Chapter 8: A Kingdom Divided
The terms of the truce left their camp in high spirits. Renly had been made to decamp and fall back several miles such that neither side could fall on the other with surprise. His host would return as soon as the prisoners were exchanged, but for now, it felt to the men that the enemy had retreated, that the line had been held.
It allowed for more men to flock to their host too. Down the river road came the horses of Roote and Bracken, while barges floating up the Trident from the Bay of Crabs allowed the Hawicks of Saltpans and the Mootons of Maidenpool to bypass Renly's encamped army entirely. Most surprising and welcome of all were the four thousand knights that streamed out of the Bloody gate, led by the man charged with its defense—Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish himself.
"Does Lady Lysa intend to join the Vale to our cause?" Eddard asked in the privacy of his tent. "We'd heard she would not stir from the Eyrie."
"She was convinced at last that the Vale could not stay out of this, by Petry Baelish no less." Ser Brynden said, voice smoky and hoarse.
"Lord Baelish again?" Arthas asked, leaning forward in his chair. "He arranged for Arya Stark to be delivered to us safely, for Ser Bonifer to join us, and now we've him to thank for the Vale's swords." The master of coin has gone above and beyond aiding them. It was not like Arthas to hope, but… "Was Lady Sansa with him perchance?"
Blackfish frowned. "No, he came to the Eyrie alone from his keep in the Fingers. He fled King's Landing following Renly's coup."
Arthas' shoulders dropped. Light be merciful and keep Sansa safe.
"He has still rendered great service to you and your king," Eddard said quietly. "Such loyalty ought to be rewarded."
Arthas nodded. "When this is all over, I will petition my brother to award him something suitable." He turned to the Blackfish. "I'm… surprised though, that Lysa allowed herself to be convinced. She thought my mother's family was responsible for Lord Jon Arryn's death."
"Petyr and she were close in their youth," Blackfish said. "He was a ward at Riverrun for my brother."
"I see Bronze Yohn Royce and Lord Nestor Royce both joined you," Eddard said. "It's curious that Lysa would send both the Knight of the Bloody Gate and the Keeper of the Gates of the Moon away."
Blackfish scowled. "I half-think she's just grown weary of us. The Royces and I petitioned her day and night to make common cause with you. It is those of us who clamored that were sent forth as a vanguard, to show her commitment to Prince Arthas' cause while her banners assemble."
"Whichever the case, we are glad for your company," Arthas said, gesturing to the map strewn out across the table between them. "Would you care to hear our situation? I'd be glad to hear the thoughts of a seasoned veteran such as yourself."
Blackfish nodded. "I would be glad to give it, Your Grace."
Eddard smiled at Arthas, and nodded, content to let Arthas explain the plan of garrisoning Harrenhal and Darry.
"Harrenhal is especially vulnerable, if Lord Raymun Darry's report proves true," Arthas said, pointing to the keep on the map. "Including the men you brought, we're left with a little over twenty-seven thousand men, but two thousand will be left as garrisons for those two keeps."
"Renly's host outnumbers us greatly then," Blackfish said.
"By twenty thousand men," Arthas confirmed. "He has more armored horses than us too."
"Difficult, but not insurmountable," Blackfish said, stroking his windburnt cheeks. "With good use of terrain, we can blunt the force behind his numbers, like Robert did to Rhaegar. It has not escaped my notice that there are few lion banners flying in your host. What has Tywin Lannister been doing all this time?"
Arthas ran a hand through his golden hair. "We've heard naught from him all this time, despite our many ravens. My uncle Tyrion has ridden out west to find my grandfather and get us some answers."
"We think he may be preparing to break the siege of Deep Den," Eddard said. "If he succeeds, it would allow him to quickmarch through the gold road and cut off Renly's retreat, or even put King's Landing to siege."
Blackfish laughed darkly. "There'll be no one to open the gates of the capital for him this time. I don't like his odds of winning the war this way."
"If you're not opposed," Arthas said, "I would have you be part of my battleguard, Ser Brynden, and give you command over the outriders too."
