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 XXII
3; 275 AC
Duskendale

I waited politely for the musicians to finish before continuing my conversation with Wallace Massey. As a performer myself, of a sort, I knew the value placed on an attentive audience. They were quite good, though I had not heard the song before; no obviously missed notes that I could ascertain. As I turned back to Wallace, my eye caught the ever-growing countenance of Lord Celtigar, flushed pink from wine and existence. I tried my best to smile politely, but the man was revolting; he flattered everyone outrageously, his tiny mustache quivering constantly. There wasn't an ounce of backbone in the man.

On my left, young Wallace asked another question. The boy was quite intelligent, asking me many questions about how I researched the histories for my plays. He had an interest in study and I had a feeling he wished he could travel to the Citadel and become a maester; something impossible for him to achieve as heir to Stonedance.

It was a ridiculous thing, really; there were a great many problems in the Seven Kingdoms that would be solved by more heirs having some formal education. It was fine for second and third sons to be there; Prince Oberyn Martell, third in line for Sunspear, was at Oldtown now, albeit for entirely different reasons. His latest letter had politely informed me that the Citadel was full of old men with more ink than blood in their veins.

Prince Oberyn's initial letter had taken me by surprise; I'd told Prince Lewyn what seemed like years ago that I would welcome ravens from his nephews and Prince Doran had answered via raven more than two months ago. Nothing profound or deep, just a general, polite response about the beauty of the Water Gardens and Dorne, ending with well-wishes for my next play. Oberyn, on the other hand, had sent three pages via messenger, detailing Oldtown and the Citadel, his course of study, and his feelings on his "exile" - though only he would ever call it that.

I was still working on a response to him; a three page letter demanded the same in kind, and I just hadn't had enough proper time to sit and try to come up with three pages' worth of things to say. How are the whores in Oldtown? Learning anything about how to stop ice zombies?

Ah, yes. The ice zombies. Thought I'd forgotten about them, didn't you, what with the plays, the plots, and the puss– ahem. Mistress. No. Hadn't forgotten about them. But first thing's first. I had to unify the Crownlander nobility, or at least remove them as obstacles, before I killed the king. Which is why I was currently rubbing elbows with the one percent at House Darklyn's latest feast. Then came the killing. And once Viserys was born – in less than a year by my calculations – I would send a messenger north to Winterfell with instructions on what was to come, and then slip away mysteriously to Essos with my lady love, leaving the Regency for Tywin. He would marry Cersei to Viserys and Jaime to Lysa, and all the other little dominos would fall into place, and everyone would have a happy ending.

I was on my fourth cup of wine and, boy, did that plan sound a lot better now.

Speaking of, my own happy ending chose that moment to enter the room. Dressed in servant's garb, her golden hair dyed black, Jenny looked nothing like herself, the consummate actress playing a real life role. From what she had told me, for massive feasts such as this, the nobility would hire temporary workers to manage some of the load. It had been relatively easy to slip her in, as many of the servants were new faces.

Jenny walked slowly, carefully, to the table with a pitcher of wine, refilling the occasional glass and expertly avoiding the more than occasional fondle. I tried not to see that, or add the offending lord to my shit list, for I was playing a part as well. Besides, Jenny could absolutely take care of herself. Still, after two attempts at more than fondling, there were two lords in particular that I'd see to they were implicated in Velaryon's plot – Lords Chyttering and Harte. If I could ever find the evidence to bring the man to heel.

Which was the reason I was there, and the reason Jenny was there, dressed as a dark-headed serving girl. We hadn't been able to find evidence on Thorne's end, not even a whisper, so we now were attempting to find something on the other side of things. So while I was eating and drinking and being entertained, Jenny would sneak away to the solar and search for anything that might prove useful. From what Jenny had told me, Denys Darklyn was an intelligent man and far too ambitious for his own good. Possibly too intelligent to keep something like that lying around, but even brilliant men can fail to anticipate events. Darklyn wanted ascendance, wanted it badly, lusted after it. That was why he had married a Myrish woman, hoping to gain contacts on the far side of the Narrow Sea to turn Duskendale's port into a major player in Westeros. His wife, though...

