No copyright infringement is intended. All recognizable names and plot characteristics belong to George R. R. Martin.

As the year died, so did Princess Aida of Dorne.

Elia wished her mother had passed in a flash- a miraculous collapse or a fateful accident. But no, the princess took her sweet time and died slowly as the year's dusk approached. Death was cruel, of course, but it was particularly malicious in this case for the woman who was placed in the coffin and sunk beneath the waves of the Summer Sea was not the proud matriarch of House Martell nor the shrewd ruler of Dorne. By the very end, she had spit up more blood than she had retained in her body. She had become skeletal and gaunt, staring out from her window for days on end without speaking. Food had become an afterthought, and her family- the one she had lived to safeguard- became strangers in her mind. By the time life left Aida's body, the Martells mourned the death of her spirit more than anything else.

Elia did not cry as the coffin sunk and the warm, salt winds whipped her hair and body. She was lost in the memories of hands stroking her hair as she coiled in pain, in the scent of cardamom and allspice and jasmine, and in the laughing black eyes that stormed and flamed all at once. She was too happy to be sad. Sad was for later, when the realization that those hands and that scent and those eyes would only live on in her mind finally sunk in.

The smallfolk of Dorne met the news of their regent's death with solemn acceptance. This was not due to lack of love or respect for the late princess but because they had forgotten she- and not Prince Doran- was their ruler.

The transfer of power from mother to son had been gradual, but it had been deliberate and done in such a fashion that Doran had known rule long before he had been granted the title, and no one questioned his authority.

His father, Prince Consort Ryad, had already been a rare presence at court, but that too faded with his wife's death. He had appeared by Princess Aida's side, then by Prince Doran's, but the day after his wife's death, he no longer came to the throne room unless summoned expressly.

It was not out of bitterness but because Ryad was not a man built for rule, and he knew that very well. More importantly, he accepted his limitations.

In all honesty, he could rule passably, but he learned very early in his marriage that his wife did it so much better, and he was a peace-loving man with enough common sense to realize that if he wanted to keep his wife happy, he would have to bend his knee to her. It was something he held no qualms about and did quite happily every day until she died; he made the obligatory visits to the throne room, offered the occasional opinion, and then went back to his gardens.

For that was where his true passion lay- nature. His wife had often said he should have been born a Tyrell, and he had rejoined that if he had, she would probably have been choked by poisoned roses within the first months of their union.

He missed his wife. Doran reminded her of him a bit, but only in his features. He would like to say that Oberyn displayed Aida's fierce pride and Elia her strength, but others had told him that; he had never spent enough time with them to learn for himself.

He loved them all equally- Doran, Elia, Oberyn- but so many years separated Doran from the others that by the time the last two had been born, Ryad found himself to be an old man incapable of playing with and humoring his children as he had been able to do with his oldest.

Instead, he watched them from afar. He had sighed as Oberyn mocked poor Baelor Hightower and drove away the one suitor of Elia's he had liked. He had smiled when Aida complained of Oberyn's constant whoring and the bastards (the ones they knew of, at least) that were borne from those trysts.

And he had looked on in consternation and fear when the Targaryen boy visited Dorne and claimed his daughter as his betrothed at Storm's End.

He loved them from a distance, and he knew that they respected him at the very least out of the obligation that he was their father. Whether they loved him- that he did not know.

Therefore, he was surprised when his daughter came to him, a month after her mother had been laid to rest, in the Sunspear gardens.

He made to rise from his position amongst the dirt, but she knelt beside him. That, too, surprised him; Elia did not scorn roughness, but she did not seek it out willingly.

"What plant is this? I have never seen their like in Dorne," she asked, touching the dark red petals of the flowers lying beside them.

"It is called dragon's breath. They grow it in the godswood of the Red Keep," he replied. He dug a small hole into the soil and placed the plant into it, patted the dirt beside it to form a smooth plane.

"I will look for them when I'm there," she replied, rocking back onto her heels.

Ryad stood up slowly. His knees were not as forgiving at this age as they had been twenty years ago.

