myriamas

[myriamas]

@baashirdayne

destined to chase sunsets in different skies.

[myriamas]

Parched, 2016.

[myriamas]

very sinnersbrained at the moment so when i crawled across my bed to close the window i was like wow i’m just like pearline prowling across the juke stage actually

[myriamas]

❂

myriam laughed—a quiet, chest-deep sound that curved and shimmered out of her despite herself—as he said the line about treating her like a squire. she didn’t even mean to laugh, not properly, not right then, but there it was. a huff that turned into a ripple of amusement, one hand lifting to lightly smack his bare chest in mock rebuke as the sound carried over the rolling waves and was carried away by the tide.

“a squire?” she murmured, her brow arching as he pulled her closer. “gods, at least make me your mistress too, baashir of house dayne.” but even as she teased, something melted in her—the familiar warmth of him, the scent of salt and sandalwood, the way he always drew her in like the tide. his mouth pressed slow kisses into her skin, murmuring against her temple and cheek, and she felt her jaw clench—not from anger, but from trying not to smile too widely, too quickly, too much. and she failed.

she smiled anyway, teeth grazing gently against her lip before she pressed her mouth softly to the nape of his neck, kissing once, twice, then again. her lips moved along the fine edge of his jaw, a trail of quiet affection masked in playfulness. she needed to stay composed. alluring. the type of wife others envied, the kind he’d always want to undress with both his eyes and his hands. and yet here she was, heart racing like a girl beneath the wildest of monsoons, skin warmed not by the sun but by the admission of being loved exactly as she was. she felt... happy. truly happy. and it terrified her.

"i don't know...i genuinely don't know. maybe we just talk, at least once a week and just say everything that's going on up here?" she indicated toward the temple where he had just planted kisses; something told her he would find it easier if it were part of some routine. "that way we aren't just doing it post argument." she rested her hand on his arm as they spoke, her cheek against his bicep as she looked upon the rolling waves and the turtles returning to the sea.

“i guess we don’t have to know how straight away,” she said into his skin, her voice low, threading through the space between kisses. “you just have to want to learn.” her hand settled against his side, fingers curling lightly there. “and we’ll do it - badly at first probably, but, we'll see how we manage it.” she already accepted that there would be moments where they felt defeated; where they yelled reminders of this conversation to the other; it would be part of the process. but it worked, if it meant they would speak before it came to that. how would he tell her what bothered him more? how would she tell him before she was seeing red?

"my papa used to tell me to literally name how i was feeling, if i was ranting after arguing with maa, or dastan, or hasa. he would say, stop - name the feeling, hand up - all dramatic. i thought he was problem solving, trying to shorten the ramble." and it was only now, did she realise her father had told her to name the feeling so she could actualise it, and recognise it - rather than blur a million and one together.

"maybe we name the feeling?"

his honesty had disarmed her more than any sharp word or look from him ever had, anything uttered in anger, hate or disgust. it stripped her of her rehearsed defences, the barbs she kept tucked between tongue and teeth. his lack of defensiveness, his stillness, his willingness to say “i want to be better”—that had been the thing she’d waited years to hear. and yet, a small part of her curled inwards, sharp and unquiet - but as destructive as the glint of a bottle, or the unquenchable spread of flames.

but only because you asked. the thought prickled like sea-grass brushing against her ankle, and if she did not dismiss it, it would soon prick like walking across nails. soon it would consume like the rush of flames. he didn’t do this on his own. he didn’t just know. and hadn’t she known, always, what he needed? even when he didn’t say it? no, she had not; clearly. this conversation was evident proof of that. she swallowed a lump in her throat as she continued to focus on the sound of his voice, as though to drag her from her thoughts.

but he was not a man of words. he never had been, which was wy this felt like....a lot. what had always been needed, but his words had all but numbed her. baashir dayne had always lived in actions—silent but steadfast. he would ride for weeks through hostile lands to ensure her daughter sat upon her throne. he returned home the moment she learned of mors, at the shortest of letters, following their most explosive of arguments. he would never, ever let her carry a basket heavier than she should. and those were his declarations. those were his ways of saying i see you, i want you, i’m trying. she needed to trust that. she wanted to.

her lashes fluttered closed as he said it again—i married you for love—and it struck something deep in her. not just because it was beautiful, but because it was true. the world had made her feel as though love was a foolish choice for a woman like her: widowed, once disgraced, once wild, once punished. but baashir had loved her anyway. and now, she was learning how to love him back not just in the ways that came easily, such as that of passion and heat—but in the ways that required grace, and patience, and stillness. of choosing what was worth engaging in, and what battles needed to be let go.

“but don’t be soft for everyone,” she added, lifting her head to meet his gaze, eyes gleaming with something fierce, and yet equally and if not more, vulnerable. there was still something soft and taunting in her facial features, but she was half joking - almost as though she were claiming something. what comparison was planting the flag of a prince or king to a woman planting her love upon a man? “with me... just let the sword rest, baash. just be the man, yeah?”

Baashir stood there with her forehead against his chest, the tide drawing ever closer to their feet, as if the ocean itself leaned in to listen. Her words didn’t crash over him the way they once might have. They settled—into his bones, his ribs, the spaces inside him he’d guarded even from himself. His hand remained in hers, fingers curling slightly as though he were holding onto something newly fragile, or newly forged.

She’d said things he hadn’t expected. Not because they were harsh—they weren’t. But because they were honest. Shame and pride warred in him for a moment: the pride of a man who had been chosen, loved, stood beside. The shame of a man who realized he’d made her feel she had to ask for things she should have always had. Space. Affection. Partnership.

His voice, when it came, was quiet but without hesitation. “You’ve never sounded clearer to me than you do right now.” He didn’t let go of her hand. Not even for a second.

“You’re right about all of it,” Baashir said, steady. “We did rush. But not just into marriage.” He paused, lifting his eyes to hers. “We rushed into a life. One we thought we knew, one we thought we remembered—because we were both chasing something that used to be simple between us. Before duty. Before loss. Before we had names bigger than ourselves.”

There was no resentment in his tone. Just the steady cadence of truth.

“I don’t regret marrying you,” he said, firm, unwavering. “But I regret not slowing down. I regret not sitting with you—on a night like this—and asking what we needed to know before we did it.” His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, a tender motion, grounding both of them. “But I don’t just love the idea of us. I love the person you were then, and I love the person you are now.”

His other hand rose to her face, cradling her cheek like she was something sacred. “You make me feel lighter, My. You always have. Even when we fight—especially when we fight—you pull me back into the world. Into life. That’s what you are to me. Light, and fire, and sharp edges that make everything feel real.” His smile was small, but this one reached his eyes.

“I want to show you that more. I want to stop carrying my seriousness like armor, especially with you. I’ve been so used to being the sword that I forgot I���m also the man who chose you. Not because it was convenient. Not because it was expected. But because I am in love with you.”

His voice faltered for the first time, not from uncertainty but from emotion. “...I just... I don’t know how to do it. How to be open all the time. But I want to be. Because I trust you. More than anyone. More than anything.” He looked down at their joined hands. “I don’t want walls between us anymore. I don’t want you wondering if you’re alone in this. You’re not. You’ve never been.”

He let out a soft exhale and shifted slightly, his forehead resting against hers now. The space between them disappeared completely, as if they had finally crossed that quiet gulf that had stretched since the day they’d wed.

“And you’re right,” he added softly. “We shouldn’t have to live under the same roof as people who treat you like you don’t belong. I’m done watching you make yourself small for their comfort. We’ll go wherever you feel whole. Starfall, High Hermitage, Sunspear—I don’t care. Tum ho, toh jagah kahin bhi ghar lagta hai.” His voice dipped into the Star Tongue as naturally as breath. If you’re there, then any place feels like home.

He tilted his head slightly, catching her gaze again with something gentler, unguarded. “And as for affection...” he smiled, more teasing now, but with a warmth that had been missing from him for too long. “I’ll do better at making you feel like my wife, not my squire.”

