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The novelty of marriage wore off quickly, they said. The seemingly interminable golden days of the honeymoon months would inevitably wane into the practiced patterns of decades of matrimony, they said. Cherish the nights when you can call your husband a devoted lover still, for it would not be long before he became an occasional visitor, they said. Enjoy the time when every glance he sends your way sets flame to the coals in your heart, when every word spoken between you and him is a treasured gem, when his love and his attention and his company is all the sustenance you need, they said.
"They" being the women of the King's Landing, who delivered their portents in knowing looks from palace handmaidens and tittering slights from the court ladies. Some meant what they said-well-wishers and admirers and warm acquaintances whom Elia had made among the noblewomen and servants in the three months she had been at King's Landing. Others, the ilk of Cersei and women like her, intended for their words to hold nothing more than venom and ill fortune.
And, the thought did cross her mind, every now and then. That whatever joy Elia had found in Rhaegar's company these past few months might not be fated to last past the inception of their marriage.
But, now, as she splayed languidly across her bed, soaking in the beautiful morning rays that filtered through the open window and smiling softly at the poem Rhaegar had left for her on the mattress, Elia was could not help but feel so content, so happy. She had woken to face an empty bed, but rolling to the side Rhaegar had occupied the night before immediately evoked memories of his arms around her waist, of his face nestled into her hair, of the soft and deep timbre of his voice, of his musky scent. Elia had giggled softly to herself, then, for the foolish way in which her heart pattered, as if she was a little girl who still dreamed of fairy princes and once-upon-a-times.
And, in a way, it was these moments when her time in King's Landing felt like a sort of fairytale, and they were in no small part due to Rhaegar, his patience, his thoughtfulness, his innate charm. They had spent the first three days after their wedding solely with each other for company. Thoughts of royal duties and the court had no place in their lives during those hours; the king's command that his son and his good-daughter be left alone to procreate, while discomfiting in its intent, had relieved them of any obligations or prying eyes. Instead, Elia and Rhaegar had migrated between her chamber and his, alternating between student and teacher in their quest to know the other, the awkwardness of that initial morning dissipating quickly.
This pattern of talking and sharing had only continued since then. It had become a habit of theirs, to visit one another's chambers after dinner. Occasionally, the visit would extend to the next day, but, sometimes, it merely meant a hour or two of conversation as they tried to map the other out more and more, bit by bit. As Elia laid in bed, she fondly recalled one such conversation they had shared, the night of Rhaegar's return to King's Landing from the meeting with House Greyjoy a week prior.
"Quellon Greyjoy had nothing to do with it, as it turned out. To be honest, it was highly unlikely that he ordered it in the first place. He knows how the Ironborn are seen on the mainland. He's been trying to get on everyone's good graces for as long as he's been a lord," Rhaegar said as he reclined on the divan.
They were in Elia's chambers tonight. She lay in the plush carpet beside him, her loose shift covered by a large, warm blanket. She was feeling queasy, and her body ached, but she kept her attention on Rhaegar.
"Then who was it?"
"Euron. His second son. Apparently, a ship belonging to the Ironborn disappeared mysteriously in Ironman's Bay. The Greyjoys claimed one of the mainland Houses did it, but all of them denied it, and Quellon accepted their answer. His sons were all infuriated and, from what I gather, so were quite a few of the Ironborn. So, Euron got together a crew and began attacking ships and towns. He damaged a few of the Mallisters' and Baneforts' vessels and took prisoners from a town near Flint's Finger."
"Was Euron in attendance at the meeting?"
"Yes, although it didn't help matters. He raged at the lords, and when Quellon yelled at him to shut up, he sulked in the corner."
"But, was he correct? Were the mainland Houses responsible?"
"In a way. Eventually, one of the Banefort men came forward and admitted that his brother had been involved in some piracy act with men from all around the Bay area and some from outside Westeros. They had been commandeering trading ships from Braavos for years and decided to try their luck with an Ironborn one. They killed the Greyjoy men on board, lost a large number of their own, steered it into a nearby cove, and abandoned it. Apparently, the ship had been too damaged for it to be useful to them. Besides, it didn't have any cargo on it in the first place."
