unrepentant

[elysbrax]

♛ → THE WESTERLANDS presents ELYS BRAX, the LORD of HORNVALE. when the dragons danced in the sky they thought the GREENS would still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. the THIRTY-FOUR year old CIS MAN who was OPPORTUNISTIC & ADAPTABLE before they saw the first of the flames, is now MANIPULATIVE & OBSESSIVE after seeing the last. they’re often associated with tarnished jewels, the gilding slowly rubbing off, the single-minded pursuit of a goal, a loaded set of dice ( callum turner )

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history. 

tws - stillbirth

the history of elys brax begins three generations ago, with two brothers. caspor brax, the eldest of the two, became lord of hornvale upon their father’s death, whilst his younger brother, alastor, was granted a keep within the lands caspor held. 

caspor would only have one child - a daughter, jeyne. alastor would go on to have many children, the eldest being a son, a knight by the name of lyonel brax. a cunning and ambitious man, it was lyonel himself who suggested that he marry caspor’s daughter, and so, the cousins were wed, allowing lyonel to rise to ruling lord with his wife by his side. 

it would have been the perfect plan - if only lyonel’s bride had given him a son. however, it wasn’t to be. before her death, jeyne brax would give birth to four daughters, before both mother and babe perished on the birthing bed with their fifth child, yet another girl. 

lyonel would later remarry, and with his second wife, he would have only one child - the son he had longed for. elys brax’s birth was much celebrated by his father, the first son born to a ruling lord since caspor and alastor, the heir he had yearned for for years. 

by the time elys was born, lyonel was already past his prime. knowing his son would succeed him at a young age, he began to impart the lessons he wished elys to learn upon him before the boy was really old enough to comprehend them, moulding elys into the man he expected him to become whilst he still could. the young elys would take those lessons to heart, his boyhood spent in the pursuit of matters lyonel considered worthwhile. 

as a younger man, elys would make a name for himself as a tourney knight, following in his father’s footsteps. one would think this would give him some skill upon the battlefield, but during the dance of the dragons,he developed a distaste for meeting opponents head on, honourably, on the battlefield, instead advocating for tricks and traps that would see the enemy on the backfoot before sending his men in to attack. there are many things elys brax cares about, but honour and fairness do not number among them. 

midway through the dance, lyonel brax succumbed to old age, leaving elys as lord of hornvale. 

for a long time, he has had his eyes on a council position, holding off from grasping for it due to uncertainties regarding the stability of his hold on hornvale. however, having kept his seat for several years now, he’s been slowly integrating himself in court, making his presence known and preparing himself to make his move.

personality. 

basics

elys is somewhat of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but he is not a meek and mild person. he’s sneaky, manipulative and machiavellian, but does not possess the sort of outward personality you might expect from someone with those traits. 

despite his lack of scruples, there’s no coldness to him, and he can in fact be quite a charismatic person, and certainly a strong presence, refusing to allow himself to be overlooked. 

he’s ambitious to the point of obsession, often locking on to a goal and pursue it doggedly until he achieves it. he will then find another target, and begin to chase that with just as much determination. 

he is determined, but he’s not stubborn. he knows when to disembark a sinking ship, and he will not commit to a plan that isn’t working, instead adapting his approach for the results he wants. he has a methodical approach to most things in life. 

his blood runs hot, but he’s remarkably good at biding his time, capable of nursing grudges for years before striking. 

there are few lines elys will not cross if he feels it is in his interests to do so. 

he’s the type of man to hand someone a rope and watch them hang themself. he’s not the person you mind your tongue around, he’s the person you regret saying too much to.

goals. 

both his ambition and his father’s tutelage inform his goals in life. to be blunt, elys wants power and control, and until he achieves that, there is little else he can truly focus on or desire. 

rumours. 

due to his distant relation to caspor brax, there is an argument that elys has no claim to hornvale, and that it should instead belong to the children of his oldest sister, caspor’s grandchildren. he is not the direct heir of house brax, he is just the only male to bear the brax name. 

fears. 

his biggest fear is humiliation. elys does not suffer fools, and will not be made to look like one. 

other. 

of his four sisters, the elder two are much older, in their fifties, and married with children of their own. the younger two are both under forty, and closer to elys’ age. 

hornvale itself is a mountainous, hilly region near the border of the riverlands. rather than the gold and silver and gemstones associated with the westerlands, their trade is iron, copper, tin, steel and lead, practical and useful metals for weapons and tools, but with a distinct lack of opulence. there is a martial tradition in the house, and all males born into it are expected to achieve knighthood. their sigil is the unicorn, which in heraldry is a symbol of both martial defence and trickery. 

[betweencloakandcrown]

His eyes were fixated on the ring, a gift that was not an honor. And he understood as the words left his Uncles lips, it was to be a burden. It would be something he would have to carry for all his life. He would not wear the sigil, nor would he have the name but he would have the burden. Cato Hill belonged to his uncle and his great house, and his uncle was trusting him. The weight of the ring was dwarfed by the weight of the hand on his shoulder. It was what he craved and hated most, the approval of his uncle. He did what he was told, he always did as he was told. Cato felt a deep fear and as he allowed the praise to wash over him his heart rate steadied and then picked up once more.

