Elia IV
The revelry of their coronation lasts three weeks, usurping the planned opening preliminary bouts and feasts quite neatly. The Realm, or at the very least, the lords of and lady of it, toast in their name, call out in joyous triumph for the fallen Mad King. Three weeks of feasting exhausts Elia near to the bone. And she knows that the Tourney of Harrenhal will start… Lord Whent's Tourney has turned into a celebratory Tourney of the newly crowned King and Queen, with revelry to follow these celebrations. It is being called the Maid of Fire's, the King's Tourney. She is glad.
But she longs for Dragonstone with an ache she had not known she would feel for it.
In the few short years, she has been wed to Rheagar, she had fallen in love with that Keep. It is nothing to the glory of Sunspear. Elia thinks nothing truly is. But Dragonstone had been the Keep of her early marriage, where her princess had been born. Respite from their harrowing times in the stink-filled King's Landing. She knows now that she is instead to live in the Red Keep. She is exhausted just thinking of it, of the smell, of the duty that awaits her. She has been, unknowingly, however, trained to be Queen all of her life. At least since Lord Tywin had refused to marry her to young Jaime… And she is prepared.
Because a Queen must stand with her King, and so Elia will.
It is strange to remember herself to be the Queen. Elia knows herself well enough to know that it falls heavy on her shoulders. Because in the passing years, through a fateful Dance of Dragons that ground women beneath the feet of men, Queens had lost face, had lost power. From standing beside their King of the legendary warrior Queen Visneya to the kindness of Good Queen Alysanne… All it had taken was one scheming wife to a King to fell that power in favor for her son over a daughter. Even her dear Queen Rhealla had been but an ornament, and then a prisoner to her crown. And it is both her noble obligation and her wish to raise the state of Queens to be glorious again.
She is a Nymeros of Dorne.
She is Unbowed.
Unbent.
Unbroken.
She is not a pretty ornament at her King's bide, she is not simply a fruitful womb for heirs. Many had complained that score enough. Too old, not healthy enough, only bore half-mongrel whelps of girl ilk… The stupidity of males who think themselves so superior to my princess knows no bounds. She is not that for her husband, not simply on her back for him. She is at his side, his highest console, and they rule together. When her mother had inclined to marry her to Rheagar, she had looked at the slightly younger princling in his fetching indigo eyes and demanded such before any words of acceptance passed her lips.
He had accepted.
Taken her trembling hand, clasped it tight. His indigo eyes sparking, flaring beyond his usual melancholy.
"This I swear, princess."
The touch of their hands, of their ideals, had been a spark. Their courtship kindling, their coupling fire. Their relationship is a steady hearth, their bond as nurturing as the sun above. So she does her damndest to follow in step with her husband. To charm the right ladies, to spin and dance with the lords she must bring to heel, and she makes merry as he does. She cannot lie and say she too, is not fueled by the triumph of standing as the first true Dornish Queen in the rule of House Targaryen. To be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Oddly enough, it is also Lady Sansa that has helped her more than she can say. Any doubt of Sansa Stark being a lying girl of more common origins is swept away with the very way she acts in the next few weeks. She is just too much of a noble lady to be anything but her claim. She knows her way around the social niceties, if slightly different from their own. She is graceful, her every movement dainty, beautiful and poised. She is poetry in motion, sweet femininity tempered by her deliberateness. She is always at Elia's heels, aiding, and supportive. It is her calmness that centers Elia the most. She is a calming presence, and part of Elia is wondering how in the Seven Kingdoms she has not had Sansa Stark at her side before the incident at the tourney grounds.
Her additions to the decorations of the Coronation had been frugal, beautiful, and quite fetching. Her comportment with Ashara had been pleasant, and firm as someone used to being in command, and Elia knows the younger girl is set on adoring their Maid of Fire for the ease of which she brings to her. To Elia, she has been cautious, no doubt, but she has not been frightened of her, she has been… Just, well, support that Elia had never known she truly needed. An…
An equal who looks her in the eyes.
As Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Elia should not think this. She is literally unequaled in rank in the Seven Kingdoms. But Sansa Stark commands her respect and courtesy. Elia suspected she had been married to her King Crow. That is a sorrowful concept to Elia, her heart aching at the thought of Sansa being lost to her husband. Sansa has lost her home, her kin, her life to be in Elia's. She suspected at the very least, the name Stark had had some sort of rank of importance in the ladies of the Highlands. Nothing else could explain the lady's comportment, nor the natural reaction of the people around her. Because after a few interactions, people start to defer to Sansa Stark of the Highlands. When she and Elia are in the same room, they draw the same attention and reverence. Elia is wearing the crown, she knows, but Sansa does not need it.
Elia also cannot deny herself that her own personal positive feelings of Sansa are also supplemented by the sheer kindness the girl gives.
Sansa Stark is very composed. Elegant. Yes, she is all those things but Elia has seen her. A steady touch of the arm when Elia needs centering. A carefully curled hand on her elbow as they walk side by side. A gentle nudge of water to her when Elia is feeling thirsty. Carefully suggesting a more fetching dress, charming a particular odious Lord with ease and good charm to deflect them from Elia. A soft smile. A sweet word. There is a kind, kind girl underneath this Maid of Fire. A very kind girl with a gentle heart.
Elia is very much, stupidly infatuated with Sansa Stark.
And frustrated by herself for doing so. She had no idea if Sansa had been married as she guessed. As she knew was most logical for a woman of eight and ten. Elia cannot bring herself to ask. She knows not what Sansa's own romantic inclinations lean toward if she loves men or women or no one at all. It is not necessarily rare, to find a woman north of Dorne who appreciates the fairer sex, but it is not typical. And that is only taking into account Westroes' culture. Elia has no idea of the cultural inclinations of the Highlands beyond Sansa's observations, at least the ones she shares aloud. What the Highlands think of such love is not something she can ask with any tact. And more importantly, she cannot tell of Sansa's own feelings in general. What would a girl in such strange circumstances have time to think of love?
Elia can be certain that she is not in the position to even think of such things.
But somehow, her mind finds itself wondering of her own accord. When she turns her shining blue eyes Elia's way. When Sansa's brilliant red hair, smelling of lemons and winter roses brush against Elia. Ever to her frustration with herself, Elia cannot help but be charmed and hopelessly pleased with Sansa. Elia finds her infatuation with Sansa to be a selfish thing, but she cannot help her own emotions either. Cannot help that when her Maid of Fire smiles, she is compelled to smile back. That her silly heart flutters like a butterfly.
"Lady Cersei," Lady Sansa barely dipped her head.
Elia blinked. Raised a single brow. Lady Sansa was many things. But discourteous was hardly ever one. To show such barely civil action to anyone spoke volumes. She had briefly heard from Ser Darry that the two ladies had met, as well as the dangerous previous Hand of her goodfather... But, well, it seemed that the girl had left an abysmal first impression on her Maid of Fire. Elia felt her lips frown. She disliked anyone who went against her ladies, and in the handful of weeks of having Sansa Stark of the Highlands at her side, she had indeed become her lady. Her attraction aside, this girl was under the Crown's protection, her protection. Any insult, any slight, was an insult and slight to her.
"... Lady Sansa," said Cersei, with no inclination of her head at all.
Something in Elia snarled. She felt, for a single moment, a dislike so intense and unlike her at the blatant disrespect, this slip of girl showed to Sansa. It wasn't even a greeting fitting of someone of equal rank. Perhaps it was lingering dislike from watching a small seven nameday old girl pinch and prod at an infant with cruel twisting fingertips, but Elia decided at that moment that her dislike of Cersei Lannister was more justified than ever.
"You must not forget to be courteous," snarled Ashara, violet eyes gleaming with fury. She took a single step forward, hands going to the hidden blade in her skirts, "Have you forgotten your respect for Her Grace?"
