#elia week

[witchyhagz]

Day 4: What Could Have Been | Elia Martell and Baelor Hightower

“The only one who was even halfway presentable was young Baelor Hightower. A pretty lad, and my sister was half in love with him.”

──for @eliaweek done by @mandhos

[summerdustpool]

Elia week2026 | Day 7 : Free Day

Barristan: Compared to you, Princess Elia is a kitchen drab.

Ashara Dayne: What the hell are you saying?

Elia Martell: Go easy on the poor man, he was only trying to compliment you.

Robert Baratheon: GO GO GO!

— By the talented @Cj_khalifp for @eliaweek

【2026.3.31】

[rubyyjade]

Her Beautiful, Haunting Eyes

Summary: A grieving prince begins seeing a strange woman with obsidian eyes in his chambers. Whether she is a ghost, a dream, or something else entirely remains unanswered.

There are many things Prince Baelor can explain. Her beautiful, haunting eyes are not one of them.

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen X Elia Martell

Warning: blood, grief/mourning

Chapter: 4/?

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3

Elia would come back.

No matter how long she disappeared or how suddenly she turned up, she would return to him just as she always had. And so Baelor waited with patient certainty.

Every day, he rearranged the chairs and bookshelves in his chambers before setting out the cyvasse board in front of the warm hearth. Every day, he instructed the servants to clean every corner of his rooms until not a speck of dust remained. Sometimes he prepared two cups of wine and a bowl of blood oranges, placing them beside the cyvasse board.

Every night, Baelor left his window open, even when storms battered the castle walls and rainwater seeped into the corners of his chambers, leaving him shivering in the cold. Every night, he spent hours devising strategies for the next cyvasse match he intended to win against Elia. Every night, he collected stories in his mind like the absurd disputes between lords or one of Maekar's particularly sharp remarks that had somehow managed to offend the entire Small Council in a single sentence, or the castle cat that had stolen a fish from the royal kitchens and become the subject of conversation for three days straight.

In his imagination, he could already hear her laughter when he told her those stories.

One month. Five months. One year. Two years. 

Elia still hadn't returned.

Baelor remained optimistic despite the slow passage of time. Perhaps she was delayed. Perhaps something else had postponed her journey here. Baelor was certain Elia would return, just as she always had. And gradually, that certainty became something hollow and painful.

The seasons changed, and Baelor finally realized that Elia wasn't coming back.

He stopped ordering the servants to clean his chambers every day. He stopped placing the cyvasse board before the hearth and instead tucked it away in a dusty cabinet, burying all the strategies he had spent months carefully preparing. The wine was no longer poured. The bowl that had once held fresh blood oranges remained empty. One by one, the small rituals he had performed so faithfully began to crumble, leaving behind a silence that forced him to confront the truth, waiting had become despair.

He no longer collected stories in his mind. No longer rehearsed the first words he would say when greeted by her familiar humming. Because he had come to realize that every story he saved would simply echo through empty rooms filled with memories that were never truly real. The anticipation that had once warmed his chest slowly eroded, replaced by a crushing hopelessness, the particular kind of despair born from waiting for something that might never come.

Baelor found himself staring into the darkness night after night, asking questions that never received answers. Why had she left immediately after finally giving him her name? What had happened to Elia? Had he done something wrong? Had he somehow driven her away?

The questions lodged deep within him like a thorn that refused to be removed, disturbing his peace for months until it poisoned the quiet rhythm of his life. Waiting for someone who existed like a ghost was a form of torture all its own. 

"You are not listening."

Maekar's irritated voice cut through his thoughts.

Baelor blinked slowly before realizing that the Small Council chamber had fallen strangely silent. Several council members seemed to be avoiding eye contact with suspicious politeness.

King Daeron II sat calmly in his chair, wearing a smile that suggested he understood far more than he was saying. The King suppressed another smile before finally rescuing the situation with a polite clearing of his throat.

"Would you care to rejoin the meeting, Baelor?"

Baelor cleared his own throat, maintaining a composed expression despite the faint embarrassment of being caught daydreaming during a council session.

"Of course, Father."

"Then what is your opinion regarding the request for tax reductions in the Reach?"

Baelor dragged his attention away from the window and returned to the documents spread across the table. Thankfully, affairs of state were considerably easier to understand than his own thoughts these days.

