calculatedtwilight

[calculatedtwilight]

the marble underfoot caught the low candlelight like riverwater, slick with reflected golds and dancing shadows. the scent of rosewater and warm wine curled in sabiha’s nose as she stepped inside, trailing behind a group of fluting musicians from oldtown. her sandals whispered across the stone, quiet beneath the thunder of drums and laughter. highgarden’s halls had never seemed so alive.

she wore braavosi silk in twilight blue, embroidered with glints of copper thread, a nod to both sea and spark. the fabric hugged her shoulders, loosened at the sleeves, practical enough to move in, but modest and elegant. her dark curls were gathered in a braided twist low at her nape, though a few strands had already loosened in the heat of the room.

the hall shimmered. silks twirled, petals danced midair, and somewhere ahead, a dancer nearly collided with a reed player mid-spin. sabiha blinked at the chaos and beauty of it, amused and a little breathless. it was not like braavos, less edge, more sweetness, but she could not deny its charm.

“i was delayed,” she said, her accent lilting soft over the clamor, “by a fruit vendor and three stubborn donkeys. i’ll spare you the order in which they crossed my path.”

lhe glanced toward Lucrezia, warmth bright behind her dark eyes. there had always been something of kinship between them, though it had begun not in person, but in ink. sabiha had hoped to meet the famed lady of the arbor when she first docked at its crescent shore, drawn by tales of its vineyards and artistry, its women and their wisdom. but lucrezia had been away, and so instead, she had written.

a letter left in trust with a well-dressed dockhand, its folds still faintly scented with brine and cedar. a note of admiration, of shared ties, and a passing compliment to the arbor ships, whose craftsmanship and cargo had long stirred whispers even in braavos.

lucrezia’s reply had come quickly, and with it, a voice that leapt off the parchment. clear, candid, and threaded with wit that needed no translation. they had corresponded since, about trade routes and salt-hymns, about women’s circles and festivals, about the many things unspoken, and those spoken too freely.

“this is… amazing,” she said simply, her voice low as they passed beneath a tangle of lanterns and climbing ivy that crowned the upper arches. her gaze swept over the dornish women who had taken to the dancefloor. “you’ve outdone every harbor celebration i’ve stumbled upon."

she inhaled, soaking in the vibrant room around her. “i’m glad you invited me,” sabiha added, trailing her fingers along the edge of a marble pillar as they passed it. “this is the first time i’ve really seen westeros like this… not just its ports, or the edge of a market." she had briefly been to the vale some time ago, but the memories had sadly faded as time went on. she was glad to have visited again, recently, if only briefly.

“and yes,” she murmured with a glance to lucrezia, “all is well. i’m only...taking it in. sometimes the world unfolds slowly. sometimes it spills all at once. this feels like the latter.”

what: open starter when and where: the verdant concord, highgarden description: hosted by lucrezia redwyne for the verdant concord, the dance exhibition gathers nobles and artists alike to witness traditional performances from the reach and distant lands beyond. silks swirl, heels strike, and flutes trill in a celebration of movement and memory. the hall is packed, laughter rising above the music—though whispers already speak of the exclusive women’s after-party to follow, where wine flows freely and secrets trade hands faster than steps on the floor. 0/3

the scent of jasmine and rosewater hung sweet on the air, mingling with the sharper tang of candle smoke and the richness of honeyed wine. lucrezia redwyne moved through the crowded hall like a woman born for this kind of evening—her kaftan a deep olive green, gathered neatly at her waist with a golden shawl that shimmered with small bells as she walked, each step singing softly. she had discarded her heels long ago, the ache in her arches unbearable after three dances too many, but the long fall of fabric concealed her bare feet well enough.

