No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.
Dorne was a proud kingdom.
And rightly so, for it alone held against the battering might of the Targaryens during the conquest of Aegon the Conqueror. The people were proud, and they were stubborn, and it had served them well. It is said that the willpower of the Dornish was not wrought from weapons but from the strength of their spirits, which burn brightly as the sun. And so when the time came for the nation to wed it's only princess, the question presented was, "Who was worthy of such an honor?"
The princess' brother Oberyn would've said, "No one at all." To him, his sister was a flower whose value could not be measured in political alliances but only in the wit she imbued and kindness she embodied.
The heir to the throne and the eldest of the three Martell siblings, Doran, would've scuffed his young brother around the head and with all the wisdom and cunning of a future leader, respond, "Whoever promises to respect, honor, and defend the wishes of our sister, her family, and her kingdom."
The men of Dorne would've replied with bawdy winks and lewd smiles, "A man with fire in his blood to set hers alight!" She was not especially pretty, they all agreed, but there was something about her aura that still made heads turn and mouths fall.
The women would've replied much the same, for Dorne was a place where a woman could breathe and live with a bit more freedom than in many other kingdoms. They were, after all, descended from the warrior-queen Nymeria, who commandeered ten thousand ships to shores of Westeros and united the small, warring kingdoms of Dorne under the banner of House Martell.
And amongst all of this discussion, if anyone had thought to ask the princess herself, she might've smiled at the inquirer sweetly with a glimmer in her eye and replied, "I suppose a man such as Arthur."
Arthur Dayne was so intertwined with the Martells that he may as well have been adopted into the clan. He hailed from Starfall as a young boy to become a squire under Ryad, the Prince of Dorne and Elia's father. Close in age to both her and Oberyn, the boy had attached to them from the beginning. The romance between Elia Martell and Arthur Dayne, that hot-headed lad who slowly mellowed into a loyal and brave man, had blossomed with age. And while the mutually shared and acknowledged feelings had all the potential to become a tragic love affair, the attraction was never consummated and therefore, tragedy was naught to be had, especially after Arthur, a well-seasoned soldier, became of member of that illustrious organization, the Kingsguard.
And perhaps it was just as well that no one asked Elia of her opinion on marriage. Her fate would not have changed.
She was a princess doomed to marry the dragon-prince and to die in blood. Arthur was a second son who had chosen to don the white cloak. While black may hide red, white cannot.
It was as these questions abounded amongst the Dornish populace that the royal houses of the Seven Kingdoms converged on Lannisport to celebrate the birth of Viserys Targaryen, the second prince to grace the halls of King's Landing. Tywin Lannister spared no expense at pomp and ceremony. Attendees whispered that the Hand of the King was not satisfied with whispering in the king's ear; he also wanted his daughter in the bed of the heir to the throne.
The Lannisters and the Martells still sported injured pride over the thought of marriage. Years ago, when Tyrion the Imp was born, and Joanna Lannister had died giving birth to him, House Martell visited Casterly Rock to pay their respects. There, marriages between Tywin's son and Elia, and his daughter and Oberyn were suggested. Tywin had scoffed at the Martells' offer, claiming that Cersei was meant for the Targaryen prince, not a snake of the desert. Of course, the ruling family of Dorne left Casterly Rock smarting from the slight and continued to feel its sting three years later.
Therefore, it was against this backdrop of bygone injuries to pride and vaulted hopes for political ascension that the tourney commenced.
And what an event it was. The first day undoubtedly belonged to Prince Rhaegar, newly knighted and all of seventeen years old. A true Targaryen heir, they called him. He was tall and strong, with flowing silver locks and the same eerie Valyrian eyes that only true descendants of the Freehold possess. Not only did he he defeat two Lannisters of renown, Tygett and Gerion, he also captured several hearts of men and women alike.
Cersei was not one of those who fell at the tourney for the handsome Targaryen prince. She, misled by the words of her father and aunt, had already dreamt of Rhaegar and more importantly, the throne he was to occupy one day, years and years ago. A child of barely ten, she already possessed a golden beauty and a petulant determination that spoke of a will as strong as any of the Dornish. Indeed, that was the manner in which she conducted herself as she made her way through the crowds of the tourney, mentioning her impending betrothal to all but the prince himself.
"And let her brag about her yet-to-happen conquest," Oberyn had remarked as he lounged in the rooms the family had been allotted in the Lannisport castle. "The she-lion deserves the dragonspawn. Any other man would go near her at the risk of getting mauled."
