rp log: elia & rhaegar who. the prince & princess of westeros where. their tent; harrenhal, where dreams go to die when. the night that everything is over, after this. what. sadness. woe forever.
***********
As the night spun itself out and Rhaegar spent the remainder of his evening first making the necessary appearances and secondly, in conversation with Lyanna Stark (far out in the woods beyond the realm of any ear but for Arthur Dayne), it was late when he returned to the black and scarlet pavilion in which he chose to reside. The castle -- too cavernous and too riddled with catacombs to be even remotely safe, particularly after the questionable nature of his actions -- was discarded for the relative comforts of the tented pavilion.
With Arthur’s white shadow a step behind him, he entered the tent and with a nod, the squire set to making the brazier blaze as he stripped all the courtly attire from himself and looked with longing to the pile of furs on the mattress in the corner. He needed the clarity of Summerhall to think through the severe complexity of his situation. His song of ice and fire; if the prince that was promised were to be he, then the union of North and South with his Targaryen blood would bring a modicum of unity (minus the Baratheon horde in the Stormlands). But if he were not; if there were an Aegon yet to fulfill the role, he could have to prepare the way.
The lilt of the Rhoynish tongue -- measured, with an unmistakable hint of command -- carried from the far end of the tent, where the silhouette of a woman drying herself and dressing could be seen through a fabric partition as a lamp was lit behind it. There was no rush to her; she accepted clothes offered by the maidservants receiving instruction but attired herself without other interference, braiding her hair over her shoulder in neat, spare movements.
"I will have names, or I will know why; not a one of you lacks in subtlety." With a gesture of dismissal Elia entered her husband's chamber alone, the women fading away as they left through the other adjoining room, taking the lamp with them.
Rhaegar was assessed in silence as she filled a goblet with water from a pitcher. Finally -- “Don’t tell me your head aches.”
Stripped of his courtly attire and dress armour, Rhaegar stood alone in shirtsleeves and took several deep breaths to steady himself. She will come. He turned to witness the extinguishing of her silhouette against the softly undulating wall. She is coming.
Through narrowed eyes (within the beaten silver tain of the mirror set up before the wash basin) Rhaegar observed his wife’s approach and he waited a beat, removing the insignias of state from his fingers to place in a dish. “My head hardly matters,” he told her dully.
“Then we are in agreement.” She tilted her head slightly, the better to watch him watching her through the mirror. “It is hard to make a show of normalcy without one of the key players, you know.”
Elia took a sip of water, the mint leaves in it adding freshness without the cloying sweetness of the syrups that many favoured; she had eaten only sparingly at the dinner, and drank nothing at all. “Will you tell me where you have been, or shall I just assume that you were out walking?”
“I did the greater part of my duty. I was seen. We sat next to one another,” he said and swallowed as she finished speaking. I have been -- “I have been out walking, Elia.” His lie landed flat even on his ear and with pursed lips he took a step forward and laid his hands upon her shoulder. “It was the heat. I would have taken you with me if I had but known.”
“Husband, if you are going to tell me falsehoods on a regular basis you must begin to rehearse more, or where will we be? Any less is an insult.” She stood still underneath his hands, like a statue in the temple of Norvos -- like stone. “And how good of you, to do the greater part of your duty and sit beside me. I applaud your diligence.”
“ -- Elia.” Fingertips tightening, his grip slid from her shoulders to the slender curve of her arm. “Gods help me that is not what I meant. I was selfish again. I should have stayed.” Lyanna Stark should have stayed. I tried. I tried. “We will leave tomorrow and put this behind us.”
“Fuck your selfishness; fuck your talk of forgetting.” Her eyes flickered between Rhaegar’s hands upon her arms and his face. It was the decision of a moment, but one that could not be reversed -- “Let go.”
“You don’t --” He wanted to say her name again; to plaintively beg her to forgive him but the sharpness of her tone and the unknowable flicker in the dark depths of her eyes -- “No.” But he acquiesed, head bowing as his arms swung lamely at his sides. Then, with an exhalation -- “Elia.”
