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Lady of Dorne

Interpretations

Arthur woke up three times and each one, it was still dark, almost the last time, something told him that dawn would soon come. He reached out and touched Elia's arm and shoulder, leaned over to follow the outline of her jaw to make sure that it was true, that she was here, next to him. She slept curled on her side, with her hands between her thighs, as if she were cold, and Arthur thought that it must be a habit she had developed after Rhaegar stopped visiting her bed. Even unwanted by her king and replaced with a younger woman, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms could not take a lover without casting doubts over her children's paternity, so she had spent all those years alone and freezing. Arthur has spent enough nights guarding her door to know so, yet even now, a small voice of contentment whispered to him that it had been good and right. What had all those people who had written about love known of love at all? Love was supposed to make one better. It did not act this way with Arthur at all – it only served to make him insincere, dishonest, and unhappy. And even now, when it had given him this moment of bliss, it did not make him a better man. Come to think of it, he didn't know anyone who had become better with love, except for Rhaegar's second queen, maybe. No, love did not change her for the better, Arthur remembered, it was the bitterness of disappointment that did. He shivered. Thinking of Lyanna Stark in this bedchamber, with Elia sleeping beside him was foul. He preferred to focus on his dream that had finally come to pass, and he went to sleep with his hand on Elia's hip.

When he woke up next time, the pale light of dawn threw rosy spots all over the bedchamber. Very few people in the palace closed their shutters for the night and Arthur breathed the last remnants of coolness before he looked up. Elia turned his head to look back at him and smiled faintly. Arthur saw that she was very white and gaunt – a combination of a severe hangover and the consequences of their sleepless night. He felt as exhausted as he did after an entire day of practice. "I thought it was a dream," he murmured.

Elia smiled once again. "It is."

She was gathering the various parts of her attire and clearly having trouble remembering where she had discarded them. Arthur's smile flickered and died when, at seeing her robe, she knelt – this way, she could keep her balance more easily than if she simply crouched or leaned – and then rose.

The growing light caught something dark and glistening, like a girdle of granites, or scales of a snake, right below her breasts and over the upper part of her belly. Elia followed his look and dark stain of shame bloomed upon her cheeks in the very moment Arthur realized that the material he was seeing was, in fact, a part of Elia's own skin, a thick corn-like thread of flesh that had marked her forever with the seal of fire. He had seen the scars on her arms and hands but somehow, he had never thought that those on her body would be worse. Now, though, he remembered how the servants had found her, pressed under a burning board that she had pushed with her bare hands away from Aegon's bed. She had spent her first months as queen bedridden most of time.

It was clear to him that Elia had lived with her scarring for so long that she no longer thought about it. With Rhaegar keeping away from her bed, who would see it? But now, mortification made her look down before a defiant sparkle danced in her eyes. She slipped the shift on without trying to hide herself from Arthur's view. On the contrary, she stretched, playing the role of seductress parading with her smooth body. Then, she ran her hands through her wild hair, as if that was the greatest problem with her looks.

"Now, you're even more beautiful," Arthur finally spoke, his words coming from a place of sincerity and shame. He saw her scarring like a battle scar, a badge of honour, and he was ashamed that he hadn't been there, that he had left her to meet this fight alone. Couldn't you spare them one, Rhaegar, he thought angrily. There were three of us in that blasted Tower and three with you at the Trident, with Jaime attached to the King. Couldn't you spare just one for them? A Kingsguard should have been the one to save your heir from the flames, not his mother.

Elia stared at him. Her usually kind eyes were now viperish, probing, drilling a hole in his head to check the sincerity of his word. At the end, she smiled and closed the distance between them to place his hand over the scales.

"Now, you're truly a Martell viper," he breathed and felt rewarded when she laughed in reply.

"What?"

Elia's chair fell behind her when she rose abruptly. Her face was white as bone, her fists clenched and no less pale. She grabbed the parchment from her father's hand and skimmed over it, as if she hoped that Alric had suddenly lost his ability to read and the note was saying the exact opposite of what it, in fact, said.

"When did that arrive?" she asked in such controlled a voice that Alric might have thought he had only imagined her outburst from before even as he was going to lift her chair back up.

"Just when I was coming back from the morning ride," Alric replied.

Elia's eyes narrowed. She gave her father a suspicious look and wondered how he had ended up with the streaks on his face. But she knew better than to ask. He would tell her that it was no concern of hers. Still, she inquired, "A night brigand?"

"A deplorable wretch," Alric replied shortly.

