No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.
When Elia awoke the morning after their wedding night, she felt a chill across her body. The lingering feeling of an arm around her waist told Elia that the two feet's worth of space between her and Rhaegar had not been there a moment ago. She wondered if he had moved when he sensed her rousing or had shifted of his own accord. He was looking at her, but she hesitated to meet his gaze. It was not out of embarrassment, nor fear. Not exactly. It was more of a trepidation, the knowledge that the moment their gazes met, the unspoken events of last night would no longer remain hidden by the darkness of the night nor by the stupor of alcohol. Nevertheless, she could not hide forever and with a shallow breath, dragged her eyes to lock onto Rhaegar's.
For a moment, they were both suspended in mutual remembrance of the passion, the fervor, the electricity. And, then, came the torrent of implications:
Seven help me, we made love last night.
Nymeria, we made love last night.
Gods, how many times? Two? Three?
We are married. Actually married.
She could be carrying my child ri- stop it, Rhaegar. Not now.
He is my husband. My husband.
She looks pale, too pale. Damn, did I hurt her?
I am lying in bed with my husband, Rhaegar Targaryen, in King's Landing, after a wedding night spent making love.
What do I do? Should I do something?
Gods, did I really tell him that I lusted for his fingers? What am I, some blushing virgin from Winterfell?
Why isn't she speaking? Ask her something, you idiot!
Why is he so silent? I should say something, anything.
"How are you-"
"How are you-"
They paused, looked at each other, blushed slightly. Rhaegar gestured with his hand, indicating that she proceed first.
Elia looked down at the space between them, cast her eyes around the dimly lit room. The sun had not risen yet, and the early hour had reduced the din of the city to as close to silence as it could ever get.
"How are you...feeling?"
"Well. Good. Satisfied."
At the last word, Elia met his eyes once more, her eyebrow quirked. It was only when she saw Rhaegar flush and stammer in embarrassment that she laughed aloud, her head thrown back into the cushions at the ridiculousness of it all. Here they were, two grown individuals- husband and wife, no less- fumbling around one another in the early hours of the morning with "How are you's?" after a night of passion and revelation, after glimpsing every naked inch of each other that there was to see. Rhaegar soon joined her, a soft timbre that echoed alongside her own voice.
As the last few giggles left her, Elia stretched her arms languidly, feeling the sweet ache of exhaustion in her limbs. She paid no attention to how the sheet slid down her torso, but she did notice the lingering glance of the man beside her, the slight stiffening of his frame. Some mischievous part of her, the temptress who had emerged last night, told her to take her time in hiking up the sheet, to leave it draping across her frame, neither wholly revealing nor concealing, as she turned to face Rhaegar. He turned in kind, only letting his eyes drop from hers for the briefest of moments.
"And, you, Elia, how do you fare?"
"Well."
"Are you hungry? Thirsty? Shall I fetch something"
"No, thank you. Just tired."
"Oh...not in too much pain, I hope?"
"No, no pain. Just soreness, I suppose."
And, it was true, surprisingly. A small part of Elia had worried last night about how her body would fare come morning, but whatever discomfort she felt now, as she lay beside Rhaegar, could only be attributed to a rambunctious night, nothing more.
"Oh."
"Yes."
Her last word dissipated in the air, and they were left, once more, staring. But, this time, it felt less and less like awkward, rushed glances and more and more like...learning. Drinking each other in, gleaning whatever hidden thoughts they could from one another. Elia looked into those strange, strange eyes. They were so foreign in their color, in their interminable sobriety, some of which lingered even now. Who was the man behind them, she wondered. Would she ever be able to learn? Would he let her? She suspected that, maybe, she would be allowed glimpses, but she strongly doubted she would ever truly understand her husband. And, could she come to love him despite of that? Her mind- experience and common sense- told her that to love blindly, to love with unsure expectations for the future, was dangerous. But, her body- now inked forevermore with his fingers, his lips, his body- told her that it had already begun molding itself to the pleasure of his company. It was between these these poles of reluctance and desire that her heart meandered, unsure of which camp to settle in.
"You have freckles."
