THE FOLLOWING IS A FAN-BASED PARODY
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It seemed that Elia's life had come to an end.
That was the prevailing thought rushing through the mind of the Princess of Dorne. It was the only way a day like this could end, with her body left at the foot of the Iron Throne as appeasement to the rebels for the sins of her husband's family.
How could this have not ended any other way?
Her sweet, loving, foolish, morose, stupid, and pigheaded husband had thrown the Realm into chaos. He had given the mad beast who sired him a torch to burn the continent to cinders, and millions suffered because of it. In truth, her life was forfeited the moment she spoke her wedding vows; she doubted any Targareon would be alive by the war's end.
The smell of blood and fire filled the air, so palpable that Elia could taste the iron tinged in death on the tip of her tongue.
The sound of steel-piercing flesh and men screaming filled her ears as yet another violent push was made against the thick oak doors of her apartment, rattling its hinges. Splinters danced in the air before they struck the ground, a clear sign of its failing strength. Another heave shook the door from its hinges as the castle-forged iron and thick oak wood gave way to the murderous intent of men.
Her daughter was crying, her little sun with her big, beautiful brown eyes shining like hunks of amber. Fear and terror gripped tight against her heart so deep she couldn't formulate words as her little body heaved and shook as Elia placed her under the bed.
"Hush, my little dragon," Elia spoke softly, trying not to allow the resounding thud of approaching footsteps, heavier and more spread apart than any other she had felt in her life." You must be silent. Everything is going to be all right."
It was a lie, one that Elia knew full well, but she could think of nothing else to soothe her daughters' cries. Elia knew in her heart that her life was forfeit; no woman, be she Princess or queen, priestess or commoner, survived the sacking of a city untouched. The threats and words of the men behind the door told Elia her end would not come quick. But if her daughter could remain hidden, she may live to see the coming day.
She closed her eyes tight, salty tears running down her face as she clutched the babe, her little miracle and precious son, close to her chest. His face was red, and his lungs were purple as he wailed from the chaos and ruin around him.
Her sweet baby would never learn to walk or speak; he would never learn to swim in the water gardens or run through the olive fields of her homeland. He would never be old enough to sing his favorite songs, read his favorite books, or grow old enough to start his own family. But what most broke Elia's heart was that despite her efforts, there was nothing to do but wait for death to come for them.
She placed her darling babe into his cushioned crib, tracing her long fingers down his cheek, trying to remember every detail of her child's face. His round cheeks were as red as ripened cherries, his purple eyes were as bright as gemstones, his copper brown skin was as soft as silk, and his smile that shone when he giggled, just as her baby brother did all those years ago.
All those years ago, she was surrounded by her brothers and mother before the dragons and the war. Before, she woke up every morning to the weeps of her mother-in-law from the king's latest attack. Before, the threats of a madman with unlimited power left her a hollow replacement for the woman she had been, turning a clever wit and sharp tongue honed by her mother into a ghost too afraid to step out of the invisible line drawn in the sand.
But she was alone now. Her brother's armies were used as cannon fodder against the rebels, and her countrymen were left dead on the fields of a foreign land away from their families and loved ones. Her husband, the father of her children, was dead, his body left to the ravens to feast upon all because he could not keep his fantasy-addled mind off the backside of a fourteen-year-old girl.
Her brothers had abandoned her, Doran, with his dreams of master plans and long plots, rotted away in the childhood home, waiting for a perfect moment to strike that would not come, and Oberyn, so hot-headed and impulsive had simply left the continent for Essos mear months before the war broke out, his hot-headedness making the man seek out a life of "adventure" away from their peaceful home. If only he knew that the Realm was on a knife edge over a cliff, he might have found enough excitement nearer to home to quench his thirst for excitement.
And here she was, the middle child left alone to suffer in silence, counting down the invisible hourglass to her death.
A sudden crash tore her from her thoughts, the door that guarded her slamming onto the floor into dozens of pieces as the largest man Elia had ever seen in her life stepped through the door, his colossal frame bending down and turning to fit into the room.
He was grotesquely huge like some sort of demon born to spite the natural form of men, with arms thicker than a tree and legs that seemed to have been stitched onto him from an elephant of the East.
The other men flooded into the room, their frames barely reaching the giant's chest, as they surrounded her, taunts and threats dancing from their lips.
