ENTER: PRISCELLA WATERS ; 25, the hand's bastard. ☀️📚🐚 — intro, musings, threads.
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ENTER: PRISCELLA WATERS ; 25, the hand's bastard. ☀️📚🐚 — intro, musings, threads.
the urge arrives suddenly and viciously. not for the girl herself, not truly. priscella waters is all doe-eyes and charm; her small, trembling fingers pretending not to shake. but her cunt of a father is only a few tables away now, greeting the others, red-cheeked and wine-drunk, laughing loudly. the sound grates against your skull. you imagine it suddenly with startling clarity: darksister splitting the man from shoulder to sternum. the spray of blood across silver cluttery. the music stopping. the shock spreading. you wonder whether he'd still wear that foolish smile with his guts spilling into his lap. it was bad enough to whistand the feast sitting beside her, then she dared speak. your gaze slides toward priscella slowly, lilac eye bright as dragonflame, the black one colder still. pretty little thing. soft-looking. meek. and yet, and still, she dares. you think of how fast you could strangle her with one hand if you pleased. wonders briefly whether she'd cry prettily, too. should you count to five now? you are already angry that you must count at all--
one. 'it is all quite a sight, my liege, is it not?' two. 'even in death, nestled in the mother's embrace, i'm sure, our late king still manages to bring the realm together.' three. a scoff leaves maekara before she can stop it, sharp and humorless. she sets her goblet down with a muted clink. four-- "his grace, my uncle, could not even bring his own family together," you say flatly. "spare me the false sentiment, girl." five. but the fire does not cool. "it is not grief which gathers the realm. it is greed. your father's have fattened him, by the looks of it." your gaze flickers toward the dining hall again. lords and ladies alike circling one another like hounds, readying to sink their teeth into your mother's birthright. the iron throne? a gaping whore anyone and everyone must have a turn with. the small circle, its shameless pimp. though those who sup with swine ought not complain of the mud; and king aegor had made his choice for company long ago, albeit poorly. for all their grievances, your mothers would have granted him dignity in death. this? this spectacle? this drunken scavenging dressed up as mourning? it reeks.
a world which would declare a baseborn mutt superior to a girl of noble blood is not one that priscella understands. nonetheless, it is the world she so happens to live in, and because she quite likes her life, no matter how small it may be, she decides to stay her tongue and not tell her embittered guest that there might be a reason they were not invited to the heart of the realm until now. instead, she takes the princess's lashings just as she takes everything else: placidly and easily, resolve unwavering. she meets her multi - color gaze head - on and watches her carefully, trying with all her might to keep her expression steady, revealing nothing of what simmers underneath.
let the pretender rage, she thinks. it's all she has left.
"mmh," she hums at last, allowing maekara's words to settle between them. not for the first time, priscella finds herself wishing her father was a greater man; that he cared, even a little bit, about how his actions affected him and his kin. she cants her cup from side to side then, letting the wine swirl, and curses herself for following his lead and imbibing. she can feel as her flush deepens.
"as the hand, much has been given to him. it would be a slight, and a mark of most ungratefulness, to refuse the realm's bounties, especially when so many go without. perhaps that is cause for the... fullness we see."
her heart beats in her chest wildly, hammering away at the confines of its cage. she will feign ignorance and attribute her supposed misunderstanding of maekara's insult to her poor breeding if caught. it is what little she has available to her in such precarious scenarios, the only tool she can wield. she tucks her chin obediently then and cants her head to the side, looking not unlike a dog. obedient and good, perhaps even pitiful — that is what she aims for.
"nevertheless, we can speak of something else or not at all, if that would please you, princess. i did not mean to offend and i do apologize if i have done so."
cedric makes his way about the room, his presence commanding as ever. he's the kind of lord that people feel almost forced to look at, and why shouldn't they? he's a lion of the rock, after all. fiercest of them all. blue - green eyes scan the room before him, scouting out the various lieges that scatter about. despite the melancholic mood, everyone seems to be in rather high spirits. after all, the funeral has passed.
he notices one lady on the outskirts of the dancing, and as he grows closer, it dawns on him who she is. daughter of the hand – a bastard, but a daughter nonetheless. it might be fun to bother her, he thinks to himself.
“indeed,” he agrees, snatching a goblet from a nearby tray being paraded around by a serving girl. “that he does,” he nods, raising his goblet for a moment, “to the king!” his words remain hollow, though. because despite what she says, aren't they all just vultures, all vying for his throne now?
"to the king," priscella agrees, lifting her goblet. "and to you as well, my lord." he towers over her, he always has, but she does not lift her chin any higher than dignity and decorum demand when she looks at him. instead, she peers up at him through her lashes, her gaze coy, cautious, and heady as it washes over him and flits between him and his goblet. "you're hard to miss, walking these halls as though they belong to you already." in some ways, in the only ways that matter really, she knows that they do — that they belong to his entire pride. still, she will not kowtow to cedric. his sisters, yes, unashamedly even, but not him. the lion, the peacock, the dreadfully handsome inebriate who makes her stomach flip. she hopes he drowns in his cups tonight. elsewhere, her lips curl into a smirk at the thought of it. "i take it you are faring well tonight?"
king's landing is interminably grotesque, roslyn has since concluded, her days in the realm's capital thus far few but eventful. its stench rivals even the dungeons of the dreadfort, all nightsoil and smoke and sweat, its slums rotten and congested. there is nothing like the disappointment of travelling weeks on end in anticipation of a grand harvest feast, her first time any further south than moat cailin, surrounded by nobility from all the different kingdoms, only to be met with—well, this. drunken lords and presumptuous heirs all looking down their noses at her in one sickening way or another, sweet wines dulling and loosening tongues and perfumed air mingling with what lingers out below.
