a beautiful echo of death.

mxc.

he listened to her speak and felt nothing resembling respect stir in him, only a tightening certainty that she proved his long-held suspicion correct. arithmetic bored him now, not because it lacked elegance, but because she wielded it like a child waving a knife, careless of where it cut. he did not interrupt her when she spoke of sums and surprise, merely watched the shape of her mouth form the words, the faint curl of challenge there, and decided she had been indulged long enough. he thought, with cool disdain, that she had lost her mind years ago, not all at once but in pleasurable fragments, and that indulging her talk of miscalculation only fed the illusion she clung to.

his silence stretched deliberately, a tightening leash, before he spoke again, his voice low and unyielding as he told her that ledgers and sums were dull things for dull men, and that he had not come here to debate coin with someone who could not keep her own impulses in order. “i did not come to debate sums with you,” he added, colder still, “and i will not pretend you understand them.”

he rose then, unhurried, closing the space she had tried to keep, and the air between them shifted at once. he felt the familiar pull in his gut, that dark, proprietary hunger that had never truly left him, and he did not bother to disguise it from himself. he had always wanted to control her, not because she was beautiful—though she was, in a sharp, ruinous way—but because she was dangerous when left to her own devices. he spoke of the fighters instead, of how her sadism spilled too freely, how she broke men without shaping them, and how waste irritated him more than cruelty ever could. he dismissed her talk of art with a faint scoff.

his words pressed close, intimate without tenderness, as he told her that she mistook indulgence for mastery, and that he would have order in the pit, whether she understood it or not. “you break them too quickly,” he told her, gaze fixed, his voice openly flippant and dismissive, a hand indicating toward some half broken man in the corner. “and you call it art because you don't want waste.” he let the silence bite before continuing, “waste irritates me.” there was something obscene in the calm of it, in the way he measured her breath as if it were another variable to be mastered. he thought briefly of the bastard of the vale, who put no part of the human body to waste in his ability to skin - perhaps she ought to pay him a visit.

“discipline is the difference,” he said, voice low. “without it, you are merely an animal dressed in silk.” his focus sharpened on the spearman, on the thin one who laughed. “that one learns restraint first, considering he still has arrogance on him like a stench” he went on. “the rest cn learn silence.” he paused, then added, “you will bring them to me when the shape holds, however long it takes.” there was something illicit in the promise of watching, of her performing under his eye, and he allowed it to colour his tone. “i will observe,” he said. “i will approve.”

he watched the way her composure strained, took note of the slight hitch in her breath, and felt a grim satisfaction bloom. he did not touch her, did not need to. his presence was enough, his voice curling around her like a restraint as he told her she would slow herself, that she would savour the breaking rather than gorge on it, because he wished to see how far a man could be bent before he shattered. there was something almost obscene in the way he spoke of restraint to her, in the way his gaze lingered on her throat as if measuring pulse and obedience in the same glance. he thought, not for the first time, that she belonged to him in a way she would never admit, and that the world would sooner burn than allow her to belong to anyone else.

he was in the midst of speaking when the interruption came, soft-footed but urgent, a presence cutting through the pit like a blade through cloth. maximus did not turn at once; he felt the shift before he heard it, that wrongness in the air that meant numbers had moved without his leave. when the messenger pressed the parchment into his hand, the lyseni seal cracked beneath his thumb, he stilled. truly stilled. his eyes scanned the lines once, twice, then stopped. the noise of the pit dulled, as if the world had drawn back from him. this was not accounted for. this was not meant to surface yet. anger rose sharp and immediate, too clean to be hidden.

he turned on saella with sudden force, his gaze cutting into her like a drawn knife. the question came low and dangerous, asking if she knew, if this had been set in motion with her knowledge. suspicion bled into his tone, accusatory and cold, as though betrayal were already half-proven. “how long have you known,” he asked quietly, every syllable weighted, not raised, but far more dangerous for it. suspicion slid easily into accusation as he stepped closer, voice dropping further. “tell me now—did you know this was already in motion.”

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ conversations ⌟#maximus 001

saella did not flinch when his disdain settled over her; she absorbed it as she absorbed most things, without immediate reaction, without surrender. but something in her gaze sharpened when he dismissed her understanding, when he spoke as though she were a creature gnawing at scraps of knowledge too large for her teeth. she let the silence stretch between them again, though this time it was not his leash but hers. there were few things that unsettled her about maximus celtigar, and his barbed tongue was not one of them. if anything, it was familiar territory between them, a language sharpened over years of quiet rivalry and reluctant fascination.

“you mistake me,” she said quietly, and there was no coyness left in her tone, her words were almost muttered, strained. “i do not confuse indulgence with mastery.” her chin lifted a fraction, the movement small but deliberate, the sort of pride she refused to set aside even for him. “i break them as they deserve to be broken. some are shaped. some are warnings.” her eyes flicked briefly toward the half-ruined man in the corner, then returned to him, steady and unapologetic. “waste irritates you. inefficiency irritates me. do not pretend those are different virtues dressed in different words.”

he stepped closer and she held her ground. the heat of him was deliberate, territorial. she felt it, felt the pull he never bothered to conceal, but she did not retreat, in fact she almost felt drawn to it as she always had for so many years now. saella thought herself the spider, the quiet architect behind the threads, but she was certain she was the one always to be caught in the lord of claw isle’s web, struggling only enough to pretend she was not willingly tangled there. “discipline,” she echoed, voice steady. “i am not without it.” her lips curved faintly, though the expression held no softness. “and i am not an animal in silk.” she let the words settle between them, neither raised nor defensive. “bring them to you when the shape holds,” she repeated, inclining her head once in acceptance of the demand. “very well. they will bend before they break. you will see restraint.”

his gaze lingered at her throat, and she felt the pulse there betray her only slightly. she despised that he could clearly measure it just as he measured his coin, that he could read the fine tremor beneath her stillness, as though her body were another ledger to be balanced. but she would not give him the satisfaction of recoil, not obvious, anyway. “you wish to observe,” she said, voice lower now, quieter but no less firm. “then observe. but do not mistake proximity for ownership.” the words were careful, not reckless. she knew the edge she walked, knew how easily a misstep could become something far sharper between them.

the interruption fractured the moment. she felt it before she saw it, the wrongness in the air, the shift in his posture as the seal cracked. when his stillness settled, true and cold, she knew whatever had arrived was not trivial. she watched his eyes move across the parchment, watched anger carve sharp lines into his composure, and only then did a flicker of unease coil low in her stomach. something had moved without either of them seeing it, and that alone was enough to make her wary.

when he turned on her, the force of it struck like a blade drawn too quickly. she did not step back, though the instinct brushed against her spine. his question landed heavy, suspicion laced through every syllable. for a heartbeat, she said nothing. and that hesitation was rare. it was as if her voice were caught in her throat, she could feel him physically bearing down upon her. saella never thought she would be the source of such ire in him again, not like this, not over something she had not set into motion herself.

“what the fuck are you talking about?” the words did not come out as confident as she intended, more shaky, almost panicked, the sharpness of them dulled by the confusion rising in her chest. dark lilac hues then glanced down at the broken seal, the lyseni symbol unmistakable, and something colder slipped through her. it did not take much to put together what it was that struck him so. “lys?” she asked, glancing to the envelope again. “the princess?” saella hated the way she sounded asking questions. she did not ask, she knew. knowledge had always been her sword and shield. how did she not know of this? how neither of them knew? her eyes lifted back to him, searching his face despite herself. “what is it then?”

deimos-velaryon

Deimos watched the lady as she finally took a seat across from him. He had expected something shrewd and clever from Lady Qoherys, and she did not disappoint. And finally, she spoke plainly, wasting no words. When she finished, the Lord of Driftmark leaned back slightly, silent, weighing his options. The tides were already turning, for New Valyria would move against Dorne sooner rather than later. One needed only witness King Jaehaerys' fury in the council chambers to know his cousin would eventually throw his rock. And Deimos intended to use the ripples it caused. A sanctioned war, a declared campaign, and the Master of Tides would let his vengeance sail under rightful banners and law. It was, at the very least, an efficient vessel.

“You speak with purpose, Lady Qoherys,” he said finally, calm and deliberate, “And I listen when purpose outweighs pretense”. In his younger years, he would have been more inclined to accept everything she offered right away. Time had carved a more jaded person, however, and Deimos knew better than to jump headfirst into his every impulse and immediately fill every fiery desire to spill blood. “There will be consequence,” he stated, for that had never been in question. The manner of such consequence was what they were discussing, and the Lady of Rosby was much too keen to offer him various tools for that.

“The men you speak of answer to your coin and your cause, my lady,” he pointed out. No doubt Saella wielded those individuals with ease, yet the only currency Deimos relied on to get things done was trust and true loyalty. “The only way I could agree to any of this is if some of my men can go on that path alongside yours”. He did not deal in shadows he couldn't trace.

