Midnight Rain + Pierre-auguste Renoir

zahra didn’t flinch at the word bastard. if anything, her fingers stilled on the stone. not in shame, she’d never quite felt that, not for a long time when she realized there were some who did not see it so kindly, but in calculation. not many said it aloud with that kind of ease. the sound of it felt less like insult and more like a knife laid flat on the table. not yet turned. not yet bloody.

“people call me zahra,” she said easily, her fingers resuming their idle trace along the stone. “some call me lady, if they’re guessing. or trying to be polite.” her eyes flicked back to him, unreadable. “i don’t always bother to correct them.” a small shrug. not defensive, just honest. that was the thing about dorne. names meant something, but not everything. blood mattered less than what you did with it.

she followed his glance toward the laughing knight, watched the awkward tilt of shoulders, the way the florent girl’s smile was all performance. zahra had danced for crowds like that. crowds that wanted to be delighted, not seen. she turned her gaze back to jalabhar, catching the echo of the smirk that wasn’t quite charm.

“you don’t seem like the sort to mistake laughter for peace,” she said quietly. “or silk for safety.”

his words stuck with her, peace not found in flowered halls. she wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing here. what kind of game he played, and why it led him to know more than he should. myriam’s name. not the one used in introductions or behind fans. the old one. the one zahra had only discovered when told from myriam's own lips.

she didn’t ask. not yet. instead, she tilted her head and asked something else.

“and what of dorne, lord mooton?” she asked, using his name in return, for he clearly knew who she was already in some form. “you speak of peace like you’ve known the price of it. do you think we’ve paid enough?” she said we without thinking, but it wasn’t an accident. she may not be a dornish woman with a true name, perhaps, but the sun, the heat, the land, it was all there, in her. the pride, the defiance. she claimed it as her own, whether or not the world understood.

“or do you think we’re still playing?”

Jalabhar turned toward the sound of her voice, slow and measured, the way one turned to greet a familiar current—expected, but still needing to be felt. He didn’t answer at first, letting Zahra settle herself nearby. His eyes followed the motion of her hand along the carved edge of the stone bench, the way her bangles caught the light, the silk of her skirts pooling like quiet water. She was poised, yes, but no less deliberate than any man here wearing brocade and ambition.

“I wonder,” he said after a beat, his voice low, the cadence of the Maiden’s Tongue slipping through—each word rolling and clipped, like salt-worn driftwood smooth from travel, “if in Dorne, they call bastards lady out of courtesy… or title? Or do you go by Zahra?” He didn’t speak in riddles, not yet. That was a game for lords with something to prove. His questions were always sharper when they were plain.

The faintest tug of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth as he looked back toward the garden path, watching a knight in Reach green try too hard to laugh with a Florent cousin. Then his gaze returned to her.

“Peace be its own game,” he said, echoing her words with the same dry rhythm he used when speaking to fishmongers and ferrymen. “That’s what they say, anyway. I think peace’s not found in debates in flowered halls."

He studied her openly now. Searched for a weakness before deciding the weakness was in her riddles.

“Eyes are for seein’,” he said with a shrug, glancing lazily toward the courtyard before turning back. “Never heard of a man who didn’t look to see.” And there it was—the smile. Not flirtatious. Just part of the package. A little charm, just enough to grease the gears. This wasn’t pleasure. This was work.

she were entirely flustered, that much was obvious just by taking one look upon the features of zahra sand's face. she had never been one that was good at hiding what she were truly feeling, a consequence of her art, where all feeling was expressed upon her face. now she cursed it, fighting the tears stinging at her eyes, agitated by the flushing of her cheeks as she walked away from such an encounter. zahra had never expected such a thing, and she had desperately wished her father did not make her aware of exactly who her mother was.

but he had, and now she had been seen by the woman as well. it were not a warm reunion, it were one that made zahra's veins entirely run cold, because she desperately did not want a certain secret revealed without it being uttered from her own lips. and she were not ready for such a thing, at least, not yet.

the dancer hoped the tense mood that lingered heavily in the air would provide the perfect excuse for her demeanor, but that plan was entirely thwarted when she were approached by halima, a woman she did not know entirely well, but could never quite place her mind, and that unsettled her. "i have been around." zahra stated, plainly. "i was with lady fowler, earlier." she added, almost as if to cover her tracks.

an excuse that was quickly dismissed by the revelation that she had been seen earlier. lips rolled in frustration as her arms crossed over her chest. "some courtesan of one of the volantene lords. i did not appreciate her rude demeanor during such a serious time."

