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 XIX
3; 275 AC
King's Landing

The Rose was a near replica of the Globe in shape, if not in size. Built to contain merely two thousand instead of the Globe's three, the interior pit was a mirror image, solid stone covered in rushes, with a raised stage four feet off the ground. The stage part was finished, even down to the curtains, while the interior railings and bannisters for the balconies were still being worked on. There was even a five-room apartment in the back of the playhouse, so that Monfred Velaryon could stay here when he chose. I had the run of the rooms for the moment, myself, Jenny, and Ser Barristan. Another week, maybe more, for the rest of it to be complete, which gave us plenty of time to finish rehearsal for the newest play in the Westerosi canon.

The smallfolk of King's Landing had been absolutely devastated at the loss of the Globe, one of the few sources of recreation they could afford outside of a tavern. They stopped by the Rose in droves during the building process, asking when it would be open. It had taken more than a little convincing to get Monfred to allow them to enter his playhouse; the pompous ass had intended his playhouse to be limited to the nobility only, with the merchants and traders standing in the pit. He saw it as "putting them in their place."

I had had good days and bad days since the fire. On bad days, I wanted to stab Monfred over and over again. On good days, I just wanted to strangle him.

And, honestly, it wasn't that he was a completely terrible person, especially when compared to the rest of the world; it was just how his perspective had been created by other, more terrible people, like his father. Monfred saw the smallfolk as little better than dogs, a sentiment shared by most of the nobility, while he saw merchants as slightly wealthier dogs, sinful and greedy in their pursuit of coin. Such was par for the course for men born to wealth, who had no idea how precarious their position truly was. Dragons had kept the peace, both between lord and lord, and between lord and smallfolk, but the dragons were long gone. And a consequence of peace is that people on the bottom start wondering why they're on the bottom. The nobility of the crownlands hadn't fought a true war on Westerosi soil in nearly a hundred and fifty years, not since the Dance. Campaigns, yes, battles, yes; but not war. They were soft, feckless men who actually believed they deserved their power.

Men like Lord Crispian Celtigar.

I smelled him before I saw him, lilac and musty lace covering a body odor strong enough to choke on. He was shorter than I, but nearly twenty stone in weight. His silver hair was cut shorter than most, slicked back with what smelled like pig grease, the same as his tragically small mustache. The Pink Crab's face was always flushed from the sheer effort of moving his enormous bulk, his heavy breathing sending his jowly chins a-fluttering. He was around fifty, and headed for a heart attack within a year or two.

I thought to what I knew of him, and then what Lord Tywin and I knew of him. He was ostensibly part of Thorne's faction, which we knew in reality to be Darklyn's faction, but few knew that Celtigar was actually reporting to Velaryon, Valyrian blood proving thicker than water. His house was wealthy enough, but the Celtigars were notoriously tight-fisted misers, hoarding the wealth they had to compete with the other, richer houses. The man was a powdered fool and I'd have hated him, had I spared more than a few moments' thought for the ridiculous man.

Unfortunately, he was half-owner of the Rose, along with Monfred, which meant I had to put up with the both of them, while simultaneously running rehearsals for a new play and getting closer to my primary target, Lucerys Velaryon.

I wasn't quite sure, but I felt like he was feeling me out as well. Certain things he'd say, or the quick glances he'd give me when someone mentioned Lord Tywin, all pointed to this being an interview for the local Conspirators R Us chapter. Even now, he was looking over at me and the fat Lord Celtigar, who was standing behind me and breathing. Loudly.

"I must say, Your Grace," the Pink Crab wheezed, "you show a remarkable dedication to your art. Magnificent, I say! Your plays are simply magnificent!"

I smiled politely and nodded. "Thank you, my lord. I hope it will be ready in time for the opening of the Rose."

Lord Celtigar's piggy little eyes lit up. "It will, I am sure of it, Your Grace! The finest play yet! Magnificent!" He would have said more, but the effort forced him to catch his breath.

And men like that thought they should rightly rule.

