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 XXVIII
8; 275 AC
King's Landing

The sound of music drifted in from the direction of the stage as over six hundred men, women, and children of various ages milled around the pit of the newly rebuilt Globe Playhouse. There was a massive table of food stretching alongside the stage while a band of musicians played soft music in the background. Drinks were in almost every hand and the dull roar of conversation was occasionally punctuated by a sharp peal of laughter. This was not a feast, not in the traditional Westerosi sense, but a new form of entertainment and ostentatious display of wealth.

It was a cocktail party.

That was the idea, anyway. The Globe didn't have the space to stretch out tables for the guests, nor did I feel much like hiring half a hundred servants to bring food out and keep drinks filled. This allowed the guests to serve themselves with smaller portions of food, while the servants I did keep on retainer meandered their way through the crowd with drinks.

There was little for me to do but enjoy myself, surrounded as I was by forty-four Crownland lords, each with surely no less than a half dozen plots apiece. Oh, certainly, Lord Harald Hayford's plot against Lord Gyles Rosby amounted to little more than "accidently" starting a fire sure to carry over to the Rosby fields – to drive up the price of grain in the coming harvest – but a plot is still a plot, even when the murder of the Hand of the King isn't involved.

The plan was to eat and make small talk for an hour or so, then fall into the second balcony to watch the newest addition to the Westerosi theatre scene. Jenny had wanted a happier play, so I had obliged.

Speaking of. Jenny deftly made her way through the crowd in her servant disguise, carrying a pitcher of wine in each hand; one an expensive Arbor Red favored by those who knew nothing about wine, the other a chilled white much better suited to the oppressively and unseasonably heavy heat that had drenched the city for the last few weeks. It was certainly still Spring, and still the years' long Spring that Westeros was famous for, but there were mini-seasons within the seasons, and this eighth month of the year was absolutely one of the hottest I had personally experienced. The maesters said it was a sign that Summer would soon be upon us.

Much of the talk was geared toward the changing seasons or the trial of a few months ago, musing on how the traitor lords were enjoying their new environs at the Wall. The Crownlanders had turned on the trio with alarming quickness, at least in my hearing. Lady Stokeworth had graciously declined my invitation, citing ill health, though I harbored many thoughts about that. The woman could carry a grudge the size of a castle. Ser Alliser – Lord Alliser, now – was in attendance, though his visage burned whenever he thought I wasn't looking. Between the two of them, the Crownlands would be an interesting place for the next few years.

Tragically, I wouldn't be around to see it.

The third heir of the traitor lords, Lord Monford Velaryon, had adopted an entirely different tactic; he was absolutely determined to ensure that I knew of his loyalty. Every other breath.

"Your Grace, this is simply a splendid get-together. Better than anything my traitor father did. That embarrassment at Driftmark a few months ago was little more than a village fair, truth be told. All it needed was a dancing bear and a ragged troupe. But this," he said, gesturing to the Globe, "this is sophistication and breeding. Refinement." He stopped long enough to take a drink and I noticed the slight shake in his hand. "Refinement," he repeated, desperately trying to find another synonym.

I smiled slight to put him at ease and rested a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, barely, but just enough for me to see it. "You can put yourself at ease, Monfred. No one is calling your loyalty into question."

Which wasn't strictly speaking true. There were many making obvious and terrible metaphors about apples and trees, but they were either gossip mongers or had much to gain from a Velaryon decline.

The King hadn't punished the heirs of the traitor lords with a loss of lands or title, though he did remove some of their benefits. For example, House Thorne had been receiving the custom on the importation of luxury items from Myr; things like carpets and lenses. This constituted a small, but profitable, income, one that House Thorne had desperately needed in its quest to plot with Velaryon and Stokeworth. Now, that custom was given to Lord Guncer Sunglass, the new Lord Commander of the City Watch. Sunglass was a pious fool, given to ordering his Goldcloaks to round up whoever they saw not attending the weekly ceremony and push them into the Great Sept. Sunday Mass, for lack of a better word.

