a metamorphsis.

lord maximus of house celtigar, ruling lord of claw isle, master of coin upon the council of king jaehaerys of house targaryen, second of his name.

[vlxyrianclaws]

THE PRICE OF ALL WITHIN THEIR GRASP: The Background and Origins behind House Celtigar of Cracklaw Point // @celtigxr

house celtigar came to westeros before the doom of valyria, and they were landowners in the valyrian freehold. had tenants, serfs essentially sworn to them and were known to be severely harsh with their collection of taxes and owed rent. with their income, they were able to essentially pay people off, but also pay people to turn a blind eye.

they grew increasingly unhappy with the hierarchy in valyria, knowing they would never be dragonriders, and decided to move across the narrow sea some years after the targaryens with an ambitiously driven mindset.

when they crossed, they settled on cracklaw point, and were some of the first to bend the knee to aegon. however, house celtigar had a tense relationship with the people of cracklaw point: those who commented on them being lesser than other valayrian houses often went missing, houses raided, etc. essentially, it was like a terror state.)

house celtigar is incredibly wealthy, and has a general idea of keeping their wealth to themselves; historically they have been masters of coin to targaryen kings, but they are seen as something of a double-edged sword. the reality is, house celtigar obtained their riches through continuing the practice of slavery in westeros, long after leaving the valayrian freehold.

their wealth is rumoured, but their castle of cracklaw point is furnished ornately and has clear signs of money - blood money. whilst the targaryens continued to practice the first night, house celtigar buried their secrets deep within the caverns beneath their family keep. the celtigar catacombs are a disturbing sight. if one were to go digging, they would find remains of those who gave everything for the name celtigar. this practice has since dwindled, however maximus celtigar has continued to rule over cracklaw point with fear.

[daenoratargxryen]

it might have been an omen, daenora thought, how the winds had been in their favour, the weather fair, and the ship that bore her from her glorified imprisonment in lys had cut through the waves in good time to begin with. it were almost laughable how, just a few miles away from dragonstone the storm had kicked up around them, delaying the journey to the mouth of blackwater bay. what should have been a few days, at most, stretched into a week as they fought the rains until they finally docked. and here she was, a few steps away from a life she had left long ago, though not by choice.

the wood of the gangplank was slick beneath her shoes. she paused at its apex for a moment, violet gaze turning to the distant. the rain shrouded the lands around the docks in mist, but she could still see it in the distance, the shape of king's landing, the red keep atop aegon's high hill dulled to a murky pink by the greyness of the sky. unrecognisable, yet somehow, utterly changed. she was almost there, almost home, once she had made her way through the stink of fish guts and shouts of the men who worked the dockyard.

it did not feel like a homecoming, she thought. leaving had felt like a rending, as though pieces of her soul had remained here when the rest of her had last crossed the sea. perhaps it was foolish to think that it would take the simple act of returning to reattach the scattered pieces, or perhaps they, like so much else, had been burned to ash when the dragons danced.

her feet had carried her to the bottom of the gangplank before her mind had caught up with them, and it was then that her gaze fell upon maximus celtigar. a quiet breath of a laugh escaped her, too soft to be heard over the sounds of the water churning, though it carried with her all the bitterness she had not quite managed to leave behind in lys. maximus celtigar, the very man who had convinced her of the safety of lys, who she had ignored everything in her that screamed for her not to listen, stubborn in her desire that a dream could just be a dream, and need not be anything more. maximus celtigar, who had walked her into a guilded cage, was the one accompanying her on the final stretch home.

"lord celtigar," her tone was clipped, offering basic courtesy and nothing more. it was moments like this when she wished for a cooler mind, something that could have offered a greeting that was more ambiguous, but she had always possessed a sort of defiance, even in the smallest of ways, in crisp white silks and raised red scars. "how gracious of you to raise your head from your coffers." there was no grace in any of this, not in his words that she felt like a knife to the ribs, not in the fact her annulled marriage had come at her own hands, after years of waiting for help that never came.

she wondered at how her brother had saw fit to keep him, not just at court, but on the council. the master of coin - how much had her betrayal been worth that jaehaerys had not seen fit to help her, tallied up in maximus celtigar's ledgers. "things rarely are." there was a finality in her tone. king's landing might not be what it was, but neither was she, chipped at and honed by every decision made without her consent. "though you seem little changed." he had once fed her false promises that she had believed because there was no other option open to her. it would not be a mistake she would make a second time.

[vlxyrianclaws]

mxc.

if there were one thing the master of coin was not entirely fond of when it came to the dynastic lineage of the targaryens, and those who inhibited its blood, it was their unpredictable nature - for a man who thrived and seemed to grow on a sense of control and prediction, they were an ever-steady thorn in his side considering their varying stances on matters. jaehaerys targaryen was a child in a man's body still, ever still the brat he always was - only this time with a mighty crown and a mightier empire. which meant that he did not entirely know what stance the man would take regarding the return of his sister.

"your highness." maximus acknowledge her wording, her slight dig; whilst she appeared as ice, it seemed as though she were anything but it - it had taken all but a few moments for the clear tension to arise and swirl to the surface. "it is only befitting for a princess of the realm." he spoke as though his words had been tailored, measured, precise; so that if any were to overhear them, he appeared entirely gracious and befitting. her royal subject. in reality, the sight of her was enough to cause him to turn his nose at her, entirely forgetting his place in the grand scheme of matters - for she was just another failed woman, unable to maintain her duty. there were too many of those in this court, and it would end up causing them much misfortune.

"his majesty has done much to ensure the realm is stable, following the reign of the false queen." the lineage which maximus himself had fought for, his family had died for; and yet, this reptile had managed to find himself seated at the most powerful table in all of new valyria. "he is most innovative." he peered for some reaction from her; looking for hints of jealousy. of a storm that he could mould to his own benefit.

the king was strangely sentimental about some things, and then not at others, easy to find excuses when matters did not suit him; but considering he was the man's only real true sister, he understood all too well that perhaps he would find himself at more of a disadvantage at the return of daenora targaryen. he did not like that - not one bit. it were akin to seeing a ghost as she emerged from the barge and began to make her way down; and for a moment he briefly wondered whether the weather was some ominous preview of what her return was to bring. regardless of what the situation was between daenora and the man she called husband, according to principle, that was something that should have strictly stayed between the two of them - matters for them to resolve.

would she know if he had changed or not? was he always this way? the answer was an obvious one. very obvious. "yes, most fortunately. house celtigar maintained it's wealth throughout the anarchy, and so i remain as i was - able to serve." and fix. he would fix it all. he would have fixed this, if jaehaerys was less sentimental. alas, their great matter had become all their matter - and maximus celtigar did not appreciate feeling as though things were out of place. his ledgers, the coin, the interest mattered far more than the belonging and wellbeing of the woman in front of him.

it was why he decided to be the one to fool her into her cage to begin with, the way one would herd in a dog. encouraging her to put aside her concerns, referencing words of trust, of the years that had passed between them. it was to her own end. "you, like the realm, are much changed." it was a window, and he was an opportunist.