"Did any of the lords know about this?"
"Apparently, the lords of House Flint and House Banefort learned after Euron's attacks began that some of their men were involved. Jason Mallister didn't, of course. He would have told the Greyjoys and punished his men appropriately if he had known."
"His House marches for the Starks, yes?"
"Yes. I hear he is quite close to the heir to Winterfell. Good man, Jason. Honorable. Decent. And, an excellent jouster."
"And, quite handsome, if I remember correctly. Very high cheekbones."
Rhaegar reached over from the divan to capture Elia's hand in his own. She smiled at him as he said, "Careful, wife. You'll make your husband jealous if he learns you've been making eyes at another man."
Elia laughed but didn't respond to his quip. Instead, she asked, "What did you do?"
Rhaegar sighed, "We haven't decided. Quellon was none too happy when he learned the Baneforts and the Flints had known. He demanded retribution for the ship, but the Baneforts and the Flints refused to give it to him without payment for their own losses. Quellon did, however, agree to pay the Mallisters back in full. But, nothing I said changed any of the others' minds."
"What happens if you don't decide?"
"They all continue fighting, damaging each other's things. The Baneforts owe allegiance to the Lannisters and the Flints to the Starks. I want neither Tywin nor Rickard getting involved in something so minute."
"What will you do?"
"I do not know. None of the sides will listen to reason. I haven't had the chance to speak to Tywin on this matter yet, but I know he expects a clear answer. Chances are, he already has a solution in mind, but only let me mediate for practice. In the end, he'll get his way, especially since I can't see a solution."
Rhaegar rubbed his thumb in circles along Elia's hand. She had shifted to sit beside him on the divan, her back leaning against his stomach as her head rested on the divan's back. The nausea had subsided, but the inexplicable ache in her bones did not. It was not like the previous bouts of ill health that had plagued her in Dorne. There were no sharp pangs nor cramped innards. This was a different kind of pain.
Rhaegar's next words brought her back to the conversation at hand, "What do you think? What should I do about all of this?"
Elia squinted her eyes and laid down next to Rhaegar as she thought. His hand came to rest comfortably around her stomach. Elia should have felt lucky, she supposed, to have a husband who was willing to not only discuss politics with her but also ask for her opinion. Such had been the relationship between her own mother and father. Although the late Princess Aida had held the throne of Dorne nominally, she had deferred to her husband in private for advice, but this, Elia knew, was a rarity in the rest of Westeros. That Rhaegar was willing to share his duties with her was a sign of the respect he held for her. And, perhaps, it was also an indication that he intended this to be more than just a political marriage: it would be a political partnership between two intellectually matched individuals.
Elia felt Rhaegar's eyes on her, awaiting her response, but she took her time to consider the situation. But, if even the minor Houses refused to yield to the counsel of their Crown Prince, that did not bode well for the future. However, these were also proud men who could not simply be strong-armed into compliance; any affront to their egos would be remembered, nursed, and, one day, avenged. Aggression from any sides would be risking escalation. Elia thought of her mother, then. What would she have done if one of the merchants reported a similar squabble? Elia then remembered a week when she was a child; two merchants had come to the Dornish court, each complaining that the other had attacked his cargo. When they refused to listen to reason, Aida, rather than threatening them both with fines and inciting resentment towards the throne, had involved the master of the merchants' guild, a man whom she knew she could rely on to steer the two belligerent men to the right course. They had gone back to their homes none the too happier with the other but with no anger towards Aida herself, which was, in the end, the only thing that actually mattered to Aida when it came to such minor squabbles. Elia took inspiration from the memory; the fight between the the Houses really was rather insignificant, but it would take some deft maneuvering to prevent an unsettled ocean from growing into maelstrom.