"It would be an honor, Your Grace," Blackfish said, bowing slightly.
The days passed them slowly and without much fanfare. Some of his battleguard joined him in prayer, and many more in practice. Grey Wind gnawed at a bone from the sidelines, while Nymeria and Arya watched them.
"Do you know what it is Renly's been up to?" Arthas heard Theon Greyjoy say to Robb as they set down their tourney swords. "Holding a tourney, if you can believe it! I saw it with my own eyes when I joined the Blackfish to scout out their camp."
"Jon always wanted to join a tourney," Robb mused. "What did it look like?"
"It makes for a very pretty sight." Theon smirked, dressed in a velvet doublet with the golden kraken. "Though to hold it in the midst of war… Renly must be confident, a fool, or a confident fool."
"He's counting on Lord Eddard's honor," Arthas said. "We have truce until the prisoners are exchanged, and we will not break it, not even for victory." What Eddard Stark disapproved of simply was not done. After the garrisons left at Harrenhal, Darry, and Moat Cailin, they were left with nine and a half thousand northmen—but they were united firmly behind Lord Stark, while the more numerous river lords quarreled endlessly with each other.
There were ten in his battleguard now—four men and six boys. The other three boys with Robb, Tyrek, and Theon were Robar Royce, Daryn Hornwood, and Olyvar Frey—from the Vale of Arryn, the north, and the riverlands respectively.
Robar was the oldest of them, and already a tourney warrior of some renown. The second son of Bronze Yohn Royce was tall and muscled like every knight ought to be. As for Daryn Hornwood, he was a competent, but not a great swordsman. Instead, the heir of House Hornwood was born to a Manderly mother and had as his betrothed a slim Karstark girl. Olyvar, on the other hand, was not knighted yet, and already two years older than Robb. He lacked confidence, but wasn't constantly trying to marry off his sister Roslyn, so was deemed the best choice among the many, many Freys.
"Dead again," Bonifer said, bopping the fallen Frey's head with the side of his sword. "Keep that guard up unless you want to end up dead in your first battle."
Olyvar bobbed his head, picking himself up and settling into a stance.
Among all the boys, Arthas alone sparred with older men exclusively—Ser Barristan most of all. The older knight came at him without reserve. It had not eluded him that Arthas' strength far outstripped any boy of fifteen and his skill a match for grown men.
"What you need now is to be challenged, Your Grace," Barristan said, as his shield smashed against a hammerblow, and his sword hummed a hymn of steelsong. The Lord Commander seldom prayed with Arthas, for his sept was the field of battle.
"I can—" Arthas jumped back, avoided a swing, and parried, "—see that."
"You've gotten faster," Mandon said from the sidelines. "Stronger too since we last sparred in the Red Keep."
"That was ten months ago," Arthas said, most of which had been spent on the road, travelling between castles and crises. Light, give me strength, Arthas thought, changing to a two-handed grip.
"Just ten months ago," Tyrek said, wincing as Barristan caught another blow with his shield. "Damn it, Cousin. If I didn't know better, I'd say the Warrior himself fathered you."
"Did you expect anything less from Robert Baratheon's son," Barristan asked.
"From the Pious Prince," added Bonifer, even as he sent the Frey sprawling on his ass once more. "Focus, Olyvar! Keep your eye on my sword at all times. Stark! Greyjoy! Enough gossip and swing harder! Tyrek! Break's over!"
"Yes, Ser Bonifer!" the boys chanted, and began whacking at each other with blunted steel.
Mandon rolled his eyes. "When you named me to your battleguard, I didn't think I'd have to put up with training boys how to fight."
"This is more than just about surrounding me with the best warriors," Arthas said. The boys brought with them hundreds, if not thousands of men each... potentially, in Theon Greyjoy's case. Besides, the battleguard was not the kingsguard. They needn't limit themselves to seven knights, not when they were expecting battle soon, and peksy vows of celibacy did not apply. The heirs to great houses would not be made Kingsguard obviously enough, but being around Arthas all day, fighting together, was a precious bond that benefited all.
