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.

Author Notes: Start paying attention to the dates, they'll start changing a bit. As of right now, I'll use "Early" for the first six months of the year, and "Late" for the last six months. Starting soon, though, I'll be listing them as Month, Year (ex. 2, 275 AC for the second month of 275 AC). Also, need a name for the Rhaegar SI. I'll let ya'll come up with that.

Enjoy!

Rhaegar VI
Late 274 AC

Plan B wasn't progressing very well.

In fact, Plan B was a great big pile of shit.

I stood in the shadows of the theatre, watching the actors onstage under the direction of the Braavosi lead mummer while cursing in multiple languages. They just weren't fucking getting it.

Several carpenters still worked on the overhead beams, the steady hammer of mallets beating a rhythm in time with the scene. Construction had begun nearly six months ago, a few days after Lord Tywin had turned down my offer of reforming the City Watch. I had been very specific about what I wanted, and it took more than a little bit of gold to convince the carpenters to do it. Still, I had to watch them carefully to ensure they created this place to the exact specifications.

The hidden alcove was in reality a private box on the upper level of the raised balcony seating. Dead center, third level, with perhaps the best view of the stage. This high up, a crisp spring breeze meandered through the open roof, the coolness bringing the ever-present scent of fresh shit into my nostrils. I had gotten pretty good at detecting the different smells of shit in the last eight months. This smelled like... pig. Definitely pig.

Fuck. This. Place.

The interior pit was roughly a hundred feet in diameter, the dirt ground floor pounded down and covered in rushes for the smallfolk. To the anterior of the theatre was the three levels of the stadium style seating, progressively more expensive the higher one sat. Theoretically, at least. The Globe would take another month to finish and I could only pray that the actors below would approach something close to decent by the time the opening was announced.

Yes, Plan B was a play.

Jon snickered into his wine glass as the lead actor missed yet another line, skipped the next three, said a few from both the first and fifth acts, then somehow wound back up where he had started from. I ground my teeth and tightened my grip on the stout oak railing, hard enough that my knuckles turned white. It wasn't supposed to be this difficult. I had seen middle school students turn out a better production than this.

I signaled the lead mummer with a slight raise of my hand. He called for a break and began to make his slow way up the flight of stairs to my private box. Jon reached over and poured more wine into his glass, propping his feet up on the railing. "Another fine showing, Rhaegar," he said sardonically.

I sighed as I sat next to him and poured myself a glass. "I just don't know. Do you think the material is too difficult?" I asked, turning to him.

Jon shrugged. "I know little of mummers and their ways, but I have seen a few farces. This isn't that. It's..." he said, drifting off as he sought the right word. "It's complex and dramatic, and serious. Maybe too serious." He paused, swirling his wine, his face and tone taking on an uncommon seriousness of its own. "It's eloquent, probably too eloquent for the majority of the smallfolk. Why you insist on their being allowed inside is beyond me. But it's poetic and it's real. Certainly different. Or maybe this is just the wine talking," he said, his smile returning as he upended another glass. His fifth, if I was counting.

I smiled and nodded at the compliments, knowing it wasn't entirely my work being praised. "I just hope it does well." I took a deep drink of wine myself, the delicately spiced red bolstering my confidence in the material, if not the execution. "Better than well. I hope Brynden & Alysanne is performed and watched from the Wall to Dorne, even in Essos. Maybe especially in Essos."

That was the crux of Plan B. I wanted a reputation, each facet carefully crafted and maintained to produce a particular reaction. Extreme competence, a true Renaissance man, so that none could challenge my ability to take on a new task. I would be a Shakespeare, a da Vinci, a Locke, a Cromwell, and a Rothschild all rolled into one, dragging Westeros as close to the Renaissance as I could. Provided I didn't fuck it all up.

But there was another part to Plan B, something more insidious. Back in the real world, I wrote my dissertation on the social influences of Shakespearean drama, linking historical movements and events to concepts lifted directly from the Bard's work. For example, in King Lear, Lear gives up his land, title, and crown to his daughters, and still expects to be treated as king; after all, his is the divine right. It is not the adornments or the wealth that make the king, in his view, rather that the king is the king inherently, whether with robe and scepter or soiled rags. Of course, this isn't the case, as he wanders the storm with nothing. Indeed, the concept of nothing is important throughout the text, as Lear discovers what is inherently his; nothing. The king is nothing without his wealth and land and crown. This, taken by itself, means nearly nothing, but it is important to note that one of the most defining moments of British history came a mere two generations after the first performances of Lear; the execution of Charles I, and the rise of the Commonwealth.

The point is, the written word has power. My being here is proof of it. And without a literate population and a widespread printing industry (both of which were on my list of things to do), plays and the theatre were the best way to introduce my ideas and effect social change.

Jon looked at me with a knowing look. "The maidens will love it, from the highborn to the lowest tinker's daughter. Hell, I love it. Especially the Roderick character," he said, laughing. "'A plague on both your houses!'" he quoted, shaking a fist at an imaginary character.

I snorted. "You would." The hard-drinking, rebellious, sarcastic character, while created by a better playwright than myself, was inspired in part by Jon.