The Master of Ships reached for the quill beside him when she asked who he suspected. Deimos pulled a piece of parchment and was precise as he traced sharp lines and drew exact curves. What emerged were not words, but a flock of dark, inky figures. The black nightingales of House Caron's sigil. “I saw this during the attack,” he said, sliding the parchment to her. “I'm certain they're not the real culprits, but mere puppets on a string”. Deimos, as he clutched his bleeding neck and watched his wife's life pouring out of her, had heard words uttered in one of the Dornish tongues. He was certain there had to be a connection there. He set aside the quill and folded his hands, dark lilac eyes locked on Saella. “If your associates can pull on that thread and confirm who pushed them to act, then I will support your ludus. For a time,” he paused. Getting a name was not worth endless support. The two of them could agree on an acceptable, fair timeline for it later. When it would start, and when it would end. “We can discuss funding or other manner of support, if you wish. And beyond the bloodsport, you can expect my support in court, Lady Qoherys”.

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ conversations ⌟#deimos 001

saella accepted the parchment without flourish, long fingers smoothing its edge as her gaze traced the dark sigil. the nightingales lingered beneath her eyes a moment longer than necessary, not out of surprise, but calculation. “caron,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “useful hands to dirty, loud enough to draw blame, proud enough to believe they act for themselves.” she set the parchment down between them, tapping it once with her nail. “you are right. puppets. and from what i know, dorne has always favored distance between the knife and the hand that guides it.” there was no satisfaction in her voice, only cold assurance. “if words were spoken in their tongue, then someone wanted you to hear them. misdirection is still direction, if one knows how to read it.”

his conditions did not surprise her. if anything, they drew a faint, knowing curve to her mouth. having a man like deimos velaryon on one’s side, especially in new valyria, was no small thing. “your men may walk beside mine,” she said evenly. “i do not require blind belief in my efforts, nor do i expect you to trade loyalty for shadows you cannot follow. trust, of course, is not built by secrecy alone, but by shared risk.” her eyes lifted to his then, steady and unflinching. “i will be careful in my choosing. only those who understand silence, patience, and restraint.” she knew how to read them, and believed the master of the tides would know this of her, too. “they will observe, listen, pull gently at the thread until it begins to unravel of its own accord. no rash blood, not yet. we are not hunting beasts, we are coaxing this awful scheme into the light.”

she leaned back at last, folding her hands as she had before, posture composed but intent sharpened. “i accept the support you offer, my lord.” she gave a nod of respect. while it was no permanent deal, it was a bridge. “my ludus will serve your interests so long as truth is being carved from lies. when the name is found, when the hand behind the curtain is exposed, you may withdraw cleanly when you so choose to.” a pause, brief but deliberate. “until then, i will treat this as i do all things of consequence.” saella did not elaborate, she did not have to. her gaze held his, unwavering. “you will have your answers, lord velaryon. and when you do, the tide will already be moving in your favor, and justice will be yours as you see fit.” this, she was certain of.

mxc.

the torches guttered as if the tunnels themselves held their breath, and maximus let the darkness wrap around him like a cloak. he stepped forward with the slow, measured confidence of a man who had watched empires tilt and learned which ropes to cut. his voice came soft, a velvet thing with the edge of a blade: “survival is nothing to be proud of, bending the knee is no noble act. it is merely arithmetic. hunger counts as devotion when counted in coin and bone.” he paused only long enough to inhale the iron-tinged air, letting the smell of sweat and old resin fill his lungs like a draught from a cellar. the sensation pleased him; proximity to suffering was a tonic he seldom denied himself.

and yet, when talking of bending the knee, he was wholly aware it were something they both had needed to do when jaehaerys took the throne; and for a brief moment he remembered the fleeting eye contact they had made across from the courtyard when maximus had bent the knee - in that moment it felt like some great change. in the months that had passed, the reality was nothing had changed; a new head wore the crown, but the mechanisms all worked the very same. he leaned his weight on the stool, the wood creaking beneath him, and watched her back—the exact line of her shoulder, the way she carried certainty like armour. his words slipped further, lubricated by a cold amusement.

“i like the theatre of it, you know. not the spectacle up above; that’s for them to cluck over and forget. it is the private turning of a man’s mind that intrigues me. the instant a man realises he is less than what he thought—there is some intoxication in that collapse.” his mouth twitched into something almost like a smile, but it was not warmth he showed; it was calculation, pure and terrible. he savoured the idea of minds rearranged, of names erased until only usefulness remained. he let his gaze drag across the mutely waiting figures in their pens—the spearman with the crooked ear, the broad-shouldered man with a missing thumb, the thin one who laughed too quickly—and he felt a small, keen thrill.

“do you find there is an art to ruin?” he continued, voice low and indulgent. “to find one does not merely break; but sculpt. you break the skin so the hand learns a new trade. you starve the arrogance until gratitude grows where fury once burned. you teach them their place, and then you let them think themselves remade. that is the trick.” he tapped a finger against the wood, as though tallying invisible columns in a ledger. the notion of order from ruin pleased him in the throat. he hated her, he would always hate her - despise her even, if he could be the one to choke the life out of her he would - happily. and yet, the topic of fascination held him by ropes; unable to snuff out the fire it had put in the depths of his gut.

"or, do you prefer to just break them?"

he let his imagination flare, wicked and bright—crowds roaring until the rafters shook, the whole city naming him the architect of renewal. the fantasy washed over him like heat; he nearly tasted it, sharp and metallic and terribly sweet. the vision of new valyria returned in his palm, of nightsong torn back from dornish hands, of banners unfurled where now there were only smokes and debts—he felt the intoxication of possibility. his mind, always a machine for empire-building, drew maps on the inside of his skull: coin routes, ledgers salted with fear, governors bought and corrupted until the realm hummed to his tune. he could be more than master of coin. he could be the hand that reshaped crowns.

the sound of water dripping from the vaulted stone cut through him like an unexpected note. the spell of the imagined crowd cracked, and he found himself looking at them both with a strange, piercing hunger—not just at her skin or the fighters, but at something deeper, trying to strip away pretence and gaze through to what lay beneath. he wanted to see the bones of them: the small cruelties that fed their choices, the private compromises that carved their loyalties. he watched saella’s profile as though he could read a ledger written in shadows. he let the faintest of cruel smiles cross his face, then spoke again, the words deliberate and cold.

“pick the spearman. there is something about the way he fights that sings to me—there is nothing finer than watching memory yield to need.” he listened to how his own voice sounded in the chamber, tasted the satisfaction of giving an order that would ripple outward and not return without change. he closed his eyes for a breath and then opened them, sharp and clear as a knife. he spoke of crowds but refused to claim their roar for himself, the words dipped in a perversion of flattery: “let the city shout your name when they see what you’ve done. let them clap for the hand that fashions men from ruin. you can be their roar.” the compliment had a sting; it placed power squarely on her shoulders while making him the unseen architect, delighted with his own cleverness. it were just like they had always been; she the puppet, him the designer.

he felt, for a moment, a blunt urge—a primitive, almost animal lean toward closeness, a sexual hunger that knotted in his gut at the sight of her like a thing wanting to possess. he restrained it; he knew exactly how to want without degrading a weapon he might still need. he kept his hands to himself. in his mind she was already dirt and jewel at once—marred, valuable, untouchable—something to be curated not consumed. “i could have you anywhere,” he admitted softly, his voice a whisper that was not for her alone. it was startling, unnerving, the way he switched to the way he wanted her. and wanted her, he always would. “but that would be waste. you are better as the hand that breaks than as the broken.” the words slid out with the ease of practiced cruelty.

he watched her as she stepped closer, letting the torchlight pick out the knife-edges of her face. then he folded back into the calm of a man who had lessons to teach, and said, quieter still, “so do it. select them, shape them, and bring them to me when the new forms stand before you. i will observe. i will approve.” he did not move to stand; he remained rooted in that place between shadow and light, content to let the machinery of ruin turn. he thought again of empires and ledgers and the sweet imaginary roar, and in that patient hunger there was no salvation—only the endless arithmetic of power.

"i noticed the new blades from lys,” he murmured, almost as if testing her, suddenly getting up from his wooden stall as she brushed by him - too quickly, like an animal ready to pounce. “tell me, how do you decide which are worthy of the pit?” the question hung between them, more than idle curiosity. his eyes swept the walls, imagining the exotic metals, the hilt carvings, the poison-laced edges—each an extension of her authority, her taste for control. “it pleases me,” he added, almost imperceptibly, “to see how you understand value… not just in men, but in things as well.”

