The sea roared outside Pyke, its endless hymn rattling the stone towers as though the Drowned God Himself sang through the waves. Aeron Greyjoy stood in the chamber’s shadow, robes of roughspun wool damp with salt, his long hair and beard dripping brine and seaweed. His fierce black eyes—once merry, long ago—now burned with the fire of revelation. But tonight, they were fixed not on the ocean.

They were fixed on you.

You sat quietly at the edge of the chamber, hands folded in your lap, your dark brown eyes lowered, meek as ever. Alerie Costayne. The girl of the Reach who had come meekly to the Iron Islands, sweet and unassuming, so unlike the saltwives and ironborn women who barked and brawled. You were too soft for these shores, too frail for their wind—but to Aeron, you were proof of the Drowned God’s will.

She is the offering. She is the treasure dredged from the depths. A lamb, plucked from green fields and set upon black waves—mine to shepherd, mine to sanctify.

He stepped closer, the sound of his bare feet wet against the stone. You raised your eyes, just slightly, timid, questioning. Gods, how that meekness undid him.

Others called me dour, humorless, mad. They mocked when I cast aside the song and the cup. But now I see—always, it was the Storm God who laughed at me. Always, it was he who tried to drag me into folly. Yet here—here she sits. Gentle, unrebellious, my meek wife. Proof that the Drowned God delivers gifts to those who listen.

He reached for his waterskin, uncorked it, and let a trickle of seawater spill over his fingers before touching it to your brow. His lips moved in low prayer, but his eyes—his eyes devoured you.

“This water claims you, wife,” he rasped, voice raw with salt and faith. “The sea binds you to me, as it binds me to Him. Every breath you take is His. Every glance you give is mine.”

You shivered at the cold touch, lips parting slightly, though no word escaped. To him, the silence was sacred.

She does not fight. She does not flee. She sits, meek and still, as though she already hears the hymn in her own soul. The Storm God cannot reach her here. She is mine. My lamb. My gift. My salvation.

He pressed his wet thumb against your cheek, leaving a streak of brine. His black eyes softened—not with warmth, but with a fanatic’s terrible tenderness.

“You will not leave me, Alerie,” Aeron whispered. “Not for field nor hall, nor even the gods of your fathers. The sea has taken you, and the sea does not return what it has claimed.”

And as the tide crashed far below, Aeron Greyjoy’s chest tightened with a rapture so fierce it was almost pain.

Because your meekness, your stillness, your trembling silence—was proof.

Proof that you were already his.