cellaceltigar

[cellaceltigar]

marcella inclined her head, a picture of deference, though behind her lilac eyes, the wheels of her mind spun ceaselessly. she was ever the dutiful sister, ever the willing blade in maximus’ hand. a marionette of flesh and blood, bending to the pull of her brother’s invisible strings. she only gave a stiff nod in response, as she had already made her promises. the words of promise she had spoken were an oath, but also a shield. failure was not an option. not with maximus. not when she knew what failure meant. her eyes flickered over him, absorbing every minute detail ― the way he paced, the calculated weight of his words, the way he watched her as one would watch a blade, measuring whether it was still sharp enough to be of use. she had always been useful. she had to remain so.

still, there was something else in his gaze, something she dared not name. as a child, she believed max had loved her, in his own way. as much as he was capable of loving anyone. she had never understood love in the way the poets spoke of it. but she knew what it was to be bound to someone so completely that it became indistinguishable from fear. marcella loved her brother still, she believed, as much as she feared him, and she had long since ceased trying to untangle the two. but perhaps there were not much left of either of them to be anything but dutiful members of house celtigar, to strive for their house to be elevated once more.

she turned her attention back to the matter at hand, forcing the ghosts of sentiment from her mind. wylliam swann. a dull, honourable man with a dull, honourable reputation. such men were easy to manipulate, easy to ruin ― if one knew the right strings to pull. she would figure out which strings of lord swann, she would need to pull to succeed. it was a delicate thing, to orchestrate a fall so perfect it seemed self-inflicted, but she relished the challenge. her mind raced with possibilities. a scandal? a betrayal? every man had something that could be turned into a weapon against them. a hidden indulgence. a weakness of the flesh. a secret sin buried beneath layers of virtue. she would find it. she would peel him open like a ripe fruit and let his innards spill for all to see, all while watching from the shadows.

“it will be done, and when it is, the king will be looking to you, brother. just as he should have from the beginning.”

her eyes flickered upward, locking onto his, unblinking. she saw the promise in them, the cruel satisfaction curling at the edge of his mouth. she did not delude herself into thinking he would ever truly reward her. only if it also rewarded him or their house. however, she was tempted by the thought. jaehaerys had plenty of kingsblood, and it held a power that she could use. she could feel it drumming within his veins. if they had succeeded in their little plot before he was crowned, she would have made sure to not waste any of it, to use it. there were other ways to get access to it, and becoming queen was certainly one of them. but she knew the game maximus played, and for now, it was enough to play her part. pawns could become queens, yes, but only if they knew when to move.

“so i have your permission to speak to the king and offer my services?”

marcella knew that there could be no loopholes left open when it came to her brother, nothing he could use against her. he'd likely find something anyway, but she did not wish to make it easy for him. she needed to hear him say the words, say that she could reach out for what she wanted with his support. cella would deal with wylliam swann once her position was secure.

[cellaceltigar]

she noted wylliam's reaction and how he fiddled with his collar, and he almost seemed as if he was an animal caught in a trap. it was an interesting reaction. it seemed he still strived to look anywhere else than her. it was starting to annoy her slightly. it was harder to read people if they would not look you in the eye. marcella watched him speak with the same idle poise she reserved for tedious courtiers and overambitious septons — half-listening, half-dismissing, but never entirely disinterested. wylliam swann was not what she’d expected. not stupid, certainly, but far too principled to dance to her tune. his convictions were stiff as armour, and nearly as dull. still, there was something about the way he clung to his arguments that made her linger, just a little longer than necessary. now she was getting somewhere.

she turned the book in her hands slowly, letting the leather warm against her fingers. the hand of the king was stubborn. cella could already make that conclusion with a flicker of amused irritation. he would not fold easily. but it did not matter because neither would she. lord swann had come braced with scepticism and the full weight of stormlander suspicion. and worst of all, wylliam had immediately felt himself cornered before she’d even moved the first piece. no doubt because of his past dealings with maximus. perhaps this stubborn, self-righteous stormlander had a better survival instinct than most others.

“i was born on claw isle, yes, and so was my father and his father as well,” she echoed lightly, not offended by the question. it only proved to her that the valyrians understood something others never could. “and yet i am not so foolish as to think history only begins when i do. we valyrians do not speak of the doom of valyria as memory, lord swann. we speak of it as inheritance. you hear us say 'pain' and think we mean grief. but we do not. it is something more enduring than mourning, something far more corrosive.”

she stepped closer again, not in provocative flirtation this time, but in debate, in challenge. her words were earnest, a piece of her actual keen on debating this topic with him. “do you know what it is to be a child of ghosts, my lord? to be raised by the stories of a city swallowed by fire, of dragons falling from the sky, of an empire turned to ash and bone?” she held up a soft wave of silver hair, her lilac eyes still fixated upon him. “even if i felt nothing reading about the lost origins that made me thus, the world does not let me forget i am valyrian, lord swann, and being valyrian means that there is no sadder tale than the doom of valyria.”

it all made perfect sense to her. a valyrian that did not long for valyria was no valyrian at all. when she had been a child, she had dreamed of riding with one of the dragonriders to valyria, to see the ruin of the city for herself. she was unsure when the dream had died, if it was when she was old enough to understand her role as a lady of house celtigar, or if it was when she was told that the city was cursed and sickness had descended on the land.

marcella saw the flicker in his eyes then, the flash of defiance and perhaps — though he’d never admit it — a touch of intrigue. she seized it. “you ask why i find these books difficult?” her voice was silk, but pulled taut. “because they speak with such certainty. as though the doom can be measured in pages and ash. but you—” she tilted her head, studying the way he fidgeted with his spectacles “—you seem to like certainty. that’s why you rely on historians and call prophecy dangerous. because it cannot be reduced to a footnote in your books. the only problem is that the truth, in this case at least, is uncertain.” she had often thought about valyria during her sleepless night, wondered if the doom had been a punishment sent by the gods, to cut down the ambitious valyrians who had grown closer to the gods than their fellow men. “the artefacts and accounts prove the doom occurred, it does not tell us why, which is the only interesting question to be answered.”

she gave him a moment’s reprieve as she put the book down on a nearby table, her hand sitting atop of it. stubbornness had its uses too. it meant wylliam could be counted on, once bent in the right direction. marcella wanted to continue digging at this root, to see how far it went, and if he'd end up backing down politely. “i am surprised to hear you make such an argument.” despite the intensity of her words before, her voice was back to its languid smoothness. “if heeding the warning of a prophecy can save even one person, how can it ever be useless? good thing his grace's ancestors did not have you to give them counsel when they made the decision to leave valyria.” the sharp remark had not been intentional. it was a slight slip of the mask, but cella smiled through it as though it was simply a good-hearted jest.

➳

he kept his hand on the frame of the ladder, fingers curled tight against the polished wood as if it grounded him. he did not like this. not the closeness, nor the quiet smugness with which she moved—as though every gesture, every word, had been laid out in advance upon some invisible board only she could see. it wasn't that he found her attractive. far from it. she unsettled him. made him bristle, as though her very presence tested the seams of his composure. her brother’s name alone was enough to raise every guard he owned, and her own reputation—if such a thing could be extricated from the swirling quiet of court whispers—was too clean. that in itself made her suspect.

lady celtigar seemed to have sprouted from the ground like some mushroom the moment her brother's claim to power was asserted.

he looked at the book in her hands, recognising the title with an involuntary flicker of amusement. of course it would be that one. typical. “you are welcome, lady....celtigar.” he said, his voice clipped and unmistakably stormlander in its restraint. he had realised he did not even know her name. “though i have not read it for myself. honestly i said whatever title i saw first." it was abundantly clear that wylliam swann was stressed; he was less careful with his words, less caring for the way in which he misread a social cue or didn't want long enough for her to respond before answering for himself.

his eyes didn’t follow her ascent, though he remained close enough to steady the ladder should it shift. stormlander instinct, perhaps. or simple decency. and yet—he caught a glimpse of a flash of red, and white - not meaning to. just a brief flash of thigh where her dress fell open on the step above him. his breath caught, not from want, but from sheer stunned disbelief. he looked away instantly, jaw tightening, one hand going to the top button of his collar and toying with it in an effort to hide the jolt that had rippled through him. he did not blush, not quite, but there was something almost feverish in the sudden way he busied himself with fixing the crease at his shoulder.

was she not cold?