The younger girl flushed. Fetchingly pretty, but it was a flush of anger, not of regret nor shame. Elia felt her disdain increase. The girl looks at her. And her emerald eyes flash in sharp emotions.
"Your grace," the girl declares haughtily, neither greeting Elia nor offering apologies, "I was simply enthused to see Lady Sansa again."
Sansa hummed.
"Be that as it may, Lady Cersei, your enthusiasm does not excuse you. Apologize to Queen Elia," her voice is even, firm.
Her smile is like ice. Elia has never seen such an expression on Sansa's face. She is never cold to her. And despite the situation of a troublesome girl taking shots at her lady, Elia feels her heart flutter at the realization. Of how Sansa seemed to genuinely esteem her if this is how frosty her expression can become in the wake of others who she does not like. Or must handle. She is wary of Elia- but she does not dislike her. Part of Elia is stupidly glad.
"...Forgive me, your Grace," said Lady Cersei, sullen and gods is Elia already tired of her.
If her father was not Lord Tywin, Elia would have made excuses to keep her far. But Lord Tywin is essential to the realm, if only as Warden of the West. She doubts Cersei has much influence on that score- by all accounts, she does not seem to be accomplished in her arts as a lady nor as a lady of a Keep. She keeps neither music nor dance teacher and dismissed her Septa long before appropriate. Her Aunt is still in charge of the duties of a lady in Casterly Rock. But, it is best to not shun the daughter of the Lord of the West. She does not have to praise her where praise is not gained, but she will allow her the respect of a Lady.
Even if she is stupid enough not to return it for her own arrogance.
"I will forgive you, Lady Cersei if you will remember your respect to both of my ladies," she returned, voice going dry. She cannot bring coldness to it as artfully as Lady Sansa, it is not in her nature, but she can turn it wry and dry and displeased in her own way.
Lady Cersei's face is all the more sullen.
"... Forgive me, Lady… Sansa and Ashara."
Her face turns into a painfully painted smile. Elia all but rolls her eyes. It is only Sansa's gentle hand on her arm that prevents it. She lifts her own hand and places it over Sansa's. Sansa does not jump at the contact, and Elia preens like a little girl in the cusp of first love. That is enough to startle Elia. The thought of love so swiftly brought.
It is only a silly infatuation . Nothing more, nothing less. She tries not to think of how fast she had fallen for Rheagar.
"I understand you have spent your life in your West. As a fellow outsider, young Lady Cersei, I understand your newness to the society of her Grace," Sansa smiles so sweet that Elia could just eat her up, even as she dismisses Cersei so artfully.
The girl is new to Court, young, and her manners boorish. Elia leaned in, smiling with her teeth.
"Oh, but my dear Lady," she murmured, and she could not help her hand reaching to playfully tug at the sweet silk of Sansa's red hair, "You are here but weeks and already shown yourself to be a boon to my court."
Sansa's face softened.
"You have been too kind to me. If I am of any help, Queen Elia, than I am glad of it."
Elia held back a fierce response of denial. Too much kindness was never real. Everyone could strive to have more. And it was frightfully easy to be kind to Sansa Stark. Cersei cleared her throat.
"My brother, Sansa," said Cersei, with too much familiarity, "Wished to grant you the first dance. I know you haven't done it in all the time we have been here."
Sansa blinked, slow and easy.
"I'm afraid, Cersei, my first dance was promised to someone else."
"My brother is handsome," insisted the girl, her lips pressed her lips into a thin, sharp line. "And is a most vigorous dancer. He would make up for your many mistakes in the simple dance"
Sansa's brows rose.
"Is it customary of a sister to beg a dance from a lady in Westroes?"
Cersei's fists clenched.
"He is most shy," she bit out, "And I believe our rapport of before would be sufficient to convince you.'
Her gaze turned to the Lannister party. Her careful eyes assessed.
"I am otherwise engaged, Lady Cersei. I cannot slight those who I already promised."
