No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters, places, events, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin.

At almost twenty years of age, Rhaegar Targaryen was a man. No, he was more than a man; he was the crown prince who hailed from an age-old dynasty that considered its members to be bonafide dragons.

This was something Elia had to remind herself periodically as she glanced over at the man beside her, the man who looked more like a child as his eyes stretched wide in boyish amazement at the splendor of the Water Gardens.

The rain from a few days past had long since dried, but the much-needed moisture had revitalized the beauty of the flowers and refilled the fountains and streams to their brim. The blood oranges were bursting from the trees, and the frolicking children eagerly picked them from the branches, sending the waft of citrus floating along the breeze. It was a beautiful day.

She had been surprised when the prince had approached her and requested that she accompany him to visit the Water Gardens, a place that he had heard much about from Lewyn and Arthur but had never had the opportunity to visit. During Rhaegar's sojourn at Dorne, he had remained in close quarters with her parents and Doran, leaving Elia, Ashara, and Oberyn to entertain his friend, Jon Connington, and whichever Kingsguard member he chose to leave behind. Almost always, Rhaegar chose Ser Harlan to accompany him during the meetings, which Elia suspected was the prince's way of letting Arthur enjoy his first visit to his home in years.

She knew she should not have been grateful to Rhaegar for giving her those stolen hours by Arthur's side. She knew that she should still the feelings she continued to harbor for a man who had not only sworn an oath of celibacy but also one of fidelity-to Elia's soon-to-be betrothed, of all men. But, it was difficult, and when she walked along the streets of Sunspear by his side, Elia felt the distance of years and station disappear, filled by the easy, innocuous rapport of childhood friendship and fledgling love. If Oberyn or Ashara noticed, they said nothing. And, as for Jon Connington, he was much too busy exploring the mysteries of the Sandship and the Shadow City to pay attention to the gentle way Arthur stole glances at Elia or to the inevitable manner with which she drifted to his side. As a foreigner, he took considerable interest in the ways of the Dornish, who were so different from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms in more than just looks. Dornish culture imbued brazenness in everything: in the people, the art, even the food. Elia would forever remember how Jon's face had changed when he accidentally bit into a dragon pepper, a delicacy even a native Dornishman ate with caution, during a visit to a Shadow City bazaar. The man's pale face had immediately turned as red as his hair, and they had all laughed at his runny nose and tear-laden eyes, the latter of which remained watery for the rest of the evening.

Elia rather liked Jon Connington. He was headstrong and did not mince words. He was unintentionally funny, with a sardonic brand of humor that left no one unscathed in its wrath, whether it be a fly on the windowsill or his own prince. He was rather Dornish in terms of his brashness, Elia thought, but in all other aspects, from his stifling style of dress to his hatred for the harsh heat, he was a Northerner. Nevertheless, he never objected to Oberyn dragging him out at night to one brothel or another and always returned less than sober before dawn.

Curiously, he apparently never partook in the night's recreations. Oberyn had confided in Elia that while Jon drank enough to put Robert Baratheon to shame, he never bedded anyone.

"He probably sneaks away with someone while you are otherwise engaged, Oberyn. No man is particularly attentive when he is in the heat of the moment; not even you, little brother," Elia had teased while she and Oberyn reclined in her solar.

It had been the day after Jon had embarrassed himself in the bazaar, and Elia was feeling the wear and tear of the previous day's excursions a bit too strongly. She had come back to the palace from the Shadow City, collapsed, and slept the entire afternoon, night, and half of the next day. Of course, her bones still hurt, and her head pounded even after her partial hibernation, but the pain was alleviated by Oberyn's presence. He had decided to keep her company, leaving Connington to the capable hands of Ashara and Arthur for the day.

"I swear upon my cock that I have never seen Jon Connington touch a woman. Or a man, for that matter," Oberyn had promised solemnly to her quip. His lips had broken away into a sly grin immediately after his proclamation, duly dimming its trustworthiness.

A moment of peaceful silence ensued, and then, "Perhaps he is a eunuch. Care to find out for me, sister?"

Elia plucked a small candied orange from the dish in her solar and plopped it into her mouth before replying nonchalantly, "Only if Prince Rhaegar will join me."

They were still laughing during dinner that night, earning no short amount of stern glances from Doran and their mother at their barely stifled giggles. For a moment, it was if the Baelor Breakwind fiasco had been reborn, but Elia quickly sobered when she remembered that unlike with the case of sweet Baelor, a facetious cognomen would not suffice in driving away this particular suitor.

