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 V
Early 274 AC

It was a long walk to the Tower of the Hand and I'm not ashamed to admit that, more than once, I thought about abandoning the whole thing. I was on my way to meet with the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister himself, to talk with him about my proposal for the City Guard. I had given him the proposal in written form two weeks earlier, a few days after the night with Jon and Arthur. They had helped – tried to help – with their own ideas. They might've been a little too drunk to really help, but then again, so was I.

I was escorted by Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He was in his mid-fifties, faced lined by those many years, but still hard and severe, like the bottom of an old boot. He walked easily in armor and cloak, the sword at his side an extension of his body, another arm or leg. His hair and beard were cut short and streaked with grey and white, framing deep set blue eyes that noticed everything.

Ser Barristan, my normal escort, was taking his turn guarding Maegor's Holdfast, ostensibly to keep my mother and little brother safe. Everyone knew the real reason; it was on every tongue and lip, spoken softly for fear of being overheard. I didn't like it. She was the Queen, my mother, but most importantly, a human being. She didn't deserve to be trapped like a doe in a hunter's snare.

"Ser Barristan tells me your training is coming along well, Your Grace."

I looked up as the Lord Commander broke the comfortable silence of our long walk. "Ser Barristan is a great teacher. And a patient one as well."

The Lord Commander smiled, a strange half-grimace across a hard face. "The best teachers always are." He stopped abruptly, gesturing to the open door leading to the Tower of the Hand. "Your Grace, I will wait here for you."

I nodded and walked through the door, making my way through the hall to the private audience chamber. A pair of guards stood outside the door, but they moved aside as I approached, opening the door with a murmured "Your Grace" and a small bow.

The audience chamber was a longish hall with tall, thin windows and a varied collection of rugs and tapestries adorning the walls. A man was sitting behind a grand desk, scribbling away on parchment.

Tywin Lannister.

Lord of Casterly Rock.

Hand of the King.

The most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.

Seven Kingdoms is really a misnomer, isn't it? There are nine kingdoms, after all. And they weren't really kingdoms, either. Well, maybe Dorne is, they have princes and princesses. But I guess Seven Kingdoms sounds better than Eight Duchies and a Princedom. And a partridge in a pear tree. What are the differences between rugs and tapestries, anyway? Duh, one goes on the floor, the other goes on the wall.

Shit, stop babbling. Stop talking to yourself too. Man up.

Deep breath.

Lord Tywin stood as I approached, bowing his head. "Your Grace."

I walked confidently to the chair in front of his desk and smiled as charismatically as I could manage. "My Lord Hand. Thank you for taking the time to see me."

Lord Tywin inclined his head, puzzled. "But of course, Your Grace," he said, sitting behind the desk.

I took a moment to study the man as I sat opposite him and we engaged in smalltalk. He was young, in his early thirties, with a full head of golden hair matched by a pair of massive golden muttonchops. His eyes were mostly green and fixed in a permanent icy stare, hardened by years of hard choices. Even when being conversational, his expression never changed. He could've been ordering someone's execution or a pizza. Off with his head and a side order of wings.

"I trust you've found time to look over my proposal?" I said, turning our conversation to the main matter.

Lord Tywin nodded, reaching across the table to a folded piece of parchment that I recognized as my own. "I have, Your Grace. A most commendable idea."

There was something in his tone I didn't recognize at first. Not quite dismissive, but certainly condescending. "I thank you, Lord Tywin. I spent a lot of time on this."

"I have no doubt of that, Your Grace," he said simply. "It is an ambitious plan. And you would not be the first member of the royal family to hold the post of Lord Commander of the City Watch."

"Yes, Prince Daemon was once Lord Commander."

Lord Tywin nodded. "Perhaps the most well-known and most successful of the Lord Commanders. But he was older than you, knighted and battle-proven. Lord Commander Stokeworth has not done anything that would necessitate his removal."

"Other than allowing his command to run rampant with corruption and negligence."

The Hand fixed me the well-known stare. "Quite. Yet, it remains at an acceptable level."

"The cost of doing business."