Cersei gaped. Then swiftly turned to a sickly smile.
"My brother is the heir to the West, it would be more slight to refuse him," she said it with pride.
Sansa curtsied most elegantly as Rheagar approached behind the young girl. Cersei rushed to imitate Sansa. And nearly fell over in her haste. Her face turned a fetching scarlet, and she gave a most beaming smile.
"My King!" said the girl, eyelashes fluttering coyly.
Elia blinked and nearly laughed. Infatuation. And envy. So that is what has caused her to be so nasty to Sansa. Does she wish to throw Jaime at her to distract us, or does she wish for Jaime to distract the girl to claw at Rheagar? She certainly has never tried to charm me, though no doubt Lord Tywin has tried to get her to do so.
"I believe, Lady Sansa, that you promised me a dance," Rheagar said with a quiet warmth.
Sansa smiled. Soft and shy.
"I do, King Rheagar. If you will allow me to borrow him, Queen Elia?"
Sansa looks to her. And Elia realizes with a startling flash of warmth that Sansa is indeed asking her permission. Nearly all the women of the Seven Kingdoms throw themselves at her husband. Oh, Elia is secure in the knowledge that Rheagar would never take what was so freely offered from those women. But she cannot help her own annoyance at it. Women may covet him for the dashing prince he had been. And now for the King he will be.
But Sansa looks to her and actually acknowledged the fact that Rheagar is Elia's. And asks when everyone just takes.
Elia smiles.
"Of course, my Lady. If you would also promise to grant me a dance. Doran, my brother, has brought proper Dornish musicians for this final night. There is a particular dance that belongs to women."
"If it pleases you, Queen Elia."
"It will very much please me."
"Than it is granted. Forgive me if my own steps are clumsy in it, I have not learned it. Your grace?"
She turns to Rheagar. Very carefully, he takes her hand.
"Take good care of our Maid of Fire," Elia told her husband.
He grinned. Charming and handsome. Sansa blinked a bit more quickly at the expression, and Elia realized with a start that she found him handsome. Elia could not help her beam.
"Most assuredly."
They go. Hand in hand. And Elia thinks they are a fetching pair to see walk away. Rheagar confident swagger, Sansa soft femininity, hips swaying most elegantly. Ashara smiles, teeth bared, and looked at Lady Cersei, who was glaring after Lady Sansa.
"Tell your brother if he wants a dance from the Maid of Fire he can ask it himself," said her Lady, fierce and triumphant, "And you are dismissed, Lady Cersei. Queen Elia is to speak to Lord Whent."
Cersei all but snarled.
"... Your grace. "
She gave a half-aborted curtsy, ridged and much too quick, and stormed away. Elia watched her, and turned to Ashara.
"I was not set to speak to Lord Whent."
"That girl is not fit to speak to you, or Lady Sansa. Can you believe her arrogance, My Queen?"
Elia smiled. Walked carefully back to sit at the Head Table of the Hall. All the while watching carefully as Rheagar and Sansa reached the area set aside for dancing. All the hall turned to look at them. The musicians began the first dancing set of the night, and Elia watched as her husband and the Maid of Fire began the dance. Quick, sure steps. A friendly dance of the Riverlands. Of course, she is a most elegant dancer. Look at how she moves, never out of step. She asked for one demonstration of the expected dances from me and Ashara, studied them no doubt in these three weeks past, and she knows them well.
Elia hummed. And watched with a smile as Brandon Stark charmed her other lady to the dancefloor, not for his hand, but for his blushing younger brother. Ashara left in a flurry of fetching lavender skirts. Ser Selmy's gaze followed her steps. His infatuation is sweet if a bit concerning. He has never spoken to her. So brave a man with killing, but not for the conversation of a lady. Elia turned her gaze back to her husband and Sansa.
