#halima 001

the halls of sunspear had a way of twisting time, the same walls standing as they always had, but the air shifting with each passing year. he had walked these corridors as a boy, as a prince, as a soldier, and now, now he wasn’t sure what he was, a prince, certainly, but he knew more than anything, that dorne had called him back, and he had answered.

he turned a corner sharply, his thoughts elsewhere, and nearly collided with someone.

halima.

he knew her before his mind caught up with his eyes, something about the way she held herself, the quiet steel in her posture, the way the light caught on the dark strands of her hair. she had changed, and yet, there were pieces of familiarity woven into the difference.

and then, ravi exhaled, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "seems i still have a habit of not watching where i’m going," he said, his voice lighter than he felt.

his gaze flickered over her face, searching for something, recognition, maybe, or warmth. something of the girl he had once known, the cousin he had once laughed with under these same arched ceilings. but time had carved itself into both of them, and he wondered if the distance had settled too deep to bridge with words alone.

ruqaiyah of house dayne did not think about the death rattle anymore; that which had come from human lips rather than the ominous sound that came from the most fearful of serpents - she did not think about the facial expressions that crossed over each of the gargalens upon hearing the news that there had been a body found some leagues away. she only remembered her own body becoming very still that moment, her gaze daring not to meet the gaze she knew would not be looking in her direction.

the indifference was numbing, and it came not from a place of desperate guilt and repression, but rather an avoidance and refusal to take even a hint of responsibility for her actions. ruqaiyah dayne did not think of the blood of farah gargalen upon her hands, because she did not think the blood was ever upon her hands. rather the skirts of her dress at the hands of the girl's own foolishness, how they had called for her to remain in the carriage - how she had reminded her that the terrain this far from the tor was rocky.

"how is having your own space away from armaan?" ruqaiyah asked, a goblet of wine upon her lips as she sat across from the lady halima of house yronwood; if one was the crack, the other was the whip. an endless, vicious cycle of narcissism that continued to swirl, even as they sat across from one another. she were referring to the regency of kingsgrave the lady across from her now held, in the name of two sons of house yronwood - ishaan and kabir.

"a household of your own made up of manwoodys and servants…the same thing, in reality."

"your subjects seem keen to try and listen to our conversation." her tone was louder now, loud enough to ensure the manwoody party and their associates would hear her - calling them subjects, equating halima to their sovereign. it only made her smile more, a callous, immature one. "it is a good thing the heirs of kingsgrave look to a yronwood for their regent. that way, kingsgrave will never be sacked by a vulture king again." and she raised a toast. gods knew joy manwoody only spoke of all the work she needed to do to fix the lands that had been pillaged.

the air in the hall of casterly rock was thick with the weight of ambition. banners of crimson and gold swayed gently in the draft, and the scent of aged wood mingled with the faint tang of salt carried from the distant sea. maximus celtigar sat poised at the chessboard, his long fingers delicately adjusting a rook as if to underline his calculated precision. his attention, however, was not entirely on the game. he could feel it—a gaze, unyielding, like the heat of a brand pressed against his skin. slowly, his reptillian eyes lifted.

across the hall, amidst the gilded finery and towering stone columns, she stood. lady halima yronwood. her presence was deliberate, as was her attire—a cascade of earthy silks that clung to her frame with the practised clothing of dornish design. her dark eyes, framed by the subtle kohl of her southern homeland, were fixed on him, unblinking, dissecting. for a moment, the room itself seemed to contract, the clamour of courtiers and the hum of polite conversation dulling into insignificance. it was as if the chessboard before him had been replaced by her piercing stare, her presence an unwelcome shift in his carefully ordered world.

his lips curled ever so slightly—a sneer restrained only by the etiquette demanded of these halls. he knew her type. dornish. brazen and insolent, her bloodline tainted by centuries of hedonism and rebellion. he hated the desert they called home, the wild heat of it, the lack of order, the constant defiance of the natural hierarchy. his gaze hardened, his pale blue eyes narrowing into slits. there was something unnervingly defiant in her posture, an insolence that set his teeth on edge. her stillness was louder than the cacophony of voices in the chamber.

