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 XXX
10; 275 AC
King's Landing

Drums beat over the low hush from the crowd, beating an exotic rhythm of passion and excitement. The sound grew quicker, building to a crescendo in a distinctly eastern influence, something different and strange and foreign. Horns followed with a jazz-tinged melody while nearly naked women danced in tandem, the entire scene full of sex and lust and envy and jealousy; emotions overflowing the stage and consuming the audience en masse, their heartbeats rising with every drumbeat and movement of the dancers' hips. They were enthralled, rumor and hearsay their only other window into Dorne, the setting of the play; now they saw Dorne and its lustful, dangerous women come to life, the hot humid sands and darker skins on display bringing a world completely different from their own and laying it at their feet. Sure, King's Landing was cosmopolitan and had sailors and merchants from Dorne, and Essos, and Volantis, and Meereen, and the Summer Islands, and even Asshai and Yi Ti. But Dorne. Dorne was different.

Some of it had to do with the Rhoynar influence, to be sure, those strange, brown people with strange notions about bastards and mistresses and female inheritance. Some of it was geographic, with the Red Mountains isolating Dorne from the rest of the continent and the blistering deserts making the region seem inhospitable. Some of it was historical, counting the ancient raids and skirmishes and outright wars fought in the Dornish Marches, or the laundry list of titles of those lords close to the border. Some of it was recent, the wars fought against Dorne under the Targaryen reign and the bloodshed of so many men and their families' memories. And some of it was pure, unadulterated, racism.

I had taken that in mind as I cast and set the play, using a few tricks I had in my bag. Edward Said had made a career out of exploring the mechanism by which a dominant culture uses literature and the arts to subjugate another culture. Orientalism, he called it; written the book on it, as a matter of fact. Said was comparing the Western Occident with the Orient – or, rather more importantly, the Orient that was created by Western academics and artists, the exotic, sexual, ultimately treacherous Orient. What the rest of Westeros had done to Dorne wasn't far from the same thing, geared a bit differently of course. The rest of the continent didn't have the massive technological advantage Victorian Britain had over Imperial China, for example; but the Dornish were still cast as cowardly, dishonorable fighters, or scheming, treacherous villains, or seductive, sexualized women. Fu Manchus and Dragon Ladies all around.

Taking this, and combining it with a little Bakhtin and some Carnivalesque visuals and Cleopatra's Cairo was lifted up and set back down in Sunspear. Antony & Cleopatra became Lyonel & Mariah, the tale of a love that was not meant to be between a Stormlander general and a Dornish princess. After the so-so performances of Malthar, Rennifer & Rosamund and Lyonel & Mariah had salvaged my reputation among the smallfolk and nobility alike.

They might have still felt distrust toward the Dornish, or remembered in their cultural memory the time a hundred and fifty years past when King Daeron I – my six-times-great-granduncle – had been killed by their sneaking, raiding tactics, but here, in the Globe, the Dornish were safe, tucked away behind the wall of the stage.

Casting had been a bit more difficult, with the number of brown-skinned actors available significantly lower than their fair counterparts. Most of the Essosi in the company, like Rosley, had been sent on tour, so to speak, on one of my four traveling troupes. The Northern Tour, including the Vale and the North, had just reached Winterfell, as Lord Rickard's raven had told me. Lyanna had been watching for them day and night, apparently, eager to see "her" plays again.

The end result was a few fair-skinned Dornishmen, but I kept them in the back of the stage as guards, hidden under heavy helms and armor. The Westerosi had adapted to my theatre scene very well considering the circumstances, but suspension of disbelief was a bit beyond them when it came to that.

The play had just started, the crowd enraptured. I looked out over the railing of my private box, watching the audience, smallfolk as well as noble. Lord Crispian Celtigar noticed me looking from his own private box on the third level and chanced a wave, lace flapping at his wrist. I smiled a sickly smile, knowing he wouldn't be able to tell the difference at this distance. Lord Gunther Sunglass, the pious Lord Commander of the City Watch, watched the stage with a haughty sniff and rankled disdain. There were nine private boxes in total, each costing four silver stags for four reclining seats and a private servant to fetch wine and food, and all were filled. Those that wished to exude a wealthy persona couldn't afford to sit anywhere but the very best.

Lord Monford Velaryon sat in one of those private boxes, just off to the side, alone, watching the stage with interest. I knew he was here as part of his plan to convince me he had nothing to do with his father's plots. I of course knew that, but no amount of accepting him, or including him, was enough to make up for the sins of his father. I felt bad for him, having this incredible responsibility leveraged onto him without a moment's notice. I knew what that felt like, knew how much it sucked. At least I had Jenny, and Jon, and Arthur; Monford didn't have friends or lovers, his sexuality precluding anyone from getting too close, lest he become the subject of even more rumor and gossip. Added to that the stress of adolescence and the hell of being sixteen; it was a wonder the man was still functioning.

