"You must never let anyone convince you that you are not beautiful", Oberyn used to say when they were children, sparkling eyes turned serious.

And so she doesn't. Elia Martell may be fragile, but she is not weak. She is a princess, and more accomplished than other ladies could hope to be, and more loved. "More loved than any other princess in the world", Oberyn always says.

Then news of her engagement arrives, and everything Elia has so carefully constructed and held onto falls apart around her. A princess for a prince, they say, and Elia nods and agrees but cannot bring herself to think of her husband with an open heart. Arthur is gone, she says to herself fiercely, clutching the scroll to her chest. There is no one for you now but him.

But for a while it had been Arthur and Elia, the two of the inseparable as she and Oberyn. At least, that's what they told everyone.

She remembers Arthur so keenly that he was all she could think of the first three moons after she left. The memories of him invaded everything she thought of until she could barely stand to eat and pretend nothing was wrong.

Ashara used to glance at her, face a mixture of knowing and worried, those first three moons before Elia became a master at hiding what she felt. She would whisper news of Arthur to Elia until she told her to stop because she did not want to hear of him ever again if she had any chance of moving on.

The night before they arrive in King's Landing for her wedding, she lies in bed and allows herself to remember Arthur. She remembers the way she her palms fisted into the rough wool of her tunic the first time they kissed, outside her rooms. She remembers the way his breath played over her face when his hand travelled gently and clutched at the glossy curls of her hair, lips stretching into a soft smile.

She will see him again tomorrow, she thinks as she falls asleep.

They do not let her see Rhaegar before her wedding. "Arthur is in the throne room," Ashara whispers to her as they are shown into their rooms. "I wish I could see him now."

Elia does not say anything, only squeezes her hand comfortingly and allows her handmaidens to seat her before the gilded mirror and apply creams to her face. She stains her lips with a crush of berries with shaking fingers and allows Ashara to bring her dress out.

It is beautiful- the gown falls in wispy orange folds to the floor, embellished with thousands of glittering silver jewels. Elia cannot not help but gasp, and Ashara laughs, purple eyes twinkling as she turns the dress around to show the backless behind, fastened only by strings of jewels.

She unfastens the length of her champagne silk gown and steps into perfumed bath water, allowing the oils to dry on her skin before her handmaidens dress her. And then her hands and feet are scrubbed off, leaving the dark dyed patterns behind, and it is time for her to be jewelled.

The soft jingling of the bells on her feet precede her, and everyone in the throne room falls silent. Arthur fancies her heart has stopped beating as he listens to the soft tinkle of the bells that remind him of Elia everytime he hears them.

And she is just there. Just beyond those doors, and if he closes his eyes and tries hard enough, he can imagine she is coming to marry him. But he has to watch as the doors are opened, standing just behind the king.

She is still petite, still proud and high backed as she walks into the room, eyes set on a point straight ahead of her. Arthur examines her carefully, noting the numerous gold necklaces looped around her neck that all bear reminders of Dorne in some way, hooded eyes framed by kohl. Her lips looked like they always did right after he finished kissing her, and he wonders with a flash of jealousy how they became so.

It is her back he has to stare at, when her maiden cloak is removed, and something in him snaps when he sees it. The chains from her glossy hair, piled atop her head, brush the back of her neck, and beads that criss cross her back are the only thing covering the smooth skin there. He clenches his hand into a fist and tries not to look, but he can't stop himself. She is addictive.

The only time he looks away is when Rhaegar drapes the heavy Targaryen cloak onto her slim shoulders, which seem to slump with the weight of it. But he sits, and he watches carefully throughout the feast, watching as she eats little, but bestows pretty smiles on her husband that used to be reserved for him.

They say it gets easier, Elia muses from where she sits surrounded by flowers, skin drenched by the warm rays of the sun. For her, it only seems to get harder. Rhaegar believes that she is in love with him, the stupid fool he is, and she plays her part perfectly.

She adjusts the gold circlet on her glossy waves and stretches her bare arms out. Her white silks will be soiled from the dust, but she cannot bring herself to care. It has not yet been a moon since she has been married, but she already feels as weary as if she was five and fifty. A wiser woman would not yearn for what she knows she cannot have, she thinks, plucking a daisy from its stem.

Their laughter drifts towards her ears before she sees them, so Elia keeps her eyes on the ground and concentrates on breaking the daisy into hundreds of tiny pieces.

"Wife!" Rhaegar calls out jokingly and before she can reply, he is seated at her side. She offers her cheek to him, and he kisses her before Arthur, who cannot hide his flinch.

"Be seated," he says to Arthur, who has no choice but to comply. Elia wonders how stupid he is, her husband that he cannot see how much pain the two of them are in.

Unbowed unbent unbroken, she thinks, adjusting the snake bracelet curling up her arm. "My lord," she says sweetly in a way of greeting, and waits for him to speak.

"There is no need of introduction with you two, I suppose," He starts and she cannot stop the smile rising to her lips. "You knew each other when you were children. Elia, Arthur is my very dearest friend, and I shall be going away on the morrow, to deal with some matters of state and it is my wish that he remain behind and guard you."

