PART ONE: WHEN THE SMILES DIED II

Early 282 AC: Dragonstone.

Daria Sand's P.O.V

The room smelled of blood and spiced incense, the kind expressly imported from Dorne for Elia's comfort, heavy with a keen citrus bite. Septa's were blessing the posts of the soiled bed, anointing the corners with clove and rosemary oils in honour of The Mother, beseeching her blessing, muted prayers and chants filling the room with pitched whispers of old hymns. Elia Martell was sprawled upon the wrinkled face of the bed, loose limbed and sallow, blooms of crimson splashed on white sheets between her legs. She barely had enough strength left to hold the silent bundle in her arms. The Maester was huddled in the far corner of the bedchamber, contriving with Prince Rhaegar, though he was not so silent nor careful enough with his words for the servants, septas or Elia to not overhear.

The child was hale and hearty, despite her noiseless disposition. However, her mother was not fairing as well as the babe. It would be unlikely Elia Martell would survive the week. If, by the grace of The Mother, Elia did endure this latest blow to her mild strength, no more children could be toiled from her womb, for both babe and mother would be collected by The Stranger before the third moons blood was missed. Prince Rhaegar dismissed the Maester with a sullen frown and a restrained, cold voice. If his hushed anger was aimed at the prospect of losing his wife, for Rhaegar did love her in some regard, Daria was sure of that, or whether it was set aflame by the prospect of losing the chance at furthering his dynastic line, Daria was a little less certain about. Yet, the Maester left with a polite, if stiff, incline of his head, retreating to the adjacent room to pilfer and mix his concoctions together in foul poultices and potent potions Elia would later have to consume or smear in hopes of living to see another sunrise.

Even so, to Daria Sand, right in that moment, Princess Elia Nymeros Martell had never looked so beautiful. Ashen and frighteningly pale, sweat sticking hair to neck, shoulders and forehead, kind eyed and weary, Elia should have been far from the vision she was. And through it all, the pain, the hardship, the torturous labour, Elia smiled. She smiled and laughed and cried tears of joy when her babe was finally placed upon her chest, breathing and well.

Of course, Daria could be a little biased, she saw the Princess as one of her own clutch, having birthed no son or daughter herself, she had been in the Princess's envoy for all of Elia's life. One tended to grow attached to such people, she thought. Daria's mother had served Elia's mother in the same compacity, and if her mother's tales were true, her grandmother had stood station to her times equal, and so had been their familial tale since Daria's family had washed up on the shores of Dorne, fleeing for their lives, and House Nymeros Martell had welcomed them and offered beautiful sanctuary. It had only seemed right, to Daria at least, to help raise and protect the youngest generation, as her ancestors had once done. Although, the youngest, Oberyn, had surely sent her grey far sooner in her years than appropriate, and Doran had wrinkled her face quicker than the noon sun, with his sprawling, convoluted plans, even from a young age.

But Elia? Elia would always hold a special place in Daria's heart. Daria had witnessed Elia grow from a chubby babe with sharp teeth, to lithe teen with knobbly knees and gangly arms, flat of chest and more prepubescent boy than blossoming woman, into the Dornish delight she was now. Daria had been amongst the crowd when Elia's betrothal was publicly declared. She had witnessed Elia's extravagant wedding to the Dragon Prince in the beautiful sept of Baelor. Daria had been the one to dab at Elia's forehead with lavender soaked cotton, murmuring small phrases of encouragement, as Elia pushed Aegon Targaryen into the world, screaming and bleeding and ripping.

Daria Sand had been with Princess Elia through it all. From vomit and shit, to cuts and bruises, to weddings and beddings. Where her brothers had aged her, with their playful but often dangerous exploits, or complicated scheming for naught but a toy that caught their eye, soon forgotten most times, Elia made her feel young and bright again, with her vibrant smiles, gentle nature and kind mind. Even so, Daria stood firm in her decision that it was here and now that Elia's beauty was truly at its fullest, a harvest ripe and resplendent. Or, perhaps, that was the influence of the babe clutched in her arms.

Rhaenys Targaryen had been born at the highest point of the moon, The Hour of The Wolf many called it, when the night was darkest, on the end of a rather unseasonably chilly breeze, though the sky was clear and freckled with white stars. The babe was small, scrawny, thinner and more delicate than her brother had been, having been birthed a month early. The blood had been thick on her skin, clots in her hair, but after a swift wash in the heated golden basin readied for such a task, wrapped in black velvet and given to her mothers quivering arms, the babe simply... Glowed.

