Chapter 2: The Road North
The royal procession snaked up the kingsroad like a fourth arm of the Trident, made of gold and silver and polished steel. Overhead, a dozen banners danced in the breeze emblazoned with the crowned stag of Baratheon, and the crowned stag of Baratheon rode at the head of their party of three hundred strong.
Ser Barristan and Mandon flanked Father at the head of the column in their snow-white cloaks, while Uncle Jaime rode alongside Arthas just ahead of the wheelhouse Mother and his younger siblings travelled in. It was an oversized carriage two decks tall made of oiled oak and metal, and Arthas could not fathom what half-wit maester thought it a good idea. Even with the forty heavy draft horses in teams of twenty needed to pull the lumbering thing forward, it was still slower than praise from Uncle Stannis, and constantly breaking down.
"We could have been there by now," Arthas said, casting a contemptuous look at it. As it was, they'd not even reached the Neck and he shuddered to think how the wheels would fare in marshland instead of hard-baked soil.
"We're in no hurry," Uncle Jaime said. Like Mother, he had curled hair like beaten gold and flashing green eyes.
Arthas' own eyes had less of a lustre to them, sea-green instead of emeralds. "Time is too precious to waste."
His own words rang in his ears over and over and over: "Oh, no. We're too late."
"You really are my father's grandson," Jaime said, smirking. "Did Cersei or Pycelle ever tell you about the Reynes of Castamere?"
"Like the song?" Arthas asked.
"The song, and the events which inspired it. It's the reason your grandfather is so feared even today," Jaime said.
A horse bearing a stunted little man pulled up alongside them. "Our nephew's fifteen, Brother," Tyrion said.
They called his uncle a dwarf and the Imp, but Arthas had seen dwarves and imps before. His uncle was not so formidable a warrior to be the former, and too wise to be the latter.
"I wasn't going to tell him the whole story." Jaime rolled his eyes. "Just… selected portions."
Tyrion stared at Jaime with his mismatched green-and-black eyes, though it didn't unnerve Uncle Jaime like it did other people. It never bothered Arthas either; the eyes he saw in his sleep were much worse.
"Storytelling was never your great gift," Tyrion said with a sigh. "Alright, Arthas. A story and a lesson, all wrapped up into one."
Arthas grinned. "That's quite convenient, thank you."
"Before you were born, before anyone here was born I think, the westerlands were ruled by our grandfather, Tytos," Tyrion said.
"He was a weak lord who liked to laugh," Jaime said in a faux humorless tone, "and often taken advantage of by his own bannermen, lords and knights sworn to him."
Tyrion shot Jaime a warning look, but there was also something playful in his eyes. "They'd borrowed money from him, you see, without intending to pay it back. Tytos didn't see fit to collect. He was a well-meaning, jovial man, but a lion who cannot lead is not a lion."
"So the Reynes borrowed money from Tytos?" Arthas asked.
Tyrion nodded. "Not only that, but the red lions thought to supplant House Lannister with help of their good-brother, Walderan Tarbeck, in open rebellion. So Father got rid of them."
Arthas blinked. "Is that it?"
"Is that it, he asks," Tyrion said. "He got rid of them, all of them. You won't find a single man, woman, or child who can claim descent from either house."
"These people have all been infected," Arthas said as he looked at sleeping Stratholme. His hammer felt heavier in his hands, as if anticipating what would have to be done. "They may look fine now, but it's a matter of time before they turn into the undead."
Arthas froze. His hands itched for his warhammer. "What?"
"Their keeps were slighted," Tyrion continued, "the Tarbecks beheaded, and the Reynes all drowned in their mines like mice in a sinking ship."
"This entire city must be purged," Arthas ordered.
It sounded monstrous, brutal, but hadn't he made that same choice? Wasn't Stratholme the only choice, the right choice? Purge a city to save a kingdom, drown a house to end war for a generation...
"Easy on that grip," Jaime said, resting a calming hand on Arthas' fists clenched over the reins of Tansy tight. "You might choke poor Tansy."
"Choked to death, but oh what a way to go!" Tyrion grinned impishly. "Some people prefer to take pleasure in such acts of pain, you know. Perhaps you're one of them?"
Arthas honored him with narrowed eyes. "No."
"Alas! I'll unearth the darkness in your soul one day, Nephew. You know what they say about the pious ones." Tyrion turned to Jaime. "What was your point anyway?"
"Ah, right," Jaime said, blinking. "Speed, that was Father's secret. The Reynes were not just any house. They came closest to matching House Lannister in power in those days, but Father assembled more men quicker. Marched them faster too, so he crushed the Tarbecks before they could join their men to the Reynes, then destroyed the Reynes piecemeal. Had he been a day late, things might have turned out very differently."
