who: @dancingshores when and where: the verdant concord, within the gardens of highgarden; armaan yronwood waits to hear back from his messenger he sent to try overhear a certain conversation with a certain lord of starpike, when he comes across dorne's court seer. soaking, from head to toe.
he found her between the carved lions and the marbled fountains, standing as though the garden had spat her out from the hedges themselves—soaking wet, from the slope of her hooded crown all the way to the hems of her silks that clung like second skin. zahra sand, the court’s seer, looked a vision entirely removed from prophecy - not like he would ever openly admit it so, after calling her odd multiple times over the years. just, wet. and smelling faintly of crushed mint and wet stone, like something dredged up from the godswood.
armaan paused mid-step, blinked once, then again, taking her in with the flat expression of a man not quite certain whether he was being toyed with or made party to a jest he didn’t recall agreeing to. his arms were crossed loosely behind his back, the sort of stance that allowed thoughts to sharpen without betraying their weight. it had rained earlier—lightly, briefly—but not enough to soak anyone. nor had the sky opened up since. and yet, there she stood, water trailing down her collarbones in delicate rivulets, her hair darkened to black and curling wildly about her cheeks. he tilted his head, slowly, eyebrows raising just a hair.
“...do i even want to know, zahra sand?” his voice came low, dry, carrying the faintest rasp at the back of the throat; no doubt he too had indulged in much drinking this night, after spotting what appeared to be the distant figure of a man who appeared so much like jasveer from the other side of the window. it had for a moment truly stunned him and rooted him to his place, but when it was over, he found himself fighting back memories he did not wish to process.
“...you look as though you lost a wager to a duck,” he said at last, slowly, blinking once before letting his gaze drift from her drenched hair to the darkened hems pooling at her ankles.
he didn’t move closer yet, wary of the puddle forming around her bare feet, for he appreciated the silks he were currently adorning. “or are we pretending this is ordinary now?" he should have gone back to the alcove where he’d sent his man. the messenger would return soon—hopefully, with word of that starpike snake and whatever it was he dared mutter in shadows. but this? this dripping omen standing among the lilies? it pried his attention away from the games he had set in motion. too strange not to.
he tilted his head, a short, humourless laugh escaping through his nose. “new dedication to aquatic pursuits?” he gestured vaguely toward the puddle she was forming. “though i confess, i did not expect the prophetic arts to involve recreational drowning.” it was then he had a distant idea, one based on their previous conversation and how he could stitch it together so it could paint him in a certain light. zahra sand would not realise, but she could be of much use to him in this moment. too many people believed him to be responsible, he knew it; the suspicion, it was something he simply would not be having.
he paused, arching a brow. “this isn’t another metaphor about fire and fields, is it? because if you say the word harvest, i shall walk directly into that hedge. people overheard our conversation some months ago, and i haven't heard the end of it since.”