#* nuada.

it has been three weeks since their wedding. they have seen little of each other outside of their bedroom, spoken even less. any hope by their families that they may become fond of each other after that first night has been quickly snuffed out. to outsiders it would seem the marriage is doomed to fail. the truth of the matter is more complicated. for reasons unbeknownst to either of them, the two proud lovers are drawn to each other almost every night. the visits are not borne from love: they share no tenderness, no deep conversation, not even a gentle touch. rather there rages an almost furious, insatiable desire that frightens her to her core. it is as though the more he ignores her by day, the worse she yearns for him at night; equally as though every passing glower or glare from her stirs something deep within him.

she rolls out of his bed, immediately reaches for the linen shift on the floor. as ever, she refuses to look at him, as ever, she feels ashamed that she came to his door, and as ever, she says, " i should not have come. " though usually silence reigns thick between them, nuada replies this time. you hate me. i tolerate you. it will suffice.

knelt beside their marriage bed, head bent in deference to the seven who are one, lips moving silently. the curtain of her chestnut hair, already unpinned, shields her from her husband's glower. despite his command ( pick a god and pray to it ), spoken out of annoyance or impatience or perhaps even nervousness, hands remain clasped in patient prayer. GENUINE DEVOTION, or possibly a way to delay the inevitable. " i pray to the crone for guidance, " she finally says, lifting her head. she looks upon nuada, eyes lingering on his silverlance features: the almost blue violet of his eyes, the pearl - like color of his hair, the markings that blight his young face. " to the maiden to thank her for this marriage. " brief pause ... neither of them believe that. " to the mother that we may conceive a child tonight. " i pray i can still grow to love you, she thinks. i pray our sons will look like you but inherit my heart. i pray our daughters look like me but inherit your fearlessness. she imagines what may happen if she bears him an andal son with dark hair and green eyes; if they will despise him as much as they appear to despise her. she knows such an heir will not be enough.

she stands and brushes the dust off her linen shift. slow and reluctant are the steps she takes towards him, nervous breath taken in through her nose. she can hear her heart pound in her ears. a small part of her wishes to touch his cheek, to comfort and caress, make an offering of peace perhaps; another side still wishes to run away home and never look back. she does neither. instead fingers reach for the ribbon that holds the neck of his shift together. she tugs a little too roughly, so that it almost pulls him forward. head tilts up to meet his gaze. suddenly she recalls the words spoken to her some days ago ( when the time comes i will do my duty ... i have never failed it before ), and determination seizes hold of her, a rare sort of courage that has previously deserted her; she knows that pride and challenge, despite her previous intentions, shine in her eyes once more. " i'm ready. do your duty, if you can. "

she is no stranger to attention. songs have been sung in praise of her beauty and charm. seldom a feast went by where she was not invited to dance. there was no place in highgarden where curious eyes and whispers did not follow her. even the thick hedges and green canopy of the sweet - smelling gardens provided little privacy; always there was a maiden or servant or gardener around a corner, listening in on conversations, gazes burning in her back. BUT NEVER HAS ELIA FELT AS SCRUTINIZED AS TODAY. the great hall of house silverlance is filled with the merry noise of music ( lyre and flute and drums ) and chatter of those gathered to celebrate their union, the air thick with the scent of good wine and roast and quickly melting wax of the candles. most guests are drawn in conversation with each other, laughing, drinking, undoubtedly glad to have a feast, but it is hard not to notice the way they occasionally look at her. the women's gazes are filled with some pity, the men's are unusually bold, raking over her face and frame unashamedly, looking at her untouched plate and cup, followed every time by some remark to whomever they have drawn in conversation. she tries to read their lips, catches only bits and pieces. andal ... money ... ruin ...

smile. elia starts at the sound of her husband's steely voice. she drops her silver fork and looks at him, amber - green eyes comically wide. such a command may have been despised and ignored mere hours ago, but she found some comfort in it now. she knows not this family, not these people nor their customs, not as well as he did. he is her husband now. though he cannot not warm her heart and rather inspires fear, there is the strangest seed of trust nonetheless. she will need him to survive here.

the command is clear. she belongs to house silverlance now, and they must show no discord, no vulnerability. there are preying eyes and sharp tongues in this hall, eagerly trying to ascertain if this unusual marriage could be a sign of weakness, depleting funds or ill health. together hey must present a strong, united front, must pretend that are overjoyed with this union. it is an act she will be remarkably good at; ALL HER LIFE HAS BEEN A STAGE OF SMILES AND BLUSHES AND PLEASANT CONVERSATION, though admittedly it came naturally to her in the familiar halls of home.