Regardless of Oberyn's japes, there was a reason behind Jon's lack of interest, and it was not that he had been castrated. Elia was sure that Oberyn had guessed it as well. It was obvious, if one looked, from the way Jon trailed his prince, the way he argued with and teased him mercilessly, the way he subtly stood taller when he- and only he- entered the room, and from the way his eyes had flashed when Rhaegar had asked Elia to take a turn with him around the Water Gardens.

She had seen a similar emotion in Arthur's eyes as she had brushed past him to take Rhaegar's proffered hand in her own, a hand that was now wrapped around his elbow as they walked among the rustling streams, Ashara and Jon walking together far behind them.

Elia had glanced at the prince several times during their long trek. He was taller than her by at least two hands' lengths and perhaps three times as broad at the shoulders. He moved with the authority of a ruler, but the few times he had caught her eye, he had smiled at her with a quiet shyness.

"This is your first visit to Dorne, is it not, Your Grace?" Elia asked. She was not as interesting of a conversationalist as Oberyn, but even she felt the danger of letting a discussion lag as long as it had during their walk. The pair of them had barely spoken past Rhaegar's initial request for her company.

"Yes, it is. It was kind of Lady Aida to accept my request to visit," he replied.

Elia glanced at him swiftly before staring ahead and commenting lightly, "In Dorne, we say 'Princess.'"

Silence. Then, "I beg your pardon?"

Elia laughed without humor at his bemused expression, "No need to look so startled, Your Grace. In Dorne, the head of the ruling family is addressed as 'Prince' or 'Princess,' not 'Lord' or 'Lady' because we alone withstood Aegon and his sisters. You will soon find, Your Grace, that we Dornish are not so easily conquered."

He knew all of this, of course. Elia had long heard tales of how the first Targaryen prince was more a scholar than a warrior in his heart. But, she thought smugly, it would not hurt to remind him exactly where he was and whom he was addressing.

And it did have some of the desired effect: the prince stopped walking and stared at her, in surprise or irritation, she could not tell. Elia, too, paused and waited beside him, her gaze never leaving his, her hand still on his elbow. His face was stoic and calm, but his eyes were turbulent as they gazed down upon her, and for a moment, Elia wondered if her impetuous comment had been too impetuous. He was, after all, heir to the Iron Throne. Nevertheless, she was a woman who was too proud to apologize for her words, and so she left them smoldering in the air between them.

He looked at her, and she looked at him, and as indigo met brown, and Targaryen met Martell, a mutual understanding passed from a man to a woman without a word ever leaving their lips.

"Yes," he whispered softly to her, "I remember. My apologies, Princess. I had forgotten how different Dornish customs were."

"You do not need to apologize and least of all to me, Your Grace."

"Please, call me Rhaegar."

"I would rather not. It would be improper, I fear. You see, we are neither family nor are we friends."

As if the Dornish ever cared about impropriety, they both thought but never said aloud.

"Perhaps one day we will be."

"Today is not that day."

"But when it comes, will you be ready?"

When. There was such a finality to when. When was a decision. If was a choice. She wanted a choice. She wanted to scream in this silver-haired man's face, scream long and hard into his damned eyes that no, it was not when but if, and it was not set it stone but set in water, and water could change and flow and shift, and it was never final until she said so.

But in the end, Elia did not respond, and the silence stretched into oblivion. In the back of her mind, she saw blue eyes, but they were quickly swallowed by a white cloak and a glowing sword. Slowly, she took a few step backwards and held out her hand. It was not an acceptance; rather, it was an invitation, a challenge, a proverbial glove tossed onto the castle steps.

He may have won her hand. He may have won her kingdom. But he had yet to win her.

If. Not when. Water. Not stone.

"Would you like to try a blood orange, Your Grace? I believe they are quite rare in King's Landing."

When she was well beyond her years and dead in the ground, the annals of history would call her beautiful.

Which, of course, Ashara was, but what would remain unsaid was her intelligence, her obstinance, her pride, and her fierce sense of loyalty to Elia, to herself, and to her family.

