the malcontent

lord wylliam of house swann; second son of stonehelm. hand to king jaehaerys targaryen, second of his name.

[kazs-inej]

The Amazing Spider-Man but its just Peter looking at Gwen

[gifpackers]

ANDREW GARFIELD in AFTER THE HUNT

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[ellievswann]

location: in stonehelm during will's trip around the stormlands for his investigation on the king's taxes

@malcontentswanns

the halls of stonehelm felt quieter than ellie remembered, though perhaps that was simply the weight of the all that was happening. she closed the heavy door to arthur’s chambers gently behind her, the click of the latch echoing in the stillness. leaning back against the cool wood, ellie pressed her lips together, willing herself to breathe steadily. the sight of their eldest brother lying so still, his once unshakable presence diminished by the relentless grip of illness, always struck her harder than she’d anticipated.

her hands brushed the folds of her gown, as though smoothing the fabric might smooth the knot of emotion tangled in her chest. she couldn’t let herself crumble. not here, not now. arthur needed strength around him, and will… well, will carried enough weight on his shoulders already.

she straightened, schooling her features into the composed expression she’d perfected in court, before stepping away from the door. though she hadnt realized will was already there. the sight of him was grounding, and for a moment, ellie felt the slightest relief. if anyone understood how hard it was to shoulder the burdens of duty and family, it was will. but then a feeling of guilt that perhaps he had seen her, she didnt need to add another thing onto his plate for him to worry about.

"will," she greeted, her tone light, though she clasped her hands tightly to keep them from trembling. "i wasn’t expecting to see you just now. are you leaving soon? off to another meeting with the lords, i assume?"

she moved closer, her gaze lingering on him. "you’ve been running yourself ragged these past weeks, traveling to every corner of the stormlands for these…taxes." there was a faint edge to her words—just enough to show her disapproval of the crown’s treatment of their home, though she kept her tone carefully measured. "you’ll wear yourself thin if you keep this up."

she tilted her head, giving him a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “if you’re leaving again, at least let us have dinner first. you might be hand of the king, but you’re still my brother, and i’d rather not have to explain to mother and father why you’ve collapsed from exhaustion.” her words were light, teasing, but the concern behind them was unmistakable.

[malcontentswanns]

➳

there was a creeping sense of grief that seemed to climb over the halls of their childhood home that was once filled with the vivacious laughter of the three heads of house swann - there still remained all three, yet for them all to remain under the same roof remained a rarity still. he could hardly shake the impending feeling of doom each time the sun rose and set again, as though each day that passed was only further evidence of something soon to happen that would ultimately change his life.

the purpose of the second son was always to be a spare, and yet, with the current issues meaning he needed to be in kings landing now more than ever before, this impending change would make his duty near impossible.

he did not realise how long he had been sat silently within the personal chambers of his older brother's reception, his spectacles remaining upon his nose; he was not reading, not surveying, only staring into the crackling of the hearth as the light of day only stretched to the early evening - the maester had spent hours within the room, and it was enough to make his stomach twist from the inside and enough to make him wish to retch. there was never a time where wylliam wished he was more than in this moment: more courageous, more level headed, more ready.

he was simply none of those things, and as much as he wished to mark it as nothing but the fact of the matter, he also found himself quietly in disbelief. at himself.

he barely heard the sound of the doors open and close, and when he looked up it was only at the sound of a familiar face of his sister. the sight of elenda swann back within the halls of stonehelm was something that felt right to him; as much as he did not wish to put grief and widowhood upon her at such a young age, she appeared more herself than ever before here. "mhm." wylliam uttered, not entirely verbal at this moment in time as he raised to his feet, breaking the space between them by wrapping his arms around her and embracing her tightly. it was most unlike wylliam swann to be the one to initiate physical contact and hug her tightly, but it felt as though it were one of the few right things left in the world.

"no, i'll…" his voice wandered for a moment, looking up to see another maester heading into the personal bedchamber. "i'll stay for the night. makes no real difference." he untangled himself from his sister as he let his hand drop, and as much as he wished to focus on her and ask her how she was doing, the sight of another maester entering the bedchamber held him completely by the hook. the colour momentarily drained from his face. "did you see it?" he asked, not entirely explaining what it was he meant: but he moved to stride across the room in only a few strides as he crossed the room, his arms crossing over his chest as he pushed his spectacles back up his nose.

"the state of the settlements, the town. did you see what's become of the market?" he asked; the entirely of the stormlands had been hit, and whilst wylliam's numbers proved conclusive, to see it happen to his own home was a pain he did not fully prepare himself for. whilst he adored each corner of their stormy world, there was a special place in his heart for the woods he had wandered since he was a boy. to see poverty struggle in, the increasing numbers of poor who lined and slept the streets, who moved into the woods to find more to eat and sleep in the dirt - it had silently shocked him. "tell me you saw it too."

[fortheakhirah]

☯

the mander bit at the bank with a steady, urgent voice, and akhirah stood with the reins coiled in his hand as if the leather itself could bind his resolve. his cloak smelled faintly of salt and damp, and the horse shifted beneath him, impatient in a way that mirrored the restlessness pressing at the back of his skull. he let the river speak for a moment, letting its motion settle the hot words that had been thrown at him; then he unfurled himself and answered, quiet but without apology. "it's too late."

“i know what you think, will, and i know where your patience comes from,” he said, his voice even as the line of his jaw set; “you think the court will fix what celtigar has broken because numbers and manners soothe a king. you plead practicality, and i see the sense in your ledger. you’d rather feed the dragon a little than watch the dragon burn the village.” but a dragon was a dragon - he could not pretend any further.

he shifted his weight and watched the light catch in the water, thinking of the farmers who had come to tarth with empty baskets, the fishermen whose nets had been taxed until the holes mattered less than the take-home. “but my backbone does not bend to appetite where my people bleed,” he continued, his tone planting itself like a stake in the riverbank. “i will not take coin from the mouths of my own, pile it into another man’s vault, and call it wisdom. that is not stewardship; that is starvation.” he let the words sit between them, sharp as a drawn blade, and felt the small tightening in morgan’s face at the admission that this was no simple refusal but a pledge.

the memory of morgan’s report—the hollowed room at court, the king’s distracted eyes—was a small stone in his gut that doubled his certainty. “morgan just told me how the king listened,” he said, voice lower now, narrower with the cold of disappointment as a gloved hand indicated towards the lord of rain house. “he told me of a room where the king, didnt listen. if jaehaerys’ ear is tied by those who profit from our plight, what faith do i owe a council that polishes ledgers and ignores hunger?” he let the sound of the river answer him, filling the pause with its indifferent truth. there was no hint of a politicians diplomacy in his tone, no assumption that akhirah tarth should be anywhere but his own hall, or on the battlefield. no council chamber.

he bent his head slightly, imagining the ledger-keeping men of the capital, men who balanced names as if they were pieces on a board. he shook his head against the mander's wind and flow at the idea of him going forward to court. “i will not trade the agency of tarth for the fleeting approval of men who count loyalty by coin. i will not venture to the capital, until the taxes have been lifted, or made equal with those houses within the crownlands." he realised it was not about valyrian lineage - for even the estermonts had to pay the taxes, and they shared the same blood.

