Chapter 7: Parley

The mass of men was but Renly's vanguard, and there was nearly enough to outnumber them. Sixteen thousand knights armored in full plate and armed to the teeth with lance, mace, and morningstar took to the field, and the other two thirds of their host could not be far behind—half a day's distance at most, and probably less than a few hours away.

"We ought to consider what we will do if peace cannot be made with Renly," Eddard said.

"We cannot match them on the field," Moore said grimly. "They've already more knights than we do, and this is just their van."

Robb frowned at him. "Knights alone do not win battles, ser. I would rather have northern mounted men at my side than southron chivalry!"

Moore snorted, tilting his head towards Loras Tyrell's host. "You can have them. That doesn't change the fact that their cavalry outnumbers ours over two to one."

"Ser Mandon is right," Tyrion said. "We'll need to be clever about this." Uncle smiled. "Thankfully, you have me."

"A great general are you?" Moore asked. "What battles have you fought in, Imp?"

"Oh, I'm not so silly as to think I'm a great warrior. That's always been Jaime," Tyrion said, tapping his overgrown head with a stubby finger. "This here's my weapon of choice, and I've kept it sharper than your sword. I can read, you see."

"This bickering serves us naught," Lord Eddard chided.

"We can hold Harrenhal and Darry against them," Moore said, still glaring at Uncle Tyrion. "Let them break their strength on stone walls, if they dare!"

Robb frowned. "We've too many men to feed, and doing that would leave our host trapped while Renly's army picks the countryside clean. We'd starve, even though he has the larger army."

"Robb Stark is right. Besides, letting ourselves be besieged severely limits our options later on. A strong garrison would suffice, I think, while we move the army north of the Trident," Tyrion said. "They can hardly leave such hostile strongholds to their back. If they wish to pursue, they'll be forced to invest those castles with a few thousand men, and that will help even out the disparity in our numbers."

Ser Barristan bobbed his head, still draped in simple brown robes. He'd insisted that only a king could return his white cloak to him, and no one else. "Use the Trident as a shield to stymie Renly's horse, if he's fool enough to try a contested crossing."

"Robert did the same against Rhaegar during the Rebellion," Eddard mused. "It's as sound a plan as any, Your Grace."

Arthas nodded to Eddard. "If you've no objections, I would have your men bolster the garrisons of those keeps." Of all the men that made up his host, it was the northerners he trusted the most. They'd not yield or turn their coats, and would fight to the last if needed. Such stalwart loyalty was best used atop stout walls.

"As you will, Your Grace" Eddard said. "Robb, see to it."

"Yes, Father!" Robb said, riding away briskly to speak with the northern lords. Theon Greyjoy went with him.

"Renly must have forty-five thousand men with him judging by his vanguard," Moore said. "He'd still outnumber us quite heavily even if he left ten thousand men to watch those castles."

Tyrion grinned. "Renly cannot afford to wait this out. He has more men, but only for now. Riverrun and Casterly Rock have called the banners, and his advantage dwindles with each day."

"He will seek a decisive engagement sooner rather than later, if he's wise," Barristan added.

"We must waste his time then," Arthas said. He pressed his knees against Tansy, urging the colt into a measured trot. "Tyrek, raise a flag of parley. We are not here to fight. Not yet, at least." Not if I can avoid such senseless bloodshed.

"Blessed are the peacemakers," Bonifer mumurred, quoting from the Seven-Pointed Star as they rode forth—the Crone's Book to be precise.

The seven of them stopped at the halfway point, and waited for a response. Barristan, and Bonifer, and Moore took up positions on their flanks, while Arthas and Eddard headed the party side by side. Uncle Tyrion produced a wineskin from his person, taking tiny sips as the sun sank, while Tyrek held the white flag high.

There was not enough daylight left for battle to be had, and Renly's vanguard was beginning to make a fortified camp for the night. It was from those tents that Loras Tyrell approached, his silver armor made resplendent by the setting sun. His cloak was white, his shield was green, and his hair a lazy mass of brown curls and ringlets. He was a head taller than Arthas and his reputation as a champion jouster made him stand that much taller in the eyes of other men.

Arthas saw him for what he was: a swaggering young man who thought the joust was at all comparable to a thunderous charge of hooves, horses, and lances.

