Elia Martell hated him.
She hated her husband as no other Dornish woman could hate. Not because he bedded with that Stark bitch, no. From the very beginning, her marriage to Rhaegar Targaryen was political, as was customary among the great houses of Westeros.
And though such unions did not forbid love from sparking with time, his search for the warmth she could not give him in another woman's arms was no surprise. She had always been frail, marked since her premature birth, and he had never truly cared to melt the ice that lay between them.
But that was not what filled her with fury.
Despite everything, she had done her duty. She had given him two beautiful children: sweet, curious little Rhaenys, two and one years old, and Aegon, scarcely one, whose birth had nearly cost Elia her life. Even the maesters had warned that another child would kill her before she ever brought it to term.
Perhaps she had not loved Rhaegar with the fire of a raging heart, but she had loved him with the persistence of the tide. And how he repaid her? With the cruelest, most public humiliation, when he crowned Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty instead of his wife. She had become the laughingstock of all Westeros. How could she face her family after that?
And not only that—shortly after, he fled with her. That bitch. Did he not know that such an act would plunge the kingdom into war with the North? Did he not understand the danger into which he cast his own children? Of course he did. He wasn't a fool. To him, the thrill of forbidden flesh was worth more.
Many claimed Lyanna Stark had been kidnapped, but Elia knew better. She had seen the girl's face when Rhaegar gave her the rose: the eyes of a naïve child who still believed in songs and tales. Sometimes Elia wondered what Lyanna's body had that hers did not. Could a cunt truly be worth a war?
They said a woman could be a man's salvation or his doom. Lyanna, clearly, was the latter.
If it had only been lust, could he not have sought a whore, or some lady of a lesser house? Elia never believed it was about prophecy. No. Rhaegar simply craved what was forbidden, as many man did. But he lacked the courage to admit it.
Obsessed with honey not his own, he had struck at a hive he should never have touched. And now she and her children bore the stings.
She did not think herself ugly, but she would be lying if she said her pride was unscathed. After all, what did Lyanna Stark have that she, Elia Martell of Dorne, did not? Fury welled up inside her, spilling into her hands until her knuckles turned white.
In the end, it was all for nothing. Rhaegar was dead, slain by his cousin Robert Baratheon, and with him died his prophecy, and ser Arthur Dayne. Elia feared she and her children would soon follow them into the Stranger's embrace.
….
Outside, King's Landing was a cauldron of clashing steel and blood. Elia pitied the soldiers and civilians who paid with their lives for her husband's folly.
But if she did not act quickly, she and her family would pay as well. She did not believe the Lannister—least of all Tywin—would let them live. The man was cunning, and old grudges still festered. He would likely kill them all to prove his loyalty to the new king.
And Robert…
The young Baratheon must be seething with rage over the "abduction" of his betrothed. Moreover, no king would suffer the offspring of the old dynasty to live, not when they might one day threaten his crown.
Perhaps Eddard Stark might show mercy… but Elia doubted. Noble though he was, after the brutal deaths of his father and brother at the hands of the Mad King, surely all he desired was fire and vengeance upon House Targaryen. And even if, by the grace of the Seven, he were inclined to spare them, she was skeptical that he could stay Robert's wrath.
Elia bit her lip until the taste of iron filled her mouth. What choices did she have? None.
Aerys had locked her away—or as he liked to say, "protected" her—within the Red Keep.
Both of them knew it was nothing but a ploy to bind House Martell.
As long as she remained there, her family would not dare rise against him. Not Oberyn. Her brother loved her too much, and that love was a blade that Aerys had long known how to wield.
…
She paced the chamber, palms pressed against the wall, searching for some hidden passage lost to memory, but nothing found. She gripped her head as if she could squeeze an answer from her skull, but none came.
A cry stopped her. Little Aegon had woken. With a weary sigh, she gathered him in her arms, stroking his cheeks with trembling fingers.
"Sweatheart," she said softly, rocking him, "come take care of your brother, will you?"
She turned to Rhaenys and offered her a smile—a flicker of light amidst the storm.
If there was one thing she could thank Rhaegar for, it was these two beautiful children. They were her world, the only untainted joy in a castle built in lies. Without them, she would have broken long ago.
Rhaenys managed a smile in return, though it was reluctant. Her eyes, dark as her mother's, mirrored Elia completely. Unlike Aegon, the girl bore nearly all the features of House Martell.
So bright and curious, she would have grown into a fine princess one day. Elia's heart ached to see her hide her fear behind that trembling smile.
Suddenly, a thunderous crash shook the door. Someone was trying to break through.
Elia paled, but wasted no time in fear. She thrust Aegon into Rhaenys's arms.
"Quickly—under the bed."
The pounding grew more violent, as though a mountain itself struck the wood. Perhaps it was.
Rhaenys's wide eyes brimmed with terror.
"It will be all right, my love," Elia whispered.
"Now hide. Quickly."
The girl nodded, barely, and with her mother's help crawled beneath the bed.
Finally, with a shriek of wood and iron, the door gave away. Elia straightened, her heart hammering, and fixed her gaze upon the threshold.
There stood the Mountain. Gregor Clegane, the Lannister's hound, loomed monstrous in his armor. He was no man but a beast, who killed and raped for sport. Death, to him, was not a duty or punishment, but the sweetest of rewards.
Beside him skulked another of Tywin's curs: Amory Lorch. As vile as the Mountain, maybe worse. His beady eyes crawled at her body with obscenity, fitting for that pig's face.
A shiver of ice ran down Elia's spine. Why must it be them? Why those beasts, of all men?
"Well, well," Amory sneered with a twisted grin. "If it isn't the… delicate princess of Dorne."
Gregor chuckled darkly beneath his helm.
"What do you want," she demanded, summoning strength from nowhere.
"I think you already know, princess," Amory replied, stepping toward her with that vile smile.
Elia trembled as they closed in, every hair of her body rising. Fear pounded through her like war drums, but she forced her chin high. She could not show weakness. She had to stall them, keep them from finding her children.
If she was to die, she would die as a Martell—head held high, teeth blooded if need be.
Gregor advanced, the floor quaking beneath his steps, his shadow drowning the room. Even the stones of the Red Keep seemed to hold their breath.
"Look at the little princess," he growled, his voice a rasp of metal. "So brave."
Amory slithered closer, grinning like a rat scenting a feast.
"Better that way," he murmured, licking his lips. "It will make things more fun."
Elia's fist clenched, nails biting into her palms. She had to keep them busy. For her children.
"What are you waiting for?" she spat, a cat baring her claws. "I'm not afraid of you."
Armory tilted his head, his smile curving into mockery.
"Oh, you will be, princess," he whispered. "You will be."
—
Author's Note:
Give me power stones. I said, give me power stones. I'm the opposite of Superman.