Chapter Text
The man examined the sleeping princess carefully, pressing his fingers to her forehead and checking her pulse at her neck. After a moment, he grimaced and scowled at Rhaegar. Of all those present, he was the only one to cast a reproachful look at the prince. The rest of the Kingsguard were divided between watching Elia with concern, or in Ser Oswell's case demonstrating boredom.
“At what hour did she last eat?” the sailor asked, folding his arms.
“She ate in the morning,” the prince replied.
“No, she did not,” Ser Barristan contradicted. “When she was brought to the inn, she refused to eat a single bite. I believe she has not eaten anything until now.”
Rhaegar scowled.
“Impossible,” he muttered, astonished. “I told you to tend to her while Arthur and I went to find the septon. You cannot be telling me you neglected to feed her.”
Before Barristan could speak, Ser Oswell stepped forward to answer.
“She refused to eat, scarcely allowed the maid to dress her. What were we to do, my prince? Force her to eat?”
The prince’s irritation grew at Oswell’s insolence. He was on the verge of issuing punishment when the sailor, weary of the situation, began offering his judgment.
“It’s not a grave illness,” the man said, his voice tense with contained frustration. “If she hasn’t eaten all day and has been subjected to extreme physical strain, what she has is heatstroke. Her body is utterly exhausted. The fever is likely a result of the sudden change—sea water is cold without the warmth of the sun. And that heavy gown… Trying to swim in such a thing must have stolen her breath. Furthermore, she was fed abruptly, her stomach empty. It’s not hard to see what’s brought her to this state.”
“When will she recover?” the prince asked immediately. He needed Elia to be well, strong, so that they might yet conceive the prince that was promised. The chosen one could not be born of weakness, but only from strength.
“She will recover with rest,” the man replied, visibly irritated by such obvious questions. “She needs to rest, be fed, and kept calm. If you continue to mistreat her, her condition will worsen.”
“No one has mistreated her!” Oswell Whent quickly denied. “Do not dare question matters that do not concern you.”
The others fell silent, while Rhaegar looked at Elia with concern, ignoring the other’s accusations, as if by looking at her he could determine how many days it would take for her to improve. He needed her to recover swiftly; their marriage must be consummated without delay.
“Yes, yes, I know you’re knights and all that,” the sailor said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But that does not change the fact that the girl’s wrists are covered in bruises, she burns with fever, and she jumped from a ship into icy waters. Do you know what? It’s the first time I’ve seen a woman do such a thing. I’ve seen men, usually pirates or fugitives, but never did I think I’d see a woman as beautiful as she prefer the cold sea over the company of knights as noble as yourselves.”
“Enough!” Oswell shouted, frustrated by the sailor’s veiled rebuke. “Tell us when she will improve, and leave before you say something you’ll regret.”
Arthur Dayne glanced nervously at his prince, but Rhaegar was lost in his thoughts, detached from all that surrounded him.
The sailor smirked, a golden tooth flashing in his mouth, and his eyes glinted with contempt. “She will improve when you let her rest. If you have the decency to do so, perhaps in seven or ten days she’ll recover, or perhaps longer. It all depends on how much your noble knights can endure. For the woman will not improve if you continue to harm her.”
Ser Oswell looked ready to punch the man when the prince finally spoke.
“She will recover sooner,” declared the Targaryen, his purple eyes gleaming as if he knew a truth none of the others did. “She will recover. I will tend to her, and she will be well before we reach our destination.”
His knights nodded, willing to believe whatever words flowed from the lips of the Valyrian. But the sailor scoffed, and once again, Oswell gripped the hilt of his sword in warning.
“However noble your intentions may be, your grace,” the sailor said with an ironic smile, “I don’t think you possess all the skills required to care for an ill woman. So, for the girl’s sake, I shall offer the services of Gared. He’s my best assistant. He’s tended to the sick before, and he knows what he’s doing.”
“No other man but I may tend to her,” Rhaegar replied firmly.
“Gared has eleven name days,” the sailor responded without flinching. “He’s a cabin boy, his voice hasn’t even changed yet.”
For a brief moment, Rhaegar’s face showed a shadow of shame, but he quickly chose to relent. He was but a boy, and he would have to allow it. Yet, were there another, he would never permit it. He alone has the right to touch his wife; to allow another to do so would be to sully the mother of the chosen one.
“The boy will do,” the prince conceded.
“I’ll send him immediately,” the sailor said. “He can be a bit of a chatterbox, but if he speaks too much, do not hesitate to give him a smack. Little by little, he’s learning that often, it’s better to keep quiet.”