Cato knew what it meant. He had to take this chance and prove himself even more. And perhaps that was what the time in Alayim had been. It wasn't just a time for him to be punished but a time for him to be saved, to be rescued from himself. A bastard was enough of a stain on a house as great as Brax, he would have to work even harder to be better. Cato would be a true knight, he would have to be a true knight in the eyes of the Gods and the smallfolk, lords and ladies. And his Uncle.

The need for approval strangled him. He wanted his mother to love him as much as he loved her. He wanted his uncle to see more than a bastard. Cato wanted the West to see him ride into tourney and say, 'there he is, the knight of Brax. The Holy Bastard.' But who would call a bastard holy? Perhaps a Septa? Maybe not even them would be able to offer some solace. But he could do this. Cato could prove himself.

"No worries Uncle. I will do everything I need to do, everything that you ask of me." The ring would be his pathway to a new life for he already ruined his other chances. Made choices that took away any opportunity to live his own life. If he belonged to his Uncle, even without the ring, would he be able to create a path in his own name? Could he cast himself out? Or would he die?

[elysbrax]

if there was one thing elys prided himself on, it was his ability to create opportunity in adversary. that was, after all, what he had done with cato, the bastard boy that was, for better or worse, his responsibility, though the sin that created him had not been elys'. and he would make sure that it was for the better. to some, sending him to alayim might have seemed an extreme reaction to the wrongs cato had committed, but looking at the man before him, elys could not help but think it was the smartest thing he could have done. because it had given cato something to prove, and something to fear, the reality that elys could easily send him away again should he choose to do so.

"it seems that your time away has been the making of you, my boy," elys drawled. there was a delicate balance to be found, though. push cato too far, and he would start to get ideas - like that he did not need elys at all. that would be no good, not while elys still saw use for his nephew.

and for now, cato was still obedient, still saying the words elys wanted to hear. he nodded his head. "go to the septs, then. listen to what people have to say when they think none but the gods can hear them. whatever you hear, you bring to me and me alone. if there's an advantage to this, i don't want to share it." elys liked to be the one holding all the cards in any given situation. he did not know what cato might return to him with, but he did know that if there was anything of use there, he wanted to be the only one to know of it.

[elysbrax]

original thread @betweencloakandcrown

The mark left on him by Alayim was something Cato would never be able to put into words. He recalled the feeling of the first night a septon spoke over them, they'd lost so many and were going to lose more but the words and the tone and patience in that septon's voice struck him. To be a man who gave up everything to serve gods he would never see, how could Cato not fight for their right to keep what was rightfully theirs? And of course the mark made him question everything, made him wonder where they stood in the eyes of the father or if the King had it true. A King chosen by the Gods or a High Septon chosen by men who dedicated their live to the Gods? He did not know. Cato could not hide the surprise at the mention of a gift his eyes going to the box as he took it and started to thank him as it died on his lips from shock. To leave in shame and return gifted with someone that had the mark of their great sigil on it. "Thank you, uncle." He started, taking out the ring and then looked up at the scoff, confusion followed by shame came on to his face before he worked to have a face of stone but he faltered, his guard was down.

"No, Uncle, I swear to you." Cato stopped himself from flinching, he would not show fear, he couldn't. The bastard couldn't explain he was spending time with his mother, visiting her and helping with the meals for the smallfolk or cleaning. Yes, he went to a sept and perhaps went to far in his adventures but he'd learned his lesson. If a man were to soil his soul it shouldn't be in a sept. "People talk in septs, lords and ladies. Knights and smallfolk. They kneel before the candles and say their secrets. Not all say prayer. It's how we were able to find so many who were planning on not signing their names. We produced numbers for the King and can again." He only hoped his uncle believed him. There was more than fucking septa's in the world of Cato Hill, yes his reputation existed for reason but it kept people from asking further questions. Kept people from wondering what else he did with his time if they thought he spent it all following orders and doing as bastards do. "I have debased myself and besmirched your great house, uncle. But this, I swear, this is different."

elys' gaze did not waver from cato's face, scruntising every flicker in his expression. for a moment, he thought he could see doubt there, and that worried him more than he would outwardly admit. alayim had been supposed to scare him into obedience, but had it all been a rare mistake for him, moving cato beyond his influence and out of his control? but no - the expression soon shifted, to one of unmistakeable shame, and the set of elys' jaw relaxed in the knowledge that he did still have influence over his nephew after all.

"the ring," his voice was low when he spoke. "is a gift, yes, but it is not an honour. it is a burden. you do not carry the brax name," and never would, never could. "but i have taken responsibility for you all the same. you belong to me by blood." always ownership, never true belonging. "i am trusting that since you proved worthy of ties to our house in alayim, you will continue to do so now you have returned. do not disappoint me."

when cato launched into explanation, elys did a rare thing - he listened, fingers tapping lightly on the table he sat at in thought. cato had done something surprising, offered a rational thought that, despite his better judgement, pleased elys. it was not the pride he felt at nathaniel, the nephew he had always favoured over the bastard before him, but it was something. he stood then, rising slowly to his feet, walking around the edge of the table to approach cato. "you might be right," he admitted, hand coming up to rest on cato's shoulder. "well done."

it was this that he had hoped for when sending cato across the sea, that what would return would be a man who had grown out of the games of a boy and been moulded into something that could be useful to him. "you have." he said, bluntly. "but boys make mistakes, and i am not unreasonable. mistakes can be forgiven with time and effort." the implication was clear. cato had earned himself a chance, but not full redemption in elys' eyes.

