Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

A/N: I had to think about this chapter for a bit, the circumstances of it all, to perhaps make it as believable as possible while twisting the storyline to fit. Hope it does.

III - Meetings and Proposals

Everything was falling into place; yet, even the comforting thought could not keep the brow of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen from furrowing in worry. He shouldn't, can't, give the slightest wind of anything amiss, he mused as he sauntered through the halls of Harrenhal. Again, he tried to relax. Once the torney began he could take his mind off the plaguing matter and focus on what he enjoyed, jousting and combat. If he couldn't act the recluse in his private study, among his many volumes, he could at least delight in the small pleasures of the games.

Tall, moderately built, clean-shaven with a combed silver mane to his shoulders, Rhaegar had come to be the epitome of Targaryen style and grace. The assumption should've been that the dragon prince would revel in the power his birth and position had afforded him, yet, to all who knew him well, this was not the circumstance. Spoiled though he might have been as a boy, he had grown in the knowledge of royal advisors and mentors, as well as his father who had the most influence on him of all the lot.

Rhaegar held his father's actions as a reminder of what the effects of madness could culminate to. Never had he seen the man as anything but the king he tolerated; a fire within him charred and singed and his body tensed in reaction to the thought. In his youth, he found his father terrifying. Now, he saw him as a threat to the stability of the realm.

Yet, even though his apparent madness, Aerys still maintained many loyalties. Rhaegar knew that if Aerys was to ever be removed from the thrown, it would either be the day the man died or the day his followers were outnumbered. He hoped that the later could be achieved in less time than the first and with less bloodshed. The walls of King's Landing already stained with the blood of heads and reeking of death. If there was a soul who should fight for his home, his kingdom, it was he.

As he made his way to the many tents lined where the tourney was to take place, the sound of crashing armor and subsequent laughing caught his attention. Feet carried him to the place, a few tents away from where he previously stood, where he found three boys circled around a smaller one, huddled on the ground. Their enjoyment at the boy's plight spurred them to taunts and insults intermixed with howls of pain from the contact of boots with bones. The acts kindled the prince's surging anger at the sight, urging him toward the assembly. However, before anything could be done, a foreign voice resounded.

"That's my father's man you're kicking!" roared an angered woman, storming toward the gang, sword in hand and bite in her tongue. Upon seeing the weapon, or perhaps its wielder, the boys scattered in fright, leaving what looked to be a barely conscious body in their wake.

Amusement in the scene escaped in a chuckle from the dragon's lips, finding his anger's diffluence swift as he watched the woman kneel at the boy's side, doubtless inspecting his injuries. Rhaegar was suddenly struck as grey eyes, framed in a sharp face with dark tresses, connected with his own dark lilac ones. The anger that swelled in those eyes only intensified as they registered his presence, though he could not comprehend why. And as quickly as the gaze had been established, it was broken as the woman spoke words he could not hear and picked up the injured boy, leading him back to what he presumed to be her family's tent. 'Or lair,' he thought as he recognized the wolf sigil of House Stark upon the entrance. He briefly wondered if she was a Stark herself. Dark hair, a long sharp face, and the grey eyes of the North, if not a member of the Stark household, she certainly had the makings of one. In due time he would find out his question's answer, for what greater purpose did the tourney hold other than to become familiar with the members of other great houses. An alliance with the Starks of Winterfell would indeed be beneficial to his cause; if only he could win their support.

But, for now, he must focus on the preparations at hand. He would need to meet with Jon Connington to discuss his previous meeting with Lord Rickard Stark and his positions with the other great houses. And once again, the thought of it all brought his brow to a crease.

King Aerys II of House Targaryen had not always been known as the mad king. There was a time when he had been charming, generous, handsome, and full of promise. He had charisma and had been the hand of sweeping change in the court, replacing complacent, conservative courtiers with new, younger, and more progressive ones. There had been much to celebrate in his coming as king. All hopes were gone now, along with the king's sanity. Left in their wake remained fear, paranoia, and madness.

"Varys! Are you sure? Absolutely sure, mind you, I must be sure," the haggard old dragon paced in his quarters. "As my Master of Whisperers you must know, you have your…sourcessss."

The eunuch stood in the shadows of the tent, irked that the old fool had revealed his name. Even in these shadows did he not find security. "There has been talk, your Grace. The walls do have ears, and so do my little birds. Men are quick to talk if it would give a false sense of importance, even to a brothel's whore."

"Then it is settled, it is settled then. I must be ever vigilant, and vigilant must I stay. Those fools, the fools they are to think to defy me! Have they not seen what happens to those who challenge the crown!" And his eyes grew dark then, perhaps in fear, perhaps at the memory of an occurrence not too long ago passed. Varys remembers the Houses of Darklyn and Hollard; all that remained of their names are twisted in song and ink. Aerys had not been the same since and Varys briefly entertained the thought that had Aerys passed in the dungeons of Darklyn's keep and his heir, Rhaegar, crowned king, the capitol would have been spared the blood soaked walls. But there was no purpose in such thoughts.

