The Beast Beneath the Boards
The air in the Sept of Baelor was suffocating. Too many people. Too little air. The faint glow of torches lined the stone walls, their flickering flames casting long, warped shadows over the crowd. Every breath Celeste took felt too sharp, too shallow. The space smelled of sweat, incense, and the faint tang of stone dust.
It was too loud.
The low murmur of the crowd echoed all around her like the hum of a beehive, voices blending into one endless, shapeless sound. The press of bodies shifted with every movement. People jostled into each other, craning their necks to see the raised dais at the end of the hall.
Her eyes were locked on the platform.
On Aegon.
He stood at the centre of it, his silver hair catching the faint glow of torchlight like threads of molten silver. His face was pale, eyes rimmed red. His eyes darted around the crowd. He didn’t look like a king. He looked like a man caught in the jaws of a beast, eyes wild, searching for a way out.
But there was no way out. Not for him. Not for any of them.
Celeste kept her face still, her eyes scanning everything—the guards, the banners, the people who watched with hollow eyes. She stood near the front of the crowd, her eyes stayed sharp. She wasn’t here to watch just a coronation.
She was here to watch them.
Her gaze flickered to Alicent, who stood at Aegon’s side, her face a mask of quiet control. But Celeste could see it. The tightness around her mouth. The faint tremble in her fingers.
Otto stood just to the side of them, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his eyes as cold and calculating as ever. He was watching everything. Everyone.
The High Septon raised his hands.
“May the warrior give him courage,” his voice echoed, loud and clear, carrying over the crowd like thunder. The murmurs quieted. Everyone watched. Everyone listened. “May the smith lend strength to his sword and shield.”
Celeste studied Helaena’s face, calm, impassive, but she knew Helaena well enough to know inside she was struggling with herself. Aemond stood to her right, staring forward, face stoic as he stood tall, like a soldier ready for battle.
“May the father defend him in his need,” The septon continued, his thumb running water across Aegon’s forehead as he speaks. “May the crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom.”
Celeste’s heart thudded in her chest, slow but steady. Her eyes flickered to Aegon’s face again, watching every shift of his expression, every twitch of his fingers. He didn’t want this. She could see it plain as day. But his gaze kept flicking to Alicent. His mother. The only one he still looked to for direction.
Her jaw clenched, her fingers twitching at her sides. Run, she thought bitterly, her eyes narrowing. Run, fool. Run before they trap you.
But he didn’t run.
The High Septon stepped forward, lifting the crown of Aegon the Conqueror from its velvet pillow. The weight of it seemed to pull down the air itself, the torches flickering as though they could feel the shift in power.
Celeste’s chest tightened, her breathing slower now, sharper. This was it. The moment it all changed.
Her eyes darted to the crowd, scanning the faces. Too many. Too many people. Too many eyes. She spotted Targaryen banners near the front. Lords and ladies who had bent their knees in quiet submission. They were all complicit.
Her heart pounded harder.
“There is a beast beneath the boards,” Helaena had whispered.
Her gaze flicked to the floor, her eyes narrowing as her breath quickened. The ground beneath her shoes felt too solid. Too still.
The High Septon passed the crown to Ser Criston Cole, who took it carefully in his grasp.
“The crown of the conqueror, passed down through generations.” Criston raised the crown in the air, allowing everyone to behold it, before placing the crown on Aegon’s head. “Let the Seven bear witness, Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”
The crowd murmured at the words, shuffling uneasily.
The weight of it settled on Aegon slowly. His shoulders tensed. His gaze flickered downward, as though he could feel it, not just on his head, but on his soul.
The Septon offered his hand, Aegon taking it as he stood. One by one, those on the platform curtsied to him, a show of respect. Celeste could only watch from her place, her stomach twisting.
"All hail His Grace, Aegon, Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men," the Septon declared, his voice like a bell that had been struck with iron. “Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”
Cheers erupted, growing louder as each bell rang out through the city. Celeste clapped slowly, Sirius joining in unenthusiastically. As the applause grew, she could feel the shift from Aegon. The man who knew he was not meant to be King, now saw his opportunity and Celeste feared he would be as selfish with the crown as he was in his daily life. Consumed by the roar of the applause, he lifted his sword—Blackfyre—and held it high.
The crowd cheered. Louder than thunder. Louder than war.
Her heart dropped.
The shift in him was so sudden, so stark. He loved it. She saw it in his face, in the way his eyes gleamed with sudden, reckless power.
Her eyes darted to Otto. He saw it too. He smiled.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Her heart skipped a beat. That wasn’t the crowd.
Her gaze snapped to the ground. The floor trembled beneath her feet.
Boom. Boom. CRACK.
