the bloodroyal.

in the split second it took her to follow him through the door to somewhere a conversation could be conducted in privacy, her mind was already in gear, rifling through counter arguments to any protests he might have. she had long treated the truth as something that was optional, sometimes offering it far more freely than she ought to, and others concealing it in its entirety in something that made a better story. if she had the measure of armaan yronwood correctly, he cared little for stories. had he been a softer, more sentimental sort of man, that might have been the right option, but a part of her suspected it would only damage her case with him. all that was left was truth, or at least, as little of it as she could get away with telling him.

"i understand perfectly," she nodded, with none of the flippancy that usually marked her tone, for there was none of it to be found now. her eyes flicked to the letter, still folded in his hand. why had she put it in his hand? "i do not beg without reason." beg, because that was exactly what she was doing, and she wasn't too proud not to get on her knees for it if it would get her what, in that moment, seemed like her best option. it was not the only one she had. if he refused, she would make the journey on her own. it would simply give her the advantage she needed.

"that's not a no," perhaps it was foolish to say out loud, as though pointing out that he had not refused her would lead to him doing just that, but in that moment, there was a glimmer of hope that he might agree. "i don't ask for all of your men. just a handful. enough to sell the deception." the rest of the travelling party, she would fill with men of the ghost hills, though the chartreuse hues of toland banners would not be seen. "it is the banners that are important."

it was a lesson she had learned when she was too young to even recall where she had learned it. bait and switch, using the confidence of your opponent against them to misdirect. when aegon the conqueror and his sisters had sought to burn ghost hill to cinders, they had sent out a fool in the lord's attire to meet him, and that had bought them enough time to escape the flames. what she proposed now was the same trick repackaged, a toland travelling as a yronwood to slip under the noses of those looking for the former.

"not to your benefit right now," she conceded. "but it could be. in the future." there was little hesitation in offering such a promise. armaan yronwood might not need anything from devani toland in the immediate present, but that did not mean tallying the score between them in his favour would not be to his advantage one day. what had once transpired between them had undoubtedly tilted the scales in her direction, though not entirely, since she had got what she wanted out of it, too, and here she was giving him an opportunity to swing them firmly back his way.

what would happen when he recalled the favour, and what he would ask of her when he did, was a bridge to cross when the time came. it was a worry to deal with later, the only thing she knew for certain that armaan was not the kind to forget a debt owed.

"i am aware of that," she attempted a smile, though her expression was too weary for it to ring true. he had led her into her private apartments, and though the room was dark, she knew it well enough to cross to a cabinet in the gloom, withdrawing from it two glasses and a bottle of dornish red. she filled the glasses, leaving one on a side table for him to take if he wanted it, and sinking into her couch with the other in hand. "but you presume more than i do. i'm not asking this of you because i think we might become the best of friends. i am asking because the fact we are not means there will be no questions asked."

devani eyed the paper in his hand again at his question, as though he clutched a scorpion rather than a scrap of parchment. "they must be here," she admitted. "or they wouldn't have been able to send me a note. but it's not reachmen. they're volantene." it was only the slightest tremble of her hand as she lifted the glass to her lips and drank that betrayed the fact it had genuinely rattled her. "i won't waste your time with the details. you know i have a son." she had kept his existence hidden until her brother had lain dead, but she had not been hiding that for several months now. kheerat's face swam through the swirling smoke of her thoughts then, his smile, still a little uncertain around a woman he was only just starting to know, but sweet all the same.

there was not a part of armaan yronwood that did not focus his mind on the consequence of each conversation, idea or notion: what would be the most fortunate consequence for him, and him alone? what would bring the most fortune, whether it be in physical form or whether it be something he could cash back in other forms, it were always the most prominent aspect of every trade off. this situation was no different, and the only reason he remained in the same quarters as the lady of ghost hill was because she knew and understood that; there was no excessive use of emotive language to try pull at his heart strings, nor was there any theatrics of tears and a moment that would end up being awkward for her and her alone. those who asked for favours were quick to find ways to beg, to do something to clearly demonstrate their clear distress and upset - but devani toland had fortunately gotten to the point quickly, and calmly.

