The Falcon of Claw Isle

“A Celtigar by name, a stranger to its legacy.”

[arthor-celtigar]

🂭 IF THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS, THEN RELIGION IS IN THE GAP OF YOUR TEETH 🃟

(Starter with @sewn-from-stardust)

The hall was cold as a crypt, though the hearth roared with flames. Arthor felt it down to the marrow, that same cold that had settled in him the moment he’d spoken the words aloud: I will take vows. I will give my life to the gods, not to this house.

The silence after had been worse than the storm outside that chained them all to King’s Landing. The sea was frozen, the roads snow-choked; he could not flee, and so he stood now before his parents, waiting for the storm inside his father to break.

It did not take long.

“You dare,” Clement spat, voice rough with wine and fury. “You dare throw away everything? Twenty years, boy. Twenty years of coin, of lessons, of tutors and masters, all of it poured into you. Every stitch of silk, every sword you carried, every feast you were seated at, paid for by this house, by me. And now you tell me you’ll piss it all away, shut yourself up in a sept, and shave your head like some lowborn zealot?”

Arthor swallowed, his throat dry. “I don’t seek to shame you, Father. I only—”

The blow came faster than thought. A sharp crack across his face, fist slamming into the bridge of his nose. His vision swam, hot blood flooding at once, copper stinging his tongue. The world tilted. He stumbled back, a hand flying up to staunch the rush, eyes watering from the pain.

Clement’s fury was a living thing. “Is this what the gods have taught you? To defy your father? To spit on your duty? To make a laughingstock of House Celtigar? You were to be lord one day. You were to bear my name, my hall, my blood! And now you tell me you’ll toss it aside for robes and prayers?”

A shrill, furious cry split the room.

Mercy.

The falcon dove from the rafters like a streak of stormlight, wings beating, talons flashing. She struck Clement’s shoulder, claws raking across the fine velvet of his doublet, feathers scattering like sparks. Clement cursed and staggered, swiping at the bird, rage breaking into something closer to shock.

“Mercy—no!” Arthor choked, lunging forward despite the blood dripping from his face. His arms wrapped around the bird, pulling her close against his chest. She thrashed, talons cutting even through his sleeve, wings buffeting wildly as if she’d tear his father’s throat out then and there if only Arthor would let her.

“Down,” he whispered desperately, voice ragged. “Hush, my heart, hush—”

Clement reeled back, face scratched, his fine collar torn where Mercy’s talons had caught. His chest heaved. His eyes burned with fresh hatred, but not at the bird. At him. Always at him.

Elinor did not move. She stood across the hall, still as ice, her veil shadowing her pale face. She did not reach for him, did not cry out at the blood smeared down his chin, did not even lift a hand when Clement’s fist had cracked against their son’s nose.

Her eyes met his, and what Arthor saw there chilled him more than Clement’s rage.

Not fear. Not pity.

Disappointment.

Like he’d taken the last fragile hope she’d harbored for him and dashed it in the muck.

“Elinor,” Clement snarled, still rubbing his shoulder where Mercy’s talons had dug. “Look at your son. Look at this disgrace. He would rather kneel before statues than take his place as heir. He’d rather beg crumbs of comfort from stone gods than wield the power we bled to give him.”

Her lips parted at last, but no defense came. No balm. Only words soft as a dirge:

“You were not meant for this, Arthor. Not meant for vows. You were raised for duty. For more than prayers and shadows. You… you shame us.”

The words cut deeper than Clement’s fist ever could.

Arthor’s grip on Mercy faltered, his arms shaking with the effort of holding her still as she hissed and snapped at the air, wings half-spread. He pressed his face into her feathers, letting her rage cover the sound of his own faltering breath.

He wanted to scream. To curse. To tell them that all their feasts and finery, all their schemes and scorn, had left him hollow. That he had knelt in the sept until his knees bled, and there at least, in silence, he had felt something like peace.

But the words never left him.

Only the old ones did. The same ones that had guided him through every storm.

Obedient. Dutiful. Coward.

When Clement finally turned away, muttering about sons wasted and heirs lost, Elinor’s gaze lingered on him, cold as the snows outside. She did not touch him, did not follow, did not comfort.

Arthor stood alone in the hall, Mercy trembling in his arms, his nose still bleeding freely, shame burning so hot it seared him raw.

And still, beneath it all, a stubborn, flickering ember of resolve.

He would take the vows. He must.

Because if this was all his parents’ love amounted to—blows and disappointment—then the gods could not be crueller.

Arthor liked the royal sept best by night. By day it teemed with courtiers and supplicants, each wearing piety as if it were a brooch of gold, pinned bright for others to see. But when the torches guttered low along the serpentine stair, when the stables hushed and the castle stilled, the sept was his alone.

He went softly down the nave, candle in one hand, rag in the other, the faint scrape of wax on marble loud as thunder in the quiet. Incense lingered yet, a sweetness cloying at the tongue, curling heavenward as though reluctant to quit the place. The seven altars shone pale in the moonlight, and the faces above them seemed sterner for it.

This was his rhythm, his penance. Scrape away the wax. Set new tapers. Strike flint and steel till the wicks took fire once more. Pray. Be silent. Believe. The Faith asked no more, and for a while he almost believed it gave no less.

Kneeling came easy. Silence came easier. The Faith gave him both.

He was crouched by the Crone’s altar when the voice came, deep and steady, echoing strangely in the stillness.
“That bruise looks painful.”

Arthor startled. The candle in his hand snapped clean in two, wax crumbling into his palm. He rose sharply, heart hammering.
“Who—?”

The man was tall, with more delicate features than most in King’s Landing, and clothed for a winter twice as cruel as the Crownlands ever knew. His robe shimmered like the deep of night, embroidered in golden flowers that caught the firelight like stars. Bracelets winked at his wrists, and when he smiled, two golden hoops glimmered from his lower lip, catching the lamplight like fangs.

A foreigner.

“Davos Allyrion, Lord of Godsgrace,” he said easily, extending a henna-stained hand.

Arthor remembered the name. His father had spoken of him with disdain, calling him rabid, a beast with too much hunger and not enough restraint. A boy parading in silks and bangles, playing at healer with desert tricks better suited for hedge witches. Unmuzzled. Unfit.

The sort of man who ought to blister and burn on holy ground.

Yet he extended his own hand, because that was what a man of the Faith did. Their palms met briefly, before Arthor pulled back.

“My lord,” he murmured, wary. “What brings you to the sept at such an hour?”

Davos’s smile deepened, half amusement, half mischief. “Curiosity, perhaps. Though I confess I don’t pray here. My prayers are spoken by water, under stars that do not belong to your Seven.”

Arthor stiffened, the candle stump still tight in his hand. “You… do not believe?”

“I believe,” Davos said smoothly. “Just not in your statues. My mother is the Rhoyne. The river herself. Her waters flow eternal. It is she who carries us, she who hears us.” His bracelets clinked as he gestured toward the silent figures looming above the altar. “These are strangers to me.”

Arthor nearly dropped what remained of the candle. “Blasphemy,” he whispered. His pulse raced. “You speak of false gods in a sept of the Seven—”

“And yet the ceiling has not fallen,” Davos said lightly. He stepped closer, his presence filling the small space. “Do not look so stricken, Celtigar. I come with no sword, no fire. Only a thought… and perhaps an offer.”

Arthor frowned. “An offer?”

“Friendship,” Davos said, as if it were the most natural word in the world.

Arthor blinked. “Why?”

The Dornishman tilted his head, as if pondering. “Why indeed? I made the same offer to your High Septon once. Poor man refused me. So I turned my kindness elsewhere. And in doing so, I discovered many mistresses, many bastards, scattered across the city like spilled seeds. A pity. I had to stop looking kindly upon him.”

Arthor’s mouth fell open. The High Septon? The man was near-infallible, a paragon to the devout. To tarnish his name so casually—

“You—you dare to speak such things of the High Septon?”

Davos’s smile was sharp as a knife, the golden hoops flashing like teeth. “Think of it as a confession, if that makes it easier. And what is a confession to a devout man? Something he cannot repeat.”

“I am not even sworn yet. I have not taken vows. Why bring this to me? What use is friendship with a man who holds no influence?”

At that, Davos laughed. A full, bright sound that rang in the still sept like a bell. “Oh, haven’t you heard?”

Arthor’s brows knit.

“Your grandsire Bartimos speaks of you often,” Davos said. “He dreams aloud, even to strangers. He does not see a boy cleaning wax from marble floors. He sees a saint in the making. The youngest High Septon the realm has ever known. Crowned in crystal, with kings bowing at your feet. He says it plain: ‘I raised no princeling. I raised a saint.’”

Arthor felt sick. His stomach twisted, the incense cloying in his throat. He shook his head, backing a step from the altar as if the statues themselves might scorn him. “No. No, I do this not for crowns or glory. I do it for atonement. For guilt. For—” His voice broke. “I want no throne, no crystal crown. Let them give it to another.”

Davos’s eyes narrowed, not in mischief but in something nearer concern. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Then all the more reason you should have friends. The Faith will swallow you whole if you are not careful. A man who kneels too long forgets how to stand.”

Arthor looked at him, torn between suspicion and some fragile thread of relief. His knuckles whitened around the broken candle. His cheek throbbed where his father’s fist had landed hours ago, punishment for daring to speak aloud his intent to take the vows. The bruise burned with every breath, shame and defiance pressed into the skin.

Davos seemed to read it in him. Carefully, he reached into his belt and withdrew a small earthen jar, pressing it into Arthor’s palm. “Ointment,” he said simply. “For your nose… or your father’s temper.”

Arthor froze, the cool clay heavy in his hand.

Davos spread his arms, bracelets clinking like wind chimes. “So. My offer remains. Simply because I think you need it. You need an ally who sees you as a man, not as some golden idol they wish to parade.”

The sept was very quiet. Only the candles crackled, only the incense drifted. Arthor’s gaze flicked up to the Seven, their faces cold and still. Then back to the Dornish lord standing before him, too catlike, too strange, too alive.

He wanted to refuse. He should have refused. But the word caught in his throat, and instead he only whispered, hoarse, “Why me?”

Davos smiled like a man who already knew the answer. “Because you look lonelier than I’ve ever been.”

Arthor did not knock. He shoved the oak door open hard enough that the hinges groaned, striding into his grandfather’s solar with the broken candle still clutched in his fist like a piece of damning proof.

Bartimos Celtigar looked up from his wine. At eighty, the lord was wiry, but his eyes gleamed with the same unsoftened steel that had carried him through half a century at court. He smiled as though nothing at all were amiss.
“Ah. My saint returns. Did the Crone whisper wisdom to you tonight, or only the rats in her rafters?”

The word struck harder than a blow. Always that word, saint. A name that clung like pitch no matter how often Arthor tried to wash it away. His jaw set, his pulse quickened.
“Do not call me that,” he snapped, his voice unsteady beneath its edge. “Saint, savior, High Septon-in-waiting. Do not put those words in my mouth.”

Bartimos set his cup aside with unhurried grace, lacing his fingers together. “I put them nowhere save where they belong. A man must be named what he is. And you, child, are meant for more than sweeping candle wax from cold floors.”

Wax and cold floors. The words stung. Penance was not play for him, nor some menial task beneath the family name. The silence of the sept was all that kept him from drowning, the ritual of scrubbing and kneeling the only balm to the weight he carried. Yet his grandsire spoke of it as if it were nothing at all, a mere rung upon some ladder to glory.

“You speak of crowns and thrones of crystal as if they were yours to give,” Arthor flung back, pacing across the rushes, unable to keep still beneath the pressure of those eyes. “Do you know what they whisper of me already? That I hunger for glory. That I crave power in the Faith. I wanted penance, Grandfather. Silence. Instead, you make me a mockery.”

Bartimos studied him with the air of a falconer considering a bird that strained against the glove. “The Faith is a game no less than the court, boy. Penance alone makes martyrs. Influence makes shepherds. Would you sooner die forgotten in some cloister, your bones gnawed by worms? Or will you guide kings, whisper truth into crowns? You were not born to be faceless.”

“You do not see me,” he said through gritted teeth, growling like an undisciplined hound. “You see only what I can buy you. A saint in your pocket. Another fortune, another seat at council. Have you ever thought of what I want?”

Bartimos laughed, rich and warm, as though humoring a child. The sound drove into him like a blade. All his grief, his guilt, his penance, it was nothing but a stepping stone toward a future he had never asked to walk.

“You speak like a boy, and yet you ask to be treated as a man. Men want little, Arthor. They want security, renown, and to leave the world better than they found it. You will have all three. I give them to you freely. And in return, I ask only that you stop mistaking my vision for chains.”

Chains. That was what they were, no matter how finely gilded. His grandsire might polish them with pretty promises, but Arthor felt the weight all the same, pulling him down, down, down.

The candle struck the table with a sharp crack, wax shattering. His breath shuddered loose, ragged, perilously close to sobbing.
“This is what I am,” he said, voice breaking. “Broken. Weak. Not your saint, not your heir, not the jewel of the Faith. I cannot—will not—be what you parade before the court.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Then Bartimos’s smile gentled, as though he faced a tantrum. Patience, not pity—that was worse. That look hollowed Arthor like a bell.

“Do you know why I call you saint?” his grandsire asked softly.

Arthor’s chest heaved. He had no words left, only the ache in his throat, the sting in his eyes. He hated that the old man could still look at him and speak as though he knew him better than he knew himself.

“Because you kneel, yes,” Bartimos went on. “But also because you rise. Because guilt has not yet soured you into bitterness, as it did your father. You burn still. And that burn, boy, will carry you farther than prayer alone.”

But Arthor knew the fire for what it was. It did not carry him, it consumed him, licking at his insides until only ash remained. He knelt because he could not stand, rose because fear of falling forever was worse.

There was no holiness in it. Only exhaustion.

His shoulders shook despite himself. His grandsire’s voice rolled over him calm as tidewater, inevitable, inescapable.

“You may hate me now, but one day you will thank me. One day, when the crystal crown sits upon your brow and the realm bends to hear your word, you will know I gave you not chains, but wings.”

The word struck like a cruel jest. Wings. What wings could he have, when all he felt was the drop beneath?

Arthor stumbled back, eyes blurred, tears burning. He turned and fled before the old man could speak again, wax still clinging to his palms.

A saint in name only.

Nothing but a drowning boy.

