Chapter 10: Race for the Iron Throne
"You should be dead," Eddard said as he stormed into the tent, before remembering to tack on a, "Your Grace."
"It's a flesh wound," Arthas said dryly. "I've received good care. You have no need to fear, Lord Eddard."
"Don't make light of your injuries," chided Myrcella, pressing on a spot of bruised skin between his ribs. "It's a miracle you aren't dead."
Arthas winced. "Miracles are faith's rewards. The Light of the Seven shines on me."
"A fancy way of saying luck," Myrcella said.
"Give us the room, please," he said to his sister as he caught a look from Eddard.
She frowned, hesitating to leave his side.
Arthas scoffed in exaggerated fashion. "Go on. See to Robb Stark, maybe. I know how you like making eyes on his—ow!"
Myrcella glared at him, poking his bruise with a bit more force this time. "You better not die," she said in a low voice.
"I haven't died yet; I don't plan on dying now."
She wrapped her arms around him quickly, before bobbing to curtsey in a manner as over the top as his scoff. When she graced Lord Eddard with the same gesture, the sarcastic twinge to her smile was gone, leaving manufactured genuine warmth like their mother taught her to do.
"How is Robb, by the by?" Arthas asked as she left. He'd remembered seeing his hand cut off, but not much else, and after the armies had drawn away from each other, he'd been rushed to the tender cares of Tarwyl Three-Links, a renowned half-maester that'd been following the camp to tend to the wounded.
"He'll live," Eddard said. "Theon and Grey Wind stood over his fallen body, fighting off several men who tried to take him captive, before carrying him to safety after you'd brought the stormlanders to heel."
"A balm, that. Your mercy proved prudent in hindsight," Arthas said.
Eddard shook his head. "My mercy kept him on the battlefield, aye. But it was the bond Theon shares with Robb that compelled him to act."
It was the honor you taught him, Arthas thought. "Whichever it is, I'm glad Theon did what he did." He sighed. "How many of my battleguard survived?"
"Daryn Hornwood was stabbed with a spear and they've just found Olyvar Frey's body, though it was with great difficulty finding someone who'd confirm it was him. He was trampled in the fighting, and it took some doing for even his kin to recognize him," Eddard said.
Those Freys are a quarrelsome lot, Athas thought. He doubted many of them liked Olyvar or knew him well enough to recognize his body, even if he was a decent sort. He'd not deserved to die, not for Arthas.
"As for the others," Eddard continued, "Your cousin Tyrek lost part of his left ear. Ser Bonifer is unharmed physically, but he's been seeing to the burial of over half his men. Nestor Royce is dead too, and the knights of the Vale who rode out with us are gutted." The Warden of the North frowned. "Did you not hear me call for a withdrawal?"
Arthas flushed red with guilt. "We won, didn't we?"
"We didn't lose, which is a greatly different matter." Eddard sighed. "What you did was reckless, committing to a melee against five men, all older than you. Had even one of the stormlanders kept their nerve and attacked, you might well have still died"
Arthas nodded, unwilling to argue the matter further, before remembering that Daryn was the heir and the only trueborn son to Lord Hornwood. "Daryn's death… is that going to cause problems for you up north?"
"Not immediately," Eddard said. "His father Halys yet lives and continues to fight the Ironborn, though a crisis of succession for their line might occur should he fall. He has a natural son—Larence Snow, in the care of House Glover… though with the fall of Deepwood Motte..." He shook his head. "Roose Bolton does not like Halys, not after the man petitioned me to return a holdfast taken from his grandfather—a holdfast that falls under the Dreadfort's purview now."
"Something to keep an eye on," Arthas said.
"A matter for the future, if it comes to pass," Eddard said. "We will be marching as soon as we've rallied all the men that fled the field."
"What for? The stormlanders are with us now," Arthas said. About fifteen thousand of them had abandoned Renly's cause—and the rest who remained in the stormlands owed fealty to the lords now taking up their banners. He'd turned the tide of battle like a paladin was expected to.
"Can you walk?" Eddard asked.
Arthas nodded.
"Come with me then," Eddard said.
There was cheering as Arthas stepped outside his tent, but it did not mask the screaming beneath them. It was a raw sound, a pained plea for mercy, a desperate admission of fear to the gods and to their too-far families. The wails grew louder as they walked through the camp, and Arthas could pick out individual voices from the Stranger's choir. They arrived at a tent at last where the stench of death and decay clung to the air.
A priest of the Holy Light could have dispelled the odor with a wave of their hand.
Inside was not Robb, as Arthas expected, but row upon row of dying boys—too green to know a maiden's touch; old men leaving sons and daughters behind; fit men no longer, ruined by war, by the maester's knife and the enemy's sword.
"Many of them will die," Eddard said quietly.
