"This was always going to happen. She's been dead since the beginning."
- Aeschylus
It is a child's dream to outwit fate, to somehow escape the great ending that awaits us all.
But Orianne Fernwood would burn the world if it meant a moment longer w...
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The world seemed to shift on Dragonstone, as if the axis of Orianne's existence tilted without warning, leaving her grappling for steady footing and struggling to find anything to hold onto.
Away from the world, she had carefully integrated herself into, away from King's Landing and all its careful cunning, Orianne was adrift. While she was free from certain obligations, the sneering and leers of the capital's inhabitants, Dragonstone was not without fear. She was unsure how to function, not with the looming threat of Elia's pregnancy, the battle that awaited at the end, and the more prescient worry of a certain lilac-eyes king's guard.
And the walls were starting to close in.
Each day spent cloistered away inside drove Orianne a step closer and closer to madness. She could feel it swelling up within herself, like a great wave with nowhere to go but land, leaving destruction in its wake. She needed a distraction, something, anything, to occupy herself. It was getting harder and harder to spend her days lazing away with her friends, not when the world was spinning out of control and Orianne was losing her grip.
She could sense all her calmness slipping away between closed fingers each time she thought of Arthur Dayne's stubbled cheek beneath her lips and his fingers, strong and calloused, gripping her hand. Not even his helm, which obscured most of his features from sight, was enough to still the incessant chatter of Orianne's mind when they crossed paths.
Did he think of her, too?
What was on his mind while he stood guard, a silent sentinel, faceless it seemed to everyone but her.
Orianne's mind drifted as she sat beside Elia, trying to drown out the whispers in her mind with the sound of Elodie and Ashara listing off baby names. But try as she might, her thoughts returned to the man who stood outside the door.
Never one for childish flights of fancy, Orianne never put much stock in the stories that traveled the width and breadth of Westeros in regards to Ser Arthur Dayne. But something about knowing him, seeing the way he moved with intention, how his sword seemed an extension of his being rather than a graceless bringer of death. The stories seemed less childish to Orianne as she pondered how he must have garnered such attention.
His attractiveness most definitely played a part; the women of Westeros were not immune to a pretty face, but Orianne was sure it was more than that. She had seen his kindness, his honor and morals shone through like the sun on a cloudy day. He was always gentle, never balking when Elodie battered him with questions, and always in good humor. There was a purity in his heart, even if he was jaded by the terrors that all seasoned warriors were witness to.
The urge to pick him apart rose to the surface, not for the first time; Orianne wanted to understand him, to know him, and let the search for him consume her–
"Orianne?" a hand pressed gently into her shoulder. The room had grown quiet, and Elia looked on at her with concern. "Are you well? You disappeared for a moment..."
