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 XVI
1; 275 AC
King's Landing

The majority of the intermission's dull roar came from the pit, two thousand of the smallfolk talking, laughing, yelling for drink, milling around and greeting their friends and family. Raucous, unfiltered talk. Moving up into the first and second balconies, the noise became lower, not least because of their fewer number, but also because they were richer, more refined, merchants and peddlers of flesh and wealth. They spoke in subdued tones, occasionally glancing with furrowed glare and grimace at the pit of groundlings interfering with their talk of money. The third balcony, the highest, the private boxes of landed nobility, was the quietest of all. They spoke in tones so low, muffled by laced and lacquered hands, powdered white so as to be luminous. Their glances were directed to both the smallfolk and the upstart merchants who dared not cower at their presence; but also to the silver-haired prince and lord of the Globe who sat in the middle private box.

It was no question which group I loved more.

There was one exception to the rule, however, as there always is.

Robert Baratheon seemingly towered over me, nearly having his man's height at the not-so-tender age of twelve. He stood two inches taller than my six feet and inch, despite my four years' head start. But he was broad as an axe-handle through the shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist, supported by two legs the size and girth of trees, with the promise of more growth to come. He was extraordinarily handsome, the lines of his face clean and clear, high cheekbones descending to a strong, bold chin and curly hair as black as ink crowning deep, laughing eyes. His voice boomed, coming from deep within his barrel chest. And, right now, he was using every bit of that voice to outshout the rest of the playhouse.

"'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our Stormland dead!'" he bellowed, laughing, leaning over the railing with one hand, while the other cradled a clay cup suited to his massive hands. "By all the gods, Your Grace, I've never heard anything like it! 'But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood!'" Robert yelled, ending his quotation with a battle cry that echoed off the stout wooden walls of the private box. Wine spilled out of his cup, falling onto the heads of the smallfolk below. They cheered the boy lord, thanking him for his donation.

Robert shook his head, reveling in the moment. "You have put it into words! Oh, that feeling of war, either fighting or fucking!" He stopped, looking back at the stage as he drained his cup and held it out again for a refill. "I've never heard anything like it," he repeated, lost in the moment. "Ah, if only Ned were here. I don't know how I'll be able to describe it to him."

I thought I had been prepared to meet Robert, his brother, and their father. I had never been more wrong in my life – either of them. I had expected Robert, First of His Name, the overweight, boozing, whoring, neglectful king of the books. Instead, this Greek statue of youthful male perfection stood before me, his laughter infectious, his humor contagious; I wanted to be in his circle. Even at twelve, he was a leader of men, the kind of person that could conquer the world given a quarter chance. I had never felt a personality so great.

A sobering thought whenever I remembered that Robert and I had fought to the death over a woman on the banks of the Trident. In a future hopefully never to happen, but still deathly sobering.

His brother Stannis was the definitive opposite of Robert. A year and change younger, eight inches shorter, Robert's sixteen stone to Stannis' ten. His personality was cold where Robert's was white-hot, searing. He was quiet, reserved, yet always watching, thoughtful and observing. It wasn't that there was something wrong with Stannis; indeed, growing up in the same household as Robert would have left most with little room to speak. No, Stannis was very simply a quiet, slight, ten year old boy, almost eleven, surrounded by forceful personalities and no room to develop his own.

There was tension there; Stannis seemed uncomfortable in the presence of his brother, Robert's voice and laughter causing an ever-so-subtle twitch in the younger Baratheon's face. A burr under the saddle that would last for years, unless I misremembered my future history.

Their father, Lord Steffon, was the most curious mix of both his sons; Robert's laughing, gregarious nature meeting Stannis' reserved propriety in a middle ground. He was taller than Robert, an indication of how tall Robert would one day be, his black hair fringed with white around the temples and a well-kept black beard framing his face. Robert would be broader one day, Lord Steffon carrying a taut, sinewy strength opposed to Robert's more robust broadness. He laughed with affection for his eldest and watched his youngest with concern. When he spoke to me, it was with the same fatherly concern and affection with which he addressed his sons. I was family, after all.

It was a warm, natural feeling that set me completely at ease. Bawdy jokes, free laughter, grand humor and familial easiness all around. I felt like I had known all of them my entire life.