Arthas swallowed the lump forming in his throat. This is Westeros, not Lordaeron. He stepped forward, reaching for the nearest man's hand, and uttered a prayer to the Light—but there were no warm beams from the heavens, no mending of wounds and broken bones, no staving off the Stranger.
A paladin could have saved them.
"Aye, you've won many men to our cause with your bravery," Eddard said, "but I fear we lost just as much in the bargain. The riverlanders broke ranks near entirely after I committed them into battle again, and there's as many as four thousand scattered all over the countryside. We've yet to finish counting the injured and dead—but there are at least three thousand who will need to be buried before the day is over. I've northmen missing as well. Buying you your time against the stormlanders was not cheaply done."
They could not withdraw so long as I remained fighting. They died to give me a chance. Arthas' head dropped. This was Westeros, not Lordaeron, and wars were fought differently here. "I thought…"
"You wanted to prove yourself," Eddard said. "Like Robert had. But you must temper your actions with patience."
"And your son paid for it," Arthas said quietly as they stepped back outside. "Your men paid for it."
"You paid for it as well," Eddard said, glancing at his bandages. "We all made our choices. All we can do now is to live with them."
Arthas looked down on his feet, then at a polished shield off the side of the dirt path. If he tilted his head just right, his eyes shifted from green to blue to green.
Victory, but at what cost?
—TheKingIsDead—
It was a day and a half before they were ready to move out, and even then they had to leave their most grievously injured behind—Robb and Tyrek among them. Theon and Grey Wind stayed too, to keep watch.
The morning they would begin pursuing Renly in earnest, all the lords and knights still fit for fighting assembled for a ceremony.
"In the name of the Light, I charge you to uphold our vows," Uther said, smiling proudly as he anointed Arthas with the holy oils of the Grand Cathedral. "You are the shield of the faithful, the hammer of the just. Be diligent and humble, eschew worldly wants."
Arthas felt himself submerged in a warm, comforting glow.
"In all things hold to our tenets: respect, tenacity, and compassion."
The sword tapped his left shoulder, then his right. His cloak was Baratheon gold, not never-worn silver, and it flowed behind him. "In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to hold true to your vows from this day to the end of your days." Barristan paused.
"I will hold to my vows," Arthas said.
Barristan struck him lightly on the face with his gauntlet. "Let this be the last blow you receive unanswered. Rise a knight, Ser Arthas Baratheon!"
There was no familiar warmth that came with it, only the cold, but Arthas smiled anyway as men cheered his name, for deeds that had brought death. He'd been the last to receive a knighthood today at his request.
He spotted Theon lingering by Robb's tent, watching the ceremony with some interest as he fed Grey Wind a rasher of bacon.
"Theon Greyjoy," Arthas called out, "stand before me."
Theon paused, giving him a stunned look. He approached hesitantly to the whispers of men as they made a path for him.
"Kneel," Arthas said, and he did. Arthas drew his sword. He who passes the sentence must swing the sword.
His eyes swept through the assembled lords and knights as he said, "Theon, your actions at the Battle of Green Fork have shown you to be a true and loyal friend to the Houses Baratheon and Stark. You have kept faith where your family has been faithless, and though you were cast out of my battleguard, you fought to defend your former battle brother, Robb Stark, carrying him to safety. Does any man here contest his valor, his deeds, or his worthiness?"
Silence was his reply. Not even the northern lords dared utter a whisper.
Arthas nodded. "Then before all these lords and knights and men of honor as witnesses, I appoint you to my battleguard once more. Rise, Theon the True."
"You honor me, Your Grace!" Theon said as he rose.
"Keep Robb safe," Arthas said in a low voice, then nodded to the stormlanders—Beric Dondarrion, Byrce Caron, and Balon Swann stood at the very front.
"Theon!" Dondarrion cheered. "Theon! Theon the True!" His cheer was picked up by the valesmen first, then the riverlanders, until even the northerners joined in the chant once they saw Lord Stark lending it his voice.
Thus, it was in exceedingly high spirits that the men slithered out of camp, resembling nothing so much but a long, brightly-colored snake. Banners of every color and animal and thing from four regions fluttered above them; steel gleamed and glittered under the sun, the blood washed away by deeds.
Renly's host had been carved down to just his Reach lords and what few stormlords remained with him—leading a few thousand at best. Arthas was master of the stormlands in all but name now, and perhaps even that would be his soon. Renly had lost perhaps two thousand men to fighting and disease, and they caught sight of his remaining twenty-eight thousand men veering to the east, marching along the Trident and away from the Ruby Ford a pride of lion banners prowled, fluttering wildly against the wind.
Grandfather Tywin was tall, slender, and broad-shouldered for a man in his fifties. In his steel plate armor enameled in deep crimson and highlighted with gold, he cut an imposing figure that men listened to. He sat atop a charger. a stallion with its own gilded armor; a blanket with enameled crimson scales and gilded crinet and chamfron; a crimson silk barding too decorated with the lion of Lannister. Tywin Lannister himself crossed the river, his heavy gold greatcloak flowing behind him.
