Chapter 11: The Rose-Gold Wedding
To say that the high lords of the realm were furious was like saying the Ironborn were cunts— technically correct, but still vastly understating the reality of the situation.
"My lords," Joffrey continued, "I invite you all to swear fealty to me."
"What of the Tyrells," Tywin said coolly.
"What of them?" Joffrey asked. "Lord Mace and his bannermen have all bent the knee. I couldn't very well take Margaery as my queen if she were a traitor's daughter."
"With respect, Your Grace," Eddard Stark said, "there are many who say she is."
"Oh? And are these men the king, or am I?" Joffrey asked.
"They rose up against you," Baelish offered. "They chained you up and crowned another in your place. Surely, Your Grace, some punishment must be levied on House Tyrell for this?"
An angry storm of assent came from the assembled lords behind them.
"And there has, my lords," Margaery said, placing a soft hand on Joffrey's arm. "My father must make recompense to my beloved."
Mace cleared his throat. "I understand the Crown's debtors have gotten impatient as of late?"
"Debtors? Is the Crown in debt?" Eddard asked, brows furrowing.
"Three million dragons or thereabouts," Tywin said.
"Three million?" Eddard repeated, mouth agape.
"That's to Lord Tywin," Baelish said, leaning forward in his saddle. "The Crown's total debt is more than double that—owed to Highgarden, the Iron Bank, several Tyroshi trading cartels, and even the Faith." He gave them a twist of a smile. "The High Septon haggles worse than a Dornish fishmonger."
Arthas was stunned. He'd known his father's excesses—the drinking, the feasting, the frequent tourneys—had to be paid for, but to such an extent?
"It grieves me greatly," Mace said, puffing his chest out, "to hear of these troubles. We will, of course, forgive the Crown's debts to us and pay off the High Septon. In addition, the debt owed to Lord Tywin by the Crown will be paid for by Highgarden's coffers—within a reasonable timeframe, of course."
"That's over four million dragons," Baelish noted. "No small dowry."
Clever, Arthas thought. Highgarden was nearly as wealthy as Casterly Rock, but where the Lannisters mined their wealth, the Tyrells grew it. By taking on the debt to Grandfather, House Lannister would lose no small sum if relentless war was pursued—and there'd be no cavernous vaults to seize after the war, for the wealth would be lost with the charred fields.
Margaery let her head dip. "House Tyrell only wishes to do its part, and put all this ugliness behind us."
"Ugliness," Arthas said, a frown resembling the word on his lips. "That's not the word I'd use for it, but go on."
"Brother," Joffrey said with a handsome smile, "you've been beyond loyal. I've heard how that treacherous worm Renly offered to make you a Lord Paramount, and you spat in his face in defiance! You've honored Father, fighting as he did at the Trident! I only wish I'd been there to see his face when he was gutted like a dog!"
Arthas frowned. "He was our uncle."
In a second, Joffrey's handsome smile slipped away to something inhuman. "He was a traitor who led my Margaery astray," Joffrey hissed.
"As you say, Brother," Arthas said.
Joffrey nodded, smiling a summer smile. "For your loyal service, I have decided to raise you into a Lord Paramount in your own right. You shall have all that Renly offered you—a Stark bride, Storm's End—and more!"
Arthas raised a brow. "Your Grace, I did not fight for honors or a lordship."
Not that he could reasonably refuse this olive branch, however suspect it seemed. Even Lord Stark would look at him askance, if he declined to become Lord of Storm's End, for his daughter would be marrying a prince and a Lord Paramount. Short of being matched to Joffrey himself, there was no greater honor to be bestowed.
"No," Joffrey said hurriedly, as if hurt at the implication. "You did it out of loyalty to me and I will never forget that. They already call you the Pious Prince, and come the morrow, they will have all the more reason for it. The High Septon will induct you into the Blessed canon."
Arthas blinked. "What?"
It was an honor, to be certain. Hugo of the Hill, first king of the Andals, who was said to have been crowned by the Father himself. There was Artys Arryn, who led the Andals to victory in the First Sacred Struggle and founded the Vale of Arryn as a kingdom that adhered to the Faith. Triston Hightower had raised the Starry Sept, and Baelor the Blessed's piety was widely known… but all those men had been long dead when they were honored. There was not, to Arthas' knowledge, any precedent of claiming a still living person as Blessed.
"As for you, Lord Baelish," Joffrey said, ignoring Arthas' dumbfounded expression, "you will be confirmed as the Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn. Your marriage to Lady Lysa fills us with great joy, and, of course, you will retain your position on the small council."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Baelish said, bowing with a slight smile that seemed to hint at more. "I am honored. The Vale bends the knee, of course, to the rightful king." He stepped to the side, rather pointedly away from Grandfather.
