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

To say that King's Landing celebrated the wedding would be an understatement. If there any more Dornish wine were to be brought into the city, an entire quarter of it would've sunk into the depths of Blackwater Bay. From the beginning of the ceremony till a week after its completion, the festivities continued without any sign of abating because to the people of Westeros and especially to the people of King's Landing, a wedding was never just a wedding.

Yes, of course, the smallfolk were relieved that the new princess was not immediately related to their prince (even if she was Dornish), but a royal wedding was first and foremost an excuse to lap up the wine the flowed from the tables of the lords and ladies in the Red Keep and trickled through to the small insignificant specks of life that populated the slums of the capital. For urchins who usually starved, a wedding was a steady source of saleable, slightly stolen goods and a dependable way to forget their woes. For the brothel owners, it brought a significant increase in the numbers of rich, inebriated patrons who could and did pay exorbitant amounts of money when pressed just correctly. And for the City Watch, it greatly simplified their duties. After all, it was easier to arrest a drunken criminal than a fast one, so they also profited from the nuptials and subsequent distractions.

The lords and ladies enjoyed the ceremonies, too, of course, but unlike the smallfolk who rarely had the privilege of tasting the sharp tang of a Dornish wine, luxurious weddings were a norm in their world, regardless that few ever took place on the scale of the prince's. Therefore, many members of the nobility saw the ceremony as a chance to scout, to observe. Was this new Targaryen princess a threat? Was she really as weak as she looked, or was it all ruse? Would she bring a child into the marriage, and more importantly, an heir for the kingdom? And if she did not and died, what were the odds of one of their daughters fulfill the vacancy?

Elia was aware of these circling thoughts and more as she sat at her place on the high table.

She felt the embarrassment in the prickly silence that hung between her and Rhaegar when a drunk Robert Baratheon yelled, "I hope she has as good a womb as their mares!" for the whole congregation to hear. She had to glare at Oberyn to prevent him from getting up and strangling the brute as he sank deeper into his cups.

She felt the threat in Olenna Tyrell's gift of miniature rose topiaries when the thorns pressed into her fingertips and pin drops of flood appeared on them. But she still smiled prettily and thanked the old crone and wished with all her heart to see the woman's head on a spike someday.

And Elia felt determination when Tywin Lannister requested her hand because the king commanded, "A dance with my good-daughter, Hand! The Seven Kingdoms haven't seen you with a woman since your good wife died!"

She let Lord Tywin lead her from the table and turn her to face him. The old lion was still handsome despite his age. Beginning to bald, but there was a hard beauty in the stern lines of his face. She saw Jaime in the corners of his mouth, and Cersei in the coldness of his expression, but to her surprise, Elia saw his youngest son, Tyrion, the most. There had been intelligence in the babe's eyes when she had seen him last, all those years ago as he lay in his crib at Casterly Rock, and that contemplative look was mirrored in his father's glance as he assessed her, coldly and assertively.

This was the man who said wild horsemen from the south were not fit for his golden children, the man whom her mother had striven to undermine. Elia would not show her fear to him. No, she would be strong.

She would not bow. She would not bend. And she would not break.

An old Westerosi tune was struck up, and Elia let her body follow the steps her mind already knew.

"I believe I ought to congratulate you on your fine marriage, Princess Elia."

"It is not obligatory, Lord Tywin, but it is much appreciated."

"It is a shame your mother could not be here to witness it. She has long negotiated this union, I am told. Alas, we cannot be victorious in everything. I am afraid that sometimes we must acknowledge defeat, especially to our born superiors."

"I do not believe the sun has many superiors, Lord Tywin. It does not bow to any creature, whether it be in the air or in the sea or on land."

"I've always found it interesting the especial consideration your people give to their women. Makes them very bold."

"Perhaps it is because my people's dynasties were founded by a woman."

"Yes, I am familiar with your history. Many a girl has grown up hearing the tale of Nymeria, of how she was so ferocious she was practically a man. And then they realize that, at the end of it all, a man is born to rule, and a woman is born to be ruled."

"Well, that is why so many Dornish rulers have been women, Lord Tywin. You see, all Dornish babes are born male, but mothers who wish to have a daughter merely whisper the tale of Nymeria into the newborn's ears for a fortnight, and the babes will soon change from a stallion into a mare. Unfortunately, I'm afraid only the physical bits change; the temperament remains entirely like a man's. That way, they can rule perfectly well, sometimes better."