"Arthas," Tywin said, taking off his greathelm, a gaudy thing crafted like a lion mid-roar, with ruby eyes. "It is good to see you are well." He turned his pale green eyes flecked with gold on the stormland banners marching with them. "I see your father's stormlanders have come to their senses?"
"They've decried Renly and named Arthas their lord," Eddard answered.
"Their king, even," Tywin said, with a hint of a smile. "A tad premature, given your brother is still alive, but forgivable given the… circumstances. We will hold a war council and discuss how to bring an end to Renly's treachery."
Before that, however, the council began with Grandfather recounting how he'd come to be here.
He'd gathered his banners swiftly—far faster than the Tyrells thought possible. From there, he'd marched most of his strength to Deep Den, which guarded the gold road and shattered the host investing it, some twenty thousand men by all accounts. He'd chased them south, harrying them with his light horse before finally turning back north.
"I could not continue sweeping down in a wide arc to Silverhill, Cornfield, or Crakehall," Tywin said. "They've still sixty thousand men between those three keeps." His eyes hardened. "But my lords know better than to surrender their keeps so easily, so I made my way here instead. It was at the crossing at Stoney Sept that I came across Lord Edmure Tully's host."
"I do not see my nephew with you," Blackfish said.
Tywin tilted his head. "I bid him to march along the gold road with a contingent of men under my brother Kevan and my son Tyrion. They are headed straight for King's Landing, to act as a second net if by chance Renly slips the noose here."
"Why didn't you send word?" Arthas asked.
"And risk Renly becoming wise to my plans? Of course, he managed to hear of it somehow still, given he was retreating far sooner than I expected," Tywin said. "If I'd sent word earlier, we might not have him trapped like a rat between us now."
"He's heading east," Blackfish said. "The only fording there is Widow's Ford."
"He might be evacuating by sea," said Andar Royce, standing in his father's place while Bronze Yohn was injured.
"Not likely," Eddard said. "Stannis may be our enemy as well, but he is Renly's enemy too. The old royal fleet will contest any fleet at sea not sworn to him."
"Renly has his own fleets of course, but they are still in the shipyards of the Reach, sheltering their coastlines against ironborn, westermen and more," Tywin said. "They could not reach him in time even if they wanted."
Arthas nodded. "This is it then? We have him?"
"This is it," Tywin confirmed. "Now, to drive the final nail into his coffin."
A raven and riders were sent out posthaste to inform the Lords of the Vale of their plan. Northmen, stormlanders and river lords would continue to pursue Renly east along the northern banks of the Trident, while the knights of the Vale streamed out the Bloody Gate, down the high road to take Renly from the north. Meanwhile, the westerland host would follow on the southern banks of the Trident. Together, they would allow Renly to cross Widow's Ford unopposed for some hours before springing their trap. With the Trident cutting through the middle of his host and beset on all sides, total capitulation was expected.
As the lords streamed out of Grandfather's luxurious tent, he gestured for Arthas to stay behind.
"On the morrow," Tywin said, "you will ride with my host."
"But I must lead the stormlanders," Arthas said.
"They've been led," Tywin said, "but now they must be bled. Them and all who dawdled in their support for our right to rule."
He stood up from behind his desk. Tywin's gaze was cold, calculated, even compared to Eddard's northern charms. " No, you will ride with me, because it has become apparent to me that your mother, Jaime, and even King Robert have not taught you the lessons I would have taught you. It is time we rectify that."
—TheKingIsDead—
"The trick to gifts, as in war, is waiting for the right occasion," Tywin said, spying Renly's crossing with a glass Myrish eye. Their own forces were hidden behind a hill; a most unpleasant gift waiting for Renly. He set down the eye and nodded.
Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA, sounded the trumpets, and the Lannister army began marching over the hill's crest, lion banners let loose on their prey.
"Stay," Tywin ordered as Arthas made to join the attack. "My men tell tales that you're hailed as the Young Demon of the Trident now. A striking contrast to the Pious Prince of King's Landing. Which do you like better—Pious Prince or Young Demon?"
"The Young Demon," the prince said, "to honor my father."
I'd prefer to be called a paladin.
"Robert was a fine warrior," Tywin said. "But did you know that he was injured much like you were after the Battle of the Trident? There was a moment in time, however brief, where we all thought Stannis Baratheon would sit on the Iron Throne."
Arthas frowned. "I didn't realize it was that serious."
"Of course not," Tywin said. "It wouldn't make for a particularly good story if the hero nearly dies afterwards. Of course the hero lives on, marries his queen, and rules wisely and justly for the rest of his days."
"He ruled," Arthas said, remembering his father's excesses, his negligence, "but… I would not say he ruled wisely."
