Zahra Sat Across From Myriam, The Shadows Of The Room Weaving Around Them, But She Could Feel The Weight

the dancer of salt shore sat comfortably upon the lush rug on the floor, legs crossed as she mindlessly shuffled the cards in her hands. it had always been a calling of sorts of hers, to read the stars, and therefore those around her if she had the opportunity. zahra found people interesting, but especially those she felt unable to read from a simple interaction - armaan yronwood had been someone for years she could not simply figure out, and that intrigued her.

the sweetness of the smoke was soothing, a reminder of home in a place where she felt entirely outside of things. though zahra sand was not in the midst of dornish politics, she was far more welcomed in those midst than here. she were no fool to what others saw her as, but she also paid little mind to it. though she found herself liking the reach more than other places, it still wasn't quite like home, and she was ready to depart as soon as they could.

a small shrug of her shoulder at his answer, she knew him to be the cousin of the martell's, but she knew little of their relationship, other than he did not seem particularly close to them, but zahra didn't think she would press on that, for now, at least. "hmm, i suppose." she left that topic at that comment, but wondered if there was any hidden meaning behind the words that left him. the dancer did not really pay mind to what was expected of most others, and tended to fall into her own rhythm. she knew, in some ways, that was certainly a privilege.

melodic laughter escaped her at his questions, not matter how pointed his words may have seemed. "of course i do, i'll take any opportunity to read someone." zahra stated with a grin, arm reaching over to hand him the deck. wafts of sandwalwood and jasmine scented oils filled her senses at the movement from having placed small drops on her wrists, a little delicacy she had partaken in when her father had offered her gifts from essos.. "you must shuffle them, and think of your intention." she instructed, "do you desire anything? power? wealth? do you have enough of the latter?" zahra taunted slightly, hands placed on her knees now. "once you've thought of something, select a card without looking and hand it to me."

꙰

there was a smokey haze within the chambers of the bloodroyal, as a result of the burning coals of the hookah and the circles that filled the air between them, inhaling through the nose - he detested the way in which it made him feel far more level headed, far more rooted to the ground that remained beneath his feet. even if it burned beneath the scalding heat of the dornish sun, something about it made him feel present. and somewhere, in the depth of his gut, he knew it was because of the fact that he associated the lord of the tor was the smoking - his calm nature, and how armaan had always claimed it unrealistic. yet, rashid jordayne lived and showed him each day such calm was entirely possible.

it seemed as though they all knew their places and their positions in the world. and the bloodroyal of yronwood, in his focus on the money and cultivation of his own lands, had been assigned the very same duty for the entirety of the realm. the spring had come to lys, and dorne would soon feel the benefits for the steadfast alliance they kept - despite the burning of the land of rivers. it made the most sense, and soon, it would show.

"princesses are supposed to be good at that." he responded, his voice remaining blunt; his lack of association with the martells, despite them being his blood through their parents being siblings, was no mystery - nor was it any confounding complex matter to wrap one's head around. all knew of the major fall out that happened between mors and armaan in their early adulthood, barely able to be identified as men; and it stained. it would remain to stain, even in death - he had no care for it. "it's a problem if they are not." he inhaled again, watching as dark, doe-like orbs seemed to light up at the mention of her cards.

astrology was an important part of dornish culture, with possible marriages being matched based on compatibility of politics, but also birth charts - even timings of vows being exchanged came down to certain times of the day and the position of planets. he was not entirely dismissive of the matter, though believed some found themselves too tied to the concept; dismissing the entire point of man having choices. "you've got them on you all the time or…?" armaan asked, his tone may have come across judgemental; and yet, there was clear amusement within dark orbs that were the essence of the storm. "your nonsense does not phase me, zahra sand. read as you wish."

the grand throne room of sunspear shimmered in the soft light of the afternoon, its stone floors reflecting the muted gold and red of the setting sun. zahra sand moved through the crowd with practiced ease, her presence undeniable but never forceful. she was a part of the court, woven into its fabric of gossip and intrigue, yet never truly bound to it. her laughter echoed like a quiet melody, a sound that drifted above the low hum of conversation and reverberated through the hall like the call of a siren.

at the sound of her name, she turned to see the lord of yronwood's dark gaze cast over her. with a quick, graceful movement, zahra drifted away from the small cluster of nobles she’d been chatting with, making her way toward him. There was no hurry in her step, only the quiet assurance of someone accustomed to the court’s rhythms.

she stopped before him, her smile a soft curve, her eyes glinting with the knowing gleam of someone who could see beneath the surface. “lord yronwood,” she greeted, her voice warm with the hint of amusement. “it seems the winds of sunspear have called you back, though I suspect it’s not the festivities that keep you here.” she knew the kind of man armaan yronwood was, a seeker of chaos, a harbinger of disruption, and she found herself intrigued by it, more than she would have cared to admit.

her lips curved into a slow, enigmatic smile as she placed her hand lightly over his, guiding him toward a quieter corner. she swept her flowing skirts aside as she settled into a low seat, her movements graceful, almost theatrical, before patting the space beside her. “if the stars have called to you, my lord, who am I to deny them?” she teased lightly.

