| A Septa in the Court of Thieves |
| Summary: | Rhaera is presented to the Merqueen. |
| Date: | IC date: 01-10, continuing from Blood. OOC date: 12 January 2016. |
| Related: | Blood; Septa Septa |
| Players: |
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This reception chamber is reached through a secure waiting room.
Though it is known as a court, the windowless chamber hardly resembles the grand courts of the nobility. It is a long room, with a sunken floor for a handful of supplicants to stand while they plead their favors and grievances. Upon the higher section of floor sits a long table that serves as a desk for a tribunal to hear cases. The table is constructed of sturdy wood, and provides a suitable barricade (and a place for stashed weapons) in case of trouble. Behind the table are three carved chairs, the center chair being the tallest, the next tallest to its right, and the smallest to the left of center. When Court is in session, the room is always protected by armed guards. Two doors behind the tribunal table lead further into the building.
The Court of Thieves is a busy place, but it's a tidy business — supplicants arriving, being searched and escorted by the guards to stand before a raised platform. Atop the platform is a table, large enough for one person to sit comfortably. The Merqueen sits behind it, a willowy beauty in blonde, dressed in men's clothing. Though her face seems destined for softness, there is none of that in the verdicts she hands out. Occasional pieces of mercy — food given to starving families — are balanced out by hard, divisive settlements of disputes. Many men leave looking equally miserable; no doubt, a sign that she is wisely tending her business. Beside her table is a trident, propped upright. It has a tar-covered head impaled upon it.
Cotter, the Shadowcat, is a constant presence. He doesn't stray from the big room, but he doesn't stay put, either. The man prowls the perimter of the room, speaking softly to the rough-garbed guards, greeting the thieves and fences and whores who come to plead their cases, helping the servants hand out gifts on the rare occasions that the Merqueen gives them.
Finally, a few guards bring forth the last 'supplicant' of the day — Rhaera herself. She has been kept comfortably, in a little room off of the Court. Left alone in the windowless room with a copy of the Seven Pointed Star, a jug of wine, and a small plate of meats and bread. Either a valued guest or a valuable prisoner. The guards that escort her now keep a wary distance, as though they're afraid of Rhaera. Or afraid of being accused of touching her.
Rhaera — or "Raya", as she's been called — walks so slowly, the long, dull skirt of her septa dress dragging on the floor, stopping and starting upon random whims, that she almost forces the guards to bump into her. She stares at every facet of the Court of Thieves from top to bottom, as if it is more exquisitely detailed than a windowless chamber. She stares, last but not least, at the tar-covered head and the Merqueen. Her eyes — from a distant, black — gleam, glittering and fascinated. Though she does not smile, her lips seem infused with the possibility of a grin, constantly on the verge.
There is no grin lurking upon the Merqueen's face, not when the septa enters in her shuffling parade, and certainly not when their gazes eventually meet. She has the same grim expression as the severed head might be imagined to have beneath the tar that preserves it, her eyes clear and cold like frost.
With a lift of her hand, Rhaera's guards take a few steps away from her, leaving the septa to stand alone, a single supplicant before the might of the Court. "Who are you?" Three syllables ring out level and stern from the bench, crisp and even.
Cotter drifts from off the wall, where he had been leaning, speaking idly to a few of the thugs, and is suddenly atop the pedestal alongside the Merqueen, lingering just at her shoulder. He doesn't seem to have passed through the interceding distance, or perhaps he was so unobtrusive as to be unnoticed until he's there, looking down at Rhaera, his dark eyes narrowed faintly.
"Who are you?" The septa counters. Her accent is a cultured sort, noble to match the pale, regal features framed by her head covering. She doesn't actually seem as though she's being contrary — contrary to logic, she looks at the Merqueen and around the court as if she doesn't fully understand where she is, dropped into this culture of thieves suddenly. She tips her head to one side, curious, and part of her grin taking real form, she lifts one hand — with a bandaged finger — to give Cotter a whimsical little wave, seeming to take for granted that he seems to have appeared out of thin air.
"I am the one who asks the questions," the Merqueen responds, her stare ice cold and unwavering from its current fixation upon the septa. It hardly seems possible for anything to be colder than her eyes, but her tone manages to succeed in distinguishing itself. There's the slightest inflection in her voice that hints at nobility, at least to another set of noble ears, but this hardly seems the place one might expect that.
