[cancrorum]

#ᶜᵃⁿᶜʳᵒʳᵘᵐ ______ lady daenys celtigar, the blue pearl of claw isle, as written for @103ac. dni if not affiliated with the group.

[steelworn]

daemian  had  always  hated  his  sister.  from  the  moment  he  could  understand  their  parents  loved  her  more  than  they  ever  loved  him,  or  even  tried  to  love  him.  she  was  the  shining  light  in  their  eyes,  the  heir  that  would  carry  their  name  while  their  wretched  little  boy  would  be  useful  in  other  ways.  but  before  that,  when  he  did  not  realize  who  she  was  or  what  they  were  in  the  world,  he  had  felt  something  akin  to  love,  like  one  should  love  a  sister.  perhaps  he  feels  it  now,  only  slightly.  the  pain  of  his  body  inebriating  him,  making  him  crave  something  he  never  had.  "mandia,"  he  calls  out  again,  can  feel  her  next  to  him  like  she  was  a  twin  flame  he  had  been  missing  his  whole  life.  dragons  from  the  same  brood  that  were  always  meant  to  be  together.  he  buries  himself  in  her  touch,  just  a  little  boy  craving  what  he  did  not  have.  "you  will  not  let  them  take  me,  will  you?"  his  eyes  flutter,  his  body  shakes,  pain  sears  up  his  spine  as  he  moves  to  be  closer  to  her  and  when  she  leaves  him,  his  body  tenses.  some  sick  type  of  reminder  that  he  was  not  deserving  of  what  he  wished  for.  "mother  wants  dragons,"  daemian  says,  though  his  voice  is  distant,  far  away.  "do  you  not  want  what  she  wants?"

[cancrorum]

her head spins from the pain, ankle throbbing in dull bursts that serve to remind her of just how grateful she ought to be for the discovery of milk of the poppy, even if it leaves her throat feeling numb and coagulated. with her forehead pressed to his bedside, daenys attempts to gather herself, coughing slightly to clear her throat from the imagined trails of thick poppy milk that she feels glide down, even if that only worsens her pounding headache. ❝ quiet. ❞ she does not remember if he has ever called for her in such a way ─ the treacherous way her heart squeezes nearly overwhelms the other bursts of pain in her body and daenys drags the chair closer to his bedside until she is pressed almost uncomfortably against the wooden frame, arm resting over his chest to pat at his cheek again. ❝ don't be stupid, i won't let anyone take you. ❞ it had always been daemian that ran away from her, not daenys that pushed ─ or perhaps it had been her doing as well, in her refusal to beg him to stay. ❝ ... if mother wants a dragon, she can try claiming one ... preposterous notion. dragons ... did you know ... ❞ here, she clears her throat, trying to remember what it means to be an older sister. ❝ there is not a record of targaryen blood in us ? not since the valyrian freehold created dragonstone as an outpost and our crabber ancestors came over. a bastard in the street of silk might have more claim to a dragon than we do. ❞ she smooths his damp fringe down, frowning. sweating was good, wasn't it ? ❝ we've no business with dragons and we do not need them for what mother wants. we're enough ... ❞

[rottedhearts]

hira  targaryen  haunted  this  despicable  place.

if  they  were  not  on  the  waters,  they  were  within  the  boundaries  of  the  red  keep,  trailing  after  soldiers  and  nobles  and  the  smallfolk  too.  three  days  stretched  into  centuries  with  delfina  still  lost.  when  exhaustion  finally  pulled  them  into  fitful  sleep,  hira  awoke  with  an  emptiness  beside  her  in  bed  and  in  heart.

not  ever,  they  promised  one  another.  they  clung  to  the  promise.  delfina  surely  did,  and  so,  delfina  still  lived.  hira  refused  to  believe  otherwise.

so  they  drew  themself  to  the  celtigar  chambers,  for  daemian  may  hold  the  threads  needed  to  complete  the  tapestry  of  the  dragon  attack.  and  yet,  it  wasn't  his  voice  that  stopped  them.

"no."

clear,  direct,  and  hollow.  a  command  with  teeth,  yet  a  weary  bite.  hira  settled  a  hand  on  eldest  celtigar's  shoulder. "i  do  not  doubt  your  expertise,  daenys,  but  the  missing  cannot  afford  energy  and  attention  on  ensuring  you  stay  upright  on  the  boats.  so  sit.  rest.  don't  be  foolish."