[paradoxofpresence]

lillith did not retreat when he stepped closer. she did not advance either. she simply remained where she was, balanced in that narrow space between light and shadow, as though the corridor itself had decided to keep her. his words settled over her with surprising gentleness, not because they were kind, but because she had expected them. debt always announced itself eventually. it was a language older than courtesy, older than shame. “then he has been careless,” she said softly, not defending her father, not condemning him. an observation, nothing more. “carelessness often disguises itself as confidence in men like him.”

her gaze followed his briefly as it flicked down the hall, toward the place her father had gone, then returned to him without hurry. “i wondered,” she admitted, her voice carrying a quiet, unsettling warmth, “whether it was blood or coin that drew you after him. the latter is less romantic, but far more practical.” the faintest curve touched her mouth, not quite a smile. “and practicality suits hunters better than desperation.”

lillith observed him with the same quiet patience she afforded all dangerous things, her gaze lingering on the pale fall of his hair, the sea-slick cast of his bearing, the unmistakable stamp of valyrian blood that no borrowed hall or courteous tone could quite disguise. there was salt in him, she thought, and iron, the sort of heritage that did not belong among the vale’s stone and snow. for a moment she wondered if he were only another wandering scion of old fire, misplaced and sharpening himself on foreign walls. then the name surfaced, unbidden but certain, fitting itself to him like a blade to its sheath. celtigar. claw isle. the weight of coin and tides and old debts that never truly drowned. understanding settled over her with a slow, almost intimate chill, and her expression did not change, save for the faintest softening at her mouth, as if she had finally learned the true name of the storm and found it more interesting for it.

when he spoke of mercy, lillith’s dual colored eyes softened, though not in relief. if anything, there was a hint of something like sympathy there, misplaced and strange. “mercy,” she echoed, tasting it as if she were savoring whatever reaction she may elicit. “is a curious thing to offer when it costs you so little.” her fingers left the stone wall, folding loosely together before her, posture unguarded in a way that felt deliberate, that was deliberate. “still, i will not pretend i dislike the sound of more days. time has a way of revealing what men truly value.”

she regarded him more closely then, no longer as a distant storm but as something nearer, something with edges she could trace. “but…you mistake me if you think silence requires obedience,” she said gently. “i have always been very good at seeing without speaking.” her head tipped, dark curls shifting. “what you ask is nothing difficult, lord celtigar. it is merely… interesting.” she spoke his name as if he had offered it to her as introduction, rather than revealing it to her in passing.

at his repeated words, her she inhaled a breath, a quiet, thoughtful thing. “i saw nothing,” she murmured back, not as agreement, but as consideration. the phrase sat between them in a moment of silence, reshaped by her voice into something approaching tenderness. “perhaps that is true. perhaps what i saw has not yet decided what it is.” her eyes lifted to his, steady and clear. “storms look different depending on how close you stand to the shore.”

she held his gaze a moment longer than courtesy required, longer than caution advised. then, almost kindly, she inclined her head. “i will keep your secret,” she said at last, the words neither oath nor surrender. “not because you asked it of me, but because i am curious how this debt will find itself eventually paid.” a pause, her voice softening just slightly. “and i have always liked watching tides recede. they leave so much behind, as i’m sure you know.”

[vlxyrianclaws]

mxc.

he did not understood what it was that caused him to remain so rooted to the very spot he stood beneath the curved alcoves, to remain under her watch as that which he hunted trailed further and further from his hunt and from his grasp; it were not as though he were in some situation where he was in fight or flight, but rather found himself momentarily unable to think of any other thing. his eyes, almost reptilian in nature, were drawn to the flame she carried in her hands as though she were a walking torch, haunting the hallowed halls and stopping him from doing what it was he wanted to do. for maximus celtigar had smelled blood, and every part of his body had urged him to follow it like a madman, and feed. "you agree." it was meant to sound more like a question, but it came out more the statement; he was inwardly surprised that she was willing to pretend she did not see what she had no doubt seen.

his mind seemed split, between continuing to try and chase down his prey like a wolf in the night - or to be tempted with something, someone else. why else had she stood herself before him, as though she were the source of light he would naturally turn to as the gods designed nature to do so the sun? he much preferred what happened under the cover the night, true night; no hints of the moon, no hints of the stars, much akin to nights such as this. "why?" what did she want? what was in it for her?

the lord of the waynwood owed him a debt, a debt that grew larger and larger with each passing moon and a debt that seemed to find itself in the coins of others over decks of cards, or over bars in taverns and private parties. the man did not behave as though he were a lord, at least not when he had allowed the drink to plague his mind. he did not appreciate being made to wait, being left to count his coins as he awaited more; a date had been set, and it had been broken. he did not do reminders, or extensions - only collections. "and if not obedience, what will you be willing to give me in exchange for your agreement?" he asked, remaining stood where he was; he wanted her to walk towards him, and to show him her true features much more clearly. at this distance he could tell she was a beauty, but that had never been enough to truly throw him off his course, there was something more which seemed to draw him to her as though he were a moth to a flame.

his state, stumbling back toward his chambers in the darkest hours of the night barely able to stand was a clear sign of weakness, maximus celtigar had waited for; the drunken and the inebriated were always the easiest to finish. he was so close to doing what needed to be done, what he wanted to be done, and yet here she came; traversing across him with a candlelight that cast clearly upon his face. he did not like to be seen on his way, but rather preferred to leave small signage; never murder, but enough to make one wish it had just been. no longer could he find himself willing to hunt the lord waynwood, not when something else that appeared far more desirable and filling had crossed his path, as though the fates and the gods themselves had rewarded him for his strength. for his honour.

and as transfixed and intrigued as maximus celtigar was by her, he was also angry. quietly simmering, with a blackened heart, in knowing that someone had seen him - someone he did not know enough. it was his bloodlust that had allowed him to become sloppy, even for a few seconds - he should have remained on the other side of the corner, and waited. made sure. instead he grew impatient, like a hound on the scent; and had been caught by the one with the whip. he fought his urges to command her to walk to him and allow him to properly look at her - instead, he moved. suddenly, like a restless animal, and moved closer into her light to look upon her.

and that, was enough. she appeared carved from marble, with raven hair and a face that appeared dainty. porcelain. but her mismatched eyes were what truly had him, by hook. "what is a woman like you doing walking the halls under such darkness?" it was a question. an implication.

[bloodfcrblood]

saella paused, letting his words settle like stones in the pit of her chest. the torchlight caught her face in jagged slices, illuminating the sharp planes of cheek and jaw that rarely softened for anyone, and perhaps never truly for him. she did not turn away, though the heat of his gaze pressed against her like a living thing, intrusive and thrilling.