"As you wish, my lord," She says, and hopes that he will always be so sweetly stupid when it comes to her. "It is wonderful that you are the very best of friends- you must tell each other everything- much like Ashara and myself, I suppose."

Her tone is sweet as spun sugar, enough so that Rhaegar only looks mildly confused. She doesn't dare to glance at Arthur where he must uncomfortably sit, sunlight glancing off impossibly gold hair.

She rides to see him off, with Arthur at his side. They leave at the crack of dawn, and she pretends she is sorry to see him go, and Rhaegar promises he will not be more than a few days. In truth, he can fall off the ends of the earth, and although Elia immediately feels sorrow for wishing something so ill on the heir to the throne, she would prefer to be a widow living in Dorne than the future Queen here in King's Landing.

She just aches for home, for sunny Dorne with water gardens and Arthur's slow, lazy kisses. She curls her hands into fists and turns to Arthur. "So," she begins, and he looks at her like he always does, slow and levelly as if he is committing her to memory. "I suppose it is just you and me now."

Elia is pushing him, Arthur notes that very night. She wants to see how far he will bend before he breaks. She wants him to break, he notes with more than a little excitement.

He cannot and he will not. He has sworn vows, he remembers. She must do his duty and he will do his.

He swears he has never known such torture as being by her side those first few nights, beside her at all hours but not as her husband as he had always wanted and dreamed. She stays dressed in fiery Dornish silks, red and yellow and orange, sheer enough that he can see the outline of her legs through them. He curses himself every time he catches his eyes following her legs.

They sup together every night she is not called to the King, she and him and Ashara, loyal Ashara who will watch and watch but never say anything. Something is cracking and shifting in him, and Arthur hopes he will be transformed into stone that can never feel.

"I wish I could go back to Dorne," Elia says to Ashara one night, and he is struck by the longing in her voice and her eyes, the sadness shining through.

"Is my lord not good to you?" He asks politely, but he knows he would not hesitate to draw Dawn against his best friend if she would only say the word. He catches the soft smile she throws his way in his heart, and wants her to never smile at anyone but him that way, ever again.

"He is the perfect prince," She mutters bitterly, half to herself. "I only wish the love I felt for him was not forced."

Arthur feels his heart leap as Ashara casts him a warning glance before she speaks, voice clear and calming as ever. "Your lady mother did say that love will grow between you in time, and I am certain it will."

"Perhaps," Is all Elia offers in return, before lapsing into thoughtful silence.

She dances, aware that not many expect her to do anything but sit still at this feast without her husband at her side. She doesn't understand why they cannot value a woman without a man to validate her existence, these noblemen and women. They need a ruler like her mother, she knows, but also knows it will be a long while, if ever, that they will come to that stage. How strange that they think us backwards, she thinks.

Green silks swirl around her and she keeps twirling, aware that some nameless lord is clutching her hand. She catches Arthur's eye, throwing her head back and laughing, and amidst the swirling skirts, feels the smile slide off her face.

Tonight, she thinks as she returns to her seat and begs her leave of the feast, there is something different in the air. Rhaegar should return on the morrow, and the thought casts a dark shadow on her.

She is walking back to her room when he pulls her into a shadowed alcove, pressing a palm gently on her mouth to stop her from crying out. She would not have anyway- she knows his touch and has almost been expecting him.

"Arthur," She whispers in the dark, and looks up his face in the half light. One arm sneaks around her waist and she can feel the rough fabric of his robes through the silks covering her own skin when he pulls her to him, one arm braced against the stone of the wall. "We must not be seen."

She should have said something more concrete, like we must not do this, but Elia cannot bring herself to backtrack when he kisses her, tenderly and fiercely, so different to her husband, who treats her as a porcelain doll.

His lips are firm and soft against her, familiar yet strange. Despite herself, Elia has to blink back tears before she allows her own hands to grip his hair and pull him towards her.

She drinks moon tea the day after, and years after, thinks that she killed the first head of the dragon, when her husband becomes obsessed with prophecies and the like.

Elia will not speak to him until after Rhaenys is born, and even then, barely speaks to him. She will not admit it to anyone, but she misses him.

Her husband rides past her at the tourney of Harrenhall, strong and kingly on his horse. Elia sits straight backed, eyes ahead once more when she hears the curses fall from Ashara's lips. She purses her own lips until they are almost white, and feels herself coloring from the embarrassment.

She seeks him out herself, and finds him pacing the hall outside her chambers, jaw clenched and fist bloody. "Seven hells," she says. "Arthur, what have you done to yourself?"

"Why are you asking me that?" He says, advancing towards her, uncaring if anyone sees them. "I should be asking you the very same thing!"

She ushers him into her chambers quickly, looking around to ensure no one is looking. "Sit." She commands firmly, pushing him onto a chair and pacing to find her water.

Anything to distract me, she thinks grimly as she cleans his knuckles. I cannot dwell on what has just happened or I fear I may just die of the shame of it all. The shame seems to ebb as she cleans, and is replaced with anger, fierce and burning with the fire of a thousand Dornish suns- not the weak, watery stuff of King's Landing.