"He doesn't even wear a helm," Moore said.

"Could you beat him?" Arthas asked.

"On a horse and with a tourney lance? He's my better," Moore said. "On foot, I consider him good, but not great."

Good, Arthas thought.

"I know that look of yours. What are you planning?" Tyrek whispered with a hint of worry.

"I'm disappointed that you've kept us waiting, Ser Loras," Arthas called out instead of answering his cousin. "My uncle wrote of showering me in many fine gifts, but it seems courtesy is not one of them."

"This was before you marched an army south," Loras said. He'd brought six knights with him, but none of them with the white cloak Loras had.

They must be with Renly, Arthas thought. It was not prudent for a king to be with his van when he might be seized by trickery or fall into ambush.

"Torrhen Stark brought far more than this when he marched south," Eddard said, "before he knelt to Aegon the Conqueror."

"Are you here to kneel then?" Loras asked.

"Do you have dragons?" Tyrion asked with a twisted smile. "I've always wanted to see one."

Loras ignored the dwarf and addressed Eddard. "Lord Stark, you will not find King Renly ungenerous if you support him like you supported his brother. He will gladly confirm you in all your lands, titles, and honors. He will even march the strength of the south to your aid once the wildlings come, as a king should."

That is good to hear, Arthas thought. Perhaps there is hope?

Loras turned to Arthas. "As for you, Prince Arthas, he is not uncharitable to those of his family that remain true and loyal to him. He will raise you into a Lord Paramount in your own right, and your betrothal to Lady Sansa will be confirmed. He might even name you his heir after any trueborn children of his by my sister, Queen Margaery."

"You speak of making him heir," Tyrion said, "yet, Prince Arthas has a better claim to the throne then Renly does. Since when did the Seven Kingdoms put brothers before sons?"

"Joffrey and Arthas are boys still. Five and ten is too young to rule wisely," Loras scoffed. "The realm needs a firm hand to lead it."

"That is what counsellors are for," Eddard said.

Loras snorted. "Yes, and what fine counsel Cersei Lannister would have offered. She's filled the Kingsguard with unfit men. She has replaced the honorable Ser Barristan," —Loras nodded to the man in question— "with the Kingslayer. Even your Handship, Lord Stark, was given to Tywin Lannister as soon as she heard of King Robert's passing. Did we cast down the dragons only to be ruled by the lions in their place?"

"We cast down the dragons, while your father fought for the Targaryens," Tyrion said scathingly. "Besides, Prince Joffrey and Arthas and all the royal children are named Baratheons, not Lannisters, if you'll recall. Surely your maester has taught you that much."

There was a hint of amusement twinkling in Loras' eyes. "Some would disagree with even that statement. Lord Stannis, for one."

"And you believe him?" Arthas asked.

Loras did not answer. "Lord Stark, I implore you to see wisdom like Torrhen Stark did before Aegon. You cannot hope to prevail, and you would be wise to join Renly's cause. This war will be good as done then, with no unnecessary bloodshed."

"There is already bloodshed," Eddard said. "Your king has ordered it, and brought war to the west."

"Tywin Lannister would never accept Renly as his king. Is it not better for a war to end quickly, instead of drawing it out when the result is clear?" Loras asked.

"Agreements are made between the strong," Grandfather Tywin had said. "The weak are left to bow their heads meekly, waiting for scraps."

"If the result is so clear," Arthas said, "why does Renly bother to bargain with any of us? Surely he ought to just sweep us aside."

Loras smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "He is a most magnanimous king."

"A king with no claim," Tyrion reminded him.

"Look behind me, Imp. There is Renly's claim!" Loras said, pointing to his camp. "Tyrell swords have made him king. Rowan and Tarly and Caron have made him king… Tarth swords and Penrose lances, Fossoway, Cuy, Mullendore, Estermont, Selmy, Hightower, Oakheart, Crane, Caswell, Blackbar, Morrigen, Beesbury, Shermer, Dunn, Footly, even House Florent… they have made him king."

"King of two kingdoms, mayhaps," Eddard said. "The Seven Kingdoms are divided."

Loras narrowed his eyes. "For now, but make no mistake he will be king, and not over a broken kingdom. I cannot say it plainer than that. Bend the knee now, and spare us all some pain."