Blackfish raised a brow at that, but kept his silence.
"Grandfather—"
"Your Grace," Arthas interjected, "forgive me, but there is a matter of some urgency I bring before you. Our father is dead to a great threat beyond the Wall."
"The wildlings," Tywin scoffed.
"No, it was not wildlings," Arthas said, looking Joffrey dead in the eye. "It was the White Walkers."
Would he believe me? Arthas thought. He could feel the stares on the back of his neck prickling him. He'd told Lord Eddard and been disbelieved. He'd told Uncle Renly and been disbelieved. But Joffrey was his brother, his twin… surely he would…?
Joffrey laughed, but it was not unkind, more amused than anything else. "Well, of course he was," he said, utterly seriously and without a hint of mockery.
Arthas blinked. "You… you believe me?"
Joffrey's face twisted, as if he'd been hurt. "Of course I do! We're two halves of a coin, you and I," Joffrey said. "I'm the head that wears the crown, and you are the tail that brushes aside our enemies. The north will soon be our kinsmen and we will protect them as a herd of stags protects their own."
Arthas could scarcely believe it, and he was not alone.
"You believe your brother's fanciful tales?" Grandfather asked, raising a brow at him.
"What reason does he have to lie to me?" Joffrey asked. "And why is it more believable that some wildlings armed with sticks and harsh language could kill my father, where Rhaegar Targaryen and all the dragonsworn failed?" He turned to Arthas, eyes wide. "He was fierce, wasn't he? He fought bravely? Died nobly?"
Arthas bobbed his head. "As much as could be expected from anyone."
Joffrey smiled. "Good. That's good."
"But… Your Grace, White Walkers?" Blackfish repeated.
"Yes, White Walkers. They wield…" he looked to Arthas.
"Swords of sharp ice, and an army of the dead," Arthas said.
"A fitting adversary for Father," Joffrey said, a manic look in his eyes. "Yes, yes! They will feel the wrath of House Baratheon! You and I, Arthas! We'll bring all who dared oppose us to heel! First Balon Greyjoy, then Stannis, then our father's killers!"
"Balon Greyjoy does not want your crown, merely one of his own," Tywin said. "Your uncle Stannis does."
Joffrey waved his hand. "Stannis has less than ten thousand men to his name. He's of no immediate threat to us, and the people hate him for worshipping some fire demon. Balon Greyjoy has twenty thousand men and a grand fleet to carry them wherever he pleases."
"Less than that, after all the setbacks they've suffered in the north," Eddard said.
"The threat beyond the Wall has more than twenty thousand," Arthas said. "Countless thousands more."
Joffrey nodded his head eagerly in agreement. "But we will need to secure the realm—unite it to face this threat. If we leave Greyjoy to our rear unchecked, he'll burn our supplies and reave our shores. Will our men keep fighting in the north if they hear of it?" He tilted his head. "All he'd need to do is seize Moat Cailin once we're past it, and it would be a disaster."
That much was true.
"Lord Stark," Joffrey continued, "how long do you believe the Wall can hold out?"
"We've not heard from the Wall in some time," Eddard said slowly. "But my brother Benjen is the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and I've many men helping him hold the Wall. He would have asked for help if he thought it was needed."
"Time enough to deal with the Ironborn then," Joffrey said. "The Wall remains strong as ever, Arthas."
That it remained strong as ever was the problem.
"Perhaps," Margaery said, smiling warmly, "if it pleases Your Grace, Prince Arthas could be sent ahead to reinforce the Wall, help his good-father secure the north? It might alleviate some of his worries. Their banners are already gathered, and it would take but a few weeks to reach the Wall if they left now."
Nothing would please Arthas more. It served the Tyrells well if he left, for the lords behind him were angry still and Arthas was not blind to how well-liked he was. But as he opened his mouth, Joffrey cut him off.
"Don't be silly," he said. "I need Arthas here, by my side. He's my brother. I can't have him missing our wedding! I'll hear no more of that sort of talk."
Margaery dipped her head demurely, giving way.
"Grandfather," Joffrey said at last, "you were the first to call your banners for me."
"I was," Tywin said, tone cold, and his eyes held a burning rage. "And even now, while you take Lady Margaery as your queen, her father's own bannermen put my castle to siege."
"That has been put to a halt," Mace said.
Joffrey nodded. "I witnessed Lord Mace pen the letter myself and we sent the ravens out some days ago. You shall find Casterly Rock safe and whole when you return west."
"And Lord Tarly will withdraw at once?" Tywin asked.
"Ah," Joffrey said, "about that."
These aren't Joffrey's words, Arthas realized with a start as Joffrey spoke of bringing Balon's rebellion to heel with the Redwyne Fleet and the men under Tarly. These are Margaery's and Mace's.