Her husband was, as always, a good dancer. Always knew how to support his partner, no matter their skill. But with an equally skilled dancer, it was art, sublime motion of two beautiful people. Elia did not begrudge her husband when his composed face shifted to true, utter happiness as they went through the dance. Because Sansa bloomed in the dance. Movement for movement, turn by turn, her dainty feet never missing a step, always able to move her heavy skirts at the right movement, always careful to move in the right path of Rheagar's waiting arms. Her dress, another one of Dornish make, was a sliver matching the color of Rheagar's hair, and it moved across her body, a swish of gleaming skirts and gilded sliver belt, burning bright in the torchlight. Only outmatched by the beauty of her long, long red hair, intertwined with delicate fresh-water pearls and dragonglass that Ashara had gleefully added to match and contrast the dress. Her sweet Dornish lady loved to play at dress-up, turn fashions with any fancy, and gleefully. There was hard to find a better model than Sansa, who in turn was wonderful to dress in near everything.
Sansa had mentioned it had such a long time since she had danced, and it is evident that she had missed it. Elia smiled softly as Sansa's own face moved into a small smile. Then a larger and larger one as the lively dance continued. And then she was laughing, her eyes blue and sparkling as the lifts began. Cheeks filling with a fetching, delicate pink. With each movement, Sansa Stark turned merrier and merrier, looking innocent and young. And in turn, Elia is sure, enchanted half the room with the seldom-seen happiness and the beauty of the Maid of Fire laughing.
Elia knew she was.
"This is what I have been waiting to see," muttered a happy voice, dropping elegantly into the chair next to her, "The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms smiling."
Elia's smile turned a touch wider, but she did not turn from the very beautiful sight in front of her.
"So sweet, my prince, to come so fashionably late. Welcome home, Oberyn," she murmured back, warm, hand over his. He kissed it softly, and from the corner of her eyes, she saw her youngest brother smile.
"It is good to be home, sweet Queen. Though imagine my surprise to arrive at the Tourney and find you crowned. I missed your coronation."
He pouts, and she laughs. Watching Rheagar dip Sansa most daringly, Elia feels her heart lift. Sansa does not falter, and her laughter rings out sweet and true. Elia sighs sweetly. If I could hear that sound more often, I would be well pleased.
"I had not thought you would make it. You were at sea and were making your way here for simple Tourney, not my coronation. No doubt you took your time to arrive. The official jousts and the official melees were not set to start until tomorrow, after all."
"Nonetheless. Forgive me, Elia."
"Nothing to forgive, but you are granted my forgiveness nonetheless. I am glad you are here now."
Elia turns. And kisses her younger brother quickly on both cheeks. He smiles. His dark eyes flicker to the dance floor. His eyes, warm and sweet, turn as dark as flint.
"So that is the Maid of Fire. The Flame Witch. Some say she is a priestess of Asshai. Some say she was born of the flames. Some say they sprout from her when she speaks."
"Do they also say she saved us all from Wild-Fire with her arrival? That she is the sweetest thing I have ever met?"
He blinks. His face stills. His brow furrowed. His gaze flickered back to the dance floor. His jaw locks.
"Sweet enough to smile to our illustrious King."
" Oberyn. "
"Elia?"
"Oh brother, please do not cast such suspicion on her. She is enjoying a dance. And if I remind you, everyone smiles at my husband." Elia reprimed.
"She is enjoying your husband more than the damn dance."
Her brother was always so swift to defend her, and had been the loudest in denying her mother's to have her married to Rheagar. Something of his father's lecherous nature had always caused Oberyn ire. Not because of the affairs, but for the humiliation of poor Queen Rhaelle in wake of them. The Mad King had had his many mistresses, that much is true. Elia cannot deny she had feared such action too before she had met Rheagar. Now, she knows her husband's mind as well as she knows her own. He would never stray.
Not without my leave, at least.
"Oberyn, take your mistrust of that elsewhere."