Westeros cannot be divided for what is to come, Arthas thought, or it will be the ruin of all of us. "I would speak to my uncle first."

Loras shrugged. "I have told you all he will say to you. There will be no more parleys after this; no more peace. Make your choice now, my lords."

Arthas' fists clenched. "I will not be bullied into making a choice before I've shared words with him."

"So be it," Loras said, beginning to turn his destrier around.

"A duel then!" Arthas said.

Loras paused mid-turn. "Oh? You intend to let Ser Barristan fight your wars for you, boy?"

"No," Arthas said, "I will fight it myself. If there must be bloodshed, let it be my blood or blood by my hands."

A cry of dismay came from his companions. "Cousin, you cannot do this," Tyrek said. "If you fall—"

"If I fall, our cause is blown away like dust in the wind," Arthas said. Yet, it must be done. If Renly will not speak with me, I will make him. "Does that thought not please you, Ser Loras? Or are you too craven to face a boy of ten and two?"

Loras grinned. "What are your terms?"

"Single combat," Arthas said. "It shall be me, and it shall be you. No one else will interfere."

"Done!" Loras said, drawing his sword, raising the shield with his sigil.

"Arthas—" Eddard started.

"You've been most kind to me, Lord Eddard," Arthas said, reaching for the warhammer tucked behind him, "but I cannot ask other men to fight for me. I cannot ask your men to fight for me, if I will not risk the same."

"Are you sure about this?" Moore asked, frowning. "He's older and taller and skilled with the lance. Do not take him lightly."

This is war, not playing at war. Arthas nodded. "We aren't jousting. You say he is good. I will just have to be better."

"Remember your footwork then," Moore said.

Tyrek gave him a worried look, but he did not object to his choice. "May the Warrior give you strength."

Their companions kept eyes on each other, and made a ring around them, thirty paces at its widest. Crows circled overhead, bearing witness for the gods.

"You've not seen me fight, have you?" Arthas asked, dismounting.

Loras laughed. "I've heard the maids whisper of your long hours spent training, but you've not been blooded. Training in a courtyard is not true war. You think you can take me on foot, do you?"

Yet, it was Loras who'd never been in a war between the two of them, and that he chose to follow after him by dismounting proved just how much a boy he was at heart. A man who's tasted the terror of battle would not throw away such an advantage over pride.

"So this is how the war ends," Loras mused as they circled around each other in the dirt, "with a boy dead."

"Don't worry," Arthas said, adjusting then tightening his grip, "I wouldn't dare kill Renly's darling rose." I've fought orcs before. Is a slightly older boy supposed to be a challenge?

Loras came at him shield-first, the Tyrell flowers looking like a wreath of love and beauty. His sword flashed high in the air, and there was power and skill behind it to be sure, but not the sort of power Mandon or an orc would've used; not the skill Ser Barristan or Uther wielded. Loras was good, but not great, and Arthas met the slash with a two-handed swing.

Loras shuffled backwards, slightly off balance from the surprising strength Arthas used—far, far more than his boyish frame suggested he could wield—and in a fight, surprise was deadly.

Arthas pressed on, swinging fast and faster still, each blow of his hammer drumming a funeral beat upon Loras' shield. The Tyrell tried to recover his footing, but Arthas pivoted, dancing around his guard, and began battering away at his defense. Each blow was precise, methodical, and all the more brutal for it. At last, there was a sickening crack as Loras fell, dirtying his cloak and clutching his sword arm.

Arthas raised his hammer again, and brought it down even as Loras screamed and his knights shouted.

There was silence for half a dozen seconds as Arthas breathed. Then, he lifted his hammer from besides Loras' head. "Do you yield?"

Loras nodded mutely.

"Good," Arthas said. "I'm taking you prisoner now, and I suggest you do not make it difficult for me." He turned to the stormlords and Reach knights that had accompanied Loras. "Bring word to my uncle. Tell him I want to meet."

Arthas spat to the side. "Tell him my patience runs thin."

That ought to get Renly's attention.

TheKingIsDead—

With the true queen of Westeros his captive, it was Renly's turn to raise the white flag, and it happened the very next morning. As Arthas and his companions departed, the men hollered in riotous fashion.

"The Pious Prince rides forth!"