"Why have you come, child?" he said, not unkindly as his daughter followed him from the flower beds, but Elia was her mother's daughter; she did nothing without a purpose.

"I do not know."

"I cannot halt this marriage, as much as I may wish to."

"Then why did you let it happen at all, Father?"

"You have met your mother, yes? I could sooner halt the sun than stand in her way. Now, why have you come?"

"I have not been here in a long while. I suppose I wanted to see it before I go."

"And your dear father as well?"

Elia stiffened beside him. He stopped and turned to face her. The girl had always been frail, but in the past few months, her body seemed to feed on itself more than anything else. The veins jumped out from the fine veneer of her skin. It worried Ryad; Elia was to be the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the mother to whatever heirs the gods would see fit to bless her with- how could she be any of these things if she could barely stand upright?

"I am sorry I have not-"

"I understand, child. I am sorry as well. What is it that they say? Absence makes the heart grow fond? I'm sure you mother would have some words to say about that."

Elia twiddled with her dress before replying quietly, "Mother would say absence gives you peace of mind."

Ryad laughed.

"I miss your mother. She was a wit."

Elia nodded, her head still bowed.

Ryad had rarely seen his daughter cry. He knew that she did in the privacy of her rooms, but rarely did Elia let her tears show in public, much less in front of others. She was like him in that sense; he did not like to throw his emotions to the wind like so many of his countrymen. But seeing the silver drops slip down her face, one by one, awakened a sadness in him he had suppressed so long that he thought he had forgotten the sensation. It was the helplessness of seeing one's child step into doom and having little power to stop the descent. And it crushed him.

He stepped forward and took the thin figure into his arms.

"I will miss you, child."

"Will you visit me?"

For a moment, Ryad forgot that his daughter would soon become a wife. Right now, she was simply the child he had seen race so often through Sunspear, hair flying and skinny arms pumping with determination. And he hated to break her hope.

"I think not. The king does not like Dornish men in the capital."

"May I visit you?"

"I would like that, yes. But the king may not. Elia, you must be careful. King's Landing is not home. In the Red Keep, you will belong to the Targaryens. Your husband's family."

Elia snapped her head back and glared fiercely, tears translucent against her copper skin.

"I am a Martell. I will always be a Martell."

"I am not asking you to forget who you are, Elia. I am asking you to remember who you will be among. I do not want anything to happen to you.

"You are my daughter. The child who we thought we could never have, and when the gods finally gave you to us, we almost lost you again. Elia, giving you away saddens me more than you will ever understand. Doran is sensible, and Oberyn is wild, but you are the good in both of them. When I hand you to the Targaryens, I do so with the knowledge that I will be handing them the sun of Dorne. And she will never return to us again."

Elia looked him solemnly. She smiled, carefully.

"May I help you plant the flowers?"

"Yes, child. I would love nothing more."

When the year turned anew, the members of all the Great Houses traveled in droves to King's Landing. The Starks descended from Winterfell, the Tullys from Riverrun, the Tyrells from Highgarden- all came to the capital for the wedding of Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell.

For many, the announcement was too unanticipated for suspicion not to rise. Why would the king chose a girl from a family known for their obstinacy? From a kingdom that was forged in defiance? The Targaryens had not married into the Martells for generations, so why begin at a time when there were so many other viable options?

Some said that it was because the king wanted to spite Tywin Lannister, whose hatred for the Dornish was well-known to all and who still smarted from the refusal of his daughter's hand for the prince. Letters that flew from the capital spoke of the fractured relationship between the Hand and the monarch.

They said Aerys felt threatened by the lion, who had so much gold he could buy all of the Unsullied in Astapor and still have money left to fill the Great Sept of Baelor. They said the king thought Tywin had ordered the death of Lord Steffon and would soon murder him as well, for while Aerys held the throne, no one truly questioned that Tywin was the true ruler.

The Lord of Casterly Rock managed all affairs of state with an iron fist whilst the King of the brooded and played with fire on his false throne.

But others thought along a different vein.

Aerys had turned so mad, they said, that he thought Prince Rhaegar was plotting to take the throne and had arranged a marriage to a weakling so that he would not have heirs, and the throne could pass to Viserys.

