Blood Dreams
If there's one thing I miss about the north, it's snow. Lyanna Stark leaned into her windowsill; both the draperies and the full gray felt of her skirts were fluttering in the Dornish winds, but the breeze was warm and remarkably dry. I feel like my blood's melted down here, and maybe my spine, as well.
The sands beyond the Tower of Joy sprawled for miles before her eyes-white, red, gold, and even black in some parts. Wherever Dorne went, however, the sun went with it, and in full power.
Truth be told, Lyanna had enjoyed the weather when she'd first been brought here; it had been a remarkable change from the bitter winds at Winterfell. The first fortnight, she'd descended from the Tower, dressed in drab brown peasant's robes so lightweight that they'd felt featherlike on her skin, and rode her special sand-steed all throughout the town. With her waist-length dark hair pinned and her house colors shucked, Lyanna was as unremarkable as any reasonably-attractive young girl in Dorne.
Well-perhaps she would have been unremarkable, but for her skin. Being a child of winter, and by proxy of snow and covered skies, Lyanna had skin like an unspoilt cloud. Within an hour of riding, she began to feel faint; her skin had a strange heat to it, as if it were flaming from within.
When she'd returned that evening, exhausted but smiling, Rhaegar had gaped in shock.
"My love, your-your face!" He'd touched her cheek with such concern. He was such a gentle man-the gentlest dragon who'd ever lived, she wagered. She remembered the coolness of his hand on her face, as though he were the northern wind kissing her burning cheeks and relieving her of that hellacious Dornish singe.
"Oh, come off it, my prince." She'd smiled teasingly, though the motion hurt her tortured face. "You think I haven't had worse wounds than this?"
"You've never been to Dorne," he said, his expression one of deepest melancholy-as though she'd broken a limb, or fallen fatally ill. "You didn't know. I should have told you… for that, love, you have my deepest apologies."
"Apologies!"
Even now, months later, she had to laugh. Rhaegar Targaryen was the prince of Westeros, so, accordingly, he shouldered all of the Seven Kingdom's burdens onto his shoulders. As if he needed mine.
He had taken her burdens, though, and suffered them with dignity. She thought of the commotion that had risen since her departure-mainly, she thought of the Baratheon boy and her brother taking up arms against the king. She had heard little of the war, but she did know that they were calling it "Robert's Rebellion". How fitting! And how he must have leapt at this chance!
Absently, she pulled away from the window. As her pregnancy ripened, she'd taken to wearing the dresses from her virginal days at Winterfell-the full, fluffy skirts, the fur trim, the colors of her house, that dense wolf-pelt gray and blizzard white. She wanted to feel the ice collect in her hair as she rode through the snowy fields; she wanted to seek sanctuary in the godswood, to see her brothers' faces, to hear the wolf's lonely wail pierce the night.
The Stark words never left her heart. Even as her days were filled with the heat of Dorne, the fire of passion and the blood of Rhaegar's sworn enemies, Lyanna never forgot the creed of Winterfell. Winter is coming. And every morning when she woke, as her baby kicked at the womb holding him tight, she spoke them aloud.
Aye, that's right, little wolf. She sat on her bed awkwardly. It seemed as though all of her movements had become awkward. Winter will come for your father. Winter will come for me, maybe sooner than I'd hoped. And someday, it will come for you… bastard-born, ill-bred. Aye. It'll come for you with a vengeance.
This saddened her more than she could say. Lyanna hadn't been happy in moons, though-and what reason had she to be? Here she was, isolated and a secret. Her betrothed and brother were involved in a war for her safety. And vengeance, I know. Vengeance for Father and Brandon.
Rhaegar had been so reluctant to speak of the incident. It had depressed him, perhaps more than it had Lyanna; he'd sat with her for days in silence, playing that lovely harp of his to pass the time.
Lyanna had cried. He plucked the strings on that instrument, and with each quivering note she remembered her father's stern face, telling her to cover up properly if she were going riding. She remembered Brandon's crazy eyes and his howling laughter as he dumped snow down the front of her blouse. When Rhaegar finally stopped playing, she had broken into a fit of sobs, and he dutifully set his instrument aside to hold her.