"Thankfully for us, it didn't," Tyrion said. "Are you alright, Arthas? You're looking pale… well, paler than usual."
"I'm fine," Arthas said, trying to keep the shake from his hands. "I just need a moment. We're in no hurry right?"
Jaime and Tyrion shared a look.
"We have all the time in the world with this wheelhouse slowing us down," Jaime joked softly.
Days blended into weeks, and the broad kingsroad shrunk into a narrow causeway at the Neck. On either side of them were dense thickets of half-drowned trees, smeared with a healthy helping of fungi. The swamps were devoid of men, but Arthas felt eyes boring into his skull whenever he looked into the still waters over the edge.
On their fourth day in the Neck, a dozen short men waited for them, their rafts docked besides the kingsroad. They wore no armor to speak of and armed themselves with three-pronged spears and leather shields. The one who stepped forward to greet Father, a middle-aged man leaning on a cane, had no weapons at all.
"Joffrey, come here!" Robert said, sending a flock of hidden birds flying out the canopy. "Boy, you too!"
Arthas and Joffrey rode up to their father.
"This here's Lord Howland Reed, a good friend of Lord Eddard's, and a fine man besides."
"Lord?" Joffrey repeated, dismissing him with his eyes. "He doesn't even have armor, Father."
A part of Arthas agreed, but he kept silent. It was not his place to judge.
"Armor?" Robert laughed darkly and took a swig from his wineskin. "Armor? Armor will be the death of a thousand knights if they march on Lord Howland. See that water their rafts float on? See how deep it goes?"
Joffrey pouted and fell into a sullen silence.
It was not kingly, but it was not his place to judge. "How deep does it go, Lord Reed?" Arthas asked.
"Deep enough for grown men and little boys both," Reed said in a light tone, before turning to Father. "You'll forgive me for not bringing Greywater Watch along, Your Grace. It's a cramped little thing and I doubt I could fit you all in it."
"Don't worry about it," Father said, clapping the crannogman on the back, "so long as you give me a taste of one of those lizard-lions. I've been meaning to try one."
Reed nodded. "I've sent word further north to Lord Cerwyn, and Lord Stark of course. The Neck is yours, Your Grace."
"Keep it," Joffrey muttered under his breath.
Lord Reed travelled besides Father for a long while on a borrowed horse, while crannogmen kept pace by paddling on their rafts. When Reed left, he left behind some of his people to guide them through the swamps. Jaime thought rather derisively of the crannogmen as a whole.
Tyrion was far less confident. "The king has the right of it," he said. "This land is rough and wild. It would be a nightmare to take from the mudmen. Wouldn't you agree, Ser Mandon?"
Mandon tipped his head, keeping his face expressionless.
"I don't see how they could stand up to a cavalry charge with bronze spearheads and leather shields," Arthas said. "And if you can't run them down on horse, then do it on foot. Steel is to bronze like Valyrian steel is to iron."
"You're thinking of it as a straightforward contest of arms," Tyrion said. "Real war? It's not so simple."
Arthas looked away. "War is never simple."
"In any case," Tyrion said, clearing his throat, "I don't think the crannogmen would ever fight in the open if war came to these lands. I've read that they've poisonous plants and snakes here."
"They'd poison their enemies?"
Tyrion nodded. "If they're smart about it, and I suppose they have to be if they've lasted this long with just bronze and wits against castle-forged steel. Bleed any host that comes with a thousand cuts, like the Dornish did to Aegon the Conqueror. If they ignore them and march past? They'll have a grand old time stealing supplies and ambushing reinforcements."
Leaving an enemy to your back was dangerous. In the early days of the war, the Scourge had been fond of infecting whole villages deep within Lordaeron's borders, and only triggering death after the paladins were long gone. They'd been kept running around circles for months—
"I see your point, Uncle," Arthas said.
With the crannogmen guides leading the way, the pace quickened as their carts avoided pitfalls and snags on the road, though the queen's wheelhouse was still a stone around their necks. It was simply too large to maneuver with any deftness, taking up the entire width of the road at times.
Arthas sighed in relief when the swamp turned into a wide, hilly plain at last.
"Winterfell shouldn't be far now surely," Arthas said.
"That can't be true. We've not seen a hint of snow yet," Tyrion said.
Arthas frowned. "It's the height of summer, and we've been riding for ages."