At his release she stepped away, in part to gain distance to think more clearly and in part to release some of the anger building within her limbs, a slow coil unfurling. “I don’t what? You married me knowing full well who I was, Rhaegar Targaryen, or near enough as was possible for a prince. You do this, and then you come to me and apologise and that is one matter. But you devalue your own apology with a lie.”
“Should I stand for it? Would you have our daughter stand for it?”
“And you married me knowing that I could not be just Rhaegar but would have the welfare of the kingdom on my shoulders. When I seek for peace and unity -- I want you to remember that I do so because I want our children to inherit something rich and strong -- not broken and on the verge of collapse as it now is --” And the song; the song of ice and fire. He shook his head. “You should not stand for it. You should hate me or hide your heart from me. I am afraid I will only ever be heartache to you.” A pause. “The next time your brother tries to take you away, you should go.”
“Find someone else to love.”
It was an easy thing, to send the metal goblet in her hand spinning towards him with a flick of her wrist. Almost too easy. Though she did not shout (could not shout here, could die for shouting) Elia’s words carried perfectly clearly across the tent: “Dragon I despise you and all the more so for you know that your father would chase us down and make me watch my brother’s death. And our children? Yours, of course, with the fucking royal blood that condemns them to a life of this, they would be taken from me also. You should not have married for love but some woman who knew how to be stone; how dare you condemn me to that? I knew I married a prince of the realm as well as a man but I do not know you, Dragon, I do not know you.”
There was no flinch, no rise of his hands to ward of the metal goblet as it flew to strike his jaw. The impact - more like the shock - drew him back a step and as blood began to well from the seam that opened in his skin, he fell to a knee. “I do not know myself.”
“This Dragon moves to make a strong kingdom for his children.” An other, separate compartment of his mind mused over a finite understanding of the reason for so many sibling marriages within his House. “All I know, Elia --” he directed his gaze to her. “All I know is that I love you. And it hurts you. Please love Rhaegar. Hate the Dragon. I will try to be Rhaegar to you.”
There was a part of her which wanted to fall to knees beside him, press a kiss against his jaw, beg forgiveness for the moment of lost control -- but anger gripped her still, and his words chilled her further despite the profession of love.
“If you are three -- man, prince, Dragon -- how can you be any one without the other? The man gives, the Dragon takes, they are both you. What would you have me do? Listen to the vows of the man and ignore the Dragon shattering them?”
Yes, he wanted to breathe. That is exactly what I want from you. Holding his place on the floor with a bloodied hand stretched toward her, there was a moment of silence before he spoke. “I am still learning. Abide with me a little longer. Please.”
Even furious it did not sit right to see him upon the floor, bleeding at her hand (at her throw) -- she reached out to draw him up, paying no mind to the blood. “I have little choice, Rhaegar.” Her brow arched slightly. “And that is not a full answer, Dragon.” Do you wish to split yourself to free yourself of the choices that you are making, Rhaegar? Not so simple, I fear.
Rising slowly, he drew her hand toward his chest. “I would have you do whatever makes you happiest,” he told her, sorrow shining out of his narrowed eyes. “Our path is still being laid and I don’t think it will be easy.” A breath -- “There are prophecies about this family, Elia. People look to us to make Westeros whole. And I will swear by the Stranger that I would cast it all aside to live as my own person with you but I can’t.”
This is going to hurt. “Stark found me. Lyanna Stark. That is where I was. I did nothing untoward and neither did she but I think that you should know.”
The second mention of prophecy in one day was, Elia decided, once too many for her comfort. That the Targaryen family carried the weight of ages, their own mythology brought across from the ruins of Valyria, was well known by all the educated in the Seven Kingdoms, but Rhaegar spoke of prophecy as something present, with a half-dreaming look in his eye.
“Happiness is a luxury it appears even I cannot afford.” Her tone was light, her hand limp within his own. “What is the draw? I can tell there is one, do not say I am mistaken; even a dragon does not tear things apart without reason.”