gently taking his hand again, her thumb traced the lines of his palm, her touch deliberate, almost languid, as though she were drawing out the story etched there. her gaze flickered down, studying the patterns and folds as her brow furrowed slightly in thought. “your life is woven tightly, like threads pulled taut,” she murmured, her words measured, soft enough that only he could hear. “you carry the weight of others’ needs and ambitions, though it’s not burden alone that stirs you. no, there’s something more…”

she glanced up at him through her lashes, the corners of her lips curving into a knowing smile. “you’re a man who thrives on motion, yet here you are, standing still. why?” her head tilted slightly as she studied his face, the heat of her touch grounding the moment.

zahra let her fingers linger briefly before releasing his hand, folding her own neatly in front of her. “the stars do not dictate, my lord, but they do suggest,” she said lightly, though her gaze remained sharp. “and they suggest that perhaps the restlessness you feel is less about where you are and more about where you want to be.”

who: @dancingshores when and where: the grand throne room of sunspear, the bloodroyal of yronwood has made his way back to court in order to meet with the first minister and be present for at least a short period of time in the celebrations following their victory. context: he sees the court seer, zahra sand; who inspires him for some chaos. she inspires him to burn down tion peake's granaries - accidentially.

the throne room of sunspear glimmered in the late afternoon light, a mixture of gold and red hues spilling across polished sandstone. armaan yronwood leaned against a column, his eyes scanning the room with practiced ease, noting the sycophants, the revelers, and those with the sharp gleam of ambition in their gaze. it was a place of games and whispers, one he had long since learned to navigate. yet, amidst the courtly pomp, his attention snagged, unbidden, on her.

zahra sand.

she stood near a cluster of nobles, her laughter like a ripple of water breaking through the murmur of conversation. her flowing dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, glinting like polished obsidian under the torches. her eyes sparkled with mischief, a thousand secrets reflected in their depths, and her movements seemed almost otherworldly, a dance that carried an aura of purpose and enigma. but it was her figure—full hips swaying beneath her robes, the effortless confidence of her stance—that stirred something base and undeniable in armaan.

he clenched his jaw and pushed away from the column, making his way toward her with measured steps.

“zahra,” he greeted, the low timbre of his voice cutting through the noise. the corner of his mouth curled upward, though the smile held its usual edge of calculation. “your reputation precedes you. they say your insight shapes sunspear’s fate as much as the sword.” he acted as though she had not been in her chambers some months ago, sharing a smoking pipe and speaking of everything and nothing. he had not thought of that night until this moment, perhaps because she had the same look in her eye.

he let the words settle, watching as she turned to face him. her smile was a thing of subtlety, poised and knowing, and the way her robes clung to the curve of her hips sent a flicker of heat through him. he ignored it—or tried to. “you,” he continued, “are spoken of even in yronwood these days. they say the stars themselves bend to your will." he watched her closely as he spoke, searching her face for any crack in her composure. but zahra was a fortress, her expression offering nothing more than a faint amusement. it only made her all the more infuriatingly captivating.

he took a step closer, leaning slightly forward as he spoke, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. his fingers curled against the pillar, his grip tightening, but he didn’t let his thoughts stray too far. instead, he straightened from the pillar after clearly eyeing her up and down; and he extended the palm of his hand out for her. "do mine." he found himself lacking a sense of purpose in these days, on the great come down following the rush of war. there were nobody to kill, no reason to chase or to hunt; and he found himself growing increasingly bored.

"there was mango cheesecake?" was zahra's first reaction to the little incident, followed by wondering how in the world myriam's phone made its way to the kitchen. she walked in stride with the other woman, steps mirroring one another as they found themselves out of the crowd and in one of the schools halls. "do you think someone might've taken it?" it seemed her dearest friend also had something to discuss, especially with how quick she was to join zahra in her own antics. of course, she also didn't think it would take much convincing to get myri to join her.

zahra nodded, extended an arm with the bottle now, using it as a pointer now that no one else was around. "maths room it is." she declared, her pace picking up, already feeling a slight sense of relief to be out of that room. "do i look sweaty?" she asked, half-joking, half-serious. zahra fanned herself with her hand as they approached the classroom now. "ooo yes, i love guessing games. i'm sure it won't take you, but one." she stated, knowing that myri was all too aware ever since zahra had run into armaan in their apartment all those years ago, damp from the shower he had just taken with only a towel around his waist. she had practically been flustered with him every since.

her phone remained in a deathly tight grip in her hand after she had found it, somehow on a tray of mango dessert in the kitchens. she slipped back into the room as the doors were opened for her, she kept the leather jacket around her shoulders. and then came the voice. like a sudden rushing kite, fluttering in the wind; there was a visible sigh of relief upon hearing someone she wanted to speak with, someone she wanted to spend time with. someone she honestly wanted to slip away from this whole thing with.

the mention of the drink momentarily made her pause, all but hearing the screeching sounds at the beginning of raye's escapism in her head at it; but she nodded, ushering her to return to hiding it under her coat.