Clarence found him at dawn. The septon’s bulk filled the narrow cloister door, the sun cresting gold behind his head like a halo that sat crooked. He stood there, frowning down at Arthor as though the bruises on his cheek and jaw were blemishes on holy marble.

“Gods preserve me,” Clarence muttered, seizing Arthor’s chin with fingers that smelled of ash and incense. He turned his face this way and that, tutting. “What mischief drags a would-be brother into a fight like a dockside brawler? Drunkards, you said? A boy of the cloth brawling with drunkards?”

Arthor’s throat tightened. He had said it quickly, too quickly, when Clarence first demanded an account of his injuries. Better drunkards than the truth. Better a tavern scuffle than his father’s fist.

“Yes, Septon,” Arthor managed, his jaw aching under Clarence’s grip. “I—I was set upon. I gave as good as I got.”

Clarence barked a laugh, sharp as a crow. “As good as you got? I should hope not, else they are sprawled in the gutters praying to the Mother with their teeth in the mud. You’re a child, Celtigar, not a sellsword. You’ll not make the Seven any holier by splitting skulls for sport.”

He let go at last, sighing through his nose, robes whispering about his legs as he paced the cloister. “Bruises like these will sour the court’s eye, and worse, they make me look a fool for keeping you under my wing. No, no… penance alone will not do. You’ll need a lesson in humility. A task fit for bruised knuckles and a puffed cheek.”

Arthor lowered his gaze. “As you command, Septon.”

Clarence stopped short, squinting toward the inner doors of the Red Keep. His mouth twitched with something like mischief, though it sat sour on him. “The Queen’s seamstresses prance about with their silks and needles, fussing over who shall stitch what into whose hem. Pompous highborn brats, the lot of them. But one has been given leave to embroider the High Septon’s ceremonial robe for the feast. The Vale’s little display of pride, I hear. As though the Mother Above will swoon over falcons and snowflakes sewn in silver thread.”

Arthor blinked, uncertain. “You mean to—”

“Yes,” Clarence cut him off. “You will assist her. You will carry spools, fetch dyes, trim thread, and keep your tongue behind your teeth unless she asks for it. The lady cries out for counsel on color and pattern, but my true apprentices are too busy with matters of worth. So you, bruised and battered as you are, will play the dutiful little drudge. If the robe dazzles, she’ll preen like a peacock and thank her own skill. If it falters, well… who will she blame but the novice who muddled her skeins?”

The thought turned Arthor’s stomach, but Clarence was already shepherding him down the corridor, one heavy hand pressing between his shoulder blades. They passed beneath the painted glass of the Queen’s sept, the light falling jeweled and fractured across Arthor’s bruises.

At last they came to a chamber set apart from the usual clamor of the seamstress’ hall. Clarence rapped once on the lintel and pushed Arthor forward.

The room smelled of dyes and fine linen, a sharp contrast to the incense of the sept. Sunlight fell across a frame where a robe of pale cloth was stretched taut, its surface already jeweled with threads of gold and blue. A woman bent over it, slender and still, her hands deft at work with the needle. Even in silence, her bearing carried something of hawk and mountain

Too proud to bow, too intent to falter.

Clarence cleared his throat, not unkindly, though his words were as blunt as ever. “Lady Becca Arryn. The boy will serve you until your work is done. Don’t spare him, don’t flatter him. Use him as you please.”

He turned to Arthor, gave him one last squeeze on the shoulder, and left without a blessing.

The chamber fell quiet again, save for the whisper of thread sliding through cloth.

Arthor swallowed, stepped forward, and inclined his head.
“…Arthor Celtigar,” he said softly. “At your service, my lady.”

[addamsseasmoke]

A Friend in Troubling Times

Starter with @arthor-celtigar

(a part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood)

Seasmoke was watching Addam, just as he always did. His wings moving fluidly through the air over the docks, scaring away most of the people who noticed him.

Addam was thankful, really, and the perks of having a huge beast as a companion were endless. Less people bothering him on the docks was something he’d never take for granted. So now he sat by himself in a more secluded place of the docks, minding his own business, trying his best to ignore the chill in his bones.

He’d make one more sketch. Add one last line to the drawing. Use up one final charred stick. Then he’d go back to his rooms and warm himself.

It was what Addam always told himself, though it was never true. But today, he didn’t think he could take the cold much longer.

With a shiver that caused his hand to fumble, leaving his drawing ruined, he decided it was time to leave. He sighed, looking up at Seasmoke. Do dragons feel the cold like this?

He watched Seasmoke drift through the clouds over to the more busy part of the docks, and to his surprise, Seasmoke stayed there. The blue and grey dragon seemed to watch over the ships at bay. Addam rolled his eyes, but knew his dragon wanted him over there for one reason or another.

If my dragon wants to watch me embarrass myself as others try to speak to me, so be it.

Once he arrived, the dock seemed to be too silent. Perhaps the ships aren’t leaving, and everyone has gone home? What did Seasmoke see that he did not?

But Addam then saw it. A man, a young man, one at the edge of the dock looking like he was ready to throw himself into the sea.

Addam was familiar with men in a state like this. Men who were afraid of the open water, men who became seasick as soon as they had set sail, boys who were too young to know how to sail. Clutching their chests, breathing heavy, just as this mysterious man was doing before Addam now.

He quickly looked around him, and realized no one was here for this man. But Addam would be now.

He quickly walked over to the other man, hoping his steps were loud enough that he noticed him and he wouldn’t be startled.

“Hello, friend, are you well?”

Stupid question. He wasn’t well, very clearly unwell. Addam tried again and this time, he settled his hand on the distressed man’s back.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay…” He tried his hardest to sound kind and honest, but the other man did not seem to hear him. How could he comfort a stranger he did not know? How did he comfort anyone? That thought made him think of Alyn, his younger brother.

Years ago, Alyn had spent the night out gambling. He had thought it a hilarious game and a way to make their family rich. But, being only a foolish young boy, he’d lost all of the money. Money that he’d stolen from Addam, money that was supposed to pay for their food the next day.

Alyn had come to Addam, profusely apologizing, and crying. Something the younger seldom did. His brother was breathing so heavily, Addam thought he would faint right then and there.

But he forgave Alyn, as he always did, and brought him into his arms. He told his brother; “Look to the sea, Alyn. It’s calm this night. Be calm like the sea is. You have nothing to fear, because I’ll protect you.”

This stranger was still trembling, and Addam would stay until he was okay. With his free hand, he pointed to the sea. Where the sea was free of ships, and the cold wind was blowing the waves gently.

“Look, friend. Look at the sea.” Addam gently moved his hand up from the man’s back to his shoulder. “It moves gently. Calmly. And…” Seasmoke was in their sight now, flying over where Addam was pointing.

“You see? There’s my dragon, Seasmoke. He’s here to protect us, nothing can harm you when he’s here. Everything is well, I promise you.”

[arthor-celtigar]

After speaking with Lord Yronwood about Vaella, Arthor was panicking in earnest. His boots skidded over the ice-crusted cobblestones as he tore down to the docks, breath fogging before him in ragged, desperate bursts. The wind cut at his face and turned his eyes raw, but he ran anyway, admission letter clutched in one hand, ferry ticket in the other, like lifelines, like relics.

He was not fleeing, he told himself. His letters would reach his kin by morning. He had confessed all, laid his shame bare on the page, his guilt, his sorrow, his failings. If they read with mercy, they would understand. If they didn’t… well.

This was not an escape.

It was surrender.

Cowardice, perhaps. But if he possessed no other virtue, then let it be that. Cowards lived.

There would be no absolution waiting across the sea. But perhaps, if the gods were merciful, there might be strength. Strength enough to cease failing those he loved.

His cloak billowed behind him like a banner in a storm. For a fleeting moment, he thought, Larissa would laugh to see me now. It feels like flying. He must have cut a wretched figure, all wind-chafed, wild-eyed, hair in disarray, ticket in one hand and a wrinkled letter in the other like the last page of a forgotten dream. But he did not care. He was almost there.

He could see the ferry moored at the end of the quay. Pale fog curling around its hull. The scent of brine and tar sharp in the air. He’d made it. Seven above, he’d made it—

“No boarding today, my lord,” the ferry captain said, not unkindly.

Arthor blinked. “I—I’ve a ticket.” He held it out like a child might hold out a broken toy. “I—my passage is paid, I—”

“Aye, and it’s no good. Waters are turning. Freeze’ll take the straits before midday.” The captain shrugged, his face weather-worn and apologetic. “Can’t risk the ice. Not with a vessel this light. We sail again come thaw.”

“Come… thaw?” Arthor repeated, as if he didn’t know what the word meant.

“Spring, maybe.” A pause. “Maybe longer.”

The paper slipped from his fingers. The wind caught it, flipped it once, and dropped it on the frost-blackened planks.

Arthor couldn’t feel his hands. Couldn’t feel anything.

He turned slowly, and walked, not knowing where his feet were leading him until he reached the edge of the dock.

The sea stretched before him, dark and endless. The sky had turned a bruised gray, and the water mirrored it, churning low and slow. It wasn’t beautiful. It was vast. Cold. Final.

He stared down at the waves, arms limp at his sides.

He used to be a strong swimmer.

He remembered laughing as a child, diving headlong from the cliffs with Larissa cheering behind him, his mother’s voice faint and panicked from the shore. He remembered the water hugging him, cold and clean, like a cradle that never asked questions.

Maybe he could do it. Swim to Oldtown. Swim to peace.

How long before the cold stalled him?

How long before the sea stopped being a path and became a grave?

Would he be stoned if he died trying to reach something better?

Or would the gods know, deep down, when it became inevitably less about swimming, and more about drowning?

His chest was too tight. His pulse a violent, stammering drumbeat beneath his skin. The edge creaked beneath his boots. Maybe one step. Just one.

And then—

A hand. Steady. Heavy. Warm. It settled on his shoulder with quiet insistence.

Arthor froze.

“Hey,” the voice said. Low. Kind. Real. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He did not recognize the speaker’s face. Only the steadiness in his tone. There was no judgment in the man’s eyes, no grand declarations. Just presence. Flesh and blood.

“Look, friend. Look at the sea. It moves gently. Calmly.”

Only a breath ago, Arthor had been thinking of drowning. The fog had begun to lift. Just enough to reveal a streak of softer blue where the light touched the water. Pentoshi blue, like silk dyed for royalty.

He remembered the sea that way once. The hush of water in his ears. The weightless wonder of sound beneath the surface. The light breaking into rainbows above him.

He used to leap into the waves as if they would catch him.

Now, he was forbidden to undress when bathing.

Then a shadow crossed the water, a pale shape gliding low. Wings like silver sails, pearl-bright in the murk.

“You see? There’s my dragon, Seasmoke. He’s here to protect us, nothing can harm you when he’s here. Everything is well, I promise you.”

A dragon.

Seasmoke.

A creature of Valyria.

A Targaryen, then? Or a Velaryon?

“Your dragon…?”

A dragonseed.

He remembered Clement raging about them once. “They’ll let dockboys from Hull claim dragons, but gods forbid a Celtigar set foot in the pit. At least we’ve noble blood.”

Arthor had never wanted a dragon. Not then. Not ever.

And now, he was certain he did not deserve one.

He was not brave, like this man. Not kind. Not good.

But he was lucky.

Lucky for the sea, for the warmth of a hand that had not let him fall, for the quiet mercy of the moment.

“What is your name?” he murmured, the words dragging their way out. “I am sorry this is your first impression of me. Everything’s gone terribly wrong today… I’m usually far more composed. I swear it.”

His voice cracked. He managed a half-smile.

“I’m Arthor,” he said. Not Celtigar. Just Arthor.

[addamsseasmoke]

“Hello, Arthor.” Addam took a good look at this man again, looking for any features he recognized. A nobleman, or not? Addam was terrible at knowing which lord owned which castle, and what features made someone a part of a certain family. For now, this man was simply Arthor.

Arthor looked calmer than he previously was, but he still seemed shaken up. What had happened to this man? Addam wanted to ask, and to try to fix things for Arthor, to see him smile instead of be on the verge of tears. But the last thing he wanted to do was to pressure him into speaking about his troubles.

Sometimes the only thing someone else wanted was simply the presence of another. So Addam would be that presence for his new friend.

“Don’t be sorry, Arthor. These things happen, trust that I’ve been where you are now as well.”

To every night he panicked that he wouldn’t be able to provide for his mother and brother, to the times when he’d believed he’d ruined a design for a ship and destined all the people on it to sink, Addam knew the feeling well of things going wrong and feeling the pressure of that. He saw a little bit of himself in this other man, a little bit of Alyn there, and a lot of kindness. It was an assumption of course to say Arthor was kind, he had barley spoken to this man yet, but Addam could feel it.

Addam smiled back at him. A true, comfortable smile. Not the awkward smile he wore at court with too much teeth and too little warmness. “I’m Addam. Addam of Hull. You’ve most likely heard of me before… not that I want people to be talking about me. Or I’m proud that many people know me. I’m…” He stopped himself from saying more stupid things.

“Yes, I have a dragon, Seasmoke. He was watching you, and very worried for you. He’s fond of humans, much more than I am.”

Suddenly, a chilling breeze stopped Addam from talking further. He looked up, realizing Seasmoke was gone, most likely flying to the dragon pit now to take shelter from this horrible cold. It was time Addam did as well.

“Arthor, I’d love to stay and chat with you. But by the looks of the sky, we’re in for a storm soon. Can I take you to where I stay? I’m not sure where you reside, but my chambers are in the castle. It’s warm in there and has lots of sweets…” Would this help the other man to feel better? Or was Addam just making him uncomfortable? He couldn’t tell. He had never been much of a people person, but he tried. He tried with everything in him.

“You could tell me about your terrible day, and I’ll tell you about my own life. If you’d like.”

[arthor-celtigar]

Arthor’s throat worked as Addam spoke. The words were plain enough, yet they pressed on him like sunlight on frostbitten hands. “These things happen, trust that I’ve been where you are now as well.”

He blinked, unbelieving. Had any man ever spoken to him like that? Not with judgment, nor impatience, nor the sharp disdain that lingered like a shadow in the halls of every keep.

Most men, confronted with another undone, either looked away or sought to fill the silence with boast or bluster. Addam offered neither. He offered presence. Steadfast. A hand to hold when the tide of shame threatened to drag him under.

Shame, he knew, he should feel. Gods knew he did. For being seen broken, for the trembling of his hands, for the boyish crack in his voice. And yet it softened beneath Addam’s quiet smile. Not the brittle politeness of court, all teeth and guile, but a smile that made him believe, if only for a heartbeat, that perhaps he had not ruined everything beyond repair.