“arithmetic,” she said at last, voice low, deliberate. “hunger measured in coin and bone. devotion counted in fear and favor. yes. you are correct, as usual. but men are rarely as clever as their ledgers suggest. the sums never account for surprise, for desperation, for… miscalculation.” her lips curved slightly, a subtle twist of amusement and warning. “i find arithmetic for old men, and i suppose...coinmasters.”

her attention shifted to the fighters he had singled out. “the spearman,” she murmured, nodding slightly. “he will learn quickly… or he will die believing he has. the broad shouldered man,” another measured gesture, “thick skull, slow to bend, but useful once the edge is found. the thin one, laughs too quickly… delightfully arrogant. he will be broken in the way he least expects.” she did not hesitate; her choices were sharp, precise, inevitable.

maximus spoke of art differently than he spoke of arithmetic, and the switch intrigued her, the tension between what was fixed, measurable, and what was subject to interpretation. “it’s as much art as it is calculation,” she said softly, leaning against the wall opposite him, the cool stone pressing against her skin. “one can only predict so much. the art is in adapting to the unpredictable.” a ghost of a smile curved her lips. “i enjoy both. it is… a pleasure, though one i never quite admit, or deny. to give them the illusion of remaking themselves, before i break them anyway." she glanced at the men behind the iron bars. "at least, most of them.”

the lady nodded at his chosen pick, accepting that she would be the hand to move them. “so be it, then,” she said, deciding quickly, not lingering over his reasons for remaining anonymous. despite her cleverness, despite the subtle games she played to draw him out, she knew she could be driven mad by trying to interpret him too fully. their partnership functioned best when she took his words largely at face value, and left the rest unexamined.

but even that careful control was tested. his gaze seemed to split, to be both here and elsewhere, and his soft, deliberate words carried a weight she could not shake. a shiver ran along her spine, one part fear, one part desire. her composure wavered just enough to reveal a flicker of wariness, rare for her, rarer still in front of him. she knew the measure of his capability: the cold precision of his mind, the careful assessment of threat and opportunity, and the danger of letting desire and strategy mingle, not to mention, the danger of being the source of his ire. she did not respond to his insinuation with words. a single, measured glance was all she allowed, before moving onward, keeping herself just beyond the reach of the fire he stoked within her.

saella gave a subtle nod, silver hair shifting with the motion. “fine. it will be done,” she said, crisp, measured, resolute. the words carried finality, but the tension lingered in the space between them, coiled like a blade waiting for release. she felt it in the brush of air as he stepped near, in the quiet anticipation that thrummed between their movements. it was a danger she both craved and feared, a tether she could not sever, though she had long trained herself to resist.

the mention of the lysian blades drew her attention next, though she nearly faltered as he stood suddenly. she paused, froze almost, considering, eyes narrowing. “the new weapons,” she murmured, “are not for all of them. their value lies not only in steel, but in the hand that wields them. a man cannot be shaped without tools worthy of the task, and neither can he endure the pit without respect for precision.” she allowed herself a faint tilt of the head, a gesture that acknowledged he understood far too much about her methods, and she rather enjoyed that.

the pit required perfection in both blade and wielder, and she found satisfaction in knowing that she alone judged where that line was drawn. each weapon, like each fighter, bore her intent; each decision carved order from chaos. it was the mastery of it all, predicting failure, molding strength, rewarding cunning, that gave her such dark delight. "would you care to see what can be done with them, before they debut in the arena?"

[vlxyrianclaws]

mxc.

he listened to her speak and felt nothing resembling respect stir in him, only a tightening certainty that she proved his long-held suspicion correct. arithmetic bored him now, not because it lacked elegance, but because she wielded it like a child waving a knife, careless of where it cut. he did not interrupt her when she spoke of sums and surprise, merely watched the shape of her mouth form the words, the faint curl of challenge there, and decided she had been indulged long enough. he thought, with cool disdain, that she had lost her mind years ago, not all at once but in pleasurable fragments, and that indulging her talk of miscalculation only fed the illusion she clung to.

his silence stretched deliberately, a tightening leash, before he spoke again, his voice low and unyielding as he told her that ledgers and sums were dull things for dull men, and that he had not come here to debate coin with someone who could not keep her own impulses in order. “i did not come to debate sums with you,” he added, colder still, “and i will not pretend you understand them.”

he rose then, unhurried, closing the space she had tried to keep, and the air between them shifted at once. he felt the familiar pull in his gut, that dark, proprietary hunger that had never truly left him, and he did not bother to disguise it from himself. he had always wanted to control her, not because she was beautiful—though she was, in a sharp, ruinous way—but because she was dangerous when left to her own devices. he spoke of the fighters instead, of how her sadism spilled too freely, how she broke men without shaping them, and how waste irritated him more than cruelty ever could. he dismissed her talk of art with a faint scoff.

his words pressed close, intimate without tenderness, as he told her that she mistook indulgence for mastery, and that he would have order in the pit, whether she understood it or not. “you break them too quickly,” he told her, gaze fixed, his voice openly flippant and dismissive, a hand indicating toward some half broken man in the corner. “and you call it art because you don't want waste.” he let the silence bite before continuing, “waste irritates me.” there was something obscene in the calm of it, in the way he measured her breath as if it were another variable to be mastered. he thought briefly of the bastard of the vale, who put no part of the human body to waste in his ability to skin - perhaps she ought to pay him a visit.

“discipline is the difference,” he said, voice low. “without it, you are merely an animal dressed in silk.” his focus sharpened on the spearman, on the thin one who laughed. “that one learns restraint first, considering he still has arrogance on him like a stench” he went on. “the rest cn learn silence.” he paused, then added, “you will bring them to me when the shape holds, however long it takes.” there was something illicit in the promise of watching, of her performing under his eye, and he allowed it to colour his tone. “i will observe,” he said. “i will approve.”

he watched the way her composure strained, took note of the slight hitch in her breath, and felt a grim satisfaction bloom. he did not touch her, did not need to. his presence was enough, his voice curling around her like a restraint as he told her she would slow herself, that she would savour the breaking rather than gorge on it, because he wished to see how far a man could be bent before he shattered. there was something almost obscene in the way he spoke of restraint to her, in the way his gaze lingered on her throat as if measuring pulse and obedience in the same glance. he thought, not for the first time, that she belonged to him in a way she would never admit, and that the world would sooner burn than allow her to belong to anyone else.

he was in the midst of speaking when the interruption came, soft-footed but urgent, a presence cutting through the pit like a blade through cloth. maximus did not turn at once; he felt the shift before he heard it, that wrongness in the air that meant numbers had moved without his leave. when the messenger pressed the parchment into his hand, the lyseni seal cracked beneath his thumb, he stilled. truly stilled. his eyes scanned the lines once, twice, then stopped. the noise of the pit dulled, as if the world had drawn back from him. this was not accounted for. this was not meant to surface yet. anger rose sharp and immediate, too clean to be hidden.

he turned on saella with sudden force, his gaze cutting into her like a drawn knife. the question came low and dangerous, asking if she knew, if this had been set in motion with her knowledge. suspicion bled into his tone, accusatory and cold, as though betrayal were already half-proven. “how long have you known,” he asked quietly, every syllable weighted, not raised, but far more dangerous for it. suspicion slid easily into accusation as he stepped closer, voice dropping further. “tell me now—did you know this was already in motion.”

