To Blaspheme

Helicent had never taken well to the Faith of the Seven. Her childhood household had held the visage of more gods than any of these Westerosi could comprehend, laws more complex, histories and mythos more equally validating and damning than any seven-face’d god might own. As she stood high beyond the crowds of worshippers in the Sept, the balcony separating her foul mood from the populace, Helicent’s fingers trailed the necklace of pearls at her breast. She’d never exactly been accepted amongst her husband’s people. Certainly she had given them cause to enjoy her company—that which she provided at her own leisure, at her own expense and on her own time in the ballrooms of Dun Fort. She was still Helicent of Pentos for good reason, not quite yet just Lady Rykker. No number of parties and Westerosi children would change that.

Serala and her sisters attended to the Septon’s sermons day and night, pious little things they were. Taking his word for gospel, they had only been too delighted at the prospect of coming to court once again, and to attend the High Septon’s sermons in the Sept of Baelor. Helicent had refused to allow them to leave the manse for the morning session; every man and his bitch would be attending, and her lingering wine headaches would only be worsened by these awful hymns. Instead, they had come to the evening sermons; the crowds had dwindled significantly, though the singing had not. At least they had more wine.

From the balcony above the congregation she watched the rabble, sipping at her cup. It was a mildly interesting religion, she supposed. Borne of the lands east of her home, and brought across the Narrow Sea after the Rhoynar drove it out, the flavourless West had cultivated it to their liking. Yohn had banned the teachings of any other following in his household; though that was not to say she had protested. Being sworn to marriage twice under the Faith of the Seven was the closest Helicent had ever come to being a follower of any imagination.

“Mama!” It was a shrill noise, one she hadn’t gotten used to even after the seventh child. Alicent had clambered up the steps, followed by her shrew of a Septa in her wake. Placing her cup on the table nearby, the Lady of Duskendale kneeled to collect the girl into an embrace. Alicent was the elder of her last twins, and the most like her mother in looks than any of the others. She had a sharp wit, and trusted nothing other than her own conscience. Helicent liked that in a girl. Fumbling with her skirts, Alicent batted large blue eyes, fully aware of their effect. “Mama, the Septon’s hat is so funny looking.”

That she laughed at. It was an utterly absurd crown, a monstrosity of crystal and gold, even for the High Septon. Septa Lavellan grimaced at this statement, though knew better than to speak in Helicent’s presence unless spoken to. She shot the Septa a look from the corner of her eye then, almost expecting a word or two. “It is a crown, my little shrike.”

“It is ugly.” And Helicent laughed once more. Looking to the mousy Septa, who positively shrivelled under her gaze, she stood up and passed Alicent’s small hand into her’s. She was taller than every other woman she had ever met, but this one in particular had a peculiar smallness she revelled in abusing. “Take Alicent and the rest of the girls back to the manse for their supper when the worship is over.” She looked to the doll-like child. She’d never been a good mother, or had the instinct for it some seemed to have. This one was too much like herself to be ignored. “Your sisters and I will join you for prayers. Off with you now.” A sad smile was put on her face as her spitting image waved goodbye.

One of us will need Seven Gods.

(OOC: Open!)