#c: nyla

[myriamas]

who: @nylajordayne​ where: the chambers of the princess of dorne in highgarden; it had been some weeks since the birth of her nephew had been announced, and myriam did not attend the namkaran of the child.

this night she wished not for the usual folk songs that played throughout the mosaic tiles of her chambers, reflecting and bouncing from one of the many domes across the fortress of sunspear. this night, the sounds of classical singing were ringing out from the chambers of the princess consort of dorne; her dark raven curls laid out upon her cushions upon her bed as she read some old poetry. words of old poetry from her time as a girl within godsgrace, words of poetry she would hear being sung into the night by wanderers along the greenblood. 

the weight of the gold upon her ears had begun to ache, and so wordlessly, only with the jingling of her wedding bangles that remained on her wrists, she removed those gold earrings. 

she could recognise the voice of nyla jordayne, even through the pulled curtains; it had a certain strange wisdom to it, wisdom that was beyond her years or even her usual nature. as though something else came over her when she opened her mouth and sung. as though she sung with the voice of her ancestors, all the women that came before her, before them both. she lowered her book of poetry as she listened to the singing, dissociating slightly at the words. the candles lit at her private shrine seemed to flicker and the idols of the seven remained watching upon her. 

she felt their eyes on her. felt their judgement. was she too wrapped up in the cultural pride of their ways, had she forgotten them? how could she forget them? 

rising to her feet, she walked over to the separation between her personal chamber and the audience chamber, where the ladies were gathered. wordlessly, she locked eyes with the lady of house jordayne, before motioning for her to join her in private. a slight smile as she pushed through the curtain of flowers, marigolds to be specifically, brightly orange. “you have improved, you know?” she asked the lady as they crossed back into myriam’s personal chambers, her book of poetry remaining open. “it is as though someone else comes over you.” 

she reaches forward, ensuring there is a space for the woman to sit beside her as she brought her closer. “i must ask you something...and i trust you to tell me plainly what you think of it, nyla.”

[armaans]

who: @nylajordayne where: the wedding of cedric tyrell and lady illya oakheart. it is important to note this is set following the interaction between lord armaan yronwood and zahra sand.

he could feel her eyes on him; like daggers, only tainted with naivety and a spoiled nature that would have made him laugh at her if they were years younger. and the easiest way to deal with nyla jordayne was to ignore her; it was something he had picked up on years ago upon a visit to the tor, where she would often suddenly be lingering in his presence as he spent time with her brother. it felt like a lifetime ago, where so many things were different and yet somehow remained the same all at once.

he made no reaction to the obvious feeling of her gaze upon him, almost as though she expected him to look up and ask her what was the matter, whatever reason could she be upset with him. only, the fact of the matter was armaan yronwood was not rashid jordayne, the only man in existence who was willing to put up with such things. he continued to ignore her throughout the night, though he noted how her body seemed to become closer to his own after each dance.

as though she were planning for the perfect moment to catch him. he would not give it to her; finding amusement in watching her become increasingly irritated with missing her chances to speak with him.

he walked away from her when she was in conversation with another dornish woman, almost taunting in the way she were so close to catching him and saying whatever it was she needed to so desperately say. he continued to not even look in her direction, even though he could hear her voice and her conversation: it was only when they were sat feasting did he come forward and take the seat directly opposite her. his movement was silent, slipping his overcoat off, still not saying anything to her.

"what's your issue now?" he asked, his voice blunt as he set his hand down upon the table, fixing his dark gaze directly upon her. "speak up."

[visxionaries]

who: @wcrdsarewind​ (nyla) where: the dornish ball, dorne (flashback thread)

The sounds of laughter had been floating through the lantern lit courtyards of the gardens of the Old Palace, the sounds of Dornish music swirling around the air and the sound of the fountains dulling the sound of various quiet conversations that seemed to be taken place. How much seemed to be whispered in velvety tones rather than uttered openly, as though the very manner of life the Dornish seemed to live by was that of lingering questions and lingering looks; the atmosphere of the night had delved into something else, and he it was a feeling he knew well. When words seemed to be saying less and less, and looks were taking much more of a hold; conversations that needed to be finished with the likes of the body behind closed doors, where communication came in short breaths and flushed lips.

The King of the Reach had found himself in the fresh night air of Dorne, which took on much more of a chill, alongside his Master of Coin the Lord Hightower upon seeing the physical altercation that had occurred between the Westerlanders and those of the Iron Islands. Tensions remained high, and upon waiting to see the situation settle, the two men found themselves slipping briefly into the gardens for some air. That was the first time he saw her in passing, as he raised his goblet of bitter red wine to his lips and she passed by the two men - only, Cedric Tyrell had not known it. 

Why would he ever have noticed Lady Nyla Dayne? Why would empty ocean hues have flickered upon her for even a moment, considering she was a mere shadow that crossed his path?

"And yet, I told her..." The King's voice trailed as he spoke to his Master of Coin, and Cedric spoke to Garland with grin upon his face that almost magnetic. Entirely unintentional, with a look of mischief that was enough to make the heart momentarily pause. Then make it speed up.

The night continued, moving further and further into the later hours of the night; in truth, his comfort and ease in such situations came not from a genuine enjoyment of them. It was a silver tongue that seemed to allow him to float seamlessly through the crowds of people, the guards never too far behind him whilst wrapped within the other nobles that had attended the attempted peace talks. It was upon hearing the King of the RIverlands had momentarily stepped out into the gardens, after enquiring for his presence considering he were sure he had seen the man mere moments ago, did Cedric finally step into the gardens once again. 

The Lady of High Hermitage in that moment crossed his path again, shadows stretching and creeping against the wall; and still, not once did his gaze flicker upon her own and actually register her. She was just another woman, another person in a city of thousands.