"Then you've learned your first lesson," Tywin said. "We are not heroes of song and story. Do not act like one, or you'll find yourself in an early grave. And wouldn't that be disappointing?"
The Lannister levies smashed into Renly's crossing troops from the south, and minutes later, Lord Eddard's army did the same from the west, on the far side of the Trident. Though they'd charged in first, they were facing but a fraction of Renly's divided army, perhaps a quarter of it.
Tywin gestured for a giant of a man to come forward from behind them, rising him from his bow-legged seating on the grass. "This is Gregor Clegane, better known to some as The Mountain That Rides."
"I know of him," Arthas said, eyeing the man.
The Mountain had murdered the Targaryen children, it was whispered, and by looking at him one could believe it. He was a thing of muscle, boasting massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunk of a small tree, his hand resting on the hilt of his greatsword, ready to draw it forth for use where most men needed two.
"Because we are not the heroes of song and story," Tywin said, "and to make sure you remain alive, Gregor will be your sworn shield until such a time that the war passes. He will succeed where the Hound failed Joffrey. Him, at least, you can trust to have our family's interests at heart instead of his own."
Unlike Ser Mandon Moore went unsaid. "I didn't know you cared so much," Arthas said dryly.
Tywin laughed. "You're a Lannister boy! You might have the name Baratheon, but you were birthed by Cersei Lannister. You fight like Jaime Lannister. You even look like a Lannister," Tywin said. "It is time you became smart like a Lannister."
Like Tywin Lannister you mean. "You disrupted Renly's crossing and left our allies to take the brunt of the fighting," Arthas said, disapproving.
"Like I said, they must be bled," Tywin said. "I would see us ascendant and unopposed. That will be my legacy."
"And this will help?" Arthas asked.
"You've heard, I hope, about the Reynes of Castamere?" Tywin asked. When Arthas nodded, he continued, "What lesson did you learn from it?"
"Speed," Arthas said, repeating Uncle Jaime's words. "You assembled more men quicker, marched them faster, so you crushed their rebellion before they could join their men together."
Tywin nodded. "Good, but incomplete. The lord who can call on the most men will win the war, all else being equal. Yet, why is it Mace Tyrell is losing this war? Why have the Tyrells never come to dominate the Seven Kingdoms?"
"He has the Reach," Arthas said, "but the Reach is not a match for four kingdoms worth of men. As for the second… because the Reach lords have always been fractious?" The First Blackfyre Rebellion, the Dance of the Dragons… almost every civil war had seen the region torn asunder as its lords fought each other more than anyone else.
"Because they do not fear Mace Tyrell," Tywin said. "Once, the westerlands one and all laughed at my lord father, to his face, without fear. Because he was weak, and encouraged others to prey on his weakness. In my time, no lord in all the Seven Kingdoms dares to laugh at even Tyrion, misbegotten dwarf he might be. No, the sheep cower before us, for they've seen the claws we bared against the Reyne and Tarbecks."
Tywin ordered his horse into a steady canter down the hill, and Arthas followed on Tansy, a thousand knights behind them, counting Clegane. The knights of the Vale were lining up now to the north and began a thundering charge that tore into Renly's ranks.
"That," Tywin said, "is legacy. I have kept House Lannister strongest, and it was not through luck. If you would like to see our family last more than a single generation on the Iron Throne, I would advise you not to rely overly much on it. The gods can be most cruel even to the pious."
"Luck?" Arthas said.
"What else would you call the Battle of Green Fork?" Tywin snorted. "Small wonder your entire army was not wiped out, and where would you be then? Buried and bloodied in some unmarked muddy grave."
"It was skill at arms," Arthas said, breathing hotly. "There was no luck there!" Except you'd be dead if the Light hadn't answered.
Tywin stared him down until Arthas wilted under his gaze. "Your skill at arms is not in doubt," he said at last. "But the outcome most certainly was. Do you believe all your enemies will be as enamored with your ferocity as the stormlanders were? That they'll throw down their swords and acclaim you for besting their champions?"
"What would you have done then, in my place?" Arthas asked.
The trumpets sounded, their knights lined up, their lances lowered.
Tywin slammed down his visor. "I would have withdrawn and waited. Numbers win wars, not foolhardy valor."
The trumpets sounded, their knights lined up, their lances and visors lowered in preparation. Then they charged, driving into Renly's army like the last nail in a coffin.
It was butchery, and Arthas swung his hammer but once before it ended with swords thrown down and banners dipped low.
A continent of Renly's stormlords closed ranks, refusing to yield. A wide ring of empty space formed around them, and just beyond that westerlanders and fellow stormlords surrounded them. "The battle is over," Tywin said, riding forth. "Lay down your weapons, or we will make you."
"To be butchered?" an Estermont asked. "Better to die with a weapon in hand than on our knees."