Every instinct screamed caution. Every lesson from whispered reprimands and sidelong looks warned that kindness such as this was a trap. And yet, a smaller voice, steady as a northern hearth, whispered back: Perhaps it is true. Perhaps not all people seek to wound.

The chill wind tore through Seasmoke, and Arthor followed the dragon’s shadow until it vanished into the gray sky. Cold bit deep, through cloak and bone, yet Addam’s offer cut through it, faint but real. Warmth. Food. Company. Simple things, yet they unmade him all the same. He wondered if he would weep, absurdly, at the thought of being offered something so plain and human.

He searched Addam’s face for mockery, for scorn, for cruelty in disguise. He had friends, yes. Friends who drank at his coin. Friends who boasted of victories and women. Friends who lingered when titles or silver could be spent. And yet none had offered this.

None of them were here now.

“I…” His voice caught, torn by sea-air and the weight of the night. “You are gracious. More than I deserve. If you would have me, I would gladly accept fire and your company.”

Arthor drew a slow, shivering breath, fog curling between them, and forced a smile that was still tentative, still borrowed, but inching toward his own.

Perhaps, he thought, I might speak. Perhaps I might let a man see me, without armor, without pretense. Perhaps, for a moment, I can be less than what I pretend to be.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, “I might tell you of my terrible day. A terrible few moons, actually. And I’d be happy to listen to yours. It seems… it seems I would like that.”

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

𝓗𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓽𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓒𝓵𝓪𝔀 𝓘𝓼𝓵𝓮

A SONG OF GOLDEN FIRE AND BLACK BLOOD HQ is Tumblr's Premier Fire and Blood & House of the Dragon No Dance!AU RP, focused on exploring all the scheming and intrigue that makes ASoIaF RP so thrilling in a peace time setting. Old and dangerous tensions simmer just beneath the surface, wild ambitions ready to sacrifice peace in pursuit of their grand visions for Westeros, and the Kingdom still faces a volatile path on the journey towards a brighter future.

Houses — Nav — Wanted — Plot — Discord

[doranyronwood]

Speaking out Loud

(Thread with @arthor-celtigar in conjunction with thread with @lady-vaella-darklyn)

Doran was straightforward and said forthright he wanted to begin courting Vaella. He’d kissed her hand softly and walked her back into the castle where they’d both stared longingly at the other. He promised to come and find her again once he had spoken with her family. It was important to him that they all knew he was sincere in his affection for Vaella. He also wanted Vaella to know how much he cared about her. He wanted her to feel comfortable spending time with him and her family together.

Unfortunately, right now, he had other things to attend to. Most importantly was finding and speaking to Arthor Celtigar. It couldn’t be put off any longer and Doran finally felt in control of his emotions. He was still upset as he walked the darkened halls but he no longer felt an overwhelming fury. He genuinely wanted to see what the lord's side of the story was. Too many things just didn’t add up to him. Was the man truly just an insipid social climber who reached too greedily? That wouldn’t be too hard for Doran to accept. In fact he could very easily deal with that matter.

Doran tried many different parts of the castle to find the lord. He tried the library, the training yard, the lord's own chambers and still came up empty handed. It only gave him more time to stew in his own thoughts. If the Celtigars had been royally embarrassed, why would they stay in the capital? Why not go home and find another willing lady to be your wife? For any person just trying to get ahead politically that’s exactly what they would do, cut their losses and try elsewhere. So what was Arthor's reason for staying? Obviously now they were all trapped by the weather but he’d be interested to know what the lord's plans had been before the ice rolled in.

He eventually stumbled into the man quite literally. The two nearly tumbled over each other as they passed in a tight corner of the corridor. Both were so absorbed in their own thoughts they hadn’t noticed the other. Doran’s hand shot out quickly as a flash of lightning to stabilize the other man before he quickly stepped away. Clearing his throat he apologized.

“Forgive me, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

The air hung awkwardly between them as the lord nodded briefly. Before he could step away Doran spoke again.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” He all but blurted out. “I’m afraid there’s no delicate way for me to approach this so I’ll just get on with it.”

Doran ran his hand through his hair and sighed. What a way to go about this, both standing against a wall looking warily at the other. He almost wanted to change approaches and ask the man to accompany him to discuss this over a drink; but something about the man's countenance stopped him.

“I heard some men speaking rather roughly about Lady Darklyn in a tavern the other night. I won’t repeat what I heard but it was untenable.”

He took a step back and sighed again. “I care for her. I know it's none of my business what happened between you but could you try to discourage the rumors? Whatever problems the two of you had, she doesn’t deserve to be spoken of so crassly.”

Doran waited and watched to see exactly what kind of a man Lord Celtigar was.

[arthor-celtigar]

For half a year Arthor moved through court like a ghost learning to haunt the living. He did not disappear all at once, but faded by increments. He spoke less. Smiled rarely. Ate little, and when he did, only bread and boiled greens. He came to sept each morning with red eyes and bowed head, and lingered after the bells had ceased, as if hoping the statues might answer back.

When his mother asked why he’d grown so thin, why he muttered prayers in his sleep, he only said, “I’m trying to be good.”

He had done his penance. Or tried to. He’d knelt before Vaella and Rhaena both, and even the old maester who had once found him drunken and sniveling in the library stacks. He’d hired a bard in Maidenpool to rewrite the tale, gild it with nobler lies. Letters had followed, and parcels, and coin—so much coin. He’d written to men he hated and men he feared, and offered apologies he did not always believe. He’d done everything he could, save dig up the bones and bury them deeper.

He took care. He took pains.

And he took nothing for granted.

Especially not Larissa.

Her future had been arranged with the same careful dread he used to arrange his own. He had begged Rhaena Targaryen for the favor beneath a dying tree, their shadows long across the marble balcony, and she had granted it with something like pity. Or mercy. Perhaps both.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was an escape.

The letter pressed to his ribs was proof of that; sealed with wax, signed in ink, and smoothed twice already for fear of creasing it. As if the maesters at the Citadel might read failure in the folds.

Six months of labor. And now, just steps. Quiet, steady steps toward the harbor, and the ship that would take him to Oldtown.

Away. Gods, let it be away.

He kept to the back corridors, where torchlight filtered through the colored glass in wavering shades of green and gold. His boots scuffed softly against the sandstone floors. His heart was hammering. It felt shameful. It felt brave.

It felt like running.

And then—

Thud!

He slammed into someone turning the corner. The letter slipped from his grasp and spun through the air like a startled dove before landing in a crumpled heap.

“Gods, I’m—” he started, but the stranger caught him by the arm. “Looking for me? Tell me, have we ever met?”

Arthor was taller, but still felt like a scolded boy. The septon had always warned him: your tunnel vision will be your end. So this time, he looked.

The man was a stranger. Dark-eyed. Angry. Ah.

Lord Yronwood.

The one people whispered had been charmed by Vaella. Larissa had mentioned him just the other day over tea. He had probably come to knock Arthor’s teeth out.

Lovely, he thought bleakly. He had no doubt Doran Yronwood could do it, and neatly. And worse: what would the maesters at the Citadel say about a busted lip and bruised eye? What questions would they ask?

“I care for her. I know it's none of my business what happened between you but could you try to discourage the rumors? Whatever problems the two of you had, she doesn’t deserve to be spoken of so crassly.”

Arthor blinked.

Wait. What?

He reached out, clutching Doran’s sleeve like a drowning man clings to driftwood.

“No… no, that’s wrong, I paid for it to be buried,” he said, the words tumbling over each other. “It was meant to be about me. I made sure of that. I—I hired the bard, the little birds, I—”

The panic came fast, like a rush of cold water. His chest tightened. His breath caught. He could feel it slipping again, all of it. Months of care, lies wrapped in silk, bribes offered with trembling hands.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “No, no, who was it? If you have names—if I can just speak to them—please—”

It was only then that he noticed the letter, crushed in his fist. The fine parchment now wrinkled, the seal beginning to crack.

He stared down at it.

Call the hells, and the devils will answer.

[doranyronwood]

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The man standing before Doran was no warrior. Appearing half starved and trembling like a leaf, the man nearly looked ill. Suddenly he felt guilty, he’d been dreaming of knocking this man’s head off for hours. Now he wasn’t sure the lord wasn’t going to have a breakdown right here in front of the gods and anyone else who managed to walk by.

He very gently disentangled the Lord’s hand from his sleeve and blew a puff of breath out. His mind was moving quickly as he tried to calculate several outcomes at once. He shrugged to himself after weighing his options. They were all stuck here anyway.

“Not here. Surely you know that.” Doran turned on his heel and led the man off.

They did not walk too far as he was afraid the man might still make a run for it at any time. He was an oddly twitchy man in his opinion. He could hear his stumbling steps behind him.

Luckily for Arthor, Doran had spent his weeks in King’s Landing doing more than being charmed by a beautiful lady. He’d also been mapping the castle where he could. He made note of all the passageways available to him and then marked all of the rooms from there. His mindset being it never hurts to be aware of your surroundings. As such, he knew where plenty of storerooms were located. He pulled Arthor into one.

Doran carefully combed the room to confirm it was empty of any wandering staff before he spoke.

“Let’s be real no matter who you pay, people talk. I don’t know anything about little birds but I do know those men knew intimate details about the affair.”

He paused to consider how much he should divulge. Looking at the man in front of him did not exactly inspire a lot of confidence but what real choice did he have?

“I’ll tell you this and you can make of it what you will.”

He then proceeded to describe the behavior of the two drunken men he’d overheard discussing the situation. How the first had insisted something was wrong with Vaella and how the second mentioned his bid for the princesses hand before the first man had loudly chastised him for the remark.

“The man took caution to look around and see if anyone had heard his companion but he was very drunk. He did a poor job and continued to insult Vaella.”

Doran was beginning to think it was one of Arthors own men. It would explain his frantic denial of the words against the man. That would make this even less of his business but still, he couldn’t turn away.

“I suggest you look within your own ranks.”

It was the last good word he had for the man. He wanted the words crushed for Vaella’s sake. He didn’t care for the man who’d caused them nor did he care for his emotional reaction to the news. He liked people of action and found the spiraling first displayed a personal flaw of the man.

Doran’s patience for the entire situation was growing thin. He had hoped Arthor would be a vapid, vain brute he could've knocked in the dirt. This entire mess was all political and none of his concern.

“Either find out who’s doing the talking, or I’ll silence them myself.”

He settled into an uncomfortable feeling of irritation and impatience. Being at court was always exhausting in a tedious way. The roots of this issue were non-existent. What should’ve been barely a passing glance became a long drawn out staring contest. He watched to see if Arthor would blink

[arthor-celtigar]

Arthor held his tongue, though his jaw tightened with every word the other man spoke. Doran talked as if he held a blade in hand, but to Arthor’s ears, it was naught but the dull scrape of steel drawn over stone. A warning, aye. Veiled threats, too. But laced through it all was that same familiar stench: pride. The man fancied himself clever, a solver of riddles, come to deliver some great revelation. And now he presumed to instruct him—Arthor Celtigar—as if he were some half-witted boy just come from Claw Isle, green and fumbling in the dark.

He had tried everything.

He had gone to Vaella, apologized on his knees, promised the wind would carry the whispers away. He had spoken to the guards, to the kitchen girls, to the gods-damned ratcatcher; anyone who might’ve heard too much. He had offered silver. He had made threats. He had prayed.

But men like Doran never saw that part. Outsiders never did. They came in wearing righteousness like a cloak, mistaking dust in the air for some foul corruption only they were wise enough to sweep clean. It was easy, to stand in judgment when you’d only just arrived.

Arthor’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the nails biting deep.

This wasn’t about Vaella. Not truly. It wasn’t love, nor honor, nor justice. It was performance. Doran wanted a villain to name, a knot to cut, and Arthor was a ready sacrifice. The trembling fool. The betrothed with rumors gnawing at his heels. The man who hadn’t yet put an end to it all. Convenient.

He met Doran’s gaze at last, cold and steady.

“I know the names,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “They’ll be dealt with.”

Dale and Elyas. Knights in name, loose-tongued fools in truth. They’d soon learn the price of idle talk.

He raised the crumpled letter, smoothing it with one hand against his chest.

“Pressing matters.”

And with that, he turned to go, the taste of freedom bitter on the back of his tongue.

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

Eldest son of the heir to House Celtigar, Lord Celment, Steward of Prince Jacaerys, and presumptive heir to Claw Isle / Max Irons / He/Him - @arthor-celtigar

Welcome, Lord Arthor of House Celtigar! We’re delighted to see that he has arrived safely on his journey to King’s Landing. Around the court the twenty year old has been praised as loyal, charming and creative, but some have whispered he is also insecure, people-pleasing to a fault and, most often than not, a coward under pressure. Upon his arrival it is clear that he worries about the reign of Westeros' first ruling queen, and while the eyes of our court may be fixed on House Targaryen, Queen Rhaenyra and the future of Westeros, his true allegiance will always be to his faith, the legacy of his house and his siblings, not in that particular order.

Emma, 21, she/her, GMT-3, Triggers: noncon andpedophilia

[addamsseasmoke]

A Friend in Troubling Times

Starter with @arthor-celtigar

(a part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood)

Seasmoke was watching Addam, just as he always did. His wings moving fluidly through the air over the docks, scaring away most of the people who noticed him.

Addam was thankful, really, and the perks of having a huge beast as a companion were endless. Less people bothering him on the docks was something he’d never take for granted. So now he sat by himself in a more secluded place of the docks, minding his own business, trying his best to ignore the chill in his bones.

He’d make one more sketch. Add one last line to the drawing. Use up one final charred stick. Then he’d go back to his rooms and warm himself.

It was what Addam always told himself, though it was never true. But today, he didn’t think he could take the cold much longer.

With a shiver that caused his hand to fumble, leaving his drawing ruined, he decided it was time to leave. He sighed, looking up at Seasmoke. Do dragons feel the cold like this?

He watched Seasmoke drift through the clouds over to the more busy part of the docks, and to his surprise, Seasmoke stayed there. The blue and grey dragon seemed to watch over the ships at bay. Addam rolled his eyes, but knew his dragon wanted him over there for one reason or another.

If my dragon wants to watch me embarrass myself as others try to speak to me, so be it.

Once he arrived, the dock seemed to be too silent. Perhaps the ships aren’t leaving, and everyone has gone home? What did Seasmoke see that he did not?

