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 XIV
1; 275 AC
King's Landing

"Would you come with me, Your Grace?"

I looked up at Ser Barristan, sweat pouring down my face onto my bare chest. I was hunched over, gasping, feet shoulder width apart, hands on my knees trying to catch my breath. The late evening breeze through the open theatre chilled the heavy sweat on my body, stiffening my muscles. I had gone round with Lord Commander Hightower for the last three hours, trying in vain to slip his guard until every inch of my body ached.

The Lord Commander stood off to the side, the only clue to our previous match the slight sheen of sweat beading his forehead. The man never made a mistake. He was a machine, every stroke, every parry, every movement of foot and hand never more than exactly what he needed to do. No wasted movement. Not a single, solitary misstep. He was the perfect swordsman. Ser Barristan might have been stronger, and Prince Lewyn was quicker, but the White Bull, even in his mid-fifties, was better than both. The man had turned the sword into an art form, lethality distilled into its purest state.

"What is it, Ser Barristan?" I asked, too tired to be polite. Every piece of my body was on fire.

"We need to discuss something, Your Grace."

I froze. Even through my exhaustion-numbed mind, I heard something in his tone that gave me pause. There was a gravity there, a seriousness greater than usual. It wasn't a kind tone, most certainly not one held when speaking to a prince.

I saw Lord Commander Hightower catch Ser Barristan's eye and give a slight nod. That nod worried me. Fuck, it did more than worry me.

I fought through the haze of utter exhaustion, my mind racing. Did either suspect my plot to kill my father? Had Lord Tywin turned on me? Were they taking me to the dungeons beneath the Red Keep or was I headed straight for the Justice?

My heart started beating faster and faster, skipping every other beat, a staccato rhythm that made my head swim.

Had to be that. They knew. They fucking knew. There was no other reason for Ser Barristan's tone nor for the look on his face.

Could I swing a trial by combat? Maybe, on a good day, if I was fresh. Now? After fifteen rounds with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?

Not a fucking chance. That was probably their plan all along. Wear me out, mentally and physically, before moving in.

I needed time. I could get out. Apartment. Street. Dock. I had coin. Passage to Essos. Only choice. I could go, get out of here, away from this, one step ahead of the headsman, I could go, leave and never look back–

Jenny.

I couldn't leave her. I wouldn't. Sail away, come back? Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Too many maybes, too many variables.

Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold both stood still, watching me. I knew from experience how quickly their swords would be drawn, how fast the first blow would come. I could parry one, maybe, but not both. Never both. Not on my best day. I needed a distraction, a reason to leave.

"Of course, Ser Barristan," I said slowly. "Let me grab a shirt from my rooms." I turned to walk toward the stage, behind which stood my apartment and potential freedom.

"I have already taken the liberty, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, tossing a rough woolen tunic in my direction.

I caught it by reflex, considering my options. Their next step would be to take me somewhere else. It would present an opportunity for my escape. The streets would be heavy with people at this time of day, the last few rays of light meaning that the work was done for the day. I could strike hard and fast and break away before they could react, slipping into the crowd.

I smiled tightly as I put on the tunic. "Thank you, Ser Barristan." He nodded and turned on his heel, walking toward the exit. I followed, with Ser Gerold behind me.

As we walked, I looked over the crowd, trying to control my thumping heart. I was nearly surprised Ser Barristan couldn't hear it. The smallfolk saw me and cheered, some quoting their favorite lines from their favorite plays. I smiled tightly, trying to put on a good face. I didn't want attention drawn until I needed it drawn.

The Globe was just east off of Cobbler's Square and the shifting crowd diverted through narrow streets, catching us up in its wake. When I saw Ser Barristan turn east toward the Red Keep, my suspicions were confirmed.

The smart move would be to strike at Ser Gerold. He was quicker than Ser Barristan, but he was also more tired. Three hours of intense sparring would effect even the Lord Commander. If I timed it right, I could strike before he could draw steel and be gone before Ser Barristan turned around, lost in the crowd.

I glanced over my shoulder. Ser Gerold stared back, his eyes unmoving.

What was I thinking. Ser Gerold would cut me down before I made a move, and if he didn't, Ser Barristan would; of that I had no doubt. The man was as honorable as they came and he would certainly not let his personal feelings toward me affect his duty.

I was still contemplating my options, the Red Keep looming over me like a blood-tinted storm cloud, when Ser Barristan swung south at the Guildhall of the Alchemists, moving against the flow of bodies. We were on the Street of the Sisters, heading toward the Great Sept of Baelor.

