Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, and I make no profit writing any fanfiction of it. Further, I'd like it to be clear that in the case of any similarity between anything I write and the future work of any author writing the original work, that I hold no rights to any fanfiction. I make no claim to monetary compensation, and never will. For any intent and purpose, I cede any monetary rights to any fanfiction work to their respective authors.

(AN): This is the prequel story to Wildfire, and covers the events of Rhaegar's Rebellion through the eyes of the Prince and Elia of Dorne. As such, it's not necessary to read Wildfire before this, and neither is it necessary to read this before Wildfire. At least, not at this point.

Every bone in his body ached. Tired grit stung the corners of Rhaegar's eyes as he rode through the gates to the Red Keep. Dents marred the surface of his ebony plate mail, the several of the red studded rubies knocked loose by a glancing blow from his rebel kinsman's hammer.

Distant cousins though they might have been, Robert and Rhaegar had met more than once since the Baratheon heir was born. Rhaegar liked Robert little, given how impetuous and passionate as Rhaelle's grandson was. But the Prince of Dragonstone could freely admit that the other man was a peerless warrior.

It was those meetings in their shared, dusty memories that had likely saved Rhaegar's life. The Targaryen was a renowned warrior himself, but he'd fallen beneath Robert's martial skill. When Robert had knocked him to the ground and drawn back for a killing blow, those blue eyes took in the sprawled form of the Baratheon Lord's own cousin. And Robert had hesitated.

'No man is so cursed as the kinslayer.' Said the Septons.

Rhaegar had tasted the copper dregs of his own mortality. He could have died if Arthur hadn't appeared from the thick of battle with a bellow to drive Robert off. There was no way to tell if Robert would have spared him or stove his chest in had the Sword of the Morning not shown.

Touching mailed fingers over the bloodcrusted and dented ebony, Rhaegar idly wondered how many killing blows he'd survived during the Battle of Ashford. They'd won in the end, Robert disappearing and the loyalist forces driving the shattered remnants of the rebel army back to Storm's End. Where the Fat Flower promptly crowed at his own strategic acumen and laid siege to the castle.

"Da!" crowed from beside his horse, and Rhaegar startled. The mottled black and white sandsteed that had been a wedding gift from his good-brother and Prince of Dorne shifted anxiously between the Prince's knees. Turning his attention to the side, Rhaegar blinked as he took in his nervous looking wife and gurgling daughter through the slit in his dragon crowned helm.

"Rhaenys." He replied with real warmth, pulling the helm free from his head and restraining a wince as it clung to his sweat and blood soaked strands. Sliding off the steed in a smooth movement, he gave the horse a grateful pat to the flank before passing the reins to a hovering groom.

The two year old girl waved a chubby hand towards him, the other arm clenching tightly to Elia's red gown where her mother supported her on one hip.

Rhaegar hastily tugged off a blood crusted gauntlet to he could take her hand without getting any of the filth onto her dusky skin. Pressing a courtly kiss to the back of Rhaenys hand, Rhaegar pushed away his fatigue to give a small smile. "How is my darling girl?"

Giggling in delight at her father's attention, the girl beamed back up "Good, Da!"

Straightening, Rhaegar placed a dutiful kiss to his wife's cheek. "Elia. Is all well?" The faintly overwhelmed look on her face suggested that all was not well, as far as Rhaegar could tell. Perhaps she'd been spared the sight of blood and gore until now? He'd made sure to keep her away from his father when he could, to shield her and his children from the sight of Aerys burning men for pleasure.

"All is well, my lord husband. Aegon is in the nursery." Elia headed off his next question, smiling dutifully on her own. "We'll leave you to your rest. I have heard it was a hard-won victory." Smiling down at her daughter with real warmth, the Princess of Dorne drifted away with her retinue of handmaidens.

Lewyn Martell gave the tired Prince of Dragonstone a nod of acknowledgement before the Kingsguard knight followed his niece and grand-niece.

Nodding at the shoulder shake from Jon Connington, Rhaegar followed his exhausted fellow warriors and lords further into the belly of the Red Keep.