The horns sounded, announcing the end of intermission, and the dull roar quieted almost immediately. Robert took his seat next to his brother, while Lord Steffon – my second cousin – and I sat in the other double bench. There was another in the private box; two, if you counted the ever-present Ser Barristan standing guard by the door. While my Kingsguard detail would switch in and out, it was Ser Barristan that guarded me the most, and always Ser Barristan for a night at the playhouse. I like to think he secretly enjoyed the plays.

The other occupant of the private box was Arthur, standing quietly behind myself and Lord Steffon, Dawn sheathed at his hip. While it wasn't the first play Arthur had come to watch, it was one of the few.

Ser Barristan had informed me that Ser Willem Waters, one of the older members of my father's Kingsguard, had taken ill; asking further, I had discovered it was likely pneumonia – not that they called it that. At Ser Willem's age, especially in this world, pneumonia was generally a death sentence. As a result, Arthur had increased his training days with the Kingsguard, hoping to be given the white cloak upon Ser Willem's death. From what I knew, Arthur would be knighted soon and would gain the white cloak soon after.

Things were beginning to fall into place, bringing this world one step closer to the world I knew. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing; though, it did make my decision to leave for Essos an all the more pressing one.

Jon had been invited as well, of course, but had declined; he had made his feelings toward Robert clear, if not the reasons behind them.

Lord Steffon leaned closer, watching the movement of actors on the stage while keeping his voice low. He too was entranced by the formation of the playhouse into a battlefield in the Riverlands.

"How is Lord Tywin, by the way?"

Record scratch.

Glass breaking.

Tires screeching.

Through the easy warmth of the familial gathering I froze, my blood running cold and my skin burning. I felt liquid fire rush through my veins and I fought down the overwhelming urge to yelp in fear. Had it all been an act? Had the fatherly concern been but a ruse to get me to open up? Did he suspect Tywin and I of conspiring? Had my father sent him? I started hyperventilating, doing my best to stay calm, lest I force their hand. I replayed the entire night over in my head, looking for any sign that Lord Steffon had given hint to knowing of our plot.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the rest of the Kingsguard wasn't standing by, ready to drag me away. Only Arthur was there, focused on the stage. I looked back to Lord Steffon, the Lord of Storm's End waiting patiently for my answer.

I summoned every bit of acting talent I had and put on my stage face. "Lord Tywin is well, as far as I know. I haven't had contact with him of late."

"Ah," was all he said. "I attempted to see him while we visit the city, but he has matters to attend to far more important than a meeting with an old friend, I'm afraid." He turned to me fully, taking his eyes off the stage. "We were all squires together, you know; myself, Lord Tywin, and your father. It has been many years since we were all together, though; the burden of nobility."

I nodded, my fevered mind somehow remembering that bit of information. It wasn't an accusation; just an honest question about an old friend. I felt my asshole unclench and flop sweat pour down my face. "I don't have any news about Lord Tywin," I said lamely.

Lord Steffon nodded slowly, his expression changing as his face shifted from the stage to me. "If I might overstep myself, Your Grace?"

I nodded, terrified.

"When I spoke to your father earlier," Lord Steffon continued, "he made mention that he had not seen you for some time. Over six months, in fact. Now, I ask this not as a lord, but as a cousin and a father: Is there reason for this distance?"

A half-dozen prepared lies were on the tip of my tongue, the usual sidestep from the direct question. But something gave me pause. There was something almost fatherly in his deep voice that affected me in a way I hadn't felt in years. Not nearly enough to make me tell him the truth, but enough to make me reconsider lying to him. I fought through the paranoia and suspicion, searching for a memory of that tone: it was a concern, and a genuine sincerity, concepts almost alien to this place.

"No, Lord Steffon," I said, relaxing a bit. "The playhouse requires the majority of my time and my father is every bit as busy. Just conflicting schedules, I'm afraid."

Lord Steffon nodded, understanding. "Yes, cousin, but you are now a man, with the rank of knighthood upon you. I do not mean to presume, but I believe leadership in your father's council would suit you."

That would make for an interesting turn of events. Had the King mentioned something of the sort to Lord Steffon? Turning from the almost carefree life in the Globe, every night spent with Jenny, going back to the Red Keep and sequestered by endless meetings. The urge to run grew ever stronger.

"I thank you, cousin, for the compliment. Though, I did once try to name myself Lord Commander of the City Watch less than a year ago. Lord Tywin thought I too young, too inexperienced."

