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 XI
Late 274 AC

Jenny sat on a small wooden stool backstage, reciting her lines to herself inaudibly, but I could see her lips moving. Her brilliant golden hair was tucked tight to her head, to better establish a contrast after her madness; her hair would become wild and unkempt in the fourth act. She was already in costume, a dark, fur-lined cloak similar to the one I had seen on Lyanna Stark the last time she was here. It had been expensive, but with the money The Globe was making, I could afford it easily.

There were several servants who had been turned into stagehands moving around, putting props in the right place, getting the sets in order, and checking off the final list. I moved past them and they paid as little attention to me as I could hope for. In the beginning, they had stopped to bow every time I walked by and it had taken the threat of bodily harm to keep them from continuing. Not that I would have followed through, but my frustration had reached a boiling point. Several boiling points, actually.

Jenny looked up as I approached and her lips stopped moving. She had looked at me differently since the reading of the monologue two days before. She had barely spoken to me, and hadn't come by my small apartment at all.

I couldn't blame her, really. She had come to the same conclusion I had, even before me. I was running away from the king, insulating myself in the theatre, in a world that made sense. A world I could control. By getting out of the Red Keep, I had turned my back on everything I had been sent here to do. Convincing myself that I could actually change Westerosi society through my adapted plays. That change might be possible, but it would be generations before the tiniest seed took root. The Others were coming and I had twenty-five years at the most to prepare the realm. And I needed to get to work. Come up with a plan. Get started on... something.

I looked back to Jenny, who was still looking at me with those sad eyes. She'd have to go. I couldn't have her get in the middle of this. I'd send her with the traveling troupe to the Riverlands, performing Brynden and Alysanne at every town on the river. She'd be gone three, maybe four months. Long enough for me to turn the Globe over to someone else and return to the Red Keep. I felt my heart breaking, felt like screaming to whatever God or gods had seen fit to bring her into my life only to take her away. To make me send her away.

I just couldn't take those eyes anymore.

I turned to walk away when her soft voice stopped me. "Your Grace."

Stopping, I paused without turning around. I heard her footsteps behind me. I smelled the roses on her skin. I felt her breath on the back of my neck. I didn't turn around. Couldn't, really.

"Your Grace. Rhaegar," she breathed. "I didn't.. I don't.. Shit."

The uncharacteristic curse made me turn around. She was looking at me again, sadness still there, but frustration furrowing her brow. She looked away, biting her lip. "I don't know what to do, Rhaegar. I didn't think... I didn't think things would go this way." She looked back to me. "I know what happens when lords go to war, Rhaegar. Lords go to war, banners are raised, the land is raped, fields are burned. And the smallfolk die. One side wins, the other dies. I do not... I do not want to see that happen to you," she said.

I shook my head, cupping her face with my hands. "Jenny... It's not like that. It was just a–"

"Don't you dare tell me it's just a play, Your Grace," she said, those last words a curse. "You asked us to find the truth in our lines. The same truth that you wrote those lines with."

If I had known, all those months ago, that my brilliant idea to adapt Shakespearean plays would cause this much trouble, I never would've done it. Or at least adapted something else. A musical, maybe. Les Mis, maybe, or The Lion King. Fuck, no, not that one. Hamlet with animals. Fuck, I was babbling.

But maybe she had it right. Maybe it was some kind of unconscious decision on my part, or someone upstairs liked irony enough to choke on it. I don't know. I moved here to simplify things and only succeeded in making them infinitely more complicated.

"Fine, Jenny. Fine. But you don't have to worry. I'm not suicidal. I'm not interested in killing my father. I just wrote it to..." God, how to come up with a decent excuse, "to try to get a handle on what happened. At the Red Keep, just before I left."

Jenny's eyes watered and she buried her face in my chest. "I had no idea you were in so much pain." She moved her head, looking up towards me. "Promise me you'll be safe."

I couldn't make that promise. I didn't know what was going to happen, I didn't have a plan. Wait for Aerys to die and take the throne? At least another twenty-five years. Wait for his madness to show and raise a rebellion? At least another ten. Ride things out for another few years, kidnap Lyanna Stark and start Robert's Rebellion on schedule? Everything falls apart. I had to sit and plan and there was no guarantee that I'd be safe. I couldn't promise her that.

"Of course I will, Jenny. Always."