Elia started pacing the solar, kicking the rugs. "I can't believe he'd do that to Aegon," she exclaimed. "I have always believed he loved the children. I thought that while he did not love me, he loved them."

Alric held a different opinion of the matter but chose to keep silent. A young handmaiden came with a tray of blood oranges and was quick to leave. Alric thought that she might have overheard Elia's raised voice.

The morning sun made his daughter's skin gold. Alric resisted the urge to squint, he felt as if he was facing a sandstorm with bare face and eyes. Even the ride had not helped with the headache but he wasn't surprised. He had really pushed his limits. I have reached a new low, he thought before his thoughts once again led him to their damned King's last decision. Was Rhaegar doing it just to spite Elia? To make her new beginning harder? Alric wouldn't put it past him.

"It's an honour," he said. "What more could you hope for? He made a clear statement that your son is the heir, not the Northern woman's whelp. In truth, he should have done it long ago."

Elia glared at him but there were tears in her eyes. "Yes," she agreed, with a bitter laugh. "Right. Because shipping a child Aegon's age alone for Dragonstone is just what a loving father would do."

Alric sighed. "Aegon was invested as Prince of Dragonstone," he corrected. "Immediately after the dissolving of the marriage. I think that's a good pledge for Rhaegar's intentions. And Aegon won't be alone there."

Once again, Elia clenched her fists. "It can be just a tactic to remove him from court, thus preventing people from knowing him," she spat. "They might be trying to isolate him. And even if their intentions are good, he's still so young. He's just lost me and Rhaenys; how can anyone think that sending him to that distant island would do him any good?"

Of course, Alric had already asked himself these questions. But he could hardly admit that to her. Right now, his priority was soothing her fears – with made up excuses for Rhaegar if he must.

"We did not marry you to a landed knight," he said sharply. "We married you to the future King. We did not sacrifice you to the whine of his harp and his brooding moods in a spur of the moment decision. That was the reason I deprived myself of the pleasure of gutting him when he took after his ill-fated Northern fool and had the audacity to bring her here. Your marriage didn't work out – well, that's too unfortunate. But we can still salvage something of the initial purpose. And for the moment, he is working towards this purpose as well, so you can stop indulging yourself in keening like a peasant mother. Your son isn't being disinherited, isn't going to war, and has his position strengthened. That's what you should focus upon. Actually, I think that being away from the she-wolf and that father of his might prove a good thing. I was younger than him when I was shipped off to Dorne – and I am non worse for the wear. In fact, I suggest that you talk to your grandmother about this. I am sure she can find the words to comfort you. But as far as I am concerned, you aren't doing yourself a favour by bringing emotions into something that works to Aegon's advantage."

Elia stopped her pacing and looked out the window. The palace garden stretched ahead of her and she stared at a single tree, a little removed from the rest. Her father had rarely spoken to her this sharply, as if he were scolding a slow student, and Elia felt hurt by his lack of empathy. All of a sudden, she realized why they called him heartless, as cold-blooded as a snake…

Alric came behind her and placed his hand over her shoulders. "Elia," he said softly. "I am not saying this to hurt you. But when you chose to shoulder the responsibility for Dorne, you knew there were certain sacrifices to be made and certain privileges to give up. Stop tormenting yourself over something that you have no control over, or you'll destroy yourself."

Elia laughed angrily. "Is such a thing possible at all?" she asked. "Have you stopped tormenting yourself over what you did about Loreza – something I am sure you didn't have control over either?"

Alric paled, closed his eyes, shook his head. "No."

"Then? How am I supposed to turn my back at Aegon?"

Alric took his hands away, scared that he might shake her uncontrollably. "I don't want you to turn your back at anyone," he spat but seeing that there was no way to alleviate her fears, he turned around and left before he did or said something he'd regret.

Arthur had made it a point to test every day one of his new squire's basic skills. For now, he had seen that the boy had some good basics in swordsmanship – really, nothing to wonder at since his grandfather Mikkel had been one of Dorne's finest swords in his prime, - was dealing fine with a spear and was a complete disaster with a morningstar. Arthur supposed it had something to do with his slender frame and fine hands. Sure, hard work could make then calloused. But bigger, with wider wrists? Impossible.

Today, it was time to see Laval's riding skills. For the purpose, he had chosen a yard meant for walking the animals. Then, they would go to the training yard. While in the beginning, he had been the recipient of more than one hostile look, the other knights and men-at-arms had become used to his presence. No doubt the fact that he was tutoring no other than Lord Alric's own grandson was part of the reason.