"it's not a no." he agreed, his hand coming to rest upon his full beard as they stood in the alcove, a look crossing his features as he listened. a part of him wondered if it would be another noble family, or a greater lineage from across the narrow sea; and when she assured it were nothing but volantene mercenaries, he shoulders visibly relaxed and a cocky smile, even a scoff, slipped from his lips. she was this worried about a couple of mercenaries from volantis. "mercenaries?" he waved his hand, as though to dismiss it from there. yes, they could take any form, but they also did not understand that if they laid a hand upon any of his men, armaan yronwood would ensure they were buried alive head up, and choked on the scorching heat of dornish sand. if there was any sight of pure panic or worry on her face, it had ceased the moment it was time to talk details, logistics, and what was in for armaan yronwood. still, there was no denying the fact that he did feel a sense of ego inflate in knowing that one needed him for help; that in their moment of stress, it was he that seemed like the best situation.

it made sense - for he was, entirely that. the man that could get someone in, and out of a situation. he had made himself into that man, and he would keep himself that man. "will ask a question that is needed, devani toland. it is obvious you do not want to share, and by now it's obvious i would not care." what was in it for armaan yronwood, was the fact she had helped him out in an event, a chapter of his life he had actively worked to try and forget about. how he had reached the depths of his lack of care and humanity, and had subjected both of his sons to a life without a mother for the sake of wanting to remove something he no longer wanted in his life. for fear she would take and mould his sons against him one day, the way she always would fixate on everything he did wrong - she would have painted him a monster to the only two he wanted to look upon him with love in their eyes. and he could not risk the idea, the idea of his legacy being spun and turned against him by exaggerated claims and the manipulation of their mother who was all too quick to come to tears. in the end, negligence had made kabir and ishaan motherless; but there was no forgetting who was the hands of that negligence.

"i can make you a deal."

and perhaps, there was cruelty in realising that the woman who had been so firm to embrace her strengths, had died on the childbed as had many other woman - but it was something he buried deep within him. nature had taken its course. he had merely concocted it, and devani toland, ever the actress, had been a willing part of it. he owed her for that, if only for the fact he wanted to ensure he had done something to help her lest her conniving nature turn against him in the future. none could ever tell with women such as her, that had roots but chose to rip them from the earth with her own hands - he needed to watch himself with her, lest her reckless gust of wind destroy what he had been building. still, he needed an in on volantis; for there was someone he still saw needed avenging, something him and the sword of the morning had quietly been planning. foreign relations be damned.

"you take a unit of yronwood men and use the banner. your toland men focus on defending your son, wherever he is now. wait, where is he?" armaan asked, suddenly realising he needed to know how long the men would be moving with devani toland. the journey would be from the reach of all places - this could have been far easier. "then, i will send men of my own to hunt for volantene mercenaries taking an interest in a toland child, or ghost hill. your house is not important enough for them to care otherwise." he tapped his hands upon the table, as though the plan were forming together in his mind - he liked it. it gave him a rush. "then, you tell me whether you want them alive or dead. if they manage to drop any yronwood bleed, one will die - as is custom. and when we are done, you will use your contacts across the narrow sea to try and track the location of some volantene courtiers i've been meaning to make business with."

nights like this, where drink and laughter flowed free, money exchanged hands, and whatever she had been smoking that reddened the whites of her eyes hung pungent in the air, were not an uncommon occurrence. it was never a thing of formality, no invitations sent. her door was open to any who had heard of her little gatherings. it made it easy for the boy who had delivered the note to slip in, put it in her hand, and slip out again before devani had even pulled herself away from her conversation to look upon his face.

