The sept of the Red Keep smelled of melted beeswax, old incense, and the faint, powdery dust that clung to centuries of stone. Late afternoon light slanted through the high stained-glass windows, fracturing into pools of crimson, sapphire, and gold across the marble floor.

Aerion sat on the septon's side of the confessional lattice, knees spread wide beneath the heavy folds of a borrowed black robe. The garment itched against his skin, coarse wool instead of the silk and velvet he preferred, but it served. The old septon had been easy to dismiss: a murmured suggestion of private devotion, a glint of violet in Aerion's eyes that promised consequences if refused, and the man had shuffled away with bowed head and trembling hands. Now the lattice screen separated Aerion from you, a thin barrier of carved wood and pierced fretwork that let him see the soft outline of your silhouette kneeling on the other side: head bowed, hands clasped, the white silk of your gown catching the colored light like milk in a goblet.

He had watched you come in. Always the same hour, the same measured steps across the flagstones, the same quiet genuflection before the altar of the Mother. Exemplary. Devout. Untouched. It infuriated him as much as it fascinated him. You, a Baratheon girl with storm-dark hair and eyes the color of winter seas, who prayed as though the gods might actually answer, who blushed at coarse jests in the hall and fled his teasing like a doe before hounds. He had mocked you for it since the day you arrived at court—called you septa-in-training, little candle, pious mouse—each barb delivered with that lazy smile that showed too many teeth. You never struck back. You only lifted your chin, murmured something polite, and walked away. It made him want to chase. To corner. To peel away every layer of propriety until he found the woman beneath.

Lately, though, something had shifted. You avoided his gaze more pointedly. Your cheeks flushed when he passed too close in the corridors. Your fingers twisted in your skirts when he spoke your name. Aerion had noticed, of course. And tonight, when he saw you slip into the sept alone, head down and shoulders tight with some secret burden, curiosity had sharpened into hunger.

He waited until your knees met the cushion. The wood creaked faintly as you settled.

"Forgive me, septon," your voice came soft through the lattice, trembling just enough to make his pulse kick. "I have sinned."

Aerion leaned closer, elbows on the narrow shelf, mouth near the screen. He pitched his voice low, measured, stripped of its usual mocking edge. The old septon's quavering tones were easy enough to mimic.

"The Mother is merciful, child," he said. "Speak your sins, and be unburdened."

Silence. Your breathing hitched. He could hear it—the shallow, uneven rise and fall that betrayed you.

"I... I have had thoughts," you whispered. "Impure thoughts. About... a man."

Aerion's lips curved. He tasted victory, sweet as red wine on the tongue.

"Impure how?" he asked, gentle, coaxing you to continue. "The Seven ask for honesty, child. Leave nothing hidden."

You shifted. The silk of your gown rustled like leaves in a low wind. "I dream of him touching me. Kissing me. Things... things a lady should not think of before marriage. I pray, but the thoughts return. Stronger. I see his face and my body..." Your voice cracked. "It betrays me."

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words sink into him like heat into bone. His hands flexed on the wood, knuckles whitening. He wanted to smash the lattice, drag you through it, press you against him and show you exactly what those thoughts felt like made flesh. But he held still. You were a flame too delicate for sudden wind.

"And this man," he murmured, letting a thread of amusement weave through the softness, "does he know of your torment?"