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 XVII
2; 275 AC
King's Landing

"I don't fucking care how much gold you offer, I'm not fucking doing it!"

My ears perked up at that and, curious, I left the bar area of the playhouse, walking towards the stage and the sound of confrontation. Arry looked up as I left, his expression slightly more disapproving than normal at the sound of the argument. I waved him back to the finances and went to take care of whatever new crisis my actors had created.

Rehearsals for Tybolt III/Richard III had been hurried, barely a month since the ink went dry on the final scripts and we would open tonight. For our plan to work, the closing of the playhouse had to be fresh in everyone's mind. I had used certain agents to keep the story aflame, leaking the general plot of the play, but keeping the dwarf Lannister a secret, only hinting to the Crownland nobles that it would be well worth the price of admission.

Of course, they all had been tremendously offended on my behalf at the Lord Hand's impudence. Not that it was widely known he had put the High Septon up to it, but it was widely known, if you get my meaning. The Globe had been shut down for a full week while I soothed the Faith's coffers, which had actually worked in my favor, as it gave me a chance to get a lot of work begun on Tybolt III. I was scared shitless about the play; we had never opened with such a hurried schedule and, added to that, this play would be the greatest insult to Lord Tywin's pride that had ever been leveled at him. All of the gold-shitting jokes were a drop in the bucket compared to this.

Tywin had claimed he would be able to see the larger picture, taking the play in stride with an eye toward the endgame. Yet, here we were, still in the opening moves of the game, with every chance of my own partner turning on me. Maybe not today, or even tomorrow, but soon and when I least expected it. After all, a Lannister always pays his debts.

I turned the corner into the pit and saw Izembaro and Hop-Bean arguing on stage. It was comical; the large Izembaro with his ever-growing girth and tiny Hop-Bean, standing barely four and a half feet tall. It made me feel marginally better; so much of the humor inherent in the play was made a million times funnier to see a tiny Tybolt III shouting up at the other actors: "Unmanner'd dog! Stand you, when I command: Advance thy halbert higher than my breast, or, by the Smith, I'll strike thee to my foot, and spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness."

It gave me hope that even with the hurried writing, hurried rehearsal, and forced-upon plot and setting, it could still be a good play.

Izembaro attempted to quiet the dwarf when he saw me walking toward them, but Hop-Bean was having none of it. "Don't shush me, you fat fuck! I don't care if the silver cunt hears me or not!"

I stopped in my tracks, considering the dwarf. I wasn't angry; more surprised than anything. No one had spoken to me, or about me, like that in a long time. Jon and Arthur had come the closest, but even in Jon's most angry rants about me "grubbing around in the dirt with mummers," he hadn't approached this.

"Is there a problem?" I asked conversationally.

Hop-Bean turned around and jumped a bit when he saw me – and saw that I had obviously heard him – but to his credit, he didn't back down. "You're fucking right there is!" he very nearly shrieked. "What kind of half-wit moron would write this half-wit play?" he said, shaking the pages of the script at me. "And more importantly, what kind of idiot would expect any sane man – much less a dwarf! – to act it out in front of people?"

Again, I was more surprised than anything. There had been a few raised eyebrows at first – which I had expected, given the material – but nothing from Hop-Bean. Not until now, anyway.

"You insolent little bastard," Izembaro thundered on my behalf, "I should hurl you from the top balcony for this affront to the Prince! Who do you think is responsible keeping you in all the whores and wine your tiny little heart can take?" He took a breath to continue, but I raised my hand.

"If you have a problem with the play," I said slowly, "why wait until opening night to say something?"

Hop-Bean scowled. "Even the Braavosi have heard 'The Rains of Castamere' and the man it was written about. What they haven't heard is that Lord Tywin fucking Lannister has a dwarf son." Hop-Bean fixed me with a glare. "Kill me if you want, Prince Rhaegar, but it will be a damn slight faster death than the one Lannister will give me."

Ah. That explained a lot. I silently cursed whoever had let it slip that there was a definite subtext to the play.

"Hop-Bean, I'll be blunt; we open in less than four hours. You're the only dwarf that knows the play and I don't have time to train anyone else. The play doesn't work unless Tybolt is a dwarf." I kept my voice perfectly calm, but I was furious inside. Not about his tone or the way he had addressed me; a man had a right to self-preservation and besides that, it was refreshing. No, I needed this play to go ahead without a hitch as part of the plan. The play's the thing, after all. "So. How much would it take for you to perform the play as written?"

Hop-Bean shook his head. "How much is my life worth? To me, a great deal. To others, perhaps not as much. I daresay more than you could offer."

"A thousand Dragons."

Hop-Bean stopped in mid-stride, his mouth hanging slightly open. Izembaro became very quiet as well, the only sound his heavy breathing. I stepped up onto the stairs leading to the stage, until I was on the same level as them. "One thousand Dragons. Half now, half when the run is finished. And I'll buy you passage on the first ship the morning after the last show."

