#i apologize that this is kind of light on elia being queen regent and more about her supporting rhaenys

[samwpmarleau]

Hello how are you? I have read many of your stories here on Tumblr and I dared to send you this message. You write so perfectly to Elia that I wanted to ask if you could write a little story with her as queen regent of Rhaenys as future queen of Westeros. I know it's a bit strange since Aegon would have been the king, but I believe faithfully that Elia would have fought for her daughter to be the queen, without marrying her brother. Thanks for the incredible story you upload, they are great.

Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy and that this isn’t too contrived :)

It takes days of negotiations, just the two of them, before they reach an agreement. Neither of them likes the deal, but then, that’s what compromise is. The little things take no time at all; it’s the sticking point that takes the dragon’s share of their time.

Rhaegar would not be moved on his demand that Aelyx, his Stark-looking infant bastard, would be raised in the Keep. He had not pressed for legitimization or princehood, but just the thought of the child being raised here had turned her stomach. Even with acknowledgement and residence being the only benefits the babe receives, it is far too much of a reminder of Daemon Blackfyre for Elia’s comfort.

And so she had had to declare her own dealbreaker: Rhaenys must be named heir. It didn’t–and doesn’t–matter to her whether he adopted Dornish primogeniture for good or whether he used a kingly proclamation, only that once all is said and done, Rhaenys would in due course be queen in her own right. He had balked, though she had expected that.

Refuse, and I will take the children away in the middle of the night and you will never see them again, mark my words, she had warned. Refuse, and your prince that was promised, two of your heads of the dragon, will be plucked from your grasp.

He must have seen the murderous sincerity to her face, or else even the possibility fo his prophecy being thwarted was too much of a risk, for eventually, he had agreed.

And he follows through. The next day, he informs the Small Council, and later the court, of his will. There is uproar to the highest degree, as predicted. Not only is Rhaenys a girl, they all complain, but she resembles a Targaryen no more than Elia herself.

Yet somehow Rhaegar quiets them, at least for now. He reminds them that Rhaenys’s namesake had been a queen in her own right, and had King Jaehaerys not skirted previously established law, the next Rhaenys would have been queen, too.

But perhaps Elia should not be surprised that he would convince them. Rhaegar’s silver tongue had managed to mend the realm, more or less, after the civil war he had helped start; this would have been simple.

The ravens fly that very day.

Rhaenys is far too young to understand the gravity of the decision, barely four as she is, yet every time Elia imagines the future, her half-Dornish daughter ruling from on high, it gives her vindicated pleasure.

She is not an ambitious person by nature, but if Rhaegar could parade his bastard in front of her, putting her children in danger by the boy’s very existence, spur talk of whether Rhaegar would favor his northern child over his trueborn ones, then by all the gods she will ensure her position. She will remind the realm that Dorne is not powerless. Dorne will not be threatened. More importantly, Rhaegar could never underestimate her nor try to set her aside–were that his inclination, or even a possibility, though she doesn’t think it is–nor think his role is the only one that matters.

Naming Rhaenys his heir, even if he only does so in defense of his prophecy, would remind him until he breathed his last breath that she, Elia of Dorne, would always hold sway.

It does work, in the end. Oh, there are always rumblings of dissent, fervent enough to make her uneasy, but nothing ever truly materializes. As the years pass, almost all of those who had opposed Rhaegar’s edict finally resign themselves to it, switching from staunch opposition to putting forth their sons or brothers or cousins–or even themselves–as a potential consort.

Elia never comes to accept Aelyx–how could she?–never mind that he has no title and that he claims he’s sworn his sword to his half-siblings. But much like the citizens of Westeros have accepted Rhaenys’s heirship, so has she accepted that he is here to stay. At the least, he seems as uncomfortable around her as she is around him.

She is profoundly skeptical when on his sixteenth nameday he approaches her and says that when there is an opening, he wishes to don a white cloak, whether for Rhaegar’s Kingsguard or Rhaenys’s Queensguard.

It would give me a purpose, he tells her. And mayhaps it would show you once and for all that I intend never to threaten my brother and sister. I love them, Your Grace.

It seems too grand a gesture, too good to be true–and yet when Lord Commander Hightower passes in his sleep, the boy indeed presents his case to Ser Arthur, Ser Gerold’s successor, who in turn presents it to Rhaegar. So it is that nigh on his nineteenth nameday, Aelyx Waters takes the oath just as he’d promised.

She doesn’t know what to make of it, is only able to give him a nod, but he embraces it all the same.

Eight years hence, the moment Elia had envisioned for so long arrives. Participating in his umpteenth joust, a piece of wood that had splintered into the unprotected joint of Rhaegar’s breastplate festers, and within the week, he perishes, sending shockwaves through the realm.

Allaying Elia’s worst fears, one by one each lord paramount and each chief vassal sinks to his knee before the throne on which Rhaenys sits, swearing to her his fealty. Her consort, Prince Garlan, is seated in the chair at the base of the throne, pride his only expression, their twins at his side.

(That had certainly been a lengthy negotiation, too. Everyone knew the Tyrells were only nominally loyalists during the Rebellion, and as a Martell of Sunspear, she had not enjoyed the idea of marrying her daughter to a Reacher. But alternate options were few and undesirable, and Ser Garlan had been as charming as his uncle, so finally she had relented. That Rhaenys is besotted, now if not at the beginning, is a balm.)

Her daughter is a vision, Elia thinks with joy. She is clad in rich Targaryen crimson and black, her gleaming golden crown matching the dozen bangles on her wrists and the bands tying back her hair. She looks eminently content and confident on that mound of swords, eliciting the image of a dragon warming itself in the sun.

Her reign would not be without challenges, Elia knows–but no matter the rest, it is Rhaenys of Houses Targaryen and Martell, the First of Her Name, who is Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, for now until the end of her days.