The world seemed to grow slowly as she watched the giant turn his helmeted head, his hot breath enough to make her want to vomit and scream, scanning the room like a shark eyeing its next meal.
"Grab the cunt." the giant voice, like the clashing of steel and the grinding of teeth, filled the room as a flood of men, clad in gold and crimson, filled her apartments. The lust for blood and violence was as clear as the waters of the Dornish seas, the men salivating like hungry dogs being given a hunk of meat.
She felt her arms twist and yanked, pulled so hard it felt like the limbs would be torn from their sockets before she was thrown to the ground. But held her child closer, his tears and screams growing wilder and louder as Elia held the boy tighter to her chest, trying desperately to think of anything but what was about to happen.
The huge man was upon her, one colossal hand upon her mouth and jaw, the iron and hardened leather leaving bruises and cuts along her skin. His other hand ripped and tore through her dress as he pawed and groped at her like a wild beat feasting on an already lifeless corpse.
She felt more hands upon her, gripping and pulling and yanking as she could do nothing but scream and wail as she struggled in place. Her boy was screaming, every instinct in her babe's little body telling him something was wrong.
"Momma!" a voice shrieked out, sounding like a dagger to her heart, slowly dripping the life from her." Let my momma go!"
Elia felt her blood run cold, her eyes widening as she ripped her wrists out of the hands of her attackers, cutting her skin and drawing blood from their gauntlet-clad hands.
Her little girl was swept off her feet before she could even move, her little Princess biting and kicking with the willpower of a child who wasn't old enough to know that life was not like the fairy tales she loved so much.
"Damn brat!" a stout man with a pig like face and voice like a kettle shouted, his gloved hand against her girl's neck, her legs hanging loose as his unsheathed knife pressed against her throat.
Elia pulled, ripping her limbs from her captor's dirty hands as she struggled to get free, every ounce of strength left in her frail body screaming at her to protect her children, no matter what would happen to her.
She felt a massive hand against her head, forcing her down onto the cold stone floor as the men above her laughed and chuckled to themselves, their voices twisting and consulting as their faces morphed into cruel masks that promised nothing but pain and misery.
Her daughter's screams and her son's wails morphed into the laughter of the men who held her, forcing Elia to close her eyes tightly in an attempt to block out the sounds of her living hell. She felt the giant hands on her chest, grabbing her so tightly she felt like her skin would be ripped from her bones.
"Close your eyes, sweetling." Elia wept, her voice broken and hoarse and barely overheard by the chuckles and laughter of the men who surrounded her. "It's all a bad dream. It will be over soon."
Another lie, she thought to herself bitterly, but it seemed to be the only thing she could do at the moment as she felt her silk dress be torn from her body. But like the ocean surge before a storm, she felt the air around her grow still. The men above her froze on their actions, worry and confusion worn like mud on their faces. They moved towards the shattered door frame, their cruel smirks and lust-filled smiles replaced with sweat-covered brows and serious eyes.
The fighting in the halls had long since been over, whatever token guard of the red keep long since dead by the time the men had decided to enjoy the privileges of their attack.
But Elia could still hear it, the roar of battle and the sound of death getting loader and loader outside the halls, getting closer and closer as the animals who broke into her apartment seemed to steel themselves for what was about to happen.
Like a pack of demons, men clad in boiled leather and grey furs rushed through the darkness of the door frame, their cold steel steaming from the blood they spilled as they crashed into golden armor. Their faces were stern, and their growls were deep, less like men and more like the snarling dire wolf upon their tunics. A man nearly seven feet tall with a roaring giant on his chest dissected a man clean in two with a great sword even more imposing than the one used by the giant who held her. A bear of a man littered with scars that looked as old as Elia herself was shoved and pushed through the men like an animal trying to get to its next meal, manhandling a grown knight as quickly as he would a child, throwing the gilded knight through a window to his death. A man who looked no taller than she stepped forward through the darkness, impaling a three-pronged spear into the heart of one of the men who had held her down; the cruel smile on his face ripped off his face. The man stepped away before the man could bleed on the bronze scales he wore, throwing a dagger into the eye of the man who kicked her little dragon's crib to the floor, the man dropping to his knees and screaming like the child he had taken pleasure in tormenting not but a few moments previously.
But the giant that held her took most of Elia's attention, and the oddly familiar-looking man who stood between them, his body like a human shield for Elia as she scrambled backward to get to her Aegon.