Baashir leaned over, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, and finally, her lips—slow, sure, and unrushed. “Let the world talk,” he murmured against her skin. “Let them whisper. I married you for love. I’d do it again tomorrow. In this life and the next. And this time... we’ll learn how to be in it. Together.”

[myriamas]

❂

myriam shrieked, full of theatre and waterlogged indignation as their voices called out from their isolated corner of the gardens, with zahra colliding into her. "tell that reach lord to fuck himself and his mo-" her limbs flailed uselessly for a second, more for show than from any real panic, and she let herself sink a moment longer than necessary—hair fanning out around her like seaweed, toes brushing the pool floor. when she surfaced, she gasped dramatically, coughing once, then again, as if she’d been truly wronged.

“you desert elephant!” she accused, laughing even as she spluttered, wiping the water from her lashes, though taking a moment to strike a pose as she pushed her silken hair from her face.

“what have they been feeding you in the sand? you dragged me down like a sack of daal dropped from a castle tower. hai, meree peeth!” she grinned, wide and feral, water beading across her bare skin like glass as she leaned forward slightly, holding onto her back and holding onto her back as though she were some old woman. the mention of who had been the heart of the dornish court caused a warm smile to cross her lips, her hands instinctively moving to the area over her heart - how could it not when speaking of jasveer jordayne, the man who had sacrificed it all for their dorne? for who they were?

"ah, hamara jassie." she quietly muttered into the stillness of darkness, swirling her hands upon the water as she kept another arm around zahra, rubbing her back affectionately, not truly noticing both of her hands had synchronised movements in their seeking of comfort. there was a quiet, beaming smile at the memory of him - she did not know him closely, not as much as zahra or baashir, but his presence was one each and every person knew. "i always think i will hear him with his usual words in the courtyards, sat sri akal myriam ji." she laughed a little there; a greeting rooted in the tradition of the farmers of their land, the smallfolk. "or hear his tabla ringing on friday mornings; how he was able to do that and sing the entire length of the aankhein teri in maula mere. show off." she quietly begun to hum the song as she listened to the words of her close friend, seeing the same dance of grief in her orbs that continued to glint in the eyes of her husband too.

and she hated it so, for she did not know how to make it better. she did not know how to argue the pain got better, or it eased; it simply did one day, when one never realised they were even considering it anymore. she remembered the weeks after her papa's funeral firmly still; but the days after hearing of his death? no. she remembered none of it.

still humming under her breath, she paddled backwards until her shoulders bumped the stone edge of the pool. with a groan, she hauled herself up—slow and deliberate, the muscles in her back shifting under moonlight. she climbed with the grace of someone who wanted to be watched but not fully seen, her nudity as casual as a scarf forgotten on a chair.

even now, with only the moon for witness, she kept her front angled away from zahra, modest by habit, not shame. she settled on the ledge, knees pulled up, arms wrapped round them, her spine curving elegantly as she looked back over her shoulder. “no hiding,” she said lightly, but there was a hush in her voice, a slow unspooling beneath it. “no hiding, huh?” the words felt like a charm spoken before stepping into something uncertain, a slightly mixed smile crossing her features - one of relief, and daunt all at once. as though she could hardly fathom what it was she was about to say. her voice dropped, but the clarity in it struck like flint.

“becoming a widow was the best thing that ever happened to me,” she said, not softly, not ashamed. because she had long since accepted how selfish her words sounded; how selfish she was. not even her daughter losing the father that loved her, endlessly, was enough to sway her from such thoughts. nor even her daughter's existence.

“and if i could go back... i wouldn’t do it. none of it. not the marriage, not the pretending for years in the aftermath. not even for the honour of my family, or even my leelu." she drew a breath, felt her ribs expand like she hadn’t truly breathed in years. and it were as though she was twirling, skipping, flying; not a bird, but a burning star. she didn't feel like she was wrong. she didn't feel ashamed. “and you know what else? making people angry—and feeling no shame about it—was the best thing i’ve ever done. i loved it. i still love it." there was no guilt left in her. just release. somewhere, myriam felt as though she had been cut lose.

never did she think the freedom to be stifling. suffocating. it were a comfort; or at least, that was what she told herself. without warning, she pushed off from the ledge and leapt—body arched, hair streaming like a banner—straight onto zahra with a shriek. “chak de fateh!” she cried, triumphant, victorious, and laughing as they crashed beneath the water once more, tangled in old grief, new joy, and the freedom of finally saying what should’ve been said.

zahra laughed, a full sound that cracked through the night like a spark, unexpected and honest. it spilled out of her without permission, the kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep in the ribs, where longing and relief sometimes collided. she ducked lower into the water, letting it rise to her chin, her knees bent and her arms drifting out like wings on the surface. it felt good to laugh. too good. dangerous, maybe. a little indulgent. but she didn’t stop. her eyes glittered in the moonlight as she looked at myriam, something soft blooming behind them. “you’re mad,” she said teasingly, tilting her head. “completely mad. and i’ve missed it.”

for a while, she simply floated, arms outstretched, staring up at the wide mouth of the sky. her hair spread out in slow waves around her head like ink in water. silence pressed around her, not heavy, not lonely. just present. the stars were watching as they began to peak through indigo skies, same as always. their light didn’t judge. it never had. she sighed, voice low when she finally spoke again. “you ever notice how it’s easier to tell the truth when you’re not looking at anyone?” her eyes stayed on the sky, the colors blurred slightly from the damp upon her lids. “maybe that’s why the stage never felt like a lie. i wasn’t with them. not really. i couldn’t see their faces, just the lights, the music. it was like… like i stepped into another world the moment the drums began.”

the words left her, and for a moment, the silence pressed in. her gaze lingered on the stars, but something else flickered behind her eyes. not regret, not quite. something older. something quieter.

she could have said it then. could have turned to myriam and told her the truth that had lived beneath her ribs since she was old enough to understand why she never asked too many questions. that they shared more than time, more than songs. that the woman who placed a baby in a basket to float down the greenblood, had mothered zahra too. but zahra didn’t speak. she couldn’t. instead, she took in a long breath, and when she turned her head, her smile was faint but real. “alright,” she said with mock solemnity, casting a sidelong glance. “but if i get scolded by some concerned reach lord, i’ll drag you down with me. fair?”

she swam in a lazy arc toward the stone ledge, fingers slicing the surface. myriam had pointed it out earlier, and now it called to her like something inevitable. her body moved with a dancer’s grace even in the water, deliberate and sure. she pulled herself up onto the stone, water clinging to her in rivulets. the air kissed her skin, cool and fleeting, as she stood there hugging her arms loosely around herself—not from cold, but from thought. her eyes drifted to the horizon, to where the mountains folded into shadow and the world felt far too wide for old griefs.

“jasveer’s name,” she said softly, almost to herself. “i’ve been carrying it like it’s a story i need to keep alive. but it’s mine too. i want it to be memory, not a weight.”

she bent her knees just a touch, toes curled at the edge, breath catching in her throat. she didn’t count to three. she didn’t shout his name. but she thought it, like a thread tied to her ankle, like a blessing, like a farewell.

then she jumped.

the splash was clean and sharp, and the water rose to meet her like an open mouth, swallowing her whole for a breathless moment. then she broke the surface, gasping and laughing, hair plastered to her face, eyes alight with something too wild to name. “gods,” she sputtered, wiping her brow, “that felt better than it should’ve. you win. but only this once.”

without warning, zahra surged forward and flung herself into myriam's arms, arms wrapping tight around the other's shoulders. it wasn’t a dive or a swim or anything graceful, just pure motion, unfiltered and reckless. she was laughing still, breathless, eyes bright as fireflies in the dark. “your turn,” she stated, nudging her shoulder gently against myriam’s. “no hiding.”

