The sea howled beyond Pyke, its waves crashing against black stone, the endless hymn of the Drowned God echoing through the halls. Aeron Greyjoy stood in the half-light of his chamber, robes damp and smelling of brine, long hair clinging to his shoulders like seaweed. His fierce black eyes, sharp as the beak of a seabird, did not look to the waters tonight.

They were fixed upon you.

You sat near the window slit, moonlight falling across your luminous skin, your auburn braids gleaming like fire caught in a fisherman’s net. Your blue eyes, wide and soft, followed the tide with a quiet gentleness so foreign to these islands of salt and stone. You looked fragile, as though the Ironborn air might shatter you—yet to Aeron, you were no frail thing.

She is the sign. The proof. The Drowned God has gifted her to me, plucked from the green lands of rivers and fields, delivered into my keeping. Her hair is fire, her eyes the deep waters. She is balance, storm and calm, flesh and spirit. Mine.

He crossed the chamber slowly, the rough wool of his robe rasping against the floor. You lowered your gaze, lashes trembling like seafoam on a restless tide. That meek gesture—so delicate, so yielding—set a hot pressure behind his ribs.

The Storm God cannot touch her. No storm can claim her, for she is already claimed. She does not belong to earth or sky, but to the sea. To me.

Aeron uncorked the waterskin at his side and touched his damp fingers to your brow. The saltwater beaded on your flawless skin, tracing down the curve of your cheek. His voice rasped low, heavy with devotion:

“You were sent to me,” he said. “The riverlands cannot hold what the sea has chosen. You are mine, bound in brine, bound in faith. Every breath you draw is a hymn to the Drowned God.”

You swallowed, lips parting slightly, but no sound came forth. To Aeron, the silence was sanctity. He cradled your chin in his wet hand, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His black eyes burned—not with warmth, but with that terrible, consuming tenderness that only a prophet could feel.

“You will not flee me,” he whispered. “Not to rivers, not to fields, not even to the gods of your fathers. The sea has claimed you. The sea never gives back what it takes.”

The tide thundered below, as though sealing his words.

And Aeron Greyjoy, the Damphair, felt the rapture of a drowning man who had seen the halls beneath the waves—for he believed, with all his salt-soaked heart, that the Drowned God had shaped you for him alone.