Chapter 4: North Rend

There was nothing to do but stand by Sansa's side as she hugged little Bran Stark tight. He had fallen some days ago while climbing a tower, and though Winterfell's balding Maester Luwin said the greatest danger had passed, Bran hadn't woken up to see the royal procession depart.

Light be merciful, he's so young, Arthas thought, his mind wandering to old memories. Jaina's brother—Derek Proudmoore—had been burned by dragons at sea, but at least he'd been a man grown and off at war. For a boy to be crippled so young...

Arthas had seen grown knights cry at the loss of their legs, and crippled Bran would never be a knight now. Even the king had remarked somberly on the tragedy when in his cups, noting to both Arthas and Joffrey that it was a cruelty to be kept alive in such a state, to be made to endure such life.

A broken boy, with broken dreams… and all Arthas could do was mourn for him.

But I can still try, can't I? Arthas thought. For his sake, for the Stark's sake, I can try.

He took a knee besides Sansa, squeezing Bran's hand and shutting his eyes to the world. He could hear rustling and steps, Lady Catelyn's perhaps—

Focus, he thought, chastising himself. Focus, for Bran.

Light, hear my words. Bran Stark is an innocent, a boy not even eight. He doesn't… he does not deserve this.

Arthas squeezed Bran's hand harder, grasping it like a lifeline.

I have made no appeal, I have not called on your power since my rebirth, but I call on you now. Heal him. Take my legs instead of his, take my life instead of his, just please, do not let him live this cruel life.

For a moment, he had half-imagined a spark of warmth flickered in his hand, but it was smothered into nothing so quickly, if it ever existed at all that is. He was not worthy.

Not yet.

But I will be, Arthas finished in the privacy of his own thoughts. "Be brave, Bran Stark," Arthas whispered to the comatose boy. He would have to be if, no, when he awoke.

He could offer no more.

Arthas opened his eyes and stood, keenly aware that Catelyn and Sansa's eyes were on him. "I apologize, my ladies. I'd thought to pray for Bran at least. I know it's a hollow gesture but... it seems the only thing I can do for him," Arthas said bitterly.

"It means more than you know," Catelyn said, pulling him into an awkward embrace.

"I'll keep him in my prayers at the Wall and back at King's Landing," Arthas vowed, and Sansa reached for his hand, offering him a small smile.

His betrothed gave Bran one last look. "We need to be off, Mother. King Robert will depart for the Wall soon, and the queen not long after for King's Landing."

That had been a subject of vitriol and negotiation between his parents. Father had taken a liking to the northern songs about giants, and Mother's stubborn refusal to visit the Wall only made Father want to go even more. It was a vicious cycle, and eventually they "amicably agreed" to part ways.

Father would ride north with Lord Eddard, his brother, his bastard, and Arthas, while Mother would move south in her wheelhouse with Joffrey, the other children, and the Stark sisters.

"Those girls are in sore need of culturing," Mother had said. "Besides, the Wall is no place for roses, not even delicate winter roses."

Eddard had agreed, speaking of someone named Danny Flint, and that was the end of it.

Mandon fell into step behind them when they left the room, but kept at a respectful distance to allow the pair to speak without being overheard.

As Sansa and he neared the door to the courtyard, she pulled him in for a quick embrace. Her hands were like coals against his skin, but not unpleasant, and her hair smelled of something sweet and crisp and innocent. "You'll take care of yourself?" she asked.

"My utmost," Arthas said, and it sounded less like a lie to his ears each time. He pulled away to look into her deep blue eyes. "It's you I worry about."

"I'm going south, where summer never ends and children speak of snow as a far off curiosity," she said wistfully, her eyes full of hope and wonder. "I'll be fine, I know it. Father has warned Arya and I of King's Landing, and what happens to Starks that enter heedless."

Her grandfather and uncle and aunt had all wilted under a southern spring sun not so long ago. "I'll come for you as soon as I can."

"I'll be with your mother, the queen, and under guard by the realm's finest knights," Sansa pointed out. "It's you who's about to face down the wildlings."

Wildings, and whatever things dark and darkly led were hidden under the cloak of perpetual winter beyond the Wall. "Well, I have good steel, and your father besides me," Arthas said.