It was a magnificent structure, seven high towers shining bright in the setting sun. They reminded me of the minarets on mosques I'd seen in the Middle East. The tangle of small, narrow streets that lined the base of Visenya's Hill were crowded, but the smallfolk gave us a wide berth. They knew Ser Barristan as a fair, kind man, but their distance was equal parts fear and respect.

We climbed the hill toward the Great Sept and I bit my tongue. I wasn't entirely sure I wouldn't be executed and I didn't want that to be confirmed. I didn't know what they knew or what they guessed, and silence seemed the best option for now.

We finally made our way to the grand entrance to the sept. Ser Gerold halted at the door, while Ser Barristan and I made our way inside. It was my first time inside, and the interior of the massive structure put even the grandeur of the outside to shame. Lamps were everywhere, casting different colored lights around the darkening room. Ser Barristan walked swiftly toward the large double doors, and I followed.

The massive dome of the interior reflected the kaleidoscope of the setting sun. The marble floor beneath my feet echoed as we walked and I was struck again by the sheer size of the thing. The thick walls blocked any sound and there wasn't so much as a whisper of a passing servant. There was silence here.

"I thought, because of your preferences, that you would rather have the ceremony in private. Forgive me, if I've overstepped myself, Your Grace."

I looked around, bewildered. "What is this, Ser Barristan?"

He smiled, a warm, genuine smile. "Your knighting ceremony, Your Grace."

It took all I had in me not to collapse in relief, but even so I let loose a sigh that I couldn't contain. I would keep my head another day. For whatever it was worth.

I was so shocked that I couldn't think of what to say. "Are you sure about this, Ser Barristan? I've improved with the sword, yes, but I hardly think my training is complete." I reflected that the overly formal, archaic sentence pattern and form was easily second nature to me now. I hardly had to think about how to say something, or the lilting accent, or the words themselves, or even how "Rhaegar" would react and say; I was this person, the amalgam of people, down to my very core.

"Your sixteenth nameday is in a few days. You are of an age when most are knighted; even more so for a Prince of House Targaryen."

I shook my head, not even realizing that my nameday was so soon; I had arrived in Rhaegar's body a mere day after his fifteenth nameday, making this the first nameday for me. I've been here nearly a year, I thought.

"I'm not ready, Ser Barristan. I have much more to learn."

Ser Barristan's smile faded a bit as the seriousness came back, with a hint of pride burning through. A father's pride. "No man ever stops learning, Rhaegar. Even now, you are better than anyone I've ever trained. Today, you drove Ser Gerold Hightower back more times than any other man living. I've seen three men do that, all dead now;Roger Reyne, the Red Lion of Castamere;Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm; and Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard." This last was said with a brief tone of sadness. "And you are the best man I've ever known," he continued, looking me in the eye. "You care for the smallfolk, the merchants, even the nobility. You work to make their lives better, to protect them. That is the mark of a true knight." He stepped forward, placing his hand on my shoulder. "I would be honored to serve in your Kingsguard."

I felt a heat in my face and I realized I was blushing slightly. Ser Barristan never gave out compliments undeservedly. I knew I had worked hard, day and night, driven by fear every bit as much as pride. I knew I had a plan to make the world a better place. Ser Barristan knew that much; but he didn't know the path that plan would take.

Half an hour before I had worried Ser Barristan would take my head for knowing what I planned to do. Now, he was planning to knight me for what he thought I planned to do.

I shook my head. My hypocrisy went only so far.

"I cannot accept this, Barristan."

He looked at me strangely. "Your Grace?"

"I do not deserve this," I said quietly. He would need a reason. Don't get me wrong; I knew I needed a knighthood for support from the smallfolk and the nobility both. And I'd play their game, paying lip service to their notions of honor that none of them lived up to, or pretended to aspire to. I just couldn't do it to Ser Barristan.

He believed it, you see. He was a better man than any I'd met, here or the real world. Not a single duplicitous bone in his body.

Ser Barristan furrowed his brow. "Your Grace, if this is about the incident with Ser Alliser..."

"I nearly killed him," I said. That part was certainly true. Truer than any knew. Something had happened during the sparring match, a flipped switch. Closer to a burst dam. I had lost any control over my temper in that moment. I had wanted his blood. I had wanted it spilled on the stone floor, pooling beneath his corpse. All for a half-assed insult. No. For more than that. For his laughter. For his mocking, fucking laughter. For that I had wanted him dead.

How could I accept this honor from a man like Ser Barristan knowing that there was something in me waiting to break out, something I wasn't sure I could control?

"A knight wouldn't have gone so far," I said, looking him in the eye.