—TheKingIsDead—
"Balon Greyjoy is in open rebellion," Eddard announced to the assembled greater war council of lords. "They are reaving along the Stoney Shore, and Deepwood Motte has fallen. The Iron Fleet has put Moat Cailin to siege."
The northerners roared.
Their voices were as angry, harsh, and violent as the winters they suffered, sweeping up everyone in their paths that even balding, barrel-chested Nestor Royce, and the ever-glowering Jonos Bracken screamed with them.
"We ought to take your hostage's head for their insolence!" Ramsay Snow said, grinning from ear to ear. He alone seemed more amused than angry at the situation. "Theon Greyjoy's life is forfeit!"
A pair of men seized either arm of Theon's, dragging him before Lord Eddard. It was not the first time Arthas had seen the boy's eyes widen in panic—Arthas had seen plenty of that when he first sparred against the kraken at Winterfell—but his eyes were downcast, filled with despair and the casual smirk he wore left now traces. It was the first time Theon looked defeated.
"No." Eddard's voice was stern and sharp as Ice, cutting through the clamor as easily as the greatsword cut through necks.
"Lord Stark—" Robin Flint started.
Eddard raised a hand and the room quieted. "Balon Greyjoy has struck us despite the fact that we hold his son as a ward of Winterfell. It is clear he does not give one whit for his life; what purpose would killing Theon Greyjoy serve now?"
"Justice!" Robin said, standing up.
"Justice," Ramsay echoed.
"Justice is it?" Eddard said coolly. "What crimes has Theon Greyjoy committed? I remind my lords that we do not judge the son for the father's crimes." He stared Ramsay in the eye, not that it seemed to faze the bastard. The Boltons had been the most rebellious of House Stark's vassals, and a Red King of ages past had even dared skin Starks alive to make a cloak for himself.
Robb looked to his father, then to Theon, then to the lords that'd sworn fealty to Winterfell.
"It would be vengeance," Arthas found himself saying. "Blood for blood, but would Theon's life bring back those dead? Would it fix broken walls and gates? Unburn villages?"
"If vengeance is what you'd call it, vengeance is what I'll have!" Flint said.
He was the Lord of Flint's Finger, Arthas recalled, situated on the western shore of the Neck. No doubt the matter was personal for him, as it was for all lords whose fiefs could be struck, and had been struck in centuries past by the Iron Islands.
"We must march back north and protect our lands!" another man cried out, some minor lordling from Stoney Shore.
"The fighting will be over long before we arrive," Eddard said. "If my lords will recall, we have thirty-three thousand men under my brother Benjen Stark gathered at the Wall or Winterfell. I have already ordered him to peel off Lord Roose Bolton and twenty-five thousand men to scour the Ironborn from wherever they dare show their faces."
That outnumbered the men Balon Greyjoy could call on. "What of the threat beyond the Wall?" Arthas asked.
"The wildlings are being kept in check easily enough as it is," Eddard said. "Eight thousand swords and axes supported by the Night's Watch will weather any army they can throw at the Wall for a few months at least."
Not an army of the dead, Arthas thought. That was an army that did not fight by the normal rules of war.
Though Lord Eddard's words quieted the northern lords from speaking of desertion, it did not put them all at ease. Arthas knew the feeling well, that need to take action when nothing could be done. It was difficult to put your faith in others when it was your land and your people suffering—but the northerners kept faith in this regard at least, however shaken it might have been.
They respect him immensely if they are willing to follow him still, Arthas thought. But they will not love him for this. This was a mistake, but it was a mistake Arthas could admire. Your compassion would have made you a great paladin, Eddard Stark.
He glanced at Theon, who'd not lifted his eyes from the ground. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword, but Arthas could not see what terrible crimes Theon had committed to deserve death.
"And Moat Cailin?" Flint asked, calmed down some, but not entirely pacified. "The hard heart of the Ironborn put it to siege! They must have sailed up Saltspear and Fever River to do so. We cannot let it fall to their clutches, or we will be cut off from our homes."
"We've five hundred men holding it," Eddard said. "The initial assault of Victarion Greyjoy has failed; he must fall back or commit to a difficult and costly slog."