But Addam then saw it. A man, a young man, one at the edge of the dock looking like he was ready to throw himself into the sea.

Addam was familiar with men in a state like this. Men who were afraid of the open water, men who became seasick as soon as they had set sail, boys who were too young to know how to sail. Clutching their chests, breathing heavy, just as this mysterious man was doing before Addam now.

He quickly looked around him, and realized no one was here for this man. But Addam would be now.

He quickly walked over to the other man, hoping his steps were loud enough that he noticed him and he wouldn’t be startled.

“Hello, friend, are you well?”

Stupid question. He wasn’t well, very clearly unwell. Addam tried again and this time, he settled his hand on the distressed man’s back.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay…” He tried his hardest to sound kind and honest, but the other man did not seem to hear him. How could he comfort a stranger he did not know? How did he comfort anyone? That thought made him think of Alyn, his younger brother.

Years ago, Alyn had spent the night out gambling. He had thought it a hilarious game and a way to make their family rich. But, being only a foolish young boy, he’d lost all of the money. Money that he’d stolen from Addam, money that was supposed to pay for their food the next day.

Alyn had come to Addam, profusely apologizing, and crying. Something the younger seldom did. His brother was breathing so heavily, Addam thought he would faint right then and there.

But he forgave Alyn, as he always did, and brought him into his arms. He told his brother; “Look to the sea, Alyn. It’s calm this night. Be calm like the sea is. You have nothing to fear, because I’ll protect you.”

This stranger was still trembling, and Addam would stay until he was okay. With his free hand, he pointed to the sea. Where the sea was free of ships, and the cold wind was blowing the waves gently.

“Look, friend. Look at the sea.” Addam gently moved his hand up from the man’s back to his shoulder. “It moves gently. Calmly. And…” Seasmoke was in their sight now, flying over where Addam was pointing.

“You see? There’s my dragon, Seasmoke. He’s here to protect us, nothing can harm you when he’s here. Everything is well, I promise you.”

[arthor-celtigar]

After speaking with Lord Yronwood about Vaella, Arthor was panicking in earnest. His boots skidded over the ice-crusted cobblestones as he tore down to the docks, breath fogging before him in ragged, desperate bursts. The wind cut at his face and turned his eyes raw, but he ran anyway, admission letter clutched in one hand, ferry ticket in the other, like lifelines, like relics.

He was not fleeing, he told himself. His letters would reach his kin by morning. He had confessed all, laid his shame bare on the page, his guilt, his sorrow, his failings. If they read with mercy, they would understand. If they didn’t… well.

This was not an escape.

It was surrender.

Cowardice, perhaps. But if he possessed no other virtue, then let it be that. Cowards lived.

There would be no absolution waiting across the sea. But perhaps, if the gods were merciful, there might be strength. Strength enough to cease failing those he loved.

His cloak billowed behind him like a banner in a storm. For a fleeting moment, he thought, Larissa would laugh to see me now. It feels like flying. He must have cut a wretched figure, all wind-chafed, wild-eyed, hair in disarray, ticket in one hand and a wrinkled letter in the other like the last page of a forgotten dream. But he did not care. He was almost there.

He could see the ferry moored at the end of the quay. Pale fog curling around its hull. The scent of brine and tar sharp in the air. He’d made it. Seven above, he’d made it—

“No boarding today, my lord,” the ferry captain said, not unkindly.

Arthor blinked. “I—I’ve a ticket.” He held it out like a child might hold out a broken toy. “I—my passage is paid, I—”

“Aye, and it’s no good. Waters are turning. Freeze’ll take the straits before midday.” The captain shrugged, his face weather-worn and apologetic. “Can’t risk the ice. Not with a vessel this light. We sail again come thaw.”

“Come… thaw?” Arthor repeated, as if he didn’t know what the word meant.

“Spring, maybe.” A pause. “Maybe longer.”

The paper slipped from his fingers. The wind caught it, flipped it once, and dropped it on the frost-blackened planks.

Arthor couldn’t feel his hands. Couldn’t feel anything.

He turned slowly, and walked, not knowing where his feet were leading him until he reached the edge of the dock.

The sea stretched before him, dark and endless. The sky had turned a bruised gray, and the water mirrored it, churning low and slow. It wasn’t beautiful. It was vast. Cold. Final.

He stared down at the waves, arms limp at his sides.

He used to be a strong swimmer.

He remembered laughing as a child, diving headlong from the cliffs with Larissa cheering behind him, his mother’s voice faint and panicked from the shore. He remembered the water hugging him, cold and clean, like a cradle that never asked questions.

Maybe he could do it. Swim to Oldtown. Swim to peace.

How long before the cold stalled him?

How long before the sea stopped being a path and became a grave?

Would he be stoned if he died trying to reach something better?

Or would the gods know, deep down, when it became inevitably less about swimming, and more about drowning?

His chest was too tight. His pulse a violent, stammering drumbeat beneath his skin. The edge creaked beneath his boots. Maybe one step. Just one.

And then—

A hand. Steady. Heavy. Warm. It settled on his shoulder with quiet insistence.

Arthor froze.

“Hey,” the voice said. Low. Kind. Real. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He did not recognize the speaker’s face. Only the steadiness in his tone. There was no judgment in the man’s eyes, no grand declarations. Just presence. Flesh and blood.

“Look, friend. Look at the sea. It moves gently. Calmly.”

Only a breath ago, Arthor had been thinking of drowning. The fog had begun to lift. Just enough to reveal a streak of softer blue where the light touched the water. Pentoshi blue, like silk dyed for royalty.

He remembered the sea that way once. The hush of water in his ears. The weightless wonder of sound beneath the surface. The light breaking into rainbows above him.

He used to leap into the waves as if they would catch him.

Now, he was forbidden to undress when bathing.

Then a shadow crossed the water, a pale shape gliding low. Wings like silver sails, pearl-bright in the murk.

“You see? There’s my dragon, Seasmoke. He’s here to protect us, nothing can harm you when he’s here. Everything is well, I promise you.”

A dragon.

Seasmoke.

A creature of Valyria.

A Targaryen, then? Or a Velaryon?

“Your dragon…?”

A dragonseed.

He remembered Clement raging about them once. “They’ll let dockboys from Hull claim dragons, but gods forbid a Celtigar set foot in the pit. At least we’ve noble blood.”

Arthor had never wanted a dragon. Not then. Not ever.

And now, he was certain he did not deserve one.

He was not brave, like this man. Not kind. Not good.

But he was lucky.

Lucky for the sea, for the warmth of a hand that had not let him fall, for the quiet mercy of the moment.

“What is your name?” he murmured, the words dragging their way out. “I am sorry this is your first impression of me. Everything’s gone terribly wrong today… I’m usually far more composed. I swear it.”

His voice cracked. He managed a half-smile.

“I’m Arthor,” he said. Not Celtigar. Just Arthor.

[doranyronwood]

Speaking out Loud

(Thread with @arthor-celtigar in conjunction with thread with @lady-vaella-darklyn)

Doran was straightforward and said forthright he wanted to begin courting Vaella. He’d kissed her hand softly and walked her back into the castle where they’d both stared longingly at the other. He promised to come and find her again once he had spoken with her family. It was important to him that they all knew he was sincere in his affection for Vaella. He also wanted Vaella to know how much he cared about her. He wanted her to feel comfortable spending time with him and her family together.

Unfortunately, right now, he had other things to attend to. Most importantly was finding and speaking to Arthor Celtigar. It couldn’t be put off any longer and Doran finally felt in control of his emotions. He was still upset as he walked the darkened halls but he no longer felt an overwhelming fury. He genuinely wanted to see what the lord's side of the story was. Too many things just didn’t add up to him. Was the man truly just an insipid social climber who reached too greedily? That wouldn’t be too hard for Doran to accept. In fact he could very easily deal with that matter.

Doran tried many different parts of the castle to find the lord. He tried the library, the training yard, the lord's own chambers and still came up empty handed. It only gave him more time to stew in his own thoughts. If the Celtigars had been royally embarrassed, why would they stay in the capital? Why not go home and find another willing lady to be your wife? For any person just trying to get ahead politically that’s exactly what they would do, cut their losses and try elsewhere. So what was Arthor's reason for staying? Obviously now they were all trapped by the weather but he’d be interested to know what the lord's plans had been before the ice rolled in.

He eventually stumbled into the man quite literally. The two nearly tumbled over each other as they passed in a tight corner of the corridor. Both were so absorbed in their own thoughts they hadn’t noticed the other. Doran’s hand shot out quickly as a flash of lightning to stabilize the other man before he quickly stepped away. Clearing his throat he apologized.

“Forgive me, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

The air hung awkwardly between them as the lord nodded briefly. Before he could step away Doran spoke again.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” He all but blurted out. “I’m afraid there’s no delicate way for me to approach this so I’ll just get on with it.”

Doran ran his hand through his hair and sighed. What a way to go about this, both standing against a wall looking warily at the other. He almost wanted to change approaches and ask the man to accompany him to discuss this over a drink; but something about the man's countenance stopped him.

“I heard some men speaking rather roughly about Lady Darklyn in a tavern the other night. I won’t repeat what I heard but it was untenable.”

He took a step back and sighed again. “I care for her. I know it's none of my business what happened between you but could you try to discourage the rumors? Whatever problems the two of you had, she doesn’t deserve to be spoken of so crassly.”

Doran waited and watched to see exactly what kind of a man Lord Celtigar was.

[arthor-celtigar]

For half a year Arthor moved through court like a ghost learning to haunt the living. He did not disappear all at once, but faded by increments. He spoke less. Smiled rarely. Ate little, and when he did, only bread and boiled greens. He came to sept each morning with red eyes and bowed head, and lingered after the bells had ceased, as if hoping the statues might answer back.

When his mother asked why he’d grown so thin, why he muttered prayers in his sleep, he only said, “I’m trying to be good.”

He had done his penance. Or tried to. He’d knelt before Vaella and Rhaena both, and even the old maester who had once found him drunken and sniveling in the library stacks. He’d hired a bard in Maidenpool to rewrite the tale, gild it with nobler lies. Letters had followed, and parcels, and coin—so much coin. He’d written to men he hated and men he feared, and offered apologies he did not always believe. He’d done everything he could, save dig up the bones and bury them deeper.

He took care. He took pains.

And he took nothing for granted.

Especially not Larissa.

Her future had been arranged with the same careful dread he used to arrange his own. He had begged Rhaena Targaryen for the favor beneath a dying tree, their shadows long across the marble balcony, and she had granted it with something like pity. Or mercy. Perhaps both.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was an escape.

The letter pressed to his ribs was proof of that; sealed with wax, signed in ink, and smoothed twice already for fear of creasing it. As if the maesters at the Citadel might read failure in the folds.

Six months of labor. And now, just steps. Quiet, steady steps toward the harbor, and the ship that would take him to Oldtown.

Away. Gods, let it be away.

He kept to the back corridors, where torchlight filtered through the colored glass in wavering shades of green and gold. His boots scuffed softly against the sandstone floors. His heart was hammering. It felt shameful. It felt brave.

It felt like running.

And then—

Thud!

He slammed into someone turning the corner. The letter slipped from his grasp and spun through the air like a startled dove before landing in a crumpled heap.

“Gods, I’m—” he started, but the stranger caught him by the arm. “Looking for me? Tell me, have we ever met?”

Arthor was taller, but still felt like a scolded boy. The septon had always warned him: your tunnel vision will be your end. So this time, he looked.

The man was a stranger. Dark-eyed. Angry. Ah.

Lord Yronwood.

The one people whispered had been charmed by Vaella. Larissa had mentioned him just the other day over tea. He had probably come to knock Arthor’s teeth out.

Lovely, he thought bleakly. He had no doubt Doran Yronwood could do it, and neatly. And worse: what would the maesters at the Citadel say about a busted lip and bruised eye? What questions would they ask?

“I care for her. I know it's none of my business what happened between you but could you try to discourage the rumors? Whatever problems the two of you had, she doesn’t deserve to be spoken of so crassly.”

Arthor blinked.

Wait. What?

He reached out, clutching Doran’s sleeve like a drowning man clings to driftwood.

“No… no, that’s wrong, I paid for it to be buried,” he said, the words tumbling over each other. “It was meant to be about me. I made sure of that. I—I hired the bard, the little birds, I—”

The panic came fast, like a rush of cold water. His chest tightened. His breath caught. He could feel it slipping again, all of it. Months of care, lies wrapped in silk, bribes offered with trembling hands.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “No, no, who was it? If you have names—if I can just speak to them—please—”

It was only then that he noticed the letter, crushed in his fist. The fine parchment now wrinkled, the seal beginning to crack.

He stared down at it.

Call the hells, and the devils will answer.

[arthor-celtigar]

❅ WHEN NAMES DIE, HOPE REMAINS ❅

(Starter with @the-pearl-of-the-realm)

The gods knew he did not belong here.

The lemon trees in the Queen’s garden were said to come from Old Volantis, brought across the sea as saplings in clay pots and kissed daily with springwater and prayer. They were covered in the early snow, branches as hollowed out as himself.

He waited beneath one tree, where the shadows bled longer than the rest, its twisted boughs crooked like a blessing or a warning.

Rhaena arrived without herald or rustle. As a trueborn dragon might.

He bowed. Not the shallow nod of courtiers playing at reverence, but the low bend of one who had knelt long hours in cold stone halls, praying for an answer that would not come. He did not straighten until the silence told him she would grant him the grace to speak.

“I will not pretend to deserve your presence,” Arthor said quietly, his voice rasped raw from a dozen sleepless nights and a hundred unshed tears. “And I do not ask your pardon, for I have no right to it. But I came here with no aim save this: to plead for my sister’s future, before I vanish from her life entirely.”

The lemon blossoms swayed in the wind. He did not look up.

“I have already spoken to Lady Vaella. I knelt before her, as I do now before the Seven, and confessed the truth of my cowardice. I never touched her, not once. I swear that on the bones of my ancestors. But there are other ways to bring ruin to the innocent.”

His fists curled at his sides, nails biting the skin.

“I leave tonight, Princess. I shall cross the river with the Septon of Maegor’s Holdfast and be taken to Oldtown. There I shall lay down my name, my sigil, and my inheritance. The boy known as Arthor Celtigar will die.”

Arthor glanced toward the Red Keep, its towers gold in the sun, every window a watching eye. He had lived his whole life beneath those eyes. The eyes of his father. Of lords. Never once had he looked back.

