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): Well that's just about the only concession I make to ol' GRRM. I think he's a brilliant author, and the worlds he builds are on the tier between amazing and OMFG. But I do have a level of disapproval in regards to how he treats fans in general. I'm aware that he doesn't approve of fanfiction, even if he's never gone around or had anyone go around contracting websites to tell them not to archive anything based on his work. So I wanted to make it clear with a blanket disclaimer that I don't make profit here, and that not only that but I don't have monetary claims from I produce. If GRRM decides to scoop up any ASOIAF fanfiction I write and sell it, he's more than welcome to, and if he decides to write some alternate reality work that's eerily close to this stuff, I don't have any right to demand some monetary compensation for it.
But writing fanfiction is a labour of love. And I do love the universe GRRM has built. In the words of CM Valente "My characters and worlds are not wholly mine in the spiritual sense, even if they are in a legal sense. Reading is an active sport, and we create books together, in the space between my words and your heart. I put those people into the world, into the sphere of collective imagination. How can I possibly begrudge others playing with them? The whole point of publishing them was for others to love them. "
That all being said, I suppose I should get on with it.
The Sword of the Morning
The Iron Throne loomed, dark and warped remnants of melted blades twisting up behind him and between his fingers as he sunk down into it. Silver hair marks a bright streak against the finely pressed midnight black leather that clothed his form, punctuated by the blazing indigo eyes that take in even the smallest detail among the courtiers of His hall. 'The King is a ghost.' some of them chuckled into their cups in only the most private of parties, pushing away the intimidation the royal wears like a cloak.
Rhaegar Kinslayer was no ghost.
Fixing his eyes on the great oak doors that closed over the entrance to the Red Keep's hall, Rhaegar drew a slow deep breath through his nostrils. Giving the most incremental nod possible, the King gave the signal to open the doors to the daily lines of petitioners awaiting an audience with their sovereign.
The latest Targaryen King practiced a wildly different method of ruling compared to his father and predecessor. The court of Mad King Aerys had been a place of petty amusements stifled with fear in the latter days of the capricious sovereign. Rhaegar remembered well his predecessor, and the way Aerys had died choking on the blade of his elder son.
Nobles too young to know the terror filled days that filled the years prior to and during Rhaegar's Rebellion complained in quiet corners, where they believed their words would not reach The Crown, about the solemn and humourless atmosphere of the court. The Kinslayer heard well the complaints of his subjects, but was unable to force a smile onto his face in the hall housing the Iron Throne.
The chamber was filled with the screams of the dying and the stench of burning flesh in Rhaegar's mind. The King still suffered from nightmares years later about the burnt and black corpse of Brandon Stark – just one result of that macabre display of murder. Torture, civil war, and kinslaying all spawned by an offhand inebriated joke about Tywin Lannister and Aerys Targaryen in a King's Landing tavern by the deceased previous Stark Lord's older son.
The smallest events had the largest consequences it seemed.
White leather gloves creaked as Barristan Selmy visibly tightened a wrinkled but still strong hand around the hilt of his blade. Standing alert at the foot of the short stairs that led up to the throne upon which his liege sat, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard watched the first petitioner stop at a respectable distance from the King.
The old knight had no suspicion that the peasant woman would or could do any more harm than the other untold thousands that had presented their dilemmas to the King during his reign. But the lessons the White Bull had taught a young knight in the time of Jaehaerys the Second would never be abandoned by the now aged man. A teaching of complete wariness and attention that had only been hammered bone deep by a life of civil war.
From King to King, Barristan would give his utmost to his duty. The wise but short lived Jaehaerys had named him to the Whitecloaks, and been given in return everlasting loyalty in the living world. Aerys had inherited the knight, and enjoyed unbroken service during his life despite all the cruelty and malice of the Mad King. Rhaegar had taken the old knight from the opposite end of a battlefield, coming to the wounded Selmy in the tents of the wounded afterwards with pardon, and taken one of the last of his father's Kingsguard into service then and then.
For that, Rhaegar would have Barristan's loyalty in both the living world and the next.
A short distance away, Ser Arthur Dayne took in the the sight of the orderly court with a jaundiced and experienced eye.
