Note: Title from Hayley Kiyoko's Palace.
On her fortieth name day, Elia had risen early enough that the Vale was still a darkness cupped by shadowy mountains.
Elia carefully put down her cup of wine, warmed and spiced, on the balustrade outside her window. nough that the Vale was still a darkness cupped by shadowy mountains.
Elia carefully put down her cup of wine, warmed and spiced, on the balustrade outside her window. She huddled in her veils. When she turned her cheek against the chill of the mountain winds, she found comfort in the crook of Lyanna's neck.
"And then," Lyanna was saying in a barely hushed voice, the glee in it barely contained as well, "and then I rose to my feet, right, and this knight blusters. Said, 'You son of a pox-ridden whore! You son of a whore!' and on and on. He kept caterwauling about the scratch on his plate. And me being a son of a whore, of course. So I didn't help him up."
Lyanna chortled.
Elia felt the warm tremble of it, and kissed Lyanna's jaw. "He should not have said that to you." Her hand found Lyanna's callused one. "What happened then?"
"Well, my love." Lyanna put her arm around Elia's shoulder. "I raised my visor. Gave him a good long look of this face. And then I said, 'I'm on amiable terms with a lady with a keen mind for coin and custom, and she's also a whore. I'm only friends with a whore. Is that all right?'"
Elia burst out laughing. She pressed her face against Lyanna's shoulder, her own shoulders shaking as she tried to muffle her laughter on the dark tumble of Lyanna's hair. The current fashion of the court inclined on the dark hair, Elia thought with a sudden smile.
When she tipped up her face again, her cheeks still aching, she found Lyanna grinning at her.
How she loved Lyanna's grin. The wide and fierce curve of it barely contained. Just like everything about Lyanna, from her snapping grey eyes to her heavy-heeled strides.
She had grown to love everything about Lyanna.
But it had not always been so.
She had not loved the girl who crowned her with winter roses during Harrenhal's final feast. Elia had been offended the rest of the tourney. She had been furious with Rhaegar. The climate had been unstable, and she and her children had been in the centre of it. When Rhaegar had cloaked her with his protection, she had taken it to mean that he would bring stability, a sturdiness, if not love.
But then Lady Lyanna had approached the High Table, worrying her lip, eyes darting to the king's empty seat. When she had crowned Elia it was quite clumsy, with all the hushed attention on them and with Rhaegar beside Elia. But Elia had found herself really studying Lady Lyanna's determined eyes.
"I kept them fresh for Your Grace," Lady Lyanna had told her.
She had not loved the girl who sat across from her, when their late husbands fought each other in a trial by combat.
No, she only had cool respect for the girl who survived everything with her, from the trial by combat to the king's violent reaction to the rebellion.
"Thank you for inviting me to be one of Your Grace's ladies," the Dowager Lady of Storm's End, all of six-and-ten, had told Elia one winter night after the rebellion. Her eyes had been heavy with shadows, and her voice had been solemn. "Though I do think I'd make for a poor hostage. I've got no heir of my own. My good brother is now Lord of Storm's End. The Lords of Winterfell and Riverrun and the Eyrie would have not much need of me."
"I invited you," Elia had replied. "You are not my hostage. A – link, shall we say. The realm has bled enough. And you accepted and came here, did you not, my lady?"
"I am grateful for a place at court. I wish - I wish not to marry again."
"That, and my ear."
"Well." The Dowager Lady of Storm's End had furrowed her brows. She had paused for several moments. Then, slowly, as if testing each word: "I would also be grateful for that, Your Grace."
And Elia had been so tired, and so cold.
Where are my tears? she had asked herself, again and again. There is something wrong with me. I have not gone mad.
There had still been a numbed place in her heart for Aegon that she did not wish to unlock. There had been Rhaenys who was the three-year-old successor to Aerys II. There had been Lords Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Baratheon. There had been Lord Lannister whose song shifted and muddled. There had been a standstill in the realm. There had been Elia, and the rest of the Council of Regents.
Elia had thought that she would never feel wholly warm again. That time would crawl by and suffocate her, and when she looked back to see if she had truly lived those times she had feared that she would only see a shapeless haze.
But then one day, Lady Lyanna had asked to partake in the yard practice.
Lady Lyanna's brooding silences thawed throughout the moons. Laughter and lively talk came effortlessly to her, to the delight of Rhaenys most of all.
Elia had found herself talking with Lady Lyanna. Cordial, at first. Then it took the tone of more than passing interest. When it became friendly, Elia had learned of the tiredness deep in Lady Lyanna's bones, for Lady Lyanna had not only had to drill in the yard but also keep up being effortlessly lively and charming whilst weighing every word and deed, and still grieving.
And as they had talked with each other, they had come to know each other. They had come to love each other.
How did it become love, Elia mused as the Vale's horizon turned grey.
Perhaps when Lady Lyanna had looked up from the yard one day, and found Elia secretly admiring her every handsome jut of chin and sure stroke of arm. Perhaps when Elia had found Lady Lyanna trying to coax Rhaenys not to eat too much sweets, saying, "Princess Elia may be warm and kind, Your Grace, but she will not stand for nonsense."
Perhaps when Lady Lyanna had made her laugh, and when her laughter had made Lady Lyanna grin this uncalculated grin, this uncontained grin, Elia had not seen on her since the tourney of Harrenhal.
Perhaps when Elia had grown to be more patient, and when she had finally allowed herself to grieve. Perhaps when Lady Lyanna had grown to be more careful yet still found her true, uncomplicated laughter. Perhaps when they had grown.
"Ah, there it is," Lyanna said, sipping at her cup as the Vale stirred below them. "I love sunrise." She turned her head and, her lips warm against Elia's forehead: "I love Her Grace the Queen's Mother, the Sun of Dorne. I love you."
Dawn was trickling from the horizon. It brushed away the darkness in sure strokes, turning every dark corner a gentle gold, a vibrant pink. It turned Elia's veils into the liquid orange of summer, and it gilded the dark locks falling over Lyanna's eyes.
"And I love you."
Elia kissed her. Lyanna's lips were familiar. Elia could taste the laughter in them, and the warmth. Lyanna tightened her arm around Elia's shoulders, and Elia pressed closer into Lyanna's tall sturdy form. The kiss was familiar. It slowed the time. It poured the sunrise into Elia's blood.
Elia pressed a final kiss on her. "Will you go ahead and compete on the morrow?"
"Why, of course." Lyanna peered out at the sunrise pooling from the horizon. "How can I crown you otherwise? And I haven't savoured the Vale below the Eyrie yet. I seem to recall I savoured my lunch again and again on the way up."
Elia laughed. "My poor love." And Lyanna grinned and kissed her again.
On the morrow they would descend for the tourney in honour of the first progress of Rhaenys II, a ruling queen in her own right. Elia would have to be careful not to tire herself today, so that she could have the health to make the descent.
On the morrow she would write another page of her thoughts, like her mother did before her, and say that she lived another day to see the dawn, from the top of a mountain, with Lyanna.
fin