"Fools as they are, my Lord, we mustn't make haste. Until they reveal their true intents can we not show our's. Let the fools believe they have the upper hand. It is in their false security that we shall rip their foundations from beneath their feet," Varys bowed, unsure of how Aerys would answer, unpredictable as he grew with each moon. He kept his breathing calm, his steps silent, but he could not ignore the tension growing in his chest with the passing seconds in the Mad King's company.

"Very well, spymaster, very well indeed. We will wait, but not so long, for I'd rather give the traitors to the flame than have them in my halls, in my halls. Yes, let the fire take them and their screams, their horrid, beautiful screams! Oh I can almost taste the horror in their eyes and in their burning flesh. The smell, the smell of it in the halls, how wonderful it is, yes indeed." And Varys could see in the king a fire, a lust in his gaze as he stared at nothingness, an unconscious hand reaching his groin in excitement. His long, yellow fingernails scrapping his leggings, the soft sound sending a spiked chill down the bald man's spine. The sound of Aerys' wheezing laughter escaped cracked lips, "And soon it shall be, shall be, before their charred heads are on my gates! How splendid! But what is that? Allies might rebel, no, they cannot! No one stands before the dragon and lives! Let them burn…let their ashes coat the city, their graves and let their children cower."

He spoke not to he, the eunuch reasoned. More often than not he caught the king speaking to voices he could not hear.

"My Lord, is there anything else?" he inquired, steady eyes purposefully never meeting those of madness. Aerys' head snapped towards his, as if only now realizing the eunuch remained in his presence. But just as soon as surprise had graced his face did it leave him, replaced with a grinning look of malice.

"Yes. The eldest Stark boy, I've heard he's been…boasting…the traitorous fool! How dare he challenge the crown, thinking his skill above a dragon's! I'll have his head on a spike before others can join his treachery and their's will line the walls for others to fear! They will fear the dragons!" Aerys slammed his fists on the adjacent table and with a lame swiftness, swept all its contents to the floor, glowering with eyes that held a mad wildness to them. Varys knew the irrationality of madness well and recognized the paranoia that lingered in the king's breath, in his eyes and words. An execution would indeed spark a revolt, one that was unnecessary and possibly fatal to the royal family, especially since the king had once insulted the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister, their relationship since tarnished. And a Lannister always pays his debts. That much is always remembered, ever since the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion.

'No, this will never do,' thought Varys, intent on both quelling the king's suspicions and not kindling suspicions against himself if he openly disagreed with the mad king. 'Delicately, yes, that was how this is to be handled.'

"That is most unfortunate, My Lord, being that Lord Rickard Stark is a most invaluable subject. He has been most helpful in the suppression of wildling raids in the North." As Varys anticipated, the mention of the Northern troubles brought another consideration to the mad king's eyes.

'He fears the North, the cold, the unknown,' contemplated Varys, suppressing the smirk that attempted on his lips. 'At least his madness had not taken over his sense of rationalization completely.' He watched as Aerys sat, his visage hard and thinking.

"Then a steward then? Why don't we take one of his sons as a steward? That should deter any thoughts of rebellion, lest his boy die if one breaks out," Aerys contemplated with a smirk, the darkness once again returning to his eyes.

"His boys are currently already promised stewards to Jon Arryn of the Vale," Varys stated, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "But he does have a daughter…"

Varys was no fool to the plights suffered to the Targaryen crown in regards to the production of an heir to the crown prince, Rheagar. His wife, Lady Elia of Dorn had birthed two children, a girl and a boy, one death occurring days after her birth, the other before his first breath had been taken. With each pregnancy she had grown weaker. It had been known that she was rather sickly from childhood, but when it was declared that it would be unlikely that she would grow heavy a third time, a foreign darkness reached her eyes and remained to this day. The kingdom knew her days as princess were numbered.

"Yes, the Dornish princess, that sickly, USELESS wife of that son of mine. I've been meaning to have her done away with," and again, those mad eyes began to glisten with a particular cruelty rarely seen. "Twice has she failed in her duty to produce a LIVING heir, twice too many failures. And what's worse, the sept declared her barren. Barren! She's of no worth if she cannot produce any heirs," and he paused, lost in thought for but a moment. "But the Stark girl…she's young, strong, as women from the north often are. But no matter, as long as she opened her legs long enough to produce a boy at least, her work would be done."

A cackle. A grin. His eyes finally hovered over to meet Vary's once more. The once political prodigy emerged, "Let it be done then. Call the council to annul the marriage between Rhaegar and the Dornish woman on grounds of failing to produce an heir to succeed to the throne and have the septs draw reports of her failing health conditions. Also, have a proposal drawn for the hand of Rickard Stark's daughter, whatever her name is, to be the chosen bride for my son. Rickard cannot refuse and thus, we will hold his daughter, and any subsequent grandchildren, as insurance against any thought of rebellion."

Somewhat relieved at Aerys' aversion to execution, Varys bowed, muttering a short affirmation before taking his leave of the tent, leaving the mad king to linger in his own, dark thoughts.