[falcxnprince]

setting: the verdant concord, highgarden, rhys has a little banter with some young lord / open starter (0/2)

highgarden had always been a place that craved spectacle. emerald lawns stretched out beneath the afternoon sun, the banners of half the realm fluttering like jeweled wings in the breeze. nobles had gathered on the green to entertain themselves with some ridiculous game that involved sprinting after a gilded hoop and tackling one another to the laughter of their companions. the kind of sport that proved nothing but how easily men of status could behave like boys when given an audience.

from his place beneath a carved arbor overgrown with blooming roses, rhys watched them with a lazy sort of interest, one gloved hand resting atop the silver falcon head of his cane. the cane itself drew a few glances, as it always did, as if his bum leg were something scandalous rather than merely inconvenient. a lord from the reach, too young to know manners and too arrogant to care, called out with a smirk, “will the falcon of the vale join us, or has he forgotten how to fly?” laughter followed, light and practiced, the kind used more for performance than amusement.

rhys didn’t bother straightening from his relaxed lean; he simply raised his goblet in a slow, deliberate toast, the wine catching the sunlight like blood in crystal. “oh, i can still fly,” he drawled, voice smooth and cutting in its ease. “i simply choose not to fling myself into the dirt for sport. but please, do show me how it’s done. i’ve always been told the reach breeds fine livestock.” his smile was pleasant. the meaning behind it was not.

a ripple of strained laughter moved through the nearby onlookers, unsure whether they were allowed to be amused. rhys took a sip of his wine, unbothered, his gaze drifting back to the field. he had long stopped caring what they whispered, cripple, coward, prince in name alone. let them talk. he had come to highgarden not to entertain them, but to observe, to remember, and perhaps, if it amused him, to remind them that a falcon did not need two good wings to draw blood.

[elysbrax]

elys considered himself an observant man, the sort to weigh the measure of every man in the room within a minute or two of entering it. he'd made note of rhys arryn, the prince of the vale, before the reach lords had caught the flash of silver atop his cane, but elys did not look at him directly. that did not mean he wasn't watching, out of the corner of his eye. in that moment, to elys brax, rhys arryn was the most interesting man in the room.

it was not the kind of interest that came from anything rhys was himself, or anything he had done. elys couldn't really care less about house arryn, nor the vale. he cared not for the fact that rhys was a prince, nor the fact that of all the kingdoms in westeros, it was the vale that was held in the most contempt by the one he himself belonged to. that wasn't where his mind was in that moment.

it was on guinevere lannister.

their last conversation had left him disconcerted. for a man who usually was able to see beyond what it was that people said, and use that to figure out how to get what he wanted from them, she was a frustratingly blank canvas. it shouldn't trouble him, not really, and yet it did. but here was rhys arryn, and there was a chance, however slim, that he might possess something that could shine a light on that which he had, to this point, not been able to see.

he did not look up until rhys called out to the lord who had offered a thinly veiled insult, turning his head almost lazily to look. several around them laughed, but not elys. he didn't find it funny, nor did he think it made sense. what good was flight, he wondered, when prince rhys could barely walk? when the tittering had died down, he stepped forward, hands clasping behind his back. "you handled that well," he spoke with the ease of a practiced liar, without deception on his face. "the lords of the reach have grown bold in their own territory, it seems."

he paused for a moment, eyes flicking to the chair beside rhys and waiting for permission to take it. rhys was still a prince, at the end of the day, and he would not have it said that his manners failed him.

[sercatohill]

The mark left on him by Alayim was something Cato would never be able to put into words. He recalled the feeling of the first night a septon spoke over them, they'd lost so many and were going to lose more but the words and the tone and patience in that septon's voice struck him. To be a man who gave up everything to serve gods he would never see, how could Cato not fight for their right to keep what was rightfully theirs? And of course the mark made him question everything, made him wonder where they stood in the eyes of the father or if the King had it true. A King chosen by the Gods or a High Septon chosen by men who dedicated their live to the Gods? He did not know.

Cato could not hide the surprise at the mention of a gift his eyes going to the box as he took it and started to thank him as it died on his lips from shock. To leave in shame and return gifted with someone that had the mark of their great sigil on it. "Thank you, uncle." He started, taking out the ring and then looked up at the scoff, confusion followed by shame came on to his face before he worked to have a face of stone but he faltered, his guard was down.

"No, Uncle, I swear to you." Cato stopped himself from flinching, he would not show fear, he couldn't. The bastard couldn't explain he was spending time with his mother, visiting her and helping with the meals for the smallfolk or cleaning. Yes, he went to a sept and perhaps went to far in his adventures but he'd learned his lesson. If a man were to soil his soul it shouldn't be in a sept. "People talk in septs, lords and ladies. Knights and smallfolk. They kneel before the candles and say their secrets. Not all say prayer. It's how we were able to find so many who were planning on not signing their names. We produced numbers for the King and can again." He only hoped his uncle believed him.

