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 XXIII
4; 275 AC
King's Landing

The servants began to extinguish some of the torches, signalling that the performance of Alester, Knight of the Gate would begin soon. The smallfolk and minor nobility began to settle, well-trained as they were in the protocols of the playhouse. Ten minutes or so to curtain, enough time to finish buying drinks and the light food offered in the outer lobby. It was Monfred Velaryon's idea to offer light fare to his patrons; he didn't know the term "hor d'oeuvres," but he knew the idea. Servants brought drinks and food to the patrons of the first and second balconies while they mingled.

The private box in the Rose ostensibly belonged to Monfred, but I had commandeered it for the duration of my stay, unintentionally of course. It was smaller than the one in the Globe had been, with seats for two instead of four. More exclusive, which was Monfred's objective. Monfred, for his part, floated in and out, flattering and gossiping with the other nobles of the royal court. I, however, sat in the private box and stewed.

Things weren't going to plan and my little threads were beginning to unravel. Item one; proof of the conspiracy. I wasn't even sure what I was looking for. No video evidence could possibly exist, nor photographs, not here in this place. A signed confession would be nice, but I didn't think I'd find one of those lying around. So, zero evidence meant I'd have to catch one of them in the act, which was nearly impossible; when one of them finally chose to assassinate Lord Tywin they'd certainly use proxies upon proxies and nothing would ever be traced back to them. And even if I caught one of them in the act, dagger in hand, poised over the body of Lord Tywin, accompanied by the Kingsguard, the small council, and my father, that would still leave two more in the wind, still plotting.

Item two; I'd told Lord Lucerys Velaryon that I was in the process of writing another play, one that would exceed Tybolt III as an insult to the House of Lannister. Problem was, Tybolt III had been my ace in the hole and I'd played it too early. Richard III had been perfect for what I had needed; a deformed villain, a house divided in two parts, the rest. I could conceivably do Merchant of Venice, but Judaism was inherently a part of Shylock and it just wouldn't translate well. My Macbeth analog was already written as Hightower, but I was too afraid that would backfire. Julius Caesar, perhaps. But with my late meal with Lord Lucerys tonight, I needed better than perhaps. And writing an original was out; I could do it, probably, eventually, but not on the timescale I needed it. I had been thinking on it for more than a fortnight, since before the feast and play at Duskendale.

Which brought up Item three; Lord Darklyn, in his infinite wisdom, had employed a troupe of mummers to to perform Tybolt III. I had never intended it to be seen again, not after the burning of the Globe. The gods only knew what Lord Tywin would make of it; I hadn't heard of Duskendale mysteriously turning to ash, though even the Hand couldn't be so obvious. People might do more than talk if every production ended in flames. But what would Lord Tywin do to me for the play being performed again?

I was in my head too much, just too much going on for me to handle. I needed space and room to breathe.

I stood. Pacing helped me think, gave me the semblance of movement. Ser Barristan shifted slightly, ready to follow should I exit the private box and mingle with the nobility in attendance. I'd never chafed at his presence before, not like this. Just his eyes on me made me want to run.

Wine wasn't helping either, just making my mind more cloudy and thick. I needed to be sharp and quick and exact and a million other things I didn't think I could be right now. What if Lord Lucerys said something important and I missed it? What if it was a trap and I didn't catch on until it was too late? What if I couldn't talk or fight my way out? What if, what if, what if?

"Your Grace."

Ser Barristan's deep voice cut over the soft-spoken beginning of the play. I hadn't even noticed that the play had started.

"Yes, Ser Barristan?" I answered absently.

The Kingsguard stepped closer, his voice low. "Are you alright?" he asked, concern in his voice.

I almost screamed in frustration. Everything, and everyone, was suffocating. I needed to get out, leave and never return. But I couldn't, not yet. Aerys had to be taken care of first, and I had to leave my as-yet-unborn-brother Viserys on the throne, so that he could be wed to Cersei and Tywin would retain control of the kingdom, and I had to remove Velaryon, Stokeworth, Thorne, and Darklyn from power so that once we killed Aerys, we wouldn't face any challenges in taking the city, and I had to keep my plot with Jenny from Tywin, and my plot with Tywin from Jenny, and Aerys, and the Crownlander lords, and the man in the goddamn moon, with a partridge in a fucking pear tree, and it was all too goddamn fucking much.

