a/n: a few things to know before you read: this is set in a universe where Rhaegar never fell at the Trident (but the implications of that are really brief), and the order of events is non-chronological. this fic is entirely self-indulgent.
i loved and i lost;
/
How predictable,Elia thinks bitterly, that Rhaegar still aches to play the game of thrones even when he's the prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
Her husband has always been ambitious, that Targaryen hunger for moremoremore burning inside of him like poison. In the past, Elia never had a particular problem with the way Rhaegar always kept looking for something else, never knowing when it was time to stop. Mostly because she'd thought that family life—having children, a legacy to protect—would be enough to convince him that everything he ever wanted was already his. But then Rhaenys was born, and later Aegon, and Rhaegar had only grown more absent.
(She'd wanted to name her son Doran, after her brother. She'd not wanted to give him the name of the Conqueror who'd forced the Seven Kingdoms into one.
But Rhaegar hadn't even asked her for a name. She'd instead woken up to an empty room, her newborn son giggling in her lap, and when she asked her wet nurse where her husband was, the girl only shook her head in the sad, pitying way that people do when something tragic has happened.)
/
She remembers, briefly, as she watches her husband lock his pretty purple eyes onto Lyanna Stark, that her mother had once told her to be wary of Rhaegar, that Targaryens never learned to just enjoy a feeling while it lasts and let go when it's over. That they always let things consume them, like fire. She'd laughed, of course, dazzled by Rhaegar's white-blonde hair and his porcelain skin, because why would she ever be wary of the quiet prince who played the harp in the corner of his father's throne room?
She understands now. Lyanna Stark is beautiful and looks much like herself—brown eyes and chocolate colored hair, but where Elia is petite and fragile, Lyanna is toned and strong. She holds her body like it's a temple, like she's not just a fourteen-year-old girl playing the part of a warrior. She's a Northerner, a Stark, a lady—and perhaps the bubbling hatred spilling imperceptibly from Elia's eyes is only there because she's never seen Rhaegar look at anyone the way he looks at Lyanna.
Ned Stark clears his throat, cold eyes staring at Rhaegar with heavy dislike. "My prince," he greets, nonetheless formal. His voice, Elia notices—because she's never met the infamous Eddard Stark before, but she's heard that the Northern lord could keep up in sparring with Ser Arthur on a bad day—his voice is flaked with the faint aftertaste of battle, breaths coming out in short huffs like he's just put his sword down and come to greet his prince. His deep Northern accent is enchanting and very different from Rhaegar's way of pronouncing things—like words are made of glass and they'll shatter if he's not too careful.
Rhaegar gives a short nod, a small "Lord Stark" escaping from his lips, but his attention is focused still on Lyanna. Elia tries not to bristle—honestly, Elia, she hears her mother say as if the woman is next to her, princesses don't pout so miserably—tries not to let her shoulders sag.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, my prince," Lyanna murmurs, bowing slightly at the waist. Her voice is like salt crystals spilling to the floor, light and pretty and delicate in a way almost identical to Rhaegar.
Rhaegar gives a small smile, tiny little dimples on his cheeks. "The pleasure is mine, Lady Stark," he says politely enough, though his eyes are wide with something Elia hasn't seen before, something bordering on satiated hunger, as if he's finally found something he's been looking for.
Lyanna's cheeks turn blossom-pink with teenage desire—it occurs to Elia again that holy gods, this girl is fourteen—and she shifts her body slightly away from Rhaegar. "Princess," she says, though her voice is tighter, less soft. "A pleasure to have you here in Winterfell."
Elia raises her chin, the way her mother had taught her—you are Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken, Elia; act like the queen you're meant to be—and gives Lyanna a cold smile. Her heart shivers in her chest (she's supposed to be gentle, gracious, princess of Dorne, so why—) and something tries to crawl up her throat, tries to spill to the ground as a half-forgotten scream, but Elia swallows it down and says, "A pleasure to be here, my lady" instead.