[cancrorum]

it was not the hand, firm and warm on the ball of her shoulder, that persuaded daenys to settle, but the abrupt refusal to indulge in her moment of restless insanity ─ though the crabs of claw isle were no snarling beasts, she bared her teeth nonetheless, grunting as she slumped back down onto the nearest available seat, her pale head dropping forward to rest upon the princess' side. she had heard whispers of the missing and, in the face of all that house celtigar still had, felt absurdly ashamed that it was hira that she had been ranting and raving at, the one person that had the most to lose, should the blackwater not spit out what ( or who ) it had taken. ❝ how can i just sit and do nothing ? ❞ the words were breathed out, a betrayal of true helplessness. ❝ that is not who i am. ❞ she complained much, there was no denying that, but daenys liked to move, liked to be in the know and now, all that she knew for certain was that her brother still lived and a dragon had died. ❝ the ... the dragons. where are they now ? what has happened to the keepers ? ❞

[steelworn]

daemian  had  been  in  a  sorry  state.  it  was  to  be  expected,  though  only  he  had  known  why.  going  into  a  dragonpit?  even  with  valyrian  blood  did  not  guarantee  he  would  come  out  unscathed  and  he  had  not.  he  can  see  them  while  his  eyes  are  closed  and  rolled  back  into  his  head,  the  pain  and  milk  of  the  poppy  coursing  through  his  veins.  he  only  comes  to  hear  and  there,  this  time  to  the  shouting  of  a  familiar  voice  though  the  open  passage  through  their  connected  rooms.  "mandia—"  sister.  daemian's  voice  is  rough,  haggard  with  disuse.  "everything  has  burned—"  he  is  talking  nonsense,  eyes  fluttering  and  covered  with  a  haze.  "there  is  nothing  to  help.  the  dragons  have  taken  what  they  were  owed."  muscle,  skin,  limbs,  lives.  they  had  burst  through  the  dragonpit,  sent  northerners  on  their  way  in  fear,  struck  down  onto  a  city  of  people  that  were  holding  them  hostage.  daemian  had  seen  it,  had  felt  the  pain  of  fire  against  his  back  for  being  curious  enough.

[cancrorum]

through the haze of frustration ( and no small amount of poppy milk ), she hears him ─ the baby. daenys is four when daemian is born and she despises him, making her displeasure known often and loudly to combat his own wails. as before, she stumbles over, fawn - footed clumsiness causing her to flop onto his bedside where he lays ─ man and boy, pale hair and flushed features. ( i hate you, baby. she tries to muster the words now, as she had before, but it does not come. ) ❝ ... shush ... ❞ the nursemaid had taught her how to soothe him and that, in turn, had taught her how to love him in spite of his cries, but his chest is covered in bandages that stink of something grassy, so she pats at his cheek instead, much more elegantly than she had as a four year old. ❝ ... but not you. they haven't taken you, valonqar. not you ... sweet boy. ❞ and that is all that matters to daenys. ❝ no ... fool boy ... never knew when to run from trouble, did you ? ❞ there is sweat coating his cheek and her nose wrinkles as she drags herself to sit on a chair, putting the wrong amount of pressure on her injured ankle that she nearly heaves the empty contents of her stomach into the bucket by the bed. ❝ fuck ... we should have never come. there'd be no fucking dragons in claw isle, i'll tell you that much. ❞

[firedreamt]

the   tully   lord   still   claims   some   reflexes   in   their   lavender   age.   they   catch   her   as   she   emerges,   the   strain   in   their   back   befitting   of   one   who   remained   awake   all   night   at   the   tully   and   blackwood   bedsides,   staring   at   the   seriousness   of   their   strains   or   wounds,   deep   in   contemplation.   their   heart   storms   in   their   chest   at   the   sight   of   lady   celtigar's   daughter   in   such   a   state,   thrashing   and   desiring   nothing   more   than   to   help,   and   they   think   of   their   own   stormlander   once,   and   how   she   turned   her   face   away   and   could   recognise   nobody   by   the   end.   fortunately,   it   does   not   seem   daenys   is   there   —   but   one   can   never   be   too   certain.        “        enough,   gal,   calm   your   tongue.   you'll   make   yourself   worse   and   then   how   will   i   explain   that   to   your   mother?   she's   already   in   a   state.        ”        their   grip   remains   firm,   and   modest,   acting   as   the   brace   to   help   her   spine   to   straighten   and   her   airways   to   clear.        “        give   orders   about   the   blackwater   from   here   then   and   i'll   relay   them.        ”        but   they   keep   the   door   open,   so   that   there   is   little   fight   if   she   does   run   out   there   again,   and   more   can   come   to   subdue   her.         “        ask   me   your   questions   and   i   will   give   you   what   i   know.   which   is   very   little.        ”        the   anger   about   that   grows   like   a   snaking   vine.   this   could   be   his   niece,   trembling   and   shrieking   and   haunted   by   nightmares;   she   could   be   another   faceless   in   a   bed,   made   unrecognisable.