Arthas held his breath, and for a moment, he thought his grandfather might call this whole farce off, order his knights to seize the Tyrells during truce, and put them all to the sword… But there was a reason Grandfather Tywin has been addressed after Lord Baelish and Arthas. The Tyrells had split off Tywin Lannister's support, and knew that honorable Lord Eddard and the Blackfish by extension would never aid and abet truce-breaking.
If Grandfather acted rashly now, he'd be acting alone, and there was a trap there waiting to be sprung.
"The Iron Islands have rebelled twice now," Joffrey said. "Once during my father's reign, and now again. That comes to an end. I will not stand to watch them attack my own good-sister's home!" He nodded to Eddard like a puppet on strings. "There will be no more Iron Islands after this.
"I beg your pardon?" Eddard asked.
"We will be annexing all of those islands with proper, civilized people," Joffrey said, narrowing his eyes. "People who will look to Casterly Rock for leadership—not Pyke."
Arthas stilled. Is he… is he talking about killing all of the Ironborn?
Eddard shared a glance with Arthas. "Your Grace, Balon Greyjoy has an heir who has proved true to your cause. He fought at the Battle of Green Fork and saved my son's life. For his deeds, Theon the True, my ward, was made a member of Prince Arthas' battleguard."
"Then he may keep his miserable little island once we've purged the dissidents," Joffrey said dismissively, "but the Ironborn will no longer rule themselves. They've proven to be utterly incapable of it. The Lord Paramountcy of the Greyjoys is at an end."
There will be rebellions for this, Arthas realized. It was a tempting olive branch offered to Tywin, but a poisoned one. Without the Ironborn, the westerlands could grow to become the predominant naval power in the west, and the greatest disruptions to trade would be no more. Yet, it would be the work of generations to see pacify the Ironborn, if it could be done at all.
It would also, Arthas noted, help placate the north, while strengthening the Reach indirectly. A compromise to benefit all parties in the newfound coalition in the long term.
"Nothing binds newfound friends together as tightly as a common enemy to despise," Father said. In Azeroth, the coming of the Horde had set humans, dwarf, and elf in common cause against the orcs.
Now, Joffrey would set all the kingdoms opposed to Highgarden against Pyke.
Growing strong indeed.
"Command will fall to me," Tywin said, eyes hardening.
"You are the Warden of the West, and the Hand of the King," Mace said. "My lords will obey you for the length of this campaign, within reason."
Eddard did not protest the loss of office. He'd never wanted it, and he could not be the Hand when he had to return north soon.
He'll bleed them, Arthas realized, looking up at his Grandfather's face. He'll storm every keep with them as the vanguard. The Ironborn were much diminished from the northern campaign—Jon Snow had been granted command to scout them from Stoney Shore, another notch on his belt after saving Lord Hornwood's life. Lord Roose Bolton was besieging the recently fallen Moat Cailin too. How many men had they left guard their holdfasts? Too few, in all likelihood—Balon's war would end without a single real victory for his side, but the walls would still take a steep toll on their men…
This would not be the end of it either. The Lannisters and Tyrells would clash for years on end under Joffrey's rule, a thousand daggers hidden in the shadows and smiles, but for now at least, there was a stay of execution masquerading as peace. That was all Arthas needed.
"Where is Mother?" Arthas asked. "I do not see her with you."
"Still in the Maidenvault on my orders," Joffrey said. "She's grown quite distressed, even after I announced to her my betrothal to Lady Margaery." He tilted his head. "You'd think she'd be happy, knowing her son was about to get married."
If it were anyone but a Tyrell, perhaps...
Other honors and pretty things were offered to placate the lords. The Tullys were given lowered taxes, with the absent Edmure Tully named the new master of laws, while the Blackfish was offered a white cloak of the Kingsguard. Joffrey also made idle note that the riverlands were now to be counted as the seventh kingdom in the stead of the Ironborn.
The north would not starve in the coming winter, and the Reach's storehouses would be opened to them once the campaign against the Ironborn ended.
Ser Barristan was restored as the Lord Commander, Bonnifer Hasty was offered the white cloak, alongside Robar Royce, and the Mountain too—whose last wife had died under mysterious circumstances… It left Arthas' battleguard all but disbanded, but that had always been a half-baked Kingsguard used as a crutch while there was no king to guard. The new Kingsguard was filled with men opposed to the Tyrells, save Garth Greysteel, the second son of Lord Hightower and uncle to the new queen.
They were smart enough not to return Loras to that office, knowing the outcry it would raise. Even disregarding his obvious loyalties, how could a man with a broken arm protect anybody?