[paradoxofpresence]

lillith waynwood had long ago learned the art of watching, lingering in the opposite corridor, half-swathed in shadow where the candlelight did not reach, her figure still as if she had been carved into the stone itself. she had not watched after her father with concern, she rarely wasted worry on those who did not earn it, but she had paused when she saw the pale-haired man trailing him like a tide following a lone ship. she watched him with the same fascination one affords a storm forming far out to sea. distant. inevitable. beautiful in its own cruel way.

she noticed the dagger in the way he carried his shoulders. she noticed the hunger in his stride, the kind that spoke of intention rather than impulse. this was not some drunken quarrel of southern lords. this was a hunt. and her father, stumbling and laughing to himself, had not even turned to see it. the knowledge settled in her chest like a cold coin. her gaze lingered on the valyrian longer than courtesy allowed.

when the courtiers burst through the corridor in a flurry of perfume and silk, the moment shifted. the predator halted, the strike withheld, and her father vanished in their midst, blissfully unaware of the jaws he had nearly stepped into. her gaze, however, did not follow him. it found the valyrian instead, held him quietly, curiously, as if she were appraising not the danger of him but the purpose. there was no fear in her stance. only stillness, like a deer in winter deciding whether the wolf before it was hunting or simply passing through.

the valyrian turned, his eyes finding hers with deliberate precision. she had expected him to look away. he did not. she wondered then, not with fear but with a kind of reverent fascination, why a son of fire and blood walked the vale’s guest wing so quietly, why he stalked her father beneath the roses of highgarden rather than issuing challenge as honor demanded. secrets, she thought, always had a scent. his smelled of salt and iron.

you saw nothing, he said. it rolled through the air more like ritual than threat. lillith tilted her head, candlelight catching in the dark of her gaze.

lillith’s head inclined, the smallest tilt, like a bird listening for movement beneath snow. “nothing,” she echoed, tasting the word thoughtfully before letting it slip from her lips. she stepped slightly into the light, enough that her eyes caught the flicker of the flame. “do you mean that i did not see you at all,” she asked, gentle, almost curious, “or that i did not see you following after my father?”

she said father in a way that made it clear she noted him, named him, but claimed no sentiment beyond blood and observation. the inquiry was gentle, but it lingered in the air with the weight of something sharper. not defiance. almost… invitation. her gaze drifted down the corridor where the lord of house waynwood had disappeared. then back to the man before her. “the vale has a way of teaching its daughters to see from afar,” she murmured. “one learns to watch without stepping into a hunter’s line.”

she stepped no closer, yet the space between them felt narrowed, as though her presence pulled the world inward. she studied him the way one studies rare things in old stories, head slightly inclined, eyes searching not for confession but for intention. there was no fear in her. only interest, glimmering like candlelight catching on glass. “because i did see,” she continued, a quiet note threading through her voice. “and i am deciding what sort of seeing it was.”

she let the silence stretch then, as though savoring it. her fingers brushed the stone wall absently, as if feeling for the heartbeat of the place. “if you tell me i saw nothing,” she said at last, voice lowering like twilight, “i will decide whether that is a gift… or an oath.”

her eyes lifted back to his, clear and unsettlingly serene. “but i would like to know first,” she added, a softness that felt almost like affection touching her tone, “why a man with hair of silver bothered to stalk a drunken vale lord in borrowed halls instead of simply asking for what was owed.”

[vlxyrianclaws]

mxc.

the stillness after she spoke was almost reverent. lord maximus celtigar did not answer at once — did not move, even — but regarded her as one might a mirror that had chosen to speak back. he had expected fear, or the breathless nerves of some court-bred girl too curious for her own good, but there was none of that here. lillith waynwood stood before him like a question carved into marble, serene and sharp, her voice lilting with a music that did not match the words she spoke. she was not afraid of him. and that, somehow, was the most dangerous thing of all - he could not fully accept it, almost in disbelief as his reptilian orbs fixated upon her features.

he had expected someone harder—older, perhaps, a woman with a soldier’s jaw and the same granite chill that clung to the vale. but when she was presented to him, when the introductions were made, he found his composure tilt. he had expected lord waynwood’s daughter to bear the austerity of her bloodline—broad-shouldered, grave-eyed, carved in frost. instead, what stood before him was something far softer, and ruinously unexpected. that was waynwood’s girl? she looked less like the vale and more like a secret meant to be kept.

his gaze lingered a moment too long before he caught himself, turning it into disdain. gods, what business had she looking like that?

he let his silence stretch, the kind that unsettled lesser people, until even the whisper of the torches began to sound loud. he thought of her father, stumbling away in his drunken ignorance, the gold he owed resting in ledgers that did not forgive lateness. a man like lord waynwood thought himself above reminders — thought kinship with the vale’s rulers meant debts could be postponed, smoothed over with pleasantries and promises. maximus had no patience for that kind of nobility. he preferred the language of blood and coin, both of which he spoke fluently.

“because your father,” he said at last, his voice low and measured, “seems to think claw isle forgets what it is owed.” his gaze flicked to her hand, pale against the stone wall, then back to her eyes. “and i, lady waynwood, am not so forgetful.” the rhythm of his words was calm, but beneath it ran a thread of quiet venom, something uncoiled and watchful.

he took a slow step forward, the sound of his boots soft against the flagstones. the air between them seemed to narrow, not with heat but with pressure, the kind that made breathing feel deliberate. “your father borrowed from me,” he continued, tone smooth as the still surface of a tidepool before it breaks. “a generous sum. far more than his standing warranted, if i am honest. but the vale has been generous to me before — its courtiers would rather place their trust in claw isle than in domeric stone.” the corner of his mouth twitched at that, something that might have been amusement but was not kind. “trust comes at a price, lady waynwood, and i am not a man who grants extensions easily.”

he studied her expression for any flicker of emotion, any sign she understood the weight of what her father had done. she did not flinch, did not glance away. it was like speaking to a statue that had learned the art of blinking. she did not move, only watched him with that unnerving stillness, her head tilted just enough to catch the light on her cheek. for the briefest instant, he felt something like hesitation — the strange recognition of another creature that belonged more to shadow than court. it passed quickly.

“still,” he murmured, his voice falsely softening in the way a blade dulls after the first cut, or the way an animal lowers itself into the grass before it goes to pounce and to claw, “i am not a being without mercy.” his hand fell back to his side, the air easing slightly though the tension remained coiled between them. “if your drunkard father cannot keep his promises, i will grant him a few more days. a rare kindness.” he paused, his gaze fixing on her as though anchoring the words to her very breath. “but only if you say nothing of this.” he took another step forward, close enough now that she could see the threadwork of his cloak, the faint scent of brine and iron that followed him like a curse.

“you saw nothing,” he said again, the repetition deliberate, heavier now, reshaped into something less command and more covenant. the threat was not raised, not snarled or cruelly flung — it was spoken like a promise, calm and inevitable, as though the sea itself had murmured it through his lips. he inclined his head slightly then, that faint parody of courtesy that barely concealed mockery, and turned his gaze back down the corridor where her father had vanished.