Elia blinked out of the quiet reverie. Her freckles? Her freckles? Of all things, she did not expect him to comment on her visage.
"Yes, I suppose I have a few."
"Not on your face."
"Oh."
How the tables had turned; Elia almost blushed again but quelled her embarrassment when she saw the unabashed way that Rhaegar transfixed his eyes upon her, head nestled in the cradle of his palm, one elbow propped into the bedspread, and a hand left in the no-man's land between them.
"They have a shape to them- your freckles, that is."
"Yes. Somewhat like a fish, like sigil of House Tully."
"Really? I rather thought it looked like an arrow."
"Well, that is a novel interpretation."
"Have there been many interpretations?"
Elia smiled at his question, the subtlety with which he interposed it into conversation. She did not respond immediately, instead choosing to watch his fingers as they traced circles into the cloth. They were long, strong, and slender. Built to handle, to hold, whether that be an instrument or a sword. But, pretty fingers and clever words were not always enough to wrest answers from an unwilling woman.
"My own. And one other."
Let him guess who it was. She knew he never would, out of respect for her and simply because the correct answer would have never crossed his mind.
The fingers stilled momentarily but resumed their course, a tad slower than before.
"Am I permitted to ask who?"
"Yes, you are."
"But, I will not be permitted an answer."
"You will find, my prince, on the sheets proof of my virtue, if that is what you seek."
Elia knew in the way that he smiled at her, that he would not. He did not care if she was telling the truth or lying through her teeth, for her past was of no consequence to him, no consequence to what he needed her for- her fidelity and her fertility. As coarse as it seemed, that was the crux of the matter, the foundation upon which their current relationship, that of political spouses, had been built. Maybe, it would change one day in the distant future, when they had mapped each other's quirks and habits enough, but not in the course of a single night, as revelatory of an experience that night had been.
"I do not judge, Elia. Nor do I seek to condemn. Whatever life you led before this is not my concern unless you choose for it to be so. I seek to know more about you, not only because you are my wife but also because I hope to find in you a friend."
Elia looked at him, plumbed through the depths of his strange violet eyes. They were clear, honest. How well could dragons lie, she wondered.
"And, I you. I will to tell you everything you wish to know, one day."
"I understand."
"I just need time to learn. About King's Landing, about the people, about your family, about my responsibilities. And, about you, if you will let me."
At this, Rhaegar broke her gaze, glancing around the room before he looked back to her. Even then, Elia could see a slight hesitancy in his gaze as he answered, and it disappointed her, as expected as the reluctance was. This was not a man accustomed to divulging himself, the broken and tattered bits of who he was. Neither was she, for that matter, unless it was to someone whom she trusted and loved. She suspected that Rhaegar, regardless of how much he cared for an individual, would ever be able to do the same. Nevertheless, the naive part of her had continued to nurse a fledgling hope.
"I will try, Elia. I cannot promise immediate clarity; I am not that kind of man. There are many things that need to be done, that I must do, that I cannot speak of yet. I will tell you, in time. I do not know when or how, but I will.
"But, I do promise you this: I will never lie to you. I may refuse to answer, I may not tell you everything, but I will never try to befuddle you with falsehoods."
Elia felt her heart drop slightly at his words. He had said something along the same vein the night he had snuck into her bedchamber, and hearing it for the second time made it seem more forced, less concrete, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as was her. It reminded her that in Westeros and especially in King's Landing, vows were never everlasting, regardless of the honesty with which they were forged. But, she did not let him see her discomfort. They had time to learn, to accommodate, and for now, she would believe his empty promise, if only to keep peace. She let her hand rest next to his own, in the space between them, their small fingers touching imperceptibly.
"Thank you, Rhaegar."
They smiled at each other, revelling in the quiet peace of the bedroom, of the quiet morning, ruminating over the information they had shared with one another. The sun had still not risen, but the room had lost some of its darkness.
