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The Daughter of the Sun

Chapter 6

Prince Lewyn Martell nodded at Ser Barristan Selmy who came to take his watch in front of the King's door and headed for his niece's chambers. The Red Keep was eerily quiet and his were the only steps echoing through the long halls, save for an occasional servant and the guards distributed at equal distance from each other. Everyone was leery of attracting attention to themselves. For a moment, Lewyn thought back about the time the palace had been full of laughter and jubilant mood, when he had been proud to serve a charming and generous king. Now, the Targaryen madness was threatening to ruin everything. To tear the Seven Kingdoms apart.

In Elia's solar, Ashara Dayne sat near the windows, playing with Rhaenys and her kitten. As soon as the little princess saw her uncle, though, she ran to him with a squeal and raised her hands demanding to be lifted. He laughed and obeyed. She rubbed her face against his and scowled. "You are all prickly," she said. "Not nice. Now, Rhaenys' face hurts."

"All right, all right," he promised. "Today, I'm shaving the beard. Consider it gone. Where is Elia?" he turned to Ashara.

"She needed some rest." Ashara stood up and handed Rhaenys to her governess to lead her to bed. The little girl scowled a bit but went obligingly.

She always needs some rest these days, Lewyn almost said. Rhaegar is to blame. He ravaged her, to get his heirs. And when she could no longer sate him as his wife, he chased after the wolf girl. He could have chosen at least someone beautiful! How could I be so wrong about this boy? He is just as mad as his father, just in a different way. And he's absolutely graceless, again like his father. Lewyn had just been told that no matter his personal preferences, he would lead ten thousands Dornishmen against Baratheon. The King had been crystal clear. Not that the Targaryens are worth a single drop of Dornish blood spilt, he thought resentfully. None of them is worth it. Not Aerys. Not Rhaegar.

"So, what's new?" Ashara asked and beckoned him to seat himself near her. He obeyed. The friendship they had stricken early in Ashara's days at King's Landing certainly was a cause for some arched eyebrows – which they both enjoyed greatly. Arthur, of course, did not find anything remotely funny about that.

"Elia loves Arthur," he said softly. Their secret code, their quiet way of defiance against what was happening, against Elia's humiliation, against Rhaegar's blindness.

She waved her hand dismissively. "That's old news. I'll tell you something you don't know. Arthur loves Elia."

"Bloody seven hells," he muttered. He was not surprised but he had hoped he was wrong. He had been with the Targaryens for too many years. He knew Rhaegar – obviously not as well as he had thought but enough to know that the Crown Prince would not tolerate his wife having a reciprocated love, least of all with his best friend. "But they haven't… have they?"

Ashara actually laughed at this. "No, of course not. Don't you know them? They belong to the rare creatures who are unable to break a vow. It's a good think that not all of us are so burdened."

Outside, the wind howled. Ashara shuddered and pulled her gown closer against her. Lewyn went to make a bigger fire. "Better?" he asked.

"Much better." Ashara smiled and poured wine for both of them. For a while, they were silent.

"May I have a goblet of that?" Elia asked from behind. She looked very faint, the wine would certainly do her some good.

Her uncle helped her sit near the fireplace. She sipped her wine in soft delight. "Warmth reminds me of home," she said dreamily.

"Me, too," Ashara said.

"Well, ladies, do you want me to tell you the truth?" Lewyn asked. "Me, too."

Elia slowly turned to him. "Why did you come here?" she asked, taking him aback. "I have always wondered. You were so young, not yet twenty. What made you choose this path?"

Ashara looked at him curiously. Lewyn sighed and looked down at his hands. "My father's untimely death," he said, remembering the frenzy of these early days, the suspicions, the traps. "Had he lived longer, my life would have been much different. But when he died, I was only eighteen and my sister had yet to turn twenty. Dorne hadn't had a ruling Princess in generations and she was so, so very young. A young mother with a little boy and no experience in ruling. There were people who thought it unwise to trust her with Dorne, especially when there was a male heir so close in age. I had to make a statement that I would never seek to usurp her power. And it did solidify our ties to Westeros. I needed to make a statement," he said again.

And what a statement it had been! Solving the matter with honour and glory to all sides. Lewyn loved glory. Both women wondered whether, thirty-five years ago, he had really had any idea of everything he had denied to himself till the end of his life. Probably not – he had been only nineteen. He couldn't have known what thirty-five years meant. And here he was, after such glorious a career, a captive to the Mad King, as they all were.

"Oh," Elia said, stunned. "How noble were you to Mother, Uncle. I never knew… Was it worth it?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "Your mother became a strong ruler. Under her, Dorne prospered. And no one will say a thing when it's Arianne's time to succeed her father. At the end, it turned well for everyone."

Everyone except for you, Elia wanted to say. Everyone but me. She would not voice it, though. It would be ungrateful. "Was it easy?" she asked, trying to get a confirmation, to hear something good and nice.

Her uncle gave her a long, tender look. "Some of us were not born for easy life, child. Some were born for sacrifices."

Like him. Like her. An old, familiar ache stabbed through her: to come here, to live with a stranger, to share her life with him when she has always wanted something else and someone else was not something to be borne easily. Lewyn was right about that. Sure, a sacrifice for Dorne was more than worth it. But it had been - it still was - a sacrifice. For her. For him. And it could have been so different if only her grandfather had lived a little longer, if only Arthur hadn't been so obsessed with pride and glory.

A warm hand covered hers. Her uncle was looking at her, his eyes soft and understanding. "Forgive him, Elia," he said very, very low. "He has suffered too."

"Well, he should have," she spat and then looked guiltily at Ashara who tactfully pretended that she hadn't heard a thing.

But when a few minutes later he appeared at her door, she did not have the heart to send him away. He looked sad and fatigued. Lewyn simply moved aside to make room for him near the fire and Ashara held his hand. Elia silently poured a new goblet. He nodded his thanks. "I'll stay just for a minute," he said. "Just to have this wine, and then I'll leave."

It was obvious that he did not want to. The strain of the rebellion had taken its toll on his body and mind. And his conscience. He had come to seek support in their closeness, although he'd never admit it. But he didn't want to make Elia feel any discomfort over his presence. Still, she didn't feel any. Rhaegar was certain to be disgruntled but she did not care about his murmur. She had had him torn away from her body and heart. She did not even hate him. Once, she had but not any more. She was simply terribly, completely indifferent to him.

"No, stay," she said. "Stay, Arthur."