The giant swung his great sword less like a blade and more like a grotesque club yielded by a troll or some other fairy tale monster. The familiar man, clad in grey, embroidered with a great wolf, ducked low, keeping his distance from the bigger man as the giant kept moving forward. Like a mad dog chasing after a bone, the giant pressed his advantage, more than once getting far too close for Elia's comfort to cleave the familiar man's body in twain.
Elia watched the man intently, his grey eyes seemingly calm despite how close he was to death, the Smokey black blade in his hands acting more of a shield than a weapon, blocking every attack thrown his way like an expert bullfighter.
The man's sword, the Smokey grey of every great Valiyain blade, shined like a pillar of black ice, each blow against it slowly chipping and blunting the giant's edge.
"DIE, YOU FUCKING CUNT" the giant screamed, the removal of his helmet allowing Elia to see the rage and madness behind his eyes as thick veins bulged and pulsated with blood and hatred as he tried once more to kill the man in front of him. He swung downward, castle-forged iron meeting ancient Valiyain Warcraft and being found wanting, the giant blade cracking and shattering against the grey-eyed man's own.
Thrown off balance, the giant tried to correct himself to keep himself upright. Still, he found it impossible as grey eyes had already seen his mistake. The man stepped forward, turning his body, and sliced downward, the black blade cutting through plate armor and bone of the giant's leg, nearly severing the tendon from the rest of the body as the giant dropped to his knees, blood pooling around him like a freshly hunted deer.
But despite the pain and the blood, the giant's eyes still burned red with hatred; pushing his body forward with such force he nearly tore the gashed leg from the rest of his body in his attempt to continue the fight.
Grey eyes narrowed as he took a step away from his defeated opponent, still standing between the giant and Elia like a sentry as the giant screamed for death, gripping the jagged and broken sword in his hand as he tried to stab into the chest of the man who had crippled him.
The grey-eyed man grunted as he took the brunt of the giant's attack, deflecting a rage-fueled slice only to be quickly overwhelmed by his larger opponent. He was taken off his feet and slammed against the wall by the giant man's inhuman strength, swinging his blade upwards to block the giant's broken sword from stabbing further into his leather jerkin as he did so.
"Eddard!" the small man shouted, hurling his three-pronged spear into the back of the giant's neck, causing the monstrous man's scream of rage to gurgle and babble as his mouth and throat filled with blood.
It was a distraction but one his companion used expertly as he broke free of the bigger man's grip, his iron gauntlets left dented and blood-soaked, sinking into the exposed eyes of his opponent.
"FUCKING NORTHERN CUNT!" the man roared, his face a slab of blood and meat and as misshappened as a rotting pumpkin. His eyeball, or what was left of it, hung loose against his cheek, his face as red and veiny as the devil itself. The giant roared again, a sickening and blood-curdling scream like a dying animal, as he gripped what was left of his sword, intending one final attack, planning to rip and tear the man who had done this to him.
Eddard parried the blow with difficulty, grimacing in pain as he deflected the giant blade away from his person. The giant stood awkwardly, his arm over extended and his tree trunk-like legs crossed and unstable. The northerner stepped forward, his sword rising like an executioner's blade, ready to fall.
He sliced the giant's right arm at the point where the man's elbow met his forearm as cleanly as a master would diseased flesh from an infection.
Blooded, left crippled and lame, and now armless, the giant dropped to his knees, his breathing heavy and labored as blood and bile dripped through his mouth and the gaping hole in his neck. A part of Elia was almost sorry for the beast. But the feeling was slight and ended quickly, overtaken by the pleasure of watching the beast pretending to be a man be torn apart piece by piece in front of her.
The northerner looked into Elia's eyes, grey eyes trailing over her bruised skin and bloodied face. Dark patches of skin in the shape of hand prints covered her arms and legs, barely concealed by her torn dress. Elia felt the trickle of blood from her busted lip and broken nose and thought it harder to breathe from her broken ribs. Still, she held the man's sight, amber and grey clashing with unspoken words.
No words needed to be said for her savior to know what would have happened to her if he had not arrived, and no words needed to be said for Elia to understand what the man was preparing himself to do.
"For the attempted rape and murder of Elia Martell and the attempted murders of Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon," he said, his voice rough from exhaustion as blood trickled down to his chin from the gash over his right eye. "How say you?"