[cancrorum]

gods, when had her limbs ever felt so weak ? daenys was no warrior like her brother nor capable of strong - arming anyone into obedience as her mother undoubtedly could, should the lady maelora set her mind to martial pursuits, but she had always been sure - footed, steady even on restless waters. now, she felt like a newborn animal, exposed to the yawning maws of whichever predator happened upon her first. thankfully, it was a fish, not a dragon that caught her as she attempted to stumble out of confinement ─ her ankle throbbed in protest, the pain dulled by the copious amounts of poppy milk that had been fed down her throat. daenys knew it would hurt proper in a few hours and so did not resist as fiercely as she should when the lord mordhred took hold of her weakened side, allowing her to lean on him as she was guided back to a seat. her tongue would not cease in it's lashing, however, though she was strangely cowed by his own calm, pale brow knitting together in protest. ❝ my mother does not care. ❞ a cruel truth, perhaps, or what daenys believed to be truth. pain and frustration had made her petulant, desperate for a familiar face and angry that one was not found. her head shook, pale hair a tangled mess as she glanced up at lord tully, finding her eyes stinging with what might be tears. ( no. not tears, not from her. ) ❝ that is still more than i know ... lord tully. ❞ begrudgingly, she attempted to remember her manners. ❝ ... my apologies. i ... i am not a graceful patient, as maester calcifer will gladly attest ... ❞ she sounded like a grumbling bear ─ or worst, a spitting cat, trying to make itself bigger than it actually was. ❝ ... if it is bodies they seek, the crabbers should have trawlers that are ... big enough to search through the waters. are there bodies ? who ... i know my brother was injured, and my mother and father are well, but who else ... ? ❞

[cancrorum]

↪ an open starter ( 4/4 ) set three days after the dragon attack, within the general vicinity of the celtigar chambers.

there were tears, drying into sticky trails of salt down her cheeks, when daenys woke and for the first time in three days, she was frustrated rather than desolate ─ angry, rather than frightened. ( anger, at least, seemed more productive than wallowing in self - pity. ) she was not sure why she was crying in her sleep but it meant that the maesters kept plying her mouth open with milk of the poppy after each meal and that had become something of a crutch for daenys as she commanded from her sickbed. ( her dreams were filled with the shrieks of dragons but, more importantly, the dying screams of sunwing. something sour rose in her throat, the beginnings of bile, and she pressed a fist to her stomach, punching the softness until the taste of weakness ebbed from her tongue. ) ❝ wait ! ❞ a passing shadow became her latest victim and she did not wait for the door to open fully to begin her assault. ❝ will you help me out of this godsforsaken room ? i keep telling the maester that i am fine enough to wobble about and no one knows the blackwater better than i do. i can help. ❞ there, at least, she could do something other than dwell on the fragility of life. her features contorted, disgusted with herself. ❝ oh, come in and tell me what has been uncovered, if you're too afraid of maester calcifer to disobey him ! ❞

[fromashe]

there lingered a bit of euphoria from the night before. seraphina tried to grasp onto the phantom sensation of taliesin's arms around her and the words whispered against her ear while the high afternoon sun's rays force themselves through the haze of daydreams. she'd tuck the thoughts of them away in her heart and instead focus on the continued displays of bravado and violence. how awful to return to the clarity of day instead of the secrecy of nightfall? back to the routine of being a daughter of oldtown, lord perceon's precious fallen maiden.

it isn't intentional and surely unbecoming but her nose scrunches at the foul odor. how is it this realm's capital had such disastrous infrastructure compared to oldtown that housed a larger population and existed centuries before? likely another reason that her father would propose to why their house ought to sit upon the throne. gods save the realm if that ever came into fruition. attempting to block their nose discreetly, the lady to their left offered a small bundle. the lady daenys celtigar. "many thanks, my lady. with this, i am be able to keep my focus on the matches ahead." sera had to restrict a silly grin at passing thought of taliesin who would be competing. "the citrus is delightful, tangy and yet still, sweet."

she struggled to carry the conversation for a moment, fighting back the urge to spin honeyed compliments about the lady's dark purple eyes that reminded her of blackberries and even more striking white golden locks. seraphina swallowed and instead asked, "are you cheering for any one in particular in the next round, lady daenys? i confess i missed the events yesterday and am a bit unsure what to expect."