I inhaled sharply and grit my teeth. "Opening nights are always stressful, Ser Barristan. Too many things can go wrong and there's nothing I can do to change it at this point. The players are in motion, after all," I said, turning away from him so he wouldn't see my face. I was a decent actor, but gods be damned if I could control my facial expressions right now.

"I have not seen Jon or Ser Arthur yet," he said. "Perhaps they will take your mind off things."

I nodded by reflex. Right. Arthur had been knighted a few days before in a small ceremony at the Great Sept. Ser Willem Waters, eldest of the Kingsguard, had died not quite two weeks before; with Arthur's knighting so soon thereafter, it seemed a likely precursor to Arthur ascending to the Kingsguard in his place. I tried to remember if that was something in the books, or if I had changed something by being here. I didn't know, and I didn't know if it was because I had forgotten some tiny detail or if I had never known it in the first place. There was just so goddamn much I didn't know and even more I didn't know if I knew, or had known, or had forgotten.

Little matter, though, at this point. Within six months at most, one of my two best friends would be on the sword fighting All-Star team and vowed to protect the man I had to kill. And as if I didn't have enough bullshit to deal with, the other was working his way up at court, taking the political route to the top. How long would it be before Jon was swallowed up into Velaryon's, or Stokeworth's, or Thorne's, camp? Would they use him to get to me?

Gods above and below, I hated this place.

"Your Grace, Lord Celtigar has–"

"Ser Barristan, if that fat fuck comes within ten steps of that door, you have my permission to disembowel him."

Ser Barristan chuckled, which eased my tension marginally. He was a good man, a dutiful man who took his job seriously. I owed him so much and if I could make his job a bit easier, or more enjoyable, it was the least I could do.

"More wine, Your Grace?"

I turned at the voice, seeing Jenny in servant's garb, the clothing bringing to mind another time and place where she had worn it, the top pulled down, her ankles locked around me. As soon as she stepped through the door, I felt much of my stress retreat to the back of my mind. She was my reason for much of this, the one thing I could rely on to get me through this hell. I had never seen her more beautiful. Big green eyes above sharp cheekbones above full lips. A single strand of gold escaping the wrap containing the rest of her long, soft hair. Rounded hip and slim waist and all the other curves she had been blessed with. The slight smile and the spark in her eyes when she saw me. Her quick mind and sharp wit, the way she fought, all that she had endured, everything she had done for me.

She was perfect. My other half.

I took the offered cup of wine and tried to relax. As much as I didn't want Ser Barristan to see me so worked up, I doubly didn't want Jenny to see me so. She'd probably scale some tower in the dead of night and slit a few throats if I mentioned a name or two.

It had already occurred to me, to have Jenny just whack the plotting Crownlanders; it would certainly solve a lot of problems. But, aside from the morality issues – of which I seemed to be the only one to have those – it would tip things against us. We were trying to win hearts and minds with the Crownlander nobility and assassinating three of their leaders was a guaranteed way to make them hate Lord Tywin, and me by extension. It seemed all I could do lately was think of solutions that only caused more problems.

Jenny leaned in close, the low cut serving blouse distracting me momentarily. "Anything else I could offer you, Your Grace?"

I laughed, though it felt a little forced. Ser Barristan took his cue and left, shutting the door behind him and taking up his post on the outside of the door. Jenny and I were alone in our alcove, hidden even from the smallfolk and minor nobility below.

I kissed her. "I thought I told you not to come up here?"

She smiled again, a roguish grin. "No one would recognize me, Rhaegar, not with my hair blonde again. Even if they took the time to notice a passing servant. To them, we're just floating trays of wine."

I felt tension creeping up into my neck again, worried that someone would recognize her from the banquet at Duskendale. What she had said was undoubtedly true; but there were too many things outside of my control for me to let it go.