[vlxyrianclaws]

who: @daenoratargxryen when and where: the arrival of princess daenora targaryen to the harbour of kings landing, back to what little is left of the greens - and jaehaerys sent maximus celtigar to collect her and accompany her back to the red keep.

the storm had delayed everything. three tides late, the ship that bore princess daenora finally cut through the grey horizon, sails dripping and heavy with the residue of the rain that had pummelled blackwater bay through the night. lord maximus celtigar stood on the slick stone of the harbour, the wind biting through his cloak and flaying even more at his patience, stood like a dark figure that felt every inch of the cold and the wind as it moved through his bones. the salt clung to his silver hair, the damp to his gloves, and he could feel the irritation building like a fever beneath his ribs. he should not have been here to begin with. he was the master of coin of new valyria, not some errand boy for royal women discarded by their husbands.

there were ledgers to sign, galleys to inspect, the lyseni to keep sweet with soft words and promises of return on investment — real matters that concerned the crown’s survival, and stamping down on the king's authority. such as that of monitoring those of the land of storms who had not yet paid their dues, with his scent for blood seemingly lingering upon the sapphire isle for too long. it had been too long. and yet here he was, standing in the muck of the docks, reduced to greeting a princess who was long since been forgotten by the world and forgotten her place. the men unloading cargo paid him no heed. the docks were loud with their shouts, the clatter of chains and casks, and the low hum of vessels rocking against one another in the tide.

above it all, the sea stretched vast and sullen, its colour like tarnished metal beneath the low sky. he found himself watching the ship’s gangplank lower, slow and careful, until at last a figure appeared — a flash of pale silk against the gloom. princess daenora targaryen.

her arrival caused a brief stir among the dockhands, who paused long enough to gawk at the sight of royalty returning home like some exiled, disfigured bird. maximus did not move to greet her immediately, only clasping his leather gloves hands together as a token of outward respect. he only watched as she descended the gangplank, step by step, her veil pinned by salt and wind, the hem of her gown gathering rainwater and dirt as the rain poured; he had not the feeling in his face some minutes prior, too used to the feeling of the rain on his already freezing skin. she looked smaller than he remembered — not in stature, but in presence. there had been something fierce in her once, something naïve but burning, when he had convinced her that lys would offer her peace, safety. that though they were opposite sides, she had believed him without question. now, she moved like one who believed nothing.

he adjusted the clasp of his cloak, ensuring the silver crab of his house sat squarely over his heart. he despised the notion of ceremony, but he would not appear unkempt before a woman who once bore his deception so sweetly. she came to stand before him at last, and for a fleeting second, her eyes — those pale, sharp things that seemed made of glass — met his. still, seeing her again stirred something faint and unpleasant in him — not remorse, but an awareness of unfinished business, the way a banker feels about a loan unpaid. she was the last remnant of a lie that had served its purpose long ago, and now she was returned to them: older, quieter, annulled, and of no political use to anyone. her presence, like this errand, was a relic.

she looked older now, stripped of the softness that once made her pliable. “princess daenora,” he said at last, inclining his head by the barest fraction. “welcome back to king’s landing. the winds took their time, it seems.” it could be read in multiple ways; a dig? how long did her annulment take to come through? how often had he needed to work out the details behind the heavy weight of gold they could not afford, considering they were already tied to the lannisters by a golden clasp? "it is not as you remember." nor as you think.

[vlxyrianclaws]

who: @paradoxofpresence when and where: the verdant concord, the vale quarters within highgarden's lodgings context: maximus celtigar makes an unannounced visit, looking for a certain somebody - and finds his daughter instead.

the halls of highgarden breathed differently at night, quieter yet never still, as though the very stones carried whispers from one chamber to the next. maximus moved with the precision of a predator through those corridors, his gaze fixed on the figure ahead. lord waynwood’s pace was unremarkable, unguarded, as though he thought himself safe within the heart of the south, insulated by wine, laughter, and the false comfort of roses. the fool had not even looked over his shoulder once since leaving the ballroom, not even when the echo of footsteps trailed too neatly after his own.

the weight of the dagger pressed against his coat, its presence steadying him in the way other men might feel comforted by a prayer. there were debts owed, old numbers lingering in ledgers like festering wounds, and maximus had never been one to forget what was promised to him. gold was not simply coin; it was power, respect, breath itself. to deny him was to spit on his bloodline, and he had little tolerance for insult. one finger, perhaps two, would remind waynwood that debts were not trifles. a ruined eye would make the lesson eternal. the thought of it pleased him, more than it should have—the sudden wet shock of pain, the howl, the collapse of a proud vale lord into something small and pliant.

the hallway stretched long, the tapestries heavy with the weight of family crests and floral patterns, silks softening the stone but unable to disguise how narrow it became the further they went. a perfect place for an accident, a stumble, a swift punishment. maximus lengthened his stride, letting the heels of his boots fall a fraction heavier now, a low announcement of his pursuit, a hunter’s warning meant to sharpen fear before the strike. waynwood did not notice. too drunk, too foolish, too certain that the walls of highgarden sheltered him from consequence. the moment drew close. the dagger itched against his palm though he had not yet drawn it.

he could already imagine the first cut, the startled cry breaking the silence of the hall like music, his hand clamping over the man’s mouth before anyone else could hear. he thought of the stories his forefathers told of claw isle, of how the sea punished those who did not pay their tides. he, too, would exact the sea’s justice, cold and swift.

and then the spell broke.

laughter, shrill and sudden, spilled from the corner ahead, a gaggle of courtiers rounding the bend with the flutter of silk sleeves and perfumed chatter. light from their candelabras scattered across the walls, chasing back the darkness that had once cloaked him. maximus slowed, his expression unchanging, but the hunger in his eyes had been denied its meal. it was not the first time he had been interrupted, but irritation twisted sharp in his chest, not unlike the edge of the blade he carried. he might have abandoned the pursuit then, folded the moment away for another night, had it not been for her. his gaze caught on a figure lingering at the far end of the hallway, just beyond the babble of the courtiers. she was not part of their merry throng, nor did she attempt to pass them.

she only stood, apart, and stared. there was nothing uncertain in her eyes, no confusion at what she had witnessed. she had seen him for what he was—not a man strolling behind another in a noble’s hall, but a beast on the cusp of striking.

for a heartbeat, perhaps two, the world narrowed to that gaze. the courtiers might as well have vanished, their chatter muffled like the drone of insects, the flickering torches paling to shadows. maximus did not move, though the tension in him was coiled tight, as if the dagger had embedded itself not in his coat but in his very chest. he could feel the moment forking in two directions—one where he advanced, careless, tearing waynwood apart even as witnesses pressed in, and another where he acknowledged the quiet observer at the edge of the hall, this woman who had seen too much already.

the courtiers pressed past with laughter, waynwood vanishing among them like a shadow into the crush of bodies. only she remained, her gaze unwavering. maximus felt the corner of his mouth twitch, a smile that was not warmth but recognition, something reptilian, sharp with secrets. “you saw nothing,” he said at last, his voice low, deliberate, and smooth as oil on stone. it was not a plea, nor even a command, but a promise, edged with the kind of cruelty that meant to make itself unforgettable.

[bloodfcrblood]

the air thickened as he walked behind her, he were not close enough that the warmth of his breath could be felt upon her skin, and yet, she could practically feel it anyways. but she did not shift or startle. confidence draped her shoulders like a mantle, armor forged from habit, from necessity. she let it shield her, even as some small, treacherous part of her thrilled at the closing proximity.

“worship,” she repeated at last, not turning, her voice smooth as silk drawn over stone. “it is such a heavy word for men who bleed and bow in turn. kneeling is not worship, maximus. it is survival. they kneel to the hand that feeds them or spares them, not because they mistake it for divinity.” she let that hang, casual, dismissive on the surface.

yet in the quiet between their steps, she tasted the truth he had needled at. to be obeyed was one thing, to be feared another, but to be needed… that was the marrow of it. she wanted that tether, no matter how it came. to be needed was worth more than gold, more even than control. it was what bound men to her, what kept them returning no matter how often she broke them down.

they turned a corner, the walls narrowing as they approached the holding cells. the stench of sweat and iron was thicker here, the groan of the chained and the restless shuffle of bare feet echoing from the shadows. saella finally allowed herself to gesture toward the chamber ahead, her tone businesslike once more.

