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 XIII
Late 274 AC
We rode through the trees, birds scattering at our arrival. The forrest was thick and dim, the light filtered through the leaves, making the thick undergrowth a uniform shadow. My horse, a bold colt fifteen hands high and black as a raven wing, stepped lightly through the trees, following the echoing bark of the hounds. There were two parties, each with its own pack, forcing the sounder of wild pigs into the open.
"Ah, this is grand, isn't it, Your Grace?" Jon said, unstoppering the wineskin attached to his saddle. "A beautiful day such as this, the wind through our hair, the chase before us."
I smiled at my friend, remembering the smile and the laughter when I told him I was accepting House Thorne's invitation. That I was reentering society, with all that it implied. I hadn't moved back into the Red Keep as of yet, nor was I sure that I ever would. Lord Tywin was adamant that the playhouse continue for my subterfuge, and with the rehearsals for Arlan III underway, I was needed there everyday. I had sent a number of the actors on a traveling barge into the Riverlands, performing Brynden & Alysanne at every river town on the Red Fork, ending in Riverrun. A similar troupe was headed north by ship, docking at White Harbor and working their way west to Winterfell, performing Crejon. It was all intended, as Lord Tywin had "discovered," to be a way of honoring the different Great Houses, getting my name to the furthest reaches of the Seven Kingdoms, all to build a coalition against the King. It all required a steady hand at the rudder, not something I could leave to Izembaro.
Nonetheless, even with my remaining at The Globe, Jon was overjoyed at my return to the politics of King's Landing, filling me in with the latest rumor. Even Arthur, riding on my left side, had cracked a smile upon seeing me, the first time in months. I had kept tabs on him and Jon through Ser Barristan and the other members of the Kingsguard. Jon had taken to dining with several members of the small council, asking questions and offering comments, learning the trade of government. Arthur, on the other hand, had been training with the Kingsguard every day. From what Ser Barristan had said, Arthur was "quite talented."
Yeah. The Sword of the Fucking Morning was "quiet talented."
I slowed my horse to a trot at the thicker brush. I had been given the "honor" of leading one half of the hunt, as my position demanded. I say "honor" because my group contained four children; Jarmen Buckwell, aged fourteen; Gilbert Farring, aged ten; Wallace Massey, aged twelve; and Dick Follard, who was twelve and deaf as a fucking post. The only other adult in my group was Jacelyn Bywater, who I assumed was condemned to the shit group because he had committed the unforgivable sin of being poor. Ser Alliser Thorne, the heir of House Thorne and head asshole, led the other group, with his coterie of other assholes.
I looked back over the young boys following my lead. They rode like city lords, bouncing like sacks of potatoes in saddles too big for them by half. Jacelyn was better, but looked like he was more used to riding without a saddle.
How was I to forge an alliance between myself and these Houses on the fringes of the court? Oh, they could be led, certainly; they avoided my gaze, but every now and then I would catch them looking at me with a mixture of awe and reverence. It bothered the hell out of me, reminding me why I had felt so uncomfortable at the Red Keep. Even if they were to fall in line with a minimum of effort, I could not forget what we would be up against. Though House Thorne was far from the most powerful of the Crownland Houses – that honor belonged to Velaryon and Stokeworth and Celtigar – they were powerful in influence. Meaning, Lord Adric Thorne had his tongue so far up my father's asshole, he was tasting the royal dinner first.
The men with Ser Alliser were certainly from better, richer, more powerful families than the ones with me. They gravitated to each other, power begetting more power, more power begetting assholes. Still, I remembered Lord Tywin's counsel; getting the remainder of the Crownland houses to follow me would be the only way to counter the loyalist influence in King's Landing.
I looked to Arthur, the massive greatsword attached to his saddle. He carried a long spear with a broad crosspiece near the head, meant to stop a charging boar from sliding up the shaft. I carried a similar weapon, as did the others. But where the others – and myself to an extent – carried the spear as a hunting tool, Arthur wielded a weapon at rest, a potential-laden force one step away from a killing stroke. It was in the set of his jaw, the movement of his eye, the tension in his shoulder and back. It was the relaxed readiness of his wrist, so small a thing I would not have noticed it had it not been for the training with Ser Barristan. I was looking at a man never more than half a breath away from being able to kill.
I thought about what would, or could, happen to him. Kingsguard within a few years, two at the most. My right hand after that. Dead at the Tower of Joy, protecting my son. Jon would not fare much better, a brilliant star blazing its way across the sky before burning out. Jon would be named Hand of the King during the Rebellion, holding the office for a few brief moments before exile and an endless quest to protect my (maybe?) son.
