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 VII
Late 274 AC

"I'm going to do it."

"Rhaegar, please don't."

"I'm doing it."

"Rhaegar, I'm begging you."

"I have to do it."

"Rhaegar..."

I finished off the last of my wine and stood, stalking down the stairs to the interior pit. It was well past nightfall, which meant the torches were lit, casting shadows around the Globe, making it appear even bigger that it was. Construction was finished, the structure stood of its own volition, and already flyers were nailed on every upright surface announcing the opening of King's Landings' first playhouse and the production of a new play. My name wasn't mentioned on the pieces of parchment strewn throughout the city, at the suggestion – demand – of Jon, but the name on everyone's lips was mine. Izembaro had renamed his troupe "The Prince's Men" in my honor, after all. It was a calculated risk, I knew; I wasn't sure how the King would take to his son and heir indulging in plays, but many had spoken of his love for the arts in his younger days, before he became king. Maybe this was being passed off as youthful folly at small council meetings, I didn't know. Didn't much care, either. I was the sole heir and was thus untouchable.

My footsteps at the base of the stairs alerted Izembaro to my descent and he turned, abandoning the actors upon the stage. It was the balcony scene and Rosley, the mummer playing Brynden, was climbing the balcony wall and turning it into some slapstick garbage, all under the eye of Izembaro. The first preview performance was barely two weeks away and they weren't ready, not even close.

Izembaro met me halfway across the pit, but I brushed past him and walked directly to the stage, cloak trailing behind me. Once the mummers noticed that I was coming toward them, they all dropped to one knee, heads bowed and eyes on the floor. This was the first time they had actually seen me as I was, rather than a shadowy figure on the third level. I pulled the cloak from my head, revealing the shoulder length silver hair and lavender eyes they were looking for. Most of them were Braavosi, so the look of ancient Valyria wasn't unfamiliar to them; but some of them were Westerosi. There was a gasp as truth replaced rumor.

"Rise, all of you."

They slowly came to their feet, shakily at first. They were mummers; lower than any of the smallfolk and they knew it. The starving artist trope was no mere affectation here, rather a way of life for most of them. Especially here in Westeros, where interest in the arts were mostly restricted to the nobility, other than the street shows that gained them coppers.

I saw them in a different light, what they could be, and it was time they did the same.

"The stage is an empty box. It is up to us to fill it," I said, walking slowly up the stairs to the stage. "Some choose to fill it with laughter and farce, a momentary respite for the audience from the meaningless drudgery of their lives. And your own." This was said to their eyes, no doubt the first time they had ever looked a member of the nobility in the eye. "We will choose a different path. We will fill our box, our stage, with fury and passion. We mine the human soul for truth, our stage a window into a reality of our own making. This scene," I said, pointing to the balcony, "is the point in which our two lovers meet for the first time as themselves. They have lost their masks; they are laid bare. What we see here is the truest expression of emotion in the entire play. Is that the time for farting while falling off a balcony?" This last, quiet sentence was directed toward Rosley, who at least had the decency to look abashed. All of them did, those that would meet my eye. All except Jenny, the bare slip of a girl playing the role of Alysanne. She looked at me with wide, bright eyes, her mouth slightly open. She was Westerosi, her accent striking a hard memory of the West.

The mummers answered with murmured 'no, milords,' their heads hanging down. I shook my head. "You must forget the way the world sees you off of this stage. You may not be welcome at their tables, or married to their daughters and sons, but here, on this stage, you are lords. You are princes. You are kings."

They stood stone still, frozen in fear. I muttered under my breath, for the first time worried I couldn't pull this off. They weren't ready, couldn't be ready in time. There was too much of a gap.

"Your Grace, I...I have a... question."

I turned at the sound of Rosley's voice. Young, barely sixteen year old Rosley, his Essosi skin a shade darker than mine, marked by black hair and blacker eyes. With a shock I realized that he was older than I was by a matter of months. "Yes?"

He stirred uncomfortably, as if he wished he hadn't said anything. "Your Grace, Brynden is young and in love with Alysanne. But, his love is that of a boy's."

I nodded. "Your question, Rosley?"

He jerked when I said his name, no doubt a not-so-distant memory of his name in another lord's mouth. "Your Grace, will the audience not laugh? They know his love is fleeting – he was just as in love with another girl minutes before meeting Juliet.

"Will they not laugh when you fall off the balcony?"

Rosley stuttered. "Well, yes, Your Grace, but then they are laughing with me, not at me."

I nodded, considering the question. "When they see you fall in love with Alysanne, they may laugh. At first. But if your love is good and honest and true, they will remember. They will remember their own childhood love and how they knew they were the only ones in the history of the world to feel like that. They will share knowing looks with their husbands and wives, an entire collection of memories that they haven't remembered in years. But you cannot pretend to be in love, Rosley; you have to believe it yourself before they will."

Rosley mulled it all over for a moment before nodding. It wasn't complete understanding; but it was a seed. Jenny was still looking at me, tears filling her eyes, her hands clasped over her mouth. I looked at the rest of the troupe and they all had similar reactions.

I stepped off the stage and headed for the entrance, hoping for some air. King's Landing was asleep, the cool breeze slipping through the streets. Even at night, it smelled of shit.

"You did it."

I turned to find Jon standing in the doorway, holding a bag of plums with one in his hands. He offered me one and I accepted.

"I had to."

He shrugged. "At least this one is better than Hightower."

I shook my head and spit a plum pit onto the ground. "If Brynden and Alysanne goes well, Hightower will be the next play performed."

Jon visibly stiffened. "Rhaegar, I do not intend to dictate your actions–"

"Then do not."

"–but what you plan is madness. The king will surely hear about it – and even if he does not – the other lords will when they come into your playhouse. What will they think? A lord killing the king to take his place? Seven hells, Rhaegar, what will Lord Tywin think? When whispers of him being the true power on the throne cross every street in King's Landing and beyond?"

I shook my head. "It's not about the here and now. It doesn't even take place here–"

"Fucking hells, Rhaegar! How often have you spoken of 'the stage as a window into reality' or 'mining a man's soul for truth'?" These plays of yours have truth in them, a truth shrouded in lines and emotions, but a truth all the same. And it is a truth that enters the mind as, as a worm burrows into the apple. It is unnoticed for days, weeks even, and it changes how men think. What will they do when your play is performed? When they see the King's trusted man emerge with bloody dagger in hand? How will they look at Lord Tywin then?" Jon stopped, his words quiet and very nearly ashamed. Honest. "I don't... I don't want anything to happen to you, Rhaegar. Can't you see that?"

His words tore at my heart. He loved me fiercely and, even though I didn't return his love in the way he wanted, I valued it and him. I put my hands on both his shoulders and looked at him. "Nothing will happen to me, Jon. I'm the sole heir to the throne." I stopped, his face obviously still unconvinced. "Fine. Hightower will not be performed next. I'll pick one of the other ones."

Jon exhaled loudly and I could feel the shudder through my hands. "Thank you, Rhaegar," he said, the worry still in his voice.

"Jon," I said softly. "I am my father's only heir. I am as safe as I can be."