Chapter 5: Prince and Prophet
"I could have saved them."
Arthas kept repeating that phrase through miles of deep snows and twisting white branches, a mantra billowing into the northern winds even as the massacre faded into the distance behind them. North of the Wall, the trees had faces more often than not, and they judged him a coward.
"I could have saved all of them."
Beneath him, Tansy neighed, the trusty steed shaking his head and drawing Arthas from his reverie. Ser Mandon Moore rode to his side from behind, having held back as the two fled the battle.
"You couldn't have done anything," the Valesman blandly said. "You saw how many wildlings were out there. Not even King Robert's bravery could not account for such numbers."
"Wildlings?" Arthas narrowed his eyes. "Those weren't wildlings."
"They certainly looked like them to me," Mandon said, his eyes furrowing slightly, as if to feign confusion, before thinning in warning, "and if you know what's good for you, that's what you'll tell the Lord Stark as well."
"You would lie?" Arthas asked. Crows flew above them, nesting on branches, watching and judging. "What for?"
Moore snorted. "You tell anyone you saw White Walkers or that they killed King Robert, and they'll think you're mad at best. If you're lucky, they won't lock you up in a room for the rest of your life. And somehow, I don't think you're looking for a gilded cage after what just happened. Or am I wrong?"
Arthas hands turned to fists. "When they see the corpses—"
"Corpses!" Mandon mocked. "Corpses! You think they'll leave corpses! We saw dead men standing there with weapons in hand. The only way a scout will find a corpse is if the corpse wants to be found, to collect more corpses. They've been myth and legends all this time, and you somehow suppose they managed that by leaving evidence?"
"Someone will believe us, surely," Arthas said. "Lord Stark perhaps. The First Men of the North hold those old legends and myths truer than southrons."
"Tell them the nightmares that live in stories are real? Tell them the dead have come back to life?" Mandon asked rhetorically. "He'd think you mad, he'd think the both of us mad, and that's the dark truth of it."
Tansy neighed, pushing back against Arthas's tight reigns.
Steady now.
—Arthas breathed forcing his fists to unclench before he choked his poor horse. "What of the realm?"
"What of it?" Mandon asked, cold as the blowing wind, cold as the ice beneath them.
"We have to be ready," Arthas hissed. "Those things will come for us sooner or later!"
"Oh?" Mandon asked. "So sure are you? You've seen some prophecy or script, telling you how this goes? Those things have stayed north of the Wall for countless centuries, all the while men have killed and ravaged their own south of it. Even north of the Wall, the wildlings have fucked and killed each other since times forgotten. What's changed for them now?"
"In the stories, they come south," Arthas said.
"In the stories, knights are chivalrous and kings just," Moore spat. "That crown you carry is proof enough of otherwise. Stories… no I wouldn't trust the stories for anything. And as for coming south… that mountain of ice your friend Snow boasted of is still there. It's kept the peace this long, clearly, somehow. It'll continue to do so."
Arthas stared at him, mouth agape. "So what? You choose willful ignorance? This is a problem we cannot just ignore."
"This is someone else's problem as far as I'm concerned," Mandon said, urging his shivering steed ahead of Arthas. "Once we're in King's Landing, those things will have to go through half the realm to reach us. If they even come south that is."
"And what of your Kingsguard vows?" Arthas asked. "We have to avenge my father!"
Moore brought his horse to a halt, and stared at him for a long while. "You want revenge?"
"They killed my father! Of course, I want revenge," Arthas said, gritting his teeth.
"Then we need to unite the realm under the necessary leadership," Mandon said, a spark of life showing in his normally dead eyes. "The right king. That's you. Take the crown, like your father commanded you to do. Betrothed as you are to Lord Stark's daughter, you could rally the Arryns and the Tullys. Even the stormlanders wouldn't mind you as their king, I think. Then—"
"No," Arthas said. "Joffrey is king now. He is the rightful king, and I will not risk civil war to usurp the throne from my own brother, not when the Seven Kingdoms face a threat like this. We need to be a united front."
"You think he'd believe you?" Mandon asked.
"I'm certain of it," Arthas said. "I'm his brother, closer to him than any other. Our father was murdered by them, and Joffrey loved him dearly. By his will, there will be a reckoning."