Serala of Myr entered down the long staircase leading into the grand hall, drawing every eye to her like moths to a flame. She was olive-skinned, with dark, luminous hair coiffed into an intricate system of braids. Her dress hung on every curve, the plunging neckline far less conservative than the traditional Crownlander fashion on display by the ladies present. Those ladies cast their conflicted eyes at her, both jealous and admiring. There was an otherworldly quality about the Lady Serala; warm, wet exoticism meeting sex and desire and yearning. Every step was liquid as she swayed across the hall to her husband, a handsome man in his own right. Next to her, he seemed irredeemably pedestrian. She, though; she was everything men were afraid to want, hidden desire thrust into yellow silk.

Once the Lady Serala was seated, the various conversations continued, the primary meal served. I caught a glimpse of Jenny out of the corner of my eye, sneaking off through the servant's entrance. Hopefully, with all of the servants in the grand hall, no one would be walking around to accidentally discover her.

Ser Barristan stood against the wall behind me, calmly watching the festivities, while Jon sat to my right and Arthur further down. Both of the latter were happily digging in to a dish of roast quail. I attempted to match their appetites, but the thought of Jenny skulking around the Dun Fort without any backup unnerved me more than I thought it would. She could take care of herself, I kept thinking. With a knife or a dagger, she certainly could. But she couldn't talk her way out of it, and there were plenty of guards here to spare. A servant caught in the lord's solar, alone? Immediately guilty of theft. She could lose a hand, or more.

I stood, playing the part of a wine that had drunk too much lord. It might've been my best performance.

Jon looked up, face full of bird. "Something wrong with your quail?"

I shook my head. "Privy."

He nodded and returned to his meal, scraping up a bit of butter onto his bread. I made my way through the tables, smiling politely to those lords and ladies that rose in my presence. Lord Celtigar, ever the observant one, made a beeline to me, as fast as his waddle could carry him. I instantly turned and walked in the opposite direction, running straight into Lady Manning. Atrocious woman. Had spent half an hour bending my ear about her daughter and how beautiful she was, that I simply must meet her soon.

Her six year old daughter.

I bobbed and weaved my way around the more annoying of the Crownlander nobility, careful to stay composed. I was just another lord, out for the privy, not going to potentially rescue his ninja-assassin-mistress.

Just as I was nearing the base of the stairs, Lord Darklyn stood, his voice raising above the cacophony of conversations. "For our last entertainment of the evening, I present a special gift in honor of our illustrious and royal guest; a play of his own devising, written by his own hand!"

I grimaced and turned, putting the royal smile back on my face as the assembled nobles clapped politely. Strange how different they reacted now, now that I was a player among them again, not some semi-exiled prince grubbing about in the dirt with mummers. Hypocrites, one and all.

I nodded and waved, taking a small bow as Darklyn's troupe set the stage at the end of the hall. They looked to know what they were doing and were dressed the part. But my blood froze when I saw a dwarf striding across the makeshift stage wearing a golden blonde wig.

I fought to keep the smile on my face. "Lord Denys, what play will be performed tonight?"

The head of House Darklyn turned to me, one hand on his wife's shoulder. "Tybolt III, of course," he said, gesturing to the dwarf. "A play such as that deserves more than three performances, Your Grace." His laugh infected the other guests and they clapped their hands eagerly to see the play about the dwarf Lannister.

I felt like screaming at him. Yeah, only three, because Tywin fucking Lannister burned the playhouse to the ground! And he likes me!

I looked around at the walls of the Dun Fort, idly wondering how long it would take for the whole thing to go up in flames, before turning back to Lord Denys. "How exciting! By your leave, I will endeavor to return before the beginning of the play," I said, turning back up the stairs.

Jenny had been wrong. Denys Darklyn wasn't intelligent; he was a goddamned moron.

***

Eventually, I made my way to the solar. The door was cracked just a hair, but I couldn't see the light from a candle inside. Had she already been found and taken? Surely I would have seen them, or heard them, carrying her to Lord Denys for punishment.

I checked the hallway on either side before pushing open the door, leaning my head past the stone frame.

The closed fist caught me in the temple, stunning me. I almost didn't see the knife blade aimed for my throat, blocking it with my forearm and twisting out of the way just in time. I spun away, lashing out with my back leg at the assailant's middle catching her with the full force of my kick.

Wait, her?

Jenny was recovering quickly from the kick, slender dagger held loosely in her hand. She cast a glare at me, slightly winded. "When did you realize it was me?"

I smiled sheepishly. "After the kick. You?"

"Just before," she said, rubbing her bruised ribs. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to help," I said, not wanting to tell her that I had been worried. "They're performing Tybolt III in my honor downstairs."