"If you're not in the mood to answer questions, you may return to your chamber until the next time court is in session." No indication of exactly when that might be, and with another flick of the Merqueen's hand, the guards that only just abandoned Rhaera move to return to her side.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Cotter=intimidation Vs Rhaera=presence
< Cotter: Success Rhaera: Failure
< Net Result: Cotter wins - Marginal Victory
A faint flush begins to creep up Cotter's neck, and then into his cheeks. Even the ruined nub of his ear flushes. He stands stock-still beside Merqueen for a few moments before suddenly leaping off the platform and advancing on the young Septa. "This ain't a game anymore, little girl," he hisses. The man rips out his longknife, an ugly piece of work, dull and sharp and businesslike. "You're in her home. You're in her hall. You don't question her." He pauses, then screams suddenly, full in Rhaera's face. "YOU ANSWER HER!"
Rhaera appears offended by the approach of the guards, veering her shoulder away from them. She's distracted by them when Cotter starts to make his approach, but there's absolutely no ignoring him the moment he opens his mouth. She squeaks and flinches so hard her entire body skitters back with a whirl of her heavy layers of dull dirt-water browns and cloudy fabrics. She ducks her head down, drawing her gaze up from this lowered pose. "My… you've turned all red," she embellishes, "Like blood." She veers her head slowly to the side, slowly lifting her covered head, to look once again on the woman. "They call me Septa Raya," she answers as bidden. "But, hmm, my name," she smiles, "is Rhaera."
The Merqueen dismisses the guards again, when Cotter descends on the septa, watching from on high as he bellows in her face. Rhaera skitters. The Merqueen does not flinch.
She hears the answer finally offered to her question, but is not satisfied. Or so the gaze she offers her shadowcat would seem to indicate, when he looks back to her. She communicates it without a single word. Rhaera who?
"She wants all your name, little girl." Cotter is as far from the charming man on the docks as he might possibly be. He displays the knife toward Rhaera, his eyes like chips of obsidian. "Now. I can start by tickling your little pink toes with this thing here and work my way up to your kneecaps, maybe borrow a hammer, but that takes work." He turns to look at Merqueen, as if for permission, but continues without it. "You tell her everything. Who you really are. Why they call you Raya. Why they was guarding you."
To what is likely her great personal danger, Rhaera takes a moment to consider answering or not, despite Cotter's vicious insistence, which only prompts her to glance halfway in his direction with dark, narrowing eyes of her own as if his incessant threatening is annoying her. Blessedly, however, the moment is overall fleeting. "Velaryon," she states and, despite the lofty name and the pride contained within, she inclines her head low to the Merqueen as she says it, in her court. She turns to Cotter, smiling a slow, ingratiating, beseeching smile. "It's ever so hard to think with that knife in my face," she says, despite the fact that she just turned so that it is more in her face.
"Why are you here, Rhaera Velaryon?" The Merqueen seems to have only the simplest of questions for the wayward septa thus far. A pity that the simplest questions are sometimes the most difficult ones to answer. At the septa's objection to the shadowcat brandishing his knife at her, the Merqueen sweeps a cool look from the former to the latter, before turning her attention back again. Awaiting an answer.
Cotter nods in understanding to the Merqueen, stepping back and sliding his knife into its sheath. In fact, he turns and walks to the man guarding the door, murmuring a few quiet instructions. "…wake…up. Five…gates…times." He slaps the man on the shoulder, then sends him out the doors, pulling them closed himself. The shadowcat leans back against the sealed portal, turning to gaze up at Merqueen, his expression neutral.
Rhaera stands up taller now that Cotter and the knife become more distant. "I have not the faintest," she answers more casually than this entire situation warrants, sweeping her hands onto her hips and taking in the far corners of the court. "Is this a court? How interesting…" Her voice has a slow, rich, whimsical quality. She appears as fascinated as she is legitimately confused, even while a strand of amusement with herself winds around faintly behind her words. "Oh, did you mean in general? Your… king," she searches out said shadowcat with a glance, "… he took me from an overbearing trio of septas who meant to lock me away in the Starry Sept." She taps a finger to her plush mouth and looks up at the ceiling. "And yet here I find myself locked away again…"
The Merqueen's eyes go to Cotter, standing sentinel at the back of the room, when Rhaera calls him her king. She adopts what can only be called a sneer toward the rambling septa, baring her teeth but most absolutely not smiling when she says, "Then let us see you returned to your charges at the Starry Sept. I wonder what impact your attempt to seek refuge in the Undercity will have on the terms of your imprisonment."
Cotter sees that sneer, and he doesn't seem entirely pleased by it. But he's certainly more obedient than regal. When the Merqueen makes her decision, Cotter is off the door and striding forward. He speaks to the guards nearby in a low, authoritarian tone. "Let's get ready to move, lads. Tell the others I want no visible weapons. We'll want some men along the roofs as well. Crossbows and roof-tiles." It seems Cotter is closer to General than King; the men move over to the fringes, making preparations. Cotter again looks to Merqueen, raising his brow in silent question.