“i will not call for a rebellion,” he added, slower, deliberate. “we will keep our houses fed, we will reroute what we can, we will tighten sails and hold councils in our own halls. we will refuse to be the treasury for a tax that crushes our people.” there was a beat, and then a slight exhale. "and if that is to be painted as rebellion, then..." the certainty in his voice was tempered by the knowledge of consequence—he had weighed it as carefully as any blade before choosing to press. he paused, the river folding sound into the dusk, and drew breath as if to throw a final, firm thread across the space. “help me then, will—if you still can. bring what sense and counsel you have to the table here, with us, not merely from the king’s chair. do not ask me to kneel where my knees would happily be broken."

@intothewylde

[intothewylde]

morgan sat still, eyes on the water as if measuring its pull. “too late or not,” he said plainly, “once a river picks up speed, you don’t stop it by standing in front of it. you reroute it, brace the banks, or it floods everything in its way.” his voice held no flourish, just observation. he looked between them both. “right now, the tax is the current. you can plant your feet against it, akhirah, but if it sweeps you, it won’t just take you. it’ll take whoever’s holding on behind you too.”

he glanced toward wylliam then, acknowledging him with a slight incline of his head. “will’s been sandbagging the river for us at court. it’s thankless work, and it won’t hold forever. he knows it. i know it.” his brow furrowed slightly, the closest morgan came to showing strain. “but a single man can’t hold a flood back. not with ledgers or titles.”

turning toward akhirah again, his voice remained level, not unkind. “where your people bleed, you’re right not to ignore it. but if the crown names it refusal instead of protection, they’ll send collectors with swords instead of quills. and once soldiers start marching, getting them turned around again costs more than coin.” he drew in a breath, steady. “we survive by knowing when to give ground and when to reinforce it. not by taking the whole strain on one hall alone.”

morgan shifted, watching a fallen branch caught in the faster current, spinning helplessly until it snagged against a rock. “you don’t need to kneel,” he said, quiet but firm. “but if you plant your hall like a rock in the center of the flow, don’t be surprised when the river tears the foundation before it bends course.” he lifted his gaze to wylliam once more. “if we’re to hold, it has to be together. stormlanders setting the terms, here, before someone else sets them for us.”

his eyes swept the bank, then both men. “so if this isn’t rebellion, and it isn’t submission either, then we decide, now, what it is. and what we’re willing to risk to keep it from turning into something worse.” he fell quiet again, letting the rush of water fill what didn’t need to be said twice.

the lord of the rain house ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands as if the motion could steady the tension coiling in his chest. he let out a low breath, shoulders tightening for a moment before loosening again to speak. “our numbers are greater than theirs, even if our coin isn’t,” he admitted, voice quiet, almost swallowed by the rush of the river. “that’s what keeps me up some nights, the thought that we could have the people but not the means, and the crown will still call us out of line. we can’t pretend that strength alone solves everything.” he pressed his palms against his thighs, leaning slightly forward, as if the weight of that simple truth threatened to pull him under.

@malcontentswanns

[malcontentswanns]

➳

wylliam swann stood with the mander at his back, the river’s roar needling at his thoughts as akhirah’s words settled heavy in the air. he felt them not as rhetoric but as weight, the kind that lodged behind the breastbone and refused to shift. he dragged a hand through his hair, dislodging it from its careful order, then pushed his spectacles up with a sharp, habitual motion, buying himself a breath before answering. “look, don’t mistake me,” he said at last, his foot slightly tossing a rock into the stream and he watched how quickly it was carried away - and in that small brief moment, he never found himself relating to an inanimate object more. he turned back to akhirah, frustration leaking now, thin and bright. "we aren't talking about numbers. we aren't even going to consider that."

“you say it’s too late, but you’re making it later still. you’re forcing a line to be drawn with your name at the top of it, and i don’t know if you realise how dangerous that is.” he stepped closer, boots pressing into damp earth, ignoring the slight feeling of a raindrop rolling from the bridge of his nose. when had it started raining? he was not even entirely sure yet. he just could not bring himself to understand how akhirah would think this a worthwhile move, all whilst not knowing what he was dealing with - how could he, when he was isolated on tarth? how could he understand jaehaerys targaryen's reaction from the isolation akhirah tarth moulded himself around?

“i don’t doubt your care for your people. seven hells, i believe you. but belief doesn’t stop soldiers. belief doesn’t stop collectors turning into men with swords.” his jaw tightened, “you think i enjoy this? i’m a stormlander too. i want our people to be better off than they are, but giving them even an inch..." he trailed off, letting out an exasperated sound as he could hardly get his words into the correct order he wished for them to come out. there was so much happening in his mind, so much he wanted to say and try and get across, and yet it felt as though his words had failed and betrayed him.

he glanced briefly at morgan again, voice easing despite the tension in his shoulders. “what you said about the king is true. he listens poorly...pretends he listens but, doesn't really. not always. and he listens least to those he thinks already lost. that’s the problem. once they mark you as defiant, you stop being heard at all.” he exhaled sharply, fingers flexing as if he wanted to seize the thought and shake it into order. “i can argue mitigation. i can argue adjustment. i cannot argue exception forever, not when one lord refuses outright. it makes every stormlander look like they’re testing the same edge.” wylliam ruffled his hair again, the gesture betraying how fixated he’d become, and forced himself to still.

“we already knelt, long ago." he said bluntly; there was no use in pretending the spirit of independence would do them any well. it would be selling mere dreams and delusion, nothing more and nothing less. he had never entertained such thoughts, and now he still would not. “you won’t call it rebellion, but the crown may, and intent won’t matter. the carons thought they were right too. you remember how that ended.” he paused again, attempting to knit his words together, despite feeling like he merely wanted to walk away from his conversation and that he was talking to a wall. he could tell by the look on their faces, they weren't listening - they did not understand.

"don’t give them cause to brand you a traitor. pay, loudly protest, document every wound, and let me take that into rooms you refuse to enter.” he adjusted his spectacles again, a precise motion after the disorder. “but you cannot be the only stormlander not paying. i can’t shield you if that is the case."