There was more than fucking septa's in the world of Cato Hill, yes his reputation existed for reason but it kept people from asking further questions. Kept people from wondering what else he did with his time if they thought he spent it all following orders and doing as bastards do. "I have debased myself and besmirched your great house, uncle. But this, I swear, this is different."

[elysbrax]

elys' gaze did not waver from cato's face, scruntising every flicker in his expression. for a moment, he thought he could see doubt there, and that worried him more than he would outwardly admit. alayim had been supposed to scare him into obedience, but had it all been a rare mistake for him, moving cato beyond his influence and out of his control? but no - the expression soon shifted, to one of unmistakeable shame, and the set of elys' jaw relaxed in the knowledge that he did still have influence over his nephew after all.

"the ring," his voice was low when he spoke. "is a gift, yes, but it is not an honour. it is a burden. you do not carry the brax name," and never would, never could. "but i have taken responsibility for you all the same. you belong to me by blood." always ownership, never true belonging. "i am trusting that since you proved worthy of ties to our house in alayim, you will continue to do so now you have returned. do not disappoint me."

when cato launched into explanation, elys did a rare thing - he listened, fingers tapping lightly on the table he sat at in thought. cato had done something surprising, offered a rational thought that, despite his better judgement, pleased elys. it was not the pride he felt at nathaniel, the nephew he had always favoured over the bastard before him, but it was something. he stood then, rising slowly to his feet, walking around the edge of the table to approach cato. "you might be right," he admitted, hand coming up to rest on cato's shoulder. "well done."

it was this that he had hoped for when sending cato across the sea, that what would return would be a man who had grown out of the games of a boy and been moulded into something that could be useful to him. "you have." he said, bluntly. "but boys make mistakes, and i am not unreasonable. mistakes can be forgiven with time and effort." the implication was clear. cato had earned himself a chance, but not full redemption in elys' eyes.

[bloodfcrblood]

an air of laughter left her, at the comment. she did not think it so wrong to do what suited her best. it was simply how their world worked. but he knew that. it intrigued her the way he pointed out these little points, not just because it was clear he was surveying her reaction, but because she was certain she was not the only one he had this little conversation with. "certainly, there is balance to everything." she agreed. "of course, if a snake shows too much restraint, they miss the opportunity to strike. sometimes the board moves too quickly to really try and think through every little move."

his question made her take pause, her lips pressing slightly together as her lilac gaze scanned the crowd. saella weighed carefully how she wanted to respond, if she wanted to really respond at all. "is there ever really a start or end? after all, the blacks won the dance. that should've been the end, right? no, we have a green dragon on the throne." she shrugged her shoulders. "perhaps the real end is when one is penniless, or dead."

it's the one you don't, he had said, and she couldn't help the smirk that came across her face. perhaps it was her knack for brute strength, and shows of power. she rather liked to see one show their blade, and their hand, than lurk in the shadows. though it intrigued her to wonder why one would play their part in the dark. "sure, no one thinks anything of a quiet man." saella remarked. "no one remembers him, either. i suppose it depends if one deems their part in this world, in this game, worthy of a maesters scrawl, or dying with them, forgotten." was it as simple as that? unlikely. she didn't care to think more of it.

but then he showed it, with a grin on his face, and a lift of his goblet, the hand he was playing before her all along. comfortable within a court not his unknown, without allies. all along he had her in his pocket, and she was a fool. saella hated looking foolish, and yet, laughter escaped her. "gods." she shook her head. "clever, clever man, you." teeth were undoubtedly gritted as she faced him where none could see her expression. "perhaps there will be one person to remember a quiet man, after all. for now."

[elysbrax]

he let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh. despite his first impression, that of a sharp woman, he was beginning to grow disappointed with saella qoherys. "and a snake who bites too eagerly ends up with a mouthful of sand," he pointed out. patience makes the venom sweeter - it was a motto he had long lived by, the reason his skill for traps and trickery had flourished over the years. "let the board move quickly." his tone was dismissive. in elys' world, letting others make mistakes, and doing things on his own time, was far more powerful than feeling pressure to act simply because others were.

her thoughts on endings though were more pleasing to him. her gave a small nod of approval. only a fool thought history was made up of neat conclusions to complex problems, and elys thrived on ensuring there was always another game to be played. "true endings only come when one side has lost all will to fight," he mused. "like your blacks." his lips curled, almost mocking in its sneer. the thought of surrender disgusted him to his core.

he ought to have been disappointed that she mistook renown for power, too, but he wasn't. he liked being underestimated by her, another example of patience sweetening the poison he had already spoken to her of. "perhaps," he said, simply. there was glory to be found in having your name live on, scrawled by a maester's hand, but to be the one pulling the string had much greater appeal to him.

he was not fool enough to believe there was genuine amusement in her laughter, but he relished in the sound anyway, because to him, it sounded like victory. he tilted his head, predatory, savouring the way her teeth ground together under the veil of composure she had enough about her to summon. "you flatter me, lady qoherys." he returned his goblet to the table with a quiet clink of metal upon wood. she had pushed against his ways, perhaps to mock, perhaps to challenge, and in doing so, had walked directly into the path he had set for her, had made the very mistake she had proudly proclaimed was wiser than the course of action he had described.