"As you say, Your Grace. Besides that, the cost of your two hundred-man 'Internal Affairs' division and the investigations would cost more than it would save. And," he said, raising a hand at my interruption, "even if it were not the case, your inexperience, your youth, and your position as sole heir would be the deciding factor," he said, each point punctuated with a finger, ticking them off one by one. "Once Prince Jaehaerys is older and out of his regular bouts of sickness, perhaps we could revisit this."

I smiled grimly. "My father's orders."

Lord Tywin inclined his head in an expression of neither admittance or negation. "As it stands now, I cannot support naming you as Lord Commander of the City Watch."

"Well, I did think Master of Laws was perhaps too much to begin with," I said evenly. That might've brought a smile to Lord Tywin's face, had he been a different man with a different history. As it was, there was a slight twinkle in his eye belied by the grim set of his mouth and jaw. "Deputy Commander, then. I will work solely under Lord Commander Stokeworth's position, heading the Internal division. Out of the way of danger." But Lord Tywin was already shaking his head.

"Your position as Prince and heir to the throne would undercut Lord Stokeworth's authority. Any number of captains would attempt to curry favor by reporting to you first. No, it would be the same either way."

Fuck. He had seen right through that particular idea. Fuckity fuck.

I tried a different tact. "My Lord Hand, we cannot allow men such as Stokeworth or the common Goldcloak to make a mockery of our laws and our authority. We are only as good as the men who govern in our name. A name that is mine as well as yours."

Lord Tywin considered me and, I hoped, my words, before standing and walking over to a small table with pitcher and glass. He poured two glasses of dark red wine, without asking if I wanted one. He handed the second glass to me and took a seat on the edge of the desk, towering over me physically as well as by virtue of personality. The man dominated every room he walked into, with the deep eyes and emotionless set of his jaw. It was a quiet authority, an assumption that any order given would be followed, out of fear or loyalty; either was just as good. Yet, it was also an authority that was hard, but not cruel, decisive, but not mecurial. It was the slow, steady, indomitable advance of a glacier. One of the first memories I had gotten from Rhaegar was that of a massive, misshapen throne, with a powerful, dominating man upon it.

That man hadn't been the King, my father. It had been Tywin.

"When your father and I were younger, we would talk well into the night of the way things ought to be. Changes that we could effect from the highest levels once we reached them. Something I feel you have done as well, with the young Connington and Dayne," he said with a knowing glance. I wasn't surprised that he knew of our nighttime get-togethers. I just hoped he didn't know what I had written down. "I knew I would be Lord of Casterly Rock and your father knew he would one day inherit the Seven Kingdoms. We had enough plans for a dozen men. Do you know that your father once planned to build a new capitol on the south bank of the Blackwater? Or that he once planned an underwater canal through Dorne, to bring water to the desert?"

I shook my head. "I didn't know that."

He nodded. "We all had ideas of what we could do, once we had the power to do so. Your father, myself. Your cousin, Steffon Baratheon. But when we had achieved all the power that we had coveted, we discovered that there were certain realities we had to deal with. Things that tempered our resolve to do great things, constrained us and our ideas."

"Things like corruption in the City Watch," I said slowly.

"In a word, yes, Your Grace."

I took in his words and chewed them over. I was no rube at the county fair; nearly thirty years of life, going from shitty job to shitty job after my hitch in the Army was over, trying to make do as a graduate student, crushing student loan debt, wondering how the hell I was going to get a job with a Ph.D. in fucking Literature, for God's sake. All of that had contributed to a fairly cynical worldview. I knew how things worked. But I also knew that this kind of power and authority went hand in hand with a duty. Not to me, or to my family and house, or even to Jon and Arthur, but to the wellbeing of humanity.

"Lord Tywin, we can sit here and talk all day and night of what the world is; I wish to talk about what it could be," I said, standing and placing the glass on his desk. "Perhaps this is merely youthful exuberance or idealism. But what is the point of holding unlimited authority if it cannot be used to change things for the better. For example," I said, walking over to the window, "the city smells. Shit is practically overflowing. A simple drainage and sewer system would mean that the smallfolk aren't constantly sick. A healthy population is a more productive population, and a happier one.

Lord Tywin took a long drink, staring at me over the rim of his glass. "Your Grace, my answer is still no."

I inclined my head gracefully. "Then I shall simply find another avenue to effect change. I thank you, My Lord Hand, for agreeing to see me on such short notice. And," I said, with a lower bow than I had greeted him with, "for your advice."