@fortheakhirah

[fortheakhirah]

who: @malcontentswanns / @intothewylde when and where: the lords of the stormlands meet by the rushing banks of the mander, miles away from the bustling gathering of the verdant concord. akhirah tarth and morgan wyde are already there, awaiting for the arrival of the hand, lord wylliam swann. context: the tide is turning in the stormlands - a small decision by akhirah tarth has started a ripple.

the banks of the mander were alive with the restless rush of water, a ceaseless roar that pressed against the ears and gave rhythm to the silence between two men. akhirah tarth stood with the reins of his horse wound loosely about his hand, the animal shifting its weight now and then, its dark eyes reflecting the flickering light of the river. beside him, morgan wyde seemed at war with his own patience, his gaze flicking irritably from the drifting current to the faint swarm of gnats that hovered about the reeds. akhirah could see it for what it was—morgan’s constant battle to seem unbothered whilst every twitch of his hand betrayed the nuisance.

the stormlander lord had learned to watch men quietly, not with suspicion but with that same calm distance he kept from the sea when he felt its temper growing. now, as they lingered together on the grass that sloped down to the water’s edge, he found the silence stretched enough to warrant words. it were painstakingly obvious what they were all here to discuss; the fact that as of now, not a single bit of coin had been sent forward to the master of coin's collectors - to the king's collectors. a summons had not yet been received from the halls of kings landing, but they all knew it was a matter of time.

“it's moving fast, ain't it?” he remarked, his voice measured, carrying as much observation as it did intent; both of his arms crossed together over his torso almost defensively, as though his mood was beginning to reflect in the rush of the currents. he did not know why rivers moved so fast and why some did not, though he knew the lord of rain house would very much know - whilst he was not one for distraction, something felt needed to distract themselves from what felt like impending doom. from akhirah standing his ground, refusing to change his mind despite seeing it from the others point of view - it would be the beginning of a dangerous chapter, one the carons had already suffered from. “why's it do that?”

he let the words hang there, knowing morgan would likely shift them back toward the waiting at hand. akhirah had always preferred stillness to chatter, but he also knew this meeting was no mere courtesy. wylliam swann had summoned them, under the banner of duty if not unity, and it was not often that akhirah agreed to travel this far away from his own isle. he was, in many ways, estranged from such gatherings—his refusal to attend king’s landing was known well enough—but this was different. akhirah swiped briefly at his sleeve as another insect hovered too close, killing it with the quickest swat - before remembering who he had done such a thing before. akhirah let his mouth tilt into the faintest ghost of a smile, trying not to find the matter amusing. "sorry - i don't like the buzzing."

he turned slightly, his gaze following the bend of the mander until the treeline swallowed it from view, looking for the direction in which wylliam swann would be approaching them - he was the last to show up to their hunting spot, and akhirah found himself resisting the urge to stray from their meeting spot and merely meet the man half way, considering it would probably be faster. "and how'd your meeting with the king feel? make you feel reassured, morgan?”

[intothewylde]

morgan shifted his weight slightly, boots sinking a little deeper into the damp earth as he watched the gnats swirl and scatter over the reeds. he did not speak at once. instead, his eyes followed the sweep of the current, the way the mander surged forward with its restless push and pull. “the river’s fast here because of the bend, the riverbed is also rockier, easier for the water to glide over,” he said at last, his tone quiet, almost reflective. “narrow banks, a sharper turn upstream. it drives the water harder. where it widens, or where the riverbed is muddy, it slows.” his fingers brushed absently at his sleeve, though he did not swat at the insects as akhirah had. his gaze flicked to the crushed body of the one akhirah had killed, and there was the faintest downturn of his mouth, hardly a frown, but enough to betray that he noticed.

“they don’t mean harm,” morgan murmured, as though speaking more to himself than to akhirah. “we're just in their way.” he let it go after that, shoulders drawing back with a breath as he forced the thought aside. he wasn’t one for scolding or sentimentality, but some small part of him bristled at the casual end of a thing so small and persistent. he turned his eyes back to the water, letting the silence settle a moment longer.

“the king…” he began, but the word caught in his throat before it could shape into anything else. morgan shifted again, this time glancing at akhirah with a weariness he did not bother to disguise. “it didn’t go well.” the admission was blunt, but his voice remained low, level, as if even here the grass and the wind might carry his words back to the wrong ears. “i thought i’d prepared myself for it, knew the whispers, knew what was being said in the halls before i even set foot in them.” his jaw tightened. “but still, it surprised me. that i was surprised.”

he exhaled through his nose, uncharacteristically frustrated, for one so often calm and collected. “there was no reassurance in that room, no listening, no room for reason.” his hand closed loosely around a reed, thumb running along its edge until it bent under the pressure. “i’ve been thinking since i left what it is he actually expects of us stormlanders, and i’ve yet to find an answer that doesn’t leave a sour taste in my mouth.”

it was the most he said of the conversation since it had occurred, and after a moment, morgan’s eyes returned to the rushing water, its surface bright and fractured under the sun. he let silence fill the space between them for a few moments before his eyes caught the lanky figure of wylliam swann approaching along the treeline, the hand of the king moving with careful, thoughtful steps. morgan raised a hand in greeting, deliberate and steady. “oh look, here comes will, now."

@malcontentswanns

[malcontentswanns]

➳

wylliam swann descended the slope toward the riverbank with the deliberate gait of a man who would rather be anywhere else, but knew that duty left him no such mercy. the damp grass clung to his boots and the air was thick with that sour, buzzing quiet that followed tension long before words gave it form. he saw the two figures waiting—a contrast in composure and temperament if ever there was one. morgan wylde, steady as a carved stone, his manner always too mild for the stormlands’ reputation; and beside him, akhirah tarth, standing as if the ground beneath him were his own battlement. wylliam’s eyes lingered on him a fraction too long before he spoke.

“morgan,” he greeted, his voice clipped but not unkind as he reached the bottom of the slope. “you look the same as ever—calm as the godswood, though i can’t say the same for the rest of our kin.” the faintest twitch of a smile threatened his mouth before fading as his gaze shifted to akhirah. “and you, lord tarth. it’s been some time since you’ve deigned to leave your isle.” there was warmth nowhere in his tone—rather scathing sarcasm at the man who had been so intended to making himself a target he had made them all one. he stopped beside them, his hands folding neatly behind his back.

the sound of the mander filled the silence that followed, a ceaseless reminder that even the calmest surface could carry undercurrents strong enough to drown a man. he studied the river a moment before saying, “you know, morgan, you could give half the maesters in the capital a lecture on river currents. at least yours would be worth listening to.” but the humour was brief, swallowed by the seriousness that shadowed his next words. “as for the currents of men and money, well, those seem far less obedient.” his gaze turned fully on akhirah now, sharp and assessing - a frazzled bundle of irritation and desperation, all at once.

