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
1; 276 AC
Sunspear
The sea was crystal clear, a brilliant blue layered over a deeper blue, and our galley – theSilver Sword – cut through it like its namesake. I could see far beneath the water, a multitude of life swimming in the wake of the galley. The coastline was red and yellows and oranges, sandy beaches of pure white sand and a hint of green scrub brush this close to the water. It was nearly unbearably hot, the sun reflecting off the water like a mirror.
The port of Sunspear bustled with activity as we sailed to an open berth, a hundred sun-scorched men loading ships and unloading ships, laughing and yelling with their exotic tongues. Ships bound for Essos and the Summer Isles, or north to Lannisport and Oldtown, or east to King's Landing, taking spices and wines and other Dornish specialties to trade for things they could not make or grow. Ports were a necessity for the Dornish, their trading routes not only a source of income, but of survival.
The ship docked, the towing barges cutting loose and returning to the open sea to await the next inbound ship. The gangplank was lowered and the sailors made themselves busy, securing the ship and unloading its precious cargo, a collection of rare dyes more lucrative in the markets of the shadow city. I looked to Jon and Arthur, both of whom seemed relieved that the ship had finally stopped swaying with every breeze and current. Arthur pointed a hand that might've wavered for a moment at the dock. "The Princess herself has come down to greet you," he said, his voice less firm than it usually was. "She hardly ever leaves the Tower of the Sun these days."
I looked up, seeing the still-bright evening Dornish sun gleaming off the plated gold of the Tower of the Sun, a brilliant, clear yellow against the sandy, dun-colored walls of Sunspear. The Spear Tower rose beside it, higher and slenderer, a knife point aimed at the heavens. I looked down at the pier, noting an elderly woman in front, a tall, straight-backed man on her right, and a thin waif to her left. All were dressed in expensive, brightly colored silks and backed by a full dozen spearmen in light armor.
Princess Moria was obvious; I assumed the others were Prince Doran, master schemer and Targaryen loyalist, and Princess Elia, my future wife in a world long gone. I breathed a sigh of relief that they seemed to have forgone the gauntlet of nobility that I had faced in Starfall. Perhaps word had reached them from Lord Anton's ravens of my distaste for the pomp of court.
I saw Jon's mouth turn downward grimly, no doubt at the slight he was taking offense to on my account. I gave him a friendly punch on the arm, smiling. An uneventful voyage, the promise of warm food and a bed, and, best of all, no clamoring nobles, itching to bow and scrape. Things were looking up.
I leapt off the gangplank onto the pier, my travel sack over my shoulder. Two thumps later, I heard Jon and Arthur join me, their legs shakier than mine from the week-long voyage. I walked down the wooden pier towards the welcoming party, putting on my most charming smile. My sword slapped against my leg, and I saw the spearmen stiffen slightly and regrip their ash spears in reflex. I knew from experience how quick and deadly those spears would be.
Prince Doran was a man in his prime, six feet and an inch, a few years away from thirty, but already with the lines of office marring an otherwise smooth face. His hair was worn longish, flowing freely to his shoulders in black waves. A small goatee as black as his hair jutted from his chin, waxed and formed into a point like the row of spears behind him. He smiled and nodded nearly familiarly as I approached. I knew from our messages back and forth via raven that he was a cautious and careful man, his wording exact and precise. Even his movements seemed calm and serene, the heat from the setting sun causing him no more discomfort than a hot soup.
Princess Elia was much shorter than her brother and seemed much smaller besides. She was thin and flat-chested, her face all angles and planes, her skin the same olive tone as her brother. Her gown clung to her, accenting her features. She was beautiful, but a kind of beauty that I had never seen. She wasn't the perfect beauty of Ashara Dayne, or the buxom vivaciousness of Jenny, but a beauty all her own. It was in her eyes, her dark as coal eyes that brimmed with life and wit and compassion. Then she smiled and her face transformed again, her cheekbones rising, her eyebrows knitting, the corners of her mouth forming two perfect dimples in her cheeks. Hers was a face made to smile.
Princess Moria Martell bowed low, her gnarled fingers clutching an equally gnarled staff for support. "I welcome you to Sunspear, Your Grace, though the ceremony of court will have to wait, I'm afraid."
Confused, I bowed as low as the Princess of Dorne had done. "I thank you, Your Grace, for the welcome. Has something happened?"
She nodded gravely. "A raven from King's Landing, two days ago. The Grand Maester has sent word the king has taken exceedingly ill, and the Grand Maester fears for his survival," she said, reaching out a withered hand the same color as the parchment it held.
