Zahra Took A Deep Breath, Steadying Herself As She Met Myriam’s Eyes. The Weight Of The Conversation,

misunderstanding was certainly one way to put it. zahra was not quite sure if she would use the same word, but she understood there was little other way to describe what had occurred without being entirely gruesome. the dancer of salt shore had experienced many different stages of life, with various emotions to associate with them, but she had never felt such a weight of sorrow and anger as she did now. it was almost smothering and she greatly disliked it. she had no idea the impact that rashid had had on her until it was too late, far too late.

and now there was to be justice, but if the other party would not honor their customs, what could be done? would dorne war with the volantene in order to find the answers they sought? zahra, truthfully, hadn't a clue what the next steps were, she hardly knew what occurred when things went right, and it were very clear that things were going very, very wrong.

and so, she made herself smaller, hopefully unnoticed, unable to keep from glancing to a woman in particular in the room. ophelia's presence was welcome, if to give her something to keep her mind off of what was happening around them, even briefly. "i'm just tired." she admitted, and that were certainly part of the truth, for she did not sleep well these days. and suddenly she wondered if the lady before her might be able to help in that matter, at least. "actually, do you have any remedies for such a thing?" she inquired. "a hot chai only does so much good, surprisingly.

hues looked around them, perhaps hoping that she would look up and suddenly everything would be back to normal again. but it were not so easy. "i'm afraid of what it will take to reach an understanding." she admitted, as debates between both parties seemed to become passionate.

.

there was a tension in the air of the dornish court. all of them were tip toeing around their new guests and the new announcement given. all of them were already on edge after a loss of someone so important. a man who wanted peace, who wanted to bring the court together and make the lives of everyone better. it seemed more than cruel to have him taken from them so soon. 

now justice wasnt even being given but a swift execution. that would help no one. none of them would be any closer to finding out what happened if it went this way.

ophelia weaved in an out of the crowds unsure of where to go or whom to speak with. she flittered between her guardian, armaan, and other trusted people at the court. she felt uneased by what was happening and like most she was not her normal cheerfu and talkative self

she glanced over to see who had bumped into her when she saw zahara. “no apologies needed.” she said, offering her a small but kind smile. “i too am feeling very uneasy about this whole thing. it seemed they do not want to have any room for discussion at all on this.” she said glancing around the room. “but i have faith we will find a way to come to an agreement or a way through this…misunderstanding.” ophelia said trying to keep on the lighter side of things. trying to keep her thoughts positive.

“forgive me for asking if this is out of line but, are you alright?” she asked her, her voice low as they walked towards the edge of the crowd. “a habit from the sand sages, to survey everyone. i couldn’t help but notice you seem…distracted? or at least a little worried about something more than what is happening.”

@xialigreenleaf

Their friendship was as intense as it was sudden. They found relief in each other’s personality.

Toni Morrison, from ‘Sula’

zahra's fingers traced the lines of his palm slowly, her gaze never wavering from his face. hte flickering light from the torches above seemed to dance in the depth of her eyes as she considered his question, taking a moment to let the silence stretch between them like a taut string.

“fire," she began, her voice smooth and deliberate, "is like a field of grain. the earth yields it, and the flame can spread across the entire harvest in the blink of an eye." she paused, watching him closely as she spoke, her words deliberate and full of intent. "at first, it’s nothing more than a spark, a small flame. but then, it catches, sweeping across the land. the fields yield not just grain, but discord. where the smoke rises, so too will resolve be tested, and bonds will be unmade.”

her eyes glinted with the hint of something deeper—something unspoken—as she let her words settle. she shifted slightly, moving a fraction closer, the air around them thick with the weight of her meaning.

“the stars do not always offer simple answers,” she continued, her voice lowering to a more intimate tone. “in the heat of fire, one may forget the fragility of what’s grown—what is harvested—until it is too late. you can grow strong from fire, yes, but it often leaves the land barren in its wake. and the thing with fire... is that it has a way of spreading when no one expects it. you may plant your seed with intent, but you may not be the one who reaps the harvest."

the seer's fingers lingered on the lines of his palm a moment longer, her gaze flicking up to meet his. "and how long, armaan," she asked with a soft, almost teasing tone, though laced with curiosity, "do great men stand still before the world catches fire around them? long enough to watch it burn, or just long enough to strike the match?"