“i’ve heard the news from tarth. or rather, i’ve heard the lack of it. no coin, no tithe, no common sense.” the edge in his voice was unmistakable—an irritation born less of authority than of weary disappointment. “i’ve spent months keeping the stormlands out of the king’s mouth, and you—” he gestured vaguely toward the river, as if the water might carry the weight of his frustration away “—you go and set yourself apart like you’re itching for the crown to notice you.”

he knew how it sounded—accusation, not advice—but there was no helping it. wylliam had always struggled with diplomacy when dealing with his own. it was easier to scold a lannister than to rebuke a stormlander; easier still to feign distance with men who weren’t raised on the same salt and fury that bred him. “what is this then?” he continued, his tone tightening, a gloved hand indicating to the three of them stood there on the banks of the mander. “is this rebellion or pride? because if it’s the former, i’ve had enough of rebellion to last a lifetime.”

wylliam finally met akhirah’s eyes again, his tone less scathing now, but heavy with warning. “you don’t have to like it. i don’t. but you’ll pay, and you....you need to just pay it, akhirah. better to lose some coin than your head. you’re not the only one of us with a temper, but i’d like to think you’re one with sense.” then, quieter, almost begrudgingly, “if you want to change something, do it where it matters. make them hear you at court. force them respect you, because jaehaerys- he can be talked around. it's the right of the valyrians we need to just swat away, like these bloody bugs."

@fortheakhirah

[ayoungkiing]

New video posted by Chase

[norbiegrafton]

@malcontentswanns

[malcontentswanns]

@norbiegrafton

[cellaceltigar]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[malcontentswanns]

➳

wylliam swann stood still, the fingers of one hand returning to the ladder’s frame like a hound to heel, the other drifting toward the button of his collar again before he forced it away. "i don't." her words had not silenced him. no. they had merely struck him in that peculiar way that lingered longer than they should—like a hairline crack in a polished shield, invisible unless one knew where to look. he had asked for a reason, had demanded one, and she had given it—cleverly, carefully, too eloquently to be dismissed outright. "but neither do you."

and that annoyed him. more than it should have, he did not know why he was so bothered by it.

“you speak of ghosts,” he said at last, low and controlled, his tone that same ironed-flat stormlander precision, as though emotion were something one pressed out of speech like a wrinkle from linen. “but ghosts, lady celtigar, do not raise children. people do.” his gaze turned to her finally, steadily now, though his brow was faintly furrowed. not because she had unsettled him—he would not grant her that—but because he was, quite frankly, trying to understand what she wanted from him. this—this nearness, this verbal sparring, it was not flirtation, he was sure of that now. it was assessment. she was studying him.

“you have your poets and your seers and your tales of flame and ruin,” he continued, more pointedly now, “and perhaps that’s enough for you. but some of us were not raised to feel the weight of dead empires on our backs like a birthright. some of us were raised to sweep ash from the stones and build something better on top of it.”

he reached for the edge of the table and leaned slightly upon it, refusing to let the tension in his chest translate into anything that might give her satisfaction. he’d heard her tone shift—calm again, indulgent, like a woman watching a bird hop about in the garden and wondering if it might eat from her hand. and that smile, that careless smile as she offered the jibe about prophecy and fleeing valyria—it clung to his nerves like thistle. “you’ll forgive me,” he said, voice dipped in a steadied sarcasm now, “if i do not mourn the fact that my counsel was not present during the doom. i imagine i would not have been well received among your people, with my fondness for logic and my lack of wings.”

he folded his arms, just enough to feel the reassurance of the gesture across his chest, the chain at his shoulder clinking lightly against the edge of his gorget. her phrasing had struck a deeper chord than she likely knew. if even one person could be saved… gods. she made it sound so simple. as though prophecy was a tool—like a map, or a sword—and not the slow rot that seeped into the mind of every fool who ever mistook intuition for divine instruction. “you assume prophecy saves,” he muttered, then let out a quiet breath through his nose. “fraud damns. scammers dupe the grieving. and let us not forget how your prophecies damn. do you know how many men lost their sons in our history because a dream said a dragon must sit the throne?" he tilted his head slightly, expression hardening, letting out an exasperated judgmental sigh.

“you think me cold for favouring historians, but at least they do not demand blood with their citations.”

he let that settle. let her hear it. let her feel it. and yet—when he glanced at her again, it was not with loathing, but something closer to reluctant curiosity. he could see now that she believed what she said. it was not an act. the way she’d held up her hair, like it was both banner and burden. there was something true there, even if it was wrapped in the silk and perfume of court. “i do like certainty,” he admitted, quieter now, the words shaped more carefully. “but not because it comforts me. i like it because it can be tested. measured. and if proven false—discarded.” he stepped slightly away from the ladder at last, hands now behind his back.

“prophecy offers no such grace. it is never wrong. only intentionally vague. it is only misunderstood.” his gaze flitted to the book still beneath her hand, and then back to her. “and i wonder, lady celtigar—how often that convenient excuse has spared it the scrutiny it deserves.”

the silence that followed was not cold, but contemplative. he was not so arrogant as to think he had swayed her. but he would not be swayed either. not yet. still—something inside him, some knot of irritation or intrigue or both, told him they would speak of this again.

[graacielas]

silence, while overbearing, is expected as graciela continues to observe wylliam. his anxiousness is near palpable, and it's become harder to differentiate whether its her own or his that fuels her dread. impending loss holds more weight than that of family even if their blood bond is paramount. there are lands and lives hanging in the balance, graciela knows this all too well. as she sits before him now, her ancestral home is left exposed since the taking of her brother and she feels the hopeless that she thinks he may be feeling deep in her core.

but how could she leave now? pained groans from beyond the door remind her of the oath they took so many years before. to honor one another, to remain side by side until their last breath. she just never expected that breath to be coming so soon. and wylliam. poor wylliam, whose eyes are set on unforgiving stone beneath them seemingly looking for an answer in its fissures.

its almost jarring when he finally speaks, having sat in the stillness for what felt hours. the way he stumbles over his words is atypical to witness in such an important exchange and she remains wordless until shes sure that he's ready to hear her thoughts. and that he is not. as the true depths of his worry begin to spill out into the crisp air, she could have sworn she'd uttered the exact same words upon the death of her father. her strife was only partially comparable to that of wylliams though. he carried not only the weight of stonehelm on his shoulders now but that of an even more imperative title in their capitol. for that she reaches a sympathetic hand across the table to rest at the curve of his shoulder, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"you can wylliam. and you must." a harsh truth, but one served to him wrapped in a warm cadence. "you are far from the first ruling lord to juggle so many important titles. you may not be able to govern and perform your duties as hand at the same time, but you will find a way to flow from one to the next." hand retracts to its place on the smooth, porcelain cup and she finally takes a long sip of the comforting liquid. "a solid foundation here in stonehelm will alleviate many of your worries, and not just in terms of your defenses. you must surround yourself with wise, trustworthy people. i am happy to be one of them when the time comes despite my obligations to blackhaven." theres a certainty in the statement, and even a sliver of hope that their familial connection wouldn't be buried alongside arthur. it pains her to see someone she'd come to consider a true brother brace himself for such turmoil. taking her permanent leave, when they all needed each other the most, is unimaginable.

