her white mantle folded and shoved behind her lower back, her girdle emblazoned in tiny little gems broken on the floors.
"Gods be good, where do you find these women!" She whined, face scrunched and wet and nauseous. Jon stammered with an awkwardly crooked smile, but said nothing more. Lysa's temperament was vicious, swinging back and forth from a terrible paranoia mixed with sorrow, to a mirthless rage targeted at any who even dared to glance her way. And for the maids and stewards and servants and even cooks, such was the nightly ordeal. Jon tapped at his knees, slightly sore, with trepidation. Lysa… Lysa's previous pregnancies had been similar. "Healthy," the Grand Maester had claimed, "Without issue," Maester Colemon had echoed. The same assurances once again that inspired less and less confidence with each passing moon.
The Mother rebukes such thoughts. Do not bring bad omens in this place. Jon had purchased seven statues and placed them in seven locations across the Tower of the Hand, each blessed by the septons and the septas. He held one of them now, the Father, with his balance of scales crafted of wood and wax but heavier than stone and steel, the feast of his visage only a day away.
His lady wife had made her hearth in the Tower, unwillingly and afraid to leave for the Eyrie so late with child, intent that this one would be a boy, a son, an heir, intent that this one would live, breathe, perhaps even laugh longer than the last. The Tower of the Hand was isolated, tall and untethered to the Hand's duties that scurried throughout the city street's and Red Keep's corridors.
A resident shrill screech cut through the hair, old and obnoxious and from a large gyrfalcon sat across the chamber. It put a faint smile to Jon's lips, but a horrid curse to his wife's. "Shut that thing up! I've not an inkling to why you insist on keeping him here," she said sharply.
The old falcon seemed to share his mutual discontent, displaying his ash-white wings wide with warning. Jon leapt to his feet as if a young man, drifting to the ironwood perch where the falcon sat, glad to have something to do. He snorted quietly, as so his wife would not hear his humour, brushing his finger gently against the blotches of black and grey that mottled the falcon's body, his hooked dark beak caught in an amusing snarl. Alester, an old gift, with beady eyes opaque and clouded, with hearing and wit still sharp enough know a threat, yet too blind to see it. he was a fond thing, a familiar thing, far beyond his years. Alester had been a wee chick in the year of his father's death. A passing gift Jon had accepted readily, earnestly. But the falcon was gifted in grief and destined for discourtesy, it seems. Always difficult to rouse to the field or hunt. He'd even refused the many names Jon had given, until a loyal steward of Alester had served in the white walls of the Eyrie; the falcon only responding as Jon called for service. The boy had left to pursue the knightly talent years past, but the name had stuck fervently since.
The maid returned soon after, her bucket filled with freezing waters, little sprays of herbs and horsetail soaking within. Lysa scoffed, "Better! Cold water, cold water for the ankles. Do they teach you anything?" Jon could only give the woman a smile, watching her gently massage Lysa's ankles as she moaned perhaps too crudely.
In a moon's time, Lysa would enter the maester's chambers and do her duty. And if the gods were kind, Jon would see the child grow to a fine man, one that could lay the old Hand to the crypt with a strong hand and a safe legacy. He had long forgone any words of comfort or reassurance, for Lysa seemed to think his tongue either poisoned, cursed or simply grating. And more so, he wished this child healthy so his wife may breathe easier, without the cloud of sorrow that sunk her eyes and her frown. For when the vigils were commanded and the children entombed, she had wept and raged and strewn her sorrow upon the marble floors of the Keep, her nails cracking against wood and her eyes distant and gaunt as she lay still and forlorn on featherbeds for days unending. And Jon had consoled her as much as a man could a grieving mother, and he had raged and wept himself in dark lit hours of night.
But under the light of the Seven was peace, and acceptance. The text say that the attendants of the Seven litter the silver halls of the Sixth Heaven, with great gilded trumpets that deliver the souls of the unborn unto the Crone, for guidance into the mortal land, and then the Stranger, who's hands are as soft as a mother's touch, ready for deliverance into the wombs of maidens. And in those days where the only gifts a child had earned in its nameday was a shroud, Jon had held Lysa tightly, her eyes tearing endlessly as her hands sunk into her stomach, clutching a deflated pain. He had told her that their children would reside in the Heavens waiting for their parent's arrival, and that perhaps the world was too unkind and unseemly for children conceived in such beauty. His lady wife had not liked that, choosing to spend her grief alone and bar him from her chambers.
The doors flew open with a crack, cold summer winds crashing in. Lysa shrieked, ready to attack whichever intruder had flown all the way to the Hand's chambers after the sun had fallen. But the intruder was but a boy, the maester's attendant, face blotched with pimples and a Kingsguard in tow, short and out of breathe.