She leaned in, kissing me softly, the lie on my lips souring the taste. She broke the kiss, but stayed close, her eyelashes brushing my cheek. "I love you," she whispered, her eyes and cheeks wet.

My heart sank into my stomach. There was no way this would end well. I brushed her tears away with my thumb. "I love you as well." And I did. As much as I had told myself I didn't, I did. I was in love with her golden hair and the way it fell across her face in the early morning light. I was in love with her green eyes and the flash behind them when we kissed. I was in love with her red, wet mouth, the nape of her neck, her warm embrace, and her mind. God, how I loved her mind. I loved her and all the little bits that made up her.

I kissed her forehead lightly. "Everything will be fine."

***

The play was performed nearly flawlessly, but I was lost in thought in my private box. Lord Rickard sat next to me, Brandon on the other side, both studying the play. Lyanna, however, had her face pressed into the railing, tears slipping down her face. It was the final scene of the play, the King and Queen of Winter dead on their thrones, Crejon dying in Horatio's arms. Rosley was exhausted I could tell, and it gave his final lines a sense of peace and acceptance. There was barely a dry eye in the room, the smallfolk coming to love the young prince, seeing him as they rarely ever did the nobility; a bright young man with too much on his shoulders to bear.

Lord Rickard stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I much appreciate the time you have taken to introduce so many of our northern customs into your play. I have long said the North is too isolated from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, because of our heritage." Young Royce Bolton entered upstage center, prepared to give his lines and become Regent to the young infant Stark. "Though, I'm not quite sure about that."

I considered the comment. Knowing what I did about House Bolton and their history, as well as their future, I couldn't really blame him. But I had needed an ancient foe for my Starkish Danes and the Boltons fit the bill perfectly.

"I would take it as a compliment."

I almost didn't recognize the voice, it had been so long since I had heard it. Lord Rickard and I both turned to find Lord Tywin Lannister standing in the doorway, flanked by two of his personal guard. Lord Rickard stood at once and bowed. "My Lord Hand." I rose a moment later and made my own bow. "Lord Tywin."

Lord Tywin returned the bows and gestured for his men to stand outside the door. I looked around him and nodded to Ser Barristan to stay outside the door as well. I was a little shocked to the Hand of the King at The Globe, especially since I hadn't been informed. I would have to talk to Arry and reiterate my unspoken rules.

I shook off the shock and slipped into the princely persona I had cultivated. "This is certainly a surprise. Please, Lord Tywin, join us for the ending. I'll have more wine brought," I said, raising a hand for one of the servants.

Lord Tywin nodded his thanks and stepped into the private box. He was dressed in a dark red coat and matching trousers, the golden linked-hands chain of his office matching his hair and sideburns. There wasn't a smile on his face, but I suppose he seemed less severe than usual. Brandon and Lyanna both stood, greeting the Hand of the King. I noticed with a small smile that Tywin received a curtsy from Lyanna, instead of her usual bow.

"Lord Tywin, my eldest son, Brandon, and my daughter, Lyanna," Lord Rickard said, gesturing to each in turn.

The Hand inclined his head in the direction of the children before taking his seat. A servant arrived with another tray of glasses and I took two, handing one to Lord Tywin. I joined him in the chair beside him as Lord Rickard and Brandon sat in their seats, Lyanna kneeling next to the railing. A slight awkwardness settled in the private box as no one was sure where to go from there. Lord Tywin wasn't exactly a conversationalist and I was at a complete loss as to what to say.

Lord Rickard, fortunately, was more experienced at court smalltalk. "A compliment you said, Lord Tywin?"

The Hand nodded gravely, just as he did nearly everything. "Certainly, Lord Rickard. The Kings of Winter could not be conquered from the outside, by another house; even an enemy as ancient as the Red Kings of the Dreadfort. It was only from the inside that House Stark could be taken. And the honor with which the young prince lived succeeded in turning that ancient enemy."

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I don't know about any of you, but Tywin Lannister was the last person I'd expect that from. Though, it does make a certain amount of sense; reading all of those reports, reading between the lines. He'd certainly had a lot of practice. And that's all literary analysis is, in the end. Reading between the lines.

Which caused my heart to start trying to leap out of my chest. If Lord Tywin could get that from a few lines uttered at the end of the play, what could he have gotten from the rest of it?