"i know it is the last thing you're thinking of now.. but have you considered marrying soon?" the question felt wrong to ask in such a worrisome time, but she also felt as if there weren't much of that time left to leave to chance. "having a devoted wife at your side could ease your burden tenfold. not just a pretty, agreeable thing, either. a strong woman, with roots set deep in loyalty and a sense of duty."

and with a fruitful womb, unlike herself. she keeps that sentiment to herself, though. its too painful to recall all the times she'd failed to conceive. "i know most of pray for the opportune time, the perfect moment with the perfect person.. but you know as well as i do that there will never be a moment such as that for people like us. you needn't find someone at this very moment, but i feel that it should be amongst the things you consider during this transition." another sip before she speaks again, "and should you find yourself in need of assistance with sending ravens, arranging meeting and things of like, i am humbly at your service."

[malcontentswanns]

➳

wylliam had not looked up when she spoke, not at first—not even when her fingers pressed lightly into his shoulder. the contact startled him, but not enough to shake the thoughts gnawing at his composure. he swallowed them down, again, like sour wine. you can, wylliam. and you must. the words lingered, uninvited but steady, like the sea wind that always found a way through stonehelm’s halls no matter how tight the shutters were drawn. they carried the weight of something more than encouragement. something closer to a verdict.

he exhaled through his nose, slow, deliberate, forcing his hand to still on his knee. "you say that like it's something inevitable. something simple." his voice came out lower than he expected, a rasp born from nights spent without sleep. "as if i've spent years preparing for this moment. i haven’t. i was never meant to—" he paused, his jaw clicking as he ground his teeth. "i was never meant to carry any of this." he reached for the tea then, not for comfort, but to busy his hands. it was barely warm now, the taste bitter. graciela’s presence had always unsettled him slightly—never through fault of her own, but because she reminded him too much of arthur.

she shared his stillness, the quiet command of a mind that worked far faster than it let on. how similar did man and wife become over the years?

but unlike arthur, she did not offer him the illusion of guidance. she offered truth. "they look at me like i know what i’m doing. the men in the capital, the lords of the stormlands. even the servants here—they all nod and bow like it means something. but i'm still the second son in their eyes. the stand-in. the one who was meant to hold the gates, not command them." he scoffed softly, setting the cup down with more force than necessary. "i’m not arthur, graciela. gods, he was a bastard at times, but he could hold a room. he could hold a war council without needing to wet his palms first." his voice faltered there, eyes burning as he blinked too quickly. a solid foundation.

yes, of course. but even solid things crumbled under enough pressure.

“and blackhaven,” he murmured, turning his head slightly. “i keep forgetting it’s yours to defend now.” there was no accusation in his tone—just guilt. “you’re right. you need to go. they’ll need you more than we do soon. and i’ll have to start acting like i know what i’m doing before someone notices i don’t.” he rubbed the side of his neck, his fingers brushing the edge of his collar. her suggestion about marriage caught him off guard, though he should have expected it. everyone had opinions on his next steps. alliances to forge. heirs to name. warm beds to share.

“a strong woman,” he repeated with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, as though he were laughing at himself more than the concept.“i’ve thought about it. not seriously. i never thought i’d outlive arthur, and certainly not have to replace him.”

his voice lowered. “i’m not opposed. i just…” he paused, then offered the smallest of nods. “i’ll think on it. that’s all i can promise for now.” he leaned back slightly, the chair creaking beneath his weight. “and if you mean what you said—about the ravens, the rest—i'll hold you to it.” his eyes flicked to the door, where a low groan rattled through the wood. “but go when you must, graciela. don’t stay for ghosts. or soon to be ghosts.”

[cfthornsandroses]

matilda held leopold like an unruly child, his small paws fussing against the silk of her sleeves as she watched wylliam gather himself. her laughter had softened now, though the smile stayed—bright, familiar. the light from the stained glass danced across her gown, flecks of gold warming the emerald, as though the tyrell colors had been scattered onto her skin.

“you’ve always been a marvel of endurance, ser wylliam,” she teased, adjusting the monkey as he twisted indignantly in her grip. “but i never expected to see you bested by someone so small. perhaps you need to brush up on your dueling skills—though i doubt pastries or monkey's were ever part of your training.”

her eyes glimmered with mischief, but her tone was kind. she noticed the scratches on his hands, the faint flush on his face, and something more—the way he stood, a touch awkward yet so undeniably himself. there was comfort in that. when he mentioned being busy, she didn’t press. she knew well enough what that word meant now. endless council meetings. diplomacy wrapped so tightly it choked the joy out of everything. the war might have ended, but none of them had been allowed to rest.

“well, i’ve survived the monkey and the gossip, so i suppose that’s an accomplishment,” she said breezily, though her gaze softened. “but i’m well. truly.” she paused, cradling leopold closer as he attempted a daring escape. “and so are you. or—you will be. i can see it.”

matilda adjusted leopold in her arms, his tiny paws still batting at her, before turning to one of the nearby guards who had been observing the chaos with a mix of bemusement and caution. she extended the monkey to him, her smile apologetic but amused.

"please, take him off my hands for a moment," she said with a soft chuckle, watching as the guard gingerly accepted the creature. "keep him safe, will you? he has a talent for getting into trouble."

as the guard walked off with leopold, matilda turned back to wylliam, smoothing the wrinkles in her gown with a thoughtful look. her voice lowered, playful once more. “but i swear, wylliam, if you don’t let me steal you away for supper soon, you’ll drown beneath those scrolls and petitions. we’ll call it a rescue mission. i’ll even let you choose the wine.”

she tilted her head, that familiar warmth returning. “deal?”

[malcontentswanns]

➳

wylliam cleared his throat, though it did little to disguise the shortness of his breath that came as a result of his great run through the trails of highgarden's endless mazes. the warmth in his cheeks had not yet faded, and while he prayed it might be mistaken for the stained glass or the general heat of highgarden, he suspected matilda saw right through it. he lifted his chin, attempting composure, though his voice came out with a faint rasp.

“best me? no, no—i wouldn’t say bested. delayed, perhaps. mildly inconvenienced.” he shot a furtive glance at the monkey, now safely in the arms of the guard, and when matilda’s gaze turned elsewhere, wylliam narrowed his eyes at the creature with a sharp scowl, silently promising vengeance for the spectacle it had caused.

“besides,” he muttered under his breath, brushing the front of his doublet with a quick, brisk motion, as he continued to hold onto his sides catching his breath. “i’m fairly certain he fought dirty. went straight for the spectacles.” he exhaled, inspecting his sleeve with faint distaste and beginning the delicate task of removing errant hairs and bits of pastry crust clinging from the scuffle. “disgusting little beast,” he murmured to himself.

