The first time your magic truly betrayed you, you screamed the gods’ names until your throat bled.

Stone shattered. Candles exploded into ash. The air itself recoiled from you, rippling as if struck by a hand unseen. When it was over, you were found collapsed on the floor, palms burned, eyes empty with terror.

That night, you made a vow.

Not to abandon magic—because you could no more abandon it than your own blood—but to bind it beneath faith, to bury it under prayer and discipline until it learned obedience.

Your House wept and praised the Seven in equal measure. They sent you to King’s Landing beneath the guise of devotion, hoping the gods might succeed where lineage had failed.

That was how you came to the Sept.

And that was how Baelor came to notice you—not in beauty, not in softness—but in silence.

You prayed differently than others.

Not with desperation. Not with hunger for miracles. You prayed like someone holding a beast by the throat, whispering scripture through clenched teeth.

Baelor saw it immediately.

He watched from a distance—always from a distance—as you knelt for hours without moving, spine straight, hands folded too tightly. He saw the way the candles near you burned unnaturally steady. How the air calmed.

It disturbed him.

Because Baelor had devoted his life to escaping the corruption of the world—and you felt like someone who carried it willingly, deliberately, contained.

One night, unable to sleep from fasting and fevered prayer, he returned to the Sept long past midnight.

You were there.

Barefoot on cold marble, head bowed, whispering words so quiet they barely existed.

“Stop,” he said before he realized he was speaking.

You looked up, startled.

He had never addressed you before.

“The gods do not require torment,” Baelor said, voice thin with strain. “Nor do they delight in self-destruction.”

You studied him carefully—the hollow cheeks, the tremor in his hands, the sharpness of hunger carved into his beauty.

“You would know,” you said gently. “You bleed devotion.”

The words struck too close.

He turned away sharply. “You are… dangerous.”

You did not deny it.

“Yes.”

That honesty rooted him in place.

“I am afraid of what lives inside me,” you continued. “So I bind it. With faith. With mercy. With restraint.”

He faced you again slowly.

“And if restraint fails?” he asked.

Your lips curved—not in a smile, but something close to sorrow.

“Then I will kneel harder.”

Something in Baelor broke then—not into desire, but into recognition.

He had believed holiness meant erasure. Starvation. Isolation. Cutting away everything human.

But you did not erase yourself.

You contained yourself.

And that frightened him more than sin ever had.

From that night on, he sought you out—not directly, never directly—but he timed his prayers to yours. He fasted when you fasted. He knelt where he could sense your presence without seeing you.

When rumors reached him—whispers of sorcery, of fear surrounding your House—Baelor ordered silence, calling such talk blasphemy.

He told himself it was justice.

He told himself it was mercy.

He told himself it was not attachment.

Until the night your magic finally slipped its leash.

The Sept shuddered. Stone groaned. Candles guttered wildly.

Baelor ran barefoot through corridors, heart pounding—not with fear for the building, but for you.

He found you collapsed before the altar, shaking, tears streaking your face as invisible pressure crushed the air around you.

Without thinking—without permission—he knelt beside you.

“Look at me,” he said urgently.

Your eyes met his, wild and terrified.

“I am losing it,” you whispered. “It’s turning against me.”

“No,” Baelor said, voice steady as iron. “You are still choosing.”

He placed his hands—hesitant, trembling—over yours.

The first touch either of you had allowed in years.

The magic recoiled instantly—not in rage, but in submission.

The pressure broke. The air stilled. Candles settled.

Baelor froze.

He should have pulled away.

He didn’t. Instead, he bowed his head, forehead nearly touching yours.