[myriamas]

[myriamas]

❂

myriam stayed still as zahra eased herself into the water, watching her friend with the kind of focus she reserved for dance or strategy or poetry written in someone else’s hand. there was reverence in her silence, not distance. she wanted to absorb zahra’s words as they came, one at a time, not risk misunderstanding them by rushing to fill the quiet. she’d always believed her friend’s voice was most beautiful when she didn’t try to make it so. when it stumbled a little, or paused too long between words. that was when it was real. her own silks were loosening slowly, methodically, beneath the moonlight.

the choli she’d worn earlier—a deep rust colour with fine threadwork down the spine—slid off first, caught briefly on her elbows before she tugged it away with a soft sigh.

the long skirts went next, peeled off like ripe fruit, careful not to wet the hem, and folded over the dry stone bench behind her. only the bindi remained, a dot of black on her forehead. “mmm,” she murmured in agreement, her first sound in some time, low and velvety as she stepped to the water’s edge. a quick, feline glance around the garden confirmed it—no children had wandered near, no stray courtiers, no highborn fools fumbling in hedges. they were alone, and she intended to keep it that way. and then she stepped in, as if the water owed her something. there was no hesitation. her foot slid down into the pool and then the rest of her followed—dark curls trailing behind her like seaweed, like shadow, her body gleaming and unapologetic beneath the moon.

she wore her nudity not like armour, but like inheritance: ancient, queenly, hers by right. the water surprised her—deeper than she expected—and she laughed softly as she began to tread, the movement making soft waves around zahra’s hips. “you were right not to strip the whole truth down,” she said, glancing over at her friend with a curl of amusement at her lips. “clarity’s overrated. blissful ignorance... that’s where the comfort is. if you don’t know it, you can’t ache for it. you can’t miss what never reached you.” she tilted her head back, letting the water creep along her collarbones, her dark hair floating like ink around her. “i used to think knowing everything was a kind of power. but lately...” her voice trailed off, the shrug more elegant than defeat.

“some things are lighter when left untouched, doesn't it?”

she floated closer then, her arms cutting little crescent moons in the water. she was watching zahra carefully—not for signs of weakness, but for signs of depth, of things unsaid. “you know,” she said gently, as one would speak to something precious, something that glowed, something they could not believe was with them. “you’re carrying all of it so beautifully, my girl." she let her foot brush zahra’s beneath the surface—just a touch, a nudge. “and don’t let them make you feel like you owe anyone ease. not the court, not the dancers, not even jassie's memory. you’re allowed to feel heavy. you’re allowed to sink sometimes - just trust another will catch you.” myriam's arms were long and bare as she drifted closer, water coiling around her like silk spun from ink.

the pool held them gently—two constellations untethered from the sky, bobbing in its quiet cradle. she watched zahra with a soft patience, chin tipped just slightly as if she were listening to a song only her friend could sing.

her lashes were wet, casting faint shadows on her cheekbones, and her bindi remained stubbornly in place, a single black truth clinging above her brow. “come,” she said suddenly, voice low and filled with something half-playful, half-sincere. “we’re playing a game.” myriam was already backing a few paces through the water, treading slowly until she was at the deeper centre of the pool. moonlight lacquered her shoulders, made her seem otherworldly—like some forgotten goddess of fresh water and difficult truths. she lifted her arms, held them steady before her like an invitation wrapped in challenge.

"climb up there, let's yell something to no longer carry, and fall back on me. i won't let you hit the water wrong." and there it was—that grin again. the one myriam reserved only for those she truly loved, the one that twisted her usually composed face into something far more mischievous. for suddenly, she were six and ten in the shallow waters of the greenblood, wading throguh reeds and doing the same with dastan and hasaryn. she remembers shrieking with a mouthful of water as hasa pulled her under, or the time dastan emerged with a fish. she remembered the time she ran from a snapping stray baby turtle. “if you fall wrong on your own accord, i’ll scold your form like some bitter auntie at a debut dance,” she teased, “so do it properly, or suffer my commentary forever.”

the garden had stilled around them, as if even the ivy and jasmine were listening. only the faint music from the distant festival threaded through the hedges now, soft and broken, like a half-remembered song.

zahra stayed seated for a long moment, fingers smoothing over the fabric pooled in her lap. she heard the plunk of myriam’s jewelry being shed, the rustle of cloth loosened from skin, but she couldn’t move just yet. her eyes drifted over the courtyard, checking the slant of every shadow, the murmur of the leaves, the glimpse of stone paths winding into the dark.

still no one. at least, no one focused on anything but themselves. here, it was only them. only this small, secret moment.

slowly, her shawl slid from her shoulders in a whisper, pooling forgotten on the stone. she reached up and unclasped her bangles, one by one, the metal cool against her warmed skin. she set them beside her, neat and careful, then unpinned her delicate earrings. the night air whispered over her arms, bare now except for the sleeveless choli that clung to her ribs and shoulders, the deep burgundy silk catching the stray lantern light like a secret.

her skirt shimmered slightly when she shifted, the intricate embroidery swallowing the colors of the dusk. she hesitated again, her hands brushing the ties at the back of her choli, thoughtful. myriam had shrugged out of her own jewels so carelessly, laughing and half-ready to strip the night from her skin without a second thought. zahra almost followed her lead, the temptation of that wildness stirring, but she caught herself, fingers lingering a moment too long before she let the ties be, for now.

zahra stepped lightly to the water’s edge, pausing for a heartbeat to glance back through the gardens, a watchfulness she could not quite lay down. then, gently, she dipped one foot into the pool. the water was cool and clean, a sharp little kiss against her skin. a breath escaped her, more a sigh of relief than surprise.

"I have been quiet," zahra said, her voice a low murmur that barely stirred the air between them. she wiggled her toes in the water, sending shy ripples outward. "i think...at court.." she paused, choosing her words with care, "...it's heavier than i thought it would be. i’m grateful. i’m glad for the work, the music, the dance... i love it."

she looked up at myriam then, her expression open and unguarded, the way it rarely was anymore. "but sometimes," she continued, dipping her other foot in, skirts floating up like soft petals, "there are little things—voices, glances, songs half-heard, that remind me of things. of jasveer. of the volantese. the borders. other kingdoms, that perhaps i feel better if i didn't know."

zahra let herself sink until the coolness lapped just beneath her ribs, arms floating loosely at her sides, face tilted toward the ink-blue sky. the stars seemed closer here, reflected in the trembling surface around them.

she opened one eye, peeking over at myriam with a faint, crooked smile. "the water must be working already," she said, playful but warm. "i’m spilling secrets like wine at a wedding."

[myriamas]

❂

myriam didn’t move at first.

her fingers curled tight around the stem of her glass, the coolness of the metal grounding her even as something unnameable unfurled in her chest. jalabhar’s silence spoke more than any answer might have. she saw it—heard it—in the way his eyes softened, in the way he didn’t meet her gaze, and then that hardness that came over his expression as it always did. grounding gestures, wrapped in an air of nonchalance. he already knew what she didn’t want to know. and still, he waited for her to decide.

her jaw shifted ever so slightly, a silent tether drawn tight between heart and pride. there was an ache, low in her ribs, like something hollowed out. it lingered behind her collarbone and in the corners of her throat. “that be real easy for someone who has all the answers for say, no?" she said at last, her voice low and wrapped in velvet, but not unkind; just, increasingly detatched as she realised her mind was being made up - not in accordance to his advice. “you chased them like coin your whole life." the sting in her words was softened by something deeper. regret, perhaps. pity.

he hadn’t changed much—still all sharp cheekbones and dusk-toned eyes, still watching her like he could read her even when she said nothing at all. that was the thing about jalabhar: he saw her. always had. even when it hurt. her name. harleen. it wasn’t just a truth he’d given her. it was a piece of her soul that had never been spoken aloud before, never unearthed. she should have felt grateful. and she did. but it also made her want to scream. to throw something. to kiss him.

no. she needed to unravel herself from the gravity of this moment. to sever the festered link that had developed between physical intimacy and emotional distress in her mind. she didn't need that, not anymore.