"I think...I think you should involve the Great Houses. Tywin Lannister and Rickard Stark are both smart men. They know we are still in the middle of a winter, one that may end tomorrow or in another twenty years. Besides, aggravating the Ironborns won't help anyone. It'll take a good many ships, a good many men, and a message from the Drowned God himself before anyone can take the Iron Islands and subdue its people for more than a week. Call a meeting at King's Landing this time, with Quellon, Rickard, Tywin, and their vassals in attendance. Having it held here means they will be under your roof, so they will be less inclined to act out. Have the Starks and Lannisters speak to their men, have them encourage the Flints and Baneforts to compensate the Greyjoys for the ship they lost. But, make sure you are present throughout these negotiations; they must know that you are the master orchestrator of all of this, or, otherwise, they will see their overlords as the solution-makers, not you. As for Quellon, talk to him yourself, in private, if you must, to avoid embarrassing him in front of the other great Houses. You said he's eager to appeal to the mainland Houses. Explain to him the ramifications of a long-term grudge. And, if he still refuses, allow Tywin Lannister to step in. He should be intimidating enough, and you won't have your name hauled into the ensuing mess so soon if it's Tywin making the threats."
"And Euron? He needs to be punished."
Elia hummed in opposition and remarked lightly, "Are you sure? He was defending his family and his people. In Dorne, protecting your kin is not called revenge. It is called seeking justice. It is the expectation, not the exception. Leave Quellon to make judgements regarding his son. Doing it yourself undermines Quellon's authority, which is something he will not thank you for."
Rhaegar nodded thoughtfully for a few moments before smiling slowly as Elia's plan appealed to him. The candlelight shed light on his face, illuminating it in warmth. His eyes glowed; they were always the clearest way of seeing his inner thoughts. Her husband was beautiful, Elia realized. More beautiful than her, strangely enough, but the thought did not make her jealous nor insecure.
"It seems I've married a diplomat. Who knew those existed in Dorne?"
"All women are born diplomats, Rhaegar, whether they come from Pentos or from beyond The Wall."
Elia laughed softly as Rhaegar pulled her closer to his chest, softly murmuring, "I'll learn to remember that."
She allowed him to kiss her, softly and then more vigorously. But, when his lips began to inch their way to down her collarbone and his hand glided along the skin of her inner thigh, Elia placed a bracing hand on his shoulder. She was simply too tired tonight, and, thankfully, he understood, albeit with a rueful glance in his eyes. Instead, he stood up from the divan, leaned down to carry her in his arms, and deposited her on the bed. To Elia's surprise, he did not leave her chambers. Instead, he blew out the candles and joined her under the covers.
"You're staying? But, Rhaegar-"
"We do not have to be together every time I am in your bed, you know. Let us talk. You haven't told me about what it was like here without me. Boring?"
Elia smiled, whispering in a teasing manner, "Actually, I think I liked it better when you were gone. No flirting in front of the Kingsguard, no impromptu concerts on your harp, no state problems for me to help you unravel. It was heaven without you bothering me left and right."
"Oh, really?" he asked, his eyes squinting in mock anger as his fingers crept around her sides, and Elia squealed as she felt them tickle her stomach. Soon, their laughter filled the stone walls of the chamber and the darkness of the late night.
Now, a week after that conversation, Elia lounged in the warm embrace of her bed, rereading Rhaegar's poem and watching the play of dust suspended in the air, until a soft knock came to the door, followed soon after by three laughing faces.
