The time passed, my mother's stomach grew day by day, and my art collection expanded.
It was reaching a point where I would need an additional room in Maegor's Holdfast, or establish an art gallery, or open an account at the Iron Bank of Braavos to store them — something had to be done.
However, my father insisted on keeping all my works in the Red Keep, particularly the portrait I had painted of him and mother together.
In my father's chambers, there was a miniature version of Old Valyria. When I say "miniature," it was in relation to the size of the king's chambers, as the table on which the replica city stood was larger than most dwellings.
Both my father and Uncle Daemon had a profound fascination with Valyrian lore. The ancient Freehold held a magnetic allure for them, though I could never quite comprehend it myself.
Yes, Old Valyria possessed great power and technological advancements, but I couldn't bring myself to admire a civilization built on such blatant slavery. I myself was chained, after all. Not to mention the disturbing genetic experiments involving the crossbreeding of human women with various animals.
Nonetheless, my father's mini Valyria in his chambers became a bonding exercise between us. Stone masons were commissioned to create the pieces — buildings, statues, and other structures — and we would assemble the city together, father and son.
I took artistic liberties by sketching intricate patterns for carved engravings, such as pillars and friezes. I also painted the white marble of certain buildings in black, although my father was initially hesitant about committing to a specific color scheme.
Eventually, we agreed that certain structures would have been constructed from fused black stone.
Those days spent building Valyria together were fun. It combined what I loved, art, with what my father loved, the old lore. We could potter about in his chambers, planning and plotting the little city, and before we would know it, the sun would go down.
One day we were in his chambers. The opened curtains allowed a drench of glorious light on our faces. My father hummed as he inspected a new statue piece the masons had delivered. He was always jovial after delivery, but he was humming queerer than usual.
I simply smirked at him, glancing now and then, and awaited whatever he wanted to say. I could tell it was something.
"So…" said Father. He'd be bouncing in his seat were it not for his political dexterity.
"So…" I replied, waiting to see where it was going.
"I noticed you and Lady Alicent get along well."
"We do," I said.
"She's developed into a fine character. Wouldn't you say?"
I shrugged, "Grandgramp Jaehaerys and her got along well enough."
"Yes..." Father continued, "Such a kind girl to keep the Old King company in his later years."
I got annoyed at the tone as if he were an interrogator asking lead questions. "I sense you are making a point?"
"Well," my Father said, "You are the heir apparent."
I dropped my art tools on the table in agitation. "You want me to marry the daughter of a second son?"
"I want you to be happy," he said, "I just thought—"
"Worry about your own happiness," I said, "As if it isn't forfeit already."
That's when a knock came at the door, and my Mother entered the chambers.
Mother chuckled at the obvious tension between me and Father, rubbing her bulged pregnant stomach, "Trouble in Old Valyria?"
"Just a dispute about wedding plans," I said.
"Don't be angry," she said, "Your father only wants your happiness."
I held back an ironic laugh, "You're in on this?"
"It's only a suggestion. Lady Alicent is a fine young woman."
I rolled my eyes, "She's a *friend*. Besides, do I look of age to be consummating a marriage?"
My mother smiled, "You look the age to know what 'betrothal' means."
I purposefully ignored her point, "By the gods…" I said, "Alicent? You may as well suggest I wed Rhaenyra."
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The halls of the Red Keep became a place of song, laughter, and cheer.
The party went wherever I did. I'm not sure how it happened.
It used to be just Theodore, Brien, and I going around in relative incognito. Then I had musicians join us so we could have music wherever we went, which led the maidens to assume something exciting was happening and they started following us.
Soon enough, their fathers, husbands, and servants joined in, creating a growing procession of noise and commotion wherever I went. It became a massive entourage, a bustling hubbub that accompanied me.
It had gotten to the point where I felt like a zoo animal. Everyone treated me like I was more handsome, clever, and charming than I actually was. It was enough to warp anyone's sense of reality, let alone my alleged child status.
Everyone treated me like I was an otherworldly intellectual, as if my choice of painting locations held profound meaning.
They observed me with an uncanny ability to predict next year's fashion trends based on the tapestries I admired in the castle.
They tracked my every move through the gardens, waiting for me to walk by as if I were some enchanting enigma.
If I complimented a dress, they reacted as if I were the kindest person in the world, capable of melting hearts with a few words.
If I stopped to pet a dog, you'd think I was a saint, revered for my simple act of kindness.
I realized something in that hero worship: The more your public image grew, the more you had to safeguard it.
For with greater clout came greater cancelability~
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With Lieutenant Douglas as my proxy for communication, things progressed steadily.
Cleave became our frontman, adept at recruiting both thugs and cutthroats. Weaver took on the task of teaching the orphans how to navigate the city streets. Our organization grew, establishing a subtle intelligence network and shrouded in layers of convoluted secrecy.
It didn't take long for word to spread among the common folk that a new faction had emerged.
Fleabottom, the forsaken district of King's Landing, was the first to feel our influence. Being an area where the City Watch held little sway, it was an ideal starting point.
It all started with a ruse. Under the guise of ensuring food safety, I instructed Cleave and his crew to visit the pot shops in Fleabottom and carry out "inspections" of their quality.
If they weren't up to par, which all of them weren't no matter how good or clean, a choice was then presented: join our umbrella and clean up your standards, or have you and your family befall an unfortunate accident.
Word spread swiftly as Cleave made an example of those who openly refused the offer, demonstrating that disrespect would not be tolerated.
Pot shops, often tucked away in Fleabottom's alleys, were popular among the residents for their affordable, hearty stews made from whatever ingredients were available.