“we both know why you said what you did,” she said after a beat, tone shifting—serious now, stern in that quiet, dangerous way she reserved for real things. the things that mattered. “maybe you’re right. but you got something i need.” her voice dropped low—steady, direct, all the softness stripped from it like silk peeled from skin. “you know where she is.” she let the words linger in the air between them. there was no accusation in her tone, only truth. and then, more quietly, but no less clear,

“you found her, ain't you?”

her next words came slowly, cool and deliberate, like coals banked under ash: “so you’re going to tell me. or you’re going to walk away and know exactly what you’re withholding.” and in that moment, she truly hadn't a clue which he would pick; she only looked upon him, knowing he could either give her her biggest card, or simply have given her a taste before snatching it away. "what it's gonna be?"

Jalabhar didn’t speak at first.

The pause was not hesitation—it was calculation. Not the cold, cruel kind so many assumed spymasters made, but the quiet sort that came from weighing grief like cargo, knowing some truths would tip the boat too far and leave nothing but wreckage. He watched her, and for all the masks Myriam wore—lady of House Allyrion, Princess Dowager of Dorne, storm-daughter of the Greenblood, lady of House Dayne—he saw what no one else here would: a girl who’d spent her life trying to convince herself that absence meant safety, not abandonment.

He had the truth. Gods help him, he always did.

He remembered the names. Remembered the thin accented man who took a payment wrapped in silks, remembered the old septa in who whispered her guesses but never raised a hand to stop it. He remembered the copper coin passed through cracked fingers, and the ship that never docked where it was meant to. He knew where her trail had twisted, who had buried it, who had profited. He could tell her which of them still lived. He could give her justice.

But justice didn’t undo a cradle left empty. Didn’t rebuild years stitched with silence. It didn’t help children sleep better at night, or a woman like Myriam believe—really believe—that it had never been her fault. He let out a slow breath through his nose, his gaze steady on hers. The fire of her questions scorched, but he didn’t look away.

“Some things,” he said, voice low, “just better off where they are.”

He paused, and there was a hint of something—something rare—in his eyes. Not pity. Not distance. Recognition. He had his own names buried in dark corners. His own unanswered questions that kept him up at night.

“Sometimes…” His thumb tapped once against the base of his goblet, a slow, grounding gesture. “…we don’t need the answer.”

It was not cruelty. It was mercy. The kind only someone who’d lived inside silence could offer. It wasn't what he expected to find, it wasn't what he hoped to find. A part of him hoped that with a name would come more good news, perhaps a tale of sacrifice in hope for something more.

But it was not. It was harsh and ugly as all stories were when one peeled back the layers and read the lines in the margins. People were not as complicated as they thought themselves to be, people were born of similar stuff but nature took root in a different way. Some roots drank rivers dry and gave nothing.

The name was enough. Maybe it wasn't his place. It sounded as if she put the choice in his hands. And he hoped she would trust his words. Too much of a good thing always went bad. Always.

[myriamas]

❂

myriam was holding her heels in one hand and a bruised plum in the other, and somehow neither seemed more dignified than the other. the stone was cool beneath her bare feet, but she liked it that way—it reminded her she was still warm. in her mind, she heard the sounds of quickened breath in the distance: the third set of lovers they had come across this night in these mazes. she quietly whistled as they walked by, still holding her heels but glancing at zahra, about to open her mouth to disrupt them but the whistle was more than enough.

"oh, he's found her button." she whispered to her best friend, giggling slightly in a way she usually did not - a hand resting over her lips as they continued to wak quicker, considering the whistle brought the couple to a sudden stop.

she had taken to walking barefoot through the mazes of highgarden this night after being on the dance floor, as if they belonged to her, weaving through whispering hedges and lingering jasmine with zahra at her side, the scent of wine still on her breath but her mind entirely lucid. she wasn’t drunk. she was in bloom. “clarity,” she said, repeating the word with a touch of disdain and mischief, the way one might say virtue at a brothel. “if i wanted clarity, i’d ask one of those no-lipped septas to shriek it at me from a pulpit, not come whispering for it at a pool.”

the water shimmered as if offended. myriam didn’t care. she was grinning. she wandered a little closer to zahra, her hips swaying lazily with each barefoot step, her long skirts brushing against her calves like whispers from an old lover. “you talk as though you think this pool knows you?” she said, voice curling low and affectionate, the sound of her anklets jingling as she walked with a spring in her step. “i’d like to see it try.” she stepped up onto the rim of the pool, arms stretched a little for balance. the surface reflected the bruised dusk above and the halo of torchlight around her limbs. the water trembled at her feet, a pale sliver between stillness and chaos.

“if this thing really grants clarity,” she continued, glancing down at zahra with a breathy laugh, “then gods help it. i’ve half a mind to dive in and make it mine.”

the wind stirred her thick cascade of hair, carrying with it the sweet, faintly fermented breath of fruit wine and garden blooms. she tilted her head as she looked down at her friend, her dark eyes narrowing with a sultry warmth that was not flirtation but devotion, of the sort only shared between women who had known each other long enough to see through most masks. zahra was thinking too much again. myriam could see it in the angle of her shoulders, in the way she folded herself like parchment—something once danced upon, now waiting for ink.

“you know,” she said softly, stepping down beside her, sinking gracefully onto the stone edge of the pool with legs folded like silk, “you’ve gone quiet lately. it’s not your silence—it’s what you aren’t saying in it.”

and still, as they spoke, myriam's hands moved to unclasp the jewelery from around her hips, shimmying out of it as well as what was around her neck. whilst she fancied a swim, she would not get her gold wet. she then moved to unclasp her blouse's halterneck style, half tempted to at least strip her top half bare if she were to go swimming. "come in with me? we can float and yap away."

setting: at the verdant concord, a hidden courtyard with a reflective pool said to grant “clarity of thought” to those who sit beside it at sunset ; @myriamas

the courtyard held its breath, the light fading into a soft, silvered hush. zahra moved at myriam’s side, her steps easy but slower than usual, her usual brightness dimmed into something quieter, more inward. her bangles shifted with her movements, the faint music of them delicate in the still air.

the memory pool stretched before them, darkening as the sky deepened above. zahra stood at its edge, gazing down without quite looking at her own reflection.

for a long moment, she said nothing, a silence that myriam would surely notice. she folded herself gracefully to sit by the water, resting her arms loosely over her knees, her fingers drawing idle patterns on the stone.

“they say it shows you clarity,” zahra said at last, her voice softer than usual, thoughtful rather than teasing. “not in the stars, not in signs… but here. close enough to touch.”

she let her words trail off, eyes fixed on the ripples where a falling leaf had touched the surface, her hand poking the surface softly in answer. zahra stilled her hand, watching the pool return to its perfect calm, as if it, too, was waiting for something. she felt the familiar tug of curiosity, the same pull that had guided her steps across a thousand desert nights, chasing stars and stories.

but this was different. this was not a distant constellation, not a path marked in the heavens. this was close. immediate. and maybe harder to run from.

“i’ve always read the skies for others,” she added after a beat, glancing at myriam with a small, almost self-mocking smile. “but maybe the water knows something about me that the stars won’t say.”

zahra didn’t sound afraid, only contemplative, as if weighing a question without rushing to answer it. she leaned forward slightly, her reflection meeting hers at last, blurred by the soft stirring of the water.

quiet settled again between them, a comfortable thing, as zahra stayed there by the pool, not turning away. just… waiting. wondering.

[myriamas]

❂

myriam’s gaze lingered where his had narrowed, catching the curl of his lips as his chuckle rose, soft and shaded in amusement. she did not return it. instead, she tilted her head ever so slightly, dark lashes lowering over her eyes like a curtain falling on an unimpressed scene. the corners of her mouth twitched, but whether in annoyance or intrigue was difficult to say—even to herself. this was the issue with handsome andal men; they were far too casual and cocky, even for their own good.