My well-trained ears caught the telltale pause of a dropped line and I moved toward the stage, anxious to be out of the man' noxious cloud. Jenny was technically running the rehearsal, having spent many, many late nights – ahem – studying the play with me. She was up by the stage, keeping an eye on things. I had felt bad about the fire; my being complicit with Lord Tywin had put her in danger. I don't know what I'd have done if she'd been killed. Slit Tywin's throat, for one, and not thought twice.

She wasn't stupid; far from it. She could hear as well as anyone, that the Globe had burned down days after premiering a play insulting to Lord Tywin Lannister. She'd even warned me when I was writing the damned thing. I wanted to tell her the entirety of the plan, that Lord Tywin and I were plotting together and that it would enable us to leave Westeros behind. But I couldn't do that to her, involve her in this. She'd only worry.

The play was an adaptation of Coriolanus set in the Vale, called Alester, Knight of the Gate. It tells the story of a man seeking vengeance against those who have wronged him. I had chosen it for its' focus on revenge, hoping Lord Lucerys would see it and believe me to be of a similar mind. To fit it better to Westeros in general, and the Vale in particular, I had needed to edit more than usual, which still pained me to no end. Yet, it had also given me the opportunity to add more vengeance-minded lines and acts, to make the theme almost impossible to miss for even Lord Lucerys.

The lead in the play was supposed to be an older, military man, a hardened warrior and general. It was all wrong for Rosley, wrong by three decades and a considerable amount of experience. There hadn't been a part for him to play in this one, so I'd finally acted on an idea I'd had for a while. There were now four different traveling troupes bearing my name and performing the plays across Westeros. Rosley was leading the first one to the Vale, then White Harbor, where'd they'd cut across the North toward Winterfell, while another went up the Trident to Seagard and back. Another one was touring the Reach, while the last was hitting Storm's End and the rest of the Stormlands. They were all performing all of the existing plays; all except Tybolt, of course. It was a very exciting time, had I been able to focus solely on that. But first, Rosley's absence meant I still needed a replacement lead actor; which was why Oswin had been such a fortuitous find.

I nodded to Jenny, who smiled shyly and let me take over for the moment. We weren't fooling anyone that had been with the troupe for more than a day, but with the lords and ladies running around, we had decided to keep our personal affair away from the talk of court. I didn't want her becoming a target.

Oswin was older, in his mid-forties, his scarred and shaven head giving him a menacing expression. He had been a sellsword in Essos for a time before giving up the life and joining a mummer's troupe, first as security, then as an actor. He was perfect for the role, which was part of the reason I had chosen Coriolanus to adapt. Everything was fitting into place so well, it was making me nervous.

"What's the problem, Oswin?" I asked as I approached the stage.

Oswin, being new to the company, ducked his head as he looked at me. "Nothing, Your Grace, just wrapping my tongue around the words, Your Grace." His knee kept half-bending, as if he wanted to go down to one knee to speak to me.

I held up a hand. "Don't worry, Oswin. We have a month to go before we open. Just remember that Alester is a man of honor who feels that his honor has been insulted. There is no length he will not go to avenge himself. He, and you, should be angry and intense, but never out of control." I leaned in and beckoned him in closer. "Alester isn't a conspirator. He's a man of straight lines. No guile, nor any subtlety. Just think like that."

Oswin chewed the side of his cheek for a moment before nodding. "Of course, Your Grace. As you say, Your Grace."

"Cousin!"

I knew that great booming voice anywhere. I turned to find Robert Baratheon, somehow larger every time I saw him, striding through the great double doors of the Rose, looking every bit the dashing rogue, dressed in a dark cloak that I saw was similar to my own. I smiled, unable to help myself. Robert had that kind of infectious personality. The attendants in the pit bowed out of his way as he came toward me, grasping my forearm in a warm greeting.

I looked up at my twelve-year-old cousin, who was somehow six foot three. I reflected for what seemed like the millionth time that there had to be something in the water here. "I didn't know you were coming back, Robert, else I would have prepared something. Is your father with you? Are you here for business?"