In the few months since she had married Rhaegar, Elia had accrued a small group of loyal companions: Ashara, of course, but also Serra, Eyme, and Ilissa. The latter was a noblewoman of King's Landing. Ilissa's family, related to the Great Houses by extensive marriages, had ascended to importance centuries ago as affluent and successful merchants who pioneered trade with the Braavosi and slavemasters of Essos. Elia had met Ilissa when the girl visited the queen's chambers with her mother; Ilissa's mother and Queen Rhaella had been childhood acquaintances and playmates, but the common experience of being forgotten wives in King's Landing had brought them together in the past few years. Unlike Ilissa, however, Serra and Eyme were Elia's ladies-in-waiting. Serra was the daughter of a nobleman who claimed an honest, if somewhat faint, lineage to House Karstark. She had been raised in the capital, however, after her father had died in her youth, leaving her southron mother with the choice of becoming her brother-in-law's new wife or returning to King's Landing to her family. Serra's mother had chosen the latter, and, after ascending to become lady-in-waiting to Queen Rhaella, had secured a similar position for her daughter in the retinue of the new princess. Eyme had come to court with her parents as a part of the Casterly Rock spawn that had emigrated to King's Landing when Tywin had become Hand to the King. Despite her family's firm allegiance to the Lannisters, Elia appreciated Eyme's blunt humor; it reminded her, in a way, of Oberyn's style of fighting but equipped with the deft tongue of a hardened courtier rather than a spear or vial of poison.
The three women-Ashara, Serra, and Eyme-entered Elia's chamber carrying various articles of clothing and snatches of early morning gossip-which nobleman had disgraced another serving girl, the quick escape of yet another lady from Maester Pycelle's clutches, which knight of the Kingsguard may best the prince in battle.
"Ser Barristan, of course," Serra was saying as she entered the chamber. Despite her years at the capitol, the girl's pale skin and rough voice paid homage to her northern heritage.
"And Ser Arthur would unhorse everyone, prince and KIngsguard alike," Eyme returned.
As Eyme and Serra continued to debate, Ashara came to pose on the bed, smiling down at her friend as she lay amongst the covers, smiling and relaxed. There was such an expression of peace upon Elia's face, one that Ashara had not seen since the betrothal a year past. It was true that, in Dorne, Rhaegar had seemed quiet, serious, even melancholy. And, to an extent, this was the same demeanor he presented to the court. But, glimpses of his behavior around Elia, rumors circulating around the court of the more frequent smiles the prince sported in public, and Elia's own demeanor itself made her wonder if the dragon prince truly had discredited all of her expectations of him and had, somehow, managed to make Elia and himself happy. The thought gave Ashara happiness, but it made her wonder about the place her brother now held in Elia's heart, if he did anymore at all. And, it made Ashara wonder if it was meant to last, this unexpected turn of events that defied all previous expectation.
"Good morrow, Elia."
Elia laughed softly, clutched the blankets to her chest as she leaned forward to grasp Ashara's arm.
"Good morrow to you as well, old friend. It is good, isn't it?"
"My, my, what has Rhaegar done to you? Has he thoroughly ravished all common sense as well as virtue from your body?" Ashara quipped gently.
"Well, it is no wonder you left the festivities early, Your Grace, if this is what you were up to all night," Eyme remarked as she began laying Elia's articles of dress on the divan. The woman was of Elia's age, but her height and imposing figure made her appear much older.
Elia laughed at Serra's soft blushes; the girl was barely sixteen, and it was common knowledge amongst their party that she had a sweetheart amongst the court gentlemen, but she still shied away from any talk of Elia and Rhaegar's private affairs.
"I told you both, I was extremely tired. The melee lasted all day, and I simply could not stand having to dance another round with Mace Tyrell."
"But, you did not mind dancing with the prince, now did you?" Ashara laughed as she ducked at the pillow that came flying her way.
"Did you know, we happened to pass him on our way up to your chambers, and he looked quite happy," Eyme said, a smirk on her lips as she came round the bed with Elia's robe.
"Oh, shush, both of you."
But, Elia smiled to herself as she shrugged the robe around her body and began her morning toilette. There had been a melee held in King's Landing yesterday to celebrate the resolution of the Greyjoy squabble, followed by an extremely lengthy bout of feasting and dancing that had left Elia exhausted. But, then, of course, Rhaegar had come to her bedchamber, a bottle of Dornish wine in hand from some well-wisher, and the rest was, as they said, history.