Lord Steffon laughed quietly. "Lord Tywin thought the same when your father was to be knighted. It took the King's considerable stubbornness and charm to change his mind." He looked at me again in that fatherly way. "I have no doubt you will do the same." He sobered slightly. "Again, cousin, I say this as a father; I've fostered Robert at the Eyrie since he was eight. He visits when the fancy takes him, him and Lord Stark's second son. Fostering is an important part of a lord's education," he said, the statement sounding like part of a much larger debate. "Still, part of me wishes he were at Storm's End, so I could watch him grow into the man he is becoming. I'm sure your father feels the same way."

I reflected on the fact that I had never met Aerys, not me myself. In the little more than a year since I had been transported here, the two of us had never come face to face. I wasn't sure I wanted that.

I put it out of my mind, basking in the warm fatherly affection that the sixteen year old in me yearned for. Rhaegar, the real Rhaegar, was far from gone, though he had not been able to affect me for quite a while. I looked forward to the day when I no longer felt tiny bits of emotion or the occasional urge to flee north and kidnap Lyanna Stark. He hated my plan to escape to Essos with Jenny, but interestingly understood my reasons for plotting with Tywin. A strange case of many different emotions.

Rosley was in fine form tonight; indeed, he was born to play this role. He had the swaggering confidence learned from Brynden and the quiet reflection learned from Crejon. Arlan III, my Henry V adaptation, required both. He was coming up on the famous speech, the Saint Crispian's Day speech, some of the most well-known words in the English language. I hoped they would be as well known here in due time. I leaned forward in my chair and noticed that the Baratheons did the same. They could feel it, the pending crest of a wave, the anticipation that something of great moment was near.

Rosley's voice rang clear throughout the Globe: "This day is called the feast of the Father. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, and rouse him at the name of the Father."

I had needed to find a good stand-in for St. Crispian's Day. The Warrior's Day would have fit better, but it would have ruined the meter. Besides, it gave the speech an element of justified action; that the Father, justice incarnate, had weighed the actions on his day and found in favor of Arlan. It implied that Arlan was justified in his action; no small matter for an invasion.

"He that outlives this day, and sees old age, will yearly on the vigil feast his friends, and say, 'To-morrow is the Father's Day.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, but he'll remember, with advantages, what feats he did that day."

Brotherhood was an important part of the speech, that and the camaraderie formed in the face of war. I had known that, and known it well, across the sands of Iraq and Afghanistan. Watched brothers bleed and die for a cause not their own; whether it be justified or not, it was not our place to wonder why, ours but to do and die. Or so the poets say.

"Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words, – Arlan the King, Durran, and Argilac, Durran, Estermont, and Dondarrion – be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd."

Rosley's voice softened here, his hand reaching out and touching each of his men in turn on their breastplates, his touch confirming the bond between men of rank and power. I glanced to Robert, his eyes following the action closely. Even Stannis, who watched most things with detached disinterest, listened with mouth slightly agape.

"This story shall the good man teach his son; the feast of the Father shall ne'er go by from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remember'd, –

Rosley paused here for effect, as I had taught him to do. These following words would resonate with the smallfolk, words burned into their very souls.

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he to-day that sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile; this day shall gentle his condition."

From the smallfolk to the nobility, Arlan claimed kinship with any man who stood shoulder to shoulder with him against the onslaught. A true leader of men, of all men.

"And noblemen in Storm's End, now a-bed, shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap, whilst any speaks, that fought with us upon the Father's day!"

And the kicker. Those vile men who stayed away from the battlefield, cowards one and all, who favored their lives more than their duty to their kingdom, their people. Could any man think himself truly a man, running and hiding instead of fighting? Leaving his brethren to fight without him on the day his kingdom called? None would dare call himself a man that heard that call and chose to stay safely abed.

A beat.

Goddammit.

***

Arthur I
1; 275 AC
King's Landing

The entire playhouse stood quiet at the end of Arlan's grand speech, the tone and cadence of the mummer's voice rising with each word, reaching a crest of emotion. The audience, every man, woman, and child, noble and smallfolk, stood captivated by every word.

"...that fought with us upon the Father's day!"

The crowd erupted, and even Arthur felt a swelling in his chest and a lump in his throat. It was a magical experience, being moved by nothing more than words. Rhaegar had a talent unseen in all the history of Westeros.