she turned, momentarily meeting eye contact with her fiance; she indicated she were with zahra, and then the women had left. myriam let out a breath, and again checked her phone was with her, feeling the chill in the air as soon they stepped outside of the heated hall. "i lost my phone. well, i found it now - it was with the mango cheesecake." she patted her bag, looking back at her closest friend and companion. "shall we go up to the maths classrooms?" she used her hand to indicate toward the classrooms that were the furthest away. if they were still for maths. "you're pressed about something. can i make some guesses?"

zahra laughed, a full sound that cracked through the night like a spark, unexpected and honest. it spilled out of her without permission, the kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep in the ribs, where longing and relief sometimes collided. she ducked lower into the water, letting it rise to her chin, her knees bent and her arms drifting out like wings on the surface. it felt good to laugh. too good. dangerous, maybe. a little indulgent. but she didn’t stop. her eyes glittered in the moonlight as she looked at myriam, something soft blooming behind them. “you’re mad,” she said teasingly, tilting her head. “completely mad. and i’ve missed it.”

for a while, she simply floated, arms outstretched, staring up at the wide mouth of the sky. her hair spread out in slow waves around her head like ink in water. silence pressed around her, not heavy, not lonely. just present. the stars were watching as they began to peak through indigo skies, same as always. their light didn’t judge. it never had. she sighed, voice low when she finally spoke again. “you ever notice how it’s easier to tell the truth when you’re not looking at anyone?” her eyes stayed on the sky, the colors blurred slightly from the damp upon her lids. “maybe that’s why the stage never felt like a lie. i wasn’t with them. not really. i couldn’t see their faces, just the lights, the music. it was like… like i stepped into another world the moment the drums began.”

the words left her, and for a moment, the silence pressed in. her gaze lingered on the stars, but something else flickered behind her eyes. not regret, not quite. something older. something quieter.

she could have said it then. could have turned to myriam and told her the truth that had lived beneath her ribs since she was old enough to understand why she never asked too many questions. that they shared more than time, more than songs. that the woman who placed a baby in a basket to float down the greenblood, had mothered zahra too. but zahra didn’t speak. she couldn’t. instead, she took in a long breath, and when she turned her head, her smile was faint but real. “alright,” she said with mock solemnity, casting a sidelong glance. “but if i get scolded by some concerned reach lord, i’ll drag you down with me. fair?”

she swam in a lazy arc toward the stone ledge, fingers slicing the surface. myriam had pointed it out earlier, and now it called to her like something inevitable. her body moved with a dancer’s grace even in the water, deliberate and sure. she pulled herself up onto the stone, water clinging to her in rivulets. the air kissed her skin, cool and fleeting, as she stood there hugging her arms loosely around herself—not from cold, but from thought. her eyes drifted to the horizon, to where the mountains folded into shadow and the world felt far too wide for old griefs.

“jasveer’s name,” she said softly, almost to herself. “i’ve been carrying it like it’s a story i need to keep alive. but it’s mine too. i want it to be memory, not a weight.”

she bent her knees just a touch, toes curled at the edge, breath catching in her throat. she didn’t count to three. she didn’t shout his name. but she thought it, like a thread tied to her ankle, like a blessing, like a farewell.

then she jumped.

the splash was clean and sharp, and the water rose to meet her like an open mouth, swallowing her whole for a breathless moment. then she broke the surface, gasping and laughing, hair plastered to her face, eyes alight with something too wild to name. “gods,” she sputtered, wiping her brow, “that felt better than it should’ve. you win. but only this once.”

without warning, zahra surged forward and flung herself into myriam's arms, arms wrapping tight around the other's shoulders. it wasn’t a dive or a swim or anything graceful, just pure motion, unfiltered and reckless. she was laughing still, breathless, eyes bright as fireflies in the dark. “your turn,” she stated, nudging her shoulder gently against myriam’s. “no hiding.”

❂

myriam stayed still as zahra eased herself into the water, watching her friend with the kind of focus she reserved for dance or strategy or poetry written in someone else’s hand. there was reverence in her silence, not distance. she wanted to absorb zahra’s words as they came, one at a time, not risk misunderstanding them by rushing to fill the quiet. she’d always believed her friend’s voice was most beautiful when she didn’t try to make it so. when it stumbled a little, or paused too long between words. that was when it was real. her own silks were loosening slowly, methodically, beneath the moonlight.

the choli she’d worn earlier—a deep rust colour with fine threadwork down the spine—slid off first, caught briefly on her elbows before she tugged it away with a soft sigh.

the long skirts went next, peeled off like ripe fruit, careful not to wet the hem, and folded over the dry stone bench behind her. only the bindi remained, a dot of black on her forehead. “mmm,” she murmured in agreement, her first sound in some time, low and velvety as she stepped to the water’s edge. a quick, feline glance around the garden confirmed it—no children had wandered near, no stray courtiers, no highborn fools fumbling in hedges. they were alone, and she intended to keep it that way. and then she stepped in, as if the water owed her something. there was no hesitation. her foot slid down into the pool and then the rest of her followed—dark curls trailing behind her like seaweed, like shadow, her body gleaming and unapologetic beneath the moon.

she wore her nudity not like armour, but like inheritance: ancient, queenly, hers by right. the water surprised her—deeper than she expected—and she laughed softly as she began to tread, the movement making soft waves around zahra’s hips. “you were right not to strip the whole truth down,” she said, glancing over at her friend with a curl of amusement at her lips. “clarity’s overrated. blissful ignorance... that’s where the comfort is. if you don’t know it, you can’t ache for it. you can’t miss what never reached you.” she tilted her head back, letting the water creep along her collarbones, her dark hair floating like ink around her. “i used to think knowing everything was a kind of power. but lately...” her voice trailed off, the shrug more elegant than defeat.