“he was on my shoulder, matilda. like some sort of… grotesque essosi hat.” still, there was no true anger in his tone—just a sort of defeated, winded dignity that he was trying very hard to resurrect. once satisfied the worst of the monkey’s residue was gone, he adjusted his cuffs and turned back to her, finally steadying his breath. “but yes. supper. i—yes, of course. rescue accepted.”

he smiled, and it was genuine, easy in the way it only ever seemed to be with her; the redness still remained bright on his cheeks beneath the stubble. “i suppose i owe you that much after my daring heroics today. pick a day—either thursday or, if you’re inclined, saturday." he paused, hand absently lifting to tap his stomach with a mock grimace. “though i should warn you, the wine is for yourself. i’m attempting to drink less. i fear i’m growing the same belly as my father.” he gave it another pat, despite there being little more than the fabric of his doublet to show for it. “it’s all the standing around looking serious, really. and sitting. and snacking during petitions. it adds up.”

wylliam's hand lingered near the hem of his doublet as he gave it a final, fussy sweep—his version of reclaiming dignity after being clambered over by a sugar-mad monkey. he straightened fully now, breathing easier, and adjusted his spectacles with the tip of one finger, though the smudge on one lens remained stubbornly in place. his brow furrowed faintly as his gaze flicked past matilda, down the corridor where the guard had disappeared with leopold, and then returned to her—more searching this time, less flustered. “i meant to ask…” wylliam cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles again though they didn’t need adjusting. “i saw you earlier. with calla lefford. outside the rose court. just—i thought you two weren’t speaking?”

[cellaceltigar]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[malcontentswanns]

➳

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

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

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

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

was she not cold?

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

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

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

[cellaceltigar]

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

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

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

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

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

[malcontentswanns]

➳

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

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

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

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

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

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

[graacielas]

−−−  ꧁  starter for @malcontentswanns . after a raven long sent and received about arthur swanns failing health, graciela sits vigilantly by his door as he and will speak alone, awaiting a moment of her brother-in-laws time to get affairs in order.

once warm, herbal liquid has gone frigid by the time it reaches the brunnettes lips. she's been too focused on the horrid cough that breaks silence every few moments. its muffled by the barrier that separates them, and she must fight the urge to barge in and tend to her weakened husband. all that he's spoken of is his desire to see will and she cannot find it in herself to deny him of even the most minute of requests.

so she waits. and waits.

a heavy silence adds pressure to the weight of the thick blanket that envelops her form, only broken by a maiden who replaced a forgotten cup with one anew. quick thanks are given before she orders the hall clear of unnecessary bodies. the robed men who take their place have a purpose, one that causes a lump to form in her drying throat yet she find a way to get her words past it. three knocks laid against the partition follow her mention of his company. a small gesture of respect towards the brothers privacy, the very same they show a husband and wife.

an uncomfortable form is unsure where its natural place is when they enter the candlelit room. she hovers around its entrance like the ghost of woman she's slowly devolved into until she finally gravitates back to her resting place. fabric softens her descent into the wooden chair and a hand reaches for the porcelain cup she'd abandoned for the hundredth time.

"your return has brought him much happiness." cracks in her voice are an audible manifestation of the same ones in her well-tempered armor. she'd never felt so vulnerable, bloodshot veins infecting the whites of her eyes like the plague that eats away at the man shes come to love. she manages a small grin to assure him of the sentiment before weariness takes its righful place. "and as fond as i am of you, brother, it has brought me much despair." motions for the man to join her at the seat parallel to her, likeness identical to hers down to the cup thats been waiting to be utilized since the began its rise into the skies. "our dear arthur is growing weaker by the day, wylliam. and its time we spoke of stonehelms future."

[malcontentswanns]

➳

the words barely reached him at first. graciela’s voice floated somewhere beyond the haze clouding wylliam’s mind—distant, like waves breaking against a far-off shore. he sat stiffly, elbows pressed to his knees, his fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve until the seam felt warm beneath the friction. the room felt too heavy, too loud, despite its quiet. the scratch of fabric, the faint creak of graciela shifting in her chair, the sharp scent of the herbal tea—everything sat wrong against his senses. his gaze fixed on a crack running through the stone floor. thin, jagged.

it reminded him of the maps he’d pored over, where borders carved out men’s fates with cruel precision.

your return has brought him much happiness,” graciela had said. the sentiment hung in the air, but wylliam didn’t catch its warmth. his jaw tensed. he hadn’t answered. hadn’t moved. graciela’s voice, soft yet cracked, pulled at him again—but he still sat there, hands in his lap, trying to force the rising panic back down. stonehelm. him. lord of stonehelm. the words rattled inside his skull, sharp as glass. he blinked, sharply, as though surfacing from water. graciela was staring at him, her hand still wrapped around her untouched cup. her face was drawn, tired in a way that seemed to have sunk into her bones. there were red lines in the whites of her eyes, too bright against the pallor of her skin.

“oh.” wylliam adjusted his spectacles, though they didn’t need it. “i—” he faltered, realising how long he’d been silent. graciela was waiting, and he’d left her adrift. “yes. yes, of course.” his throat felt dry, but he didn’t reach for the tea. “stonehelm,” he echoed, tasting the word as if it were something foreign. “you want to speak of its future.” there was an exhale as he put his hands behind his head, realising all too soon that

“i can’t—” wylliam stopped himself, breath hitching, not from tears wanting to spill . “i don’t know how i’m meant to do both. hand of the king, lord of stonehelm. it isn’t—” he bit the inside of his cheek, feeling as though he were hearing everything too loudly. “it isn’t logical.” his fingers drummed against his knee, too quick, too loud in the quiet. “the border’s too volatile. i can’t govern it from king’s landing, but i can’t abandon the capital either. they’ll see it as dereliction.” his voice flattened, growing clipped. “our people are already unsettled and i can’t—i can’t split myself in two, graciela.”

the thought of it twisted in his chest. the politics, the decisions, the expectations—all stacking, all at once. graciela sat still, waiting, but wylliam didn’t think to ask what she needed. why would he? she was family, why would she need to go anywhere at the end of the day? whether arthur was breathing or in his tomb mattered not, he did not dictate her place in the walls of stonehelm. “there isn’t a simple answer,” he muttered, almost to himself. “but it’s going to fall to me, whether i’m ready or not. so yeah, we can talk about it.” for a moment words were half tumbled from his mouth, wanting to ask her if she was sure she was not with child - even he knew it would be too cruel to ask such a thing in this moment.

"...what about it?" he stepped out of the way of his mother as she passed into arthur's rooms, half a hand on his forearm.

[intothewylde]

morgan listened in silence, his arms crossed and shoulders squared against the torrent of wylliam’s words. the room was still heavy with the lingering smells of roasted meats and spilled wine, but the air between them carried a sharper edge now, one borne of anger and frayed patience. when wylliam finished, his final question hanging like a blade between them, morgan let the quiet stretch for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

finally, he uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, his boots thudding softly against the stone floor. “will, let me be clear—i didn’t invite them here for this.” his voice was steady, unflinching, every word precise. “this was meant to be a gathering to mark my sister’s birthday, nothing more. but you know as well as i do that a room full of stormlords cannot help but speak their minds when the mood strikes them. if they’re restless, it’s because they see no other outlet for their frustration. ignoring it won’t make it disappear.”

he took a few steps forward, his boots soft against the stone floor. “i spoke to the king myself, appealed to reason, to fairness. and it got us nothing. the taxes remain, heavier than the burdens we already bear. and now, these men—our peers, will—feel cornered. men cornered for too long will do desperate things, and i’d rather have them talking in my hall than scheming in shadows i cannot see.”

morgan paused, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve before continuing. “as for akhirah, his actions are his own. but they’ve rippled through the stormlands in ways you and i can’t control. we’re not conspirators, will, nor fools throwing ourselves off a cliff. we’re men trying to navigate a storm without wrecking the ship.”

his gaze fixed on his friend's, calm but pointed. “so, i ask you—what do you suggest? how do we temper their anger without alienating them further? what is the path forward that keeps us loyal yet unbroken? because i assure you, inaction will not solve this.”