"You mock me, Princess."

"I do, Lord Tywin. It was a lie my mother used to tell me when I asked her why I was born so frail and all the other children were so much stronger. She said that she told me the story of Nymeria too many times, and it zapped the masculinity almost completely out of me. So now, all I'm good for is sitting, dancing, and speaking prettily."

"You have your mother's wit, Princess."

"So I've been told, Lord Tywin."

"But I hope you have not her idiocy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your late mother believed she could thwart me by marrying her only daughter to the Targaryens. Very well, she did. But in her haste, she forgot that Sunspear is so very far away from the Red Keep, and that a Dornish princess with a reputation for ill health will not be well-received in a capital ruled by Northerners. The vipers here bite, girl."

"Really, Lord Tywin? How unfortunate, for I had come to King's Landing with the sole purpose of making friends."

"King's Landing is not Dorne, and the dragons are not your allies."

"Do you know, Lord Tywin, I guessed they must dislike me very much because the wine they served at the high table was simply awful."

A smirk, here, out of irritation and perhaps the slightest bit of amusement.

"I believe that wine was brought from Casterly Rock."

"Oh, is it? Yes, I believe Lannister wine has a cold, metallic twinge to it- like the side of a gold coin."

"Does gold not please you?"

"No, Lord Tywin; I find that I prefer fire."

The song ended, and Tywin Lannister escorted her back to her husband.

He bowed, kissed her hand, but before he returned to his seat, he looked down at her and muttered:

"Take care how you speak, girl. Wit cannot be lost, but a tongue can."

As Elia stared, dumbfounded, she heard Rhaegar offer his gratitude for entertaining his bride.

"It was my pleasure,Your Grace. A Lannister always pays his debts."

He glanced at her and without bowing, swept away.

Soon, it came time for that infamous event which the men had anticipated and the women had dreaded.

"Rhaegar! Time to see if you can show your foreign bride what a true dragon looks like, eh?"

It was as if Aerys' words had been a surge of lightning that struck the crowd in the Red Keep. Immediately, an entire mass of virile, drunken men staggered toward Elia, yelling and screaming and jeering. She saw Oberyn rush toward her, Doran not far behind, but both soon disappeared under the tumult.

Hands pulled her from her seat, grabbing at her hair, her arms, her dress. Elia felt her feet leave the floor as the men hoisted her above their heads, and the newly emerged urge to vomit intensified as fingers poked and prodded her. They let her down in the darkened corridor behind the hall. The ceiling was too high to carry her, but they continued to tear away her clothing. The walls spun as Elia tried, all dignity evaporated, to protect her body from their words and their touches. Why weren't they taking her to Rhaegar?

"Let's see if she really rides as fast as a Dornish mare, aye lads?"

"Oh, it's only a grab before he gets you to himself!"

"Just give me a taste of those lips, Princess- and the ones on your face, too."

"Don't be modest, you Southern bitch. I've been waiting for this all day!"

Elia saw blue eyes and then-

"Agh, she's sick! All over my cloak!"

"Get her away, get her away!"

"I don't care, her mouth can still suck my-"

The jeers slowly died as Elia smelled steel and felt cold armor against her skin. Her head spun, but it slowed as she was lowered from the embrace and placed with her feet on the ground.

"Are you alright?"

It was Arthur. Suddenly, Elia was reminded of being in a darkened corridor very much like this one, facing a doorway, and being saved by the same man who stood before her now, worry and distance in his eyes. But that was long ago, years ago. She had been a different woman back then, a woman who was a Martell and not a Targaryen, a woman who was a different kind of princess, the kind that didn't matter in King's Landing. The only thing that remained the same was that she was no freer to love him then than she was now. She could only be grateful.

And so, Elia took the distance that she found in Arthur's eyes and placed it in her heart also.

"Yes. Thank you."

Silence.

"You had better go in. Rhaegar is waiting for you."

She nodded and turned, her head feeling a little fuzzy, her hand on the door handle and then-

Then, she felt armor pressing against her chest and fingers pressing into her face and lips pressing against her mouth and a pressure pressing into her heart.