That was, until the shimmering shawl she had wrapped around her bare shoulders and neck seemed to slip from the sides of her neck, twisting and spiralling into the way of his steps. One step, two step, three steps and suddenly it were in his way; he hesitated before stepping his foot to the side to avoid dirtying it. Though, he did not instantly lean forwards to take a hold of it, instead finally looking to the left to see where it had come from; only to find a Lady stood before him. A dark cascade of curls seemed to run down her bare shoulders that appeared bronzed and smooth beneath the flickering torchlights; his gaze looked over her. He took his time with it, implicitly suggestive before leaning forwards to take a hold of the shawl that had slipped in his way.

"And this would be yours, I assume?" He did not extend his arm to give it back. 

[courtofcloakanddagger]

nyla was oh so terribly bored of the evenings events. it had taken an age to get both herself and vivianne ready, with vivianne frequently saying she needed to change dress or something wasn’t right. and now she was spending her time watching vivianne stare at tyson, tyson look at just about every maiden in the room, evelyn look suicidal and everyone else was dancing happily. a pout rested on her face as she stared at the couples, she longed to be able to dance with who she truly wanted; her husband had been away for a month and was meant to stay away for an additional two-- for which she was especially thankful. though it meant her bold and somewhat reckless, nyla’s eyes searched frantically across the room, unable to spot who she was looking for. 

[the-eldest-carnelion]

@ Eld Cottage Hospital

Adonis has secured himself a seat at Nyla’s bedside, and even at Lavinia’s insistence that she could watch over Nyla and allow him to go home and have a rest, he’d refused to leave the spot. He felt achingly responsible, for one thing. But it also went far deeper than that, far deeper than perhaps he was quite yet willing to admit to himself. So instead he dwelled in guilt and worry, and perhaps a pinch of shame—all of which had mingled into the fruits of a fitful sleep he’d seemed to have fallen into in his chair as he waited for her to wake.

@nylasheartandsoul

[myriamas]

who: @wcrdsarewind​ (nyla) where: the dornish ball, following nyla dayne’s conversation with cedric tyrell

It would be a lie to imply she had not trailed into the watergardens of the Old Palace in an attempt to look for her closest Lady and confident, the heir of High Hermitage - Lady Nyla Dayne. The company within the ball had grown increasingly boring, and following her brief discussion with the Lady Manwoody regarding Lord Armaan Yronwood which ended in the woman being as defensive as she always was on the topic of him, Myriam had found herself increasingly impatient. 

Forced conversation with all those she would much rather not be within her lands, and they knew what she thought of them by the way her dark orbs narrowed over their choice of Dornish attire; so many fashion mistakes that  could have been easily solved should one have simply had the respect to ask for some advice. 

Alas, what were Andals if not fools with inflated egos unable to do so? And so, the woman made no effort to intervene as the red haired Lady Hightower walked the gathering in a gown of white, of all colours; as though she were in mourning. Well, she was - considering her mother had been murdered by some other Westerland lords according to what the lions had insisted, though there were times she doubted even that. Still, the goblet she raised to her lips hid the slight scoff that came from her as she walked by the woman, the smell of her oud perfume against her skin and within her hair remaining strong as she gazed across the room for Nyla Dayne. 

Ever the vanishing act it seemed, quiet enough to slip away without realising meanwhile Myriam’s presence was easily found and noted. Her hands rested against the intricately designed columns as she made her way into the gardens, her gaze briefly meeting others who bowed their heads in her presence, accompanied by one other Lady of House Uller, before coming across the woman she had been looking for finishing up a conversation with the King of Thorns and Roses himself. 

Watching the woman’s physical stance, almost leaning slightly on one side as her body language seemed entirely open; it were clear to see Nyla had decided she wanted this man. Wanted to play the game with him, to feel his gaze upon her and for him to take her in whichever way he wanted - though she was not the first Dornish woman to do so. Her own good sister had ended up within the man’s bed a few times, though she looked upon him and wondered what it was people saw in him. 

She remained quiet until the King bowed his head slightly, before turning alongside the Hightower Master of Coin and returning back within the party. “Well, well, well - what is it I have stumbled on, Lady Dayne?” Her tone was playfully formal, her hand remaining upon the column as she looked upon Nyla. It were clear to see a slight flush had come to her cheeks as he walked away, and it was met only with the slight raise of a brow. “You and Andal men, for the love of the Seven.” 

[jjxsanders]

Where: Comedy bar where he works When: evening Closed. @nylafm

He never really understood what was so funny about stand-up comedy. Most of the time, when people laughed, it was to something that was true. He figured it was the way in which that truth, or an opinion, was told that made it funny for the audience. If he were to be honest with himself, he would probably admit that maybe he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was when it came to simple human interactions. But he didn’t care. And his boss didn’t care, so ultimately it didn’t matter. 

He was wiping the counter as the audience gave some bloke a hard time, and his eyes kept wandering over to her. The short girl, the same one he’d seen around exactly eight and a half times before, four of which had included some sort of interaction. One of which was simply in passing. He of course remembered everything about those encounters – from what she was wearing, to what she was saying, to drinks she ordered. It wasn’t like he was trying to be Joe Goldberg or anything, he just couldn’t help but remember. Quite literally. And he liked the encounters, enough to conclude that she was witty, witty enough to hold his attention, witter than most of the idiots that came up on this shit little stage. 

“Tell me…” he’ll start, his heart racing. “...do these people suck, or am I just fucking stupid? I really can’t tell.”

[bcbygirls]

“And who the hell was that?” Nyla questioned. Her eyes staring at the other, her hands placed on her hips. She never was the jealous type, she usually brushed it off because she knew that the two had trust. She trusted her partner and vice versa. “I mean you can always go with that chick to go fuck tonight?”