Freshly washed and shaved, with a dragon emblazoned velvet doublet stretching across his chest, Rhaegar dropped to a knee before the spiralling steps that led up to the Iron Throne. A faint patch of black was visible from the corner of his vision, and Rhaegar suppressed a shudder at the human shaped mark of ash.

It seemed even months after the Rising of the North, Aerys persisted in refusing to have the spot he'd ordered Brandon Stark burnt alive to be cleaned.

"Hail, Your Grace. I, the Prince of Dragonstone return with tidings of victory."

Not for the first time, Rhaegar was struck by the fierce regret of having permitted his father's madness to reign unchecked. He should have accepted when the Lords Stark and Tully and Arryn offered him the soldiers to depose his father. Or at least not spent so much of his time dithering about if it was ideal to call a Great Council to force abdication yet.

Evidently he'd long since missed his chance.

"We are pleased to hear such, Our son." Aerys' voice was a raspy growl, low and beastly, just the man it came from. Tangled silver strands of both hair and beard mingled in filth. Long curving nails hung dirty and uncut from paranoia. Purple eyes sank into a hollow and bony face, starved and mad. Even the Iron Throne wasn't free from defilement, with rusty stains betraying where the unworthy King had sliced himself time and again.

"Did you give Our traitorous kinsman to the flames?"

Rhaegar almost faltered at the lusty tone gurgling up from his father's throat. Even the King's own kin were not free of Aerys' murderous and cruel intent. "No. Robert fled the field. None known his location now."

"Failure!" Aerys shrieked, high and keening. The King's orbs rolled in their sockets, darting back and forth to take in some unknown phantasm visible only to the Mad King. "Miserable wretch! How are We to punish the traitor filth if even Our own flesh and blood fails us!"

"Father-"

"You are no son of Our's!"

Turning his gaze away from the pitying look in Gerold Hightower's face, Rhaegar stared squarely up at his trembling and hissing sire. "Father, perhaps we may win this war through a negotiation!"

Utter silence. Licking suddenly dry lips, Rhaegar opened his mouth to press on, only to snap back at the unholy shriek Aerys gave.

"Negotiation! We are the Dragon! We do not negotiate with traitors and low beasts! We will crush them! We will burn them!" The ravings went on for a long moment before Aerys pointed a jabbing gnarled finger at his son. "You've gone too soft fucking that little Dornish slut of your's. Our own child, corrupted by the wiles of a desert snake!"

Narrowing his eyes in paranoid suspicion, Aerys almost lunged from the throne with how far the King leaned forward. "Perhaps you've begun to make plots of your own, nestled between the slut's thighs. Little drops of poison she dribbled into Our heir's ears while he was fucking her cunt..."

"I make no plots, Your Grace." Truthfully, Rhaegar harbored no thoughts for treachery. He intended to win the war and protect his father's throne. Afterwards – there would be a reckoning, which would be the best for everyone. Even his father.

"Leave Us!"

Aegon gave a burp, releasing his mother's nipple as the babe was entirely sated with milk. Returned to his crib, Rhaegar's only son yawned sleepily before dropping his lids with tiredness.

Smiling softly, Elia pulled her shift back up over her breast. Tugging the Targaryen black and red stitched gown took a little more pulling, but after a moment the Dornishwoman managed to pull her clothes back into order. She ignored the vague disapproval the wet nurse tutted with. She might have been a lady, and breast feeding her own child as often as she did may have been uncouth, but Elia hardly cared. It was simply part of her bond with her child, and no Rhoynar woman would refuse to breastfeed her own children given the choice.

Rhaenys was dozing in her own child's bed, black kitten curled up by her side and purring lowly.

Smoothing the wrinkles of her gown, Elia leaned back in her armchair to enjoy the quiet company of her children. Both Rhaenys and Aegon were sweet children. Affectionate to their mother, to their grandmother and uncle before the pair had been shipped off to Dragonstone, and to their father.

Though not their grandfather.