“fine. prophecy,” he said at length, voice flatter now, more tightly controlled, “is anything but nonsense. but it is not truth, either. the difference matters.” his eyes were fixed firmly on a point across the room—anywhere but her. and yet still, all who knew wylliam swann knew he struggled greatly to agree to disagree. struggled greatly to hear what the other individual was saying, when he was too fixated on his own point. “if a man claims the sea will rise and flood king’s landing, and a wave comes three decades later—what of it?” he flexed his fingers against the ladder’s side. “if prophecy is real, then it is both vague and selective all at once. it chooses its moments, its messengers - so it is useless to the population as a whole, because if you were to have a vision, i could not verify it's truth. and if it is not real—then it is dangerous. and honestly, i do not care for either version.”

he fell silent for a beat, listening as the soft rustle of her dress marked her descent. his hand remained on the ladder even as her feet touched the floor, as though her presence atop it had transferred some kind of weight to the thing. only when she stepped away did he ease his grip. but his thoughts remained knotted, especially at the casual way she dismissed the historians he had spent years reading. unpleasant reading, she’d said, as if the hardship of study was enough to dismiss truth - the valyrians seemed to speak about the doom as though it personally impacted them. none of them were there - yet they speak as though it haunted their brains. "can i ask why?" he blurted, moving his spectacles further up his nose as he looked upon her. "why is it hard reading? i hear so many of your lineage speak of the pain on reading such things...but none of you were there. you were born on claw isle."

“well, the works of historians can be verified,” he said stiffly, not bothering to hide his surprise by her assumption of them as half truths. “against artifacts. you see. against the accounts of those who heard the explosion from across the sea from foreign lands.” he turned, finally meeting her gaze—not warmly, but not without force. his hand seemed to rest back upon the ladder, absentmindedly. “if we cannot trust historians, then we must accept that nothing has ever happened. and then people create strange conspiracy theories, which is more dangerous than any failed prophecy.”

[cellaceltigar]

marcella turned her head just enough to regard him from the corner of her eye, her lilac gaze cool and unreadable, like the stillness of deep water just before it ripples. the smile that curved her lips was not unkind, but it was sharp — cut from the same cloth as her mind, honed by years of watching powerful men like elys. she’d read him correctly. ambition was always the easiest scent to catch. it lingered like perfume. “you say discretion is curious in a smith,” she mused, voice low and thoughtful, as though the thought had only just occurred to her. she rested a gloved hand upon the carved stone balustrade, her fingers drumming once, lightly, like a heartbeat. “and yet, in my experience, the fewer tongues involved in the crafting of delicate things, the better. especially when those things might attract… undesirable attention.”

her eyes did not leave the revel below, but her mind was elsewhere. the dance of the court meant little to her now. she was weighing him, not the dancers. he was not afraid to speak plainly, but he still circled, like a hound trying to sniff out whether a piece of meat was poisoned. she would give elys just enough scent to draw him closer.

marcella knew that her own ambition had no ceiling. what she hoped to achieve was almost impossible, something many people before her had failed to do. but none of them had been a celtigar, and a celtigar did not accept failure. no, they adapted and learned from the mistakes of others. she tilted her head, studying the slope of his mouth, the slight curl of his smile. he thought he was being clever. perhaps he was. but she was counting every blink, every shift of weight. “i suppose gold will help do a lot of the required persuading? especially if coupled with a chance of recreating a long-lost art, a chance of gaining renown in the history books.” she paused a beat, long enough for the promise to settle, before lowering her voice. “the steel i am interested in requires the right hands to shape it ― and the right mouths to stay shut.”

her gaze glittered as she leaned slightly forward, just enough to make him feel the shift in air between them. “i wonder, lord brax, do you consider yourself a man of vision?” marcella stepped back then, gracefully, her expression once more serene. the coin was not the point, not really. but she watched his eyes for it, whether they lingered on the promise. you want more, she thought. good. they could both have it, so long as he understood that she would always be the one holding the reins.

“what do you know of valyrian steel and artefacts, my lord?”

elys raised an eyebrow, his lips twisting into a smile that was far from kind. his eyes sharpened as they fell upon her, considering how much of her facade he was willing to entertain. "rarely think of my king, do you?" his voice was light, but there was a note of mockery to it that he did not bother to disguise. he leaned in, just slightly, an unhurried gesture, before he spoke again. "i find it strange, then, that you seem to have so much to say about him." he shrugged, settling back into his seat again. there was little else to say on the matter. the truth was, until debts were repaid, even the most cutting remarks from valyrian tongues meant little. whatever power they thought they had paled in comparison to what tyland lannister held over their heads. and elys was not fooled by her words. not for a moment. he could see the game she was playing, the careful dance of feigning indifference when, in truth, she could not be so foolish as to be unaware of what was happening around her. if she was speaking to him, it was because she thought she could gain something from him, and it was thaat,rather than any carefully placed gesture or words meant to entice, that had him intrigued.

he rose to follow her without a word. if this was a game, he would play along just long enough to learn the rules, and then discern if they suited him enough to continue. it did not escape his notice that she was trying to gauge him, to test his reaction. and yet, there was something in the way she carried herself, as though she was not afraid he may challenge her. a confidence to her that allowed her not to falter, even as his own words had been designed to make her feel small. he knew not yet if she was an ally or a threat as he came to a stop, a few paces behind her, hands clasped behind his back.

a brow raised, and he gave her a sideways glance. "discretion is a curious thing to ask for from a blacksmith, lady celtigar," he responded. "as for hornvale's particular brand of craftsmanship - yes. we have a skill not many others can boast of. our trade has ever been in steel and iron." it was not the gold or silver that other houses in the west boasted of, but it was something unyielding, useful. what interest that held to a lady of new valyria, though, elys wasn't sure.

"but if you mean to ask if they could be persuaded to handle certain sensitive matters..." he broke off, giving her a slow, deliberate smile. "i suppose that depends on who is doing the persuading, and what it is they are after."

[cellaceltigar]

marcella watched wylliam with the same idle curiosity she might grant a caged animal, something small and cornered but still possessed of sharp little teeth. his reluctance was clear in the way his fingers tightened against the parchment, in the careful neutrality of his voice. she wondered if he realised how much he had already given away. he did not look at her, not fully. his glances were brief, guarded, as though he feared too much attention might grant her some power over him. it was almost endearing. almost. she tilted her head slightly as she studied the deliberate distance he maintained, the way he shifted ever so subtly away.

her expression did not change, though something sharp and pleased curled in her chest as he spoke of histories, of prophecy, of trade routes. she allowed him his words, let him busy himself with the ladder, with the books, with anything but her. it allowed her time to observe him, to try to piece together how best to tackle the task given to her. when he finally stepped away, furthering the distance between them, she smiled ― not sweet, not soft, but knowing. she doubted that wylliam had any idea how powerful prophecy could be, what was possible with powers beyond science. “prophecy is rarely nonsense, my lord,” she replied, rising from her seat in a languid motion. “only those who do not understand it believe so. without prophecy and the power of foresight, you would not have your position. without daenys the dreamer, his grace would never have been born, and you'd still be in the stormlands.” she trailed a hand over the desk’s polished surface before stepping towards the ladder, her movements unhurried.

he had given her an opportunity, and she took it without hesitation. her fingers curled around the edge of the ladder, testing its steadiness in a manner far lazier than his own cautious approach. she glanced at him, just briefly, before stepping onto the first rung. slow, measured. the red fabric of her dress shifted, parting just enough to reveal the smooth line of her calf as she ascended further. she had to test all the regular weaknesses men might possess.