"Prince Joffrey," Mandon said with a snort, "is a selfish cunt who likes to cut open little cats rather than practice with weapons in the yards. A loathsome illiterate, who gives more thought to slighting Tommen than serving the realm. Forgive me if I don't think he'd care much for his dead father, when he's gained all the freedom and power he could crave."
Arthas' shoulders slumped at that, unable to deny the kernel of truth in the knight's venom. He could not… he could not deny the words Mandon spoke, but to reduce the sum of his twin by some ill actions? Joffrey was but two and ten…
"No one else knows about this threat," Mandon continued, "and no one else will care. Not your grandfather, or any of your uncles. No one but you. You want revenge? It has to be you who leads, to grasp for it and make it a reality."
Who else will do what needs to be done? His mind whispered to him. Who else knows the meaning of sacrifice the way you know it? You've lived through this before…
Could he do it? Seize the throne?
Unite the realm in time to throw back this threat?
As a boy king of no renown, Joffrey would inspire little confidence in the lords of the realm. They would not march their men away from the harvests just to fight in the cold north, not without irrefutable proof. And even if it could be proven, would men face untold terrors for a king that could not fight from the front?
Would your men have gone to Northrend if not for you?
Westeros was not like Lordaeron where a king's word was absolute. The great lords here were pricklier, more prone to defiance and rebellion… it would have been unthinkable for the Lordaeron's nobility to deny King Terenas anything, even if he'd ordered them all to abandon their ancient dwellings in the face of the Scourge; to travel west for sanctuary.
No, Arthas answered in the privacy of his own mind. There would be rebellion, like Lord Stark had said. His reign, however great, would never be peaceful if he took the throne through force, not unless he murdered Joffrey to do it.
All so a scrap of iron could grace his head?
To be kinslayer and kingslayer in this life and the last... have I learned nothing? Last he'd worn a crown, he'd not been the salvation of his people.
He'd been their doom.
Arthas crossed his arms. "Joffrey is the king. He is my king, and yours, Mandon. I will not be moved."
To that, Mandon only shrugged. He urged his horse on, riding forward and away from the Haunted Forest.
After a moment, Arthas followed him.
—TheKingIsDead—
They'd set out early that morning with over half a hundred knights and a king. They returned at sunset with only a knight and a boy, heralded by a single, bitter blast from the sentry's horn. They crossed three gates in all—wrought of iron and oak, with murder holes above them and funnels for boiling oils. The tunnel they guarded was long, twisting and narrow so that even if the gates were all opened, a charging mass of men would be slowed down at each turn.
Lord Eddard's face was grim and worried when he saw them alone. "Where is King Robert and the rest of the royal party? Are they far behind? I must speak with him on urgent news from Winterfell." His gaze shifted from Arthas to Mandon and back again, even as his hand rested heavily on the pommel of Ice.
"Wildlings and treachery," Moore spat out. "They ambushed us in the haunted forest and there were thousands of them. These blind crows of yours led us right into their trap, then disappeared just before we were attacked. It was planned, had to be. One of the Night's Watch lured the Lord Commander out of rank to stab him, then fled into the mist."
Besides Lord Stark was his scowling brother, Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night's Watch. "You expect us to believe one of ours was a turncoat?"
Arthas' shoulders dropped. Would they believe him if he spoke up? Was Mandon right? Arthas was a boy of fifteen who'd just lost his father, and Moore was a man grown and a Kingsguard. What was the likelier truth: that a white knight was telling it true, or that the myths of old were no longer myths?
"Believe what you want," Moore said, silencing him with a look, "but I was there, and you weren't. As far as I can tell, we're the only ones to have made it out alive."
"Are you certain?" Eddard asked, shivering slightly in place. A crowd was gathering now, and Arthas could spot his uncle waddling forward and Jon Snow's pale face. "Robert is…"
"The king is dead," Moore said.
He could remain silent no longer. What was his damned pride worth with humanity on the line? He had to try. "It wasn't the wildlings," Arthas forced out. "It was the White Walkers."
A silence to that declaration smothered all of Castle Black. Knights from the south and men of the Night's Watch only stared at him, confusion clear as day on their faces. He could hear them murmuring.
A heavy hand came down on his shoulder. "The prince," Moore said, "has not taken well to King Robert's passing."
Eddard's grey eyes were deep and ponderous, but the doubt in them was evident. Arthas spotted a black brother further away hiding his laugh behind a cough. Even his uncle Tyrion was giving him a worried look, one that spoke volumes as to his sanity, not his warning.