I fought to keep the excitement off my face as I took the missive, though it turned to sincere worry a moment later. "Your Grace, I apologize for whatever arrangements you have already made, but I fear I must return with all possible haste." The timeline had been moved up unexpectedly, which meant that Aerys was dying a lot sooner than Pycelle had theorized, or that something else had happened. How did that affect the plan? Would I arrive with Darklyn already holding the city? Another thought. What of my mother? "Any word on my mother and her pregnancy?"
Princess Moria tried to smile reassuringly. "The girl was born healthy and your mother is resting. Fear not, young prince, women have been giving birth in much more hazardous circumstances."
The girl was born healthy.
The girl.
Girl.
My sight got blurry and red, a deep crimson tinged with black, blinding fury creeping along the edges of my vision. This wasn't supposed to happen this way. I felt a cold, vice-like grip on my lungs, heaving in my chest, the knuckles in my hand cracking in rage and fear, my legs tense and ready to run or fight, tooth and nail and claw, the sinking pit of my stomach a ball of wrath and terror.
How? How could this happen? I had done everything right, goddammit, not changing a fucking thing in the fucking timeline to preserve this one fucking moment that everything else hinged on. What had changed? How could it change?
"Rh- Your Grace? Are you alright?"
Jon.
Jon looked at me with concern. My vision cleared and I realized where I was, surrounded by the Princess of Dorne and her family, her children, minus Oberyn.
"Yes, Jon. I'm fine," I said through gritted teeth. "We will need to make our best speed to King's Landing." I fought to control my shaking. "I trust that you have a ship that can return us, Your Grace?"
Princess Moria looked to her son, who answered for her. "Our fastest ship is being prepared as we speak, Your Grace, but it will miss the tide," he said slowly in his lightly accented speech. "We can offer a night beneath our roof, and water from our wells, and food from our table. The ship will be ready at first light and high tide."
I bowed my head in thanks, my mind a million miles away. "I thank you, Your Grace, and I look forward to dining with you," I said on autopilot, my mind seeing all the work and the pain and the sacrifice I had made, the danger I had put myself in for the last year, evaporating in an instant. No. No, no, no, no. It could still work, it had to work, I could make it work.
Jaime to my sister. Cersei to Ned. Brandon to Catelyn, Lyanna to Robert. Ned and Robert fostered by Jon Arryn. The alliance was there, still there.
It was still fucking there.
Jon IX
1; 276 AC
Sunspear
Jon took his seat beside Arthur, figuring in his head where he fell in the strange, mercurial hierarchy of formal dinners. Princess Moria sat at the head of the table, while Rhaegar sat to her right as guest of honor. Arthur came next, as brother to the Lord of Starfall and the newest Sword of the Morning. Then Jon, lowly heir to a Stormlander lord that he was, he thought sardonically. Opposite the trio were Prince Doran, his sharp face and dark eyes making him look like the villain in one of Rhaegar's plays. Across from Arthur was Princess Elia, the frail daughter of House Martell. And across from Jon, seemingly purposefully, was Lord Ormond Yronwood.
House Yronwood. The bane of many a Storm King, who had warred and raided and looted their way across the southern Stormlands for centuries before the Martells gained dominance over them. House Yronwood, who vainly held onto their titles, as if they made up for their fall from supremacy. The Bloodroyal, they called themselves, mentioning it at every passing, often quickly followed with Warden of the Stone Way; never letting anyone forget that it was the Yronwoods who ruled Dorne before the Rhoynish came to Westeros and tipped the scales.
Lord Ormond's self-satisfied smirk made the slight ever the more infuriating. He had reportedly refused to leave after Princess Moria cancelled the feast, the only member of the Dornish nobility to do so. The rest – Lord Willem Wyl, Lord Trebor Jordayne, Lady Delonne Allyrion, Lord Tremond Gargalen, among others – had left when word reached Sunspear of the king's illness, at Princess Moria's forceful suggestion. Lord Ormond, though, had decided to stay, lest his glowing presence not be near the prince. No doubt the man thought the king's illness a manufactured ploy by the Martells to keep Rhaegar's company all to themselves.
Rhaegar's company, since they had arrived, had been sullen and moody and quiet, the same he had been in the week following Summerhall. It was not worry over the king's health, Jon knew; the king and his son had not been on good terms as of late. More likely it was the prospect of inheriting the throne far earlier than he had intended, forcing him to leave behind the playhouse and the mummer girl. He didn't want to do that, Jon knew, but he would. The responsibility of the nobility required nothing less.