“the history of the freehold's fall is not pleasant reading for any valyrian,” she mused, as if the words were no more than passing thoughts. “and what do these books tell us anyway? the doom. all recounted by men who were not there. that seems like a rather unreliable way to learn of a subject.”

her foot found the next rung, and then another, now it was her turn to stare at the spine of books, with her eyes averted from wylliam. she wondered if his attention still remained pointedly elsewhere, as though sheer force of will might strip her from the room entirely. she turned her head just slightly, watching him from the corner of her eye. “but then again, perhaps there is still something to learn from the theories and almost truths of scholars.” she reached for a book at random, pulling it free without bothering to check the full title. it was about the valyrian freehold, that was enough.

she descended just as slowly, allowing the dress to shift once more, settling back into place as her feet met the floor. she turned then, book in hand, as if this entire exchange had been nothing more than an idle moment of library browsing. “but thank you, lord swann.” her voice was smooth, polite, deceptively warm. “for your recommendations.”

➳

wylliam did not immediately respond, his fingers momentarily tightening around the edges of the parchment before him, though his gaze did not lift. he knew better than to let his eyes linger, knew better than to give her even the smallest sliver of something that could be twisted. yet even without looking, he could feel her there—perched upon the desk as though she had always belonged in his space, poised in a way that spoke of an ease he could never quite manage. it unsettled him, though he would not allow it to show.

“no,” he said, voice carefully measured, deliberately neutral, “you are not bothering me.” that was not entirely true, but to admit so would be a mistake, and he had no intention of offering her something she could use. he hesitated, just briefly, before shifting slightly in his seat—not away from her, exactly, but just enough to widen the space between them. it was a deliberate movement, calculated in the same way he would reposition pieces on a cyvasse board. he made a point not to respond to the mention of his workload, ignoring the comment entirely as though it had not been spoken. he did not discuss such things—not with his closest companions, certainly not with a woman who bore the name celtigar.

“you have not looked through these shelves yet?” his fingers moved to the ladder at his side, pulling it forward with a slow, deliberate ease. it was an easy thing, mechanical almost, something to occupy his hands so that he did not have to think about the way her presence seemed to shift the air itself. “then you have missed quite a bit.” he adjusted the ladder against the tall shelving unit, ensuring it was stable, before stepping back, gesturing towards it with an awkward sort of formality. “if you are looking for histories, the volumes on the freehold’s rise and fall are along the upper shelves. though i imagine you have read those already.”

he hesitated, barely allowing himself a glance in her direction before looking away again. “if it is something less… politically relevant you seek, there are collections of old maesters’ musings on the nature of prophecy and its failings. most of it is nonsense, of course, but some find it diverting.” his fingers brushed absently against the sleeve of his tunic, smoothing out a crease as though the action might smooth his thoughts as well. “and further along, there are texts on trade routes predating the doom—though i doubt those would be of particular interest to you.” he did not know why he had assumed that, and his brows furrowed slightly as he fixed the ladder into place. the last thing he needed was lady celtigar falling and snapping her neck, and her madman of a brother accusing him of intentionally paralyzing his kin.

he did not know if she was even listening to him, but that hardly mattered. it was easier to speak of books than to consider why she was here, why she had chosen him as the subject of her attention. he should not assume, he told himself. should not judge her based on her family’s reputation. yet the knowledge of her name alone made him wary, made him careful. he had never heard much of lady marcella celtigar, but perhaps that was the point. perhaps that was what made her dangerous. his fingers tapped once against the desk before stilling. “if there is a specific title you seek, i can find it for you.” it was an excuse to move, to widen the distance further, to ensure there was no misinterpretation - he took two steps, though due to the length of his legs, it appeared as though he took two great strides.

“otherwise, the ladder is sturdy enough, should you prefer to look yourself.” he gave it two comfort pats, as though to test the reliability of it - and he ignored the sound of the slight rattle.

[cellaceltigar]

marcella let herself absorb the warmth of nellie’s touch, the way she clung to her sleeve for that single, fleeting moment before letting go. it was an instinct marcella knew well, though she never gave voice to it. dependence, longing. these were feelings she saw as weaknesses in others, but it felt different when it came to naelys. she did not recoil, did not think to weaponise it. no, with nellie, she allowed herself to indulge. she pressed a hand to the back of her friend's head, smoothing down the dark waves as though taming something wild.

“the king was only a boy then,” marcella murmured, though her tone held little defence for the king. “boys are cruel because no one expects anything different of them.” ladies and lords were not raised with the same expectations. boys were not taught to conceal their true selves as girls were. “and when no one stops them, they grow into men who think the world is theirs to take.” she tilted her head, studying her friend as she sprawled across the bed. but cella did not judge neither max nor jaehaerys for their ambitions. the world was a cruel place, and she'd rather those who shared the blood of valyria ruled. she longed to see valyria come again, for valyria to become more than the pages in her books, and the stories told through generations. “but he has always been childish. even now, with a crown on his head and dragons at his back.” she did not say more, did not need to. she had spent years whispering secrets, letting them slip through the cracks of court like ink seeping into parchment. jaehaerys was only predictable in his unpredictability.

“if you were pathetic, nellie, i’d tell you.” she allowed herself the barest smirk. marcella had a sharp tongue when need be, and naelys was the only person, where a lie seemed to have a bitter taste on her tongue. it never did stop her from lying though. lying came as naturally to the silver-haired lady as breathing. “but you’re not. you made a mistake and hurt his pride, and jaehaerys was in the mood to punish you for it.” she allowed herself a moment of silence, watching the way nellie’s fingers curled into the sheets, small and fragile against the vastness of her bed. it unsettled something in marcella’s chest, something she refused to name. nellie was always too much, and yet never enough. she did not know how to exist in moderation, and marcella, for all her precision and control, had never wanted to make her learn.

“you think i’m fearless.” marcella let out a quiet breath, something between amusement and something else, something darker. “i’m not. you just don’t see the things i fear.” and that was the truth, wasn’t it? the fear was there, it simply had no place in her carefully crafted mask. she was afraid of being powerless, afraid of losing what she was carefully building. and sometimes she still feared what lived inside her, the darkness sealed away on claw isle. “i will handle it,” she promised again, her voice softer than usual. she purposefully avoided answering why she wished to speak the with the king. “and i will not allow you to float away, sweet girl, you will stay here with me.” there was a possessive edge to her voice, her words both tender and almost threatening. marcella would never allow anyone to take naelys from her. “we will keep each other safe no matter the cost, won't we?” she asked, her voice sweet as honey, all while knowing she had to ask her closest friend for a favour that might cost her later.

nellie’s hand moved, brushing marcella’s hair from her face, her touch light, almost reverent. it was a strange sort of intimacy, one that lingered too long, made the air between them shift. marcella did not move away. she let her gaze settle on naelys, the lilac of her eyes dark in the candlelight. then, the moment broke, shattered by the name of strangers. the starks. marcella's brows lifted, the change of subject unexpected, and almost annoying. but her natural curiosity got the better of her, the hunger for whispers. “of course, i do.” in fact, she had something that seemed to belong to their house hidden away in a chest. “the north clings to its wolves as tightly as we did our dragons.” her lips curved, not quite a smile. “have you grown close to them?” and while marcella had once sworn to herself, she would try to keep naelys away from her business as much as possible, she could not help herself from prying. perhaps to store the knowledge away for later in case it was useful to her, maybe just because she hated the thought of nellie being close to anyone else.