“the spearman with the crooked ear, he fights like a man who remembers being loved. he will learn the weight of hunger.” another nod, brief and exact, to a broad-shouldered man with a missing thumb. “and the thin one who laughs too quickly, he thinks cunning will save him; he will learn what bluntness teaches.” she named them not by the histories she’d invented for them for the crowds pleasure, but by what they were now: raw material. her choices were surgical, not sentimental.

she turned, closing the space between them by a step that mattered. the torchlight carved his profile into something more animal than lordly. “i will not break them for your amusement alone,” she said, voice a quiet blade. “i will break them so they are remade useful, and the city will whisper your name as the hand that saw the value in ruin. you will have the pleasure of the transformation, and someone will thank you for it. would you like the crowds to know it was done in your name, or would you prefer the satisfaction to be yours alone?”

her fingers brushed his sleeve as she passed, an idle, deliberate contact. “decide,” she murmured. “and i will see it done, today.”

[vlxyrianclaws]

mxc.

the torches guttered as if the tunnels themselves held their breath, and maximus let the darkness wrap around him like a cloak. he stepped forward with the slow, measured confidence of a man who had watched empires tilt and learned which ropes to cut. his voice came soft, a velvet thing with the edge of a blade: “survival is nothing to be proud of, bending the knee is no noble act. it is merely arithmetic. hunger counts as devotion when counted in coin and bone.” he paused only long enough to inhale the iron-tinged air, letting the smell of sweat and old resin fill his lungs like a draught from a cellar. the sensation pleased him; proximity to suffering was a tonic he seldom denied himself.

and yet, when talking of bending the knee, he was wholly aware it were something they both had needed to do when jaehaerys took the throne; and for a brief moment he remembered the fleeting eye contact they had made across from the courtyard when maximus had bent the knee - in that moment it felt like some great change. in the months that had passed, the reality was nothing had changed; a new head wore the crown, but the mechanisms all worked the very same. he leaned his weight on the stool, the wood creaking beneath him, and watched her back—the exact line of her shoulder, the way she carried certainty like armour. his words slipped further, lubricated by a cold amusement.

“i like the theatre of it, you know. not the spectacle up above; that’s for them to cluck over and forget. it is the private turning of a man’s mind that intrigues me. the instant a man realises he is less than what he thought—there is some intoxication in that collapse.” his mouth twitched into something almost like a smile, but it was not warmth he showed; it was calculation, pure and terrible. he savoured the idea of minds rearranged, of names erased until only usefulness remained. he let his gaze drag across the mutely waiting figures in their pens—the spearman with the crooked ear, the broad-shouldered man with a missing thumb, the thin one who laughed too quickly—and he felt a small, keen thrill.

“do you find there is an art to ruin?” he continued, voice low and indulgent. “to find one does not merely break; but sculpt. you break the skin so the hand learns a new trade. you starve the arrogance until gratitude grows where fury once burned. you teach them their place, and then you let them think themselves remade. that is the trick.” he tapped a finger against the wood, as though tallying invisible columns in a ledger. the notion of order from ruin pleased him in the throat. he hated her, he would always hate her - despise her even, if he could be the one to choke the life out of her he would - happily. and yet, the topic of fascination held him by ropes; unable to snuff out the fire it had put in the depths of his gut.

"or, do you prefer to just break them?"

he let his imagination flare, wicked and bright—crowds roaring until the rafters shook, the whole city naming him the architect of renewal. the fantasy washed over him like heat; he nearly tasted it, sharp and metallic and terribly sweet. the vision of new valyria returned in his palm, of nightsong torn back from dornish hands, of banners unfurled where now there were only smokes and debts—he felt the intoxication of possibility. his mind, always a machine for empire-building, drew maps on the inside of his skull: coin routes, ledgers salted with fear, governors bought and corrupted until the realm hummed to his tune. he could be more than master of coin. he could be the hand that reshaped crowns.

the sound of water dripping from the vaulted stone cut through him like an unexpected note. the spell of the imagined crowd cracked, and he found himself looking at them both with a strange, piercing hunger—not just at her skin or the fighters, but at something deeper, trying to strip away pretence and gaze through to what lay beneath. he wanted to see the bones of them: the small cruelties that fed their choices, the private compromises that carved their loyalties. he watched saella’s profile as though he could read a ledger written in shadows. he let the faintest of cruel smiles cross his face, then spoke again, the words deliberate and cold.

“pick the spearman. there is something about the way he fights that sings to me—there is nothing finer than watching memory yield to need.” he listened to how his own voice sounded in the chamber, tasted the satisfaction of giving an order that would ripple outward and not return without change. he closed his eyes for a breath and then opened them, sharp and clear as a knife. he spoke of crowds but refused to claim their roar for himself, the words dipped in a perversion of flattery: “let the city shout your name when they see what you’ve done. let them clap for the hand that fashions men from ruin. you can be their roar.” the compliment had a sting; it placed power squarely on her shoulders while making him the unseen architect, delighted with his own cleverness. it were just like they had always been; she the puppet, him the designer.

he felt, for a moment, a blunt urge—a primitive, almost animal lean toward closeness, a sexual hunger that knotted in his gut at the sight of her like a thing wanting to possess. he restrained it; he knew exactly how to want without degrading a weapon he might still need. he kept his hands to himself. in his mind she was already dirt and jewel at once—marred, valuable, untouchable—something to be curated not consumed. “i could have you anywhere,” he admitted softly, his voice a whisper that was not for her alone. it was startling, unnerving, the way he switched to the way he wanted her. and wanted her, he always would. “but that would be waste. you are better as the hand that breaks than as the broken.” the words slid out with the ease of practiced cruelty.

he watched her as she stepped closer, letting the torchlight pick out the knife-edges of her face. then he folded back into the calm of a man who had lessons to teach, and said, quieter still, “so do it. select them, shape them, and bring them to me when the new forms stand before you. i will observe. i will approve.” he did not move to stand; he remained rooted in that place between shadow and light, content to let the machinery of ruin turn. he thought again of empires and ledgers and the sweet imaginary roar, and in that patient hunger there was no salvation—only the endless arithmetic of power.

"i noticed the new blades from lys,” he murmured, almost as if testing her, suddenly getting up from his wooden stall as she brushed by him - too quickly, like an animal ready to pounce. “tell me, how do you decide which are worthy of the pit?” the question hung between them, more than idle curiosity. his eyes swept the walls, imagining the exotic metals, the hilt carvings, the poison-laced edges—each an extension of her authority, her taste for control. “it pleases me,” he added, almost imperceptibly, “to see how you understand value… not just in men, but in things as well.”

[bloodfcrblood]

his words were a provocation, meant to unsettle, to tug at the delicate threads between them. but saella didn’t bite. she rarely did. instead, she watched the fighter across the pit reset his stance, his breath shallow, his nerves humming. she tilted her head slightly, almost curious, as if she hadn't just felt her skin prickle at the sound of maximus’ voice. she knew better than to give him what he wanted. at least, not so easily.

“they all believe they’re different,” she said, almost absently. “that their pain is some great, singular truth. that’s what makes them weak.” her tone was cool, unbothered, but the words struck with quiet precision. not just about the men down here. never just about them.

shrine, he said. gods, he called them. but his voice held none of the reverence his words feigned.