They said that all of these lies and more were whispered into Aerys' ear by The Spider, a eunuch named Varys who hailed from Lys. He was a man whose trade was secrets, and there was not a murder, a tryst, not even a whisper that he did not know about. No one at court liked the man, but no one in court wanted Varys as an enemy, and so The Spider continued to spin his web around the Mad King.

However, this atmosphere of political tension and turmoil evaporated, at least momentarily, when the day of the wedding arrived at King's Landing. The streets of Flea Bottom had not quite so much waste in them as usual, and garlands of flowers and banners were hung everywhere. The days preceding had been filled with feasting and dancing, and the lights of the city had never dimmed, for everyone was restive with anticipation.

That same anticipation hung in Elia's stomach as she ascended the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, her hand clenched in her father's. Behind her, thousands of smallfolk screamed. Their roars had begun when she had stepped from the palanquin and waved to them, but the noise had compounded with every step she took.

Elia had never been a religious person. She visited the sept often enough to know the customs, but when it came time to pray, she always seemed lost for words, for all of the prayers she had whispered as a child for better health had never been answered. She believed in the gods, but she did not believe that they cared.

Nevertheless, she understood why the Great Sept was called such. The sheer magnitude of the building and the opulence of its structure inspired awe, if not a desire to prostrate before the gods that it venerated.

Pausing before the doors, Elia turned to face her father. He looked at her calmly, but the past few weeks spent in his company had taught her to search for his feelings beneath his expression. Elia had never really known her father until she was about to lose him, and she truly regretted that, as did he.

"Well, here we are, Father. I shall pass through those doors and become a dragon."

Ryad smiled softly, bent forward and kissed her brow.

"I do not care who you marry, Elia. You shall always be my daughter before all else."

"Mother would be proud."

Ryad took his daughter's hands in his own. They were clammy and cold, but Elia looked beautiful. Her health had returned with surprising vigor in the past month. Her cheeks were suffused with a rosy blush that he had rarely seen in her, and her frame had filled out to a healthy degree once more. His daughter was a golden bride, and he regretted that his wife could not see her daughter at the epoch of her beauty.

"She would be more than proud, Elia. She would be happy. Are you ready, child?"

Elia took a deep breath, nodded, and took her first step through the open doors.

When the future Princess Consort of Dragonstone stepped through the doors of the Great Sept, many thoughts ran through the minds of those who saw her.

Noblewomen who had never met her before or knew her only from sight were disappointed, for while she was thin, she was not the weakling they had come to expect, whom they had anticipated mocking. She walked with grace by her father's side, with calm, sure steps and her head held high towards the septon and the prince. She did not look like a princess- she looked like a Queen.

Many of the men in the room looked on appreciatively, for the bride's dress was of Dornish fashion. There was no heavy embroidery or restricting corset- only ivory silk that draped and whispered along luscious coppery skin that peeked from beneath the maiden's cloak. More than one thought excitedly of the following afternoon to the bedding ceremony, for while they may not be able to do the deed, they could at least glimpse the goods.

However, while some thought of what they would like to do to the bride, others wished.

I hope she keels over during the feast and dies, yearned Cersei Lannister.

If only I could be Rhaegar, and Cersei my bride, thought her twin.

I hope this marriage will bring peace, brooded Doran Martell.

If only I could kill that dragon bastard; she wouldn't be here, cursed Oberyn Martell.

When I take the grey sigil, I want to be as beautiful as Elia, dreamt Ashara Dayne.

And from the corner of the Great Sept, out of sight, someone else wished as well.

Please forgive me; I could not stop him, prayed a man with violet eyes and a cursed white cloak.

Rhaegar was not a superstitious man. But when he snuck into his bride's chambers the night before their wedding, he could not help but apprehension, for her remembered the old rhyme about husbands and wives who saw each other before soon they were wed.

"Happiness, they will never find

Only with death shall their fates be lined"

Evidently, Elia remembered this dictum as well, for when she closed the door to her room and turned to see Rhaegar on her bed, she immediately let out a soft scream and screwed her eyes closed.