“you find that funny?” she asked, not sharply, but with a languid curiosity, her own tone almost mirroring his own as her voice curled like incense in the air between them, low and warm and worn smooth from use.

she did not wait for a response—his laughter, mild as it was, had already filled in the blanks. she turned her face slightly toward the sea, letting the breeze tug a lock of hair from beneath her veil. the sun, now bruised against the horizon, cast his profile in a harsh light. he looked like a statue of himself, carved out of something costly and cold. “i do not mind whispers,” she said after a pause, returning her gaze to him, “the whole point of a whisper is you aren't sure what you heard, no?” her fingers drummed against the armrest, slow and thoughtful, the soft metal of her bangles clinking like a quiet threat as she looked at him, her hand resting beneath her chin.

she watched him then, and though the wine in her hand glinted as she raised it to her lips, her thoughts were elsewhere. she could have asked him, plainly, to name the most prominent courtiers in the dornish court in regards to how it were governed - aisde from herself, ravi, and baashir. she could have watched him falter—because she knew, with the cool certainty of sand under moonlight, that he wouldn’t know. none of them did. dorne had cultivated that mystery carefully, over years, over centuries. it was not secrecy for secrecy’s sake. it was safety. instead, she sipped her wine again and let the silence hang; her smile sweet as she flickered her gaze over his frame. and he saw it.

“but lucky us, we aren't whispering,” she said at last, placing the goblet aside. her voice had a warmth to it now, something almost indulgent as she rested against the deck, letting the sun warm her skin. “we are speaking of ships. of roses that do not know when to rot. you and i, prince lannister, differ on much, but we see that.” she leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against the carved wood, shawl sliding down to reveal a bare shoulder that caught the orange glow of the dying light. it was not an invitation—it was the inevitable posture of a woman used to heat, to watching, to waiting.

“so. what are we going to do about it?” her eyes met his again, steady, dark. not accusatory, not pleading—simply asking, in the way that dornish women asked: expecting answer, not permission. “i want to find an empty net,” she continued, her brow furrowing slightly as she searched for the correct word in his tongue. still, her bangles tinkered slightly as she moved her arms, her hand gestured vaguely, as if to brush aside invisible petals. “you understand?”

Arron studied her, the dying light of the sun catching in his emerald gaze, turning it molten. Myriam Allyrion was sharp, her words a careful weave of silk and steel. He appreciated that—respected it, even. Especially as a woman. But respect did not mean trust. Trust was a currency he did not deal in freely, and certainly not with a woman who spoke in veiled truths while sitting aboard his ship.

Her remark about Dorne’s ability to keep ears closed earned a soft chuckle, low in his throat. “You say that as if whispers don’t slip through even the cracks of the Red Mountains,” he mused, taking a slow step closer, his presence steady as the ship rocked beneath them. “Every kingdom has its leaks, Princess. Even yours.” His voice was smooth, edged with the kind of amusement that did not quite touch his eyes.

She was perceptive, this Dornishwoman, noting the quiet venom in his words about the Reach. It pleased him that she did not feign ignorance. A lesser mind might have done so, grasping for neutrality, but Myriam met him on the same battlefield of unspoken truths. Arron inclined his head slightly as she echoed his sentiment, her careful tone betraying a shared distaste. “Tenacious,” he agreed, voice lighter now, almost idle, as though he were speaking of mere pests rather than men with crowns and armies. “They do have a way of lingering where they are unwelcome. But we are in agreement there, aren’t we?”

He did not press her on the flicker of unease when the ship shifted, though he noted it, tucking it away in the quiet corners of his mind. She masked it well, but not perfectly. Not enough to escape the keen eyes of a man raised on courtly deception. Her comment about what stirs beneath the sea was met with the arch of a golden brow, his smirk tempered but still present. “A fair concern,” he murmured, his meaning as layered as hers.

But then, she got to the heart of it—her purpose, stripped of pretense. A registry. A foothold in the currents that carried trade and war alike. Arron exhaled, tilting his head slightly as he considered her. “You make a bold request,” he said, though there was no reprimand in it, only measured intrigue. “One that shifts the tides of control, ever so slightly.” A pause. His smirk widened, slow and knowing. “You know the sea belongs to no one. But tell me, Princess—what is it you truly wish to catch in this net of yours?”

[myriamas]

@jalabharmooton

SINNERS (2025) | Dir: Ryan Coogler Hailee Steinfeld as Mary

[myriamas]

❂

it were in small, fleeting moments such as this where myriam was reminded of the power of secrets - and those who knew how to harvest and cage them. she had always known there were men who traded in secrets like coin, who collected names not to honour them, but to use them. they gave away truths like weapons, and weren’t always ready to carry the weight of what followed. but myriam was never part of that game - not ever, not truly. she had once lain beside him and laughed and spoke of the things she dared not voice to herself for years, let alone to the world, and yet never once had she crossed into the territory of what he had presented to her here - his work.

she had let him trace the contours of her grief for what she should have been, her ambition, her flaws, her loneliness - and all the ways which the burning sun radiated from the depths of her chest. she had, in all the ways that mattered, been his equal beneath his canopy; despite the fact her power came only in the wedding bangles she wore, and orders that could only be approved by her husband. his was true power: that of dabbling in the dark, shadows and secrets. yet, he had made them feel like such equals: even when she felt as though they were not. and so he had told her of this again—softly, silently, through the look in his eyes and the truth he laid bare—that her name was harleen.

not as leverage. not as a weapon. but as a gift. a truth he could not keep from her.

now she stared at him, unblinking, and something inside her stilled. myriam allyrion—the confident, sultry lady of house allyrion with the grace of the gods, who wore her pain like silk and her smirk like armour—did not speak for a moment. she simply looked at him. not in anger, not in confusion. but only in acceptance. her thoughts scattered in all directions, but when they returned to her, they pooled around that one name. harleen. it rolled softly inside her mind, like a monsoon breeze slipping through a latticed window. it didn’t feel foreign. it didn’t even feel new. it felt like a long-lost thread being pulled gently back into her hands. she blinked slowly, as though waking from a dream, and the heavy stillness around her shifted into something fragile.

“harleen?"she repeated under her breath, so faintly that she was unable to be sure he even heard it: and yet, wide almond orbs looked at him for confirmation. that she were not dreaming. "really?" there was something lavender about it, something like mustard flowers on the banks of a river she’d never seen. it reminded her of bangles stacked on dark wrists, of gulab and sandalwood and long, hot days that smelled of cumin and dust and sweat and jasmine. a name threaded in sunlight and soft cotton—saffron and yellow and gold.

it felt warm. warm in a way that made her throat tighten.

her hands trembled slightly, yet she eased them as she wrapped it around the base of her drinking glass. he would have seen it, but she cared not; there was a rush of adrenaline, and she could hear her own heart thumping. "a name for a name, huh." it were not a question but a statement; yet when he looked upon her face, he saw the slight upturn of her lips and the nod of her head. she wished she could have laughed, but her eyes laughed; a slight twinkle. she then merely nodded her head, as if to give him his props; of course he would play the final card. how could he not? "i see what you did there."

“does that mean you found her?”

she didn’t clarify who—she didn’t need to. the word her sat between them like incense smoke, curling around the past they shared. she didn’t look at him. didn’t dare. her eyes would not sting this night. it was foolish to ask, perhaps. reckless. but the door had been opened, and the question tore from her like a sob from a wound. she didn’t want to know—not really. didn’t want to unpick the silence her life had been built around.