Robert laughed. "No, not business. Returning to the Eyrie by ship and the captain put in at dock just an hour ago for the night. I had hoped to see another performance, but then I heard of the fire." His expression softened, concerned. "I was sorry to hear of it, cousin."

I almost shook it off, but remembered who was watching. I set my eyes in a steely glare, as if imagining intense hatred of Lord Tywin Lannister and the burning of the playhouse.

It wasn't much of an act.

"Such things happen in cities, Robert. In fact, I apologize to you; I wish we could accommodate you tonight, but the new play is in rehearsal, and most of my veteran actors are away on traveling performances," I said, my face brightening. "One is actually headed for the Eyrie now, before going on to White Harbor and then Winterfell. If you're leaving in the morning, you should arrive before they do."

Robert smiled again, this time every bit the twelve-year-old boy receiving a present. "Oh, this is grand, cousin! I'll be able to show Lord Jon and Ned in person rather than describing it to them." He furrowed his brow slightly. "Will they be performing Arlan III?" he asked, worried.

"Of course they will! Along with Crejon and Brynden and Alysanne," I said, as he smiled broadly.

"Fine, fine plays all around, Rhaegar. Ned will no doubt enjoy Crejon – he's a thinking one, he is," he said before leaning closer in a leer. "And I have no doubt the ladies of the Vale will be enjoying the other," he said in what passed for his whisper, leaving no doubt as to his intentions with those ladies.

I laughed at the boyish charm and heard a polite cough come from behind me. Monfred Velaryon, resplendent in his foppish best, stood off to the side, taking great pains not to make it seem like he had just interrupted the Crown Prince and the heir to Storm's End. His eyes were oddly fixated on Robert; specifically, his broad shoulders and thick arms.

"Robert, this is Monfred Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, and the owner of the Rose," I said, hearing Lord Celtigar wheezing from somewhere, but ignoring him.

Robert smiled his most charming smile and nodded to the young lordling. "My pleasure, my lord."

Monfred bowed slightly. "The pleasure is mine, my lord," he said, never taking his eyes off Robert.

The large Baratheon turned back to me, smiling. "I am in the city for a night and, without a play, I suppose I will be forced to take note of the taverns in King's Landing," he said, though his tone suggested it would be no hardship. "Come with me, cousin! We can get you out of the playhouse for a night." At Monfred's hopeful expression, Robert included him. "And you are most welcome as well, my lord."

I couldn't remember the last time I had gone bar hopping, in this life or the last, but Robert's enthusiasm won me over. I chanced a look at Jenny, who only rolled her eyes and smiled. "Of course, Robert. I'll be done here within the hour. You're more than welcome to stay and watch," I said, motioned for wine to be brought over. Arry was approaching with two cups of dark red wine, even before I had raised my hand.

Robert took the cup with a grin and settled into a nearby chair. "What is this one about, Rhaegar?" he asked, looking on with approval at the scarred, martial face of Oswin.

I glanced out of the corner of my eye and saw Lord Lucerys carefully watching me. I turned back to Robert and pitched my voice so that Velaryon could hear me. "Vengeance, mostly," I said. "That, and the price of arrogance."

Fortune smiled on me then, for the timing of the play was coming up on the end of Act IV, scene 4. Coriolanus has been banished from Rome and now stands outside the home of his former enemy, about to beseech him to help him fight against Rome. Of course, here, it was Alester Arryn, banished from the Eyrie, outside the home of a mountain clan chieftain. It was one of the parts I had added, to play up the vengeance angle. It wasn't all my work, of course, but it certainly worked.

Oswin turned directly to the audience, his face a mask of controlled fury.

"Upon him I will bring the Stranger's wrath,
Till his hopes are but ashes in his mouth.
An'all the demons in all the hells will know,
That vengeance is the business of a man."

I looked over to Lord Lucerys, meeting his eyes. "Yes, cousin. This play is about vengeance."

***

I stumbled into the Rose, slightly drunk, much later that night, a hand on Ser Barristan for support. Robert, for all his vaunted future ability at drinking, had not learned that particular skill set as of yet. We had had to half-carry, half-drag him back to his ship, all sixteen stone of him. Monfred had left early in the night; no doubt seeing Robert sit half the barmaids in King's Landing across his lap had convinced him his pursuit was unlikely.

