Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire.
Summary: Canon Divergence—Elia Martell lives.
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Elia is disgraced, cast aside in favour of a child bride stolen in the dead of night in the desperate hope that her womb would prove healthier than Elia's own.
Elia is disgraced, but she is not broken. She will not break like her husband would have her, freeing him up for another marriage. Nay, she'll stand firm.
Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.
Elia is a Martell to the bone.
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(Rhaenys looks at her and grins so wide Elia thinks her cheeks must be hurting.
''Where's father?'' she asks, in her high, childish voice. She's been repeating it like a mantra every morning since Rhaegar's left, the way she always did when the prince was off at Summerhall, or meeting with the Lords.
She doesn't understand that even if Rhaegar survives this, he won't be coming back with toys for her ever again.
Elia cups her daughter's sweet face, and says: ''I don't know, my little dragon. But I do know where your brother is. Won't we go visit Aegon, my dearheart? You can show him your new kitten.''
''Balerion, mother! Like the dragon!''
''Of course, that's what I meant, dear one. Now come, don't worry about your father, I'm sure he's well.''
And Elia leads Rhaenys away by the hand, her firstborn chattering away thoughtlessly, carelessly. Rhaenys doesn't know how easily her father would forget all about her, and if Elia has her way, she never will.)
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Elia pities the lady Lyanna, for all that the world expects her to despise the ''husband-stealing harlot''. They all forget how the girl looked at Harrenhall: wide eyes too big for her long face, all bony elbows, flat chest, and narrow hips. A little girl who looked even younger than her four-and-ten.
Lyanna Stark is a victim as much as Elia herself is. Rhaegar stole the child to fulfil his prophecy, and regardless of whether the girl followed him willingly or not, it is he who is at fault. Had the two women met under any different circumstances, Elia might've even felt motherly affection kindle in her breast for the she-wolf.
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(Aegon and Rhaenys both look more Martell than Targaryen. Darker skin than any of their Valyrian ancestors, the shape of the face and the mouth, the fingers… They'd look utterly Dornish if not for their purple eyes, and Aegon's silver hair.
It makes something selfish and spiteful in Elia's heart puff up in pride.
''She smells Dornish,'' the Scab King had proclaimed from his throne of swords, and Elia hopes that he'd been right. It takes Martell wit and cleverness to survive this wicked world. Rhaenys, as a girl and her father's daughter, would need it more than beauty and youth.
As for Aegon…
Her son still suckles at her breast. When he was born the maesters told her she'd have no more babes, no matter what she did, and so Elia had dismissed the wet nurse. She'd nurture the only son she'd ever have herself.
''I hope you're like your sister, my son,'' she whispers to him every night, when the stench of Fleabottom grows faint enough to be ignored and the thin candles are already half-melted and deformed. ''More my blood than my husband's.''
If fate is kind to them, Aegon will sit the Iron Throne.
Elia feels a victorious smirk curl her lips whenever she remembers that, of all the swords ruined by dragonfire to send a lasting message of superiority, not a single one is from Dorne.)
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Her good-mother has left for Dragonstone, taking her younger son with her.
Elia knows that, as far as Queen Rhaella is concerned, Rhaegar was already dead even before the news of the battle at the Trident had come. The older woman fled to save what little she had left: her child, her crown, and the master-at-arms, ser Willem Darry, the only man the Queen still trusted not to hurt her intentionally.
Elia herself remains a prisoner of the Red Keep. And indeed she is just that: a prisoner to make sure her brother does not rebel for this slight to their House.
If anyone asked Elia what she thinks of that, she would laugh in their faces. Doran never cared much for her, being so much older, and sometimes Elia wonders if he even sees her as a living creature rather than some life-like doll. It's Oberyn who would call the banners for Elia's sake, and Doran keeps a short leash on him.
But even abandoned by her family, Elia is a Martell, and she yet has her wits about her.
If none will come for her, she will leave on her own.
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(Of the few friends she has left, ser Jamie is perhaps the most surprising, having taken to following her around whenever the Mad King has no need of him. Even Ashara has left her, rushing to Starfall to hide her swelling belly, as if Elia would allow any to slight her dearest friend for acting on her desires, consequences be damned.
But ser Jamie…
Ser Jamie is loyal to Rhaegar's legacy, to the idea of glory and honour, to the memory of the Kingsguards of old. He is loyal because he wants history to remember him kindly, and that is the most steadfast kind of loyalty there is.
In another world, Elia thinks, I would be his wife. I would wear gold around my neck, and my children would have eyes like emeralds.
''It isn't safe here anymore,'' she says quietly, as if only to herself, knowing full well that ser Jamie can hear her loud and clear in the dusty silence of the library.
He is still half a boy, drowning in his white cloak, and he looks at her like the sun shines from within her. ''It isn't. You must leave somehow, Your Grace. I can—''
In another world, this boy, who cut himself off in the middle of a sentence for fear of treason, would hold her sweet son and bounce him on his knees. Elia knows how this game is played, and she knows the players.
''You must find a way out of this city for me and my children, good ser. Danger looms here.''
