#celiaverse

Celia moved deeper into the undergrowth, the soft squish of the damp earth accompanying the frantic beat of her heart. Clutched tight against her chest, hidden beneath her cloak, were the damning pieces: a scratched pauldron and a mud-splattered cuirass. Evidence. Evidence of her sister’s reckless, glorious courage—evidence that could get them all killed.

Lyanna, what have you gotten us into?

She stumbled towards the riverbank, scanning for a deep pool, a swift current—anything to swallow the damning armor. Her hands, slick with nervous sweat, fumbled with the buckles. The mud sucked at her boots, treacherous and soft.

Hurry, her mind screamed. Before they searched the woods.

“Looking for a quiet place to admire the view, my lady?”

The voice, smooth and unexpected, sliced through the tranquil sounds of the forest. Celia whirled, her cloak flying open to reveal the unmistakable gleam of steel. Prince Aerion Targaryen stood barely ten paces away, framed by ancient oaks. He hadn’t approached silently—she’d simply been too panicked to hear. His lavender eyes were fixed, not on her face, but on what she was carrying.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced her gut. Her throat closed. “P-Prince Aerion,” she managed, her voice strangled. She instinctively tried to shove the armor back beneath the wool, but it was too late. The pauldron slipped, landing with a dull thud on the mossy ground. “It’s… it’s nothing. Just… some old armor I found. Discarded.” The lie tasted like ash.

He stepped closer, his boot crunching on a fallen twig. There was no smile on his lips, no hint of warmth in his expression. His gaze swept from the armor at her feet to her pale, terrified face. “Old armor? In such haste? My brother and the Kingsguard are tearing through every tent in their search for this… mystery knight. And here you stand, Lady Stark, looking as guilty as a cat caught among the doves… clutching pieces that appear remarkably fresh from the lists.”

Desperation clawed at her. “I’m not that knight!” The denial burst out, too loud, startling a bird from a nearby bush. “I swear it by the Old Gods and the New! It wasn’t me!”

Lyanna had believed that the squires who bullied the crannogman needed to be taught a lesson, and this was her plan. Ned and Benjen had agreed. As her older sister, Celia should have stepped in to stop her from making such a reckless decision, rather than encouraging her. If she had, perhaps things wouldn’t have unfolded as they did.

Foolish girl.

The prince held up a hand, silencing her rising panic. “Peace, my lady. I saw you watching the jousts. You were in your father’s box alongside him and your brothers when the Knight of the Laughing Tree rode onto the field. It couldn’t have been you.” The calm certainty in his words was more disorienting than accusation. He took another step, closing the distance. Kneeling on the damp earth, heedless of the mud staining his fine crimson trousers, he picked up the fallen pauldron. “This knight’s identity is their own shield. I have no desire to shatter it.” He looked up at her, his expression inscrutable. Then, he held out his hand—not demanding, but expectant. “Give them to me. I’ll see them disposed of. Properly.”

Celia stared, frozen. Could she truly place her trust in him? While she had heard whispers of his brother, Prince Rhaegar, the Mad King’s second son remained a complete stranger to her. The thought of relying on someone she hardly knew filled her with dread. Yet the alternative was even more terrifying: discovery, capture. Lyanna’s secret would be laid bare, and their family would face a brutal reckoning.

Hesitantly, hands trembling, she gave him the remaining pieces of armor into his waiting arms. Prince Aerion took them without a word, hands steady beneath the weight. His fingers brushed hers—a brief, startling contact that sent an unwelcome jolt through her fear-numbed nerves.

He straightened, tucking the armor casually under his own arm as if inspecting his own gear. His gaze swept the trees behind her, sharp and alert. “You should go,” he murmured, his voice barely louder than the rustling leaves. “Now. Before they decide to extend their search to the riverbanks.” He met her eyes again, a flicker of something urgent in his lilac depths. “Go. I’ll handle it.”

The command shattered her paralysis. Without a word, without a backward glance, Celia turned and plunged into the thick undergrowth bordering the river. Branches snagged at her cloak, roots threatened to trip her, but she pushed forward, driven by primal instinct. The sound of the river faded behind her, replaced by the frantic pounding of her own heart and the ragged gasps tearing at her throat.