The giant gurgled, blood filling his mouth like a fountain of water or some grotesque bird feeder left to neglect.
"FUCK OFF!" the man wheezed as he grimed his teeth, biting down so hard from anger Elia believed he had swallowed his tongue. Even on his knees, he towered over Elia, like an iron monolith destined to be her tombstone, a name she would forever be linked to, a mere footnote in the terrible saga Elias would-be killer would write.
Before he swung his blade one last time, grey eyes stared into Elia's soul as he lifted his sword, leaving her attacker nothing more than a pile of bloody meat and dented iron, which still twitched on the ground, dissected.
He was dead before his body hit the ground, but Elia could swear the giant's eyes were still staring at her as his head rolled onto the floor. The mountain who rode, the giant of the west, the personal Dog for Tywin Lannister, and a man who had created a near nightmarish reputation in such a short amount of years, slain in single combat and executed for his crimes.
It felt like Elia had awoken from a terrible dream.
Only for the nightmare to begin anew as she saw her daughter yanked off the ground by the only red and gold-cloaked man left alive in the room.
"No one moves!" " the voice of the man who held Elia's daughter broke through the chaos, her little dragon's soft whimpers choked out of her by the man's grip on her neck." If one of you even tries anything! I swear I will cut this girl's throat and eat it right before you!"
Rhaenys screamed as her tiny body jerked against the knight's chest, her little legs dangling in the air like a marionette in the hands of a misbehaving child.
"You hurt that girl, and you will beg for death," Eddard said calmly. His tone of voice was not one of anger but one that reminded Elia of a force of nature, one as unyielding as a thunderstorm or as harsh as a
A fact that seemed to make him all the more deadly to the man who held Elia's little dragon tightly. As if the man's words were not a threat but a promise as assured as the sun rising in the morning and falling at night, "I swear to the old gods and the new."
When Elia finally heard the man's voice, everything clicked into place. The grey eyes, the Valyrian sword, the northern look, the man before her was Eddard Stark, brother of the woman Rheagar had run away with, the son of the man she was forced to watch as he was burned to death.
The man who, without a shadow of a doubt, had more reason to hate Elias's family than anyone in the Realm who drew breath.
Elia watched the man who held her daughter shrink back, his small black eyes drifting to the colossal form of his compatriot that the northern lord had decimated in front of him before falling back to the northern lord, taking a step closer to him.
The man bear growled, his bastard sword now a crimson red as his giant paw-like hand balled into a fist the size of a ham hawk. The small man had taken a bow, with a barbed arrow, notched and aimed directly at the man's head, with eyes like an owl staring at a field mouse.
"You touch a hair on that girl's head, you southern twat." the giant growled, a half-crazed smile on his face that was enough to put the fear of the gods into any man. "And I'll feed you to me fucking dogs."
But it was the dire wolf that Elia watched, grey eyes turning as cold as a winter night and as hard a glacier as he stalked closer to the man and child.
"Stop right there!" the man shouted, sounding half-crazed as he felt himself hit the wall behind him, pulling out a dagger from his side and holding it aloft, waving his arm to the side in an increasingly desperate and threatening manner." I swear I'll do it!"
Eddard said nothing, but his hand gripped the handle of his blade harder as he raised his hands to stop his companions from moving further.
"Princess Rhaenys." the man said, his voice far softer than before as he spoke to the terrified child before him." Can you hear me?"
"I want my momma." the girl wept softly, her voice wobbling like a small bird with a clipped wing. It broke Elias's heart to hear her daughter like that, and not for the first time did the daughter of Martell curse the weak and sickly body that kept her from protecting her children. "I'm scared..."
"You're doing a fine job, little Princess. It's going to be over soon." the lord of the North said, something in his deep voice making Elia want to believe his words despite everything her mind told her. The man who marched against Eli's family, who had lost nearly everything he loved and everyone he cared about, would not care and should not care for the family of the men who did it. "Just close your eyes and do not open them until I say so, and everything will be fine."
"Do you promise?" the little girl said, tears glistening as she stared desperately at the northern lord. He slowly moved closer, his right hand raised outward to placate the manticore-clad man. In contrast, his left hand gripped his sword tight against his fingers.
"On the honor of house stark, princess."