“is that what you see?” she asked softly, almost distracted, though every word was chosen like a knife held between finger and thumb. “gods watching flames?” a pause, then a half-turn of her head, just enough to catch him in her periphery. “i suppose it makes sense. you’ve always mistaken destruction for worship.”

she didn’t smile, but her lips curled at the corners, something mean and faintly indulgent, like she might’ve been enjoying the performance, if only a little, if only to detract from what stirred within her. “you never liked not being the fire, did you?”

it was a foolish thing, that desperate hope she'd once clung to. so desperate to matter, to make him see her as more than just another pawn. she’d been willing to twist herself, to craft a story that wasn’t hers, all for the chance of a fleeting piece of his favor. his affection. the memory of her lie, the pregnancy she’d fabricated to bind him closer, still felt like a bruise, raw and bitter.

stupid, stupid girl.

but she'd done it, hadn't she? she’d thrown herself into the fire, hoping it would burn her clean. instead, it had scorched her. and him. and yet, here they were again, locked in this twisted dance.

saella’s gaze remained steady, watching him as if she were reading the very core of him. a small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "doesn't happiness demand the ability to be satisfied?" she asked, her tone light, almost detached, as though the question held no weight for her, yet somehow, it did. with him, it always did. "perhaps that's the curse, isn't it?" her voice was quiet, but every word seemed to carry more weight than it should.

he circled her. she let him. it was always easier to watch a serpent when it thought it was hunting. his words spilled in that low drawl, meant to cut and coax in equal measure, and for the most part, she let them slide against her skin without comment. only her hands moved, one lifting, palm open. two of the fighters stepped forward. she didn’t name them. she didn’t need to.

lavender gaze shifted to look at him, despite the slight shudder of a sigh that escaped her upon feeling his breath brush her skin. now, there was a subtle challenge in her gaze. “you think it’s the belief that they obey without question?” she let out a soft laugh, more of a breath than a sound. “maybe. but there’s something else. something far deeper.”

she straightened, letting her posture fill the space between them, despite the beating in her chest she had never quite faltered easily. “i have the luxury of seeing them, these men, in ways you cannot. i don’t just command them. i understand them.” her voice was quiet, but there was a palpable edge to it now. “i see their desperation, their rage. and i use it. their need to fight, to prove themselves, i give that meaning. to them, i’m more than a master. i’m the one who defines them.”

she glanced over her shoulder at the gladiators under her command, a brief flash of something darker in her eyes. “and that power, over them, over their fate, it is mine."

hues returned to him, unwavering. “so, yes. there’s something I get out of this. far more than the thrill of seeing men bleed. it’s the knowing that, for all their strength, for all their rage, they cannot escape me.” her voice dropped lower, a teasing edge to it now. “and for all your grand questions, it seems, neither can you.”

there was a slight pause, the tension between them hanging in the air like smoke from a smoldering fire. saella’s gaze held him for a moment longer, her words lingering in the space they shared, before she broke the silence with an almost casual tone.

“so,” she said, her voice softening, as though the weight of their exchange had somehow slipped away. “when would you like to see those that are no longer fit for fighting, again? surely you wandered down here for more purpose than ensure the satisfaction of the masses."

[vlxyrianclaws]

mxc.

the candlelight followed them like a tremble. he didn’t touch her—he never needed to. she walked ahead, as she always did when she thought she was guiding him somewhere he hadn’t already mapped out, and he followed, steps deliberate, slow. there was something almost religious about the tunnels: the flicker of flame on old stone, the echo of dripping water, the distant clang of metal against metal like a hymn to some brutal god. and her, walking just ahead, like a priestess garbed in shadow and pride. he watched the sway of her cloak, the curl of damp in the crook of her neck.

he imagined, briefly, what it would be like to seize her then—not in violence, but in revelation. to peel back the sharp edges she wore like armour and find what had always been soft beneath.

but that was the lie, wasn’t it? the thing she wanted him to believe: that there was something buried, waiting. there wasn’t. there never had been. she was made of knife-points and hunger, and anything that ever resembled softness had been put there for his benefit alone. “i remember,” he said, voice low, threading through the dark like smoke, “when you used to look at me the way they look at you now.” the words came easily, unhurried. “as if i held something sacred between my teeth. you were very good at worship, once.” he let the silence hold a moment after that—just enough. the tunnels turned, narrowing, and still she did not look back. that pleased him more than it should.

her refusal to flinch had always been part of the performance. she made defiance look like grace. as if she wasn’t performing it for him, every breath choreographed, every glance calculated to land with weight. “you mistake control for intimacy,” he said, watching her hand brush against a rusted grate as she passed it. “you think that by understanding their pain, you own it. that if they need you, it makes you necessary.” he paused, stepping in closer behind her now, close enough that the hem of his coat caught the edge of hers.

“but you don't need them to need you, saella. just fearing you, is enough.” in the flickering darkness, there was a wicked, reptilian smile crossing over his features as they walked - for of course she was desperate to be needed by someone, or something, even in the most sadistic of manners.

they stopped before a locked chamber—thick wood, iron studs, the stink of old sweat behind it. she reached for a key tucked into her belt, and he watched the way her fingers moved. efficient. unapologetic. there was no ceremony to her control. that, in itself, was its own seduction. he stepped beside her now, shoulder brushing hers as the door groaned open and the scent of blood and resin spilled out into the corridor. figures inside—six, maybe seven—men kept like wine in a cellar. waiting to be poured out. used. discarded.

he said nothing at first, just inhaled slowly, gaze passing over the room with the same detached interest he reserved for fine tapestries and merchant ledgers. and yet his hand lingered on the doorframe, knuckles pressed into the grain like he might draw something from it.

then: “you asked what i get out of this.” his voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. “and i could lie, i suppose. say it’s about order. about strengthening the cause. but the truth is, i like watching people become. i like the moment they realise they’re no longer men, but useful. items. sacrifices. there’s something almost… holy in it.” he turned his head, watching her profile. she did not flinch. he didn’t expect her to - because she knew. whilst she did not know the details, she must have assumed that the men she sold to the master of coin were merely victim to his tortures for enjoyment. “go on, then,” he said, tone light, almost indulgent in her whims, sinking into a wooden stool with a sense of careless confidence, as though the world were at his fingertips. as though all were within his grasp. “show me. pick two.”

his gaze lingered on her mouth, then the curve of her jaw; always her facial features, more than her body. such snakelike beauty, it made him wish to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze. “i want to see who you believe deserves to be broken in my name.” he didn’t smile. he didn’t need to. she would feel the grin in his breath, the sadistic sense of pleasure he felt in this moment.