"Corwyn?" Jon asked, shivering slightly. Ser Boros Blount, too? The boy looked as if he might collapse, the knight's hand holding him steady.
"It's— it's the King, m'lord. He— you best come now. The Grand Maester urges it so," Corwyn sputtered and spit.
The King? Robert, gods. What has happened? Jon sprinted from the rooms almost possessed, only mumbled words for Lysa as they fly through corridors and down steps and through halls and under ceilings and across ramparts. The King? Jon asked his questions, frantically, fervently. "Is he dead?" was the first, his breathe almost stolen from him in the short seconds of waiting. "No," they said. No, Jon thanked, but the worry soon returned, with little answers from the pink-faced serving boy who no doubt knew nothing, and the silent Kingsguard who could share even less.
They came to a dead stop outside the Maester's quarter, the Grand Maester and Ser Barristan silent, shrouded in such a darkness that even the faint torchlight between them could not turn Ser Barristan's cloak white. His heart was in a flurry, beating and beating and beating to the rhythm of the Stranger's tune, breathes shallow as he held the doublet tightly.
"Ser Barristan," he said, breathing deeply, "Grand Maester," he said as he exhaled loudly, "At this hour… tell me. Plainly, please."
Hunched and hoarse, Pycelle wobbled closer to an arched doorway, shut tight, "A most grievous incident, my Lord Hand. His Grace had fell outside the castle sept."
He stepped back, only a foot, "Fell?" Jon asked incredulously. Did I hear the man correctly?
"Y-yes, my lord. Not an hours past."
Jon shook his head frowning. Fell? "Who was charged to guard the King?"
"I, my lord," the old knight says, swallowing deeply, but with his head bowed in shame.
Jon shook his head like a damned fool, straining his eyes so hard he saw flashed, "Ser Barristan the Bold… and yet the King fell? Not down the Serpentine Steps but a simple walkway? Do the Kingsguard serve only to watch the King or protect him?" Jon almost believed it to be a dream. Was he not with Lysa but a moment ago?
The Grand Maester chimed in quickly, "This was not… long after I had, attended to the King myself at the behest of Ser Barristan. His wounds had opened, most unfortunately… some infected. I cleaned them, applied the… relevant remedies and poultice, of course, and recommended rest. I beseeched this to His Grace, truly. But he thought it more prudent to… uh, pray."
Pray? Jon stained his wrists with the sweat upon his brow, "And… before this? The King was…?"
"In his quarters, my lord. He woke late, and remained… uh, occupied until the sun began to wean. Then… he requested the remainder of the feast and wine. His chambers…" Ser Barristan said, lips awkwardly tight.
"Stained, my Lord Hand. With bile, blood and shattered glass. I cannot say what compelled the King to such rage," Pycelle answered.
Women and wine… it came at little surprise. "How much?" Jon asked.
"Four.. flagons. At the very least."
He snorted with a riveting astonishment that tasted bitter, "… four flagons… enough to drown a man," Jon said flatly, "A Grand Maester and a Kingsguard allowed the King to gorge himself to a puddle of his own making… and simply watched as he walked the length of the castle in a drunken delirium…"
"My lord, please—"
Jon sighed, waving his hand at the knight. Robert is his own creature. I can hardly compel the man myself. "It is alright, ser. Forgive my… brashness. The night has been long… trying, and I did not expect… this. Please, relieve yourself for the night and place no blame upon your shoulders. Robert, he," Jon pauses, biting his lip hard, "the King is… the King," he says simply, watching as the old knight trudging away, shoulders sagged and gaze heavy.
"Will… will he live?" He dares to ask the maester, fiddling with his long chains as he answers slowly.
Pycelle nods gravely, "Yes, yes. He will. But… it will not be without great challenge. Nor time."
"Such is the case with His Grace," Jon mumbles.
"Yes… I have administered dreamwine, with no small amount of poppy. After he wakes… I will conduct a more thorough examination. Likely consult the Citadel for.. uh, methods to mitigate any further harm to His Grace." Jon Arryn threw Pycelle a queer look, "Many… many men consume themselves to the grave, my lord. Many… most, do not even realise it has occurred. The twinge of yellow in the eye, the stomach bulging as hard as steel… shallow breathes and aching pains. Even the throne's own little malices. Yes… yes, I have seen it before. More than a man would hope to in his life. And I am… long lived, my lord, yes."
"Hmm. Yes, as am I," he gestured to the doors, "May I?"
"Oh, yes, of course, my lord. It will take a great thunder to rouse him now."
"… Perhaps that is… for the better. For now, Grand Maester, delay news of the King's… illness. I will… inform the council and the court in due time. When my senses return to me." Jon rubbed the top his head clean, removing his cloak as he begun to sweat profusely, body unbearably warm.