"Your Grace, whatever will you do with The Rose, now that you have rebuilt your own playhouse?" Lord Crispian Celtigar said, changing the subject, his flowery, perfumed words limped across the space between us, wheedling their way through the air. The man was a whine incarnate, begging to be noticed and taken seriously.

I'd had to invite him; he was now Master of Ships for the King, with a place on the small council and a manse in the city.

"Why, my Lord Crispian, surely the capitol of the Seven Kingdoms can afford two playhouses. There are a great many in Braavos, after all. Perhaps I could use the Rose for more private showings, such as this, and save the Globe for the bigger productions."

Lord Crispian nodded, his jowls a-flying, but I knew what his real question was; how long will you control the purse strings?

A soft, lilting voice came from over my shoulder. "There are a great many playhouses in Braavos, indeed; but none so grand as all this."

I turned to find Serala of Myr, wife to Lord Denys Darklyn, standing at my shoulder, her doe eyes half-lidded in an exotic seduction.

"Lady Serala," I said, inclining my head in a slight bow. "I had hoped you would join us."

Actually, that was as far from true as possible. I had received a message from Lord Denys that they would not be able to attend – supervising the new construction and expansion at the Duskendale docks, he said. There had been a sigh of relief, as forty-four Crownland lords was enough without including the one person that was undoubtedly still plotting against Lord Tywin, and probably myself as well.

"My lord husband sends his regret, but has sent me in his stead. I do hope we have caused no offense," she said lightly, knees dipping slightly and exposing a generous amount of bosom. There was a collectively-held breath from the surrounding noblemen, countered by the almost audible glare from their wives. The woman was sex on two legs and she knew it; furthermore, she knew how to use it.

Rumor abounded, of course. A land deal between Darklyn and another House sweetened by Lady Serala's empty promises; a customs official she had wrapped around her finger; tax collectors leaving Duskendale with nothing more than her scent in their nostrils and her memory in their pockets. At least nine-tenths of it had to be bullshit, else she'd have slept with everyone in the Crownlands twice over. That didn't stop a great many ladies from spreading rumor and lie like butter across toast.

"The playhouses in Braavos are little more than farces performed in leaky buildings," Monford said, Lady Serala's peepshow lost on him. "I've been to Essos many times and have yet to see anything to equal His Grace's pursuits," his unspoken criticism of all things Essos extending to Lady Serala as well.

The Lady of Duskendale took it in stride, as I imagined she took all things astride. "There are a great many things in Essos, my lord. The artisans of my native Myr, or the playhouses of Braavos," she said casually, plucking a sweetened strawberry from a passing tray and taking a delicate bite. "Or the great pillow houses of Lys, for instance. Where one can find all manner of pleasure, for any manner of taste."

Monford was far too well bred to allow emotion on his face, but his cheeks burned a slightly hotter red that grew in the pregnant pause of our circle. Lords Byrch and Brune quickly became enamored with a conversation all their own, which only made the unspoken comment more apparent. The other lords in our circle – Rambton, Cave, and Mallery – followed their lead. All but one ignored the jibe; the man at Lady Serala's shoulder, who smirked openly.

I met the unknown man's eye. "Forgive me, but I don't think we've been introduced."

The man's smirk died on his face and his eyes lowered and flickered. That gave me pause. Rhaegar had never been the type to intimidate, even after I had possessed him and especially not to a knight – as this man certainly was. I idly wondered if it was the plotting against Velaryon that had added to my reputation, or the rumor of my ability with a sword. My match against Ser Alliser – Lord Alliser, I reminded myself again – was more than eight months ago, but still the subject of a few tongues.

"Your Grace. We met at the feast at Duskendale five months ago. Ser Jon Hollard, Your Grace."

He was a big man, broad shouldered, with a prematurely receding hairline and pot belly. The scars crisscrossing his thick forearms told me his prowess, and the set of his shoulders and feet told me he'd move quicker than I'd first thought. I noticed him sizing me up the same way I had him.

"Of course, Ser Jon. Goodbrother to Lord Denys and the Lady Serala, if I remember right." I remembered him now. Mostly in his cups during the feast, his duties as steward to Lord Denys over for the night. A servant in all but name, but one who would remain ignorant of Darklyn's plots even if the evidence spit in his face.

