(Pre-RP) Council Chambers

Lyonel sighed, and slowly shook his head. "Must we burn Harrenhal in effigy so regularly. It always gives me a slight chill of fear. I once stood those walls defending my home from enemy dragons." He shrugged apologetically, "Perhaps your grand demonstration could be more reflective of the Goddess of love. Show perhaps famous lovers from our history. Or maybe demonstrate the fiery passion of that emotion."

"If you can find one willing to be deflowered on stage," Rhaena said, "then of course, deflower her when you like. Or wait for dark when we shall all find partners for the dedication," she said, reminding them of the tradition of taking a lover in the square at sun set, for those who follow the ways of old valyria. "Your trick was most amusing, and a good reminder of our history,"she did not look at Lyonel, "I give you leave to perform it, but not half an hour of antics, I will not have people die of boredom before they see what they came for."

This time the attempt is a bit more successful. The helm is set alight but the deed is not as spectacular as Orys had hoped, though nobody can deny the flames as they flicker and burn all around the crest of the helm. But then again, setting fire to the council chamber would be very bad form indeed.

Uther Bell sweeps into the room at the tail end of Orys' profanity and pyrotechnics and bows before the Queen. He is dressed finely, wearing his Chancellor's ring and a half cloak fastened by a clasp in the shape of a dragon devouring its own tail -- both the traditional depiction of the god Ithilgore and the official seal of the Royal Academy, representing the unending pursuit of knowledge.

"My apologies for my tardiness, Your Grace. One of my students saw fit to light himself on fire during some experiment," Uther gave Orys a sidelong glance, as if to wonder where the boy could possibly have gotten that idea from, "and required some healing." He sat down at the table, picked up one of Orys' mildly toasted bits of bread, and popped it in his mouth.

Prince Lucerys Targaryen arrived shortly after the Chancellor, richly dressed in the colors of House Targaryen and wearing a small smile that never quite touched his eyes. "My apologies, your grace, for my lateness. The Commander of the Watch was transferring a number of prisoners to the crows, and I prefer to oversee those personally. They've been asking for men more often this year, and the men they take are getting lower and lower," he said. He looked up at the other men present, the Chancelleor, and the Lords of Harrenhal and Sun House, nodding greetings to the three of them.

"You hurt yourself, little brother?" He asked with a small chuckle, casting his eyes toward Orys, and his bandaged wrist.

The Master of Laws waved that idea away dismissively. "What man would trust a cutpurse in his service? That is a fool's errand; better men should know the penalty for theft is the loss of a hand, and they will be deterred from stealing in the first place," he replied. "Assuming that is her grace's wish," he added respectfully, looking to the Queen.

"The Night's Watch is a useful and self-sufficient institution," the Chancellor replied, waving casually for one of the servants to fill his wine glass. "And those rapists and murderers are kept well in line by their noble officers. Should Her Grace find it unnecessary, the Academy is always willing to pay for fresh cadavers, of course. But it would not be my counsel to stop supporting the Night's Watch."

"Perhaps some wildfire would be more reliable than the vagaries of magics." Baelon suggested. "Meaning no offense, Orys."

"So we... display actors dressed up as famous Targaryens? Some sort of romance?" Uther asked, his eyebrow raised. "I am not certain that is the wisest course, lest your Grace wishes to associate your noble line with hoots and hollers rather than respect and fear. Why not simply hold games and pass out bread? That is all the mob truly cares about."

"Why not have the lovers be created on stage? Commission a play. Something raunchy. 'The Conqueror and His Queens', or something. Then dye some mummers' hair blonde and have them titillate the crowd for a few hours."

"That is Prince Orys' area of expertise," Uther conceded, though it seemed to him changing the shapes in the fire from dragons to lovers did not remove the risk of some mishap spoiling the show. He gave Baelon an amused glance at the man's suggestion, then turned back to the Queen. "The classics are thus for a reason. A joust, the melee, archery. Your bannermen get to play at war, the crowd gets a spectacle, and you remain both aloof but generous. We restyle some of the names to honor the gods -- the victor proclaims a Favored of Zyraxes rather than Queen of Love and Beauty, perhaps."

"Also, if you're not content with my own depictions, you could have dragonriders display their actual might for the crowd. It's easy and cheap and good practice for Your Grace's chosen few, if only a few flights and some flames directed at an imaginary opponent. My brother could ride Vhagar herself, if he was so inclined."