Besides the Lord Commander, only the Sword of the Morning remained on duty from the days of Aerys' Kingsguard. And it was well that Barristan the Bold had lost no respect for his Shield Brother when the younger knight had chosen to take up Dawn in service of Rhaegar, rather than Aery's on the very first day the Crown Prince had chosen to stand against the King.
The same could not be said of Jaime Lannister. The laughing blonde had never enjoyed the positive regard of Barristan, even if Arthur was fond of the only knight to ever depart the Kingsguard. If Jaime had continued to serve Rhaegar, the potential for personal conflict between the young man and Lord Commander would have been large.
It was a moot point however, after Rhaegar had released Jaime from his vows and restored to Lord Tywin the old lion's favoured heir. The agreement had bought Rhaegar both Lannister armies during the Rebellion, and enough of the cool lord's regard that naming Jon Arryn as Hand of the King had not been cause of conflict between the new King and his Warden of the West. The consolation prize appointment to office as Master of Coin most likely helped, Arthur thought ruefully.
Not all had passed out of the civil war so unscathed. The Wardenship of the South had passed out of Tyrell hands and into that of their historical rivals, the Martells. The frequent absence of the Lord of Highgarden and families of the Reach from court was conspicuous when the other noble families of the Southlands mingled freely in the court of the King. Only the Starks and distant Northern houses beyond the Neck rivaled the quiet isolation the Tyrells had chosen.
The political distance between King's Landing and Highgarden was a frequent concern of the King's. Friction between the breadbasket of the Seven Kingdoms and everyone else was only a lightning rod for potential future conflict, and after one bloody war Rhaegar had no desire to start another.
Arthur couldn't blame him.
As skilled a warrior as he was, not even Arthur could cut starvation with a blade. If another civil war raged, and if Highgarden went over to the rebels, hunger would stalk every homestead between Dorne and the Neck.
It couldn't be allowed to happen.
Theon
Rope creaked under strain. Pulling taut against the weight of its catch, the hemp net lurched from the black depths of the Sunset Sea. Grasping the seawater soaked hemp, Theon threw his back into the effort and with a final heave, the crew of the White Wind pulled the day's final load of cod on board.
Straightening with a sigh, Theon wiped the sweat from his forehead and gave a nod to the captain of the longship. The ship itself sat lower in the water than it normally would have beneath the weight of the daily catch, and if they were to make it to Lordsport before the sun was gone, they would have to go now.
Theon ignored the hustle and shouts of the fishermen about him as he meandered to aft, dropping down in the stern most rowers' position and taking up an oar. The tired ache in the Greyjoy's muscles was a welcome feeling born from a hard day's worth of useful work. Unlike Rodrik or Maron, Theon was no stranger to some measure of honest labor.
'There is a great difference between fear and respect, Theon. The people of the Seven Kingdoms have long feared the Ironborn, but they've never respected them.'
Quellon was alternatively adored and hated among the Ironborn, even if the old Lord was still considered the wisest Greyjoy that ever lived among the Greenlanders. As a boy, Theon had been woken many times by the furious cursing of his father and uncles on drunken nights. Balon's third son was more than familiar with the many criticisms the Lord of the Iron Islands had laid at his feet. Spineless. Pandering. Soft. Naive.
'Do not fear small minded men Theon. They are easily moved to rage and violence by things they have no capability or desire to understand. Simply because Ways are Old does not make them better. Do not shirk change if it may be good.'
(Sometimes Theon wondered that if going against a thousand years of tradition was weak, what was strength?)
The oak beneath his palms began to truly dig into the calluses of his hands as Theon pulled. White Wind sliced through the quiet sea like a blade, making good time east as the crew made homeward from the deep depths to the West of the Iron Islands. No man of the Seven Kingdoms knew what lay beyond the Sunset Sea, and the Greenlanders were notorious for their fear. Few ships ever came from those lands any further than the Iron Islands. Only the Ironborn were fearless on the sea, and only they still sailed into the far West with any regularity.