“But if the gods are just, I will be reborn as something better. A brother in the faith. A man of peace. Not a worthy soul, perhaps, but not a damned one either.”

Even if I am not fit for heaven, he thought, mayhap I am not cursed enough for hell. That’s all I want. Not to be punished for failing to be good.

“I apologize for my father's words. His insults. His pride. His belief that women are coin to be bartered and dragons can be leashed with silk and smiles. He wronged you. I wronged you, if only by bearing his name.”

When he dared meet her eyes, they were unreadable as obsidian.

“You deserved better than to be spoken of like a prize. And you deserve more than apology. But I have nothing left to offer save this.”

Arthor breathed in. Once. Then again. His fingers trembled around the edge of a small letter, but he did not raise it.

“My sister Larissa is sixteen. She’s clever, foolish, kind. A wild-hearted girl who builds flying things from scraps and names lizards after queens. She speaks to her cat as if it were a lady of the court. She… she is joy, in its purest form.”

The words broke like tidewater on his tongue.

“My father will see that joy and crush it. As he crushed mine. As he tried to crush Vaella.”

His voice shook. “I will not be there to stop him.”

Because cowardice had made him leave, and cowardice would keep him gone.

He looked at Rhaena then, not pleading, but bare. Stripped of all his titles and all his pride. There was nothing left to hide behind.

“All I ask—all I beg—is that you take her into your household. As a lady-in-waiting. As a companion. As anything. Give her a life outside of claws and chains. Let her chase foolish dreams in a place where they won’t be punished. Let her choose.”

The blossoms danced on the breeze like snow.

“She is not meant to be bartered. Or broken. Or bent into someone else’s shape.”

She was meant to fly, he thought. And I—gods forgive me—I was meant to fall.

“I am not a good man. And I know I never was. But if there is still breath in me, let it serve some purpose. Let this be my one good thing. I know I deserve nothing. Not your favor. Not your mercy. Not even your contempt. But Larissa deserves everything.”

Arthor stepped back. One pace. Then another.

Even if the gods will not open their gates to me, he thought, perhaps they will let her pass through.

[arthor-celtigar]

𓆩 SHAME IS SHARP AND MY SKIN GIVES SO EASY 𓆪

(Starter with @lady-vaella-darklyn)

Arthor had but one crooked tooth, a lone offender that turned askew after his voice broke and his bones lengthened. When his mother first noticed, she gasped, “Oh, my sweet, your beautiful smile—” and he bit down so hard his gums bled.

From that day on, he developed a quiet habit: tongue pressed against the crooked edge, nudging, urging, as if the sheer force of will might set it straight again. He was twenty now, and mindful to smile with only his upper lip. The court saw charm; they did not see the effort.

He did not know when the chase for flawlessness began. He never longed to be perfect, not truly. Perfect men were carved into statues and buried with songs; they bled out on battlefields or burned on pyres. His grandsire had not been perfect; a man of appetite and temper, feared more than admired. His father was worse, cloaked in silks and secrets, with no room in his heart for softness.

Arthor did not seek sainthood. He sought to fit. To step into those bloodied boots and walk the miles laid before him, however far they stretched. He could be dutiful. He could be good. He could obey, and ignore the slow, sick guilt curdling in his belly.

And for a time, that was enough.

Vaella was no grand romance. Nor was he hers. Such things were best left to singers and madmen. Love was a lie for fools, or so his father often said. “Marriage is not a poem, it’s a pact. You don’t need to love the mare to ride her.”

Vaella had sweet eyes, strong hips, and a dowry fit for a bannerlord. That was enough. They could share a goblet, raise two sons, and grow cold in silence on opposite ends of the same keep.

Perfect.

What need had he for fairy tales, when he had the bitter comfort of reality?

Then Lord Darklyn died. The raven arrived at dawn, and by nightfall, his father had torn the betrothal asunder.

“A dead lord leaves little behind,” Clement said. “You are a Celtigar. Aim higher.”

By that, he meant Rhaena Targaryen, high above him in station and in flame. The same Rhaena who was betrothed to Prince Aemond. The same Rhaena who called Vaella sister in all but name.

Arthor knew it was cruel.

So he did what cowards do. He hid.

Clement penned the letter that ended the match. Clement sent the feelers to court. Clement made his move.

But it was Arthor who bore the guilt. Who knelt in the sept long after the candles had burned low, lips moving soundlessly.

He prayed for Vaella’s grief.
For her father’s soul.
For his own father’s sins.

Never for himself.

He did not deserve forgiveness.

When the Queen turned them away, he felt lighter, somehow. As if a chain had broken. His father’s reach was long, but not without end.

His fury, however, had no such limit.

“You’ve brought shame upon this house,” Clement hissed. “You couldn’t even charm a girl? They said you had a silver tongue. All I see is rot.”

Arthor’s jaw tightened. His tongue pressed hard against the crooked tooth. Let it ache. Let it ground him. He would endure.

“We might beg pardon from the Darklyns,” he offered, voice low. It sounded childlike, even to him.

The slap came fast. Hard enough to ring his ears.

Blood filled his mouth as the crooked tooth ripped the inside of his lip.

“Try growing a pair first, bastard.”

That word again. Bastard.

It didn’t matter that Arthor bore his father’s eyes, or that he looked like Lord Clement’s own sire reborn. When rage took hold, none of it mattered. Blood was not blood unless Clement said it was.

Clement did not strike him again. He only stood there, red-faced and sneering, the candlelight catching in the fine silver of his beard.

“You think this is only about you sulking in your chambers like some bleeding maiden?” Clement snapped. “The Darklyns feel insulted. Their lord is barely in the ground and already they're whispering that we spat on their grief. That we cast Vaella aside like spoiled meat.”

As if I had any choice, Arthor thought, but the words stayed where they belonged, buried. He didn't dare say them aloud. Not when silence had kept him alive this long.

“And now,” Clement continued, pacing, voice rising, “now you’ve gone and failed to charm the dragon. You couldn't even keep the Queen’s attention long enough to beg her favor. You couldn’t—seven hells, boy—you couldn’t even get between the girl’s legs?”

Arthor blinked. For a moment, the words didn’t register.

“You’re suggesting I ought to have seduced the Princess?”

Clement’s sneer curled like a knife. “I’m suggesting you could’ve tried. If not with your wit, then with what’s between your legs. You’ve been praised for it before, gods know what for.”

His stomach turned.

“That’s absurd,” Arthor muttered. “I would never dishonor Princess Rhaena.” His voice was tight. “Nor did I dishonor Vaella.”

It was the only thing he could still claim. The only thing he hadn’t ruined.

He hadn’t kissed her. Not once. He had sat beside her and said nothing because he didn’t know how to hold someone without wanting to fix them. And he couldn't fix grief.

He didn’t even touch her hand.

Clement scoffed. “Didn’t dishonor her? The betrothal was broken. She's been cast off. Do you think it matters whether or not you lifted her skirts? They speak of her like she's some tragic figure now, whispering about her in corners. Do you think that counts as honor? You left her. Left her alone. And now you hide behind virtue like it’ll make the stink of failure less sour.”

Guilt clawed at Arthor's gut. He tried to breathe through it.

He hadn’t done anything wrong. That’s what he told himself. But the image of Vaella’s still face haunted him. He had cared. Just not in the way she needed.

Clement’s eyes bore into him. “What now? Shall we rely on your brother to succeed where you’ve failed? Will you wait for him to outgrow his stammer and take your place, is that it? Or shall we wait until your darling little sister comes of age and marry her to someone useful?” A pause. “She’s sixteen, isn’t she? Larissa. Pretty little thing. Wouldn’t take much to—”

Arthor moved before he knew he had decided to.

His hand flew to Clement’s collar and he shoved him hard, backing him against the table with a force he didn’t know he had.

“No,” Arthor growled. “You keep her out of this.”

Clement's eyes flared wide, startled, just for a blink, but it was enough. For once, he hadn’t expected his son to push back.

“She’s still a child,” Arthor bit out. “She dances in the courtyard and talks to her cat like it’s her lady-in-waiting. She builds flying machines out of parchment and dreams of drifting through the clouds. She’s not… she’s not for that.”

She was the only bit of light left in that keep, and Clement wanted to sell her like a prize goose to the highest bidder. Arthor felt his blood boil.

“I won’t let you do that to her.”

“Oh?” Clement’s voice turned mocking, breathless with laughter. “And what will you do, hm? Strike your own father? Is that the man you want to be now? A violent little brat, clinging to dreams and paper wings?”

“I’d kill before I let some lecher put a ring on her finger,” Arthor hissed.

And he meant it. Gods help him, he meant it.

The tension hung thick in the room, both men bristling, breath sharp and uneven.

“So the boy does have a spine. Pity it shows itself only for lost causes.”

“Enough!”

The door burst open. His mother stood in the threshold like a wraith from some half-forgotten tale, dark veil falling loose over her shoulders, her face pale in the firelight. There was no tremble in her voice, only steel.

“Seven save me,” Clement muttered, stepping back with a derisive laugh. He jerked himself free of Arthor’s grip and smoothed down his collar, as if the contact with his son’s hands had dirtied him. “The Lady herself appears. Always with perfect timing.”

He didn’t look at Arthor again, only brushed past his wife and vanished down the hall.

“You’re a coward,” he tossed back over his shoulder, voice echoing. “An insufferable mama’s boy. Go on, darling. Comfort your little cub. He’s all yours. No teeth, but plenty of whimper.”

The door shut. The silence after was unbearable.

Arthor stood where he was, breathing hard, heart thudding against his ribs like it wanted out of his chest. His knuckles ached. His face burned. And that godsdamned tooth throbbed where it had reopened the wound on his inner lip. His father’s words still rang in his ears, bitter and heavy.

He couldn’t meet his mother’s eyes. Not with the shame pressed so tight to his spine.

But she crossed to him all the same, and when her cool hand touched his cheek, he flinched.

Still, she held his face gently, the way she had when he was ten and scraped his knee falling from the battlements. Not the way she had when she first noticed the crooked tooth and winced, as though beauty lost was something mourned. She loved him, fiercely and without question. But not enough to defy the world that demanded he be broken to fit it. Not enough to save him.

“You did well not to strike him,” she said softly. “He deserved far worse. But it would not have helped.”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His jaw trembled.

She sighed and cupped the back of his neck. “Come. Sit. Let me see your lip.”

He obeyed without thinking. Just like always.

Obedient. Dutiful. Coward.

A night spent tucked in the cold, stony corner of the sept did more for Arthor than a dozen fruitless words exchanged beneath his father’s roof. The gods did not answer his prayers, but in their silence something settled. He woke at dawn with a ringing in his skull, wool-cloaked in pain, and a plan burning beneath it.

The first step required coin. And whispers.

“Little birds” were how people called the street messengers and gutter-mouthed boys who knew every whisper carried weight. For the right pouch of golden dragons, they were both ears and echo. And with the right words, the truth bent like hot metal in the forge.

The tale was simple:

Vaella was not abandoned, she was delivered.

Vaella was not shamed, she was blessed, spared from a serpent.
Arthor was not a wronged son, but a depraved wretch, riddled with vice.
They would say he was a lecher with bastards in every brothel from Crackclaw Point to Maidenpool.

They would say the gods themselves intervened to pull poor Lady Vaella from his clutches.

A lie, of course.
A bitter, rotting lie.

Arthor had no bastards. No paramours tucked into taverns or maids silenced with coin. But the waters of court were thick with sharks, and blood was the easiest bait.

If the world demanded a scapegoat, let it be him.

The second step came with more risk.

And steel.

Ser Harrold Penrose was no friend of his. He was a golden boy in truth; sword-sworn, court-polished, too proud and too noble for his own good. Favored companion of Prince Joffrey. Loyal to the marrow.

And dear to Vaella.

They met in the yard, swords in hand.

“Why in the Seven hells would I help you?” Ser Harrold asked, his tone disdainful, his brow glistening with sweat beneath a mane of golden curls. His blade did not waver. His footwork did not falter. Even as their swords clashed, he looked less like a boy and more like the Warrior incarnate.

“Because you’ve not walked away yet,” Arthor said, teeth clenched as he deflected a blow. “Which means some part of you is listening.”

Harrold’s jaw twitched. A thought, or a warning. Another step. Another strike.

Steel sang.

“If I speak to her, if she agrees to see you, it will be with me at her side,” Harrold said at last. “And if she does not wish it, you will let her be. Is that understood?”

“I—”

“No ‘I.’ No ‘but.’ She is a lady of worth and honour. She is my friend. And you are a stain she is still scrubbing from her name. If she grants you a moment, that moment is not yours.”

Harrold’s blade hovered just below Arthor’s chin, one clean thrust from opening his throat. He held it there, not with threat but with promise. His eyes said what he did not: one wrong word. One falter. And I will end you.

Arthor merely nodded.

He would not wound Vaella again. Not with cowardice. Not with silence. Not with the kind of pride that had damned his father, and his grandsire before him.

Arthor had always been good at kneeling.

Long hours in the sept had taught him as much. Knees aching on cold stone, spine bowed, hands clutched like a penitent’s, mouth bitten shut as if silence might make him invisible. As if the gods would overlook his sins if he only held still enough.

Kneeling before Vaella was no different. It was not penance before the Crone’s altar, but it might as well have been. He felt smaller now than he ever had, and heavier too. Shame settled over his shoulders like a sodden cloak.

As well it should.

“The rumors will not cleanse your name entirely,” he began, voice low and raw. “But they will grant you peace. A measure of dignity. That was all I could buy—” he swallowed, “—and all I could offer.”

He had spoken the whole of it to her, every part of the plan that had felt so righteous in solitude and sounded so pitiful now aloud. The truth stretched on crooked legs, bolstered by coin and desperation. A noble lie, perhaps. But a lie all the same.

“I am sorry,” Arthor said, again, though it was dust in his mouth. “And I know this is not enough. It cannot be. I do not deserve your forgiveness, just as you never deserved the manner of my betrayal.”

His head dipped lower. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hem of her blue velvet, edged in gold gown, and beside it, the shine of Ser Harrold’s boots. Vaella stood still as marble. He half-hoped she’d raise her foot and crush him under it like a bug. That she’d leave him bruised and bleeding on the floor. Just another stain.

“I was a coward,” he whispered, “and I remain one. But even cowards know when they’ve been blessed undeservedly. You’re free of me now, and I am… I am glad of it. Truly. You deserve joy, and love, and something that does not hurt.”

His voice nearly caught, but he pushed through.