it were a terrilble lie, because zahra hadn't a clue how to back that up, but she hoped halima would simply stop pressing.

closed starter for @dancingshores

halima knew what she saw, but what she had yet to figure out was how the pieces of the puzzle fit together. she had laid out the facts, examined them carefully, and still felt like there was something missing. that bothered her more that she let on.

what she knew was this: the volantene had arrived to bring justice for lord jordayne. in the midst of the lockdown, halima had stumbled upon a conversation she was not supposed to see, one she had watched from the shadows, unable to make out the word exchanged, but recognising that it was heated and private and something she should not be watching, and one of the parties involved in that conversation was stood before her now : zahra sand. she should have already told armaan of this, but something held her back. the fear of delivering incorrect information, something that hardly mattered at all, perhaps.

her head tilted, gaze unyielding as she took in the dancer, her mannerisms and natural expressions, so that she may note any changes to it should she choose to lie. "i don't think i've seen you since the volantene were here," her words were lazy, drawling.

"who was she?" there was an almost imperceptible shift to halima's demeanour, a hardening and sharpening as she prepared to cut to the heart of what she was after, with all the subtlety of a war-hammer. "the woman you were speaking with? seemed quite the emotional little chat."

zahra’s laughter, lighter now, danced in the cool evening air, blending with the soft rustling of leaves in the garden. the flickering torchlight cast shadows that seemed to stretch like living things, but the warmth of ophelia’s presence kept the chill at bay, like the first rays of dawn chasing away the dark.

“you’re too kind,” zahra replied, her voice playful but gentle, a soft smile curling at her lips. “i only speak the truth. you make everything feel... alive. even the quietest of moments become something worth remembering when you’re near.” she shifted her weight slightly, her fingers brushing against ophelia’s, a silent reminder of how much she appreciated her friend’s steady warmth. “besides, who else could make feeding the birds sound like the most important thing we could do tonight?”

as they walked together, the night seemed to loosen its hold, the tension in zahra’s chest gradually easing. she took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill her lungs, and for the briefest moment, she could almost forget the restless unease that clung to her. she could forget that this evening, like so many others, felt like a fleeting moment, an escape that would slip through her fingers before long.

“maybe you’re right,” she said softly, her gaze turning to ophelia. “maybe the parrot would follow me home, and we’d spend hours explaining to the court why i’ve adopted a feathered advisor. though i do think he’d be more trouble than he’s worth. you, on the other hand,” she added with a wink, “are far more useful, even if you might steal all the fruit.”

zahra’s fingers brushed nervously against her dress as she watched the gentle sway of the trees in the breeze. the question had been on her mind for some time now, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something she needed to ask.

“you know, ophelia,” she began slowly, her voice softer now, “we’re similar, in a way, aren’t we? we both travel, chasing different things, different causes. you heal, and i dance, but we both leave pieces of ourselves behind wherever we go.”

she paused for a moment, her heart fluttering with the weight of her own thoughts. the garden seemed to hold its breath around them, and she felt a fleeting sense of quiet before speaking again.

“i sometimes wonder if… i should stop,” she confessed, her voice quiet, almost hesitant. “not because i want to, but because it feels like i’m always going. like if i could just settle, just once, maybe i would find something more.” she smiled softly, but there was a trace of uncertainty in her eyes. “but...i don’t think i actually desire to stop. it’s like a part of me is afraid of what might happen if i ever did. i don’t know if i’d be content with it, or if the restlessness would eat at me, like it’s always been there, underneath.”

she let out a small sigh, her fingers grazing the petals of a nearby flower as if seeking grounding in something so simple. “i think it’s more the idea of being still that’s hard to hold. i don’t know what i’d do without the movement, without the dance, without the road ahead. but sometimes… i wonder if there’s a place, a time, when that feeling would fade. when i could simply be, without the need to go anywhere else.”

.

ophelia beamed at zahra’s words, her smile bright enough to chase away the shadows flickering along the stone walls. “you think so? i like that—‘finding the extraordinary in the ordinary.’ it makes me sound like some kind of grand storyteller rather than someone who just cannot seem to stop talking.” she laughed lightly, but there was gratitude in her tone, touched by zahra’s observation.

as her friend spoke of the night’s heaviness, ophelia gave her arm another gentle squeeze, a silent acknowledgment that she understood, that she felt it too. there was a careful balance to be held between giving someone space and letting them know they weren’t alone. ophelia had always danced that line instinctively, always ready to fill the quiet when it was needed, or to simply be there when words felt too heavy.