And it was that unwavering loyalty that kept Ashara walking beside Jon Connington, for she knew that he would not let Elia walk in peace with the prince. Connington had not bothered her during previous outings at Sunspear. On the contrary, he had been a source of amusement with his foreign Northerner ways. But at the Water Gardens, he had adopted a taciturn air that had robbed the joy from the day and had sunk her own spirits. The man refused to engage in conversation, to retreat to the shade of the terraces, or to play with the children. Ashara could have been walking alongside a mobile marble statue, and there would have been nary a difference.

And when the irascible Jon Connington finally spoke, it was simply to bite out, "Where did they go?"

Ashara looked up from the entrancing activity of picking at her gown and hummed noncommittally. She had not heard what said, for she was too busy being irritated at his awful company.

Connington flexed his arm slightly as he stretched his neck, trying to look beyond the grove of orange trees ahead.

"I asked, where is Rhaegar?"

Ashara shrugged indifferently. Frankly, she didn't give a damn where the prince was. Well, that was not entirely true; he was a very handsome man. She had never seen a person outside of her family with eyes such as her own. The Daynes of Starfall were unique in Dorne for their looks, for they were pale rather than swarthy, and violet irises like those of the Targaryens were not uncommon within the family. However, Ashara's fascination with Prince Rhaegar did not extend much beyond wondering at his beauty, for the prince was as melancholy as a raincloud. He rarely laughed, and even his smiles rarely reached beyond his lips. Ashara pitied the prince for his impenetrable despondency, but she pitied Elia even more because she would have to marry the man one day.

There were few secrets Elia could keep from her, and this one had also spilled from Elia's lips the night of the prince's arrival. She had been an inconsolable mess, sobbing tears that seemed to flow without cessation. Ashara had been shaken, to say the least. After the feast, she had happened upon her childhood friend lying in her chambers with crazed bloodshot eyes, mucus dripping down her nose, and hands gripping her frail body so tightly that her fingers left angry red marks.

As with everything else, the Dornish were passionate in their emotions, and Elia was no exception- except with regards to grief. She could not help her weak constitution nor her small frame, but she did not allow her appearance to control her behavior. Even when her body betrayed her with aches and stabs of immeasurable agony, Elia simply smiled away the pain for however long it was required of her. Then, at the first available opportunity, she would take refuge in her chambers, curl into a tiny ball, crush her fist to her mouth to muffle the evidence of her weakness, and refuse to allow anyone but her mother to enter.

Ashara did admire her to an extent for her willpower, but she also thought Elia a fool for being ashamed of something that was beyond her control. No one- not anyone in Dorne, at least- would judge her for betraying her feelings. And really, who truly mattered beyond her own friends and family?

Ashara could remember every instance she had seen Elia's tears, for there were not many: when a beggar child who often played at the Water Gardens had died of grayscale, when Arthur had left for the Kingsguard, when Ashara's mother had passed, and finally, after the dragon prince came.

That night, Ashara had held in her arms a woman who was, in that moment, more of a girl afraid of the future than anything else. Ashara, a person who wore her heart and her mouth on her sleeve, had not cried that night because Elia's tears had held all the sadness they both felt. Their sorrow had saturated the room until Ashara felt choked by it all. She had to leave for the cool escape of the night air, had to breathe in something other than the salt of Elia's despair.

And as Ashara had stood aside staring at the distant blinking stars, knowing that Elia was lying in her rooms sound asleep and crying softly in her dreams, Ashara had made a vow. The annals of history may only remember her for her beauty, but Elia would remember her for being the woman that kept her laughing. She would never let her friend break again, not as long as Ashara had breath in her body and a voice with which to speak. The dragons would not destroy her friend again.

But Jon Connington did not know of her promise, and frankly, Ashara did not think he would care because his mind was settled solely on finding the prince.

"They were just ahead of us and now they've suddenly disappeared!"

"Perhaps they went inside to the terraces? Or decided to frolic in the fountains, get a little wet?"

Connington made a guttural noise rather like a bear about to charge and stormed away. Ashara snorted. She hoped he did not get lost in the Gardens; she pitied the envoy who would be tasked with finding him.

Ashara briefly contemplated returning to the terraces where Arthur was no doubt leaning against the banister looking for his prince and princess but finally resolved to walk more. Although she had not told Connington, she too was curious as to what had happened to Rhaegar and Elia.