Jenny gave a considered shrug. "Darklyn's a brave one. Everyone in King's Landing suspects Lannister was behind the burning."

I nodded in agreement. "Did you find anything?"

She shook her head in the dim light. "No. I was going to check his bedroom next, before–" she said, stopping and cocking her ears toward the hallway. "Shhh," she said, her hand over my mouth. I strained my ears for whatever sound she had caught. There was nothing but the din of the play, a hum of laughter from the grand hall.

Then I heard it. Footsteps. Dainty, quiet footsteps, the slight scratch of shoe on stone.

I looked around in a hurry. No balcony to leap from this time.

Jenny tugged her servant's blouse down to her waist, revealing her breasts, and threw her arms around my neck. "Fuck me."

I honestly had no idea how to respond to that.

Jenny rolled her eyes and deftly undid my trousers with one hand, freeing my cock and leaving my bare ass hanging out for all to see. She leapt onto me, ankles crossing at my lower back, and began bouncing up and down and making the most over the top sounds I'd ever heard.

"Ohhhh, ohhhh, my lord, ohhhhhh, gods, yes, yes!" she moaned, swinging her head back with wild abandon, the handkerchief holding her hair flying off. She continued moaning, the sound punctuated with the sharp slap of flesh on flesh, my utterly confused penis lying flaccid against my leg.

Through the noise of the intensely strange, and entirely arousing, performance, I heard the creak of the door as it closed and felt the telltale wisp of air on my bare cheeks.

Whoever it was had come up the hallway had looked through the door and saw the prince of the realm fucking some servant. And that was all they had seen.

I realized Jenny's plan a moment later. I could blame it on the wine, but, honestly, you try thinking with a beautiful woman riding you. It's pretty hard.

Speaking of.

I swung her around to where I could see the door to the outer hallway. It was closed; someone had definitely closed it after witnessing our escapades.

"They're gone," I mouthed to Jenny, who was still moaning loudly. She smiled at me rogueishly and shifted her hips a little, causing me to gasp slightly. "You keep that up and we'll be doing it for real," I whispered.

She dismounted, rearranging her skirts and pulling her top back over her breasts. "Never while we're working, love." I mournfully buckled my trousers, adjusting things to hide my erection. She saw it and giggled, kissing me hard on the mouth. "That's what you get for worrying about me."

I opened the door a crack, checking the hallway in both directions. No one was there, not even the voyeur who had snuck a peek. Probably just a servant, I thought.

I turned back to Jenny. "Don't worry about searching the bedroom. It's too risky now. Just meet me where we decided."

She nodded and kissed me again as I opened the door to the hallway. We walked out separately, taking opposite ways. Jenny would leave the castle grounds and wait for me just past the city, as per the plan. I would be along in four hours or so, as soon as I could politely get away, but her mission was done; there was no sense in sticking around to play servant, not and risk anything further.

I made my way back to the grand hall, stopping for a moment at the top of the staircase. The play was in full force, somewhere in the middle of Act I. Just in time to see Tybolt's brother killed on his order.

I felt a hand slide through my arm and a warm breast push against my bicep. I turned, thinking Jenny had followed me.

Lady Serala of Myra smiled back at me. If I said the smile was seductive, you'd misunderstand me. You've no doubt seen seductive women before, maybe even seen them smile at you. This wasn't that at all. This smile was sex; hot, sweaty, earth-shattering sex that left limbs trembling.

"Your Grace, if you'll permit me?" she breathed, nodding to her arms linked with mine.

I nodded abruptly, wishing for a cold shower. Her breasts were pushed forward, pressing against my arm, the low cut dress revealing more than was in my willpower to look away from. I looked. She saw me look and smiled.

"My husband and I thank you for attending our humble feast," she said, as we began our walk down the stairs.

I muttered something about the feast. I honestly can't remember.

"My husband wishes to increase the holdings of House Darklyn, gain more autonomy for the fees and customs of the Duskendale port. He has a great many ideas on how to improve trade between here and Essos."

I started to sweat, feeling hot around the collar of my stiff jacket. She was unbelievably attractive, and every little sway of her body and motion of her wet mouth drew me in closer. Don't get me wrong; I was undoubtedly attracted to her, as was any straight man within eyesight of her. But I don't like being manipulated, and that's all a seduction is, in the end.