none needed to know, and even if they did, who would dare say it didn’t suit the mood of the night? the floor itself was slick with movement, heels clicking, silks sweeping, palms clapping. there were drums from ashford, flutes from oldtown, and the high reedy sound of a reed pipe that surely hailed from some dornish border—none of it blended cleanly, and yet somehow it worked. it worked marvellously. she had hosted enough gatherings to know when one was a success. and this was one. oh, it was busy—every corner of the hall thrummed with bodies, laughter, and breath.

one of the crane daughters had taken up a ribbon dance and was twirling so furiously a few scattered petals from the floral centrepieces had launched themselves into the air in surrender. gods, it was wonderful, and she reached out to grab a hold of a few petals, calling her cousin's name from across the room - one she had only recently become more closely acquainted with.

lucrezia barely paused before she was gliding across the floor again, the bells at her waist chiming in time with a southern rhythm she couldn’t quite place. her arms had a natural sway to them now, even when she wasn’t dancing—her whole body animated with joy. tonight, she was not lady of anything. she was not a name with a dowry, or a fleet. she was a woman, host, sister, celebrant. “you’re late, i was not thinking you would show.” she said warmly to whoever had just stepped into the threshold, her voice low and unmistakably amused as she stepped forward to greet them, passing through a small fountain and down some marble steps as she lifted the bottom of her velvet skirts.

her hand reached lightly to touch the fabric of her own sleeve, guiding them further into the space as if they were a part of the evening now, and she would allow no one to remain idle. “come, i’ll find you something sweeter than the wine they’re serving near the entrance. if you want the real drink, it’s near the west alcove—only a few know it is there.” a group of girls called her name then, pulling her attention momentarily as the dornish sabha prepared to begin—a line of women dressed in purples and deep reds, their hips adorned with mirrored sashes. the lady of the arbor called that she could not join yet, but ushered them all to go ahead, eager to watch the dornish women dance, considering they claimed to the best dancers of the realm. lucrezia turned back to her guest one last time, her voice lowering just enough to be conspiratorial, clearly not wanting another to overhear them. "is all well?"

[calculatedtwilight]

setting: the verdant concord, open starter. (0/3)

highgarden shimmered. sunlight spilled over glass domes and trellised vines, catching on copper fixtures and silk banners that fluttered like sails. it wasn’t like braavos. there was too much air between the walls. too much order. but sabiha didn’t mind. her fingers trailed along the edge of a marble balustrade as she moved through the garden arcade, slow and deliberate, the way one walks through a dream they're trying to remember, her mind taking in every etch and crevice.

she’d stopped near a pavilion where some sort of device chuffed steam at regular intervals. a squat copper kettle sat atop a stand, with a polished spout and a crowd of curious nobles circling like moths. the inventor, red-faced and radiant, beckoned with a flourish.

“a miracle of mechanics!” he declared. “sea water, made sweet! who among you dares the taste?”

eyes turned. guests backed away. sabiha was not a daring woman, but she also wasn’t quick enough to avoid the attention.

“you, my lady!” the man pointed, triumphant. “your face says you’re honest!”

she raised one brow. her face said she was tired. still, with the spectators eyes on her, now, she stepped forward. the inventor poured a measure of the desalinated water into a painted cup. the drink offered was light and clouded, its scent strange, but intriguing, like sea air laced with something floral and clever. she sipped, slowly, the taste blooming across her tongue with unfamiliar warmth. not unpleasant. not familiar either. the sort of thing that might have been dreamed up in a green-tiled apothecary halfway across the world.

she passed the cup back with a gracious nod. “it tastes,” she said, voice mild, “like someone convinced the sea to behave itself.” sabiha gave a grin. "well done." there were some claps from the crowd as the inventor nodded, offering a cup to the next volunteer.

the lady returned to join the crowd, slightly more intrigued than before she was pulled into the fray. the small grin did not quite leave her face as she jested dryly to the person standing next to her. "if i collapse, please do help me do so with grace."

