No copyright infringement is intended. All recognizable names and plot characteristics belong to George R. R. Martin.

He walked like a man condemned, for he knew that was what he had become. Dread, anger, sorrow, anxiety, guilt- all churned like a tempest in his mind and stomach.

But not regret. That Rhaegar had wrestled into silence long ago, before Aegon was born, before he had set on this path.

Nevertheless, Rhaegar trudged toward the Targaryen tent with fragments of that determination slipping away with every step. The ebony and crimson colors of his house seemed lurid and dark. Only blue filled Rhaegar's mind at that moment; only blue had filled them the entire day.

Ser Arthur Dayne stood tall and erect, as if to guard against the whispers that leaded the air. Rhaegar paused next to him, refusing to meet Dayne's pale eyes. A loyal Kingsguard and his brother more than Viserys could ever be- Dayne was all that and more but Rhaegar knew not even Arthur could understand his decisions. He could only follow his prince's command.

"She's inside."

"I know."

And so he slipped inside the tent, letting the leather curtain cover the entrance until it was only him and her, bathed in the black and red shadows of the Targaryen colors.

He slowly stripped himself of his armor in the gloom before lighting a candle to look for her; even dragons could not see in the dark.

There she was, splayed against the bedspread, arms raised above her head.

Rhaegar approached until he stood at the foot of the bed, gazing at her prone form. Her eyes were closed, her hair formed a messy halo around her head, and the loose Dornish dress of her people was more of a shift than anything else.

Suddenly, all Rhaegar could see was red and gold and orange, and...sunshine.

"Yes?"

"Elia…"

"You fool."

Rhaegar halted. Fury, despondency, pity- all those he had expected from her, his sweet, clever wife. But not such a banal, neutral tone.

Elia lifted herself off the bed effortlessly, and for a moment, Rhaegar could see none of the delicacy, none of the weakness that had burdened her body after Aegon's birth. Right now, she was as strong as her spirit always had been.

She braced herself on her arms, her eyes half-lidded, and whispered, "Fool."

Rhaegar nodded, took a deep breath, and began to say the words he had practiced for days and days.

"Elia, I understand that you must feel-"

"Anyone."

"-hurt and betrayed, and I apologize for humiliating you-"

Before he could move, could breathe, she had swept her legs underneath her, poised herself on her knees; her eyes were level with his, and they were blazing with fire. She reached out her long fingers and gripped his face, digging her nails into his cheekbones.

"You could have had anyone. And you chose her."

Her voice was cold and calm like a Stark, not like a Martell, and inside his heart that was caged with steely resolve, Rhaegar felt something he had previously believed to be untouchable, break. She swept off the bed, her hair covering what little her dress did. She swept past him, and Rhaegar grabbed her slender wrist.

"I truly am sorry."

Silence.

"For?"

"For the pain I have caused you, for-"

"Pain?"

Her voice was soft, her eyes cast to the floor, and her skin was golden in the candlelight.

"My prince, I have known nothing but pain by your side. Pain in seeing the Mad King's tyranny, pain when I nearly died giving birth to my children, pain at knowing we were never enough for your ambitions- so, please, do not apologize, my lord. I am accustomed to pain."

Rhaegar couldn't breathe. Elia, whose wit he had never known to be anything but toasted with honey, had now laced her words with poison. He wasn't sure if it was a result of his recent choices or because of years toiling through loveless, if mutually fond, marriage.

"Elia, I did it because I had to. The prophecy-"

"I know about the prophecy. Don't you remember, I even agreed to it, if only to make you happy. And you chose her."

"Why not her, Elia? Why?"

He knew why. He knew why from the start, but he wanted to hear her speak his folly to him. And she delivered.

Elia's eyes finally crept up to meet his own, and he felt he was staring into two blazing suns. Her mouth twisted into a feral snarl, her hands crept up to grab his sullied shirt, and he remembered the words of House Martell: 'Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.'

"Why? Why? You know why!"

She shoved him, forcing him back against the foot of the bed before one more push sent him falling into the embrace of the plush blanket. Rhaegar stared at this Elia whom he had not known existed, an Elia who was no more fragile than the warrior-queen Nymeria, an Elia whose rage was a fire that licked and consumed him like a dragon's flame. His Elia, his lovely, brave, clever wife, had disappeared.

"Because she is Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, daughter of the Lord Paramount of the North, betrothed to the Lord of the Stormlands, and now she is your Queen of Love and Beauty! And if your plans go as you have conceived them, she will be the mother of your future daughter. And when the mad, lust-driven Robert Baratheon comes for you and when you have to face her vengeful fathers and brothers and their men, all you will have to support you in this half-wit's battle is whatever's left of House Targaryen, the allies who have not yet deserted, and the few cowards who call themselves the Kingsguard. Do you see the problem, my love?"

Rhaegar did not move; he did not need to. Elia climbed onto the bed, poising herself above him like a lioness.

"What you have done, Rhaegar, is sacrifice your House, your throne, and your family for the sake of a few centuries-old words. A war is coming. People will die. Homes will be burnt. Nothing will ever be the same. And it is all because of you."

She lingered above him for a breath or two, her anguish and his guilt forming a conduit between them. And then she shifted, the bed barely moving once her weight left it.

"Wait."

She waited. He left the mattress and took her hand and brought it to his chest, where the ache had finally taken hold of him.

"I know what I have done. And what I will do. But I started this, Elia. I have to end it. I have to see it through."

She gazed at him with the same fire in her eyes, and Rhaegar was afraid of what she would say, what she would do, this new Elia. And then the light dimmed into glowing embers, and he breathed once more. She placed her hand on his cheek, her fingers dusting the half-moon bites that her fingernails had left, and pressed her lips to their encircled hands, her eyes never leaving his and her voice once again soft and strong and supple.

"Don't. End this here, Rhaegar, please. For Rhaenys and Aegon and your mother and the Stark girl and-"

Rhaegar showered her hands, her face, her hair with kisses before she could sway him.

"I can't, Elia. I can't."

"But you can," she pleaded, tears finally swelling in her eyes, pouring down her cheeks to pool with his own at the crest of their joined hands. "For the children."

"It is for the children, for the kingdom, for you that I am doing this. A dragon has three heads, and the child must be the song of ice and fire. I need her, Elia."

She waited. She waited for the cruel bite of truth. And then-

"I want her."

She cried silently, and he wrapped her in his arms, his own tears rolling down his face to form stars in her dark hair. She would not understand him, but she would stand by him, as she always had.

And so they held each other, for a moment just a man and wife, waiting for fate to destroy them all.