[cancrorum]

a pleasant scent wafted from the pomander as it passed from one hand to the other and daenys turned her entire frame towards the lady hightower, as though reluctant to be parted from her only reprieve from the surrounding stench. the slight shift allowed her to focus the weight of her attention on the other noble even as the stands slowly filled with bodies, eager voices rising to place bets on crowd favorites. daenys had already placed a coin purse on her brother, out of loyalty rather than genuine belief in his capabilities, though she found herself wishing that her father had put his name down as well, if only to give house celtigar more of a fighting chance to win glory in the tournament. ❝ i am glad that it helps ... his late majesty, the king aegor, never seemed to entertain any suggestions to improve the waterways through the city. ❞ and yet, daenys had learned of plans, dreams of sailors to improve waste disposal and inter - regional travel ─ plans that could be put into action, if she held the ear of the monarch, whoever they may be. ❝ well ... my brother has gotten himself kicked out of the melee, but i am holding out hope for lord redwyne to win. ❞ anyone, even a fucking greyjoy, would be better than a targaryen. ❝ the first round of the jousts is tonight as well ... do you know of anyone participating ? i still have some coin to spend on bets, if you have any champions in mind. ❞

[cancrorum]

↪ closed starter for lorent celtigar ( @graveruins ), set in the mid - morning of the second day of the headman's tourney, in the celtigar rooms.

an attempt had been made to join the wreath - making circles after being dragged out of bed but all daenys had to show for it was something that resembled a wreath ( unfortunately, all the pretty blossoms had been used, leaving her with a green mess that made her stomach churn ) and a poor temper as she stumbled back to the general area that had been granted to house celtigar. she almost believed herself to be in the wrong place until a familiar, equally as disheveled figure popped up from one of the chaise lounges, awoken by her not - so - graceful entry. ❝ ... kepus ? ❞ she squinted at him, feet leading her to where he sat ( laid ). perhaps, driven with the urge to inflict cruelty as she had suffered beneath the smug amusement of her younger brother just hours earlier, she kicked at her father's foot until space was made for her to walk past, even if there was plenty of room just a little to the left. ❝ has mother not given you a foot whipping yet ? it is nearly noon and you are still in such a state. daemian is hoping to redeem himself later in the joust, we must be in top form to see him lose spectacularly. ❞ daenys only hoped she was not as wane as she had looked before she had pushed herself out for some sun, for there was much to do to ensure that her brother emerged victorious in the joust. tossing the wreath onto his lap, she barely stifled the urge to gag as the smell of grass wafted into the air. ❝ what do you think ? ❞

[cancrorum]

↪ closed starter for mara lannister ( @theygods ), set in the evening of the first day of the headman's tourney, on the way to the melee grounds.

her role had been predetermined since childhood in accordance with the plans of those that had come before her ─ centuries of inherited grievances that were to be made right in her time, for daenys would not allow it to burden those that would come after her. ( a crown, preferably, though she had begun to warm to the idea of a seat on council and the ear of the monarch, whomsoever they might be. ) such plans had always seemed to be far in her future, for her mother and father both were as healthy as horses, a fact that sometimes grated on her nerves, especially when the yearning to step out from their shadows grew too great to ignore, but the recent loss of cerion lannister had put things into jarring perspective for daenys. it was not that she mourned the man but she considered his eldest daughter to be a trusted friend ─ someone who was in a similar position to her and who would prove to be a good ally, or so she told herself when they lamented on the struggles of being heir. now, it seemed as though fate had decided that mara would embark on such a future alone, though daenys was quick to slip her slender fingers into her hand, squeezing lightly in greeting as her path to the melee grounds was diverted by the presence of the new ruling lannister. ❝ ... did that feel like justice to you ? ❞ she spoke of the beheading, of course, and of song and dance that will unfold over the next few days. it seemed in poor taste but alester westerling was still hand, so perhaps she should not have expected anything else. ❝ have you come to watch the games ? my brother is participating, naturally. daemian has not found a stick that he does not want to swing yet and i must be there to show my support when he inadvertently wins. unless ... one of your own has entered ? ❞ she would bet on a lannister, even if she had no doubt daemian would emerge as victor.