Elia offered her brother a wry smile and returned to her novel, a thick shawl around her shoulders. If Lannisport chilled her body to this point, she supposed that a visit to Winterfell might just turn her into a White Walker. Her body was ill-equipped to cold weather, she was quickly finding. She longed for the heat of the Dornish sun which, in the summer, would tan her skin into a fiery bronze.
"Thoughts, Elia?" Oberyn quipped, not satisfied with his sister's lackluster response, and as always, she obliged.
"I don't know, Oberyn. She is a beautiful girl. Perhaps you should try her bed and see what happens. A Dornish man can burn as harshly as a Targaryen, no?"
"Yes, but a Dornish man is smart."
The tourney was as much a social event as it was an athletic melee. During the nights after the jousting, archery, and other events, the castle and town were alight with the sounds of raucous merrymaking.
In the banquet hall, tables upon tables were laid with dishes from every corner of Westeros: all sorts of meat lathered in savory, tangy sauces, vegetable stews from Winterfell to spice-laden curries from Dorne, freshly baked rolls and breads for dipping, rich ciders, fruity wines, and candied delicacies to feed all of the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms and the scavengers mulling in the streets to boot.
The conversation was not be forgotten either. Ladies squawked and simpered, lords boasted and brawled while the bastards and servants looked on mournfully from the sidelines, a part of the celebration and yet not. Betrothals were made and broken, threats of war broke out at least three times before each was forgotten in hearty tankard of beer, and unfailingly, all eyes drifted at some point during the festivities from the taciturn King Aerys who sat upon his vaulted chair, to the irate Tywin Lannister to his right, and finally, to the shining Prince Rhaegar on his left. Queen Rhaella, it was rumored, did not feel well and had chosen to remain at King's Landing, nursing the newborn and whatever wounds her husband had inflicted upon her.
That first night, the Martell siblings, by either luck or sheer oversight on Tywin's part, were seated next to the Lannister brood, who were, of course, seated next to the ruling family. Elia's mother was taking dinner in her chambers, reliving her time of being a lady-in-waiting to the queen with a few forgotten friends. Her father Ryad, on the other hand, had drank too much before the banquet and was nursing a pounding headache in the family's rooms. As a result, Elia had the true pleasure of meeting Jaime, the golden twin of the golden Cersei, and of seeing Oberyn squirm next to the beguiling she-lion herself. Doran, the lucky bastard, had escaped Oberyn's misfortune by being tied up back in Dorne, enjoying all the responsibilities that came with being the crown prince.
"Tell me, Lady Elia; how are the women of Dorne?" Jaime queried of her, boldly sucking on a ripe strawberry from the tart on his plate as he gazed at her, brow furrowed comically and a mischievous smirk firmly planted on his face.
Elia laughed brightly at the ten-year-old's cheek and responded gamely, "How do you mean- in bed or in battle? Regardless of what you have heard of us savage Dornes, we see them as very different things."
Curiously flirtatious and cosmopolitan for one so young, Jaime struck Elia as the kinder of the two twins. He was by no means an angel- that tongue had known sin, she was sure of it- but he had a sort of nobility behind the bravado whereas Cersei had a cruel antipathy and disregard for anything not immediately useful. With time, he could become the knight in shining armor, and while Cersei might make play at being the damsel, Elia pondered if the girl might not be the dragon guarding the tower instead.
She certainly stalked her prey like a beast. Elia had never met nor seen Prince Rhaegar in the flesh before, but the man looked cornered and bemused by Cersei's mannerisms. She giggled, she groused, and she practically threw her body upon his. Even Oberyn, licentious as he was, looked disgusted, although that may have been due to the girl herself.
During rare moments when Cersei turned her attention away from Rhaegar and to Jaime, Elia was allowed to gaze around the enormous hall, make pointed faces at Oberyn, or try to spy out Arthur. He had ridden well that day, as she and Oberyn had expected. Elia had bet her friend and Arthur's sister Ashara, who was nowhere to be seen in the hall, that Arthur just might win the final tilt. However, seeing the magnificent competition on display at the tourney, Elia had to concede that her betting abilities may have been misdirected.
The true excitement of the night came only after the feasting, when the dancing walls were hung with magnificent tapestries, each emblazoned with the symbol, colors, and words of the Great Houses. Alcohol was being delivered liberally, and there was many a drunk man and woman stumbling around before being escorted outside for fresh air. Elia had a grand view of her brother from her seat amongst the cushions, seat, and sofas scattered along the periphery of the dance hall. Oberyn was in his element, switching from one partner to the next, gliding close to whichever woman he held in his questing arms and slipping away before he could be caught for impropriety. More often than not, he left a very willing partner behind looking forlorn as he quickly bounced to his next conquest.