I sighed, hating myself for adding even more onto his slim shoulders, but I had to ensure that the Velaryon fleet would sail for me should fighting break out. Too much rested on my League of the Disenfranchised Nobility holding King's Landing. Finding my first target, I looked at the second level. Lord Alliser Thorne didn't have his father's need to spend coin with the richest houses in the Crownlands, preferring to sit surrounded by his comrades on the second tier.

I stood and walked toward the door of the private box, moving into the corridor that connected the other boxes with the staircase leading downwards. It was a hallway arranged in a half-circle, lit by tall, thin windows that brought in the light from the sun on one side and the thick, dark oak that gave the patrons of the private boxes some privacy.

I turned out of my private box and walked the dozen or so yards to Monford's chosen seats. I knocked softly, not wanting to startle him, and when I heard his muffled 'enter' I walked through the door.

Upon seeing me, Monford jumped to his feet, attempting to straighten out his silk tunic and put down his cup of wine all in one motion. "Your Grace! Forgive me, I did not know it was you, else I would have, have, uh, I would have–" he stammered

I raised a hand to calm him and spoke in my most soothing voice. "Monford, please, sit down. I just came to enjoy your company and see what you thought of the play."

"The play is very, uh, very good, Your Grace," he said, jerkily nodding for emphasis, "brilliant, even, Your Grace, it's uh, the setting is very, and the costumes are quite well done, and–"

"Monford," I said, with a bit more firmness, and more irritation than I'd like to admit. "Just sit down and we can talk."

The Lord of Driftmark sit down abruptly, like it was a command that had issued from my throat. I felt bad, again, for having to manipulate someone clearly so close to the edge. His hair was frayed and there were dark circles beneath his eyes, made even more apparent by his pale skin. His clothing showed definite signs of wear, no doubt from him spending his nights in inns; he refused to leave King's Landing for Driftmark, lest the rumors intensify, nor would he stay in his father's manse in the city. He was stuck in a place with nowhere to go, and I knew exactly what that felt like.

I took a seat next to him and did my best to appear non-threatening. When Monford didn't speak, I gestured to the stage. "The audience seems to enjoy it," I began, hoping he would continue.

Monford nodded again, his entire body vibrating. "As well they should, Your Grace! It puts to shame any other play in the city, or even in Braavos! I've been to Braavos, Your Grace, and they have nothing to compare with this, or this playhouse, or any of the… the, uh, well. Yes," he said, with clearly nowhere else to go with his train of thought.

I studied him closely for a moment. He sipped his wine nervously, his hands shaking badly, but he tried to cover it with a smile that was more a grimace.

"Monford, I know you had nothing to do with your father's plot. It's important to me that you know that," I said.

Monford froze, his wine cup halfway to his lap, his only movement the flaring of his nostrils as he breathed heavily. Very slowly, he lowered his cup and covered his face with both hands.

"I just… I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Your Grace," he said, tears forming in his eyes. "My father never taught me anything about being head of House Velaryon. He wouldn't let anyone near his documents, or let them in on what needed paying or who owed money to us or how many ships we had and where. He controlled everything with an iron fist; even the maesters still aren't sure of everything." He sat up straighter and looked at me. "Do you know he wrote most everything in code? Some marking system of his own invention, that only he knew the key to. He was paranoid to a fault, no doubt worried that I might someday mistakenly read something I wasn't supposed to," he said bitterly. "But, for all that…"

"You still love him," I said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Monford gave a small shrug. "He was my father. Is my father," he amended. "I'm supposed to honor my father, aren't I? Even if he was an outright bastard."

I squeezed his shoulder, letting him know I sympathized. I could imagine, to a man as obsessed with image and legacy as Lucerys Velaryon was, how he would have reacted to a homosexual son who only wanted to run a playhouse and surround himself with mummers and singers.

"If you need anything in the way of advice, I can send Arry to Driftmark with you when you return. He's a master at making sense of senselessness. He keeps this place running well enough and he's uncommon clever. He might even be able to decipher your father's code."

Monford turned to me, his cheeks lined with the trails of tears. The smile that followed was pure gratefulness, not just for my offer of help, but for standing by him when no one else would. Monford cleared his throat and wiped his face, leaning back into his seat. "The play is very well done, Your Grace. I'd wager most of the smallfolk have never seen a Dornishman at less than fifty paces, much less their festivals. This is enlightening for most of them."

I laughed softly. "I hope they enjoy it. Izembaro tells me his Braavosi contacts are very interested in this new playhouse of mine."

"I've heard the same," Monford responded, his voice leveling out. "They're calling it the Westeros Cycle, Your Grace."