"It's always snowing in the north," Tyrion said. "Besides, Maester Yandel writes that the north is half as large as all the other kingdoms put together, and guarding the north from their north is the Wall. I mean to pay the black brothers a visit after our business in Winterfell is concluded."
"Considering celibacy at last?" Arthas asked.
Tyrion laughed. "And put all the whores out of business? I'm far too vital a patron, and not nearly cold enough to subject them to begging. No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world."
Arthas brought Tansy to a halt as he spotted a mound of earth and rocks off to the side of the road. The hair on his back tingled. "What is it?"
"We're in the barrowlands," Tyrion said. "One can only conclude its a barrow."
Arthas cast his gaze far and wide, noticing the long, low hummocks that relieved the flat plains. "This is a graveyard?" he asked, unable to keep all the dread from his voice.
"I'm in luck," Arthas said as he felt soft dirt beneath his boots. Frostmourne whispered such sweet spells in his ears. "These graves were dug recently. Arise in the name of the Lich King."
"Do the dead scare you?" Tyrion asked. "You should avoid old women then."
"How come?" Arthas asked.
"The elderly are rather fond of tall tales, and their favorite one is about the Long Night. No telling of that is complete without Bran the Builder, the Others, and wights." Tyrion smiled. "It's all grumpkins and snarks, nothing to be worried about."
A towering structure of ice in a freezing, northern land, stories of the undead… it was hard not to see the parallels. "At least there is no king of the Night's Watch," Arthas said, more to himself.
"Well, they used to if you believe the legends."
Arthas froze. "What?"
"They called him the Night's King," Tyrion said, bobbing his head. "It's a common enough tale. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it."
"Mother doesn't care much for such stories," Arthas said, biting his lip. "Tell me more, please?"
Tyrion scratched at his chin. "Well, the legends say he married a corpse queen, or the daughter of a Barrow King, more like. Imagine corpses walking and talking and fucking!"
Imagine corpses burning and killing and killing.
Arthas' lips set into a grim line. If there is a Frozen Throne, I must be sure. Why else did all the gods put me in this place, if not to make the right choice? "I think I need to see the Wall."
"Ah, there's that Lannister sense of adventure!" Tyrion said.
The sun was at its peak, and the wheelhouse came to one of its daily stops. Ser Mandon rode towards them. "The midday meal is ready, Prince Arthas. Your mother bids you to her side."
"Thank you, Mandon," Arthas said. "I'll be there shortly."
Mandon nodded to him, offered Tyrion a curter one, before waiting a few feet away.
"Not a very pleasant fellow, is he?" Tyrion said.
"He's nice enough to me," Arthas said, though why that was, Arthas didn't know.
"Mayhaps he thinks to rise high by earning your favor," Tyrion said.
"My favor?" Arthas asked, raising a brow at him. "Joffrey will be king, not I. I've no favors to give. Besides, he might as well try to get into Joffrey's good graces instead."
"Joffrey is more… difficult," Tyrion said. "You are the future king's brother, and far more amiable, I must say. I doubt he'll be the last man to try and rise high through you."
Mandon? It didn't seem like him… "Will you join us for the midday meal?" Arthas asked.
"I don't think your mother would like that very much," Tyrion said. "Go ahead. I'll see if Robert's cracked open a new barrel of Arbor gold." He grinned. "Best of luck convincing Cersei to let you come with me to the Wall."
"I'll find a way to make her see sense."
Tyrion snorted. "We must not be talking about the same person. I'd go over her head, and talk to King Robert instead."
"Father doesn't have much time for me," Arthas said. Or any of his children, truth be told. He spent twice as much time with his whores as he did them, and at meals he was often too drunk to speak or not drunk enough to stand Mother's barbed snipes.
Mother's wheelhouse was the triumph of wealth over good sense, and its lavish interior was an exercise in excess. It was filled with silk pillows, bolted down hardwood furniture, golden plates, cups, cutlery, and even a tapestry too big for most rooms of the Red Keep. Only House Lannister and the bottomless pit that was Casterly Rock could afford such an ostentatious, thoroughly impractical, display of wealth—and if a lesser house tried, they'd be seized by their debtors.
Mandon opened the door for Arthas, but did not step inside after him. "The queen specifically requested only your presence," he said, and shut the door rather louder than he should have.
His family was all there, save for Father. Father made his scorn for the wheelhouse well known to anyone with ears, and Arthas envied him for being able to say no to Mother. Uther would be apoplectic if he knew an initiate of the Order of the Silver Hand—nevermind a pupil of his—indulging in such luxury.