"And I'll have Ser Barristan the Bold," she japed, her eyes twinkling. "I love my father dearly, but even he's not a match for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

"That's true enough," Arthas said. "I know of no finer knight."

Though many who were worse filled the Red Keep, like Boros the Belly, an oafish crownlander. Why Mother couldn't have found better knights in all the realm to protect his siblings was beyond him. Ser Arys Oakheart was decent enough, Arthas supposed, though Uncle Stannis was said to have protested his appointment.

They stood there, quietly for a while, before Mandon cleared his throat from behind them.

Sansa jumped, cheeks flushing red like her hair. She curtsied, mumbled something about packing her things, and ran off.

"Did you have to do that?" Arthas asked.

"I gave you long enough. When you wed, you can touch each other as long as you like," Mandon said, opening the door to outside. "'Til then, I've to make sure the queen doesn't have a reason to cut my balls off."

A light snow was falling, though the cold didn't bother Arthas.

His family and Uncle Jaime had come to the courtyard to see him off. Father's party would be heading out much earlier as, predictably enough, the wheelhouse needed more repairs.

"I'd like a moment with my son," Mother said, giving Mandon a pointed look. As he bowed his head and took a few steps away, she sighed in displeasure.

"I don't trust that man," she said, cupping his cheeks. "And I don't like this, leaving you to go north."

"My brother," she continued, "is proving to be a terrible influence on you, and I wish you to guard yourself against his words. And don't mistake Robert's war stories for current renown. He might be king, but the man's not half the warrior he was when House Lannister gave him his crown. But at least Sers Preston and Meryn are going. I know I can trust them to keep you safe."

Of course you could, Arthas thought. They're both your men, or Grandfather's.

Ser Preston Greenfield came from a house of landed knights sworn to Casterly Rock, and while Ser Meryn hailed from the stormlands ruled for centuries by House Baratheon, he openly wore a golden lion clasp to keep his heavy wool cloak in place. He made no secret of his preference for the queen and her family over Arthas' uncles.

"I'll be fine, Mother," Arthas said, to which she only deigned to roll her eyes. She pressed her soft, red lips against either side of his cheek and pulled away.

Myrcella and Tommen stepped forward next. His sister wrapped a crimson scarf around his neck, soft and snug. The fabric had gold lions and black stags as its pattern. "You always make Mother worry that you don't dress warmly enough, so I made this for you."

"Thank you," Arthas said as he nuzzled the woolen scarf, its coarseness scratching lightly. "It's very warm." Or as warm as he could feel.

Tommen tugged at his surcoat, lips quivering. "How long will you be away?"

"Not long, in all likelihood. I may well be back in King's Landing a month after you," Arthas said. The Starks had said it would take forty days, more or less, to reach Castle Black from Winterfell. They'd stay there for at least a week, whereas the royal party headed south would be bogged down by their lumbering wheelhouse. Arthas knelt to ruffle his brother's golden hair. "You'll have to be brave now, Tommen. Be brave for my sake. You'll keep practicing your sword work?"

Tommen sniffled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "Joffrey says I'll never be as good a knight as you."

"You don't have to be," Myrcella said. "Your best is all anyone could ask for. You'll keep practicing, Tommen? You promise right?"

Tommen bobbed his head. "Okay."

Myrcella smiled and turned to Arthas. "I know you don't mind the cold much, but the further north one goes the more dangerous the cold becomes, Arya Stark told us. Men have frozen over, standing watch atop the Wall. I'd hate it if you were to be found half-dead praying with your knees against the snow."

She tilted her head. "And I don't think Sansa would be all too pleased either. I believe the brooding prince never gets sick in those stories she reads."

"I'll keep my prayers strictly indoors then," Arthas said.

"Good," Myrcella said, then she pulled him into a hug. "Be safe."

Uncle Jaime came next, promising to protect his family, and Sansa, and wishing him safe travels.

Finally, Joffrey stepped forward. "You're my twin," he said, glancing at Mother, then Uncle Jaime. "You ought to come south with me."

"We've been over this before," Arthas said.

"I know, I know," Joffrey waved off with a frown. "It's important to you. I'd rather you were by my side… but Mother's always saying you need to be more ambitious, not pious." He sighed, running a hand through his golden hair and falling silent for a long while.