Of course, that also required marriage, and advantageous marriage at that. The thought drew his attention to Elia. She had made a few careful glances to the prince, who picked at the strange Dornish food with little appetite, remaining quiet while Prince Doran and Arthur maintained their conversation, with Lord Ormund interjecting whenever he could.
As a marriage prospect, there was little to recommend the princess; she was Dornish, for one, sickly for another. One of the main causes for the First Blackfyre Rebellion had been the Dornish influence at court under Daeron the Good and those feelings had not changed overmuch. Added to that, a Queen who could not be counted on to produce heirs was of little use to the throne and the realm at large; with Princess Elia's weak constitution and slim hips, she would have few children, if any. Jon caught her smiling at Rhaegar, her mouth thin and slightly crooked. Rhaegar, for his part, seemed to ignore her, focused on his own thoughts.
The talk of the table turned to politics, as it usually did at these dinners. Princess Moria watched the talk with a practiced eye, glancing every so often at Rhaegar, much the same as her daughter. Prince Doran had the reputation as a capable administrator and Jon found him a thoughtful conversationalist, at odds with the hot-blooded Dornish blood that ran through his features. Lord Ormond, on the other hand, blond-haired and blue-eyed, red-faced and beefy, seemed to exemplify the Dornish reputation for quick-tempered boisterousness.
"Pirates in the Stepstones grow bolder with each passing year," Lord Ormond said, stabbing his food with a knife and raising the morsel to his lips. "They should be scoured clean, wiped from the water like ducks on a pond."
"Doing so would cost the realm much," Prince Doran said hesitantly, unwilling to be drawn into a debate with the man. "The pirates know those islands like their mother's breast, every cove and shelter and ambush point. They would burn four ships for every one of the royal fleet."
"Then we simply build more," Lord Ormond said loudly, flecks of food flying from his mouth. "Tell me, Your Grace; what sort of man is Lord Celtigar? How well does he replace Lord Velaryon?"
Rhaegar ignored the question, lost in his own thoughts. Jon saw Arthur's leg twitch under the table and Rhaegar looked up, startled. "My apologies, my lords, I was thinking of other matters."
Prince Doran nodded knowingly. "We all share your worry for the king and his health. I'm certain you will arrive in King's Landing to find him well." His voice had the tone of empty platitude, and Jon could imagine the wheels turning behind those black eyes. Rhaegar would be king one day, whether it was when they arrived in King's Landing or ten years from now, and a good impression now was worth its weight in gold; especially when a marriageable daughter sat not five feet from the future king.
"My factors in King's Landing tell me that your newest play is set in Dorne, Your Grace," Princess Moria said, changing the subject and leaving the avenue open for Rhaegar to enter the conversation.
Rhaegar nodded and attempted a smile, but it was clear that his mind was elsewhere. "A tale of love gone wrong, a Stormlander general and a Princess of Dorne."
Princess Moria cackled her laughter, the echo bouncing off the walls. "Love gone wrong, you say? Small wonder then," she said still laughing. She elbowed Prince Doran. "Perhaps I should run off with a Stormlander lord, then." She lifted her chin and cast her voice down the table to Jon. "What about you, my young lord? Have you need of a wife yet?"
Jon froze, looking at the short, overweight, nearly toothless Princess of Dorne, his smile half set in place whilst the table laughed at his discomfort. He recognized the jape as it was, and laughed nervously with the rest of them.
Her reaction seemed to bring Rhaegar out of his melancholy, at least a bit. "I hope to send a company to Dorne in the next few months, to perform the plays along the road. It's gone over well with the smallfolk in King's Landing, and I'd hope here as well."
Jon saw Elia smile again at that, catching Rhaegar's eye. He smiled too, this time genuinely.
"Plays are all well and good, Your Grace," Lord Ormond said pompously. "But the smallfolk want tourneys and fighting, to remind them why they are where they are, and why we are where we are." He laughed at his cleverness, as if stringing words together were an accomplishment for him. "I keep such rabble off the streets at Yronwood," he continued self-importantly. "It's all vulgarity and nonsense farces, anyhow, often about the nobility."
Rhaegar shrugged. "Their farces serve as a release for them, an escape from their drudgery. They hold little power over their own lives, so they create such things they can control. Their plays portray the nobility as lecherous, petty, idiot lords; small wonder how they came to that conclusion." He shook his head. "If they only knew how much power they truly had."