Lyanna nods, a small thing, a small gesture, and turns around, walking gracefully closer to her brother. A show of her deference, Elia supposes. Starks—the North in general, but especially the Starks—they've never hidden that they're less than fond of House Targaryen, and though Lyanna Stark's pretty brown eyes gleam up at Rhaegar in (foolish) adoration, it's only right that her honor lies in the North.
And Winterfell is beautiful, Elia admits. It's pretty in an icy way—like a spider's woven an intricate web of homes and statues and a grey shining castle, except that it's winter and the lacework is frozen. Wolves howl in the distance and the cold, freezing wind of the North combs through Elia's hair, whispers into her ear like a lost lover.
She shivers into her coat and tries to find Rhaegar's hand, but he's already gone.
/
Father, Smith, warrior, mother, maiden, crone, stranger.
King's Landing has never felt less like home, a strange, unfamiliar coldness weighing down on her—maybe because Rhaegar's decided that fighting a war for Lyanna Stark is more worth his time than taking care of his son—like something's snatched the warmth of the South right out of the castle.
Maybe those vows mean nothing to Rhaegar. Maybe they never did.
/
"It's her, Elia," Rhaegar almost pleads. "It has to be her. You know how long I've prayed to the gods for a sign like this. You know how I've longed to find someone like her." He's open-mouthed and staring through her like she's not really there, like he's talking to her but he's not registering her presence at all. "Didn't you see?"
Elia narrows her eyes, her soft allure fading into harsh beauty. Her husband's eyes are alive with a manic fire—the way they were when Aegon was born and he announced his son to be the Prince That Was Promised—like he's finally found everything he's ever wanted. "All I saw," she says, trying not to react with her whole body, trying to keep her rage thrumming in her eyes instead of spreading to her muscles, "was you giving the queen of beauty's laurel to a girl you've met but once."
Rhaegar looks at her pitifully, and for a moment Elia thinks that he's realized his mistake, that if it were any other woman he'd insulted so publicly, he'd never be met with such calm consideration. The illusion shatters when Rhaegar brings a hand to her face and cups her cheek like he had when they'd shared their first kiss after their marriage and says, "I had to do it, my love."
Elia snorts, pushing his hand away. He blinks at her in surprise and there's a minute moment of silent agitation that allows Elia to pull away from Rhaegar's (suffocating) embrace, allows her to back away just a couple steps. "I'm sure that you did," she says, spitefully mocking. "I'm sure that it was the ghosts who told you it had to be her, and it was the gods who made you do it."
Rhaegar's face twists, and Elia feels a short flicker of fear (Targaryens always let things consume them, like fire) but the expression on her husband's face isn't one of anger, it's of a slow, aching sympathy. "You're taunting me," he says.
"Do you hear yourself, Rhaegar?" she asks incredulously. There's something in her throat, again, screaming to be let out, but she grips the seams of her gown and bites her tongue until she tastes red, coppery blood. "Do you even understand what you've done?"
"I told you," he says helplessly, like his hands are tied behind his back by soulless ropes, like there's a knife to his throat and this is all he can say. "I did what had to be done."
Elia ignores him. She's gotten quite good at doing that these days. "I have never felt so humiliated in my life, Rhaegar," she says rather sharply. A laugh slips from her mouth and for a moment it seems like her soul has escaped her body in an attempt to catch it before Rhaegar can hear the scathing sound, but it crumbles to the floor anyways. Rhaegar blinks in that shocked way again, and some distant part of Elia feels bad—like she's done something wrong.
"I never meant for you to," he says, moving toward her. "But this is for our future, Elia. This is for you and Rhaenys and my precious Prince That Was Promised." He smiles assuredly, his eyes glimmering with the strict confidence that what he's saying is right, and for the first time, Elia is struck harshly by how much Rhaegar looks like his father.
Elia shrinks back, wishing she could collapse into her shadow because gods, it's always been so easy for Rhaegar to manipulate her like this. It's not like she makes it hard for him anyway—sometimes she even feels like she's the one making it so effortless for him. "How could this possibly be for me, Rhaegar?" she asks in bewilderment. "How could giving that damn wreath—"
Rhaegar presses a delicate finger to her lips. Unbidden lust flakes off at her fingertips and flutters toward him like a butterfly with broken wings. Elia grits her teeth, but Rhaegar pays her no mind. "The prophecy," he elaborates. "Aegon is the Prince That Was Promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire, but—"
"But what?"