Arthas waited patiently as his twin tried to voice his feelings.

"It's just… I suppose I shouldn't stand in your way the first time you've really wanted to do anything," Joffrey said before hastily tacking on, "That didn't involve prayer or practice, that is. It's a miserable life, piety. Just look at dour Bonifer."

"He's a brave knight," Arthas said.

Joffrey snorted. "I'd order you to stay with me, but Myrcella would keep nagging me. 'What kind of brother would you be if you stood in his way'," he mimicked in a high-pitched voice.

"You'd still be my brother," Arthas said.

Joffrey let out a breath, then smirked. "Mayhaps it'll be good for you to go. Get all that broodiness out of you," he said. "Just know I'll be very cross if I have to rely on Tommen to protect me. He can hardly hold a sword."

Arthas mounted Tansy, and joined the royal party northward bound. "Finally," Mandon muttered as they departed from Winterfell, and his family.

TheKingIsDead—

The north seemed unending.

They'd departed Winterfell some days ago, riding out to men shouting, horses snorting, and the rattle of wagons, but thankfully without an abomination of a carriage groaning behind them. Mother's decision not to come with was a godsend—as he was wont to say in jest, Robert might actually have frozen his own balls off if they had to go as slowly as they had through the Neck.

The land further north was no marshland, but the stretch of kingsroad they were now on was no better than what had seen them through the Neck. It was a wild track, full of bumps and holes and uneven paving. In some places, the road would all but disappear beneath a thick blanket of snow, only to reappear miles later.

But slowly and surely, as one followed the stars, Benjen Stark reeled their half of the royal procession closer and closer towards the Wall.

A day after they crossed the Last River, they drank thick, black beer at Last Hearth, so strong it stung Arthas' eyes. The lords of the land, the Umbers, were ferocious men, large and loud like Robert Baratheon, and shared his fondness for drink and story. Father was mighty pleased to indulge his vices with men who had fought for him in rebellion against the Targaryens, and even a faint smile appeared on Eddard Stark's face as the trouble at Winterfell was put aside for the moment.

Another of the black brothers, Yoren, joined them after they departed once the snow let up. He was a stooped man, with a big black beard, but rugged as the old root of northern trees. He'd dragged with him a pair of ragged peasant boys from the Fingers.

"Rapers, Your Grace," Yoren answered when Arthas asked.

They'd opted to take the black instead of having their cocks chopped off, but unlike Jon, they would not be able to take that choice back during their training.

"Methinks Snow is reconsidering," Tyrion said, tilting his head. "The Night's Watch isn't made up of many men like his uncle, like it was in the days of old."

"It's a hard life," Mandon Moore remarked, "asking a man to brave this cold without even a woman to warm their bed."

"Ah, but they have whores near the Wall, same as anywhere else!" Tyrion said, grinning impishly. "Where men go, whores follow. It's the way of the world."

Arthas frowned. "They've sworn a vow of celibacy."

Mandon snorted, then tilted his head towards Ser Greenfield. "The Kingsguard swear vows as well, but it didn't stop Ser Preston from visiting a draper's wife in King's Landing. Many of us don't boast cloaks as white as Ser Barristan Selmy's. But even still, I'd put the calibre of the Kingsguard over the Night's Watch."

Arthas glanced at Yoren and his sullen companions. They had a putrid smell to them not unlike what one might come across in King's Landing, and their clothing was more tattered rags than anything else given how they'd shiver at even the breeze's softest kisses.

Or perhaps Arthas was biased? His father and uncle were both dressed in the warmest fineries, but they felt the cold when snow fell and the wind howled.

Tansy seemed to like it well enough… or maybe his steed just enjoyed the way the snow made his coat stand out all the more.

"It's not so bad here," Arthas said.

"You're unnatural," Tyrion said. "Even Lord Stark and the black brothers feel the cold, yet you ride like it's some summer day along the Blackwater."

"My son's got the look of a Lannister, but his tastes are of the north." Father's booming laugh cut through the whipping wind. "Looks like betrothing him to your daughter was the right choice, eh, Ned? He's quiet and he likes the cold! Certainly reminds me of someone."

