Chapter Text
The Bastard Who Broke the Realm
Part I
Elia I
The first time Elia of Dorne saw him, it was no more than a glimpse.
Weeks had passed since her husband, then Prince, now King, had shattered the rebellion upon the Trident. The singers already spun their lies, fat with embellishment and soaked in wine. They sang of the Silver Prince, the Last Dragon, cast down by Robert Baratheon’s great warhammer, only to rise again, wreathed in flame, and strike the usurper dead with a single, merciless cut.
Elia did not believe them.
Songs were mummer’s tricks, woven to hide uglier truths. No one spoke plainly of the final moments, of how Robert fell, or why Rhaegar alone survived a battle meant to end his line. Those who knew said little. Those who did not spoke too loudly.
The realm had changed in those weeks, reshaped as iron reshapes flesh.
The surviving Baratheon brothers were scattered like ashes. Renly, scarcely more than a boy, had been claimed by the Red Keep itself, kept close and watched always. Stannis, rigid and unbending, had been sent north to the Wall, where duty stripped men to bone. The Arryns had fallen from grace, replaced in the Vale by House Grafton, leal and grateful by all reports. Elia had not yet met the new Lord Paramount, though his loyalty was spoken of often enough to sound rehearsed.
The Riverlands bled most bitterly. Hoster Tully had died screaming treason into the stones, and his children had paid the price. Catelyn and Lysa were given to the Silent Sisters, their names struck from memory. Edmure was taken to King’s Landing, a ward in all but name. Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, had been sent to the Wall.
The North sealed itself behind stone and ice. Benjen Stark returned home only long enough to swear fealty for his infant nephew before slamming Moat Cailin shut like a mailed fist. Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, suckled at his wet nurse while his uncle ruled in his name. Jon Connington ensured Benjen knelt where his brother had burned, the blackened stain still stubborn upon the floor of the throne room, no matter how often it was scrubbed.
Eddard Stark had taken the black.
He was allowed one final mercy, a single meeting with a woman he had once loved, before he vanished into the cold. Little word had come from the North since. Elia suspected it was deliberate.
As for the Westerlands, she did not care to dwell on them. Cersei Lannister now ruled as Wardeness, crowned not by love but by fear. The less said of her, the better.
Six moon turns after the Trident, Rhaegar rode for Dorne.
He had hidden his wolf princess there, beneath the watchful blades of the Kingsguard. He returned not with a bride, nor with the daughter he had desired, but with a corpse and a newborn son.
The Red Keep did not speak of the child.
Outside its walls, the realm could speak of nothing else.
Elia heard the names whispered like prayers or curses. The Queen’s Shame. The Blackfyre. The Bastard Who Broke the Realm.
Even now, courtly ladies flung their barbs at the babe in hopes of currying favor with her. A child she had never seen. A child whose name she did not know.
She had been told Ser Arthur Dayne watched him. That there had been sharp words between the Sword of the Morning and the King himself. Elia did not know the truth of it. She only knew that since the boy’s arrival, he had been kept apart. When he was mentioned at all, he was not named.
He was simply the child.
The boy.
A shriek of laughter cut through her thoughts.
Rhaenys and Aegon tore down the corridor, shrill with delight, Ser Barristan Selmy in mock pursuit. Elia rose, smiling despite herself.
“Behave for Ser Barristan, my loves,” she called.
They did not listen.
She turned to her remaining guard. Ser Jaime Lannister stood stiffly beside the door. He was not the man he had been.
Once, his green eyes had sparkled with careless confidence. Now they were dulled, stripped bare by loss. His father was dead. His brother dead, an accident the court claimed. Jaime did not believe it. He never said the words aloud, but Elia knew.
Cersei had killed Tyrion.
The boy’s body had scarcely cooled before he was found in a Lannisport brothel, his throat slit ear to ear. Jaime had not answered a single letter from his sister since.
He stepped aside as Elia passed, then followed, his golden hand clinking softly against his armor. He insisted the loss of his sword hand had not broken him, that one hand could be better than two if used wisely. It was the price he had paid to save King’s Landing from Aerys’s madness.
Elia believed him.
Had Jaime not struck down the Mad King, she, Rhaegar, and her children would have burned together.
She did not know why, after so long, she chose this day to walk toward the boy’s chambers.
Perhaps she simply could not avoid it any longer.
Ser Arthur Dayne stood before the door, Dawn at his side. His dark eyes met hers, unblinking. They shared an understanding deeper than speech.
“I would like to see the child,” Elia said.
It was not a request.
Arthur’s grip tightened on his sword as his gaze flicked briefly to Jaime, who took his post in the hall without a word. After a moment, the door opened.
The room was bare.
Bare compared to Aegon’s chambers. Bare compared to any in the Keep. A single fire burned low in the hearth, freshly tended. Arthur positioned himself beside the crib before Elia fully entered.
Silence pressed in around them.
Elia approached slowly.
The boy stared up at her.
He was awake and watchful and made no sound. He was small for his age, thin-limbed and pale. His eyes unsettled her. They were not the eyes of a newborn.
Rhaenys had inherited Rhaegar’s clever spark. Aegon’s gaze brimmed with curiosity. This child’s eyes held something else entirely.
Sorrow.
And guilt.
“How old is he?” Elia asked softly, reaching to stroke his cheek.
“Eight moons, Your Grace,” Arthur replied. “The maester says he is healthy, even if silent.”
“Silent?”
“He never cries. Not for hunger. Not for discomfort. He sleeps. He watches.”
Elia lifted him gently. He did not protest.
“What was he named?”
Arthur shook his head.
“Lyanna Stark died before she could name him. It was not a quick death.” He hesitated. “When His Grace learned the child was not his Visenya, he refused to acknowledge him.”
Elia said nothing.
“When I asked, he said only, ‘What care do I for the name of a sand.’”
Elia’s lips tightened.
“They were married?” she asked quietly.
Arthur nodded. “For a daughter. This boy did not suit his needs.”
Elia looked down at the child, dark-haired and Stark-built, yet with Rhaegar’s mouth and unmistakable purple eyes fading to gray at the edges.
She rocked him gently.
“Would you like to meet your siblings?” she murmured.
Arthur’s tension eased, just slightly.
“We have both been discarded by his father,” Elia said. “He seeks to annul our marriage. I will stay for the children.”
She looked down at the boy.
“He has no mother. Perhaps I can be something close.”
She turned and walked away.
Whispers followed her through the halls. Elia did not slow.
“Let them whisper, little wolf,” she said softly. “I am still queen.”
Rhaenys and Aegon cried out together when they saw her.
“Muna!”
They crowded close, gazing at the babe.
“Who is he?” Rhaenys asked.
Elia hesitated. A name. A Valyrian name.
She thought of kings long dead.
Jaehaerys.
Aemond.
Aemon.
She smiled.
“This is your brother,” she said. “You must protect him. Aegon, you must love him. Rhaenys, you must be his shield.”
“Another valonqar!” Rhaenys laughed.
“Valocar!” Aegon echoed.
Elia placed the boy in Rhaenys’s arms. Aegon leaned close, grinning.
“What’s his name?” Rhaenys asked.
Elia breathed in.
“Daeron.”
Rhaenys repeated it.
The boy smiled.
Elia felt something in her chest loosen.
His life would be hard. The realm would never forget what he represented.
But he would not be alone.
He would have a brother in Aegon.
A sister in Rhaenys.
And a mother Elia Martell..