It was all the better for them, since none of the greenland fishermen were brave enough to look for the rich fishing grounds West of Great Wyk. Smiling appropriately when one of the crewmen made a ribald joke, Theon plunged into the field of crass humour with a practiced tongue. It took little to no thought for the Greyjoy, who had been raised from the crib to lead a crude but hearty people.
Being the grandson of the Lord Reaver came with a certain degree of fear and awe itself from the common men that fished the Sunset Sea. Most Ironborn knew in an distant way that their work went to feed and clothe the Lords of Wyk. Yet save for old Quellon, it was rare that the rulers with power of life and death over them would mingle freely with them - the Lords typically only bothered with those men rich enough to own their own ship. Until Theon.
'He who wishes to be obeyed must learn to command. Until you look a man in the eyes and hear his voice, you can never truly know his heart. To tame a heart, you must understand it. Otherwise you may find yourself deserted by those wild hearts you never bothered to recognize when the blades close in.'
It has taken a week of sweating like a pig among them before the commoners he worked with had stopped looking at Theon like some strange creature descended out of a fairytale. Ship-by-ship Theon moved, working with one crew for a few weeks before moving on to the next. Word spread among the port, passed like fire from tongue to wagging tongue until the news had spread even to the hall of Castle Pyke.
Rodrik had merely shaken his head and buried his face deeper in his sweet and red greenlander wine. Maron still laughed from time to time about it, making japes to all who would listen about Theon being a Greenlander changeling. Balon flew into a seething rage at the choice of his son to work anything but the Old Way of raiding. Asha had only pinned him with half-lidded dark eyes, a curious expression that told him he was doing something she had not expected.
(But then, he and Asha themselves did many things unexpected since then. The thought of which had his cock twitching beneath his breeches, and wondering about the quickest way to get into his sister's cunt without being caught by one of their siblings, or parents, or Drowned God forbid Aeron. Though Theon supposed that incestuous ungodly heathens that the passion Asha had for him and he had for her precluded him from asking anything of the God Beneath The Sea.)
Quellon had contorted his stern craggy face into a smile. That Theon was the old Greyjoy's favoured grandchild was no great secret, though few understood how such a thing had come about. It was not as though Theon would confess to having reduced to hiding from his brothers' beatings in Quellon's study, and Quellon himself had never told anyone of the day he'd discovered a young boy crying beneath his desk. They only knew that one day the two had been nearly strangers, and the next practically confidants.
White Wind slid into Lordsport with the last rays of the sun, silently gliding into dock next to dozens of other longships that had retooled for fishing. Using the Iron Fleet to greatly increase the capability of the Ironborn to take in fish during peacetime had sent Balon into a cursing rage and Victarion into a stony silence.
Many had thought the Iron Fleet belonged to the Old Way. Reaving longships that had once enriched those men lucky enough to own a ship in the fleet or know someone they could serve with. Salt wives and riches had abounded among the Lords who were the only ones that could afford ships of their own to begin with - wood to build was expensive and rare on the Iron Islands.
Until Quellon. A strange unconventional Lord that spoke rarely and observed everything with a quietly measuring gaze. It was the Greyjoy's desire to see his people be more than beasts clinging to old glories on rocks in the sea that had spurred him to reform the society of the Ironborn one painful step at a time.
Thralls torn from their owners and freed to either settle on the Islands as freedmen or to be returned to the greenlands they were stolen from. The wealth of those that had made gold off the backs of slaves and cheap labor dried up with the freedom. The old religious binding of Ironborn and salt wife ended by the threat of the blade, with hundreds of Greenlander women released from glorified sexual slavery. The economic dominance of the old families broken by the use of every ship commanded by the Lord Reaver in fishing and transportation.
Wealth found its way into the pockets of those Lords that had seen the winds of change and into those of common people. No longer replaced by thralls in the mines, and given the opportunity for lucrative employment on the seas, the impoverished people of the Iron Islands couldn't help but whisper of Quellon's golden touch.
Theon just hoped that when the old man finally died, that his father wouldn't burn it all down out of spite and tradition.
Robb
"Great shot, Joff!"
Smirking over his shoulder, Joffrey Baratheon slid from the back of his horse and stalked towards the stag still squealing weakly as the arrow in its breast did its work. Blue eyes narrowed in consideration as Joffrey settled a hand over his dagger before sighing with good-natured exasperation.
