Chapter Text
Oberyn hates the Dragon Prince, calls him a silver-haired shit and makes a crude comment equating his harp playing with something sexual. Elia has always let him disparage the other suitors, but she likes Rhaegar Targaryen. There isn't love, of course, but she thinks a life as his wife might not be so bad.
The night their betrothal is announced, Oberyn gets drunker than she has ever seen, and he leaves the hall with two of her maids, undoubtedly off to make more bastards. She tries to smile and forget about her brother's displeasure, but she cares far more about Oberyn's opinion than she does anyone else's.
Doran watches her with knowing eyes, and Elia makes certain to keep her gaze away from his.
She is half asleep when Oberyn comes into her chamber reeking of wine and other women. Elia gives him her back, knowing the silence will wound him more than screams, and she shivers when he rests his hand upon her bare shoulder. He moves her hair off her neck, presses a kiss to the soft skin there, and Elia shivers despite herself.
"We could run to the Free Cities," he whispers as his fingers find their way beneath her silks. "I will be a sellsword and you will be my bride. We shall be happy there."
"I cannot ever be your bride, Oberyn."
He never comes to her bed again, and, when Rhaegar takes her maidenhead, she thinks of the betrayal in Oberyn's eyes in the Great Sept, thinks of the way his hands knew her body better she, the way his lips used to feel between her thighs. She thinks of him every time Rhaegar is inside of her, and, when Rhaenys is born without a hint of Valyria in her looks, Elia wonders if dreams and imaginations can make a woman pregnant for her daughter is the spitting image of her brother.
When Oberyn comes to court and cradles the new princess, Elia cries, and, when he asks why, she almost says, "Because you have ruined me for any man who is not you."
Instead she lies because the truth will damn them both.