Her eyes shot up, her gaze darting toward the floor ahead of her. She saw it—a jagged crack splitting the stone in two. People stumbled back, gasping, shrieking, their hands darting out to grab each other. She knew. She knew.
“There is a beast beneath the boards.”
Her breath hitched. “Move!” she yelled, shoving the man in front of her out of the way. Her eyes locked on the split stone, her hands clenching at her sides. It’s happening. It’s happening.
Boom. Boom. BOOM.
The floor exploded.
Stone. Dust. Fire. Shrieks.
The dragon roared.
The air turned to smoke, stone shards flying through the air like daggers. People screamed. They scattered. They ran.
But Celeste didn’t run. She saw it. She saw her.
The roar of Meleys shook the very bones of the Sept of Baelor, louder than thunder, deeper than the earth shifting beneath them. The crowd surged in panic, screams cutting through the air like knives. Bodies pressed together. Too many bodies. People clawed at each other, shoving and tripping as they fled toward the exits.
Celeste stood still. Her eyes didn’t follow them.
Her gaze was on the platform.
Helaena.
Her eyes tracked every movement on the dais. Aegon stood frozen, Alicent clutched his arm, and Aemond’s gaze was locked on the dragon. But Helaena wasn’t moving. Her head tilted back. Her eyes lifted toward the ceiling.
Her lips moved slowly. Her words, soft as silk, barely reached Celeste’s ears.
“The beast beneath the boards.”
Her heart jolted. Not now.
Her gaze followed Helaena’s.
The ceiling.
A sharp, ragged crack ran across the stone high above them. It spread slowly at first, but then it sped up, splintering outward like a web of lightning. The ceiling shifted. The weight of it shifted.
Her breath caught in her chest.
It’s going to fall.
Her heart surged. Her legs moved before her mind caught up.
“Helaena!” she screamed, her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd. She ran, her feet skidding against stone and shattered tile. She ran faster than she ever had before. Her eyes never left Helaena.
No time. No spells. No plans. Just instinct.
The air above them shifted, heavy with pressure, as the ceiling gave way with a loud, earsplitting crack. The stone crumbled in chunks the size of boulders, and a beam snapped in half like a broken bone. The thunderous sound of collapse roared behind her, but she didn’t stop.
Her boots pounded against the stone. Her breath came in sharp, fast bursts. Her eyes stayed on Helaena.
The stone beam above them broke loose.
Falling.
Her heart stopped. Her mind burned with one thought.
No. Not her. Not her. Not Helaena. I will not fail another.
Her fingers stretched out, her magic surging through her veins like fire. Her whole body ached with it. Her fingertips buzzed with the familiar, burning warmth of magic waiting to be released. No wand. No focus. Just will.
Her lips moved. Her voice was quiet but firm.
“Protego!”
The world slowed. Her magic exploded outward, golden light surging from her fingertips. The air shimmered with the glow of a barrier, thin but strong. The stones hit the shield with deafening cracks, shattering into smaller shards. The beam slammed against the golden light, splintering into dust as it broke apart.
Her arms shook from the strain. Her muscles burned. Her bones ached. Her head throbbed with the effort of holding it. But she held it. She had to.
Her breath was short, sharp, uneven.
She reached Helaena, throwing herself over Helaena as a human shield just as the last of the rubble crashed down on top of them. The glow of her shield flickered.
It wasn’t enough.
The pressure hit her from all sides, a sudden, sharp weight as stone and dust crashed down. Her legs buckled. Her arms trembled. Her fingers twitched, and the glow of her magic flickered one last time—and vanished.
The weight of it all hit her at once.
Pain. Searing, sharp pain.
Her shoulder hit the ground hard. Her head snapped to the side, her cheek pressing against the cold, cracked stone. Her left arm burned. Burned like fire. Her eyes squeezed shut, her jaw clenched against the sudden ache that pulsed from her shoulder down to her wrist. Her body ached. Her chest heaved. Her arms stung.
Her eyes flickered open, her breath shallow. They were buried.
The air was tight, the weight of the rubble pressing against her from every side. She could hear the distant roar of the crowd outside the rubble, the sound of stone still shifting above them. But she wasn’t crushed. Not completely.
Her eyes darted down. Her sleeve was gone.
Her heart stuttered. Her gaze locked onto her arm.
The Dark Mark was there, bold as ink, stark against her skin. Her breath hitched, her pulse sharp with panic. Her fingers twitched to pull her sleeve down, but the fabric was gone. Torn by the sharp edges of the rubble which encased them.
Her mind surged. Don’t let them see. Don’t let them know.
“Celeste?”
Her heart stopped.
Her gaze flicked down to Helaena, who was curled up beneath her, tucked close against the wall of rubble. Her eyes weren’t on the dragon. They were on her. On her arm.
