"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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Dragonstone parted the sea with its edifice of black stone, looming above all who dared approach it, angry and steaming as if a dragon lay dormant below its rocky face, breathing deep and exhaling in long and smoking rasps that smelt of sulfur and flames.
It was not Arthur's first time on Dragonstone, but he still could not fight the awe rising within him as the sailors maneuvered the ship ever closer to the small and dingy port that had been made by Targaryen's past. With each surge of the tide, bringing them ever closer towards the seat of the Targaryen's, Dragonstone's might only grew. His amazement grew to wonder as they approached; the sight of stone dragons and sky-toppling towers left Arthur questioning how the keep had survived centuries of storms and dragon fire.
Not a man to put much stock in faith or magic, it was the daunting and impossible image of Dragonstone that shook Arthur's belief. How could it not be magic? The stonework was ancient, and while he was not an expert in Ancient Valyria, their civilization had been one of dragons and chaos, of magic and the unbelievable.
Arthur's eyes drifted from the island to the other passengers aboard the royal ship, eyes of velvety lilac catching on Lady Orianne Fernwood, who stood perched beside Princess Elia.
Her arms, covered in midnight blue silk and silvery bangles, were threaded through Elia's. Their hands clasped together as they whispered, eyes never leaving the daunting ancestral home that would be theirs for the foreseeable future. It was the seat of the Targaryen heir, and if the Gods willed it, another dragon would be born into the world in that very place.
Their dresses whipped around them in a storm of color, standing out among the sails of red and black with dragons emblazoned on every surface. Like two lone flowers amidst a field of flames, it was impossible not to be drawn to them.
It felt as though some external force overcame Arthur; he could not bear to take his eyes off the northerner, the very same who had left him reeling just the night before.
She was far more put together than she had been on the lonely deck at twilight; with the sun rising, she had returned to a person who confused and intrigued Arthur all at the same time. Orianne was fierce, yet she was soft; she laughed with Elia and Ashara while she spit her venom at Pycelle and those who offended her.
How was it possible such an enigma existed?
Even as she stood on the deck with Elia, loose hair swaying in the wind and her dress swirling around her like petals of a flower come free, Arthur could only see her glistening eyes and stark features set aglow by moonlight.
Was it wrong to find that side of her, the one he suspected she scarcely anyone saw, so beautiful?
Haunting, it echoed in Arthur even as the dawn began its golden ascent into the sky, and light burned away the edges of the silvery memory. Still, Orianne persisted, like a shade that hounded his every step. How Arthur wished to scrub his mind of her, if just for the peace it would provide, but he had the sinking feeling that even that would not be enough. He could try to cut her out of him, taking a knife with careful precision and ensuring that nothing was left. Arthur refused to admit that he didn't want to be free of her, not even if the pain it caused was less than the being rid of her.