¿

naelys leaned into marcella’s touch, her dark lashes fluttering as the soft kiss grazed her temple. there was something so grounding about it, like the world had slowed for just that moment. her fingers clung to marcella’s sleeve, delicate and instinctual, before she let go, unwilling to make it too obvious how desperately she needed her. “you always know what to say,” she murmured, though her voice barely carried, soft as the silk that clung to her. in the mirror, their reflections sat side by side—naelys in marcella’s nightgown, hair loose around her shoulders, and cella in crimson, her lilac eyes cool and watchful.

naelys smiled faintly at the sight, the kind of smile that tugged at the edges of worry but didn’t quite let it go as her gaze swept over marcella's appearance; she seemed to radiate in shades of red, catch the attention of any who would look in her direction. she appeared a true queen, and perhaps she would have uttered it, if she were not afraid that the gods would cruelly put her other half in the path of the tyrant king for such thoughts. with a soft breath, she turned, slipping her arms around marcella in the briefest hold, before pressing a tender kiss to her cheek. her lips lingered for a moment, warm against skin,

before she stepped back, pretending it was nothing. it always was—until it wasn’t. she let herself believe it was simple, the same way she always did. naelys moved to the bed, climbing onto it with a sigh, sprawling onto her stomach as the soft lavender fabric pooled around her legs. her cheek pressed against the plush covers, her fingers twisting into the folds. “i don’t know why i was surprised,” she admitted, her voice muffled by the bedding. “he was always cruel, wasn’t he? jaehaerys, i mean. when we were children.” she shifted her head to the side, staring at the edge of the room, the golden sconces casting low shadows along the walls.

“he used to push me into the sand at driftmark. call me ‘seaweed’ ‘cause of my hair. pulled my braids so hard once, i thought he’d take the whole thing off.” a dry laugh slipped from her. “and i still wanted him to like me because he used to take people on his dragon.” and after all, it were the only way naelys would ever be able to be upon a dragon, considering the beasts rejected her time after time. she only wished that once in her life she would be able to see the world from such tremendous heights, but with each passing day it felt like that dream became dimmer and dinner. “and still, i was pathetic enough to slip up.” she pressed her forehead against the mattress, completely faceplanting upon the pillow for a moment. her fingers curled tighter into the sheets, her body small against the vastness of marcella’s bed.

“but you—” she glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of cella’s silhouette in the mirror, still seated close.

“you’re not scared of him. you’re never scared, you'll walk to him and say you have a matter to discuss. what matter do you have to discuss?” there was a wistful ache in her voice, that same old envy curling at the edges that was not spiteful or malicious in any method. “you always know how to fix things. how to make people bend to you.” she rolled onto her side, her dark hair spilling across the covers as she propped her head up. "you don't have to help, cella. i know that. you always do, i'd understand if you think this is just beyond even what you are able to do.” there was a beat of silence before she spoke again, her voice quieter, almost as though she were quietly confessing what would always remain in her heart.

“sometimes i think i’d just float off somewhere if you weren’t here to hold me down.” the confession was light, but the weight of it pressed deep into her chest. “you’re the only place that ever feels... really safe." she rolled onto her side beside cella, her hands resting beneath her chin as she looked at her friend sitting beside her, quietly moving a streak of her silverish hair from her features. her face never deserved to be blocked from anything, let alone her gaze. and then, it were like something burst, a strange haze of a moment. "well, you of course, more than any other....and the starks of winterfell, do you know of princess dacey and prince adam stark?”

[cellaceltigar]

marcella inclined her head, a picture of deference, though behind her lilac eyes, the wheels of her mind spun ceaselessly. she was ever the dutiful sister, ever the willing blade in maximus’ hand. a marionette of flesh and blood, bending to the pull of her brother’s invisible strings. she only gave a stiff nod in response, as she had already made her promises. the words of promise she had spoken were an oath, but also a shield. failure was not an option. not with maximus. not when she knew what failure meant. her eyes flickered over him, absorbing every minute detail ― the way he paced, the calculated weight of his words, the way he watched her as one would watch a blade, measuring whether it was still sharp enough to be of use. she had always been useful. she had to remain so.

still, there was something else in his gaze, something she dared not name. as a child, she believed max had loved her, in his own way. as much as he was capable of loving anyone. she had never understood love in the way the poets spoke of it. but she knew what it was to be bound to someone so completely that it became indistinguishable from fear. marcella loved her brother still, she believed, as much as she feared him, and she had long since ceased trying to untangle the two. but perhaps there were not much left of either of them to be anything but dutiful members of house celtigar, to strive for their house to be elevated once more.

she turned her attention back to the matter at hand, forcing the ghosts of sentiment from her mind. wylliam swann. a dull, honourable man with a dull, honourable reputation. such men were easy to manipulate, easy to ruin ― if one knew the right strings to pull. she would figure out which strings of lord swann, she would need to pull to succeed. it was a delicate thing, to orchestrate a fall so perfect it seemed self-inflicted, but she relished the challenge. her mind raced with possibilities. a scandal? a betrayal? every man had something that could be turned into a weapon against them. a hidden indulgence. a weakness of the flesh. a secret sin buried beneath layers of virtue. she would find it. she would peel him open like a ripe fruit and let his innards spill for all to see, all while watching from the shadows.

“it will be done, and when it is, the king will be looking to you, brother. just as he should have from the beginning.”

her eyes flickered upward, locking onto his, unblinking. she saw the promise in them, the cruel satisfaction curling at the edge of his mouth. she did not delude herself into thinking he would ever truly reward her. only if it also rewarded him or their house. however, she was tempted by the thought. jaehaerys had plenty of kingsblood, and it held a power that she could use. she could feel it drumming within his veins. if they had succeeded in their little plot before he was crowned, she would have made sure to not waste any of it, to use it. there were other ways to get access to it, and becoming queen was certainly one of them. but she knew the game maximus played, and for now, it was enough to play her part. pawns could become queens, yes, but only if they knew when to move.

“so i have your permission to speak to the king and offer my services?”

marcella knew that there could be no loopholes left open when it came to her brother, nothing he could use against her. he'd likely find something anyway, but she did not wish to make it easy for him. she needed to hear him say the words, say that she could reach out for what she wanted with his support. cella would deal with wylliam swann once her position was secure.

mxc.

maximus celtigar watched his sister with a mixture of satisfaction and disdain, his sharp gaze lingering on the faint flicker of relief that crossed her face when he stepped back. she was good at hiding her thoughts—he would grant her that—but not good enough to escape his notice. no one ever was. the firelight danced across her lilac eyes, hollow and cold, as though the sea itself had drained them of warmth. if there was anything left in the man, perhaps he would have felt some sense of pride in seeing what had become of her; a true testament to what it was to survive. she carried herself with a cold respect, that he knew.

“you will not fail,” he echoed, his tone flat but heavy with the implication of what failure would mean. “because you know what happens if you do. our house is built on the blood of lesser men, marcella. their weakness is the mortar that holds our walls together. i won’t have you chipping at the foundation.” he had lit the smoke and was blowing it, caring not if it went into her face; he blew as he always did, and she withstood the smoke as she always did when they were in the same room. he began to pace the chamber casually, his hands clasped behind his back, the fabric of his dark robe swishing faintly against the stone floor. his mind was already moving ahead, calculating, assembling pieces.

wylliam swann was no great figure, no titan of strategy or cunning, but he had the king’s ear—and that was power enough to be dangerous. maximus could not abide danger unless he was the one wielding it. a good man, he constantly called him; the world did not need good men. they needed men willing to make the world what it was supposed to be.

“a mistake,” he said, his voice curling with satisfaction as he repeated her words. “yes, a mistake. not something trivial, not something the king can overlook. it must be damning, cella. an error so glaring, so public, that even jaehaerys cannot defend him. something that strips away his dignity as a man and his authority as hand.” he turned to face her then, his lips curling into a faint smile that held no warmth. “and when it happens, it will not come from me. the courtiers will not murmur of the cunning celtigars pulling strings in the shadows. they will only see a blundering stormlander undone by his own doing.” it is not as though this were some surprise; all knew the stormlanders were wired differently to them, down even to the size of their skulls.

he stepped closer, the smile fading into something harder, colder. “but do not take too long, sister. the longer swann remains in place, the more jaehaerys begins to see him as indispensable. and we cannot have the king looking to him when he should be looking to me.” his pale eyes fixed on hers, unblinking. “find his weakness. twist the blade. and make it look like an accident.” he straightened, his voice softening into something almost conversational. “if you succeed, marcella, perhaps i’ll consider giving you a greater piece of the game. but do not forget your place. pawns can become queens, yes—but not without sacrifice.” and perhaps jaehaerys would consider looking upon his sister as a second queen; he would wish for his sister to be the first queen, if there were to be others. but there was a tully in the way.