Arthas took his seat across Joffrey. The Hound, Joffrey's sworn shield, stood behind his brother, arms crossed. The slight to Mandon did not escape Arthas' notice.
"Enjoying the countryside?" Myrcella asked besides him. His nose was tickled by the sweet scent of rosewater.
"It's good land for riding," Arthas said. "At least, this section of the north is. Uncle Tyrion tells me the lands closer to the Wall are filled with hills and so much uneven ground that even Tansy would find it difficult to go quickly."
"The Imp would know all about it, of course," Mother said, sniffing. "He plans to visit the frozen pile of rocks, did you know?"
"I hoped to go with him," Arthas said.
She raised a brow at him. "To the Wall? Why on earth would you visit that place? There's nothing of worth seeing there."
"Have you ever been?" Arthas asked.
Mother rolled her eyes. "No, but I've never been to Lys either, and I know it's full of whores. The Night's Watch is made up of murderers, rapists, thieves, and other illborn smallfolk. Tyrion would fit right in among such dredges and wretches, but you? Your mere presence is wasted on their likes."
"Still, I'd like to go," Arthas said. I'd like to be sure.
"Put that silly thought out of your head," Mother said.
"But—"
Mother silenced him with a look. She would not be moved.
Perhaps it was time to try Uncle Tyrion's advice? Arthas thought.
"You really ought to give your horse a more respectable name. I mean Tansy? Really?" Joffrey said, wrinkling his nose. "He bears a prince, my younger brother, after all.""
"It's a nickname," Arthas said. "He's a fine horse besides. That's all that should matter."
"We ought to ride together on the morrow then," Joffrey said. "Show these northerners what real warhorses look like, not their shoddy local breed of destriers and coursers."
"I want to go too!" Tommen said, green eyes wide and earnest..
Joffrey snorted. "You can barely ride faster than a trotting pace without falling off. Stick to the wheelhouse."
"What's the harm in it?" Arthas asked. "Tommen needs practice if he's to learn."
"Fine," Joffrey said, rolling his eyes, "but if he slows us down, we're leaving him behind."
"Could I come as well?" Myrcella asked. "We could make a picnic out of it."
"You need to work on your stitches," Mother said, nursing a cup of wine. "Besides, riding is for men, Myrcella."
Sister sighed.
Mother was not being wholly fair—a lady could ride sidesaddle, and would often do so when they went falconing.
"The three of you riding together is an excellent idea however," Mother continued. "Ser Barristan and Jaime will be riding with Joffrey, so there'll be no need for Mandon to be besides you."
"He won't like that," Arthas said.
"He doesn't have to like it, just obey, and learn his place," Mother said. "That man is too ambitious by far, but not as subtle as he thinks he is. I can see how he yearns to become Lord Commander after Ser Barristan, when it should be Jaime's by right."
"It's the king's place to choose a Lord Commander, and Father—or Joffrey after him—may choose whoever they like," Arthas said.
Joffrey leaned forward. "It will be my choice, won't it? Unless Barristan drops dead soon that is. I'm surprised Father keeps that old man around to be honest."
"He's a knight without peer," Arthas said.
"When he was younger," Joffrey said. "Now, he is past his prime, and past being able to guard his king. We put horses out to pasture when they grow too old, it ought to be the same for men."
But to strip Ser Barristan of the white cloak? The thought seemed almost scandalous. "You will be king," Arthas said in lieu of an answer.
Joffrey beamed at him, as if taking his words for agreement.
—TheKingIsDead—
The royal party was stretched out across several miles of the kingsroad. The wheelhouse had yet to depart for the day due to a problem with the axle, and from past experience, Arthas knew it would be the work of many hours before they got it moving. Upon hearing the craftsman's pronouncement, Father declared he'd be waiting for them at the second village they came across, and left with half a hundred knights as his escort.
The princes' party was made up of the three sons of Robert Baratheon, their Kingsguard escorts, Joffrey's Hound, and another three dozen or so knights sandwiching them. Just ahead of Arthas was a knight on a chestnut stallion and whose surcoat was unfamiliar—three crowns on blue, with red and pink stripes beneath it?
"Did you know Lord Eddard has a daughter?" Joffrey asked. "Two of them, in fact, but Father keeps speaking of the older one… Sansa, that's her name. You'd think our father means to betroth me to her by how he talks of her beauty."
The Starks had never been to King's Landing as far as Arthas could recall, and this was the first time Father was visiting them at Winterfell. "He could hardly know for sure," Arthas said. "Even if they're good friends, he's never even met Lord Eddard's children." There were five of them, Arthas recalled Grandmaester Pycelle saying.
