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 VIII
Late 274 AC

Opening night. The sun was hanging high in the early afternoon sky and a full dozen servants scurried about the interior pit, making sure everything was just right. I stood center stage, taking it all in, from the three story balcony seating to the open roof that let in the sunlight of a clear spring day. Tall oak beams held up the balcony and the dark railings gave the place an air of class, designed specifically to entice the petty lords and their families. The pit would hold two thousand or so of the smallfolk, with the three levels holding about half that of merchants and others who could afford the higher price. Six months' worth of time and effort, many sleepless nights, and reams of paper. Also, money. Like, more money than I thought possible. All in gold. Lots of fucking gold.

Ok, backing up a bit. Before I had left the Red Keep, I stopped by the treasury. Three hours later, when I was able to collect my jaw from the floor, I asked exactly how much money "we" had.

It was a lot.

Let me put it this way; the fact that Robert-fuck-everything-that-breathes-and-send-the-realm-into-bankruptcy-Baratheon was able to, as aforementioned, send the realm into bankruptcy, gave me even more reason not to fuck this up, even more so than the little things like massive wars and terrifying ice zombies.

Anyway, I had taken some of the gold with me and used the majority of it for the Globe, paying for the lumber, the transport, and the two dozen carpenters, on top of multiple casks of several different wines and ales (because, honestly, if this goes south, I'd prefer they all be drunk). The rest of the costs were offset by my own holdings as Prince of Dragonstone, which were considerable. I hadn't visited the island as myself, but I could see and experience it through the little part of Rhaegar that remained. I didn't want to go there, with the black stone castle and sulphur smell. I would have to go there eventually, I knew, at some point, but I kept putting it off. Some part of me felt that going there and taking my seat officially would be a point of no return. That I would be Rhaegar completely, or the Prince completely, and I would lose a little bit of myself in the act. The other part of me dismissed it as melodrama, and low melodrama at that. Yet, I hadn't made any move to sail across the bay to my castle.

We had had ten preview performances that had gone alright. Not that I had called them that, but Izembaro had understood the concept. The Braavosi had finally come around to my way of directing, abandoning the over-the-top vulgar farce that was the mainstay of Westerosi crowds and embracing a much more sincere method. In researching how to properly stage the play, I had attended a few of the street plays in disguise and hadn't been impressed. They were elements of hilarity, to be sure, but it was a farce; there was no truth to it.

The play had become truth in the last two weeks. The mummers – no, the actors – had responded well to my direction, once the shock of sharing the stage with the heir to the Iron Throne wore off. Rosley was quickly turning into a very, very good Brynden, and Jenny was, as always, the perfect Alysanne. I had already decided they would be paired again for my Hamlet analogue as Hamlet and Ophelia.

The first of the smallfolk – groundlings, as I called them in my head – were already gathering in the pit, paying their eight pennies a head. I saw a few recognizable faces, men and women that had been multiple times, and they moved about with a familiar confidence, showing their uninitiated friends around. I moved back into the wings, behind the curtain. No need to cause a scene.

"Your Grace."

I turned at the softly feminine voice, Jenny standing near the curtain ropes already in costume. She slipped into a modest curtsy, as graceful and practiced as any high-born lady, only ruined by the impish smile that dimpled her cheeks. Her green eyes sparkled beneath golden locks and I reflected for the dozenth time in as many days how pretty she truly was. She couldn't have been more than nineteen; older than me, in a way, yet full of the life and wonder of someone much younger. Her hair was unbound, making her look young enough to play the thirteen year old Alysanne, and was long enough to reach her waist.

She peeked around the curtain at the milling smallfolk and the smile only grew wider. "A full house, don't you think, Your Grace?" I said nothing, only watching her watch the crowd. She abruptly turned to face me. "It must be, Your Grace. So many people. Your Grace. All here to watch your play. Your. Grace," she said, taking a step closer with each word until she was close enough for me to smell the roses on her skin.

Her eyes danced across my face, lighting from eyes to nose to mouth and holding. Her voice became husky and breathy and all the other synonyms that her face drove from my mind. She stood on her tiptoes, still half a head shorter than me, but close enough for her purpose.

"Say my name," I said, our faces nearly close enough to touch.

Half an inch from the tip of my nose, she looked up at me, her wide doe eyes innocence itself. "Your Grace?" she asked in the softest voice I had ever heard. Everything about her was softness.

I leaned closer until our lips were touching. "Say it," I whispered into her wet mouth. I felt, rather than saw, her smile, and she whispered so low I couldn't swear she had even spoken.

"Rhaegar," she breathed.

I kissed her deeply, lifting her off the stage with one hand, the other tangling itself in her hair, while both of hers clasped by face on either side. She kissed me back fiercely, her legs wrapping around me to lock at the small of my back. The moment extended indefinitely, the way time does when the world stops moving.

The affair had been going on for nearly a week. One night she had approached me after rehearsal to ask a question. Four hours later, that question was still unanswered and many a new one had arisen. I wasn't sure where this would go, or where it could go. But I had a right to be happy.