꙰

the question she posed him made his expression change, dark brows furrowing as he looked downward in her direction; she always held his gaze, no matter how much he tested to see whether he would break it. matching his intensity with a level of calm, like the surface of the ocean itself. "because great men need to stand still." his response was one filled with his usual sense of arrogance, not even blinking when considering the way he spoke about himself. he knew what he thought of himself. the greatest.

the throne room of sunspear shimmered down on them in the late afternoon glow, its golden light painting the sandstone walls in hues of amber and crimson. armaan yronwood leaned against a marble pillar, his gaze fixed on zahra sand as she moved through the gathering. her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, glinting in the firelight, and her sparkling eyes held a liveliness that drew every glance her way. "you've sold dreams." her hips swayed with unhurried confidence, and armaan found himself watching, caught in the effortless rhythm of her steps.

he pushed off the pillar, closing the distance with a measured stride. when he reached her, he allowed a smile to ghost his lips, his expression carefully calculated to convey both charm and intrigue. his dark gaze flickered over her, before a slight scoff slipped from his mouth. “you’ve stirred something in this court,” he said, his voice low, his tone somewhere between admiration and amusement. “not just their imaginations but their ambition. even the most placid faces seem alight with schemes when you’re near. - thinking they could be something they never will be.” as much as he believed in the concept of astrology and vedic timing, he also believed some simply were. and some were not.

he straightened, letting his eyes flicker over her once more, lingering on the curve of her hips before returning to her face. for all the ways in which her alluring presence constantly called to him, he found himself unwilling to cross the line drawn in the sand: a line that was not a line at all. “and what do the stars say of fire, zahra?” his voice held a teasing edge, constantly trying to seem as though he were attempting to catch her out on some element of her readings, though there was an undeniable intensity beneath it. because something began to shift together in his mind.

great men thrived on ambition. they were driven to seek more, to strive for improvement, always yearning to shape the course of events rather than merely be carried by it. to feel as though they turned the wheel, rather than being turned by it—this was their purpose. this was his purpose.

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 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?) 

brows rose at the air of confidence that seemed to emit from his very being. zahra did not mind a partner who didn't know the specific steps, only that they had enough rhythm to follow the lead she eventually would take to, but this lord was different and that alone intrigued her. bangles upon her wrist rang softly as her hand gently gripped his own, allowing him to guide her to the dance floor.

"if you are as good a lead as i suspect, then i do believe my success will be owed to you." she replied, a smile finding itself upon her lips as the music began. while zahra felt somewhat out of place amongst the nobles on the dance floor, she also felt entirely in her element. even if those looked at her in curiosity, or perhaps some, in hatred, there was a strange feeling of yearning for eyes upon her, anyways. years of perfecting her craft had certainly created such a desire within her.

the music began and so did the steps, hers delayed by half a second at first as she observed those around her as well as the lord in front of her, before she fell in step with the rhythm. while they initially began across from each other, the dance soon brought them together again, a hand finding itself upon his shoulder, and the other clasped within his own. "i suspect you are a reachman. i hear you are most chivalrous." she also believed that he were not of the west as she did not believe a westerman would dance so publicly with her, those of the so called new valyria despised her, and the vale seemed far to prudish for his type. "though do correct me if i am wrong."

The lady stood out brightly amongst the sea of silken dresses, wearing an attire that clearly indicated her origin. He didn't think he'd intentionally singled her out in the crowd of dancers because she was Dornish, he'd only focused on her because of the vibrant energy she radiated, her graceful motions, and yes, because of how beautiful she looked. Perhaps something unconscious in his mind would remain inevitably drawn to what never was meant to intersect with him and his house.

Gael couldn't deny there was a certain allure to wearing masks, to the questions and the mysteries. And at least for now, the shedding of duty and concerns that existed for the unmasked version of him. He was no actor or performer, but as a playwright, he certainly understood the power of adopting a character. Tonight he was willing to play with those blurring lines and forget the wife who appeared to despise him so.

“I may not be as accomplished a dancer as you are, my lady,” the lord said, easily giving away that he had been observing her move before, “but I do know these dances very well”. It was part of court life in this region and the Reach, and for once, he was grateful he'd been pushed to learn the steps by the tutors employed by his mother and father. And so Gael Hightower held out his hand, a smile and a subtle tilt of his head inviting her to take it. “Worry not, you will outshine us all,” he murmured as she held his hand, and the Master of the Arts led the Dornish beauty to the dancefloor.