Rhaegar broke the stillness by inching his hand forward, slowly tracing Elia's. A curious tingling spread along the path he took. She did not understand the motivation behind the hand that soon held her cheek or the lips that bent to suck at her neck, whether the actions were borne of Rhaegar's own desire or as a means to legitimize the tentative beginnings of their relationship. Regardless, Elia felt herself respond in kind to his passion, moaning and panting and crying out in tandem with the man who touched her and whom she touched in return. This act did not require thought- only sensation.
"Elia…"
There was a question in his whisper. Last night, her decision had been laced with alcohol and duty and fear and loss and recklessness. Now, she would be of clear mind, with conscious knowledge of the relationship between her and Rhaegar. Intoxication and impulsive behavior could not longer be her shields. It was time to make a choice, as narrow as her options may be.
Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Unb-
As Elia had in her room the night he had crept in, she placed her lips to his own, until the body of the prince formed a contiguous loop with hers. Her fingers laced into his hair, massaged his scalp as he moaned into her mouth. He broke apart from her to look into her eyes, and there was such fierceness there, such feral desire, that it sent a shiver of fear along Elia's spine, but she had no time to dwell on that because, soon, he was there, and she was there, and they were moving together and apart and-
"Oh!"
It was not perfect, it was not in unison. But, later, as she lay in Rhaegar's arms, heavy and laden with sweat as they were, Elia supposed that it was nice, this. Not just the fucking but everything else that had come before- the half-honest candor, the compromise, the gentle banter. She could get accustomed to this. She could come to love this. She could come to love him, broken and dishonest as he may be. Yes, there were holes in their relationship, but none that could not be fixed in time. He had promised to do his part. She would have to learn to do hers.
Were these half-hearted attempts at assuaging her mind? Fuelled by a reluctance to shatter those childhood dreams of a perfect wedding and night and morning after with doubts and uncertainty? Perhaps. But, for now, lying in her husband's arms was enough. Feeling his heartbeat in tandem with her own was enough. Believing his repeated promises was enough. This- whatever they had begun to forge between them- was enough.
The duties of a crown princess to the Iron Throne were not outlined in a handbook. Not even in a list. In fact, if Elia had bothered to ask anyone what exactly her role was, she would receive the same answer: "Why, nothing, Princess." Yet, though there were no duties inscribed in stone for her to follow, Elia learned within the first three months of her marriage that there were expectations that came with her title. Unspoken expectations but ones that she was expected to complete regardless.
Some, Elia had acquainted herself with before arriving at King's Landing. Giving birth to a healthy heir and, hopefully, a spare. Pleasing her husband, as a wife and as a consort. Obeying the King, deranged and awful as he was. Showing abject loyalty to House Targaryen, for she was a dragon's bride now.
But, there were other expectations that Elia soon found herself bombarded with, some pleasant and others decidedly less so.
Arranging small concerts for the orphans of Flea Bottom, gossiping with her ladies-in-waiting, reminiscing about Dorne with Ashara, visiting Queen Rhaella to hear her gentle wit and amusing stories about Rhaegar's childhood, receiving letters from Oberyn about his paramours (really, only Ellaria) and from Father about his garden (and how much he missed her), talking and laughing and making love with her husband-all of these expectations brought Elia joy.
But, silently listening to King Aerys ignore the problems of his people and disparage his queen, his son, his subjects, and her from atop his mangled throne, responding to letters from Dorne with false cheer about the noxious atmosphere of her new home, watching the indigent citizens in Flea Bottom starve, whore, and fight their way to early deaths as the court lords and ladies grew fat on indulgence, ignoring the clench of guilt in her heart every time she saw a white cloak and blue eyes, seeing her good-mother's attempts at hiding her torn lips and scarred body from her son and the world-these expectations weighed heavily on Elia, on her mind and spirit.
But, these worries left her mind as she walked briskly to the outdoor courtyard of the Red Keep. She clenched the voluminous skirts of her gown in each hand, hoisting them a inch or two (or four) higher than was strictly proper in her haste. Elia had locked her Dornish wardrobe away shortly after the wedding. The loose-fitting styles of her homeland were a touch too enviable for the corset-bound court ladies and too tempting for the ill-restrained men. She was the wife of Prince Rhaegar and a princess in her own right. And, in a court where one's reputation was cemented by the amount of clothing one wore-well, that was a game Elia had to play, even if she resented having to. And, there was the matter of the weather. The north was simply too cold, even if the long winter was steadily coming to a close as the maesters reported.
