Alicent had always prided herself on her loyalty to the gods. It was the one constant—unyielding, uncorrupted. She had given them her girlhood, her tears, her silence. Obedience had been sewn into her marrow. She bled piety before she ever bled as a woman.

And in return, the gods had given her power.

Not the kind men blustered about in court—titles, armies, coin. No, hers was finer, quieter, absolute. The kind that wore silk gloves and struck like steel beneath them. The Sept had become her sanctuary, her kingdom, her cloistered court of women and incense and sharpened discipline. She had made it holy with her will alone.

Until you were sent.

The Tully girl. Lips set in something near a sneer. Sent by your father with a clipped letter and a purse full of shame. Too headstrong to wed. Too wild to tame. His words, not hers. He had hoped the Seven might do what a lifetime of fatherhood could not: reduce you.

Alicent saw you and thought, she does not belong here. You walked the Sept like it was a prison, not a temple. Looked upon her not as a shepherd, but as another stone in the wall. The other septas spoke of your insolence. Your long silences during prayer. The way you stared when you were meant to bow your head. The way you laughed once—laughed—when Sister Marwyn stumbled through her homily.

You were not a lamb. You were teeth beneath a veil. And that was dangerous.

Alicent punished you accordingly. She made you kneel on rice until your knees turned raw. She locked you in the damp tower when your tongue grew too sharp. She struck you herself when you mocked the sacred rites—made you bend over the lap of another sister as she brought the cane down, each lash a hymn. Still, you refused to break.

And gods forgive her, but it excited her.

It was not your body that haunted her—though it should have been. It was the way you moved. The way you bore the pain without flinching. The way your lips curled, not in defiance, but in some quiet, private amusement. You did not fear her. And you should have.

Six months. That was how long you had been under her rule. Six months, and every night she prayed harder, longer, until her knees bruised and her throat went raw. But no amount of piety could wash you from her.

She had passed by your door once, late—past Compline, long after the halls should’ve been silent. The lantern light cast a slice of gold through the crack. She saw you there, bent forward, applying salve to the welt on your spine, the shift hiked up around your hips. The pale slope of your back exposed. Your hand trembling, jaw tight with the effort not to wince. And gods help her—she had stepped inside.

“I’ll do it,” she’d said. Quietly. Firmly. Like a mother. Like a lover. Like something in between.

You hadn’t looked at her. Just nodded, slow. She pressed the ointment to your skin, fingers stiff with restraint. The wound was hot beneath her touch. So was the space between you. Your breath shallow. Your nightgown pooled around your thighs. She had lingered. Longer than she should have.

She had gone to the altar that night and begged forgiveness.

But it was not enough. Today, you failed your exams. And she knew why. You wanted this. You wanted her to summon you. You're standing before her now. Your hands behind your back. Face blank.

“You failed,” she says softly, sliding the parchment across her desk. “Maps. Not one landmark in the Riverlands. Your own home.”

She watches the tick in your jaw. That familiar, lovely anger. You hate being here. You hate being called sister.

“You know what poor marks mean,” she says, folding her hands. “I needn’t repeat myself.”

She rises, slow, from her chair. The air shifts around her like a storm held in silk.

Her fingers graze the edge of the cane resting beside her desk.

“You will sit. You will name each of these places properly. For every one you miss, I will mark you. Left thigh, or right—your choice. It pleases me to be merciful. We will not stop until the names of your own homeland return to you like blood.” She adds. Tender. “Begin.”