He fell to a perusal of her fingertips, slowly flipping her wrist to place his lips within her palm. “Shortly before you came to King’s Landing to marry me, I started having dreams. They were, in several respects, fantastical and I could scarcely believe them but for the answers I sought from a relation of mine who is in service to the Citadel upon the Wall. Maester Aemon. He sent me a book - the Jade Compendium - that illuminates the prophecies concerning Azhor Azhai, the prince that was promised.” He paused, giving her the intensity of his gaze veiled through the thick curtain of his lashes -- “He thinks it’s me.”
It took significant effort to stop the nervous, humourless laugh that threatened to fall from her lips, and though she did not wish to Elia found herself leaning closer towards her husband, eyes closing for a moment before she met his gaze with her own once more. What did you dream, she almost asked. The dreams that you spoke of in your letters, of rain and joy, or some other darker kind?
Instead: “And do you, my Rhaegar, believe that you are?”
“I don’t know --” he said after a beat, only having finally realized that he held his breath as he waited for her to respond. “The Maester points to circumstances concerning my birth. You know the old Summerhall story but what you don’t know (and what I only venture to believe) is that they failed to wake the last dragon eggs in the family’s possession.” A pause. “I could be. I certainly don’t feel as though I should be.”
His hand fell to her waist. “I don’t want to talk about this. We are keeping you safe, happy and well.”
“You speak of things that you cannot possibly give, you as much as told me so. Only heartache.” She shook her head then, her gaze locked upon his own. “You may not wish to discuss this, but I do.”
It would be possible, Elia thought, to fall into this moment, if she wanted. Sink into a spell of words woven by her husband, let him sing her into a kind of sleep (ask for it, even). But to do so would be a betrayal of self that she could not contemplate for longer than a moment. And so she asked again -- “What is the draw? I ask of Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar. Tell me.”
“Must we?” A sigh. “I would prefer to discuss you. How are you feeling?” Then, a brief pause as his hand tightened along the small of his wife’s back. I cannot lie to you -- “She has every natural inclination that I do not. She is noble, war-like. Everything a prince should be.”
“If I were of a mind to, I would tell you that there is no one way for a prince to be, Rhaegar.” Though I could well believe this wolf-child exceeds you in chivalry, today. But what of that -- it is an illusion that we all buy into, no more. “And I do not believe that is the whole of it.”
A pause then, as she surveyed his face, a slight crease of concentration appearing between her brows. “I am not nauseous at present. Or do you ask after that which is beyond my physical wellbeing? I cannot tell.”
“The issue of your mind was not what I was taught, neither as a boy nor now, as a man. Scholar princes and bookish men do not sit the Iron Throne for long.” If at all. “And I have no dragon eggs.” His hand moved to grasp her chin between knuckle and thumb.
“Wound as much as you need, so long as you are well in body and that which goes beyond your physical well being.” He swallowed.
“If you expect me to withdraw the statement and compliment your education whilst in this tent, you will be waiting a long time. You are behaving like a child -- a greedy dragon -- with no subtlety. And still you will not give me a full answer.” Elia met his gaze, as if looking for something lost too far away, inside. “And I tell you, then, that I am not well, most unwell. Perhaps if luck is in your favour --”
“ -- don’t say it! Don’t say it because you know it isn’t true.” His voice modulated, growing in volume until he removed his hands from her as if burned and turned his anger upon a table, clearing the top with a rake of his arm across the top. Among the fallen articles, he took several deep breaths to calm himself.
“What other answers do you seek? I have none to give.”
“Then that is an answer in itself, is it not?” She smiled, then, though it lacked the sharp almost-mockery that had previously edged her words, as she bent to pick up the fruit and candlesticks that had rolled to touch her bare feet. ‘I would have been your friend, Rhaegar. If you had asked it. I would not have denied you.”
“How do I know what is true and what is not? As you wish, then. My words were a lie and I apologise to you, my lord. I am well, most well in every way.”
“We are who we are, Elia.” The briefest flare of his rage was spent and behind it lay weariness and he stepped back, falling into a chair to lay his temple against his knuckles. “You slip away with me with every word I breathe. What I wouldn’t give to have you love me like you did. But this child. I will not risk you for this child. My love for you has not changed.”