"to remembrance, then," he gestured to her own cup, bidding her to drink. "drink up." he did not say more. he did not need to.

[joenateuser]

CALLUM TURNER “Frankenstein” Red Carpet The 82nd Venice International Film Festival August 30, 2025

[sercatohill]

who: @elysbrax where: in the camps at highgarden during the verdant concord what: cato has returned from being exiled to the crusade of alayim

When his uncle sent him away to the crusade, Cato wasn't too upset about being in the east. He took some time to fight and kill the heathens that dared desecrate the lands of the Gods. And somewhere between the killing, drinking, whoring, and killing he found something strong. He found a faith that scared him. A faith that made him question everything his King said and did. And on the journey home, the seven pointed star he carried was small and worn and gifted from a man who told him that no man's life was an affront to the Gods for the Gods put air in his lungs and carried him through the crusades. He was born of sin to bring balance to the fault of his parents. How could something so right be wrong? How could gilded lions be the voice of the Gods?

"Well Uncle." Cato stood, there was something different about him, the air he carried cloaked more than the chip on his shoulder. His mind did not drift to the beauties of the Reach nor did he think of ways to get in their beds. Not that he did not want to get in their beds but something else, guilt, it was guilt that followed the desires. Could Bastards be Godly men? Could bastards fight the dark urges that made bastards so full of sin?"

"I've gotten some information but none will speak so freely in the open. I must...start going into the septs." They were in the middle of a plan, a discussion about how things would go in helping cement the hold of the reformation. The King was the voice of the faith and perhaps this good works would earn him favor with the only one who matters. The King. Right?

[elysbrax]

there was no warm welcome on elys' face upon cato's return, nor pleasure at the prospect of reunion. his gaze as he looked upon him was impassive, scrutinising as he studied him. there was undoubtedly a shift in how he carried himself, though whether he had learned his lesson, become a man in service of house brax to attone for the stain of his birth, or else become arrogant in the way some boys who ride to war do remained to be seen. elys hoped, for his own sake, it was the former.

"i hope," he drawled. "that alayim has left its mark upon you." he would welcome the news that cato had learned the error of his ways, if only because it would save elys the embarrassment of having to deal with further transgressions. alayim had been a mercy, a place to bleed and to learn and to return with a new perspective, not just on what it meant to be part of their house, even if cato did not bear the name of brax, but on the fact that, to elys, he was utterly disposable should he choose again to put a toe out of line.

"before we speak, a gift." a box was produced from his pocket, in it a signet ring with the brax unicorn engraved into its filigree. it was silver-plated, not the pure band elys himself wore, but it was more than he had ever truly given his nephew. it was not an act of altruism, but a reminder. to invoke elys' wrath was the path of war. to prove yourself worthy, as the fact cato had survive to return was evidence of, was this, gifts and recognition. carrot and stick.

he immediately regretted his decision, a scoff escaping from his throat. "you think me a fool, boy? not even on westerosi soil five minutes and you're already asking to visit a sept?" it was not anger, but disbelief on his face. even cato could not be so stupid. "you better have a good reason. convince me." and gods help him if elys did not like what he heard.

[drogonstone]

Callum Turner in The Boys in the Boat (2023)

[ofwrittenwhispers]

fiona’s lips curled into a knowing smile as she met elys’s gaze, a flicker of amusement in her eyes as he so casually dissected her. there were very few she believed to be able to see through a person, the good, the bad, the ugly. she couldn't help, but wonder, what elys brax saw of her. what did she reveal to him? and why did that intrigue her to begin with?

"that's a question, isn't it?" she said, her tone honeyed but sharp. "how much of me do you think has changed?" she let the words hang between them, an invitation for him to dig deeper, should he wish it. in reality, it had changed her more than she was willing to face, just yet. it was far easier to pretend otherwise.

she watched him, enjoying this little game of theirs, the ebb and flow of their dance, he might think he was controlling it, but fiona knew the subtlety of power, the delicate balance between taking and giving, and she truly thought she was the more clever of the two, past mistakes aside.

at his comment about her brother, fiona let out a soft laugh. "oh, yes. norbie is generous," she stated, though she would hardly think this was generosity. the grafton's wealth was no secret, it was merely...an event. fiona did not quite catch onto his double meaning. she glanced past him for a moment, catching the edges of the festivity around them, before her gaze and attention returned back to the conversation before her.

"well, nothing's ever permanent, is it?" she replied, the teasing fading from her tone now, her statement much more grounded than previously. "i'm here for now, and i don't plan to vanish again anytime soon, if that better suits your question." she said with finality, chin tilting slightly upwards, as if the choice was entirely hers more now than it was before.

[elysbrax]

his head cocked as he regarded her, as though she had asked something as mundane as whether or not her shoes matched her dress. there was nothing lecherous in the way that he looked at her. he was appraising her, like a jeweller looking for imperfections in a gemstone.

"the shine is still there," he said, offering the compliment more because he had already done his fair share of teasing than because he meant it. on the rest, whether she had changed or not, he made no comment. as much as he enjoyed her, he regarded her as a woman of grand delusions. entertaining as that was, he had no wish to encourage it or otherwise.