It was then that the rumors started. When next Lyanna ventured outside-tanned and nearly unrecognizable, or so Rhaegar informed her-she heard the commonfolk gossip.
"I've heard the prince is keepin' her somewhere secret and rapin' her every night."
"But he's the prince-so Robert must be makin' it up!"
"That wayward boy will kill us all."
The Dornish would never openly side with Robert, no matter how mad Aerys had become. Lyanna knew this because Rhaegar had told her, before he'd left Dorne.
"What makes you so sure?" she'd asked, lacing her fingers through the waterfall of his hair; the strands lay across her newly-tanned arms like silver water, and felt as light and cool.
"Have you forgotten? I'm married to Dorne." When he said this, it was without much feeling at all. It even the lacked the weight his words normally did, that hidden grief, those lengthy shadows. "Dorne will never take up arms against my father as long as Elia is my wife, and Rhaenys my daughter."
The words had weighed cold on Lyanna's shoulder-that was when she'd first realized how near winter truly was, how frightfully cold her world was becoming. Rhaegar could never love her the way he was meant to love Elia-for the moment he turned his back on her, Dorne would come for him and all of his kin.
Now Lyanna put her arms around the bubble of her stomach, feeling whispers in her blood. Little wolf. I have done you wrong. I have given you a broken realm. I can give you a first name, but I can never give you a true name. You will be neither Targaryen nor Stark, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry.
As the day drew closer, Lyanna became more introspective. She'd never been one to dwell on such miseries-she'd left that to her brother Ned. Even after receiving the news about Rickard and Brandon, Lyanna had done her best to keep herself cheerful. She was only the She-Wolf, after all; it was the She-Wolf's duty to aid the wild wolves, the quiet wolves, the young wolves. But now all Lyanna could do was wait in darkness, alone. She had a single handmaiden, and she couldn't trust her with any of her words-in this troubled time of bloodshed and betrayal, how could she? She still heard enough gossip about Rhaegar and about Ned to keep her occupied, and that was all she could ask for-as long as I know that they are alive and well, then I can rest easy.
Rhaegar was more than well, she knew. The Princess Elia had finally given birth, this time to a son. The ordeal had nearly killed her, which Lyanna couldn't wish for, no matter her feelings; she'd been relieved to hear that the Dornish princess had safely recovered.
A son. Rhaegar has a trueborn son by his Dornish wife. Lyanna's heart had gone dark that night, her thoughts darker. What need has he of me? If I were to return to Winterfell… wouldn't that solve everything? Wouldn't Robert end this war?
She'd rubbed at the stirrings in her middle. No. What a foolish thing to think. Honestly. Robert would never forgive Rhaegar for being my lover. He would never forgive me for bearing his bastard. And I think… I think this war is about more than my favor, now. In fact, she knew it.
Even if none of that were true-I could never marry Robert. This she knew to be fact. The boy was a friend of hers, and a great friend of Ned's, but could never be more. She was betrothed to a boy who could never make her blood sing, could never play the harp until she wept. Gods forgive me. This war will see the realm bleeding.
Now Lyanna pulled the gown up over her head. Sweat beaded on the pale swells of her body like crystal beads on a tapestry. When did it grow so hot? Her stomach clenched. I will go to sleep, she decided at once. I will stop dwelling on these sad things and sleep. Rhaegar will come to me in my dreams, and I will be ready for him.
After she climbed into bed, however, her gut sent a knife of pain through her. She suppressed the urge to cry out; she thought randomly about the she-wolf in the north, hunting for her pups. I will dream a wolf dream for you, my little one, she thought, clenching her teeth. I would kill a hare for you-a stag-a bear. I couldn't give you a name, or a realm, or a family-but I could give you wolf blood, and that's all you will need.
Elia had dreamt fever dreams for nearly a fortnight-since the birth of little Aegon, to be exact. She'd given every last ounce of her strength to bring to little prince into the world, and, though she wasn't sure why, the gods had seen fit to save her. Now the prince rested in the arms of his wet nurse while his dying mother struggled to return to the land of the living.