The Hand of the King paused, frozen near his desk, and I was very afraid for a split second that he had taken my entirely sincere bow as sarcasm or mockery. One of the few things that Rhaegar's memories and my own had agreed on was that you Don't. Fucking. Insult. Tywin. Fucking. Lannister.

Instead, he stood and returned the bow equally. "It is a great ruler that recognizes good advice."

"And it is a great advisor that gives it." It sounded more than a little lame to my ears, but it seemed to work.

The door to the private audience chamber burst open and one of the guards practically ran into the room, followed closely by Ser Gerold. "My Lord Hand, Your Grace, we've just received word. Prince Jaehaerys has died in his bed."

I looked in shock from the guard to Lord Tywin. The latter merely considered the news and took another sip of wine. "Yet another reason such a position would be unwise at this time, Your Grace."

Shit. I had hoped that my presence here might just create enough butterflies to prevent the death of my little brother. There was no personal connection between us, as Rhaegar had never seen him, the boy locked away in Maegor's Holdfast away from any unseen danger. Still, the boy could have been useful, provided he wasn't pants-shittingly crazy like the rest of the family appeared to be.

What I had just thought struck me as callous, but I knew I had to be harder to effect the change I so desperately wanted. The little piece of Rhaegar expanded and I felt emotion coming from him. Sadness, but also acceptance. Of course. He had lived through the deaths of half a dozen miscarriages and stillbirths. This was merely one more to add to the pile. But there was also another emotion, running beneath the sadness. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on...

My head snapped up. Of course. "Ser Gerold," I said to the Lord Commander. "I need to see my mother."

***

"You look so different, Rhaegar."

Those were the first words she said to me, when the guards and septas had brought me into her rooms. My mother. The Queen.

She was extraordinarily beautiful once, and still was, but there was a tiredness that seemed to incapsulate her. Her skin was pale and nearly transluscent, a product of her captivity, and her brilliant silver hair, while clean and brushed, lacked life. Clippings tacked onto a porcelain doll, kept on the shelf while not in use.

She hadn't seen me in years. It was my father's orders that no one was allowed to enter the Queen's rooms without his express permission, and the Queen, always either with child or recovering, had not ventured outside into the light of the sun for some time.

It had taken some bullying, but with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard by my side, we had managed to gain admittance to the Queen. Ser Gerold waited outside, leaving only myself, my mother, one of her maidservants, and two septas knitting in the corner.

"I am very sorry, Mother."

She steeled herself and smiled, only the slight fluttering of an eyelid and the twitch of muscle pulling the smile into a grimace betraying her pain. "Such is the gods will. At the very least, Jaehaerys will have the company of many brothers." She looked at me and smiled again, this time with the hint of love and warmth, and reached out to cup my cheek. "Except for you. My one true victory."

I felt lightheaded again, Rhaegar coming back up. Without thinking, I closed my hand over hers and pressed it into my cheek, kissing the palm. I fought back, hard, taking back over and pushing Rhaegar into the back of my mind. Perhaps Rhaella noticed the change, maybe not.

"I hear we should add an eighth member to the Kingsguard," she said, changing the subject delicately.

I smiled humbly as the maidservant poured two glasses of wine. "Ser Barristan is a great teacher, Mother. I have no doubt he has exaggerated my talents for your ears alone."

The Queen smiled. "Ser Barristan rarely exaggerates anything, Rhaegar, something you know as well as I." She stopped suddenly, accepting the glass from the maidservant and taking a sip. "It makes me very happy to see the man you've become." Her eyes were red-rimmed, but not from tears. I didn't think she had any left to give, not after so much death.

I ducked my head, something akin to pride flushing my cheeks. I couldn't tell if it was Rhaegar or myself.

"But you are not the boy I gave birth to," Rhaella said abruptly.

I froze. Could she know? How? I ran the conversation back through my mind, looking for anything that might've given me away, but nothing came to mind.

She must've seen my face, because she reached out and grabbed my hand, holding on to it with a strength I wouldn't have thought her capable of. "Say nothing," she said, with a discreet glance to the guards and septas. "You've changed so much, Rhaegar. Taller, broader, more handsome. Yet there is also something behind your eyes that was not there the last time I saw you."