she'd a mind to open it then and there, in front of everyone, but once she had took herself into the corridor to read it in peace, it was a relief that she had not. that was of small consolation to her, however, scrawled upon the page in the bastard valyrian the volantines spoke were words that made her heart claw against her ribs. she'd frozen there, in the shadowed hall, face paling and eyes fixed upon the page, willing the words to change, as though if she stared at them hard enough, they'd wiggle around on the page and reform as something she could swallow.

she did not know how long she had been standing there when a sudden jolt broke her from her reverie, so unexpected that the letter fluttered lazily to the floor. she crouched to pick it up, long legs bending at the knee, before looking to see who had disturbed her; armaan yronwood, not a friend, not an enemy, but a one-time conspirator in crimes she had long since forgotten in favour of new ones.

she straightened, clutching the letter a little tighter. any other time, there would be a brazen laugh and a quick retort on her tongue for him, but this time, it did not come. she just looked at him, eyes wide even in her haze, the look of a caged animal watching its master approach with rod in hand.

and then it was like her mind was working in overtime. she needed to run. back to dorne, first, to collect her son, the boy whose existence she had only just made public, and then... to where? she didn't know. she could not go back to the east, not with a child in tow and people on her heels, but neither did the other kingdoms of westeros appeal to her. there was a churning in her gut when she realised that, despite all her instincts telling her to, there was nowhere to run to anymore.

she folded the paper in half, and then again, and for no particular reason, put it in armaan's hand. "i need to get back to dorne," she was trying to sound calm, confident even, though there was no mistaking the tremor in her voice that betrayed the fact she was riding on pure desperation. "and i need to get back quickly, and discretely. it is better if it is kept as quiet as possible." if she could get back to dorne, and ensure kheerat was in her care, she would be one step ahead. that might be enough of an advantage.

her son's father had cared for him well in his earlier years, when she had left him behind and left a gaping hole where a mother should have been. but he had died. if his family's threats were driven from love for kheerat, perhaps there could be a compromise to be found. but though it was not explicit in the letter, it was clear between the lines. it was title and claim and money they sought now that kheerat was heir to all three, and they had found her softest flesh and praised a blade to it in an attempt to get it.

lord armaan yronwood’s gaze lingered on devani toland, sharp and unblinking, as if measuring the weight of her plea against the inconvenience it imposed upon him. he did not like this. he did not like anyone telling him what to do, much less asking for banners, men, and movement that could cost him more than he wished to pay. yet here she stood, offering the smallest window of leverage, and he could not simply step aside. he was chained to this game by rules he did not honour, not by threats he would ignore, and by a careful reckoning of what it would mean to refuse her.

conspiracies were countless, but they always had a manner of crossing paths - it was part of learning to live with the lies and the deceit, being able to see one another and their actions not being the first thing that arose to them.

“back under yronwood banners,” he said, voice low, almost bored. the words were not a question, nor a promise—they were the barest recognition of her audacity. he shifted, one hand idly brushing the letter she had pressed into his palm, the paper light and fragile, yet carrying more weight than any gold or blade. his eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with the quiet, dangerous patience of a predator assessing a prey too clever for its own good. he did not appreciate the fact she did not appear as prey, as something or someone easy to mould.

“i do not give men lightly, nor do i move them out of favour. understand that,” he added, each word deliberate, meant to impress caution rather than kindness. he kept his gaze on her, cold, steady, as if daring her to misread his intent.

to decrease his number of men whilst in reach lands would not be the wisest of choices, considering his actions along the marches against the lands of tion peake - an intentional strike. he wanted to reassert his dominance of the marches, to remind himself and this new master of coin of how matters truly worked between the red valleys of their borders. "if anything, giving you my men for your supposed urgent journey is...not to my benefit."

but she had done him a favour, many moons ago; a major one. and he did not want to give her the opportunity to use that in this game of cards.

