#baashir 002

[raviofthesun]

setting: in the aftermath of silverwing's death, and nearing the end of the dornish/stormland war in the marches, ravi martell takes a moment to process everything with his mentor and friend, baashir dayne. starter for @baashirdayne

the carcass of silverwing sprawled across the valley like a fallen star, its silver scales tarnished with blood and ash. the air reeked of burnt flesh and sulfur, mingling with the metallic tang of spilled lifeblood. ravi martell tightened his grip on his hilt sheathed at his side as he approached, his boots crunching over scorched grass and shattered stones. smoke curled from the dragon's lifeless maw, its final exhalation frozen in time.

victory should have tasted sweeter.

around him, the echoes of the battle still lingered: the screams of men, the roar of dragonfire, the shouts of his name as the beast fell. and yet, all he could hear now was silence, broken only by the crackling of a distant flame. ravi had yet to experience the true horrors of war, until now.

baashir stood nearby, his silhouette framed against the smoky horizon. the sword of the morning's presence steadied ravi, even as a chill ran through him. baashir had always been unshakable—his mentor, his guide. but even from here, ravi could sense the tension in the way the man held dawn, the greatsword's pale blade dim in the fading light.

the prince took a slow step forward, his boots crunching over scorched earth. the heat of the dragon’s corpse still radiated faintly, mixing with the sharp scent of blood and sulfur. ravi’s gaze swept over the battlefield. fires smoldered where homes once stood, and the bodies of soldiers, dornish and stormlander alike, littered the ground. "i thought it would feel different." he finally uttered after a moment. "they always talk about the splendor of it,” he said aloud, though his voice was more to himself than to anyone nearby. “the glory. the songs about how knights stood tall and unyielding, how the banners flew bright against a clear sky.”

ravi shook his head, the shock apparent on his features. “but they don’t talk about the parts that stay with you. the way a man screams when fire takes him. the way the ground smells after it rains blood. or how quiet it gets when it’s all over.”

[gcuienveres]

who: @baashirdayne when and where: one of the many audience chamber within casterly rock, when all the different kingdoms had ventured for the display of prince arthur lannister. context: there has been some excavation and mining taking place within the lands of the west, where those at work have certain items displayed to various courtiers.

guinevere lannister stood in silence before the tables cluttered with relics and artifacts from the far-flung corners of the westerlands. each piece had been gathered in an attempt to unveil the truths buried in the distant past—truths which, if uncovered, could serve to solidify king tyland lannister’s break from the faith of the seven and his assertion of his own divine rule.

her presence within these halls was almost contentious, a flaming flag of red; for she was still yet to sign the oath proclaiming her brother as the sole voice of the gods within the lands of the west.

her hand rested daintily upon the surface of the table, looking upon the faces of those noble courtiers who had attempted to have her sign. time and time again, she had refused. there would be no archaeological evidence of hugor of the hill walking the hills of the west in an ancient time; because her brother was not the voice of the gods. nonetheless, she had always found the study of history to be a curious pursuit—an endeavor to bend time and place to suit one's own purposes, as if the past could be remade, like a tapestry woven anew.

a flicker of movement caught her eye, and she turned her gaze to the tapestry laid out before her. the sunbird tapestry—a work of brilliant reds, golds, and oranges, its threads caught in the light of the candles that flickered above. the bird, with wings outstretched in flight, seemed to soar in some eternal struggle between fire and sky, a struggle she could not help but feel mirrored her own life. and yet, as she looked upon the remains of the tapestry, she noted something.

it were not of westerland origin.

there, across the table, stood baashir dayne, his dark amethyst eyes focused on the intricate weaving. the sword of the morning, had seemingly appeared quicker than she expected; the most able knight in all the realms, looking upon a tapestry. for a moment, she studied him, as she always did when they met—his calm demeanor, his stillness, so unlike the others at his court. they had spoken once, in sunspear, when he had escorted her back into the grand hall. the memory was faint, but his presence had lingered in her mind since. "lord dayne," she greeted, remaining in her position on the other side of a table.

"does the weaving and illustration appear more dornish to you?" her fingers brushed along the tapestry, the tips of her nails catching the light. the other scholars appeared to straighten their backs around the table, looking at their work as more and more of their work was uncovered, dust and colour fading back into the tapestry. they too seemed to look down upon it with an intense fixation, as though they were trying to verify her suggestion. "it holds a similar resemblance to the styles hung within sunspear's domed hall." there was no falter in her words, or worry about remembering wrong; she had not remembered wrong.

