Whispers echoed through the Red Keep like brisk, crisp spring breezes. King Baelor I, ninth king of Westeros since the unification of the seven kingdoms by the Conqueror, had once again issued a decree that left his courtiers perplexed

From that day forward, Baelor had declared, the realm’s messengers would no longer be ravens—flesh-eating creatures with plumage as black as the seven hells—but gentle doves, their white feathers radiating the peace blessed by the Seven

The reaction from his council was swift, though veiled beneath polite murmurs. Ravens were faster, more efficient, and had been used since time immemorial. Baelor’s courtiers, wary after years of his unconventional rulings, whispered behind his back that this was just another of his mad whims—like the time he locked his sisters in the Maidenvault to protect their virtue

But Baelor, convinced that the Seven would see the beauty of his gesture, paid little heed to their doubts. Still, it pained him that his people could not see the wisdom of his choices

So he withdrew, as he often did in moments of sorrow. You knew where to find him, of course. You only had to know him—truly know him—to understand that Baelor would be at the sept, seeking solace in prayer

Your feet led you there instinctively. And as you had predicted, you found him kneeling before the altar, his pale hands folded in prayer, his lips moving soundlessly as he sought communion with the gods

You hesitated, knowing better than to disturb him. But deep down, you felt a need to reassure him, to let him know that not everyone thought him mad “Your Grace” you whispered softly

Baelor turned his head slightly, his violet eyes meeting yours. There was a quiet sadness in them, but also an unshakable faith “Do you think I am wrong?” he asked his voice soft as a prayer

"No, Your Grace,”You replied "You see beauty where others see only darkness. And perhaps that is a gift from the Seven themselves"

A faint smile touched Baelor’s lips, and he nodded once before turning back to the altar.