"There will be no butchery, and no more deaths today, unless you force our hand," Arthas said. "On my honor, I swear it."
"Do we face the Wall or exile, like the dragonsworn?" another man asked, a high-ranked guardsman sworn to Grandison by the look of his surcoat. He was staring at Grandfather.
"You will earn your pardons," Arthas said. Like I must earn mine, through actions and not words. "There are wars to come, where we will need good men. You have sinned here, but all men sin. Now, it is time to repent. War to the north, where we will avenge my father, King Robert, but under my banners, and not as black brothers."
"Stormking!" Arthas' stormlanders cried out, stomping their feet and banging their shields.
The Estermont nodded slowly, and threw down his sword. "Stormking," he said, throwing down his sword. "We yield to you, and no one else."
"Stormking," the Grandison man said, joining his spear to the ground. Steel and shield clattered in a pile, storm banners dipped meekly.
They found Renly dead, laying face first on the ground, and dead Kingsguard strewn all around him. Arys Oakheart's handsome face stuck out in the mud, several javelins finding purchase through the hinges of his armor. Brienne of Tarth's still form shielded Renly's legs, having fallen backwards with an arrow through her eye as she cut down any who neared.
A waste, Arthas thought bitterly. Each was a sword they could have used against the dead instead of the living—against each other.
Only Loras still stood, bearing an awkwardly held shortsword in his left hand.
"Loras," Arthas called out as the Lannister contingent rode up, "put the sword down. This is over."
"We won't kill you, boy," Tywin said, leaning in his saddle. "You're far more valuable to us alive."
Loras shook his head, eyes filled with pain and heartbreak. "All I ever wanted was to live for Renly, and you took him from me!"
"Would he have wanted you to die for something so futile?" Arthas asked. "Renly's dead, Loras. Surrender." He dismounted, pulling out his warhammer. "Put that sword down, before I have to break your other arm."
Loras shuddered, trembled, and then fell to the dirt, letting the sword clatter away, as he cried over his lost love.
Arthas pitied him.
—TheKingIsDead—
Their host regrouped at Harrenhal, and it was there they heard news from the west.
Grandfather Tywin sipped a goblet of mulled wine. "Casterly Rock is now under siege," he said as if speaking about the weather. It was a direct attack on House Lannister's own power. If the castle were to fall…
"I'd have thought you'd be more worried," Arthas said.
"Casterly Rock will take years to fall," Tywin said. Ample stores, hidden coves from which to fish and smuggle supplies… this is an unpleasant surprise, but not one that cannot be dealt with."
"How did they manage it?" the newly-wedded Lord Petyr Baelish asked, representing his wife and the Vale of Arryn as their regent. The wedding, Arthas heard, occurred not long after the Royces joined them at Darry.
"Randyll Tarly's proven a better naval commander than I gave him credit for," Tywin said. "He called up the Redwyne navy and simply sailed some forty thousand men to Lannisport, bypassing Crakehall lands entirely. The city is in their hands, but not the castle."
Lord Eddard frowned. "He should have more than that? You said there were tens of thousands putting the west to siege—even if you killed every man at Deep Den, that still leaves countless more somewhere."
"Most astute, Lord Stark," Tywin said. "There is an army drawn from the survivors of Deep Den, and those men Tarly did not take with him, are now marching along the rose road to reinforce King's Landing garrison under Lord Rowan. If they succeed, it will make for a particularly troublesome siege."
"We still have the numbers," Baelish said.
"And they still have strong walls and prisoners," Tywin said. "Sansa Stark is still missing, is she not? She could well be in King's Landing."
Baelish smiled. "Ah, you must forgive me, Lord Stark. I forgot to mention that your daughter Sansa is a guest of her aunt, Lady Lysa Arryn."
"You have her?" Eddard Stark asked, voice hitching. "Truly?"
"Yes, good-brother," Baelish said with a voice like silk. "We thought it prudent not to take her with us to war, but I can send for her once King's Landing is ours."
Arthas cleared his throat. "This is… that is good news."
"We have not taken King's Landing yet," Tywin said. "Celebration would be premature, given that your mother and brothers are still trapped in its walls. My lords, we are now in a race for the Iron Throne. Once we have it, the Tyrell cause will be well and truly dead."
"Should we gather more men?" asked Lord Baelish. "We will need them if we're to take the city by storm."
Tywin waved off the question. "Edmure Tully and my brother Kevan ought to be close to the city by now. We will take our knights and link up with them here." He pointed at a spot on the gold road that crossed the Blackwater Rush.
"Can we make it there in time?" Blackfish asked. "There are castles along the kingsroad that have bent the knee to Renly, and that path takes us close to King's Landing."