They broke apart, and she breathed, and then a door was opened, and she was pushed inside and then it was all blackness.

When the women tossed him into the chamber, Rhaegar had quickly barred the door. The route the men had taken Elia was, of course, longer than the one the women who stripped him had chosen. However, Rhaegar had asked Arthur to look after her, so it was not her safety that Rhaegar was concerned for so much as the crowd outside that awaited her arrival.

Rhaegar wanted Elia's comfort above all else, and he did not know how she would react to him plunging inside of her as a hundred noblemen and women cheered them on from outside. He heard Ser Barristan's voice commanding the women to disperse, and Rhaegar sighed with relief as the noise abated.

And then, he began waiting.

He paced for a bit, wondering where she was. Then he lay on the bed, fingering the rose petals that lay scattered on the ermine covers. Feeling restless and slightly impatient, he began pacing again.

Where are they? Has Arthur lost my wife? Has-

The door opened and a breathless Elia staggered through. She looked somewhere past him and promptly fainted. Rhaegar rushed to her side and shook her awake.

"Elia? Are you alright?"

She rose slowly, nodding her head.

"Yes, I'm fine. The trip here was- it was quite the journey."

"I apologize if the men-"

"No, no. Don't apologize, but I would appreciate it if you showed me the wash basin."

"Yes, it is right behind-"

"Oh, I see it. Thank you."

He saw her disappear behind the screen and heard a few splashes of water before she remerged.

She was flushed. He could see the water droplets that still clung to her face and had seeped through her white shift. There was skin underneath, coppery, golden-

The tension was palpable despite the distance between them- him by the door, her near the table of food- all aphrodisiacs, if he was not mistaken.

Rhaegar walked towards the bed, gestured for her to sit beside him. He had idea earlier in the day, and it pleased him, but he wanted to have her consent before he proceeded.

"Elia, we do not know each other very well. We both know what we must do, but the fact remains that we are strangers. The night...it's long. We have plenty of time for...everything, but before that, what do you think of, well, simply talking?"

She was silent for a long while.

"There is a game that Oberyn and I used to play. A drinking game. We tell each other a story, and the other must guess if it is truth or if it is a lie. Whoever is correct receives a prize, and the other must drink."

"You...drink?"

"Not often. But it is a fun contest for those daring enough to try."

"Are you challenging me, my princess?"

"It depends, my prince. Are you bold enough to accept?"

"When I was knighted, my father sent three whores to my bedchamber to teach me how to be a true dragon."

"And what happened?"

"I disguised us all, took them to Flea Bottom, and played my harp in the streets while they danced for an entire night."

"And that's all?"

"Yes."

"You've never bedded those women?"

"Never."

"That's a lie."

"Take a drink, Princess."

Elia laughed in disbelief, her dark hair waving wildly as she shook her head at him. They were lying on a soft wolf's pelt on the floor, separated by a bottle of wine, a bowl of peeled blood oranges, and the clothes on their backs. There was no distance, no awkwardness between them now.

Rhaegar did not know how long they had been playing Elia's game, but he could see the full moon shine brightly through the open window. Time seemed inconsequential here, in the bubble of their chambers, where they could play silly games and drink and flirt and seduce one another over shared secrets while the world tumbled over itself around them

He was enjoying himself. His wife, as it turned out, was a master of deception; she knew that if she lowered eyes just so and lilted her voice a notch lower, he would fall for her coal black lies as if they were truths uttered by the septon himself. In the end, Rhaegar found himself drinking copious more amounts of wine than Elia, whose fingers were stained with the blood oranges she had collected as rewards for her husband's ineptitude.

However, despite the nearly depleted bottle of wine set before him, Rhaegar found himself as awake as ever. It could've been the crisp, cool evening air. Or perhaps the pleasant silence of their chambers, broken only by laughter and gulps of wine.

Or maybe, it was everything about the room and the night, and also everything about the woman who lay before him.

Maybe it was the way she laughed, so openly and honestly, with her head thrown back and throat exposed. Or how the kinks and curls of her hair settled in the crook of her elbow, against the sweep of her collarbone, along the swell of her breast. Or maybe it was her; her, as a person, so witty and kind and defiant that it took away his melancholy and made him, for this night at least, utterly content.