Walking in the yard towards Laval, Arthur realized why he had woken up so many times the night before. It had been raining – a rare thing in Dorne. As he waded down the mud, his face broke in a smile. Laval had already taken his horse out and was now stroking and talking to him as if he had a playmate before him. The chestnut beast whinnied softly and pushed his head against Laval's pocket in search of a threat.

"Is this what you're looking for?" the boy asked and smiling slyly, gave the animal an apple. "What! One would think I'm starving you. And you have no manners at all," he added when pieces of the apple and drops of horse spittle started flying all around. Arthur was fast to step aside before one of the pieces hit him straight on the forehead. "I am sorry, Ser," the boy apologized.

It was good to see that Laval treated his animal properly. Arthur shrugged, showing that all was well. "Show me what you can do," he said.

The boy blinked. "Ser?"

"I want to see how far your abilities go," Arthur explained and his squire whispered something to the horse that was still munching his apple happily.

The yard actually looked more like a broken ground – people had already walked their animals in the mud. Arthur watched the swift fly that landed Laval right atop his horse, the easiness the boy made himself comfortable despite the lack of a saddle, the upright posture that showed no inclination to lean against the neck of the animal and felt that he had finally seen the boy's greatest talent.

Out of all candles burning in the yellow bedchamber, only three had remained, throwing small flickering spots over the tapestries, the carpet, the empty bed. Elia sat in a big chair, clad in a dark silk robe, leaning her forehead against her palm. Her long dark hair fell over the back of the chair like a sunless river.

Arthur hesitated at the threshold, suddenly unsure that he'd be welcome. For some reason, he thought that he might have imagined the last night, as if he had been the drunken – or half-drunken – one and not Elia. But as he was fighting his conflicting emotions, Elia looked up and smiled, faintly but prettily. Silently, she beckoned him in.

It was only after they had closed the door that she threw herself in his arms, burying her face in his neck. "I didn't realize it was so late," she murmured. "I would have come."

"Well, I did," he murmured back, feeling ridiculously relieved that last night had not been a figment of his imagination, after all.

Elia was trembling and he pushed her an arm's length away so he could look at her face. "What's wrong?" he asked. The last ten years of being so close to her had made him quite attuned to all things Elia-related. He could now see that she wasn't cold and she didn't run fever. She was simply upset.

"Rhaegar has invested Aegon as Prince of Dragonstone and is sending him there," Elia said, biting her lip. "All on his own… so soon after I left… And the worst thing is, I am not entirely sure he's doing it for Aegon's benefit. If he only wants to remove him from court?... Could it be the first step in…"

Arthur was quick to interrupt her. "No," he said, trying to soothe her anxiety. "Maybe the timing is unfortunate, indeed, but I can assure you, sending Aegon to Dragonstone means nothing about the boy's succession. He wants Aegon to be his heir. In fact, he intended to send…" And he paused, cursing his quick tongue.

"Yes?" Elia's voice was quite normal, she still hadn't spotted his lapsus. For a moment, Arthur hoped that it would stay unnoticed but then her face hardened. "Who did he intend to send? Where?"

The former Kingsguard was silent, hoping that she might find it out by herself. He didn't want to say the words. But Elia was still staring at him uncomprehending.

Arthur looked at the carpet on the floor, on the nearest tapestry with its golden thread as if he hoped to find help somewhere there. But they were silent. Elia was still looking at him inquiringly.

Arthur swallowed thickly and accepted the inevitable. "He was going to send you and the children to Dragonstone," he said quickly. "Move you there. They figured it would be uncomfortable…"

Words failed him.

Elia's face was smooth and perfectly impassive. The candles now painted peculiar forms on her temples. "Of course," she said. "It would be uncomfortable to keep his two families under the same roof, no matter how big the roof is. And of course, it would be my children and I who had to go so he could stay there – with her."

The wretched expression on Arthur's face said it all. She looked away.

Damn the indifference she thought she had started to feel towards Rhaegar! Damn her pity for the blasted selfish child who had not hesitated to throw herself in Rhaegar's bed while Elia had still been fighting the Stranger! Damn Arthur's hated obedience to his duty! There were insults that indeed nothing could atone for.

"I see. That was very… wise of them. And why did he change his mind?"

She could have saved herself the trouble of asking, the answer was so evident. Arthur reached for her hands but she drew back.

"Elia," he said. "I didn't know when I went with them."

She gave him a look that could freeze Hellholt. "But even after you learned their plans, you still chose to stay. I understand… Now go away, I am tired."