C: Matilda - Blog Posts

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ruqaiyah blinked, once, twice, as if trying to process whether the noise entering her ears could possibly be real. she did not deign to respond at first. instead, she turned fully around again—this time with the deliberate, theatrical elegance of a stage-trained courtesan—just to face the girl properly. the girl in question, with her feathered sleeves and painfully under-accessorised neckline in her own opinion, had the gall to smile. smile, as if this were some quaint misunderstanding between friends and not a textile crime punishable by exile.

“you think—” ruqaiyah began, then laughed. not the sweet kind. the sort that was brittle and glittering and unmistakably cruel, like glass breaking under a jewelled heel.

“oh, she’s one of those, is she? sweetling, if you genuinely believe my outfit is the issue here, then i fear we’re dealing with something more severe than clumsiness. we’re talking... mental defect.” she smiled sweetly, venom curling in every syllable. “and here i was thinking the reach only grew bland herbs and boring men. but no—they’re harvesting delusions now.” her tone had risen with each sentence, enough that a few girls nearby glanced over nervously, but ruqaiyah was not done. her blood was humming now, giddy with spite.

she gave a loud, emphatic tch and turned back to the stage, swiping her silky hair over her shoulder in the most pointed manner imaginable and not caring if it perhaps gets in the way of her face. her bangles clinked with regal finality. the concert, she decided, would now belong to her entirely. and so, as bard bieber launched into what do you mean, ruqaiyah lifted her voice. it was high. it was nasal. it was deliberate. “WHEN YOU NOD YOUR HEAD YES, BUT YOU WANNA SAY NO—” she all but began to bellow, slightly off the beat, swaying with renewed vigour - as though she could be the only one who deserves bard bieber's attention.

her hips collided with the girl’s side as though by accident, her perfume—jasmine, oud, something expensive and cloying—billowing like an attack. “WHAT DO YOU MEANNNN!” she sung again, louder, and tossed a look over her shoulder with a smile that was all teeth.

ruqaiyah shifted slightly to the left, blocking more of the girl’s view. a subtle manoeuvre, perfectly executed. she raised her hands dramatically as if summoning the gods themselves. the pearls on her sleeves caught the torchlight, blinding in their beauty. “oh, you can see?” she called sweetly, not bothering to turn this time. “how marvellous. perhaps next time you’ll look before you trample a legacy. if you know anything about real pearls.” because that was what it was, wasn’t it? not a dress. not merely fashion. dornish couture. the height of design, the apex of taste. stitched in starfall, where sun and salt kissed the hands of women more talented than anyone in this room could comprehend.

it wasn’t a gown—it was lineage. it was blood and silk and status. and she—whatever her name was—she had stepped on it like it was laundry. less fabric. hmfsh. ruqaiyah sniffed. she sang louder. the girl didn’t exist anymore. she was no longer relevant to the evening’s story. ruqaiyah had reclaimed the spotlight—and in her mind, it had never left her to begin with.

the music at the verdant concord was nearly deafening, a fever dream of strings and stomping feet and shrieking girls—matilda tyrell among them. she had not intended to get close to the stage, truly, but one glass of arbor wine had turned into three, and bard bieber’s return was, after all, a cultural event. a moment. and matilda was nothing if not timely.

she was mid-step, hands lifted slightly as she swayed in rhythm, gracefully, of course, when her heel caught on something soft and unfamiliar. there was the telltale sound of silk straining, the faintest tug beneath her boot, and then: a voice, sharper than a sandstepped blade.

“i beg your pardon?”

matilda turned, startled, brows lifting as she came face to face with a vision in lavender and lip gloss, radiant and wrathful, the embodiment of stage-front devotion. matilda blinked, instantly registering the horror. her heel had found its way to the trailing hem of the other woman’s gown, and judging by the way the other was glaring at her, one might think she’d torn the fabric with her teeth.

“i promise you, it wasn’t carelessness. i was just… using my eyes for the concert, not for my feet.” a faint, almost rueful smile tugged at her lips. “a poor strategy, as it turns out.”

she stepped back, careful now, hands lifted slightly, not dramatic, just deliberate. “i didn’t mean to step on you. or it. i swear that wasn’t, i wouldn’t.”

her gaze flicked down to the train, a scatter of tiny pearls catching in the folds of silk. matilda’s brows knit together, lips pressed briefly before she spoke again. this time, softer. “it really is beautiful. i should’ve been more careful. if it’s damaged, i can have it mended. i know someone in oldtown who does embroidery so fine it could fool the gods themselves. it’ll be returned to you better than it was, if you'd like.”

a pause, then a small laugh. “though if this is how crowded it gets for a bard bieber return...perhaps next time, something with less fabric to endanger?” her brows lifted, teasing, but her tone stayed warm. “not that I’d dream of telling you what to wear. only that I’d prefer we both make it through the next chorus dancing, without incident.”

who: @cfthornsandroses when and where: the verdant concord. context: bard bieber is performing his first show in years.

ruqaiyah had never been more radiant—at least, not this week. the great hall of highgarden had been draped in ivory silks and strewn with floral garlands that hung like lazy serpents from the beams, but truly, the decoration was incidental. the true centrepiece was her. ruqaiyah dayne stood near the front of the crowd, surrounded by sweating, desperate girls and the occasional knight too proud to admit he knew every word to bard bieber’s ballads. she, of course, did know every word. bard bieber was an institution. a cultural reckoning. the last time she had cried tears of joy, it was because he had winked in her direction during a performance in sunspear. and now—now—he was singing baby, and ruqaiyah was transcending.

the moment the minstrels plucked out the opening chords of sorry, she let out an excited gasp that would’ve embarrassed anyone who didn’t already think she was the centre of the realm. her bangles jangled as she lifted both hands dramatically to the ceiling. “you gotta go and get angry at all of my honesty—” she wailed, completely off-key and completely unbothered.

her silk was lavender tonight, barely-there and stitched with tiny mother-of-pearl beads. it shimmered like moonlight, the train pooling behind her like a spilled potion. she danced in place, twirling slightly to the rhythm, her hips swaying far more suggestively than the tempo required. “i know you know that i made those mistakes maybe once or twice,” she half-sung, half-declared, eyes fluttering closed. she tilted her head back, lip-glossed mouth open in heartfelt sincerity. "by once or twice, i mean maybe a couple of hundred times,” she crooned.

and then - disaster.

her heel stopped short. a jolt tugged backwards through her skirt. her eyes snapped open, fury already flooding her veins. she spun. someone—some painfully reach looking, dreadfully mannered girl—was standing directly behind her, her own heel planted on the silk like she’d confused it for a wine spill. ruqaiyah's jaw dropped in disbelief. “i beg your pardon?” she snapped, voice as sharp and clipped as the edge of a broken mirror. “do you—do you have eyes in that sweet little head of yours, or are they decorative?”

the girl blinked, clearly startled. ruqaiyah narrowed her eyes. “you just murdered a train of imported silk from lys, and you’re standing there like a startled sheep at a harvest fair.” she clicked her tongue, tugging the fabric back with a flourish. she yanked her train free with a dramatic flourish, setting her clutch down on a nearby table as if ready to get into a catfight. “this is bard bieber, not a barn dance,” she muttered, fixing the girl with a stare sharp enough to sheer wool. “if you’re going to hover, learn to hover with grace.”