As always, thanks to all my reviewers for keeping this story alive.

Lady of Dorne

Words and Winds

She opened her eyes slowly, reluctantly. Some instinct told her that she would wake up to something terrible, so she clung to her sleep for as long as she could. But finally, she lifted her eyelashes and tried to focus amidst the torrent of fear and silent screams raging in her head.

"Elia."

The sound of this voice, the sight of this face hovering over the bed carried back the memory she had tried to forget in her sleep… tried to escape in her unconsciousness. She reached out and caught her cousin's hand. "Who?" she asked in a low tense whisper.

When one looked at Naeryn Sand, they were usually reminded of a frail silver doll whose imperfection made the rest of her all more fragile but that appearance was deceiving. She was stronger than she looked like – and the power in her right arm and hand was something that no one but a maester could anticipate. She could shake Elia away as easily as if she were Aegon – but she didn't. Her violet eyes filled with tears. "Doran," she said. "Mellario. The children."

Elia's lips moved in a faint attempt to form words, then she gave up and simply let the tears fall.

Outside, her Dornish retinue had gathered in the antechamber. Her father and aunt had taken the grim task of informing everyone how their kin was faring. Elia heard a wail and she couldn't make the voice out as Naeryn hurriedly assured her that Oberyn and the girls were fine, as well as their other family. That made it better but not by much.

"You can weep all you want," Naeryn said. "The Seven knows that I still do. But do it now. Let the worst come out today, for tomorrow, we'll need you with a clear head."

Even in her grief, Elia understood the implication. She could not think about it now, though. She threw her arms around Naeryn's neck and wept.

She didn't know how much time had passed before finally, the door opened. A moment later she was swept in a tight embrace that almost lifted her off the bed. She clung to the familiar smell and grip of arms that had always made her feel safe and loved, the arms she had thought she would never feel again. "My precious one," he said hoarsely. "At long last…"

That was how the King found them when he opened the door to Elia's bedchamber – Alric leaning over her and she clinging to him, her fists curled into his doublet. Elia did not hear her husband's coming but Alric looked up, straight at Rhaegar. For a moment, the King saw the same shock that the newcomers he had seen on his way through Elia's suite had regarded him with. Alric looked down at Elia almost immediately, though. "Your Grace," he said. "I'd like a moment of privacy with my daughter."

Rhaegar nodded. "I understand, my lord," he said. "I only came to see whether Elia needed something."

Alric didn't say anything, just looked at him again. The tender expression he had been looking at Elia with swiftly melted into something entirely else altogether; in the brief flash of his eyes, Rhaegar immediately recognized the like of the man's son Oberyn. Alric reached for his daughter's hand, touched the long rugged scars and raised his eyebrows. Is this your care, his eyes spoke. "I assure you," Alric said evenly. "I am more than adequate to take care of whatever needs my daughter might have."

Since his concern about Elia had really been the only reason for his coming – at least for now, - Rhaegar decided not to take offense. He could hardly expect his goodfather to like him. And he was well aware that in such a moment, his presence would bring Elia more discomfort than comfort. Gone were the days they had felt good around each other. He didn't know how she felt about him – he hadn't seen her in four years, just the polite serene mask a queen was required to wear. "I'll leave you, then," he said and did.

Swept by grief as she was, it didn't occurred to Elia that this might be her chance to have him leave her life forever.

In the evening…

To everyone's astonishment, Elia did appear on the evening feast, perfectly composed and immaculately dressed. As pale as ghost, she had her hand on her father's arm but she was walking steadily, as proud and dignified as ever. The retinue following them attracted everyone's notice, especially the two women with silver hair and amethyst eyes, clad in rich scarlet silks. Everyone knew that King Aerys had arranged Rhaegar's marriage to Elia specifically because she had some dragon blood on both sides but it was easy to brush her heritage aside as something that had been lost in flesh and spirit long ago. She never spoke of her Targaryen ancestors and when one looked at her, she was all Dorne, sun-kissed skin and eyes the colour of a deep night without a shade of light. Daella Targaryen's looks had passed her son and her granddaughter by – but they were more than evident in the woman who could only be her daughter. And the young one could only be her daughter. Silver hair and amethyst eyes. Medium height and slim build. A poised posture and proud gait, as if they graced every chamber they walked in with the benevolence of their very presence. A wave of whispers rippled through the hall as the realization who exactly they were dawned upon everyone. Those were women who would be hidden away for the family honour's sake everywhere – everywhere but Dorne.

