Reverend Father Hart

th the scent of old wood and incense, a comforting smell he had grown to associate with his life's work. At thirty years old, Father Hart was

nt to the countless prayers and reflections he had poured over them. It was here, in the quiet of his study, that he felt closest to God, where h

earned him both respect and admiration. He prided himself on being a man of the cloth, someone who could offer wisdom to those s

ssions, a woman who had been making the same confession every week without fail. At first, Father Hart had assumed it was simply a coincidence, perhaps a pattern of a st

me was

something in her that spoke of a desperation for change. She would confess her sins in a soft, almost

ays she could free herself from the chains of whatever held her captive. But there

solution. No, it seemed she was searching for something more, though she never said it al

the source of her despair? Each time she left the confessional, it was as though a p

le: he had to find out more about Cersei. He had to help her break free from the cycle she seemed trapped in. And yet, as much as he wanted to help, something inside him

n't shake the feeling that if he didn't do something, she would remai

r Mass, and Father Hart knew his congregation awaited him. He quickly straightened his colla

ice called fro

ut his mind still swirling with though

the young altar boy s

a small smile. "Thank you,

faces of his parishioners gathered. Their voices were hushed in prayer, the soft murmur of their devotion filling the

Something about her confession, about her silent pleas

rom the penitent. He took a deep breath, ready to offer solace to whoever came next. But in the back of h