Both men dead or exiled protecting my legacy. An unworthy cause if there ever was one.
I mentally added both me to my list, along with the Starks and the thousands of King's Landing. If I kept this up, I'd be responsible for the entire shit-fucking continent before the year was up.
"How are things in Starfall, Arthur?" I asked over my shoulder.
Arthur turned back in a slight surprise. "Things are well, Your Grace, judging from my brother's latest letter. Anton has done well after our father's death."
I nodded, the motion slightly disguised by the stride of the horse. "And your sisters?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch. "Ashara is well. Anton is considering various betrothals. She will be a beautiful woman in a few years," he said without a trace of bragging. He could have been noting the color of a clear sky. "Allyria just had her fifth name day," Arthur said with some relief. I knew children reaching the age of five were expected to live to adulthood, having survived the myriad of diseases affecting newborns and infants.
I smiled at the fondness I heard in his voice. "The three of us should make a trip to Starfell soon. I know it must be hard being away from them for so long."
Arthur shrugged noncommittally, but I could see that I had touched a nerve. "Such a trip might be beneficial."
Jon leaned over from my other side. "We could ride to Starfell through Griffin's Roost. There's much there I'd love to show the both of you."
"Sailing would be faster," Arthur pointed out dryly.
I thought for a moment. "I should like to see more of the country than just King's Landing. We could ride there and sail back," I said, picturing a map of Dorne in my head. "I've received a letter from Doran Martell recently, inviting me to dine at the Water Gardens. I would like to take him up on the offer."
Both Jon and Arthur grew quiet, their brows furrowing. Jon looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "You think that wise, Rhaegar?" he near-whispered.
I thought about his words. It would probably seem to outsiders that I was negotiating with Doran – who would inherit Dorne soon, unless I misremembered – for his sister's hand. Marriage was a topic I hadn't given a lot of thought to, mostly because there didn't seem to be a good option. No matter who I married, I'd be antagonizing three other kingdoms at least. And, there was the matter of Jenny.
Look, I'm not going to bullshit you. I know that I need to marry well, for political reasons, for the good of the world. But it sucks like you can't imagine. Especially when you've already found someone. I was happy. There was even still a part of me that wanted to sneak aboard the next Essos-bound ship with Jenny and disappear. Leave the whole rotten, corrupt shithole behind and live out the rest of my days on some beach somewhere, drinking wine, raising fat babies with silver hair.
I'd even asked Jenny to accompany me to the feast, but she had politely refused, saying it would be improper. Which, honestly, was at least half of the reason I had asked her. If House Thorne wanted to play their little dog and pony show with me, it'd serve them right to have to bow and scrape for the mummer whore at my side.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. That I was forced into a plan of action not my own, forced this way and that by protocol and tradition. It was cloying, a claustrophobia that caught my throat and raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I felt trapped. I had been getting angry a lot lately, short-tempered and easily frustrated. I'd need to find an outlet, or I'd explode.
A shout from across the clearing drew my attention. It was the other hunting group, Alliser Thorne's group, dismounted and sitting around a makeshift fire, a fair-sized pig spit across it, roasting. I grimaced to myself as we rode closer, seeing Ser Alliser's arrogant sneer at "beating" me at the hunt.
"My apologies, Your Grace, for killing all of the boars! Though, there may be a few piglets left worthy of your squires' valor!" Ser Alliser yelled across the field.
Jon leaned in as we trotted up to the fire. "Ser Alliser sounds pleased with himself," he said, with more than a hint of protectiveness.
"The cunt always does," said a tiny, cracking voice behind us. We both turned to find young ten year old Gilbert Farring glaring at Ser Alliser Thorne with a decidedly unimpressed expression on his face. The other boys' expressions were similar, all glaring down at Ser Alliser.
Well, I thought to myself, there's a start.
Jon I
Late 274 AC
The two prongs of the feasting table stretched the entire length of the room, with the connecting table running perpendicular between them. Jon sniffed slightly at the sight, remembering feasts of much better quality at Griffin's Roost. Better quality food, as well as people, he though darkly.
Since arriving in the Crownlands nearly six years before, Jon had grown used to the Crownland lords and their ways. The differences between a Stormlander lord and a Crownlander lord were legion; Stormlanders had lineages stretching back well before the Conquest, most of them kings in their own rights, conquerors all. Crownlanders were more political, fighting their battles in courts and feast halls; they were certainly not to be trusted. But they did have their uses.