Wardships were arranged, favorable marriages for loyalists to young heirs and heiresses considered, and the crownlands saw a new house join them in direct vassalage to the Iron Throne: the Footlys of Tumbleton. It made war between the riverlands and the Reach difficult as there remained a thin sliver of land connecting the two regions that did not belong to the newly expanded crownlands.
The agreement was meticulous and remarkably well thought out.
And utterly opposite of Joffrey.
This is all House Tyrell's olive tree, Arthas thought. They had gotten off light… Arthas might have thought his Grandfather's proposals extreme, but he would have done more than this himself—if he were king, but he was not king. This was a peace the lords could stomach... for now.
"Brother," Joffrey said, "will you not kneel and swear fealty?"
He could refuse, and the stormlords would follow him. Would Eddard, now that he had to return north soon? Would Grandfather, with new enemies to lash out at as he bided his time? Joffrey had heeded their warnings. What was the point of further war? Further bloodshed? An ugly chair and a pretty hat? He'd killed kin and king before, and it had been the ruin of his people.
There's no honor in this peace, Arthas thought, but he knelt before his brother, offering him their father's crown of stags. "You are the king. Long may you reign."
Honor would be the first casualty of this war.
—TheKingIsDead—
The bells of the city were ringing. Scented petals provided by the Tyrells were being thrown from the rooftops and windows by cheering smallfolk. They were calling him a hero as Ser Barristan and Bonnifer trailed after him up the winding road that circled Visenya's Hill.
The last time this had occurred, Arthas had gone on to kill his father in cold blood.
Barristan's gnarled hand latched onto his shoulder. "Are you alright, Your Grace? You paused all of a sudden."
Arthas took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Thank you for your concern, Ser Barristan. Today's results have left me in a contemplative mood, is all."
"Understandable," Bonnifer said. "It's not everyday someone living is inducted into the Blessed."
It was, in fact, without precedent. Not that Joffrey cared to listen when a group of the Most Devout protested the order, and realistically, there was little they could do when both the king and the High Septon were united against them.
They crossed beneath Baelor's statue, staring down at them, asking, "Are you worthy?" with his eyes.
"Lad, no one feels ready," Uther said, the night before he swore his paladin vows. "No one feels he deserves it. And you know why? Because no one does. It's grace, pure and simple. We are inherently unworthy, simply because we're human, and all human beings are flawed. So stand there today, as I did, feeling that you can't possibly deserve it or ever be worthy, and know that you're in the same place every single paladin has ever stood."
And for the first time, Arthas could believe, for but a moment, he was on the right path. The time for prayer and practice alone was at an end.
Now, it was time to act.
"Your Grace, if you don't mind me asking," Barristan said as they entered the Hall of Lamps and shut the doors behind them. The faint screams of "Baratheon" could still be heard through the heavy doors. "What does your cloak stand for? I've never seen this symbol—an open palm on silver?"
"The Silver Hand," Arthas said. "It's… a story, an ideal you could say, from beyond far Essos. They were a group of pious knights pledged to protect the weak, uphold justice, and walk the righteous path." He shook his head. "I know it must sound silly, but I always hoped to be one of them."
"I think it's admirable," Barristan said. "I'm sure whatever this group is, they'd be happy to have you."
"Thank you. That means a lot." Arthas blinked away the water in his eyes. He breathed out. "I'm ready."
Gods, this was all just good politics from the Tyrells but damned if they didn't know how to press his buttons. If he wasn't careful, he might actually come to like those conniving bastards.
—TheKingIsDead—
Arthas waited by the Dragon Gate, where Joffrey had received them. They'd been asked to stay until the wedding with Margaery took place, to be held on Joffrey's sixteenth nameday.
"What's taking so long?" Arthas asked, pacing from one end of the steel gate to the other.
"Patience, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said with a kind smile. "Lady Sansa is travelling in a carriage, not riding to war."
Arthas ran a hand through this hair. Uther always said patience had been the hardest thing to teach him. "Yes, yes, you're right. Forgive me." This whole business of peace left him in a foul mood. Arthas was the heir presumptive to the Iron Throne now, he supposed, until Margaery bore Joffrey a son. That made him rather important, and even now the Mountain would leer like Mandon had at anyone who thought to get too close to him.
"On the bright side," Robb said, tossing Grey Wind a bone to gnaw at, "a carriage won't be as slow as the queen's wheelhouse."
Arthas barked out a laugh. "Whatever happened to that damnable thing anyway? I hope Renly burned the thing or hacked it apart for firewood."
"I suspect not. Your uncle liked pretty things too much," Barristan said, "even if they were entirely impractical."
"Like the flower," said the Mountain suddenly, laughing quietly to himself.