Unlike her older brother Aegon, Rhaenys Targaryen was distinctively and irrefutably a Martell. Her skin, even at this tender age, was sun beaten bronze, a shade darker than her mothers, but a touch lighter than Oberyn's oak or Doran's cinnamon. Her hair, unlike her brothers thin, silken straight silver locks, were rambunctious onyx curls, an explosion of blackened river rush spiralling from scalp, fluffy like a ravens wing. Rhyonish curls, they called them. She had the Martell features, cattish eyes, tilted and sleek, plush lips, heavy arching brows and a widows peak. The only tokens she had taken from her father was the straight, aristocratic nose, slightly upturned, a bit haughty in the wrong light, and the shade of her pupil that peeked out from sweeping ebony lashes. An unsettlingly iridescent and vibrant lilac, like aconite dusted with amethyst. Yes, Daria decided. The babe would be a stunning beauty when she aged, the likes of which to rival her namesake.

Soon enough, the family had gathered at bedside, Rhaegar bringing little Aegon to his mother's side to meet his little sister. The four-year-old stayed close to his father, winding himself about Rhaegar's legs, clutching at leather breeches, though he peeped out curiously at his mother. Rapidly, inquisitiveness won, and the child scrambled for the bed, scaling its frame so he could roost himself at his mother's hip, staring down at the tightly wrapped babe with avid eyes. Elia, even as weak and bloodied as she was, having waged her own sort of war the likes only women could understand, pulled her son to her in a strong, warm embrace, settling the child into the curve of her free arm, pressed flush and safe at her side. Even in immense agony, as weak and frail as a runt kitten, caught in The Strangers web, Elia put her children first and foremost. That was what Daria Sand would always remember of the Princess, right up until her dying day.

"She is a wonderful sight to behold, my love. A truly befitting bearer of Rhaenys's name."

Rhaegar said in that lyrical voice of his, always half tune, mixed melodies and gospel choruses. The man never spoke, Daria thought. Not once. He sang. Every word and gesture was poetry, every sentence a sad refrain, layered upon meanings and interpretations and, idly, Daria wondered if anyone, including himself, had ever heard him simply speak. It mattered not. Prince Rhaegar was Prince Rhaegar, loved by all, truly knew by none, and a world away from everyone else. It must have been terribly lonely.

"There must be one more, just one, Elia. The Dragon needs three heads."

And any sympathy, empathy, any sense of warmth or friendship or even pity, Daria had for the Dragon Prince fled her like a flock of crows from a shaken Heart tree. One by one, they took to the sky, little black spots, and were never to be seen again. Up until her last breath, Daria would curse Rhaegar's very name. Rhaegar the fool. Rhaegar the dreamer. Rhaegar the runaway.

Rhaenys was not an hour old, his wife stood in The Strangers shadow, and even she had heard the Maesters advice, and still, he pushed. Perhaps, sadly, pushing was all he knew how to do. Perhaps, given the circumstances of the kingdom, with king Aerys II as he was, he thought he was acting in the interest of Westeros by securing his line. Perhaps, boiled down to the bone, Rhaegar was so caught in dreams of his own conjuring's, prophecies made surreal, that he could not see two fingers passed his own face. Perhaps.

Daria only saw her mistress, dying and weak, being coerced further into death by her husband who saw not the miracle slumbering on Elia's chest, already here and alive, but fantasised of more. That was the Targaryen in him. More. More. More. The greed of a dragon, be it gold, love or family, was never sated. Daria Sand dropped the incense she was holding, dashing it onto the open sill of the window, shoulders squared and nostrils flaring. She remembered her mouth opening, teeth glinting and tongue keen, poison on her lips, though she would never be sure of what she would have said to the Prince, as Elia's gaze darted to her before fixating on Rhaegar.

"Let us not speak of more children just yet, my Prince. Especially when our new born daughter has not yet been blessed in the light of the seven."

Elia's voice was light, airy, flooded with the gentleness and kindness that everyone noted her for. Yet, after years of practice, Daria understood the prickle underneath her words, as if hiding a thorny underbrush. She was angry. Yet, Elia was shrewd enough to cap that anger. Tears and shouts would get her nowhere in King's Landing, and so, Elia had learned the barbed words of pleasantries and layered meanings. Unfortunately, especially to Daria, Elia was well versed in it now, an expert, dropped against the brutally honest and bluntly faced Elia of her early teens, who had made Oberyn laugh with her witty jests and insults thrown at suitors, and Doran snort to hide his humour at her innocent but direct questioning of foreign dignitaries that visited from far flung lands. Oh, how she had rattled outsiders unused to Dornish wit, silver tongue and sharper minds. Now, Elia only had veiled banalities and unseen connotations.

