Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own Game of Thrones.

Author's Note: I don't know if anyone else felt frustrated or disgusted or infuriated, when they heard that little line about Prince Rhaegar and annulment. It made me all of the above and this was my ultimate solution to the number of 'What Ifs' we have in relation to Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen. This was intended to be a series of one-shots, with each chapter depicting what could have happened had Elia married x, and Rhaegar married y, going through all of the different incarnations. As you can tell if you've read this, it became a lot more detailed that I had initially intended. So instead, there will be a series of stories, part of my Feeling Good series, with this being Part 1, all depicting the What Ifs of had Elia and Rhaegar married someone else.

Feedback is always welcome, positive and negative. So please don't hesitate to tell me anything you liked or hated.


Birds Flying High

It was darker than pitch black where Elia crouched, so dark that were she to hold her hands before her, she wouldn't see them. It was dusty enough to tingle her nose and she was certain that she felt what could only be spiders crawling over her feet. She nevertheless stood perfectly still, ear next to the little channel that connected her crevice and that of the Ruler of Dorne's official solar. It was genius, the builders who had planned this with the Martells who had approved it – the perfect area to spy from, to warn of danger to the Rulers of Dorne, were it necessary.

It definitely wasn't necessary now. Doran was of no danger to his mother, Moniellar Martell. His mother, however, looked in distinct danger of strangling him.

'And is there a reason you feel presumptuous enough to comment to me, your mother and your Lady, of who you think Elia should wed?' When you yourself so selfishly chose love, leaving us in a politically fraught position, her eyes spoke rather than her lips. It was a miracle she hadn't yet slapped him with her slippers, as she had been wont to do whenever they had misbehaved as kids. Still, it was early on in the conversation and it could still change.

'Because I care about my sister,' Doran replied, cool as the water gardens in the middle of the night.

'And I do not?' Moniellar did nothing to keep her voice low. She slapped the table hard as if it were the table that had offended her so personally.

'I think you care more of the wound to your pride that you had received from Lannister,' Doran's voiced his cutting assessment honestly. Too honestly, Elia feared, her heart jumping into her mouth as she waited for her mother to go into one of her wild rages that only her children seemed to attract. Others have common sense and self-preservation, she had once told them, soothing them after a severe spanking (that admittedly had been well earned – Elia was lucky she hadn't broken any bones, falling out of the window as she had done).

'A Dornish princess on the throne has always been beneficial to her people,' Moniellar suddenly looked tired, aged beyond her years. She was speaking honestly to her heir now.

'With a mad king on the throne?' Doran asked incredulously.

'Especially with a mad king on the throne,' Moniellar finally replied, a ghost of horror haunting her face for a moment, before Elia turned, swallowing the painful egg in her throat, lest she let her brother and mother find out she had been eavesdropping. She left as quickly as she could, short of running. No need to call attention to herself right now; she'd rather nobody saw her woebegone. Entering her chambers, she locked it from inside and threw herself onto her bed, losing herself to the tears that came out in floods that were angry as much as they were desperate. Was this to be her life? Sold like a whore? And if the mad king continued in his violent, blood-thirsty ways, would they mourn her? Would they even remember her to mourn her?

At least her brother had tried, she thought, fighting the guilt that she could have ever doubted Doran. For all his lectures, he had always been the one to sneak her sweets. She refused dinner and denied entry to everyone, choosing that for this day alone, she would be selfish. After this, her life would belong to Dorne, as it always had. And the Targaryens, she added with gloom.


The letter was from Dorne. Tywin Lannister held the offending object in hands that were as dry as the parchment. It held the Martell seal and he felt familiar anger stirring. He pushed it down, deep enough where he could not recall the resentment he had sometimes held towards his otherwise beloved wife. He would not let emotions rule his judgment. He wasn't a blasted Targaryen, the Seven help those inbred fools.

He opened it, reluctantly. If the idiotic king chose a lying viper as his good-daughter, that was his own stupidity and the Curses of the Seven fall on him. The gloating would still boil his anger, as it had all those years ago, blast the Martells to the Other's Mercy. He'd always known that the Dayne woman would never be considered worthy of the Prince; her wanton ways were infamous far beyond Dorne (helped by his own tactfully placed whispers). Elia Martell had, somehow, managed to keep her reputation intact, despite the ways of her whorish mother and father.