Ser Barristan furrowed his brow at such words, realizing that the sailor failed to see that the behavior he criticized in his apprentice was the same he displayed himself. But under the knight’s stern gaze, the sailor raised an eyebrow, as though daring him to speak of it aloud. Yet Selmy remained silent. He was weary from the day’s events and longed for it to end.
“If that’s all, I take my leave,” the sailor said with a sarcastic tone. “With your permission, noble knights who so diligently watch over the welfare of the ladies.”
Ser Oswell appeared ready to follow him, but Arthur Dayne stopped him.
II.
The boy, Gared, had been as good as the man had claimed, Rhaegar thought, as he watched the lad carefully replace the cold cloths on Elia’s forehead. He made sure the water did not spill onto the bed, wringing the cloth well so that only a light moisture remained.
The boy also tended to the cabin with care, cleaning the dust and ensuring the air could circulate. He took great care to prevent the princess from overheating, braiding her hair to the side so it would not tangle while she lay still. The young boy had also managed to get Elia to drink some water, moistening her lips with a fresh cloth that he gently brought to her.
Gared was the youngest cabin boy in the crew, with sun-tanned skin and dark brown hair. His eyes were grey, and his garments were simple, yet he stood taller than one would expect for his age. Rhaegar suspected that, were Elia awake and standing, she would be barely taller than the boy.
Still, despite the lad’s youth, Rhaegar could not bring himself to leave his wife at the mercy of a stranger. For this reason, he remained in the room, spending his time watching Elia being attended to and rereading the books he had brought along.
It was in one of these moments, as the prince tried to reread Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns , that the boy spoke aloud.
“Is she Princess Elia, my lord?” the boy asked, as he changed the blanket covering the princess. He did not look Rhaegar in the eye, yet the question could only be directed at him, for there was no one else in the room.
Rhaegar was surprised the boy knew, for he had believed only the captain and the barber—who had attended to Elia before—knew their true identities. The rest of the crew believed they were transporting a Lysene merchant to King’s Landing to restock supplies. The Targaryen wondered if the sailor had told the boy the truth. For some reason, he doubted it; he had referred to the lad as a “chatterbox,” and so Rhaegar didn’t think he would have entrusted such a secret to him.
“What makes you think that?” Rhaegar asked, curious.
“Because I saw her,” the boy whispered. “I saw her when she arrived… in Oldtown, I mean. We were unloading the silks at the docks when her ship came in. She got off the ship with her guards and I think her brothers too. We all wanted to see her when we heard a princess had come. She looked so beautiful that day, wearing a yellow gown, and she smiled at everyone who came to greet her. The princess even started handing out silver stags to the orphans who greeted her.”
Rhaegar had arrived two days after the festivities had begun, so he hadn’t witnessed Elia’s arrival. But he could imagine it, and once more, it confirmed to him that choosing Elia had been the right decision. Even this boy, who was no one—having neither family nor wealth—recognized Elia for what she was: a future queen.
“Hugh told me I should ask her for a coin,” the boy added as he removed the used sheet, “I didn’t seem right. The other children are orphans, but I at least have work and a wage. Captain says if I learn a bit more, he’ll soon pay me in copper stars instead of pennies,” the boy declared happily. Rhaegar found it little to rejoice over, though he supposed it was different for him. The prince had been born into plenty; in fact, Rhaegar had seldom touched a coin, for he had no need of them: whatever he desired was granted to him without effort. Except on those occasions when, singing for the commoners, he received a few pennies, which, of course, he gave away without thought, alien to the value it might have for others.
Rhaegar was more interested in understanding how the boy perceived his wife, confirming the image Elia projected to the public.
“But why do you think it’s her?” he prodded. “You must have seen her from afar.”
“Because she’s the only princess I’ve seen,” the boy replied confidently. “I wanted to see her up close. They say her father was a sailor, like me.”
The prince paused for a moment, recalling what Arthur had told him about Elia. It had been the Knight of the Morning who had shared everything about the princess: from her strict upbringing under her mother, as the heir to her brother Doran, being schooled from a young age in politics and the governance of her kingdom, to her character—kind and affectionate with children and her family. Elia complemented Rhaegar in every aspect. When he will focus on the education and upbringing of their children, particularly the Prince that was Promised, she will handle the political matters and all the court intrigues. These will never be of interest to the crown prince, as there will be far more important matters to attend to.
Rhaegar knew part of the story of Elia’s father, a second son turned captain, according to Arthur’s words. He had a considerable fortune and had treated Elia as the sun of his life. And perhaps that was another reason to choose her: she would easily love her own children, just as her parents had loved her. Rhaegar, on the other hand, had always struggled in this regard. For much of his life, he had been an only child, and even so, he could not claim to have had a good relationship with his father. He was his king, before his father. Sometimes, Rhaegar couldn’t even recognize the man sitting on the throne as the same one who had held him as a child. Since he had become more interested in books than swords, his father had treated him differently.