Jenny saw my face and changed the subject. "You're going through with Velaryon tonight?" she asked, trying to keep my mind occupied.

I nodded, worry rearing its head again. There was just so much that could go wrong. "Let's just watch the play, love," I said, kissing her again. "I need to take my mind off of things for now."

She bit her lip and nodded doubtfully. We sat in the single seat, her in my lap, nestled against one another, her head resting against mine. We held hands and sat, watching the actors on the stage.

I tried, at least. My mind kept running back to the dinner I would be having with Lord Lucerys in a few hours. I couldn't stop thinking, even with Jenny's warm, soft body against mine. My stomach turned and I fought to keep the bile down.

It didn't work.

***

Lord Lucerys' mansion seemed the same as when I had been there before, an uninvited rant against Lord Tywin where I had stupidly announced a new insult disguised as a play. Torches were lit and the servants scurried in the background. Lord Lucerys and I were seated at either end of a long table, candles lit about every three feet, making the room as bright as if it were daylight. All the better to show off the fabled Velaryon fortune; or, at least the portion of it he kept here, in King's Landing.

Lord Lucerys sat framed on either side by large marble statues of dragons and their riders, a twinned pair, apparently cut from the same stone. He was wearing a long, flowing garment; from Volantis, he'd said, where it was the style of the Old Blood, inspired by the few surviving fragments of Valyrian art.

"I have to admit, Your Grace, I wasn't sure what your play could do to insult the Lannister," he said, refusing to give the man title or office. "But then I saw Tybolt III. And I was astounded, truly. Something like that could be performed from one corner of the Seven Kingdoms to the other, faster and more memorable than any rumor or gossip."

I inclined my head in thanks, knowing how he truly felt about the playhouse. Instead of saying anything, I took another small bite of our meal, steamed crab smothered in a spicy cream sauce. The meal was fine; indeed, it was better than a lot of meals I'd had in the nearly year and a half I had been here. I just couldn't force myself to eat, not with my stomach tightening up again.

"Are you enjoying your crab, Your Grace? Freshly caught just off of Driftmark, not two days ago. I have it sent here every day, to better remind me of my lands."

I nodded. "The crab is quite good, my lord. The best I've had. And this sauce is quite delicious." I sounded like a tone deaf idiot, but it was all I could do to keep the topic of conversation neutral. I certainly didn't want to talk about the playhouse or the new play; actually, I didn't want to talk about anything with him. It had never occurred to me that Velaryon's invitation to dine was actually an invitation to dine. The need for smalltalk only added to the anxiety.

Lord Lucerys nodded. "How is the new play coming along, Your Grace?"

Shit in the Father's beard.

"It is coming along very well," I said, cursing myself for saying something so specific. I should have lied and said something else. Anything else.

"Please, Your Grace, tell me of the plot," he said, feigning warmth.

Fucking goddamn piece of cock-sucking shit.

I froze slightly, feeling my fingers and toes tingling as adrenaline flooded my body. "I- My lord, I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."

"Come now, Your Grace. I am anxious to hear it. We must be able to trust one another."

I cursed again internally, something so vile and disgusting it's not fit to print. "Well, my lord," I began, grasping at straws, "the new play has the worst villain I've ever written. A scheming, honor-less, cunt of a Lannister. Even more so than Tybolt. I've truly outdone myself," I said, smiling over my wine and trying not to vomit all over the crab.

Lord Lucerys smiled toothily. "Yes, but what of the plot? What makes your villain so much worse than Tybolt III?"

I almost lost the two bits of crab I had eaten, my stomach boiling over with rage and anxiety; there was just too damned much to worry about, and I couldn't think straight, or put words together, or speak, or focus, or goddamn breathe, or anything but fucking fall apart and admit that there wasn't a goddamn play or a goddamn idea or a goddamn villain, nothing but a fucking mis-worded boast by a stupid, stupid, stupid fucking idiot who was outclassed at every fucking turn by a silver haired Nazi in a stupid fucking dress with delusions of fucking grandeur who had led me right into a fucking trap and I had walked in like an arrogant fucking moron and–

Fucking Crone above.