"Gods, could you imagine if she were ugly?" Joffrey said. "I should have to refuse Father's wishes."
Barristan frowned besides him.
"That's a terrible thing to say," Arthas said.
"It's only a jest," Joffrey said, smirking as he looked at Tyrek. "At least Sansa's only a year younger than us. Imagine if she were but one years old. Isn't that right, Wet Nurse?"
Tyrek scowled. "As you say, Your Grace."
Joffrey sniggered. "Imagine being married to a babe. You'll raise her, then bed her, is that it?"
"Tyrek had no choice in his betrothal, nor could he defy our grandfather," Arthas said. "Besides, Lady Ermesande Hayford is the last of her house. It secures our cousin a lordship."
"An inheritance you mean," Joffrey said. "Did our Great Uncle Tygett leave you nothing before he died, Tyrek? Is that why a Lannister has to go begging for scraps?"
Tyrek could say nothing. He was one of Father's two squires, but Father didn't care much for either him or Cousin Lancel, and speaking back to Joffrey would be just the excuse Father would use to send Tyrek back to Casterly Rock. Grandfather would be most displeased with that outcome, and Tyrek relied too much on his goodwill.
"Do you suppose," Joffrey continued, "that Grandfather would leave Casterly Rock to me when he dies?'
"It would go to Uncle Tyrion first by rights," Arthas said.
Joffrey snorted. "Are you blind? Did you see how Grandfather acted ignored him during our nameday feast? It's only a matter of time before he's disinherited."
"Even if that were the case, it's a rare thing to let claims merge," Arthas said.
"You're right, I suppose," Joffrey said. "I'd make you the next lord then. You'd be a fine Warden of the West, keeping watch over the Ironborn like Grandfather does for Father."
"And Tommen could be my knight," Arthas said with a hint of a smile. "Would you like that Tommen?"
Tommen bobbed his head eagerly, then looked thoughtful. "Could I bring Ser Pounce?"
"Of course," Arthas said. "I'll need his brave service to protect my keep's larders!"
"Ah, yes," Joffrey drawled, "Ser Tommen, the Rat Hunter. He'll go play with his kittens in the ruins of Summerhall, or maybe we'll wed him to Shireen so our half-stone cousin can have a half-brave groom. He'll make a fine knight indeed."
"Ser Santagar says I'm getting better!" Tommen said, pouting.
The portly knight in front of Arthas took another swig from a wineskin, his thick neck jiggling from the cantering pace they set.
Joffrey ignored him. "Still, I suppose if I let you inherit Casterly Rock, it'd be quite the windfall for Tyrek." He glanced at their reddening cousin. "Especially since you've not a hope of taking it for yourself. Is that why you hang around him all the time like some pup?"
Their cousin was technically in the line of succession for the Lordship of Casterly Rock, but after Tyrion and all of Cersei's children, there was still Ser Kevan, who had three sons and a daughter. It was hard to imagine what sort of tragedy need befall House Lannister for Tyrek to have the right.
"As you say, Your Grace," Tyrek said through gritted teeth.
Suddenly, Tansy neighed, veering sharply to avoid the knight in front of Arthas who'd fallen off his horse without warning. The whole party came to a halt. As another knight helped him up, his nose wrinkled. "Are you drunk, Dontos?"
"Drunk," Joffrey repeated. "You bloody fool! You might have harmed my royal brother with your drunken accident! If his horse was not so quick-footed, he might have fallen off his horse and broken his neck!"
It was an exaggeration, but Arthas appreciated Joffrey's concern. "I wasn't in any danger."
"You could have been," Joffrey said. "Ser Barristan, I want this man hanged for this!"
Barristan raised a brow at him. "For drinking, Your Grace?"
"For endangering the life of a prince," Joffrey said. "That is treason, is it not?"
"Indulging in a vice is most unseemly, especially if it affects a knight's duties, but a hanging hardly seems called for, Prince Joffrey," Barristan said.
Joffrey scowled. "Fine! Hold him down! Hound, I'll have that lout's hand as recompense."
The men made to move, but Barristan's voice cut through them. "You'll do no such thing. If judgement is to be had, then it will be King Robert's to hand out, not yours."
They stared each other down for so many breaths. Ser Barristan was a knight of great renown, and Joffrey was but a boy, yes, but he would also be king one day—a king Barristan would be pledged to obey in all things. It made the old man's action brave, for Joffrey's judgement was harsh, but not entirely undeserved in the eyes of men.
Yet, it was not right.
"Father will hear of this," Joffrey said, and urged his horse back into a cantering pace.