Ser Barristan nodded slowly, considering my words. He looked around, looking at the figures of the Seven in their alcoves around the sept. "Everyone has something in them they are ashamed of. Some give in to it, some rise above it. That you recognize your flaw says a great deal about your character, Your Grace."

He looked at my face, waiting for some reaction. I remained stony, unconvinced.

"Stay the night, Your Grace. Search your conscience. I will return inside at dawn. If you are here, I will perform the ceremony. If you are not..." he trailed off. "If you are not, we will continue your training until you feel that you have earned the right."

Ser Barristan left with that, leaving me alone in the sept, only the candles for company. I looked around at the idols of the Seven, watching them watching me. It wasn't that I was unreligious; unconvinced either way might've been a better word for it. Still, any religion or philosophy is as good as another if it makes a man better. It gives him boundaries of acceptable behavior, keeps the savage part of our nature at bay. All men are bastards or fools, of one shape or another.

Consider this: a man, be it a blacksmith or a cobbler or a tanner, is a right mean bastard. He goes about his day, his trade, his home. What destruction could he wrought? He has to earn his living, spending most of his time working to survive. If he's half the bastard most men are, no one would listen to what he has to say. Sure, he may beat his wife, but one more beaten woman is just one more whimper atop the scream of a mad world. His carnage is limited.

But perhaps that bastard is a merchant. He has some wealth, some prestige. Maybe even owns some land. His carnage is increased tenfold because of his power, but still limited. What he lacks in blood he has to make up for in wealth. But he answers to someone, in his case the nobility, always ready to slap down some up-jumped peasant who has grown beyond his station. Even if that bastard were a lord, his carnage is limited by someone higher on the shitheap.

But the King is answerable to no one. His carnage is unlimited.

I knew what I was. I didn't trust myself with that unlimited, unchecked power. Sure, I could convince myself that I'd rule responsibly. Justly. Maybe some days I even believed it. But then I felt that savage, feral part come to the surface and knew I'd end up killing someone for laughing at me.

There was something else as well. Accepting the knighthood would be one more step toward intertwining myself with this wretched hellhole. A very strong part of me wanted to run, leave it all behind, leave them all to their own devices. Rhaegar, the Crown Prince, would disappear. My brother Viserys would be born soon, maybe another year or so. Without me to fuck everything up by kidnapping Lyanna Stark, Viserys would ascend without much trouble. There'd probably be a Great Council called to deal with my father's madness eventually. They would face the Others in due course, either winning or losing. My contributions could hardly make the difference.

Yeah, right, I thought to myself. Of course my future knowledge of events and technology would make a difference. The wallowing self-doubt didn't suit my temperament, nor did the false humility fit my ego. I was responsible for the well-being of an entire kingdom, simply because I had the knowledge to save them all. Just me.

Without realizing it, I had been holding my breath. I sucked in air and for a moment my breathing shallowed out, coming harder and faster as I fought to keep my heart from pounding. I was hyperventilating, arms shaking, vision tightening. It was a panic attack.

I ran out the door of the sept, desperate to feel the cool air on my face. It helped momentarily and I fought for my breathing to return to normal. I sat down on the cool stone and put my head between my knees, trying to escape the suffocation of two horrible, shitty decisions. Take the throne and end up worse than my father? Or run, and condemn all these people to die?

I started crying. Not bawling, but angry, silent tears. I needed a cigarette, despite it being nearly a year since my last one. Hadn't really missed them until now. Surely there was some place in this godless world that grew tobacco, or pot. Either would do.

My mind idly wandered. Arlan III would open in a few days' time and word had reached me that the two sons of Lord Steffon Baratheon would be there, to accept the honor I paid their house. That would be interesting. I reflected on Henry V's growth between Henry IV and V. He'd gone from reckless prince to inspiring king offstage. We see him leave as the boy and return as the man. If only real life were so simple. The foolish prince exits stage left, runs around the backstage area, changing costume, enters upstage right, the noble king.

Ser Barristan saw the noble king instead of the fool. Maybe that was worth something, I don't know.

I just don't know.

***

I opened the door to my bedroom, the glare from a too early morning filtering through the dirty window. I heard Ser Barristan take up post outside, his heavy boots stilling themselves just past the door. I looked down at the sword at my hip, belted over the rough tunic. It had been a gift from Ser Barristan and the other knights of the Kingsguard. A longsword, nearly a meter long, of fine steel, with a pommel and hilt carved in the shaped of a dragon head. The black leather of the grip was interspersed with red silk, as if the dragon had breathed fire down the pommel. Ser Barristan had asked me to name it after the ceremony.