I broke the kiss and set her gently back on the wooden floor, a mournful moan coming from the back of her throat. "You should be focusing, Jenny."

She smiled a devil's smile. "Oh, but I am," she said, her hand snaking underneath my cloak. "Seems you are as well."

I laughed and regretfully pulled away. "Go," I said, with a playful swat at her backside. "The curtain goes up in less than an hour."

She arched an eyebrow and made no move to leave. "And you, Your Grace? When will you be going up?"

I smiled despite myself. "Tonight. Once the troupe has left for the taverns. I'll let Ser Barristan know you'll be taking private lessons again." Not that the man was fooled, but still.

Jenny danced into my arms again, kissing me hungrily with the promise of more to come. "That I will. Over and over and over again."

Admittedly, that was one upside to being sixteen.

I turned to go, her hand sliding down my arm, eager to hold on to me, touch me, for as long as she could. "Break a leg," I said over my shoulder without thinking.

"Pardon?" she asked, puzzled.

I shook my head, recovering. "Just an expression. Good luck."

She smiled, a secret smile that I felt was reserved just for me. "I'll need it not, Your Grace," she drawled. "I have truth."

I watched her go as the din of the pit grew louder, more and more people filling in for the show and availing themselves of the stocked wine and ale.

I had a right to be happy.

The first half of the play went by quickly and the audience had responded just as I hoped they would. Captivated, and, perhaps more importantly, vocal. They gasped and oohed and aahed at all the appropriate times, and the balcony scene had gone over quite well. Better than I had dared hope, even. It was intermission now, giving the smallfolk in the pit time to buy more ale and wine. Servants ran drinks out to the pit, taking copper hand over fist. Ale was going fast, according to Arry, my seneschal in charge of the Globe.

An interesting man, Arry was a former head servant for House Rosby, who had been dismissed from his post for reasons I hadn't heard. He was a tall man, sticklike, with a pair of eyes a bit too close together that were permanently fixed in a disapproving glare. Precisely the kind of man I wanted watching the box office receipts.

I was in my private box, dead center of the stage on the third floor balcony, where I could watch not only the stage, but the other private boxes as well. Merchants and traders made up the first floor balcony, petty lords and knightly houses the second, while greater lords made up the third. With my box in the center by the staircase, I was able to see each and every one of them. Ser Barristan stood by the door to my box, sword drawn and point down into the dark wood of the floor.

He hadn't said a word, but I could tell he wasn't thrilled about so many people milling around. Two thousand, eight hundred and ninety-six people, according to the official roles, and likely another hundred orphan children who had snuck in. It was too much to keep an eye on and made a perfect atmosphere for an assassin. Not that there was anyone that wanted me dead, that I knew of anyway. I was alone in my box at any rate, and there was only one way in and one way out, guarded fiercely by Ser Barristan. I might as well have had an army at my back.

As I looked over my shoulder at the doorway, I wondered slightly what was going through Ser Barristan's mind at all of this. He had always been more than willing to indulge me, from the sword training to the night we snuck out to the tavern in Flea Bottom. I didn't demand much of his time and he didn't try to interfere with mine. He left me to grieve for the lives of the wet nurse and that poor woman's family in silence, our training methodical and mechanic. I realized then that he was in an impossible situation; to acknowledge my reasons for leaving the Red Keep would be to entertain the thought that his king may have been wrong in judgment. It was a conversation neither of us wanted to have; so we didn't.

Ser Barristan stepped through the door and tapped my on my shoulder. "There's someone to see you, Your Grace."

I turned to find a large man in the doorway, his full black hair and beard framing a long, stern face. He was in his mid-thirties, his eyes giving me a sense of the man easing into the role of dignified lord and out of restless heir. A young boy of about twelve stood beside him, obviously his son from the similarities. Where the father had left the wildness of youth behind, the son was beginning to pick it up, his gaze darting from person to person and object to object; mostly notably fixating on Ser Barristan and his sword and cloak.

Ser Barristan made the introductions as I stood. "Your Grace, this is Lord Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and his son, Brandon. My Lord, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."

My eyebrows shot up in surprise and my mind began racing as I quickly matched the bow made by Lord Rickard and copied by his son. There was little I could remember about the both of them, other than they had died shortly after my roommate had eloped with their daughter and sister. Fire. I remembered something about fire, but nothing else came to me.

Lord Rickard nodded to Ser Barristan. "Ser Barristan tells me you do not stand on ceremony, Your Grace. I hope I've caused no offense, meeting you like this informally."

I shook my head. "None at all, Lord Rickard. Please," I said, gesturing to the remaining seats, "join me."

He nodded and took a seat next to mine, accepting a cup of cool wine from the passing servant. On the balconies, servants brought wine and ale to the patrons, rather than the other way around. "What brings you this far south, my lord?"