"Renly is dead," Tywin said. "The Hoggs of Sow's Horn are sworn to House Hayford, whose heiress is betrothed to my nephew Tyrek. They might have bowed to the Tyrells when they had an army at their gates, but that army is gone now." Tywin tapped the map with his finger. "While we repel Lord Rowan's host, our foot following behind will storm King's Landing as soon as they are able."
"Storm it?" Arthas asked, frowning. "They have Joffrey, Mother, and Tommen."
"And we have Loras Tyrell again," Tywin said, "as well as several of the lords that rode with him."
"They could threaten to kill Joffrey," Arthas said. "He is the king."
Stormking he'd been proclaimed, and in that moment, heady from battle and bloodlust, he'd accepted their acclaim. But he could not be king so long as Joffrey lived. The younger son did not inherit before the elder. This war was just about won, and Arthas did not wish to put all that at risk to sit some ugly chair and don a heavy crown.
Tywin laughed darkly. "They could, but we have you, don't we? The Tyrells will bargain for his life to save their miserable skins, perhaps, but Tyrion has told me all about Renly's plans," he spat the last word out. "I will extinguish their line for presuming to challenge me."
Eddard shifted his weight in his seat. "Extinguish them?"
"When a flower rots, Lord Stark, you must pull it out root and stem lest the rot spreads and kills the whole field," Tywin said.
"It would mean a long war," Eddard warned. "Winter is coming."
"I'm well aware," Tywin said. "It will be worth it."
"There is the threat beyond the Wall to consider," Arthas said.
"The wildlings can wait," Tywin said. "First, we must see to setting the realm to order, then we will look to outside threats."
His fists clenched. "We need the granaries of the Reach opened to us, not burned down," Arthas said with some heat in his voice. Without them, how long could they sustain an army in the north? Weeks? Months? An army of the dead could wait years to starve them out.
"Is your plan to reduce them to nothing then, like you did to Castamere?" Eddard asked, frowning.
"The realm will survive without the Tyrells and their grain," Tywin said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "Besides, we will not set the whole of the Reach aflame—only those that resist. Many of Mace Tyrell's principal bannermen are tied to him and his Redwyne and Hightower kin by marriage, but that is the only reason they have not begun to desert him en masse. Once word reaches the Reach lords that King's Landing has been returned under royal purview, that our armies are at their gates, that we are in search of a new Lord Paramount and that all loyal lords ought to put to death traitors… well, they might just prune Highgarden for us."
"It would cause instability, and needless death," Eddard said. "Every lord at war with every other lord, sworn vassals turning their swords against their masters… each accusing the other of treason against the Crown. We would have no means of discerning the truth of such matters."
Tywin's smile was all teeth. "All the better," he said. "The Reach is too strong a kingdom to be held by one family. Let them fall into chaos, and out of the ashes a new order will arise—an order we dictate, and one they cannot refuse after their infighting brings them to the edge of oblivion."
"Speak plainly, Lord Tywin," Eddard said. "What is it you intend?"
Grandfather drew a line with his finger from Old Oak to Red Lake to the Lesser Mander. "These houses shall be made to swear to Casterly Rock." He circled the northmarch, then drew a line straight down. "The eastern half will be added to the crownlands, and the western half will look to Riverrun for guidance in the future." Finally, he traced his finger along the Upper Mander, from Tumbleton to Cider Hall. "This shall go to Storm's End—to you, Arthas."
It was beyond ambitious, fracturing the Reach and leaving the new Lord Paramount with less than two thirds of the region. The lion's share would be going to Casterly Rock and Storm's End and King's Landing—to the Lannisters.
"Such things have not been done since the Iron Throne was forged," Eddard said. "There is no precedent for this."
"Precedents must first be made to then be followed," the Warden of the West replied. "Extreme actions must have extreme consequences, lest we let the lords of the realm think light of such matters."
"They will not like this," Eddard said. "Many will fight rather than swear to Storm's End or Riverrun." It would force the Tyrells into a corner in which their only option was to fight to the bitter end.
"Let them," Tywin said. "Then, we can replace those lords with leal vassals and true friends. There will be no lack of Reach brides to carry on their family names with newfound grooms, certainly."
That's what he wants, Arthas thought.
"Well," Baelish said, smiling, "I for one support Lord Tywin's plans. They seem most wise."
Arthas frowned. Best as he could tell, the Vale of Arryn would receive no real spoils from this, and it would destabilize the realm for years to come, when they needed it stable the most. Even those lords who chose to swallow this indignity would be making trouble for their new masters and quarreling with historical rivals—stormlanders and westerlanders oft made war on the Reach in the days before the Conquest.
"This plan would require an army we cannot spare," Arthas said. This plan seemed to Arthas like turning the Reach into a dwarven mortar team's powder keg, then leaving it to bake in the scorching sun without sand to put out the inevitable explosion. "Lord Stark and the northmen are needed back in their lands soon to deal with the Ironborn, and I intend to march my stormlanders to his aid."