"That's understandable," Eddard said, nodding. "If Robert is still out there, we must prepare to rescue him. We've fifty knights from his royal party still here and as many mounted squires. I will call for my banners as well. In a few days, Lord Karstark and Umber can be here with half a thousand men."
"With the Lord Commander dead, an election will have to be called," Benjen Stark said, grimacing. "And whatever Karstark and Umber will send will be sorely needed given we've just lost half a hundred men out there. The Night's Watch thins."
"An election will wait until more pressing matters have been resolved," Eddard said, before raising his voice to the crowd around them. "As Warden of the North, I name First Ranger Benjen Stark as acting Lord Commander until the crisis is past and the king is recovered." He turned to his brother. "Benjen, I will need your best rangers and trackers. Find the king, if you can, or track down the host which has him."
"Done," Benjen said.
"You ride to your deaths!" Arthas said, desperation clear as his voice broke. "The Seven Kingdoms are in peril!"
"There will be more time for us to speak later," Eddard said, turning away. "Ser Mandon, please escort Prince Arthas to the King's Tower."
"Enough of this! Guards, remove this madman!"
Is this what Medivh felt like all those years ago? Arthas thought. Laughed at; scorned for a warning unheeded, and it led us all to our doom. Even he did not speak madness twice to deaf ears.
Moore nodded, all but dragging him to the tall round tower overlooking the gate. It's door was oak studded with iron and guarded by a pair of stormland squires whose knights were now wights. Despite the name, Father had been the first king to visit in a hundred years.
Now it housed only an imposter.
—TheKingIsDead—
A soft rapping sounded against his chamber door.
"Your Grace, Maester Aemon is here to examine you for injuries," Tyrek's muffled voice said from behind the heavy oak door.
"I'm fine."
"I'm sure, but it would put your uncle and Lord Stark at ease if you submitted for examination." Then after a long while of silence, Tyrek added, "It would help me sleep better too, cousin."
Arthas sighed. "Fine, show him in."
The man who came in was not just old. He was entirely bald, and his wrinkled, shrunken skin spoke of the decades they'd endured. Around his thin, fleshless neck was a maester's chain that tinkled with each hobbling motion. Arthas spotted links of gold, iron, lead, silver, tin and countless more. Supporting Aemon was a blackthorn cane in one hand, and a younger man in the other.
"You're blind," Arthas said, taking note of his clouded, milky eyes.
"A most astute observation, Your Grace. Thankfully I have others to see for me these days," Aemon said, voice thin and rasping.
He shares the name of the Dragonknight, yet, this man is no warrior. "You bear a Targaryen name."
"A Valyrian name, if one wishes to quibble," Aemon said as the steward grabbed a stool for him to sit on. "But yes, often a Targaryen one."
"Are you?" Arthas asked.
"Why would they give me such a name otherwise?" Aemon asked. "Chett, check for frostbite and be thorough. I don't want another situation like poor Garett."
Chett's ears turned red. "Yes, Maester Aemon. Your Grace, I'll need you to strip down."
Arthas frowned, but acceded, beginning with his doublet. "I thought all the Targaryens were gone from Westeros."
"You were mistaken," Aemon said.
"Then which Aemon are you?" Arthas asked. "The Dragonknight is dead, and I've not heard of any Aemon after him."
"Then your maester shows his failings clearly, or perhaps his politics," Aemon said. "I am the third son of King Maekar Targaryen, by his wife, Dyannna Dayne. As you might expect, I was named for the Dragonknight."
"And you've been here? All this time? Since before the Rebellion, I mean?" Arthas finished stripping.
Chett inspected each inch of him, looking for frostbite or some unnoticed wound perhaps. Shock could make a man forget pain until it was too late.
"I have been here serving all this time," Aemon said.
"You don't seem very happy serving."
"Shall I be glad to save the life of the Usurper's son, when he murdered my great great nephew Rhaegar?" His white eyes watered. "Shall I be glad that Aegon and Rhaenys are now dead, or to see the line of Robert Baratheon seated on the throne? Aegon was just a baby, and Rhaenys a slip of a girl when your brutish lion of a grandfather ordered her to be stabbed half a hundred times." He closed his eyes, and seemed to see more that way. "I serve all the same, but do not ask me to serve happily."
Arthas frowned. "You're a brave old man, to be speaking words that would see any other killed."
