The thunder echoed through the walls of the Keep, louder and fiercer as the storm grew closer to the city over the Narrow Sea. The silver haired babe that lay in the crib beside her bed wailed in fear of the terrible noise, alone in the dark. But she did not go to him. Instead she held the man that lay beside her, as he shivered with uncontrollable violence. His skin was cold and his brow moist with sweat. His eyes were open, but he did not see her face. As she struggled to contain him in his pain, she wondered what ghosts the prince looked upon this night.

Elia had never liked the rain. She missed the morning sun at Sunspear, warm and beautiful. It would light up the city with a glow that meant home. But Elia had not seen a Dornish morning in many moons. Summer in King's Landing was no true summer. And she had spent five years of summer in the capital city.

She had been ten and six when the dragonprince had asked for her hand. Of course, he hadn't done the asking, and she wasn't the one being asked. The marriage had been agreed upon by the King and her brother, Prince Doran of Dorne. Perhaps for many girls, the match would have been one out of a dream – certainly for Lady Cersei Lannister it would have. But for Elia, Prince Rhaegar had been but a fable, spoken of with awe and wonder, too perfect to be true. She had heard rumours of his beauty and grace, but never had she imagined to lay claim to them as his lady wife – no, his royal wife.

Their first meeting had been at the alter under the light of the Seven. She had studied him as she walked into the Sept of Baelor. He had been everything that gossips described. He stood tall in his silk doublet of black and red, the three headed dragon roared proudly on his cloak. His silver hair fell past his shoulders and his eyes shone a bright violet. Elia had been prepared to resist this match in whatever little way she could as she walked down the aisle towards him, be it resentment or reluctance to give in to whatever charms he offered. But as she grew closer towards him that day, she read something strange in his eyes. The dragonprince's eyes carried a deep sorrow; a sorrow she somehow knew had nothing to do with her, one she couldn't understand.

Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, her royal husband, she quickly learned, was the quiet kind. He had said little or nothing through the course of the wedding feast. He was no drinker either – he nursed the same cup of wine the entire evening. While what seemed like the entire realm celebrated with the cheeriest extent of frivolity, the marriage of two great houses of Westeros, in the Great Hall, the prince seemed detached and silent. Elia was early to realize that there was more to Rhaegar than a fabled glorious prince, much more. But it wasn't until later that night that she learned just how much.

"I beg you not to fear me, Princess, for I mean you no harm" had been the first words her royal husband had said to her in the confines of the royal bedchamber. She had sat on the bed, undressed and ready for what was to follow, utterly perplexed and curious as to what he had meant, but he had said no more that night. He had diligently done his part in consummating the marriage. It had been comfortable to say the most. There had been no passion, nor any pain in the act - only duty.

It was at the hour of the wolf that same night that Elia discovered what her royal husband had meant. She was awoken by his scream; her breath was caught in her throat. She turned to see his form awkward and shaking. His face was paler than the sheets on the bed and his limbs had frozen. He writhed uncontrollably as the whites of his eyes flickered dangerously. His bare chest glistened with sweat. Elia was paralyzed by the very fear Rhaegar had asked her to set aside. Scrambling out of the bed she had run to the door and called for help, horrified, while her husband convulsed in pain whose cause she could not understand. But Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, and sworn kingsguard of the tortured prince had but stood there, with his head bowed. He had done nothing, while his prince wailed in agony. After incredulous protest on Elia's part, the white knight had spoken words that she carried with her to this day, "This pain is his to bare alone, Your Grace. There is nothing to be done."

White faced and horrified, Elia stood and watched her husband scream. Minutes felt like hours as she waited- praying- for it to stop. And it did.

Rhaegar's eyes had opened to see her standing shocked and afraid, with her back against the wall. He had panted hurriedly as colour returned to his face. The sweat had caused his hair to stick to his brow. A residual fear remained in his purple eyes as he looked at his wife who mimicked his expression.

"Princess-" he began bending forward in an attempt to explain himself, but was cut off by Elia's frightened gasp. "Please allow me to explain-"

She gasped in fear as he attempted to rise. He instantly held out his hand, urging her to calm down. What else could he do to convince the princess that he was not a madman?

"Princess," he said as he drew a deep breath to calm himself, "I truly meant you no harm. Please know that…"

It was that night that Elia had learned what a green dream was. She had heard fables and stories that had described them to be a kind of second sight, one that could look into the future. Her brother Oberyn had made them seem exciting in the stories he had told her as a child. But never once, had she believed the fables to be true.

She had stood rigid and afraid, still against the wall, for what felt like hours, as the weak prince told her his tale. They had begun when he was a boy. His first dream had been at the age of four, of fire and smoke, those he had seen the day he was born at Summerhall. The frightened boy had cried and wet himself, causing his royal father to slap him across the face in front of the whole court as punishment. As he grew older the dreams had gotten worse. Sometimes he dreamt of fire – dreams so vivid he could feel the air being sucked out of his lungs and smoke taking its place. Other times he dreamt of bitter cold and a chill of fear that had nothing to do with the weather. Sometimes he dreamt of darkness – pitch black nothingness. Those dreams were the worst. But it was one night when he was ten and three years old, when he realized that what he saw when he closed his eyes, was not a nightmare.

"I saw a horse," the prince shivered as he told his royal wife, "Its teeth were rot and its hide has withered. It was a walking corpse. But it stood in the darkness…in the snow…" the prince's voice reduced to barely a whisper. He bowed his head as tears rolled down his pale cheeks.

Elia stood rigid against the cold stone. She wanted to run out of the room - all the way to the harbour where she could get on a ship and sail back home. She wanted to cry out in fear. She wanted to be anywhere but where she was. But as much as she feared the prince in his current state, she also felt sorry for him as she saw him crumble before her.

"Then I saw what was riding it…"

The prince had suddenly spoken, his head still bowed, his voice still a shadow. He slowly looked up at Elia, eyes red and moist.

"It was death," he had said. "Death is coming. And I see it getting closer every night."