"If nothing else, Theon Greyjoy ought to be removed from His Grace's battleguard," Ramsay said. "How can we trust the son of a traitor with the prince's life, or even to keep counsel with us?"
Eddard dipped his head towards Arthas. "That decision I cannot make for His Grace."
The northerners have to be appeased somehow, Arthas thought. To keep Theon in an honored post when so many other lords clamored for that spot… it could not stand. "Theon Greyjoy is removed from my guard and my counsellors both. Escort him from my sight." The young man would have to earn back the trust of the lords in battle.
The men dragged Theon to his feet and out the tent, but Theon did not struggle.
Robb made to stand, to follow after his friend, but a look from Eddard kept him rooted in place. He sank back to his seat, a deep frown on his lips.
"Let us put this unpleasantry behind us, my lords," Arthas said. "Soon, my uncle and sister will be returned to me, and the truce will end the day after. We must prepare for the battle to come."
The room exploded with sounds and suggestions. The lords boasted of their feats and their feats to come, all jockeying to be granted a command over their equals and earn great favor through victory.
The Blackfish, blunt, patient, and well-seasoned, retained command over the light cavalry and the outriders. Where Barristan had made his name in the War of the Ninepenny Kings by slaying Maelys in single combat, the Blackfish made his for the daring raids and outriding that kept the Band of Nine bogged down and blinded. He was also a Tully, and all the quarrelsome river lords owed him allegiance through his brother.
Bronze Yohn Royce, the Lord of Runestone, came in a set of ancient bronze armor inscribed with runes that were said to ward him from harm. It would serve him well as the tip of their spear; their commander of the van, of knights and heavy horse. He would face the greatest difficulty with how many more knights Renly had, but the man was nothing if not brave.
And Eddard commanded the main body. There was no other choice in that.
They were all under Arthas' overall command, but that was polite fiction. All present knew who would be making the real choices. His role was to be a banner to rally around and nothing more.
"It strikes me," Ramsay said after matters of command were settled, "that the prince is now lacking a battleguard. We ought to rectify that while we can. Gods old and new forbid Prince Arthas falls in battle for lack of valiant men around him."
"It ought to be decided in a melee," Robar Royce said. "Let the best warrior win."
"Aye, a tourney to put Renly's to shame!" Ramsay added gleefully.
A tourney in the middle of a war while the west burned? It was madness. Yet, many of the lordlings liked the idea, seduced by the splendor Renly had put on display. To deny then this now served no purpose.
Once they've had a taste of real war, their glee will melt swifter than summer snow. "A melee will suffice," Arthas said.
It was decided to hold the melee at Harrenhal, that men-at-arms of House Whent might be awed by the strength of arms that had made common cause against Renly. If that king of keeps were to fall to treachery or from the faint of heart, Renly could cause no end of trouble in the riverlands. It would put an end to any march through the kingsroad towards the Iron Throne too.
This monument to the pride of Harren the Black had taken forty years to raise. Its five huge towers were paid for with thousands of lives, and ancient weirwoods and the treasuries of two kingdoms. The colossal curtain walls were the match of a mountain cliff, with wood-and-iron scorpions mounted on them that looked tiny from the ground. Only the tops of the towers could be seen from outside for the walls obscured most of them, and the gatehouse was as large as Winterfell's Great Keep.
Here, the air felt crisp, thinning, and warm to Arthas.
"Warm?" Robb repeated with a frown. "No more than usual for the south, though I'm hardly the best person to ask." With conditioned ease, he turned his head to his left, where Theon often rode, but the young man had not shown his face to them since he was cast out of the war council. Robb's frown deepened.
The few times Arthas had spotted the Greyjoy since that night, he'd worn plain clothes more fit for a well-off merchant than a lord, and always clothes without the kraken.
The nine bats of House Whent graced the tower windows, and Ramsay Snow chortled at the sight of them. "They love their sigil so much they've let bats infest their towers too!"
Arthas shook his head. "Let's get this over with."