he moved a fraction closer, just enough to close the space but not enough to appear obliging as another passed by them, ensuring his voice was lower than the sounds of chattering and the music increasing in volume. “you know this, but you do have a way of placing people in situations that are a pain." armaan straightened then, shifting his weight back, cloak brushing the floor as he took a deliberate step toward the door and rocked his head towards it, as if to indicate her to follow him. “do not presume my involvement changes anything between us,” he said, the edge in his voice subtle, a reminder of limits rather than threat as they ducked out of the main door, his hand casually slamming the door to the main apartments behind them.

well

well

tion was willing to endure the taunts for that reason alone - to see the true measure of the man wielding them, and perhaps turn it to his advantage when the moment was right. nothing he had ever gained in life had been seized with a single stroke - it was a game of patience, of positioning, of seeing ten steps ahead rather than fixating on the move in front of him. a small slight and moment of humiliation were sacrifices to a greater cause, investments in an eventual victory. he would endure it, allow armaan to believe he was the weaker man of the two. this verbal skirmish meant nothing, not in the grand scheme of what was unfolding between them. tion did not need to win every moment - just the ones that counted.

he tilted his head slightly, the expression on his face coolly detached - because tion was concealing a small triumph that reared its head inside him. peace that has so easily been shattered, he said, and it was enough to give weight to the suspicions that had already taken root. "you misjudge me, lord yronwood," he said, his tone as calm as it ever was. "if i wanted vengeance, i would not have come to you with words." he placed the goblet down carefully, the soft clink of metal on wood the only sound between them for now. his eyes had narrowed - not from malice, or anger, but because he was judging armaan yronwood, filing away every aspect of his demeanour to recount later on.

"i would like to start with answers, my lord. it is as good a place as any, is it not?" his gaze never wavered from armaan's, making it plain, without using so many words, that tion was well aware it was he who was responsible for what had happened to the granaries, a deliberate act of sabotage from which he would now need to recover. "from there? well, that depends on the type of answers i receive, but it begins with making it plain that chaos has no place in my lands."

armaan didn’t laugh—though gods, he wanted to. "i have no need to hide. not from you.” instead, following his words, he let the silence stretch between them, heavy and indulgent, as though weighing tion’s words like coin on a scale. his fingers toyed with the stem of his goblet, turning it slightly. he didn't drink. his eyes never left lord peake. “chaos has no place in your lands,” armaan repeated at last, as though the notion itself were quaint. “but it has a place in mine, is that what you're saying?” he tilted his head, studying tion with the same idle scrutiny one might afford a painting of middling quality.

“your granaries burned, yeah—but i find myself wondering why they were vulnerable in the first place.”

he sat back, now, with a little shake of his head, as if quietly disappointed. “you own three castles, do you not? three—each with its own stretch of fertile land, good reach soil, better than any we’ve seen in dorne for centuries. and yet you come to me about hunger.” he gestured faintly with his fingers, as though the very word was offensive to the air around them. as though he were speaking to a childish little boy, rather than someone he could ever take seriously to sit on the same table. to even share his space. to be anywhere near his level.

“you have neighbours, do you not? oakheart, roxton, fossoway—did they shut their gates? or is it that you’re new to this game, and they’ve yet to decide whether you’re worth feeding?” he let the jab settle. not cruel. just true.

“you made your coin recently. that’s not insult—it’s observation. you're learning.” armaan’s mouth twitched, barely - could he make him switch? he would enjoy bringing the glint of his dagger across the man's throat - self defence was a song he could sing. a song he could belt. “you’re a man who’s fought for his place at the table, i’ll grant you that. i imagine it’s thrilling, finally being let inside, finally tasting the weight of gold rather than debt.” he smiled now, full of it, though his eyes didn’t join in. “but there’s a certain naïveté to you man. like a boy tripping over his daddy's boots, talking about games and reading men.”