The table all turned to look at Rhaegar expectantly, but he simply went back to picking at his food, his temporary reprieve from melancholy gone.
"What power is that, Your Grace?" Prince Doran asked.
Rhaegar looked up, regretting that he had said too much. "It's like a contract, is it not? A social contract between the smallfolk, the lords, and the king. The smallfolk create nearly everything we consume or use, serving the lords. The lords manage their estates and pay taxes, serving the king."
"An interesting idea," Prince Doran said, diplomatically. "If the smallfolk serve the lords, and the lords serve the king, then who does the king serve?"
"The gods," Lord Ormond interjected, at nearly the same time Rhaegar said, "The people."
"Nonsense," Lord Ormond said derisively, before he remembered who he was talking to, "Your Grace, beg your pardon, but perhaps after a few years at court you'll have a better idea of how the realm works," he said, laughing in an attempt to disguise his condescension. "What lords would we be if we served the smallfolk?" Lord Ormond said, laughing and looking around the table for support.
"What would you do if your smallfolk rebelled, Lord Ormond?" Rhaegar asked innocently.
"Why, my knights and I would ride them down like sheep!"
Rhaegar didn't move, but focused on Lord Ormond, seemingly seeing the man for the first time. "Ride them down like sheep," he repeated softly, saying them almost to himself. He seemed to stir, his eyes narrowing, his voice growing sharp and acidic. Jon recognized that look; it was the irritated-by-a-nobleman look, usually followed with some biting retort that made the target look a fool. At court, Jon would try to move the conversation away before anyone took offense. Here, at this table, he merely leaned back to watch.
"How many smallfolk are within your domains, Lord Ormond?"
The Bloodroyal seemed taken aback by the question, his face confused. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rhaegar quickly interrupted. "Of course you don't know, and why should you? They're just smallfolk, and as long as they farm and raise goats and fell trees and give you your due, what difference could it possibly make?" Rhaegar shrugged, seeming unconcerned with the remark, but Jon had seen it all before. His indigo eyes gave it away, casting their ruthless sights on Lord Ormond. "There are forty million people in the Seven Kingdoms, give or take, and slightly over four hundred major and minor houses in it. Figuring they're all averaged out evenly, that's around a hundred thousand smallfolk for every noble house. Figure a fifth of them are strong, able-bodied men. That's twenty thousand men who could put down their pitchforks and reapers and plowshares at any moment they decided to, march on Yronwood, and string you up from the walls," Rhaegar said, drawing his words out toward the end until his voice was near a whisper.
Lord Ormond sputtered. "They would not–! Never dare to–!"
"Of course we rule with their consent," Princess Moria broke in. "Every fool knows that. They plow our lands, tend our fields, shepherd our flocks. They give suck to our young, serve our food, and clean our castles. And in turn we protect them, shelter them, lead them in war," she said, breath coming hard in her irritation. "Seven hells, half the noble houses in Westeros were begun by nothing more than smallfolk with swords. Only an idiot would believe they couldn't end the same way."
Prince Doran, for his part, considered Rhaegar's and his mother's words. "You would favor, then, reintroducing the protections offered by your great-grandfather to the smallfolk? The ones your father has removed?"
At the mention of his father, Rhaegar's eyes grew stormy again. "I favor treating a population that outnumbers us more than nine to one with the same respect and courtesy I would treat any other free man," he shot back, the weight of conviction in his voice. "It is the nature of man to war, and a war of each against all. Consider the times of petty kings and the alliances that rose and fell seemingly overnight in the midst of countless wars for land and power. Aegon the Conqueror took that Westeros and set it at peace, for the most part. He gave the land standardized laws and coinage, justice across the land. The smallfolk serve the lords, the lords serve the king, and the king serves the people." He stopped for a moment, caught up in his tirade. "He serves the people," Rhaegar repeated, almost to himself.
Jon had never heard Rhaegar speak this way, not even in his drunkest rantings. He couldn't imagine such words coming from King Aerys, or any of the Targaryen kings and queens he had read of, or any of the lords he had known. They had ruled with might, giving way to right over time, either the mailed armor of a knight or the fire of a dragon. But what Rhaegar spoke of was different, a king who ruled for the good of the realm, who took their title as Protector of the Realm seriously.
Rhaegar shouldn't worry about being king, Jon thought to himself. He's already better than the whole damned lot of them.