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ conversations ⌟#maximus 001

saella paused, letting his words settle like stones in the pit of her chest. the torchlight caught her face in jagged slices, illuminating the sharp planes of cheek and jaw that rarely softened for anyone, and perhaps never truly for him. she did not turn away, though the heat of his gaze pressed against her like a living thing, intrusive and thrilling.

“arithmetic,” she said at last, voice low, deliberate. “hunger measured in coin and bone. devotion counted in fear and favor. yes. you are correct, as usual. but men are rarely as clever as their ledgers suggest. the sums never account for surprise, for desperation, for… miscalculation.” her lips curved slightly, a subtle twist of amusement and warning. “i find arithmetic for old men, and i suppose...coinmasters.”

her attention shifted to the fighters he had singled out. “the spearman,” she murmured, nodding slightly. “he will learn quickly… or he will die believing he has. the broad shouldered man,” another measured gesture, “thick skull, slow to bend, but useful once the edge is found. the thin one, laughs too quickly… delightfully arrogant. he will be broken in the way he least expects.” she did not hesitate; her choices were sharp, precise, inevitable.

maximus spoke of art differently than he spoke of arithmetic, and the switch intrigued her, the tension between what was fixed, measurable, and what was subject to interpretation. “it’s as much art as it is calculation,” she said softly, leaning against the wall opposite him, the cool stone pressing against her skin. “one can only predict so much. the art is in adapting to the unpredictable.” a ghost of a smile curved her lips. “i enjoy both. it is… a pleasure, though one i never quite admit, or deny. to give them the illusion of remaking themselves, before i break them anyway." she glanced at the men behind the iron bars. "at least, most of them.”

the lady nodded at his chosen pick, accepting that she would be the hand to move them. “so be it, then,” she said, deciding quickly, not lingering over his reasons for remaining anonymous. despite her cleverness, despite the subtle games she played to draw him out, she knew she could be driven mad by trying to interpret him too fully. their partnership functioned best when she took his words largely at face value, and left the rest unexamined.

but even that careful control was tested. his gaze seemed to split, to be both here and elsewhere, and his soft, deliberate words carried a weight she could not shake. a shiver ran along her spine, one part fear, one part desire. her composure wavered just enough to reveal a flicker of wariness, rare for her, rarer still in front of him. she knew the measure of his capability: the cold precision of his mind, the careful assessment of threat and opportunity, and the danger of letting desire and strategy mingle, not to mention, the danger of being the source of his ire. she did not respond to his insinuation with words. a single, measured glance was all she allowed, before moving onward, keeping herself just beyond the reach of the fire he stoked within her.

saella gave a subtle nod, silver hair shifting with the motion. “fine. it will be done,” she said, crisp, measured, resolute. the words carried finality, but the tension lingered in the space between them, coiled like a blade waiting for release. she felt it in the brush of air as he stepped near, in the quiet anticipation that thrummed between their movements. it was a danger she both craved and feared, a tether she could not sever, though she had long trained herself to resist.

the mention of the lysian blades drew her attention next, though she nearly faltered as he stood suddenly. she paused, froze almost, considering, eyes narrowing. “the new weapons,” she murmured, “are not for all of them. their value lies not only in steel, but in the hand that wields them. a man cannot be shaped without tools worthy of the task, and neither can he endure the pit without respect for precision.” she allowed herself a faint tilt of the head, a gesture that acknowledged he understood far too much about her methods, and she rather enjoyed that.

the pit required perfection in both blade and wielder, and she found satisfaction in knowing that she alone judged where that line was drawn. each weapon, like each fighter, bore her intent; each decision carved order from chaos. it was the mastery of it all, predicting failure, molding strength, rewarding cunning, that gave her such dark delight. "would you care to see what can be done with them, before they debut in the arena?"

mxc.

the candlelight followed them like a tremble. he didn’t touch her—he never needed to. she walked ahead, as she always did when she thought she was guiding him somewhere he hadn’t already mapped out, and he followed, steps deliberate, slow. there was something almost religious about the tunnels: the flicker of flame on old stone, the echo of dripping water, the distant clang of metal against metal like a hymn to some brutal god. and her, walking just ahead, like a priestess garbed in shadow and pride. he watched the sway of her cloak, the curl of damp in the crook of her neck.

he imagined, briefly, what it would be like to seize her then—not in violence, but in revelation. to peel back the sharp edges she wore like armour and find what had always been soft beneath.

but that was the lie, wasn’t it? the thing she wanted him to believe: that there was something buried, waiting. there wasn’t. there never had been. she was made of knife-points and hunger, and anything that ever resembled softness had been put there for his benefit alone. “i remember,” he said, voice low, threading through the dark like smoke, “when you used to look at me the way they look at you now.” the words came easily, unhurried. “as if i held something sacred between my teeth. you were very good at worship, once.” he let the silence hold a moment after that—just enough. the tunnels turned, narrowing, and still she did not look back. that pleased him more than it should.

her refusal to flinch had always been part of the performance. she made defiance look like grace. as if she wasn’t performing it for him, every breath choreographed, every glance calculated to land with weight. “you mistake control for intimacy,” he said, watching her hand brush against a rusted grate as she passed it. “you think that by understanding their pain, you own it. that if they need you, it makes you necessary.” he paused, stepping in closer behind her now, close enough that the hem of his coat caught the edge of hers.

“but you don't need them to need you, saella. just fearing you, is enough.” in the flickering darkness, there was a wicked, reptilian smile crossing over his features as they walked - for of course she was desperate to be needed by someone, or something, even in the most sadistic of manners.

they stopped before a locked chamber—thick wood, iron studs, the stink of old sweat behind it. she reached for a key tucked into her belt, and he watched the way her fingers moved. efficient. unapologetic. there was no ceremony to her control. that, in itself, was its own seduction. he stepped beside her now, shoulder brushing hers as the door groaned open and the scent of blood and resin spilled out into the corridor. figures inside—six, maybe seven—men kept like wine in a cellar. waiting to be poured out. used. discarded.

he said nothing at first, just inhaled slowly, gaze passing over the room with the same detached interest he reserved for fine tapestries and merchant ledgers. and yet his hand lingered on the doorframe, knuckles pressed into the grain like he might draw something from it.

then: “you asked what i get out of this.” his voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. “and i could lie, i suppose. say it’s about order. about strengthening the cause. but the truth is, i like watching people become. i like the moment they realise they’re no longer men, but useful. items. sacrifices. there’s something almost… holy in it.” he turned his head, watching her profile. she did not flinch. he didn’t expect her to - because she knew. whilst she did not know the details, she must have assumed that the men she sold to the master of coin were merely victim to his tortures for enjoyment. “go on, then,” he said, tone light, almost indulgent in her whims, sinking into a wooden stool with a sense of careless confidence, as though the world were at his fingertips. as though all were within his grasp. “show me. pick two.”

his gaze lingered on her mouth, then the curve of her jaw; always her facial features, more than her body. such snakelike beauty, it made him wish to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze. “i want to see who you believe deserves to be broken in my name.” he didn’t smile. he didn’t need to. she would feel the grin in his breath, the sadistic sense of pleasure he felt in this moment.

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ conversations ⌟#maximus 001 #queue.

the air thickened as he walked behind her, he were not close enough that the warmth of his breath could be felt upon her skin, and yet, she could practically feel it anyways. but she did not shift or startle. confidence draped her shoulders like a mantle, armor forged from habit, from necessity. she let it shield her, even as some small, treacherous part of her thrilled at the closing proximity.

“worship,” she repeated at last, not turning, her voice smooth as silk drawn over stone. “it is such a heavy word for men who bleed and bow in turn. kneeling is not worship, maximus. it is survival. they kneel to the hand that feeds them or spares them, not because they mistake it for divinity.” she let that hang, casual, dismissive on the surface.

yet in the quiet between their steps, she tasted the truth he had needled at. to be obeyed was one thing, to be feared another, but to be needed… that was the marrow of it. she wanted that tether, no matter how it came. to be needed was worth more than gold, more even than control. it was what bound men to her, what kept them returning no matter how often she broke them down.

they turned a corner, the walls narrowing as they approached the holding cells. the stench of sweat and iron was thicker here, the groan of the chained and the restless shuffle of bare feet echoing from the shadows. saella finally allowed herself to gesture toward the chamber ahead, her tone businesslike once more.