"Of course, my Lord Hand. The haze of dark words… none shall blame you." None shall blame you, the maester says. None shall blame you. Jon shook his head. If the King were to bleed, is it not the Hand who holds the blade?
The maester's infirmary was large, but made only for the Royal need. Lit only by a burning fireplace, leathered chairs and bookshelves strewn across, a large window shuttered closed moonlight crept in small streams. A great canopy bed sat in the middle, curtained with dark-blue silks. When he ripped the curtains away, Jon's face twitched and his thinning grey hair turned a shader whiter. Robert lay prone, his breathing deep and heavy, each breath a lone echo in a silent room. His sheets were sweat-soaked and stained, his damp beard trimmed, combed and washed by the maester's attendants. His arms were wrapped by patches of bandages, stained by ointments and the lightest seeping of blood. His tunic was loose and open, the forest of hair upon his bulging chest and belly buried beneath wrappings. Jon covered his mouth, his hands trialing to his forehead which befell a sharp pain, before falling into the seats behind him.
His breathing quickly fell into a trying rhythm, eyes shut and hands gripping the edges of the seat, little wet tears threatening to make themselves known. In and out, in and out, he simmered for a half hour, the air cool but pungent, Robert's sickness strong and seeping. As a boy, Robert had been an eager one, energetic and ecstatic to venture into a new realm. Jon had almost sent him back to Storm's End, disbelieving that a man over sixty could manage such a boisterous child. But Eddard had seen that role for him, he supposed. A temperer for Robert's tempers and Jon's age. Two boys, two men, he was glad to call sons. For he had never known any other.
"Two sons, I lost. Two sons, I mourned," he whispers, gently, toying with cloak between his hands, eyes closed, "… even… even the ones who died without hair, without ever peeking their eyes open, even the slightest bit. Even the ones my heart could not bear to even name. They were tiny things…" Robert's breathing was consistent, and Jon wondered what the man dreamed of, staring at him distantly, "Hardly any bigger than your hand. Yes… tiny. Perhaps… Lysa's womb will prove fruitful. Perhaps the Father will be kind and the Mother will be merciful… and I shall be granted a child… I may call Arryn, as my father and my mother always wished. But that day… it is not today. It may… never… come to pass." The air felt like a confession.
He smiles, longingly, full of sorrow. "And so, my legacy has long been lived and loved. Two sons lost, yes… but two sons I have. Not of my blood… but… of my home. And my teachings." What a poor teacher I must be. Was this the sum of my lessons? "One of them…" Jon sighs, "One of them ventures beyond to a dangerous realm with little word… only whispers that bring no comfort for my worries. I am left… wondering in the night what terror torments him so, and why he covets his silence so fiercely. And the other…" He moved forward to hold the other's hand, whispering some prayer unintelligibly, but known to him somewhere in an old memory.
Jon sits beside his King until dawn, sleep drifting in and out, the very thought of Robert passing jolting him awake. But soon enough, it is Jon's name Robert calls, faintly, weakly, yearning Jon from his half-dreamt state to full-attention. Full of rage, he finds. For all the sorrow and worry and desperation of the night before is lost, a bitter taste left upon Jon's tongue.
"Is this not a kingly sight, Jon?" Robert whispers, his hoarse voice lined with a wry humour that dug Jon's nails into his clenched fists. Robert's strained snort turns Jon's vision red, and he fails to calm himself quick enough.
"You would mock my wroth with you, boy?" Jon seethed, standing with a young man's fury. Robert turns his head away, and Jon felt the rage swelter and storm, a tempest itching in his veins, turning his skin red hot. Jon had not felt such anger since the Vale, the King's commands in his hand, Elbert dead on the floors of the throne room. "You were this close to death, Robert! On a foolish endeavour of a stomach and thirst too large for your eyes and your wits. Of reckless indifference to injuries that I told you… that I warned you would fester and grow infected!" Jon bellowed, "What was I to do if Ser Barristan had found the King dead in a puddle of his own making! Shall I take up the crown myself? Shall I crown your son of five namedays? Or shall I send a letter to Casterly Rock, and hand the damnable thing to Tywin Lannister?"
He falls back into the chair beside Robert's carved canopy bed, his hands pinching the ends. "You are quick to wear your armour and wield your hammer in times of war, and quicker to bury your head in the sand in matters of ruling! I have allowed you to flaunt your recklessness across the court since Pyke. I have allowed you to taint your tenure with failure after failure in court. And to my shame, I have allowed you to reject the crown that thousands died for, for nothing. Nothing, Robert. The realm is not blind nor deaf. Do you wish for them to say you are the Unworthy come again? I have—" He stops himself, breathing deeply as Robert watches him, pink-faced and silent. Calm yourself, you fool. Do you wish for the entire city to hear you? It was unseemly for the Hand to scream at the King like an unruly child. Calm yourself.