"Pity that." Maybe Joffrey would consider it? Arthas shook his head and turned to Robb. "How's the hand treating you?" Arthas asked. "I heard that my uncle's taken to sparring with you even?"
Robb laughed. "He beats me harder than you ever did at Winterfell. Still, I'm grateful to Ser Jaime that he deems training with a one-handed lord like me a good use of his time, especially with his injured leg. I'm getting better though! If you don't keep practicing, I may just whip you in the yards one of these days."
It hadn't been entirely Uncle Jaime's idea, but asking seemed the least Arthas could do for the Starks after they'd risked so much for him and his.
Arthas smiled. "I look forward to it. Just name the time and place, when you're ready."
"Won't be for a while, I think," Robb said. "Maybe once Theon gets back from the Iron Islands."
The titular Lord of Pyke would be accompanying Grandfather Tywin and all of Arthas' Lannister cousins on his march west—Tyrek, Willem, and Martyn. He likely planned to give each of Ser Kevan's surviving sons a holdfast to rule over once the Ironborn were gone. Reports were still coming from the north of how the Ironborn were digging in despite the series of losses Jon was inflicting on them at Stoney Shore. Meanwhile, a force under Lord Bolton was keeping the Ironborn garrison at Moat Cailin pinned down, while Ryswell cavalry burned whatever beached boats they could find unprotected.
"Will you still be here?" Arthas asked. "Lord Eddard was going to march north after Joffrey's wedding, I thought." Balon's men that held onto their last beachheads in the north were not long for this world, it pleased Arthas to know.
Lord Caron would be leading some five thousand men to support the Starks as a vanguard when they returned north. He'd have offered more, but the logistics of it proved unsound until the Reach could redirect its storehouses from the Ironborn to the northern campaign.
"It was my idea," Robb said. "Bad enough that I will never be able to wield Ice properly, but I feel the northern lords won't accept me as I am now. They'll always remember this," —Robb lifted his stump of arm that rounded off at his wrist— "if I show up not even passable with a sword in hand."
"What'll you be doing while you're here?" Arthas asked.
Robb shrugged. "Besides training with Ser Jaime? I'm not sure yet. My uncle Edmure offered to make me Lord Commander of the City Watch. He means to make something of the gold cloaks, I think."
"That'll be the work of many months," Arthas said. "They're all rather useless, and prone to finding coins fall into their hands." Some stern and just Stark leadership would not be amiss. "If you're serious about it though, I can give you my thoughts on those men among the gold cloaks you can trust."
There weren't many of those, but they did exist. Ser Jacelyn Bywater, the Ironhand, was one. Not Slynt though. Lord Arryn had been investigating that butcher's son, but his witnesses had wound up dead. It reeked of something foul. Thankfully the man had already been summarily executed on Joffrey's orders for doing nothing during Renly's coup, alongside most of the senior officers.
Arthas shook his head. "Honestly, I hope you stay. If we don't fill that position soon, I think Joffrey might appoint Ramsay to it. The two of them are getting along exceedingly well."
Already he was hearing talk of how Ramsay might be made the new royal executioner—Ser Illyn Payne had been killed by Renly's loyalists before the royal carriage had returned to King's Landing. That would be something the bastard would greatly enjoy in all likelihood, especially if he were free to do what he wished with the prisoners beforehand. Ramsay spoke all too wistfully about House Bolton's history, enough that Arthas shuddered to think what damage he might do if put in charge of two thousand gold cloaks actually charged with actually keeping order.
Bad enough Joffrey refused to dismiss Varys. Apparently, the Spider had kept his brother abreast of the coming and goings of the war throughout his captivity, when he should have stopped it from happening altogether.
"Gods," Robb said, "but he is disquieting. If he is brave enough to do even half of what he says, I pity the traitors that'll end up in his tender care."
Sansa's carriage arrived at last, surrounded by two dozen knights from Lady Lysa's household. The carriage door swung open and—
Lady bounced out, presenting herself before Arthas, tail wagging. Arthas patted her head.
Sansa looked beautiful and innocent in her white wool dress with blue trimmings; a pristine thing entirely out of place with the filth on King's Landings' streets, not that she seemed to mind. She graced Arthas with a small smile, sweet as those lemon cakes she liked. "Prince Arthas," she said, curtseying and just as comely as Margaery Tyrell.
Robb nudged him forward with a smirk, and Arthas shot him a glare as he stumbled, before schooling his face into something more polite. "Lady Sansa," Arthas said, offering his arm to her. "You're… you're alright I hope? No one mistreated you?"
"Uncle Petyr was most kind to me," Sansa said. She had such vivid blue eyes and an eager to please face—not unlike Jaina when he'd first met her en route to Dalaran. "He ensured I was safely spirited away from Renly's grasp, and had a trusted man guarding me at all times."
