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 XXV
5; 275 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
Our procession moved slowly toward the parade field, throngs of smallfolk cheering and waving colorful banners at our approach. The knights waved and grinned, nodding at the encouragement shouted from the sides, resplendent in their glittering armor and capes. It was every bit the sporting event of the year. Most of the population of the island had made their way to High Tide to watch the tourney, all that could get away from their occupations. The poorer smallfolk, of course, could not leave their flocks or herds, but the merchants from Hull and Spicetown, the skilled laborers from the dozen smaller villages, and most of the nobility of the Crownlands had descended upon the island of Driftmark to partake in the festivities. House Velaryon was inordinately wealthy and that wealth was on display; the hedges lining the parade field were trimmed into the shapes of legendary animals, silken banners swung from every alcove, the earth was packed tight to a uniform level, and fragrant flowers masked the smell of fish and crab from the nearby port. High Tide was everything a castle and keep should be, right out of a fairy tale.
This being Westeros, though, you can imagine the truth of it all.
Had I traveled beyond the well-kept hedges or pulled back the silk banners, I would have seen a poverty unlike any other. Families who had not seen wheat bread in a generation, or women and children who subsisted on a single fish a day. Herdsmen who shared meals and living space with their stock, or young girls selling themselves for a half-full bag of more weevils than grain. House Velaryon was wealthy, true; Driftmark was poor.
Of course, the realm itself wasn't particularly different from Driftmark; lords from the Reach to the Vale built their castles and fortunes on the backs of smallfolk and called it protection. There were good ones here and there, but this was system that had the cultural inertia of a boulder breaking free of a mountain. And I was the fool at the bottom trying to catch it.
We entered the parade field, every other knight heading left and right, until we were all in the massive, closed-off area. Here the smallfolk were not allowed, no matter how far they had come or their profession. Here it was only the nobility and wealthier merchants seated in the stands, though I did see the glimpse of bright eye and dark shadows as some of the braver and sneakier children darted beneath the noble seats.
Lord Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships and Lord of the Tides, sat in his own box with his inner circle; Lord Crispian Celtigar of course, fanning himself like a poached crab in the boiling pot; Monfred Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, watching the assembled knights with an interested eye; the Brune cousins, Lord Bennard of Brownhollow and Lord Eustace of Dyre Den; Lord Daemon Cave and Lord Lucifer Hardy; all separated from the rest of the rank and file of the nobility by guards and railings. Further to the left and right of the stands were Stokeworth and Thorne, respectively; they might have been allied now against a common foe, but appearances must be maintained, for Lord Tywin could have spies everywhere, even here.
Like me.
Lord Velaryon rose to give a speech, but I was only half listening, scanning the crowd for Jenny. She was here in her servant's disguise again, working as part of the hosting party. Our plan was much the same as it had been for Duskendale; sneak away from the feast and entertainment and ransack the lord's solar. As the leader of the conspiracy, Lord Lucerys had to have some sort of evidence or hold over Stokeworth and Thorne. A man such as Velaryon wouldn't trust men such as them without an ace in the hole. It just wasn't smart, I told myself, hoping it were true. Our track record for finding evidence was dismal; nothing at Castle Thorne, and nothing at Duskendale. I felt rage building at that; me, armed with more knowledge about more things than anyone else in the world, couldn't uncover evidence – simple, verifiable evidence – of an assassination attempt I was a part of.
I had told Jenny not to come to the tourney, instead stay and work on her cover as a servant, but knowing her as well as I did, she'd be here to watch. She wouldn't be the only servant to sneak away from responsibilities and catch some of the show, but she was probably the only one who was here in disguise. I didn't want to take the chance of someone digging into her established cover because they caught her shirking her duties.
Jenny was different since she had found out the true plot between Lord Tywin and I. Not that our relationship had changed overmuch, but she was more focused and driven. She held me more tightly when we were alone and we were intimate more often. The cynical part of me interpreted it as her taking advantage of the time we had left, that we would be dead soon, kneeling beneath the headsman's axe.
I hate this fucking place, I thought, my hands tightening on the reins until the knuckles cracked. This place had taken the one pure, amazing thing I had in this life and turned us both into spies and pawns.