"I have, I have, I have," Jon says, his hand slicing the air with each word, his body growing heavier by the second as he sinks into the gulping leathers of the chair, his heart pounding, clutching his chest.
He lets the silence sit between them, listening to the embers crackling in the fireplace, and the lightest breeze that rippled in the curtains. "When was the last time I berated you so, Robert? When you had begotten a child on that serving girl in the Eyrie?" Jon shakes his head, "You did not care for my words then, shall you care for them now?" He barely holds back a bitter snort. Robert eyes bore into the ceiling, dim and empty. Jon's tongues explored the inside of his mouth aimlessly, finding the taste of his spit and blood from a bitten cheek. "I am tired, Robert. I am, tired," He whispers with a heavy sigh, the Father's fury lingering in his empty prayers, "If you wish for me to throw myself from the tallest tower of the Keep, then command it of me, so I may rest." He rips the iron brooch from his doublet, playing with it, letting it dance between the fingers of his offhand, before clasping it in his closed fist.
Did he mean such words? No. For they were foolish. Words for men who buckled beneath the barest burden of duty. He stared at the iron brooch, tracing its rough edges. After the Sack, Jon had taken to wearing the clasped necklaces and golden brooches left behind by the many Hands of Aerys. But there was a stench upon those forgotten stations, and no amount of silver nor gold could hide the corruption that infected such old symbols. But in the short moons after, Robert had appeared beneath the throne, a small wooden box in tow. The King had been quick to shower the realm and his friends with gifts galore. But for Jon, he had reserved this, an iron pin, simple, sturdy. In in the decade past, had never rusted. Roughened around the edges, yes. But never broken. Robert had fastened upon his doublet himself, his face serious but confident. And in his growing age, Jon found there was moments as memorable as that honour, few as cherished.
Robert laughs weakly, blood spitting as he did. "You going to abandon me then, Jon? Go back to home? I shan't hold it against you."
He eyed Robert distantly. When the longships had descended upon the Stepstones, he had remained side by side by hundreds of young knights. Steel tore asunder the hearts of men in waves, rusted armour left drowned in the depths of the Narrow Sea. The two-headed monster had called for the rallying of a realm united, and when the dust had settled, squires and men at arms fell to their knees for honour. They had ascended no kings that day, nor earned any penny. Only glory, and fealty. He had learned then, that proof of a knight's providence was blood. The Warrior's blessing, in heart and hearth. The seal of their devotion.
The iron pin pricks in Jon's closed fist, and when he opens it, his palm is bloodied and the pin stained. "When I witnessed you first climb upon the steps of the throne, I swore to ward the King. To unsheathe my arms in times of war, my wisdom in times of peace, and my service in hours of need. I am bound, Robert, by honour, courtesy, and duty, to defend and uphold the realm against all word, deed or force that wishes her harm." He returns to the pin to his chest, steady, still stained red, "My oath has not rusted since those waning hours of the Sack. It remains true, even if your own has turned brittle."
He stands at the door now, a sudden wave of grief sitting upon his shoulders, not for the man yet still alive, but for the boy long taken by the Stranger's boat. His eyes close tightly for a moment, before turning back to Robert, who still cannot meet Jon's stare. "Rest, Robert. And rest well. We will speak when you are of sound mind, and when I have regained my patience. But I warn you now, a slow death for you, is a slow death for us all."
If the King cared to hear him, Jon could not tell. "Where are you going?" Robert calls weakly.
Jon pins the Hand's oath to his doublet once more. It is heavier now, worth far more than its weight in iron, he finds, "To the sept, Robert. The Feast of the Father has begun, and it is in the Father's judgement that the realm seeks guidance." That I… seek guidance. He leaves, shutting the door quietly without another word nor ear for Robert.
Pycelle stands waiting outside, no doubt drawn by the shouts. "M-my lord?" He asks with a hint of concern.
"Awake, finally," he replied absently, adorning his cloak and rubbing at his strained eyes, "Do not let him leave, regardless of his commands." Pycelle nodded deeply, entering the room behind Jon as he stood still, recollecting his thoughts and learning how to use his legs once more.
The walk to the Sept of Baelor is long. Thecity streets of King's Landing seemed to grow endlessly in sight. Atop the slopes of the cobbled street of the King's Way, a man could see the city sprawling for miles in winding webs of mazes, alleys, graveyards and markets. In between the countless streets, Jon could hear the buzz of a hundred inns, taverns and bakeries, butchers and workshops, smiths and carpenters and tailors all rushing through paved roads and muddied ways. King's Landing was alive, each street, preparing for the great feast and hurrying as septons and septas pooled into every corner for the public service.