“the spearman with the crooked ear, he fights like a man who remembers being loved. he will learn the weight of hunger.” another nod, brief and exact, to a broad-shouldered man with a missing thumb. “and the thin one who laughs too quickly, he thinks cunning will save him; he will learn what bluntness teaches.” she named them not by the histories she’d invented for them for the crowds pleasure, but by what they were now: raw material. her choices were surgical, not sentimental.

she turned, closing the space between them by a step that mattered. the torchlight carved his profile into something more animal than lordly. “i will not break them for your amusement alone,” she said, voice a quiet blade. “i will break them so they are remade useful, and the city will whisper your name as the hand that saw the value in ruin. you will have the pleasure of the transformation, and someone will thank you for it. would you like the crowds to know it was done in your name, or would you prefer the satisfaction to be yours alone?”

her fingers brushed his sleeve as she passed, an idle, deliberate contact. “decide,” she murmured. “and i will see it done, today.”

her words were elegant, but in the way that invited scrutiny rather than surrender. he did not interrupt her, but neither did he offer the small, courteous smile he often gave to women he wasn't actually listening to, because this time, elys was listening, if not to her words, then to the weight behind them.

"'not in the way people expect' is a lovely way of saying 'when it suits you'" he pointed out. his wrist twisted, wine swirling elegantly in the cup. "still, there's wisdom in restraint. most do tend to rush the board, so to speak, and an overeager tactician is no tactician at all."

he took a slow, deliberate drink, and set the goblet to one side, with all the care of a man moving his queen on the chessboard. "what is it you wait for then, lady saella?" he asked, his tone light, but every word acting as a pressure point to see how much she would give him. "what signal tells you the game has begun? or do you begin it yourself and wait for the rest of us to catch up?"

her remark about sharp blades coaxed a low chuckle from him, brief, but genuine. "only a fool needs to prove himself sharp," he pointed out. "i always live by the idea it is better to remain quiet and be thought of as a fool than open your mouth and remove all doubt." he leaned forward slightly, voice lowering as though he was revealing a great secret to her alone. "it is not the weapon you see that you need worry about. it's the one you don't." such was elys brax's way, the master of tricks and traps, the man who could draw blood without ever once drawing his sword.

he let out a hum of consideration, head tilting. he had never been one to fret over unfamiliar soil, and even here, in the heart of new valyria, he saw no reason why he should. "you'll find i am seldom without allies, even in cities that are not my own." a small smile played on his lips. he was pleased with himself, almost maddeningly so, even if his demeanour remained composed. "there are those here who understand the value of my friendship."

his gaze lingered on her then - not threatening, not overt, but pointed. "or perhaps, those who value coin so much that they do not think to question exactly what is being bought." and there he was, revealing his hand in a way she would understand, but none who listened would. he raised his goblet in a mocking sort of toast, not quite to her, but undoubtedly because of her.

an air of laughter left her, at the comment. she did not think it so wrong to do what suited her best. it was simply how their world worked. but he knew that. it intrigued her the way he pointed out these little points, not just because it was clear he was surveying her reaction, but because she was certain she was not the only one he had this little conversation with. "certainly, there is balance to everything." she agreed. "of course, if a snake shows too much restraint, they miss the opportunity to strike. sometimes the board moves too quickly to really try and think through every little move."

his question made her take pause, her lips pressing slightly together as her lilac gaze scanned the crowd. saella weighed carefully how she wanted to respond, if she wanted to really respond at all. "is there ever really a start or end? after all, the blacks won the dance. that should've been the end, right? no, we have a green dragon on the throne." she shrugged her shoulders. "perhaps the real end is when one is penniless, or dead."

it's the one you don't, he had said, and she couldn't help the smirk that came across her face. perhaps it was her knack for brute strength, and shows of power. she rather liked to see one show their blade, and their hand, than lurk in the shadows. though it intrigued her to wonder why one would play their part in the dark. "sure, no one thinks anything of a quiet man." saella remarked. "no one remembers him, either. i suppose it depends if one deems their part in this world, in this game, worthy of a maesters scrawl, or dying with them, forgotten." was it as simple as that? unlikely. she didn't care to think more of it.

but then he showed it, with a grin on his face, and a lift of his goblet, the hand he was playing before her all along. comfortable within a court not his unknown, without allies. all along he had her in his pocket, and she was a fool. saella hated looking foolish, and yet, laughter escaped her. "gods." she shook her head. "clever, clever man, you." teeth were undoubtedly gritted as she faced him where none could see her expression. "perhaps there will be one person to remember a quiet man, after all. for now."

deimos-velaryon

Deimos considered her words for a long moment. Loyalty was a currency rarer than gold these days, and rarer still was loyalty offered without immediate demand. The Master of the Tides knew better than to be fooled by what appeared to be an auspicious tide. He turned fully toward Saella then, studying her with the same calm scrutiny he reserved for matters of court and war alike. “My house does not forget, Lady Qoherys,” he said at last, his voice low but sure. “We are old blood. We remember our oaths, whether they are born of honor, or necessity”. His violet gaze, cool and unflinching, lingered a moment longer before he moved, slow and deliberate, to his desk. He sat down and gestured for the Lady of Rosby to take a seat as well.

At the mention of her ludus, the Master of Ships laced his fingers together atop his desk. Deimos was no stranger to the spectacles of men killing men for sport, but the blood of Driftmark ran thick with salt and ocean water, not the dust of the fighting pits. “There are forms of strength my house has long chosen to leave to others,” he said, measured, but not dismissive. House Velaryon had never supported any ludus, but neither had they decried the practice. It was not in his nature, or his house’s, to rush into unfamiliar currents without reading the tides.

Her final words drew a different kind of tension through him. Not out of suspicion, but a colder, keener focus. Something can be done, she had said, as if Deimos himself had not weighed and measured his possibilities already. The Lord of Driftmark had lived long enough to know her words more likely than not meant something far from the tidy ideals of courtly justice. “Please speak plainly, my lady,” he said, voice dipping into something quieter, graver. “What something do you suggest?”

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ conversations ⌟#deimos 001

saella did not sit at once. she crossed the chamber with the easy, elegant steps of someone raised to be noticed but trained not to draw attention unless it served her. it was only after a breath, maybe two, that she lowered herself into the seat he offered, folding her hands in her lap with deliberate calm.

“plainly, then,” she said, eyes fixed on his. no charm, no coy deflection. only the same clarity she had seen in him: stripped of illusion, raw in its grief and intent.

“i suggest you do what your enemies never expect,” she said. “that you reach beyond the confines of crown and court and take hold of the shadows they ignore. the ones that do not answer to banners or birthright, but to coin and cause.”

she paused, not for effect, but for certainty. “i can make introductions. not to assassins or poisoners, though i suspect you’d have no shortage of either should you ask, but to men who listen when i speak. whose loyalty isn’t bought in gold, but in purpose. some fight in my ludus, yes, but not all strength is shown in the ring. some have quieter talents.”

she tilted her head, letting that statement hang, just long enough to imply things left unsaid. her voice softened slightly, though it lost none of its weight. “i do not presume to act without your leave, lord velaryon. but you and i both know justice is an illusion spun for children and fools. yna is gone. what remains is consequence. and consequence can be shaped, if one has the will.”

the firelight caught briefly on the pale curve of her cheek as she leaned forward just a touch. “tell me who you suspect,” she said quietly, “and i will help you be certain, and see it done. not loudly, not rashly. but with care. with precision. so that when your enemies fall, they will not even realize the hand that moved against them until it is far, far too late.”

saella watched him in the silence that followed, her expression composed, but beneath it, something older and colder stirred. she had grown used to the language of courts, the diplomacy of veils and smiles, but beneath all that, beneath the silks and the courtesies, she still believed in something simpler. more ancient. if you let blood spill unanswered, you invited the world to open your veins.

a strike against one of their own must be answered. not only to honor the dead, but to shield the living. to remind the dogs that valyrian blood does not run cold, nor does it run from a fight.

softestaura

lily rose depp at the cannes film festival for the premiere of the idol wearing chanel fw 1994

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ visage ⌟

she wasn't bad at this, elys thought, all smooth words wrapped in neat metaphors. the problem was, he was never a man who had been easily charmed. he'd seen it all before, men and women weaving webs before them, dancing in circles around anything that meant much of anything at all, all the while thinking themselves terribly clever for it. most of them, in the end, ended up tripping themselves on their own illusions.

his goblet tilted idly as he considered her, not even bothering to veil his amusement. "confidence," he repeated. "that is kind of you, my lady." he could not deny that confidence was something he didn't lack, but the line between confidence and arrogance was a thin thing. it was all a matter of semantics.

still, she intrigued him. it was less about the woman she was showing herself to be, or rather, that she wanted him to see, and more about the unspoken ties that bound them together, ones that she did not yet see, but instilled in him a smug sense of satisfaction. yet still, he wondered at what is was she was truly made of under the polished exterior. her gladiators, the very reason he had links to her in the first place, spoke of something more than the polished exterior. perhaps she was as shrewd, if not more, as she wished to be perceived. or perhaps she was another fool who thought she had the board stacked in her favour, but had yet to even glimpse all the pieces.