“because i need to believe she didn’t want to.” she swallowed thickly, staring at the ring on her finger as though it might hold the answer. in her joys of being a mother to two girls, she found herself thinking of her own birth mother time and time again; and there was no scrapping it. she needed to believe she was forced to. or that she thought it was the only way. she wanted to believe she was afraid, not cruel. she turned to him fully now, her features bare and unguarded. “should i?” she asked him, grey eyes searching his face. she did not even finish the sentence; it were obvious - the window was open, the door was vacant and the house had finally burned down. would it be now or never? she wasn’t asking him as a spymaster. not as a friend. not even as the man who once knew the way her skin tasted under moonlight.

she was asking him for a singular sole reason; he would already know the answers - and he already knew if it would destroy her.

Jalabhar did not respond right away. He didn’t need to. The words hung between them, her voice settling into the space like the last note of a song he’d already heard the ending of.

She was right—he always knew what to say, even when he shouldn’t. It was the foundation of his trade. A taker of secrets, a distributor of truths to the highest bidder, a man who dangled knowledge over the heads of those who thought themselves untouchable. It was his craft, his weapon, his means of survival. And yet, when it came to this—when it came to her—he had done none of those things.

She was not a prize, not a name to barter, not a truth to wield.

So why had he done it?

Her name. Harleen. The weight of it settled deep in his chest as she asked him how he knew. He thought back to when this all began—not to the destruction, but to the days of indulgence, when their affair had been a game played in stolen glances and whispered words. There had been a time when he had thought to offer her something impossible. A life beyond this, beyond the weight of duty and title, beyond the expectations placed upon her shoulders. It had been foolish, an illusion crafted by a man who knew better. She had a child, a realm, a destiny that would never allow such things.

But a name? A name was something real. Something she had lost. And in place of all the things he could never give her, he had found this instead. Only now, it was not an offering wrapped in desire, not a plea to steal her away from the world. It was simply a friend, helping a friend. “The Riverlands are no strangers to those of Volantis,” he said finally, his voice quiet but sure. “A word here, a favor there, and information returns to me.” Simple. As if the truth had not cost him anything.

“I didn’t mean those things.” His jaw tensed slightly, the words heavier than they should have been. He hadn’t meant it, hadn’t meant to cut her as deeply as he did. But he had pulled from old lessons, aimed for the wound that would force her to leave him before he could be the one left behind. And he had succeeded. At what cost?

Her words did sting, but he understood them. This marriage was not like the one before, not a joining of politics and duty but of something deeper, something inevitable. Two souls meant to find each other, not placed together by design. He had read the stories of Dorne, of its lovers and legends. And if there was truth to such tales, then he was nothing more than a line in the book of Myriam and her husband’s life. A passing note, a flicker of ink before the true story resumed.

“I understand why we cannot be friends, Myriam.” And he did. As a man, as a friend, as someone who knew when a door had closed and should not be opened again. Some things were meant to be locked, sealed away with a skeleton key.

For a moment, something like sadness crept into his chest, but he did not let it settle. Instead, he let something else take its place—a brief moment of lightness, a memory that softened the weight of their final words. He exhaled softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “My mother always said I had a frustrating knack for finding what’s missing before she even knew what was gone.”

His mother. A woman who had taught him how to see the world for what it was, to listen, to know when to speak and when to be silent.

And now, perhaps for the last time, he chose silence.

He nodded once, slow and deliberate, before stepping back, his gaze lingering on her for just a moment longer. “Consider this a parting gift,” he said, voice even, steady. “From an old friend.”

[myriamas]

❂

her voice didn’t crack, not this time. it was steady, heavy with effort. she didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to fall apart again. she wanted to be present. her hand was still in his, but her body was angled toward him now, her bare feet pressed deep into the warm sand. she could feel the grains slip between her toes, the sun clinging to her skin like a second layer. "okay. that makes sense." her hair whipped in the sea breeze, and her jewellery glinted beneath the afternoon light—still, none of it masked the strain in her shoulders or the fierce intent in her eyes.

her hand rose to her temple, rubbing it gently; still, she leaned forwards and allowed her forehead to rest against his torso, closing her eyes for a brief moment. “i’m trying. i promise i'll keep trying to speak like this, and to listen like this. to do this before it gets bad.” the sound of waves filled the pause. gulls shrieked distantly. her gaze remained on his, unflinching now. "and i'll tell you. i promise i won't do that thing where i slam the door." she would slam the door after telling him what had irritated her.

she pulled a slight face as he casually referred to himself as failing her; in all their differences and the ways they could butheads, she had never once considered him to have failed her - almost instinctively she reached out to smack his upper arm. "arey, you have done no such thing to me. i swear to you, you've done more than any man i know." she reached then, her own hand quietly moving a strand of his dark hair from dark purple orbs - there was always one hair that was far longer than the rest, and curled over his eyes. "everything you just simply embraced for me. my daughter, most of all." there were not many that would treat the child of another man as their own. there were practically none that would marry a widow in dorne. "how could you have failed me?"

“i think, honestly....i’ve been thinking about how i thought this was supposed to feel easier,” she said at last, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but a quiet confession. “like, because it’s us. because we thought the world shifted just enough to finally let us have this… i thought that meant something. but honestly, we ” she would happily work for it if it meant working with it alongside him; but they would need to work for it. despite the years that seemed entangled between them both, there came the quiet and slow realisation over a series of months that they did not know how to navigate conflict between a man and a woman.

not in the way they should, at least. “i love you a lot. obviously. it doesn’t fix everything though, and i think i've always known that but it's only know i'm really feeling that. it doesn’t make marriage easy. and it sure as hell doesn’t make me easy, clearly.” she laughed, the sound brief, dry. “i don’t realise how sharp i’ve gotten until you’re looking at me with that serious face of yours, and i know that’s not fair to you.” she looked down again, jaw clenching softly, a sense of regret in her voice. “it’s not an excuse. it never was. but half the time i don’t remember what i’ve said—what i’ve done—until your silence tells me. it's in drips and drabs, yeah...”

“but if we’re to really do this... i need two things from you. and they’re not small, but i don't know...i think it's needed. i think it's the isuse, at least on my end.”

she took a breath, steadying herself before she stepped closer, their fingers still linked, the space between them narrowing as she remained on his torso. it felt as though she were defying each word of tradition, how she had been raised, with her next words. “first... i need space. not from you, but from your family.” her voice softened with a sense of shame and guilt, but it did not waver. “i’ve done it before. been the perfect little bahu daughter-in-law. smiled, dined, obeyed. now? i’m too old now to play house with people who think our marriage is not legitimate, who whisper about our timing and my belly and your choices.” she reached up, brushing a curl from her face as he did the same, almost copying his movements.

“it’s better we live alone. maybe that’s starfall. maybe that’s high hermitage, or back to starfall. you can pick - tum ho, toh jagah kahin bhi ghar lagta hai.” (if you’re there, then any place feels like home.) her voice dipped into their tongue like it was instinct, like muscle memory. "but i will no longer live under the same roof as your mother and sister. i promise it would be different if you were able to remain home all year, but you need to travel." she never had to think twice when it was him, but she also found herself putting up her boundaries; it was no longer her role to play. no longer her dance.

“and second, as stupid as this may sound...” she added, glancing up from faceplanting her forehead against his torso, her gaze almost sheepish for admitting such a thing. embarrassed.

“you're so serious. sometimes i think i have done something before i even done something. honestly, i want to feel more loved; more affection. i know it is in your nature to be serious especially with the stress of all the changes; sometimes it is like talking to baashir dayne the sword of the morning, rather than baashir my husband who married me for love." she paused, shooting him small a knowing look. "...we've angered so many people - i would like to rub it in their faces more often." her smile was a little more bitter now, wistful; she did not regret it, but she found herself wondering why it had taken her so long to stop caring about what people and society thought.

“but we rushed. we can admit it, we rushed. i was pregnant, and we just did it before we spoke about anything that could still have weighed upon us. i was so angry with you, for months, about what you said to me. i swore i would never speak with you again for it, and i know usually i can rile you up but that evening you made me feel like nothing. like more than nothing. like shit." it was something she did not like to think often about; perhaps because she knew they had never truly discussed it. their reunion had been one focused on forgetting the past, but there was no forgetting it; she should have known better than to try and do such a thing.

