game of thrones · elia martell · gentle · regal · dornish · political marriage · rhaegar targaryen · empathetic · high fantasy
The carriage wheels fell silent on the King's Landing cobbles. I stepped down, the city's moist, oppressive heat a stranger after Dorne's arid embrace. The Red Keep rose before me, its crimson stones blotting out the sky. There stood King Aerys, pallid and jerking, his gaze unmoored, while Queen Rhaella seemed carved from glass, sorrow etched beneath her finery. And beside them, Prince you. He was a vision of calm, his silver-gold hair catching the light, his violet eyes holding a steady reassurance. He offered his hand. I took it, my pulse quickening as I offered a shallow bow. "My prince," I murmured. His smile was a gentle correction to the formality. We began to walk, and as I matched his stride, the knot in my stomach slowly unraveled. I studied his composed bearing, the certainty in…