"If their harvest truly is as poor as the reports suggest, a temporary tax reduction would help stabilize grain prices before the dry season," he replied calmly. "Though I believe we should send additional inspectors first. Lord Tyrell would not be the first man to exaggerate his losses."

One of the council members nodded in agreement. Daeron looked pleased.

"A sensible answer. That is precisely why I value your counsel."

The meeting continued as usual after that, moving on to trade matters, food shipments, and several new regulations concerning the border regions. No matter how hard Baelor tried to focus, however, his thoughts drifted away more than once. And every time they did, a pair of obsidian-dark eyes haunted him once again.

When the meeting finally ended, Baelor left alongside Maekar, walking through the long corridors of the Red Keep.

Maekar had returned from Summerhall several weeks earlier at Daeron's request to temporarily assist with council affairs. As always, his younger brother's presence felt like a blessing amidst the ever-growing mountain of responsibilities resting on Baelor's shoulders.

"You were daydreaming rather badly in there," Maekar remarked suddenly.

"I'm exhausted."

"That is usually the answer old men give shortly before they die."

Baelor sighed. "Ruling a kingdom is exhausting, Maekar."

Maekar said nothing. They walked in silence for a while before he spoke again.

"You look like a man who has lost something."

"I think everyone in this place has lost something," Baelor answered at last.

"That sounds miserable." The mockery in Maekar's voice was unmistakable.

"Were you expecting something more cheerful?"

"Not at all." Maekar snorted. "The very thought is enough to make me uncomfortable."

Baelor almost smiled. Almost.

 

It was strange how easily a person could miss something that had never truly belonged to them.

There was no longer a quiet laugh by his window. No more unexpected remarks whenever he worked late into the night. Even the kingdom's financial reports seemed infinitely more tedious without someone nearby to complain about the stupidity of wealthy lords who were too greedy to stop stealing.

Baelor hated admitting that he still hoped Elia would return. He was still waiting. Just no longer with the same eager anticipation and careful preparation as before. His waiting had become quieter now. Deep within him, buried beneath layers of disappointment, a small fragment of hope stubbornly remained.

Baelor no longer left his windows open during storms until rain soaked the stone floor, but his eyes still drifted toward the window whenever the night wind stirred the curtains. He sat alone in the darkness, allowing himself to be haunted by Elia's absence. Missing her in silence hurt more deeply than he cared to admit. And hoping that one night fate might return those obsidian eyes to him.

And little by little, hope became resentment.

He hated the way she had appeared uninvited when he was broken by Jena's death, pretending to be a savior before disappearing after embedding herself far too deeply into his life. He hated the soft melody she used to hum, now transformed into a curse that echoed in his mind every night. He hated the way those obsidian eyes looked at him as though they understood every burden he carried. He hated the way she rolled her eyes. And most of all, he hated the fact that he had been toyed with by an illusion. Or a ghost. Or whatever she truly was.

Elia had entered his life and shattered his sanity. She had taught a grieving prince how to laugh again. Made him feel alive. Made him hope for the future. And then left him in a far more miserable state than he had been when Jena died.

Exhaustion from his own bitter thoughts finally caught up to him, dragging him into a heavy, restless sleep. When he closed his eyes, he dreamed of a woman. There was blood on her nightgown, and haunting obsidian eyes staring back at him.

[queerquaintrelle]

Elia Martell Week: Childhood

Elia Martell and Oberyn Martell as children in Dorne.

@eliaweek

[the-golden-viper-of-dorne]

Elia week 2024,

Elia and her nieces

@eliamartellappreciation @eliaweek @asoiafwomensource @1nsaankahanhai-bkr @elia-martell-creative-fest @saltywinteradult @forcesmuggler

[blue-rose-of-wolves]

Elia Martell week 2024, Day 2: Elia with her partners. Elia and Lyanna

@asoiafrarepairs @eliamartellappreciation @saltywinteradult @forcesmuggler @love-dragoneyes @irisewithsunyourisewiththemoon

[the-last-poet-in-westeros]

Elia week, Day 4. Elia and Rhaegar

@valyrianpoem @valyriansilk @oldvalyriansongs-blog @asoiafrarepairs @asoiafwomensource @eliamartellnetwork @eliamartellappreciation @saltywinteradult @eliaxrhaegar @songs-of-love-and-doom

[wlwocprincess]

Dorne Solstice: Elia Martell week 2022 - Elia + song lyrics

Daughter of the Sun by Naomi Sharon / Heavenly Mother by Pip Milette / I Was Here by Beyonce