“some things are lighter when left untouched, doesn't it?”

she floated closer then, her arms cutting little crescent moons in the water. she was watching zahra carefully—not for signs of weakness, but for signs of depth, of things unsaid. “you know,” she said gently, as one would speak to something precious, something that glowed, something they could not believe was with them. “you’re carrying all of it so beautifully, my girl." she let her foot brush zahra’s beneath the surface—just a touch, a nudge. “and don’t let them make you feel like you owe anyone ease. not the court, not the dancers, not even jassie's memory. you’re allowed to feel heavy. you’re allowed to sink sometimes - just trust another will catch you.” myriam's arms were long and bare as she drifted closer, water coiling around her like silk spun from ink.

the pool held them gently—two constellations untethered from the sky, bobbing in its quiet cradle. she watched zahra with a soft patience, chin tipped just slightly as if she were listening to a song only her friend could sing.

her lashes were wet, casting faint shadows on her cheekbones, and her bindi remained stubbornly in place, a single black truth clinging above her brow. “come,” she said suddenly, voice low and filled with something half-playful, half-sincere. “we’re playing a game.” myriam was already backing a few paces through the water, treading slowly until she was at the deeper centre of the pool. moonlight lacquered her shoulders, made her seem otherworldly—like some forgotten goddess of fresh water and difficult truths. she lifted her arms, held them steady before her like an invitation wrapped in challenge.

"climb up there, let's yell something to no longer carry, and fall back on me. i won't let you hit the water wrong." and there it was—that grin again. the one myriam reserved only for those she truly loved, the one that twisted her usually composed face into something far more mischievous. for suddenly, she were six and ten in the shallow waters of the greenblood, wading throguh reeds and doing the same with dastan and hasaryn. she remembers shrieking with a mouthful of water as hasa pulled her under, or the time dastan emerged with a fish. she remembered the time she ran from a snapping stray baby turtle. “if you fall wrong on your own accord, i’ll scold your form like some bitter auntie at a debut dance,” she teased, “so do it properly, or suffer my commentary forever.”

the court seer of dorne took to traveling only when it seemed like it contained opportunity, or perhaps it was asked of her by those within sunspear, who no doubt perhaps would like to have some insight as to what this next gathering would bring. zahra did not believe she need read the stars to believe that the west would not bring much great opportunities for their homeland, but she respected the efforts to make this travel and form whatever alliances they could. she were not entirely privy to the intricacies of the political sphere, but she knew enough to know that an ally to the north was likely being sought, for having partnerships only across the sea would not always do them good.

tonight, however, she indulged in the masquerade, picking out one of her finest lehengas, purchasing the most colorful mask she could find, zahra felt entirely in her element this evening. it were a show, an act, and she put it on very well. despite not often dancing as the westerosi did traditionally, she knew enough of the steps to take to the dance floor on more than one occasion, the ringing her her anklets liking causing some surprise to whatever partner she happened upon.

the music ended and she gave a nod of her head to her most recent companion, before turning to pluck a drink from one of the serving trays. it were then she had spotted a young lord she had seen earlier, as well. she need not remove his mask to believe he was handsome, and zahra had always enjoyed an air of mystery.

"my lord," she responded, head tilting slightly as she grinned. "you certainly may, if you are a good lead. i'm afraid i am not always familiar with these songs." her accent rang, giving way to some of her identity behind the mask.

Closed starter for @dancingshores Setting: Lannisport, The Westerland's. The celebration of Lann's Day is in full swing, with music, dancing, and competitions.

It was a day of celebration and yet he couldn't celebrate anything with the person he'd attended Lann's Day with. He'd asked if Talia wished to dance, and she'd rejected his proposal. He'd asked if she wished to listen to some of the stories being performed, and she'd said she was in no mood for it. Perhaps it was a form of protest from his wife's side, who no doubt saw her marriage as a prison in which both Harlon and him were to blame for her oh-so-horrible fate. She was not the first woman to endure an arranged marriage nor would she be the last. And for gods' sake, she was a Lady of Oldtown now. There were far worse fates to be had in this world.

“Well, I do want to dance, my dear,” Gael stated in a polite tone, a forced smile crossing his lips —no effort going into making the gesture anything else other than what it was: fake. He ought to be more patient, he knew, but at least for the day he'd grown tired of his wife's antics and wished to enjoy something. And so the Hightower lord left Talia in the company of her guards and ladies, disappearing into the crowd.