"Show Renly what a real warrior looks like, Prince Arthas!"

"Make way for the Young Demon!"

Arthas frowned. "I've not heard that one before."

"Then you ought to drink by the fires more often," Tyrion said, a wineskin in hand like always.

"They came up with it last night," Tyrek said.

"They're comparing me to my father?" Arthas asked.

"It's hard not to see the parallels, Your Grace," Barristan said with a ghost of a smile. "You've led a coalition of men from the north and the riverlands to the banks of the Trident, and there brought low an enemy commander who is a renowned tourney champion."

"Loras is not dead, nor is he a prince," Arthas said. "And last I remembered, the knights of the Vale were at that battle."

Tyrion clicked his tongue. "Always so stringent, Nephew mine. It's about the idea, don't you see? It may not be a perfect parallel, but the similarities are there for all to grasp."

Yet, Renly was also Robert come again, long of limb, broad of shoulder, and handsome as Father had been in his youth. He was Robert come again in ways Arthas wasn't too—sharing the Baratheon coal-black hair, fine and straight, and the same deep blue eyes hiding an all-consuming rage.

"I see why you smile so often, Uncle," Arthas said. "It suits you far better than your scowl does."

"Return Loras to me at once," Renly said, "or—"

Arthas cut him off with his hand. "No harm has come to Ser Loras while in our care, save the arm I had to break when we duelled. He brought it on himself when he told me there would be no more parleys."

Renly closed his eyes and breathed out for five slow seconds, and when they opened, they were graced with that easy smile Renly shared with his kingly brother. "Can I see him as a show of good faith?"

Arthas nodded to Bonifer, and he rode back to camp to fetch their prisoner. "We have much to discuss while we wait."

"Of course," Renly said, the slender circlet around his brows bobbing as he dismounted. The crown was made of soft gold, a ring of roses exquisitely wrought; at the front lifted a stag's head of dark green jade, adorned with golden eyes and antlers. Even the platemail he wore was enameled green and gold—the colors of Highgarden.

For all of Loras' talk about the Lannisters seizing power for themselves, it struck Arthas that the Tyrells would be little better with Renly on the throne. "I hear you've taken a bride," Arthas said, "I apologize for not attending."

"It was a splendid affair," Renly said. "Your presence was missed; you as well Lord Eddard, Ser Barristan, Ser Mandon."

Marriage was the mortar of all great alliances. Lord Hoster Tully had bound himself to the Starks and Arryns through his daughters; now Mace Tyrell bound himself to Renly through Margaery.

"I'm surprised to find you still here, if I'm being honest," Renly continued, looking at Moore. "You turned away from one brutish king before. Would Joffrey be much better? I'd hoped you'd have enough sense to see the winning side once more."

"How do you envision this ending exactly?" Arthas interjected.

"With new friends and bonds of kin reaffirmed between us," Renly said, charming as ever.

Arthas shook his head. "No, I mean this war."

His father—King Terenas—was a good man, but Lordaeron has suffered from his share of mistakes. After the Second War, the orcs were broken, but putting them in great fortified camps proved a costly half-measure that drained the treasury and forced unpopular taxes on their own people and allies. If not for those ruinous taxes, would so many smallfolk have been driven into the arms of Kel'Thuzad and his Damned Cult? Would Stromgarde have been so slow to respond to their calls for aid?

Arthas had learned that lesson well: the peace after the war mattered just as much as the outcome of war.

"You've put the westerlands to seige," Arthas continued. "I've no doubt you intend to see Lord Tywin stripped of his power. Yet, what then? Surely you do not hope to let my uncle Jaime inherit after you've seized his sister and nephews and niece? After you punctured his leg with a spear?"

"Jaime cannot inherit in any case," Eddard said. "He has sworn a Kingsguard vow."

Renly smiled, and looked to the dwarf next to Arthas. "Lord Tyrion will succeed his father, of course."

A sound enough move. Tyrion's stature was not of a warrior's, and securing the loyalty of the westerlands would be the work of many years. By then, Renly's power would be far too entrenched to contest.

"As for the royal family, you exempted," Renly continued, "they will have to remain my honored guests in the Red Keep. I cannot have them roaming free as symbols for every lord with a grudge to rally around."