Eddard smiled, tipping his head. "He's a fierce fighter, he's friends with a Stark, and he can drink to the small hours with one. Your son reminds me of someone else entirely."

"I suppose I was bound to get it right with one of them," Father said. "Four children with golden hair, but at least one of them takes after me in matters beyond looks." His sour face turned pleasant as he nodded back at Arthas and Tyrion. "Back in my day, you weren't a real man until you fucked a girl from each of the Seven Kingdoms and the riverlands. You ever make the eight, Imp?"

"I've lost count," Tyrion remarked. "But I suppose King's Landing makes it easier than elsewhere. Whores of every shade and stripe in that stinking heap you call a city."

Father laughed again, then turned back to Arthas. "You should get on that soon, before you find yourself trapped in marriage."

"I'm already betrothed, Father. I don't think that would be entirely appropriate."

Father looked at Ned. "See? There's a Stark in there, I tell you. Convert him to these old gods of yours and you wouldn't even be able to say he was born in the south at all!" Something dark crossed his face. "Nothing like Joffrey."

"Joffrey is your son," Eddard said.

"And your heir," Arthas added.

Father sighed at that, and urged his huge black destrier into a hard gallop. Where the king went, Arthas followed. He spotted Lord Eddard's lips moving, but the wind blew the words away so they rode in silence, keeping pace with the king. The Wall was looming tall over their heads by the time Father slowed, but they had miles to go still. The guards were well out of earshot.

Father was flushed, exhilarated. "Gods, it feels good to get out and ride the way a man was meant to ride!"

"Just imagine how slow we'd have gone with the wheelhouse," Arthas said.

Robert laughed. "That damnable wheelhouse! I must set that thing on fire before the royal procession departs next."

"I will gladly light the match," Eddard said. "You were saying about Joffrey?"

"My heir," father repeated, pained and frowning. "Mayhaps."

Arthas' breath hitched, and he looked to Eddard for direction.

"You can't possibly be considering removing him from the line of succession, Robert," Eddard said quietly. "Wars have been fought over less."

He misliked where this was going. "Please, you must not do this, Your Grace. I do not want the crown," Arthas said. "I do not want a war, not for my sake."

Father looked at him with pride. "You do not want a crown like I did not want a crown. It's why you ought to wear one. As for war," —he shrugged— "who would fight one for Joffrey's sake? Tywin doesn't like the little shit, and if one grandson replaces another, well, why should he care which one does?"

"It would still cause instability," Eddard said. "Do you not remember the histories? How Aegon the Unworthy tried to meddle with his own succession?"

Father laughed, darker and more sombre. "Joffrey is no Daeron the Good. If he's even ever finished a book I'd cut my right hand off."

"He still has the right," Eddard said. "There are many men who would flock to his cause for that alone."

"He has the right if I say he has the right," Father said. "I am the king, aren't I? Gods, but some days I feel I'm more a steward, twisted down by the ear to whoever wishes to be loudest. A king has his rights, same as any man! And any man can divide his inheritance among his children as he so pleases!"

His mind is beginning to set. I must say something. "The dragons are dead," Arthas said. "Kings only rule by the sufferance of the great lords of the realm, as the Mad King never learned."

Eddard and the king quieted, looking at him dangerously. "That," Father said, "is a treasonous statement, Arthas."

Perhaps this is my test? To reject a crown offered to me, and pay for it with my life? The gods do love their ironies. "If I must speak treason to make you see sense," Arthas said with a short bow in his saddle, "then I will gladly pay for it with my life."

"This is without precedent, Robert. You would need to call a Great Council to decide on this," Eddard said. "And even then, Joffrey would be a rallying cry for every lord with a grievance, every malcontent… war might not come in a year or two years, but it will come all the same if you crown a second son over the first. Such things are not done."

"Damn you all and your good sense." Father sighed. "Fine! We'll speak no more of this."

It sounded like a stay of execution.

TheKingIsDead—

The kingsroad ended at Castle Black.

"A strange name for it," Father said. "It's not a true castle if it only has walls to the north."