"Yes, Your Grace," he said quickly.

There was an awkward pause as I didn't have anything more to say and Ser Jon didn't want to risk offending me again. Lady Serala, ever the consummate host, took it upon herself to fill in the gap. The other lords, ostensibly involved in their own conversations, turned as soon as she opened her warm, sensuous mouth.

"King's Landing has certainly been an interesting place for the last few months. I am relieved that the traitors were caught in time."

She was digging. Hoping to judge my reaction, see how closely allied I was to Lord Tywin. The fact that she never mentioned his name didn't matter; it was about the implication. No doubt the others were very interested in that as well, and I could feel their attention slipping quietly to me, without making it seem like they were.

It was all about acting, in a way. I was playing a character, they were the audience. The facial expressions and dialogue went a long way towards making the audience think one thing, but it was the subtext that added a layer, or layers upon layers. Prince Rhaegar, the character, was not in league with Lord Tywin; indeed, he hated Lord Tywin for the burning of the Globe. But he had also allied with him for the greater good.

So. The character believes in the rule of law and the honor of the office, if not the man. A burning hatred exists, but also a mutual respect. Yet, he is a young man, still full of fire and fury, without the absolute control of a more mature knight.

I set my jaw and offered her a quick nod of my head, smiling politely but not letting it touch my eyes. A quick nod of public agreement, nothing more. The subtext came a half-second later, a narrowing of my eyes, a certain tightness across my mouth, and a twitch thrown in for good measure. "Thanks be to the Father," I said, sounding as if I wasn't sure of the prayer.

"Hear, hear!" came the obnoxiously insipid voice of Lord Commander Sunglass. The other lords joined in second later, half-hearted though it was.

Lady Serala's eyes glittered as she searched my face. I don't know if she bought it, but it was apparently enough to satisfy her for the time being. "I'm certainly glad my husband takes no pleasure in the games of court, dangerous as they can be." She paused, eating another strawberry. "I don't know what I would do without him."

Nine words, innocent on the surface, an offhand remark at best. Again, subtext is the key. There was relief in her voice, nearly hidden by the exotic accent. In fact, that accent hid a great many things. It was all the ear could focus on, which gave her words a decidedly unemotional tone. Even one listening for it, such as I, would be hard pressed to hear the undertones of relief. No doubt that was at least half the reason for the rise of the cold-hearted rumors, or scheming rumors. They literally couldn't hear anything other than the accent.

But there's more to subtext than just dialogue. Something like Ser Jon unconsciously taking a half-step towards the Lady Serala, the unspoken thought of her words making him protect her. No doubt he was half in love with her, or at the very least, fantasized about her. Or something like the rest of the lords unconsciously considering the possibility of her husband's death, eyes unfocused, a slight, greedy upturn of the mouth. The Darklyn lands were extremely valuable, and Lady Serala would no doubt be very grateful to the lord that saved her from ruin and poverty.

All this was accomplished with the sultry tones of her voice, a few well chosen, but ultimately innocent, words, coupled with a slight downward turn of her head and an indrawn breath, making her face doe-eyed and submissive and emphasizing her bosom.

It was a masterful performance, all in all. A Lady Macbeth if there ever was one.

My heart nearly stopped at that. I had been blind, unbelievably blind. Denis Darklyn wasn't the brains of the operation, Lady Serala was. That's how she'd kept the former Lord Thorne under their thumb, that's why there wasn't any evidence. The only evidence was in Adric Thorne's head, or maybe his pants.

She looked at me then and I fought to keep my realization off my face. My character wasn't a Machiavellian operative, but an honor bound thinker of straight lines. He wouldn't be able to read the subtext, not unless it leapt up and hit him in the face. I nodded sagely, and spoke in my best Captain America voice. "The Crown protects all its subjects, my lady. You need have no fear should anything happen to your noble husband."

She smiled politely, a slight curl of her lip I'm not sure I was meant to see. But the flicker of her eyes, that much was tailor made for me, eyeing as she did the breadth of my shoulders and the curve of my hip. Flashing down to my crotch, then back to my eyes. A quick indrawn breath when she realized she'd been caught, a blink, a blush, then looking away. All meant for me, all calculated.