"Yes," Aemon said, "I am old. Very, very old. At this point, death would be a welcome reprieve. I might even chastise the poor fellow for being so tardy."
"Why didn't you do anything? When you heard that—"
"What could I have done when dark wings brought darker words north? I was already old then, and frail too. I was helpless and it grieved me."
Arthas glanced at the shut door, then leaned in close. "There are men who want to make me a king."
"Are you not the second son?"
"I am," Arthas said.
"How curious," Aemon said. "I'm sure the thought pleases you greatly, like it did your father."
Arthas' breath turned into a freezing, burning thing. "Do not speak ill of him. He is—" He breathed and the maester shuddered. "No, the thought does not please me at all."
"Oh?" Aemon said. "Then perhaps we are more alike than I thought."
"You … you were offered the throne once? A third son?" Arthas asked.
"Your maester truly is dreadful, isn't he?"
"Is that a yes?
"Oh, yes" the old maester said. "In a Great Council of all the great lords of the, in fact. But I turned such men away, denounced them all and swore vows to that effect. To make sure others could never seek me out to supplant my kin, I joined the Night's Watch."
"Perhaps I should join as well," Arthas mused. Here at least he might find redemption. Here, he would be at the frontlines of the only war that mattered.
"I pray you do not." Aemon said, before breaking into a fit of cough. "Chett, it feels drafty. Could you kindly close the windows?"
"They're all shut, Maester Aemon. I had one of the builders see to them a week ago, when the raven first came from Last Hearth about the King and his men"
He frowned. "Strange."
Arthas' eyes narrowed. "You pray I do not? I've seen your brothers in the training yard, and I could best them all in a fight."
"I am certain you are as skilled as your father was," Aemon said. "But few have the character or heart to make the vows and speak the words I did. Every man who has done so has been tested. Myself, the gods tested thrice; once when I was a boy, once in the fullness of my manhood, and once when I had grown old. They will test you as well, as surely as day turns to night." Aemon paused. " Could you keep your vows, young prince? Forgive me if I think you would fail that test, and in doing so tarnish the sacred oath of this brotherhood."
"You do not know me."
"I know you are Robert Baratheon's son and that is all I need to know. Men like him do not hold firm to morals or wills. They are conquerors until they are conquered, and so do not afford themselves the wisdom of compromise.."
"You're wrong."
Aemon's eyes that saw nothing seemed to see right through him. "Am I? I suppose we shall see."
—TheKingIsDead—
Ghost bared his fangs in a silent snarl at Arthas as soon as he stepped into Castle Black's courtyard, where green boys and feeble men whacked each other with sticks under the watchful eye of a slim and sinewy man.
"Better keep that beast of yours on a tight leash, Snow," the man said, voice cracking like a whip. "We are in the presence of a King. Mayhaps he'll decorate the Traitor's Walk with its head if it keeps showing him such disrespect."
"Ghost! Behave," Jon chided quietly, and the direwolf's head dropped beneath his paws.
"I do not care to harm animals," Arthas said with a frown. "And I am no king."
"Oh?" Thorne asked, a thin, ugly smile on his lips. "And yet some of your men whisper it, claiming Robert wanted to make you his heir. It would be a fitting act for a son of Robert Baratheon."
Tyrek bristled, hearing the barbed meaning beneath the words. "That whoreson's Alliser Thorne," he whispered angrily. "He fought for the Mad King at Ruby Ford and King's Landing. Your grandfather had him and half a hundred dragon's men take the black after he sacked the capital. His family rule only a pittance of land in the Crackclaw now."
Usurper, that was what the Targaryen sympathizers still called his father…
"I am only the second son. It is not my place to sit on the Iron Throne," Arthas said loudly.
Thorne dipped his head. "Blood will tell in the end. I'm sure you'll make your father very proud, Your Grace." He turned to his recruits. "That's enough for the day, you mummers. Store everything back in the armory, and make it quick."
"He shouldn't have said those things to you," Jon said, frowning. "Uncle Benjen would have him whipped for such insolence."
Tyrek nodded furiously. "These dragon lovers ought to be taught a lesson. Too many of them have been too cheery since you came back with Ser Mandon."
"The Night's Watch has more need of him than my pride," Arthas said with a shake of his head. "The coming days will be a harsh test for all of us, least of all him."
Jon shared an uneasy look with Tyrek, the two boys only offering a shrug in response. "Would you like to spar, Your Grace?" Jon asked tentatively.