"Good," Arthas said, letting out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "I'm glad."
She pulled away and gasped, rushing towards her brother. "Robb, your hand! What happened?"
Robb winced. "An Estermont knight got the better of me at the Battle of Green Fork. I'm lucky Theon was there and a hand was all I lost."
"Robb fought very bravely," Arthas said. "I could not have asked him for more."
"That's kind of you to say," Sansa said. She looked around. "Is my father not with you?"
"He's been scrambling all week trying to find a suitable nameday, nevermind a nameday and wedding gift, for my brother," Arthas said. All the lords had. A month simply wasn't a lot of time to find a gift worthy of royalty.
"You seem remarkably calm," Sansa said.
Arthas blinked. "Well, of course. I've never had to give my own brother a gift." He hadn't been expected to as a boy of fifteen, and it was his nameday as well. Though Joffrey had given him a sword, no matter how poorly made, the last time.
Sansa frowned at him. "You're a lord now, I'm told. Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Lord of Storm's End. You've gone to war and won a war." She placed a hand on her hip. "People will expect things from you."
"She has a point," Robb said. "I don't think there's a man in the Seven Kingdoms that'd dare say you were still a boy after the Battle of Green Fork. Not to your face at least."
A look of unprepared, horrified realization dawned on Arthas' face—like that time he'd forgotten to polish his armor before Uther's inspection. "Oh no." He was, frankly, rather shite at this gift-giving business, and left such matters for his sister Calia to arrange on his behalf.
Sansa sighed, and grabbed his arm. "Come on then. Petyr's been telling me all about this city, and I might as well help you look for a gift while I'm here. I hope you've got some dragons on you."
"I'm the son of a Lannister," Arthas answered.
Sansa, as it turned out, wanted to see everything King's Landing had to offer from the humblest bakers to the Great Sept of Baelor where Arthas liked to pray.
"Arthas was just inducted into the Blessed canon." Robb grinned. "I bet you there'll be a statue of him standing next to Baelor when we next visit."
"I doubt it," Arthas said. "The Most Devout disliked the idea of a living man being inducted as it is." And powerless as they were to stop that, they could cause all sorts of problems for the High Septon if he pushed for something like a statue as a visible reminder of their defeat. "You're supposed to be helping me find a gift."
"I am," Sansa said, studying Baelor's statue with keen interest. "We'll call this seeking out inspiration."
"Do we have to call you Arthas the Blessed now?" Robb asked with a shit-eating grin.
Arthas rolled his eyes. "You don't even follow the Light of the Seven."
"Light of the Seven," Sansa repeated. "You have a quirky way of referring to the Faith of the Seven." She smiled prettily. "Does the High Septon know of the heresies you espouse?"
"I'm Blessed now," Arthas said. "Apparently, that means I'm allowed to espouse heresy and call it doctrine under consideration."
For the next few days, Sansa would accompany him into the city, visiting the Street of Silver where all the jewellers and artisan smiths made their shops, or the Street of Looms where tapestries were put on display from the hands of local masters to those from Qohor, Norvos, and even Myr. Some days, Robb would come with them, scouting out the streets and getting a feel for the city.
On other days, it was just Arthas and Sansa—and the Mountain, but he never spoke a word and so didn't really count.
"How about a warhammer like yours?" Sansa asked as they walked along the Street of Steel, watching an apprentice pump heat into the furnace and making the fire roar. "King Joffrey gave you a sword like his on your last nameday, after all."
"I'm not sure he'd like that," Arthas said. "He's always preferred a sword, and lately he's come to like that new crossbow of his."
Sansa rolled her eyes. "Joffrey doesn't have to use it; he just has to like it. A hammer is good symbolism coming from you. You helped win his crown with one, and it'd be a show of fealty."
A show of fealty and a reminder to Joffrey who had bled to keep him on the throne—and who had bled to keep him off of it.
"Maybe one with a decorated grip," Arthas said, opening a door for her. "Shall we?"
The master smith who owned the shop quickly ran up to them, and bowed. "Your Grace, milady, welcome! How can I serve you today?"
"We're in need of a gift," Sansa said.
"Ah, yes, yes, of course! For the marriage of the king to Lady Margaery!" the smith said, nodding wisely. "You'll find the finest wares here—nothing but the best for the king and his beloved queen! You know, I've a sister down at the Street of Looms who makes Lady Margaery's dresses for her."
"Fascinating," Arthas drawled.
Sansa slapped him lightly on the arm. "Be nice."
"We'd like to see your warhammers," Arthas said. "If they're of good make, we might order one commissioned for the king."
The man gasped. "My work? In the hands of the king?" And he ran off inside his workshop while Arthas and Sansa waited.