Elia was reminded of her body's aversion to the temperature as soon as she stepped through the entrance and the chilly air enveloped her body. She stood at the top of the steps, shivering despite the protection that the long sleeves of her gown and that cloaking warmth her now-disheveled hair provided.
"Princess, I must insist that you return inside. It is simply to cold, and you are still recove-"
Elia placed a hand on the armored arm of Ser Gerold Hightower to silence him. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood slightly behind her, and although Elia did not turn to see his face, she could hear his concern. He was a fierce man but a kind and loyal one, too. He was most often assigned to guard the King, and, at those times, Ser Gerold was stern and somber. But, in the few instances he had been at Elia's side, she had been able to elicit a smile or two and once-her crowning glory-a chuckle, when she had shared the history of her unfortunate relationship with his grand-nephew, Baelor.
But, that humor disappeared now, as he stood, worried and anxious, at the steps of the Red Keep. Elia turned to him briefly, smiling broadly and as charmingly as she knew how.
"Ser Gerold, you treat me like I'm a little girl, not a woman fully grown. Would you deny me the pleasure of seeing my husband return simply because of a chill from a week ago?"
Ser Gerold huffed as Elia turned away from him, saying, "Denying you, letting you get sick-either way, I'll be getting an earful from Rhaegar. There's no damn way around the bloody business."
"Then, hush, good Ser. Let me smile and look pretty, and I promise that if I get sick, I'll put the blame entirely on Ser Barristan for letting me leave the solar in the first place."
Ser Gerold snorted once more, and Elia knew that he would not argue with her again, at least not while the Prince's retinue arrived, galloping into the front of the Keep. The banner of House Targaryen flew proudly behind the leader of the group of riders, headed by a man whose long, silver hair streamed like a flag itself as he slowed into a canter and then a stop in the courtyard below. The smallfolk who had gathered to see Rhaegar's return cheered loudly as he dismounted, gracefully, princely.
Elia almost cheered alongside them-it had been a fortnight since he had set out for peace talks with House Greyjoy on the Iron Islands-but she settled for tightly gripping Ser Gerold's arm and smiling until she felt her face would split.
Rhaegar was taking off his helm, handing the reins of his horse to the stable boy, waving and greeting the people, clapping the two Kingsguard members and three knights who had accompanied him on their backs, and then-and then he was at the steps of the Keep, looking up at her.
Even from the distance that separated Rhaegar from her, Elia could tell that he was smiling, that his blue-violet eyes were shining just as brightly as her own. As he transcended the steps, she felt her breath become shallow, but she could not pinpoint why. Vague reasons flew threw her head, but none seemed to stick except the final one, the one that was equal parts chagrinning and ironic, the one that she knew to be true.
She had missed him.
In the past three months, Rhaegar had integrated himself into her daily routine, alongside her visits and talks and meals. And, although he disappeared periodically for day-long meetings with the Small Council or with various envoys from the North or Westerlands or some other place, he had always been in the castle, had always returned to slump into Elia's bed in the dead of night and wake up, still half-clothed, with her in his arms.
But, with the recent aggression that House Greyjoy had shown along the coastline of Ironman's Bay, Rhaegar had been dispatched by the King-really, Tywin Lannister-to negotiate an end to the conflict between the afflicted Houses. The talks had taken longer than usual; in his short missives back to King's Landing, Rhaegar had written little, outside of "everything is going well," or "another setback today."
Elia knew he did not want to risk sending valuable information by letter; offending any of the participating parties meant risking rebellion and festering unrest, but as the days of Rhaegar's absence had stretched longer and longer, she found herself getting impatient for him to return to her side, partly because she did not understand what was postponing his return and also because everything was so much better with his presence in the city. Aerys was less volatile, less prone to shouting at her or the Queen or the various courtiers in the halls. Rhaella was less on edge, for Aerys turned his fury on her much less in his son's presence. Viserys behaved better, especially toward Elia herself. The Kingsguard were happier with the Prince's welcome addition to their training sessions. Even the smallfolk seemed less miserable because their Prince was among them.