“I hope your future is a blessed one. I did not deserve you, but I want you to know… for whatever it’s worth, I valued what we had. Even if it was forged of duty. We would not have been happy, I know that now. But I would have tried. I would have been grateful every day to wake beside you, even in silence.”

He had brought gifts. Poor, paltry things that couldn’t mend anything: wildflowers from the cliffs, a gown of Myrish silk, another bundle of flowers (he hadn’t known which were her favorites, he could not remember), two letters for her family, a ribbon, another letter for her only, written and rewritten thrice over.

He did not reach for them. They sat in a basket by the door, untouched. Unneeded.

“Lord Yronwood is a good man,” he said softly. “Better than I could ever hope to be. He’ll protect you. And I imagine he’ll make you laugh. You deserve to laugh.”

A breath. A heartbeat. The silence thickened like smoke.

“I ask nothing. Only that you know this: you were not the mistake. I was. And if the gods are just, they will give you a life unburdened by the shadow of my name.”

[lady-vaella-darklyn]

✨️MY SHAME IS YOURS, MY SKIN WILL PROSPER✨️

(Continuing starter with @arthor-celtigar )

~~~

Vaella didn't love Arthor like a lover and he wasn't the love of her life at all but Vaella loved him in the way that close friends loved each other.

She knew him since they were young. For propriety purposes, they didn't spend as much time together as they should but Vaella knew him. She learned about him, asking his lady mother and his maids for every detail.

She knew his favorite colour, his favorite meal, his nameday, what gems he preferred, his ticks and his flaws. She made herself the perfect wife for him. Never mind that she lost herself in the process.

It was all for nothing the moment Lord Clement Celtigar, Arthor's father, broke the betrothal.

Vaella tried to talk to him, to see if they work something out - she could appeal to Gunthor and her mother. He could appeal to his father. They could fix this.

But Arthor avoided her like the plague and that made things worse for her. Her reputation was shattered.

She didn't know that he was this cowardly. But then again, she didn't know him at all.

His cowardice angered her more than the broken betrothal. He just left her to rot. After all these years!

When Lord Clement sought his eyes on Princess Rhaena - her sister in every way but by name - in front of court so shamelessly, her heart broken even more.

Even though she felt vindicated when the Queen and Princess Rhaena turned them away, her reputation was badly broken.

So broken that it hindered all her prospects, all the lords turned her and her brother away. Gunthor was offended and her mother was hurt for her.

She attended many parties and her friends' nuptials to network and see if anyone would be open to a marriage alliance but no one was.

None but one lord. A Dornish lord. Not what she planned but she would take it.

~~~

Then rumours circulated around about Arthor. That he had many lovers in the brothels. That he was so lecherous that he fathered many bastards.

Vaella knew that it was lies. Arthor couldn't even hold her hand without fainting, would blush at the lewd jokes that the squires and the knights would make - she had seen it herself and would spend most of his time praying at Sept; yet he had lovers and he fathered bastards?

It didn't matter. She would take the rumours for herself and rebuild her reputation from the ashes of their broken betrothal.

To her surprise, her friend Ser Harrold told her that Arthor wished to speak to her. She wanted to decline but... she needed to know why he did what he did.

She felt no pleasure when Arthor knelt and prostrated himself before her. She thought she would be angry, yell and scream at him but all she felt was sorrow.

"I thank you for the apology," she began, her voice devoid of emotion. "But I need to know; why have you betrayed me like this? I know that we did not love each other but at least I thought we were friends. I was wrong about that, I know now. Why did you betray me? Why did you leave me to deal with the fallout of your father's actions?"

She didn't care about his answer but she needed to know so she could move forward with her life.

[arthor-celtigar]

Arthor knelt before her as a penitent before the gods, though he felt himself no better than a worm beneath her heel. The chill of the stone seeped through the fabric of his breeches, anchoring him, forbidding flight. He had fled enough—fled from her, from the truth, from the shadow of the man he might have been, had he not been hollow from the start.

He had imagined this moment a thousand different ways. She would rage. She would weep. She would slap him, scream at him, curse his name so loudly the Seven themselves would flinch. But now, as her voice fell like ash, he felt something even worse: the absence of hope. She had given up on him. And who could blame her?

He lifted his eyes slowly, not because he was ready to face her, but because he owed her that much. She was statuesque in her bearing, proud and distant, like a queen cast down from her throne but unbowed by it. Once, she had learned his favorite color, his nameday, his failings. Once, she had smiled when he blushed at lewd jests he was too timid to laugh at. She had carved out a space for him in her future, and he had set it ablaze without even the dignity of a goodbye.

“I was a coward,” he said, and the words landed like stones in a dry well. “There’s no excuse.”

The words rang hollow in the silence that followed. And still, what else could he offer? Should he tell her he had thought of her each time he passed the Sept, that he had whispered prayers to gods who gave no answer? That the vile rumors circling his name were a kinder tale than the truth that he had abandoned her, plain and simple, and borne it in silence like the craven he was?

His hand reached for the hem of her dress before it dropped, limp at his side. He wasn’t worthy to touch her, not now. Not after what he’d cost her. Perhaps his lord father had been right: he was good for little but obedience and silence. Better he beg his mother’s pardon, curl at her feet like a whipped hound, than pretend he had any honor left to his name.

“I told myself, as a boy,” he said, throat thick with shame, “that if I could not be the son Lord Clement wanted—bold, fierce, and proud—then I would at least be obedient. That I might earn his favor, if not his love. That if I yielded enough, I might be of some worth.”

It sounded pitiful, spoken aloud, and gods, he hated that. But what right had he to hate pity when she had swallowed humiliation for moons? “I did everything he bade me. I bent. I bowed. I never said no. That made me a pawn. But perhaps that’s what he always intended me to be.”

He dared another glance. She stood like an image wrought from old Valyria: serene, distant, unbreakable. The girl she had once been was gone. He had helped bury her.

“I remember the day we met,” he said, lips curling with a sorrowful ghost of a smile. “We were children. I was frightened, as I always was. But you... you smiled. As though none of it troubled you. As though the thought of me did not frighten you. And I thought: thank the gods, it’s her.”

It had been one of the only times in his life he’d felt anything close to comfort. And now he had shattered it.

He bowed his head once more, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry I was the reason that happiness vanished. I hope you can smile again. You really do have a stunning smile.”

So it was done. All that remained of him was laid bare before her. His shame, his failure, the carcass of a promise left to rot. He had no right to ask her pardon. He did not expect it. But perhaps now she might move forward, step free from the ruin of what they might have been.

He prayed she would.

For he did not believe he ever could.

[lady-vaella-darklyn]

Vaella felt tired. So tired.

She wanted to hit him for just a second but she knew that it wouldn't make her feel better. Wouldn't help their situation at all.

"I cannot live my life resenting you," she said quietly. "I do not wish to see you again but I do hope that you move forward Arthor. And no longer be a pawn for your father's schemes."

She sighed. Why had things come to this? She wished that she could be more courteous but she couldn't. Not when he left her to rot and tarnished her reputation. His actions impacted not only herself, but her family as well.

Gunthor was having a rough time at the council and his transition to lordship was not only turbulent because of their father’s passing but also because of this situation.

Her mother dealt with the situation at hand through her allies at court but she had a hard time finding a match for Vaella.

Robert seemed the least affected by the situation but he told her that he had almost started mutinies in her honor because some lords insulted her in front of him.

So, after this encounter, they could no longer speak to each other like this ever again.

"I do hope that, when you find a better match for yourself and your family, I do hope you stand up for her and not hurt her the way you've hurt me."

He sobbed quietly, and she could hear the pain in his cries. She wanted to reach out to him but she didn't. She couldn't give him any reason to think that she condoned what he did.

"Thank you for your apologies. I do hope that we can both move on with our lives."

She meant what she said. She did. And she was ready to move forward.

[arthor-celtigar]

Arthor lingered on his knees a moment longer, as if by staying low, he might somehow balance the scales. But there was no penance in posture, no forgiveness in the ache of kneeling. He had bled too little, spoken too late. Whatever absolution might exist would not be hers to give, and he knew it was not his to deserve.

Still, rising felt like theft.

He stood slowly, limbs stiff from the cold and the weight of all he had not said. His body resisted the motion as though it, too, knew he ought to stay where he was and be silent. Take her scorn, or worse, her indifference, and let it burn the last of him away.

At the door, he paused. His eyes fell on the bundle he’d left there when he arrived, back when some naïve part of him had still clung to the thought that gifts might mean something. That gestures could undo what years of silence and absence had carved into her heart.

He felt foolish now. Small. Like a boy trying to mend a shattered vase with ribbon and glue.

The wildflowers were already wilting, plucked from the cliffs just before dawn. He had chosen them because the colors reminded him of her—deep blue, pale gold, streaks of crimson—but now he realized he had no memory of which blooms she had once loved. That forgetting hurt more than he’d expected. He had forgotten so much. What else had he lost?

Beside the flowers lay a gown of Myrish silk, fine and light as air. Too fine. He should not have brought something so costly; it felt presumptuous now, a mockery of the girl who had once laughed barefoot in a garden, who had asked for nothing but honesty and time. The second bundle of flowers was smaller, more hesitant, clutched together as if unsure of their right to be there. He had gathered them anyway, thinking more might make up for his ignorance. It didn’t.

Two letters lay beside them, written to her kin; stiff, formal things. He had rewritten each three times, second-guessing every phrase. What could he even say to her mother, to her brother? I failed her. I broke your trust. I broke her.

Then there was the ribbon. A trivial thing, really. He couldn’t remember if it had been hers or not, only that it reminded him of her laugh, and that was enough.

And finally, the last letter. The one meant only for her. It was thin, the parchment creased and smudged from how many times he had unsealed it, rewritten it, read it aloud in an empty room and hated the sound of his own voice. It won’t change anything, he had told himself, even as he clung to the hope that maybe she would read it. Not to forgive. Not to reply. Just to know.

“I brought these,” he said, softly, the words tasting like ash. “I don’t expect you to keep them. I just... I wanted to give you something that wasn’t pain.”

His fingers brushed the edge of the silk, then withdrew. No right to linger. No right to touch.

“I hope you find peace,” he said. “I hope you find someone who never makes you wait for answers. Someone who knows your favorite flower. Someone who never walks away.”

Someone who isn’t afraid. Someone who doesn’t shatter at the first demand placed on him. Someone who never wonders whether he’s worth the breath it takes to say his name.

He drew in a breath through his nose, steadying himself.

“I’ll be gone before the moon turns. I’ve made arrangements with a sept downriver. They’ve agreed to take me in, if I show commitment. I’ll scrub floors, study scripture, say my prayers.”

A bitter smile flickered and died.

“If I was made for nothing else, perhaps I was made to serve. I’ve bent the knee all my life, maybe the gods will take me where men will not.”

There was no glory in it, no piety. He did not pretend otherwise. This was not redemption, it was retreat. But even the smallest penance, he told himself, might one day be enough to stand in the gods’ light without shame.

“I am sorry,” he said at last.

And he meant it. Not as plea. Not as shield. Only as truth.

[arthor-celtigar]

𓆩 SHAME IS SHARP AND MY SKIN GIVES SO EASY 𓆪

(Starter with @lady-vaella-darklyn)

Arthor had but one crooked tooth, a lone offender that turned askew after his voice broke and his bones lengthened. When his mother first noticed, she gasped, “Oh, my sweet, your beautiful smile—” and he bit down so hard his gums bled.

From that day on, he developed a quiet habit: tongue pressed against the crooked edge, nudging, urging, as if the sheer force of will might set it straight again. He was twenty now, and mindful to smile with only his upper lip. The court saw charm; they did not see the effort.

He did not know when the chase for flawlessness began. He never longed to be perfect, not truly. Perfect men were carved into statues and buried with songs; they bled out on battlefields or burned on pyres. His grandsire had not been perfect; a man of appetite and temper, feared more than admired. His father was worse, cloaked in silks and secrets, with no room in his heart for softness.

Arthor did not seek sainthood. He sought to fit. To step into those bloodied boots and walk the miles laid before him, however far they stretched. He could be dutiful. He could be good. He could obey, and ignore the slow, sick guilt curdling in his belly.

And for a time, that was enough.

Vaella was no grand romance. Nor was he hers. Such things were best left to singers and madmen. Love was a lie for fools, or so his father often said. “Marriage is not a poem, it’s a pact. You don’t need to love the mare to ride her.”

Vaella had sweet eyes, strong hips, and a dowry fit for a bannerlord. That was enough. They could share a goblet, raise two sons, and grow cold in silence on opposite ends of the same keep.

Perfect.

What need had he for fairy tales, when he had the bitter comfort of reality?

Then Lord Darklyn died. The raven arrived at dawn, and by nightfall, his father had torn the betrothal asunder.

“A dead lord leaves little behind,” Clement said. “You are a Celtigar. Aim higher.”

By that, he meant Rhaena Targaryen, high above him in station and in flame. The same Rhaena who was betrothed to Prince Aemond. The same Rhaena who called Vaella sister in all but name.

Arthor knew it was cruel.

So he did what cowards do. He hid.

Clement penned the letter that ended the match. Clement sent the feelers to court. Clement made his move.

But it was Arthor who bore the guilt. Who knelt in the sept long after the candles had burned low, lips moving soundlessly.

He prayed for Vaella’s grief.
For her father’s soul.
For his own father’s sins.

Never for himself.

He did not deserve forgiveness.

When the Queen turned them away, he felt lighter, somehow. As if a chain had broken. His father’s reach was long, but not without end.

His fury, however, had no such limit.

“You’ve brought shame upon this house,” Clement hissed. “You couldn’t even charm a girl? They said you had a silver tongue. All I see is rot.”

Arthor’s jaw tightened. His tongue pressed hard against the crooked tooth. Let it ache. Let it ground him. He would endure.

“We might beg pardon from the Darklyns,” he offered, voice low. It sounded childlike, even to him.

The slap came fast. Hard enough to ring his ears.

Blood filled his mouth as the crooked tooth ripped the inside of his lip.

“Try growing a pair first, bastard.”

That word again. Bastard.

It didn’t matter that Arthor bore his father’s eyes, or that he looked like Lord Clement’s own sire reborn. When rage took hold, none of it mattered. Blood was not blood unless Clement said it was.

Clement did not strike him again. He only stood there, red-faced and sneering, the candlelight catching in the fine silver of his beard.