Metal licked out, a bright flash beneath the light that split the stag's throat and ended the beast's life in short seconds. "No reason to leave it to suffer." The Baratheon heir shrugged, wiping the blade on the stag's pelt and turning about.
"True enough." Robb Stark laughed, clapping the dark-haired boy's shoulder before stepping around him to stare down at the dead stag. Whistling in admiration at its size, the redhead nudged a proud antler with his boot before calling Jon over. Between the three of them, they managed to lug Joffrey's kill across the rump of Joff's horse and lashed it down securely.
Pulling himself back up onto Bitefirst's back, Joffrey patted the well named and generally ill tempered stallion's neck before taking the reins. "Well lads," he began jovially, turning the horse around and starting off in the general direction of Winterfell. "Looks like it's my kill again."
Jon Snow merely scoffed loudly, nudging his own mare into following. "Well you know how it is, my Lord. Any other outcome simply wouldn't be showing off our famous hospitality."
Scanning the trees for the beaten path, Joffrey grinned. "If by hospitality you mean 'cold enough to freeze a man's cock and whores just as chilly to match', then I agree."
Robb coughed into a fist at that, hiding a smile. Joffrey's promiscuity was just as legendary – at least in their small corner of the world – as that of his father Robert's. Tall and comely, with sky blue eyes and soot black hair, Joffrey was the spitting image of the older Baratheon. Though admittedly it had been years since Robb had last met the Lord of Storm's End, and the memories of that meeting were foggy.
Hooves clapped beneath their horses as the three teenagers followed the forest past at a leisurely pace. The wind was crisp with a faint bite of cold, which was common enough in Northern summer. The half-melted banks of snow scattered about the landscape was a shock to any unprepared southron lord.
"So I guess they'll be carting you back off to Storm's End by the end of the month? Good riddance I say." Robb's voice was jovial enough, but both Jon and Joffrey were close enough to the Stark to detect the discontent floating beneath the airy tones.
Tossing his dark locks in exasperation, Joffrey turned an amused blue glare back at Robb. "Missing me already? Don't be such a woman. I'll write to you, never fear dearest." The Baratheon made kissing noises that had Robb grimacing in disgust and Jon breaking out in low chuckles.
"I'm the woman? I resent that coming from a long-haired, Southron puff. I heard you the first night you came here, you do realize? 'Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!'"
The teasing continued back and forth for a long while, easing the tension brought up at the thought of their impending separation. The boys had been fast friends, as their fathers before them, but it appeared those times were coming to an end.
"Hold up." Jon grunted suddenly, pulling his horse to a whickering stop. The bastard ignored the annoyed glares the two lordlings sent him as his dark eyes scanned the tree line. There had been something, a niggling feeling...
Dismounting in a smooth swing, Jon set a hand over the hilt of his sword and pushed through the brambles crowding the edges of the road. Branches crumpled behind him as Robb and Joffrey pushed on through after him, trying to grab his attention in low whispers.
The Stark heir had a hand over his own blade hilt, where Joffrey gripped the war hammer his father had sent him on his last name day between two hands. Thoughts of highway robbers or raiders percolated in the minds of the young men, driving energy through their bones with all the youthful naivety about the glory of battle.
Raiders could not be further from the truth.
"Stranger's balls!" the Baratheon bellowed when they came across the corpse of a great hulking beast. Frost had just begun to settle into the fur of the huge wolf where it laid sprawled over the forest floor, fur matted with blood. A faint snuffling drew Joffrey's gaze to the dead direwolf's teats, where lo and behold six scrawny little pups were desperately trying to suckle.
Swearing again, the black-haired lad ignored the stirring of pity to scan his gaze over the corpse again. "Died of the birth and the frost, do you think?"
Robb hummed his agreement, a strange look in his blue Tully eyes as he hunkered down next to the squalling pups and scooped one up into his arms. Gloved fingers scratched behind the little grey pup's ears, eliciting a small croon of pleasure.
