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It was true, she had been a sickly babe. And a sickly child and a sickly woman. To those who saw her, Elia Martell would shine, just like Doran or Oberyn, but while her brothers (especially her younger one) were ablaze with health and vigor, she simply glowed, like a star who glimmered before it finally puttered out.
No, Elia had never come to accept her less-than ideal constitution. She could not grow accustomed to the wracking coughs that beset her at times; she could not disguise her thin frame that was such an oddity in Dorne, the land of the luscious. But she had grown to weave her way around her shortcomings. What she lacked in health she made up for in personality, and her sunlit aura came not from physical beauty but from strength of presence, for she was vivacious, charming, witty, clever, and above all, kind.
Elia was a rarity for a woman of Dorne, Oberyn would later say. Not because of her appearance but because of her pure heart. Her flower came with no thorns.
But at King's Landing, Elia tended to forget these things, that it was her heart that was her light and not her body. In the Red Keep, where Aerys the Mad King reigned and the walls of the castle caged her in with the cold drafts that left her coughing and the harsh stares that made her bones feel even more pronounced; here, Elia felt lost and lonely even with Arthur and Ashara by her side.
It was not that she didn't love her husband. No, she did. They loved each other, but loving is very different from being in love, and Elia was content with what she had. After all, he didn't beat her or rape her or force her to do anything she didn't want. He came to her, faithfully and occasionally passionately. He read to her, and he took her for walks around the castle whenever her health would permit. They made each other laugh, and in those moments in his solar, when they would pore over maps of Westeros and Essos, planning ludicrous journeys across the Narrow Sea with wineskins in their hands and stars in their eyes, when Rhaegar would run his fingers through her hair, and she would jape at their romanticism, when he would smile that smile and pull her under the covers, in those moments, Elia was as happy as she ever had been at Dorne because she had more than just a husband in Rhaegar- she also had a friend.
But those times were few and far between, for more often than not, Rhaegar was away on "official heir business" or locked in his study, poring over ancient lores and myths, looking for clues to solve the mysteries he had conjured up in his mind.
And when he was not present, all she had for company were her ladies-in-waiting, her children, and the screams of Queen Rhaella as the Mad King laughed from somewhere in the Keep.
History would say that what killed Elia in the end was not her sickly constitution but the violence and bloodlust that had been brought on by her husband's actions.
Elia, however, disagreed. Her end had begun long before the Mountain plundered her body, long before Usurper had come waging a war, long before the Stark girl had disappeared, and long before the tourney that smelled of winter roses and pain.
No, Elia's light had begun to dim the day she looked into those lovely, dark blue-violet eyes, and fell.