The Master of the Arts readjusted his mask and headed for the area where lively music was playing. He got himself a drink, feeling some of the tension he'd felt minutes ago begin to dissipate gradually. There was something exciting about seeing masks all around, no uncovered faces. It was a theater performance, almost. Individuals giving themselves permission to let go of certain inhibitions, the chance to feel somewhat freer, all because no one knew who they were. He could relate to that desire today.

Gael took a long sip of his drink, finishing the contents and marched to the dance floor as a song ended and partners were changing. “May I have the next dance?” he asked as he stood before a young lady. He'd spotted her earlier, his gaze inevitably drawn to her for the way she danced.

the fountains, for all their splendor, didn’t make for quiet, she thought as myriam’s figure slipped away, the soft click of her sandals fading into the night. the cool air felt strange on her damp skin, but zahra remained where she stood, the water swirling gently around her bare feet as if the fountain, too, had claimed her in some quiet way. she didn’t mind it. despite her love for the company of a woman bound to her by more than just friendship, but by blood, the silence that followed myriam’s departure suited her better than any words could, at the moment. in the distance, she could hear voices, laughter, murmurs of the court still alive with stories, distractions.

she exited the fountain, wringing out some of the water from her drenched skirts, hands deftly moving to her hair before she found her feet leading her towards a bench, one she would sit upon and gaze at the stars that began to peek through the last of the twilight stricken sky. until she heard a familiar voice. she hadn’t expected to run into armaan yronwood this evening, though she wasn’t sure why. perhaps it was just the strange sense that the world had a way of bringing the most unexpected things right to her feet.

“do i look like a lost wager to you?” she teased, taking some steps towards him, the grass dampening beneath her bare feet, her silks still clinging, but no longer dripping as the slight breeze dried them. “perhaps, but i assure you, no duck was involved. though, a fool might have been.” her fingers brushed the edge of the stone pillar, the soft scent of lavender and mint clinging to her skin.

“ordinary?” she echoed, the word rolling off her tongue like a question in itself. “no, i suppose this isn’t exactly what you might call ‘ordinary,’ armaan. but then, when have i ever been that?” her smile was wide, just a touch mischievous. "besides, drowning is far too dramatic a term, don’t you think? i was merely… cooling off.” she gave a little shrug, her damp hair glistening in the soft light of the garden. she wasn’t making a scene, but she was certainly not bothered by the fact that she was soaked to the bone. “sometimes, you just need to get your feet wet, see the world from a different angle.”

zahra watched him, that amused glint in her eye dimming to something quieter, more curious. she stepped around the lion statue, bare feet soundless on the damp stone, a petal or two clinging to her ankle. the moonlight caught in the water beading on her shoulders. “then let them overhear something else,” she said, flicking a little splash toward a cluster of reeds. her gaze slid sidelong toward him, unreadable but amused. “tell them you’ve traded fire for water. clarity. rebirth. all that.”

her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she gestured toward the fountain, a playful glint in her eyes. "perhaps it’s time for you to take a dip, get a little clarity. the water’s lovely, if nothing else."

who: @dancingshores when and where: the verdant concord, within the gardens of highgarden; armaan yronwood waits to hear back from his messenger he sent to try overhear a certain conversation with a certain lord of starpike, when he comes across dorne's court seer. soaking, from head to toe.

he found her between the carved lions and the marbled fountains, standing as though the garden had spat her out from the hedges themselves—soaking wet, from the slope of her hooded crown all the way to the hems of her silks that clung like second skin. zahra sand, the court’s seer, looked a vision entirely removed from prophecy - not like he would ever openly admit it so, after calling her odd multiple times over the years. just, wet. and smelling faintly of crushed mint and wet stone, like something dredged up from the godswood.

armaan paused mid-step, blinked once, then again, taking her in with the flat expression of a man not quite certain whether he was being toyed with or made party to a jest he didn’t recall agreeing to. his arms were crossed loosely behind his back, the sort of stance that allowed thoughts to sharpen without betraying their weight. it had rained earlier—lightly, briefly—but not enough to soak anyone. nor had the sky opened up since. and yet, there she stood, water trailing down her collarbones in delicate rivulets, her hair darkened to black and curling wildly about her cheeks. he tilted his head, slowly, eyebrows raising just a hair.

“...do i even want to know, zahra sand?” his voice came low, dry, carrying the faintest rasp at the back of the throat; no doubt he too had indulged in much drinking this night, after spotting what appeared to be the distant figure of a man who appeared so much like jasveer from the other side of the window. it had for a moment truly stunned him and rooted him to his place, but when it was over, he found himself fighting back memories he did not wish to process.

