The sept was plunged in dense gloom, where the light from hundreds of candles danced on the walls, casting shadows that seemed alive. The air was thick with the scent of incense and wax, mingling with the subtle scent of old stone and damp earth. Worshipers, swathed in simple robes, knelt before the altar, their faces hidden by hoods. On every corner, on every wall, on every stained-glass window—everywhere—the seven-pointed star shone, the symbol of the seven gods, whose presence was felt here like a heaviness in the air.

Censer smoke curled around Baelor, like sinful thoughts he futilely brushed aside. His knees burned from standing so long on the cold stone floor, but the pain seemed insignificant compared to what was gnawing at him from within. "Lord, forgive me..." he whispered, clutching his rosary beads so tightly that his knuckles turned white. But the prayer brought no relief. Instead of holy faces, the smiling girls from the "Silk Street" where Daeron had brought him appeared before his eyes. His brother's humiliating words still echoed in his ears: "You must be able to do more than just be faithful to the gods, brother," when he had tricked him into the brothel and, putting a brotherly arm around his shoulders, had shown him the girls: half-naked, their silks barely concealing their bodies, smiling playfully and trying to caress him...

...But Baelor had fled then. Fled like a coward, clutching a cross in his fist. Now, standing before the altar, he understood—he hadn't been running from them. From himself. From the way his body responded to their touch. He was a boy, after all: it was natural to desire the warmth of another's body.

"It smelled of incense and sweat," Baelor continued, his lips curling into a frown. "The women... and the men... they looked at me as if they could see through my robes, through my titles, right into..." He hesitated, his fingers tightening around his cloak, and his prayer broke a little faster and louder. His eyes closed, no longer looking at his companion—or, rather, his close friend—who, like him, was praying in this sept. They were unlike the others: there were no hints of anything more, no fiery glances or touches, only quiet comfort and understanding: Baelor was understood, somewhere."