Elia frowned at the mere thought of the Mad King. It was almost absurd how someone as kind and gentle as Rhaella could spring from the same seed as Aerys. Or how someone as vile and cruel as Aerys could sire her dutiful and melancholy husband.

Rhaegar was not bad, as far as husbands went. There was no love in their marriage. But the Prince of Dragonstone was courteous and thoughtful. He listened when she expressed her thoughts, treated her gently enough, and was affectionate with his children. Most women – especially the highborn – could expect no better than that from a man.

The Prince was easy enough to look at as well, Elia smirked wryly. Not that her husband spent all that much time in her bed. After getting a child on her, Rhaegar retreated to his own rooms. And after the Maesters declared her unable to have more children, her husband had not lain with her even once.

Which was little more than she could have expected truly. Her mother had been clear enough about the opinion of Andals on sex for pleasure when she'd been a child, and few men had ever expressed much interest in the Princess of Dorne with her fragile health. Not when her parents had chased off any Dornishman who looked at her twice in her childhood, and not after coming to King's Landing with her vastly more attractive an healthy handmaiden.

At least Rhaegar was not one to stare at Ashara. She'd been spared the social humiliation and whispers that would follow behind an unfaithful husband for the early years of her marriage, though after the Maesters declared her further infertility, whispers had sprung up.

Of how Rhaegar should and would set her aside for a healthier woman. Of how foreign Dornish sluts were good for nothing but a quick fuck, and Elia not even good enough for that. Of how her husband was the father of Ashara's bastard, and the Dayne had fled back to Dorne to flee a scorned wife's anger.

Elia would be a liar if she claimed it didn't hurt or embarrass her. It was through no fault of her own that she was born with a delicate constitution, or that she could give Rhaegar no more children. But Elia had been ignoring slander and malice since childhood, and the tongues of Dornishwomen were far sharper than the ones to be found in King's Landing.

It would hurt less if Elia had faith that the rumors weren't true. Fake smiles and laughter she could strike back and deal with. The very real possibility that she might be cast off she could not. Rhaegar had no love for her, only duty, and the prophecy that her husband spent so much time worrying over would surely drive him to throw her away.

Swallowing thickly, Elia pressed a hand over her warm brow before composing herself. Banishing errant thoughts, the Princess rose to her feet in as much grace she could muster and offered the wet nurse a courtly smile. "I think I shall retire to my rooms for the night, and take my supper there. Bring my children to me if they ask for me or their father."

Ignoring the murmured affirmative the servant gave, the Martell swept from the room.

Outside, clouds rolled in front of the sun, and the first patters of rain began to hit the glass windowpanes.

A crash echoed through the room as Rhaegar's door was thrown open. Reflexes borne from warfare had the Prince throwing himself from his sheets at the first echo, one hand groping for the long steel dagger he kept hidden under his pillow.

A pair of men garbed in the black and red Targaryen livery poured into his room. Carrying a torch, one of them raised it high while the other squinted through the dark.

"What is the meaning of this?" Rhaegar barked, rising to his feet from where he was crouched behind the bed.

One of the men grimaced beneath his half-helm, holding out a pair of chains. "Well uh, milord. We're here for you." The other jostled the speaker with a low curse, and the grimace was swept away for a blank expression. Taking a deep breath, the foremost one straightened with an official air.

"Rhaegar of House Targaryen, you're under arrest for treason against the Iron Throne. We're here to take you before the King for your judgement."

Treason? Incredulity bubbled up. He'd had his disagreements with his father, but treason? Sweat beaded on his brow as Rhaegar palmed the dragonbone handled Valyrian steel dagger. But then, his father was a madman. "What if I refuse?" Rhaegar ventured cautiously.

"Then we're ordered to take you dead or alive, mi'lord."

Swallowing thickly, Rhaegar shook his head. Lightheadedness was pressing in, a slow thrum of heat building in his veins. "Then would you look the other way? Perhaps I overpowered you. Perhaps I was never here."

The rearmost one frowned sympathetically. "As much as we'd prefer it... we can't. If we don't take you, the King will surely burn us alive for failure."