[ruqaiyahdayne]

who: @baashirdayne when and where: the dayne sept of starfall, which has been out of use for many years due to it being the location of a family tragedy. many years, eight to be specific. except for one night a year, where the widowed lady dayne carries out prayers for her husband. context: some tense prep for a tense family day.

the curtains were heavier than the last time she had pulled them open, that she was sure of; and as she pulled them aside with all the strength she could muster, she saw the dust from a year of being sat in a single position in the hued reflected light of the stained glass before them. it were the first time the sept had seen the sun in a full year; in all twelve of the lunar cycles and three hundred and sixty five sunsets, there was finally time to beam across the statues of the gods. they too had dust upon them, she could tell considering the mother had appeared to develop a moustache upon her upper lip; she clapped her hands of the sight as she turned, moving to pull open another set of curtains.

one by one she finally allowed for the sept to be illuminated, as though to wake these mere idols from their year long slumber of uselnessness - it were time for the day where they would serve a single purpose for a mourning family, before they would be put away again for the next year. her mother swore the sept was haunted with the sounds of his voice, or something even worse considering the blood that had been shed within the hallowed halls; it were no welcoming place, but then again, no sept ever was. she allowed her heels to click against the marble stone as she stood in the middle of the circle, staring up at the idols with a sort of defiance that almost made her wish to throw something and crack one - how was it this had been the sight of the day that had changed their lives?

it were right in the middle, beneath the pulpit, that her father had bled out and the supposed gods had merely watched.

never even considered, or wondered, whether they may send an inkling to the many souls living beneath the same roof to go and check on the lord's private prayer session. instead, the mighty lord of starfall, bled out on the floor like an animal that were to be cut down. it were no befitting death for a lord, let alone the man she had been blessed to call father; but here they were, in this damned place once again. she had her smokes within the pocket of her skirts that she had forced her maids to stitch, and knew that she would need one by the time this day of preparation was done. the sounds of her mother's incessant rambling in the background regarding the litres of milk needed for the offering, and how the coconut was not at the correct ripeness, and that the bell was not loud enough to help their father's soul continue to rest and cross over if he had not yet reincarnated.

it were delusion, at it's finest; a method of madness for a woman to cling, and to try and process all at the very same time. "gods sake woman! the windows will not open, i told you. get someone to see to it." she snapped, unable to withstand her patience nor her irritability any further in the direction of her mother, who had the most irritating of habits of telling her to do something she had already done, or seen to, as though she were still nothing but a childish girl. "try to push it open and you will break it." she had flounced off now, jet black straight locks trailing to the bottom of her waist as she walked, intent on slipping out of the sept before she bumped into any other of her family members. the door of the sept slammed behind her as she had not watched how carefully she needed to close it, and she heard something shatter on the other side - the place. was falling apart, because it was neglected. unused.

except for one twisted day a year, where all of starfall was invited to join in on a prayer that lasted hours, to help shepard a soul that had long since left them.

she agreed with the notion of remembering her father. remembering him for the man he was; a loving, doting father who protected his own and ensured his family were left a secure legacy. he did not waver in the face of despair, nor did he ever let himself slip to stain their family name. it were he, who was and always would be the true lord of house dayne - as opposed to the two they had been left with. one too busy playing hero for all of dorne whilst not realising what he had done to his own house, and the other sulking in high hermitage expecting to be contacted, all whilst intending on rejecting all forms of contact. she was ready to leave from the other side of the door when baashir turned the corner, alone thankfully - at least this meant she did not need to go and find him, which could mean she would need to venture all around the keep. he did not like remaining inside, she had noticed.

"why are you so late?" she demanded to know, her arms crossing over her blouse before he commented it were too short or revealing for a sept, or to be worn in front of their mother. that, and also out of pure indignation and irritation, she shot him a look. "she wanted you there a full hour and a quarter ago." their mother had not been keeping count, but rather ruqaiyah had been; for the golden son would face no chastising. no pressure. but ruqaiyah would remember small things, and cling to them; to see how their mother cherished one far more than the other. "one of the windows won't open, can you send for someone before tomorrow to do it. i won't deal with her having a breakdown over a window too." she did not know why baashir allowed her to keep doing this.

