#&maelora.

[liver-y]

maelora celtigar approaches her future good-daughter @antagonistzz amidst those making wreaths for their favoured, on the second day of the tourney

The wreath-making circle was brighter than Maelora had expected it to be, in the aftermath of what she heard were some truly jaw-dropping festivities the previous night. What else could one expect, after all, from a party organised by Alester Westerling? Maelora would have expected many of the young gathered here to be nursing a headache alongside their breakfasts—instead, here they were, preparing their wreaths. Eager little creatures. By the end of the eve a third would be ministering to the disappointed competitors they had favoured, and another third wondering why they had chosen so poorly. Maelora scanned the tops of heads until she found the one she was looking for, and approached, hovering just behind her seat. Vaiora Redwyne had certainly recovered well from her bout with death. The colour was back in her cheeks, at least, and her hands worked nimbly. "Fine work you have there, Lady Vaiora. Shall I guess who it is for?" she laughed. 

[liver-y]

a chance encounter between maelora celtigar and amaya arryn @bethemouth at the night market, on the third night of the tourney

An amusing little set of shops. Maelora was examining a heavy gold chain courtesy a merchant from Lannisport who was insisting lions were quite fashionable—perhaps they were, when one's primary audience was Lannisters and less powerful Lannisters—when she spotted Amaya Arryn two stands away, speaking to a blacksmith. Maelora put the leonine pendant away and moved on, barely pausing before the silversmith in between. "Lady Arryn," she greeted, making no motions to pretend surprise at the sight. Let her know that Maelora had approached her with intent. She had not had a chance to speak with the lady at the Harvest Feast, and had certainly had no opportunity afterward, with her laid at death's door. "I must say, it is a pleasure to see you out and about. I was very troubled to hear of your condition, all that followed. A distasteful series of events, though past now, one hopes." She looked back at the table of wares, displays of enameled and filigreed greaves and helms, then back at the lady. "Perhaps well enough to be a surprise competitor in tomorrow's sport? Are you perusing for yourself? I daresay that winged helm would rather suit you." 

[liver-y]

maelora celtigar sits by her son's bedside @steelworn as he rests, five days after the dragon attack

Daemian's chambers held the uneasy quiet of any sickroom. Maelora had insisted upon removing him from the hall with all the others that had been burned once the maesters had confirmed that he would live—but the absence of other wounded did little to alleviate the atmosphere of an infirmary. The poultices were thick and with the unpleasant smell of heavy herbs; the incense the novices lit to free the scent from the air did nothing to cancel the poultice smell, and only left the room smoky and cloying.

And there was the matter of Daemian's injuries.

The burns were terrible to look upon, and, she imagined, worse to feel. They said fire could not burn dragons. It had never been true, of course—the Valyrian houses of old had often fought each other with fire, and none had ever been truly immune from flame... yet it was quite something else to see the effects of it upon Daemian. Stupid boy, convinced of his own immortality, all those years in Essos and now here. None of them could have predicted this, though—one more mishap in a moon that had already been a trial. Alive, the maesters' said, but alive and well were not the same. There would be no telling until he was in better state, if the wounds were merely skin-deep, or there was greater risk. The lack of further information or progress had grated her temper to nothing over the past few days.

She looked up from her reading as there was movement beside her. She sat up, looking over him. "Daemian?" 

[liver-y]

maelora celtigar, in an unexpected conversation with delfina targaryen @firedreamt upon a balcony in the red keep, shortly after the discovery of the poison

The knowledge that the toxin that had tied half the lieges in King's Landing to a sickbed was poison did nothing to clear the air of the foul miasma hanging over it. The Red Keep was an overlarge house of healing, every third room dedicated to the sick and suffering, and maesters and septons and acolytes a constant presence in the halls. Maelora was beyond sick herself. All this, and now she may no longer even reach for a good wine she could trust. Had she known the Arbor would prove so careless, she would have brought some casks from her own cellars. In the courtyard, several servants carefully hauled barrels across, all to be delivered to whatever maesters and woods' witches were looking for a cure closer to home than Oldtown. Another figure joined her on the balcony; Maelora curled a lip. "Poison. Who would dare do such a foolish thing?" Someone bold—or so confident in the Small Council's incompetence that they would risk all for a good opening move. They had achieved a great deal in this daring, with very little effort; even a Faceless Man would be jealous.

A sideways glance, a moment of pause. She had not expected her company to come in the form of Delfina Targaryen—but the princess had more reason than most to watch this venomed procession. “You must be relieved to know what it is. A poison that leaves one alive a week after ingesting is unlikely to kill before it is cured. Unless one is particularly frail. How fares your... wife? And a daughter, I believe? Which one is it?”