"He's a Lannister," I said, speaking quickly as I wound the threads together, "Iago is his name. He turns the other characters against one another through trickery and deceit. He's pure evil, honestly." I said, getting it all out while I was on a roll. "It takes place in the Iron Islands. A man from the Summer Isles, a captain in the Iron Fleet, decides to promote another man to lieutenant over this Iago. Iago, being a true Lannister, begins to scheme with another outcast of society. But he doesn't just outright kill the captain; no, he tricks the captain into killing his new lieutenant by convincing the captain that the lieutenant was fucking his wife, then tricking the captain into killing his own wife for her deceit, then tricking the captain into killing himself when he reveals the truth."

I leaned back in my chair, my brilliance on full display, waiting for my heart to start beating again.

Lord Lucerys nodded thoughtfully. "If he's a Lannister, why is he in the Iron Fleet?"

I smiled, speaking before I hardly knew what I was saying. "That's the subtlety of it. A Lannister serving the ancient enemy? It shows that he's truly evil, honor bound to no one, not even his family. Like all of the lions of Casterly Rock."

Lord Lucerys nodded, smiling slightly as he imagined the play. He took one more small bite of his crab before setting down his knife and fork and wiping his mouth with his napkin.

"Come with me, Your Grace," he said, standing abruptly. "I have something I wish to share with you."

"And what is that?"

A pause. "A solution to our mutual problem."

I put on my best surprised and curious face before standing myself and following him out of the dining area. Lord Lucerys led me down the long hallway to the other side of the mansion and we walked in silence. This was it. The heart of the conspiracy. The plan was coming together.

I wasn't worried what Lord Tywin would say about the new play – Malthar, I called it in my head, after the name of a Summer Islander I had read in a book. It would buy me time and I could stretch out the rehearsals for another three months if I needed to. With me joining Velaryon's conspiracy now, surely I could get proof before then.

Velaryon spoke, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Before the Andals came, when just the First Men ruled in Westeros, they faced many challenges. Lions. Savage tribes. Giants too, if the stories are to be believed." He turned a corner. "Yet the greatest of these threats were the lions. They were beasts, you know, acting on instinct. Unable to know when they are bested."

It had the tone of a metaphor and it wasn't hard to see where he was going with it. Velaryon wasn't nearly as bright as he thought he was.

"These lions would enter the villages at night, hunting, carrying off the villagers. It took the whole village together to run them off, every man running them off with spear and sword and flame; but the lions would always come back. They couldn't help themselves. They were hungry."

We stopped at a door, leading to what I assumed was the solar. I looked around; there were no servants, no attendants. Just the two of us.

"The lions were dangerous because you can't reason with a lion, or bribe it, or tame it. You can only kill it."

He opened the door into the brightly lit solar. Two men were seated there and stood as we entered.

Manly Stokeworth, Commander of the City Watch. Adric Thorne, Lord of Castlepoint. Together with Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Driftmark, Lord of the Tides, and Master of Ships to King Aerys II Targaryen.

They were all in it together.

I smiled as greedily as I could, despite my stomach knotting.

I had to get to Lord Tywin.

Tywin V
4; 275 AC
King's Landing

It all came back to the hearth.

The Hand of the King sat in his bedchamber and stared at the hearth, his glass of wine slowly warming to the temperature of the room, untouched. The stare was intensity redefined, boring a hole through the scorched brick and mortar of the hearth, the flickers of light painting the mantle in shadows.

He couldn't take his eyes off of it. The muscles in his jaw clenched as he stared, willing himself to look away and failing. There was a faint crack in the stone, hidden behind flame and shadow, unnoticeable unless one looked for it. A fine, even line two fingers beneath the mantle, too straight to be natural, a blemish on the otherwise perfectly smooth stone brick. It called to him, mocked him, dared him to extinguish the flames and enter.