"most of the realm, i suppose." so she is willing to acquiesce as much, figuring it would not do to strike up a doctrinal argument on the very first night (the night is still young, by any means). her own goblet remains untouched, still as full as it was when first pressed into her hand by some attendant and wielded more like a prop than a source of imbibement, distrustful of the arbor golds and the dornish reds alike. "why, to take a look around, one would almost swear his grace is still sitting the throne." indeed, she has looked upon the billowing silk dragons with almost as much disgust as she has looked upon the grey direwolf, each one needling away at something deep within her.
it's her way of speaking that makes priscella turn and look — how out of place it is in such a room. "yes," she muses, almond eyes roaming across the length of her, taking her in from head to toe. not to size her up, but... merely to observe her. she does not bark, this one. not like her brother, she thinks. "a most troubling thought, that. one cannot look forward and back at once. the time has come for new beginnings; perhaps new furnishings, too." the arbor gold has blunted her senses some, but not enough to subdue that incessant inclination to fawn and make merry. she offers her a smile: small and practiced. "are you a betting woman, by any chance?"
located in just within the red keep's walls, as the last of the wheelhouses are making their way through the gates & fated for any who wish to respond.
the muscles of his back are tensed against the warm southern breeze. it pulls at the pink fabric of his doublet like caressing fingers, and it brings with it the stench of rot — of unwashed bodies, of blood. king's landing was a cess pit, and jacks bristles once more at the notion that jorah had ordered him here. his stomach is knotted not unlike the handiwork of a hangman, his jaw clenched as if it were forged together by a blacksmith. inside its cage, his tongue pokes at the metallic surface of his left inciser. it tastes familiar, like something he'd eaten in a dream. a flash of movement to his right brings him out of his miserable reverie, sets him on high alert. men do not bare their teeth in greeting. " you walk with the misplaced confidence of a southerner, " he accuses, back pressed tightly to the side of the bolton wheelhouse. he flashes a grin that is more animalistic than it is a display of mirth. jacks considers it a healthy compromise. " and too close to what is not yours. "
priscella knows when she's being sent away, is the thing. still, it does not stop her from fulfilling whatever trivial, far away task has been asked of her once her commentary begins to grate on her lord father's ears. she's been tasked with getting a lay of the land, seeing who has arrived and with what — who with which to curry favor and who to look out for. this northern brute, presumptuous and out of place, is clearly one of the latter. noting the accent and the colors of his garb, she need not ask to know precisely who he is. to their credit, the boltons are singular in their peculiarity; memorable, if nothing else.
her eyes, warm and wide, roam over him then and catch on his mouth. was that meant to be... a smile? alas, priscella does not falter. instead, she clasps her dainty hands at her middle and plants her feet like a tree. he caught her off - guard once. she will not give him the satisfaction of doing it twice. "this is my home, my lord." her voice is light, pleasant still, and bordering on amused. it is a challenge, veiled and presented in the only way available to her, rabbit heart thumping away in her chest and all. "i shall walk where i please."
🐚 — during the feast, priscella stands at the edge of all the dancing; watching, waiting, wanting. feel free to assume whatever you'd like. ♡
flush - faced, gem - crested goblet in hand, and eyes having taken on a glassy look, priscella has never once looked more like her lord father than she does now. he's pleased as punch, fool that he is, downing more of the arbor's finest than is befitting someone of his station, and she... her throat tightens, jaw clenching from the force of trying to hold back her grief. wishing to drown it once and for all, she takes a hearty sip of her drink and swipes her tongue across the plump of her bottom lip before steeling her face into something lighter and more like herself. in a room full of vultures, she simply cannot afford to look weak — not here, not now.
elsewhere, her fingers tap along to the beat against her goblet and still only when she senses another nearby. "it is all quite a sight, my liege, is it not?" just beyond them are a number of lieges each dressed to the nines, twirling about in a sea of multi - color and endless delight. it would be nice to dance, she thinks then, gaze catching on one such lady in particular. her fingers twitch, chest burning at the sight of them all. "even in death, nestled in the mother's embrace, i'm sure, our late king still manages to bring the realm together." for now, at least.
PEARL (2022) dir. Ti West
HONOR, NOT HONORS: PRISCELLA WATERS, the pearl.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ( waters c , racheI zegIer , twenty - five , cis woman , she/her ) the hand of the late king welcomes priscella waters of the crag, to the kingsmoot. the realm knows them to be curious and charming, but the master of whisperers has unearthed information that speaks to their opportunistic and duplicitous tendencies. to dream of them would be to dream of journal pages fed to the flames, your innermost thoughts and desires known to none other; the warmth of the sun on your skin and the hum of the earth beneath your feet to prove that you are here in your body and the world; and leaving no trace of your haunting but the flickering of your shadow beneath the door. they themselves dream of house westerling on the throne. time is an unwieldy mistress, and only she may tell who will sit the iron throne when the dust settles.
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON 1x06: “The Princess and the Queen” (2022)
NORTHANGER ABBEY (2007)
dir. jon jones
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, from "The Complete Novels of Mary Shelly,"
La Fanciulla Sulla Roccia a Sorrento (1871) by Filippo Palizzi
RACHEL ZEGLER getting ready for the 2026 Met Gala (May 04, 2026)
Marcel Proust, from a story featured in "The Complete Short Stories of Marcel Proust," originally published in 2001
The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes dir. Francis Lawrence | 2023
“never forget that softness is strength, unflinching / against the knife and it is also the knife.”
— Jess Rizkallah, from “Ghada says,” The Magic My Body Becomes: Poems