As we all know, everything of this belongs to the marvelous Mr. Martin.

Her wedding approached sooner than she had expected. While not being fully present, watching her existence like a puppet from the outside, she had suppressed the impact of the upcoming date. She had found certain stability in the current circumstances that were her life. It felt numbed, distanced, partially dispensed; but she feared no harm like she had before. Unlike when she had lived in the city, under the constant threat of being decapitated, or being beaten up to blooding bruises, or being humiliated.

While she did not feel anything like happiness, she did not feel fear either. She despised his kisses and touches, but they were no harm to her body; she endured them and while sometimes shadowing her dreams, there were no marks to look upon in the morning.

She was well treated, respected, and basically left alone.

She knew about her father's plans to marry her, had agreed, had played along, had sung her tune in the big act he had orchestrated. And here she was, getting ready to be traded off, to a man she did not despise, but not appreciate, for a claim that was solid, but fragile. Pictures in her head faded away, the only living memory for her was the omnipresent snow. White and pure and cold, beautiful in detail and only lasting for a second on her outstretched hand before it melted. Its innocent seeming beauty could kill a man in his sleep, while covering him with the softest death.

When the woman, who had brought up her soon-to-be husband, had announced she would be visiting Gulltown, Alayne had spoken up and politely asked to join the trip, for she had not seen a city in a long time. Nothing specifically lingered on her mind to do there, maybe she just wanted to leave the castle in the clouds one last time as a maiden…

Her father had smiled and resisted, but in the end agreed and decided to accompany them. He would never leave her alone.

She had enjoyed the little trip, eating at an inn, picking textiles, seeing smallfolk trading, speaking, laughing. She did not remember the last time she had honestly laughed.

Her father's stepson had not joined them, his health was too fragile, and she did not see how he would live till manhood. When they passed a septry from which about a dozen septas emerged, a thought crossed her mind, short, but it amused her. She claimed to have been brought up in a motherhouse, and she had never seen one with her own eyes.

She begged her companions to stop and allow her to visit the motherhouse's sept, for praying a last goodbye to her life as a maiden in the house of gods, that she had been brought up in.

Her father showed a strained grim, while the woman petted her hand and nodded understandingly.

He insisted on accompanying her, but he was stopped by a warrior of the faith guarding the entrance of the motherhouse. Entrance was only allowed for women. Her father disputed, while the sentinel said his daughter would be guarded by the seven inside the house, there could be no place safer for her.

The woman finally pressed him to let her go and discuss some of the further details of utter importance with him, while they were waiting for her.

When she was in the sept, among septas praising the gods, candles shining in front of the altars, she prayed.

She prayed for the souls of those she had lost, for those that walked no longer on this earth. She prayed for mercy, and some septas sung the mother's hymn, which pierced her heart. She prayed for herself, for her own life, to find a purpose in it, a purpose, that was beyond being a figure in a game that got moved strategically.

That was the moment, when she saw the silent sisters entering the sept.