[steelworn]

set  during  day  two  of  the  headsman's  tourney:  morning.  the  lord  celtigar  finds  himself  at  chambers  of  his  sister,  @cancrorum,  extremely  unwillingly,  but  still  there  nonetheless.

daemian  had  done  his  best  to  keep  himself  away  from  the  red  keep  for  the  last  month.  he  did  not  wish  to  run  into  anyone  who  he  did  not  wish  to  see  and  he  surely  did  not  wish  to  be  among  the  nobility  more  than  he  had  to.  the  smallfolk  of  king's  landing  adored  him  anyway,  so  what  business  did  he  have  back  at  the  red  keep?  his  mother  could  berate  him  for  it  later,  he  was  sure  she  was  looking  forward  to  it,  but  he  could  not  care  any  less.  yet,  despite  his  distaste  for  his  family  he  had  heard  the  lord  hand's  tent  party  had  seen  his  sister  in  a  state  his  mother  would  hate  more  than  she  hated  him.  well,  maybe...  his  mother  hated  him  a  lot. he's  slipping  through  the  stone  hallways,  doing  his  best  to  not  be  seen  by  a  single  soul  other  than  the  servants.  by  the  time  he  makes  it  to  the  chambers,  daemian  is  pushing  through  the  wooden  door,  his  lip  already  curled  up  seeing  his  sister  lying  about  the  bed  as  if  she  had  spent  the  night  as  a  wench.  "you  fucking  smell,  daenys,  get  up."  he  kicks  at  the  bed  with  a  booted  foot.  "you  are  lucky  i  found  you  and  not  mother,  she  would  have  me  take  your  head,"  an  involuntary  smile  curls  up  his  lips,  "though  i  would  enjoy  that  very  much."

[cancrorum]

the decision to join in the revelry hosted by alester westerling had been purely to gather information ─ drunken men spoke more freely and daenys had worn her most appealing dress ( even if the amount of collarbone and arms exposed made her shiver ... perhaps that was why she had drank so much ? yes, that was a good excuse indeed ) to ensure that she was especially hard to resist. the bed jerked with his kick, the motion setting course to the uneasy sea that was her stomach and daenys groaned, lifting her head slightly to see the offending criminal that had roused her from a much needed rest. she saw nothing, at first, blinded by the rat's nest on her head and that forced her to roll onto her back, prompting another groan as her head spun in protest. ❝ what the fuck ? ❞ her throat was as dry as the dornish desert but she dared not cough to clear it, knowing that would only worsen her headache. ❝ the prodigal bastard returns ... kindly do what you do best and fuck off, brother. ❞ she was not the best in the mornings, neither was she particularly kind when nursing a hangover, and daenys loathed that he saw her like this, especially since, along with the aching head, she was suddenly filled with the urge to drag him down and squeeze ( strangle ) him until he stopped looking so smug. ❝ you would not enjoy it. you love me somewhere beneath that serpent heart of yours ... enough, perhaps, to get me a glass of water ? ❞ she lifted her head, attempting a small, coaxing smile, eyes still squinted shut. ( fuck. if he pulled open the curtains now, she would actually strangle him. )

[cancrorum]

↪ closed starter for seraphina hightower ( @fromashe ), set in the afternoon of the second day of the headman's tourney, at the tourney grounds by blackwater rush.

being this close to the capital meant that along with the smell of dead fish floating along the waters, there was also the stale stench of human excretion that wafted up the stands to where she sat, prompting daenys to pat around for her pomander of citrus, mint and spices. ( it was bad enough that her head still spun from westerling's tent of debauchery the night before, but some would say that the vague nausea she felt whenever someone got hit in the melee was some form of comeuppance. ) she could not help but cast a longing glance over at the stretch of water by the tourney grounds ─ in her youth, daenys had spent days sailing from claw isle into the mouth of blackwater bay and up the blackwater rush, staying in an inn in the riverlands for a day or two before continuing her journey back home, gathering bits of news from the mouths of the fishermen and their wives, as well as surmising what went unsaid from the wares that they presented for purchase. now, it seemed as though those days would be behind her, if maelora celtigar got her way. another wave of humid air made her gag a little and she pressed a hand to her nose, glancing around to see if she truly was the only one affected by it ─ meeting the eye of another seated on the same row as she was, daenys offered her pomander. ( hightower. she dug through her brain for a name and came up with a title. the septa, seraphina. or was it former septa, if she was out here with the other unholy ? daenys blinked quickly. a pity, to hide such a face behind the walls of a motherhouse. ) ❝ i promise you, it does not always smell this bad. it is actually tolerable, when the capital is not also hosting half of westeros on the grounds. here, this is from dorne ... the citrus helps to clear the nose. ❞