Luckily, she knew her friend better than Connington did, and immediately headed toward the orange tree groves. Even as a child, Elia always stole away to the shade of their branches when she wanted privacy from the hustle and bustle of the Water Gardens or when she wanted to hide during some game or another. This time, however, Elia had concealed herself well. Ashara had almost resolved to head back toward the terraces when she heard a small chuckle echoing through the leaves of the trees.

Following the faint sound, she saw two figures standing beneath a high branch that arched over both of their heads, although the man was tall enough that he could have easily grabbed the oranges that hung from it. Ashara crouched behind a nearby tree and trusted the descending darkness and the surrounding hedges to protect her.

She could not see the man and woman's faces, for their bodies were turned away from her, but Ashara watched as the woman jumped repeatedly, her hands barely missing the fruit. She laughed and gestured above her head before moving to turn away from the tree. The man hesitated but then quickly grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her up so that her dark hair bobbed amongst the branches. The woman laughed again and severed an orange from the tree limbs. The man let her down gently, but he kept his hands on her elbows as she tore the fruit's skin from its flesh to reveal the scarlet beads that Ashara knew lay within.

They had turned so that Ashara now could see an outline of their features against the dying sunlight. The woman placed a slice in her mouth, closing her eyes as she savored the sweet citrus. She offered a slice to the man, but he shook his head. She shrugged and placed another piece in her mouth. When she blissfully closed her eyes once more, there was a moment of absolute stillness.

Then, a decision was made, and in a moment's breath, the man bent down and placed his mouth over the woman's.

The orange fell from the her grasp with a soft thud.

Ashara gripped the tree trunk tightly as he drew away slowly. For a moment, the two figures simple looked at one another. Then, the woman stepped from his grasp, curtseyed, and walked away. The trail of her gown brushed the abandoned fruit, but either she did not notice or she did not care.

The man stared at the empty space before, a space that moments ago contained a woman whom he had held within his grasp. He opened and closed his hands before resting them by his sides. His shoulders sagged, as if he was tired or perhaps simply frustrated. Then, he bent down slowly to pick up the blood orange, and as he straightened, he looked at Ashara.

He had known. He had probably known all along.

But she did not move. She did not step from behind her wooden shield to face him boldly, but simply continued to look into his indigo gaze.

Then, he nodded his head and walked away from the tree, back onto the pink marble path, and back the way he had come.

Ashara stood with her hand still resting on the tree trunk. Her brow was furrowed, and her mind was turbulent. She did not see the day descend into night until she felt a strong hand grip her shoulder.

Arthur. He looked at her with sad, solemn eyes. They were not purple like hers; they were a bright blue. Elia loved blue. Ashara wondered at what he had seen. How much he had learned and how much he had already known and how much he had accepted and how much he still had to swallow. He and Elia had been inseparable while their group had meandered through the city, just as they been before he had left to join the Kingsguard. But, now, the walls of their fate had once more closed them off from one another, and the realization that Elia belonged to another man had hit him.

Ashara rested her head on her brother's shoulder. His armor was cool against her cheek.

"How do you feel?" she asked softly. She could feel the answer in his hung shoulders and in his tired arms, but she wanted to know if he had the strength to say it.

"Hurt. And sad. Angry, too, I suppose."

"At who?"

"Everyone. No one. Myself, mostly. He didn't know. He doesn't know. In any case, if it wasn't him, it would be another man. He is a good person, but he is an idiot. Or maybe that's me. After all, I'm the one pining like a lovestruck squire, aren't I? Wouldn't Lewyn have a laugh at all of this. He still doesn't forgive me, you know. I don't blame him. But it still hurts. I'm a bloody knight, Ashara. They call me the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. And I'm still too far away. I'll always be too far away."

He let out a choked laugh. Stars spilled onto his cheeks and dotted the faint line of ashy hair along his jaw. His eyes were so blue. Elia had loved blue. Did she still? Ashara did not know, but hearing his words, she hoped she did and always would. Arthur deserved that, at least. To know that he had her heart even if he could never get it.

Ashara broke away from his embrace and smoothed down his pale hair carefully.

"A man of many words, aren't you, Ser Arthur?"

He shook his head and tilted his head upwards, searching in the distant, blinking diamonds above. They wouldn't answer; Ashara knew that very well.

"No. Not when it mattered."

Yes, Ashara thought sadly. The words that matter always seemed to come too late.

2/19/18:

Hello, all. Still not a new chapter, just an update. I'm trying to flesh out the Arthur storyline a little bit, since it will be important later. Thanks for continuing to read!