"ah. all the little tells of court," there was derision in his tone. "yes, i suppose one might become terribly invested in that if they so wish," a lazy sip of wine, as though he considered such things beneath him, and he did. too many men who had come before him focused entirely too much attention on such matters, and it caused them to fail to see the bigger picture. "it's much the same, wherever you go though, isn't it? we likely could have predicted what would unfold before us before either of us entered the room." the we was deliberate. where he had previously sought to make it clear he saw her plain, now elys grouped the two of them together.

her remark about contentment brought a chuckle to his lips. "and yet," he countered. "the art of making one's own path is dictated by the terrain you find yourself in, isn't it? even the cleverest of us must sometimes walk roads we had no part in building." no, it was not about reforging the path under your feet, but ensuring you had all the tools to endure.

challenging when necessary, though, that he found interesting, interesting enough to poke at, to see if she would give him more. "a fair philosophy," he said, simply. "and how often, my lady, do you find yourself challenging?"

saella hummed softly, as if his question were a tune she already knew the words to. her fingers stilled on the goblet’s rim, and she let the moment draw out, watching him the way one might watch a flame to see which way it would bend next. the noise of the hall played like a distant instrument behind them, footsteps on marble, the low hush of servants moving, a brittle laugh carried from too far off to matter.

"often enough," she said at last, lilting, as if the answer were obvious. she leaned back in her seat, the silk of her sleeve sliding like water along the table’s edge. "though i suppose not always in the way people expect."

her gaze shifted, not away from him but through him, briefly, like she was weighing something older than the room they sat in. then it was back, focused, bright, all pleasantness and poise. “well, there are different kinds of challenge.” her smile was soft, but sharp beneath it. “some pick up a sword. others move a piece across the board. and some…” her voice dropped lower, “some wait. and let the others show their hands first.”

a pause. a shrug. the conversation intrigued her, but she suspected something beneath the surface of this lord, now, something she had failed to see in the beginning of this interaction.

"i find most men are all too eager to prove how sharp they are." her eyes flicked to his wine. "and the sharper the blade, the easier it is to cut yourself on it."

she reached for her cup again, not to drink but to hold it, to feel the weight. “fair point,” she allowed, almost graciously. “but even roads built by other hands can be worn down..” her voice softened as she swirled the wine. “sometimes, you walk a path until it bends to you. not because you demanded it, but because you knew where to press.”

she lifted the goblet to her lips now, looking at him over the rim, before continuing. “i gather you know much about walking in foreign terrain, then. or am i wrong? after all, i assume that is why you seem so at ease in our court with so few of your own westermen here."

mxc.

“you’ve made a shrine of your beasts, my lady,” he said, voice low and coaxing, as he stepped further into the glow of the torches; and yet, he looked around at the setting around them that appeared the scene of some dark page of history. “look at the way they watch you. like gods once watched flames.” his eyes swept over the fighters, but there was no real interest there, no appraisal. all of it was theatre—his words, his intrusion, the tilt of his head as if he were taken by curiosity rather than calculation. no doubt this was some desperate attempt to assert control over something, as everything she did was: to unsex herself and therefore try and rid herself of the shackles that came with her natural being.

"does that make you happy?" in truth, there was no removing those chains; no matter how many men she could order into a training pit, no matter how much money she pocketed of her own, it did nothing to distance her from the fact that her destiny was the same as any other women in this world. to produce, to act as supporters of their husband's motivations and whims. some were beautiful enough to be idolised by their betters, though it were not expected.

he looked at her now, properly, with the quiet sort of reverence that didn't belong to men like him. "are you offering to make me happy?" he asked, his question blunt; as though almost to reach through whatever dreamlike world she had created for herself and drag her back through it. here she was again, asking him; asking maximus celtigar what she thought he should do. and yet, he gave it, inch by inch, in the way a miser parts with his coin' the most precious of materials. not for their sake, but for his own pleasure. there had been a time—he let the memory rise, briefly, like smoke from a long-dead fire—when she had been everything. his ambition, his future, a potential he’d only ever trusted himself to envision.

harrenhal, he'd said, once. broadening the line. children with looks like hers and cunning like his. it had felt real. real enough for him to speak of it aloud. and then, of course, the lie. to widen their family trees and their degree of influence; they did not need to be able to have ruled over the skies, when they could make the land very much their own. and in the end, she had reminded him of why women were so unable to be trusted. how in their very nature, they were fickle and devious creatures.

“you know,” he went on, stepping around her like a man circling a flame, “i used to think you were the only woman i could trust.” his tone was light, airy almost, like he was remarking on the weather. “that should tell you everything about how far i’d fallen.” he let that linger—not cruel, not tender, just… true. or close enough to pass as such.

and yet he had never really punished her for it, had he? not in ways that mattered. there had been rage, yes—ugly, hands-on, unrestrained—but that was theatre too, part of the same cruel play of theirs. she had hurt him, and so he had hurt her, and now here they were, years later, still returning to the same scene. bruises were bruises which faded, and tears could be quietened until they no longer were such things at all. “i often wonder,” he murmured, stepping close enough to touch her, though he didn’t, “what it is you get out of all this. not the gold, not the control. no, something else.” his breath brushed her ear, intentional. “is it that they listen? that they obey without question? or is it that, when they kneel, they forget what you really are?”

he stood there, amid the musk and the roar and the ghosts of old violence, watching her command her kingdom of flesh and fear. and he stayed—silent now, content to watch her work, knowing she could feel his presence like a bruise. not touching. not speaking. just there. and that, in the end, would always be enough. he reached out then, akin to the way a serpent slithered across the cold marble floor; lowering his head so he were muttering into her ear, loud enough for her to hear but not the ludos who appeared to look nowhere but the floor beneath them. "show me. which two should you pick?"

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ conversations ⌟#maximus 001 #apparently i can't not write novels with them i'm so sorry #( he's raised on the edge of the devil's backbone / what a wicked game we play ; max&sae. )

his words were a provocation, meant to unsettle, to tug at the delicate threads between them. but saella didn’t bite. she rarely did. instead, she watched the fighter across the pit reset his stance, his breath shallow, his nerves humming. she tilted her head slightly, almost curious, as if she hadn't just felt her skin prickle at the sound of maximus’ voice. she knew better than to give him what he wanted. at least, not so easily.

“they all believe they’re different,” she said, almost absently. “that their pain is some great, singular truth. that’s what makes them weak.” her tone was cool, unbothered, but the words struck with quiet precision. not just about the men down here. never just about them.

shrine, he said. gods, he called them. but his voice held none of the reverence his words feigned.

“is that what you see?” she asked softly, almost distracted, though every word was chosen like a knife held between finger and thumb. “gods watching flames?” a pause, then a half-turn of her head, just enough to catch him in her periphery. “i suppose it makes sense. you’ve always mistaken destruction for worship.”

she didn’t smile, but her lips curled at the corners, something mean and faintly indulgent, like she might’ve been enjoying the performance, if only a little, if only to detract from what stirred within her. “you never liked not being the fire, did you?”

it was a foolish thing, that desperate hope she'd once clung to. so desperate to matter, to make him see her as more than just another pawn. she’d been willing to twist herself, to craft a story that wasn’t hers, all for the chance of a fleeting piece of his favor. his affection. the memory of her lie, the pregnancy she’d fabricated to bind him closer, still felt like a bruise, raw and bitter.

stupid, stupid girl.

but she'd done it, hadn't she? she’d thrown herself into the fire, hoping it would burn her clean. instead, it had scorched her. and him. and yet, here they were again, locked in this twisted dance.

saella’s gaze remained steady, watching him as if she were reading the very core of him. a small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "doesn't happiness demand the ability to be satisfied?" she asked, her tone light, almost detached, as though the question held no weight for her, yet somehow, it did. with him, it always did. "perhaps that's the curse, isn't it?" her voice was quiet, but every word seemed to carry more weight than it should.

he circled her. she let him. it was always easier to watch a serpent when it thought it was hunting. his words spilled in that low drawl, meant to cut and coax in equal measure, and for the most part, she let them slide against her skin without comment. only her hands moved, one lifting, palm open. two of the fighters stepped forward. she didn’t name them. she didn’t need to.

lavender gaze shifted to look at him, despite the slight shudder of a sigh that escaped her upon feeling his breath brush her skin. now, there was a subtle challenge in her gaze. “you think it’s the belief that they obey without question?” she let out a soft laugh, more of a breath than a sound. “maybe. but there’s something else. something far deeper.”

she straightened, letting her posture fill the space between them, despite the beating in her chest she had never quite faltered easily. “i have the luxury of seeing them, these men, in ways you cannot. i don’t just command them. i understand them.” her voice was quiet, but there was a palpable edge to it now. “i see their desperation, their rage. and i use it. their need to fight, to prove themselves, i give that meaning. to them, i’m more than a master. i’m the one who defines them.”

she glanced over her shoulder at the gladiators under her command, a brief flash of something darker in her eyes. “and that power, over them, over their fate, it is mine."

hues returned to him, unwavering. “so, yes. there’s something I get out of this. far more than the thrill of seeing men bleed. it’s the knowing that, for all their strength, for all their rage, they cannot escape me.” her voice dropped lower, a teasing edge to it now. “and for all your grand questions, it seems, neither can you.”

there was a slight pause, the tension between them hanging in the air like smoke from a smoldering fire. saella’s gaze held him for a moment longer, her words lingering in the space they shared, before she broke the silence with an almost casual tone.