He found himself reading the letter once, twice, thrice, and more times besides. He found himself peering closely at it, sniffing it for poison. He smelt nothing – not that he knew the first thing of poison but he had no intention of succumbing to Dornish duplicity. Not that he frowned upon poison as a means of achieving one's problems; battles were glorious only in stories and songs, more often they were a hassle and uncertain, and if poison could achieve things more to one's liking, why not? Even so, the words written in the familiar writing still fostered disbelief in him.

His immediate anger, his resentment, the burning jealousy that still found him in unguarded moments had his fingers twitching to pen an insulting rejection once again. Once was clearly not enough for the Martell woman to get his message. But he had heard the whispers – Aerys wanted a woman of Targaryen blood, Elia Martell was the only option, Ashara Dayne's reputation far too tarnished to be anything but an insult. If Elia Martell was no longer an option, Aerys would finally have to accept another woman, and the only viable option would be Cersei. Slowly, his plans changed, morphed like the changing faces of the clouds.

The things he could do if he could place his daughter on the throne… The Prince was an idiot, more interested in books than politics or people. Or power. He could teach Cersei to behave herself, or at least to utilise her brain. Once he had hoped that Jaime would have been his heir in nature as well as person, but he had soon found that Cersei had had both his ambition, and that of Joanna too, as if she had taken it from Jaime himself. Yet she had none of either of their wits. Meanwhile Jaime had all of Joanna's good nature but no ambition. Tywin couldn't quite bring himself to imagine his house in ruins, a phantom of what it had once been. His father had nearly destroyed it, and he had to stop his son from doing the same. If he had to sell his daughter to a Mad King and an easily manipulated Prince, he would do it.

His smile was thinner than his lips, but there was satisfaction there. And if it was a way of serving Moniellar a mean trick, of keeping her on her best behaviour with her daughter as a hostage in all but name, well… What could he do if all of his birds were lining up to be struck with one stone?


She was lying in their private gardens, her scandalously bare back glistening in the sun, soaking it's heat and warmth and life force when Doran and her mother found her. Elia could tell from their purposeful steps and the disinterest with which Moniellar dismissed the maid that it was the raven they had been waiting for.

They, not her, she thought with a spark of bitterness. They had both found love in their marriages, companionship and closeness and a certain safety, that too. What would await her in the cold hells of the Red Keep? A mad king, and a prince with no interest in protecting the seven kingdoms? The thought had led to more nightmares that she cared to recall, and those nightmares, horribly vivid, ominously prophetic nightmares had led her to empty her stomach more than once.

She took her time to sit up, rearranging the breezy, cheery yellow chiffon she wore, as bright as the sunlight, to offer a little more modesty. She took time to run her fingers through her straight black hair that glinted almost blue in the heavy midday sunlight. Darkening her skin as she soaked up the sun was her own, personal revenge against the Targaryens, whatever it may cost her once she got there. In the meantime, she enjoyed her mother's growing impatience. The little power she had, she would enjoy it, even (especially) if it discomfited her mother.

'Do you not care who you are to wed, child?' Her mother finally snapped, her foot tapping the rhythm of her anger. Elia coolly raised an eyebrow, ignoring the way her stomach plummeted to the soles of her feet that brushed against the surprisingly cool grass.

'Need I ask, mother?' She forced through lips that were dry.

'Tywin Lannister has given you his blessings to wed his son and heir, Jaime Lannister.'

It was clear that even Doran hadn't known; his mouth was as agape as her own. 'Mother?' Doran finally asked, and Elia was grateful because she couldn't speak right now. And she had to know, to clarify, before her hopes rose higher than they already had.

'You dare think I would sacrifice my daughter, my only daughter,' (why this was significant remained a mystery to both of her children present), 'for an insignificant, irrelevant slight? A slight I barely recall?' Moniellar looked like a vengeful desert witch, with her skin burning dark in the sunlight, her black eyes narrowed with a martial glint and her stance promising regret to any who might disagree. Neither of her kids dared demur or point out the falsity of her statements.

'I am to wed Jaime Lannister?' Elia asked, her throat dry, though she had just finished a glass of the lemon sugar water and it still glistened on her lips. It was still not the man who haunted her dreams when she least expected it, but a sane Good-father could be reasoned with, and a man who lived in this world she could come to care for. It was better than the prison the Red Keep had seemed like, and her eyes shone with renewed hope. Moniellar pushed down any thought of political triumph and pushed away the panic she felt at Tywin's jealous eyes on her daughter. Elia was no weakling with milk in her blood, it was filled with venom and her spirit was made of fire, and she would be a match for the Lannister Lord. They would train her to protect herself. It was the only thing that stopped Moniellar from forcing her to become a Septa then and there.