"And I'm to believe you'd leave me be then?" Arthas asked. "Am I not an even greater threat to you with a Stark marriage and a Lord Paramountancy? Four of the Seven Kingdoms would rise for me in a heartbeat then. Even the dragons died the last time such an alliance was made."

Renly smiled. "You won't be a threat, because I know your true nature," he said. "You've never wanted power. You've never sought it, and if men thrust a crown into your hands, you'd rather chop your hand off than place it on your head."

"There will be no penalties imposed on Lords Stark, Tully, and Tyrion Lannister after the war," Arthas said. "You will affirm all their lands, titles and honors without condition?"

"On my honor," Renly vowed.

"You will ride to the north's aid when it is needed?" Arthas asked.

"The Night's Watch will find a friend in me," Renly said. "The wildlings killed my brother too; there will be many honored men to bolster their ranks when all is said and done. Those lords sworn to Lannister who resist most fervently must be punished after all."

Tyrion's mouth hung open.

"You would punish them for following the orders of their lord? Of their king even?" Eddard asked, brows furrowing.

"I am their king," Renly said. "My lords, I will have to reward those loyal to me somehow. It strikes me that the westerlands is a rich prize that many covet. Why not spread that wealth around?"

"To Reachmen and stormlanders," Tyrion said. "You'd leave me a Lord Paramount in name only!"

"Would you prefer not to have the name?" Renly asked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I could raise Ser Garlan Tyrell to that seat if you prefer."

"That," Arthas said, "would be a dangerous overreach, even for you, Uncle."

He shrugged. "I would supplant treasonous lords with loyal ones, ensuring peace throughout my reign. What are a few houses for that dream of spring? Was there anything else?"

"One last thing," Arthas said. "You must send for all the armies of the realm when you ride north. Against the coming threat, we can spare no man."

Renly raised a brow at him. "To curb some wildlings? Does this not strike you a tad extreme? How would we even feed all those men?"

"You will have the Reach and the riverlands," Tyrion said.

"Yes, but last I checked, winter was fast approaching," Renly said. "Those men and that food will be needed in the south as well. Besides, how large a threat can the wildlings be? The savages have no castle-forged steel and are little better than the clansmen that plague the Vale."

"It was not wildlings who killed him," Arthas said in a low tone. He could feel every eye latched onto him. "It was the White Walkers."

"Prince Arthas—" Eddard started.

"I know what I saw," Arthas said. Even now they do not believe. "I know those things were not human. They bled blue blood and wielded swords of ice that made metal screech in pain."

Renly laughed. "You have a vivid imagination, Nephew. You expect me to believe that not only did White Walkers kill my brother, but that you managed to kill one of them too?"

"Father did," Arthas said.

Renly snorted.

He does not believe, Arthas thought, and if Renly did not believe he would hesitate to act when at the most crucial of times. "Let us call a Great Council then. Set aside your crown, and I will convince Joffrey and Uncle Stannis to do the same. Let the assembled lords decide who ought to rule."

At least then there would be peace, and with the north and the riverlands behind him, he might yet convince another candidate of the coming danger.

Renly's laughter was loud and long and cruel. "Tell me, do lions and wolves and stags vote who should lead the pack? My brother led because he was strongest."

"We acclaimed Robert our king," Eddard said with a voice promising danger, "because he had the greatest right to it after the Mad King and his children."

Arthas scowled and turned Tansy around. "This parley is at an end."

Renly blinked. "Just like that? You'd prolong this war over your injured pride? You will not get a kinder offer out of me a second time."

"I do not prolong this war over injured pride," Arthas said. "But I will win it." Because you do not believe, so you cannot be king. Because it would be the ruin of all life if I let you take it.

"What about Loras?" Renly asked, not entirely keeping the desperation from creeping back into his tone.

Arthas paused. "Release Joffrey to us and we shall return him to you."

"That is out of the question," Renly said. "I can give you Ser Jaime."

I promised to protect Sansa, didn't I? Arthas' eyes turned to narrow slits. "We will trade him for Ser Jaime and Lady Sansa."

"Ser Jaime and your sister," Renly countered. "I am not so unkind as to deprive you of all your siblings."

Arthas' stomach dropped, and he became keenly aware of just how cold he was. "You don't have her, do you?"