"It had walls once, long ago. But the Night's Watch grew lax in their duties, undertook unforgivable actions. The southern walls were pulled down then, as a reminder that the Night's Watch is not meant to be held against the south, only from the wildlings beyond the Wall," Eddard said. "I've heard rumors that a new King-beyond-the-Wall is gathering men under his banner. They mean to overrun the Watch and flood our lands."

"Wildlings," Father said derisively. "Nothing but a bunch of savages. Perhaps we ought to show them what men in real steel look like, and put some fear back into them. What say you, Ser Meryn?"

"A fine thought, Your Grace," the white cloak said. His shirt of enameled scales chased with gold and his tall helm with a golden sunburst crest glittered under the sun. "If the Night's Watch has kept them at bay all these years," —Meryn smirked— "they can't be much of a challenge."

"You shouldn't underestimate them, Robert," Eddard said.

Father slapped his belly. "I may have grown fat, Ned, but I can still swing a hammer! I'd like to see the wildling who thinks to best me in single combat!"

"Perhaps they'll send a giant after you, like in the song," Tyrion said.

"Nothing would please me more!" Father said. "Gods! A giant! That'll be the stuff of legends. You don't know how hard it is to get a decent sparring partner in the south. The Umbers came close when they hosted us, but even they don't quite have the strength!"

No one dares to strike a king, Arthas thought. No one but his enemies.

"We ought to speak with the Lord Commander first at least," Eddard said.

It was almost midday before the sun had deigned to show itself from beneath its cloudy sheets and bed of blue. The Wall glimmered in the sunlight, a colossal blue and crystalline cliff that nearly touched the sky. It went on mile after mile in either direction, an unbroken line across the northern horizon that went further than the eye could see.

"My uncle Benjen says it's the tallest structure ever built by man," Jon liked to say.

Tyrion would always add with a grin, "And beyond a doubt the most useless."

Both were silent now as they beheld it's towering form. Where the Icecrown Citadel declared to the world: "Here sits your king!", the Wall said: "Here sits the world's end."

But as impressive the Wall was, the black brothers were equally unimpressive. He'd hoped Yoren and his lot were the exception, not the rule, but like everything born in summer, hopes seemed to die in the cold and hoarfrost. The Night's Watch were men—sullen peasants, debtors, poachers, rapers, thieves, and bastards. If the Scourge truly was here, they'd have swept aside this rabble long ago.

Perhaps they're just waiting? Arthas thought. The Lich King could be patient, biding his time to hit Westeros when it was weakest. After all, what did it matter to the dead when they attacked? It's not like the corpses would rot in this cold place.

"Reconsidering your choice now, Jon Snow?" Tyrion called out.

"The Night's Watch is a noble calling!" Jon said, face dark with anger.

Tyrion glanced at the sorry lot that were supposed to defend the realms of men. "How noble."

Ghost got to his feet, growling. Jon flushed, fists coiling dangerously and stepping forward—

Arthas raised a hand. "Peace. Uncle, kindly stop provoking my friend."

"If you truly were his friend, you'd stop him from committing this foolishness," Tyrion said.

Arthas could not help but look at Jon for that. "Why do you want to join the Night's Watch? I've seen you fight. You'd make for a great knight." Far worthier of the title than some of the Kingsguard even.

Jon looked away. "I have no place in Winterfell."

"Then leave," Tyrion said. "You're the son of Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North. A bastard, aye, but a highborn bastard has opportunities… opportunities even the trueborn sons don't."

"Like what?" Jon asked.

"You could be a knight, or whatever passes for it in the north," Tyrion said. "Plenty of northern lords would love a sworn sword that has the ear of their future Lord Paramount. You're handsome enough that a marriage could be worked out somewhere, to a pretty widow or younger niece. I don't imagine your father's lowlier lords would care who your mother was—just who your father is."

"Or you could join me in the south," Arthas found himself saying. "This is no place for a good man to die." I've led too many of those to a cold and early grave already. Saving one would be small penance when it costs me nothing.

"Join you?" Jon asked, furrowing his brows.

"I'll never inherit the throne, but I doubt my father would leave me with nothing," Arthas said. Though I deserve nothing. "And royal blood still flows through me."

"Lannister blood too," Tyrion said, then frowned. "It would just be like my father to name you the heir to Casterly Rock over me." He shook the thought out of his misshapen head. "Whatever the case, you have options. Think things through before you make a mistake."