"I do not think Joffrey will like you for that, Ser Barristan," Arthas said.
"If the alternative was to watch as another man was hanged or flogged for some minor slight, then it will have been worth it," Barristan said. "I swore to myself I would not stand by so meekly again, as I had in the past."
"Father might still punish him," Arthas said.
Barristan smiled. "King Robert knows the need for mercy and clemency."
As the old knight rode ahead of him, white cloak flowing behind, Arthas imagined it turning silver for an instant. Silver like Uther's.
—TheKingIsDead—
Arthas staggered forward, his warhammer growing heavier in his hand with each passing second. He looked down to his sable gloves, nearly dyed red now.
A knight in white screamed his name, before driving his lance through a husband and wife locked in embrace. Armed footmen cut down swathes of unarmed men, burst into houses to the screams of dead men walking…
Not far from where he stood, a child with legs shattered by a warhammer—his warhammer—lay gutted with a dagger, and the mother too.
Arthas looked at his foot as something wet and warm gripped it. It was a hand coated in blood belonging to a guardsman of Stratholme. "My prince," he croaked out, "w-w-why?"
"It was the only way," he said. He'd made mistakes, Arthas would never deny that, but Stratholme… that had not been one of them. They would have all turned into the undead, and for a city as populated as Stratholme, that would have been the doom of all Lordaeron.
There was laughter behind him. "Was it? Was it really?"
Arthas turned around to see that damned demon. The dreadlord was white-eyed and unnaturally pale, with blood streaking down his mouth. He wiped away at the blood with his clawed hands, claws he'd seen cut through maile.
"I'm quite impressed, Prince Arthas." The dreadlord Mal'Ganis smirked, the bony extrusions attached to his back stretching, flexing the membrane of his bat-like wings.
"Your father ruled this land for seventy years, and you've ground it to dust in a matter of days," Uther's voice echoed in his ears.
"You'll be a king of corpses soon enough," Mal'Ganis continued.
He could feel the steel in his arms bending in his grip. This demon dared speak to Arthas after he'd ordered the Cult of the Damned to poison thousands of Lordaeron's people? Raised them from death just to massacre their families? Forced his hand at Stratholme?
"We're going to finish this right now, Mal'Ganis," Arthas spat out. "Just you and me."
"Brave words. Unfortunately for you, it won't end here. Your journey has just begun, young prince."
"I dearly hope," Uther said, hefting high his warhammer as he stared down a legion, dead and deadly led, "that there's a special place in hell waiting for you, Arthas."
He woke up with a start and noticed it was still dark out. It was always still dark out. Arthas reached for his warhammer that was never far away from his grasp, and the silver cloak always too far away.
As he stepped outside, Arthas couldn't tell whether it was late into the night or early into the morn, but there were men singing and drinking, huddled around the fires. A late summer snow had coated the ground with a thin layer of white while he'd slept. Grasping his warhammer tighter, he stepped away from the noise.
There were few enough opportunities to pray in a sept while travelling, and the north followed the old gods, he knew. There were no heart trees or weirwoods nearby that he could see, but there were plenty of rocks, so he made do piling seven smooth stones one on top of the other.
The faces of the boy and mother he had murdered in Stratholme would not stop staring at him. With a stick, he wrote out the name of his mother in a past life: Lianne.
"May Mother have mercy on me," Arthas whispered. For if his mother didn't, who else would? Lianne Menethil had passed well before the Third War, before he'd become a…
Arthas shook his head and stood. He settled into a familiar stance, thinking back to those long summer days in the courtyard of his father's castle. Then, he swung—overhead, backhand, sidestroke, switching from a one-handed grip to two, going faster and faster, hitting harder—
"Your grip's too tight."
Arthas jumped around.
Father was crouching over his pile of stones, fingering the word he'd written there. "Gods, Boy, what has Pycelle been filling your head with? Joffrey can't count past five, and you can't spell properly. It's spelled with a 'y'."
Arthas peered over his shoulder, smelling the heavy stench of liquor that wrapped itself around him. The snow had smudged the 'e', and it looked like an 'a' if you squinted…
Father sighed. "At least you're decent with a hammer."
"As you say, Your Grace."
Robert's bloodshot eyes found his. "Your Grace," he repeated like it was a curse on his tongue. "Why do you always call me that? Never father."
"Why do you always call me boy?" Arthas asked.
"Because your mother named you that to spite me!" Father said, drawing himself up to full height. His beard was a wild, thick and fierce thing, hiding his double chin. Despite his round belly and drunken state, Arthas did not doubt the Demon of the Trident could thrash him in a fight of fists or steel. "She'll never admit it, but listen to that name Arthas. Who does that remind you of?"