[cellaceltigar]

[cellaceltigar]

marcella always assumed people knew who she was. not always by name, but that she was a celtigar. perhaps it was arrogance. but she did find that she rarely had to introduce herself to those worthy to speak to. “i rarely think of your king at all, lord brax, what reason would i have to do so?” it was not entirely true. she could not afford to ignore tyland's existence. she still listened to the whispers that she picked up from the court of the west. tyland was one of the most powerful kings, one of the few who felt like he was in control of his destiny. she knew better though. no one had that kind of power. there were always unknown threats lurking in the dark. a displeased vassal could quickly turn into a problem, an alliance could crumble and leave you exposed, or you could bet on the wrong horse and find yourself scrambling to keep your place. she had experienced with the latter herself. marcella had wasted years as lady-in-waiting serving a queen, who proved herself too weak in the end.

the response of lord brax pleased her, it proved that elys was clearly a proud man. good. proud men were usually full of ambition, they could be swayed by lucrative opportunities. she watched as the dornishman and stormlander were eventually separated before they could truly harm each other. people who were too principled were dull and mostly useless to her. they were often easier to wipe off the board entirely. she took another sip of her goblet before looking straight at him. “i am much more interested in hornvale and the opportunities of its lord.” her words were meant to be a siren's call, to make him curious about what she had to offer. there were far too many people around, so marcella emptied her goblet, placed it on a nearby table, and turned her back to walk away. after a few steps, she stopped and looked back at elys over her shoulder, to see if he would follow her.

after a short walk, she found herself on a landing, with a view over the dancing figures below them. not many would notice them up here, and no one would hear them, but they were still technically in view. “i have heard hornvale has some of the best smiths in the kingdoms.” marcella would not show her hand too early. it was far too risky, so she wanted to introduce the idea slowly, as she tried to determine the risk of revealing her idea. “how would you rate their skill and level of discretion, lord brax?”

from almost the moment, the dornish and those who called themselves new valyrian had been close to exploding, and these two were no different. elys watched them, his gaze almost lazy, as though he were utterly uninterested, despite the fact the ruckus had his undivided attention. the dornishman bristled, the stormlander postured, two dogs circling each other for scraps, without the sense to realise they bared their teeth in someone else's halls.

he did not respond to marcella celtigar straight away. instead, he let her talk, not even deigning to look in her direction until she was finished. who was this girl, and why did she think it appropriate to doubt a king to his own courtier? perhaps she thought herself clever. elys did not. but he was nothing if not practiced, controlled, adept at concealing his thoughts behind a veneer of something else, and so when he turned to face her, it was with a sharp glint of something like amusement in his eyes.

"the dornish?" he said, his voice light. "the dornish cannot even keep the dornish under control. i would not put that particular failing on the shoulder of my king." the shift in his tone was subtle, but palpable.

"and as for the stormlanders..." his gaze flickered back to the bickering lords, the argument growing louder, and more heated. "it is their king's duty to anchor them, is it not?" perhaps this was simply the way valyrians were, always looking to lay the blame at another's feet, always unwilling to take responsibility for their own failures. it was a thought for another time, but one he carefully catalogued away to examine later.

the argument was boring him now, all puffed up chests and words. he turned to her fully then, offering a polished smile. "peace is always a fragile thing, too easily upended by reckless hands." his words were decisive, but there were other topics on his mind in that moment. "tell me, lady celtigar, do you often find yourself doubting my king's ability to keep control in his realm, or are you simply feeling reflective?" his words might have been pointed, but he spoke them with a smooth casualness, as though he were enquiring as to the weather on claw isle. he was not yet convinced that this conversation was worth his time - in her response, he would find his answer.

[cellaceltigar]

marcella had been given a task, and it was not long before she decided to tackle it. it was not something she could do overnight, not even her powers of persuasion could manage that. once she had been told of wylliam's whereabouts, she chose a casual but striking red dress and let down her silver hair. once satisfied with her appearance, she soon located him in the quiet library. she enjoyed this part of her schemes. the art of figuring out the right approach, of the best way to strike. it reminded her of her dance lessons as a child. no one could jump into a dance and immediately figure out the right steps without observing first. she enjoyed watching people to figure out what made them tick, what separated them from everyone else, how she best could bend them to her will. a dance of intrigue. she could be charming and polite without preparation, but that was not enough when she wanted to get beneath the skin of others.

she regretted now that she had not spent more time studying the hand of the king, to find out everything she could about this stormlander. but the truth was that she had never considered wylliam swann would last longer than a couple of moons in his position. cella had assumed jaehaerys' nature, and the many valyrians surrounding him, would have sent the stormlander running back to the pile of rocks he called home long ago. now her task was to ensure that he made the mistake they were all waiting for ― and she could not leave her fingerprints all over it.

her gaze was relentless as she observed his mannerisms, the way he would catch her looking and then immediately look away. when wylliam spoke to her and fully turned his attention on her beyond the occasional glance, she knew it was time to start the dance of intrigue. she closed the book in her hands with a thud and approached him slowly. “no, i usually only come here to gather books and read them in my chambers at night when sleep eludes me.” it was not a lie. she did spend quite a lot of time with her nose in the books, especially during the long hours of the night. they were mainly books that she did not want others to know she read. she was proud of who she was and the abilities she possessed, but some things were best left in the dark. a weapon was far more useful if others did not know of it existence. the celtigars did their finest work from the shadows, it was how both her and maximus had kept their place at court when jaehaerys had conquered the throne. “i don't think i have even looked through these shelves yet.” she looked around in order to pretend to be interested in the titles of the many books on the shelves. but she already knew these were not the tomes and scrolls that she could spend hours upon hours studying and scribbling down notes for.

her key to lying had always been to tread the line between truth and lie, to grow a lie from a small seed of truth. that's also what she did with the whispers she received. she frequently twisted them into being true enough to create the narrative she favoured. her lilac gaze quickly landed on wylliam again. her expression gave away nothing she was feeling or thinking. brown hair, brown eyes. he had the looks of the region he was from, perhaps a little less rugged than the usual stormlander. he was unassuming, not possessing any of the striking features of her kind, but he was handsome enough in his own way.

“if my presence is bothering you, lord swann, you need only say so.” normally people would offer to leave after making such a statement, but marcella made no such promises. in fact, she contradicted herself by sitting down on the desk near him, obviously not planning on going anywhere. “you certainly seem to have enough on your plate.”

who: @cellaceltigar when and where: one of the quieter libraries of kings landing's red keep, wylliam swann finds himself with unexpected company.

the library was one of the few places in the red keep where lord wylliam swann could still find something resembling peace - especially since his sister had moved back into the swann apartments within the red keep. nestled in a shadowed alcove, the faint scent of parchment and candle wax in the air, he worked through an ever-growing stack of petitions from stormlanders. the ink on the pages blurred together after hours of reading—disputes over fishing rights, grievances about the celtigar taxes, and thinly veiled complaints about the crown’s decisions, many of which wylliam himself had argued against.

his jaw tightened as he scratched out another note in the margins. his reprieve was gone, so now he hid here, in this corner of the library, attempting to focus.

the flicker of a candle beside him made the shadows dance across the table. for a moment, he allowed himself to lean back, rolling his stiff shoulders and momentarily moving his spectacles from his face, using a hand to wipe over his features. there was a manner in which he needed to speak to jaehaerys about this all; the man's first initial reaction was to shut it down, and yet wylliam knew he could not simply let this go.

the silence was disturbed by the faint rustle of movement—deliberate, not the haphazard shuffle of a servant shelving books. wylliam did not look up at first, assuming someone had wandered in to retrieve a tome. but the sensation lingered, an inexplicable prickling at the nape of his neck. someone was watching him. he kept his head bent over the petition in front of him, his quill hovering above the parchment, and his brows furrowed in momentary confusion - eventually, curiosity—or unease—got the better of him. he glanced up briefly, his gaze meeting hers.

it was a woman, standing several paces away, her silver hair catching the candlelight like molten moonlight. her amethyst eyes, too bright, too piercing, were fixed on him. he knew instantly who she was. lady marcella celtigar. he looked back down as quickly as he could, his pulse quickening, though he had no real reason for it. the celtigars and their tax policies were an irritant at best, a menace at worst, but he’d not expected to feel such an instinctive reaction—wariness that sat low in his gut, like a lead weight. perhaps because all knew of the growing tensions between wylliam and the ruling lord of house celtigar.

yet when he glanced up again, he found her still looking.

he frowned slightly, his confusion genuine as he looked momentarily over his shoulder, only then realising that there was only a window behind him - nobody else she could be looking at. “is there something i can help you with, my lady?” the words came out polite, though there was a stiff awkwardness to them that he couldn’t quite shake. why was she stood there looking at him so curiously? wylliam’s fingers tightened around the quill, and he leaned back in his chair, trying to project a calm he honestly did not feel, his brows still furrowed. “...do you usually sit here?” he gestured vaguely at the seats before him, though his attention was now entirely on her.