“so,” she said, her voice softening, as though the weight of their exchange had somehow slipped away. “when would you like to see those that are no longer fit for fighting, again? surely you wandered down here for more purpose than ensure the satisfaction of the masses."

deimos-velaryon

Deimos did not turn as Saella entered, but his posture remained stiff, as if the weight of the world had settled across his shoulders. Physically, he couldn't stand any other way either. His body was still healing from the attack meant to end the ruling Lord and Lady of Driftmark. Only he survived it. His clothing concealed the cuts that were still healing, that were scarring in a way that the deeper wounds to his heart would never recover from. But the seas always brought new tides, and he'd learned to move with them all his life, no matter how harsh.

Her words of sympathy, though gracious, did little to ease the tightness in his chest. He did not expect comfort from her —nor from anyone— but hearing the repeated message of condolences reminded him of the world outside his grief, of the world that moved on. Of the world he had not abandoned, even if Yna had. So he finally turned toward Lady Qoherys. His expression was stern, unreadable, though there was a faint hint of exhaustion in his lilac eyes.

“Lady Qoherys,” he began, his voice steady. “Yna would have appreciated your presence here,” the Master of the Tides answered with a slight nod. His wife and Saella had been friends, he knew. Or had been friendly to each other, at least. “Your words are appreciated. Though we both know there cannot be justice in a situation like this”. There was no going back after death, and so there was no true justice that could be achieved. Only revenge or retribution and Deimos knew better than to run blindly towards either.

Deimos stepped closer to the window, his gaze drifting to the ocean where his love now rested for eternity. He saw the waving sails of the ships at the dock below, the proud seahorse of his house on their banners. He'd already spoken to the king, asking to be taken from behind the desk of a Master of Laws and allow him to return to sea. Now, as Master of Ships, he could lead the charge against Dorne, against the Stepstones. “And? Your offer is incomplete, isn't it?” he mentioned, turning briefly to look at the Lady of Rosby over his shoulder. An offer like that did not come from the kindness of the heart. “You offer any resources, any assistance. But you left you what you expect in return, Lady Qoherys”.

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ conversations ⌟#deimos 001

saella did not falter, though his words, sharp and knowing, coiled around her like a net meant to ensnare. she had expected nothing less. grief had not dulled him. no, he was still as perceptive as ever, perhaps even more so now that pain had carved itself into him. she tilted her head slightly, just enough to let her amusement flicker through, the barest curve of her lips betraying it.

"then you are wise," she finally said, as though granting him a fact rather than a compliment. "aligning with house velaryon is no small thing, even now, in the shadow of loss. especially now." her voice remained poised, but there was something knowing beneath it. driftmark had suffered a blow, but it would rise again— it always did. and when it did, she intended to be among those who stood at its side, rather than apart.

"i do not ask for anything now," she admitted, letting a touch of something softer, not quite warmth, but something adjacent to it, seep into her tone. "only that when the tides shift, as they always do, you remember my house stands with yours." her lips pressed together briefly, considering. "though perhaps your support in my ludus would not be misplaced." a beat, then a faint, measured smile. "rosby may not be a naval power, but strength takes many forms. the sands of the arena are not so different from the decks of a ship, both forge warriors worth watching."

saella studied him, the way grief sat heavy in his shoulders, the way his exhaustion did not dull his mind but sharpened it into something cold and unyielding. she could respect that. she did not offer him empty words of comfort. what use were they to a man who had lost what could never be returned? no, she would not insult him with false assurances. instead, she inclined her head slightly, a flicker of agreement passing through her gaze.

"no, there can be no justice," she said, quiet but firm. "but something can be done, should you wish it so." her meaning was deliberate, left open-ended, an invitation rather than a demand. justice was a concept for the idealists of the world. men like deimos knew better. vengeance, retribution, those were things that could be seized, shaped into something real.

who: @bloodfcrblood when and where: the pits and tunnels of the gladiator arena, the master of coin pays a visit to lady qoherys as she inspects her fighters for the next round. context: these two have a very twisted and warped dynamic; it isn't even about being necessarily on and off, but rather what is "on" and what is "off."

the tunnels beneath the gladiator pits stank of sweat, blood, and anticipation—a heady, cloying scent that seemed to seep into the very stones. maximus moved through the shadows with an unhurried stride, the sounds of the crowd above a muffled roar, thrumming against the walls. the torches that lined the passageways threw his shadow long and jagged behind him, a stretched, crooked reflection of a man who had long since stopped caring about the distinction between sin and sport. he found her where he knew she would be—where she always was when the pits roared with life and death.

surrounded by her creatures—bare-chested brutes smeared in blood and sand, their bodies slick and trembling from exertion. she spoke to them with a voice that slithered and coaxed, a serpent’s whisper that stirred both fear and devotion.

they watched her with the dull-eyed reverence of men who knew themselves owned, weapons on two legs whose purpose had long been decided. for a moment, maximus simply watched, content to linger in the shadow of the archway, his gaze tracing the lines of her face—the delicate, dangerous edge of her jaw, the tilt of her mouth as it shaped commands into promises. she had always been a contradiction, saella qoherys—a slip of a woman with a spine of steel, a mouth of honey and venom. once, he had thought her his. once, he had thought they were the same, destined to circle one another until the world finally bent beneath them. but no. she had taught him the folly of such thoughts, and how deceptive women could be in their moments of weakness.

she had lied to him with a skill that would have impressed, had it not been him she had chosen to wound. the thought still coiled in his chest like a buried splinter, a slap in the face of his ego; yet here he was, seeking her out, as though they were still playing that same twisted, ceaseless game, with reptillian eyes looking over her figure as she realised there was another standing directly behind her. he stepped forward, his boots clicking against the stone, the sound sharp and sudden enough to cut through her orders.

the fighters' heads turned first, wary and uncertain, and then hers—those eyes catching on him, sharp and bright, glimmering like the edge of a blade. “interrupting a sermon, am i?” he drawled, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that had once charmed her and now served as little more than a provocation. “i almost feel guilty.” he let his gaze pass lazily over the assembled fighters—these caged beasts dressed in sinew and bruises, their minds bent to her will. they had no choice. there was something almost admirable about it, the way she wielded power without ever bothering to wield a sword. a more dangerous kind of cruelty, he supposed.

“the crowds are restless, qoherys.” he said, turning back to her, his voice light but edged - and in the distance, there came the sound of a thundering rumble from directly above their heads. “they want more—something to sate them before they turn their hunger to each other.” his eyes flickered to her lips, a brief, thoughtless betrayal. “more of it.” he wondered if she understood the luxury she held here, in this half-lit underworld, where her will was law and men bled to prove it. up there, in the light of the sun, power was measured in numbers and debts, tallied in ledgers by men like him. but here, it was primal—savage and absolute. it was hers, and hers alone. it allured him, made him want to pull her onto him. “or shall i tell them that even the queen of the pits cannot satisfy their appetites?”

his smile lingered, teasing, baiting. he knew she hated that—being doubted, questioned, challenged. it was what made her so unbearable and so impossible to forget. saella qoherys had always been the girl with teeth, the girl who bit before she kissed, who licked blood from her wounds with a sweetness that sickened. it would have been easier if she were simpler—if she were merely cruel or merely clever. but no. she was both, in a way that had tangled itself into him long ago, a knot that refused to unravel. she had lied to him—lied with a lie that could have brought him to his knees, that could have unmade him had he let it. and still, there she stood, poised and unyielding, commanding monsters with a flick of her tongue.

"how shall we provide for them?"

his gaze lingered on hers, unblinking, waiting. waiting for the wound, the retort, the bite of her reply. that was how it had always been between them—a battle disguised as flirtation, a game with no end, no winner. they were each too proud to concede, too cruel to relent. still, he wanted the animals unleashed upon them. as did the rest of the crowds.

