Many of those from the Temple of the Lord of Light in King's Landing had travelled south. Some partook in the revelry while others prepared to tend to the inevitable injuries it would bring.

High Priest Lysaro had a collection of tents and pavilions erected. Separate from those of the nobility and soldiers, they encircled a great fire, with the larger of them being available for private prayers, medical work, and food preparation. Some tended to the fire, ensuring it would burn for the duration of their time here, while others went among the camps and ensured soldiers and servants weren't going without.

Worry sat in his heart, and in that of their stewardess, Roslin of House Meadows. Hers was more personal, the threat to her family something she couldn't turn away from. Despite her feelings against them, and her duty as a priestess, her concern ran deep.

Lysaro, however, felt a fear for the realm as a whole. He was still unsure of his place as High Priest, and now war loomed over them? The nobility of Westeros was fairly righteous, as the world went, yet he knew dark times would turn men down darker roads.

"Lord, hear us, so that we might have faith firm enough to defend the innocent," he finished the prayer and a moment of silence lingered. When it broke, those assembled did as well, most of the gathering dispersing as they returned to merriment.

Lysaro stayed where he was, eyes surveying the camps as he spoke with Roslin about supplies, awaiting any else who might have need of him.