Elia seemed to be looking straight ahead but that was clearly not the case because when Naeryn started to head for one of the tables meant for their countrymen, she stopped and looked over her shoulder before turning fully. "You'll sit with me," she said and indicated the high table.

Naeryn gave her a stunned look. "I… I don't think…"

"Don't think," Elia said. "Just walk."

So Naeryn Sand, the girl without a father, an object of all kinds of rumours since before she was born, climbed to the dais and curtsied to the King.

Rhaegar stood to meet them and took Elia's hand from her father's to lead her to her seat. "What are you doing?" he murmured under his breath. Bastards did not belong to the dais but of course, he could not send Naeryn away without insulting his first wife.

Elia gave him a level look. "She's family," she murmured back. "She always sits with us. Her stepfather doesn't mind."

Now, this was an argument he could not really object to. If Aegon V's youngest son had considered Naeryn's mother worthy to be his wife, he could not relegate the young woman to a lower table without risking a falling out not only with Alric and his sister but also his own mother. Rhaella always spoke fondly of her uncle Aemon whom she hadn't seen since Summerhall – and Naeryn's mother had been one of her closest friends, being only a few years older. Now, the two women exchanged smiles and Rhaegar decided to indulge Elia this time.

Behind him, Alric bowed to Rhaella and then Lyanna, quite perfunctorily this time. Rhaegar was relieved that he had bowed, however slightly. He imagined that Oberyn would have not conceded even this.

The servants started bringing the platters in and the feast started.

When Rhaegar felt it was safe, he cast a secret look at Naeryn, vowing that he would not stare. He just felt compelled to look at that part of her that had made her famous all the way through Dorne and a good deal of Westeros. To his surprise, she didn't require any special accommodations and dealt with her cutlery almost as easily as any of them, yet the King wasn't the only one who was looking at her, at the oval piece of skin her left wrist ended with. She truly didn't have a hand. She had been born without one.

Suddenly realizing that he was staring, he was quick to look aside. Why had they brought her along? It would have been far kinder to leave her home where people were more or less used to her. Was this some kind of bizarre challenge or something? Or just desire to provide Elia with the company of a kinswoman? Since the end of the rebellion, most of her Dornish women had returned home. In truth, he had almost expected to see that Alric had brought along Ashara Dayne who had been Elia's closest companion.

Now, it was not the time to talk about politics and no one tried. But the formal condolences could preserve the peace only for so long. Even Arthur, in his white cloak at the end of the dais, looked tense, his eyes moving from Elia's father to Lord Yronwood and Lord Tyrell. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was meticulous in carrying out his duty but a few times, Rhaegar caught him staring at Aelinor Gargalen – Princess Aelinor Targaryen, he supposed it was, although she did not use the style. There was a distant, peculiar look in Gerold Hightower's eyes and Rhaegar was reminded that Aelinor had been born here at the time her father had been the Hand.

But the first arrow was shot with Mace Tyrell's remark. Rhaegar didn't know whether it was due to the wine the Fat Flower had consumed, or simply his antagonism against everything Dornish but the lord of Highgarden said the one thing that could not be explained away with any excuse of misunderstanding and misspeaking: he leaned over the table and grinned at Aelinor before asking in a loud, quite clear voice, "My lady, is it true that you have bedded Maelys Blackfyre?"

The Master of Ships glared at him and Rhaegar wondered why on earth he had decided it would be a good idea to place those two at the same table when they could barely stand the sight of each other even at the meetings of the Small Council. Alric's hand immediately went to his belt and Rhaegar realized that despite not having a sword, as was required in the King's presence, he probably carried a dagger.