Yeah. I went through with the ceremony. I was now Ser Rhaegar, for whatever that was worth. Don't ask me why I did it; I still wasn't sure. But Ser Barristan was a good man. I didn't want to disappoint him.

The sword's name was Durendal. Roland's sword from my world. I told him it was High Valyrian for "to endure;" I thought it fitting. He did as well.

Jenny lay in bed, tangled up beneath the sheets, the sheet tucked firmly beneath her chin. She looked radiant, even after a night's sleep. I stood there, looking at her, admiring her, even with her hair plastered to her face and the awkward position of her arched back. She looked peaceful, serene. Had I looked closer, I would have seen the sweat on her brow, or the sheets knotted in clinched fists.

The door shut behind me, not loudly, but enough to wake her. She jolted out of the bed, her scream nearly shattering my ears. She looked around wildly, her eyes wide and scared. I heard Ser Barristan come crashing in through the outer door before her scream had even stopped. He stepped into the bedroom a moment later, sword drawn.

"Jenny! Calm down, it's just me!"

She looked around, throwing the sheet off her in a panic and leaping out of bed. Her breathing was shallow and caught in her throat, half-breaths that only served to frighten her more. "I need to go," she said, practically running past me to the outer door. I followed close behind her at a run, yelling for Ser Barristan to stay.

I tripped over a collection of spears that served as props for Arlan III, banging my knee against the stone floor. By the time I made it to the stage, Jenny was already in the middle of the pit, her shift hanging from her haphazardly, barely covering anything. I grabbed a cloak from a nearby table and went to her, intending to throw it on her.

"No!" She nearly screamed, backing away from me when she saw it. "No! Just... Just stay there!"

I did as she commanded. I didn't have a clue as to what had happened. A nightmare, perhaps. She had them sometimes, I knew. You couldn't sleep with someone for six months and not know something like that. She never told me what they were and I never asked. Everyone's entitled to their secrets.

Finally, Jenny reached some semblance of calm. "Sometimes..." she began, catching her breath, looking toward the open sky as morning broke on King's Landing. "Sometimes I have a fear of tight spaces. It feels like I cannot breathe, as if some great pressure were on my chest. I can't move, I can't think." She looked at me with tears in her eyes, half-embarrassed, half-terrified. "I know it's silly, but I can't help it."

She looked around, up at the open roof, as if reassuring herself she had an exit. "Sometimes it's not even a tight space. Sometimes there's just too many people, too many responsibilities, too many things around. And all I can do is run, get away."

I moved closer to her, gently taking her into my arms. I smoothed her hair and made soothing noises until I felt her relax. Claustrophobia with a dash of anxiety they'd call it, a world away. Some therapy, some pills, she'd be right as rain. Here, though; here, it was stark raving terror that would come out of nowhere, and not a single thing to do about it.

And it wasn't like I didn't know exactly where she was coming from.

"If I left, would you go with me?" I asked before I knew I had said it.

She drew back a bit, her red-rimmed eyes searching mine. Her face was questioning, slightly horrified by what I was proposing, and more than half unsure if I was serious. Hell, I wasn't even sure if I was serious.

I had my responsibilities, but I didn't deserve the weight of the world on my shoulders. I'd never asked for it, never volunteered. Not my fight.

"Yes."

I looked at her, her eyes staring back at me resolutely. She never wavered and in the face of that certainty, I realized I was definitely serious. "We will need money. I don't have many skills as such and I wouldn't want you to become a sellsword," she said, watching my face.

I shook my head. "The Globe has plenty in its coffers."

She bit her lip. "You'll need to dye your hair, at least until we're both old and gray. And you'll need another name."

What's in a name? I thought to myself, looking around the Globe for ideas.

As I looked up, I noticed a red banner across my private back. It was a sign from Arry that Lord Tywin wanted a meeting. No doubt to discuss my near murder of the heir to a house we were attempting to woo.

That was it, I realized. Lord Tywin would run the kingdom much better than I ever could. He had the wealth and the experience and the drive. He could play the Great Houses against one another. He would need a figurehead on the throne, though.

Viserys.

It would work out perfectly. We would follow through with the plan, killing Aerys. I would ensure a peaceful transition. Then Jenny and I would disappear to Essos. Lord Tywin would be named Regent. Viserys would be married to Cersei. I'd leave notes with Lord Rickard, warning him of the Others. He'd take it seriously. And Jenny and I would find some small village and raise our fat babies away from the madness of Westeros.

I looked back at her, the first note of happiness coming from deep within my soul that I had felt in months.

"Call me William."