These stews came to be known as "pots of brown" due to their thick and sludgy appearance. They typically contained carrots, onions, barley, and if one was fortunate, an apple. As for the meat, it was always questionable, often sourced from the local fish market or sometimes comprising mystery meat.
Cleave was well-acquainted with the pot shop owners since supplied as a butcher.
However, if there was a shop owner he disliked, Cleave made sure to provide them with an unsavory ingredient: human flesh. (This was during the time when Cleave was still on his killing spree as the mad butcher — a vengeful yet resourceful way to dispose of a body.)
With the pot shops under our control, it was not difficult to profile all the known criminals. Pot shops were where the derelict gathered, and lips loosened after cheap grog.
It was simple after that. Known criminals would get a polite visit, where after a calm and composed discussion, they either joined us or were made an example of.
Targeting the famous scum of Fleabottom had the intended effect. My eyes on the street grew in number, and soon the civilian smallfolk came to them for help whenever there was a need for frontier justice.
This proved invaluable as we expanded our influence beyond the confines of Fleabottom. We encountered numerous long-established owners of businesses and industrial sectors in King's Landing who were deeply rooted in upholding the status quo.
It would require a sustained effort over several months to gradually chip away at their resilience and reshape their mindset, as was particularly true for the venerable proprietors of the Street of Steel, as well as the opulent pleasure houses lining the renowned Street of Silk.
People hated paying up, but ultimately, they paid all the same.
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While my crews operated discreetly in the shadows, I took a different path and emerged as a beacon of goodness to the public, presenting a stark contrast to the darkness that lurked beneath. Light and shadow, two sides, but they never knew we were part of the same coin.
With the Rhaenari by my side, we cultivated a handsome and virtuous reputation. We were omnipresent in the eyes of the smallfolk, repairing dilapidated dwellings, contributing to the expansion of ports, and establishing pop-up soup kitchens to feed the hungry.
Every day, I immersed myself among the people, engaging in various acts of service.
The walls of buildings and alleys became canvases for my artwork. Murals depicting valiant knights rescuing damsels from fiery towers, the legendary Aegon's conquest and of verdant Microsoft fields of green.
Scenes of Azor Ahai and the long night, showcasing unity among people of diverse creeds and colors, rallying under the banner of hope. Depictions of individuals assisting others in times of need.
Portraits of King Jaehaerys and the brave Baelon. Magnificent dragons adorned with intricate geometric patterns.
Elaborate maps depicting the city, the Crownlands, and the entire realm. Epic illustrations capturing the glory and eventual doom of Old Valyria.
Scenes of the Andal invasion, with the Children of the Forest employing magic to shatter the arm of Dorne, forming the Stepstones, and their failed attempt at the Neck, resulting in the formation of the marshland.
Religious and political propaganda portraying figures from the Faith of the Seven blessing me, Prince Rhaenar.
Countless other murals. And if one looked closely, hidden in plain sight, they would find my all-seeing eye gazing down benevolently.
My favorite project was when we brokered a deal with some inhabitants who lived in a neighboorhood situated on the top of Visenya Hill. After much negotiation whereupon we compensated some generously, where others we usurped from their property using Cleave and his thugs, we managed to procure a 200x200 foot space on the slope of Visenya Hill, an area which offered a view of the Red Keep, a vast majority of the city, and the distant ocean.
In my past life, I often was commissioned as a cheap artist for Shakespearean theatre. As such, I had a spent a lot of time in a Globe Threatre.
The original Globe Theatre was situated in the Southwark area of London, on the south bank of the River Thames.
It was a large, round or polygonal-shaped structure with a diameter of approximately 100 feet (30 meters). The exact dimensions of the stage and other areas within the theatre are not known with certainty.
The construction of the Globe Theatre involved a wooden framework with multiple levels of galleries that surrounded an open-air courtyard called the yard or pit.
The stage was a raised platform located at one end of the courtyard, with a roof covering a portion of it. The roofed section was known as the "heavens" and provided protection for the actors and certain props from the elements.
The theatre was designed to accommodate a large number of spectators, with an estimated capacity of around 3,000 people.
The wealthier audience members would sit in the galleries, while the lower classes stood or sat in the yard.
The yard was often the liveliest part of the theatre, where the "groundlings" would watch the performances up close and interact with the actors.
The unique aspect of the Globe Theatre's assembly was its ability to be dismantled and reassembled.
This innovative approach to construction mirrored the techniques employed by the shipbuilders of Braavos, who used standardized, prefabricated parts to rapidly assemble their vessels.
Inspired by this method, I envisioned a theatre that could be swiftly erected when needed and disassembled just as easily.
Reverse engineering the construction of an entire theatre solely from my memory was a challenging task.
However, with the assistance of Brien, Theodore, and local carpenters, we persevered. It was a meticulous undertaking that spanned several months, as we meticulously recreated the intricate details and inner workings of the Globe Theatre.
When our efforts finally bore fruit, and the grand opening night of my globe theatre was a reality, it was me who headlined.
I took the stage with my lute and performed a repertoire of timeless songs. '
From "Hands of Gold" to a jesterly "The Dornishmen's Wife," — and even a cheeky rendition of Queen's "We Will Rock You," a classic from my past life — my fellow Rhaenari stomped their feet and clapped their hands, lending their powerful voices to the performance.
The crowd joined in, their collective song resonating through the streets of King's Landing.
All the while, flower petals rained down on me from the crowd, with my name praised long into the night.
"Prince Rhaenar, long may he live!"