"Oh?"

Monford nodded, seemingly more at ease now. "Yes, Your Grace. You've shown each of the regions in Westeros on your stage, save for the Crownlands. We have contacts in Braavos, to maintain relations with the Iron Bank, and they've told me that the plays are being performed in Braavos, at the Blue Lantern, I believe."

I frowned involuntarily. Copyright law didn't exist here, and there surely wasn't any way of enforcing it. Monford noticed my expression. "You don't approve, Your Grace? They're maintaining your name as writer, if that concerns you."

That, at least, was comforting. Yet, there was still a worry that the Braavosi mummers would cut or add something to the play, something that I didn't want. I shrugged in response to Monford's remark. "I don't suppose there's anything I could do about it, other than invading Braavos. Doesn't seem a good cause for war, though."

Monford snorted, likely the first time he'd laughed since his father's trial. He might have laughed more had the man not been exhausted. "Should you wish to invade Braavos, Your Grace, you can count on the Velaryon fleet."

I smiled, and not just at his jape. I didn't have to trick him into supporting me; I just had to treat him like a person.

"It's good to hear you laugh, Monford. Though, I have to confess I have a favor to ask."

Monford's face brightened. "Of course, Your Grace."

"The Velaryon fleet has long made up the majority of the Royal Fleet, and with your father's departure from master of ships, the fleet has to rebuild. Unfortunately, that leaves King's Landing somewhat open from the sea. I was hoping you would consider adopting patrols of the Gullet and Blackwater Bay. Just until the new ships Lord Crispian has commissioned are seaworthy. Six months or so."

The young lord nodded enthusiastically. "I'll order the ships into position tonight, Your Grace. Anything I can do to help."

I smiled again and stood. "I'm glad to hear it, Monford. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must make the rounds, see what sorts of headaches Arry has for me."

Monford stood as well. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, making a deep bow. I offered my hand in response and he shook it warmly.

"If you ever need anything, please don't hesitate to ask, Lord Monford. A king must take care of his bannermen's needs, and a prince is nothing more than a future king."

I left Monford in his private box, hoping he would feel safer in his position. I also made sure that several in the second tier saw me sitting with Monford, hoping that would settle some of the rumor. Monford would have a hard enough time navigating his way through life without the stain of being a traitor's son hanging over him.

I walked down the stairs toward the second tier with a small spring in my step. I didn't have to be a bastard to get things done, something that was surprising to me. I was deathly afraid of this world making me into something that I feared I already was; that dark part of me that wanted to seize power and rule and command. I didn't want to be that person, wasn't that person.

I wouldn't have to deal with it much longer, though. I hoped to be in Essos with Jenny within the year, two at most. But first, I had a problem; how to say something, without saying something, while making it obvious enough that even Alliser Thorne could understand, while not understanding all of it.

Father above, I hated this place.

Tywin XII
10; 275 AC
King's Landing

Tywin looked up from his desk in the Tower of the Hand, noting the figure in the dark cloak and hood step through the door. Ser Ilyn closed the door behind him, leaving them alone.

Half the torches were extinguished, leaving just enough light to read and write by, but not enough to make the room warm in the cloying heat of a city summer. Tywin laid down his quill and rubbed his hand, loosening the muscles. There were always more ravens to send, countless regional disputes to mediate, always with careful regard to the support one house could provide over another. Even now, House Bracken feuded with House Blackwood over some slight, intentional or otherwise. Requests from Highgarden over a variety of things littered his desk. And to top it all off, House Darklyn was petitioning the crown for a charter to expand Duskendale, asking for the same considerations given to Dorne under Daeron the Good. Tywin folded the Darklyn parchment and lighting one corner ablaze from a nearby candle, setting it in a metal tray while it turned to ash.

Prince Rhaegar approached the desk, taking care to scan the room for servants before he began speaking. "Monford will sail for us. I've set him to patrolling the bay until the ships Celtigar's commissioned are ready. Also, Celtigar has to commission ships."

Tywin nodded. This was good, that Velaryon was firmly in their camp. "And Lord Alliser?"

Rhaegar inclined his head, as if still deciding the matter. "I believe so. I couldn't tell him too much," the prince said with a trace of frustration, "but I made it clear that I believed he would have been a much better choice for Lord Commander than Lord Gunther." Rhaegar's mouth screwed up in a grimace. "My unborn brother would be a better choice than Lord Gunther. Father above, does he irritate me." He looked at Tywin. "I heard you nominated your brother Kevan for Lord Commander. Surely you don't think my father would acquiesce to a small council full of Lannisters, ordering about a staff full of Lannisters?" he asked, almost incredulously. "But, then, no, you wouldn't."