Setting the items in her arms back upon the bare table, she then stepped behind the chair in which he sat, bending close enough to the back of his neck that it was impossible to tell whether she pressed a whisper of a kiss to the skin or had simply released a breath. “Our child will come, or it will not. And I will stay, or I will not. This is something that you cannot control, Rhaegar.”
A beat, and then she rose. “I am in no hurry to die. And I believe I told you earlier -- the heart has a remarkable capacity for resilience. I am Nymeria’s get, as you ought not forget.”
“I do not forget,” was so soft it was nearly unintelligible, even as he twisted at the waist and grasped her by the wrist to slowly draw her toward him. “Elia, forgive me. Again. Please. I will try my best to kill the dragon. I will be Rhaegar.”
“You are both, that may not go well for you,” she murmured as she allowed him to draw her closer.Do not make promises that you cannot keep. “We shall see.”
“I should be clear now; I will not stay with you this night, Rhaegar. I do not know when I will.”
The thought of solitude -- of being without her on this night and all nights -- sent a wave of nausea crashing through his chest in waves. “No.” Rising, he swept aside the chair with a kick of his leg to wrap his palm around the nape of her neck.
“You can’t. I won’t let you.”
“Won’t you?” She closed her eyes, breathing in the night outside on his skin -- smoke and peat and chill -- and underneath that his own scent, something of leather and old books and soap. “I say that you must.”
“You can’t.” By an order she could remain by his side, in his bed. But that would be the dragon; that would be every part of him she hated. Please. “You mustn’t.” His lips fell to hers, firm and insistent. “Give me this night and if, afterward, you cannot stand to sleep beside me then fine. I will not ask again.”
Her fingers tangled in his hair, tracing the curve of his ear; her thumb followed the line of his jaw. “No. Tomorrow, after that, I will try to come to you. I swear to you on whatever you choose, I will try.” Her eyes opened. “Give me this night.” I will hate myself, otherwise.
“Swear to me.” His fingertips and the heel of his palm met the top of her breast, above the temperately beating heart in question. “Here, on the blood of Nymeros.” Then, falling to a knee, his cheek pressed to the still flat plane of her stomach. “And here,” he murmured. “On the life of our child.”
“Hells, Rhaegar.” There had been a sharp joke nearly upon her lips, of her not suspecting him so attached to the idea of a warm bed, but it fell away as her cheek pressed against her.
“I, Elia Nymeros Martell, of Dorne, swear to you, Rhaegar Taryargen, that I will endeavour to return to you, both tomorrow night and each night that follows for a moon thereafter. Upon my line, and the life of our child.”
Her hand fell his his shoulder: “Will that suffice?”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t the warm bed that Rhaegar feared losing, it was the companionship that marriage brought him. The desire for life that Elia had visited upon an all too colourless life. It was the fear of being alone.
With his hands resting upon her hips, he rose from his crouch and tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “And after the passing of that moon -- ?”
“I do not know.” Elia’s eyes were drawn by the flickering of a candle to the far end of the tent as it began to gutter out. “I dare say I will try again.” She turned back to her husband, then.
“That is what one does, is it not, when one has made vows that should not be broken? Try again.”
“Yes,” he said again, gently removing his hands from her to step back and retrieve a fur-lined cloak from a trunk of clothes. “We will try again.” Hope gave the tiniest measure of expansion to his chest. Perhaps he could win her love back; he spread the cloak wide for her shoulders.
“Take Arthur with you.”
She turned, allowing him to settle the cloak about her. “I thank you, but no. Arthur is your man, and I know where I am going.” She smiled half a smile, brow raised just a little. “Besides, he is good, perhaps the best of men, but he will be unwelcome regardless.”
He buckled the cloak tightly, gathering it around her shoulders he stepped around her and pressed a kiss to the hollow of her neck -- “Come back to me.” A pause. “And be careful. Break your fast with me and then we will ride for King’s Landing.”
“I will come in good time. Find me an orange.” She tapped her fingers lightly against his cheek before raising the hood of the cloak and turning towards the tent’s entrance.