"You've given me two children. You're incapable of giving me more."
Elia is about to reply, is about to remind him that he has no right to ever use that against her or to even speak to her like that at all, but Rhaegar traces a finger down her throat and her focus shifts instead to choking down a lovesick moan. I hate you, she wants to say, but Rhaegar grins all the same, his smile nothing but teeth and sharp satisfaction. He places a hand on her hip and pushes himself against her. Elia's knees tremble, so eager to fall to the floor in front of Rhaegar as if she's some common whore.
"The dragon has three heads," Rhaegar says reproachfully, brushing his teeth against her neck. She's about to protest, to say something, anything—but his tongue licks at her throat and she lets herself dissolve into nothing.
And as if that damn three-headed dragon is an acceptable excuse for giving her crown of flowers to a Northern maiden of fourteen, Elia says fine and lets Rhaegar guide her to their bed.
/
She remembers Ser Gregor and his sword, remembers feeling his bloody hands in every inch of her soul as he presses into her and kisses down her throat and pushes.
(No please not my children they've done nothing wrong notmychildren—)
Elia's never cared much for the Lannisters—she'd always thought her blonde-haired purple-eyed prince was more worthy than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms—so why was it Rhaegar who'd left her to die and why had it been Jaime who'd saved her life?
/
"Now," she says, feeling the cold of the North swirl into the vicious apathy in her voice, "I'm going to repeat that, because I'm having a hard time believing that you've been stupid enough to do this."
Rhaegar looks worse than he has in a long time. The rubies adorning his armor—she's always loved them, even though she's teased him about them more often than she's told him that they make him look like a god—they're cracked, and most are gone, but what captures her attention the most is that he's crying. "I'm sorry," he says flatly, digging his nails into the bedsheets. "I will be back, and I will fix this for us."
"Be quiet," Elia snaps. "You don't get to apologize and pretend everything will be okay just because you've said so. That's not how things are, Rhaegar." She feels herself slipping, feels the years-old bitterness and anger and resentment flare up in her, and she's dizzy with how things used to be and how things are now. "Let's review. Lyanna Stark is in this...tower of joy, as you've so eloquently named it, and she is giving birth to your child—who is not a bastard, because you have in secret annulled our marriage in favor of wedding a fourteen-year-old Northern maiden—and Robert Baratheon, her betrothed, thinks you've kidnapped and raped her, so he's started a rebellion and challenged you to a fight. To the death."
Rhaegar stares at her, long and hard, like he's trying really hard to see her instead of seeing through her but failing, and all it takes is a small nod for Elia to collapse into herself.
"I must leave," he tells her. "I will be back once I squash this foolish rebellion and bring fire and blood to anyone left of it."
"And if you can't?" Elia snaps. "If your confidence betrays you and you fall at the Trident? I'm sure you have your best men guarding your precious wife, so you will be on your own." She huffs, the sound feeling a lot like sandpaper in her throat. "Robert Baratheon is not someone to underestimate," she warns. "If he believes that you have defiled his betrothed, he will not hesitate to kill you. Your armor is already damaged from whatever fight you've come from."
Rhaegar smiles self-depreciatingly. "I will go on my own to face Robert," he says, and Elia doesn't really need the confirmation that her husband—ex-husband, she supposes, because he's not hers anymore, hasn't been since the moment he met Lyanna Stark—has a looming death wish. "And I will return to you, Elia. I swear on my honor."
Elia laughs, a bitter and angry sound. "Be honest with yourself, Rhaegar," she says with vicious monotony. "You lost that a long time ago."
/
She hasn't felt such razor-sharp innocence in a long time, but her daughter is most certainly an angel.
She looks almost exactly like Elia—chocolate eyes swirling with warmth and bronze chastity braided into her skin. She's brown-haired too, and Elia is happy that she at least has this one memory of Dorne with her in King's Landing.
Rhaegar loves his daughter breathlessly. Elia holds his hand and hopes this'll be enough.