[jerimobear]

[jeremyallenwrench]

Jeremy Allen White - The Bear Ep 205-210

UPDATED: Now has episodes 205-210

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[jeremyallenwrench]

Jeremy Allen White in Shameless Season 6

Please message me to receive access to #264 gifs of Jeremy Allen White in Shameless Season 6. All gifs have been made by me. A like is much appreciated, but if you plan on using these I expect you to either reblog this post or send me an ask. Due to people not following my rules, I am now only sending links to those who confirm with me that they have reblogged the post (or have explained why they are unable to do so.) Give me a heads up if you use them to create gif icons or crackships - I don’t generally have a problem with it, but I have a few rules as far as crediting me!

tw: nsfw, smoking, drinking

[jeremyallenwrench]

Jeremy Allen White in The Bear S1

Click the source link to find #628 gifs of Jeremy Allen White in The Bear Season 1. All gifs have been made by me. A like is much appreciated, but if you plan on using these I expect you to either reblog this post or send me an ask. Due to people not following my rules, I am now only sending links to those who confirm with me that they have reblogged the post (or have explained why they are unable to do so.) Give me a heads up if you use them to create gif icons or crackships - I don’t generally have a problem with it, but I have a few rules as far as crediting me!

[jeremyallenwrench]

Jeremy Allen White - The Bear Season 3

Please reblog and message me for access to #550 gifs of Jeremy Allen White in THE BEAR SEASON 3. All gifs have been made by me. I am only sending links to those who confirm with me that they have reblogged the post (or reach out to explain why they are unable to do so.) IMs are easiest for me, but I’m not particularly fussy. Please do not share the link with others and follow my rules when using my gifs. Give me a heads up if you plan to use them to create gif icons or crackships - I don’t generally have a problem with it, but I have a few rules as far as crediting me!

[cellaceltigar]

marcella inclined her head, a picture of deference, though behind her lilac eyes, the wheels of her mind spun ceaselessly. she was ever the dutiful sister, ever the willing blade in maximus’ hand. a marionette of flesh and blood, bending to the pull of her brother’s invisible strings. she only gave a stiff nod in response, as she had already made her promises. the words of promise she had spoken were an oath, but also a shield. failure was not an option. not with maximus. not when she knew what failure meant. her eyes flickered over him, absorbing every minute detail ― the way he paced, the calculated weight of his words, the way he watched her as one would watch a blade, measuring whether it was still sharp enough to be of use. she had always been useful. she had to remain so.

still, there was something else in his gaze, something she dared not name. as a child, she believed max had loved her, in his own way. as much as he was capable of loving anyone. she had never understood love in the way the poets spoke of it. but she knew what it was to be bound to someone so completely that it became indistinguishable from fear. marcella loved her brother still, she believed, as much as she feared him, and she had long since ceased trying to untangle the two. but perhaps there were not much left of either of them to be anything but dutiful members of house celtigar, to strive for their house to be elevated once more.

she turned her attention back to the matter at hand, forcing the ghosts of sentiment from her mind. wylliam swann. a dull, honourable man with a dull, honourable reputation. such men were easy to manipulate, easy to ruin ― if one knew the right strings to pull. she would figure out which strings of lord swann, she would need to pull to succeed. it was a delicate thing, to orchestrate a fall so perfect it seemed self-inflicted, but she relished the challenge. her mind raced with possibilities. a scandal? a betrayal? every man had something that could be turned into a weapon against them. a hidden indulgence. a weakness of the flesh. a secret sin buried beneath layers of virtue. she would find it. she would peel him open like a ripe fruit and let his innards spill for all to see, all while watching from the shadows.

“it will be done, and when it is, the king will be looking to you, brother. just as he should have from the beginning.”

her eyes flickered upward, locking onto his, unblinking. she saw the promise in them, the cruel satisfaction curling at the edge of his mouth. she did not delude herself into thinking he would ever truly reward her. only if it also rewarded him or their house. however, she was tempted by the thought. jaehaerys had plenty of kingsblood, and it held a power that she could use. she could feel it drumming within his veins. if they had succeeded in their little plot before he was crowned, she would have made sure to not waste any of it, to use it. there were other ways to get access to it, and becoming queen was certainly one of them. but she knew the game maximus played, and for now, it was enough to play her part. pawns could become queens, yes, but only if they knew when to move.

“so i have your permission to speak to the king and offer my services?”

marcella knew that there could be no loopholes left open when it came to her brother, nothing he could use against her. he'd likely find something anyway, but she did not wish to make it easy for him. she needed to hear him say the words, say that she could reach out for what she wanted with his support. cella would deal with wylliam swann once her position was secure.

[vlxyrianclaws]

mxc.

“of course you do, darling,” maximus said, and the words fell from his tongue like syrup laced with poison, thick and dark and falsely sweet. he turned from the fire, the light of it tracing jagged gold along the sharp architecture of his face, and he studied his sister the way a surgeon might study a patient before the first incision—precisely, with a distant sort of care that had nothing to do with love. “i would not have instructed you to act if i thought you incapable of speech.” he walked slowly past her, allowing his fingers to graze the curve of her chair in passing, as though to remind her that everything—her, the seat she sat on, the very air she breathed—existed within his dominion.

he greatly valued the rush of power and adrenaline that came in penetrating her personal space; as though to remind her that even that was not truly her own. “but you will not give away the shape of our intent. not a word to suggest this was orchestrated. you are simply... helpful. compassionate. the concerned lady eager to assist a well-meaning but overwhelmed man.”

he hated speaking those words. hated the very notion that she would have to pretend to be kind. kindness was a disease, a rot that had infected the court like damp in old stone. it made men like swann seem noble when they were nothing more than meat dressed in honour. that was the flaw in jaehaerys, really. in his mind, he was still young enough to be swayed by the illusion of virtue - but that could be undone. virtue could be proven fraudulent, and nothing soured a king’s favour quicker than disappointment. he remembered the first time he saw swann, all bluster and breeches and that damnable stormlander humility—so false it stank of performance. the king had introduced him like some treasured find, and the room had nodded along like obedient dogs. it had sickened him.

“we’ll make it a scandal,” he muttered, more to himself now. “preferably a crime. treason, would essentially put the writing on the walls for us. and then the king will have to look elsewhere - he will look to me.”

he smiled then, the kind of smile he had perfected in childhood—harmless on the surface, empty behind the eyes. it had gotten him tutors to trust him, lords to underestimate him, and one by one, they had all vanished. accidents, mostly. unfortunate illnesses. he had long ago made peace with the fact that he was the only one worthy of deciding the fates of men. if the gods had not chosen him, then they were wrong, and he would correct their error. he turned back to marcella, the fire casting her in an eerie silhouette, a ghost in silk. “you have my permission,” he said again, softly now, though the words struck like iron. “but be clever, little sister. there’s no reward for loyal incompetence. remember that.”

he was halfway to the door when he heard the knock—three sharp raps, followed by a pause. his head tilted slightly, not unlike a bird sensing a predator in the underbrush. news from their beloved claw isle - no doubt about another debt that had failed to be collected. he knew it even before the boy at the threshold stammered it aloud. his face, always pale, took on an almost skeletal light in the flicker of the torch. he did not turn back to marcella as he left. there was no need.

end of thread.

[youremyvioleta]

Why don't you write one about me? The Ballad of Coriolanus Snow.

[khadijha]

🪶    /    in  the  source  link  below,  you’ll  gain  access  to  #676  gifs  of  tom blyth  in  the hunger games: the ballad of songbirds and snakes  (2023).  he  was  born  in  the  year  1995  and  is  of  white  descent,  so  please  cast  appropriately  when  using  my  resources.  all  of  these  gifs  were  made  from  scratch,  so  you  may  edit  these  as  much  as  you’d  like,  but  please  don’t  redistribute  or  claim  as  your  own.  please  refer  to  my  rules  for  further  information.

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