“then we won’t let it end quietly,” she declared, mischief creeping into her voice, mirroring the flicker of light returning to zahra’s expression. “dancing, wine, music—all of it! but first—oh! feeding the birds! zahra, that is a marvelous idea. the absolute best.” she nodded eagerly, as if it were the most important decision they had made all evening. “and if that clever little fig thief is there, i will have words with him! not scolding words, mind you. just a very serious discussion about sharing.”

she tugged zahra forward with renewed excitement, leading them toward the gardens, where the cool night air would be fresher than the heavy tension of the great hall. “and you know,” she mused as they walked, “i do think you would have charmed the parrot. i imagine he would have followed you straight home, and then where would we be? stuck explaining to the court why lady zahra sand has a new feathered advisor.”

she laughed at the thought, glancing at zahra with a playful glint in her eyes. “maybe we’ll find another one someday. until then, you’ll have to settle for me. not that i am feathered…..or a great advisor….but still just me”

zahra’s gaze lingered on myriam as she spoke, her voice raw, her vulnerability laid bare in the flickering firelight. the weight of her words hung in the room like a heavy curtain, but zahra let the silence settle before speaking. she leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, the calm she projected at odds with the churn of emotions beneath the surface.

“you’ve been through more than anyone should, myri,” she said softly, her voice as gentle as a lullaby. “you’ve carried so much on your shoulders, and you’re still standing. that alone is a testament to your strength.” she reached out, her fingers brushing against myriam’s arm in a gesture that was steadying but unobtrusive. “but you don’t have to do it alone. no one expects you to have all the answers, not even the stars are always clear.”

her eyes shifted to the baby nestled in myriam’s arms. “inaaya is proof of something bigger than court politics or strategies. she and leila are reminders of why we endure all this—the alliances, the games, the endless calculations. it’s for the world we want them to live in. and you are shaping that world, even if it feels like chaos now.”

zahra paused, her gaze returning to myriam’s face. “as for the volantene woman,” she said, her tone measured, “she’s a risk, yes, but sometimes risks are necessary. you’re right—she could be a thread that leads to something greater. and if you want, i’ll help you untangle her. i’ll speak with her, test her motives, and see what she might offer. together, we can make sure she doesn’t become a threat.” her heart pattered rapidly in her chest, but she would place herself in such a position for myriam's sake.

the fire crackled softly behind them, its warmth filling the space between zahra’s words. “but for now, myri,” Zahra continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “take a moment. just breathe. the weight will still be here tomorrow, but tonight, inaaya needs her mother to hold her, and you need to let yourself rest. let me carry some of this with you. you don’t have to trust everyone—but you can trust me.”

her smile was small, but it held a quiet determination.

❂

myriam tightened her hold on inaaya, her fingers brushing over the baby’s soft hair as zahra’s words sank in. the fire crackled in the hearth, casting wavering shadows over the room, and for a moment, myriam let herself get lost in their dance. she didn’t respond immediately, her thoughts pulling her in a dozen different directions. "of my making," she echoed finally, her voice quiet, almost brittle. “i’ve heard those words before. from baashir, from courtiers, even from myself when i’ve tried to convince myself i belong here.” she shook her head, a bitter laugh slipping out.

“but what kind of world am i shaping when i don’t even know where my fucking footing is?”

her gaze dropped to inaaya, the baby’s soft breathing a steady rhythm in her arms. “i sit in that hall, i listen to them speak of dorne like i understand every nuance, every geographic position, all talk defence, every alliance that spans back generations. but i don’t. and they know it.” her thoughts churned, dragging her back to the endless days spent listening to debates that seemed both urgent and incomprehensible. and how she tried to keep up, but she simply could not.

“i rely too much on others—on baashir, on the courtiers, even on you. it is shameful, for a leader. we spoke of mors being weak, and now what?" she rested her hand upon her forehead, momentarily resting upon it; but in reality she briefly leaned her head downward to avoid continued eye contact with zahra, knowing it would somehow bring her to floods of tears. the exhaustion, the bleeding from between her thighs, and the sense of feeling utterly alone. "i'd give it all to ravi, if that was enough...but i trust none with my daughter. i trust none." she repeated, her voice becoming all but strained as she shifted in her bed.

all because she had a single conversation with the dragon king, that ended in madness. it were all but spit in her face. the firelight caught the edge of a tear as it welled in her eye, but she blinked it away, forcing herself to steady. “i don’t know how to be what they expect of me."

she looked up at zahra, her expression raw and unguarded in a way she rarely let herself show. there was not a single crumb of confidence or sultriness, but rather for a split moment, it appeared as though a girl freshly turned eight and ten held a baby to her chest. “and now there’s this volantene woman. dangerous, you said. poison wrapped in silk. it sounds like the kind of game i should be able to play, doesn’t it?” she let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “i've got a feeling about her. i don't know what, but....i think she's a start. even if that start goes no place, i'll obtain connections and names from her. doran uller can do it.” her mind began to move quickly.