"Margaery is well-loved by the smallfolk, you know," Sansa said.
"It hasn't entirely escaped my notice," Arthas said.
Margaery was often seen in the city, commissioning tapestries or dresses; having fresh fruits, bread, and fish distributed in her name among the residents of Flea Bottom; praying at the Great Sept or going on picnics with her army of ladies-in-waiting and knights. It all made for a splendid show, as splendid as any tourney Renly had thrown.
"She's invited me to go hawking," Sansa confessed.
"Did you accept?"
Sansa shook her head. "I told her I'd think about it. I know you and Father don't like the Tyrells, but Margaery's to be your good-sister soon. My good-sister as well. Maybe we ought to give peace a chance?"
"We are at peace," Arthas said. "And if you're looking for a good-sister to go hawking with, perhaps you can pull away Myrcella from Margaery's court."
"Yes," Sansa said, "it feels so very peaceful watching you glare at Lord Mace during dinner or batter his bannermen at the yards each afternoon."
"They're still alive, aren't they?" Arthas said, shaking his head. "It feels… wrong, making friends with them, rewarding them after they led the Seven Kingdoms into a war for their naked ambition. Everyone tells me we've won the war, because we won on the field, but I look around me and see a Tyrell queen to be and Tyrell knights and Tyrell courtiers." He looked outside, through a clear window. "It feels like we lost, in some ways."
"You've brought peace to most of the realm," Sansa said. "Your brother is king; you're the heir to the Iron Throne and a Lord Paramount. Surely that all counts for something?"
It did, that he could not deny. "Joffrey has not yet given me leave to ride north and help your family after the wedding." That's all I ever wanted… I would have let my uncle be king if he took my warnings of the threat beyond the Wall seriously even.
Sansa squeezed his hand. "You want to avenge your father. There's nothing wrong with that. Just be patient; I'm sure Joffrey will let you leave in time. He listens to you in every other matter."
"I hope you're right," Arthas said with a smile he didn't quite feel.
It still took the better part of a day with Sansa finding a master blacksmith who hadn't already been commissioned for some other work, but find one they did. It seemed older men could no more resist when she pierced their hearts with hopeful doe eyes.
In the end, they settled for a warhammer that was more decorative than anything—the crimson lion, golden stag, white wolf, and sapphire trout danced about its handle to symbolize Arthas and Sansa's heritage. That those families also happened to be the ones that fought for Joffrey was mere happenstance obviously, and no one could claim otherwise with the Arryn falcon missing.
The day of Joffrey's weddings, breakfast was held at the Queen's Ballroom within Maegor's Holdfast. It was an intimate affair, or as intimate as it could be in a room that seated a hundred men and women—many of whom had been trying to kill Arthas just a month ago. Present were all the members of nobility important enough to be invited, though the Tyrell women broke their fast separately with Margaery.
Well, all except one.
Lady Olenna Tyrell, Margaery's grandmother, was seated next to her son, much to the man's dismay.
High arched windows along the southern wall let beams of sunshine in, reflecting on the beaten silver mirrors behind the wall sconces to light up the room. It was a beautiful little room tucked inside the keep within a keep; a room Arthas had had dinner in since he was a little boy. Now, he'd have to share those dinners with Margaery Tyrell.
Arthas felt Sansa slip something into his hand beneath the table. It felt cold and hard, like metal. He glanced down at it, a brooch emblazoned with the golden stag and white direwolf.
"What's this?" Arthas asked.
She flushed. "I haven't forgotten that it's your nameday too."
"Oh." Arthas blinked, then smiled. "Thank you. Put it on me?"
As she pinned it to his chest, Mother—who's glare had not subsided since she'd been let out of the Maidenvault—gave Joffrey a threadbare, wedding cloak in the Lannister colors that had been passed down from Grandmother Joanna. Olenna Tyrell was heard to be complaining loudly about it to Mace, and was politely ignored by all present. She was said to be a senile woman in her sixties and near deaf after all.
"Now that's an interesting gift," Baelish said from besides Arthas.
"The golden wood bow?" Arthas asked. It came with a quiver of long arrows fletched with green and scarlet feathers.
"That's a goldenheart bow," Baelish corrected, "from the Summer Isles; rarely seen outside. Maester Yandel writes it is forbidden for their people to use such weapons against their own, for it is said to be able to pierce through plate armor like a scalding hot knife through butter. "
Arthas raised a brow at that. "Surely you jest? The draw weight alone could break a man's spine." Nevermind Joffrey's, not that he'd ever try to use it.
"There's some magic to it, I suppose," Baelish said. "But what I find more curious is who is giving it."