"Do you not want your prize, Rhaegar?"

No, he decided, it was her voice. The way it deepened to a hoarse whisper, sultry but frustratingly innocent at the same time. It was the way her tongue rolled the r's, toughened on the hard consonants and melted away on the soft ones. Her Rhoynish accent was so foreign, so beautiful compared to his Northern drawl. She was beautiful, so beautiful, so golden and…

This was the wine, Rhaegar realized pleasantly. Well, that and lust brought on by a pretty, charming woman's company. But mostly wine.

He lay back on the rug, his head turned towards Elia as she tipped the bowl of oranges towards him.

"I find myself too exhausted, dear wife. It is simply too hard to lift such a delicate orange to my mouth and still find the energy to chew and swallow it."

She fingered an orange and fluttered her eyelashes vacuously.

"Well, if it please my lord, I may be of help with the task of lifting and inserting...the orange slice."

Rhaegar laughed as she dangled the slice over his mouth. He lunged, and as he bit into the fruit, he felt her fingers brush his lips.

The room became electric. They froze there, her fingers caressing his lips, his lips kissing her fingers.

What to do? Should he back away? Or should he-

Slowly, carefully, he grabbed her hand, pressed it to his mouth, and stared into her brown eyes as he licked each of her fingers, tasting the sweet tang of Dornish blood oranges descend across his taste buds.

Silence. And then-

"My turn."

Her voice was hoarse, her eyes glassy and black. He could not speak, so he nodded. He moved to rest on his knees, his hands placed on his thighs. She mirrored him. It had all the semblance of distance, of control.

"That night at the Water Gardens, you kissed me."

"Yes."

"And I was scared. I was scared to be amongst dragons, what it would mean and what it would do to me.

"But I wanted you to kiss me again, there, under the orange trees.

"At the tourney, I was scared again. Not of how others would react but of how if others knew, it was all final. I would be yours.

"But when I arrived at King's Landing, and your mother was so kind, and your brother was so sweet, and you- how you visited my chambers. It was...nice. I didn't expect it to be nice.

"And this, this is nice. It's nice, learning how you love to play the harp and how you don't bed whores you father sends-"

She broke off, and they stared in silence.

"...And it's nice, this feeling that...I want you to kiss me. Again."

She was still, absolutely still, her eyes trained on him, only on him.

"Lies."

"No."

"I drink."

"You drink."

And so he leaned forward, placed his lips on hers, and drank.

The night continued in that vein.

Legs tangled around sheets, skin slid across skin, fingers delved and reached into flesh, cries were muffled into necks (or sometimes shouted all the louder), gasps were induced, and releases were obtained.

The first time, it was frantic, done with all the guilty eagerness and thrill of seeing the forbidden for the first time. The second time, it was sweet, done with the knowledge that they had the luxury of time and energy and desire. And all the other times- it was an amalgamation of everything: there was desperation and patience, passion and complacency. But always, there was satisfaction.

If she felt pain, he made her ignore it. And if he had any lovers before her, she made him forget them. They flew to the greatest heights and in one fell swoop, pushed each other out of the sky and tumbled together into the sea below. It was murder of the most pleasant kind, of the most sublime kind.

He found he loved her mouth, for it was a devilish little thing that broke his wings and yet let him fly beyond their chambers, beyond King's Landing, and beyond his own body into another world of bliss and pleasure.

And she, in turn, found she loved his fingers, callouses and lengthy limbs and all, for they breached her deepest depths and skimmed her lightest surfaces, unlocking something in her every time they brushed her breast or stomach or neck.

So when they awoke the next morning, having emerged from the womb of the night naked and sated and pleased, they awoke with the strange feeling of acceptance.

Not resignation, but acceptance. Acceptance that they were married, and they had responsibilities, and they had sacrifices, and that this, whatever it was, was nice.

It was nice.

And for now, that was enough.

And we are back after yet another hiatus. I apologize for the wait; finding time to write has been hard recently, but never fear because I will get back to this story. Thank you all for the support in the meantime. Well, it's happened. They've done the dirty, but what happens now? Find out next week, most likely SATURDAY! That's right, new day for updates. Hope you enjoyed, thank you so much for reading and please review, favorite, follow, etc.! I love hearing from you all.