And beyond that, the sept was a gargantuan thing, like a giant beacon outshined only by the Red Keep itself. A marvel of marble that rose in seven slender crystal towers, glimmering like rainbows, tolling for the sacred day. But a chasm of guilt followed him in each ring of the Great Sept's bells. How many prayers had he missed? How many sacrifices had he ignored? I pray the Gods do not punish me. And though never gone, his faith had surely withered. For what was faith in a storm of swords, under the shadow of rebellion? "What good is faith in a pit of vipers, where deceit is the language of the red halls?" His father had said, never one for the capital, never one for travel. A man sure of his place and life and his security in the heavens. Where the white walled halls of the Eyrie sustained him, until they did not.
The towering doors of the sept were beckoned opened, the masses pooling in and out. Jon drifted beneath the Hall of Lamps, giving his greetings and his gratitudes, staring up as the ceiling of crystal shined, drifting aimlessly into the inner hall, cavernous and crawling to a great dome above. Hundreds stood within, wooden pews adorned on each side and above on hanging balconies, all flowing towards an altar in which the High Septon stood; intricate frescoes and gilded accents above catching rainbow light through hanging crystals and stained glass-windows. Steadfast against the periphery of the dome stood the Seven, imposing and carved of granite, different coloured marbles and stones.
"Lord Hand!" called the High Septon, arms wide as he strolled down the centre velvet rug. And even from afar, it was clear the High Septon spared no expense. Too far an expense, Jon thought. He looked venerable. His shoulder-cape grew long, draped onto the floors behind him. It was split into two pieces of crimson and white silk, ornamented in narrow strips of gold; each strip decorated with the hands and tools of the Seven. His chasuble looked fresh, coloured as white as winter snow. A wide gold strip was embroidered down the middle, each end lined in small seven-pointed stars, catching shadows on their raised edges. A larger star sat above his abdomen, the silent faces of the Seven watching within. Beneath his chasuble, he wore a wide sleeved alb, coloured a deep red, the ends of his wrists and legs sewn with flowers of gold and silver. A bright pallium sat upon his collar, woven with white wool and pinned with holy symbols. The remainder of his holy vestment was littered in random blotches of rainbow stars, fighting for space, but shining in bursts of sapphire, ruby, emerald, onyx and sunflower silks.
Behind him, a small shadowed septa followed meekly, almost entirely consumed by the growing girth of the High Septon's waist that threatened to ply his vestments open. She wore a simple grey and light blue gown with loose sleeves, a tight belt around her hips and a white headdress that covered her hair, but framed her delicate face modestly.
"Your High Holiness, Septa Arielle," Jon called. The larger man's hands were sweaty and warm in greeting, adorned with a large ring that glowed with the bouncing fires of the hall, thick and heavy, covering his entire index and knuckle, carved in flawless gold. It wore the face of the Father Above, eyes closed with a crest of stars shooting from his chest. His crystal crown was cut clean, sculpted ceremoniously with refractions of rippling rainbow light, the peaks of the seven-points like little blinding stars. And yet even at its tallest peak, it sat beneath Jon's chin.
"I am not too late, I hope?"
The High Septon gave a belly laugh, spitting slightly, "Not at all! Come, come. I shall reserve a place for you at the front. Though, in truth, I expected to see you in the Keep's ceremony."
"I felt my place was here. In this sept… I am sure you can understand."
"Ah, of course!"
At the base of the High Septon's pulpit, Jon could overlook the breadth of the crowd. Merchants, noblemen, labourers and septons and mothers and fathers and children and even the odd sailor. The Feast was a renown occasion, marked for the movement of the stars at the cusp of the new year; a time of patience, piety and perseverance.
The High Septon came close, hushed, snarling almost, "Before we begin, my lord. Forgive my insistence. A matter of grave importance has been brought forth, and I feel… that there is no better time to let our thoughts dwell on this… obscenity, than our most honourable feast."
A grave matter. The gods surely enjoyed their little jests. "Of course, Your High Holiness, speak freely."
"I had heard… directly from the good septons and septas of this hall, that is… of a foreign witch… a priestess, no less! That cavorts in the streets with great malice. Naturally, I could not allow this… attack on our Faith, this denouncement of our Gods… so plainly blasphemed… to be left unchallenged." The High Septon enunciated each word, hands waving up and about in clenched fists, like commanding a poor man's choir opposed to speaking to a Hand.
"And you saw… these crimes?" Jon asked quizzically.
"Oh, yes! Showering peasants in foods wrought with disease, while brewing strange medicines and magics to heal rapid illnesses. It is a disgraceful attempt to dissolve the King's peace. Oh, Lord Hand, if you would only see her! Flaunting her teats through the streets. She may keep them hidden, but I am no fool to her fouls arts in the dark of night. These eastern folk.… using debauchery to pervert our streets with her heresy. It is beyond outrageous! The Mother, by the Seven, the Maiden, would wail at these trespasses committed in the vision of their visage!" The High Septon spit venomously, but quiet enough to be unheard from the crowd.