"Drop your weapons, Stark!" the manticore knight said, spitting the man's name like a position as he raised his dagger away from the girl's neck to wave it threatened towards Edward's direction." Or I'll cut her pretty little...!"
Which was a mistake on the manticore knight's part, for as fast a viper in the tall grass did the northerner strike, his sword arms a blur of movement as he cut through the knight's arm as cleanly as a knife would butter left out on a sunny day.
The man dropped to the floor, convulsing and screaming as the two towering northern lords rushed him, gripping the man in their meaty hands to stop him from moving, the more petite man with his bronze scales and deep green cloak relaxing his bow as he moved closer to the group's leader. If they were fast enough, they could save the man who would be ransomed to whatever Westerlands family that birthed him.
"you can open your eyes now, princess." Eddard said as he scooped the frightened girl off her feet and into his embrace, rubbing circles against her back to soothe the girl's thoughts." You did so well..."
"Momma..."
"She's a safe little one." the man said as he walked closer to Elia, her breath hitching at the sight of her daughter, bruised and frightened but alive in the arms of the man who had saved her from a fate worse than death. "You're all safe. I promise."
Elia said nothing as she held her daughter and son close to her body, squeezing as hard as she dared with the bit of strength she had left. Her eyes burned, and her body felt numb, her tightly coiled muscles finally able to relax from the stress and fear that held her in its grasp. It was like Elia had been forced to hold the blade of the sword for years and had finally been allowed to let go, the relief almost overwhelming for her to bear.
Elia looked on; her throat was raw, and her voice was broken as she instinctively moved towards the man who held her daughter, her injuries forcing her back to the ground before she could take a step. The small man removed his green cloak embroidered with a dark green swamp lion and placed it on her shoulders, the water-damaged and well-worn garment feeling like the soft silks of the East against her skin.
The sounds of metal clashing died in the air, an overwhelming sense of calmness taking over her despite the exhaustion and pain that racked her body. All she could hear now was her daughter's heartbeat as she smelled her little sun's hair, the feeling of her baby boy cooing into her breast.
She felt tired. So tired...
She felt powerful arms catch her before everything darkened, and an overwhelming calm overtook her.
Elia had never seen a Godswood. Not a true one, at the very least.
For her life, she didn't realize there was a difference between what the North called a Godswood and what the rest of Westeros called one. She had been to many great houses and had seen her fair share of god woods, beautiful gardens with flowers of every color imaginable, where tall redwoods gave shade on the warmest of summer days and where birds sang their soft little songs to those who wondered the fruit trees.
This was not one of those gardens. This was an ancient, almost primal patch of land, untouched by the hands of mortals and left to grow as nature intended it to. Trees did not grow in straight lines in a wood like this, and whatever flowers that grew only did so because they were strong enough to survive the environment.
Where the gardens of the red keep had felt to Elia like a gilded cage to trap unfortunate little songbirds in, The Godswood of Winterfell felt like an untamed wilderness, as beautiful as it was dangerous. She walked past an ancient Sentinel, her small hand grasping at the iron-like bark of the old tree, whose roots measured its lifespan in Milena hundreds of years before her ancestors landed on the shores of Dorne.
The sound of cloth on metal, a sound she had slowly begun to get used to the past few months, broke her out of her thoughts as she stepped into the center of the tree grove, the dark greys and deep greens making way for the sight of the heart tree, and the man who she had been looking for.
"I hope I am not interrupting my lord." the woman said, her voice quiet as she stepped into the grove, blood-red leaves dampening her footsteps as she watched her host put aside the massive great sword he had been polishing, the steam of the hot spring near the base of the heart tree making the finer details of the younger mans face hard to read.
But as she quickly learned during their travels north, the man was as easy to read as a book if one knew how to look.
"Just needed to get some fresh air." The man paused, the shine of his valerian great sword sharp enough to cut through the steam of the Hot spring. "I'm not quite in the mood for celebrating."
It was a sentiment that Elia understood and even, more than a little bit, felt some sympathy for. The march to Winterfell was long, far longer than it should have been, to her little dragon's embarrassment, but no one blamed the sweet girl. But months on the long road or on the saddle of a northern breed steed was enough for anyone to fall in love with quiet nights and small northern comforts.