Horns sounded, jerking me out of my reverie. There were roughly a hundred and twenty knights arranged in a circle at the perimeter of the field, the interior of the pit running a hundred and fifty feet square. Tomorrow, the posts and rails would be lowered into the center of the field in time for the jousting, but today it was open and tamped down for the melee.
The melee was less prestigious than the joust, and would take up the first day. The second and third days of the tourney were for the joust, with the winner of the melee and joust being crowned at the end, just before everyone sailed back to King's Landing. That would also be the night Velaryon's men assassinated Lord Tywin and took the city, unless I found something here to incriminate them. But even if I pulled that off, Denys Darklyn and his serpent wife still prowled on the outsides of the conspiracy, close enough to manipulate Adric Thorne, but not close enough to implicate themselves. That would be another plot, for another day. With Lord Tywin's assassination little more than two days away, we needed a win, even if it weren't a complete one.
I felt the too-familiar tightness in my chest as my temper lashed out, threatening to break the control I had on it. I was stretched to my limit, stressed like a hide across tanning poles. I needed an outlet.
The herald stepped forward and began reading off the list of names that were matched against each other. We had all drawn lots, a bagful of inscribed stones. There were two of each, and the two matching stones would face one another in a bracket, until only one remained. I had drawn the first marker, squaring off against Ser Jaremy Rykker for the first match of the day.
The rest of the knights dismounted and led their steeds from the interior pit, leaving only Ser Jaremy and myself. Ser Jaremy paced impatiently at the far end of the pit, while I stretched and thought on everything I knew of the young knight. He was a fair hand with a blade, but impatient and impetuous. He liked showing off for a crowd. He was also a dear friend of Ser Alliser Thorne, and could be counted on to fight hard against even a prince of the realm, especially when said prince had so embarassed said friend at a feast nearly a year ago. I could use that.
I was stalling, I knew. I had always assumed that if I thought long enough and hard enough about a problem, a solution would magically appear. On the other hand, action without thought had gotten me in more trouble than I had words for in this last year and a half. Jenny, the plot with Tywin, the play with Velaryon, half a dozen others. But those had been reactions. If I wanted to make all of this work, I had to be the one forcing the issue, I had to be the one to take actions and make others react to me. I needed to be audacious and bold. I needed something physical I could fight.
The gong sounded, signaling the beginning of the match. Ser Jaremy advanced, hard and fast, ready to meet steel with steel. I stood still, watching him come. Here I was, yet again, letting my opponent have the first move, reacting to him instead of making him react to me. It was too much of who I was, to react instead of act. It was too much of who I feared I would become to make the first move, striking preemptively at threats, real or potential.
I didn't want to become Tywin.
I fought down the doubt and the fear. I was angry, full of rage and wrath, both at myself and this world that threatened to make me into something I did not want to be, yet feared I was. I was fury and fire, both at my inability to prove the Crownland Conspiracy and for dragging Jenny into it. I was tempered iron, thrown into the forge flame, shaped by hands not my own.
None of that mattered. Not right now, here, in this moment.
I waited until Ser Jaremy was nearly upon me, sword high to bring it down in an overhand slash. I ducked and set my feet, meeting him with lowered shoulder under his upraised arm and stopping him cold. He lashed out in desperation, winded from the hit, but I parried, moving inside his guard and struck with an armored elbow, then a backhand. Ser Jaremy thrust haphazardly, trying to keep me off of him, but I brought my sword blade down as hard as I could, backed by countless hours of practice against blades better than his, while punching off-hand from the shoulder. Ser Jaremy went down to one knee and I moved forward with my own, catching him in the side of the head. He went down all the way and I brought my blade above my head, then down on his breastplate. A killing blow, in any other context.
The gong sounded again, signalling the end of the match. I stalked back to the outside of the pit, hearing for the first time the roar of the crowd and the congratulatory yells from the other knights. The champion of the melee would face seven other knights before the day was done.
I looked forward to them.
Arthur II
5; 275 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
The blow came high, but Arthur parried easily, almost nonchalantly. Ser Alliser was fighting cagily, not wanting to be drawn into a potential trap. He had a healthy respect for Arthur's talent with a blade, a respect that seemed almost at odds with the man's nature. Perhaps Rhaegar's besting of him the year before had changed him.