He'd much rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, than sitting in judgment of boys playing at war, but this was expected of Arthas now—like he'd been expected to watch orcs fight for sport at Durnholde Keep. Here, at least, the boys were willing.
There was Robin Flint who'd spoken in favor of beheading Theon, who was a skilled swordsman and a lord in his own right already. Ser Donnel Locke from Oldcastle was one of the few anointed knights in the north. Arthas counted at least seven Freys in the melee, each intent on cutting down their family more than anyone else. The Bastard of Bracken, Harry Rivers, was fair-haired and comely, but was a middling swordsman. Plump Willard Mooton; four Vale knights; steady-handed Richard Roote… Arthas sat there patiently, nodding each time a man was pointed out by Ser Bonifer or Robb.
On one side of the field was Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton. Even his dark armor and red helm and pale pink cloak did not hide the ugliness of his face or his pink, blotchy skin. Yet, for all the gods had not graced him in looks, they'd made up for it in ferocity.
"He's not been taught properly," Robb said. "I heard he was only recently brought to the Dreadfort by Lord Roose."
"But there's skill there," Bonifer said. "He's vicious, aggressive, holds that sword of his like it were a butcher's cleaver, but it is effective."
That much Arthas couldn't deny. Ramsay had cleared out every man on his corner of the melee, and was now in the midst of throwing himself at a knight sworn to the Manderlys.
"He attacks without planning," Arthas said.
"I think his plan is attacking," Robb said.
Ramsay snarled like a rabid dog, and fought like one too.
"Do you think he can be taught?" Arthas asked. Aggression did one no good if you left yourself open to counterattack.
Bonifer nodded. "He'll learn or he'll die, Your Grace."
—TheKingIsDead—
The maester of Darry had put Loras' broken arm in a splint and advised him to drink milk of the poppy for the pain. Loras preferred to soldier through it, perhaps suspecting poison or some manner of perfidy from his hosts. Why Loras thought they'd bother to kill him through such convoluted means was beyond Arthas.
So on a windy day, they parlayed with Renly once more, Loras moved at a sedate pace and winced whenever his white mare jostled him.
"Renly must really treasure you," Arthas said, "for him to trade the third brother of his wife for both a knight as deadly as Jaime Lannister and a princess. That is a trade which does not favor him."
"Won't be much use as a kingsguard commander either with that arm." Ramsay leered. "But perhaps that doesn't matter to Renly. Perhaps the sword he needs you to wield is not one with much use in a battle?"
How Ramsay picked up on Renly and Loras so quickly… the boy could ferret out gossip like a whoremonger.
Loras glared at him. "Break both my arms and I'd still be your better, bastard."
"At pleasing Renly? I'm certain you're the better of your sister too!"
"That's enough," Ser Barristan chided, "from the both of you."
"As you say, Lord Commander," Ramsay said, before chortling in that ugly voice of his.
Mandon inched his destrier closer to Tansy. "I still say this is a mistake."
"We're getting the better trade," Arthas said.
"Jaime Lannister is one sword, and injured at that," Mandon said. "He's nothing special as a commander. Loras is Renly's Lord Commander and that critical tie between Renly and the Tyrells."
"Do you suggest we cut him down then?" Arthas hissed. "Put my brother's life on the line?"
Mandon sighed. "If only we'd be so lucky, but we both know Joffrey's worth more alive to them. So long as he is, we keep up this farce, but there'll be no weeping when he's dead and you can finally be the king we need."
"If no one else will, then I will weep for him," Arthas said. "My mind is set. And with Myrcella we could bind another region to our cause in marriage… Dorne perhaps or to reward the Arryns. I hear from Lord Royce that Lysa's son is a sickly thing, but after him is a handsome knight named Harry the Heir."
"It's not your sister being freed I take issue with," Mandon said. "It's the leverage we're losing. Tommen might have been better even."
"If we traded for Tommen, it would've been for him alone," Arthas said. "At least my uncle can wield a sword." Tommen was a sweet boy, too young to witness the cruel touch of war.
Mandon fell silent and fell back.