Cheppake Cheppake

  Mahasamudram (2021)

ADITI RAO HYDARI in FITOOR (2016)

the eyes of zahra sand remained entirely fixated on the marbled floors beneath her feet, glistens of rainbow shimmering on them from the light cast through stained glass windows that surrounded them in the great room, and yet, everything felt entirely gray, dull, for the moon had gone down, and it were not the sun that greeted his departure, it were darkness, void of even the stars scattered in the skies above that she read so easily. even they did not prepare her for this. the entire court seemed to feel at an utter standstill, the effect that rashid jordayne had upon every soul in this room, as she had always known he would. the optimistic demeanor of the dancer of salt shore fell entirely flat in the wake of such a tragedy, and for perhaps the first time in her life, she felt a sort of primal anger and despair welling within her chest.

the departure of the ruling lady of the tor, the princess of house martell, caused the crowd to break from the statuesque forms, and begin shuffling out of the hall, followed by the closer advisors of the princess regent herself, who found herself stood above all, remaining stoic as ever, though zahra knew it were unlikely that was her feeling in regards to this at all. she felt a sense of admiration for the woman before her, for she was unsure, even now, how her feet managed to move in the direction of myriam allyrion. feet that were normally found in many motions, felt entirely still until that moment.

zahra did not even notice the tears that were clearly welling within her eyes, the smudge beneath one of them from a mindless swipe, some subconscious attempt to remain as collected as the woman who ruled over all of them, though she had never been one to hide emotion. in her art, in her everyday life, zahra sand was entirely herself, every feeling felt was clear upon every fiber of her being.

she stilled as the other spoke her name, hands crossing in front of her as myriam approached now. zahra nodded, knowing her state were entirely not prepared to face others, who would surely cast looks her way. she were not ruling lady of the tor, she were not rashid jordayne's wife, but there were some who knew of her connection to the lord, enough to cause her to be wary of managing her emotional state, for the time being.

bangles rang softly as she shuffled towards the woman, mirroring her movement to sit upon the steps, only far less gracefully as zahra felt the utter exhaustion weigh her down as she sat upon the cool floor. moments of silence followed her movement as the tears began to flow down her cheeks like the current of the greenblood.

"i think i will wake up tomorrow and it will all be a horrible nightmare, you know?" she asked the other, arms folding over her knees that instinctively tucked inward towards her, as if she would crumble entirely if she did not quite literally hold herself together. "he was the best of us. i don't understand it." words quivered as she spoke them, a hand clenching at the skirts of her lehenga as she managed to hold in the sobs that were clearly wreaking through her chest. "how? how is there a world without him in it?" the question, itself, set free the grief the she attempted to burrow inside her, and forehead found itself on her knees as she attempted to muffle her cries.

who: @dancingshores when and where: semi-flashback thread to a day following the news reaching from volantis, regarding the murder of lord rashid jordayne, ruling lord of the tor. myriam remained within the grand domed throne room after receiving the princess loreza martell from the tor, recently widowed. the departing foot steps of her good sister brought an end to the audience session which remained heavy, and she tried hard not to focusing on the retreating figure of the sword of the morning alongside the bloodroyal - no doubt both needing a moment with one another.

there was a certain sense of heavy grief which lingered in the halls of sunspear: the mournful flutes announcing the arrival of their princess. something about her arrival made the entire thing far more real, as though there was no way this could ever be explained as some mistranslation or misunderstanding that had suddenly become all too real. and she remained within the chair upon the dias, her eyes looking upward to the mosaic tiles on the golden dome above her, that would be seen from all of angles of sunspear; and she exhaled, in the way she had been taught to breath when she was bordering feeling overwhelmed. because the murder of rashid jordayne was as tragic as it was horrific; it was all too clear that one of their own, one who had a bright future and would have a great deal left to do in the world, had been taken from them too soon.

she did not know rashid jordayne as personally as some others in the room would have done, but she felt the severity of the matter. this was not merely anyone. he would never be, merely anyone.