Aelinor patted her brother's hand without looking at him to calm him down. Completely unabashed, she raised a fair eyebrow. "Excuse me," she said haughtily. "I thought I was at the King's table. If I need to relieve my conscience, I'll go to the High Septon."

In the silence following her dare, Rhaella turned to her and started a small conversation. Everyone sighed in relief. There wouldn't be any bloodshed in the great hall – yet.

A few hours later…

"Lord Yronwood surprised me."

That was the first words Elia said when she found herself back in her chambers alone with her father, aunt, and cousin.

Alric smiled a little. "He didn't surprise me, though," he said. "Your husband made a mistake by placing him at our table. He thought he was curtailing our presence but he overreached. Anders Yronwood might be a head of a rival House – but he's Dornish, first and foremost."

Elia reclined in an upholstered chair. Yes, it was true. She had almost forgotten that kinship that bounded Dornishmen against the rest of the world. They might fight each other and they might kill each other when they felt it was called to – but no one else could demean a fellow Dornishman or woman without repercussion.

For a while, the four of them were silent until they collected their thoughts. It was quite late at night and her servants had already gone to bed. Aelinor shivered.

"Are you cold?" Alric asked and without waiting went to close the terrace doors. He stayed there for a moment, his silhouette carved in the moonlight, the sudden pang on his face visible. "Lavender," he said and closed the doors. "It always reminds me of Arianne."

That was the very reason Elia had started growing it in the huge flowerpots. Lavender – that was her mother's private garden, her mother's perfume and the scent of her bathwater. Everything.

When her father came back to them, she realized just how old and tormented he was now. His dark skin and the inner fire he could summon at will hid the truth from those who met him for the first time but beneath, his cheekbones were deeply incised, his gait slow, his supply of energy quite exhausted. He had been functioning on sheer will alone – and of that, he had plenty. He had barely touched his wine at the feast and now, Elia realized that it had been because he hadn't been sure he'd be able to hold it.

He took a seat and his face tightened. "Now, we must talk."

"Do we?" Aelinor asked. "We're all tired from the journey and Elia is still dealing with the news. Give her some time."

"I am ready to give her all the time in the world," Alric said. "But the court won't. The King won't. I need to know what we can expect of Elia."

He looked at his daughter. "I believe you are aware of the situation," he said. "Later, we can discuss it in detail but for now, I need to know one thing. You know Dorne will never accept Rhaegar Targaryen as your consort. Do you wish to rule? Tell me now, for if you do not, I won't lose my time making overtures to your husband at all."

The silence that followed was a void of a lifetime filled with other expectations, other plans, other lessons. She had been taught in many arts, many studies and yes, she had even had many first hands glimpses of ruling Dorne. Memories burned through her – the nights her mother had spent over documents, trying to think of the best course in a terrible situation, the months and years her father had spent away fighting the enemies of Dorne and solidifying her mother's rule, the endless meetings of councils and warlords, the hours of rest cut short by a sudden unexpected developments. The mistakes.

At the same time, it was her chance of escaping a life that had become unbearable, no life at all. She could have a new one, in the land of her heart. She could be free from the Targaryen court and the attendants forced on her. She could have a husband who would actually come to her bed. One day, Rhaenys would have Dorne – and a far better life than the one Rhaegar's prophecy would doom her to.

She could have it all.

The pang in her heart was sharp, taking her breath away. No. She couldn't have it all. She had to leave something behind. Her son. The very thought made her bristle with horror. But as Lady of Dorne she would have far greater chances to help him claim his inheritance than an unloved, humiliated queen. Lyanna Stark might have been stupid enough to believe that love conquered all – by now, even she looked quite disabused of the notion – but Elia was far more practical. She would not let her son be usurped by the northern girl's pup. Not until she had a means, any means to fight back. And she would have much more of those if she made the decision.