[calculatedtwilight]

setting: winterfell, the king's birthday celebration. as sabiha becomes acquainted with westeros, she travel's north before going to the reach. starter for @daceystvrk

the hall of winterfell was a fortress of warmth against the ice outside, yet even here, the air clung to sabiha’s sleeves like frost. fires crackled in grand hearths, casting long shadows over the banners above, but the cold was still threaded through the stone beneath her shoes. it reminded her of the night markets back home, when the wind blew in off the black canals and everyone pretended not to shiver.

she moved carefully through the crowd—measured steps, polite nods, eyes always observing. northern feasts were not so different from those in braavos: the food was heavier, the laughter louder, but the politics still swirled beneath the surface like undertows.

at one of the long tables, she saw dacey stark. not adorned like a southern lady might be, but unmistakable, there was something of her mother in the chin, her father in the eyes. sabiha had studied the family line, not of just the stark's, but of many prominent families of westeros, absorbing all of the information she could in preparation for her journey. it was not out of necessity, in truth, but because patterns repeated themselves, even in bloodlines, and that fascinated her.

the lady approached with a quiet grace, her dark gown trailing like a shadow of silk behind her. she had only heard the name in passing, mentioned in careful tones by those who spoke of winterfell's quietest daughter. a lady of needle and song, not steel and saga. a contrast to the wolves around her.

sabiha approached without pomp or pause, footsteps light. she stopped just beside the bench and offered a bow of her head, measured and sincere, not the sweeping kind merchants performed when hoping for favor.

“your grace,” she said softly, the formality folded into calm. “forgive me. the hall grows louder by the minute, and your corner seemed the only place still holding its breath.”

she offered a small smile one of a gentle companionship. "i thought i’d ask if you might allow another quiet soul to share your quiet.” she glanced toward the merrymaking, then back to dacey. “sometimes it’s better, i think, to watch the river from the bank than be swept into it.”

[calculatedtwilight]

setting: the verdant concord, sabiha met caitria blackbar many years ago, and the two got on well enough to exchange letters over the years. caitria had sent sabiha a portrait of what she looked like now upon learning sabiha was traveling to westeros for an extended visit ; starter for @caitria-blackbar

the soft murmur of the crowd drifted through the air like a thousand whispers, the scent of blooming flowers mingling with the faint salt of the sea carried on the breeze. sabiha moved through the gathering with quiet grace, her eyes scanning the sea of faces, each one caught in the ebb and flow of the verdant concord. it was a place of promises, of intellectual exchange, and of hidden tensions. still, her mind was elsewhere, distracted by a puzzle she had long since set aside.

she moved closer to a small cluster near a stand of silver-flecked sculptures, her gaze landing on a woman whose portrait she could see clearly in her mind's eye just by look upon her face now. a flash of recognition flickered in her chest, but she hesitated.

sabiha paused just near the woman, standing still for a moment. the rustle of her skirts was nearly swallowed by the sounds of the festival, but the soft press of her pendant against her chest seemed to steady her.

"lady blackbar?" sabiha's voice was soft, measured, yet there was a quiet uncertainty that clung to the edges of the words. her eyes flickered over the woman's features, searching for confirmation in the curve of her cheek, the tilt of her chin. "caitria blackbar? i hope i haven’t mistaken you, but... it has been some time since we last saw one another face to face."

she straightened, her posture as composed, but the slight furrow in her brow betrayed her uncertainty. "though forgive me, if i am mistaken."

[calculatedtwilight]

♛ → BRAAVOS present(s) SABIHA ZALYNE, the LADY of VELESSAR HALL. when the dragons danced in the sky they DID NOT CARE WHO would still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. the TWENTY SEVEN year old FEMALE who was PERCEPTIVE & COMPASSIONATE before they saw the first of the flames, is now RIGID & HESITANT after seeing the last. they’re often associated with the rustle of maps and trade contracts folding into her sleeves like secrets, cloves and honeyed tea, whispers of stars woven into silk. ( hande ercel. )

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