a fragile and forced smile flickers around rose - red lips, taking a moment to bloom into something more genuine. hand is placed over his on the dinner table, gentle palm over rough knuckles, a pretension at fondness visible for all to see. she leans in close as a happy new bride might, and whispers, smile softer now but still present, against the shell of his ear, " thank you. " she chooses to linger close, nose briefly brushing his cheek. it is not unpleasant. " i know you mislike me. i know neither of us wanted this match. but i will try my best to do my duty by you. "

she feels ill and strange and not herself, dressed in garments of white and red that she would never have chosen herself, feeling the weight of a peculiar triangular headdress that a maid placed on her head. she exhales, trying to expel her nerves. the small gathering of his family, including his twin sister, look equally ill at ease. she imagines they too wonder if nuada silverlance will actually go through with the ceremony, despite his apparent distaste for his bride.

elia gasps aloud when he cuts his lips with a black flint of dragonglass, deep enough to make blood well, angry and red. though she had been told of the ritual beforehand, it was far more shocking to see in person. it takes her a moment to recover, staring pale - faced at the blood seeping from his red mouth, hesitating just long enough to hear murmuring from the priest. with a shaking hand she reaches forward, thumb brushing over his lips with a gentleness that surprises herself, and wipes the blood on his forehead, crimson against white. she takes the dragonglass from him, trembling like a reed. it feels cold against her lips, the pain sharp enough to make her flinch. but she does not yield until she tastes the iron of blood on her tongue, and feels it drip down her chin, slick and warm. he swipes his thumb over it, presses it to her forehead.

then comes the part she dreaded most: he drags the dragonglass over the inside of his pale palm, a longer cut than she had imagined. elia swallows thickly and takes the shard from him. she shoots him an anxious look, then repeats his gesture, hissing through the pain, tears pricking in doe eyes. hands are clasped together then, their warm blood mingling, dripping into a cup. the priest speaks to them in high valeryian, uttering words and vows that sound beautifully musical, but she does not comprehend. hen lantoti ānogar ... va syndroti vāedroma ... mēro perzot gīhoti. he drinks from it first, offers it to her. she puts it to her lips and tries not to gag. it is syrupy, slightly too warm, tasting of iron and salt. it lingers in her throat.

suddenly the priest is silent, and there is only the sound of the wind whipping around them, soft birdsong in the distance. the smell of blood is strong, nauseating. elia waits with baited breath. she dreads the kiss, dreads what it means even more. she chooses to close the distance between them anyway, and brushes her wounded lips against his, sealing their marriage with a flash of pain that feels like an omen of what's to come.

her betrothed is ever the romantic. while their families may have hoped that their mislike for one another would lessen over the course of their courtship, their relationship has only become more strained over the past weeks, and in fact worsened disastrously with the wedding rapidly approaching. things are unlikely to get better after their nuptials. while usually the most well - behaved daughter, elia finds that with nuada silverlance she has very little patience indeed. thus far he has been the only person capable of conjuring a sneer on her pretty face. she wears one now, as they walk through the gardens of her home, and even the sweet - smelling roses and freesia and honeysuckle cannot lighten her sour mood. while she is not new to his complaints of her ( he has made his disgust really quite obvious ), this particular jab is new. she wonders if he saw her with one of her brother's knights, a young man named ser lance; he has declared his affection for her many times now, proclaiming she is the most beautiful maiden in westeros, and beseeching her to marry him instead. though he is handsome and tempting and worships the ground she walks on, elia knows the offer is not serious. he would abandon her before they reached essos. " you proclaim your need for an heir, " she bites back, " but to have a son you would actually need to bed me, my lord. i'm not growing silver hair anytime soon. will you close your eyes and pray to your gods and think of your sister instead ? i'm not sure it'll be enough. "

she had heard tell of house silverlance's preference for their own blood, but such an outright proclamation came unexpected. our lineage. he would have preferred to marry a cousin over her then, or a niece, or even a sister. she's sure his distaste for her was pre - established, but actually seeing her in the flesh appears to have only worsened his revulsion. she is the very opposite of his family. dark - haired, olive - skinned, eyes the color of forests. the blood of the andals runs deep in her. he may have liked one of her fairer sisters better, had they not already been married off to house manderly and lannister.

the feeling is quite mutual. elia looks at her betrothed with palatable dislike, taking in his strange silver hair and his odd markings. it is not the sort of man she would have chosen for herself. but house silverlance was powerful, not to be underestimated, and her mother had grasped at the opportunity to betroth one of her daughters to the heir. as a reward for putting aside their distaste, house silverlance would receive a healthy wife, a powerful alliance, and more importantly, a significant dowry. " i do not know if you have much say in the matter, " elia responds coolly. her mood is off. she pushes at her food, trying her best not to look at him. the loud music and merriment in highgarden's hall, meant to celebrate their engagement, annoys her greatly. and despite her own aversion to her husband - to - be, she realizes she feels slighted by his disgust. " i believe the terms have already been set and agreed upon. but you may rest assured, my lord, that i share your sentiment. do your worst, i'd say; tell them you won't marry me, refuse to bed me, shut me out of your castle. choose another. simply do not bother me with your drawled complaints of the matter. "