"and do you find gulltown much changed?" the look on his face was one of mild curiosity, and he began to walk, gesturing to her to follow alongside him wordlessly. his gaze swept the surroundings, the blue of the harbour contrasting with the grey of the sity's taller buildings. no, he didn't imagine it had changed at all. "or has everything stayed in stasis awaiting your return?"

when she spoke of her brother, it was with something like derision. he wouldn't have it in his own household, and he suspected she did not even realise how, in any other house, her position would be a precarious one. generosity without discretion was indulgence, and she was fortunate enough to have a brother who confuses the two. "well, he brought you back here, didn't he?" he pointed out. "another man might have attempted to palm you off on the next braavosi lord who would have you." it was what elys would have done.

a hum escaped his lips, then a nod. "good," he said, smirk fading to something more solemn. "you're no use to anyone if you're always vanishing." and then, his smile was back. "i have so missed your little games."

[gcuienveres]

♝

she said nothing of his name. not at first. let the unicorn pin speak for him, if it must. let the hall take notice of how proudly he bore it, the gleam of it catching on the candlelight as though it wished to speak of glory. a symbol made plain and placed where a heart ought to beat. she tilted her head a fraction, enough to suggest a kind of attentiveness that did not reach her eyes. hornvale. the word echoed in her mind like the memory of a forgotten song—familiar in placement, unremarkable in tune. her lips curved, but not into anything resembling warmth. instead, she rose. not in agreement, nor pleasure, nor even interest, but because she had decided to.

her gloved hand moved into his, only just, and with the kind of touch that suggested nothing would be offered freely—not weight, nor softness, nor heat. there were statues in the hall with more life in their marble fingers.

yet she allowed him the formality, and permitted herself to be led as the musicians drew their bows across strings with the same solemnity of priests unrolling a shroud. “pleasant,” she said at last, the word so slow it became something else entirely, a stone cast into a still pond. it did not matter that he had not asked her opinion. she offered it nonetheless, like a blade wrapped in silk. it were clear she thought it anything but pleasant. the dance began with a simple turn. she did not falter, nor did she follow—she moved parallel, always leaving just enough space to remind him this was not some childhood tale of courtly lovers come together in motion.

she had danced with kings and corpses alike, and she had felt more stir in her from the wind on a lonely balcony. he moved well, but so did moths before they met the flame.

she studied him as they stepped. so eager. not in manner, of course—no, in that he had practised not to appear so. the smoothness of his bow, the deliberate choice of his words, the restraint. it was not inexperience. it was calculation. guinevere recognised such things; she had lived long beneath the weight of expectation and watched as others shaped themselves into what the moment required. elys brax had shaped himself too quickly. one did not simply become lord of hornvale with ease. not with so many cousins, so many questions. not with the shadow of other families rotting beneath the rock; all knew house brax had only risen due to the fall of the reynes and the tarbecks.

“your sisters, my lord,” she began, her words as poised as her step, though every syllable struck like a pebble dropped into still water. “i presume they are in hornvale still. perhaps they shall make their way to court now, to honour your—” she paused, just half a beat, just long enough to cool the word before it arrived, “—accession.” her gaze lingered on his jaw, her smile neutral. “it would be most fitting, would it not, to have the ladies of your house here with you? to lend hornvale its... pleasant presence.” there it was again—that word. a hollow bell struck in mockery.

she let it hang between them, like perfume too strong for its bearer. her gaze did not waver. she smiled, but only with her mouth. not her eyes. never her eyes. it was not that she minded insignificance. there was a kind of honesty in it, in the humility of houses who knew their place, who did not reach too far beyond the borders of their birthright. but there was something deeply distasteful about those who clawed their way into greater rooms and pretended they had always belonged there.

she could smell the sweat of ambition on him, though he wore fine silks and moved like a man rehearsed in grace.

[elysbrax]

it was plain from the moment she rose that this was not a victory for elys. her fingers, when they touched his, offered nothing, no warmth, not even the pretence of it. it was evident that there was nothing pliant about guinevere lannister, as though she was made of something harder and more unyielding than lannister gold. he would be granted just enough of her attention that a man less astute than elys might think himself generously received, might take her to the floor with a fool's smile on his face thinking he had won the day, but elys had clearer eyes and a sharper mind than half the men who walked the halls of casterly rock.

perhaps she thought herself an enigma. in a way, he had to admit that she was. most people were simple creatures, requiring nothing more than the right leverage to crack. she offered no such glimpse at anything he might use to do so, and that... it frustrated him, though there was no outward sign of that on his face as he led her to the dancefloor, his steps matching hers with a rehearsed grace. though they moved in unison, in cohesion, it was just that - two people who happened to be dancing at the same time as one another, rather than in sync with one another, while she weaponised his own words against them as though he'd said something terribly amusing, only she was not amused.

she moved like a ghost beside him, a relic of something that lingered long past its use. he had danced with women who bent themselves to the rhythm of his steps, who laughed when he meant them to laugh and batted eyelashes as though that might rouse his interest. and yet, here was guinevere, and whilst he could not put his finger on what it was she felt when she looked upon him, for she was abrasive without being sharp, civil without being polite, looking at him like she was determined to leave him in the cold and remind her that she believed he belonged there.