"You'll be married to Sansa," Jon said. "She's… I wouldn't want to impose."

Arthas blinked. "You're her brother."

"Half-brother."

"You don't choose family," Arthas retorted, to which Jon did not respond.

TheKingIsDead—

They spent all of two days at Castle Black before continuing further north. Three white knights led a half a hundred out the gates, the flowered chivalry of three kingdoms. The crowned stag fluttered above them, as if daring any of the wildlings to face them. A contingent of the black brothers joined them too, led by their Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont, who even brought out his Valyrian longsword at Lord Eddard's advice.

It was a show of force for the wildlings after all, and what a fine show they put on with only the quiet woods and falling snow to watch them strut through the freezing northern countryside.

The Starks were all back at Castle Black with Uncle Tyrion, Tyrek and the rest of their party—a hundred men to bolster the Night's Watch while this great ranging was underway.

"It'd be a damn shame to lose the castle after we whip these wildings," Father said as they rode into the haunted forest. "Wouldn't make for a very good song, that."

"It would make for a good laugh at least," Arthas said.

Father laughed, and it was a warm, booming one that jostled his crown. It was a golden thing, shaped like a herd of stag galloping and black diamonds were used for their eyes. "Aye, that it would." He took a swig from his wineskin. "You bested Ned's son in a spar."

"It was nothing really," Arthas said.

"It's not nothing," Father said. "I've taken the chance to watch Robb Stark fight, and he's skilled for a boy his age. You're two years younger than him."

"It was luck."

Father snorted. "Luck. The bloody insolence. Do you think you can lie to your own father? Do you think I've not made inquiries?"

Arthas bowed his head slightly.

"You beat all the other squires too, I'm told, and even some of the knights. That," Father said, "is not luck."

"I've practiced some." A mist was starting to fall on them.

"You practice every day," Father said. "After dawn rises and until dusk comes, without fail, unless your harridan of a mother pries you away. Ser Mandon," —he inclined his head towards the Kingsguard— "tells me you're more than decent. He called you a prodigy, better than me when I was your age."

"I've not beaten Ser Mandon yet," Arthas said.

"You just turned fifteen," Father said. "Not even Barristan the Bold was beating the Kingsguard at your age. Now, I know we've given some bloody useless men the white cloak, but Ser Mandon is not one of them."

"Didn't Lord Arryn suggest him?" Arthas asked.

Father snorted. "Jon was never fond of Mandon Moore. He fought for the Targaryens early in the rebellion, but I broke his sword at Gulltown and took him prisoner. He turned his cloak back to the Arryns, and sold out a few old friends. Fought well for Jon afterwards, but that still left him with enemies on both sides. A swordsman like that, with no friends, no real future? It's why he joined the Kingsguard, and why I took him on. The white cloak protects him and in turn he protects us. A sharp sword kept pointed at our enemies rather than at our throats."

Unless the sword stabs you in the back. Arthas nodded.

"That's a lesson you'll learn when you are king," Father said.

"Joffrey will be king," Arthas said. "I'll be a knight."

"A king can be a knight," Father said. "When we return to King's Landing, we ought to spar with warhammers."

He cannot still be on this? At least Lord Eddard will make him see reason… Arthas put his father's words away, and raised a brow at him. "If you think you can keep up."

"Ha! You should ask yourself that," Father said. "I might've put on some weight, but I'm still dangerous with a hammer. Ser Mandon!"

"Yes, Your Grace?" Mandon asked, riding forward.

"You were at the Battle of the Trident, were you not? On the left flank, facing the Dornish?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Mandon said.

Father nodded. "Tell the brat why I'm called the Demon of the Trident."

"Because you killed so many men, the waters of the Red Fork finally lived up to its name," Mandon said. "Where Robert Baratheon passed, only the dead were left in his wake. Not even Rhaegar Targaryen could resist him at the Ruby Ford."

"That's enough. Thank you, Ser Mandon," Father said, waving the Kingsguard away. "See? I reckon I've some tricks to show you yet."

"That was years ago," Arthas said, grinning ear to ear. "I'll have to see for myself, won't I?"