[liver-y]

maelora celtigar seeks a clandestine conversation with the new lady of dragonstone @bethemouth in a private room at an inn, overlooking blackwater bay, shortly prior to everybody's passage to dorne

The death of a dragon was a terrible thing, and King's Landing had seen two, the moon past. Maelora would have little expected, when she first heard the news of Delfina's recovery, that she would be gone so soon after her return from the waves—she would rather have expected Hightower's lackeys to have made certain she, and perhaps Lady Amerei Mallister, were never found, all the better to hold onto the position he had stolen from their third companion. A terrible fate... yet no less terrible a one to pass in one's bed, so close to a dream of power... and leaving one's house in so poor a shape. Maelora had not known Delfina well, or as well as she might have had they both lived in King's Landing, shared meat and mead over years and formed a bond that was only right amongst the few remaining Valyrians in this kingdom... but Maelora had seen the ardour in Delfina, the same urgency Maelora herself felt towards the throne and the legacy it held. She had had little faith in their ultimate victory... but Delfina had represented something of meaning yet, even merely in the dying embers of her house.

The door behind her opened, and a princess walked in. Looking over the young woman, Maelora saw little of what Delfina had held, little of Aegor and Maegor and the Conqueror, though she held herself with the same pride as any Targaryen. Maelora's lip curled... and yet, the smoke that issued from a dead fire still held some motes of its originating flame. Maekara Targaryen may have none of what had made the Targaryens what they were in their glory... yet she was the heir to a symbol that had meant a great deal to enough people to win a number of powerful allies.

Powerful allies who would oppose, Maelora hoped, what she too opposed. "I was beginning to suspect you would not come. I'm glad you have. I have a proposition for you, Princess Maekara," she said, and gestured for her to take a seat across the table from herself. "I was deeply sorry for Delfina's passing," she said after a moment, looking up at the princess to see what her response to that would be. Anger? Rage? Sorrow? It was no easy thing to conquer yourself in the face of grief. "We may have been rivals, but she was a Targaryen." The last, she did not bother to say. Maekara Targaryen either knew, or would not see how. "But beyond sentimental reasons of a shared history... Delfina was a threat. I'm sure you understand to whom?"

[liver-y]

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

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

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

[liver-y]

maelora celtigar speaks to her brother @kingsrct within one of the celtigar tents, shortly after everybody's arrival in dorne

Lucerys had travelled with the Targaryens. It never ceased to grate on Maelora that for some reason, upon Aegor's death, when Lucerys could have placed himself and his men behind his own sister, he had instead chosen to place his strength behind what little remained of the Targaryen line. Even now, with the last true Targaryen—the last one Maelora would have considered competent, or capable, of wielding the dragonfire that had given the Targaryens their seat and titles—gone, Lucerys held onto this misplaced loyalty. There was time yet to change that, though.

"What warm greetings at the court of Sunspear," Maelora intoned, dry, as he entered, and waved at him to take a seat alongside hers. "Wine? Not courtesy our hosts, of course." The Martells had offered them nothing yet but access to the Water Gardens. A pitiful show of hospitality thus far—and one she expected to change little, no matter that the Princess of Dorne herself had made this invitation. She rather wondered if the gathered nobility's opinion on this miracle offered by Rosalei Lannister would shift, when  faced with the truth of it. And then... well, what Valyrians did they have on hand, but her own house? "How were your travels? The new Lady Targaryen kept you in comfort, I'm certain."

[liver-y]

maelora celtigar returns to speak to mordhred tully @firedreamt  in the tully quarters, six days after the dragon attack

It had been a morning of checking in on friends and the less friendly all. With the council of lieges meeting just past, Maelora needed to know where each of the lieges of houses great and small stood—in particular where her friends were concerned. The Tullys had been burned, and twice: Ser Mordhred's son lay in as poor a condition as Daemian. Though the lady Amerei had reappeared, hanging on for dear life alongside Delfina Targaryen atop Alester Westerling, she doubted simply her life was sufficient to erase the Tullys outrage at how and why this had happened. She had no doubt that Ser Mordhred and the ruling liege were just as invested in making certain justice was dealt—even Perceon Hightower could not afford to look lax in this. She had had no intention of allowing yesterday's meeting to pass without making certain the small council would hold itself accountable, now and in future; no further announcements naming Perceon Fucking Hightower in charge, for one. It had not gone that way. Rosalei Lannister's interruption had thrown all into chaos, re-aligning the question from justice to finding a solution to the dragons problem... as though the question to whence it had arisen had been answered yet. Maelora had to wonder what her allies intended to do. Go to Dorne, certainly, as they all would... but what then? Permit this to pass?

"Ser Mordhred," she greeted, once she was let in to see them. "How does your son? On the mend, I hope—as Daemian is." Mordhred was a clever one; she did not doubt they had the same doubts she did, as to where and what state the two of them had been found in.