“...you look as though you lost a wager to a duck,” he said at last, slowly, blinking once before letting his gaze drift from her drenched hair to the darkened hems pooling at her ankles.

he didn’t move closer yet, wary of the puddle forming around her bare feet, for he appreciated the silks he were currently adorning. “or are we pretending this is ordinary now?" he should have gone back to the alcove where he’d sent his man. the messenger would return soon—hopefully, with word of that starpike snake and whatever it was he dared mutter in shadows. but this? this dripping omen standing among the lilies? it pried his attention away from the games he had set in motion. too strange not to.

he tilted his head, a short, humourless laugh escaping through his nose. “new dedication to aquatic pursuits?” he gestured vaguely toward the puddle she was forming. “though i confess, i did not expect the prophetic arts to involve recreational drowning.” it was then he had a distant idea, one based on their previous conversation and how he could stitch it together so it could paint him in a certain light. zahra sand would not realise, but she could be of much use to him in this moment. too many people believed him to be responsible, he knew it; the suspicion, it was something he simply would not be having.

he paused, arching a brow. “this isn’t another metaphor about fire and fields, is it? because if you say the word harvest, i shall walk directly into that hedge. people overheard our conversation some months ago, and i haven't heard the end of it since.”

the flickering candlelight cast long, wavering shadows across zahra’s face, highlighting the soft set of her jaw as she exhaled, slow and measured. her fingers, adorned with rings that glinted like distant constellations, curled ever so slightly against the silk of her skirts. she did not meet ruqaiyah’s gaze immediately. Instead, she allowed the silence to settle like a fine mist, let it coil between them until the moment felt stretched thin.

then, she smiled; small, but warm, though her fingers trembled slightly as she clasped them in front of her. “the stars,” she said gently, her voice a touch quieter than before, “do not whisper of things that have already come to pass. they do not carve fates into stone, nor do they weave tragedies before they unfold.” her gaze flickered upward, as if seeking their guidance even now through the ceilings above. “they only guide, only point the way. they are not cruel, nor are they kind. they simply are.”

she exhaled, a small, careful thing, before finally lowering her gaze to woman before her. “i would have given anything,” fahra admitted, “for guidance. For even a whisper of where she had gone. but the stars do not work like that. and i do not claim to see what has not yet happened.”

the words were measured, but there was a quiet ache beneath them, one she could not quite mask.

a small smile, careful and unguarded, curved her lips—more a breath than an expression, something caught between sincerity and sorrow. “but you must already know that,” she said lightly, a gentle deflection rather than a challenge. “you only wished to remind me.”

★

ruqaiyah’s lips curled into a saccharine smile, the kind that never reached her amethyst eyes - eyes that were empty and devoid of any kindness or spark, unless there was the exception of someone speaking about her, giving her attention. "there is one more thing." she spoke, her hand resting beneath her chin as the shimmer of her pale pink silks reflected against the candlelight. she leaned forward slightly, her voice a blend of mockery and feigned curiosity, carefully pitched to carry just enough to be overheard by the lingering courtiers.

“well,” she began, her tone dripping with false sweetness, “i’ve always wondered, with all your vaunted gifts, how you manage to keep your composure. it must be such a burden, knowing the secrets of the stars and the future of us mere mortals.” her eyes sparkled with amusement, though there was an unmistakable edge to her words.

she paused, allowing her gaze to drift over zahra’s elegant form, her lips pursing slightly. “and yet,” she continued, her voice softening to a more contemplative pitch, “i can’t help but recall that unfortunate episode with your sister. such a tragedy, really. when she went missing for those dreadful days. the court was in such an uproar.” ruqaiyah’s smile widened, though it lacked any warmth. “i couldn’t help but wonder at the time—why didn’t you use your gifts then? surely, the stars would have spoken to you, given you some guidance, a hint, at the very least?” she tilted her head, a mock frown creasing her brow as though she were trying to understand.

“or were they silent when it came to something so personal? it does make one question the efficacy of your… abilities.” she leaned back, her posture languid and poised, the picture of dornish grace, her smile never faltering. but still, it were cold and it were entirely fake. her words were meant to hurt; she took enjoyment in seeing a flicker of pain and the realisation of insecurity crossing her face. to put it bluntly, she loved it.

“do not misunderstand me, zahra. your talents are... entertaining. and so many whisper such horrid things about you, that when they pay for your services there is more to what they are paying for. i personally don't think it is so serious - i've always said i think you are merely bored.”

"of course." zahra replied, tone taunting as she gave a wave of her hands, as if to say that everything about her was on the surface to read, as if to imply that is all there was to her, but that really wasn't the case, only what she hoped seemed to be. she thought she was likely predictable as she was flighty, but there was more that lie beneath the surface of the dancer of salt shore, should one decide to dig deeper.

frame floated nearer to him now, close enough to observe dark orbs more closely, one's she found herself ogling at as a young girl in the halls of yronwood. she was not a girl anymore, but the intrigue with the man before her remained. there was some darkness about the man, no doubt a cloak of the tragedy of betrayal that befell him, but she was the sun, eager to shine her light, if only a moment.

"yah jaanane ka abhaav ki vah kab hoga, manoranjan ka hee ek hissa hai." ( not knowing when that will be is only part of the fun. ) zahra insisted, head tilting slightly to the side, a half-smirk coming upon the corners of her mouth. a hand shifting the silk skirts of her golden lehenga, even standing still for a brief time seemed impossible for the woman who's feet never touched the ground.

for that is what there was to zahra sand, she did not have roots, she had wings, and the woman never seemed to perch for long. where some believed it to be a downfall, she found to be a gift. not many had the opportunities she did, and while she was a bastard, there was privledge in her birth. she often had the opportunities to experience both parts of their world.

her arms folded over her chest now, suddenly stilling, the very cogs of her mind clearly seen moving behind hazel hues. "aur vah kya kaaran hoga?" ( and what reason would that be? ) her tone was on the brink of being almost challenging in her inquiry.