And, as Rhaegar approached, yard by yard, Elia admitted to herself that she, too, felt much better when he was by her side, when he made the nightly visit to her chambers simply to discuss the day's events, when he took her on long, meandering walks along the castle courtyard, when he simply played his harp for her in the solar, or when he made her feel safe simply with his presence.
Was it love? No, Elia, could not call it that. The feeling in her heart lacked the depth, the ardour of love. It had all the happiness of a warm friendship, all the geniality of an important relationship, one that she valued for its own merits as well as the innate protection it provided. She yearned for his presence for the same reason she yearned for Oberyn's: it was comfortable and familiar.
Yet, when Rhaegar finally stood in front of her, she found herself at loss for what to say, a loss of words that would never have afflicted her had Oberyn been in his place. What was she supposed to say? "Welcome home" seemed so bland, like something a servant would say to his master. "I am glad to see you back home, Rhaegar" was too personal for the public, too long to be eloquent, and too close to revealing feelings she was not yet ready to share.
In the end, Rhaegar made the first move. With a small smile on his lips, he bowed, those deep eyes never leaving Elia's. He's amused, Elia realized, a touch indignant. He thinks it's funny, how dumbstruck I am.
"It is good to see you, Princess. A fortnight is a long time for a husband to be away from his wife's...company," he said softly but in that deep timbre all women, Elia included, melt when hearing.
Glancing back at Ser Gerold, Elia saw that he looked distinctly uncomfortable. The poor man was staring fixedly in front of him, but his face was a resolute pink. Elia stifled a laugh as she responded, "I would believe you, my Prince, if it were not for the fact that you have been without a wife much longer than you have had one. You cannot possibly be craving for her presence, not so soon into the marriage."
At this, Rhaegar grabs her hand and places a soft kiss on her knuckles.
"Oh, you see, but I do crave it. She has me practically in chains."
Laughing aloud now, Elia walks back into the walls of the Red Keep, Rhaegar by her side. As the servants swarm around them, he begins regaling her with various tales of his sojourn at the Bay. He talks nothing of political matters but, rather, about the sights he saw and people he met.
Elia is only half-listening. It is not that she is uninterested, but that she has now become aware of something. That, for some reason, seeing Rhaegar again, dismounting at the foot of the Red Keep, bounding to meet her at the steps, looking at her with those beautiful eyes, speaking to her in that low, low voice, saying that he had missed her company-all these things had, in fact, made her feel uncomfortable. They had made her breath halt, had made her heart race, had made her fingers and toes tingle with lightness.
And, as she looked at him out of the corner of her eyes as he rambled about "the indescribable beauty that is the sea," Elia realized that had been smiling since she saw him enter the courtyard. And, she could not stop.
Hi, all! It's been a long time, I know. Much too long, and I completely take the blame. Life, in general, has been rough for the past several months, but I made a commitment when I began this story, and, by not updating, I broke that commitment, so I apologize. I also apologize for the incredibly long wait, and thank you to those who expressed your interest in this story. It means a lot, and you most likely have no idea how much I mean by that statement. Just a headup, updates will be sporadic. I'm going to try to stick to a weekly, weekend update schedule, but we might have to sacrifice that weekly-update for a biweekly because I'm aiming for much longer chapters from here on out. Anyway, shout out to my friend, IzzyBells, for inspiring me to get up off my butt and continue this story, roadblocks in life and writing be damned. She has an amazing Sirius Black fic that she's been working on, and I am a huge fan, so I definitely recommend that to any HP fans out there. What am I talking about, we're pretty much a small country with the size of the HP fandom.
So, we are progressing with the story! The next two-three chapters will cover the first year of Rhaegar and Elia's marriage. There's some key events that we'll see next chapter, including the return of Arthur to complicate things. Thank you all so much for reading, and please review, favorite, follow, etc. as you see fit. Until next time (hopefully Sunday afternoon/Monday morning)!