[cellaceltigar]

word had quickly reached her about what naelys had accidentally said to the king. jaehaerys was a proud man, childishly proud, and she knew that he would not let the insult go easily. she had cursed underneath her breath when told. but instead of confronting nellie and asking what she had been thinking, she extended an invitation to spend the night in her chambers. she would shield nellie from the world if she had to. she knew the velaryon girl was her weakness. the one crack in her armour that could be exploited. when she was alone, marcella often despised feeling so close to another being. but then she saw nellie's face, and she could never bring herself to feel anything negative about her. the black hole inside her refused to extend to her feelings for naelys. but she rarely spoke of it. if she pretended not to notice, she did not have to try to put a stop to it.

marcella was sitting on the bed in her red nightgown, her lilac eyes fixated on nellie in her favoured nightgown. she felt a strange kind of satisfaction at the sight. the beastly possessiveness she felt over the dark-haired valyrian purred inside her. her enjoyment was spoiled by how obvious it was that naelys was restless in her worry. cella swung her legs off the bed and rose to stand beside her friend. “from what i've heard, then you have already apologised, nellie,” she reminded her softly. “i need to speak with the king on another matter, and i will speak on your behalf… or i will ask max to do so.” if he agreed to it, there would be a price to pay for that, she already knew it. if she had to take care of it herself, she would do so too. it was not the best way to approach jaehaerys, but if it was needed, marcella would pay the price for nellie. she was arrogant enough to believe that she could talk herself out of it, she could with most things.

she pressed a gentle kiss to her closest friend's forehead. “do not fret, dear, we will make it right. you can hide in here as long as you wish, but then you will need to face court again.” she put an arm around nellie's shoulders, putting her chin on her other shoulder, as marcella stared at their reflections in the mirror. “your curtsies will be extra low from now on, and you will remember to always say 'your grace' when speaking to him, but do not apologise any more unless he asks you to.” her words were not suggestions, it was more a barrage of orders delivered sweetly. it was a delicate balance with most men. jaehaerys needed to feel like he had put naelys in her place, but she also could not come off as too nervous, and risk being viewed with even more suspicion due to looking guilty. cella cared little for intentions, all she cared about was how it looked.

it was strange how much easier it was to deal with nellie's mistake than her own. marcella had restless nights thinking about the situation. she did not care for the body rotting in the sewers, but she cared about the behaviour of the others involved, whether they'd crack under the weight of a deep dark secret. she could understand nellie's worry, the nervous drumming she probably felt inside. cella felt some of that. the fear was not what it had been in the past. it was somehow… less. but it was still very much there, present and lodged in the back of her mind. she had a favour to ask of nellie, but she wanted to wait until her friend had calmed down enough to think clearly.

who: @cellaceltigar when and where: the bedchambers of marcella celtigar within the apartments of house celtigar in the red keep, naelys velaryon spends the night with her best friend - as is perfectly normal. context: set following marcella's involvement in the six plot, and after naelys made her slip up to jaehaerys.

naelys stood in front of the mirror, her fingers trembling as she carefully unbuttoned the intricate laces of her gown, the fabric sliding away from her skin in smooth, familiar motions. the nightgown she was about to put on was soft, a pale lavender hue with delicate lace trim—marcella’s nightgown. she always found comfort in borrowing her friend’s things, though marcella never seemed to mind. everything about her was comforting, like a shield against the world and its many dangers; as though she were the key or the candle to many of the intricacies and complexities that naelys would simply not be able to understand.

"cella," naelys murmured softly, her voice tinged with an almost childlike affection as she heard her friend confirming with a page sent by deimos velaryon of nellie's whereabouts. it were the first place she seemed to wander to, like an aimless ghost; her legs carrying her where her brain did not - to the doors of the girl who meant the most in the world to her. "i’m so sorry. i don’t know what happened..." she winced as she undid the final laces of her dress, letting the heavy fabric fall to the floor. her heart raced, pounding as though it might burst out of her chest.

her family would be furious. her mistake—referring to jaehaerys as the prince, not the king—had made it seem as though their loyalty was questionable, and the consequences were already beginning to unfold. the whispering, the cold glances, the tightening of her brother's jaw; he had already lost so much, they had already lost so much, and her foolishness could cause them more issue. she had to hide. hide away from all the judgement, all the sharp eyes that were now fixed on her.

slipping into marcella’s nightgown felt like a small reprieve, a chance to pretend she was somewhere else, in a world where no one cared about the mistakes she had made. the fabric was cool against her skin, and for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe a little easier, letting her hair out of the messy updo and letting it hang on either side of her shoulders. she had seen her friend wear this nightgown so many times before, she were surprised it were the one she offered for her to wear - and yet, she couldn't help but look at herself in the mirror. she felt closer to her, as though she were her saviour. she had trusted her to wear it. "i just… i didn’t mean to say it. i didn’t mean to upset anyone."

as the minutes ticked by, she felt the anxiety crawl beneath her skin like a restless tide, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, feeling marcella’s steady presence appear beside her. "cella," she murmured the name so naturally again, a soft plea in her voice. "please, tell me what to do. tell me how to fix this." she knew she wasn’t supposed to burden marcella with everything, but she couldn’t help it. she needed her. "how long do i have to hide?" she asked, voice cracking slightly. "how long until they forget? do you think i should apologise to the king? what if he thinks my family are treasonous?"

[cellaceltigar]

she was not exactly sure why she wanted the title so much, whether it was fuelled by boredom or ambition. but marcella knew she wanted it, and that was all she needed to know. maximus was right. she enjoyed the role of puppeteer, of making a move and seeing people respond exactly how she expected. as if she was still a small girl playing with the dolls in the doll house. the same doll house that she had destroyed one day when it was taken from her chambers and put into her sister's chambers instead. she had never liked sharing her toys. she had chosen to see the broken pieces of the doll house burn in the hearth, never to be played with again, rather than it belonging to her sister. perhaps that was also part of the reason she wanted the position as mistress of whispers. maybe she simply did not want to see someone else take it, not when it was seemingly made for her and her set of skills.

marcella was used to the threats of her brother. as far back as she could remember, he had been the dagger pressed against her throat. but also the dagger that had protected her as a child. the older she grew, the more she understood that max did not care what blood he spilled to get what he wanted. hers or others. she was silent as she felt his breath on her skin, she could see every blemish on his skin, the dangerous look in his eyes. she never looked away from him in situations like these. her lilac eyes always on him when he threatened or hit her. there was an emptiness inside them. it was not that she did not fear her brother, it was simply that she did not feel much of anything. she felt so little that even fear had been diluted. but there were still remnants of it, a voice whispering in her mind to be careful. she knew the key to dealing with maximus: listen more, say less. the more people spoke, the more they exposed themselves for an attack, and her brother was very good at crafting words into a weapon, and striking at the right moment. she was not bad at it herself. it was how the celtigars had thrived all these years, along with some help from forces beyond them.

“i will not fail our house, brother ― and of course, i will report every whisper.”

cella let out a relieved breath as he backed off. she contemplated his words about the hand of the king. her focus had not been on wylliam swann before. he was not her kind, only some dull stormlander who had somehow convinced the king of his abilities. but if he was the target, she would strive to learn all about him that she could.