Popularity was a fickle thing when it came to court life and something very few could claim to truly possess. It came from a combination of traits: a royal title, good looks, talent, a favorable disposition, money. Elia's husband and mother-in-law, by some miraculous stroke of cosmic luck, possessed all of these qualities and, consequently, where revered throughout King's Landing, even beyond the walls of the Red Keep. Elia herself yet had to receive any decisive reports of how her reputation fared amongst the lord and ladies who swarmed the fortress. She supposed the final verdict would within the year, depending on if she gave an heir to the kingdom, a daughter, or, worst of the lot, no babe at all. But, in any case, her repertoire was better than the King himself and, to a small extent, that of his younger son, Prince Viserys.
For all that he resembled Rhaegar and Rhaella, Viserys had none of their dispositions. The constant attention he received from the Kingsguard, his family, and the servants-the product of being the only surviving child after a litany of failed pregnancies-had made him spoiled, fanciful, and mischievous. He loved his father; he was too young to know of Aerys' cruelty, and the king was never unkind towards his second-and increasingly favorite-son. Of course, he loved Rhaella, as well, but, perhaps even more than her, he loved Rhaegar. In Viserys' eyes, his elder brother could do no wrong. Rhaegar was perfection embodied into a human being, according to his younger brother. While Elia shared, albeit to a lesser extent, Viserys' admiration for his brother, her relationship with the young prince was a tentative and slightly frosty one. Viserys had learned a dislike for those not of his own House from his father, and, although Elia was, in the eyes of the Seven, a Targaryen, she was not truly family, and Viserys recognized this, for all his age. And, while Rhaegar never neglected his younger brother, adding "husband" and, hopefully soon, "father" to his list of duties no doubt reduced the amount of time he spent entertaining Viserys.
It was for these reasons that Elia suspected the young boy studiously ignored her as he paraded through the Queen's chambers. Today, he was Ser Duncan the Tall and, although dragons had disappeared by the knight's lifetime, in Viserys' fantasy, Ser Duncan rode Balerion the Dread himself.
"Play a little quieter, please, Viserys," admonished Rhaella gently as the boy galloped throughout the chamber, demanding vengeance for some imagined slight.
As of late, Queen Rhaella was looking healthier and more vibrant. Her eyes, so like those of Rhaegar, glowed as she reclined against her divan, her entire body relaxed and comfortable. Elia remembered seeing the Queen when she had first arrived at King's Landing and feeling her wince when they had embraced. It was true, any abuse the Queen suffered diminished to mostly verbal taunts thanks to Rhaegar's presence, but it was also clear that the King's behavior was growing increasingly bold and violent even when the Prince was in the Red Keep. Yet, since Rhaegar's successful resolution of the fight in Ironman's Bay, Aerys had been riding on a wave of relative sanity and contentment. Consequently, Rhaella had been happier, and the sight inspired similar feelings in Elia. The Queen had been kind and inviting to her since they met, just as Elia's mother had promised, and there were very few souls in the city who had ill to say about such a noble, tormented woman.
"What news have you, Elia?" she asked now. Occasionally, Elia would receive an invitation from Rhaella or she herself would visit the Queen. Oftentimes, it was to meet some new member of the court, Rhaella's own quiet way of ensuring that her good-daughter made friends in her new home. But, on other occasions, such as this one, it was simply to talk, about everything and anything.
"Not very much, I'm afraid. I visited the Sept this morning and stopped by an orphanage on the way back. I am considering asking Rhaegar if we may not do something for the children in Flea Bottom, something a bit more well-managed than a simple donation from the coffers because I do not believe the money reaches the children in its entirety," Elia responded, tugging at the stays of her dress. They had begun feeling more tight since noon, and it was becoming rather uncomfortable.
"Yes, I agree. Discuss it with Rhaegar, and let me know if you need my assistance. And, what news from Dorne? How are Doran and your father?"
"They are well. Doran was very involved in the decision-making before Mother's death, so it has been considerably easier. And, Father is content, I think. He enjoys his gardening."