Tywin nodded. The prince could usually get to the right answer, given enough time. But he was young still, with many years to learn. That was the plan after all; Aerys would soon die, screaming if possible, while Rhaegar would inherit the throne, marrying Cersei, and giving Tywin the opportunity to tutor the prince alone in the Great Game. Indeed, Tywin planned to be Hand for a very long time to come.

"No, Your Grace, I never expect your father to name any of my brothers or cousins to high posts in the city," Tywin said. "Your father has to be led. I offer the name of someone I know he will reject, he predictably refuses outright and counters with someone he knows will oppose me. We will argue and decide to take up the matter in the morning. That night, something sparks in his mind – something he eats, or something he sees, or something someone says – and the next morning, he nominates the person I had intended all along."

"As you did with Lord Crispian."

"As I did with Lord Crispian," Tywin agreed.

Rhaegar shook his head again. "Another one that vexes me," he said, nose wrinkling up as if the man had walked by. "No matter. I will not have to suffer him long."

That gave Tywin pause. "Have you given thought to your own small council then, once this is done?"

Rhaegar stopped for a moment, his face carefully still. Most would not have recognized it, but it was the face of a man cautiously choosing his lie. Tywin had seen it many times, had worn it more often than not, especially of late. The prince finally spoke, with almost exaggerated care. "I have considered a few names, but I don't want it to appear as if I had a plan in place, once this is done," he said, using the same words that Tywin had used. A telltale sign of a lie spontaneously created. "I don't want Crownlanders, certainly. Too much trouble."

Tywin considered the prince without seeming to. Any attempt of the prince to turn on Tywin would end badly for him; Arry would produce several cleverly forged missives from the prince to various lords in the Crownlands, detailing his crimes. But it made little sense for Rhaegar to turn treacherous, as he wanted his father dead as much as Tywin. But little secrets are secrets still and there must be trust in a conspiracy and honor in a plot; else whom was one to trust?

"Another matter, Your Grace," Tywin said slowly. "I think it best that neither you nor I were present in King's Landing once the King takes ill. Grand Maester Pycelle assures me that the sickness will take as long as we need it to."

Rhaegar nodded, a trace of relief showing in the outrush of air from his nostrils, confirming Tywin's suspicions. "He takes ill, we rush back to King's Landing once we receive word, he dies, and no one can prove we had anything to do with it," he said, walking himself through the rest of the plan as Tywin nodded. "But where do we go that doesn't seem suspicious?"

Tywin considered the question. "It's past time I revisited Casterly Rock. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for me to do so. Likewise, you haven't been to Dragonstone in some time."

Rhaegar opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, considering something else. "A few months ago, I received a raven from Prince Doran, inviting me to tour the Water Gardens should I ever find myself in Dorne. And I know that Ser Arthur has been eager of late to see his brother and sisters."

Tywin nodded while his mind turned feverishly. He knew well the raven the prince spoke of, along with the longer one sent by Prince Oberyn later on, as well as their contents. Dorne was sour fruit to the majority of Westeros, and any treaty or favor showed to the Dornish almost always resulted in heightened anger. The fact that House Martell had a daughter of the right age did not escape him either. Yet surely the prince was intelligent enough to know that a Dornish princess – or queen – would set the rest of the realm against him. Tywin dismissed it; the prince was intelligent, cunning, and unlikely to wager the realm's goodwill on a frail, sickly Dornish wife.

"It will be a month to Starfall, riding hard, then two weeks there," Tywin said, calculating the distance in his head. "Ten days by sailing at the outside to Sunspear and a further two weeks there. Two weeks after that to arrive back in King's Landing by sail. Two and a half months all told. About the same if I were to travel to Casterly Rock, stay for a month, and return," he said, an idea forming.

Rhaegar nodded, coming to the same conclusion. "You would be preparing for your return by the time I arrived at Sunspear. When the King takes a turn for the worse, Pycelle sends me a raven at Sunspear –"

"And one to me at Casterly Rock, and we make all possible haste to return in time," Tywin finished. He thought for a moment more. "It will take some timing, and we should not leave at the same time. But it would remove much of the doubt if Aerys takes ill while we are long gone from the city."

"I agree," Rhaegar said, turning the matter over in his mind. "Though, I do think we should wait. At least until my mother has her child. I wouldn't want anything to cause her to miscarry the child," he said. "She's been through enough of that."

Tywin nodded, studying the prince. On the surface, it seemed a reasonable addendum. And a spare royal child would provide another alliance should they need it in the future. "Pycelle places the birth of the child in roughly three months. If you leave for Starfall one month from now, and I leave for Casterly Rock shortly thereafter, we should arrive back here just after the child is born."

Rhaegar nodded, his face strangely stony. "My brother. Just after my brother is born."