"he is well, and i am sure he would be glad to hear from you, my lord." though zahra did not pay much attention to such business, she knew enough from the letters back and forth from her to her father. "i have been so busy i would not know much of his affairs. I prefer to deal in pleasures over business."

dancingshores​:

there was not a room that zahra could walk in and not become acquainted with someone, in this instance, it was many someone’s. though she much preferred dorne to any other region of the realm, the dancer very much enjoyed the presence of people, and in these circumstances, one’s she could learn much from. she found the culture of others to be fascinating, if not to realize how much she preferred and loved everything about her own, from the music, to the food, to, frankly, the very people themselves.

she wasn’t quite sure how she managed to find herself in the center of a circle that formed, perhaps it was to prove a point, or to simply give in to the pleads of reachmen to grace them with one dance. zahra did not really care either way, she enjoyed any opportunity to showcase her craft.

and so there she was, golden silks of her lehenga flowing about her, like waves within the sea. there was a faraway tune playing, but the sounds of bangles gave way to her own melody within the song. chestnut curls seemed to float about her in their own beat, and in her mind she was transported, as she often found happening when the room around her became nothing more than an assortment of lights and colors. a small grin played at her lips as she made her final spin, hands that were raised up slowly falling back down to her sides as the small audience that had formed gave their applaud.

a familiar figure suddenly approached her, though it did not seem so sudden. she had caught sight of him earlier in the evening, recalling a time that seemed not so long ago when she visited the halls of yronwood. she was young then, and found herself quite absorbed with the handsome lord. much had happened since then, and suddenly that time of her life seemed to be within another century entirely.

“mainne aapakee nigaraanee ke bina kaee jagahon par nrty kiya hai.” (i have danced many places without your watchful eye.) a half-smirk tugged up at the corners of her mouth, her spirited, independent nature somewhat taking over for a moment. “yadi aap chaahen to dekhane ke lie aapako kisee bahaane kee aavashyakata nahin hai.” (you need no excuse to watch if you’d like.) her not returning to the center, however, as another tune began to play gave her answer for her, and the crowd began to disperse.

“it is nice to see you, lord yronwood.”

꙰

“is that what you have been doing all these years? dancing your heart away?” he asked, arms crossing over the breadth of his torso. flighty, as flighty as the golden silk threads upon the skirts of her lehenga which twirled as joyously as the small slip of a smile that crossed over her features. he heard the sounds of her anklets jingling, and for a moment there was something abut her that strangely resembled the features he saw of the princess on a day to day basis. the lord of yronwood merely looked upon her, and there was a hint of a challenge within his own dark orbs: they were devoid of the storm that usually lived within them, swirled and thrived within them. a different type of darkness as he looked upon the half smirk upon her full lips; though he said no words. 

“ek din tum itana ghoomoge ki ruk ​​nahin paoge.“ (one day you’ll spin so much you will be unable to stop.) these dancers all seemed entirely flighty, wishing to find their purpose in their life - looking for something to make them feel alive, whilst walking away from a sense of stability. hedonistic were some, and perhaps that was because they could be.

in recent months this woman had made multiple trips into the fortress of sunspear, directly into the apartments of the princess and the future heir of dorne: dancing lessons, were what he supposed the important business was. in years prior, she was the spoiled, pampered daughter of lord gargalen; dressed in the silks he acquired as a result of his hand in the clothing and textile trade. the bloodroyal took his money seriously, even in his youth: he looked at what trades would be the most beneficial, where would be worth investing his coin. 

“koee bahaana nahin. kisee kaaran ke baare mein kya?“ (not an excuse, but what about a reason?) he remained stood to the side of where she had stood in the middle of a circle that clapped and applauded her; the sight amused him. the sight made him want her. 

it were as though nothing had changed when he looked upon her: to live life weight free, to live life as it was supposed to be lived. he did not envy her. for things that were light were easily swept away. they needed something to hold their weight, something to keep their feet firmly upon the ground: armaan had realised that he was entirely content with his position in life. stepping down from the council in which he only but clash with the prince in all but name, disagree with certain methods: and yet now, dorne was taking the time to heal. finally. “how is your father doing? i have been meaning to reach out to enquire as to the textile trade. whether it has been impacted by movement across the narrow sea.” he asked.

they toyed between their own tongue, and the common tongue. as though what else was spoken between them was to only be understood by them, and those who knew it. 

zahra had just barely made it out of the feast hall, the press of warmth and music still clinging to her like a second skin, her silks clutched in her hands, wine blooming like some tragic flower across her skirts. outside, the air was cooler, sweetened by the scent of night jasmine growing wild along the sandstone walls. the stars blinked overhead, indifferent and distant, and the moon threw silver light across the courtyard’s tiled floor.

she ducked into a quiet alcove tucked between two carved columns, where a small basin trickled water into a shallow bowl, and the only sound was the faint echo of laughter from within. barefoot children dashed past chasing each other, oblivious to her quiet crisis, and somewhere above, a windchime clinked lazily.

zahra was dabbing furiously at the stain with a stolen cloth, futile, of course, but she had to do something. the wine had soaked in deep, like it was meant to ruin the night.

and then came the voice, sharp.

she jumped, nearly dropping the cloth, and looked up with wide eyes. “seven,” she gasped, half-laughing, half-flustered. “you walk like a ghost, lady yronwood.”

the other woman had already snatched the cloth from her hands before she could say another word, moving with the kind of precision that made zahra stand back with her hands raised in surrender.