"there is only one sister that remains to me at hornvale, your grace," he acknowledged with a nod of his head, as though he had not noticed the dig in her words - but that he had, and the mockery she intended with it. it mattered to him not. "a court may be made bright with the presence of its ladies, but she is older. unmarried, and past the age where that is likely to be rectified. hornvale suits her better than this." he did not outwardly bristle. he had done his fair share of this, of gutting men with nothing more than a few words, and he would not let her know that her blade had pierced. "so it falls to me to show our support to my dear niece."

everything about her stank of a performance, as though she thought if she kept her porcelain features neutral, there would be no reaching under it. it was a lot of work to appear untouchable, but the princess hid it near flawlessly. it made something coil in him - not desire, but the urge to see what would become of her if her diamond encasing could be shattered easily as glass.

thus far, he had allowed her the control over the conversation, and she had chosen to use that to swipe with a lioness' paw. frankly, she had made it plain that she was undeserving of the grace he had granted her, and so, when he spoke again, it was with the intent to shift the conversation away from his house, and her less-than-complimentary assessment of it. "it is a shame, really. when history looks back, it barely speaks of those who have chosen to linger on the side lines." he spun, before turning to face her again. what was it, he wondered, she thought history would make of guinevere lannister once her practiced, blank face had faded from memory, and she was nothing but a name on a family tree? did she see herself as a survivor, an architect?

how much of her own performance did she believe in?

[joenateuser]

CALLUM TURNER 2025 Met Gala May 5, 2025

[bloodfcrblood]

saella hummed softly, as if his question were a tune she already knew the words to. her fingers stilled on the goblet’s rim, and she let the moment draw out, watching him the way one might watch a flame to see which way it would bend next. the noise of the hall played like a distant instrument behind them, footsteps on marble, the low hush of servants moving, a brittle laugh carried from too far off to matter.

"often enough," she said at last, lilting, as if the answer were obvious. she leaned back in her seat, the silk of her sleeve sliding like water along the table’s edge. "though i suppose not always in the way people expect."

her gaze shifted, not away from him but through him, briefly, like she was weighing something older than the room they sat in. then it was back, focused, bright, all pleasantness and poise. “well, there are different kinds of challenge.” her smile was soft, but sharp beneath it. “some pick up a sword. others move a piece across the board. and some…” her voice dropped lower, “some wait. and let the others show their hands first.”

a pause. a shrug. the conversation intrigued her, but she suspected something beneath the surface of this lord, now, something she had failed to see in the beginning of this interaction.

"i find most men are all too eager to prove how sharp they are." her eyes flicked to his wine. "and the sharper the blade, the easier it is to cut yourself on it."

she reached for her cup again, not to drink but to hold it, to feel the weight. “fair point,” she allowed, almost graciously. “but even roads built by other hands can be worn down..” her voice softened as she swirled the wine. “sometimes, you walk a path until it bends to you. not because you demanded it, but because you knew where to press.”

she lifted the goblet to her lips now, looking at him over the rim, before continuing. “i gather you know much about walking in foreign terrain, then. or am i wrong? after all, i assume that is why you seem so at ease in our court with so few of your own westermen here."

[elysbrax]

her words were elegant, but in the way that invited scrutiny rather than surrender. he did not interrupt her, but neither did he offer the small, courteous smile he often gave to women he wasn't actually listening to, because this time, elys was listening, if not to her words, then to the weight behind them.

"'not in the way people expect' is a lovely way of saying 'when it suits you'" he pointed out. his wrist twisted, wine swirling elegantly in the cup. "still, there's wisdom in restraint. most do tend to rush the board, so to speak, and an overeager tactician is no tactician at all."

he took a slow, deliberate drink, and set the goblet to one side, with all the care of a man moving his queen on the chessboard. "what is it you wait for then, lady saella?" he asked, his tone light, but every word acting as a pressure point to see how much she would give him. "what signal tells you the game has begun? or do you begin it yourself and wait for the rest of us to catch up?"

her remark about sharp blades coaxed a low chuckle from him, brief, but genuine. "only a fool needs to prove himself sharp," he pointed out. "i always live by the idea it is better to remain quiet and be thought of as a fool than open your mouth and remove all doubt." he leaned forward slightly, voice lowering as though he was revealing a great secret to her alone. "it is not the weapon you see that you need worry about. it's the one you don't." such was elys brax's way, the master of tricks and traps, the man who could draw blood without ever once drawing his sword.

he let out a hum of consideration, head tilting. he had never been one to fret over unfamiliar soil, and even here, in the heart of new valyria, he saw no reason why he should. "you'll find i am seldom without allies, even in cities that are not my own." a small smile played on his lips. he was pleased with himself, almost maddeningly so, even if his demeanour remained composed. "there are those here who understand the value of my friendship."

his gaze lingered on her then - not threatening, not overt, but pointed. "or perhaps, those who value coin so much that they do not think to question exactly what is being bought." and there he was, revealing his hand in a way she would understand, but none who listened would. he raised his goblet in a mocking sort of toast, not quite to her, but undoubtedly because of her.

[carnevol-deactivated20260319]

[omerflorent]

Omer’s lips curled into a dangerous smile as he listened to Elys wax poetic about bastards and theatrical pain. He picked up his goblet again, swirling the wine before taking a long draught that left a dark stain upon his lips. Setting the cup down with deliberate force, he folded his arms across his chest and regarded Brax with narrowed eyes.