Jon had spent many recent days and nights learning the intricacies of governing, from the Master of Laws and Master of Coin, learning how to rule. If he were to be Rhaegar's Hand in the years to come, he would need to know many things. And he would be Rhaegar's Hand, just as Arthur would one day become Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, both serving the future king to the best of their respective abilities.
Jon glimpsed sight of Rhaegar through the crowd, politely listening to Ser Alliser boasting of how he had killed the boar. The young silver prince seemed ready to leap from the nearest window to rid himself of the boorish man and his boorish tale. He cut a fine figure in his black tunic and trousers, touches of silver along the edges only making his hair seem brighter, more radiant, while the tunic made his indigo-colored eyes seem darker, as black as the horse he had ridden that day. Ser Alliser laughed uproariously at his own quip, something that made Rhaegar's eyes grow darker while a smile froze on his face. Oh, if only Ser Alliser's boar had killed him, Jon thought.
Lord Thorne entered the hall, taking his place at the center of the middle table, his son and heir sitting at his left side and Rhaegar at his right, the guest of honor. Jon took his own place between Rhaegar and Arthur, leaning back as servants filled glasses and brought plates of roast boar to the table. The roar of conversation waxed and waned as mouths were filled. The talk was of the usual topics; if the weather would hold for the next harvest, how soon until the next tourney of note, and rumor and gossip, of course.
Jon looked at Rhaegar, who seemed ill at ease with the feast and patrons. He was quiet, though polite; he would answer questions posed to him with charm and wit, but rarely offered anything. Ser Alliser, on the other hand, entertained his companions loudly enough for the both of them.
They were a study in contrasts; Rhaegar quiet, refined, thoughtful, while Ser Alliser was loud, uncouth, and thoughtless. Jon despised the man, not particularly because of the differences between his prince and the heir to House Thorne.
Jon wondered why Rhaegar was so quiet before remembering how long it had been since the silver prince had been to a proper feast. Spending all his time at that damned theatre, surrounding himself with smallfolk and mummers. The mummer girl influences him beyond her station, Jon thought to himself. He was half-surprised the whore hadn't invited herself along to the feast, as if she belonged here because Rhaegar chose to entertain himself with her.
He barely noticed Ser Alliser speaking across the table, bits of food exiting his mouth as he talked, his words directed to Rhaegar. "Tell me, Your Grace, how soon can we expect another of your plays?" Ser Alliser asked, his tone of innocence and sincerity belied by the muffled laughter of the noble sons behind him.
The Rykker cousins, Ser Renfred and Ser Jaremy, he knew, along with Ser Oswell Kettleblack's hooked nose and Ser Roger Hogg's sheer size. Ser Rennifer Longwaters he had only heard of, same for Ser Balman Byrch. A younger, piggly boy of about fourteen looked to be a member of House Blount. Boros, Jon thought his name was. They were all laughing behind covered mouths, some more openly than others.
Jon stiffened when he realized they were mocking his prince, their future king. He considered challenging them right then and there, one at a time or all at once, it made no difference. He sensed Arthur subtly shifting, leaning back to leave room to draw his sword. Jon looked to Rhaegar, for surely this obvious insult to the Prince of the Realm would be dealt with.
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed as a small, polite smile crossed his face. "The next play will be Arlan III, a tale of the Stormlander conquest of the Riverlands."
The muffled laughter continued and Jon felt his face flush, anger traveling down his arms. Several other lords and ladies had turned now to look and listen. Listening to their prince as the target of ridicule because of his wonderful mind and the eloquent plays he had written with his own hand. They couldn't appreciate the plays and all it had taken to create them. Rhaegar deserved their respect, not only because of his position and blood, but because of who he was.
A small voice piped up. "I've read Maester Perestan's compliation of letters from the conquest, Your Grace," one of the boys who had ridden with Jon and Rhaegar earlier said. The Massey boy, Jon thought. Wallace Massey. "Your play sounds very interesting," he said, with a youthful earnestness.
Rhaegar smiled and turned his full attention to the boy. "I used Maester Perestan's text as a basis for part of the play. I found him to be a bit pompous, particularly in his assessment of Arlan," he said, leaning back, ready to engage in conversation. "He fancies himself quite the poet, though his prose is atrocious. What did you think, my lord Massey?"
Young Massey's response was drowned out by Ser Alliser and his pack of bastards. "Oh, my Brynden, my Brynden, wherefore art thou, my Brynden?" he said in a high-pitched voice to a round of laughter they didn't even try to muffle by now.
The anger Jon had felt earlier seemed a candle flame next to what he felt now. The flush spread all over his body and it was all he could do not to take a sword to Ser Alliser's neck.