No matter, Arthur thought, as he swung his borrowed blade in a feint before twisting at the last moment. He flexed his wrist, bring his sword down on Ser Alliser's and knocking it out of the way, then thrust home toward the breastplate. Ser Alliser overcompensated, swinging wildly off balance. It was the precise moment Arthur had been waiting for.
Arthur moved in, striking with a plated foot, knocking Ser Alliser even more off balance and bringing his blade down against the knight's helm. Not hard enough to hurt, perhaps bruise, but enough to end the match. Had he been carrying Dawn, the match would have been over much sooner, and more more permanently.
The gong sounded and Ser Alliser saluted with his blade, walking off to his retinue and retainers. The man had fought well and had no reason to be ashamed of his performance. Arthur removed his helm and splashed water on his face when a servant approached him with a bucket. The air was cooling as the sun began its descent. Another hour and it would be too dark to see. Perhaps it was fortunate there was only one match left.
His opponent in the championship match was Rhaegar, who had gone through his matches with a ruthlessness bordering on viciousness. Not that his opponents had been particularly skilled or worthy, but the quickness and efficiency of it all had left the crowd yelling for more.
That same crowd now cheered again, louder than before, as Rhaegar made his way into the pit. Arthur wasn't worried about being able to beat him; any man could be beaten by any other man on any given day. So Ser Barristan had said many times. What worried him was how to fight the prince when the white cloak of the Kingsguard was now clasped around him.
Days before, Arthur had gone to Ser Barristan and asked him how he should face Rhaegar, should they be paired in either the melee or the lists. The elder Kingsguard had told him that he should face the prince as if he were any other knight, for to do else would be dishonorable, both to the prince and to himself. Rhaegar was a knight of the realm, trained by other knights, knighted by Ser Barristan himself. There might come a time when Rhaegar would take the field against a true enemy, Ser Barristan explained, and that enemy would not be careful when facing him. That is what tourneys were originally for, to maintain a warrior's abilities in peacetime.
At that point, Arthur had asked Ser Barristan of Rhaegar's ability as a swordsman. An honest opinion, not the understated humility with which he typically answered. Ser Barristan had paused for a long moment, considering his words.
"When racing horses, there are two kinds of animal you will find. The first kind are those that run as fast as they possibly can every race. They lead the pack, whether they lead by spans or paces or dozens of paces. The second kind are those that always run just fast enough to win. They may win every race, but it will always be by a nose. They have to be pushed to perform their best, and even then there's miles more fight in them." He took a breath, finding his thoughts. "Prince Rhaegar is the latter. He has to be pushed to greatness. Part of it is a lack of confidence in his ability, which I believe to be my fault."
"How so?" Arthur had asked.
"Prince Rhaegar has always faced men of greater ability in training. Myself, Lord Commander Hightower, Prince Lewyn. It's made him defensive, more reactive than he should be. He needs to be pushed," Ser Barristan repeated.
Arthur had dwelled on his mentor's words for the days leading up to the tourney. The purpose of the tourney was not for fame and glory; indeed, what glory could be found in a tourney where only the Crownlander lords were allowed? He was the only one not from the region, and it was only by virtue of being a Kingsguard that he was allowed to compete.
There was another purpose here, under the surface; Jon and Arthur were there to make sure Rhaegar did not fall victim to the machinations of King's Landing, involved as he was in an obvious plot. Against whom they did not know, nor with whom, save Lannister and Velaryon. There were forces at play they didn't understand, but one thing remained clear; protect the prince.
Arthur looked around to the stands. Jon was up there, somewhere, unable to compete because he had yet to be knighted. The tourney was not his arena, anyway; he preferred the battle of court where men competed for the King's ear and favor. He knew the blade, squiring with Arthur and Rhaegar as boys, but he was not the warrior. He was the general and commander to Arthur's warrior and Rhaegar's future king. Together, with Jon as the right hand and Arthur the left, they would protect Rhaegar from the enemies he would undoubtedly gain.
The gong sounded, the penultimate sound of the melee. Arthur knew Rhaegar would wait for the attack, then decide how to counter. Rhaegar always gave the first strike to his opponent, a product of being trained by men more experienced by far. He had to give over his habit, else an enemy get a lucky strike and end the fight before it began.
