Princess Elia Martell
Elia Martell sat at her mother's bedside, listening to her breathe. Princess Mariah's hand lay slack in her own, the skin thin and cool, veins faintly visible beneath it like pale blue ink.
The woman who had ruled Dorne for more than thirty years seemed to have diminished into something smaller now, as though the bed itself barely noticed her weight.
The rise of her chest was a shallow, uneven thing. Sometimes there was a pause long enough that Elia's fingers tightened in fear, only for the next breath to come with a faint, rattling wheeze.
She had not woken once in the past three days. The room was dim despite the blazing noon sun outside, the light filtered through sheer curtains that stirred faintly with the sea breeze. The scent of crushed herbs lingered in the air: sage, feverfew, milk of the poppy. The taste of it strong enough to prickle the back of Elia's throat.
Maester Caleotte had come and gone, whispering to his underlings quietly when he thought she couldn't hear, and offering measured reassurances that meant very little when she could. There was nothing else they could do, they said. Only rest now. Only time. The Princess was strong and might still pull through.
A sweet lie, she thought. Princess Mariah Martell had been ill for years, Elia could admit that. Yet she had endured it well until Lord Ormond Yronwood came to Sunspear.
She brushed her thumb across her mother's knuckles. She leaned closer, as if proximity alone might anchor her mother to the world.
"I'm here," she said quietly, though she knew the Princess could not hear her. "I'm here, mommy."
Elia did not cry. There were servants moving quietly beyond the screens, the soft rustle of silk and footsteps carefully measured. A princess of Dorne was rarely truly alone, even here.
She had learned, over the years, how to hold herself together in rooms like this. In public, at least. The court at Sunspear expected composure from a Martell, especially one so often held up as the image of Dornish grace in place of her own mother. She saved her tears for beneath the covers at night when she would open her heart to Ashara, or back when she was younger with Oberyn, when they'd shared a bottle of wine under the stars.
Here, she sat straight-backed and calm, her grief folded neatly away where no one could see it. She could not show weakness, not now as Dorne leaned precariously on a precipice.
Her thoughts drifted, unwillingly, back to the meeting that had broken the Princess.
She could remember the weight in her mother's eyes after it, the way her hand had trembled when Elia poured her watered wine that night. Choosing between one's child and one's realm was not a choice at all. No wonder her heart had not been strong enough.
Lord Ormond Yronwood had arrived in Sunspear beneath yellow and black banners to voice his concerns, he had said. Concerns for Dorne's stability. Concerns for old wounds reopened by Oberyn's return.
And he had brought five hundred knights to escort him, enough to remind everyone who truly held strength along the Boneway. He'd planted them on the coastal road between Sunspear and the Water Gardens where Oberyn waited along with her uncle Lewyn, as if to threaten both the city and the exiled prince.
Her mother, ever pushing for peace and stability, had welcomed Lord Ormond into the Tower of the Sun itself. Before he met Princess Mariah alone, he had spoken in front of the entire court, his voice smooth and practiced. He spoke at length of honor, of justice, of his father, Lord Edgar, and of the rumors that still clung to Oberyn's name like a disease.
Poison, they whispered still, even years later. It was only supposed to be a duel to first blood, after Oberyn was caught abed with Lord Edgar's mistress. Her brother had won, but the Bloodroyal expired not a week after it.
Oberyn had denied it, of course. When she confronted him, he had looked her in the eyes when he said it, his dark gaze fierce with indignation.
"If I had killed him," he had told her once, voice low and bitter, "I would not hide behind my mother's skirts about it."
But his pride was not proof, and Oberyn had never been one to beg belief from those already inclined to hate him.
Sending him away had been her mother's decision. Elia had heard the order herself, watched the way Princess Mariah's voice quivered as she spoke it. For the good of Dorne, she had said. To keep the peace with the Yronwoods.
Oberyn had laughed, as he was wont to do, but it was a humorless thing, and he left Sunspear before dawn next morning without another word. Despite being hurt by it, Elia could not help but think Oberyn had enjoyed his exile more than he wanted her to believe.
He'd gone to the Citadel first, ever thirsty for knowledge, and forged six chains in less than a year and a half. In a letter, he said he left Oldtown out of boredom, and thus the Disputed Lands came after, to soldier with a mercenary band like a common brigand.
He rode with the Second Sons for a while, she knew, traveling from Myr to Volantis and even later to Slaver's Bay. He told it all proudly of how far he traveled in the rare letters he sent, as if distance might dull the ache he left behind.
And now, when word came that Oberyn intended to return, the Yronwoods somehow got wind of it and had moved swiftly.
The meeting between Lord Ormond and her mother had lasted hours. When it ended, the Princess had looked older than Elia had ever seen her. That night, her mother's breath had come labored and uneven. By morning, she could barely rise from her bed.
Three days later and she had not opened her eyes again.
Elia swallowed, forcing herself back to the present. She reached for the cool cloth resting in a bowl beside the bed and dabbed it gently against her mother's brow. Her skin felt clammy beneath her touch.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Elia did not turn. "Come in," she said.
She knew the footstep even before the voice. Ashara Dayne moved like a fairy, quiet and swift like she could float over marble. Her presence was a comfort Elia had leaned on more times than she could count.
The girl stopped just inside the room, hands clasped before her, violet eyes flicking briefly to the bed before returning to Elia.
"Has word come from Doran?" Elia asked before her lady-in-waiting could speak.
Ashara hesitated. "No," she said. "Nothing yet."
Elia pressed her lips together, just briefly, before smoothing them again. Doran's silence weighed on her more heavily than she liked to admit. Her older brother had always been deliberate, even as a child.
While Oberyn and Elia would plunge into the sea from the cliffs an hour's ride from the Water Gardens, Doran would wait for them at the top of the ridge, watching them quietly. Why risk it, he would say. What will I gain from it?
Fun was not an acceptable answer for him. He never did something that wouldn't benefit himself or their house. And for years now, he had spoken of the Yronwoods growing power, of the danger in letting any bannerman grow too comfortable beneath their mother's gentle rule.
Yet now, when they marched soldiers into Sunspear, he did nothing. Or nothing that Elia could see. She could never figure out his mind these days.
Ashara cleared her throat. "My lady… there are visitors."
Elia looked up. "Visitors?"
"Yes," Ashara said. "They arrived not an hour past. A knight of Tarth, a Ser Galladon. He comes with Ser Gerion Lannister, Lord Tywin's youngest brother. Ser Gerion is badly wounded. They say he's been poisoned."
For a heartbeat, the room felt too small. Elia closed her eyes, drawing a slow breath through her nose. Another problem. Another weight added to a balance already strained to breaking. Lannisters, of all people, bleeding in Sunspear while a Yronwood host camped outside the city and her mother lay dying.
She felt the urge to laugh. To just go hysterical and damn everyone else. She suppressed it quickly with some effort.
When she opened her eyes, her face was once more calm, composed. "Have them brought inside," she said. " See that the maesters attend Ser Gerion at once. Quietly, if possible."
Ashara nodded. "At once, my lady." She turned to go, then paused, glancing back. "Elia… are you well?"
Her eyes softened. She looked down at her mother once more, at the woman who had carried the weight of Dorne with gentle hands that now lay helpless atop white linen.
"No," she said. Then, after a breath, "But I will be."
She rose from the bedside, smoothing her skirts, and composed herself as she had been taught to do since girlhood. Whatever storms gathered around Sunspear, she would meet them with her head held high.
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