Rhaegar, for his part, seemed calm and in control; but Jon knew him well, perhaps better than anyone. There was an undercurrent of anger beneath Rhaegar's veneer of serenity that showed through in his fixed smile and icy, black stare.
"Did you like that part, Ser Alliser?" Rhaegar finally asked. "If you curled your hair a bit, you'd make a downright lovely Alysanne."
Ser Alliser stopped laughing, the smile turning crueler. "Tell me, Your Grace, where did you learn the prancing about with swords that we saw in your play?" The laughter rose again, though a few looked nervously between the lord's son and the king's son. "Seemed more suited to a Reach dance than a fight."
By now, everyone within earshot was listening to the exchange. Rhaegar's reputation had been the subject of every tongue in the Crownlands since his leaving the Red Keep and taking up with the mummers. This was that result.
Jon saw Rhaegar's smile slip even further and something was lost behind those black eyes as the laughter from Ser Alliser's companions rose.
"Would you care to find out?"
Rhaegar's deadly calm voice cut through the noise like a bolt of lightning. Jon couldn't believe what he had heard. Rhaegar had always been a decent swordsman, but Ser Alliser was larger, older, stronger, and much more experienced. Rhaegar had to be mad to challenge the man, especially when both Jon and Arthur could have sparred in his stead.
Ser Alliser sneered, unsure of himself, but unwilling to back down – especially in front of the other nobles. He nodded slowly, the sneer growing. "Yes, Your Grace, I believe I would."
Lord Adric made noises to stop what was about to happen, his nervous eyes flickering back and forth between his son and the prince, but both Rhaegar and Ser Alliser ignored him, moving to the open portion of the hall in the middle of the three tables. Swords were brought by squires and even the poorer lords at the ends of the tables looked up, aware that something was happening.
Jon leaned forcefully toward Arthur, whispering harshly. "Are we to allow him to embarrass himself further? He cannot hope to trade blows with Ser Alliser!"
"Jon, he has been training with Ser Barristan for more than a year," Arthur reminded him.
"Do you truly imagine Ser Barristan would harm him? Because Ser Alliser certainly will!" Jon looked around. "Where is Ser Barristan?"
Arthur frowned, unsure. "I believe he took his meal outside." The young Dayne stood, keeping Dawn in his hand. "Rhaegar has made his decision, Jon. To interfere would only cause more dishonor."
Jon stood, though he remained behind the table, to get a better view of the makeshift pit. Both had stripped out of their tunics, Rhaegar bare-chested, the heavily corded muscle of his arms and shoulders tapering to a trim waist. He was more heavily muscled than Jon remembered, and Jon's cheeks colored as he did remember.
Rhaegar took the offered sword and rolled it easily, his wrist flexing quickly. Ser Alliser did the same before lifting it in a guard. "Shall the lesson begin, Your Grace?"
Jon watched Rhaegar's face become as impassive as stone. "As you say."
Ser Alliser attacked quickly, his sword striking out at Rhaegar's neck. Jon gripped the back of his chair tightly. It was a bastard's blow, especially in a fight such as this. Rhaegar dodged easily, backing out of the range of the blade. He moved quickly, striking Ser Alliser twice in succession. The heir to House Thorne struck again, which Rhaegar parried easily. Rhaegar was moving fast, faster than Ser Alliser could strike. For every blow that Ser Alliser struck, Rhaegar would parry and return two more.
"He's doing well," Arthur commented, his nonchalance at odds with the focus he had on the fight. "Perhaps his training has been progressing faster than Ser Barristan led us to believe."
Ser Alliser's face changed, the sneer evaporating. He struck again, low this time, but Rhaegar parried again almost effortlessly, countering with a cut to Ser Alliser's thigh. From the look on his face, it stung and Jon hoped it hurt worse than it looked.
Another strike, another parry, another counter and cut. Rhaegar looked to be playing with the heir to House Thorne. Something inside Rhaegar appeared to break and he went on the offensive, his sword moving faster than Jon thought possible. Jon watched in awe as Rhaegar moved gracefully, the speed of a Braavosi and the strength of a full-grown man. Ser Alliser was driven back, knocking over several cups and plates of food on the table. He lunged wildly, to which Rhaegar merely side-stepped and countered, striking Ser Alliser savagely in the side of the head with his fist. There was a look on his face that Jon had never seen before, a mask of rage and wrath.
Ser Alliser went to one knee and Rhaegar lashed out with a foot, taking the lord's son full in the face. The tip of the silver prince's sword moved like a snake, landing beneath Ser Alliser's chin. "Are we through prancing about, Ser Alliser? Or do you wish another lesson?"