I focused blearily on the inside of the Rose, the torches still lit, casting the stones in an orange light. "I'll see if Arry has any food left in the stores," I said, turning toward the bar area. Ser Barristan nodded, removing his white cloak and began walking back toward the apartments.

I looked in the small room beside the bar that Arry slept in, his cot empty, the candles on the small table melted down almost to nothing. Something was off, but in my drink-addled state it took me a moment to put it together.

The torches shouldn't be lit, not this late at night. I thought for a second Arry might've forgotten; but, Arry never forgot anything.

I heard moaning coming from behind the bar, the sound of someone in great pain. I stumbled toward the noise, finding Arry curled into a ball, broken shards of pottery scattered around him.

I reached toward him, the thin hair stuck to the back of his head with blood and Arbor red. I managed to roll him over and he stared up at me, eyes unfocused.

"Arry, what happened?!"

He rolled around, the sound of my voice causing him distress. He had a concussion at least, maybe worse. "Saw me... talking to Ser Ilyn... gave him message..." he gasped out, trying hard to put his words together. "Hit me... said I'd betrayed you... left... after Ser Ilyn..."

"Who, Arry?! Who did this?!"

"Jenny," was all he said, collapsing back into a ball of pain.

No. Please, God, no.

I ran out of the Rose, adrenaline sharpening my mind. If Jenny had seen Arry giving a message to Ser Ilyn, she'd know that Arry was working for Lord Tywin. And if she'd followed Ser Ilyn, Lord Tywin would think she'd discovered the plot. He'd kill her to protect that secret, without a second thought.

I had to get there first.

There was a stable not far from the playhouse and I jumped the gate and led out the first horse I reached. Jumping on bareback, I dug in my heels and made my way toward the Red Keep, not carrying about the sound of the hooves on stone or anything else in the world.

I had to get there first.

***

Tywin IV
3; 275 AC
King's Landing

Tywin Lannister read over the message once more, committing it to memory, before touching the corner to the candle flame. Arry's report was promising. Rhaegar was making progress with the Velaryons and the news that Robert Baratheon had come all this way to see another play boded well. Would it be that other things boded as well.

There was nothing yet, nothing that he could be sure of. An agent in the far north reported that Lord Stark was in negotiations with Lord Tully to wed their eldest children to one another. That, by itself, was nothing new; neither the North or the Riverlands were fractious and there was little need to betroth within bannermen. Not like the Tyrells, the Reach balanced on a series of carefully controlled marriages. But a marriage alliance between the North and the Riverlands, coupled with Stark's second son fostered in the Vale, with the heir to Storm's End there as well; no, that was a coincidence with the beginnings of a power bloc, one aimed directly at King's Landing. And Tywin Lannister didn't believe in coincidences.

There were two options, of course. Break the bloc before it formed or join it. Jamie could be married to either Tully's or Stark's daughter, with Cersei to Rhaegar. That, and Rhaegar's newfound camaraderie with Robert Baratheon, could be enough to turn it, leaving the Reach and Dorne outside the fold. Such as it should be.

But who was the mind behind the plot? Stark? He had seemed reasonably pleased with Rhaegar a handful of months ago. It couldn't be Steffon, either. Which left Hoster Tully or Jon Arryn, both men ambitious beyond their means, Tywin thought. He could send a missive to Tully on the morrow, carefully almost-proposing the idea of a marriage between Jamie and the other Tully girl. Lysa, her name was. If Hoster seemed amenable, it left Arryn as the plotter.

Tywin heard the scrape of something on stone, off to his right, and he turned to look. The knife came in from the left, settling at the nape of his neck, cold steel against his throat.

He froze, though he chanced a look through the corner of his eye. Blonde hair, long. Dark clothing, trousers, tunic. The scent of a woman. A lilting voice, the accent of the Westerlands.

"You will not have him, Tywin Lannister. Not while I live."