Drinking in the queer look on Robb's face, Joffrey stared at the shivering pup in his friend's arms before realization dawned on him. "Oh no, I know that look." He muttered, voice rising. "Tell me that you're not going to play momma to a horde of great bloodthirsty beasts?"
"Why shouldn't I?" the Stark replied challengingly, pulling another pup up into his arms. "I think it's a sign. The direwolf is our sigil. Six pups for six Stark children."
"And the stag is mine, but you don't see me prancing about the forest riding one do you?" Pleading blue eyes turned to stare at Robb's brother. "Come on Jon, talk some sense into him!"
"Five Stark children." Jon Snow disagreed, peering down at the pup in his arms, which was the only albino of the litter. "There are only five trueborn Stark children. This one is mine."
Aegon
Panting and spent with effort, Aegon rolled off his sister to stare at the ceiling. Rhaenys was insatiable when she was in the mood, and the hours of lovemaking had left the siblings in a tangled sweaty mess.
Wincing at the first hints of daylight through the curtain, the Prince of Dragonstone made his way to his feet and stared down at his amused sibling. The smirk on Rhaenys' lips cut across on her pretty face, dusky skin glistening with sweat and dark hair tangled from their passion. The violet Targaryen eyes they both shared being the only feature she had inherited from their father.
"Well I'm sure you have many duties to attend to, my liege." Rhaenys pointed out with an air of mockery. "There's no need to wait on my little old self." The princess buried her face back into her pillow, fully intending to take advantage of her distinct lack of daily duties in administering Dragonstone to catch up on sleep missed.
Laughing at the annoyed growl she gave when he delivered a stinging smack to her arse, Aegon grabbed his pile of rumpled clothes from the foot of the bed and strode from her rooms and across the hall to his own. The servants had already set out a steaming tub of bathwater for him to cleanse himself with for the day, and the Prince wasted no time stepping in.
That he'd taken to fucking his sister almost every night was an open secret among the men and women that kept the castle for him. If not for their standing betrothal and the typical custom of Targaryen incest, Aegon suspected their trysting would garner more than amused titters and the exasperated letters from his mother telling them to be more discreet.
How his mother knew about who he was seeing in the night concerned Aegon more than the fact that she actually knew whose fields he'd been plowing and that she tolerated their incest rather than truly supported it. Obviously having spies in his household was pretty standard practice, though at some point she needed to learn to let go. They were practically grown by now.
They would have already been married if the Queen hadn't been so insistent that Daenerys needed to be older than just first flowered before Aegon married his sister and aunt. Not that he was complaining all that badly about taking two beautiful women to bed for the rest of his days, or until one of his wives-to-be died, but it was bound to cause problems.
His father had been most insistent however. The Dragon must have three heads.
Damn prophecies.
Heaving himself from the bath, Aegon scrubbed the moisture from his body with economical motions before pulling on a dark black cotton doublet, embroidered with the bloody red three headed sigil of his house. Dragonstone was a damp rock that constantly smelled of brine, with a biting chill that was only chased away by carefully tended fires. Or the warmth of another's flesh.
Dragging a hand through silver locks, Aegon forced his mussed strands into something somewhat presentable. The faster he could make it though his duties, the faster he could curl up in a warm bed with his sister.
First, an inspection of the guard.
Cersei
"There darling. Now doesn't that look splendid?" Putting the finishing touches on the tangled and complex style of her daughter's hair, Cersei beamed into the mirror. Myrcella drunk in the sight of midnight twists and fine braids before squinting her blue orbs into an identical pleased expression.
"Thank you mother." The girl offered before squirming free of the blonde woman's clutches and pattering out to the training salle to watch Robert lead his younger son though the proper motions of archery. Unlike her Joff, sweet Tommen would never have the temperament to truly take to all things martial. An oddity considering who his father was, but not even Robert could always make warlike sons. Perhaps an education at the Citadel would be in order?
Tapping a well-manicured fingernail over painted crimson lips, the Lannister women decided to bury the thought for some other time. It was far too early yet to be sending another son into the world, especially when her other boy would finally be coming home in a few months. Robert had insisted on fostering his heir with Eddard Stark at Winterfell, and despite Cersei's efforts had put his foot down on the matter.