Celeste’s breath came in fast, shallow gasps. Her heart raced too fast. Too fast.
Helaena saw it. Her pale eyes lingered on it—not with fear. Not with shock. With recognition.
“Is it the mark?” Helaena asked softly, tilting her head. Her gaze was steady, curious, distant but knowing.
Celeste swallowed hard, her lips pressed tightly together. “It’s nothing, Princess.” Her voice was raw, hoarse from the dust. “It’s nothing. Don’t look at it.”
Her lips parted, and her voice was soft, her breath slow and shallow. “It looks like a snake,” she said quietly, her head tilting as she stared at it. “Twisting, waiting. Hidden, but still strong.” Her eyes lifted to meet Celeste's gaze, calm but clear. “Snakes are brave.”
Her eyes flicked to Celeste’s face. Her gaze was clear now. Sharp.
“Like you.”
The rubble shifted above them, stone grinding against stone. The pressure on her chest grew heavier. Her eyes squeezed shut as she braced herself for another collapse, her left arm pinned awkwardly beneath her. Her magic was spent. She had nothing left.
Then she heard it.
“Get them out!”
Aemond.
His voice was sharp, commanding. Close. So close.
Her heart lifted. He was here.
“They’re under here!” His voice was closer now. Her breath hitched with relief. “Pull it off! Now!”
The weight on her back shifted. Her breath came easier. The stone was being moved—fast, deliberate, sharp sounds of rubble being tossed aside. She tried to turn her head, but her body ached too much. Her arms were heavy. The pressure from holding herself up to avoid crushing Helaena bearing down on her. Her fingers tingled, the effects of wandless magic shooting through her like lightning.
“I see them! They’re here!”
Another shift of rubble. Light. Dim, but light.
Her body was suddenly light, the pressure of the stone gone from her back. She sucked in a sharp, clean breath, the air rushing into her lungs all at once. Too fast. Too much.
“Celeste,” a voice barked. Aemond.
Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze blurry but sharp enough to see him. He was crouched right in front of her, his face inches from hers.
His hands were on her arms, carefully gripping her. Firm, steady, but not rough. He wasn’t looking at the rubble. He was looking at her.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his eye sharp with something raw, something fierce. His voice didn’t sound calm. It sounded worried.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, her head still throbbing. Her arm burned. She glanced at it, saw the Mark still exposed, and pulled her arm behind her back in one smooth motion. Too late.
“Your arm,” Aemond said quickly, his hand brushing against her wrist. He saw it. He had to.
“It’s nothing,” she snapped, her voice sharp as broken glass. “I’m fine.”
Aemond’s gaze flicked to her face, his jaw tight. “Liar.”
“I'm fine,” she said again, pushing against him to stand. Her legs wobbled, but his hands were already at her waist, steadying her. Gentle but firm.
“Easy,” he muttered, his voice lower now, almost soft. “Don’t be stupid.”
Her eyes snapped to his face, her brows raised in defiance. “I’m not stupid, Prince.”
He smiled then. A real smile. Not cruel. Not calculated. Just real.
“You are,” he said softly, his voice like silk over steel. “But I like it.”
Her heart twisted in her chest. Her hand stayed on her arm, hiding the Mark.
But he’d seen it.
And he hadn’t looked away.
Aemond reached out slowly, his fingers ghosting the edge of her wrist as he pulled her arm back into view. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t disgusted. He was... curious. His head tilted ever so slightly, his brow furrowing like he was working through a puzzle.
His touch was light. Careful. Almost reverent.
“What's this?” Aemond asked quietly, his voice low but deliberate. No mockery. No suspicion. Just curiosity.
Her breath hitched. Her whole body went cold.
“Please don’t.” she said too quickly, pulling her arm back, but his fingers wrapped gently around her wrist. Not forceful. Not rough. Just... firm.
His eyes flicking up to hers. His gaze was sharper now, his focus entirely on her. Not the rubble. Not the dragon. Her.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her throat burned. Her chest felt tight.
“Let go,” she said quietly, her voice low, her eyes narrowing in warning. “Now.”
He tilted his head just slightly, his lips curling into a faint, knowing grin. “Not until you tell me what it means.” His thumb lightly brushed against the edge of the mark, tracing the curve of one of the serpent-like shapes.
Her heart stopped. Don't look at it. Don't name it.
His eyes stayed on hers, sharp and deliberate. He was reading her. Studying her.
"You wear it on your skin like armour," he said softly, tilting his head. “But it looks like a brand.”
Her breath hitched.
Her teeth gritted, her gaze burning into his. “I said let go.”
His grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t need to. He wasn’t holding her hostage. He was holding her still.
"Is it a sigil?" he asked, his eye narrowing as his gaze flicked back to the mark. "A house mark? A pledge? Or perhaps..." His grin grew sharper, a slight teasing to his voice. "...a warning."
Her breath shuddered. "It’s—” she began, her voice cracking slightly. The words caught in her throat.
Aemond’s grip didn’t tighten, but his hand remained on her arm, his thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the mark as though tracing its lines. His head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable. He was waiting. Watching.
Her mouth opened again, desperate for something—anything—to say, but the words were stolen by a sharp intake of breath from behind her.
"Celeste."
Her breath stilled. No. No, not him.
Her eyes flicked toward the sound.
Sirius.
He stood at the edge of the clearing where the rubble had been pulled aside. His wild hair was tangled with dust, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. But his eyes were clear.
His gaze wasn't on her face.
It was on her arm.
Her heart stopped. Her whole body went cold. Her eyes darted to her arm. The mark was still exposed.
Her fingers flew to cover it, pulling at the shredded fabric of her sleeve like it could somehow make it disappear. Too late.
Her eyes flicked back to Sirius.
His face twisted with something raw and broken. Not confusion. Not shock. Recognition.
He knew.
His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing like he’d just been hit in the chest. His breath came slower. Deeper. Quieter.
Her lips parted, words stuck in her throat. Her eyes burned, her heart thudding in her chest like it was trying to break free. "Please don't look at me like that." But the words didn’t come.
He took a slow step forward, his eyes still locked on her arm. Unblinking. Unwavering.
“Is it real?” Sirius asked, his voice raw. Quiet. Dangerously quiet. His eyes flicked to her face. “Tell me it isn’t real, Celeste.”
Her lips trembled. Her eyes burned with something sharp and hot. “Dad, it’s not what you think—”
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice cracked like a whip. His face twisted into something colder, sharper than she’d ever seen before. "Don't you dare."
Her breath hitched, her heart sinking into her stomach. Her hands shook. Her throat felt too tight.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she said, her voice breaking as she tried to keep it steady. “You have to believe that I didn’t have a choice.”
He let out a short, hollow laugh, his eyes burning with something she hadn’t seen in him before. Disappointment. Pain.
“No choice?” he repeated, stepping forward, his eyes sharp as broken glass. “No choice is what you tell yourself when you want to sleep at night.” His hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tight, his voice rising. “Don’t tell me you had no choice!”
Her breath came in fast, sharp bursts. Tears stung her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. Not now. Not here.
“I was just a girl,” she shot back, her voice fierce and wild, her eyes blazing like molten steel. “I did what I had to do. I survived, father. That’s all it was.”
He froze, his eyes narrowing on her, his chest rising and falling faster now. He stared at her like he didn’t know her. Like she was a stranger.
Her breath hitched. He’d never looked at her like that before.
“You were supposed to be better,” he said, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. “You were supposed to be better than that.”
Her heart shattered in her chest. Her eyes stung harder now, the tears threatening to fall no matter how hard she fought them.
"Don’t say that," she whispered, her voice small, fragile. “Please, dad. Don’t say that.”
But he was already stepping back. One step. Two steps. His eyes flicked to her arm again, then back to her face. His lips pressed into a tight, thin line.
“I need air,” he muttered, his voice rough, broken. “I can’t—” He cut himself off, turning away, his movements sharp and stiff.
Her chest tightened. Her hand reached out—not to grab him, just to stop him.
“Dad,” she called after him, her voice cracking as she took a step forward. “Please.”
He didn’t look back.
Celeste’s breath hitched, her hands clenching tightly as she fought back the tears that blurred her vision. The weight of his anger and disappointment was heavier than the rubble that had buried her.
“Celeste.”
Aemond’s voice broke through the haze, calm but firm. She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his. There was no anger in his gaze. No accusation. Just quiet intensity.
“You’re bleeding,” he said softly, his gaze flicking to her arm. His hand reached out again, brushing against her wrist gently, his touch steadying. “You should let the maesters see to you.”
She shook her head, her voice trembling. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he countered, his tone steady but insistent. There was no sharpness in his words, no mockery. Just concern.
She glanced down at her arm, at the faint trail of blood where the jagged edges of the rubble had cut her skin. The Dark Mark was still visible, stark and black against her pale flesh. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. Raw.
Aemond’s hand lingered just below the mark, his touch light but present. His gaze didn’t leave her face.
“You’ll explain it to him,” he said softly, his voice low and measured. Not a demand. A promise.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her voice was gone. Her words were gone.
He didn’t press her. Not now.
But his grip on her wrist stayed steady, grounding her as the world around them spun into chaos.