"we were not secretly together, you were in the vale and i in dorne..that seperation in anger was real.and then it happened, and we acted like the months had never happened. in a blink we were married, and i never really got to know you in this. this version of you, being a husband and a father. maybe that is why i keep thinking you have kept something...guarded. like you’re protecting yourself and being distant, like you used to for years. but we don't need to do that anymore."

Baashir listened. Truly listened. The wind tugged at his tunic, the scent of salt filling the space between them, but he barely noticed it. His world had narrowed to her voice, the way her words curled into the spaces between his ribs. Myriam, his wife, his storm—always moving, always speaking with the fire of her convictions. But now, there was something quieter in her, something raw. A question that felt heavier than the waves crashing against the shore.

What do you need from me?

He exhaled slowly, his grip on her hand tightening just slightly. His thumb traced the back of her hand absentmindedly, grounding himself in her warmth. It was strange, to be asked this. Not because she had never cared—he knew she did—but because she had always been the one demanding the answers. The one with fire in her voice, pushing forward with the force of a river that never stopped flowing. To hear her now, willing to listen, to meet him where he stood, it did something to him.

“I need you to keep talking to me like this,” he admitted, his voice low, steady. “Not in anger. Not when it’s too late and everything is already breaking apart between us.” His amethyst eyes flickered over her face, searching for understanding, for the space to say the things he never quite knew how to say. “I can handle your fire, My. I always have. But when you shut me out, when you let it build until it spills out all at once, I don’t know how to reach you.”

He let out a short breath, shaking his head slightly as he looked toward the waves. “I come from silence,” he murmured. “My father was a man of few words. My mother, she speaks plenty, but never of things that mattered.” He swallowed, forcing himself to meet her gaze again. “I don’t want that for us. Mein tumhari khamoshi bardaasht nahi kar sakta.” The words slipped from his lips in the Star Tongue, soft and unguarded. I cannot bear your silence.

His free hand lifted, brushing a stray curl from her face, his touch deliberate but light. “I know I fail you sometimes. I get lost in my duty, in my need to fix things. I try to carry everything alone because that’s what I was taught to do. But I don’t want to fail you, Myriam. And I don’t want you to think you have to fight me to be heard.”

His gaze drifted briefly to the turtles, now just shadows in the water. “You said this feels safe,” he murmured. “That it feels okay.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles again, lingering. “That’s what I want. For us to always be able to find our way back here, no matter how far we stray.”

He let out a soft chuckle, almost self-deprecating. “You know I’m not always good at saying the right thing. Sometimes, I think too much before I speak, sometimes not enough.” His expression turned serious again, quiet but intense. “But if I ever make you feel like I’m not listening, you have to tell me. Zindagi bohot choti hai ghaltiyon ko dobara dobara karne ke liye." Life is too short to keep making the same mistakes.

He lifted her hand, pressing it briefly against his chest, over his heart. "I just need us to keep trying. To not give up on each other before we have a chance to figure it out.”

His fingers curled gently around hers, firm but without force. “That’s how, My. Stay with me. Keep talking to me. And when we don’t have the words—” His lips quirked, a rare softness in his expression. “We’ll come back to the turtles.”

"What do you need from me, my wife?"

[myriamas]

@baashirdayne "there is none to me but you, i've told the world this...with a smile you embraced our responsibilities, no i never doubted you."

[myriamas]

GILMORE GIRLS 20TH ANNIVERSARY WEEK  ↳ Day 2: Favorite scene/line of dialogue - Rory’s graduation speech

I live in two worlds. One is a world of books. I’ve been a resident of Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha County, hunted the white whale aboard the Pequod, fought alongside Napoleon, sailed a raft with Huck and Jim, committed absurdities with Ignatius J. Reilly, rode a sad train with Anna Karenina, and strolled down Swann’s Way. It’s a rewarding world, but my second one is by far superior.

[myriamas]

❂

myriam exhaled a breath of laughter, rich with the weight of wine and warmth, her bracelets clinking as she shifted. the courtyard shimmered around them—lanternlight gilding the spiced air, the low murmur of voices washing over the evening like a tide. but her gaze remained on aelyn zalyne, the strange, silver-threaded woman whose words curled like wisps of incense, elusive and lingering. “unpredictability of the winds,” she echoed, tilting her head as though testing the phrase on her tongue. “that is very poetic, though i do not think the winds would take you to casterly rock without reason. they do not carry people so far just for… for the enjoyment of lions.” her brows knit for a moment, as if she sensed the thought unraveling before she could grasp it. then, with a flick of her wrist, she dismissed it, her smile widening as her bangles jingled.

“oh fuck, i am not poetic and i find the common tongue hard when i am drunk. and i do not talk politics at such events, braavosi." she rested her chin in her hand as she looked upon the woman opposite her; she looked strange, but appeared as though she could lure many to her threshold. "it is rude...and, boring."

"and your company back home is not interesting?" her gaze drifted briefly beyond them, to the gilded courtiers, to the hungry-eyed nobles with their laughter sharpened to a point. “i was young and freshly married when i saw the sea for the first time,” she mused, letting her voice dip into memory. “braavos. my husband, my first husband, took me for our honeymoon whilst he closed some deals—my first time on a ship, my first time beyond dorne. i thought i would die from how sick i became.” she laughed again, though this time softer, more thoughtful, and she barely noticed how easily mors' name had left her lips. how strange it was, to say it and feel nothing break inside her. no anger, no regret, no bitterness; just a name - and suddenly all at once, it were as though the last of the sindoor on her forehead was blown from her head.

“but then we arrived, and i forgot about all of it. braavos was unlike anything i had known—i had never seen a city that large, nor so full of strange things. do you know, i tried to count the statues in the titan’s shadow? i do not know why, only that i thought i might remember them all if i did.” she had always been skilled at arithmetic, for remembering numbers was merely a sequence which could be mastered. she leaned forward, her dark eyes catching the glint of silver in aelyn’s. “but you must know braavos better than i did. tell me, did i miss something? something important? i saw the moon pool, the canals, even the house of the red hands—though i did not step inside, i was warned the air would make me faint.” she grinned, the wine smoothing her tongue, letting the questions flow. she blinked then, realising how quickly she had spoken, how her words had spilled over each other in her excitement. she exhaled through her nose, pressing her palm briefly to her cheek as though to steady herself.

“the wine makes me... talkative. it is rare that i can speak of braavos with someone who understands it, most from my lands do not venture beyond the dunes and getting on a boat is akin to blasphemy itself." there was a mischievous twinkle as she sipped from the rim of her glass, it not being wine she were drinking, but rather a taste of summer islander rum she had grown a strong fondness for. “oh, and the sea lords—are they really chosen by the faceless men as the rumors claim, or is that just a conspiracy?” she pulled a slight face, leaning forward, cascades of dark hair falling over her shoulders as she spoke. and when she did speak, in her drunken haze, it were as though her gaze fixed on aelyn.

"if they even exist." her words were not meant to sound like a challenge, and yet as her bare arms folded across the table, it did.

Aelyn Zalyne, poised and effortlessly enigmatic, turned her gaze towards Myriam, letting the silence between them stretch like a taut thread. Her lips, painted deep crimson, parted slowly, each syllable carefully measured as if spun from some hidden web. Her eyes, striking, silver with a shimmer of untold stories, never wavered from Myriam’s dark gaze.

“You think me… different?” Aelyn’s voice was soft, but its undertone held an unsettling clarity, as though she could see through the layers Myriam so carefully constructed. Her posture remained unyielding, like a statue carved from ice and moonlight, but there was an air of subtle amusement behind her perfect features. “It is not surprising. How can one remain the same, in a world so ever-changing?”