Just as well, she supposed. She couldn't have everything go her way, even if she wanted it to. Robert was accommodating enough for a husband as it was, with his way of leaving the true power in Storm's End to her while he did little but hunt, fight, and fuck. Not that she objected the last, as the pleasant ache between her legs reminded her of the night before. If her simple husband truly wanted something, it was fair enough for him to have it.
Rising to her feet in a graceful motion, the Lady of Storm's End tossed her wavy golden mane back and went in search of the Maester. Cressan was pleasant enough to deal with, and said little when she availed herself of his herbs to make moon tea. Pylos still gave her scandalized looks, and Cersei amused herself by imagining how long it would take the naive young Maester to approach Robert to talk about her "improper" behavior.
She gave it another week before Pylos came stuttering to the Lord of Storm's End, only to find out that her habit of drinking the foul concoction had been a mutual agreement. As much as she and her husband loved their children, neither had a desire to have any more. The danger of more children did little to dampen their ardour for one another however, and the moon tea had quickly become a near daily necessity.
A faint rush of wind was the only warning she had before Cersei was swung up in a dizzying twirl. The air was filled with the smell of leather and sweat and man, and the blonde felt the peaking of her nipples beneath the red silk of her gown before Robert even set her down on her feet.
"Cersei." The Baratheon rumbled, standing tall over her with just the faintest dusting of silver at the temples. Robert's blue eyes were just as striking and heady as they had been on their wedding night, and the first beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of detracted from her husband's features not at all. The thick muscles of Robert's frame pressed through the dark leather jerkin against her, and the look that he gave Cersei was wanton and full of need. "Myrcella is off with the Septa, and Renly is showing Tommen around the salle."
The unspoken implications were obvious to the Lannister woman, and Cersei took a moment to consider. Robert was never offended when the blonde turned him away, as the lusty man would easily find his way to the whore house. Not that it truly bothered Cersei that Robert had such an appetite for the female flesh, but she felt a little stung at the notion that he would have more passion than her. The aroused warmth in her nethers quickly made the decision for her, and Cersei curled her red lips into a lusting smile.
The moon tea could wait.
Viserys
Swallowing down a sweet mouthful of Arbor gold, the Prince of Duskendale dragged a lilac gaze over the final draft of the blueprints for the realm's next flagship. A war galley of four hundreds oars would be a considerable undertaking, but Rhaegar trusted him as his Master of Ships, and Viserys refused to let his brother down.
The Seven Kingdoms had bled considerably fifteen years past, splitting in twain, and then fracturing even further. When Aerys had burnt Brandon Stark alive and caused the grieving Lord Rickard to call his banners, Viserys had been but a boy. He still had nightmares about Brandon's smoldering corpse and the skeletal figure of his father gloating about punishing petty insults.
Though the horror of that night probably failed to compare to the night Aerys decided to murder Rhaegar and his family as suspected traitors. Viserys thanked the Seven that he'd been shipped off with his pregnant mother to Dragonstone for safekeeping by that point. The Dowager Queen had always been gentle, and the remainder of the war passed without ever having to see his mad father again.
Vermithor's Fury. Scribbling the name onto the corner of the parchment, Viserys rolled it up and passed it to the engineer waiting nervously in front of his desk. The newest flagship of the Royal Fleet. Or it would be, until Rhaegar commissioned something even bigger and more impressive.
His brother ruled the kingdom with a wise and just hand, many agreed, and the realm flourished despite initial concerns about being governed by a kinslayer. Rhaegar had taken the Iron Throne only to find an empty treasury and a debt of a million Gold Dragons to the Iron Bank. Aerys had bankrupted the realm purchasing sellswords after his son turned against him. Fifteen years later found the treasury overflowing with gold, the laws and roads well maintained, and coin to spare investing in larger military might.
Viserys heard the whispers among the High Lords, and the boldest of them even asked to his face if his brother had plans to war beyond The Wall or with Essos. Or perhaps if he was finally going to give ear to Jalabhar Xho and lend him an army to conquer Red Flower Vale down in the Summer Isles.