Go. Go. Go. The single thought consumed her. She didn’t look back. She didn’t dare. Only when she burst from the tree line, blinking in the sudden sunlight and the roar of the distant jousting, did she stumble to a halt, leaning against a wooden fencepost, lungs burning. Relief washed over her in a dizzying wave.

She was out.

As dusk descended, draping the sky in rich hues of bruised purple and fiery orange, news began to ripple through the camp: the search had come to an end. The mystery knight was nowhere to be found—leaving only his shield abandoned in a tree. The king was furious, convinced that someone within his inner circle had betrayed him, alerting “this traitor who won’t show his face.” His suspicions still lingered on Ser Jaime, whom he believed had defied his orders by returning to the tourney, thereby leaving his wife and young Prince Viserys vulnerable and unprotected back in King’s Landing.

Celia’s hand instinctively flew to her chest, her heart still racing. She let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of anxiety lift from her shoulders.

They were safe.

Lyanna was safe.

——————

Based on @fromtheboundlesssea’s Celiaverse. Aerion is King Aerys II’s secondborn son and Celia is Lord Rickard Stark’s eldest daughter. They met during the tourney at Harrenhall when Celia was trying her best to get rid of the evidence that points to her sister Lyanna as the Knight of the Laughing Tree.

The first of the Firesteel spin-offs which shall start being posted after we are finished with main story II.

A long-fic which focuses on lady Celia of House Whent and her suitors.

Celia knew. She had always known. For every lady in a song who crowned her love, thousands others would see their dream break in a million pieces. She refused to stand and watch as her hopes got destroyed. I am Celia of House Whent, I am the lady behind the shadow, I am the light who casts the shadow.

I did this at request by my amazing talented from @fromtheboundlesssea for her Celia Verse Fic, No king at all. Which I am going to attach a link to.

We have from left to right Duncan, Jenny, Jaehaerys II, Shaera, Ormund Baratheon, Rhaella, Rhaelle, Aerys II, Celia, and Steffon Baratheon in the back.

In the front, Queen Betha Blackwood and King Aegon V.

Celia waved her arms: she was a falcon. Mom laughed behind her, trying to reach her "I'm going to get you, Lia!"

The heavy air turned alert to Rhea. She ran and took her baby in her arms. "Mom" Celia complained and squirmed in her arms. Celia was identical to her father, she was a girl conceived through pain, violence, blood. And she loved her. She wasn't strong, she couldn't lift a sword, but the Seven would have her soul if that man hurt her daughter. Celia was his, no one else's.

Daemon's dragon landed. Celia was five years old, but she recognized the resemblance. Daemon was handsome and underneath it all the shit about him. That night, the three of them dined together, the servants trembled. Daemon next to Celia at the fireplace and handed her a bag full of expensive gifts. Rubies, toy dragons, blacks, dresses too small. "Thank you, father" Celia said and she took the only toy the dragon had interested her.

Daemon at Celia, but her smile didn't reach her face. Daemon at her. Oh for the Seven. "Your mother and I will move into our chambers. Be a good girl and rest, little dragon." Rhe clenched his fists under her tablecloth. This was to be expected, Daeron wanted a son, an heir. "Come on, bronze bitch" She clenched her teeth. One day, one day she and Celia would be safe.

We're all waiting...

My submission for the Celiaverse Contest held by @fromtheboundlesssea

M A S T E R L I S T

When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it.

—Caitlyn Siehl

Celia Potter had nothing against Regulus Black, she actually liked him quite a bit.

But she couldn't imagine him as her boyfriend, let alone her husband.

Yet, there she was, wearing precious ritual robes, ready to walk into the stone circle of Black Manor to tie her life to Regulus' for the rest of eternity.

Again, Celia repeated her constant mantra.

"It cannot get worse."

••• ••• ● ••• •••

Prologue

Chapter I • The noble art of bargaining

Chapter II • Roundabout surprises

Chapter III• Trial run

Chapter IV• The Orphaned Grimoire

Chapter V• Handfasted

Chapter VI• Not so distant

Chapter VII• Where I should be

Chapter VIII• Fool

Chapter IX• Détente