"No!" Rhaera exclaims insolently, such is the intensity of her desire to stay away from the sept. She lowers her head afterward in some manner of apology. "Deliver me to the Targaryens of Oldtown," she suggests calmly, smiling as if to express her good will — even while the deep violet of her eyes, settling precisely on the Merqueen, hold shadows of wickedness that have no right to live in the gaze of the faithful. "They should expect me. You can trade me for wealth. I can be your hostage."
The men are already stirring to obey Cotter's command when Rhaera gainsays the Merqueen, calling out with her sharp "No!" The blonde woman at the bench cocks an eyebrow, as if she's surprised that the septa before her would choose to remain in the Undercity rather than be remanded to her keepers at the Starry Sept.
"No?" the Merqueen echos back, incredulous. She goes quiet, listening to Rhaera's suggestion. Though she signals that the guardsmen, and Cotter, may standdown for the moment, her response is far from reassuring. "We don't meddle in the affairs of the sept, Rhaera Velaryon. Do you realize what you ask?"
Cotter looks up, folding his arms across his chest. He echoes the Merqueen, unnecessarily. "Do you realize what you ask?" As if it's the most difficult task in the world. He lifts a finger toward one of his men, who seems set to echo it a third time, silencing the man.
"Yes." Debatable. "I would go anywhere else but the sept, but I did not escape one trial just to be put in front of another," the aberrant septa says, folding her arms. She turns her head to scope out Cotter, pointing out, "You are the one who brought me here, shadowcat… why? For this?" She decides to look at neither of the underworld figures, casting her gaze at a far wall.
"Did he bring you here by force?" The Merqueen's question seems to be a rhetorical one, as if she already knows the answer. She doesn't explictly wait for a response before providing her decision in a measured tone. "You will be given paper and ink. He will tell you when and where the kinsman of your choice should attend with the ransom." The he, of course, is Cotter; her gaze goes to him. "You may write what other details you see fit regarding your circumstances. And then you will wait and hope that your kin don't share our reservations."
Cotter looks back at the Merqueen steadily, and then aside at the Septa. His pale features, dark eyes, are unreadable. Steadily, the man walks up to Merqueen's side and leans in to whisper something in hushed tones. When the Merqueen nods her head, benevolently, Cotter turns and walks back to Rhaera. "Before we start handling the details of your release and hand-off," he says after a few beats, "What'd you mean when you called me a dragon?" The question lacks, entirely, his volume. But not his ferocity. If anything, there is more danger, more vehemence, in this question than when he was screaming in the woman's face.
"Of course," Rhaera agrees eagerly. "You are so generous. Under the circumstances. Queen." Even in her gratitude, she can't keep that hint of deviousness from her lips; it's always lurking just behind her expression, waiting for every opportunity to come forth. She smiles pleasantly at Cotter; to her, there is no reason for ferociousness. "You have such pale hair and fine pretty bones," she says, winding her head this way and that, snake-like, to study the characteristics she describes. "When I saw you I thought you might have the blood. And now I know you roar like a dragon too."
"The blood." There's no question of misunderstanding. Cotter stares at Rhaera for a long moment, then eels a glance over to the Merqueen. He reaches for his knife, stops, reaches again, stops again. The man breathes out slowly. "Well. I suppose it don't matter right now, does it? Here's what you'll do. You'll write to your..our.. kin that we want a hundred dragons. One man comes alone, unarmed, to outside the Tooth and Nail. We'll be watching for Guardsmen. When we're certain it's clear, you'll be sent out unharmed." He leaves the opposite conclusion unstated. "I think you and I can both agree, we want this to go smooth and quiet. You pick who you want it delivered to, and one'a my people will see it done. Paper'll be in your room." He's obviously flustered, red in the cheeks, his eyes darting back and forth. But he speaks clearly, authoritatively. And then, finally, "How would I know? If you're right?"
"I suppose I could set you on fire," Rhaera says with thoughtfully and with utter nonchalance, all things considered. She's more curious about this than all the important details about her ransom that came before. "But not everyone with the blood of the dragon has … well … the blood of the dragon." She smiles straight at him.
The Merqueen has evidently grown impatient with this prolonged exchange, and the initial permission she'd given Cotter is revoked. "Take her to her chamber," she says, only not to him; her stare is pointed on the two guardsmen who had accompanied Rhaera into court, calling on them to escort her back out of it.
Cotter scowls. He doesn't appear to find this particularly amusing. "Fire, then," he says. When the Merqueen speaks, he nods and appends to her order. "Make certain she has food and wine, ink, parchment." He turns away from Rhaera, looking back at Merqueen. When his features are no longer visible to the Septa, he allows a brief spasm of something akin to pain to cross his face. He strides back toward the Merqueen, sitting down at the platform, his head about level with her knee.
The septa goes with the guards without fuss. She turns her head and stares at Cotter and the Merqueen unblinkingly the through the entire length of the court.