“a nudge? you wish to force swann to make a mistake that he cannot recover from, enough for the king to dispose of him as hand.” the wheels in her minds were already turning. “i can make it happen. every man has a chink in his armour, i will figure out his.”

mxc.

maximus celtigar watched marcella with the precision of a predator, his pale eyes gleaming like wet stones in the flickering firelight. her resolve was clear, her ambition sharper than most gave her credit for. but he knew her too well to trust her fully—family or not, marcella was a blade that could just as easily turn on him if it suited her if she were given too much power. they were fickle, weak creatures easily swayed by idle gossip and romanticised visions. “you’ll do it, then,” he said softly, almost too softly, his voice curling through the room like smoke. his words slithered, measured, calculated.

“of course you will. we both know you’ve been waiting for this… an opportunity to prove your worth. to feel useful.”

he leaned back in his chair, letting the shadows deepen around him. the glint in his eye was sharp, reptilian, as he steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “but don’t mistake this for generosity, marcella. it’s not. you want to play the game? fine. but remember who wrote the rules.” he let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her closely, weighing her reaction. her face betrayed nothing, but he knew better than to take her at surface value. marcella had always been good at masking her true intentions.

his gaze hardened, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “mistress of whispers. an appropriate title for you, i suppose. you’ve always enjoyed the shadows, haven’t you? always enjoyed making the puppets dance. but understand this, marcella: if you take that role, you will not falter. not once. every whisper you hear, every secret you gather, every thread you pull—it all comes to me. no exceptions.” he stood then, the movement slow, deliberate. towering over her, he placed his hands flat on the desk and leaned forward, his face close enough that she could see the faint scars that traced his cheekbone like a ghost of past violence.

“if you step out of line,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “if you embarrass me or this house… you will wish our father was still alive to deal with you.” the threat lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken, as he straightened and smoothed the front of his tunic. “the king,” he began, his tone tightening, “has been… slow. reluctant to address the obvious flaw in his council. wylliam swann lingers like a bad smell, yet jaehaerys hesitates. perhaps he doesn’t see it yet. perhaps he does and simply needs a… nudge. either way, swann’s time is up. and when he falls, it will not be us that looks the fool.”

[cellaceltigar]

marcella noted the other's reasoning for choosing to become court seer. she could not argue with it. boredom had driven her to dive even deeper into her craft, reading tomes, and experimenting with forces beyond herself. forces that she was trying her best to gain control of.

“hmm, you could have done something else with it, though,” she pointed out with a shrug. people usually picked the path that lined their pockets with the most gold. “taken coin from those desperate enough to have someone else peer into their mundane lives for the answers they seek.”

they both knew there were plenty of pretenders out there, women who dared call themselves witches because they had a basic understanding of healing, and little else. “but i am sure the king appreciates you using your talents for the benefit of the kingdom, did he ask you himself?” she regularly checked to see if the whispers that reached her were true, she wanted to make sure the channels of information were free of false rumours.

Gaia was not quite sure how much she was looking forward to seeing more of Maximus Celtigar, but she found that she cared equally little. After all, a Master of Coin's dealings did not concern a Court Seer much. Marcella did congratulate her, however, and Gaia would choose to focus on that. Even if she was sure that it was not entirely sincere Gaia would take what she got.

"Why, thank you kindly," she spoke, meeting Cella's attitude in kind. "It is less ambition than a fight against boredom. I don't care about sitting the council. I care about putting my skill to use." The words were accompanied by a nonchalant shrug. She felt less nonchalant than she behaved, but she did not show her cards easily. "I am enjoying it. And I am good at it. What better way to pass time is there?"

[cellaceltigar]

marcella's face portrayed no surprise by his words. there was nothing unexpected in her brother's confession. of course he wanted to become hand of the king. the truth was that nothing was ever enough for a celtigar. they had wanted a position on the council, now he wanted what was closest to the throne he could come. if madness did take jaehaerys, max could become the de facto king.

they both knew a valyrian deserved the position as hand of the king ― and who better than him among their midst? there could be no one else. everyone else were too weak, none of them could control the king. house celtigar deserved the pin that would be a great boon to their house. and with her brother as hand, some doors would open for her too. she would gain access to places still out of her reach for now. but a coup like that would be risky. she was sure max already had a plan, and she could help protect them by doing what she did best.

she felt the change in the air. the electricity of danger. she fought the urge to take a step back, a part of her still fearful of her brother. “tell me what you need me to do and i will do it.” her voice did not waver, it was full of determination. she had waited for something to happen, a change that would give her an opportunity to rise up. she could make that promise. but no promise came with no strings attached, so she followed it up with: “as long as you help me convince jaehaerys that i will make a good mistress of whisperers.”

marcella would not be a celtigar if she did not ask for something in return. they traded in deals, not favours. she could get rid of wylliam swann, she could get him expelled from court by playing her hand right. but she wanted something for herself too.

mxc.

there had always been streaks of ambition which danced behind the striking hues of his oldest sister; the thirst and desire to be something else, to be something more; that which went beyond wishing for a crown to be placed upon her head, but to feel genuine power behind a glass door. it was the principle of house celtigar; appear small in comparison with their valyrian peers, appear seemingly irrelevant - all it took was for the boats to land upon the black sand beaches of claw isle to realise there was and always had been a method to the madness.

she seemed so desperate to be of use, to be used; always suggested in quiet whispers or challenges, small comments that continued to twist and weave in the air long after words had finished existing. "no. that is not what you desire." he did not speak on what she did desire; but they both knew she wanted more. wanted to watch puppets dance, to quench whatever desire that weighed upon her shoulders.

"the king tires of lord swann." his words were point blank, his hand remaining on his desk as he fixed his gaze with one which reflected his own. "even if he does not know it yet. he wanted to be different, but he is no different to the other kings or queens on the continent - none of them have a wylliam swann as hand."

there was a million and one similarities between maximus celtigar and their late lord father; despite the heaviness that seemed to fill the halls the day he took his last breath, there was no denying the feeling of silent relief that came over maximus when hearing the ragged croak of a last inhale. it was the beginning of a new age for house celtigar; that did not mean discarding the clouds for the sun, but rather harnessing the clouds. controlling the clouds. he stared at his sister in the aftermath of her usual suggestion, small and fleeting but present - always present.

"i want it." and he'll get it. he did not develop on what he was speaking about. she would know. the pin. the position.

and in the past they would have seen their father grabbing a hold of their mother, the whirling rush of colour as she was gripped against the wall for speaking - but maximus? he just watched. there was power in unity, in family standing together; not side by side for he was not her equal but her better, but she was meant to be a pillar. she needed to have knowledge in order to inform her choices of how best to benefit their own family.

his head tilted slightly, a reptilian glint in his eye. in the firelight, it almost appeared as though his face were half scaled. "you wish to help remove wylliam swann as hand of the king?" he asked, there being a sudden air of danger in the air. what was it she wanted him to do? how far would she go?

[cellaceltigar]

starter: @elysbrax setting: during the celebration of the little prince, somewhere at a feast in the westerlands.

marcella watched him patiently from the shadows. she had recently become interested in elys brax for something that was slowly taking shape in her mind. she only had concepts of a plan in mind. only bits and pieces, although the goal was clear. but despite the missing pieces, she knew that she needed a westerner for it, and something told her that he might be perfect for it. from studying him from afar for a few days, lord brax seemed like a promising candidate. people flocked to him, and they talked and talked and talked, and she wondered how much he remembered. if he was anything like her, he'd remember every fact that might be useful later ― and she suspected he was. but it was just a hunch, a product of her intuition.

as she decided to make her move, two lords nearby started to bicker. she recognised one of them being from the stormlands, the other was clearly a dornishman. perfect. as people around her were distracted, she got into position, snaking her way to stand beside elys with his attention momentarily on the two lords. growing up as a celtigar daughter, she had learned to make little sound. it was simply easier to be a ghost unless you wished to be seen. she had often been described as a cat by others, and she frequently startled people because they never heard her coming.