"I could use the practice," Arthas said, forcing a smile as he nodded to the Snow boy. Ser Mandon and he had not spoken or sparred since their return, busy as he was of late petitioning Lord Stark to take the royal party to King's Landing. "Has your lord father said anything to you about his plans?"
"The north's banners have been called," Jon said. "To bolster the Night's Watch… and even to venture beyond the Wall in strength. Supplies for a short campaign are being prepared."
Arthas nodded as he let the weight of his warhammer fall into his hands. The wild lands beyond the Wall were desolate, and not fit to feed an army through forage.
"Will Lord Stark be leading the campaign?" Tyrek asked.
It proved a blessing of sorts that Lord Eddard had not gone with them. He'd been vocal against the excursion from the beginning, calling it an unnecessary risk… but Father had found the affairs of the Night's Watch too dull to sate his wanderlust, its ranks too filled with men who had born the dragon's banner rather than the stag. Had they sheltered in the Wall longer, no doubt his warhammer would have been planted in the chest of men like Aliser Thorne quickly enough.
Had the Lord Stark been there, would there be anyone left to coordinate the defense of the north? Robb Stark was still young and untested, and a strong leader would be needed for the trials and tribulations.
"He intends to," Jon said, then frowned. "He's been assessing the black brothers since we arrived, and what he's found doesn't fill him with confidence. Rotten to the core, he called it. He said he'd spoken briefly with King Robert and the Lord Commander about parceling out lands in the New Gift to strengthen the Wall, but with both of them dead now I don't know if that'll mean anything."
"What about you?" Arthas asked as they settled into spots opposite each other, weapons ready.
"I don't know yet," Jon said with a thoughtful look.
—TheKingIsDead—
In the end, they hadn't needed to wait for Lord Stark's bannermen. Just as Mandon Moore had predicated, The black brothers had found no trace of Father's body, or any bodies for that matter.
Nevertheless, Arthas prayed for his soul in the sept each night, kneeling with his warhammer before the small statue of the Father the Night's Watch had maintained in their poor little prayer rooms. It was a silent, solemn vigil, one disturbed by the rickety door creaking open.
"We may leave on the morrow at last," said the Lord of Winterfell. It had been a week and a half after that disastrous venture beyond the Wall, and Ser Mandon Moore had made it known he wished to return Arthas Baratheon to King's Landing as soon as possible.
"I've sent word ahead," Eddard Stark continued. "Apparently the royal convoy was delayed a while at the Twins and is only just making headway into the Crownlands. You ought to depart soon yourself. They'll be expecting you at your brother's coronation."
"His body has not even been found," Arthas said, drawing himself to full height and looking up at Eddard, "and you would speak of ceremony? He was my father!" He'd begun that sentence in a low voice, and somehow had ended it screaming.
Eddard bowed his head. "I know, lad. Robert was my dearest friend, my longest living friend. Of all the brothers and comrades I've lost, I didn't think I'd lose him while he was so near to me. I should have been by his side, not speaking with stewards," he said bitterly.
Arthas was struck with guilt all of a sudden, for raising his voice against his good-father to be. He hadn't deserved that disrespect, not as he grieved in his own fashion. "I'm sorry, Lord Stark. That was uncalled for."
Eddard knelt in front of him. "It's not easy losing a father. You feel lost, untethered, and the world stops making sense. One day, you're the second son, and the next men are asking you to make decisions you were never raised to make."
He speaks of Robert's Rebellion, Arthas thought. Lord Eddard had lost his father and brother in the span of a single day to the Mad King. "How did you do it? How did you… deal with it all?"
"I won't lie to you," Eddard said. "It won't be easy, not for many years, but I've seen something of your courage, and I see you have wisdom beyond your years. I have faith you'll get through this, one day and one step at a time." Then Eddard enveloped him in a warm, fatherly hug.
Arthas hugged him back without conscious thought. "I'm… I suppose I'm scared. Of the future and of what's going to happen."
"Whatever happens, you won't be alone," Eddard promised. "You're Robert Baratheon's trueborn son. I wasn't there for him at the last, but I will not abandon you, not for anything." He pulled away and wiped the tears with his thumb that Arthas didn't even know were falling. "There's no shame in sadness or tears shed for the passing of a great man."