There was no Arthas in the legends of House Lannister, and the closest name he could think of was— "The Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne."
"Arthur Dayne, a fine bleeding knight. Boys in Dorne still look up to him, I'm told. They call him a great knight!" Father spat. "A great knight indeed! Wounding Ned, keeping Lyanna locked in that tower, from leaving her rapist…"
If the king judged him unworthy of knighthood, then who was Arthas to say otherwise? "What he did was wrong."
"You've some sense at least then," Father said, walking up to him. The smell of strongwine grew stronger. "Gods, you've gotten tall. You were such a small thing when you were born." He showed Arthas his palm. "Small enough for one hand, and always shivering. Pycelle thought you were dead at first, because you were so quiet and cold to the touch. What does that doddering fool know anyway? He can't even teach my sons their sums and letters."
"What were you doing out here?" Arthas asked, then after a moment added, "Father."
Robert smiled. "A father has the right to know what his son's up to. Imagine my surprise to see you out here in the dark, swinging a hammer. Ser Mandon told me of your progress, but I thought he was exaggerating. You practice a lot if what he says is true."
Arthas nodded. "I pray too."
"I've heard about that," Father said, then glanced at the fading word written in snow. "Do you pray for her?"
"Sometimes," Arthas said softly. "I pray she's happy, wherever she is." How could she, if she knew how I turned out? Perhaps it was a mercy she passed before then.
"I hope she is too." Father turned and walked away.
—TheKingIsDead—
His father was a giant, with a girth to match his height, but he showed surprising spryness vaulting off the back of his warhorse to envelop Lord Eddard in a bone-crushing hug.
"Ned!" Father laughed. "You have not changed at all."
"Your Grace, Winterfell is yours." The Lord Paramount of the North, Arthas knew, was a man in his mid-thirties, but his long face and dark eyes made him look solemn and old. The greying beard he kept closely-trimmed didn't help on that end either.
Arthas was already dismounted when the grooms came forward, and he handed Tansy's reins to one of them. The ramp of the wheelhouse made an audible squelch as it hit snow outside the gates of Winterfell. The damned thing was too large to fit through the gates, and the only way it was getting in was one piece at a time. It wasn't practical, of course, but if they did, Arthas would happily swing the axe.
At Father's gesture, Joffrey and Arthas moved to his side, leaving Ser Barristan and Uncle Jaime behind. "These are the twins," Father said. "Joffrey, the elder, and... Arthas."
Arthas looked up at him with wide eyes. It was always just the twins, whenever they were introduced, or he'd leave the names to their mother. He'd never…
"Lord Stark," Joffrey said, jabbing Arthas in the side with the sharp of his elbow.
"Lord Stark," Arthas repeated, bowing like Joffrey had done.
They were brought before Lady Catelyn next, whose auburn hair and blue eyes stood out among the northmen. It made her look all the more beautiful, though still not quite comparable to Mother.
Then came the children, dressed in furs and leathers. Like Arthas and his siblings, the Stark children, except for the younger daughter, took after Catelyn in their coloring. He clasped hands with Robb, who was tall and broadening through the shoulder. The prim and proper Sansa and wolfish Arya were like night and day standing beside each other as they offered the back of their hands in turn. Then there was Bran, a skinny boy constantly fidgeting, and the three year old Rickon whom Arthas patted on the head.
When the formalities finished, Father turned to Eddard. "Take me down to your crypt, Ned. I would pay my respects."
"We've been riding since dawn—" Mother protested, only to be silenced by a warning look.
Father and Eddard had taken ten paces before Father paused, turning around with something akin to guilt and remembrance in his eyes. "Arthas," he said again for the second time that day, "if you're going to pay your respects, do it properly. She was a woman, not a pile of stones."
His feet moved on its own, scurrying after in the shadow of his father's footsteps. The crypt's winding stone steps were narrow, and Eddard went first with the lantern, followed by Father. The two friends settled into an easy banter, and Arthas felt like a thief intruding on their moment.
Instead, he turned his attention to the long procession of granite pillars, two by two. The Starks of old sat on their stone thrones between the pillars and against the sepulchres that held their remains. Some, Arthas noted with curiosity, had iron longswords laid across their laps. They stopped at last before three tombs, and Eddard lifted the oil lantern, scattering the shadows.
Lyanna Stark was not a pile of stones, just the one stone sculpted and molded into her likeness.