"She is no better than a whore. Worse even, for even whores know to commit their sins within the confines of their craft." Septa Arielle shuffled uncomfortably behind the large man, her head bowed, but cheeks crimson even in shadow. Her bodice was simple, plain; the standard for septas. But tighter around the waist, her figure ample.
"Hm. I hear your words plainly, Your High Holiness. Worry not, I will… see that it is sorted quickly."
"As long as you… and, uh, the King, of course… are aware." Jon Arryn eyed the man, not knowing if his frustration was with the man himself or simply the day's events. Words and whispers and rumours were aplenty in court. Great monstrous direwolves and sickly daughters and an old man's childless sorrow. They rose and crashed and withered like waves. But the Fat Septon remained the court's mascot of ridicule. His demands and complaints were many and his promises worth little, brazen with the honours gifted upon him. Jon would investigate this priestess, yes. The Red Faith was known to him briefly through Thoros of Myr and his travels of Oldtown where their great temple lay. But he was no fool, and despite the shame and guilt that it brought upon him, he doubted the High Septon's worries were of any great concern. And here, he could only see Robert coughing, wheezing, bleeding in every stare of the Seven he sought.
He took his seat heavily, his bones rattled and muscles aching, a throbbing pain of his lower back and knees returning as he rested. The first row was littered with lords and ladies and rich merchants, many of which Jon knew. Master Appleton, Lord Estermont, the young Master Baelish, Ser Davos, Lord Staunton, and… Prince Oberyn Martell, whose gaze locked with his sooner than Jon's could escape; sharp shrewd eyes, his tongue edged like a Valyrian spear.
"Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King," Prince Oberyn waltzed to him slowly, a sly grin plain across his face. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the empty place beside Jon, sitting before he could even answer.
"Prince Oberyn," he nodded, lips tight gaze elsewhere.
The Dornishman leaned forward, turning his head to invade Jon's vision, "Such a lovely place. Sitting within it… I understand why men are driven here to reflect," the Viper's tongue is sweet, and almost genuine. There is a wolffish smile upon his lips, fangs shining and intent, "The gods must be great to have such shrines dedicated to them." Prince Oberyn leaned back, staring at each of the Seven altars. He was as slender and fit as Jon remembered, his hair slick and tied back. He wore a thin layer of chainmail beneath a bronze tunic, littered in rows of decorative copper disks, trousers loose with leather boots, a sash cinching his tunic with embroidery and deep blues and reds. Poorly camouflaged, Jon found. But it made him no less fierce, and no less challenging. For Prince Oberyn was a bloodthirsty man. An unpredictable, bloodthirsty man. And that made him uniquely dangerous, for there was no antidote for the Viper's venom.
"Prince Oberyn. How lovely. Have you come for the Fast of the Father's prayer, then?" He gives a strained smile.
The Dornishman seemed amused at Jon's visible discomfort. "I did. I have never attended such a… holy event before. Is it as exciting as they say?"
"Not the word I would use, but… yes. Something along those lines."
The Dornishman smiles, "Of course." Slowly, the attendants made their way too each row, passing along small candles to be lit in prayer after the High Septon's blessing. Prince Oberyn takes a handful, passing one along to Jon, before looking at him strangely, and passing another. In his own hands, he carried three apiece. "One for each of my daughters," he says, and Jon knows it to be a true, for a father's love cannot be imitated, "In the capital, it is the Stranger a man must pray to first, no? To shield oneself. In Dorne, it is not so morbid. It is not even the Father, that a man must dedicate his fast. Did you know this?"
Jon nods, repressing a sigh. Unpredictable, yes. This is was certainly the Viper of Dorne. "Vaguely. It is the Mother you celebrate I believe. An old tradition?"
"Some say it is the oldest there is. The Mother, Maiden and Crone, one of the Seven-Who-Are-Three. To tie us to the water and roots of the Rhoynar, I suppose. My daughter, Sarella, is fond of these stories." He smiles to himself, lost in a memory. One that quickly turns grim, the edge in the man's eye leaving Jon guarded. "The Mother is fiercest of the Seven. Merciful, yes. Beautiful, most certainly. But dangerous," and the Viper snakes forward, slowly, "It is a great sin to come between the Mother and her children. To tear this bond… the greatest affront to the Gods. All there is left for the sinner to do is pray. For the Stranger will not be the first to visit him." And the Prince's jaw turns steely, his wrinkles lined in careful threats. No, promises, from the way the man spoke.