"Well, why wouldn't I? He has all the best lines. 'Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.' People will love it!"

"Yes," I said, as the lead mummer appeared in the doorway. "If the Braavosi bastards don't fuck it up." I made sure the man heard the last statement.

Izembaro, the best mummer money could convince to sail across the Narrow Sea, was a semi-athletic man quickly turning to fat, especially since his purse was several sizes bigger than it had once been. He flashed me an actor's smile and wrung his hands just enough to make it sincere. "Your Grace will forgive me, but they are trying their best. It's just that this material is different from anything we've performed before." He bowed low. "It is a masterful play, Your Grace. Indeed, the best written I've ever seen. The others, they just don't know how to properly appreciate it."

"And you do?"

The Braavosi smiled and nodded. "Your Grace, I've read a great many plays from a great many places, and none have approached this."

I knew the man was a first-class ass kisser, but there was a ring of sincerity to his tone. Either that, or he was a much better actor than I had given him credit for. I nodded to him, "My point, exactly, Izembaro. This is a great play and I expect great acting. Tell them to be more subtle, all except Roderick; him I want over the top. Brynden and Alysanne should truly believe themselves to be in love, not the farcical trash I've seen thus far."

Izembaro looked puzzled. "But, Your Grace, are they not simply children, caught up in children's love?"

"Leave that for the audience to decide."

"My pardon, Your Grace?"

"The audience, man! Leave the interpretation up to the audience! No need to feed it to them. Let them think on it, talk it out amongst themselves in every tavern and hearth in the city."

Understanding lit up Izembaro's face. "Ah! Your Grace, that's brilliant! They'll talk about it, their words convincing others to come to the next performance. The audience will practically do the street hawker's job for us, free of cost!

I smiled proudly and nodded. "My thoughts as well."

He turned to leave but stopped in the doorway. "And the ending, Your Grace?" Izembaro asked timidly.

I looked at him flatly. We had been over this multiple times. "The ending stays, Izembaro."

"Your Grace, I don't mean to presume, but surely a wedding at the end, uniting Houses Blackwood and Bracken, would be a much better ending than the young lovers' deaths?"

The cup I threw in frustration didn't come close to hitting him, but it did succeed in hurrying him down the stairs. "Do as I say, Izembaro, or I'll come down and do it myself!" I yelled after him.

Jon looked at me with an uncustomary glance of caution. "Rhaegar, that wouldn't be right. The Crown Prince, running around in the dirt with mummers? It's just not done." He shrugged sympathetically. "In the taverns with the smallfolk are one thing, but mummers? You would be the laughing stock of King's Landing. The Mummer Prince, they'd call you."

I fixed Jon with a level stare. "And what they call me now? The Playwright Prince?"

He shrugged, pouring another glass. "That is your own fault, Your Grace," he said, the emphasis turning the honorific derogatory. "You spend your nights here, out of the Red Keep. Poor Ser Barristan has barely gotten any sleep in the last four months, watching over you like a hen."

I leaned back against the bench and tried to change the subject. "Alysanne is doing well. Her voice is perfect for the stage."

Jon looked at me for a moment and sighed. "What happened after Jaehaerys' death isn't cause for a self-imposed exile," he said, looking around. "Especially not to a half-finished playhouse."

I exhaled roughly through my nose. After Jaehaerys' death, the wet nurse that had tended him was publicly beheaded, as the King claimed she had been responsible. I was no stranger to blood, but the way hers had cascaded down the platform steps before slowing to a trickle, drip, drip, dripping to puddle on the cold stone. The smell was overpowering, hot and coppery, stinging my eyes. But her death absolutely paled in comparison to what the King did next.

Aerys later decided it had been his mistress and her entire family that was guilty of Jaehaerys' death. They had poisoned the infant prince, according to the king. And without a trial, or a lawyer, or anything remotely resembling due process, they had been tortured and tortured and tortured before finally dying in agony. I had left the Red Keep the next day, sleeping in the backstage portion of the theatre, Ser Barristan my new roommate.

He didn't ask me to explain my change in residency, nor did he seek to justify the King's actions. We existed in silence most of the time, waking in the early hours of every morning and training with the sword for hours, followed by a break for writing, more training with one of the other Kingsguard, rehearsal for the play, and more training into the night. It was a mechanical way to live, one that suited my mood.

Those deaths were on my hands. I had been so focused on me and my plans that I hadn't even thought about the consequences of not changing the timeline. I could've done something; advocated on their behalf, begged the King for leniency. Hell, I could've taken a knife to Aerys' neck a few seconds after arriving. I might've been arrested and killed for treason, giving the throne to Lord Baratheon. Or maybe those butterflies would've made Jaehaerys live and he could've taken the throne fifteen years from now.

All of those could'ves and might'ves and maybes stacked up. The knowledge that everyone, from this point on, that died at the Mad King's order was on my head was a sobering realization.

"The Braavosi has a point, you know."

I looked up, having barely heard Jon's words. "What?"

"The ending. It's tragic. Perhaps too tragic," Jon said, jerking his chin toward the stage.

I looked to the stage as they set up the props again and took their places. "If you think life isn't a tragedy, you haven't been paying attention."