She laughed aloud when one particularly eager woman in the colors of House Greyjoy latched onto Oberyn's robe as he made his escape, nearly unclothing him as he hastened to get away. In the ensuing debacle, Oberyn had stepped on the train of Cersei Lannister's impeccably stitched green gown, causing her to trip and fall with her partner, a dark-haired youth from Riverrun. No one dared laugh- how could they; Tywin would've had their heads- but the Mad King, who roused himself out of his black mood with a few bouts of cruel, mocking guffaws.
"This is the pride of the Lannisters? Yes, I see what you've been breeding in the Westerlands now, Tywin!" Aerys roared.
But it all ended well for Cersei, who, despite her reputation, was still a child and close to tears at the embarassment. Elia felt pity for the girl, but soon reneged on the sentiment when Rhaegar, ever the dutiful prince, swooped in for a dance with Cersei, and the threat of tears was replaced with the threat of a perpetual smug smirk.
Elia left the hall soon after; as the night progressed, the air grew heady with the scent of men and women and the unspeakable sexual tension in the air. Oberyn had disappeared with some woman or a man- Elia wasn't very sure whom, but she knew she would find him staggering into her bedchambers at some point the next morning smiling like a fox.
Slowly, Elia made her way to the winding gardens outside. The weather was surprisingly pleasant, sitting at that wonderful interval between hot and cold. Whatever she may feel about the Lannisters and the north, Elia had to concede that the topiary was beautiful and tastefully done to represent the house mascot.
She was observing a particularly intricate rendering of a lion cub next to his mother when she heard loud, strident voices coming towards her in the gloom.
"It had nothing to do with you!"
"You are my sister! You are my responsibility and-"
"No, I am my own responsibility, then Elia's, and only then yours."
Ashara. And Arthur.
"-you do not know who you are toying with. He is not one of your silly games, Ashara!"
"Well, you wouldn't know a game from the real thing anyway, would you?"
Silence. A taunting, beckoning, provoking kind of silence.
"Don't presume to know what I have with-"
"I presume nothing. I don't need to presume when one look at both of your faces tell me all I need to know. She's not a game to you, Arthur. And he is not to me. Goodnight, brother."
Elia gathered the folds of her northern, stuffy gown and waited primly for the duo to emerge. Ashara swept by her a moment later, emerging from the darkness of the garden like a raven nymph, barely acknowledging Elia's presence as she left the premises. Arthur emerged a moment later and stood by Elia's side, watching his sister's retreating back and not at all looking shocked at her presence. His white cloak swung softly behind him.
"Arthur…"
"Don't."
"She's in a mood. She hates it here, you know that."
"So do you."
"I hide it better. So do you. But her and Oberyn are suffocated here. It makes them tetchy."
Arthur gazed at Elia contemplatively, absorbing the vision of the moonlight bouncing off her glossy hair, her lustrous brown eyes, the cherry lips, and golden skin. In that moment, he thought for the thousandth time, if only.
And she thought back, only if.
"Do you know him?"
"No, Arthur. I don't. She won't tell. Not even to me."
"Not even...But you can get anything out of anyone. You just have to wheedle them with your eyes and your voice, and they'll melt."
Elia threw her head back, laughing at the flattery. He stared at her throat, the arch of it, the expanse of it, and wished once more.
"Arthur, if I could wheedle my way out of anything, my life would not be the one I am living right now."
"And what would you change?"
She considered being honest. But this was the land of the Lannisters, and caution was not a luxury here; it was a necessity.
"This dress. It wears me, not the other way around. If I could throw it away, I could."
"That can be arranged."
Elia looked at Arthur then- really looked at him. He was smiling lazily, disarmingly, handsomely. His hair was sweaty and clung at the tips to his tanned face. His eyes were blue like the sky on a clear day. Elia wished then, just as he had.
"You've been drinking."
"Yes. I suppose I have."
"My, my. A member of the Kingsguard, abandoning his post, arguing with his sister, flirting with a maiden, and now drinking? What would the king say?"
"He would say nothing because he will not find out. Besides, it makes me bold."
"And why would you need to be bold?"
It was not a question so much as it was a grant of permission. He had asked; she had responded, and yet, the word "kiss" was never uttered. But as it turned out, it did not need to be.
In the end, they both moved closer- willingly, longingly- to the other, and all at once and for all too brief of a moment, a doomed woman met a doomed man for the first and last time.
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