“You think this is only about you sulking in your chambers like some bleeding maiden?” Clement snapped. “The Darklyns feel insulted. Their lord is barely in the ground and already they're whispering that we spat on their grief. That we cast Vaella aside like spoiled meat.”

As if I had any choice, Arthor thought, but the words stayed where they belonged, buried. He didn't dare say them aloud. Not when silence had kept him alive this long.

“And now,” Clement continued, pacing, voice rising, “now you’ve gone and failed to charm the dragon. You couldn't even keep the Queen’s attention long enough to beg her favor. You couldn’t—seven hells, boy—you couldn’t even get between the girl’s legs?”

Arthor blinked. For a moment, the words didn’t register.

“You’re suggesting I ought to have seduced the Princess?”

Clement’s sneer curled like a knife. “I’m suggesting you could’ve tried. If not with your wit, then with what’s between your legs. You’ve been praised for it before, gods know what for.”

His stomach turned.

“That’s absurd,” Arthor muttered. “I would never dishonor Princess Rhaena.” His voice was tight. “Nor did I dishonor Vaella.”

It was the only thing he could still claim. The only thing he hadn’t ruined.

He hadn’t kissed her. Not once. He had sat beside her and said nothing because he didn’t know how to hold someone without wanting to fix them. And he couldn't fix grief.

He didn’t even touch her hand.

Clement scoffed. “Didn’t dishonor her? The betrothal was broken. She's been cast off. Do you think it matters whether or not you lifted her skirts? They speak of her like she's some tragic figure now, whispering about her in corners. Do you think that counts as honor? You left her. Left her alone. And now you hide behind virtue like it’ll make the stink of failure less sour.”

Guilt clawed at Arthor's gut. He tried to breathe through it.

He hadn’t done anything wrong. That’s what he told himself. But the image of Vaella’s still face haunted him. He had cared. Just not in the way she needed.

Clement’s eyes bore into him. “What now? Shall we rely on your brother to succeed where you’ve failed? Will you wait for him to outgrow his stammer and take your place, is that it? Or shall we wait until your darling little sister comes of age and marry her to someone useful?” A pause. “She’s sixteen, isn’t she? Larissa. Pretty little thing. Wouldn’t take much to—”

Arthor moved before he knew he had decided to.

His hand flew to Clement’s collar and he shoved him hard, backing him against the table with a force he didn’t know he had.

“No,” Arthor growled. “You keep her out of this.”

Clement's eyes flared wide, startled, just for a blink, but it was enough. For once, he hadn’t expected his son to push back.

“She’s still a child,” Arthor bit out. “She dances in the courtyard and talks to her cat like it’s her lady-in-waiting. She builds flying machines out of parchment and dreams of drifting through the clouds. She’s not… she’s not for that.”

She was the only bit of light left in that keep, and Clement wanted to sell her like a prize goose to the highest bidder. Arthor felt his blood boil.

“I won’t let you do that to her.”

“Oh?” Clement’s voice turned mocking, breathless with laughter. “And what will you do, hm? Strike your own father? Is that the man you want to be now? A violent little brat, clinging to dreams and paper wings?”

“I’d kill before I let some lecher put a ring on her finger,” Arthor hissed.

And he meant it. Gods help him, he meant it.

The tension hung thick in the room, both men bristling, breath sharp and uneven.

“So the boy does have a spine. Pity it shows itself only for lost causes.”

“Enough!”

The door burst open. His mother stood in the threshold like a wraith from some half-forgotten tale, dark veil falling loose over her shoulders, her face pale in the firelight. There was no tremble in her voice, only steel.

“Seven save me,” Clement muttered, stepping back with a derisive laugh. He jerked himself free of Arthor’s grip and smoothed down his collar, as if the contact with his son’s hands had dirtied him. “The Lady herself appears. Always with perfect timing.”

He didn’t look at Arthor again, only brushed past his wife and vanished down the hall.

“You’re a coward,” he tossed back over his shoulder, voice echoing. “An insufferable mama’s boy. Go on, darling. Comfort your little cub. He’s all yours. No teeth, but plenty of whimper.”

The door shut. The silence after was unbearable.

Arthor stood where he was, breathing hard, heart thudding against his ribs like it wanted out of his chest. His knuckles ached. His face burned. And that godsdamned tooth throbbed where it had reopened the wound on his inner lip. His father’s words still rang in his ears, bitter and heavy.

He couldn’t meet his mother’s eyes. Not with the shame pressed so tight to his spine.

But she crossed to him all the same, and when her cool hand touched his cheek, he flinched.

Still, she held his face gently, the way she had when he was ten and scraped his knee falling from the battlements. Not the way she had when she first noticed the crooked tooth and winced, as though beauty lost was something mourned. She loved him, fiercely and without question. But not enough to defy the world that demanded he be broken to fit it. Not enough to save him.

“You did well not to strike him,” she said softly. “He deserved far worse. But it would not have helped.”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His jaw trembled.

She sighed and cupped the back of his neck. “Come. Sit. Let me see your lip.”

He obeyed without thinking. Just like always.

Obedient. Dutiful. Coward.

A night spent tucked in the cold, stony corner of the sept did more for Arthor than a dozen fruitless words exchanged beneath his father’s roof. The gods did not answer his prayers, but in their silence something settled. He woke at dawn with a ringing in his skull, wool-cloaked in pain, and a plan burning beneath it.

The first step required coin. And whispers.

“Little birds” were how people called the street messengers and gutter-mouthed boys who knew every whisper carried weight. For the right pouch of golden dragons, they were both ears and echo. And with the right words, the truth bent like hot metal in the forge.

The tale was simple:

Vaella was not abandoned, she was delivered.

Vaella was not shamed, she was blessed, spared from a serpent.
Arthor was not a wronged son, but a depraved wretch, riddled with vice.
They would say he was a lecher with bastards in every brothel from Crackclaw Point to Maidenpool.

They would say the gods themselves intervened to pull poor Lady Vaella from his clutches.

A lie, of course.
A bitter, rotting lie.

Arthor had no bastards. No paramours tucked into taverns or maids silenced with coin. But the waters of court were thick with sharks, and blood was the easiest bait.

If the world demanded a scapegoat, let it be him.

The second step came with more risk.

And steel.

Ser Harrold Penrose was no friend of his. He was a golden boy in truth; sword-sworn, court-polished, too proud and too noble for his own good. Favored companion of Prince Joffrey. Loyal to the marrow.

And dear to Vaella.

They met in the yard, swords in hand.

“Why in the Seven hells would I help you?” Ser Harrold asked, his tone disdainful, his brow glistening with sweat beneath a mane of golden curls. His blade did not waver. His footwork did not falter. Even as their swords clashed, he looked less like a boy and more like the Warrior incarnate.

“Because you’ve not walked away yet,” Arthor said, teeth clenched as he deflected a blow. “Which means some part of you is listening.”

Harrold’s jaw twitched. A thought, or a warning. Another step. Another strike.

Steel sang.

“If I speak to her, if she agrees to see you, it will be with me at her side,” Harrold said at last. “And if she does not wish it, you will let her be. Is that understood?”

“I—”

“No ‘I.’ No ‘but.’ She is a lady of worth and honour. She is my friend. And you are a stain she is still scrubbing from her name. If she grants you a moment, that moment is not yours.”

Harrold’s blade hovered just below Arthor’s chin, one clean thrust from opening his throat. He held it there, not with threat but with promise. His eyes said what he did not: one wrong word. One falter. And I will end you.

Arthor merely nodded.

He would not wound Vaella again. Not with cowardice. Not with silence. Not with the kind of pride that had damned his father, and his grandsire before him.

Arthor had always been good at kneeling.

Long hours in the sept had taught him as much. Knees aching on cold stone, spine bowed, hands clutched like a penitent’s, mouth bitten shut as if silence might make him invisible. As if the gods would overlook his sins if he only held still enough.

Kneeling before Vaella was no different. It was not penance before the Crone’s altar, but it might as well have been. He felt smaller now than he ever had, and heavier too. Shame settled over his shoulders like a sodden cloak.

As well it should.

“The rumors will not cleanse your name entirely,” he began, voice low and raw. “But they will grant you peace. A measure of dignity. That was all I could buy—” he swallowed, “—and all I could offer.”

He had spoken the whole of it to her, every part of the plan that had felt so righteous in solitude and sounded so pitiful now aloud. The truth stretched on crooked legs, bolstered by coin and desperation. A noble lie, perhaps. But a lie all the same.

“I am sorry,” Arthor said, again, though it was dust in his mouth. “And I know this is not enough. It cannot be. I do not deserve your forgiveness, just as you never deserved the manner of my betrayal.”

His head dipped lower. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hem of her blue velvet, edged in gold gown, and beside it, the shine of Ser Harrold’s boots. Vaella stood still as marble. He half-hoped she’d raise her foot and crush him under it like a bug. That she’d leave him bruised and bleeding on the floor. Just another stain.

“I was a coward,” he whispered, “and I remain one. But even cowards know when they’ve been blessed undeservedly. You’re free of me now, and I am… I am glad of it. Truly. You deserve joy, and love, and something that does not hurt.”

His voice nearly caught, but he pushed through.

“I hope your future is a blessed one. I did not deserve you, but I want you to know… for whatever it’s worth, I valued what we had. Even if it was forged of duty. We would not have been happy, I know that now. But I would have tried. I would have been grateful every day to wake beside you, even in silence.”

He had brought gifts. Poor, paltry things that couldn’t mend anything: wildflowers from the cliffs, a gown of Myrish silk, another bundle of flowers (he hadn’t known which were her favorites, he could not remember), two letters for her family, a ribbon, another letter for her only, written and rewritten thrice over.

He did not reach for them. They sat in a basket by the door, untouched. Unneeded.

“Lord Yronwood is a good man,” he said softly. “Better than I could ever hope to be. He’ll protect you. And I imagine he’ll make you laugh. You deserve to laugh.”

A breath. A heartbeat. The silence thickened like smoke.

“I ask nothing. Only that you know this: you were not the mistake. I was. And if the gods are just, they will give you a life unburdened by the shadow of my name.”

[lady-vaella-darklyn]

✨️MY SHAME IS YOURS, MY SKIN WILL PROSPER✨️

(Continuing starter with @arthor-celtigar )

~~~

Vaella didn't love Arthor like a lover and he wasn't the love of her life at all but Vaella loved him in the way that close friends loved each other.

She knew him since they were young. For propriety purposes, they didn't spend as much time together as they should but Vaella knew him. She learned about him, asking his lady mother and his maids for every detail.

She knew his favorite colour, his favorite meal, his nameday, what gems he preferred, his ticks and his flaws. She made herself the perfect wife for him. Never mind that she lost herself in the process.

It was all for nothing the moment Lord Clement Celtigar, Arthor's father, broke the betrothal.

Vaella tried to talk to him, to see if they work something out - she could appeal to Gunthor and her mother. He could appeal to his father. They could fix this.

But Arthor avoided her like the plague and that made things worse for her. Her reputation was shattered.

She didn't know that he was this cowardly. But then again, she didn't know him at all.

His cowardice angered her more than the broken betrothal. He just left her to rot. After all these years!

When Lord Clement sought his eyes on Princess Rhaena - her sister in every way but by name - in front of court so shamelessly, her heart broken even more.

Even though she felt vindicated when the Queen and Princess Rhaena turned them away, her reputation was badly broken.

So broken that it hindered all her prospects, all the lords turned her and her brother away. Gunthor was offended and her mother was hurt for her.

She attended many parties and her friends' nuptials to network and see if anyone would be open to a marriage alliance but no one was.

None but one lord. A Dornish lord. Not what she planned but she would take it.

~~~

Then rumours circulated around about Arthor. That he had many lovers in the brothels. That he was so lecherous that he fathered many bastards.

Vaella knew that it was lies. Arthor couldn't even hold her hand without fainting, would blush at the lewd jokes that the squires and the knights would make - she had seen it herself and would spend most of his time praying at Sept; yet he had lovers and he fathered bastards?

It didn't matter. She would take the rumours for herself and rebuild her reputation from the ashes of their broken betrothal.

To her surprise, her friend Ser Harrold told her that Arthor wished to speak to her. She wanted to decline but... she needed to know why he did what he did.

She felt no pleasure when Arthor knelt and prostrated himself before her. She thought she would be angry, yell and scream at him but all she felt was sorrow.

"I thank you for the apology," she began, her voice devoid of emotion. "But I need to know; why have you betrayed me like this? I know that we did not love each other but at least I thought we were friends. I was wrong about that, I know now. Why did you betray me? Why did you leave me to deal with the fallout of your father's actions?"

She didn't care about his answer but she needed to know so she could move forward with her life.

[arthor-celtigar]

Arthor knelt before her as a penitent before the gods, though he felt himself no better than a worm beneath her heel. The chill of the stone seeped through the fabric of his breeches, anchoring him, forbidding flight. He had fled enough—fled from her, from the truth, from the shadow of the man he might have been, had he not been hollow from the start.

He had imagined this moment a thousand different ways. She would rage. She would weep. She would slap him, scream at him, curse his name so loudly the Seven themselves would flinch. But now, as her voice fell like ash, he felt something even worse: the absence of hope. She had given up on him. And who could blame her?

He lifted his eyes slowly, not because he was ready to face her, but because he owed her that much. She was statuesque in her bearing, proud and distant, like a queen cast down from her throne but unbowed by it. Once, she had learned his favorite color, his nameday, his failings. Once, she had smiled when he blushed at lewd jests he was too timid to laugh at. She had carved out a space for him in her future, and he had set it ablaze without even the dignity of a goodbye.

“I was a coward,” he said, and the words landed like stones in a dry well. “There’s no excuse.”

The words rang hollow in the silence that followed. And still, what else could he offer? Should he tell her he had thought of her each time he passed the Sept, that he had whispered prayers to gods who gave no answer? That the vile rumors circling his name were a kinder tale than the truth that he had abandoned her, plain and simple, and borne it in silence like the craven he was?

His hand reached for the hem of her dress before it dropped, limp at his side. He wasn’t worthy to touch her, not now. Not after what he’d cost her. Perhaps his lord father had been right: he was good for little but obedience and silence. Better he beg his mother’s pardon, curl at her feet like a whipped hound, than pretend he had any honor left to his name.

“I told myself, as a boy,” he said, throat thick with shame, “that if I could not be the son Lord Clement wanted—bold, fierce, and proud—then I would at least be obedient. That I might earn his favor, if not his love. That if I yielded enough, I might be of some worth.”