and the hardest of all was perhaps needing to remain neutral before the eyes of the court of sunspear as the sword of the morning announced his departure to her, lowering his gaze momentarily; she would not see him break in his stoic nature, not here of all places. and yet, she understood that due to the differences in their duty, she needed to watch him leave the grand hall alone: after looking in the face of the woman he had intended to start a family with. there was no way she could rise from the throne of dorne to comfort him; she needed to remain in such a position, still clad in silks of white. one more month until she could once again remove such shades from the figure of her body. as the figure of the sword of the morning retreated, she heard the sounds of anklets chiming; quieter than the ones she wore, ones that almost sounded like water.

her kohl lined gaze fell upon the court seer, who seemed to be rooted all to heavily to the ground in this moment: it were obvious to see the pain etched upon every inch of her expression. the tears that filled her gaze swam within wide, doe-like orbs that were usually filled with mischief and life itself; such a thing looked strangely wrong upon her. the sight of zahra in such a state was easily enough to make her rise to her feet, an instinct in her gut that made her wish not to allow the woman to leave alone in such a state. one that was clearly a person desperately trying to hold it in, before bursting at the seams. the kite of salt shore had been caught in the most tragic of storms, it seemed.

"one moment, zahra." myriam called, though her voice was soft, as though she did not wish to startle the woman. she approached her, ensuring her body language made it clear she was not planning on overwhelming or smothering her. "you need not have to walk through the halls in such a way. we can stay, and sit on the steps." myriam did not like anyone seeing her cry - and she always cried in the aftermath of seeing red. myriam quietly lifted the bottom of her skirts as she sat on the steps leading up the throne of door, patting the space beside her. "it is not the comfiest, but allow me to stay with you for a while, and then i shall go when i am due to speak to lord uller." she not specify which one.

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.

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."

who: @dancingshores​ where: one of highgarden’s many bustling halls, within a night of celebration. there was feasting, dancing, and gambling; he noticed how women from the other courts did not seem to engage in the game, apart from their own. currently, armaan was involved in some sort of game of dice, with lyseni, tyroshi and reachmen. 

it was another hot summer night within the great hall of highgarden, ivy and vines creeping up stained glass and ornate white marble decor; and yet, after an evening of feasting, the surroundings was the last thing on his mind. this card game had gone on for far too long, thanks to a specific member of the party seemingly enjoying the conversation more than the actual game. unaware of the impatience that was only growing upon the table, the man continued to speak of matters across the narrow sea; matters that were not anything of significant importance. 

rather, building styles of villas and pavilions - and as the lord of yronwood put down his final hand, his hand seemed to come down hard upon the table top. almost in a way that caused whatever was on the table to shake.

it shut the representative up at least, or reminded him they were here to play the game, rather than engage in small talk for the sake of trying to get in one’s socialising. his dark orbs, stormy in essence, looked to the large crowd that was dotted around the rest of the room; there was dancing, there was one woman dancing specifically. by the sounds of the anklet, his first impression was to think it was the princess consort - only, it was not her. only someone with an uncanny resemblance to her, a woman he had come across before. she had stayed within yronwood with her lord father some years prior, for a brief amount of time; back when his uncle held the regency and armaan was to turn eighteen within the week. 

of course, she was once someone of far more importance to his friend, the ruling lord of the tor. she had stayed with the jordaynes; he was sure he had seen her during his visits to the tor, time after time.

there was much talk of him retaking yronwood that evening over the dinner, stepping into his father’s shoes that dinner; it was almost ironic now. for who knew what betrayal, bloodshed and butchery would come just a week later; crossbows shot into an empty bed, and he watched. her presence reminded him of a time where things seemed okay, but in reality, were truly not. their eyes met multiple times throughout the course of the night, and when he was finally able to collect his winnings once the game wrapped up, the man did not excuse himself. 

rather, moved his way through the crowd in his black kurta, still adorning traditional dornish attire. his hair longer than he usually kept it. moving his way through the crowd, he knew better than to interrupt her. he would not join her. and so, the bloodroyal just became another figure stood around watching. watching, alongside those andals who looked as though she were a piece of meat to be unwrapped. he was there, silently, as he felt as though he needed to be - she was dornish, she was one of their own. 

there was applause as she finished, in a spiral conclusion. he joined the claps, slowly; still keeping his gaze fixed on her. though in truth, his attention was on the people around them. dancers were not whores, not in dorne; he knew not elsewhere. “kya aapaka kaam khatm ho gaya, ya kya mujhe agale din tak yaheen rukana hoga?” (are you finished, or do i have to wait until tomorrow?)