But Eddard's Bannerman, on the other hand, deserved to celebrate their victory over the "southern twats" and the "Lannister cunts" in the capital. Even Elia, with the one cup of Dornish red she allowed herself at dinner, found herself raising a glass in a toast as the Great Jon, the boisterous mountain of a man who had protected Elia from sunrise to sunset during the first weeks of northern occupation of the city, shouted tales of how their young lord had bested "the biggest fucker that the Great Jon had ever seen in his life."
Thirty-seven cases of ale, thirty six casks of arbor gold, a crate of beers brewed from every corner of the fast northern wilderness, and enough apple and garlic braised boar, spiced venison stew with carrots and turnips, Filets of Northern trout served with honey glazed roasted potatoes to feed an army, which apparently was just what had been invited to the Winterfell feast to celebrate the return of their young lord, and the official first night of his rule during a time of peace.
The sounds of drums like beating thunder and the chorus of merriment and drunken brawls were more befitting of a tavern than any of the feasts she was forced to attend in the red keep, where the threat of violence by a psychopath like Aerys hung over every word spoken and every action taken.
But it seemed the attention was too much for the young lord, to the point where he had slipped through the cracks as he avoided men declaring their loyalty to him and raising a toast to his honor long enough to escape notice.
But Elia noticed because since the day he had saved her children, all Elia could think of was why he did what he did that day.
She remembered thinking Eddard Stark was awkward the first time she met him, a boy who had not quite gotten used to having the body of a man. He was sweet but shy and seemed to blend into the background whenever anyone's eyes were on him.
In her deep shame, Elia remembers that Ashara could have done far better than the second son of Rickard Stark.
She had smiled honestly when she had heard Ashara speak of him in the most... colorful ways, but there was always a roll of the eyes just hidden away.
The woman was her sister in all ways but blood. Elia had been privy to all of the scandals, imagined or otherwise that Ashara had formed in her wake.
She was a beauty who could ruin an engagement with only a coy smile or a faint touch on the dancefloor. Elia lost count of how many knights or lordlings, left bewitched by her dark hair and sultry eyes, publicly declared their undying love for the woman, even in the presence of their wives of betrothed.
She was good at what she did, and what Ashara Dayne did was wrap men around her fingers.
Still, despite knowing all this and the type of men Ashara usually went for, Elia couldn't help but find Ashara's words regarding her newest love... overly generous. Ashara could bewitch any man she chose, be they a knight or lord or any other man who appreciated a woman's form and touch. Elia could imagine quite a few women as well, which meant when her favored handmaiden arose the morning of the fourth day of the tournament at Harrenthal, speaking of true love and proposals of marriage, blushing like a newly blooded woman, Elia could not help but feel...
Elia was always disappointed in Ashara's choice of men, knowing full well that most of them weren't even good enough to walk beside her on a busy street, let alone warm her bed. But a northerner? With their worship of trees and thick beards? Surely a daughter of Starfall could do better?
But oh, how Elia had been wrong, and how she had cursed herself these past few months about how her mother had ignored looking to the North when looking for a husband for her daughter. But any man willing to sacrifice his life for the sake of the children of his enemies was not a man who deserved a half-barren widow without a coin to her name and with a family half a world away.
"I hope my bannermen have not done anything to displease you, my lady." the younger man said gently, his thick accent sounding like a warm fire on a cold day." I was assured that they would be on their best behaviors."
Elia was a Martell, and Martells were trained to be a master of their emotions. Her mother, may she rest in the heavens peacefully, had seen fit to teach her daughter personally to be as unreadable to the outside viewer as a parchment with no ink.
So when the younger man turned his head to her, he had actual honest-to-goodness concern in his voice regarding even the possibility that one of his bannerman, in their traditional northern ways, had done something to offend her.
She felt generally charmed by the man's surprising concern, even on something seemingly so small.
"You need not worry, Elia spoke as she slinked forward, the clean air of the northern night filling her lungs as she did so." The men had been most welcoming. So welcoming, in fact, that hardly a man noticed that their liege lord had left his hall without a word nearly an hour ago."
"Perhaps I needed more fresh air than I thought." Elisa's words pinned the northerner down, the man already admitting defeat to the Dornish woman's tongue before he stepped down from the raised dais of the heart tree. "It feels odd being in Winterfell after all these years."
She could understand the feeling, not having stepped foot in her childhood home of Sun Spear since her engagement all those years ago. It must be odd to stand where you were as a child when you were an adult.
