Disclaimer – This fanfiction was not written by me; it belongs to the user William Dellinger on alternatehistory, by publishing it here I only intend to bring it to a wider audience and make it available for offline reading. I do not claim any ownership of the content.

Rhaegar II
Early 274 AC

I had spent the majority of the day plucking at the stupid fucking harp, only succeeding in making random sounds come out of the damn thing. I was tempted to "accidently" drop it out of the window, but I had a sneaking suspicion a replacement would be found without much trouble. Besides, Jon seemed too excited for the excursion to be put off and, truth be told, I was ready to get out of the Red Keep. Not that I was eager to descend into the depths of Flea Bottom and probably get a knife between my ribs, but with Ser Barristan there, I didn't think I had a lot to worry about.

Yeah fucking right.

My mind ran through all of the possible dangers in slumming (stabbing, maiming, murdered, mugged, raped, kidnapped, lightning strikes), but I didn't really have a choice. Apparently, Rhaegar had been planning this trip for months with his good friends Jon and Arthur, only needing a Kingsguard escort to make it happen.

Yes, Arthur. Arthur fucking Dayne. Arthur fucking Dayne with the big ass sword with a name. Jon had been after him for weeks to convince him to leave it behind, as anyone with half a brain in his head would figure out who the "cloaked farmer" was if he kept it. Of course, if I had a sword that was the defining characteristic of my entire family, stretching back generations, I wouldn't want to leave it in a closet somewhere either.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows in my rooms. The pungent smell of shit was still there; I didn't think I'd ever get used to it. Both kinds of shit, too, fresh and days old. I walked over to the table where I kept all of my writing materials and underlined sewers for a third time.

The harp was resting on the table, next to the parchment. I thought briefly of another attempt at making something resembling music on it, but decided against. No, I would go into a tavern picked at random, make a half-hearted attempt at playing, get booed off the stage, and chalk it up to stage fright. Jon and Arthur would laugh – as much as they dared at a prince – and that would be that. Hopefully, I'd never be asked to pick the damned thing up again.

I stood naked in front of the large mirror and looked my new body up and down. I had been unusually happy to find that the massive inbreeding of House Targaryen hadn't physically affected me – two arms, two legs, no deformities. And as strange as looking at another person's dick was to me, I had been more than a little relieved to find a completely normal sized massive tree trunk above average penis between my legs.

Don't judge. I was grabbing at anything I could to make myself feel better.

Shit.

PHRASING!

I couldn't help it; I started laughing. For the first time in four days, I was laughing, deep, belly laughs that brought tears to my eyes and left me gasping for air. Rolling on the floor, hysterical laughing, so much that my stomach cramped, which only made me laugh harder.

All the problems of a psychotic, murder happy, medieval kingdom. But at least my dick is okay.

Not that I planned to use it any time soon. God only knew what kind of cock eating diseases ran rampant through the local female population. And with no wide access birth control, having illegitimate children would cause more problems than I already had.

I guess you could say, it might "give birth" to more problems.

Laughing again, I leaned over to the table and wrote invent sunglasses on the parchment.

A knock came at the door and without thinking I yelled for whoever it was to enter. Jon and Arthur came through the doorway, dressed in rough cloaks and what I assumed passed for "peasant's gear" in King's Landing. Arthur still had Dawn, though he wasn't wearing it, carrying it into the room like a baby.

Both of them stopped short, Arthur staring at me quizzically and Jon just staring. Then I realized that I was still naked.

Hastily throwing a cloak over me, I mumbled an apology. Jon's eyes were wide and his breathing was very, very tight and controlled. I supposed he thought he was being subtle, but the man might as well hung a sign around his neck. Arthur, on the other hand, shrugged stoically, as he usually did.

"Are we ready to go?" I asked, as I legged it into a pair of trousers and pulled on a pair of soft, leather boots after them.

Arthur nodded. "We'll meet Ser Barristan below and he will escort us into the city." Something in the tone of his voice made me look up and he continued. "Your father will not like this if he discovers it. I know," he said, raising a hand to Jon – who had finally recovered - "the King has made no order restricting Rhaegar's ability to walk among the people at night. But. The King is also very worried about a threat to the succession."

I paused, thinking about what I knew, both from Rhaegar's memories and my own. I knew the Queen had had half a dozen miscarriages since I had been born. A brief moment of pain for her suffering invaded the memory. I hated seeing Mother in pain, or Father taking it out on her while he had his way with her ladies in waiting and gods knew who else.

"Jaehaerys is well, and hopefully will continue to be so. Besides, Mother is not even thirty yet." Now, I don't claim to remember much about that part of the family tree from skimming the wiki, but I knew there wasn't a character named Jaehaerys that played any part in the series. The kid was going to die, I just didn't know when.

"And if not? And then you take a thief's knife in an alleyway?" Arthur pressed.

"Well," I said, drawing out the word, "you and Jon will probably get beheaded for letting that happen, for starters." I shrugged. "And then I don't know. Who's next in line for the throne?"