So Arthur waited, circling Rhaegar, his sword drawn in a low guard, inviting the prince to attack. He saw Rhaegar's eyes narrow at this, searching for a trap. Arthur hoped it would cause him enough discomfort that he might make a mistake.
That's right, Rhaegar, he thought. Stop reacting and take charge of the fight. This is practice for when your life is at stake. Attack, man!
Rhaegar stopped circling, regarding Arthur and the low guard. Rage built behind those violet eyes and with a roar, Rhaegar attacked, his sword moving faster than any Arthur had seen, save for Prince Lewyn's spear. Arthur's sword met Rhaegar's above his head.
The fight was on.
Jon IV
5; 275 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
"It was, very simply put, the most exquisite display of swordsmanship I have ever seen," Lord Celtigar said, his jowls jiggling with excitement.
Jon nodded politely, smiling as men do when faced with someone they found politically powerful, yet personally atrocious. The end of the melee was the talk of the feast, ending as it had. Rhaegar and Arthur had fought for what seemed like forever. It had been a lucky strike at the end, both men exhausted from many matches over the course of the day.
But Rhaegar had won. Just like Jon always knew he would.
The feast hall of High Tide was a massive, stone affair, large enough to house four long tables side by side and a fifth one running perpendicular at the end of the room. There were at least two hundred lords, ladies, and knights sitting at each table and dozens of servants scurried back and forth, bringing wine and food to the tables.
Rhaegar was sitting at the end table, a guest of honor for Lord Lucerys and House Velaryon, while Jon and Arthur were relegated to one of the other tables, sitting far lower in the Crownland pecking order. Lord Massey and his son Wallace were nearby, as was Jacelyn Bywater, who had fallen to Arthur early on in the day. The only man of wealth and means close by was Lord Celtigar, and Jon felt his presence this far down the table was Lord Lucerys' only means of not smelling him throughout the feast or being forced to talk to him. Everyone knew what a pompous conversationalist the man was, and everyone within a dozen paces knew that sickly sweet smell of lilac.
As the feast was well underway, Lord Lucerys rose from his position at the head table and began to speak. It was the typical tourney speech, thanking everyone for attending and extolling the martial virtues of the day's knights. Lord Lucerys was not a man given to jest, nor did he believe in wasting any time. Some lords could go on for hours, making feeble attempts at humor and glowering at people until they laughed.
Lord Lucerys commented on Rhaegar's winning the melee, as well as the great warrior spirit of the other Crownlander knights. Strangely enough, he didn't mention Arthur, despite the Dornishman only falling to Rhaegar.
"For our entertainment tonight, we will bear witness to a play, written by none other than our melee champion himself."
Jon groaned internally. For Lord Lucerys, there was only one of Rhaegar's plays he would have performed under his roof.
"I present to you; Tybolt III!"
Jon watched Rhaegar carefully as the Crownlander nobility clapped and cheered for the play. He was favoring his shoulder, the result of a glancing blow from Arthur. His face was set, betraying no emotion, yet Jon could see through the politeness. If Jon's suspicions were correct, and Rhaegar had written the play in order to get close to Velaryon while plotting with the Hand, then he had never intended the play to be performed so many times. It had seen three performances in King's Landing, before the Globe burned to the ground; one more at Duskendale, now here, and the Father knew how many other Crownlander lords had had it performed in private showings. The Hand was a dangerous enemy to make, and this play being performed widely was a sure way to accomplish that.
If Rhaegar had only come to him, Jon would have told him that there had to be another way to ingratiate himself with Velaryon, one that wouldn't backfire as badly as this would. But Rhaegar had not come to him, why he didn't know. Perhaps it was to keep him away from the danger; that sounded like something Rhaegar would do. But who would keep Rhaegar away from the danger?
Arthur caught his eye and motioned him toward the alcove, away from the tables. Jon nodded and stood, his absence barely noted as the play began.
Jon ducked into a hallway, the sound of the play muted by the thick stone. Arthur joined him a moment later, checking the hallway for any servants who might overhear. "I didn't think we'd be so far away from him. I get the distinct impression Velaryon is only tolerating our presence."
