The Nameless Acolyte
Morning in the House of Black and White, and the newest acolyte always had the task of lighting the candles. A clumsy task, to be sure, without sight. But it was one that she had grown used to.
Light a candle, her mother had told her, to send the gods your prayers. The Seven hadn't saved her from the Freys. And the old gods had done equally little: her father's blood had been red as weirwood leaves against the steps of the sept. She wondered if it stained them still.
So now she had no use for the Seven, or the First Gods. She prayed to a different deity. The kindly man had said the Many-Faced God would consume her in his service: losing her sight was just the first step. But then, a wolf didn't need eyes to hunt.
She counted her steps. Breathing in deeply, she used the scent of the beeswax to find the candle. Cupping her left hand behind the wick, that helped her steadily guide the taper in her right.
"Ser Gregor," she whispered, the word echoing in the stone chamber above the beating of her heart. The wick caught with a faint hiss and she drew her fingers away from the heat before they were burned.
For a span of a second, the sharp tang of pine and stone, woodsmoke and Nymeria's fur, filled her senses.
Two steps to her right, and she offered, "Dunsen," at the next.
Around the temple she went, performing her daily rite. "Raff the Sweetling…Ser Ilyn…Ser Meryn…Queen Cersei." Her prayers to the Many-Faced God, offered with the blaze of each candle.
Valar morghulis. But some sooner than others.