But use them well she did. The implication was as clear as the stars in this dark night. To accuse, even by off-handily and genially as she had, that Rhaegar was more concerned with fucking and begetting gifts of his loins, more than following the light of the Seven and caring spiritually for his children's futures, in the seat of the sept, where the Crown Prince should be seen as most holy and devout, was of the same vein of levelling the charge of bastardry at any future offspring he did spring from his groin.

"Yes, of course not. Forgive me."

Rhaegar seemingly came back to himself then, the haze in his eyes less pronounced, a quirk of a thin brow, a flash in his pale lilac pupil, a gloomy turn to his bowed lips. Daria, begrudgingly, would admit he really did seem sincere in his mortification and regret at such a slip. To further his point, or perhaps to make peace, Rhaegar elegantly bowed down, laid a sweet and tender kiss upon Elia's sticky forehead, gifted his new-born daughter the same lingering caress of lips, though he stalled longer on her soft skin, Daria swearing she saw a smile flutter across the usually melancholy man's face, and gently brushed an affectionate hand over Aegon's hair.

Yes, with all his faults, misgivings, ill-timings and pensive nature, Rhaegar, as did Elia, loved his children. Daria, even if she cursed him in her final moments, would never, not in the heat of a thousand suns, hold that charge against him. She hoped Rhaegar's love would prove enough. That, in his love for his children, some happiness could be formed afresh, the family could move on from this craggy period, that a future, bright and lively, as Elia deserved, could still be achieved. Daria hoped, and hoped, and hoped, and hoped, Rhaegar's love for his children would be enough to calm him, to slate the dragon greed.

"Let me fetch you some broth from the kitchens, to help you settle your stomach and regain some strength."

Then he was sweeping out of the room, lost to the winding hallways and shadowy passages of Dragonstone. The Septa's went with him, trailing like a wedding veil, having preformed their little ritual to appease and beg the gods, and soon, it was only Daria, a sleeping Aegon, Elia, and a muted Rhaenys left. Daria couldn't tell you how long they were there for, how long the silence lasted, she was busy taking dirty sheets and used clothes away from the bed, to pile and fold before they were taken away to be burnt or scrubbed. But she did remember the cooing of Elia, the bright smile on her face as she finally lifted her eyes from her newest child and pinned them on Daria.

"Isn't she perfect, Daria?"

Daria hummed as she folded another sheet, corner to corner.

"All mothers think their babe perfect, mistress. Most are often wrong. But I will tell you this, me lady. She has the Martell spark. I can sense it from here, I can."

Elia laughed at her remark, the goal Daria was wishing to achieve at the mischievousness. The sound, however, did not sit as well as she thought it would. There was a rattling to her chest that numbed Daria's fingers, a wheeze to her chuckle that made Daria's heart hurt, a straggling cough that made Daria want to weep. If Elia did fall this evening, if Daria had to lay her charge to rest and stand vigil in Dragonstone's sept, she would skin that rat-faced Maester herself, with or without Prince Rhaegar's consent. What the Martell's had done for her family, what they had offered them… That debt could never be repaid, but she could make good as much as she could while she lived.

"Let us pray it is only half the blaze of mine and Oberyn's. If not, I fear my daughter will burn all of King's landing down upon our heads!"

Daria grinned. Elia always sounded so alive, vivacious, free, when speaking of her brothers and home, even if she did so less and less these days. It was good for her, to reminisce sometimes. It also allowed Daria to evoke, to dream of hot sands and spiced food, blue water shining in the hot sun, domed ceilings of pure gold, silks and samites swaying over bare legs. Back when time was simple, life was simple, and not this cesspit of politics and heirs, with dragons breathing down their necks. Oh, Daria was getting old. Very old. Her weary bones were aching for home, but here she would stay, with Elia, as was her sworn duty. She had a few more good years in her sagging body yet.

"Aye, she likely will! But fear not, me lady. As with you and your brothers, I will be there to pick the hatchling up by her scruff and set her right. No fear, no, me lady. I'll protect her. You can take Daria's word for it."

The change in the room was so instant, Daria paused with a sheet dangling from her hands, as if she was mimicking a bony sparrow with spread wonky wings, readying to fly. Or plummet to the cracked earth.