It sounded pitiful, spoken aloud, and gods, he hated that. But what right had he to hate pity when she had swallowed humiliation for moons? “I did everything he bade me. I bent. I bowed. I never said no. That made me a pawn. But perhaps that’s what he always intended me to be.”

He dared another glance. She stood like an image wrought from old Valyria: serene, distant, unbreakable. The girl she had once been was gone. He had helped bury her.

“I remember the day we met,” he said, lips curling with a sorrowful ghost of a smile. “We were children. I was frightened, as I always was. But you... you smiled. As though none of it troubled you. As though the thought of me did not frighten you. And I thought: thank the gods, it’s her.”

It had been one of the only times in his life he’d felt anything close to comfort. And now he had shattered it.

He bowed his head once more, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry I was the reason that happiness vanished. I hope you can smile again. You really do have a stunning smile.”

So it was done. All that remained of him was laid bare before her. His shame, his failure, the carcass of a promise left to rot. He had no right to ask her pardon. He did not expect it. But perhaps now she might move forward, step free from the ruin of what they might have been.

He prayed she would.

For he did not believe he ever could.

[arthor-celtigar]

𓆩 SHAME IS SHARP AND MY SKIN GIVES SO EASY 𓆪

(Starter with @lady-vaella-darklyn)

Arthor had but one crooked tooth, a lone offender that turned askew after his voice broke and his bones lengthened. When his mother first noticed, she gasped, “Oh, my sweet, your beautiful smile—” and he bit down so hard his gums bled.

From that day on, he developed a quiet habit: tongue pressed against the crooked edge, nudging, urging, as if the sheer force of will might set it straight again. He was twenty now, and mindful to smile with only his upper lip. The court saw charm; they did not see the effort.

He did not know when the chase for flawlessness began. He never longed to be perfect, not truly. Perfect men were carved into statues and buried with songs; they bled out on battlefields or burned on pyres. His grandsire had not been perfect; a man of appetite and temper, feared more than admired. His father was worse, cloaked in silks and secrets, with no room in his heart for softness.

Arthor did not seek sainthood. He sought to fit. To step into those bloodied boots and walk the miles laid before him, however far they stretched. He could be dutiful. He could be good. He could obey, and ignore the slow, sick guilt curdling in his belly.

And for a time, that was enough.

Vaella was no grand romance. Nor was he hers. Such things were best left to singers and madmen. Love was a lie for fools, or so his father often said. “Marriage is not a poem, it’s a pact. You don’t need to love the mare to ride her.”

Vaella had sweet eyes, strong hips, and a dowry fit for a bannerlord. That was enough. They could share a goblet, raise two sons, and grow cold in silence on opposite ends of the same keep.

Perfect.

What need had he for fairy tales, when he had the bitter comfort of reality?

Then Lord Darklyn died. The raven arrived at dawn, and by nightfall, his father had torn the betrothal asunder.

“A dead lord leaves little behind,” Clement said. “You are a Celtigar. Aim higher.”

By that, he meant Rhaena Targaryen, high above him in station and in flame. The same Rhaena who was betrothed to Prince Aemond. The same Rhaena who called Vaella sister in all but name.

Arthor knew it was cruel.

So he did what cowards do. He hid.

Clement penned the letter that ended the match. Clement sent the feelers to court. Clement made his move.

But it was Arthor who bore the guilt. Who knelt in the sept long after the candles had burned low, lips moving soundlessly.

He prayed for Vaella’s grief.
For her father’s soul.
For his own father’s sins.

Never for himself.

He did not deserve forgiveness.

When the Queen turned them away, he felt lighter, somehow. As if a chain had broken. His father’s reach was long, but not without end.

His fury, however, had no such limit.

“You’ve brought shame upon this house,” Clement hissed. “You couldn’t even charm a girl? They said you had a silver tongue. All I see is rot.”

Arthor’s jaw tightened. His tongue pressed hard against the crooked tooth. Let it ache. Let it ground him. He would endure.

“We might beg pardon from the Darklyns,” he offered, voice low. It sounded childlike, even to him.

The slap came fast. Hard enough to ring his ears.

Blood filled his mouth as the crooked tooth ripped the inside of his lip.

“Try growing a pair first, bastard.”

That word again. Bastard.

It didn’t matter that Arthor bore his father’s eyes, or that he looked like Lord Clement’s own sire reborn. When rage took hold, none of it mattered. Blood was not blood unless Clement said it was.

Clement did not strike him again. He only stood there, red-faced and sneering, the candlelight catching in the fine silver of his beard.

“You think this is only about you sulking in your chambers like some bleeding maiden?” Clement snapped. “The Darklyns feel insulted. Their lord is barely in the ground and already they're whispering that we spat on their grief. That we cast Vaella aside like spoiled meat.”

As if I had any choice, Arthor thought, but the words stayed where they belonged, buried. He didn't dare say them aloud. Not when silence had kept him alive this long.

“And now,” Clement continued, pacing, voice rising, “now you’ve gone and failed to charm the dragon. You couldn't even keep the Queen’s attention long enough to beg her favor. You couldn’t—seven hells, boy—you couldn’t even get between the girl’s legs?”

Arthor blinked. For a moment, the words didn’t register.

“You’re suggesting I ought to have seduced the Princess?”

Clement’s sneer curled like a knife. “I’m suggesting you could’ve tried. If not with your wit, then with what’s between your legs. You’ve been praised for it before, gods know what for.”

His stomach turned.

“That’s absurd,” Arthor muttered. “I would never dishonor Princess Rhaena.” His voice was tight. “Nor did I dishonor Vaella.”

It was the only thing he could still claim. The only thing he hadn’t ruined.

He hadn’t kissed her. Not once. He had sat beside her and said nothing because he didn’t know how to hold someone without wanting to fix them. And he couldn't fix grief.

He didn’t even touch her hand.

Clement scoffed. “Didn’t dishonor her? The betrothal was broken. She's been cast off. Do you think it matters whether or not you lifted her skirts? They speak of her like she's some tragic figure now, whispering about her in corners. Do you think that counts as honor? You left her. Left her alone. And now you hide behind virtue like it’ll make the stink of failure less sour.”

Guilt clawed at Arthor's gut. He tried to breathe through it.

He hadn’t done anything wrong. That’s what he told himself. But the image of Vaella’s still face haunted him. He had cared. Just not in the way she needed.

Clement’s eyes bore into him. “What now? Shall we rely on your brother to succeed where you’ve failed? Will you wait for him to outgrow his stammer and take your place, is that it? Or shall we wait until your darling little sister comes of age and marry her to someone useful?” A pause. “She’s sixteen, isn’t she? Larissa. Pretty little thing. Wouldn’t take much to—”

Arthor moved before he knew he had decided to.

His hand flew to Clement’s collar and he shoved him hard, backing him against the table with a force he didn’t know he had.

“No,” Arthor growled. “You keep her out of this.”

Clement's eyes flared wide, startled, just for a blink, but it was enough. For once, he hadn’t expected his son to push back.

“She’s still a child,” Arthor bit out. “She dances in the courtyard and talks to her cat like it’s her lady-in-waiting. She builds flying machines out of parchment and dreams of drifting through the clouds. She’s not… she’s not for that.”

She was the only bit of light left in that keep, and Clement wanted to sell her like a prize goose to the highest bidder. Arthor felt his blood boil.

“I won’t let you do that to her.”

“Oh?” Clement’s voice turned mocking, breathless with laughter. “And what will you do, hm? Strike your own father? Is that the man you want to be now? A violent little brat, clinging to dreams and paper wings?”

“I’d kill before I let some lecher put a ring on her finger,” Arthor hissed.

And he meant it. Gods help him, he meant it.

The tension hung thick in the room, both men bristling, breath sharp and uneven.

“So the boy does have a spine. Pity it shows itself only for lost causes.”

“Enough!”

The door burst open. His mother stood in the threshold like a wraith from some half-forgotten tale, dark veil falling loose over her shoulders, her face pale in the firelight. There was no tremble in her voice, only steel.

“Seven save me,” Clement muttered, stepping back with a derisive laugh. He jerked himself free of Arthor’s grip and smoothed down his collar, as if the contact with his son’s hands had dirtied him. “The Lady herself appears. Always with perfect timing.”

He didn’t look at Arthor again, only brushed past his wife and vanished down the hall.

“You’re a coward,” he tossed back over his shoulder, voice echoing. “An insufferable mama’s boy. Go on, darling. Comfort your little cub. He’s all yours. No teeth, but plenty of whimper.”

The door shut. The silence after was unbearable.

Arthor stood where he was, breathing hard, heart thudding against his ribs like it wanted out of his chest. His knuckles ached. His face burned. And that godsdamned tooth throbbed where it had reopened the wound on his inner lip. His father’s words still rang in his ears, bitter and heavy.

He couldn’t meet his mother’s eyes. Not with the shame pressed so tight to his spine.

But she crossed to him all the same, and when her cool hand touched his cheek, he flinched.

Still, she held his face gently, the way she had when he was ten and scraped his knee falling from the battlements. Not the way she had when she first noticed the crooked tooth and winced, as though beauty lost was something mourned. She loved him, fiercely and without question. But not enough to defy the world that demanded he be broken to fit it. Not enough to save him.

“You did well not to strike him,” she said softly. “He deserved far worse. But it would not have helped.”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His jaw trembled.

She sighed and cupped the back of his neck. “Come. Sit. Let me see your lip.”

He obeyed without thinking. Just like always.

Obedient. Dutiful. Coward.

A night spent tucked in the cold, stony corner of the sept did more for Arthor than a dozen fruitless words exchanged beneath his father’s roof. The gods did not answer his prayers, but in their silence something settled. He woke at dawn with a ringing in his skull, wool-cloaked in pain, and a plan burning beneath it.

The first step required coin. And whispers.

“Little birds” were how people called the street messengers and gutter-mouthed boys who knew every whisper carried weight. For the right pouch of golden dragons, they were both ears and echo. And with the right words, the truth bent like hot metal in the forge.

The tale was simple:

Vaella was not abandoned, she was delivered.

Vaella was not shamed, she was blessed, spared from a serpent.
Arthor was not a wronged son, but a depraved wretch, riddled with vice.
They would say he was a lecher with bastards in every brothel from Crackclaw Point to Maidenpool.

They would say the gods themselves intervened to pull poor Lady Vaella from his clutches.

A lie, of course.
A bitter, rotting lie.

Arthor had no bastards. No paramours tucked into taverns or maids silenced with coin. But the waters of court were thick with sharks, and blood was the easiest bait.

If the world demanded a scapegoat, let it be him.

The second step came with more risk.

And steel.

Ser Harrold Penrose was no friend of his. He was a golden boy in truth; sword-sworn, court-polished, too proud and too noble for his own good. Favored companion of Prince Joffrey. Loyal to the marrow.

And dear to Vaella.

They met in the yard, swords in hand.

“Why in the Seven hells would I help you?” Ser Harrold asked, his tone disdainful, his brow glistening with sweat beneath a mane of golden curls. His blade did not waver. His footwork did not falter. Even as their swords clashed, he looked less like a boy and more like the Warrior incarnate.

“Because you’ve not walked away yet,” Arthor said, teeth clenched as he deflected a blow. “Which means some part of you is listening.”

Harrold’s jaw twitched. A thought, or a warning. Another step. Another strike.

Steel sang.

“If I speak to her, if she agrees to see you, it will be with me at her side,” Harrold said at last. “And if she does not wish it, you will let her be. Is that understood?”

“I—”

“No ‘I.’ No ‘but.’ She is a lady of worth and honour. She is my friend. And you are a stain she is still scrubbing from her name. If she grants you a moment, that moment is not yours.”

Harrold’s blade hovered just below Arthor’s chin, one clean thrust from opening his throat. He held it there, not with threat but with promise. His eyes said what he did not: one wrong word. One falter. And I will end you.

Arthor merely nodded.

He would not wound Vaella again. Not with cowardice. Not with silence. Not with the kind of pride that had damned his father, and his grandsire before him.

Arthor had always been good at kneeling.

Long hours in the sept had taught him as much. Knees aching on cold stone, spine bowed, hands clutched like a penitent’s, mouth bitten shut as if silence might make him invisible. As if the gods would overlook his sins if he only held still enough.

Kneeling before Vaella was no different. It was not penance before the Crone’s altar, but it might as well have been. He felt smaller now than he ever had, and heavier too. Shame settled over his shoulders like a sodden cloak.

As well it should.

“The rumors will not cleanse your name entirely,” he began, voice low and raw. “But they will grant you peace. A measure of dignity. That was all I could buy—” he swallowed, “—and all I could offer.”

He had spoken the whole of it to her, every part of the plan that had felt so righteous in solitude and sounded so pitiful now aloud. The truth stretched on crooked legs, bolstered by coin and desperation. A noble lie, perhaps. But a lie all the same.

“I am sorry,” Arthor said, again, though it was dust in his mouth. “And I know this is not enough. It cannot be. I do not deserve your forgiveness, just as you never deserved the manner of my betrayal.”

His head dipped lower. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hem of her blue velvet, edged in gold gown, and beside it, the shine of Ser Harrold’s boots. Vaella stood still as marble. He half-hoped she’d raise her foot and crush him under it like a bug. That she’d leave him bruised and bleeding on the floor. Just another stain.

“I was a coward,” he whispered, “and I remain one. But even cowards know when they’ve been blessed undeservedly. You’re free of me now, and I am… I am glad of it. Truly. You deserve joy, and love, and something that does not hurt.”

His voice nearly caught, but he pushed through.

“I hope your future is a blessed one. I did not deserve you, but I want you to know… for whatever it’s worth, I valued what we had. Even if it was forged of duty. We would not have been happy, I know that now. But I would have tried. I would have been grateful every day to wake beside you, even in silence.”

He had brought gifts. Poor, paltry things that couldn’t mend anything: wildflowers from the cliffs, a gown of Myrish silk, another bundle of flowers (he hadn’t known which were her favorites, he could not remember), two letters for her family, a ribbon, another letter for her only, written and rewritten thrice over.

He did not reach for them. They sat in a basket by the door, untouched. Unneeded.

“Lord Yronwood is a good man,” he said softly. “Better than I could ever hope to be. He’ll protect you. And I imagine he’ll make you laugh. You deserve to laugh.”

A breath. A heartbeat. The silence thickened like smoke.

“I ask nothing. Only that you know this: you were not the mistake. I was. And if the gods are just, they will give you a life unburdened by the shadow of my name.”