"We can set this aside for another time," Eddard said. "First, we must win this war."
"On that, we can agree," Tywin said.
—TheKingIsDead—
Before they left, Arthas visited Robb. He found him sitting up in his bed in one of Harrenhal's lower rooms, Grey Wind lying lazily across his lap while Myrcella stroked his fur. Theon Greyjoy looked on with an amused smirk. Lord Baelish was there too, surprisingly.
"Brother!" Myrcella said, drawing her hand back like it'd been burned. "You're back."
Guard your heart well, Sister, Arthas thought, thinking back to Calia and her sad, round eyes.
"I wish you'd have the chance to choose your wife and princess by heart," she said, before running away in tears.
Would Myrcella cry too, if she were forced to marry some Dornishman's get? It grieved Arthas to know he might know the answer to that all too soon. "I'm surprised to see you here, Lord Baelish. We'll be leaving in a few hours," Arthas said.
"I was just assuring young Robb of his sister's safety," Baelish said with a pleasant smile. "You can rest assured too, Your Grace, that Lady Sansa is well taken care of."
"Leaving?" Robb asked.
"The army is moving towards King's Landing to smash the Tyrells," Baelish said.
Myrcella frowned. "But… they have Tommen, Mother, and Joffrey."
"I know," Arthas said, grimacing. "I'll do everything I can to see them freed safely."
"Perhaps Ser Barristan has another Duskendale in him," Theon said with a hint of a smirk, but the respect was evident in his tone. "That old man fights better than that the rest of us, despite his age."
Myrcella stood and grabbed his hand. "Brother, I would ask a favor from you."
"You're my sister," Arthas said. "There's little I can deny you, you know this."
She bobbed her hair of spun gold. "It's… it's Lady Margaery." She bit her lip. "I know her family must be punished, but she was always kind to us in captivity. Tommen liked her… and even Joffrey cared for her comings, as strange as it sounds. Only Mother really disagreed with her, so they had to keep her locked up away from us in the Maidenvault." Myrcella shook her head. "If we can spare any kindness, I beg you to give it to her."
"I'll do what I can," Arthas said. He'd not allow some girl to be raped half a hundred times by the Mountain at least, before being butchered. A clean and painless death was her due, if Grandfather insisted on punishing the whole of House Tyrell.
He could do that much surely.
He turned to Robb. "How are you feeling? It can't be easy losing your sword hand."
Robb looked down at his right arm, which ended in a bandaged stump. "It's been… difficult, I guess. Adjusting." He looked up, a deep frown etched into his lips. "My father always said that the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. How am I to do that now? How am I to lead the north when Father passes?"
"You still have your other hand," Arthas said, "and you're still young enough to learn."
'It will take years," Robb said with a frustrated growl. "I… I can't even help protect my people from the wildlings anymore."
"You're still just a boy, Robb," Arthas said. "No one's expecting you to become Lord of Winterfell overnight. Do what you can, day by day, and it'll be enough." And if it wasn't, perhaps the Light would answer him again soon…
Robb's shoulders slumped. "I suppose."
"Well, if any of your lords try to give you trouble over it, you can remind them who it is you fought with at the Battle of Green Fork," Arthas said, grinning.
Robb cracked a smile at that. "What a sight that'll be. A boy of fifteen hundreds of miles away scaring the likes of the Greatjon."
"Nearly sixteen now," Arthas said. Light, has it really been that long since we left King's Landing?
"Have you heard? Jon's been making a name for himself in the north," Robb said proudly, seeming eager to change topics.
Lord Baelish's ears perked, his eyes glancing between them.
"What's he done?" Arthas asked.
"Saved Lord Hornwood's life," Robb said. "It was during the siege of Deepwood Motte and they were part of the first wave to take back the keep. He killed so many Ironborn, he might have seized the keep by himself if they let him!"
"Hearsay," Theon scoffed. "Jon's not that good, unless he's been holding back as much as Prince Arthas has?"
"Still," Arthas said, "I'm sure he was very brave. Rumors have a habit of growing is all, but they don't grow from nothing."
"The war in the north is going well then?" Baelish asked.
"As well as can be expected," Robb said. "We're holding the Wall against the wildlings still, and the Ironborn are being routed at every battle. Well, except Moat Cailin, but they damn near lost half their Iron Fleet trying to take it and when Lord Bolton reaches them, they'll be sorry they ever tried."
"That's good to hear," Baelish said. "These wildlings… would you consider them a threat? I've an interest in these things you see. I'd hate for it to be said that my wife cared not for her good-brother's family. There have been some nasty rumors at Eyrie I mean to put an end too."
"The threat beyond the Wall is dangerous beyond doubt," Arthas said. "They've not shown their true strength yet, but winter is coming."
Baelish hummed. "I suspect Lord Eddard is eager to ride north and deal with it soon then?"