The battle raged loud and violent, and the victims were often the innocent crockery and the servants. It was a little odd, when Jaime spared a thought for it. This was his life and his marriage they were discussing, yet it was Cersei battling her father. It was only when an armistice was reached – when Tywin had finally told his daughter his plans to wed her to the Crown Prince, that Elia Martell – 'flat chested, dark-skinned ugly whore', as per Cersei's descriptions – was deemed a more desirable bride than herself, that Jaime thought to question whether it was truly on his behalf. After all, hadn't Cersei shown just how much more she sought to be Princess to Rhaegar than whatever she was to Jaime (beloved beyond belief)? It was still a sword into the chest, whenever he thought of somebody else holding Cersei, cherishing Cersei, never looking after her though, for she could look after herself.

Still, of all the options, Elia Martell was hardly the worst of them. He couldn't picture her, just a vague approximation of colours and shapes, but he remembered her kindness. He remembered her smile when she first saw Tyrion, her gentle hands caressing him when Cersei's had pinched. Perhaps it shouldn't be, but Jaime's future felt trapped between those of his siblings, Cersei whom he loved too much and in not the right way, and Tyrion who had nobody else to look after or love him. Perhaps this marriage with Elia Martell could benefit someone, even if not him.

It was wild and stormy when they set sail for Sunspear, the sky dark and the clouds enraged as they hadn't been for weeks. The Martell girl would wed at Casterly Rock but according to their customs and their insistence, the Lannisters would travel to Sunspear to collect her first. Jaime's father had glared at him as if this was somehow his fault. Nevertheless, once the storms had passed, delaying them by a full seven days, they boarded the ships.

They first stopped at Starfall, where they met Lord Amar Dayne and his beautiful wife, Lady Aino Dayne, a second daughter, fourth child with no prospects to recommend her other than beauty. It certainly wasn't charm, for she was colder than Cersei's expression. She had blonde hair and she was slim but she had none of the arresting features that Cersei possessed – none of that imperial manner or a demand for the world to bend its ways for her. He still flirted with her, outrageously at times, partially to infuriate Cersei and partially to infuriate the beautifully icy Lady Dayne. Yet, when he closed his eyes, he dreamt of Cersei in his arms and a vague, dark spectre looming over them.

They travelled over the mountains and through the dessert, stopping at all of the great Houses along the way. It was only outside Sunspear that Jaime realised it was a royal procession of sorts, and he doubted very much it had anything to do with the Lannisters themselves. He saw her before he even entered Sunspear, saw her astride a beautiful Sand Steed, red as blood with white hooves, which had his own heart clenching on her behalf; her frailty was well known. When he drew closer on his own horse, he finally saw her clearly, the dry wind blowing her hair wildly around her, face bright and alight with laughter as she talked to her brother, and his heart this time leapt into his mouth. For the first time, he thought maybe the marriage might even bring some sort of happiness to him.


The cries were deafening but by no means displeasing. 'Long live the Princess,', 'Glory for our Princess,' 'Bless our Elia,' were cries that rose again and again, and those were only the ones that Elia heard clearly. Behind her, she had seen Tywin scrutinising her openly, but Jaime had looked admiring. Rightfully so, for he should know what a prize he was winning unto himself. They rode through the crowds at a sedate pace. Even with the guards shielding the peace, there was always a curious child or two, scrambling free from their parents' protective arms and rushing to the horses. Elia muscles protested but from practice, she ignored them. She had long learned how best to fight the rumours of her frailty. Sure, she would not be able to march an army onto a battle, she probably wouldn't be able to keep up a sprint or ride a horse wildly, but her frailty was vastly exaggerated. And by that despicable Tully, who was no doubt trying to crown his own daughter. Even Cersei would be a superior choice, Elia could easily acknowledge that. Cersei's personality was brash and left much to be desired, but she still had a personality, unlike Catelyn Tully. And her sister was known to have given her maidenhead freely to some nonentity.

