Before the Sept ever knew your footsteps, faith had already begun to claim you.

You were born into one of the oldest magical bloodlines in Westeros, a House spoken of in whispers and half-prayers—pure in lineage, unbroken, feared. Your ancestors had bent forces unseen, commanded currents older than the Citadel’s chains, older even than Valyria’s ash.

Magic was not something you learned.

Magi

Candles burned low, their flames trembling like prayers half-spoken, and the marble floor was cold beneath bare feet. Incense clung to the air—myrrh and ash and something faintly sweet, as if holiness itself had a scent.

You stood there, hands folded, head bowed.

You were young, yes—but grown, a woman by the laws of men and gods alike, though the softness of your presence made the world seem gentler than it was. You had come seeking absolution, counsel, perhaps nothing more than silence that did not judge.

And Baelor Targaryen knelt before the altar.

He was barefoot, clad in plain white wool, his silver-gold hair loose around his shoulders like spilled light. In prayer, he looked almost fragile—too thin, too pale, as though the fire of his faith burned faster than his body could sustain.

He rose when he sensed you.

Not startled. Never startled. Only… aware.

“My lady,” he said softly, voice low as wind through stone. “You should not kneel so long. The gods do not ask pain of the faithful.”

You lifted your eyes.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that gaze—violet, distant, devout, and suddenly troubled. Not with lust. With fear.

Because you were beautiful in a way that did not clamor. Quiet beauty. Human beauty. The kind that reminded a man he was made of flesh.

Baelor swallowed.

He took a step back, instinctive, as though distance were armor.

“I am told,” you said gently, “that the king listens.”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“I listen,” he replied. “Though I do not always understand what the gods ask of me.”

You spoke to him of small things—worry, doubt, the ache of being unseen in a court ruled by banners and bloodlines. You spoke carefully, respectfully. Still, each word felt like a stone placed upon his chest.

Because Baelor listened too deeply.

He did not interrupt. Did not look away. His hands were clasped tightly before him, knuckles pale, prayer beads biting into skin.

When you finished, silence returned.

It stretched.

Dangerous.

“I should not…” he began, then stopped.

His eyes closed briefly, lashes casting shadows on hollow cheeks.

“I am sworn,” he said, voice strained now, quieter than before. “To purity. To distance. To devotion.”

You did not move closer.

That, perhaps, was what undid him.

“I know,” you answered. “I did not come to tempt you.”

That word—tempt—cut like a blade.

Baelor looked at you again, truly this time, and something almost human flickered beneath the sanctity: sorrow. Longing not for you alone, but for a life he had already buried.

“You remind me,” he confessed softly, “of the world as it was before I learned to fear it.”

His hands trembled.

Immediately, he knelt.

Not before the altar.

Before you.

You gasped, stepping back, but he bowed his head, silver hair brushing stone.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “For seeing you. For feeling peace in your presence when peace should come only from the gods.”

Your heart ached.

“My king,” you said, voice breaking. “There is no sin in gentleness.”

He looked up.

For one terrible, beautiful moment, Baelor Targaryen was not the Blessed, not the King, not the ascetic saint.

He was simply a man—young, lonely, burning himself alive in the name of holiness.

“Pray for me,” he asked.

You knelt beside him.

Not touching. Never touching.

Two souls side by side in the hush of dawn, divided by vows, bound by something neither dared name.

And when the bells rang and the day came, Baelor rose first—composed once more, distant, untouchable.

But as you turned to leave, his voice followed you, barely audible.

“Go in peace,” he said.

And though he never looked back, you knew.

You would remain with him. Not in his arms. But in his prayers.