"It didn't help that you bested the best of the Crownlands."
Arthur shrugged. "Half of them are boys with no business in armor, much less as knights. Some may grow into it, like Bywater, but they need training, and not by ancient men at arms."
Jon lowered his voice. "Have you heard anything?" Arthur was supposed to talk to the knights, to try to learn anything he could about a possible plot by Velaryon, while Jon engaged the lords ostensibly loyal to him for the same reason.
Arthur shook his head. "No. None of the household knights are talking much. Only that they were ordered to attend the tourney, despite not taking part. They seem confused, Thorne's men especially."
"Same on my end. Lord Staunton and Lord Chelsted are here, despite serving on the small council. Lord Stokeworth would not hear of their not attending." He shook his head. "Something is going on, something that requires all of the lords to be here with their full retinue. It's unheard of for a lord to strip his castle bare of men, much less all of the lords at once."
Arthur opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as a servant passed. "Could it be an armed rebellion? Another Blackfyre plot?"
"There are no Blackfyres left to plot, Arthur," Jon said. "Still. There are near enough eight thousand men at arms here, plus however many are already at King's Landing. That's not quite enough to take the city."
"And the Gold Cloaks," Arthur reminded him. "Stokeworth has their command. That adds another two thousand, and them already on the inside."
"And the Velaryon and Celtigar fleets to ferry them. But there's still something we're missing," Jon said, looking up. "Whatever is happening, we can't let Rhaegar out of our sight."
Arthur shook his head. "Rhaegar just left for the privy a moment ago."
Jon looked up to find Rhaegar's seat empty. "Fuck. We need to go after him."
Jenny II
5; 275 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
Jenny flipped through the stack of messages on the large oaken desk, while Rhaegar searched through the drawers. "There has to be something," he kept saying to himself.
Jenny wasn't so sure. It made perfect sense that a man as intelligent and paranoid as Lucerys Velaryon would keep some sort of safety measure against treachery in his personal belongings, but after finding nothing at Castle Thorne, nor at the Dun Fort, nor nothing here so far, it appeared that such evidence didn't exist.
Rhaegar slammed the drawer shut in frustration, then moved to the back of the desk, fingers running lightly over the edges.
"What are you doing?" Jenny asked.
"Looking for some kind of secret compartment. Men like Velaryon wouldn't keep anything where a servant might see it."
"Most servants can't read, love," Jenny said softly. She knew how Rhaegar would get when he was like this, searching for an answer that wasn't there. When the only answer was something he didn't like. He was always looking for a third option, but sometimes there were only two, and neither of them any good.
Voices came from the hallway outside the door. Male voices trying to be quiet.
Jenny ran to the door and Rhaegar followed, pressing their ears to the door. "Someone's coming this way," she whispered.
"Same thing as last time?"
"You just want underneath my dress again," she countered, whispering huskily.
Jenny watched Rhaegar's face go from focused to annoyed. "I recognize those voices."
Before she could stop him, Rhaegar swung the door open, revealing Jon Connington and Ser Arthur Dayne.
Connington was the first to recover. "Rhaegar," he whispered, "what are you doing in here? And what is she doing here?" he said, noticing Jenny.
Jenny tried to contain her annoyance. Connington was in love with Rhaegar; anyone could see that, if they chose to look. And while she knew Rhaegar didn't return the feeling, nor was he so inclined, she couldn't help but see the red haired youth as a rival for her prince's affection and attention.
"What are the two of you doing here?" Rhaegar countered, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.
Ser Arthur merely glanced around the solar, giving Jenny the briefest of glances, while Connington was noticeably affronted. "We came here to make sure you weren't in danger. We didn't know that you had smuggled your wh– your mummer in here."
The mistep didn't go unnoticed by Jenny or Rhaegar, but where Rhaegar's eyes flashed in anger, Jenny calmly accepted it. It wasn't the first time, nor would it likely be the last time, she'd heard that word in reference to herself.
She put a hand on Rhaegar's arm. "We have business here, Rhaegar."
Connington glared again in earnest, though Jenny wasn't sure if it were from her protecting him from Rhaegar's anger or from her using his name as an equal. It didn't matter; where Jenny saw Connington as a rival, he undoubtedly saw her as a usurper.