Renly's five white cloaks rode with him, and Loras would be his sixth, but curiously it appeared he'd not awarded a seventh white cloak yet.
"Uncle Jaime!" Arthas called out. "Myrcella! Are you both alright?"
Both of them were dressed in soft crimson silks, and seated atop ambling well-bred palfreys. The horses were expensive enough, but no match for a war breed in speed.
"Save my injured leg and my injured pride? I'm unharmed," Uncle Jaime said. "It's good to see you, Arthas."
The prisoners were sent across at the same time.
Red-eyed, Myrcella was quick to bury her golden curls in his chest as she reached Arthas. On instinct, Arthas' hand made long, soothing strokes against her back.
"It's alright, sweet sister," Arthas murmured into her ear. "You're safe now." He could feel some wetness from her. "Wipe those tears away. You're too pretty to be seen crying."
Myrcella pulled back, using her sleeves to dry her cheeks as she bobbed her head. "What about Tommen?"
"We'll free him too in time," Arthas said. "Joffrey and Mother as well."
Renly and Loras were sharing words themselves several paces away.
Jaime nodded thankfully as Ser Barristan handed him a spare sword. He gave it a few swings, before smiling. "Good balance to this. It feels good to have a sword in hand again."
"You're not fit to fight," Arthas said, glancing at his bandaged leg.
"Just find me some spare armor. The horse can do the walking for me," Jaime insisted. "Where's Tyrion? My father?"
"Lord Tywin is out west, defending his lands from armies under the command of Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan we believe," Eddard said. "As for your brother, we sent him west with a small mounted escort to discover Lord Tywin's intent."
Before Jaime could reply, Renly called out. "Ser Barristan! I've heard my nephew Joffrey dismissed you from his Kingsguard."
Barristan frowned. "Aye, he did."
"That was a most grievous mistake of his," Renly said. "We can rectify that. I have reserved the seventh white cloak of my Kingsguard for you."
Arthas' mouth hung open. The sheer nerve of Renly...
"You are not the king," Barristan said.
"I was crowned like a king," Renly said. "I sit on the Iron Throne like a king. I have armies like a king. Why can I not be the king?"
"Because armies and crowns and the Iron Throne do not make a king," Barristan said. "Robert has sons, and sons come before brothers."
"You keep to their cause out of loyalty to my brother," Renly said. "Yet, look at them? All are Lannisters in looks, but I am Robert's flesh and blood beyond doubt. Why serve them instead of me? Why serve them when Joffrey in his first act was to dismiss you."
"A decision made rashly, and will be overturned," Arthas said. "On my honor, I swear it."
"You served Aerys the Mad," Renly continued, ignoring Arthas, "yet you let yourself be pardoned by Robert in the end. Joffrey might be as mad a king as any; spare yourself some pain and join me now rather than later."
"As a lackey to Loras Tyrell?" Barristan asked, raising his brow.
"As acting Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," Loras said. "My arm is broken, ser, and will remain broken for some months at least. I cannot protect the king like this. I can think of no better man to take up that burden than you."
Barristan looked to Arthas, then back to Renly. "My place is here."
Renly sighed. "A shame."
But as Renly and his ilk made to turn, cloakless Mandon rode forward alone. "Acting Lord Commander?" he said out loud. "You have a seventh white cloak still?"
Arthas stilled. He'd known Mandon had always wanted to be the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, but he should have known Mandon just wanted to be the Lord Commander of a Kingsguard. "Mandon? What are you doing?"
Renly's eyes widened too, but he smothered it with an easy smile. "Are you interested, Ser Mandon?"
Mandon turned to Arthas. "I'm a Kingsguard. I will always be a Kingsguard, but Joffrey took that from me."
"On my honor, I'll see it overturned—"
"You are not king, Arthas," Mandon said, eyes flashing, "so you can promise nothing. Only a king may make a Kingsguard, and there is only one king here as far as I can see."
"Joffrey can be convinced," Arthas said desperately.
Mandon shook his head. "Can he? Sometimes I wonder how well you know your brother."
Arthas was numb as he watched Renly ride away, seven white cloaks in tow.