"The rumors-"
"Of course, you take the words of sailors and barmaids and fear the worst of Rheagar. May I remind you, Oberyn, he is your goodbrother, and he has never done anything to cause me grief. And that girl is just an innocent girl who was bewitched and has been thrust into a foreign land with nothing. She is laughing, Oberyn. Laughing freely, and in the near moon I have known her, she has never laughed like that once. If dancing with my husband allows her such a feeling, I will tell him to take her for another turn."
"... Forgive me. They had said that she had bewitched him. That the next dragon King would have his whore after all, like his father before him," his voice turned softer.
Elia took his hand.
"If anything, she has bewitched me," confessed Elia, softly.
She looked back to Sansa and Rheagar. Watched a truly beautiful sight of scared woman finding simple joy in a dance.
"Forgive me again, Elia."
Elia pursed her lips.
" Oh. She is something to you, then?"
Elia felt her severe expression falter. Something indeed. What to call her?
"She is my lady," Elia, settled on, finally, "I- I like her, Oberyn. Very much. Life has not been kind to her, yet, she is unfailingly kind. There is value in that."
"... Then, I will strive to know her. If you value her, and esteem her."
Elia squeezed his hand.
"Thank you."
Oberyn turned to watch the dance.
"... Gods she is actually fucking stunning."
Elia laughed.
"Were you so set to hate her you ignored that part?"
"Indeed. Her hair. Do you think it matches-"
Elia is the Queen of the Seven Kingdom. Hence she knows when she punches her brother in reprime, she is very much entitled to it. He yelps, and rubs his upper arm.
"Do not be crude," she says, tartly.
The last thing Sansa needs is Elia's brother making nasty japes at her expense. He smiles, in a way that is nearly a leer.
"I will endeavor to try and find out myself then."
Elia blinked. And giggled.
"Oh, dear, sweet Oberyn. You will not be able to ensnare her. I can guarantee that."
She is the one who ensnares, if unconsciously… She will be either amused or terribly tired of him. He is not without charm, but Sansa is much too… innocent or stoic for his usual direct maneuvers. His eyes gleamed. Watching Sansa and Rheagar with anticipation.
"A challenge then."
Elia hummed. And for a moment, she envied Obyrn's freedom to flirt with Sansa, before she pushed that selfish thought away.
"Treat her with kindness. She is a lady. "
"Oh, I will be kind, alright."
Elia huffed a laugh.
"She is going to utterly crush your spirits, dear brother."
Notes:
This chapter TOOOK FOREVER. Apologies, but eh, this is actually pretty common for me to go AWOL for a while on a story. I didn't actually mean to introduce Oberyn so early, but he kinda crashed his way into this chapter. And before you ask, no, nothing will happen between Sansa and Oberyn.
Not from the lack of trying on his part, of course.
But she has her hands full with a smitten Sun Queen and Dragon King, and will barely register him with nothing more than gentle amusement, and a touch of obliviousness. I did add the 'Sansa has the Romantic Sense of a bowling ball' for a reason. In this fic, she is gonna be a little hard-pressed to recognize honest-to-god romantic attempts. For both dramatic purposes, and because poor Sansa hasn't had anyone truly trying to woo her in all of her life. She recognizes lust, as she has seen it time and time again directed to her, but actual attraction and good chemistry? She's been stifled from that.
This is just par the course for Oberyn flirting with everything he can, and he's gonna fall flat on his face. And before you ask, he's currently in his globe-trotting phase, so no Elliara just yet. I wished I've coulda included her, but canonical he's supposed to be fucking around right now and he hasn't met her yet. He does have the sand-snakes up to Sarella, so they might make some appearances. Not sure at this point now. Initially, I planned to make this fic about twenty chapters long, all relatively short. But my closer guesstimation is leaning to making it longer because I'm having fun with these kids. It's only chapter nine, and I'm like… 'I COULD DO SO MUCH WITH THIS. AND NOT JUST TAKING MY SWEET MONARCHS AND SMASHING THEM TOGETHER WITH A LOUD DECLARATION OF 'NOW KISS.'.