Ser Jamie Lannister, the youngest Kingsguard ever to be named, hesitates for one moment, and then her bows his head to her. ''I'll find you a way out, Your Grace. This I swear.'')
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In another world, Elia Targaryen would be raped and murdered by the Mountain. Her children would die, Aegon's sweet little head smashed against the wall and Rhaenys stabbed half a hundred times from sheer malice.
In another world, Elia would die a martyr, and Jamie Lannister would be named the Kingslayer.
This is not that world. In this world, she is Elia Nymeros Martell, not a Targaryen.
Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.
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(''Princess, we must hurry, quickly now, please—''
Aegon is screaming his head off from the way ser Jamie banged the nursery door open, and Elia presses him close to her stuttering heart. She had barricaded the door, but the Kingsguard had burst through easily enough. Elia doesn't want to think what would have happened had it been anyone else.
Ser Jamie has panic is his eyes and blood smeared all over his pretty white cloak.
''My daughter,'' Elia says, voice strained. ''She is in Rhaegar's room, we can't leave without her.''
Ser Jaime, the gods bless him, merely nods his head. ''Put your cloak on, Your Grace, and pull up the hood. And follow me, quickly.''
He leads them to Rhaegar's solar, where a foreign man in armour is trying to knock them down.
''Ser Lorch,'' ser Jamie explains, distaste for the dead man at his feet clear on his face. Elia clenches her jaw; this was one of Tywin Lannister's dogs.
Rhaenys is hiding under the bed, and she rushes to Elia's embrace. Elia's throat constricts as she shushes the toddler girl, cursing herself because even though she knew what was coming, she still allowed Rhaenys away from her side, and at the worst moment possible, too.
Ser Jamie tears her daughter away from her, though, and Elia doesn't stop him. They must make haste, and she cannot carry two babes at the same time. Already she feels her lungs itch, and she pleads, no, not now, don't let me start coughing now.
The gods hear her, and they succeed in fleeing to the secret passages, where Varys awaits them.
The Spider gives her a small, amused smile. ''Your Grace. I see the princess and the king are with you. But you aren't safe yet, so do hurry along.''
Ser Jamie snarls at the eunuch, and then leads them down the cavernous hallway.
The king? Elia wonders.)
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Rhaegar is dead.
Aerys is dead, by ser Jamie's own hand.
Queen Rhaella and prince Viserys, Elia hopes, are also alive. The queen deserves to taste what life is like without the heavy shadow of her abusive husband, and prince Viserys should see his niece and nephew again.
There is hope.
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(Dorne accepts them like a mother, with open arms and righteous fury. Oberyn clutches her to his chest like she'll disappear if he lets her go.
Ser Jamie hovers by her side, and Elia glares her younger brother into submission the first time Oberyn brings up broken vows.
''The good ser saved my life, brother, doing what he did. There was no honour in it, but neither is there any shame. Remember that I would be but ashes and charred bone if not for him.''
The next time someone sneers at Jamie Lannister, Oberyn throws a poisonous smile their way. ''Ser Jamie is a Kingsguard, and he serves his rightful king, Aegon VI. If you have any objections…''
Oberyn never finishes his threat, and no one ever has any objections.
When Elia hears that the queen is dead, she lights two candles in the Sept: one to the Stranger, for her deceased good-mother, the other to the Mother, for the new-born Daenerys Stormborn. A ship sails from Dorne to Dragonstone within a day.
Ser Jamie sits outside the Sept. For all that his sword belongs to Aegon now, he continues to follow Elia wherever she goes, thankful beyond measure that she allowed him to keep his honour. The White Lion, they'll call him one day.
She waves her hand when he tries to get up, and sits next to him. ''What will you do now, good ser? Your father supports Robert Baratheon's claim.''
Ser Jamie has heartbreak written all over his face. ''I am a Kingsguard,'' and if it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than her, Elia remains silent.)
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Elia pitied Lyanna Stark even before she knew that the girl had died in the birthing bed.
But Lyanna's bastard is no threat to Elia's trueborn children, and is in danger besides. Dorne won't ever hold any love for him, but the North will rise for him if needs be.
Dragonspawn, Robert Baratheon calls the little Jon Snow. Dragonspawn, he calls Elia's babes and Rhaella's son and daughter.
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(Dorne will rise for Aegon, and the North will rise for Jon Snow.
Elia cups her daughter's face in her hands and kisses the tip of Rhaenys' nose, and cradles Aegon in her arms. Somewhere on a ship sailing for White Harbour, Ned Stark holds his sister's son and blinks back tears shed in equal measure for a bright-eyed girl whose bones rest in a chest near his feet and a blue-eyed former friend, who has declared him a traitor to the crown.
''This isn't over yet,'' Oberyn hisses, poison coating his tongue, and Ashara throws herself from a tower, mad with grief for her stillborn daughter and slain brother.
Elia Nymeros Martell cants her head to rest on ser Jamie's shoulder. ''Thank you,'' she says.
He draws in a shuddering breath. ''A Lannister always pays his debts.'')
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