#arron 002

The familiar sound of drums rung across the Lion's Mouth, echoing and booming off cavern walls filled with all disdained glittering gold; a tune she had found herself quietly humming to herself as she pulled the brush through golden curls, wild, unkept, like a lion itself. Quietly humming to innocence itself wrapped within a blanket, her hand gently moving aside the small wisps of dark curls that were already beginning to form upon him; those words that were mere scribbles on the side of a prayer book had turned into something else entirely. Washing away all what felt like was left of her, as strong as the current of the mighty Trident, in hearing those drums and violins play.

And mine are long and sharp, my lord As long and sharp as yours.

Her posture had been fixed and poised against the soft wind of the sunset sea as hues of orange and pink slowly came to spill like paint itself over the skies of the heavens, crowds of the common folk of Lannisport and all surrounding areas cheering what felt like thunder itself over the sound of the drums. Perhaps it hadn't felt real until her emerald orbs glanced over blade after blade of the men that stepped from the galleys, almost as though she were trying to visualise the crimson blood that once stained it. Perhaps her own mind hadn't felt real as she felt a sense of inflated pride at the mere thought, her back straightening slightly against the wind.

She knew not if it were the Seven she felt in her presence as the sun continued to disappear beyond the horizon of the sunset sea; or seven devils, watching nobleman after nobleman leave with a nod of her head. Marbrand, Serrett, Westerling all crossed an alabaster statue, the very essence of duty; how far she had gone, only to return to these docks and be such an image once again. Emeralds fell upon the giant longsword first, and she knew before rising her gaze to the sight of her blood stepping upon the fertile Westerland soil once again.

The statue cracked, her skirts of glittering gold and the rubies hanging around her neck moving with each of her movement as she moved towards him; slowly, and then all at once. What was it when a volcano met a tornado? Her arms were around his towering frame, and his arms fell around her just as easily; how having her face in his chest even for a moment felt like she had been granted some mercy, some salvation from the Gods. Was it the Gods or the devils holding them together?

“What is it?” Her voice was hushed as she looked up at him, remaining close to his chest; because between the blazing trumpets of victory, the sweet release of duty done, there was tragedy. There was betrayal. “What is it, Arron?” Her hand had slipped to his jaw, bearded over the months of bloodshed and glory. 

the deck of the isolde gleamed under the rays of the soon to be setting sun, its lacquered wood catching faint silver highlights as the sea murmured softly against its hull. lanterns swayed gently, their light flickering in rhythm with the evening breeze. myriam allyrion stepped lightly across the deck, her terracotta hued sari trailing like liquid silk behind her. the chill of the night nipped at her exposed midriff, yet the shawl draped around it ensured none would see; the location of their meeting was a repeated one, and she did not intend on being on show for sailors of all people.

prince arron lannister stood near the bow, his golden hair catching the lantern light like a halo. he was every inch the lannister she'd always imagined them to be: striking, poised, and with an easy charm that seemed etched into his very being. he were the most social of all his siblings, the most talkative: the one that seemed to be in the middle of dance floors and large groups of laughter. but beneath that, she knew, was the lion’s temper, the infamous rage that had made his name in darker tales whispered across dorne.

“prince arron,” she greeted, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the sea as he walked toward her. her tone carried warmth, but there was always a thread of calculated intent woven through it. "may i suggest somewhere warmer next time?" she leaned against the back of the chair, her dark eyes studying him with curiosity, as though he were a puzzle she was only beginning to piece together. she straightened, her demeanour shifting slightly as the conversation turned serious; she ensured her shawl remained covering any bare skin that would be on display.

“i know your family holds its own issue against the reach - i intend on meeting with them this week." she knew what it was she wished to do; there would be no use in banning their vessels from their waters at all, considering geography was unable to be rejected. "trying to push forward an idea that make us....on the same page. i just need to arrange some things for it to work."

she remained sat upon the seats pulled out, even whilst he walked up and down the deck; her lips upon the rim of a golden goblet, and her hair whipping in the wind - it was only by tucking it behind her ear she was truly able to stop it from blocking her view. the dornish were not sea folk, and she could not help but feel her stomach twisting with each time she felt the tide churn beneath their feet. at one point her gaze looked downward, her hand holding onto the side of the chair - an expression of momentarily confusion crossing her features.