[petaltexturedskies]

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals

[cancrorum]

↪ closed starter for aiysha greyjoy ( @aiyshas ) during the mourning feast.

though daenys moved with some urgency, an effort was made not to seem like someone with something to hide ─ as far as she was informed, there was nothing to hide. ( surely her mother would have said, if their fingers had been involved. surely. ) yet the knowing glint in perceon hightower's eyes was unsettling, partially because daenys did not like being kept in the dark, especially by a new and unexpected player. it was some comfort that she was not the only one left with much to ponder upon by his declaration, as most of the feast had descended into whispers, neighbor turning to neighbor to give voice to their speculation. the silver - gold glint of her hair gleamed, catching the eye as she slipped her slender arm through the space left by aiysha greyjoy, pointing out the roasted boar, apple stuffed in it's mouth, with one pale finger. ❝ ... do you know of whom he speaks ? ❞ surely she must know something. ❝ tell me an interesting tale and i will let you peek into our treasury when we are home. ❞

[toothd]

they were terrible friends to one another. both selfish, both foolhardy, both sure of themselves in ways that made certain they would clash —  and yet somehow, they did not. somehow, their companionship spanned years with nothing more than a weak ripple of its waters. mela is grateful to know she will soon have daenys as her good sister. she is grateful for her presence now, the sure weight of her outer thigh against hers. " the bad news is plain enough, is it not? " bodies lay writhing in their own sweat, linens stained and foreheads burning, not twenty feet from where they sat. they were two of the blessed. the healthy. " you need not make me speak it. " she falls silent in the wake of daenys's accusation, as gentle and non-confrontational as it takes its form. mela was not completely removed from the whispers of the court. she knew what words were being said of her family. " there is truth, " she confirms, swallowing, recalling the peaked expression on the face of the young maester who had come to deliver his macabre message.

[cancrorum]

❝ ... as long as there are no deaths yet, there is still hope. ❞ it was the words of a fool ─ daenys was not sure that she believed in it herself but she tried to bring rationale into it as well. she was not unfamiliar with false platitudes but for once, she did not wish to speak so dismissively of both the chaos that had unfolded and the weight that was now on mela's shoulders. it took some effort, to remember all those that had been stricken by the illness, fingers reaching out to rest, hesitantly, on mela's knee, before offering a brief squeeze to convey feelings that she failed to put into words. ( sympathy, for vaiora. support, in the face of such accusations. all things that daenys felt but could not allow herself to voice. the redwynes were her enemies, were they not ? ) ❝ most of the afflicted are young ... strong, before all this. and under your care, and the care of our maesters, they will recover. ❞ glancing at mela through the corner of her eye, daenys frowned. ❝ but you ... you must stay strong too. have you eaten ? drank anything ? this place is sweltering ... i feel like a pig in a smokehouse. ❞

[steelworn]

