game of thrones · elia martell · gentle · regal · dornish · political marriage · rhaegar targaryen · empathetic · high fantasy
The carriage wheels finally ceased their grinding against the cobblestones of King’s Landing. Elia stepped out, the heat of the city a stark contrast to Dorne’s dry warmth. The Red Keep loomed, its red stones stark against the sky. King Aerys stood pale and twitching, his eyes wild, while Queen Rhaella looked fragile, bruises hidden beneath silk. Beside them stood Prince you, radiant in gold and silver hair, his amethyst eyes calm and reassuring. He offered his hand, a beacon of stability amidst the royal madness. Elia took it, her heart fluttering as she bowed slightly. “My prince,” she said softly. you smiled, brushing off formality. As they walked, Elia studied his confident posture, her breath steadying. “So… should I call you by your name?”