[malcontentswanns]

➳

wylliam exhaled slowly, the air leaving him in a controlled, measured stream as he pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. he had always disliked moments like these—when the world moved faster than sense, when men spoke from their bellies rather than their minds. "feel? feel?" wylliam repeated, his tone increasingly exasperated as he rolled his sleeves up. it made his skin itch, made his fingers tighten against his sleeves as though bracing against a tide that would sweep them all away. but perhaps, it were in this moment he focused himself remembering how he had always been an odd one out among the stormlanders: all bravery and courage, quick to defend honour. and it were not as though wylliam did not believe in such things, but he also thought practicality was as important.

what use was protecting the honour of severed head tried with treason? protecting the honour of ashes that need to be scooped or dusted?

“frustration is fustration,” wylliam murmured, voice tight, deliberate. “but frustration is not reason, morgan. it is not proof. it is not a foundation to build an argument upon. do you know how many times i sat in council meetings and listened to men talk of what ‘feels’ unfair? what ‘seems’ unjust? if i brought that to the king, do you know what he’d say?” he didn’t wait for an answer, his gaze pressing, unrelenting. “i will not tell you what he would say, for it would be unnecessary. but something along the lines of, where is your evidence, wylliam? where are your numbers?’

he turned from his friend, began pacing again, his mind moving too quickly to be still. it always happened this way when he found himself getting worked up, when he felt as though nobody would listen to him when he knew what was best. nobody ever listened to him. “emotion does not change policy. emotions change nothing, for nobody. nobody cares how they are feeling, what they will care about is the impact on the royal coffers after the lannisters have their money.” his hands twitched at his sides, as if grasping for something unseen.

“we have to be smarter than this. if i had time—time to gather proper accounts, time to track the flow of coin, to prove the damage it’s doing, then i could argue for change. but if we act before that, if we let them make decisions based on emotions, then we will give jaehaerys every excuse to dismiss us."

another thought came quietly to his mind as he stared at morgan, one that was enough to make him feel as though he were witnessing the beginning of the end. did the stormlanders consider him passionate enough? did they even consider him a true stormlander at this point? "worse, we will give celtigar the justification he needs to tighten his grip.” wylliam stopped suddenly, turning sharply back to morgan, his expression unreadable beneath the flicker of candlelight. "they need to wait. hold their tongues and their tempers long enough for me to find something real. because if they move too soon, if they force the king’s hand before i have the proof to challenge him, then they won’t just be seen as dissatisfied lords. they will be seen as traitors.”

his jaw clenched, his voice lowering to something closer to a whisper. “and if that happens, morgan—if that happens, i won’t be able to save them. because i'll end up with them.”

[jaehaerysiitargaryen-deactivate]

The Iron Throne loomed behind Jaehaerys Targaryen, its jagged edges catching the dim light from the flickering braziers. The vastness of the throne room only amplified the tense silence as the king’s violet eyes fixed on Wylliam Swann. His fingers drummed once against the armrest, a faint metallic echo in the chamber, before he finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate.

“Your concern for the stormlords is noted, Lord Wylliam,” Jaehaerys began, each word precise, his tone betraying a simmering irritation. “You say they grumble about this tax. Do they forget the protection of this crown? Their loyalty is not a favor to me—it is their duty. Yet here you stand, speaking as though the burden is unfair.”

The king rose from the Iron Throne, his silver hair glinting faintly in the firelight. He descended the dais with measured steps, his gaze unyielding. “The stormlands are my backbone. They offered me refuge when others turned away, aye. But loyalty earned is loyalty owed. Do you question my gratitude, Lord Swann?”

Jaehaerys stopped before Wylliam, his hands clasped behind his back, his presence as imposing as the throne behind him. “You know as well as I that this tax is not arbitrary. The Stormlands thrive on their resources—their ships, their trade, their wealth. If I levy this tax on the Crownlands as well, I undermine the very heart of our governance. Without the Stormlands’ strength, the kingdom falters. Without the Stormlands’ contributions, there is no kingdom.”

He tilted his head slightly, his voice softening, though his words still cut like steel. “But let us not pretend this is merely about coin. Lord Celtigar’s hand may be felt in this matter, but the realm’s needs are greater than personal slights. If there is a proposal to balance this tax without jeopardizing the Stormlands’ contributions, speak it now. But heed my warning, Wylliam: do not dress discontent as loyalty.”

[malcontentswanns]

➳

the king’s words stung, sharp as the edges of the iron throne behind him, but wylliam swann stood his ground. it were not as though he could show the inward swirl that was beginning inside of him; the confusion, whether his words were actually coming across as he intended - or did jaehaerys simply not see it? the room felt colder now, the firelight casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to close in around him. he adjusted his spectacles, an automatic gesture as he organised his thoughts, pushing past the anxiety that clawed at the edges of his mind. jaehaerys was a king who demanded composure, even under the weight of his gaze.

“your grace,” wylliam began, his voice steady but quieter now, deliberate in its restraint. he knew he could sound stubborn, too passionate about these things; and this was not norbie, or morgan, or any other individual he would happily speak flippantly to. he couldn't, for it would only serve to disadvantage them. all of them. “i do not question your gratitude. nor would i ever presume to diminish the stormlands’ duty to the crown. they are your backbone, as you say, and it’s for that very reason i speak now.” his gaze flickered to the iron throne for the briefest moment before returning to jaehaerys.

“but a backbone, no matter how strong, will crack if the weight upon it grows too great.”

he paused, studying the king’s face for any trace of receptiveness. there was none. wylliam’s chest tightened, but he pressed on. he knew what mattered: data, statistics; it was not opinion that would be enough to sway. he needed hard evidence, he needed the facts. “give me time, your grace. let me collect the data—show you the numbers, the trade figures, the dwindling yields from their ports. allow me to leave court for a time and investigate. let us not act on grumblings or assumptions, but on cold, hard truths. because i fear... no, i am sure that this tax is not achieving what lord celtigar claims. it is not strengthening the realm. it is weakening it.”

he stopped, his words hanging in the air, though he dared not look away from jaehaerys. "if you would give me leave to prove it."