I pulled away as we reached the bottom of the stairs, reclaiming my arm. "I have no doubt your husband's plans will succeed, with you to inspire him," I said, smiling the political smile.

Lady Serala came in close, close enough for me to smell the remnent of soap on her skin. "It seems I've inspired you tonight, as well," she said, before turning and brushing her silk-covered ass against my erection. I groaned internally and checked the faces of the nobles at the tables, who were all focused on the play. From this angle, they couldn't see what she was doing, not with the torches dimmed on this side of the hall.

"Perhaps you could mention something of my husband's plans to your father. I would be, ever so grateful," she said, looking at me over her shoulder. "And, perhaps, the next time you visit Duskendale, our servants won't be your only entertainment."

She walked away with that, sliding gracefully across the room to sit beside her husband, leaving me forgotten.

Jon II
3; 275 AC
Duskendale

Jon sat, idly looking over his shoulder to see if Rhaegar had returned yet. The play was nearing the end of the first act, Prince Tybolt's murderers ready to kill the Prince's brother Tyrion in the Rock, and the plot was picking up speed. Jon hadn't seen Tybolt III when it had played at the Globe; he had planned to, of course, but the fire had taken the playhouse before he could find the time. He found it strange that Rhaegar hadn't had it performed at Velaryon's playhouse since moving there. Though, looking at the thing for the first time, he could certainly see why the Crownlanders enjoyed it so.

The dwarf Tybolt Lannister, clad in a flowing golden wig, pranced about the stage killing anyone and everyone in his way for the throne of the Rock. He was merciless and ruthless, dishonorable, evil incarnate; everything they thought Tywin Lannister to be. The evil Lannister being a dwarf caused titters and giggles throughout the gathered nobles, no doubt fueling rumors of Lord Tywin's misbegotten younger son.

Why would Rhaegar needlessly antagonize Lord Tywin with this play? he thought to himself. If Rhaegar had wanted to cast aspersions on Lord Tywin's character, he could have had Hightower performed, that bloody tale of an overly ambitious Reacher lord killing the king and taking his throne. But this; this was just mockery, a cruel and targeted mockery. It wasn't like Rhaegar to be petty, even if Lord Tywin had been behind the High Septon's writ against the playhouse. Or the burning of the Globe, Jon thought darkly. Not that he especially believed the latter. Lord Tywin may be many things, but an attempted assassination of the prince and heir was too much. The petty rivalry was one thing, but despite the rumors, no one of importance truly believed the Hand had tried to kill Rhaegar over the matter of a play.

From his time at court, Jon knew one thing with certainty; the quickest way to gain favor with the nobility was to mock Lord Tywin. They hated him, an interloping Westlander who had bought his way to power over the refined lords of the Crownlands. Jon thought it all ridiculous; Tywin Lannister's ruthless punishment of Houses Tarbeck and Reyne were legend, even being only fifteen years ago. Only a fool would poke a sleeping bear.

And Rhaegar was many things, but not a fool.

Then why this play?

Jon set his mind to work, analyzing the play for clues. If Rhaegar was trying to gain favor with the Crownlanders, this play would work in his favor. But why do that? As Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, he had their loyalty – at least the pretense of loyalty. His time in the Globe had damaged his reputation somewhat, but he was rebuilding that now, and the artistic pretention of youth could be forgiven with time.

Something didn't fit here, and that made Jon uneasy. There were many daggers in the night, especially in King's Landing, and princes had died before. Jon glanced at Arthur, who was watching the play with interest. Jon leaned in so their conversation wouldn't be overheard.

"Does anything about this play strike you as odd?" Jon asked quietly.

The look on Arthur's face said he had thought the same. "It does. Rhaegar seems to be intentionally provoking the Hand with this play. It's not like him at all. He's much more subtle than that. You've read his other play, haven't you? The one with the Reacher lord?"

Jon nodded. "Exactly. That would be perfect to insult Lord Tywin and maintain some distance. This?" he said, gesturing to the play. "This is far too open for him. Even if he was angry at the High Septon for preaching against his playhouse and if he believed Lord Tywin to be behind it."

Arthur shook his head. "I was there when Rhaegar found out about that. He wasn't surprised. As if he expected it."

Jon saw Rhaegar walking around the tables, coming back to his seat. He looked to Arthur. "We will discuss this later," he said tersely.

There was something seething beneath the surface of the Crownlands, and Jon meant to discover what it was. For his own sake, and for Rhaegar's.