Arthur was glad he had taken his time away to visit the playhouse. He saw too little of Rhaegar these days; Ser Rhaegar, he reminded himself. Knighted by no less than Barristan the Bold. There was a lineage of sorts to knighting; Rhaegar had been knighted by Ser Barristan, who had cut a bloody swathe through the Golden Company to kill the last Blackfyre pretender, who was famed throughout the Seven Kingdoms for his honor and skill. He was a great man to live up to.

Rhaegar was a good and moral man, intelligent and witty and brave and a better hand with a blade than any would ever expect from a prince who operated a playhouse. Even so, he had a terrible tendency to fall into himself, think too much, altogether too indecisive for a man of his age. Arthur would occasionally see him mutter to himself and he hoped it was not a sign of the impending Targaryen madness.

But to create this, Arthur thought, looking out onto the stage that had transported him through time and space, perhaps a little madness is needed.

A knock came at the door, clearly heard over the voices from the stage. Arthur turned, his hand falling ever so easily onto the hilt of his greatsword. He didn't expect anything, not with Ser Barristan outside; his hand found the hilt even so.

The door swung into the box, revealing Ser Barristan and two other men; one was Arry, Rhaegar's seneschal, a slight, balding man with a perpetual grimace now turned down even more so. The other was unknown to Arthur, a lord by the look of him. The cut of his clothes, the rings of his hands, the imperious look on his face; no, not just a lord. A very rich and powerful lord.

Rhaegar rose to meet the pair, his face troubled. The seneschal made a short, stiff bow to the prince, handing him a piece of parchment. "Your Grace, this was found outside the playhouse, nailed to the door. The High Septon himself has signed it."

Arthur moved closer, catching Rhaegar's eye. He motioned Arthur over, showing him the parchment. It was a writ, impressed with the seal of the Faith and written in a long, flowing hand.

Arthur couldn't believe it. "The High Septon believes the playhouse to be impious? So much so that he calls for the faithful to abandon coming here?"

The wealthy lord cleared his throat, announcing himself. Rhaegar looked up, as if noticing him for the first time. "Ah, Lord Lucerys. I thank you for attending. I do hope you've enjoyed the show."

The name triggered something in Arthur's memory and he realized who the man was.

Lucerys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark. The Master of Ships for Aerys II.

"My son and I are in attendance. It was he that saw the writ." Lord Velaryon smoothed his silver hair against the side of his head. "My son is in the process of building his own playhouse near the Old Gate. Not that he hopes to contend with your own establishment, Your Grace."

Arthur heard the words that seemed to be approving, but there was something in the Master of Ships' eyes that belied the tone. He despises his son's endeavor. And Rhaegar's by extension, Arthur thought.

Rhaegar, for his part, seemingly took no notice of the subtext. Arthur looked at him more closely; no, Rhaegar had heard the disapproval. The slightest twitch of an eyelash told him that. Not that anyone who didn't know Rhaegar would notice it, but Arthur could tell from the slightest movement of the smallest muscle when and where and how fast a man would strike. And it was always the eyes that gave it away.

The prince remained quiet, and Lord Lucerys took it upon himself to fill in the silence. "It seems strange that the High Septon would involve himself. The farces on the streets of King's Landing are much more vulgar, and indecorous in their excuse for humor. And after you've just had a grand speech extolling the virtues of the Father, no less."

At this, Rhaegar seemed to finally come alive. "Oh, come now, Lord Lucerys. I believe we both know that someone else had a hand in this."

Arthur frowned at Rhaegar. He couldn't be seriously suggesting that Lord Tywin Lannister was somehow behind this. Could he?

Lord Lucerys seemed to understand entirely, digesting the information. "Indeed. The reach of some far outweighs their station."

Seemingly indifferent, Rhaegar ripped the writ in half, then again, then again. "No need to worry. Those responsible will find that a pen can sometimes be far sharper than a sword."

Lord Lucerys smiled, his teeth gleaming. He considered Rhaegar as one would a side of beef at market, weighing, calculating. Arthur's hand seemed to move of its own accord toward the hilt of Dawn. He didn't care for that look, not at all. Lord Lucerys' smile grew even wider. "I truly look forward to that, Your Grace."

Arthur frowned again, looking from Rhaegar to Lord Lucerys and back again. Rhaegar, what in all the hells are you playing at?