"I could kill you." Rhaegar pointed out darkly, measuring the distance with a practiced eye. Fingers and muscles tightened in preparation.

"Well then it's between a definite death, and a possible death. And I think I'd much rather take the second, mi'lord."

"No." Rhaegar sighed, shaking his head with an air of pity. "They're both a definite death." Then he was moving, arm whipping up to toss the dagger at the first solider. It took the man through the eye as Rhaegar dove over the bed, rolling towards the armor stand in the opposite corner.

The second soldier cursed, pulling his castle forged blade with fumbling hands even as Rhaegar reached the set of armor that had been set out and polished for him while his other set was being attended by renowned smithies on the Street of Steel. The soldier dove for him with a pale face, dark eyes shining brightly above a half-terrified face.

'Just a boy.' Rhaegar thought as he took in the young soldier's boyish cheeks. Pulling up his shield, he shoved the ebony kite shape between himself and the oncoming blade. Sparks shone in the darkened room, the guard's torch dropped to the ground and sputtering weakly. 'A green as grass child.'

Stepping in to the whirl of steel, the Targaryen shoved the flat of his shield into the soldier's face, grimacing at the loud clang it gave off when it collided with the guard's halfhelm. But it did its job to daze the young man, and Rhaegar slammed the shield into his enemy's face again, knocking the soldier to the ground.

Murmuring "More's the pity." Rhaegar aiming the point of the kite towards the guard's uncovered face and drove the dull steel spike through an unguarded eye. Blood splattered over the pale white of his nightclothes, and the Prince grimaced.

The battle fever receded, leaving his hands slightly shaky when he reached for his blade. Pulling the sword with a scrape of steel on steel, Rhaegar stumbled numbly to the door. Treason. He had to get out – he needed to leave. Find somewhere safe to hide so he could think on what to do. Somewhere to keep the children.

The children.

Heat rushed back through him, and Rhaegar was running down the hall. "Elia!" he roared, turning the corner and barely stopping to rake his sword through another guard's throat. Crimson splashed over his face, painting his skin and clothes red.

There was a faint clash of steel and howls of pain at the edge of his hearing, and Rhaegar sucked in a breath. Fear licked at his insides. Fear for the lives of his children. Fear for the life of his wife. Fear for his own life. Fear for the consequences this night would have on the realm. Fear of pain. Fear of death. Fear.

Howling like a beast, Rhaegar rounded the last turn and fell on a group of men barging on the bolted door to the nursery. Blood spilled as he struck through the neck of a soldier from the behind. Curses and shouts of surprise rang out, silenced by the pounding in his ears and the shouts tearing from his throat.

"Elia!"

Pain burnt through his arm as a blade nicked it, a warm trickle of blood running down his arm as he whirled through the dance of steel and death. Cutting down man after man while he screamed for his children.

Then the door was thrown open, white armor shining beneath the red torchlight like a coal as Lewyn Martell carved a bloody furrow into the ranks of Aerys' men. With sword in one hand and spear in the other, Elia's uncle was a reaver, spilling life with all the ease a knife cuts cheese.

A wrench nearly tore his arm from its socket when a mace caught the inside of his shield and threw it open, leaving Rhaegar's entire left side unprotected. A smirk of triumph crossed a bearded guard's face between one heartbeat and the next.

'So this is how I die.'

Then Dawn was there, burning with inner light. Shining like starfire, pale as milkglass, cleaving steel and flesh alike. "Rhaegar." Was breathed into his ear as a greeting, and the Prince knew he could trust his side to his dearest friend.

The arrival of the Sword of the Morning struck fear into the most stout of hearts, and not long after Arthur's blade appeared the knot of soldiers broke. The survivors fled in blind retreat, leaving their dead and dying behind.

"My Prince." Lewyn offered cautiously, not lowering his guard. They'd fought on the same side, for a heated skirmish. But the Dornish don't trust so easily, and the suspicion in the Martell's gaze asked a silent question.

Are you my niece's husband, or your father's son?

