"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 rolling churn of the ship sent a wave of nausea through Orianne's body; each sway of the wooden hull left her stomach in tatters and her head aching with a vengeance.
Three days had passed on the galley since their departure from King's Landing, and if the captain was to be believed, only two more days kept them from their destination. But every hour of those days was more akin to eternity for Orianne, who had discovered with alarming force that she was not made for sea travel.
Some men found their homes upon the sea; those hailing from the Iron Islands spent more time on ships than they did on land. Their bodies were made for the lull of the tides and the crashing of waves; storms were of little consequence. They faced stormy waters with foolhardy bravery.
Orianne was not one such person; she had been born upon land, and upon land she was meant to stay.
Her roots were grounded deeply into the moors and mountains of the North, stretching far south on the warm summer winds towards Dorne, but by no means was Orianne Fernwood made of salt and sea.
It was disappointing to find out that she could not withstand such travel; what might have been an exciting adventure for the young woman instead soured into near nonstop illness. Her heaving left her stranded below deck, moaning and groaning upon the thin mattress of her shared cabin. Poor Morrigan, who had been forced to room with the seasick Northerner, often spent her evenings with a damp towel in hand and a bucket at her feet, watching as Orianne purged and wept in equal measure.
It was agony, pure and utter agony.
The sensation of Orianne's stomach detaching from her body and the inability to keep anything down, even water, left Orianne feeling like a piece of her was absent. It had been ripped from her the moment she stepped aboard the Targaryen vessel, and in its place was left a weak link in the chain of her person. She had no control over her reactions, not the sickness in her stomach nor the tears that slid down her face, salty and sticky. Every inch of Orianne's body ached with exhaustion; sleep did not come easy, not on that ship of nightmares.
It only made matters worse that, according to the crew aboard, the weather was mild for the time of year, not at all worthy of Orianne's stunning display of seasickness.
They advised her to rest upon the deck, urging her with their gruff manners that the fresh air and salt spray would ease the violence in her gut. But just the thought of standing, rising on her weakened and unsteady legs, sent another bolt of green to her face and through her stomach.
But another more shallow reason kept Orianne from the upper deck and its promise of fresh air, not turned stale from its inhabitants.
Upon the top deck would be all those that embarked on the journey to Dragonstone, eyes open to see the miserable figure that Orianne cut. None in their right mind would choose to spend the entire week-long trip cloistered beneath the wooden slats of the deck, stuffed into too-small cabins and resting on firm wooden beds. That meant it would be full of people to witness Orianne and her glorious sickness. The last thing she needed was to be a spectacle. Although Elia had chosen a small number to accompany her, it was still too many, in Orianne's opinion.