He raises his hand in peace, "But I mean no offence, please. This is a holy place, of course, and I can see that you come here to pray for another beside your self," he frowns, almost, "For your King, perhaps, furious and ferocious that he is. Or your lady wife, beloved that she may be." Jon Arryn only matches his word with a stare and a curt nod, the other man accepting as they fall into silence, the High Septon beckoning the hall awake.
"I come before you, on the precipice of the days of the fast, before the Great Feast of you, our Holy Father," he calls, the septons stood at every dozen row repeating the same, "I pray that your holy name be honoured above all. That your kingdom upon the earth flourish. That the will of the Seven Above be done in the realm of mortals, as it is in the Seven Heavens beyond." His words seem to drown away as he drones on, Jon Arryn's silent prayers feeling wrong, feeling misplaced without he guidance of the Seven to lead him.
"I, thank you, Holy Father, for the food that blesses the stomachs of the fortunate. For your forgiveness in the path of our wrongdoings, and the wisdom to help us forgive those who err against us. I ask that you protect your people from hard testing, and keep us safe from all that wish us harm, and those that beckon the Stranger's evils upon our halls. Glory be to the Father Above, one of Seven, and of the Seven who are One," the High Septon finishes, the great sept repeating his prayer in earnest.
Soon enough, the crowd thins to the few still seeking the greatest penance, the sept darker, quieter, figures silently moving to each altar, hundreds of candles lit beneath each of their feet. In the centre, seven stone basins were erected upon a central altar, glittering beneath rose, gold and pale blue streams of light from the dome of glass above. In each basin sat still water, never filled nor emptied, but forever clean and holy. When a man must pray beneath the feet of the Seven, he must dip his fingers into the cool waters, marking his forehead as to invoke the right of purity needed to step into the halls of divinity.
For it is said that when a man dies, his soul sits in a sea of judgement, where he must present his seven rejoices, each held in seven bowls, chosen and filled by the deeds of his acts of living. Jon's fingers lightly hover above the basin. He had once caught his father dipping his fingers silently into the wooden pools of the Eyrie's sept. Gods, it was an old memory. He been barely a boy of five-namedays, pulling at his father's long beard. A stern man. An honourable man. One Jon often felt he was only a pale imitation of. But he was a kind man, also. Yes. That he could say about his father.
And so he comes before a great altar, the silent sisters watch him intently, ragged cloths wiping the Stranger clean. Dignity for the Stranger, so a man may be dignified in death. "Seven blessings," he remarks. And so the sisters smile, and leave him to his prayer.
His fingers dip into the first bowl, the one you must present to the Stranger. It is only in this moment where a man may gaze upon the eyes of the Stranger, flashing and fierce and feverish, but forever concealed beneath the shadow of an endless hood. Jon lit seven candles beneath the Stranger's marbled black visage, never daring look up. For it is upon Their dreary coast and sordid hands that you must give thanks, as it is the Stranger, with a heart of a burning hollow furnace, foul with wroth and steaming, screaming attire, who ferry your soul across the sea of between, Their long paddle crafted of bone and flesh. "But you must never test the Stranger's patience, nor Their wit, for the sea of the First Heaven is harsh, and the Seven Hells lie beneath them," his father would say, and so Jon gives his thanks for the Stranger's absence, snuffing out each candle, as not to light the ferryman's way.
A woman comes forth, belly swollen and heavy. "What do you wish the Crone show us, good ser?" Guidance, for though my vision is strong, I am oft blind. Yet it is "Wisdom," he says aloud, "for the young, so that they may never lose their way." And so the woman blushes, making her wish beneath the wise one.
So come the second bowl, which you must hand to the Crone, and tread upon the waning moon within Her holy eyes. For the waters of your bowl are lit by the constellations and wanderers held within the Crone's hand, and in the halls of the wizened one, it is She who guides your light through the mist of the Second Heaven. Jon sits beneath the stone sandals of her visage, her candles large and brighter than any other, to ensure a man may never lose the path. "The far-reaching one, the all-seeing one," his mother would say, so it is before the feet of the Crone, with Her lamp lit to illuminate the wrinkle of her age, that Jon prays for wisdom, and the foresight to hold a King's crown within his hand.
The High Septon walks towards him, hands wrapped around his belly. "The Maid's smile is a truly pretty sight. I cannot imagine a greater thing than that." He says. Love, for even the oldest of men fear a lonely touch, Jon laments. "What of love? For the kindest beauties of the world, as none are more deserving of warmth," he remarks. And so the High Septon chuckles, and makes his leave.