daemian  had  spent  most  of  his  nights  away  from  the  keep  since  the  incident.  he  did  not  wish  to  be  amongst  crying  nobles  who  cared  only  for  the  life  of  their  own  when  disease  had  ran  rampant  within  the  smallfolk  far  more.  it  makes  him  angry  to  think  about.  a  hand  tightening  against  the  hilt  of  his  sword  wishing  to  maim  something,  anything  in  hopes  to  get  a  semblance  of  emotion  flushing  through  his  system.  he  digs  himself  out  to  find  an  opponent,  anyone  to  hack  swords  with,  to  hear  the  steel  on  steel  he  craved  so  eagerly. he  comes  out  of  it  with  only  a  slice  against  his  arm.  nothing  to  the  other  wounds  he  had  seen  before  and  surely  nothing  that  would  matter  once  healed.  but  still,  blood  runs  down  his  arm  as  he  wraps  a  loose  cloth  around  it,  red  already  soaking  through  with  his  lack  of  care.  he  meant  to  leave  again,  to  at  least  attempt  to  visit  vaiora  before  finding  himself  anywhere  but  the  red  keep  again. instead,  his  sister's  voice  interrupts  the  peace  he  has  inside  of  his  head.  "you  will  have  me  beaten  by  our  guards?"  a  hollow  laugh  spills  from  his  lips.  his  family  dare  wonder  where  he  learned  violence  so  easily?  "what  a  sister  you  are,  daenys,  it  is  remarkable."  his  words  sneered,  animalistic,  as  he  speaks  with  a  hoarse  tone.  daemian  had  to  wonder  how  much  she  knew  of  his  true  feelings  towards  her,  a  hatred  that  dug  deep  within  himself,  rooted  into  his  very  soul.  did  she  ever  wonder  why  he  had  crossed  the  narrow  sea  to  be  away  from  her  and  their  parents?  probably  not,  not  when  she  sits  there  ordering  him  about  like  he  was  still  a  child  younger  than  ten. "do  you  truly?"  it  is  not  meant  to  come  out  so  accusatory,  but  it  does  and  he  does  not  correct  himself.  "my  health  matters  naught  when  i  am  well  and  she  is  sat  in  a  bed  grasping  for  life."  daemian  does  not  sit,  he  crosses  his  arms  over  his  chest  as  an  act  of  defiance.  "and  what  comes  next,  lady  celtigar?  pray  tell."  he  moves  closer,  but  only  slightly,  an  amused  smirk  curling  his  lips  up,  "have  you  a  plan  to  take  the  throne  for  our  mother  —  for  yourself?  do  you  desire  a  dragon,  sister?  a  scaled  beast  to  make  its  home  in  your  empty  chest?  what  a  sight  that  would  be!"

[cancrorum]

it is difficult to look at daemian and not see the petulant child of her memories ─ while there were glimpses of him as he had grown, she remembers him most fondly across the breakfast table in claw isle, uttering something dismissive so that the attention falls on her rather than on him. ( with a lightly furrowed brow, she tries to remember if he had been the object of her browbeating in an effort to draw the eye and, misguidedly, the affection of their parents. it had not been her intention as she had acted often to spare him the scrutiny or at least, that is what she tells herself as he sneers at her. ) ❝ someone ought to teach you some manners since our uncle has clearly failed you in that. ❞ she does not mean to sound overly critical, nose wrinkling at the way her words escape her throat. what was it about daemian that infuriated and amused her in equal measure ? was this the plight of all older siblings ? ( was she even considered one, if he had spent more than half his life away from home ? ) ❝ don't be obtuse. of course i do. ❞ mostly because the redwyne alliance was crucial, but also because she liked vaiora and mela, and wished no harm on them. ( the master of coin, however, was another touchy subject. ) it is difficult to refrain from rolling her eyes at his words and she is struck with the sudden, absurd urge to lob a bread roll at his head. ❝ gods, do not tell me that you're in love with her already. ❞ was there a hint of jealousy in her voice ? how freeing it must be, to feel as fiercely as her brother does ─ to run, to love and to dream. it is frustration that curls her lip into a small snarl. ( gods, but he is irritating. ) her foot darts out under the table, kicking the chair opposite her own. she wishes she had the strength or the height to send the chair flying into his shin, but she hopes the jerk does enough to startle him, at least, even if it only serves to make her feel like a girl of fourteen again. ❝ is that so impossible ? we are the blood of old valyria, brother. you have as much of a claim to a dragon as i do. ❞ though he would probably use the beast to fly away from his responsibilities. ❝ as unpleasant as this business is, mother has a better path to the throne now. we would be good for it, you know we would. honest and fair, more so than the dragonlords. ❞ she breathed out the words, unsure of how much she believed in it herself. daenys gestured with her book to all of him to indicate that he was included in this future, though she blinked when she caught sight of his hand, dripping crimson onto the floor. pushing out of her chair, she hesitates, torn between the instinct to fuss and the jarring realization that he might not welcome her touch. ❝ ... why are you bleeding ? were you attacked ? daemian, has someone hurt you ? guards ! ❞

[toothd]

          located  in  the corridor nearby the sick rooms, after it becomes apparent that the antidote she worked on with aiysha is not very effective   &   fated  for  @firedreamt , @faatedones , @arcan3ly & @cancrorum.