Shoving his bloodied steel into its sheath, Rhaegar looked into the dark room over Lewyn's shoulder. "Uncle." His eyes couldn't pierce the gloom, and he took an incautious step forward. "Is Elia safe? Are the children safe?"

"I'm here, husband." Called out wearily, prompting Rhaegar to push on past the looming knight and ignoring the cheerful grin Arthur gave the other Dornishman behind his back.

Elia was huddled over Rhaenys' shaking form, cradling a wailing Aegon to her breast and stroking her crying daughter's head with her free hand. His wife whispered nonsensical words of comfort to their children, and Rhaegar found himself collapsing by her side to take their son.

The blood on his hands stained the outside of the blanket the wailing babe was wrapped in, but Rhaegar could hardly bring himself to care. They were all alive. They were safe. For now.

"As much as I'd like to give you the time for a tearful reunion, we really need to leave." A new voice broke over them, and with curses Lewyn and Arthur were both reeling about, blades out.

Jaime Lannister grinned, holding out his hands in a gesture of surrender. The lively sunshine curls framing his face couldn't distract from the bloodless pallor of the young knight's skin. "Easy there, big boys."

"Ser Jaime." Rhaegar greeted neutrally, rising to his feet. "Where exactly do you believe we're going, and why would you wish to accompany us?" A swish of fabric told him Elia was rising up behind him.

"Anywhere is fine with me at the moment. Just looking for a change of scenery, if you catch my meaning."

"We do." Elia agreed, pure steel lining her voice and sounding not all like the quiet, gentle woman Rhaegar was accustomed to. "There is no time to waste. Can you lead us out of the keep from a secret passage, husband?"

Nodding in agreement, Rhaegar cradled Aegon closer to his chest and stepped back into the bloodstained halls.

"I thought you were leading us out, not further in." Ser Jaime pointed out as the fugitive party retreated to her husband's rooms, and Elia just barely bit down on the urge to tell the young knight to keep quiet. The query had been little more than a whisper, and the stretched state of her nerves didn't excuse lashing out at the boy for no reason.

"I am." Rhaegar pointed out, closing and bolting the door as the last of their group filed in. Tearing the bloodstained nightclothes from his body, her husband hurried to squirm into a leather doublet and dark trousers. If the situation was less dire, Elia might have even taken the time to admire the sculpted planes of the Prince's body.

Hurrying along after, Elia set Rhaenys onto Rhaegar's tangled bed before ducking behind a dressing screen to pull on a thick woolen gown. She had her own chambers separate from her husband, but the maids always ensured that she would have clothes of her own to wear in case Rhaegar wished to enjoy his husbandly rights.

Not that he ever did, the Dornishwoman thought spitefully.

Steel clanged faintly as Arthur scrambled to help shoved Rhaegar into his midnight black plate, and she almost rolled her eyes. Men. Though in all fairness, if there was more battle it would be helpful. And she'd rather not insult their blatant machismo if it insured her children grew up with a father.

"Push the red brick hidden beneath the fireplace grate." Rhaegar instructed her uncle as the Prince belted his sword back around his waist.

While Lewyn hastened to find the trigger for whichever hidden door Rhaegar was speaking off, Elia hastened over to the jewelry box atop the wardrobe. It was full of rings and other baubles, but would serve to barter for food or supplies if they needed it.

A grate of stone drew her dark eyes, and Elia blinked in surprise at the dark cobwebbed tunnel that was revealed by the swing of an entire section of wall on the opposite end of the room from the fireplace.

Aegon was pushed into her arms by Arthur with careful hands, a new white sheet replacing the formerly bloodstained one. Rhaenys was clad in little more than her shifts and one of her father's shirts hanging down to her ankles.

"Come." Rhaegar ordered, all the raw passion and emotion that had been riding in his voice successfully repressed. The Lannister knight picked up her daughter as Rhaegar plunged ahead of them into the shadows.

Elia hurried along after him, repressed the desperate urge to sneeze as dust tickled her nose. Another grate on stone echoed behind them as Lewyn shoved the wall back in place, plunging the refugees into complete darkness.