"He was never a father to me," Arthas admitted, hesitantly, as if he were speaking treason for speaking ill of the dead. "He was never really… there for me, not until these past few days. Not until the end. And now I find myself wondering."
Eddard sighed. "Robert was a flawed man with many demons, but never doubt that he cared for his children, even if it was in his own way."
Arthas nodded.
"Mourn this night. Let it all out." Eddard stood. "Everything else can wait until tomorrow." Eddard gave his shoulder a squeeze, before he walked out the room and shut the oak door behind him.
Arthas knelt before the Father again.
The Night's Watch cannot hold on its own, Arthas thought. He'd seen now what lurked in wait for the realms of men. It was not the Scourge he knew, but the dead and Others… they felt familiar in ways he could not explain. They were puppets of some vile thing, perhaps this Night's King? A legend told to scare little children, but all stories had some basis in truth, and the Others proved real enough.
Was the Lich King out there? Was this some twisted visage of his, a different shade of the same monster?
Or was this something else?
Too much was not yet known, but what was known was the quality of men who took the black. Most were dredges and wretches and scum—not the army he needed. Not even Jon Snow had wanted to take the black after witnessing them.
Arthas had nearly lost it all at Northrend, even when good men like Falric stood besides him.
To make the same choice now seemed a mistake somehow, and even if it weren't… the Light did not answer him. There was no runed sword of ice to claim, or a dreadlord he knew of to slay. He had no dwarven prince by his side, no battle brothers, no Jaina or Uther…
"Easy, lad. Brave as you are, you can't hope to defeat a man who commands the dead all by yourself."
Arthas was only a man. He couldn't do it all by himself, but with an army to lead… with an army he could do it.
It was not his place to rule, or be king, but it was his place to be a knight like Uther had been. Knights could lead armies, and he was Joffrey's brother.
If Arthas could make him see sense, then there was hope for Westeros, no matter how dim.
Joffrey will see sense. He must.
—TheKingIsDead—
Lord Eddard had dared not leave the Wall earlier with the "wildling" threat still close at hand, not until a garrison felt sufficient had arrived. Now, that garrison was here, the Night's Watch bolstered by numbers it had not seen in centuries. The Umber's giant in shattered chains arrived on a cold windy morning, bringing the first five hundred northern foot to reinforce Castle Black. These were the men-at-arms nearest the Wall, sent onwards by Greatjon Umber of those that could be marched at a moment's notice.
The sunburst of Karstark and the Flayed Man of Bolton were heading for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, soon to be joined by what passed for a northern fleet under the Manderlys. To the west, the bear of Mormont and the mountain clansmen sent men to secure the Shadow Tower.
Men from all over the north would continue to arrive long after they left, and more would wait in Winterfell, but with his initial wave Lord Eddard felt the situation was in hand… for now.
In the morning, they departed at last, though not with Jon.
"Are you sure?" Arthas asked. "I could use more good men with me."
"I'm honored," Jon said, before shaking his head resolutely, "but no, my place is here. I can't do nothing with the wildling threat out there. Besides, I'm not taking the black. Just doing my part to keep the north safe." In a lower voice, he added, "And avenging King Robert. I know you are being forced to leave, but I can do my part, for your sake at least."
Arthas felt a twinge in him. "Know that you'll always have a place with me if you ever wish to head south, Jon."
"You're a good friend, Prince Arthas," Jon said, clasping arms with him. "And maybe I'll take that offer when the danger has passed."
"May it pass swiftly then," Arthas said. Light guide you, Jon Snow. Do not make the same mistakes I have.
The trip to Winterfell was shorter than the trip from Winterfell, but it still took the better part of five weeks for them to reach those grim walls of House Stark. They'd made a stop at the Last Hearth like they had not so long ago, but there was no drinking or stories to be had now. Just sombre silence broken by hushed whispers.
Though the Last Hearth had no maester, an Umber there was well learned in ravenry, and had presented a letter waiting for Arthas, which he presented after dinner. "From your Uncle Renly, sent first to Castle Black," the man said. "Maester Aemon was kind enough to forward the letter here when it came after your departure."
Else it would have been sent to Winterfell instead. "Thank you," Arthas said, inspecting the seal unbroken. It was Uncle Renly's stag alright. Without another word, he broke it open and skimmed through the letter.
"Anything interesting?" Tyrion asked.
There were the usual condolences, and words of grief one might expect, but at the very end of the letter… "What do you make of this last part?" Arthas asked, handing Tyrion the letter.