Jon cursed under his breath, Arthur raising an eyebrow at his companion. Jon gestured an apology toward me. "Steffon Baratheon is likely. It would be through the female line, though, and the maesters would argue over it, but there's no one else with a better claim. Though," he said, a dark look crossing his face, "his age means his eldest would be the first to sit on the throne. Robert."

I nodded, deep in thought. "Robert. My cousin." That was interesting, to be sure. Could I do something with that?

"We should be going," Jon interrupted. "Ser Barristan is waiting for us."

Arthur nodded. "I would much rather keep this with me if we are to journey into Flea Bottom. But I understand the need for discretion. I would keep it in here, if you have no objection?"

"Of course," I said. "Hide it on the other side of the bed. No one will bother it there." I moved to walk towards the door, cloak trailing behind me. I liked cloaks. Warm and stylish, plus all of the little pockets on the inside that–

"Rhaegar?"

I turned to find Jon holding the thrice-damned harp up from the table. "Right. Can't forget that, can I?"

We made our way through the Red Keep, meeting up with Ser Barristan, who was garbed similarly to the three of us. He was much younger than I had thought initially, his hair and beard still mostly blonde. Of course, he was not yet forty now, still in the prime of his life. He bid us be quiet and we made our way down into the city proper.

"We'll make our way toward the Great Sept and then cut across toward the Dragonpit. It's not the most direct route, but it's the safest, I'll wager." Ser Barristan said.

The smell of shit was even stronger here, and the closer we got to Flea Bottom the worse it got, mixing with all sorts of other, atrocious smells that I couldn't even identify. At least it's not daylight, I thought. The heat would make the tanner's sheds and winesinks even worse.

We reached a tavern that Ser Barristan said he had scouted earlier in the day. Not the most raucous he could find, he admitted, but the one most likely to leave everyone alive at the end of the night. He pulled us three aside before we entered, speaking low and softly.

"My lords, Your Grace. This will not be like the other taverns in the city I've taken you to. It's a rough place, with rough men. If they discover you hold coin, or if they decide they like your cloak more than they do their own, they might very well decide to take it from you. Have a mind toward that. And, your Grace, do be sure to keep your hood up when you play. A sight of that silver hair and they may remember that they have very little to lose."

I nodded, listening to the rattle and shake of the ramshackle tavern. "Ser Barristan, we will do exactly as you ask. Though, if you would not mind, drop the Your Grace. Someone might overhear."

Ser Barristan nodded. "As you say." He turned and led us into the tavern, the sound only getting louder the closer we walked. Jon gave me a mischievous grin and walked through the door behind Ser Barristan, bold as brass. I followed, and Arthur brought up the rear, his eyes searching the outside darkness.

As we made our way to a table, I motioned to Ser Barristan. "Should Gold Cloaks be sitting in a tavern?" I asked, with a jerk of my head toward another table.

He half-turned, eyes narrowing. "No. They should not."

The room was loud with a dozen semi-muted conversations, each spoken more often into the deep tankards of ale. They were a rough lot, as Ser Barristan had noted, but not dangerous exactly. Just poor, tired from a long day's work, and using the little coin they had to forget their miseries for a time. It was a breed of man I knew well, growing up as I did. Back in the real world.

Don't think about that. Just go up there, fuck it up as much as you can, take the boos, and go the fuck home.

I stood, harp banging against my leg with every step, and made my way to the stool in the corner of the room. Jon gave me a broad smile half-hidden by one of those tankards and settled himself in. Arthur spared a nod for me before going back to checking the exits and the faces of those gathered. Ser Barristan kept glancing at the Gold Cloaks, a slight glare crossing his face every now and then.

I sat on the stool and wiped sweaty palms on the leg of my trousers. Holding the damn thing awkwardly, I plucked a few notes and the crowd seemed to turn as one toward me, half with amused interest, the other half annoyed.

Ok. Deep breath. But then something happened. My hands seemed to move of their own accord and I shifted the harp into another position. The right position. My left hand, heavy and blocky during my earlier attempts, nimbly fingered the strings, crafting notes that seemed sad, longing, almost despairing.

Music actually started to come from the harp and–

"–and grown men – grown men, I tell you – crying into their ale like they'd lost their wives and mothers. I've never seen anything like it," Jon exclaimed, clapping me on the back.

I looked up with a start. We were outside, walking along the street, with the tavern more than a half mile behind us. The city seemed dead, asleep, so different than it had on the way to the tavern.

Vague memories filtered in. Playing the harp for what seemed like hours. Sad songs, followed by a rousing drinking song, followed by what I'm pretty sure was Wonderwall. Leaving the tavern with a tankard full of coin, which I still had in my hand. Gifts from an admiring audience.

Ser Barristan seemed to be grinning as well. "Well done, Your Grace. If you carried the sword half as well as you carry the harp, perhaps you wouldn't have so many bruises from our training sessions."

The smile froze on my face as I desperately tried to make sense of what was happening. I dropped the tankard full of coin off to a young boy, curled up on the side of the narrow street, watching us with fear and apprehension.

You and me both, kid.

Even with the vague memories, there were still holes in the night that I just couldn't fill in. Things I couldn't make sense of. One thing was for sure.

Rhaegar was still in my fucking head.