“Her father started as a cabin boy and married a princess,” the boy said eagerly, as he gathered all the garments that needed to be changed, “I’m also a cabin boy. If I work hard enough, I could have my own ship and marry a princess. Can you imagine?”
For the first time, the boy lifted his eyes, full of hope, to look at Rhaegar. For some reason, he still wouldn’t meet the prince’s gaze directly. But now, as he spoke of his dream, he needed to see the other’s reaction. Pity it was such an impossible dream, thought the prince. Those dreams were mere illusions. For a boy of such humble birth to think he could marry a princess was fantasy. That was why marriages like Elia’s and Baelor’s were absurd—it made men like this boy overestimate themselves, believing they were worthy of princesses, let alone one with Valyrian blood.
Yet the prince chose to be kind and say nothing of the truth. He only smiled in response. The boy continued his work.
“Do you think she will recover soon?” Rhaegar asked, unable to suppress his growing concern.
The boy turned his gaze to the princess on the bed, staring at her for a moment before answering.
“Maybe, in a few more days,” he whispered, his tone sad.
“How long?” the prince pressed.
“Five or seven days,” the boy said, though his expression shifted to worry when he saw the prince’s face, as though he understood what was going through Rhaegar’s mind. “But if her rest is interrupted, it could worsen. You mustn’t disturb her. Little by little, she’ll get better, and she’ll speak.”
Rhaegar frowned. Two days had already passed. If Elia remained in this condition, they would arrive at King’s Landing without consummating the marriage. That would pose a risk, or perhaps they could divert the journey to Dragonstone, where they could take all the time necessary for her to recover and consummate the marriage. There would be no better place for the promised prince to be created.
“She must be careful, my lord,” the boy said, holding all the items he needed to replace. He seemed ready to leave the cabin. “Hugh once told me he worked with a man named Enron. They say he stole one of the most beautiful women from Summer Isles. She was so beautiful she seemed like a goddess. He thought that by giving her gold and jewels, she would love him, that over time she would get used to him. But it wasn’t like that. Days passed, and the woman cried in her room.”
The boy moved closer to the door as he spoke, his voice clear and firm.
“There wasn’t a day she stopped crying. Enron dressed her in silks and adorned her with gold, but one night, in her bed, she took a dagger and cut off three of his fingers. He would’ve died if he hadn’t been stopped. Then he tried to forgive her, still entranced by her beauty, but she didn’t change. She threw herself from the tower of his house. The servants said her corpse smiled because, in death, she was finally free from her lord,” the boy said seriously, his eyes solemn. “Hugh says it’s like a sickness. It makes women sad, they don’t eat, don’t move—they’re like the living dead, and nothing cures them.”
Before leaving the cabin, the boy gave one last look at the princess, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before he went off to fulfill his duties. Then, turning to Rhaegar, he added:
“It would be a shame for such a beautiful princess to fall to the same fate. Hugh told me her father is dead, but her family still lives, and her people, too, don’t they? His words are Unbowed, Unbroken. It would be better for everyone if she lives.”
III.
In the light of the sun, Gared attended to Elia, while the nights belonged solely to Rhaegar. The captain had attempted to have the lad take up residence in the cabin to care for the princess, but Rhaegar refused. There was no space to spare, and the prince himself slept on the floor, atop an old mattress. Both Gared and the other sailor had agreed that Elia should not share her bed. Thus, the prince would not sleep with the crew, nor would he leave his wife unattended.
When Elia slept, it was in a peaceful slumber, deep and undisturbed. Rhaegar’s only duty was to change the cloth upon her brow and cover her form with fresh linens.
That was what he was doing now: studying the face of his princess. Though her complexion had paled, her beauty remained, faintly touched by the illness that gripped her. Rhaegar had known even before meeting her that Elia would be the one. When his father had told him of Lord Steffon’s failure to find a woman of Valyrian blood, King Aerys had declared that Rhaegar should marry Elia, daughter of the Princess of Dorne, because his father was unwilling that his firstborn should marry Cersei, his Hand's daughter.
Moons later, the invitations to Baelor Hightower’s wedding arrived. The king crumpled the parchment in his hands, his anger flaring. For a time, Ser Gerold Hightower was placed at Rhaegar’s service, and Prince Lewyn at his mother’s, for the king wished not to see "traitors."