A tiny smile curled at the corner of her lips, as if she were amused by a private jest, one that Myriam would never be privy to. She tilted her head, her silver hair catching the light as she did, and her gaze swept over the courtyard, lingering on the flickering lanterns and the distant sound of murmurs.

“I suppose I do not often grace such gatherings,” she said with a languid sigh, her voice light and melodic, yet carrying a thread of something more. “Perhaps it is the… unpredictability of the winds that call me here.” She let the silence hang again, punctuating her words with an airy indifference.

“And yet,” she continued, glancing back at Myriam, “there is always something intriguing about a place like this. Its wealth, its power. It is a curious thing to watch, isn’t it? The game of politics. To see how those who think they hold the reins, always find themselves caught in the currents of something they cannot control.”

Her eyes flicked briefly towards the distant courtiers, as though the scene were a play she was watching with mild disinterest. Her lips curled, amused, but the darkness in her gaze betrayed something deeper. Something more dangerous.

“I attend alone,” Aelyn said at last, her words veiled in mystery, “and yet… I find the company here quite… intriguing.” The ambiguity of her answer hung in the air, leaving behind a question with no clear resolution.

[myriamas]

❂

her name for him, the name he should have always had; something about the fact as of this moment, she were the only one to call him such a name beyond his borders caused a flicker of thrill to ignite from the bottom of her stomach. she muttered it against his skin, her breath warm where her lips lingered along the curve of his jaw, where her hands had been moments before. “yes jalabhar, beautiful.” she repeated the name again, softer this time, tasting it, letting it settle into the air between them, into the space where his hands still traced slow, idle lines along the flesh on her hips.

“you seem like a ja. it fits.” she let the words slip past her lips, watching for his reaction. his name had always felt wrong on other people’s tongues, like a misplaced word in a beautiful poem. she pushed her hair behind her shoulders, some strands falling loosely to frame her features; but she looked at him with a glint of mischief as her entire upper frame became free for his gaze.

“qorban feels like something someone else put on you.” her fingers traced the shape of his collarbone, idly, as though committing it to memory. “jalabhar is yours. it belongs to you.” her body was still flushed from him, from the way he had taken her, the way he had made her feel. she could still feel the echoes of it between her thighs, a dull, pleasant ache that made her hum with satisfaction. yet even now, even in the stillness, she wanted more of him. not just his body, not just his touch, but something deeper—something real.

he shifted against the sheets as she settled herself back on top of him, letting him feel her, letting herself relish the feeling of his body beneath hers. she shifted against him, bare skin pressed to his, her hands splaying over his chest as she propped herself up slightly, watching him in the dim candlelight. "okay, okay, we have already established you can talk yourself into my bed." she playfully taunted and resisted, not meaningfully at all; for she ensured he felt the heat between her thighs as she spread herself over him. she leaned in, pressing her lips to the space beneath his ear, her breath warm against his skin as she put a finger between their lips. she felt him exhale, slow and steady, but there was something else too—a tension in the way his fingers pressed into the small of her back, the way his grip tightened ever so slightly.

the sexual tension was something she could muster and handle, and yet the need to keep talking continued in the way the words tumbled from the tip of her tongue - because it was not just sexual tension she was feeling.

and it confused her. what was different? what was it about her encounters with him which had led to this? his mouth found her throat, lips teasing, kissing, the scrape of his teeth sending a tremor through her. she gasped, a quiet, breathless sound, her fingers tangling in his hair as she let her head fall back. he kissed lower, across her collarbone, down to the swell of her breast, and she shuddered, a soft, surprised laugh escaping her as she squirmed beneath his lips.

“fuck,” she murmured again, almost breathless, and then—“you’re making me...oh, what is the word?” she let out a soft, frustrated sound, suddenly unable to remember the word for it in the common tongue, languages becoming blurred in her mind. for a moment as she fumbled, before laughing at herself. “ticklish.” her laughter faded as his hands smoothed over her skin again, grounding her, pulling her back into the warmth of his touch. she swallowed, her heart still racing, though she wasn’t sure if it was from his hands, his kisses, or the way the thought of maidenpool made something flutter in her chest.

"and who is jonquil...?" she asked, half laughing considering she no doubt appeared as though she had thought of that for a moment. still, the heat of the moment had gotten her flushed, and the sweat of their last encounter remained between her breasts, she caught her breath as she laughed, tauntingly pulling away from his lips. she moved her hand to his jaw, a glimpse of the sun of dorne reflecting from pools of dark brown and the mischief that danced in them. she was half giggling as she spoke her next words. "weird way to tell me you are betrothed, mooton. i care not for her pool."

she shouldn’t think about it, shouldn’t let herself feel the way her heart quickened at the idea of being there with him. but it was too late. the thought had taken root, and she knew, deep down, that was an issue. for it never took root, it never planted, it was never nurtured with any; how had this happened? she knew not, and yet, her hands traced over his body as he leaned back against the headboard, a grin on his features which caused her stomach to flip. it only made her want him more. there was a certain haze in her orbs, the vivid black of her pupils dilating as she felt his hands rest on the curve of her ass.

her tongue traced his bottom lip as she raised her hips into his hands, arching it the way she knew would send him over the edge when he had her gripping onto the headboard. "keep talking to me like that and i'll give you something to really look at." and she traced his jaw, her lips flushed from being against his, and she knew she felt the same way. enjoyed the moments where he would cross paths with her in public, and all conversation remained casual - as though she could not still feel him inside her. and as his hands shifted upon her, and her breath hitched, she only looked at him with fatal words at the tip of her tongue.

it was the admission of guilt; it were only meant to be a few months. the guilt of summer made her feel more alive than anything, in a long time. "you know i'd make you mine if i could." she paused, feeling him beneath her, against her inner thigh; and a wicked smile crossed flushed dark lips as she arched herself forward, pushing up on it. "and i could."

Jalabhar’s fingers stilled against her skin, the weight of her question hanging heavy in the space between them. His gaze shifted from the shimmer of her anklet to her eyes, as if searching for the truth in her words—or perhaps in himself.

"I don't know," he said finally, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "I suppose, I was always called Qorban by my father. Named for his favorite uncle, he said. It made him proud, you know? And as a boy, I thought it made me proud too." He let out a soft chuckle, though it carried a trace of melancholy. "But somewhere along the way, it stopped feelin’ like mine. I don’t know why I never changed it."

He tilted his head back, staring at the wooden beams above, as though they might hold an answer. "Perhaps you’re right," he murmured, his hand resuming its slow, idle tracing along her hip. "Maybe I’ve been undercutting the power in my own name, keepin’ it buried beneath somethin’ smaller. Jalabhar Mooton…" His lips quirked into a small smile, his eyes flicking back to her. "Beautiful, aye? You would know a thing or two about beauty."

When she mentioned his daughters, his expression softened completely, a genuine brightness lighting up his face. "They’re wonderful girls," he said, the pride unmistakable in his tone. "Smarter than their father, to be sure. Destined for better than I could ever hope." His smile lingered, his voice tinged with something wistful. "One day, I’ll have sons too, maybe. And they’ll play on the rivers like I did—learn to build canoes, fight for their fish. But for now…" He shook his head, the thought trailing off into silence, content to let the vision remain unspoken.

Her teasing challenge brought him back, and his grin turned playful. "Rafting, is it?" he drawled, his thumb brushing circles along her side. "What if you make a detour? Stop at Maidenpool. Everyone dreams of seeing Jonquil’s Pool, aye? And then I’ll take you on the rivers. Show you the waters that raised me. There’s nothin’ like it."

His voice dipped lower as he leaned in, her kisses drawing his words out in fragments. "I look for you in crowded rooms," he murmured, his hand sliding down the curve of her back, resting on her ass with a possessive ease. "I seek your attention like no other." His lips brushed against hers again, lingering this time, as if he could speak the rest of his thoughts through the kiss.