Her father had the right of it. Dorne would never accept Rhaegar, with his prophecies and his absolute belief in his own dragon blood authority. Even Alric, who was a Gargalen, Prince Maron's own grandson, had been required to grow up in Dorne because Dornishmen didn't want to risk his royal kin influencing their future lady's consort too much.

"Do you… do you believe I can rule?" Elia finally asked and looked at them one by one: her father, her aunt, her cousin. They were all looking at her with the same expression of certainty.

Alric sighed. "You are Arianne's daughter, as well as mine. Of course I do."

It was strange, how such a small thing, a single reassurance could make up one's mind.

Elia slowly nodded.

At the same time…

"Did you see him? Did you? That's what happens when you send a child in Dorne. They send a little boy to Maron Martell and he raised them a Dornish snake."

Arthur's hand went for the hilt of Dawn which, of course, he was now not wearing. She was in his cell, ready to be polished as his evening ritual required. But even if he was wearing her, what could he do? Attack the Lord Commander?

That's because he's drunk, he told himself. He's had the entire day watch and now he drank too much, too fast. He doesn't mean it. Yet each time he heard such words, they cut him deeply. His vows were all there were… but they weren't. Even after all those years, Arthur was of Dorne. Deeply in his mind, in the very heart of his soul, he was Dornish. When he heard his brothers talking of Dornish snakes, Dornish licentiousness, Dornish plots, that made his blood boil, yet he could only grit his teeth and pretend that he had left it all behind. And in truth, it didn't happen all that often. But now, Gerold Hightower didn't look inclined to talk on any other topic.

"What about her? She must be doing something to preserve her looks, for she's just as lovely as she was in her time at court. She was as insufferable even then, though."

If by insufferable you mean able to hold her own, so be it, Arthur thought. For all his respect for the Gargalen siblings, he could see the Lord Commander's point. Despite being as physically different from each other as one could imagine, they both still possessed the charisma that had made their names famous through the realm – the handsome and fierce consort of the Lady of Dorne who had defended her rule and carried out her decisions in Dorne, the Reach, the Stormlands, and Essos, leaving a trail of battles and scandals, and the tragic bride in a blood-bespattered gown, the woman who had borne a child without being sure of the identity of the father, the sorceress who had ensnared a prince into marrying her despite the fact that her reputation had been frayed around the edges.

"Even Prince Aemon thought so," Hightower went on. "He often asked to borrow her tongue to sharpen his sword. Oh how they quarreled! He's the luckiest man in the world. As a man, as a physique he was ruined after Summerhall. I saw him at their wedding. He was nothing like the man he used to be. He couldn't even walk for long without catching his breath. His burns…"

Yes, Arthur wanted to encourage him. What about his burns? He knew that it was not true. Aemon Targaryen was far from ruined, although he had sustained some damages at Summerhall. But he could not say it. The Prince hated his health to be discussed and Arthur was far too loyal to go against his wishes.

"And yet he got the most beautiful woman in the world to fall in love with him. Did you see her? Did you? Can you imagine how she was when she was young?"

Jaime Lannister gave Arthur a helpless look and even Oswell Whent looked at a loss. "Well," he finally said. "It would be logical for her to wed him when she had the chance. With a past like hers…"

The Lord Commander started nodding vigorously, his cheeks and nose bright red. "It would be logical," he repeated and gulped down his wine again. "Right. Everything in life is logical, there's nothing illogical. Except for our many vows and Aelinor Gargalen's marriage. This beauty clung to a cripple. Oh my! When I think of what a fabulous beauty this woman was."

This was the point where Arthur felt that he could take it no longer. He murmured an excuse and headed for his cell. After all, it wasn't as if the Lord Commander would remember of this monologue in the morning – and if he did, he might even feel embarrassed. At least, Arthur hoped so.

A. N. To those unfamiliar with my Targaryen stories: Alric has Targaryen blood through his mother Daella Targaryen, a daughter of King Maekar I. So, Elia has dragon lineage from both sides but it looks like the Targaryen colouring isn't too strong when they marry outsiders, so she looks pure Dornish, just like her parents.