Lord Rickard raised an eyebrow and turned back to the stage, nodding in a new appreciation. The actors were taking their final bows to an overwhelming response from the audience. They were cheering, roaring their approval through their tears. Lyanna was clapping as loudly as any of them, while Brandon's applause was more subdued. I felt the play might've been too slow for him to enjoy; indeed, it was a bit much to ask for a twelve year old boy to sit through a four hour play, whether in Westeros or back home.

I leaned over to get the young lord's attention. "The next one will have more sword fights, I promise."

Brandon Stark smiled wildly, a roguish grin I was sure he'd trademark soon. The grin was a little lop-sided, thanks to a deep purple bruise on the side of his jaw, courtesy of Ser Barristan and the little trick apparently passed down to all Kingsguard members.

I turned back around to see Lord Tywin calmly clapping, still seated. But he wasn't watching the stage. He was watching me.

The noise from the audience didn't show any sign of dying down, but Lord Tywin stood and turned to the Starks. "I must apologize, Lord Rickard. I would ask that you excuse the prince and myself. We have matters to discuss."

That shocked me nearly as much as his arrival here and his fairly accurate analysis had put together. Perhaps he was rethinking my plan for the City Watch? Though, if that were the case, at least I'd have a decent reason for spending less time here and more time making a difference.

I rose from my seat and bowed to the Starks. "My apologies, Lord Rickard. I will be sure to see you off tomorrow. Ser Barristan and I will be with the swords again at daybreak if young Brandon wishes another bruise or two," I said with a smile at the young lord. When Brandon finished bowing, I offered my hand and he took it, grasping my forearm. It felt good to shake someone's hand again, a proper greeting; much better than the endless bowing.

Goodbyes were made all around, with deep bows to Lord Rickard and Lyanna. She smiled at me before leaving, her eyes still red-rimmed from crying. She was absolutely adorable in her huge fur lined jacket, black to match her hair. "I liked your play very much, Your Grace," she said, sniffling a little.

I bent down a little to whisper to her. "I am very glad I had the chance to meet you, Lady Lyanna." She would be safe, I thought to myself. If it was the last thing I did, they would all be safe.

The Starks made their way to the doorway and I picked up my glass of wine, turning to look at Lord Tywin.

He was still watching me.

Tywin II
Late 274 AC

Tywin Lannister waited until the Starks had exited the private box. Prince Rhaegar nodded to Ser Barristan, keeping him outside for the moment. That was a good sign, that the prince was capable of inspiring the loyalty of one of the Kingsguard.

Tywin resumed his seat, sipping his wine. He had considered the possibility the prince was simply who he appeared to be; a court fop, no better than the bottom-feeding boot-lickers that made up the majority of the Crownland noble houses. That it was all a coincidence. But after watching the play for himself, Tywin had dismissed that notion.

"This playhouse was a brilliant idea, Your Grace. You have much of the court convinced. You'll have to continue it, of course," Tywin said, watching the prince take a seat. "Have you given thought to your next play?"

Prince Rhaegar answered slowly. "Arlan III. A story of the Stormlander conquest of the Riverlands."

An envoy to the Baratheons? But why? The Stormlands were poor in land and men. The Reach would've been a much better choice for an alliance. But of course. Should House Targaryen fall, the Baratheons had the next best claim to the Iron Throne. He's shoring up his support, Tywin realized. Ensuring that there is no other option but to support him. A deep player, indeed.

"An excellent choice, Your Grace. I'm sure the Baratheons will enjoy it greatly."

Prince Rhaegar nodded his head. "I would hope so. I plan to send a traveling troupe out within the next month. A tour of the Seven Kingdoms, performing both plays. It's been a nightmare, getting the logistics in order. Thankfully, my seneschal is quite capable."

Ah, yes. My spy. "Yes, he is, Your Grace. I was quite surprised when he told me you had discovered him. Nearly ten years in service to House Rosby and they never suspected he was reporting to me." Prince Rhaegar looked carefully at Tywin, no doubt wondering why he was being so open about one of his spies. "Come now, Your Grace. If we are to properly plan, we must be honest with each other."

Prince Rhaegar looked at Tywin carefully, taking his time with his response. "What do you mean, Lord Tywin? Plan what?"

The point of no return. Should Tywin be wrong, he would deny it, of course. There were contingencies in place to discredit the prince in his father's eyes. That the idea had been Prince Rhaegar's all along. Lord Tywin took a slow sip of his wine and looked the young man in his eyes.

"To remove your father from the throne, of course."