Subtext.

She's making an offer, I realized. No, not an offer. Bait. Dangling a piece of a larger meal in front of me.

The Crownlands were about to be a very interesting place.

Jon VI
8; 275 AC
King's Landing

Jon watched the meandering crowd from Rhaegar's private box, drinking slowly. It was quiet, or at least quieter than the pit, each Crownlander lord and lady attempting to dominate their respective conversations without seeming to. King's Landing was a nest of vipers, every one of them waiting their turn to strike. Some of the plots were small, some large, some involved convoluted plans without any hope of succeeding. Some were led by idiots, some by worse than idiots. After the events of the trial and Rhaegar's counterplot, the intelligent plotters were waiting to see how the landscape had shifted.

For any Hand, managing the plots of the Crownlands required many things. Indeed, the only criticism of Lord Tywin's tenure would be his dismissal of the social aspects of the position. The Crownlanders had to be soothed and led, like a skittish, greedy, spiteful horse. Jon's star had begun to rise after the Tourney at Driftmark, many nobles inviting him, dining him, conversing with him, all in an attempt to get to Rhaegar through him. If Jon were to be Hand one day, he would need to cultivate these relationships now, to build on them later.

There were others in the private boxes around Jon, talking amongst themselves away from the larger crowd. Each lord had brought a small retinue, no more than a dozen or so; heirs, other sons and daughters, men at arms, the usual. Events like this were rife with marriage proposals or displays of power and retinues were all of that and more.

Jon was in the private box to get away from the crowd, but also to keep an eye on those who wanted a private conversation. Who was talking to whom, and what they were discussing, if he could overhear it. Right now, Lord Bar Emmon, the Velaryon man who had chafed at his subordinate position, was talking to Lord Reymond Rykker, a former Thorne man, with the man's son and heir, Renfred, behind them.

Reading lips was a skill soon learned at court, which is why so many spoke behind their hands. Up on the third and top tier of the playhouse, they thought they were safe from prying eyes.

Jon hear the door to the box open and close swiftly, knowing who it was. There were a handful of people that would enter Rhaegar's private box unannounced, and the soft feminine step was not Arthur or Rhaegar.

"What have you found?" he asked rather brusquely, perhaps more so than he intended.

If Jenny had heard it, she took no offence. "Fourteen for Rhaegar, sixteen still waiting. Up here?"

Jon grit his teeth at the lack of proper address, but such informalities were what Rhaegar wanted between them all. "Five so far for Rhaegar, but – No, make that six. Lord Bar Emmon is convincing Lord Rykker as we speak."

That made twenty Houses for Rhaegar, just less than half. The others were any combination of uncommitted or against or playing both sides.

"The play will be starting soon. Rhaegar will want you with him." She didn't look at him, nor did he at her. It was an alliance born out of necessity and loyalty to Rhaegar.

"He might need me now," Jon said dryly, motioning to Rhaegar and the Lady Serala, who had her hand on his arm.

Jenny sneered. "The woman is a snake," she said. "I'd recognize her kind anywhere."

A jibe rolled on Jon's tongue and died there, unspoken. Rhaegar had made it clear that they were to work together – all of them. Though, even Jon had to admit the mummer was intelligent enough to be of use for the time being.

"Have you seen the play?" Jenny asked. It carried the tone of conversation, out of character for the two.

Jon nodded. "Rosamund and Rennifer. He calls it a comedy set in the Reach. Two characters who hate each other, but secretly love each other, neither one wanting to marry."

Jenny smiled and laughed a little. "Such a careful topic for our prince," she said, turning away, picking up the empty wine cup and making her way toward the door.

"You are aware that he'll never be able to marry you?" Jon said without turning around, his tone less a question and more a statement.

Any good nature emanating from her following their small conversation evaporated. Jon could feel the tremor in the air between them as she glowered, could hear the clench of her jaw and the tightening of her hands around the clay cup.

"I am, my lord. Are you?"