He knew what would follow. Hand over hand, foot over foot, two hundred and thirty times. A left, then a right. Up to the street. Back alleys by torchlight, then the stable. He would stand before the hidden door, torn, willing himself to turn, go back to the Tower. He never did. The trapdoor was too easy to move, the hinges well-used without a hint of rust. Down the stairs to the tunnel. A dirt tunnel, contrasting with the stone tunnel that led to his bedchamber. Dirt was appropriate here, dark, soiled earth hidden in shadow. Then the metal ladder and up. Up to the room. The room with the dark woman and the restraints and the bliss and the freedom.

It was that freedom that enticed him, over and over and over again. The freedom from choices, from decisions. From control.

But no. Not yet. Not so soon after the last time. That was the Rule.

The politics of King's Landing required total dedication. A complete and utter devotion to every part and parcel. The Crown Prince thought the current atmosphere to be uncommon; yet the capitol thrived on intrigue and craved machinations. And there was no one better at playing the Game of Thrones than Tywin Lannister.

He hated himself for the need to give up control, to be completely and entirely under someone else's power. His addiction made him a better Hand, a better player of the game; or so he told himself. If he had to shame himself, degrade himself, to ensure the ascendance of his House, he would.

She had understood. She had given him that relief, that freedom, without the tarnish. Two halves of the same whole, each seemingly created for the other.

But she was gone. Only he remained. He and his predilection.

Vylarr's flat, heavy knock came at the door. "My lord. The prince is here."

That drew the Hand's attention away from the hearth. The promise of new developments, for Rhaegar would not come here otherwise. Another move in the game.

He stood, legs stiff. It was well into the night and he hadn't realized he had been sitting for so long. He went through the door, walking into the long hall that served as his office. Prince Rhaegar was pacing by the desk, his face paler than usual.

"Lord Tywin," the prince said, once Tywin had entered. "They're all in it together. Velaryon and Stokeworth and Thorne, they're all working together."

The Hand took this in stride, wheels turning behind his eyes. The prince was quite intelligent; cunning, even, when the mood struck him. Yet, he was still only sixteen, with much to learn. Tywin had been much the same, once, trying to control every facet of every problem. It had taken him a war and a rebellion to learn that not all things can be controlled. Rhaegar had not learned that yet, his steps and speech quick with rage and worry.

"It's a fucking nightmare, what they have planned. They'll kill you and Velaryon will replace you. But he'll name his son as his replacement so he can keep control of it. Stokeworth wants to be raised to Master of Laws and Thorne wants Master of Coin, with their allies making up the rest of the small council. They plan to divide the running of the realm between them, just three men with all that power, with no rivals to speak of."

"How do they plan to kill me?"

Rhaegar paused, arms crossed. "Poison. They know you have all your food and drink brought up, so they plan to bribe one of your servants."

"And the reason for their hesitation?" he asked calmly.

"They've only recently allied. No more than two months, from what I gathered. It took them that long to decide how the spoils should be divvied up. Three proud, egotistical cats they are." He shook his head. "They're using the tourney at Driftmark next month to consolidate their men. After the tourney, everyone will return via King's Landing, letting them amass troops in one place without suspicion. The night they land, you'll be poisoned."

The Hand inclined his head. Finally. A challenge.

Jon III
4; 275 AC
King's Landing

Jon stood in the shadows, watching the darkness for any sign of movement. Rhaegar had entered the Tower of the Hand at a run, and hadn't come down for nearly half an hour. And this was after dining with Lord Velaryon earlier in the evening for more than three hours.

Rhaegar was wrapped up in something; a plot, sure enough, but a plot with the most dangerous men in Westeros.

"What do you think?" Jon whispered.

Arthur emerged from the shadows. "He's playing one off the other. But who is he truly allied with? Velaryon against Lannister? Or Lannister against Velaryon?"

Jon shook his head. "I don't know. Logic would say with Lannister, since he came here after meeting Velaryon. But that would also place him against the King." The antagonism between the King and his Hand was well-known at court; indeed, the quickest way to raise oneself in the King's eyes was to make some jape or insult against Lord Tywin. "But that would mean his play was–"

"Was a way to insinuate himself with Velaryon. All the while plotting with the Hand." Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Rhaegar's got balls, I'll give him that."

Jon shook his head, fear gripping his heart for the silver prince. "We need to do something. Before Rhaegar gets himself killed."