“So charming,” he drawled, voice low and mocking, “to see a man so thoroughly at home in the weeds of scandal.” He paused, letting the words settle. “You fancy yourself a connoisseur of private failures, Brax, yet you prattle on as though your own house were spotless.” A single eyebrow rose as he leaned forward, the flicker of candlelight dancing across his stern features.

Omer picked up his goblet once more, pausing before he drank. “You speak of my wife again and I'll take this goblet and ram it through your head.”

He moved around the table, each step measured, until he stood inches from Brax. To an outside viewer they were on the verge of a fight but Omer knew that neither of them were that foolish. Afterall, things were so tense between their realms. “I do so enjoy our little talks, too,” he said, voice a whisper edged with steel. “They remind me why I keep my blade sharp.” He raised a gloved hand, tapping Brax’s goblet with his knuckles. “Now, tell me—will I get the pleasure of unseating you or will you observe from the stands like a woman?”

"Chair, boy." Omer spoke to one of the men at the table as if they were a small child, barely sparing a glance. "I'm catching up with an old friend."

[elysbrax]

elys didn't blanch at the threat. if anything, it coaxed a low chuckle from him, the kind that would almost have sounded warm, if it weren't enveloped in a layer of sheer condescension. he was usually better at keeping the worst of himself under wraps, but something about getting under omer's skin brought elys the sort of glee that could not be replicated. his head tilted, eyes glittering in mirth.

"how dramatic," he spoke as though he was talking to a child throwing a tantrum. "all to quick to threaten violence, aren't you, florent? not very elegant. i sometimes wonder if your blade is the only part of you that's stull functioning." his grip on his goblet was lazy, slowly turned in his hands as the smirk on his lips only grew. "next time you decide to start throwing your weight around, do try and follow through. i'd be fascinated to see how you'd fare after attacking a man unprovoked at a feast."

elys leaned back in his chair as the boy beside him hastily vacated the seat and omer took it. "unseating me?" he repeated, as though the very idea was absurd. "you have a short memory, omer. that isn't how i remember it going the last time we met on the tourney grounds." it was true that in a fair fight, omer was the better knight of the two. it was also true that this was why elys would always ensure that whenever they faced one another, it would never be a fair fight.

he raised his goblet again in another mocking toast. "but i wish you luck, my lord. to old friends."

[sercatohill]

Cato stood unmoving as his uncle’s tirade washed over him, his expression carefully restrained into a mask of contrition. Yet no matter how hard he tried, a simmering anger remained visible in his blue eyes—icy and defiant, betraying the true feelings he knew better than to voice. He took Elys’ words without protest, without interruption; he knew the steps to this dance well enough to play his part, even if the bitterness still clawed at the back of his throat.

“It has been handled,” he said finally, his tone level and clipped. Moontea was hardly foreign to the septs and their holy cunts, but even Cato understood there was a line he could not cross—not tonight, not with his uncle’s fury already thick in the air. He knew better than to fan flames already dangerously high.

Drawing a slow, measured breath, he lowered his eyes briefly, as if in a show of submission he did not truly feel. “Forgive me, uncle,” he continued carefully, forcing each word through gritted teeth. “As you said, I am a bastard, and often struggle against my baser instincts. There will be no further surprises.”

He fell silent then, jaw tense, holding back the surge of anger that threatened to spill free. The reprimand burned deep—like a blade pressed hot against his pride—but he swallowed it down, willing to endure this humiliation rather than risk losing everything his uncle had begrudgingly allowed him. For now, he would play the obedient nephew, all the while holding tightly to a defiant fire that not even Elys could extinguish.

[elysbrax]

elys' eyes narrowed, his rage settling into something calmer, but no softer, a steady burn rather than a blaze of fury. there was just enough contrition in cato's face that a more foolish man might have accepted it, but elys was no fool. the look in cato's eyes was one of anger, of defiance, and that was not a slight he would let stand.

"so you handled it," there was little else but scepticism in his voice. "at least you know better than to come crawling back here and expecting me to clear up your messes." it was the bare minimum. the better option would have been not to have shamed their house at all, but that had proven too monumental a task for cato to accomplish. the words were enough, though, for elys to step back, and return to his seat behind his desk.

"do not think that you are the only one to wrestle with their nature, cato." there was a strange sort of sympathy in elys' voice as he spoke, as though, for the first time in his life, he was attempting to relate to his nephew. "better men than you struggle with their baser instincts. the difference between us, though, is that when i do, i win every time, and you just keep giving in to it." and there it was, the poison within the words.

"i've been waiting for you to learn that level of self control. to rid yourself of the chaos of youth. you must have it in you." because he was of brax blood, tainted with bastardy as it was. elys could not believe that anything that had come of their lineage could be a complete write off. his voice dropped a notch, low and dangerous. "and because i have tried everything else to get you there, to no avail, it is time for something new. perhaps some time in alayim is what you need to teach you discipline."

he leaned back in his chair, his posture almost casual, as though he was talking about sending cato to the next town over rather than the other side of the world. "i am doing you a favour, cato. offering you a final chance to prove yourself. you will either return having done so, or return as a corpse. the choice is yours."

[solitarybelladonna]

I just love major egan in his dress uniform