Hop-Bean's face twitched involuntarily and his eyes darted from me to Izembaro. A thousand Dragons was a lot of money. With that, you could be set for life, provided you weren't a whoremongering little shit. It would clean out the majority of the reserves I'd set aside for the playhouse, but more money could be made. A full house at the Globe brought in about five and a half Dragons per show and we ran eight shows per week. Counting the drink sales, the playhouse would net around eight Gold Dragons for every performance. Sixty-four per week, and an estimated three thousand a year, minus upkeep for the playhouse and wages for the servants and actors.

I could afford a thousand Dragons. What I couldn't afford was to lose any time training another dwarf.

***

"I have to say, Your Grace, your plays are truly remarkable. And you say you wrote this one in a single night?"

I nodded, the wine soothing my strangled nerves. Monfred Velaryon was young and naïve, but he wasn't entirely wrong. The play was good...ish. Dropped lines here and there, scene changes that could have been smoother; the usual opening night crises. Hop-Bean was performing well, his golden-blonde wig clearly the proper color even from this height. As well he should, the greedy little bastard.

Monfred's father, Master of Ships and Lord of the Tides, Lucerys Velaryon, sat opposite us smiling and drinking his wine. He was a consummate actor; I could've put him on stage and he'd fit right in, with an ego to match. You wouldn't notice it right away, but the slight tug of a sneer or a narrowed eye would give it away. He hated playhouses and anyone associated with them. He thought them vulgar and pedestrian, beneath him and anyone of noble blood. Which made his son's project all the more strange.

"You simply must come visit my playhouse once it's up and running, Your Grace," the younger Velaryon said. He was barely fourteen, with the same silver hair as myself and his father. Monfred was eager and open, honest and sincere in his praise. Slightly effeminate, he wore the finest clothing that showed not the tiniest bit of wear. That was proof of his family's wealth; who else could afford silk and silver to wear for a single day, maybe two, then throw it away?

"I would be delighted, Monfred," I said, feigning sincerity. "Have you thought of a name for it?"

Monfred's unlined brow furrowed slightly. "Ah, there is but time enough for such things. Perhaps, 'The Sea Snake?' Or, 'The Silver Serpant?'"

I gagged. Pretention and pompousity went hand in hand with the young sons of lords. I chanced a look at Lord Lucerys. The twitch was back, no doubt at his son's determination to link a playhouse so tightly with House Velaryon. Which made me think that the Master of Ships was using his son to gain favor with me, common interests and all that. That, plus the play, could be enough to gain me admittance to his inner circle.

If I was lucky and hadn't read the situation completely wrong.

"If I might make a suggestion, Lord Monfred? Simpler names are often better. Perhaps 'The Rose' might be more fitting? And plays! What plays will you be performing?"

Monfred looked at me, slightly confused. "Why, your plays, of course, Your Grace."

Something must have given away my initial reaction, for Monfred quickly added, "Only with your permission, Your Grace."

Lord Lucerys spoke from my other side. "I think Tybolt III would be a wonderful first play at your playhouse, Monfred."

Only the very smallest hitch in the word "playhouse" gave anything away. I didn't know if continuing to operate the playhouse would be in my best interest. It could serve to alienate myself from Lord Lucerys if I wasn't careful. I needed to find something that would convince him I would be a worthy asset to his conspiracy.

I turned my attention back to the stage. It was Act IV, and Tybolt was descending deeper into evil. Tiny Hop-Bean's great voice boomed through the playhouse, "I must be married to my brother's daughter,or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass: — Murder her brothers, and then marry her! Uncertain way of gain! But I am in so far in blood, that sin will pluck on sin. Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye."

Monfred tut-tutted fretfully. "Does your Tybolt have no shame? Such baseness and evil. Clearly, a man beyond honor."

Lord Lucerys, on my other side, only bared his teeth in a sneer. "I don't know, Monfred. I think it an apt representation," he said, looking at me with a knowing look.

I inclined my head in a show of personal thanks, a moment between two men in on the joke.

Would it be enough?

***

Tywin III
2; 275 AC
King's Landing

The whore lay on the bed, writhing slowly beneath the sheets, intertwining with them, her dark, inky skin contrasting with the cream of the fabric. Tywin looked down on the bed, his lips curling into a sneer. Hatred and shame flooded his veins, the heat of emotion setting his teeth on edge. He hated being here, hated the need that drove him here. It wasn't a lord's need; it was baser than that, a man's need.

It was that gods-damned play. The one he had agreed to. The one he had asked Rhaegar for.

His play.

Rhaegar had told him, told him the very night they had made their plan. "You won't like it," he had said. Tywin thanked him for the honesty, while cursing him for the act.

He lay down on the bed, placing his arms and legs where they had gone so many times before, all the while cursing his shame and need.

The dark-skinned whore deftly tightened the cloth bindings at his wrist and ankles, looking down on him, straddling him.

"Another, my lord?"