who: @wcrdsarewind (arron farman, lord of the fair isles) where: the lion’s mouth, casterly rock, the westerlands
The familiar sound of drums rung across the Lion's Mouth, echoing and booming off cavern walls filled with all disdained glittering gold; a tune she had found herself quietly humming to herself as she pulled the brush through golden curls, wild, unkept, like a lion itself. Quietly humming to innocence itself wrapped within a blanket, her hand gently moving aside the small wisps of dark curls that were already beginning to form upon him; those words that were mere scribbles on the side of a prayer book had turned into something else entirely. Washing away all what felt like was left of her, as strong as the current of the mighty Trident, in hearing those drums and violins play.
And mine are long and sharp, my lord As long and sharp as yours.
Her posture had been fixed and poised against the soft wind of the sunset sea as hues of orange and pink slowly came to spill like paint itself over the skies of the heavens, crowds of the common folk of Lannisport and all surrounding areas cheering what felt like thunder itself over the sound of the drums. Perhaps it hadn't felt real until her emerald orbs glanced over blade after blade of the men that stepped from the galleys, almost as though she were trying to visualise the crimson blood that once stained it. Perhaps her own mind hadn't felt real as she felt a sense of inflated pride at the mere thought, her back straightening slightly against the wind.
She knew not if it were the Seven she felt in her presence as the sun continued to disappear beyond the horizon of the sunset sea; or seven devils, watching nobleman after nobleman leave with a nod of her head. Marbrand, Serrett, Westerling all crossed an alabaster statue, the very essence of duty; how far she had gone, only to return to these docks and be such an image once again. Emeralds fell upon the giant longsword first, and she knew before rising her gaze to the sight of her blood stepping upon the fertile Westerland soil once again.
The statue cracked, her skirts of glittering gold and the rubies hanging around her neck moving with each of her movement as she moved towards him; slowly, and then all at once. What was it when a volcano met a tornado? Her arms were around his towering frame, and his arms fell around her just as easily; how having her face in his chest even for a moment felt like she had been granted some mercy, some salvation from the Gods. Was it the Gods or the devils holding them together?
“What is it?” Her voice was hushed as she looked up at him, remaining close to his chest; because between the blazing trumpets of victory, the sweet release of duty done, there was tragedy. There was betrayal. “What is it, Arron?” Her hand had slipped to his jaw, bearded over the months of bloodshed and glory.
But now the rains weep o'er his hall With not a soul to hear.