"Hmm, he's proposing to make you heir to Storm's End?" Tyrion said. "It's a strange move. Renly's young, but he's taken no wife yet and has no children that stand to inherit." Tyrion leaned back into his chair and poured himself another glass. "His relationship with Stannis was always sour, if my time at court is anything to go by. Perhaps he's simply ensuring his brother will not get to claim it? You'd be a popular choice with the stormlanders."
Arthas frowned. Something about it felt… wrong.
"Most people would be happy learning they stand to become a Lord Paramount," Tyrion said. "The stormlands are poorer than most of the other kingdoms I'll grant you, but they boast some of the finest archers and footmen in all of Westeros."
"It's a surprise is all," Arthas said. With the stormlands, I will have an army of worth at least. Enough to march north to come to Lord Stark's aid when the time is right, though he disbelieves the truth for now…
"You still don't look very happy." Tyrion burped, after emptying yet another tankard of dark Umber beer.
"I would rather not get my hopes up," Arthas said. "Uncle Renly might sire children in due time so I doubt I actually stand to inherit anything."
"Wise of you to think that way," Tyrion said, pouring beer into two tankards this time, before pushing one towards him.
"Haven't you had enough?" Arthas asked.
Tyrion shrugged. "If I know, Robert, he would be furious to know we did not drink properly to mourn the occasion."
So mourn they did in their own way that night, with Tyrion more than Arthas.
—TheKingIsDead—
"...and we'll be following the White Knife all the way to White Harbor," Tyrion said as they entered the courtyard of Winterfell at long last.
"From there, we can take a ship to King's Landing," Tyrek added. "King Joffrey—gods that'll take some getting used to—ought to have arrived already."
"Good," Arthas said.
The sooner Joffrey was in King's Landing, the sooner he'd be crowned. Then he could convince his brother to prepare the realm for the inevitable war to come.
"We shouldn't have wasted so much time at the Wall," Moore grumbled under his breath.
Tyrion frowned. "Am I wrong, or are there far more guards than usual?"
Arthas glanced at the walls. Sure enough, it looked like Lady Catelyn had doubled the guards on the walls since the royal procession had left. Perhaps she feared for young Bran's safety after hearing of the king's death?
"I see some sigils of House Stark's bannermen, no doubt called to repel the… wildlings," Arthas forced himself to say. "I imagine the lady of Winterfell might be a tad concerned. Mothers tend to worry."
"She could worry a bit less about a dwarf, and a boy," Tyrion said, shivering. "I feel there are two dozen eyes latched onto us, onto me."
"We're guests," Arthas said to put an end to it, which it did. After all, Lord Eddard was too honorable to break guest right. He glanced at the Great Keep. "I ought to go see Bran; see if he's woken."
"Ah," Tyrion said, patting his heavy knapsack, "well, go on then. I think I'll return a few books to Winterfell's library and borrow a few more. I'm done reading the ones I borrowed for our trip to the Wall."
It was nearly three months since Arthas had last been in Winterfell, but he remembered his way around the halls and walls easily enough.
What he hadn't remembered were the two Stark men-at-arms at the bottom of the stairs to Bran's room. As Arthas approached, they closed ranks, physically blocking him from going up the stairs.
Where Ser Mandon might have spoken up for him in days past, he seemed content to keep his silence now. It felt to Arthas the end of whatever friendship they might have once had.
"Is something the matter?" Arthas asked the men.
"By order of Robb Stark, no one is to see Lord Bran without his warrant, his mother's, or Lord Stark's," the taller man said.
Arthas blinked. That seemed a harsh measure to take. "Has something happened?"
They did not respond, faces like statues staring through him.
He heard the door slamming open and saw Lord Stark's grim face peering down from above. "Arthas, come quickly. I have… I have grave news."
At that, the men stepped aside.
Arthas ascended the stairs with haste. "Is it about Bran?"
"No," Eddard said, showing him a letter with Uncle Renly's broken seal. "It's… it's your family."
Arthas took the letter in his hands. He read, and read again, not comprehending the words on the parchment. It was moving too much to be read properly—My hands are shaking, Arthas realized.
"He's… this is a joke, right?" Arthas asked weakly, looking up Eddard Stark, whose lips were set in a tight line.
"Renly has named himself king."
Those words were not just wind; they were war.