“if you were wondering, then yes, the temporary peace agreement seems very… temporary.”

“i'm starting to doubt if your king can truly keep the dornish under control, lord brax.”

marcella swirled the wine in her goblet around before raising her lilac eyes to meet his. it was a little jab, a challenge, a test. she felt like she did when she was reading through ancient tomes, her eyes darting over the yellowed pages. that high of experimenting with rituals, with spells. the feeling of excitement that rushed through her. there was nothing better than the beginning of a plan taking shape. when all doors were still open and the possibilities endless. when she could still have fun with the challenge of it. the problems only started once the plan was set in motion and others got involved, that's when things usually went wrong. marcella could plan for most things, but it were always people who got in the way with their bleeding hearts and their moral scruples. how easier things would be if people were as predictable as the tide, if they behaved logically. some of them were. some she could clock immediately, others were annoyingly far more complicated. it was all about discovering what made them tick, what they wanted ― and what they feared.

[cellaceltigar]

marcella only gave a short nod. “if you wish. you know i have no desire to be anywhere near them.” no matter how hard he hit her, how much it hurt, she would still silently follow along in his shadows. she did not know anything else. even when she had tried to turn away, to follow another path, he had dragged her back. her protector was also her tormentor, and to her then family meant loyalty and pain. maximus and naelys were the two people who guided most of her actions, both directly and indirectly. she would only spill her precious blood for house celtigar, or the velaryon daughter, who she considered her soulmate. it would be wisest to simply heed the order of her brother, but there was something on her mind. she needed to stay close to court, to hear if word of a body being found in the sewers would reach the council, if it would reach him. cella refused to take up her old position as lady-in-waiting, not for the lefford queen. she would only be in service of a true targaryen, or a valyrian by blood, who was worthy of it.

she needed a different approach to get where she wished to be, in the inner circle of court. the threat of an uproar among the stormlanders was as good as an opportunity she would get. “the stormlanders are rash and reckless, and they have grown arrogant because of wylliam swann's position as hand. you already know they will likely try to persuade the king to support them, and lord swann has too much access to his grace.” there was a balance with her brother, a precarious one. she could not tip too much towards disobedience, not even if she did it for their house. “if you want me to stay out of it, i will.” she could stay away from the stormlanders if he demanded it, but she still was in need of a way in without having to confess to her brother what she had done. it was not the murder in itself. death was nothing to a celtigar. they had spilled enough blood to fill a small lake. but the fact there were witnesses who might turn on her, that was the trouble. that would be what would provoke her brother's anger. marcella was determined to fix the problem herself, she had already sent spies to watch them. “but i can be of use, i can do more for us, for you.”

mxc.

according to maximus celtigar, women were simply pillars to support the men they were tied to in the life chosen for them. as cunning and smart as they could be, to fork out their own life without direction from a male guardian was something he thought women should not have the right to do do - and thus, the ladies of house celtigar were directed beneath the iron hand of their oldest and only brother. whilst there was a power rush he felt upon striking his sisters, he also felt like it was the right thing to do. "marcella."

it had been months since he had ever needed to strike his oldest sister, considering she knew her place and knew it well. knew it enough to provide some use, to support the man who was responsible for her - whilst not stepping beyond that line. "the king sees sense. stormlanders do not. that is all." it were hardly ironic for a celtigar to be blamed for some financial issue, but he still thought about the sight of his uncle being swarmed by a mob. he knew how quickly the tide could turn, and how quickly it would need to be squashed.

there were moments, brief moments mostly during namedays, where he looked upon her and remembered distant memories from the past. running against the harsh winds upon the black sand beaches of claw isle, grabbing hold of her by the arm and dragging her away from their mother's chambers lest she hear their father disciplining their mother - as was his right. still, something in him had never wanted her to hear it; to hear it was soul crushing. "do not be within their company." there was no follow up conversation or explanation to a brazen, blunt order. she knew better, but she was still a woman.

they could become clouded. misguided. they were fools, in truth. no matter how smart they were. "daenaerys took money from tyland lannister. his grace wishes to see that debt cleared, as soon as possible. there are more stormlanders to tax, the money will be collected faster. it is not our issue they breed like vermin."

[cellaceltigar]

marcella had long felt there was something about qoherys daughter, something similar to herself. but she was good at keeping secrets, of hiding that which concerned no one else. when she heard of aenogaia's new title, it confirmed to her that she had sensed right when she felt there was something different about her.

she understood it was a poor attempt at a joke, but her face so perfectly maintained in a neutral expression did not change. “all he has is business in the red keep, we don't come here for fun.” well, that was not strictly true. cella could stay home at claw isle, and sometimes she did, but she did enjoy coming to king's landing. not for the people, not for the feasts. but for secrets, the whispers, the game of luring people to her home like a siren. she enjoyed the attention. and perhaps some part of her did find it fun to lie and manipulate, to see how much she could get that she was not entitled to. it was different at home, there she was entitled to most things... with her brother's permission.

before gaia could say it was merely a joke, she smiled deliberately to ease the tension she herself had created. “you will see plenty of max now that you are his grace's court seer, congratulations.” marcella was curious, very curious, but she had to be strategic about it. “i did not know you had such ambitions nor the skill for it. how long have you wished for such a position?” she had heard whispers of it being gaia herself who had dared to approach jaehaerys about it.

who: @cellaceltigar where: the halls of the red keep

There was a different air to these hallways now that Aenogaia lived here permanently. Some of the intimidation was sucked out of the Red Keep, evaporated now that she could explore freely. The first woman on King Jaehaerys' council, the court seer following in the footsteps of the likes of Queen Helaena Targaryen. She had done her most to convince the King of her position and he had granted her this honor. Gaia was not Saella. She was not as attuned to court proceedings as her sister, but this did not go unnoticed. Whatever it might have been during their conversation, Jaehaerys Targaryen had been intrigued by her. This would count for something.

Hands fluttering through the fabric of her dress, the layers brushing along skin and metal as she walked through the halls, she stopped in her tracks all of a sudden when she spotted a rather familiar face. "Does your brother have business in the Red Keep?" Gaia asked Marcella Celtigar with a raised brow, mischief twinkling in her expression as she gazed upon an old acquaintance.

[cellaceltigar]

starter: @vlxyrianclaws setting: in king's landing, in the apartments of the master of coin.

there had been no shock or horror on marcella's face as the scene unfolded before them in the westerlands. she had sat stone-faced as alicent ran towards them, screaming for her grandson. there were not many who had any love left for the dowager queen, marcella was not one of the few who had. that specific event had brewed up yet more tensions. while she stood waiting in her brother's apartments for him to return from a council meeting, she contemplated the list of kingdoms their king had created conflict with throughout the years. had this happened two years ago, she would have laughed at the incompetence and aggression. she would have found joy in seeing him floundering. but now she needed jaehaerys to rule well. cella wished to see new valyria thrive. if the valyrians in westeros were to begin anew, she wished to be part of it. if new valyria could be a fraction of what valyria had once been, it would be a dream come true. jaehaerys had the chance of leading them there if he did not prove incapable. and if he did prove so... well, they had to rely on someone else to take control.

she stood by the window, lilac eyes taking in the sight of the city, when the door opened behind her. she turned to face max. she did not believe he was surprised to see her there. she often followed in his shadow. “brother.” her greeting was short and unemotional but respectful. she took a few steps around the room as she inspected his quarters, judging if the servants were doing a good enough job. “i have heard whispers of discontent since i arrived, whispers of the king making far too many enemies and not enough friends.”

there were many whispers in king's landing, but marcella was good at hunting down those that would prove the most useful to her. she liked secrets, she enjoyed knowing those of others and guarding her own. some she even managed to hide from maximus. “some of the stormlanders seem particular sullen. but then again, they have always been miserable.” she would too if she had to live in the stormlands, and be as poor and ugly as most of them were. had she been someone else, she might have understood why some of them would protest being part of new valyria, and having their identity stripped away. but she was not. cella was of the opinion they should be grateful they were allowed to keep as much of it as they were.