Father huffed good-naturedly. "You're young and eager, I'll give you that, but be careful about old knights. You don't live long unless you're bloody good at what we do."

Arthas nodded.

Father sighed, and tossed aside his empty wineskin. "I've not been the best of fathers, I know," he said with surprising sobriety.

"You're the king," Arthas said.

"Aye, and I should have known better than to leave you all to be raised by Cersei. Still, you turned out well so she can't have been doing everything wrong." Father paused. "What I'm trying to say is… I'm proud of the man you're becoming, Arthas. I couldn't ask for a better son."

"My son, the day you were born, the very forests whispered the name..."

The back of his throat felt sticky, like a deep coat of honey was coating it, and the world seemed to grow blurrier. I'm crying, Arthas realized as he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. "Thank you," Arthas choked out.

The wind blew, but it felt crisper, thinner, warmer somehow.

"...Arthas..."

"Your Grace!" Mandon said, riding close again.

"What is it, Mandon," Father asked, with a hint of irritation. "I'm speaking with my son."

"It's too quiet," Mandon said in a low voice. "The mist is too thick to see through, but I've spotted shadows skirting between the trees. I do not like the look of this."

"...Arthas Menethil..."

Father paused,turning his head to look all around them. As Mandon had said, it was deathly quiet save for the restless hooves on snow and shivering, clinking chainmail. Not even the men were speaking, aware they'd stumbled into something not quite right.

The mist was growing heavier.

The Mormont joined them. "Allow my men to scout ahead, Your Grace. We know these woods well."

"Do so," Father said.

Jeor whistled, and three of his black brothers dismounted to go forward on foot. They walked through the mist. Their bodies were shrouded from sight, and then even the sounds of their steps were hidden. Minutes passed and they did not return.

Jeor called out their names, but no response was forthcoming.

"Damn this," Mandon cursed, drawing his sword. "To arms! To arms!"

Swords were released from their scabbards. Arthas and Robert pulled out their warhammers. Archers of the Night's Watch stringed their bows.

Then a black brother returned, waving for them to come forward. A sigh of relief swept through the party. Jeor moved to receive the man's report—

—then the man was gone, hiding within the mists again. The Lord Commander was left with a dagger sticking out his throat, a pool of warm blood quickly filling in the snow.

"After that man!" Father screamed and half a dozen knights led by Ser Meryn rode to see his will done.

Mandon and some of the black brothers were dragging Jeor's body back to them. Mandon pressed two fingers to his neck, then cursed softly. "He's dead."

"Lancel, grab his sword," Father ordered. "We ought to return it to his house at least."

Valyrian swords were priceless heirlooms not even all the Lannister gold could buy.

"...Arthas Menethil..." His ears perked. Those voices were not his thoughts. The woods were calling to him.

He tightened his grip around his warhammer. Light, give me strength.

It was Ser Meryn who returned—or his body at least. The Meryn Trant Arthas knew did not have unblinking, bright blue eyes like twin stars.

"Ser Meryn?" Father called out.

Meryn did not reply, shuffling forward with a bloodied sword in hand. He no longer wore his tall helm with the golden sunburst crest, letting the wind comb his brown hair. Behind him stepped out something tall and gaunt and vaguely humanoid. Its flesh was pale as milk and eyes burning like ice. The being was strangely elegant and beautiful, like a dark god had breathed life into ice… and it was oh so very dangerous.

It was inhuman—Other.

Ser Preston Greenfield was the first to try and check the Other's advance. "In the name of King Robert, halt!"

It opened its mouth, and they heard only noise, akin to the cracking of ice on a winter lake. It surged forward like a breaking dam—

—and Ser Preston was dead.

"What the hell is that?" one of the men asked, shivering.

Not from the cold, Arthas relealized. From fear.

"That," Father's voice filled the clearing, "is what I'm going to kill!"

A ragged cheer came from the men that you'd think they'd managed to light a fire after weeks of the cold. As Father dismounted and passed Ser Mandon, he growled out low, "Keep my son safe, Moore."

Father's footsteps left deep gouges in the snow, and the Other went lightly, as if gliding by the way it left no marks. Father's armor was steel; the Other wore something delicate, shifting in color with each step. Father's warhammer was a fearsome thing to behold, all spiked and edged and killing, but the Other's sword was crystal thin and looked like it might cut a man who looked at it too long.