Slowly, Renly shook his head. "In the chaos of the fighting, we lost her."

Is he telling the truth? Arthas wondered. Is Sansa dead? He glanced at Eddard, who did not hide his despair, yet the stark northern lord nodded his head. "Agreed," Arthas said. "Ser Jaime and Princess Myrcella for Ser Loras Tyrell. We shall exchange prisoners as soon as you have them brought from King's Landing. We will have truce until then."

Renly nodded. "It is agreed."

They gave Ser Bonifer time enough to show Renly his lover, before tearing them apart once again. As their parties parted ways, Tyrion spoke up. "He's assembled a fine Kingsguard. I recognized Sers Arys Oakheart, Emmon Cuy, Guyard Morrigen, and Lord Caron among them," Tyrion said. "The other one I do not know."

"That was Lady Brienne, Lord Selwyn Tarth's heir and daughter," Barristan said.

Bonifer barked out a laugh. "Renly has a woman guarding him too?"

"Better a woman than that pitiful assembly Queen Cersei managed," Moore spat out, before dipping his head towards Barristan. "Meaning no offense to you, Ser Barristan."

"It has not escaped my attention what dredges have been honored with the white cloak," Barristan said. "They have tarnished the honor of it, though it shames me to say I am somewhat thankful those least worthy are dead."

Of Father's Kingsguard, the three that remained alive were Barristan, Mandon, and Jaime. If one wished to quibble, there were none truly left with Barristan and Mandon having been dismissed by Joffrey as his first act, and Jaime still a prisoner of war. What good was a Kingsguard not present to guard his king after all?

"You, at least," Arthas said, "have kept the honor of it alive for all these years. We can start anew when this is all over, with better, worthier men."

Moore nodded, smiling. "You mean to induct new men to the Kingsguard?"

"I am not the king; I do not have the right," Arthas said.

"You speak truly," Eddard said, "yet many are the lords that wish to raise you before Joffrey. They will not fight for an absent prisoner of a king, and we can put this question off no longer if we are to ask them to take the field. The lords must know who they fight for."

It was, Arthas believed, a most tricky proposition. If he took the crown for himself, he made himself no better than Renly in that regard. Yet, if he didn't, their army would scatter like silver in a whorehouse.

"Why not have our cake and eat it too?" Tyrion mused.

"How so?" Barristan asked.

Tyrion's mismatched eyes sparkled, and he said with a proud smile, "We shall tell the men they fight to seat Robert Baratheon's trueborn son on the Iron Throne."

"That sounds altogether ambiguous," Moore said.

"That's rather the point," Tyrion said. "Let each man take from that what they want to. If, perchance, Joffrey survives, we can claim to have been fighting for him all this time. And if he dies while a captive, then we've been fighting for Arthas all this time."

Moore growled. "This is a mistake. Prince Joffrey will not like this if he hears of it, if he's ever freed. No king would like to hear men talk of how much better their brother would be, especially when those men are the very lords that put him on the throne."

"It seems the best choice open to us at the moment," Arthas said. "As for the Kingsguard… we shall call it something else for now then. A royal battleguard perhaps, with vows less stringent."

"A guard to accompany you in battle and keep you safe," Eddard added. "From the best of these men, you might offer the white cloak once a king stands among us."

"Ser Barristan, I would ask you to serve as the Lord Commander, as you have served for so long," Arthas said. "I hold no other man in as high esteem as you for the task."

Barristan bowed. "It would be an honor, Your Grace."

"Ser Bonifer, Ser Mandon, I would offer you two positions in it as well," Arthas said.

Moore scowled, looking no more pleased at the thought, but nodded all the same. Bonifer's answer was more eager by far.

"It would be wise to have men from all the kingdoms fight with you," Eddard said. "Not all the battleguard will go on to be kingsguard, so we need not be restricted to seven swords."

To show how broad a coalition supported them, or give the appearance of it at least. Arthas nodded. Tyrek he could trust too, but who else? "I'd ask your son to fight with me too, Lord Eddard. Robb is a fine enough swordsman and steadfast." He turned to Robb. "I trust you to watch my back."

"I would be honored," Robb said, beaming at him.

"It would be two guards for the price of one," Tyrion quipped. "That direwolf of yours could devour me whole, if it wanted."