"This was always going to happen. She's been dead since the beginning."
- Aeschylus
It is a child's dream to outwit fate, to somehow escape the great ending that awaits us all.
But Orianne Fernwood would burn the world if it meant a moment longer w...
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For once, the air around the Red Keep was something other than sweltering.
Elia was no stranger to heat. She had been born and raised in Dorne, spending her youthful years basking in the ever-present sun. Her home was a desert in every sense, hot, dry, and expansive.
That she could handle, but the humid air of King's Landing, which always smelled of shit and piss, was unbearable on the best of days.
But that day, the smell seemed to fade away, the air cooling, and a soft breeze from the sea washed over the keep. The pleasant weather left Elia thanking whatever Gods had heard her prayer and answered. The few beautiful days made everything else more bearable.
The change in weather was also an opportunity for Elia; rather than being cloistered inside, she could do her business in more pleasant surroundings.
The gardens of the Red Keep were nothing like home; they were too manicured, each bud and bloom manipulated to perfection, just like everything else in the pit of snakes she had married into. Home meant a wild, dangerous sort of beauty. One that could not be tamed by the gardeners, and they never tried.
It was in moments like those that Elia longed for home the most. She longed to be in the beauty of the Water Gardens once more, watching her family frolic in the pools, always overseeing, never partaking. Even if her ill health kept her from the more robust activities her family often participated in, she was always included.
Since her marriage to Rhaegar, some three moons prior, she had begun to feel more like those flowers. Snipped into the shape her handlers deemed fit. The thought enraged Elia. She was sickly, yes, but she was also Martell.
Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.
Those were her words; no frailty or marriage could take that from her.
Oberyn would have raged at such control, fighting and knocking anyone and anything out of his way. Doran would have stepped back, allowing his opponents to think they had one, all the while waiting for an opening to strike.
Elia was not as bullheaded as Oberyn, but she wasn't as patient as Doran.
So Elia sat among the flowers, looking as demure and graceful as ever, their scent masking the fomentation of her own plot. She would not be known as a snake without fangs, and Elia would not exist in court without allies of her own.
The Martell princess was not stupid. Elia knew that outwardly defying the King was a death sentence. The man was mad, not to mention he already disliked Elia for her Dornish roots.
Just a whiff of her dissent would mean punishment in ways she dared not dream of. Not her position or family name would stop Aerys from killing her in any way he saw fit.
That left Elia with very few options.
When Rhaegar, her husband, had approached her, informing her that it was expected of her to choose more ladies to serve her, it went unsaid that none of these ladies were to be from Dorne. The King would dislike being outnumbered in such a way.