She jumps when Arthur's hand closes around her own, and only then realises that she has stopped cleaning for a while. The rage pulses around her until she cannot see from it clouding her vision and sees only one way forward.

It is her that instigates the kiss this time, pushing the water to one side and grabbing for his hair. She is again struck by the fervor with which she returns his kiss, and wishes she had not spent so many years avoiding his eyes and refusing him.

His arms come around her waist and lift from her chair into his lap, and she breaks off the kiss for a moment to stare into violet eyes. She is almost struck by the intensity of the emotion she sees in them, but knows they are only a reflection of her own.

"What if they hear us?" He groans, clothes only half on, lifting himself off Elia's bed.

"Let them hear," she says defiantly, tossing her hair back and pulling him to her once more.

"I love you," He says when she lies in his arms later that night, tracing patterns over the raised scars on his chest.

"I love you too," She whispers, as if she's almost scared to admit it, after what feels like an age of suppressed feelings.

"Guard Lyanna in the Tower of Joy," Is Rhaegar's last request, and Arthur almost punches the man.

"I will not," He says so spitefully that Rhaegar looks at him curiously.

"They were not my mistakes Arthur, and I am not asking you, I am telling you to." The Prince is back and Arthur feels the need to remind him that if it ever came to it, he could easily snap him in half.

Then Elia is moving forward, head high as ever and flashing eyes cold as stone.

"My Queen," Arthur bows, and she smiles at him like a true princess, bowing her head slightly so the bells in her hair jingle.

"Elia-" Rhaegar says desperately, and Arthur knows he has not been permitted to properly speak to his wife since the tourney. Elia holds a jewelled hand up to stop him.

"I am Elia of Dorne, a princess in my own right, and I warn you now, the Dornish people will not take Lyanna as your Queen if you wish to get rid of me."

Rhaegar makes a startled noise of disapproval, and Arthur's hand goes for his sword.

"What you have done to me is unforgivable, but you will burn in Seven Hells for what you have done to our children. You started a war over a child, a war which will most probably see my own blood spilt at the end of it. And Rhaegar, for all your promises about not being like your father, to me it seems as though you are much worse. The Targaryen madness has taken root in you and I pray to the Mother it will not do so in our children."

Rhaegar looks as though he means to speak again, but her hand remains up, and he stays silent. She looks at him once, clear eyes sparkling with rage enough to burn him where he stood, before turning and moving out of the throne room.

Arthur follows without so much as a glance back.

"He told me I was to guard her," He bursts out when he reaches her chambers. Ashara has gone from here as he commanded, and soon it will only be Elia left here, to suffer the wrath of the Mad King.

"I thought as much," She says sadly, and he can see tears glittering in her eyes. "I love you" is all she adds over and over when crosses the room to hold her in his arms. "I love you more," he promises arms around her own slight frame.

She deserves better than the Targaryen, he has thought for years and years and years. She deserves better than him, but the Gods have smiled on him this little bit, and allowed him Elia's love to keep him going.

"I need to stay here," He whispers into her scented hair. "I am the only one who could possibly protect you, the only one who holds your life in regard for anything at all. I would take you with me, you and the children. We could run."

She is crying in earnest now, little salt tears that fall onto his tunic as his fall onto her hair. "We can't. What of Ashara? The King says I must stay here, and if I try to escape he will have both our heads if we are not successful."

"We will be successful," He promises, kissing the top of her hair. "We will be."

"And if we are not? He will march against Dorne, he will burn Ashara, I will not submit her to this."

"If we do not go, we will both die." He grimaces when he feels her sway against him, chest shaking with sobs.

"So be it." She chokes out, and he holds her tightly enough that he promises to never let her go. "We have one night, Arthur, and we must make the most of it."

"I can't live without you," He wants to scream, but it comes out as a breath of air as he moves to unlace her gown with shaking fingers.

He kisses Rhaenys and Aegon on their downy heads before he leaves, Elia watching from the doorway of their nursery. "You would have been a good father to them," She acknowledges, with a pang for the child she could have passed as Rhaegar's.

"I wish I was their father. I wish they never had to know any of this." He is reaching for a final kiss, one that tastes of salt, and as they both close their eyes, the hot Dornish sun where their tale began.

"You will be avenged," He swears, "Dorne will not forget us."

"I only wanted peace," She reflects, loosening her grasp on him, just enough to let him go.

They both die on their own battlefields, bloodied and alone. Elia closes her eyes when Aegon is ripped from her breast and prays for her children, trying to remember Arthur's face- Ashara's face- her mother- and the list goes on.

He goes not ten minutes after. He would cry out if anyone were there, for he swears he feels it when she takes her last breath, and all he can feel is the fight draining out of him, as Dawn begins to slice through the air, heavier than she has ever been. It is his time, he thinks, and there is some peace in that. In death, he will be with Elia.

The Gods must be that kind to them.

A/N: this is probably so historically inaccurate but oh my I have never shipped Arthur and Elia more and I had so many angry Rhaegar feelings that I just needed to let out this is just 3,500 words of Elia and Arthur feels I apologize