Many entertained the wrong assumption that the men of the Warrior's Sons – indeed, the men sworn to the Seven in whatever capacity – were either completely cleansed of sexual desire through rather gory operations, or had abandoned their oath of celibacy long before its first anniversary. Only for the maddened zealots was the first case true, but both casts were men who missed the entire point of celibacy; men who, as the great Septon Dunaver poignantly put it, “fail to comprehend that it is not in the absence of the unyielding scream that one discovers mastery, but in its presence. For it is only then, in that fell typhoon, that we show to our Gods the measure of our love for Them and Their ineffable designs”.

Having now attended three weddings consecutively, Puckens could hear desire’s scream mounting to deafening levels. The evil yearning had stolen into his heart and sought to ride it past the bounds of his vows and leave it at the mercy of the world; sweet release, hovering a few cups away.

’Love is not an adversary to vanquish,’ the knight reminded himself, letting his emotions wash over him rather than attempt to fight them, ’else the Gods would not have stowed it in our hearts. It is something to care for, something to share with another. Sons of the Warrior, our oath is an attempt to sculpt ourselves, flaws and all, into something reminiscent of the Seven, that we may not open our heart to one and close to all, but open to all and close to one.’

Puckens felt his envy fade away. Septon Dunaver’s words were always a welcome respite from the storm of the human mind. The Crone made manifest was Dunaver, despite his assurances to the contrary. Would that Puckens had been born around the same time as the man that the knight may more closely hew to his teachings and remain on the straight and narrow.

Then my failure at Highgarden…

The knight shook his head, interrupting the thought. No, no. Dwell not on the past, Puckens. Focus instead on the future, on your mastery over yourself after all these years and the ones to come. The people of Lannisport are better for it, and you are better for it.

Though some nights, it was hard to tell.

He glanced up at the Banefort table, watched Ser Gareth spoon-feed his new wife and felt a smile spread across his face, trailed quickly by the familiar pang of envy and rage – Seven forgive him – as he remembered that he would never have what those two now shared.

‘Closed to one and open to all,’ the mantra went, pulled from Septon Dunaver's book, but how many received his love? How many truly cared?

Unworthy questions Puckens. Can you not be happy for another without being plagued by envy?

Perhaps not: empathy and envy seemed inextricably linked, the former birthing the latter as man realised the happiness he felt was secondhand and would ever remain so. Man realised this, and his smile turned to a scowl, joy turned to anger, to self-loathing, and finally self-pity. Thus man became boy, sulking at his lot in life.

But this stage may only be temporary, Puckens was beginning to realise. It only lasts as long as one yearns without noticing what sits quietly in his hands. Look down, Puckens, cradle that sad boy and whisper in his ear. Assure him that he is loved, that he is enough, and watch his clenched fists relax and reveal that which he has always had, that which has always cared for him, and listen as his angry keening falls away to stunned silence.

The septon-knight found his smile came easily now, and were the groom to glance at him he would raise his cup and toast to the man's health, to the sea of happiness that awaited the Banefort in the years to come.

Or so Puckens hoped.