"Do you promise me?"

The air had gotten thick, like soup made stout with cheap flour. The nip in the air seemed more conspicuous. There was something there, lurking in the flapping curtains, the shaded corners of the room, under the large bed. A sort of energy, a spike, a prophetic vision long forgotten.

"Promise you what, Princess?"

Steadily, Daria lowered the sheet onto the table, turned to look at her mistress dead on, and Daria remembered how shocked she had been at the face that greeted her. There was a seriousness in the lines of Elia's face that had never been present before, not even when she laid her own parents to rest. There was a fierceness too, tightened in the corner of her cattish eyes, that had never shown face, even in her younger years where she would brawl with Oberyn or argue with Doran over this or that matter. Their fights had gotten so heated sometimes. And right there, glimmering in the far recesses of her gaze, was a scorching protectiveness.

"Promise me that should anything happen to me, no matter what, come Aerys or disease, you will protect her. Promise me, Daria, that you will protect my Rhaenys."

Daria fumbled.

"Is there something wrong, Princess? Has there been a threat? A-"

Elia's gaze slid back to her babe and her face softened insurmountably.

"Rhaegar is not as… Attentive as he was. His mind is full and far away, and he will not speak to me. There's a coldness there, in his heart, one I cannot reach. And his father, King Aerys-"

Elia cut herself off and broke into a fit of coughs. She needn't carry on. Daria understood well and good. It was no secret that King Aerys II, hour by hour, was losing his grip on reality, and he never had a strong grasp on it in the first place. The rumours that were flying around the Red Keep like flies over a bloated corpse, even finding kitchen staff here, in Dragonstone, a league apart, were horrific. With Rhaegar's public humiliation of Elia at the tourney of Harrenhal witnessed by so many, including court officials and his spiralling father, with his slow detachment of her now, even after she had given birth to another heir, was dangerous. As her husband, Rhaegar was meant to be her main front of protection in this vile place, the armour she could use to protect herself as wife to the Prince.

With Rhaegar's insult, and his sluggish disinterest, it left the door for Aery's wide open. A king who made no qualms of voicing his distaste for everything and anyone Dornish abundantly clear. And with his increasing proclivity towards violence of the most horrendous sort, Rhaegar, the fool, the dreamer, the runaway, had practically handed Elia, leashed and bound by marriage, into the gaping maws of his salivating father. Whether Rhaegar had meant to do this, if it was intentional or not, did not matter. This was the result of his actions. Aegon, and now Rhaenys, had the saving grace of their Targaryen blood to keep Aerys at bay. Their mother was afforded no such luxury. Daria Sand delved her hand deep into her skirts pocket, feeling the pads of her fingers brush thin, polished wood.

"I give you my solemn oath, me lady, I shall protect your daughter with me very life if needs be."

Elia smiled, though she kept her focus on her babe, never to see Daria's wild eyes and grim mouth.

"Thank you, Daria. I do not know if I would survive King's Landing without you."

Daria remembered how her hand had tightened around her wand, the lick of magic at her palm, the spark of something deep and true striking in her chest as the words stuck like arrows.

"If I have anything to say, me lady, you'll never have to know."

But then the heavy air was broken by the bedchamber's door creaking, as the Dragon Prince marched back in, tray of steaming food and wine balanced between his pale hands. The family settled together, huddled around the bed, murmuring to one another and Daria? Daria Sand went back to silently folding the sheets, like a good servant. Daria always remembered that moment, because of Elia's broken beauty and hidden strength, because of the babes slumbering side by side, because of Rhaegar's love for his children that shone so true and bright right then, making the often sullen man grin, and laugh and jest, because…

Because it was the last time Daria would ever see the small family together and happy again. As two moon-cycles later, as the family departed from Dragonstone for the Red Keep to present the king and queen with Rhaegar's new heir, were she could be blessed in the sept of Baelor where her forebearers had before her, Rhaegar, with a small company of loyal knights, separated from his wifes procession in the dead of the night, bolted north, abducted a she-wolf, and started a war that would be the ruin of them all. In the end, Daria Sand's hope was proven fatally wrong.

Prince Rhaegar's love simply wasn't enough.

NEXT CHAPTER: Mad King Aerys and the infamous "She smells Dornish" line…

THANK YOU to all those who favourited, followed and reviewed, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and continue to do so with the ones that come along! If you have a moment, drop a review! Until next time, stay beautiful! ~AlwaysEatTheRude21