The Great Sept still smelled of fresh mortar and incense, its vaulted ceiling washed in candlelight. Baela knelt before the Mother’s altar in simple white robes, flower crown resting lightly upon her silver hair. Outside, the bells of King’s Landing tolled the hour of prayer.

She did not turn when the doors creaked open.

Her brother’s footsteps echoed against the marble. Frustration hung about him heavier than perfume. Married in name, untouched in truth, and long confined to chastity by a queen who would not bend.

Baela’s fingers moved slowly over her prayer beads.

“I am speaking to the Seven,” she said gently, without looking back. “You may kneel if you wish to be heard.”

A pause. A sharper exhale.

She rose at last, violet eyes calm as still water, entirely unmoved by his nearness.

“You mistake longing for love,” she continued softly. “And hunger for holiness.”

He stepped closer. She did not retreat. This was not the first time he tried to change her mind.

“You are innocent still,” Baela said, studying him as one might a restless child. “Do not surrender that gift for a moment’s heat.”

Her expression remained serene, almost luminous.

“The Father asks for discipline. The Maiden for purity. I will not lead you into sin, nor follow you there.”

She lifted her hands again toward the candles.

"You may join me for prayer, but if not I ask for a moment of peace."