Aditi Rao Hydari in Heeramandi (Netflix, 2024)

lips curled upwards into a sly grin at the lords response, the subtle swaying, moment of her body that seemed to be her natural state suddenly slowing at the intrigue began to creep over her. it had been many years since her time in yronwood and zahra found herself coming to the realization that rarely had she encountered armaan yronwood in such a way. that is, without the presence of others going about their business, in a more casual fashion that sitting over dinner listening to talks of trade and goods.

words were not wind, but a dance that zahra sand had, too, perfected in all of her years. she knew little of her fathers endeavors, though perhaps more than she let on, but it had always served her better to cloak herself in the ignorance, that seemed to give her a sense of safety in not knowing, or pretending not to know, if such things. zahra sand had always focused her mind and actions on other things, and truthfully her own craft took up enough of her time to worry about the dealings of salt shore.

head tilted slightly at his words, though features remained amused, light hues filled with curiosity, bordering on eagerness, as if the two of them had found themselves engaging in some game. “perhaps such a reason will come to me later.” later, she had stated, as if she very well knew this would not be the last encounter they would have during their time in the reach. “it’s simply that i do not need to know, lord yronwood. i tend to mind my own.” there was a casual shrug of her shoulders associated with the remark. there was a line between willful ignorance and a desire to remain in the dark that she delicately treaded upon. it made her own world a lot more simple, and detached.

eyebrows quirked up at the prospect of pleasure becoming business. zahra had always seen dancing as a sort of pleasure, though it was an art, too. passion that descended beyond pure dedication and skill and intertwined itself into her very life like vines upon a trellis, one of the very many in the very gardens in the reach. perhaps such a thing was based upon perspective. though pleasure and business was as elusive as a desert mirage, in her own world. “perhaps then such business would actually catch my interest.” she mused, the lips pulling into a grin. “what kind of business would that be, my lord? surely you must dabble in it yourself.”

dancingshores​:

“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 privilege 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.”

꙰

truthfully, there was something about the woman that stood before him that reminded him of a kite: someone who held no roots to the ground, no place that called every part of her to submit to it, and it was something he had found himself pondering on silently over dinner so many years ago in the grand, ornate majesty of yronwood’s feasting hall. hearing his father and lord gargalan discuss matters so intensely and passionately, the men often on opposing sides of view and yet all would be cleared with laughter and drinking. armaan himself never found himself joining in, even at such a younger age as the one he were before his father was at the mercy of the true poison of dorne; not whilst the presence of his uncle remained on the table too.

her tone was almost challenging in her inquiry, and it was enough to cause a smile to cross over his features. it were laced in something else. “kyonki mein kar sakata hoon.” because i can, was his response to her question on reasons why he would wonder her way as she danced. his words were characteristically blunt, and he almost expected her to look at him with an irritated look. or perhaps she would find ways to dance around the topic with him, until she spun herself into a frenzy; there was a time where words became fickle. became useless, when it came to matters of action. “kyonki tumhen yah pasand hai.” because you like it. he dropped his words like a trap, remaining fixed comfortably in his position against the wall as she seemed unable to stand still. always moving something. “aap mujhe teesara kaaran bataiye.” you can tell me the third reason.

he thought on that time in his life with mixed feelings, including regret; regret for not realising the plans of his uncle far sooner, the only feeling he was able to obtain was that of being weirdly unsettled at the sight of him. there had never been a reason, and yet, over the sounds of lord gargalan and the dancing his bastard daughter did was some of the ladies of yronwood, armaan found himself unable to break his stormy gaze from his uncle. like a shadowcat, with his eyes locked on prey. of course, were the words she uttered as he asked whether she had continued to dance all of these years: it were a disciplined art form in dorne, that which took hours of perfection. the feet of dancers often bled and bruised due to exhausation; their art was their war.

“surprise surprise.” were the only words he uttered in her direction, amusement in his dark orbs: it were obvious she were doing some dance here, like a peacock. everything about her was utterly theatrical, even the way she playfully shook the golden skirts of her lehengha. she belonged upon the stages of the tor’s productions, so it seemed; though it were not his place to budge her to such a direction. there was an ease in knowing she would understand the way his accent wrapped huskily around his words, as whilst he did not lessen the accent for others in westeros, he knew she would at least understand him. “mujhe sandeh hai ki aap jaanana nahin chaahate.” i suspect you simply do not want to know.

it were not as though her father would not have her involved in matters should she simply ask; for she had managed to wrap her father around her fingers, and all of dorne knew it. she chose to stay out of such business, to continue to dabble only in the pleasures of life. there was beauty in ignorance, and safety in it too, especially in dorne of all places. “and what if pleasure becomes business?” he asked, his tone not accusatory or questioning for a change - but almost like a hook.

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.

ADITI RAO HYDARI in FITOOR (2016)