In those sweaty and demonic nights, Elia had dreamt of her brother, the Red Viper. She'd seen him running from her on a horse as red as the blood crowning his poisoned spear, and she remembered crying out for him and the Dornish wasteland he carried with him.
"Take me home, Oberyn," she'd called, reaching for her brother; he'd looked at her with the eyes of a snake, never stopping, never hearing. "Take me to Dorne with you."
Then her dreams had taken a turn-a turn for the worse. They were at Harrenhal, she with her court, and she was watching her husband enter the jousting arena. He was as beautiful in this dream as he'd been in reality; his silver hair streamed unbound about his gleaming black armor. Those deep, melancholy lavender eyes scanned the crowd, and Elia waited as they stopped on her. She smiled at her husband, and waited for him to approach her with the crown of flowers.
He kicked his beautiful steed forward, and bypassed Elia. She froze, hearing the gasps erupt from the audience-for she was his wife, and had borne his trueborn daughter. She was the Dornish princess, the Targaryen bride.
However, Rhaegar never looked at her. He stopped before a lovely young girl with wild dark hair and eyes like chips of ice, and he rested the crown of love and beauty on her northern brow.
This only made her cry for Oberyn yet again. "You're the only one who will ever love me," she'd wept into her pillow, as the fires ignited in her bones. "No man can save me from this, but you."
When she awoke each morning, she'd feel as though she'd been drawn and quartered; each part of her ached, and her abdomen especially cramped and clenched. Blood still trickled from between her legs, warning her that her ordeal was far from over-she only remained amazed that the rest of her insides hadn't come out with Aegon.
Oh, the absolute hell I've endured… she wanted to forget it, she truly did. Her health hadn't been good after the birth of her daughter, either, but Aegon had been something else entirely. Rhaegar's son had seemingly tried to kill her as he was given life. It was as though he were a true dragon, with claws tearing at the inside of her womb, and flaming breath scorching her between her legs.
And where, where was he through all of this?
She did not know. All she heard at her bedside was the chatter of her handmaids, the voice of the midwife, and the gentle, soothing assurance of the queen. Rhaella had been the only Targaryen present. Elia was grateful to her goodmother for that; without her, she wasn't sure she would've pushed through it at all.
And the baby! Elia supposed most mothers felt sheer joy with the weight of their newborn in their waiting arms; Elia, however, only began to cry, feeling broken all over. Aegon was the spitting image of Prince Rhaegar, as squashed and squalling as he was; he had a head full of silver hair, and the noble nose and jaw of the Targaryen prince.
Damn him, she'd thought, sobbing, damn Rhaegar for doing this to me.
Queen Rhaella had seen her good-daughter's tears, and had taken the babe from her immediately.
"Take the babe to his wet nurse," she commanded, her normally-fragile voice authoritative enough to shear through Aegon's cries. "The princess has been through quite an experience. Leave us."
Elia had given up her son without effort; she felt as though she would pass out from the pain that didn't stop, the fire crawling from her womb to her head, the blood that just wouldn't stop coming. She sobbed, ignoring the looks the servants exchanged as they left her bedchamber. What does it matter? What does anything matter, now that I'm dying?
Rhaella had taken her gently by her shoulders. "No, Elia, no. You're not dying." She'd said it aloud? "You are a Martell, and, what's more, you are the wife of a dragon." Rhaella grasped her hands, willing her to see.
"I'm the wife of a man who does not want me," she remembered saying; it seemed like such a blur now. Elia was still ashamed of that. Rhaella was the queen, for the gods' sakes. Elia had been talking about her son, and the prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
Still, the silver-haired matriarch didn't reprimand her. She merely stroked the dark hair from her sweaty face and whispered, "Those of us who marry dragons sacrifice so much, don't we?"
Elia had fainted after that. For a fortnight after, her nights had been misery and agony; she knew Rhaegar had returned to see his son, but she hadn't been awake when he'd called on her. In her dreams she saw a silver-haired man sitting in the corner of her chambers, playing a harp with gentle hands. He sang for the Starks, for justice, for love.