But Elia knew when a man wasn't telling her the whole truth, it usually happened when their lips were moving, and while Eddard was indeed an open book to her about many things, it seemed he wasn't as comfortable speaking of the current state of his marriage.
And Elia felt terrible for it.
Be it paranoia of a woman being unsure of her place in the world, The concern of a mother who feels their children are in danger, or lingering animosity regarding her allegiance during the war that ravaged her homeland, it mattered not. Whatever the reason, the moment Elia stepped through the gates of Winterfell, she felt the eyes of its lady on her.
Honestly? It was an acceptable habit that Elia wished other women to follow when asserting their dominance as the lady of any household. The gods knew Elia, a woman from an ancient line filled with kings and queens, adventurers and warriors, whose fire grew so bright that not even dragons could break their spirit, would not allow herself to be dishonored lying down. Who was she to say what she would do if she had been in the Tully daughters' place?
Elia had been proactive regarding the future of her living situation. The day of her "Trial" at Kings landing in front of the oaf who now sat on the throne decreed her exile to the cold and barren wasteland his foster brother now ruled.
Even during his first official declaration as king, the man had been drunk, barely standing up straight as he raged and insulted the man he had viewed as his brother a few months before.
The honorable Eddard Stark, the name was said as a joke, laughed only by the same lords and ladies who also laughed at King Aerys's attempts at humor.
"A barren woman for an empty kingdom," Robert laughed, trying to ignore the pained look on his foster father's face as he spoke, the disillusion of his small family making him age a decade in a day. "I'm sure your lady wife will welcome her with welcome arms."
Despite her intentions, Elia had become the "other woman" in the marriage of the man who saved her, a pain she was very familiar with.
The least she could do was write to the lady of Winterfell in her own words, explaining how honored and thankful she was for the lady's hospitality during this challenging time. She hadn't expected much; jealousy and self-doubt tended to twist the most noble actions into something dark and treacherous. But by the seven who were one, the woman had written back in kind, the parchment written in the woman's own hand, giving the words a more personal touch than it would otherwise.
She spoke of the shock, of course. What lady wouldn't be surprised regarding a situation like this? But her kindness showed through, declaring that an entire tower of her new home would be prepared for Elia and her household's exclusive use during their stay and that the younger woman hoped their children would grow up alongside one another.
By the end of the second letter, Elia had been confident she had not only an ally but likely a future friend in the other woman if she played her part well. But then Ashara arrived at Kings Landing just a few weeks later, holding a baby with cheeks as soft as a pillow, grey eyes, and black hair. Lord Stark didn't need to declare the baby as his son. The child was his father's clone as much as Elia's own daughter was to her.
The friendly words she shared with Lady Caitlyn had stopped when the northern armies had left the crownlands, replaced with terse words and pained politeness.
By the time they had entered the Riverlands, it had been the talk of the Realm. A righteous wolf who had slain a giant in single combat, the man who saved the city of Kings landing from House Lannister during the war's dying days and had dared to challenge three of the finest knights of the Realm to save his sister.
But there were tales of the Ravenous wolf, whose hunger for women's flesh had forced him to take any southern flower he could get his hands on and steal them away into the North. Targaeron loyalists screamed of a northern savage, stealing away women as a blood price for his slain kin. At the same time, crude men who thought with nothing more than their dicks whispered that Elia and her former mother-in-law were the prizes of war, their children tokens for a man who slayed Tywin Lannister's mad dog in single combat, and who had helped topple a dynasty that had lasted nearly three hundred years.
Their arrival had been expected; for quite some time now, the countryside was aghast with rumors and talk of the actions of the northern lord. Eddard Stark, a man who had lost his entire family, had taken the family of those who wronged him under his protection to spare their lives at the hands of the newly crowned good king Robert.
It sounded fake, like a poorly written story by a writer who thought himself cleverer than he was and as unbelievable as tales of ghosts and monsters.
Princesses are not saved by gallant knights from monsters and madmen who wish them harm; that was only for the stories and fables to tell children at night as a shield from the real world. But by the seven who are one, this was what happened, and a part of Elia had to stop herself from swooning because, for once in her life, she actually felt... something stir in her heart.
Was it the relief of being alive and having her children safe? Most certainly.
Was it the slight smiles and longing glances that any young woman who had not felt her husband's touch since their child's birth while being given attention from a younger man? Perhaps more than Elia would admit.