It made her suddenly grin wickedly. Even when there had been nearly proof positive that Tully was behind those rumours, Moniellar had insisted that Lannister had whispered those words into Tully's ears. Her father had not been far behind, insisting that Lannister had probably bedded the younger Tully sister himself. She imagined Tywin Lannister's reaction if he heard these words, and her grin, wide and wild and uninhibited spread, as she caught Jaime's eyes. She could imagine his reaction too; she could remember his laughter ringing loudly and merrily, whenever they had caught him unexpectedly. He wasn't one for undue pride.

They entered the large, central courtyard, and with ease, Elia swung herself off, pointedly with no aid. As soon as her feet had touched the ground, she swept into a curtsey as if she had not just been upon a horse for several hours, waiting for the Lannisters to dismount. The cries continued outside but the palpable tension held the lips silent here. Silent enough that she heard them as they stepped onto the ground. Once she was sure they had all descended, she continued the curtsey for several seconds before finally rising, pushing past her sore muscles.

Jaime was staring at her. With a quirk of her lips, watching him watch her as the twirls of her hair danced around her face, she turned and sauntered to stand behind her mother. Tywin she would have to contend with, Jaime she would win over, and this was a good start.

The evening started with Dornish dishes and their traditional music. Before wine had even touched her lips, Elia found herself dancing with first one lord, and then another, her hips moving to the rhythm with natural skill, drunk with the jubilation. Turning this way, then twirling back, she could still see Jaime's eyes following her. The heady scent and the flattery flowing from the lips of her partners created a high. It wasn't surprising that she found herself in her suitor's arms, and less surprising that she found herself leading him in dances he was unfamiliar with, his smile matching hers. It was only when they sat down for the formal meal and Ashara Dayne, in a wispy dress of lilac, wandered over, that Elia felt the first stifling of her euphoria.


Cersei was beautiful. Elia was striking. Ashara was something else altogether. From her curvaceous body, to her full lips made for kissing, to her large violet eyes proclaiming her vulnerability, to her delicate face, she inspired in men a desire to protect. Jaime was no different. He felt the urge to protect her, yet it was with relief that he would sit and converse with Elia or Cersei. Lady Ashara commented on how horribly the red dress clashed with Lady Delia Vaclav's complexion. Cersei would have said the only thing worse than that dress was the Lady's propensity to drink. Elia would have said, ever so politely, what a wonderful idea it was to wear the red dress, the better to hide the wine stains. As stunning as Lady Ashara was, she was equally dull, and Jaime was increasingly grateful that he was to wed someone like Elia, someone with wits sharper than her nails, with words that lashed painfully all the more for how quietly she said them.

Somehow, without knowing what the test was, he had passed it with Elia, for her smiles became warmer. Now that he'd had time to analyse the variety of her smiles, he could tell that they were sincere towards him. She allowed him to see her claws, where initially, she had been the perfectly polite, cordial hostess. It pleased him as much as it perplexed him.

They travelled through Dorne, to the great establishments they had missed on their way to Sunspear, and Jaime could now vouch that the entirety of Dorne loved Elia and her family. They never heard voices raised in anything but jubilation and blessings. And once, when he had ventured forth at dawn, he could understand why. Elia, without any finery or display, had ventured into the local markets, taking food from their own tables to those in need. She had dined with them, conversed with them, held their hands and let them hold hers. She had done so with no fanfare. It was a tradition, she'd answered when he had asked. They all did so once a week, Doran less often because he was now helping his mother with official duties. A reminder of how differently things could have been for them, had they been born to a different family. A lesson Tywin had never bothered to teach.

They reached Castley Rock. Cersei looked worse for wear than Elia did, for which Jaime was grateful. There was already venom against her Dornish birth and upbringing. There would be further animadversions based on her Dornish colouring. It was a relief that she appeared to be disproving the rumours of her ill-health.

She was arresting on her wedding day; their wedding day. The sun came out, as if to give her blessings, to acknowledge her as a child of their own, giving her a golden glow that those of fairer skin couldn't claim. The gentle puffs of wind enhanced her exotic appearance, her dark hair let down in all its glossy glory, drifting this way and that as if swaying with contentment. Her yellow gown that was just this side of scandal, a little lower than it should be, just a touch diaphanous, her shoulders laid bare to the sun, suited her perfectly. Her orange cloak with her family's sigil made her magnificent.

His hands weren't sweating, nor were his hands shaking when he unclasped her cloak. They were even more vertain when Jaime covered her with his own cloak of red and gold. It looked faultless on her, she looked flawless, and somehow, this most felt like perfection.