who: @halimayronwood when and where: the grand sept of lannisport receives a late night visitor context: in which graham interrupts cunning plans
graham royce rarely sought solace in prayer. it wasn’t his way, not anymore. but tonight, the weight of guilt bore down on him with the heaviness of the stone walls around casterly rock. this place—it was a monument to power, soaked in history and ambition. yet for all its grandeur, it unsettled him. guilt gnawed at him, its claws sharper here, where whispers of unbroken lineages mingled with sins buried beneath gold.
the chapel called to him, not with faith but as a haven, its doors promising quiet and seclusion. the hour was late, the halls dim, the air carrying a distant, mournful hymn sung from another chamber. the voices were faint, wavering like ghosts through the cold stone corridors. the door groaned on its hinges as he pushed it open, the faint sound startling in the stillness. the room within was shrouded in shadows, lit only by the faint, flickering glow of scattered candles. the scent of melted wax lingered, and the air was heavy with a solemn chill that seemed to seep from the very walls.
and then he saw her.
a woman stood by the altar, her back to him, her movements precise yet unhurried. the faint golden light of the candles played across her dark braid, catching the loose strands that framed her profile. she was not praying. her hands moved deliberately, overturning the candles one by one with a grace that was at odds with the act itself. graham stepped into the room, his boots muted against the threadbare carpet beneath. he did not speak. his presence filled the space silently, a shadow intruding on the flickering warmth of the altar.
he watched her, his gaze cold and unyielding. she hesitated as her fingers brushed the next candle’s base, but the pause was fleeting, her composure slipping back into place with practiced ease. yet he saw it—an edge of tension, subtle but unmistakable. the hymns continued in the distance, their somber melody a quiet backdrop to the strange, calculated ritual unfolding before him. graham’s jaw tightened as he crossed his arms, his broad shoulders casting long shadows across the chapel floor.
he’d come here seeking a reprieve, a place to drown out the restless thoughts clawing at his mind. instead, he found this—a woman with purpose carved into every motion, yet no trace of reverence in her bearing. the air in the chapel felt heavier now, weighted by silence and the distant echoes of faith. his grey eyes stayed fixed on her, unblinking and unreadable, waiting for the moment when the mask might slip again. yet he said nothing, the hymns beyond rising and falling like the ghosts of prayers never answered.