"Rhaegar! What the hell are you doing here? I cannot see you before the wedding! It's bad luck!"

Rhaegar walked over and slowly pulled her hands from her face.

"I believe you already have, my bride-to-be, so you might as well keep your eyes open. It can hardly get worse."

Elia huffed, but she complied. Rhaegar had not seen her when she came into the city a week ago; his mother would not let him. It was said that the longer the bride and groom did not see each other before the vows were spoken, the happier their marriage would be.

But happiness and old wives' tales be damned, Rhaegar had to see his future wife at least once before their were bound together for life. He didn't know why; perhaps he needed to be sure that Elia would not run away in the night, that his actions in Dorne and then at Storm's End had not destroyed whatever regard she may have held for him.

He had convinced Arthur to help him, as much as the man had resisted.

"Rhaegar, this is foolishness! You know what they say-"

"You're a Dornishman, Arthur. Please don't tell me you believe in such grovel," Rhaegar had chided as he placed Arthur's helmet over his head.

"You should not take the chance, Rhaegar. You would not be bringing bad omens upon yourself, but upon El- Princess Elia as well."

But Rhaegar had shook his head, gulped down a glass of strong Dornish wine, squashed the doubt in his mind as he swept the white cloak around his shoulders, and strode out into the corridor to his betrothed's chambers.

He took in her appearance as he stared at her in her chambers; she certainly looked better than at Dorne or at Storm's End. Her frame had become curvier, her face more golden with health.

Yes, she will be the mother of my dragons.

"Well, why are you here, Rhaegar?"

Elia crossed her arms and looked at him expectedly. Rhaegar suddenly felt reckless, felt the need to take a risk. The same heady rush of adrenaline that had filled him in the Water Gardens filled him now, and he took the bait.

"To hear you call me by name, my lady. I suppose we are close enough for such liberties?" he said, placing his hands on her hips. They were soft and warm through her dress.

"I think such liberties can wait another day, Your Grace," she whispered into his ear as she slipped from his grasp and walked to her bed.

"Why are you here?"

Rhaegar sighed and followed her steps. Against the background of the expansive bed, Elia looked small. He knelt before her and took her hands in his own.

"Tomorrow we will be married.'

"Yes."

"We will be husband and wife."

"Yes."

He searched her brown orbs. They were open and honest.

"I know this marriage was not by your choice. In many ways, I forced you into this, and I am sorry for that. I cannot promise to love you will all of my being, and nor I do not expect you to love me unequivocally. We do not know each other enough for that. But I promise, Elia, to be a good husband. I promise to care for you, to never hurt you, to never lie to you."

He was lying with every breath, but he needed for her to believe him.

Elia looked at the man kneeling before her for a long while. It was true, this marriage had not been her choice, but she appreciated his honesty. He had been kind at Lannisport, at Dorne. He was a good man, the prince. Her prince, now.

He was a good man, she told herself, because she wanted it to be true. Desperately, she wanted it to be true.

So she swallowed the little kernel of doubt, leaned forward, and took- not placed, not pressed, but took- his lips into her own.

But it was not that kiss that Rhaegar had remembered when he saw Elia walk towards him, glowing in an ivory sheath as her hand interlaced with her father's.

It was not that kiss that he relived as the septon began stating the vows, prayers, the songs.

It was not that kiss that he longed for when the maiden cloak in Martell colors fell from her body and his fingers brushed her naked shoulders as he placed red and black upon them.

It was not that kiss that he anticipated as he heard the words, "With this kiss I pledge my love" be uttered by his tongue and hers.

No, it was a kiss of poisoned promises, of forbidden fruit, and broken hearts that he placed upon Elia Martell's lips, a kiss that made his blood sing and his heart weep.

"One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

She felt soft lips tenderly touch her own and before his mouth left hers, felt his lips whisper her name.

And then, Elia Martell looked into those blue-violet eyes and with a gentle push, let her heart fall.

Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait, but here we are again, and well, we just saw a wedding happen. You all know what comes next, and no, I haven't decided how in-depth it will get, but, well, we'll see. Thanks for reading, and please review/favorite/follow, and I'll see you next week!