“i wasn't going to ruin it that much,” she muttered under her breath, but a smile tugged at her lips. she watched halima dab at the fabric like it was a battlefield, and for a moment, zahra said nothing, just listened to the quiet swish of cloth and the distant thrum of drums from the hall.

then halima spoke again.

zahra blinked, then gave a small snort of amusement. “i read the stars, not wine stains,” she said, placing a hand lightly over her chest as though she'd been accused of something most dramatic. “if i’d known that cup had it in for me, i would’ve danced on the other side of the room.”

she tilted her head slightly, studying halima as she worked. “you always did have interesting timing.” she grinned, the earlier fluster fading as easily as it had come. “but thank you. i rather liked this one. it makes me look like i belong in a painting.” a pause. “a painting without bloodstains, preferably.”

closed starter for @dancingshores

sunspear was alive tonight, aglow with warmth and light and laughter with the feast at the epicentre. people were beginning to peel away from their seats, having eaten their fill, to migle with one another in conversation or upon the dancefloor, but not halima. she remained firmly in her seat, alone, her posture stiff and her expression devoid of any trace of amusement. as she always did, she was watching, her cup of wine untouched before her. she was taking note, of who was talking to who, of who was entering and leaving the room, ensuring little that escape her notice.

it was then that she noticed zahra sand, moving from the dancefloor back to the tables. there was always two things that struck her when she took in the face of bastard girl of house gargalen - the first being that same face, but younger, speaking to halima as though they were friends, though that was so long ago it invoked only a faint stirring.

the second was a face that was similar - but not the same. the nose slightly wider, the cheekbones a little higher, which altered the look of eyes that stared without seeing, unblinking, and dead. she did not lose sleep over it, nor particularly care about what had been done, but she could clearly remember the sight of farah gargalen dead in the desert.

a misstep, a careless hand tipping a cup, and the contents were spilled in a slow, ruinous bloom across the embroidery of zahra's silks, the dornish red marking a deep stain in the fabric. halima did not react, her dark eyes tracking the spread of the blotch, but when zahra excused herself from the room, she found herself rising to follow, lifting a jug of vinegar to take with her.

she made no effort to make herself known, footsteps making no sound as she trailed after zahra. it was not until the other woman had a cloth in her hand, rubbing at the stain, did she make herself known.

"don't do that." her voice was sharp as she stepped forward, snatching the cloth from zahra's hand. "you'll make it worse." it was true that she had little experience lifting wine stains from silk, but it could not be so different to blood. it was the same colour, after all. she dipped the cloth in the vinegar, and then began to blot at the stain, her movements practical and efficient, if not particularly gentle.

"you are a seer, are you not?" she looked up at zahra, her movements continuing as she did. it was effective - the colour of the wine was beginning to fade. "you'd think you would have seen this coming."

the dark hues of zahra sand fluttered back and forth between the two lords - almost reminding her of an eager puppy and a unamused cat in the way they greeted her and subsequently in the moods they exuded. it caused her to wander where the stars fell in the sky upon their births, she was fascinated. when the golden-like lord asked her name, a grin spread over her features. "zahra." she answered, her name rolling off her accented tongue. "you are too kind to allow to join. i know not what we play, but i am quick to learn." she interlaced her fingers on the table in front of her, sitting comfortably upon the velvet seat as if she were in her own home.

the dancer reached into her pocket and placed a velvet pouch on the table. "so, what are the rules, what's the bet?" head tilted to the side as she awaited an answer from either. "and no need to go easy on me, i shall win or lose fairly." she gave a nod of affirmation, a semblance of natural pride upon her features, now.

@nicholaslannisters

It was a card game, one with shuffling and gambling. Nicholas was a gambler, sure -- but with his own life. People bet on him in the lists, the battlefield, his horses. This was… similar to battle, in a way, with having to strategize one's wager and cards, but…

He was loosing. But each time his hand had failed him, it had been met with a thunderous laugh and another round of drinks delivered to the table. It preyed on his pride, and when one had Lannister gold, well… he was determined he'd be on the winning side eventually. It was all fun, after all -- and after his mother's attempts in Riverrun… though the lord across from him was no comrade, there had been no reason not to play a few rounds. Win or lose, it was a coronation.

There were people to meet, people to… find.

But now there was a chance he wouldn't lose -- and so he greeted the beautiful woman with a wide, bearded smile.

Ever the chivalrous knight, he stood, gesturing to an empty seat. "You do not mind, Percy?" Use of a nickname, despite barley knowing him. Titles, despite carrying a heavy one of his own, floating completely over his head. "We could level the playing field, with lady…?"

@percival-templeton