Not that Viserys was at all the opposed to any of those possible ventures. Rhaegar was wise and cunning, and if the King led them to war to claim the Stepstones or the Summer Isles or a slice of Essos, Viserys had full confidence his brother would find victory for the Seven Kingdoms. But the enemies Rhaegar prepared for had eyes like blue stars and stunk of everlasting winter. Or so the tale said.
For once, Viserys dearly hoped Rhaegar would be wrong.
(AN): So this chapter clocks in just beyond 5000 words. I honestly expected to keep writing These Old Roads instead of working on this, seeing as how I've been ignoring it for a couple of months. But I read a lot of ASOIAF fanfiction, and got the urge. A Welcome Back To The Home He Left Behind, anyone?
The Rebellion: Still happened in 282-3AC. The impetus of it however, wasn't Rhaegar running away with Lyanna. After the tourney at Harrenhal in 281, Brandon decided to travel around the South to see the world. Which led to Brandon eventually being drunk in a tavern and making fun of Aerys, which got back to the Mad King (because it's a Stark talking about him), who promptly burned him alive. Rickard called the banners, Aerys called for the head of every Stark, which brought Jon Arryn and Robert to call their banners to protect their foster son/brother. The Rebellion proceeded, originally known as The Rising of the North.
Aerys however, grew more paranoid and mad over time and sent Viserys and the pregnant Rhaella to Dragonstone, before ordering the Kingsguard to seize Rhaegar, Elia, and their children for treason and execution. The Kingsguard splintered, Lewyn Martell and Arthur Dayne chose loyalty to Rhaegar and Elia over loyalty to Aerys, and Jaime left with them as he had little desire to continuing serving Aerys. They smuggled to Sunspear, and Dorne rose for Elia (and thus Rhaegar). At this point the conflict with the Starks became subsumed into The War of Two Dragons.
The Westerlands remained neutral. Skirmishes continued back and forth until Rhaegar approached Tywin with an offer. Join him, and when he won he'd release Jaime from the Kingsguard. Tywin agreed, and their combined forces won some devastating victories in the Reach, even temporarily breaking the Siege of Storm's End. At this point, the Isles defected to Rhaegar and Aerys began buying sellswords in large numbers. Rhaegar led a Siege on King's Landing at the same time Robert was battling an army led by Barristan the Bold and Jonothor Darry (who was killed in action) at the Trident. Rhaegar invaded the city after Varys arranged for the gates to open and had the Alchemist's Guild nearly eliminated in a series of assassinations (so the city would not be burnt at Aerys behest).
They sacked the red keep, where Arthur Dayne slew Gerold Hightower in single combat, Oswell Whent killed Lewyn Martell and was promptly slain by the Red Viper, and Rhaegar killed his own father on the steps to the Iron Throne earning his epithet Kinslayer. After taking King's Landing, they hurried their army North and found Barristan Selmy leading a much reduced loyalist army in retreat with Robert and his troops only hours behind. Barristan surrendered immediately when he learnt of Aerys death, and his army was absorbed by Rhaegar's. Jon Arryn was there and negotiations quickly took place. Peace was achieved and everyone went home, yay.
On Rhaegar not having a paramour/second wife: Because Dany was born, so there's his third head.
On Cersei and Robert: All their children are trueborn, and they have a great relationship. I'm of the opinion that those two would actually be a good match, but it was so poisoned by circumstances and Robert being unwilling to actually try. He's a good looking man with lots of charisma. His flaws play into her desires. He has no desire to rule, and she's perfectly happy to. Remember Cersei even in canon came to the marriage bed wet and willing. They both have large sexual appetites, and that can lead to a lot of passion with each other. They both love their children, and since Robert isn't being a fat slovenly drunkard weeping about Lyanna forever, the man actually invests in their children and their relationship. Which means happy marriage, happy kids, and Joffrey is not a raging monster.
Greyjoycest: Ever since that one scene where Theon is trying to get on her and she led him on, I've pretty well shipped it. It makes me wonder if it could have actually gone anywhere if Asha respected him. And what's Game of Thrones without a little incest anyway
Viserys: Without the stress of being a wandering beggar King, he's a relatively stable and nice guy.
