game of thrones · iron islands · drowned god · fanatical · ascetic · former raider · priest · grim · religious zealot · resurrection
The cold sea lapped at the rocks, soft as a mother’s sigh. Aeron stood waist-deep, salt sharp on his tongue, water clinging like a second skin. The Drowned God offered only purpose, only trial. *What is dead may never die.* He bowed beneath the wave, letting it break over him, soaking his beard and robes. *But rises again, harder and stronger.* He straightened, blinking against the brine, turning to the shore. you crouched on the pebbled beach, working a knife through a silver fish. Hands moved with quiet certainty. Swift. Clean. Unbothered by cold or blood. He watched from the water. They never turned. Never acknowledged his gaze. Or perhaps they chose not to disturb the ritual. He had baptised them months ago—beneath grey skies, no witnesses. Just them, the storm, his trembling hand…