It shouldn't have been possible for the thin wisp of a sword to stand up to the blow behind Robert's steel warhammer, but it did with a high-pitched scream. It was nothing like metal on metal—more like an animal in pain. Father's hammer came away from the first exchange covered in frost and shivering.

Again came another blow, and the Other parried it like nothing. The steel wept and wept with each exchange, but Father refused to let up. Overhead, parry, backhand—the swings went fast and faster still. Each blow left the hammer shrieking louder, louder, louder—

—then the hammerhead cracked, and shattered, falling into pieces around Father.

Arthas' throat seemed to choke him.

The Other laughed sharply, sounding like the cracking of an icicle. Robert took a step back, tossing the warhammer's shaft aside and stretching out his hands backwards to receive a new weapon. The creature only laughed, again the crackling ice sounding across the clearing, while Robert reddened in anger.

"SWORD!" Father ordered, and Lancel burst forward, conditioned over the years to obey. Father drew the sword from the sheath Lancel held out—Ser Jeor's Valyrian sword—Longclaw. The laughter stopped, as if the Other sensed a threat to its being.

"Laugh at me will you?" Father asked, holding the longsword in a two-handed grip. "Do you know who I am, you frostbitten whoreson!"

The slash came even faster—faster than Robert Baratheon had any right to be, but Valyrian steel was weightless and impossibly sharp. The Other's sword barely came up in time to block it, but the sharp screeching like a needle's point did not come from Father's weapon this time.

No, it came from the Other's.

"They call me the Demon of the Trident," Father howled, stepping and striking, striking and stepping, pushing the Other back. "I am the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men!"

The Other's blade struck out like a coiled viper. It poked and prodded, but never pierced Father's guard no matter what angle it came from. Longclaw was waiting, always, and in Robert Baratheon's hand it was deadlier than any winter storm.

"I am Lord of the Seven Kingdoms," Father snarled, bringing his sword down and causing their swords to lock. He kicked out and sent the Other sprawling into the ice. "I am the Protector of the Realm."

Father spat to the side, and walked towards it. "But you will know me as stormlord and stormking." Longclaw came down again— "Know that I am Robert," —and again— "of the House Baratheon." The ice sword shattered. "Know that ours is the fury!"

Longclaw cleaved the Other's face in two, drawing out pale blue blood and scattering milkglass bones onto the snow.

There was a pained shrieking, and Trant threw himself at Father. Three black brothers and the six missing knights rushed out of the mists in front of them too, all screaming as they flung themselves forward, but their attempts were clumsy. Longclaw was a whirlwind of death in Father's hands.

Then it was over, like it always was during a battle, with Robert Baratheon surrounded by the corpses of lesser men.

"That was easy," Father said, wiping off the black and blue blood from Longclaw before walking back towards them. The mist was beginning to clear up some.

"Your Grace," Lancel said, eyes shifting around uneasily.

Father turned around, and cursed. The thick mist had parted like a curtain, pushed away inch by inch from the ground. It rolled off the trees, twigs, and terrors of the night; off of a dozen crystal swords made of winter tears, and hundreds of starry, wildling eyes boring into them.

They were surrounded.

Father sighed, then took off his crown, and handed it to Arthas. "This is yours now, boy. Guard it well. Ser Mandon, you are to bring him back to the Wall," he said grimly.

The Valesman knight nodded silently at that, his eyes lingering on the crown, then Arthas.

"Father—" Arthas was cut off by Mandon's arm wrapping around his chest, and bringing him onto Mandon's mount. Tansy neighed angrily, trying to bite at the white cloak for his insolence, following not far behind. They were riding away, away from the killing, away from the dead, away from the Others. He could not tear his eyes away from behind him.

Robert roared, Valyrian steel in hand and death on his lips. "For Westeros!" And all his knights answered him.

Men all around them were running, dying. He saw Lancel's face petrified in a look of horror, a mob of wights swarming his body and tearing it asunder. Yet, somehow Mandon punched through where everyone else failed, as if the wights knew to ignore him.

As Arthas watched Robert Baratheon face down three of the Others alone, Father's crown felt heavy in his hands.