Then fire flared, sickening green and casting ghoulish shadows. Rhaegar swept his gaze over their group, indigo eyes assessing their readiness even as Elia shoved down the thrill of horror. Wildfire. The Targaryens used wildfire in their secret passages for torches rather than oil.

Nodding silently, Rhaegar swung back around and led them through a twist of dark dusty tunnels. They scurried along in silence, suppressing Aegon's cries with a wet rag for the babe to suck. It seemed like days passed as they burrowed deep into the dark beneath the earth.

The scent of damp was so faint at first, Elia wondered if it was little more than her imagination. Yet it grew stronger and stronger, until the tang of seawater was so strong she begin to have an inkling to their destination.

A final turned, and they burst into the night on the banks of the Blackwater. The sudden shock of rain hitting them drove Aegon into a squeal, patting over their armor and clothes in a sprinkle. Mud sloshed around her boots as she quickly scanned the horizon for torchlight or soldiers, and finding none to her relief.

"Where to now?" Jaime muttered, a low somber note in his voice that was uncharacteristic of the typically japing knight.

"Dorne." Elia frowned when Rhaegar swung his head about to look at her in surprise. "Where else to, Rhaegar?" the Dornishwoman pointed out rhetorically. "Everywhere else is either crawling with loyalists or crawling with rebels. My brother will protect us."

"That is true." Her husband agreed, motioning them further down the banks to a ramshackle collection of shack. "But first, I think completing our escape might be a good idea."

Leaping about a moored little more than a collection of lashed logs, Rhaegar began shoving a collection of barrels into the water to clear space for the rest of their party to board. Keeping hold of a few ragged tarps, the Prince threw them over the moonpale armor of the Kingsguard knights accompanying them.

The three hurried to cover up their distinctive mail, crouching about the corners of the raft in tense balls. Elia shook her head when her husband offered her one of the fish-stinking tarps for her own, preferring to pull the head of her cloak up and huddling in the middle with her son in her lap and daughter leaning against her side.

Rhaegar chose to wrap his tarp about himself, hooding it over his head. Steel flashed beneath the moon as her husband cut the lines to free the ramshackle raft. Watching as the Prince pushed them away from shore with a long pole and used it to encourage their route downstream, Elia was struck by a nonsensical thought.

Clad in tattered black cloth that hooded his whole face save for peeking silver strands and burning indigo, Rhaegar looked very much like some demonic bargeman out of myth, ferrying their souls to damnation.

Elia hoped this demon bargeman would prefer to ferrying them to salvation.

Rain continued to patter down around them as they drifted downstream in silence. Aegon was lulled back to sleep by the low sound and quiet burble of the Blackwater Rush as the current pushed them gently downstream and out to the bay.

Rhaenys drifted off to a fitful sleep soon after, unable to push past the fatigued burning in her eyes like the adults of the group. They proceeded in silence, floating over a winding river of black glass and stars until dawn began to burn pink streams in the eastern sky.

It was not until the raft gave a slight bump beneath her, startling her from her stupor as they landed along the south shore of the bay. Elia blinked her tired eyes, before a low flush burnt her dusky cheeks as she realized she'd spent hours staring at her husband as the man ferried them to safety. She'd probably looked like a besotted fool.

What was odder was that unless he needed to turn his attention and use the pole to pull them closer to shore or push them away from it, Rhaegar had spent most of the night staring back at her.

(AN): Just over 4500 hundred words. Written in a night, yay me. I hope I'm doing alright with the characterization. I wanted to get relationships right especially. I know it may seem a bit sudden for Aerys to go from "Nice to see you" to "treason!". But he is mad, and the Lords of the realm have been whispering about forcing his abdication for years even in canon. Failing to kill Robert despite his victory and suggesting they negotiate was just the straw that broke the camel's back. As far as Aerys' mad mind can see – Rhaegar must have orchestrated the whole rebellion so they could negotiate and force him from the throne. And he ran away instead of obeying me, so he must be guilty. No doubt about it!