My skin flushed, floodgates of adrenaline opening up. My skin felt like it was on fire, pins and needles dancing a waltz from the neck down. I had to get out of there, before I said or did anything else to condemn me.

"Calm yourself, Rhaegar. We are still being watched," Rhaella said with a fake smile plastered on her face.

I forced myself to sit back down, shocking that I had already risen to leave, either by door or window I hadn't figured out yet. I refused to look at her, not knowing if whatever she thought she had seen was really there or not. I kept my hand down, focusing on my wine. "Mother, I don't know what–"

"The look, Rhaegar. It is the look of men who have seen fighting, and hard fighting at that. My son has not been exposed to such things."

Fuck. I came up with half a dozen explanations for that, all of which crashed and burned almost as soon as I thought of them. I couldn't leave, not without arousing suspicion, and I couldn't stay, not without giving myself away.

After so many years of captivity and so many miscarriages, surely her word would be taken as a greiving mother lashing out. Though, I wasn't sure how far along the King's madness and suspicion was at this point in time and I didn't want to leave that to chance. I chanced a look at Rhaella, hoping to find some bit of insanity that I could use against her when she brought me before the King.

There was no insanity in her, nor was there haughtiness or anger as she called the guards to take me. There were only tears, and a mother's concern.

She ducked her head a little and smiled. "A Faceless Man would not have come running through the Red Keep to check on his mother. We Targaryens have a long history of seers and prophets in our line. You have seen something, be it vision or prophecy. Something that has given you a larger view."

Despite my misgivings, I nodded slowly. "A place called Afghanistan."

Rhaella nodded sadly, new tears springing from her eyes. "An ancient place, I am sure," she said shakily before pausing. "Tell me, is my son still with you?" she finally asked, almost afraid to know the truth.

Again, I nodded slowly. "Yes, my Queen. He is a most stubborn man."

Rhaella clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh, tears shining through her relief. Her breathing changed, coming out in a rush. "I'm afraid there is much of his father in him."

I stood, cupping her cheek with my hand and smiling. "And as much from you, I am sure."

She smiled gratefully and removed my hand, still wet with her tears. "I am not to be touched, even by my own son. The King's orders." Abruptly, she stood and placed her wine glass untouched back on the small side table. "I fear I will not see you again for some time, Rhaegar," she said, loud enough to signal that our conversation was drawing to a close. "After this..." a pause, her line of thought broken by the memory of the recently departed, "I will no doubt need to strengthen my piety with meditation and prayer." She took one last look at me, as if fixing my face in her mind, saying her words softly so only I could hear. "You will do great things, my son. The King will attempt to prevent that. Use every weapon you can."

Rhaella, Queen of Westeros, turned and was met by her two septas and together they made their way deeper into the Queen's rooms. There was a funeral to prepare after all.

I met Ser Gerold outside the door and together we walked back to my own rooms, mostly in silence. When we reached my door, I stopped, thinking of something Rhaella had said. "Ser Gerold."

"Your Grace?"

"It strikes me that, while Ser Barristan is a more than adequate teacher, the other members of the Kingsguard would also have many things to teach me. Prince Lewyn knows the spear, correct?"

"A better hand with a spear I've not met, Your Grace."

I nodded slowly, a plan forming. "I would like to continue my training with Ser Barristan, but I would also like to expand it. Learning from each of you."

Ser Gerold stopped to consider the proposal. "Your Grace, I don't know if now is the proper time. The King–"

"The King cannot command me not to be taught by the very best teachers, nor can he order them not to teach me to protect myself. Treat me as if I were the newest sworn brother of the Kingsguard," I said, walking through the door without waiting for a response.

Alone, I thought of how to accomplish what I wanted. True, I could study the sword and the spear and the lance and make a name for myself in the list and melee of every tourney from now until my coronation. It was probably a good idea to learn all of that anyway, since I would undoubtedly be called to defend myself in some fashion over the course of my life. But there was another way. Mother was right. I had to use every weapon at my disposal, both Rhaegar's and my own, to get people on my side. Everyone, from Lord Tywin, to the Kingsguard, to the Lords Paramount, right on down to the smallfolk.

Time for Plan B.