Robb nodded. "After this business with Renly is put to rest, I expect he will."
"He's a brave man," Baelish said with a nod. "Your sister has told me much about you, Robb, and you too Prince Arthas. Sansa had nothing but praise."
"She speaks too kindly of me," Arthas said. "We've only known each other for a while."
"You've made quite the impression then," Baelish said. "She thinks you'd make a fine king."
"So do the stormlanders, and I needn't say what I think of it all," Robb added. "Besides, Father spends so much time with you, you'd think it was you that were his son and not I," he said in jest.
"Alas, I am the second son," Arthas said dryly. "There's still Stannis to deal with, and Balon Greyjoy once we defeat the Tyrells for good."
Baelish harrumphed. "I still cannot for the life of me understand what Lord Stannis was thinking. His claims of incest are farfetched." He shook his head. "If we're to believe every child that took after their mother was natural born, why even Lord Robb here would be disowned."
"It's strange, I admit," Myrcella said, "but… but Uncle Stannis never lies, not even when it benefits him to."
"Not that you know of," Baelish said. "All men are liars. Did you know, for example, that your uncle has taken up a strange eastern religion? He has in his employ a fire priestess of some sort, and burns septs and septons nightly to a demon named R'hllor."
Arthas frowned. "He burns people?"
"Well, it could be hearsay," Baelish said, dipping his head. "Whatever the case, we must be wary of Essosi influences at court. Varys too did not warn us of Renly's coup. I suspect he was in on it."
"There'll be an accounting," Arthas vowed. "From him, and from Uncle Stannis." These men who'd dared tear the realm asunder when a threat that would end all life was mounting an assault.
Baelish smiled.
So the race for the Iron Throne began that afternoon, with the clatter of hooves and the high lords of the realm and all their knights behind them. Onwards, ever onwards, through the hills of House Wode and the plains of House Hogg. The kingsroad led them south, paralleling the Gods Tear River which fed into Blackwater Rush.
Tyrek had insisted on riding with them, though no one would think less of him after the injuries he'd suffered. "It's just an ear," his cousin said while they rode side by side. "I don't need to hear that well to cut down your enemies."
"That's not what I keep you around for," Arthas said, grinning. "It's for your sense of humor."
"Ha-ha," Tyrek said, looking at the clear skies overhead. "Lord Tywin has mentioned knighting me soon for my actions at the Battle of the Green Fork. I'll be the first of our generation in the family to be knighted, at least after you."
"It's well-deserved," Arthas said honestly. Tyrek had not been the one to lead them on that disastrous charge, but he'd soldiered on admirably despite all odds. With men like him at his back, there was hope against the dead.
"He also wants me to marry soon," Tyrek said, less pleased with that thought, glancing at the dirt he was to inherit. "So I can take the lordship of Hayford."
"It's an important holding," Arthas said. Hayford Castle itself lay on the kingsroad, and was the last line of defense for King's Landing from a northern advance, while their domains stretched up until the riverland border, where Sow's Horn rested. "But you don't want to do it."
Tyrek shook his head. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I never expected to come into a lordship… but Lady Ermesande is a suckling babe. It feels strange, wedding a bride that cannot walk yet, that hasn't even been weaned. I'm expected to raise her like she's my daughter, yet am expected to sleep with her when she flowers?"
"It's normal to feel that way," Arthas said. "You do not have to do it if it does not suit you."
"Lord Tywin would find someone else, if not me," Tyrek said. "What would I do then? I doubt I would have a place in Casterly Rock if I defied him. This may be the only opportunity I have of coming into a lordship." He sighed, and looked at Arthas. "Is it wrong to want more from marriage?"
The sprawling mess that was King's Landing looked just as it had a year ago, and stranger still was that they'd made it so far unopposed. The crowned stag banners were flying from the walls alongside the Tyrell flowers. The city looked entirely unprepared for a siege, and even the gates were opened.
"Is this some sort of trap?" Eddard asked..
"Mayhaps they're surrendering?" Barristan said.
From the gates came a flag of parley—
"Joffrey?" Arthas asked, scarcely believing his own eyes.
It was not him, so much as who he rode with that caused the men of their host to murmur. To his right rode Mace Tyrell, dressed in green velvet trimmed with sable, not at all prepared for battle or even a trial by combat.
To Joffrey's right was Margaery Tyrell, Renly's queen. She was beautiful, fair as the Maiden herself, with a slender, but womanly figure and smooth, unblemished skin. Margaery graced the lords of the realm with a shy and sweet smile, her soft, curling brown hair bobbing. Atop her head was a crown of pale spun gold set with emeralds that sparkled when she turned her head.
It was a crown Arthas was familiar with. "That's our mother's crown," Arthas said.
"That is the queen's crown," Joffrey corrected with a wide smile. "My lords, you're just in time for my wedding."