his voice lowered, that strange softness returning. not intimate—intentionally indifferent. “i didn’t burn your fields. i didn’t order it, nor whisper it into the ears of those who might. i’ve no taste for sowing hunger—not because i find it unkind, but because it’s pointless. starving the reach?” he made a soft scoffing noise. “i may as well try to push back the tides with my bare hands.” a pause, and he gave a slow, theatrical shrug. “but again, if you’re asking me to confess, i’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. no ash on my hands, lord peake. no trail to follow. no smoking cart pulled into yronwood’s gates.”

there was still silent fury in her gaze as he flung insult after insult her way, and if her son's future was not at stake, she would have tried to grab the letter opener. and while she might not have succeeded in spilling his blood. she was convinced that she would have tried. or she would have screamed and forced armaan to show his hand, forced him into a public stand-off, and let the dice roll and fall as they land. but somehow willow managed to curb her nature, the side of her that loved to watch everything burn. while his touch was gentle, she hated it more than if it had been a slap. it felt like poison seeping into her skin from the contact. but she did not pull away from it. not only because there was nowhere to go with her back already to the wall. “you think you know me?” she asked coldly, as her eyes bore into his. “the only thing you can ever be sure of is that one day you will wish that you had never met me.” she would make him and ben regret every humiliation. she did not care what her actions would do to her. she would happily take the fall as well just to see them lose. as long as her sons remained unaffected, but that was the challenge, the problem she faced, and she suspected armaan knew it too. “and once you are full of regret, then you can comment on how clever you think i am.”

armaan yronwood only smiled. slow, knowing. he let willow's words sit between them, marinate in the thick air of her chambers, where the scent of candle wax and something sweet—something feminine—still clung to the linens. her breath was steady, but he could feel the fury beneath it, the kind of barely-bridled rage that made her pulse beat just that little bit harder at the base of her throat. he could feel it beneath his fingers, even now, where the ghost of his touch still lingered on her cheek. "lady wylde," his voice was almost amused as he addressed her with false formality, as though all need for that had evaporated.

"you sound so sure of yourself. so certain." he let the words drag, savouring them, his eyes flickering over her like he was committing every inch of her to memory.

"you want to know what me losing looks like." his arms folded over the breadth of his torso, his sleeves rolled up to his forearm; that aggression and manipulation had begun to ease considering he had her where he wanted her, and now all that was left was scathing taunting. mocking, as natural as inhaling breath. "i guess we'll never know." he let her sit with that, stepping back just enough to make it clear he was allowing her a fraction of space, but not enough for her to believe she had won any ground. her defiance was a flame, burning bright, but he had smothered enough fires in his lifetime to know which ones could be extinguished and which ones needed to be starved, slowly, until they were nothing but embers. willow would burn for a while yet, but she would burn in the space he allowed her to.

"you know what i see, willow?" he asked, voice dropping lower, softer. "i see a woman who has clawed her way through too much to let herself be swallowed now. a woman who pretends she can still make choices, when really, she made them long ago." he watched as she stiffened, her jaw tight. this world beyond the dunes of dorne was one that was cruel to women; and whilst her sex never crossed his mind, he knew it would to everyone else that mattered in her life. the people who would decide her fate if this went wrong, and that was enough.

"and don’t mistake me for a fool. i know you're planning something the moment i walk from your door."

he exhaled, almost laughing, a quiet thing that barely made it past his throat. stepping back just slightly, he let his gaze drift over her, dragging, lazy, as though he were assessing a piece of fruit at market, debating whether it was worth the bite. she was rigid with anger, but that was the thing about willow—her rage made her reckless. made her desperate. "predictable," he murmured, amused as his figure moved to the silhouette of the door frame, his hand resting upon it as he looked at her one final time. his gaze mocking, taunting and typically smug; looking her entire body up and down as an egotistical smile crossed his darkened features.

