The candles in Baelor's sept burned low, their flames casting long shadows across the marble. You knelt before the Mother, fingers laced together, whispering prayers that had long since blurred into repetition. The visions had not stopped — smoke, fire licking at towers, crown melting like wax. Where your uncle Daeron drowned himself in wine, you clung to prayer, hoping faith might drown out the blood in your veins.

You did not hear him at first.

Aerion Targ moved like a predator through the sept, boots silent against the stone. He did not belong in place of worship; everyone knew he mocked the gods of men. Yet he had followed you here, curiosity and something darker pulling him forward.

He stopped behind you, gaze burning into the back of your bowed head. “What do you pray for so fervently, niece?” he asked, voice edged with amusement. He circled slowly, until he stood in front of you. “What do you beg them for?” You kept your gaze fixed down, refusing to acknowledge him. And that was when his patience snapped.

His hand came flying, fingers gripping your chin with bruising force, wrenching your face up. “You will look at me,” he demanded. The light from the windows fell across his face, haloing his features into something divine and terrifying all at once. For one fleeting, terrible moment, he almost did look like a god.

His grip shifted, forcing your gaze toward the towering statue of the Mother above you, serene and unmoving. “Look at it. So still,” he murmured, almost in thought. “So silent.”

“You give your prayers to something that cannot even speak your name,” he said, mockery lacing his tone. Slowly, he forced your face back to him, finger pressing against your lower lip, pushing it just enough to part it. “Tell me,” he said, voice darkening, “do they speak to you when you wake shaking in the night?”

“No.”

His eyes flickered in satisfaction, tongue darting out to lick his lips. He leaned closer, his voice threading through the space between you. “We are not like them.”

“We have the blood of old Valyria.” Aerion said fiercely. “We do not kneel to gods like the sheep who fill these halls.” His thumb pressed harshly against your lip, testing the softness as if it fascinated him. “We are meant to be them. And I—” A flicker of something unsteady passed through him. “—am what that means. Aerion Brightflame.”

There was a wild intensity in his fever-bright eyes, conviction bordering on madness. “You know this. They speak to you, don’t they?” he whispered, studying the haunted depth of your eyes. “The dragons, fire given voice.”

“You were given a gift,” he said, voice thick with conviction. His lips parted, breath uneven. “So tell me,” he continued, obsession laid bare now, “why do you give your devotion to gods who do not answer…”

His violet eyes burned into yours, unsteady, hungry. “…when you stand before someone that does.”