[armaans]

who: @baashirdayne what: a continuation of this post because tumblr has it out for me and quen's threads gahdamn

if there was a line, it were something that armaan and baashir had never abided by; lines drawn into the sands of the dunes was easily blown away, smudged over, blurred and no longer existed in itself. they had always spoken loosely and bluntly with one another, a strange mirroring of one another that put the other on a side where it felt as though they were either talking to a wall, or looking at some distorted version of themselves.

"i think it of starfall." he spoke, his tone blunt as he took a seat upon the velvet recliner. his movement was irritating in itself, as though he were getting himself comfortable amidst the packing and the movement. he knew baashir was busy, and still took a seat, as though to tell him he would not simply be able to walk away from this situation and this conversation. "i think it of you."

armaan merely fixed a dark, stormy gaze upon the sword of the morning with a look that almost told him to keep his bullshit to himself as he spoke of how the dornish spat upon the treemen of the frozen waste; as though armaan would spend a minute considering the northerners of all people. money was money, but money did not mean they would care for one another, that they saw their equal in the others. armaan only saw his equal in the dornish, and none other.

"the treemen of the north are of no concern to me. you leaving the realm to clean up the mess of a faith that does not accept us is what concerns me. in refusing to pass up a fight, you have become a little better than a begger, than an untouchable. go to alayim, and they will see you as a dornishman before a follower of the seven."

he looked upon baashir, knowing that in his heart, the man needed distance and time to remember who he was. or even to decide who he was now, if he could not remember who he was once. space away from what had inevitably crash and burned, for something that could and never would be. what sins he had committed in fury, the dancing of peacocks and the colours hiding what boiled in plain sight within starfall. even the stars wept that night.

"it will not be this way for much longer." armaan commented, his tone blunt, as though he were explaining the most obvious of matters. his words were ominous, and were dangerous in themselves; suggesting of something he knew baashir would pick up on. "it is only about time. we are not the minority. numbers talk." he fell silent for a moment. it were something he had not spoken of. it was the lord of the tor that tried to speak to them both of their emotions. armaan would readily drown in them before speaking of them.

"you need not leave the kingdom itself to distance yourself from her. and you need not avoid the majesty of home to forget what happened there."

[armaans]

who: @baashirdayne where: the chambers of baashir dayne within sunspear, prior to the sword of the morning's departure to support the crusading forces in alayim.

house yronwood had personally sent no forces in the crisis across the narrow sea: though upon hearing the news, he knew exactly just who would be arranging to send himself forward across the narrow sea. the diversification of their form of worship had made the dornish's faith of the seven seem like an entirely different faith altogether, one he knew was not supported by the starry sept - dedication to the faith remained difficult. and yet, if he knew anything of the sword of the morning, it was the fact that he would throw himself head first into any form of conflict, as though he were burying his head under the sounds of men's dying gasps.

all without an heir of his own line, living as though he were a walking sword: living as though he were nothing more than the sword he wielded. it was a sorry state to see what dorne had become: willing to allow the sword of the morning to walk away and sail over the narrow sea. nobody was utilised to their strengths. only preferences. it were obvious.

as he stepped into the series of chambers designated solely to house dayne upon their arrival to sunspear, the amount of movement that was occurring only seemed to confirm his suspicions. servants walking the length of the chambers, seemingly in the midst of packing up belongings to be sent forward to starfall.

armaan merely stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of movement around him: there would be no point in trying to speak to him of this idea. his mind had been made, he would be better of talking to a wall. they were similar in that regard, too similar; their stubbornness meant they would set themselves aflame rather than admit something was wrong. not as though they would truly ever talk about: only something simmering quietly there. "inform your lord i have come to see him." he spoke to a servant, his hands crossing over his chocolate brown kurta.

and when baashir dayne emerged from his chambers, he looked as he always did. only, he did not, all at the same time. there were no obvious signs, only the sight of him: even armaan himself could not entirely guess what was up. still, the movement of the servants were enough of an indication that baashir dayne was not intending on being around for longer. he needed to clear his head, from something. he could only silently suspect what. what a way to wish death upon yourself; one may as well cut themselves open. "is your brother taking on starfall then?" he asked.