mela's jaw has been clenched since the first dose of the elixir she and the lady greyjoy had mixed slipped past the throats of the sick. healing had never been what she had gravitated to when it came to practical uses of her knowledge of botany. ironically, she preferred poisons  — things that would help the elderly, frail, and injured pass in peace, without pain. the weight of not knowing pressed heavily upon her now, pushing down on her shoulders as she lowers herself to perch in a nearby windowsill. how exhausting it was, to heal. how fruitless, when your efforts did not come to pass. within her skull, the backs of her eyes ache with unshed tears. was it sadness, that brought such emotion to her door? or was it frustration —  anger at her inability to control the nightmare that transpired before the eyes of the court? rolling the thought over in her mind, mela cannot decide. " i have no good news to offer, " she speaks only at the sound of footsteps, insistent and echoing off of the red keep's stone walls and out into the courtyard below, the open windows carrying in a breeze that she might have found comforting, under normal circumstances. " we must wait. "

[cancrorum]

it was not concern that brought her to the sick rooms ─ at least, that was what she would say if questioned of her intentions by her mother. daenys sought knowledge of the cause of the illness, as well as news of who had succumbed to it, and where better to garner such intelligence than at the very heart of the matter ? and if she stopped to glance through the open doors, pale brow furrowing at the sight of the writhing, sweating illness, her expression could easily be mistaken for disappointment at the tenacity of house celtigar's rivals. still, daenys had always been uneasy around the sick and the heavy scent of herbs, mixed with bodily fluids, had her seeking out fresh air soon enough, stumbling upon a familiar face that slipped through the cracks in her wall. ❝ i will take bad news as well, if you seek to unburden yourself. ❞ quietly, her feet lead her to occupy the space beside mela, booted foot bumping against the other in silent greeting. ❝ the servants have been whispering that it is poison. ❞ and that half of the castle suspected house redwyne, who had been chief in supplying the libations for the celebrations ─ was that why mela was here, working to discover an cure ? the moment the thought crossed her mind, daenys frowned, disgusted with her own self. ❝ ... is there any truth to that ? ❞

[liver-y]

maelora celtigar breaks fast with her daughter @cancrorum in the celtigar chambers within the red keep, prior to the poison revelation

The current state of chaos that had taken over the Red Keep had grown so dire they could not even serve eggs warm. Maelora cut into the rubbery whites, bit, chewed, swallowed. Every morning after the feast had been worse than the last, with no answers and no improvement. She did not expect all those who had taken ill to last long—the question was, which way would the dice roll once the illness had flown through the Keep? Cerion Lannister's ill turn boded ill for the Lannisters' claim; and were Lady Arryn to grow worse, the Vale entire would be near toppled. She chewed on the conundrum and her cold eggs, then looked over at Daenys.

"This state of disruption grows increasingly wearisome. I've never seen the Red Keep in such conditions. Who else do you know who has been affected? Last I heard, Daemian's betrothed, the Redwyne girl, had been laid ill as well. The Small Council is playing a dangerous game to allow all to roam the halls freely—if they are acting at all, with that fool Westerling at the helm." She had half a mind to move them all to the manse until the fevers passed... but were any of them merely late to take ill, they would have the best maesters here. "I hope you are staying well clear of the diseased parts of the castle."

[cancrorum]

after nearly three decades of breaking her fast with maelora celtigar, daenys had quickly learned what was the easiest to swallow whilst ruminating on the words, be it instructions or lectures, that left her mother's mouth ─ oat porridge, sweetened with a bit of honey and nothing else, was what currently sat before her, thickening up on her spoon as she stirred it absentmindedly. sometimes, not even experience could temper the unease that settled onto her shoulders whenever her mother was near and that made daenys feel almost guilty. what daughter would feel this way around her mother ? there was something wrong with her, surely, to prompt such dread and when her eyes lifted as her mother spoke, finding the ruling lady already watchful, the feeling grew larger. ❝ westerling's own daughter, last i heard ... my chambermaid was called away to help sober the fool up enough to attend to his bastard get. ❞ that alone seemed to imply that the lord hand might finally be moved to proper action, though daenys could not speak on the love he may or may not have for his illegitimate children. her spoon lifted, mouth closing on a bit of porridge and she made a face ─ cold already ─ before pushing the bowl from her. daenys was not certain of her mother's tone and desired, more than anything else, to inject some concern into her words, though she knew the warning was likely more practical than anything else. ❝ you needn't tell me that, mother. daemian, on the other hand ... he is friendly with vaiora and he can be a fool. i am sure he will find his way there, if he has not already. ❞ she supposed the illness may bring some good fortune, if it spared vaiora redwyne and endeared her brother to the idea of the marriage. ❝ what do you think of the baratheon claim ? i cannot say if lord baratheon will be suitably distressed by his wife's illness enough to drag his three daughters back to the stormlands. the man did marry ever - so - quickly after the death of his first wife, after all. ❞