Armaan 003 - Blog Posts

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.”

zahra let out a soft hum, her fingers tapping idly against her arm as she watched him. armaan yronwood was sharp edges and coiled ambition, speaking of fire as though he could shape it with his hands alone. she had met men like him before—restless, hungry, eager to set the world alight. but he was different too, wasn’t he? not just all flame and fury. there was something deliberate in the way he spoke, in the way he watched her.

and oh, how she loved to be watched.

“you think fire is simple?” she echoed, amusement curling at the edges of her voice. “fire dances, armaan. it flickers, it tempts, it shifts before you can ever quite catch it. you think you hold it in your palm, and then—” she snapped her fingers, a playful grin flashing across her lips. “gone.”

she stepped closer, just enough for the light to catch in her eyes. “but i think you know that already. i think you like the risk of it, the not-knowing. you want to see what will burn, what will survive. you want to test the limits.”

her gaze lifted past him for a fleeting moment, drawn to the distant windows, to the sky beyond. the stars were hidden behind the golden glow of the throne room, but she knew they were there, burning just as they always had. eternal. untouchable.

when she looked back, he was still watching her, still waiting. his hand remained outstretched. an invitation.

she let the moment linger, stretching the space between them like a cat playing with a ribbon. and then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she took his hand. not submission, not surrender—just curiosity, just a game she wasn’t finished playing.

“i’ll walk with you,” she murmured, her thumb brushing absently over his knuckles before she turned toward the door. “but do not mistake me for one of your flames, armaan.” a smirk ghosted her lips as she let him lead her forward. “i do not burn for just anyone.”

as they stepped out into the warm dornish night, zahra tilted her head back, her dark curls shifting as she sought the sky. and there they were—her stars. scattered across the heavens like specks of silver on black silk, steady and shining, uncaring of wars or whispers. a soft smile curled at the corners of her lips.

"ah, always so focused on what lies ahead," she mused, her voice soft, almost teasing. she turned her head, her gaze meeting his with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "i wonder, when was the last time you looked at the sky? not for what it could offer, but just for what it is?"

꙰

armaan yronwood’s lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile as zahra’s words wove their intricate web around him. her voice, smooth as silk, carried the weight of ancient wisdom and the intoxicating lure of chaos. he let the silence linger between them, the throne room’s warm light casting flickering shadows across their faces. the scent of burning incense mingled with the aroma of spiced wine, a heady mixture that seemed to amplify the tension in the air.

he let out a slow breath, his gaze steady and penetrating. “fire is fire, let's not complicate it with your poetry,” he began, his tone measured, as though each word was chosen with the utmost care. “it destroys, yes, but it also clears the way for new growth. sometimes, the old must be razed to the ground for the new to flourish. and sometimes,” he paused, a glint of something darker flashing in his eyes, “it is not about the harvest at all. it’s about the flame itself—the sheer, unrelenting power of it.”

he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, though the intensity of his words remained. “great men must be the ones to set fire to the world, zahra. to watch it burn and to mould the ashes into something greater. it’s not enough to stand still and let the world turn around you. no, true greatness lies in seizing the reins of fate, in shaping the course of events, not merely reacting to them.” his gaze flickered to the doorway, the corners of his mouth curling in a subtle, almost predatory smile. the marches need defending, but more than that, they need to know where their strength lies.

the reach had grown complacent, and perhaps it’s time they were reminded of the fire that lies within dornish borders.

he straightened, the air around him shifting from contemplative to resolute. “i’m done with this conversation now,” he said, his tone carrying a finality that left little room for argument. yet, there was a spark of something else—an invitation, perhaps—in the way his eyes lingered on hers. he extended his hand, the gesture both commanding and expectant. “come walk with me, zahra. there’s more to discuss, about what is in front of us rather than whatever you are seeing in the sky.” he wanted her; he knew he wanted her. she knew he wanted her. he did not know why he was taking his time with it.

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.