"Yes, I saw the blooms he sent you last. The head gardener was quite happy to add it to his collection. A Dornish flower is so rare this far North, especially one so hardy."
"Yes, I believe he cross-bred it with some dragon's breath."
They continued chatting about this and that until it was well past the time for Elia to return to her chambers. It would be time for dinner soon, and she had a few letters to write, one of which was intended for Oberyn.
"Thank you for the conversation, Elia. I will see you at dinner, darling."
The last remark was addressed to Viserys, who was headed back to his own chambers for a bath. He sulked as he exited his mother's chambers, and, despite the fact they were accompanied by the loquacious Ser Oswell, the tension between Elia and her good-brother remained unbroken. Normally, she would have at least tried to make some small, insignificant comment or other. Anything regarding Targaryen lore or dragon history always managed to set his mouth loose, but, today, Elia was simply too tired, and it seemed that Viserys was just as disinclined as she was to start a conversation. In fact, as they approached his bedchamber, Viserys ran ahead into the room, where a servant no doubt awaited.
As she and Ser Oswell approached Viserys' door, Elia realized that the Kingsguard on duty was none other than Arthur himself. The dress she was wearing, which was already tight, suddenly seemed like an iron brace, cutting off her breath even further, as she fruitlessly sought a way to escape what was looking like an inevitable meeting.
"Arthur! Wasn't Jonothor supposed to relieve you?" Ser Oswell asked as he and Elia stopped in front of Arthur.
"Yes," Arthur replied, "But, I suspect he forgot. He was talking about sparring with the Prince earlier. He might still be out there."
Oswell snorted and replied, "Of course he is. Here, take a break, Arthur. Walk the Princess back to her chambers. I'll stand guard."
Arthur briefly glanced at Elia before quickly responding, "No, it's alright, really," but Oswell would have none of it and gently shoved his sworn brother from his post.
Arthur took his place by Elia's side, and they continued through the castle until, soon, they were alone in the darkened hallways of the Red Keep. Elia was acutely aware of his body moving next to hers, all encased in metal and armor on the outside but totally, completely Arthur underneath.
This was a man, Elia ruminated with a bit of wry humor, who had once meant the world to her. Who had been her playmate and knight in shining armor. Who had sent her adolescent heart pattering for the first time. Who she had once swooned over, mesmerized by the seduction of first love and childhood romance. Who had kissed her, sweetly and swiftly and chastely, beneath the orange groves of the Water Gardens. Who had made her laugh by likening the pattern of freckles he had seen peppering her body to the arrow she had shot into his heart. Who had, so long ago, taught her what desire was, the sensation of wanting and being wanted in return. Who had taught her what heartbreak tasted like-the salt of tears-and looked like-being kissed once, fiercely and sadly, underneath an orange tree before watching the man she loved walk away-and felt like-being crushed by loneliness, over and over again.
And, now? Now, this man who had been her everything was a stranger to her. The distance between them in the narrow corridor was strange to her. His silence and hers was strange to her. Being so on-guard around him was strange to her. It was all strange, all of it.
But, Elia knew why it was so. Because looking at Arthur also meant looking at who she once was, the Elia she was in Dorne. Ebullient, innocent, worry-free: a girl still. But, now, she was someone else, a Crown Princess. A Targaryen, if not by birth then by marriage and name. She was a wife, no longer independent. And, the reminder filled her with sadness and anger and guilt and an instinctive desire to resists the truth that she had changed, that everything was different now.
The silence, heavy before, soon grew compact and began to itch at Elia. Her dress felt tighter than ever, and her breath was coming in short pants. She had to speak, just simply had to, but what to say? What could she possibly have to ask him? "How often are you outside my chambers when Rhaegar is with me?" "Have you heard what I tell him, what I sound like when he is inside of me?" "Have you seen me try to escape whenever you are near me, how scared and ashamed I am to look into your eyes?" "Do you still care for me? Do you wonder if I care for you?"