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ conversations ⌟#maximus 001 #there was no stopping this muse hdhdhd sorry for the novel #trigger warning: max & sae #( he's raised on the edge of the devil's backbone / what a wicked game we play ; max&sae. )

from above the dimly lit tunnels, the distant roar of the crowd was a beastly thing, demanding, insatiable. the air was thick, heavy with the copper bite of blood, the musk of bodies pushed past their limits, the stale breath of old deaths never quite scrubbed from the stone. the walls had soaked it in, greedily, hungrily, as though the pit itself had learned to crave it just as much as those who watched from above.

she stood at the heart of it now, poised in the dim torchlight, her presence an elegant contrast to the brutality surrounding her. the fighters she inspected were raw from their last bout, their chests heaving, bodies gleaming with sweat and streaked with blood. they stood before her like beasts awaiting judgment, awaiting orders. none of them spoke, none of them moved unless she willed it. this was her kingdom. her domain.

and then came the voice, the intrusion she had known would come.

"interrupting a sermon, am i?"

saella turned to him with a slow, deliberate grace, the kind that made men hold their breath without realizing why. her fighters, bruised and bloodied, had already learned the art of stillness in her presence—obedience tempered with the quiet dread of knowing that her favor was as fleeting as a blade’s glint in the dark. maximus, however, had never learned such things. he had always been too arrogant, too stubborn. too much like her.

her lips parted, amusement curling through her words like silk threaded with steel. "if you almost feel guilty, maximus," she mused, "then by all means—get on your knees and repent."

her smile was a thing of beauty, cruel in its sweetness, a blade wrapped in a bloom. "i’d so love to see you beg."

why do you come? she did not ask it aloud, but it was there in the sharp glint of her gaze, in the way her breath was just a fraction steadier than it should have been.

but the truth was, she already knew the answer. it was the same reason she had turned, the same reason she had met his gaze instead of dismissing him like she would any other man who presumed too much in her presence.

they were drawn to each other not in the way lovers were, but in the way knives were drawn to bone. in the way fire licked at oil, hungry and destructive and inevitable.

the torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls, casting jagged shadows that did nothing to soften the sharp gleam in her gaze. she stepped forward, unhurried, the scent of blood and sweat thick in the tunnels, but she had long since learned to find it intoxicating. power, after all, had a smell, and it was never perfumed oils and myrrh, it was iron and flesh and the heat of a body brought to its breaking point.

"you want carnage," she continued, voice lilting, teasing, even as her gaze pinned him in place. "and so do they. but unlike you, i do not answer to the whims of a hungry mob." her fingers trailed along the shoulder of one of her fighters, lazy, possessive, a queen surveying her pawns. "i give them what they did not even know they craved."

her eyes flickered back to him then, sharp, bright, drinking in every shift of his expression. how many times had they danced this same dance? how many times had he tried to move her, push her, bend her? and how many times had he found himself outmaneuvered, ensnared in the very game he thought to master?

"if you doubt me, maximus," she purred, "i invite you to stay and watch."

she moved past her fighters, trailing fingers along bruised skin, across shoulders slick with sweat. men who had already fought, already bled, but they were not the ones she had chosen for tonight’s spectacle. no, she had something else planned. something that would make the mob scream themselves hoarse.

only when she reached maximus did she speak again, her voice a slow, deliberate drawl. "they’re hungry," she mused, tilting her head, letting the words roll lazily from her tongue. "impatient. but impatience makes fools of them. they think they want simple carnage—sword against sword, blood spilled for blood’s sake." she exhaled, soft, indulgent. "how dull."

her gaze lifted to his, glinting with something sharp, something knowing. "i prefer a story."

she stepped closer, her perfume, something floral and dark, threaded through the thick air. "two condemned men, both traitors. sold secrets for coin, tried to run. they’ll be chained together at the wrist." her fingers ghosted along the inside of her own wrist as she spoke, a delicate, absentminded gesture. "one sword between them."

she let the weight of that sink in.

"to survive, one must cut down the other. simple, isn’t it?" her lips curled, cruel and sweet. "but here’s the twist, should they refuse, should they hesitate, the beasts will be released. lions, this time, I think. well-fed, but not enough."

the crowd above roared again, the sound reverberating through the stone. saella smiled, unhurried, knowing full well how this would play out. desperation made men ugly. it stripped them down to their basest selves, peeled them open until there was nothing left but instinct. and there was nothing more exquisite than watching a man hesitate between murder and survival, between loyalty and the gnashing of a lion’s maw.

her violet gaze flickered back to maximus, watching him, waiting, drinking in the way he reacted.

"does that satisfy your restless little mob, master of coin?" she murmured, voice a whisper lined with silk and steel. "or shall i make it crueler?"

elys watched her, noting with an inner sense of satisfaction the subtle flicker of something behind her eyes - surprise, irritation, curiosity. all present, all momentary, before her mask was composed once more, the pieces of her carefully shifting to cover the brief lapse. a lesser man might have missed it. elys did not. his smile remained in place, his countenance completely unruffled. "then i must beg your forgiveness for my arrogance. it would be a shame if i underestimated you, wouldn't it?" the amusement in his voice was no slip, deliberately placed there, a challenge veiled in civility.

if saella qoherys thought to outwit him, she was sorely mistaken.

he tilted his head slightly, as though considering her words with an idle curiosity, though there was nothing idle about him. "and what, pray tell, do you think i should be distracted from?" he asked, voice smooth as he ignored her question in favour of one of his own, the words as effortless as though the thought had only just occurred to him. and what did she think the city could offer that would turn his head, anyway? he knew the answer to that, even if saella did not: nothing. he was not the type to be deterred, too clever to be distracted. a man who allowed himself to be led by spectacle, to overlook what went on in the darkest corners in favour of the dazzling promises of courtly games, was a man who made mistakes. a man who lost.

elys brax was not in the habit of losing.

still, he let the question hand in the air, looking at her expectantly, as though he genuinely cared for her answer and was not already dissecting her response before she had even given it. his fingers tapped a lightly rhythm against the side of his goblet, his expression unreadable as he awaited the answer, what she thought he ought to be looking away from. from her? from what it was that elys already knew, even if she had not yet realised that he knew it?

and then, as though brushing past the weight of the moment, elys let out a low chuckle, tipping his cup slightly in her direction. "are you the type to content yourself with what you are given, then? or do you find yourself watching closely?" he wanted to figure her out, to know if he had ben correct when he had made his investments, and to be assured she was not merely playing along with games she had no business in playing.

saella's lilac eyes sparkled with a mixture of amusement and intrigue as she regarded lord elys brax. his perceptiveness was a rare quality among the courtiers, and it both challenged and fascinated her.

"my lord," she began, her voice laced with playful mockery, "i would never accuse you of arrogance. confidence, perhaps, but not arrogance." she let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "and as for underestimating me, well, that remains to be seen." saella's smile remained unwavering, though inwardly, she couldn't help but feel a flicker of annoyance at the man's unshaken composure.

she took a delicate sip from her goblet, her gaze never wavering from his. "well, whispers behind fans, secretive glances across crowded rooms, alliances formed and broken over a single cup of wine." she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "but i suspect you see through all that, don't you?"

her smile widened, a hint of genuine admiration creeping into her expression. "you strike me as a man who watches those participating, not just the game itself. someone who understands that the true moves are made not on the board, but in the minds of those who play." she tilted her head, studying him with renewed interest. "it's a rare thing, to find someone who doesn't play along with the charades."

saella's gaze remained steady as she met elys's question. "content with what i'm given?" she echoed softly, her lilac eyes reflecting a depth of thought. "perhaps," she continued, her voice carrying a subtle, almost imperceptible edge, "but i find that contentment often lies in the art of making one's own path, rather than merely accepting the roads laid before us."

she allowed a brief pause, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet absentmindedly. "after all, those who are truly content seldom feel the need to seek more," she mused, her tone light yet carrying an unspoken challenge. "and yet, here we are." saella didn't elaborate on that remark.

a glint of amusement danced in her eyes. "so, lord brax, perhaps it's not about being content with what's given, but about recognizing when to accept, when to challenge, and when to reshape the game entirely, don't you think?"

blocdinthewater

Gaia’s posture remained stiff, her hands clenched tightly behind her back, betraying the unease twisting inside her. The book, that damned book, was all she could focus on now. It seemed to pulse in the space between them, as if alive and waiting for her to claim it back. Saella’s dry tone and mocking curiosity only deepened her discomfort.

“You don’t understand,” Gaia said, the words sharp and a little too defensive, as though Saella’s disbelief was a personal affront. She took a half-step closer, her eyes flickering from her sister’s face to the book in her hands. “You never have. This isn’t just some superstition or old wives’ tale.” Her voice turned almost petulant, but her conviction remained unwavering. She felt like a child, repeating what she had told her sister time and time again. “The curse is real, Sae. It’s not something you can simply ignore. You haven’t seen what I have, or heard the whispers. It’s not just superstition. The curse is real.”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and her heart raced. Saella’s lighthearted dismissal of Norbie’s work, of her work, cut deep. “He’s far more observant than anyone else gives him credit for. This isn’t some half-baked nonsense." He had gone out of his way to research the perimeter, and to write it all down for her. Even if Norbie did not believe in the things Gaia believed in, he had done this for her. "You don’t get it,” she murmured, almost to herself, but then forced herself to look at her sister once more. “That book is mine. It’s important, Saella. Don't take it from me.”