In the hand of the Maiden's light does Jon find the third bowl, Her other holding the waxing moon. For it is the Maiden, the mistress of love and beauty, who's words a man must follow, but skirts he must never desire. For the Maid's hand is promised only in the starlight of a woman's love, and a wife's promise. Jon's eyes shut tightly, and it is beneath the loving gaze of the Maiden does he send a prayer for Lysa's safety. "The Maiden walks in in forests of oak and pear, of fields of myrtle and white lilies, and of streams of bird's song and water's gift," his mother had sung, and so he lights each candle with a prayer for the children lost to the womb, and the safety of the children yet to be sent.
A stonemason kneels before a statue, hands bruised and calloused. "What wisdom can the Smith impart on us, my lord?" He asks Jon. The path to rest, and a dreamless sleep, Jon thinks. "He is the guide for all our labours, unending that they are," Jon says instead. And so the stonemason nods, thankful and determined.
It is then he finds the fourth bowl, beholden to the Smith, as it is in the deeds of the water that He gain replenishment for His labour. And so in the mountain valleys of the Fourth Heaven, the hammer of the Smith does carve the lands, His chisel the tallest peaks, His hoe the rivers and streams and soils of life, His axe the forests and woods, and His brush, the colours and beauty of a golden world and a golden heaven. It is in his hands does Jon feel the weight of work, for an iron pin is oft heavier than any iron hammer. "The Smith does teach us the paths of hammer and measure, by anvil and spark, by carve and craft," his father had taught him, and so it is before the tool of the Smith where Jon prays for strength, and the skill to mend a fractured realm, and a fractured son.
A knight stands steely beneath a shadow, his helm in his hands. "What help can the Warrior give us, my lord?" He asks, searching in desperation. A quiet armoury, and a quiet realm, Jon hopes. Though, it is "Courage," he says, "In our hands and our steel." And so the knight bows, inspired by his answer.
And so comes the fifth bowl that runs thicker than the rest, as blood is the seal of the Warrior's devotion. For it is in the razed fields of a war's trail, in the burned villages and red run rivers, does the Warrior find His craft, as the Fifth Heaven is one of renewal. Of corn replanted, of soil sown, and wounds healed. The crowning glory of the Warrior's oath is a garden, where His compassion and protection is the only sustenance. And so Jon lights a candle for every war he had fought and lived, gratitude in strength, and in courage. "Bloody, bruised knuckles are of little worth. For what good comes from a perished flower? What true warrior does not desire peace?" His father had asked, and so Jon prays beneath the bastard sword of the stone Warrior for a lesson, and patience, for a rebel King's lust for battle in the brevity of quiet.
A septon approaches now, hands holding a closed Seven Pointed Star. "The Mother is merciful. What will you find in her embrace?" He asks. The pink-swelled cheeks of a healthy babe, Jon wishes. Instead, it is "Safety," he says, "And a fruitful harvest." And so the septon gives his thanks, bowing deeply.
There he finds the sixth bowl, sitting in the palm of the Mother, her eyes swirling with the glint of a full moon. As it is the cycle of the Sixth Heaven where a daughter may find hearth, and a son may find shield. For it is the Mother's love, and the Mother's home, that all children, young or old, must return. A home of bountiful gift for the wise and the foolish, for the storytellers and the minstrels, for the hallowed souls in search of warmth, and the babes sucked at a mother's breast. And so Jon lights seven candles in gentle solace, in search of a mother's hand to guide his wife through the fray and fury. "For the Mother's heaven is endless fields of harvest, where a child's laughter knows no bound, and the eternal sunrise bears all shades of loving," his own mother had gently whispered. So it is in prayers and promises does he find his desire, of safety for Lysa's swelling womb and swelling sorrows, and his own swelling yearn to share his children's laugh in fields of morrow.
A septa sits in tears, eyes stained and puffy. "What do you seek in the Father's judgement?" The septa asks, her head bowed. Absolution for an old man, too afraid for confession, Jon thinks. "Guidance," yet he says, "As all wise and honest folk must." And so the septa nods, pleased with his answer.
And so he reaches the final bowl, owed to the Father. Jon's hands linger above the waters for a time, as it is the Father's heaven which all men desire. For a man may feast and love and laugh forever in the gilded halls of light of the Seventh Heaven. A place where judgement is but a passing thing of the mortal realm, where beams of starlight envelop the soul, dotted stars adorned in endless trees and branches of the Father's divine love. Jon lights each candle, slowly, reluctantly, the walls of his surety crumbling with each flickering flame. "What man does not desire paradise? What soul does not yearn for eternity?" His father had asked him. But am I deserving of paradise? Have I bled enough? And yet he remembers, that it is not blood that seals a father's place. "Take upon yourself the Father's honour, and be just, so that the Father may be just upon you," his mother had echoed in many a lesson. And so Jon gives his prayer, and promises to atone. To right the wrongs, wrapped and bleeding in crimson cloaks. To build a better realm, and sculpt a better King, even if the crown must lay upon the same man's head.