[malcontentswanns]

who: @intothewylde when and where: rain house, one of the wylde siblings threw a birthday feast that resulted in many stormlanders attending - soon, wylliam quickly realised this feast was more than just a birthday gathering.

the door thudded shut behind them, and the weight of the evening fell heavily on wylliam swann’s shoulders. the laughter and chatter from the feast had faded, leaving the room cloaked in an uneasy silence. he stayed still for a moment, staring at the now-empty table, the remnants of wine and crumbs scattered across the polished wood like evidence of the stormlanders’ schemes. his jaw tightened, and his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his tunic, smoothing fabric that didn’t need smoothing.

he turned to morgan wylde, one of his oldest and closest friends, though in this moment, wylliam wasn’t sure he recognised him. his words came out measured but strained, the irritation in his voice barely masked. he was never one to stop himself from sounding blunt, and in this moment where wylliam's mind had been working on what felt like overdrive for the past hour in trying to refute his peers sat around a table, he finally felt as though he were at the end of his tether. “why?” he began, his gaze fixed on the floor before flicking up to meet morgan's gaze, putting down his goblet with a heavy, defeated thud. “why would you let them speak of such things here, under your roof, like it’s some sort of... celebration? as if we’re conspirators huddled in a corner?”

his fingers moved to adjust the spectacles perched on his nose, a gesture more of habit than necessity. “do you know what this looks like, morgan? do you know what they’ll say if word of this reaches the capital? if he hears?” wylliam didn’t need to say who he meant. the king’s shadow loomed large over every decision made in the stormlands. he began pacing, slow and deliberate, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. “you think this is clever, don’t you? getting everyone to fall in line behind akhirah—making him the first lamb to the slaughter, so the rest of you can gauge the reaction before you follow suit.” his voice sharpened, though it didn’t rise. wylliam never raised his voice. “it’s cowardly. and reckless. and dangerous.”

he stopped suddenly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “you know i agree with you. you know i think the tax is too much, that celtigar has pushed too far, but this?” he gestured toward the empty room, as if the lingering shadows still held the echoes of their earlier conversation. “this is not the way.” his hands dropped to his sides, and he exhaled a sharp breath. “and do you know the worst of it, morgan? i sat there, silent, because it was clear—painfully clear—that i don’t represent the stormlands anymore. not to them. not even to you, it seems.” his voice faltered, but only slightly, before he looked morgan in the eye once more.

“when did you all decide that? before or after you decided to fling yourselves off an apparent cliff?”

[cfthornsandroses]

the stained glass of highgarden bathed the hall in soft hues of gold and green, the air alive with the hum of conversation. matilda tyrell stood among the guests, her emerald gown catching the light as she laughed softly at some jest. it had been an easy day, or as easy as a day in highgarden could be. the air was alive with music and chatter, a perfect backdrop to a tranquil afternoon.

that peace was shattered by a familiar commotion—gasps, laughter, and startled cries rippling through the hall. matilda turned just in time to see a small, furred blur dart between the legs of a knight, narrowly avoiding a spilled goblet of wine.

“leopold,” she sighed, half-laughing already. the monkey, a peculiar gift from a visiting noble, clutched a stolen pastry as it scampered toward the door. “of all times…” her exasperation melted into amusement as leopold’s antics drew attention, the guests murmuring and pointing. She barely noticed wylliam swann until he stepped forward, his familiar presence catching her eye.

before she could say a word, he had declared his intent, and the chase was on.

matilda lingered near the doorway, the laughter of the guests fading into the background as her gaze followed wylliam into the gardens. she caught glimpses of him through the arches—his flailing arms, the exasperated tilt of his head, the monkey’s cheeky defiance. when he returned, disheveled and breathless, leopold wriggling indignantly in his grasp, matilda’s lips curved into a delighted smile.

“you caught him!” she exclaimed, stepping forward to take the squirming creature. her fingers brushed wylliam’s as she cradled leopold, his tiny hands still clutching the remnants of his prize.

“thank you,” she added warmly, her tone laced with laughter. “though i’ve no idea why the anyone thought a monkey would be a suitable gift.” she paused, her gaze flicking from leopold to wylliam with a wry smile. “perhaps it was meant to teach me patience. if so, it’s proving a very thorough lesson.”

her voice softened, genuine amidst the playful scene. “how have you been? It feels like an age since we last spoke.” she glanced at leopold, who chattered indignantly in her arms. “though i suppose you’ll say it hasn’t been long enough if it means avoiding this troublemaker.” she teased.

[malcontentswanns]

➳

the stained glass cast a kaleidoscope of light onto the polished stone floor, the golden and green hues catching on wylliam swann’s boots as he stood before her, dishevelled and catching his breath, a slight flush still upon his cheeks as he moved to push back his curls. the gardens behind him were a mess—crushed daffodils and disturbed gravel marking his less-than-graceful chase of leopold, the tyrant monkey currently squirming indignantly in matilda tyrell’s arms. wylliam straightened, pushing his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose, trying to compose himself despite the stitch in his side and the slight flush creeping up his neck.

“you’re welcome,” he said, his tone dry, though his lips twitched as if fighting a smile. “though next time, my lady, i’d recommend a less… lively companion. perhaps a turtle. or a rock.” his gaze lingered on leopold, who chattered as if in protest, then flicked back to matilda. there was something disarming about the way she laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained, like it carried none of the weight the past few months had placed on everyone else. “patience?” he echoed, his voice softer now. “if that was the giver’s intent, then they’ve chosen a uniquely cruel tutor. i doubt even the seven themselves could suffer that creature for more than a moment.” the words came with a faint smile, but beneath his jest lay the lingering awkwardness that always seemed to bubble up around her.

he didn’t mean to notice the way the emerald of her gown complemented her eyes or how her laugh tugged at something deep within his chest. but he did. and he hated that he did. when she asked how he had been, wylliam faltered. the question was simple enough, but the answer—well, where did one begin? the dance of dragons had turned the realm on its head, and his days were now filled with arguments, decrees, and late nights pouring over petitions. her teasing about the monkey drew a quiet laugh from him, low and self-conscious, but genuine nonetheless.

“you’re not wrong,” he admitted, folding his arms loosely as he looked at her, letting out a soft exhale. “but i can hardly complain. i suspect, strange as it sounds, i’ve missed this sort of trouble.” the words surprised him even as he spoke them. there was a warmth here, a familiarity he hadn’t felt in months. a sense of normal. and then she asked how he was, and he knew he was fine - he was fine. stressed, but fine. she knew his current life was far from what he wanted.

“busy,” he replied, keeping his tone light, though the slight awkwardness remained in his tone as it always did. he folded his arms together. “though not too busy to chase a monkey across half of highgarden, apparently.” his attempt at humour felt thin, and he cleared his throat, glancing down at his hands, which still bore faint scratches from his pursuit. he should probably ask her about “and you?” he asked, shifting the focus back to her. “i imagine things have been rather lively here, given the… company.” he nodded toward leopold, who chose that moment to fling the remnants of his stolen pastry to the ground.

“you’ve kept well, i hope? you look well. normal, i mean.”

[malcontentswanns]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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