The words hung in the air, a mix of frustration and desperation. Despite her resolve, she was afraid. Afraid of being laughed at, of being dismissed, of seeing her work treated as nothing more than a curiosity. But she had no intention of backing down now.

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ conversations ⌟#gaia 003

the sunlight filtered through the high windows, catching on the dust motes that drifted lazily in the still air. saella leaned against the table, fingers brushing the edge of the book—not clutching it, but resting there, a quiet reminder that she held it. her gaze softened, her expression curving into something just shy of concern, though there was calculation beneath the surface. there always was.

“what is it you’ve seen, truly?” her voice was low, coaxing, like someone asking after a bad dream. no challenge, no derision—only curiosity, laced with the faintest suggestion that she cared. “you speak of whispers and visions as though they haunt you… but you haven’t told me. not really.” she let the pause stretch, giving gaia room to fill it.

saella shifted slightly, the movement drawing attention to the window, to the sound of laughter and conversation drifting up from below. life carried on, vibrant and relentless. the world they had bled to secure their place in.

“you have a future here now. at court. you belong in these halls, not chasing shadows in the corners of them.” her tone was gentle, almost indulgent, like she was humoring a younger sister’s fancies. but the words were precise—each one placed like a stone in a path leading away from the book, away from the curse.

she sighed, the weight of care settling in her voice. “you know i worry for you, gaia. i always have. if something were to happen—if you were to get hurt, or worse… i’d be left here alone. with all of this.” her hand gestured vaguely to the room, the court beyond, the life they had built—fragile, like glass, needing both their hands to hold it together.

she smiled faintly, disarming. “i need you. not lost to some curse. here. with me.”

fromthcfires

Rhaegar studied her as she spoke, her words layered with amusement and a subtle challenge that reminded him of the girl she had been - a mind too sharp for comfort, even then, and now wielded with all the finesse of a blade honed by time.

“The grit of the sands has its appeal,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though his tone carried a weight that suggested more than jest. “Survival has a way of sharpening a man. Of teaching him what he’s truly made of.” His gaze flickered toward the fighters, recalling their movements having been deliberate, precise. “Besides, the company here is honest. No titles, no veils of decorum. Just skill, grit, and the will to endure.”

Her question lingered between them, cutting through the ease of his words. What was he hiding from? Who? He met her lilac eyes, the challenge in them mirrored in his own. “I’ve learned that banners and announcements only make for larger targets,” he said, his voice steady but evasive. “Perhaps I wanted to see who would notice me without the fanfare. And, as it seems, you did.”

When she gestured toward the stairs, inviting him to join her, he paused, weighing the unspoken offer. His gaze met hers, steady and searching, before a faint smile curved his lips. “As you wish, Lady Saella,” he replied, his tone warm but measured, a blend of humor and restraint. “But I must warn you. Unraveling a mystery too quickly can ruin the fun. Even puzzles deserve their time to breathe.” His steps toward her were unhurried, deliberate, as though he were deciding just how much of himself he was willing to place in her hands. Beneath the playful edge of his words lingered the guarded wariness of a man well-versed in the art of concealing truths.

#✶ — › saella qoherys — ⌜ conversations ⌟#rhaegar 001 #queue.

saella tilted her head slightly, studying him in turn, her lilac eyes glinting in the dim torchlight. the arena was thick with the scent of sweat and sand, the air thrumming with the distant sounds of clashing steel and the roar of spectators. it was a world apart from the polished halls of court, and yet, she found herself intrigued by the ease with which rhaegar occupied it. he was not just a visitor here—he belonged to this place in a way that she had never quite seen before.

“and here i thought you preferred an audience,” she mused, her voice carrying a note of dry amusement. “the gallant prince, adored and mourned in equal measure. now i find you here, stripped of all that pageantry, among those who fight not for glory, but for survival.” her fingers traced the worn railing as she stood above them all, her movements slow, deliberate. “i wonder, does it suit you better?”

his answer was careful, but his eyes—his eyes betrayed something deeper. a man weighed down by more than just the past. she had known him long enough to recognize when a truth was being dressed in careful words, and rhaegar was ever the poet with his evasions.

“then i suppose you should be flattered,” she said, a teasing lilt to her voice. “that i noticed.” she let the words settle, watching for the way he might react to them. his warning about unraveling mysteries too quickly only made her smile, a grin that seemed to only be missing fangs. “oh, but i enjoy a puzzle, my prince,” she countered, “and i don’t mind taking my time.”

as rhaegar ascended the steps, saella leaned lightly against the balcony’s carved stone railing, watching him with the same measured amusement that had colored their exchange thus far. the sunlight framed him as he climbed, illuminating the sharp lines of his face, the deliberate ease of his movements—always purposeful, always controlled.

she let the silence linger just long enough before she spoke, her voice carrying down to him with effortless poise.

“you speak of survival as if it were a virtue,” she remarked, fingers idly toying with the stem of her goblet, though her eyes never left him. "but is that truly all you seek? to endure?"

her words were delivered with a playful levity, but elys caught their meaning all the same. his lips twitched upwards into the slightest smile, as though he conceded an unspoken point, but in his chest, a quiet satisfaction had began to grown, because he knew things that she didn't. he knew that he had her under his thumb, the weight of his coin in her pocket more effective than any chain or shackle. she could play whatever games she liked, but there were playing with his rulebook. she was an acolyte, whether she knew it or not.

but there was no outward recognition of this, as there was no attempt to rise to the teasing in her voice. let her think she had him figured out, and it would make it all the sweeter the next time she yielded to one of the anonymous favours he would bid her do. "i am flattered by your interest, my lady," was all he responded with, leaning back in his seat as though he were not laughing at her in his head.

"well, then," his voice dropped a shade lower, approaching something like sincerity, though it was carefully measured. "i will do my utmost to ensure the city leaves an impression on my dullness, and not the other way around. and you never know. perhaps the red keep might open doors of opportunity for me yet." starting with saella herself.

she spoke of productivity, of honesty, and he almost chuckled inwardly at the thinly veiled suggestion in her words. she was all too eager to be seen as clever, a woman who knew what was going on. it was almost disappointing to elys, but he had all the time in the world to teach her there was no such thing as productivity without a price. patience had always been his virtue.

"observe?" he repeated, allowing himself a moment to take in the full measure of her - her posture, her poise, her calculation. she was not as subtle as she thought she was. "if i did not know better, i would say you were paranoid. sometimes a glass of wine is just that." he still gave nothing away, his tone offering no chinks in the armour she could hone in on. there was a flicker of amusement that danced upon his face, and of everything he had shown her tonight, that was the most genuine.

he leaned forward in his seat just slightly, voice lowering just a touch, as though offering her a secret. "remind me to invite you to a game of cards before i take my leave of this city, lady qoherys." he said, allowing the words to hang for a moment, for her to wonder what he meant by them before offering explanation.

"you show your hand far too quickly."

saella stilled for the briefest of moments, the flicker of surprise behind her lilac eyes almost imperceptible. his words hit like an arrow loosed in the dark—unexpected, precise, and unsettlingly close to the mark. she prided herself on the layers she wore, the effortlessness with which she moved through courtly games, her motives cloaked beneath charm and pleasantry. and yet, here was elys, offering her an observation that suggested he’d seen something she hadn’t intended to reveal.

she recovered swiftly, her lips curving into an easy smile, though her mind worked furiously beneath the surface. “a game of cards, is it? i’d warn you, my lord, i have a talent for them—or so i like to tell myself. but it seems you’ve already made me out as a poor player.” her tone was light, teasing, but there was a slight edge beneath it, a thread of curiosity wrapped tightly around a core of irritation.

“perhaps you’re right,” she admitted, her voice softening, though the edge of intrigue remained. “perhaps i showed my hand too quickly. but i wonder, lord brax—what kind of man watches so closely in a city where so much is meant to distract?” her lilac eyes narrowed ever so slightly, though not in malice. it was an expression of interest, of calculation, as though she were trying to piece him together from the fragments he’d let slip.

she glanced back up at him, meeting his gaze once more. it was unnerving how calm he remained, how utterly unaffected. the typical courtiers would have been puffing their chests or scrambling to reclaim footing by now. but the other simply waited, his patience a blade in its own right. it was enough to make her facade crumble, piece by piece.

her fingers tightened slightly around the goblet stem before she allowed them to relax, the motion subtle, almost imperceptible. “unusually perceptive,” she murmured, letting the words roll off her tongue like an idle compliment, though they held a hint of something sharper. “it’s not often i find someone who looks so intently at what’s beneath the surface. most are content with what they’re given.”