and yet, what was she to him? a mere pebble in the tide of his ambitions. the dornish, with their sun-scorched pride, were beneath the legacy of valyria, beneath him. she was not worth a word, let alone the courtesy of his acknowledgement. still, the venom brewed in his chest as he allowed his disdain to show in the subtle tilt of his chin and the deliberate coldness of his stare. nightsong was an issue; and he found himself disgusted with the stormlanders for allowing it to happen. maximus celtigar turned back to his game, the faint click of a pawn resonating like a warning.

the hall of casterly rock shimmered with opulence, its grandeur heightened by the occasion - that which the lion king had all but prayed for for what felt like an eternity if the whispers were to be true. the birth of prince arthur lannister had drawn lords and ladies from across the realms, their voices weaving into a tapestry of laughter, music, and clinking goblets. the air was heavy with the mingling scents of roasted meats and rich perfumes, the golden light of countless candles reflecting off polished stone and ornate tapestries.

lady lucrezia redwyne stood near the edge of the gathering, her goblet of spiced wine untouched in her hand. her takchita, a deep purple embroidered with delicate gold thread, clung to her figure, the golden belt at her waist catching the light as she shifted. her olive-toned skin glowed in the candlelight, her dark curls left loose to cascade over her shoulders. though her lips wore the faintest smile, her gaze was watchful, studying the swirl of celebrants with quiet detachment.

it was then she noticed the woman moving through the crowd. shorter than most in the room but commanding attention nonetheless, the stranger carried herself with an ease that bordered on defiance.

her skin was dark and smooth, her hair straight and black, falling sleekly over her shoulders. her eyes, sharp and penetrating, seemed to take in everything without betraying a flicker of emotion. she was dornish; lucrezia recognised it at once, though she felt no immediate inclination to engage for the obvious reasons. their people did not speak with one another, and lucrezia's choice of attire this night made her roots entirely obvious.

when their paths crossed amidst the press of lords and ladies, lucrezia stepped aside with careful grace, her silence a statement of civility and nothing more. “please,” she said at last, her voice soft but firm as she gestured for the stranger to pass, though her candle illuminated features showed no hint of warmth. “do not let me hinder you.” it was then the candle truly illuminated obviously upon the features of the dornish woman, and there was an expression on her face that seemed to leave her feeling as unsettled and churning as the heated oceans of dorne itself. something that she could not read, but only react to.

graham royce rarely sought solace in prayer. it wasn’t his way, not anymore. but tonight, the weight of guilt bore down on him with the heaviness of the stone walls around casterly rock. this place—it was a monument to power, soaked in history and ambition. yet for all its grandeur, it unsettled him. guilt gnawed at him, its claws sharper here, where whispers of unbroken lineages mingled with sins buried beneath gold.

the chapel called to him, not with faith but as a haven, its doors promising quiet and seclusion. the hour was late, the halls dim, the air carrying a distant, mournful hymn sung from another chamber. the voices were faint, wavering like ghosts through the cold stone corridors. the door groaned on its hinges as he pushed it open, the faint sound startling in the stillness. the room within was shrouded in shadows, lit only by the faint, flickering glow of scattered candles. the scent of melted wax lingered, and the air was heavy with a solemn chill that seemed to seep from the very walls.

and then he saw her.

a woman stood by the altar, her back to him, her movements precise yet unhurried. the faint golden light of the candles played across her dark braid, catching the loose strands that framed her profile. she was not praying. her hands moved deliberately, overturning the candles one by one with a grace that was at odds with the act itself. graham stepped into the room, his boots muted against the threadbare carpet beneath. he did not speak. his presence filled the space silently, a shadow intruding on the flickering warmth of the altar.

he watched her, his gaze cold and unyielding. she hesitated as her fingers brushed the next candle’s base, but the pause was fleeting, her composure slipping back into place with practiced ease. yet he saw it—an edge of tension, subtle but unmistakable. the hymns continued in the distance, their somber melody a quiet backdrop to the strange, calculated ritual unfolding before him. graham’s jaw tightened as he crossed his arms, his broad shoulders casting long shadows across the chapel floor.