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"She smells dornish." The king grunts and Arthur's heart jumps on his throat. The feeling is so overwhelming it threatens to choke him. He straightens on his feet and it’s by the will of the Gods that his hand stays away from the hilt of Dawn.
The man is known to be paranoid, some may even say he’s going mad, and no one thinks anything of his words. It still doesn’t ease Arthur. He doesn’t dare to look at Elia, in fear that he might see his own fear reflected on her dark eyes.
Later, when Rhaegar is at the library and well away from his wife’s chambers, Arthur goes to her. He knocks before going in, if just to maintain a semblance of his honor, one that has been stain since the first time he ever thought of his prince’s wife in a less than knightly way. Elia’s sweet voice invites him to come inside. She’s feeding princess Rhaenys, having undone the laces from the front of her dress.
She has a thin complexion, Elia had never been particularly robust; always slender as a willow, with narrow hips and a small bosom. The midwives had told her to call a wet-nurse for Rhaenys, but Elia had been against it. The bolder ones had spoken in lower voices about how she’d ruin the nice teats that the pregnancy had given her and Arthur had hushed them sternly, making the women cower.
Staring at her brought him peace. She didn’t cover herself, preferring the dornish way. Arthur had vague memories of his own mother taking off the whole upper part of her dress to feed Ashara.
“You seemed upset this morning,” she mentions, poised as ever. Arthur frowned.
“Was is too obvious?”
“Just to me,” she replied. “Just because I know you well.” He stays silent after that, watching them quietly. “Rhaegar won’t come until the morning, he’s with his books. You can sit.” Arthur believes that Rhaegar could walk into him bedding Elia and still believe they are nothing but good friends.
Good friends.
Thank the Gods he is not Elia’s friend, he has proven to be a terrible one. Rhaegar had placed him as Elia’s guard knowing they had shared a childhood in the Water Gardens, before Arthur decided to leave to become a knight. He longs for his youth, all memories are tinted with blood-orange’s juice tasted from a maiden’s lips. A princess’s lips.
More often than not, he contents himself with the sight of her. Though as often it turns bitter, as he watches the prince kiss her and hold her. He knows Rhaegar doesn’t love her, his melancholy won’t ever allow him to love anything but the sad songs he plays, or the prophesies he wishes to fulfill. He beds her dutifully and keeps no mistresses, but he has never shown much interest the flesh anyway.
He’ll be a good king, while Arthur will never be a good knight.
This is what has become of the Morningstar, an oathbreaker and traitor. Paramour to the future king’s wife. Father to-
“The king was hoping for valyrian looks,” she comments lightly. “Our Rhaenys looks like a Rhoynar. It’s no secret that he worries for the next Targaryen generation.”
Our.
His mind urges him to hush her, to be careful on how she speaks of princess Rhaenys. Anyone could hear and put them all at risk. Maybe it’s just Arthur who sees it clear as day, that Rhaenys with her dark skin and black hair could be nothing but dornish. The first time he holds her, given by Rhaegar of all people, he can only think of how much she looks like Ashara did as a baby, of how much she looks as the baby that Loreza Martell presented proudly to his own mother.
“She has valyrian eyes.” He speaks coarsely. “Purple eyes.”
Their gazes met, Arthur sees the violet reflection of his irises in Elia’s black eyes. The corner of her mouth lifts a bit, not bitter or amused.
“Yes, purple.”
The featherbed under him makes no sound as he allows himself to lie down. He takes his gloves off and leaves Dawn on the side of the bed. Elia eventually lowers to lie beside him. They had been so wary recently, in Dragonstone they had agreed not to do anything risky while on the Red Keep.
Was this risky? Arthur wondered. Perhaps.
He dares to press a kiss on Elia’s forehead and she sighs on his neck. Rhaenys fusses lightly between them, demanding attention for herself. Arthur treasures every time he has held her, for there will be a day in which she’ll be too old for him to do so. She’ll grow smarter and perceptive, to realize that the relationship between her mother and her faithful knight wasn’t all proper.
She quiets against his chest, falling deep into slumber as she often does after being fed. Arthur doesn’t dare to move, he doesn’t want to either. Elia herself seems to be drifting away, tired from the celebrations and the pressure of a lie. He caresses her hair, silky and long. She blinks at him before closing her eyes.
“Stay a little longer.” She commands, for a princess of Dorne has no need to ask or beg.
“Of course,” he dutifully replies.
Rhaenys snores softly, Arthur can feel the rising of her chest on his when she breathes.
Don’t grow up, he begs silently. Stay a child forever.
He thinks of the young princess who had laughed as her brother splashed another boy, one who dreamt of becoming a knight, a lifetime ago under the dornish sun. They had kissed under the shadow of a blood-orange tree, without the pressure of oaths and betrothals. It would have been nice to remain children.