It was then that the prince’s curiosity about what might have been his future wife led him to inquire of Arthur everything he knew about her. Arthur’s words were nothing but praise. Elia, he said, was a woman of intelligence, a gifted linguist, a woman with ambitions to better Dorne. Kind and tender toward children, she had qualities that made Rhaegar believe that only she could be his queen.
Rhaegar had seen Cersei. She was a girl of striking beautiful, and he was no stranger to her mother's beauty. But a queen was not made only of beauty. Sooner or later, beauty faded. And in Cersei, he found no other virtue to convince him that she would make a good queen. He had seen her only a handful of times—she had been courteous enough, but when she thought him unobservant, her arrogance and pride had been laid bare. No, she did not possess what was required to be the mother of the Prince that Was Promised. Lord Tywin should marry her to another lord, surely there would be one willing to have a beautiful woman and a connection to such a wealthy house.
Moreover, Elia was not only intelligent and gentle, she was also pretty, Arthur had described her as delicately beauty, slender with a sweet smile. Rhaegar had expected her to be lovely, but upon first sight, he was struck by how beautiful she truly was. Elia Martell was all that Arthur had claimed—and so much more. She had delicate features and warm skin, with long hair that cascaded down her back, so long that its delicate waves reached her waist. But it was her eyes and her smile that had the greatest power. Her brown eyes gleamed brightly beneath impossibly long lashes, and her smile, when she gave it, showed every one of her teeth framed by full, inviting lips. She looked innocent, sweet—like something that ought to be guarded from the world.
She was older than him, and she had seemed so much younger, her large eyes and slender figure giving her an almost ethereal quality. Her waist was so small that when Rhaegar first laid eyes on her, he felt the sudden urge to wrap his hands around her, to see if his fingers could encircle her entirely. The sight of her that day, receiving guests with Baelor had seemed so annoying and inappropriate, it had infuriated him. She was grace and gentleness itself, while Baelor towered next to her, his big shoulders and tall stature making him look like a brute beside her.
But with Elia, Rhaegar knew they were a match made in heaven. Both were princes, both possessed contrasting but complementary forms of beauty. They were both intelligent, graceful, regal in bearing. And they were the only two with Valyrian blood who were of an age to marry. Who else could be the parents of the Prince that Was Promised? Rhaegar had no sisters, and though his mother might yet conceive again, it would be far too long before such a marriage could be realized. The death of Lord Steffon was another sign. He had gone in search of a woman of Valyrian blood, yet he had found none. Fate had decreed that it would be Elia—and Rhaegar would not allow anyone to stand in his way.
IV.
He had remained by her side the entire night, watching every movement, every sigh, ensuring that she was protected. And as he cared for her, memories assailed him—memories of when she had leapt into the sea. In that moment, seeing her fall, it had felt as though his heart had stopped, for Elia’s death would mean the end of everything.
Yet, that leap into the sea had been a test. A test she had made for him, a demonstration of her dignity before those who had witnessed her act. It had not been an act of desperation. No. The princess had done it to test him, to prove the depth of his love for her and to ensure he would follow her, that he would save her, that he would not abandon her. That his love was not a mere game.
Every time his gaze fell upon her, he saw what he had not noticed before: her yearning for acceptance, her need to be loved, to be saved. And though Elia did not yet know it, he had come to answer that call. He was the one who could save her, the one who would free her from a marriage to a man who did not deserve her.
Rhaegar had leapt into the water after her without hesitation. He had never wavered where Elia was concerned, for he knew she needed him. She had wanted to be saved, and he had done so. He had pulled her from the sea, cradling her in his arms, and it was in that moment, when he grasped her wrist, that his love had reached her. Everything he had done, everything he had endured, had been to show her that she was his responsibility, that his love was steadfast.
And if love was a matter of sacrifice, he would sacrifice all for her happiness. He no longer cared what the world thought. He no longer cared if the whole world condemned his love for the princess, for he knew that Elia loved him. Her leap into the sea had been her declaration of loyalty to him, and he had accepted it—completely, just as she was.
Now, as he looked at her, still and feverish, her breathing slower, he felt a sense of possession. She was his. Completely his. In a way that transcended all else, even the hardships of the days past, the insecurities they had both faced. She was his because he had decided it. He had saved her, and one day, she would accept him fully, because he would never let her go.
Elia’s fever seemed to be breaking, but Rhaegar did not leave her side, not even for a moment. He watched as her body relaxing into a deep sleep.
With gentle hands, the prince removed the cloth from her brow, his pale fingers grazing her skin. He felt the heat that had once burned her fading. A smile formed upon his lips. The princess would soon get better, and her son, who would face the long night, would be born as soon as possible.