The large door at the end of the hall opened and a double dozen servants filed in, carrying chests and wooden frames and a long, rolled carpet. Elia very nearly clapped her hands in excitement, her eyes going to Rhaegar. "I've been practicing the mummers for weeks, Your Grace, hoping to show them to you when you arrived," she said, then grew quiet. "I know your father's illness weighs heavily on you at this time, as it does on us all, but perhaps you would like to watch before you retire?" She smiled again, her mouth still off-putting. "It will be better than all this talk of politics and war."
The was a spark of life in Rhaegar's eyes when he saw the mummers getting into position and he nodded his assent without speaking, a slight, sad, smile on his face.
Chairs were rearranged on one side of the table, Princess Moria remaining at its head, while Rhaegar sat between Prince Doran and Elia, Arthur between Elia and Lord Ormond, and Jon forced to the end.
A mummer took his place in the middle of the makeshift stage, rubbing his arms furiously, as if he were cold. "Who's there?" he shouted into the wings.
"Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself," came the reply from someone off-stage.
"Long live the king!"
Elia I
1; 276 AC
Sunspear
From the top of the Spear Tower, Elia watched the ship clear the harbor under the control of the towing barges, then slip their cables and make her way to sea. It had always fascinated her, that ships were always female; something romantic and strange about men who would trade their lives and wives ashore for a mistress made of wood and sail.
The Spear of Dorne was now nearly to the horizon, tacking into the wind and swiftly moving out to the open sea toward the rising sun. Soon, the sun would swallow up the ship, lost in its glaring brightness.
"There's a fury in him."
She nodded at her brother's comment. "A strange young man with strange ideas," she agreed. "I doubt he would have minded, had I spoken my mind."
Doran shrugged. "It's hard to gauge, these things. Some of the Stormlander lords or Reacher lords want a wife who will do nothing but sit there and look pretty at feasts."
She nodded. It was true enough; not for Prince Rhaegar, though. Elia could tell, from the moment she saw the fire in his eyes, that he wanted an equal to wed, a partner. Their mother had decided that Elia would play the meek daughter, giddily introducing the mummers and the prince's play, gambling that the prince would prefer a quiet mouse for a wife. But what dragon would marry a mouse?
"Has Lord Ormond left?"
Doran snorted. "He left nearly the moment the prince was on the ship. He would not deign to stay here a moment longer than he has to."
Elia smiled slightly. "A constant reminder that his line is no longer the High King of Dorne and the Rhoynish legions that made it so? I think not," she said, thinking. "He insulted us by staying after the feast was cancelled. Amends should be made."
"We cannot punish him for that. Not directly, at least."
"No. We cannot give him a grievance to take to the king. Not this king, anyway." She thought for a moment. "Send a message to Lord Jordayne. He has petitioned Mother for funding to expand his port facilities. Offer him the custom on Myrish silk."
Doran considered that a moment, as he always did. "The Tor is not as good a port as Yronwood," he finally said. "Far too shallow."
"Yes, but that gold will make it so, and it will strengthen the primary Yronwood bannerman, and decrease trade flowing to Yronwood. Not enough to hurt him, make him desperate, but enough to remind him of his place."
Doran laughed softly. "I had the same thought." He kissed her softly on the top of her head and left her at the top of the tower, staring off into the horizon.
Prince Rhaegar had seemed to enjoy the play, at least, even thanking her earnestly for putting it on for him, yet he had been distracted for most of it, lost in thought, his indigo eyes unfocused. No doubt the prospect of his father's illness and what that could mean. Still, a prince was in need of a princess, no matter if he should be king tomorrow or years from now, and only Dorne had princesses.
She had resisted, of course. For as long as should could remember, she had read stories of knights with golden hair rescuing maidens from bandits and outlaws, or cruel, ugly lords. Her childhood had been filled with such stories, read to her by Doran or Oberyn whilst she lay in bed, recovering from this illness or that one.
Prince Rhaegar was not the knight from her stories and pretending to be something she was not – a meek, slip of a girl uninterested in the politics of court or the nature of man – was not how she was supposed to win her knight's affections. But she had done as she was bid, biting her tongue for fear of scaring off the prince.
She had wanted dearly to ask him about his role in the plot against the Hand of the King, hear how he had tricked Lucerys Velaryon into confessing in front of the whole court. Or the ideas behind his plays, and what inspired him. Or his ideas about this social contract, and the king as servant of the people.
But there would be time enough for that, and she resolved that the next time she met Rhaegar Targaryen, it would be as she truly was; Elia Martell, lover of politics and ideas and stories, future Queen of Westeros.