"Get out of here and I'll explain everything later," Rhaegar said, pushing them toward the door before stopping. "Wait. Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
Jenny strained to hear whatever had stopped Rhaegar. Footsteps on a stone floor.
"You were followed," Jenny said harshly, putting her ear to the door. "At least four from the sound of boots."
"We have to get out of here," Connington said, glaring in the dim light at Jenny's tone.
"There's no time," Ser Arthur answered. "They'll see us if we leave and that will only cause more questions."
Rhaegar seemed frozen in place, caught like a stag between the net and the spear. The sound of boots was fast approaching, echoing down the corridor. Jenny looked at Rhaegar, pleading with her eyes to make a decision, the only decision available. Connington and Ser Arthur wouldn't listen to her; the order had to come from their prince.
Jenny heard footsteps on the other side of the door, heard the heavy iron hinges screech as the door swung open. The lead guard saw her first and his face transformed into a mask of anger. A servant caught in the lord's solar, stealing of course. His face died like that as her dagger found his throat. The three men behind him looked confused as their leader fell, hands going for their weapons a mite too slow. Rhaegar, finally spurred into action, took the closest one in the chest with a lowered shoulder, taking him to the ground and dragging his own dagger across the man's throat.
Jenny spun around and angled low against the next guard, picking her target. Against armored men, there were only a few places to strike with a dagger; eye, neck, armpit, crotch. These men were wearing boiled leather, enough to turn a dagger and she didn't have the strength to pierce it. She feinted low, trusting that the man would seek to protect his cock at all costs, then drove her dagger into the side of his neck, blood flushing out of his veins.
The remaining guard turned to run, having realized who the silver-haired assailant was. He made it as far as the door when Ser Arthur caught up to him and bashed him over the head with a borrowed paperweight. Two more blows and the man stopped twitching.
"Rhaegar!" Connington strangled out. "Have you gone mad?!"
"I'll explain everything later," Rhaegar said, using the guards tunic to wipe off most of the blood. "Right now we–"
"Right now, you need to explain why you just killed four of Lord Lucerys' guards!"
Jenny saw Rhaegar's temper soar and saw him fight it back under control. "Velaryon has allied with Stokeworth and Thorne to assassinate Lord Tywin in two days' time. We," he said, motioned to Jenny and himself, "are trying to find evidence of their plot."
Ser Arthur and Connington looked at each other. "That's why they have so many of their household guards here," Connington said. "They plan to secure King's Landing in the chaos."
"Yes, Jon, I know this. I'm well aware of how many men each of them have downstairs," Rhaegar said, his patience wearing thin.
So. He didn't trust either Ser Arthur or Connington with his true plan. That made her feel better, a bit.
"We need to get out of here," Ser Arthur said. "Where there are four guards, there will be more." He toed one of the bodies with his boot. "We can't leave them here, else Velaryon will know someone's been in his solar."
Jenny looked at Rhaegar, aching for him to make a decision. He was far too thoughtful at times, as if he didn't trust himself to make the right choice.
"Strip their armor and take their bodies to the privy," he finally said. "It's just two doors down from here. The garderobe empties into the bay, so we don't have to worry about anyone finding them."
Arthur and Connington nodded and began to remove the guards' armor, but Jenny motioned for them to stop. "The bodies could wash up on shore before we're gone. The tides are strange here, and men's bodies often float."
Rhaegar looked at her for a second before nodding. "Keep their armor on, it will help them sink to the bottom."
From the corner of her eye, Jenny saw Connington sneer at Rhaegar bowing to her suggestion. It was a tiny thing, but jealousy's expressions were often as quick and fleeting at the emotion itself. Rhaegar didn't notice, nor would he; Jon Connington was his friend, and the gods knew he had precious few of them.
"What next?" she asked. "We didn't find anything here and in two nights' time, Velaryon will send his assassins for the Hand."
Rhaeger seemed frozen, so still he stood. He hardly breathed, leaving the only sounds the flickering of flame and the muted steps of two men carrying a third between them, against the backdrop of the raven screams from the nearby rookery.
Suddenly, Rhaegar looked up and grabbed her by the shoulders, kissing her hard. "I have an idea."