there came a sound that was animalistic as it's very core, the sound of bloodcurdling scream one would only think to hear in myths and legends, the most far off stories from beyond the wall: or the common birthing bed, when the gods had decided one's time had come. regardless of how many times the lady of the arbor attempted to bring her to some form of consciousness, there was no denying the harrowing of her breaths and the increasing whiteness of her skin; the lingering shadow of death which had once again clasped her around the neck.

the screaming, the howling, seemed to only add to the heat in the room: and yet, one touch of meredyth was enough to send a feeling of ice to spread through lucrezia's being. for she felt the impending coldness in the limpness of her limbs, and the way in which warm orbs seemed to roll backward; the hours had blended into one, strenuous stretch of time. the people of the west wanted their second prince of fair isle.

lucrezia could see it in the way both maesters and midwives looked upon the situation, with a calculating look in their eye; as though this were some formula, some sum of a lump of gold.

they had paid for meredyth rowan, and they would get what they had paid for. a hand rested upon her closest friend's clammy face, quietly muttering words of endearment in the moments of consciousness, assurance that all would be well and it would be over soon. the babe would turn into the correct position, and could once again push - push to relieve herself of the bone crushing pressure which no doubt felt as though it would split open her pelvis.

but in those moments of no consciousness, when the eyes rolled back again and the body seemed to go into some state of limp, stiff, shock, lucrezia muttered prayers through eyes that were blind with tears, what small amounts of kohl she had worn earlier in the day running down her cheeks. her prayers were feverish, frantic, nothing akin to the steadiness she had uttered at her own mother's birthing bed: even when her voice shook. there came the quiet request for water to keep the princess cool - and the reminder that her husband had asked for her wellbeing.

and in that simple, small request laced with falsehood, lucrezia redwyne made the biggest mistake of her life. unclasping a clammy hand from mimi rowan's as she was being propped up, lucrezia assumed they would be trying to stir her awake by sitting her up - by trying another position, and allowing the natural position of a woman to take hold. she stepped out into the foyer, her mind blurred with the sounds of meredyth's screams and that of her own mother's over a decade ago; and as she walked, she did not realise the bowl of water she carried had spilled everywhere.

because there had been a scream. a different scream. and what she pushed her way back into, was a bloodbath. her gown pushed over her stomach, baring her before the maesters - lucrezia almost wanted to scream at them to look away, to force their heads back to crash against the candelabra again and again. but it was the open flesh of the stomach which she saw first, and a bloodied, screaming babe which was wrapped in a blanket.

why was she silent? why could she see the insides of her hycathith? why could see her mimi?

the bowl of water came crashing onto the ground and her hand moved to clasp over her hand, masking a gasp that was half shriek of shock, and half a mournful cry. like a wounded dog. she did not even feel the king's rage barge by her, suddenly becoming part of the furniture. a shadow on the wall - and yet, her hand remained clasped over her mouth the entire time, to the point she began to bite down on it as her breathing tightened. to stop from her own bloodcurdling sobbing from coming out of her chest.

♔

hardened emerald orbs, deceivingly beautiful for the dark emptiness that laid behind them, king since carved and moulded and transformed into what it meant to be the lion of casterly rock, had been fixed upon the master of the seas for the majority of the night. to be a farman was not to simply know how to navigate the seas, to know the stars as though they were old friends who welcomed the darkness of night as that empire once again reigned over the skies; to be a farman was so much more.

the warrior himself had seemingly settled within the veins of his seafaring kin, masters of the seas themselves in defending the golden stretch of sand, that prosperous land of their own where none was as it seemed.

all seemed to accept and know such things, that to defend their ample gold, that which the gods themselves had graced them - defend their names, and their honour and and their pride. their pride was more than just their family, those who lay low in the grass and watched the world go by as they guarded their own; he had enough coin to take over the continent in some way or another, and yet, his focus was his own. it had been, since that fateful day.

he watched his cousin, and he watched a hurricane swarming; those dangerous currents that fixed a glare over his goblet, a fixed glare at the mere creatures tyland lannister paid no attention to. creatures of weakness, being run from their own lands; it was only the beginning for them. he would make sure of it, now that the lannister treasury had further been amplified with the coin of the reynes. those who heard nothing over their halls, buried in their family tombs whilst a true lion reigned atop.

the world had made fury of arron farman; the line that had been crossed, rubbed out, redrawn and crossed again and again and again. how many raids, how many patrols, how many clashes until it finally festered? the world deserves to know of the fury of arron farman, and what it had created; far beyond the scope of many to understand just how that swing can happen.