Lord Rickard finished his deep drink before responding. "I'm on my way to Highgarden to negotiate shipments of grain north for the winter, Your Grace. We buy the majority of our grain from Lord Tully, but should the winter outlast our stores, it helps to have contingencies in place."

I nodded. "Because winter will surely ruin the Riverlands' crop as well as your own."

"Yes, Your Grace. The Reach is usually untouched by winter and, if we are in need, can provide enough to get us through the end of winter."

I looked up through the open roof of The Globe. "The fields can't be but four months planted by now, much less a harvest. Besides, even the most conservative maesters place winter as five or six years away."

Lord Rickard took another sip of wine, apparently unused to the heavy heat of King's Landing. "No, Your Grace, the Reach has had no harvest. It is a good idea, when dealing with the Tyrells, to have prices fixed before we are in need."

"If you waited until winter, the prices might not be as high as what you promise now," I said.

"No, Your Grace, they might be higher, and the North would be without recourse should the Tyrells choose to charge amounts higher still," Lord Rickard said without rancor. He could have been acknowledging water as wet, which said a great deal about the outlook of the Lord of Winterfell.

As I listened, I noticed the young Brandon hadn't been able to keep his eyes off of Ser Barristan and his sword. "Are you a swordsman, young lord?"

Brandon jumped out of his skin when he saw I was talking to him, but he answered me with a defiance and spirit I hadn't expected. "Yes, my lord- I mean, Your Grace. Yes, Your Grace."

Lord Rickard laughed, his pride cracking his stern exterior. "He takes to the sword well, Your Grace, and the saddle even better."

I smiled too. "Will you be passing through King's Landing on your way back, my lord?"

"Aye, Your Grace."

"Then you must allow your son to join Ser Barristan and I for our sword training. Only for a day or two, or however long you will stay in King's Landing." I turned to Brandon. "Would you like to spar with Barristan the Bold, my young lord?"

Brandon's face didn't quite light up as I expected it to, but the eyes and the smile turned wolfish and there was a hunger that seemed strange on such a young boy. He nodded quickly, accepting the offer, as did Lord Rickard a moment later.

"Father, Father!"

A young girl, her hair black as her father's, ran into the box, followed closely behind by a maester who gave his apologies to the group. My heart stopped and I fought down the lightheadedness as Rhaegar struggled against me.

Lyanna Stark. The face that launched a kidnapping and a rebellion.

Of course, there was little of the cold, furious beauty she would be known for in her ten year old face, but she met each and every eye in the box with a calm, nearly haughty demeanor. Even Ser Barristan and his slightly drawn blade were only accounted a glance, nor more for the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

Lord Rickard snatched her up and sat her down next to her brother. "Your Grace, forgive my daughter, Lyanna. It seems she escaped from my maester."

I shook my head, trying really hard not to focus on the part of my head that was determined to sleep with the ten year old girl to bring an ancient prophecy to life. Just as I had access to Rhaegar's memories, he had access to mine; he knew his mad plan had worked, bringing Jon Snow into the world to face the threat posed by the Others.

I stammered, trying to clear my head. "Lady Lyanna," I said with a jerky bow, "it is an honor to meet you."

Instead of curtseying, she answered my bow with one of her own. I laughed, feeling Rhaegar slip back into the recesses of my mind, albeit unwillingly. Even Ser Barristan and Lord Rickard managed a small smile at the minor breach of etiquette.

"How do you like the play, my lady?"

Her eyes lit up with the same hungry rebelliousness as her brother's. "Very much, Your Grace. I cannot wait to see how it ends."

"And you, my young lord?"

Brandon was startled again, standing as he was by the railing, watching the smallfolk mill about in the pit. "I like it too, Your Grace," he said, though with none of the conviction of his sister. "The sword fighting is the best part," he allowed.

I smiled again. I couldn't help it; I genuinely liked both of Rickard Stark's children. Their father smiled at the boy's honesty. "Be that as it may, I do not believe we are the primary targets of the play, Brandon," he said with a nod toward Lyanna.

A voice came from the stage, announcing that the second half was about to begin. "There are two more sword fights left in the play, and they are even better than the others," I said.

Lord Rickard bowed. "My thanks, Your Grace, for your time," he said, as he gathered up his children and his maester and made his way back to their own seats.

A thought occurred to me. "Lord Rickard, when will you be making your way back through King's Landing? Eight weeks? Ten?"

He nodded. "About that, Your Grace."

There was enough time, just barely. I had all the pieces here; all it needed was to be put together. "By the time you return, we will have a new play, something that might be more to our young lord's liking. It's called Crejon, Prince of Winterfell," I said. "We'll open the night after you return to King's Landing and we will be able to talk some more."

Lord Rickard bowed again and turned, stepping through to one of the other boxes on the third floor. As I watched the Starks leave, I wracked my brain for any details on them I could remember. Lyanna, dead at the Tower of Joy, birthing my son. Brandon and his father, dead at King's Landing when they came for me.

The wet nurse and the mistress' family might have been beyond my help, but the Starks weren't. There was still time to save them.