Father knelt and bowed his head, and Arthas followed suit. He could feel the cold, disapproving eyes of the dead on him, watching and waiting.
"She was more beautiful than that," Father said after a silence, getting back on his feet. "Would that there were a pair of hands in the Seven Kingdoms who could capture the beauty of Lyanna."
"She was always too wild to sit still for a portrait," Eddard said.
Father reached out, fingers brushing gently against the rough stone, more gently than Arthas had ever seen him touch living flesh even. "I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her."
"You did."
"Only once," Father said bitterly. "In my dreams, I kill him every night. It still isn't enough."
He'd intruded long enough. Arthas opened his mouth. "Should I—"
"Stay," the king ordered. "I asked you here for more reasons than one." He turned to Eddard. "Jon's dead. I've never seen someone waste away so quickly."
"We've heard. Catelyn fears for her sister," Eddard said. "How does Lysa bear her grief?"
"Arthas was on his way to pray when he came across her leaving the Red Keep. He was the last to speak with her," Father said. "Tell Lord Eddard what you told me."
So Arthas did.
Lord Eddard listened to his tale in silence, and only asked his questions at the end. "You're certain of this? She saw you as a danger?"
Arthas nodded, before adding, "It could be nothing but grief… that does strange things to one's mind, clouds it. I do not want a war over something so petty." I do not want a war over me.
"You're wise for your age, but to threaten a prince is no small thing," Eddard said.
"She saw enemies where there were none," Father said, "or perhaps she saw more clearly than I do. Damn it, Ned! Damn that iron chair! I'm surrounded by flatterers and fools. Half of them don't care to tell me the truth, and the other half can't find it!" Father scowled. "I need someone in King's Landing I can trust, Ned. A man of honor, a friend, and I can think of no one better." He smiled. "Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King."
Eddard dropped to one knee. "Your Grace, I am not worthy of the honor."
"If I wanted to honor you, I'd leave you to freeze up here!" Father laughed and slapped his gut. "We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it's not too late to fix things. I have a son here, and you've a daughter. Arthas and Sansa will join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done."
Arthas' neck nearly snapped, turning as fast as it did. "What?" They'd seated him and Joffrey besides girls in the past to see if they might take a liking to any of them, but this was the first time his father had actually talked of marriage.
Father fixed him with a warning look. "Does the thought displease you?"
"No, of course not," Arthas said. "I will do as you will, Father."
"But?"
Arthas hesitated.
His sister looked at him with sad, round eyes. "I wish you'd have the chance to choose your wife and princess by heart." Then Calia turned and ran, tears in her eyes.
"It's just… I've not even spoken to her," Arthas said.
"Spoken to her?" Robert laughed. "She's pretty enough, isn't she? When I was your age, one look was all we got before we were betrothed. You ought to count yourself lucky."
"Sansa's fourteen," Eddard said, "and your son's just a year older if I recall."
"Old enough to be betrothed. Marriage, well, that can wait until they're older." Father smiled. "I'd betroth her to my Joff, but he's… well, Arthas is more like me, if you set aside his piety. He'll be good to her. Now stand up and say yes, curse you."
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Grace," Eddard said. "These honors are all so unexpected. May I have some time to consider? I need to tell my wife..."
"Yes, yes, of course, tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must." Father reached down, and brought Eddard to his feet. "Just don't keep me waiting too long. I am not the most patient of men."
Father seemed in a good mood. Did he dare risk it? "I had thought to visit the Wall with Uncle Tyrion before we returned south," Arthas said. "If I'm to be betrothed to Lady Sansa, mayhaps we should all go? Its importance to the north cannot be overstated."
"The Night's Watch is a shadow of what it once was," Eddard added. "You need to see it, Your Grace, speak to Lord Commander Mormont and my brother Benjen."
"Is that so?" Father asked. "I suppose it couldn't hurt, though I refuse to bring that damnable wheelhouse with me. Cersei can ride with us sidesaddle, or she can stay here."
Father reached for the lantern and headed back, leaving Arthas and Eddard to follow after him.
He could feel Lord Eddard glancing at him as their feet plodded through the dark. He was being judged, and Arthas did not like his odds. At last, Eddard said, "I've heard you like to pray?"
"Everyday, in the darkness before dawn," Arthas said. "Could you show me to Winterfell's heart tree one of these days?"
"I thought you followed the Faith of the Seven?" Eddard asked. "We have a sept here too. I had it built for my lady wife."
"Our vows are sworn before the old gods and the new," Arthas said. "I'd learn more of the north if I'm to wed Sansa one day."
Perhaps her gods will be kinder than mine.
