The sailors pray to the drowned king in his underwater halls, the healers look upon Brandon the Blessed for guidance, and seekers of love vainly strive for the distant affection of bewitching Margaery.
But the ones that crave the hunt, that live for the sound of their heart roaring in their ears as wounded prey try to run, they worship her. She is said to be as cunning as Athena and as beautiful as poor, doomed Echo, but she has neither their wisdom nor kindness.
She has the vicious joy of Ares as men and beast alike fall before her dagger and bow.
She has eyes filled with passion when she fucks the hunters that gain her favor until they cry her name.
The same passion fills her eyes when she slits the throats of those that stray from her and watches them bleed until their crimson blood stains her forest kingdom.
No man has cause to fear death, not when he treats them all as equal, but the queen that hunts is lovely and cruel and fickle, equally eager to set her wolves upon a lad or crown him her king-until another takes his place.
Remember this, remember her when your blood begins to heat and the wolves begin to howl.