/
There'd been a time, before the prophecy and everything else, that Elia had been content.
Now, staring at this boy in front of her who looks so much like Lyanna Stark—she's nothing more than a bitter woman with the remnants of an old, forgotten life flaking off at her fingertips.
/
She meets Rhaegar Targaryen in spring, when the roses are just blooming, and the sky is her favorite shade of blue. He's a dream—a fantasy she's had for a long time, of white-blonde hair and pretty violet eyes and the consuming hunger of a prince as he stares at his father's throne.
("Don't presume to fall in love, Elia," her mother says sharply. "You are Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken—do not let anyone change that," and Elia scoffs because what would her mother know about love?)
"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Martell," he says and kisses her hands with honeycombed fragility.
"The pleasure is all mine, my prince," she replies. "Thank you for having us here in King's Landing. It is…exquisite."
Rhaegar's lips quirk up a little, the slightest hint of a smile on his face making him all the more handsome. "Thank you," he mutters. His voice is low yet soft at the same time. Enchanting. Then his eyes flick to someone behind her and she can take an educated guess at who it is because Rhaegar's eyes darken into indigo pearls.
Aerys, she thinks. Aerys, who exudes fire and blood like it's inside of him, who fights like a god sent from heaven except that there's nothing heavenly about the way he tears people apart as if his entire soul is alight with ardent flames. Aerys, who Rhaegar stares at with blackened hatred.
She turns around, head lifted high and chin jutted out in the way her mother taught her. She gives a short curtsy and whispers a fervent, "Your Grace," but the king is hardly interested in her.
"I thought you'd not be foolish enough, Rhaegar," Aerys says sharply, "to neglect the duties I gave you in favor of fraternizing with a woman."
Rhaegar's shoulders stiffen, and his hands turn into fists at his sides, and he lets out a slow breath as if to calm himself and keep from punching his father in the face. He gives an unsteady smile. "I was only welcoming the princess, Father," he says, a small warning in his voice. "This is Elia Martell of Dorne."
Elia doesn't understand why, but the king's eyes soften. "I see," he whispers. "I had forgotten the princess would be visiting today. I apologize for not greeting you upon your arrival."
"It's alright, your Grace," she assures, still smiling in that polite way. "Prince Rhaegar was more than welcoming."
Aerys smiles, something strange shining in his eyes. Rhaegar doesn't have that spark, she notes—he doesn't look at her like she's something to be devoured, but the king most certainly does. "Was he?" Aerys asks, raising an eyebrow at his son.
Elia opens her mouth to speak, but Rhaegar beats her to it. "I will be by your side at once, Father—just after I acquaint the princess with her quarters."
Aerys nods his assent and leaves, and Rhaegar's lips pull down into a tiny, almost imperceptible sneer. He turns to Elia, bitter sardonicism written in every harsh line surrounding his mouth. "My father wishes us to marry," he informs her with a scoff. "Mother has told him I am too young, but you know what they call my father—the Mad King always gets what he wants."
And Elia just stares politely at Rhaegar's pretty purple eyes and pretends she hasn't already fallen halfway in love.
/
"I wonder," says Elia coolly, "what, exactly, Lyanna Stark saw in you."
Rhaegar shakes imperceptibly and if she hadn't known him better, she wouldn't have noticed it. He's good at that—hiding things. Always has been. Perhaps it's something he picked up from the short time he spent admiring his father, or maybe it's Rhaella's influence, but that's not really what matters right now.
Rhaegar stays quiet, purses his wine-red lips and doesn't make a single sound. He's staring at the empty bed in front of him, the one that's covered and drenched in dried blood, still smelling faintly of winter flowers and forest wolves.
"She was only fourteen when she met you," Elia trudges on, swallowing her anger, unfamiliar to the coldness in her own voice. "Fifteen when she died on her birthing bed." She hums. "So perhaps you were an escape—from her family, from her betrothal—everything."
"She loved me," Rhaegar says quietly. "And I might have loved her."