"keep playing at control," he said, voice low, careless, his fingers brushing the door handle, as though she were so close to finally having him out of her presence. but he was taking his time now, acting as though he were surveying the room. "i'll see you in six months, keep that stomach empty. i don't like surprises." he didn’t wait for a reply. didn’t need one. the click of the door was his answer as his laughter echoed down the hall.

his childhood had been shaped by lean years and nights where the hearth was cold, and there was no room for pride. it were the kind of existence that had needed him to learn, and learn quickly, and those lessons still served him well. the key was to look not only in what was said, but what was not, reading between the lines to hone in on what was so often overlooked. the glint in the eye of a merchant before naming his price, the slight change in pitch when a lord gave a promise. words and actions could be rehearsed, but if you looked hard enough, the cracks would always make themselves known.

he were searching for those cracks now, assessing armaan yronwood the way a smith weighs a blade. his tone was calm, carrying with it enough concern that a less observant man may be satiated, but it did not tally with his actions, the casual way in which he invited tion to sit, the flicker of arrogance he could not quite conceal. tion was under no illusions - they were calling this diplomacy, but it could all go up in flames just as easily as the granaries. he would need to tread carefully.

"most troubling," he agreed, expression unchanged save for the faintest lift of the corners of his mouth - an almost-smile that never quite surfaced. "which makes me all the more appreciative for your swift response." his tone was as measured as it ever was, but underneath it, there was something stirring - the dornish lord spoke all too easily of chaos, as though he had thought through the consequences already. it may have been innocent, but something told tion it was not.

his gaze flicked to armaan's boots, his casual sprawl across the table. if it were a slight, it was one tion chose, for the moment, to ignore. his fingers curled loosely around the stem of the goblet, and he moved to sip it before speaking. "the generosity of the people of nightsong is noted, my lord." he nodded, pressing one hand to his chest as though to emphasise his point. "it speaks well of the change of leadership that they are so soon ready to lend aid to another." he did not believe it, and yet he made no outward gesture of his thoughts.

"it is in the best interest of both of us that things in the marches remain... manageable." his tone was iron wrapped in velvet, soft yet unyielding. "as you say, it is both of our responsibilities to ensure this particular fire is limited in its spread." he let the sentiment linger for a moment, searching armaan's expression for any minute changes. he would not hold his breath, awaiting word from nightsong.

lord armaan yronwood reclined further into his chair, his gaze unwavering as he regarded lord tion peake across the table. the reachman’s polished veneer was as meticulously maintained as his doublet, but armaan could see the subtle tension in the way tion held his goblet, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth betraying his unease. "alright then." marcher lords weren't so delicate? they weren't - with this exception of this one across from him. a man weighed down by the burdens of his seat, yet too cautious to show the cracks openly. there was a thinking expression on his face, his hand resting upon his bearded jaw; and when he opened his mouth, after some lengthy amount of consideration, it was to beckon over a page.

"get me another chair." the order was fleeting, and he looked back at tion; his expression now turned into a smile that was smug. "uncomfortable."

“lord peake,” armaan began, his tone smooth, laced with a hint of mockery barely masked as civility, “it gladdens me to see you understand the gravity of your situation. your appreciation for swift action is noted, though one must wonder—what is it you truly seek in this moment of crisis?” he leaned forward slightly, the movement deliberate, his eyes narrowing as if peering into the depths of tion’s guarded soul. “after all, such devastation in your lands cannot be mended by mere platitudes and shared concern.” there was a pause as armaan changed seats, sitting down with a heavy sigh of relief; there was a pillow beneath his arse now. he were mocking it on purpose, no doubt; acting as though this conversation was a courtesy he extended upon tion rather than anything else.

"the reach has lost granaries. it is horrific."

he allowed the question to hang in the air, a subtle challenge, watching for any flicker of reaction in tion’s carefully composed facade. armaan found it almost amusing, the way tion clung to the formalities of their exchange, as if etiquette could shield him from the undercurrents of power at play. beneath his outwardly composed demeanour, armaan judged the man harshly—too soft, too reluctant to wield the authority his position demanded. a lord, yes, but one who seemed to waver when the ground beneath him trembled.

“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."

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.

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.

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.