Then he'd left. He'd gone, and he hadn't said a word to her. Rhaella gave her pitying looks when she finally managed to come to the dining hall, but Elia pretended not to notice.
I'm the daughter of Dorne, she thought, pushing food into her mouth with a listless hand. I'm the wife of a dragon, and now I'm the mother of one. She knew she looked awful-her looking glass told no lies about the shadows deepening under her eyes, about the gaunt wasteland of her cheekbones and breastbone. She didn't care, didn't have time to care.
"I want him BURNED!" The king screamed from the head of the table; Rhaella's hands were folded into a tight ball in her lap. She pretended not to hear. She, too, had been great with child throughout Elia's pregnancy, but she had a moon or two to go before giving birth. Elia pitied her. It seemed that the queen spent most of her time shielding young Viserys from his father's insanity and getting sick.
"Your Grace," the man started, but Aerys II slammed his fist onto the heavy oak; goblets and platters bounced. Elia was surprised to see how shrunken the king looked. Did he always look that way-like a man who's mind has begun to rot like the dead? She'd always thought well of the man before giving birth, but now she wondered if Rhaegar shouldn't have taken his place long ago.
"Bring that filthy liar to me, or I'll burn you in his place!"
Elia hadn't the faintest clue who they were talking about. She knew about Aerys burning Rickard Stark alive, of course, but Elia and Rhaella had taken their young children away from the horrorshow as it happened. Viserys had cried, most likely without knowing why-Rhaella had her arms about his middle, whispering sweetness into his little white ear.
Rhaenys had only been curious.
"Mother, what's 'wildfire'?" She'd asked. Her kitten darted across the room, tiny tail lashing like a thread of black silk.
"Never you mind it, Rhaenys." Elia had stared at the cat, remembering the name her daughter had given it. Black Balerion the Dread, the name of the great and ferocious beast Aegon the Conqueror had ridden. Oh, Oberyn, they sold me into this family of madmen, and now I fear even my children.
Now, as the king fumed in his chair, the crown slipping from his skull, Elia thought of her husband placing that crown of roses onto the brow of a northern girl. She thought of that same girl, great with child, lying with her husband and eating fruit from his delicate fingers. She felt empty.
This is how you know that you did not marry for love. She looked to the king and queen. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling my best. Do I have permission to retire early, Your Grace?"
He waved her off without a second look; Elia always had the feeling that he half-thought her an imaginary person, though his grandchildren were of her womb. All the better for me. She bowed, rose, and retreated to her bedchamber, which had become so familiar to her. It almost felt like home, being draped in red and orange silk for the Dornish house of Martell.
Elia's eyes widened in surprise. Her daughter, who rarely visited, sat on her bed; her yellow silk dress bore the downy black hair of her kitten. "Mother," she cried, and clutched at Elia's legs. She couldn't help but smile at the girl.
Oh, my poor little princess. She reached for her. When she filled her arms with Rhaenys, she realized just how fragile the girl was; she also realized just how Dornish she looked. That widow's peak, and those dark eyes… she's a little Elia, a little Oberyn.
Elia sat on the bed and absently stroked the girl's hair. The sun was setting outside the Red Keep; all of King's Landing appeared to be bathed in the blood of its nation.
Soon it will be, I fear. She pressed her cheek flush against the nape of Rhaenys' neck. My love, my love. I'm so sorry. If I had only aspired lower, you could be a noblewoman, a Hightower or a Tully. Instead, I've given you madness.
She thought of the baby, little Aegon IV in his wet nurse's arms, suckling at a stranger's breast. My children. Rhaegar has given you dragon names. Dragon hearts. You two are his fire and his blood; may the gods be good to you both. She buried her face in the girl's fragrant black hair.
Elia Martell watched the sunset with her daughter, and she wished for Dorne-wished for her children to be barefoot and wet, playing in the Water Gardens.
She wished that the shadow of Rhaegar's tormented soul hadn't doomed them all.