But was it love? Perhaps Lady Stark had more room for concern than she once thought. But as Ashara always said, sharing a man was more manageable than fighting over one.
"This a beautiful place," Elia said, enjoying the faint sound of the great hall, the music, and songs barely audible through the thick forest around her, almost making Elia feel she had been transported into another realm altogether." My daughter insisted on climbing every tree in the grove she could get her hands on."
"I fear the princess will have to wait until she grows a few years before trying such a feat." the man said, his northern voice curving into a smile." From personal experience, the fall hurts more than it looks like it does.
"As long as you are the one who tells her, my lord," Elia said with a slight nod of her head, already imagining her little dragon trying to sneak away from sight to climb the "funny trees with silly faces" she had learned so much about during the trip up north." I fear she has gained the Dornish temperament, and when a Dornish woman wants something, well..."
They often end up getting exactly what they want in the end.
"then it seems I must make yet another bargain with your daughter to ensure her compliance." the man said, referring to the deal he had made with the girl regarding her wandering off to play in the snow without an attendant. In the end, Rhaenys had managed to secure not just a piece of salted caramel, a favored staple of northern rations during a march, but an extra story told to her after dinner over the campfire on the occasion she obeyed her mother's words.
Elia racked her head to think what her northern host would have to do to keep her daughter distracted, a thought that Elia assumed was the little girl's plan if her instance of following her protector everywhere he went was any indication.
"I'm sure my daughter will make her demands known in the future," Elia said, trying and succeeding at keeping the smile off her face as she spoke. The idea of her little dragon having the young man whom many in the North called the great wolf wrapped around her finger was amusing, to say the least." but perhaps if she had a proper dancing partner this evening..."
"She's still awake?" the man asked, general confusion tinging his voice at the knowledge that Rhaenys was still up so late into the night, especially after dancing and running to and fro all around the great hall with the children and youngest daughters of his bannerman since this morning. "I'd imagine the girl to be dead to the world by now."
"She insisted on not going to her chamber this evening until she dances with her Ned." Elia smiled now fully, taking comfort in the nickname her daughter used for the man, an affectionate one she had heard Ashara frequently use since their departure from Kings Landing and one she was growing comfortable speaking in the privacy of her thoughts." When you have enough fresh air, you will do Sir Arthur some good and give him a break.
A part of Elia felt terrible for leaving her countryman alone with her daughter, especially after facing the brunt of the advances of nearly every eligible woman of noble and many of not-so-noble birth in the castle. The recently uncloaked knight seemed uncomfortable with the looks and touches he was receiving. Still, at least Ashara was enjoying herself.
"I suppose I cannot keep a princess waiting. "Eddard hooked his arm into Elia's, guiding the Dornish woman to stable ground behind the thick web of tree roots. She stood, "I don't think I have it in me to disappoint two women in one day."
The brightness of his eyes dimmed, the remainder of his shame and the shame he brought upon his lady wife still fresh in his mind. Elia knew the sting of a husband choosing another woman over his wife, the pain of long nights spent wondering what would happen to her children, and the ceaseless judgment of one's self-worth. "
For that, Elia felt for Lady Stark, which was why she did not take the eldest Tully daughters' cold stares nor the heated words she shared in Eddard's solar the day their party arrived at Winterfell personally. If the situation were reversed, and Elia had known as much as Caitlyn did of why the northerner did what he did, she doubted she would react to this news with the dignity Caitlyn Stark had taken this apparent slight.
"I'm sure your lady wife will grow to forgive you." Elia said as she leaned into the man's shoulders as he helped to guide her to the solid ground of the crimson-red-filled forest bed." I fear no one may remain angered in such a beautiful castle for long. Nor do I feel anyone can stay mad at a man such as yourself."
The man laughed, a sound that she once thought was as impossible as snowstorms in Sunspear but one she quite looking forward to hearing again. A small part of her, which felt more prominent than the part that felt this way the day before, wished that Ashara was correct in her assumptions regarding Lady Stark.
Ashara had always been mischievous, especially when it was something she wanted. But she also had an eye and an understanding of people that could not taught from a book. What would come of Ashara's machinations, Elia did not know. Still, the Dornish princess felt hopeful, as if the sun had finally set on her previous life, giving way for something new.
For the first time in a long time, Elia looked forward to what the next day would bring her.
To the people who wanted a second chapter to this, well...here you go.
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