And, perhaps, what she feared to ask most of all: "Do you hate me?"
But, as if by habit from their childhood days, Arthur came to her rescue, solving her dilemma by asking, "Are you alright, Princess?"
Elia laughed shortly, an out-of-breath, gasp-like sound, and said, "'Princess?' I haven't been 'Princess' to you since the first time we met."
She felt, rather than heard, his laugh as she bumped into him. Her head was ringing, and the world seemed to be tilting. But, Arthur did not seem to notice. When he spoke next, he sounded frustrated and angry, Elia's muddled mind recognized.
"Well, all that has changed now hasn't it?"
Elia stopped, flung a hand out to grab Arthur's arm and bring him about to face her.
"No, it has not. We are still the same people, Arthur."
It seemed, to Elia, that she was not speaking to Arthur, but a ghost of herself as well, the Elia of old. She struggled to focus on the face before her, on Arthur's face, as the features slipped and morphed between blue eyes and brown, masculine contours and feminine ones. Elia needed to convince him, her, them, that nothing had changed, that she may ve Elia of King's Landing, of House Targaryen now, but she was still herself, and he was still Arthur, the person whom she knew she could run to for comfort when everything seemed too much, too much, the person who would hold her, Arthur…
"How? How can you say that?" Arthur said, his hand removing the one she had placed on his arm. His voice, normally so calm, so reserved, was angry. "You are married. I am a knight in service to your husband, your protector by obligation of my position. Whatever we had, as friends and something more, is dead, and if it is not yet, we must kill it."
His hand, formerly clenched, softened around her palm until it was almost a caress, and his eyes searched her own as he said, "Once we loved one another. And, now, you love him. Maybe some part of me, a cruel, selfish part of me hoped...hoped that you wouldn't. That you would always be mine."
Elia's breath came in gasps, now. She felt a severe shock of pain course through her stomach, but she clung to Arthur's hand, almost to Arthur himself, as she struggled to stay upright against the waves of nausea and turmoil that ran through her, against the tears that gathered in her eyes as she looked at that familiar face, so uncharacteristically bent in sorrow. And, yet, Arthur continued, oblivious to Elia's slumped posture. He could see only her eyes and his pain.
"I thought I would lose you after Rhaegar married you. And, I thought that I finally had I saw you greet him in front of the Red Keep, so happy and so in love," he said, his voice becoming a hoarse on the last word, as if whispering it would deny the truth. "But, now, I know better. I lost you long ago, before Rhaegar even lay eyes on you. I lost you when I chose to walk away rather than fight, when I gave you up for a sword and a white cloak."
Elia tried to respond, to say something-anything-but, suddenly, Arthur's voice seemed to grow faint, as if she was hearing it from the end of a long, distant hallway. She felt her body tip backwards, but it never hit the floor. Instead, hands gripped her limbs and back, and another man's face joined Arthur's worried one above her, a pale face, crowned with pale hair.
Bile rose in Elia's throat. Her mind and body became stones, sinking faster and faster into a sea of oblivion, where the only sound she could seem to hear was a man's voice, calling her name.
"Elia…"
That was the longest and, I think, the most dramatic chapter yet! Also, so many characters making appearances, some canon and some OC. Any guesses on what's wrong with Elia? Who the pale man is? Any thoughts on Arthur's conversation with Elia? On Rhaellla, on Viserys? Any criticisms? I'd love to know!
Thanks again to all who have kept with the story. Hearing your thoughts, especially after such a long hiatus, is a blessing and definitely a great incentive. Next weekend is crazy for me, so an update may not happen, so hopefully, this will tide you all over until then. But, here's a preview: something VERY BIG and something else also VERY BIG and more Arthur and Rhaegar/Elia fluff. And maybe something not so happy-count the sweet moments you see, because they're not going to last for too long.
Thanks again for reading, and please comment/fave/follow as you see fit! Have a lovely week! Also, here's an early Happy Friday the 13th!