Elia scoffs. "You know there are people who believe that," she says. "That Rhaegar Targaryen loved his Lady Lyanna so much and he let thousands die for it." Her lips twist down into a scowl. "I highly doubt you felt anything near love for that girl."
Rhaegar looks at her, none of that old smugness or complacency on his face, and above all he looks tired. Like the life, the passionate fire of the Targaryens, has been drained out of him.
Elia glares at him for a long moment, then glances at the small mess of tangled blankets where Lyanna Stark had taken her last breaths, and she feels nothing.
/
The day she marries Rhaegar is most certainly the best day of her life.
Big ceremony—dragons flying above her, breathing fire like it's nothing, sharp teeth and sharp claws, so beautiful and incendiary and full of light—but all of that is nothing more than a blur at the back of her mind.
What really matters is that Rhaegar takes her hand, says his vows, and kisses her like he can't breathe.
/
In her nightmares, Ser Gregor is there with her, on top of her, his sword at her neck as he pushes and pushes and this time, he doesn't let go and Jaime's not there. Rhaenys screams as she's dragged out from underneath their bed and Aegon—her beautiful son—he doesn't even know how to scream as his throat is slit open and their blood forms a pool on the floor.
Rhaegar is always there when she wakes up, gasping for breath and crying over the phantom pain of losing her children, and it's not enough.
/
Jon Snow has frozen beauty etched into his face, every crevice and every line on his body fitting together to create a kaleidoscope of battle scars on a pale canvas. He is everything that Lyanna Stark had been and more.
Elia wants to hate him, wants to look at him and feel nothing, but his porcelain skin and flaming eyes are all Rhaegar, and she can't, she can't, she can't.
/
(She reaches for innocence and passes through it like it's a ghost of all that she's ever loved, like it used to be tangible, within reach, not so hard to touch—but not anymore. She throws herself at it, pushes and pushes and tries—hopes—needs to be the person she'd once been.
But innocence pushes back, and Elia realizes she's lost everything—even herself.)
/
"Do you believe him?" she asks Rhaegar. "Do you truly trust Lyanna Stark's son that much?"
Rhaegar gives her a small smile. "I understand how this must be hard for you—"
"No," she interrupts. "You don't. You've never understood, Rhaegar." She glances out the window where Rhaenys is talking with Aegon and their dragons sleep behind them. "Do you trust him?"
Rhaegar is silent, for just one moment, before he sighs deeply and says, "Yes."
Elia raises an eyebrow, says, "Then I will trust your judgement," and doesn't mean it.
/
Sometimes she imagines what it might've been like had Rhaegar married Cersei Lannister and she'd stayed with her mother in Dorne.
Better, she thinks. It might've been better.
/
(She is awake but everything is heavy. He's next to her but the bed feels empty.
Everything comes with consequences. She pulls at her heartstrings and bites herself to pieces.)
/
"How could you let this happen?" she asks. "Do I mean so little to you, Rhaegar, that you would leave your own wife unprotected against—" She falters, tears sprinkling down her eyes.
Rhaegar looks heartbroken, and Elia wonders for a brief moment if she's had too many drinks because his eyes are glassy with tears. "I am sorry," he says. "I never meant for this to happen to you, Elia—never to you."
Elia laughs hollowly. "You have ruined me, Rhaegar," she says flatly. "You have taken the princess of Dorne and you have ruined her." She scoffs and walks out the door. "I do hope you're proud."
/
It's midnight when Jon Snow pulls her aside and tells her he's sorry.
"What for?"
Jon Snow gives her a flat stare, dark eyes shimmering with all the light of a sunrise, and he looks so gentle and afraid. "For everything." He tilts his head. "I don't pretend to know the challenges you've faced, what you've been through, but I do know that you did not deserve any of it."
Elia blinks, surprised. "You are not your father's sins—or your mother's," she says dully. "Now if you'll excuse me, I would like to sleep."
Jon smiles at her slightly as she leaves, and Rhaegar's dimples decorate Lyanna's face, and Elia's heart sobs into her throat.
/
In her dreams she turns into a rose bush with more thorns than pretty petals, and in reality, she changes her clothes, puts her crown away into a cupboard under her bed, and pretends she can move on.