Arthas glanced at Jalabhar Xho, a hanger-on at court since Father's time. He was a dark skinned man with an extravagant feather cape whose plumage seemed like he was about to take flight. "The exiled Prince of the Red Flower Vale? What about him?"
Baelish laughed. "I suppose Grandmaester Pycelle hasn't had time to cover the customs of their people." He took a sip of Arbor gold before continuing, "They have an odd way of making war in those quaint islands of theirs. High ritualized duels where the loser is exiled."
Jalabhar would have been one of those exiles then. "Sounds like a trial by combat," Arthas said. That sounded altogether better than smashing armies into each other, more akin to how Lordaeron's wars focused on champions.
"An apt comparison," Baelish said. "Jalabhar has spent his time at court begging King Robert for gold and swords to take back his lost lands. We always put it off, of course."
"Perhaps the wisest thing Father did, given how much debt we're in," Arthas said.
"Quite so," Baelish said. "I suspect our exiled prince thinks he'll have more success convincing your brother."
"Surely not," Arthas said. "We've problems enough at home without getting entangled in foreign misadventures." Unless these Summer Islands proved to be another Kalimdor, and that struck Arthas all too unlikely. Knowing Jalabhar intended to make war on his own people, in defiance of their customs… it made Arthas think less of the colorful character.
Uncle Jaime gave Joffrey silver spurs, from Ser Kevan came a magnificent red leather jousting saddle, and Lord Eddard offered a warhorse of impeccable breeding—a colt that had survived the Battle of Green Fork. It was unthinkable to the lords that Joffrey would not one day be a knight—all kings were knights, and kings that weren't were weak kings.
They didn't know his brother, or perhaps didn't care to know his brother.
Prince Oberyn, representing Prince Doran Martell, gifted Joffrey a red gold brooch wrought in the shape of a scorpion. Uncle Tyrion presented a huge old book called Lives of Four Kings, bound in leather and gorgeously illuminated.
"Grand Maester Kaeth's history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good," Tyrion said, which Joffrey promptly ignored and set aside.
Mace Tyrell's gift was expensive, but traditional. A golden chalice three feet tall, with two ornate curved handles and seven faces glittering with gemstones. "Seven faces for Your Grace's seven kingdoms," he explained, showing how each face bore the sigil of one of the great houses: ruby lion, emerald rose, onyx stag, silver trout, blue jade falcon, opal sun, and pearl direwolf.
Lord Paxter Redwyne brought forth a beautiful redwood model of the war galley of two hundred oars being built even now on the Arbor. "If it pleases Your Grace, she will be called King Joffrey's Valor," he said, and Joffrey allowed that he was very pleased indeed.
Arthas tried not to snort. Valor? You made peace with our enemies and snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.
Still, the Redwynes were now an indispensable asset to the Crown. Westeros was home to three great fleets: the Iron Fleet, the Royal Fleet, and the Redwyne Fleet—two of which were now in open rebellion. There had been no other viable choice for their master of ships, not if they ever wanted to project strength at sea against Balon Greyjoy and Stannis.
Lord Baelish went next, holding out a Valyrian steel dagger with a golden hilt, and a smile that looked even sharper to go with it. "I remember how envious you looked of a similar dagger King Robert won from me during the tourney for your last nameday, Your Grace," Baelish said.
"Father, are you alright?" Sansa asked besides Arthas.
"Yes," Eddard croaked out, reaching for a goblet with trembling hands.
A red silk tourney pavilion was Lord Mathis Rowan's gift.
Sansa whispered into his ear. "For a Baratheon wedding to a Tyrell, there seems to be a lot of red going around."
"The lords seem to forget we're Baratheons, not Lannisters," Arthas said in a low voice. Rowan's gift was in stark contrast to Father's pavilion which was all of golden silk.
Baelish made a face. "How subtle."
Arthas glanced at him. "Is something the matter, Lord Baelish?"
"Ah," —Baelish picked at his plate— "I shouldn't say. It's not for polite company."
"I'd hear your thoughts regardless," Arthas said.
"Well, it's interesting, isn't it?" Baelish asked. "Lord Rowan supported the Targaryens the same as all the other Reach lords, and when I overheard your grandfather explain the murders of Prince Doran's nephew and niece… well, Rowan was none too pleased to hear him blame Amory Lorch, and now he's given your brother the biggest piece of red cloth one could to another."
Arthas remembered that detestable story well. During the Sack of King's Landing, Lord Tywin presented the mutilated corpses of baby Aegon and young Rhaenys to Father, wrapped in crimson Lannister cloaks to hide the blood.
They'd taken this throne over the corpses of children.
Arthas shifted in his seat uneasily. "You ought to be careful what you say."
"Of course, Your Grace, forgive me," Baelish said with a wry smile. "Nothing but idle speculation."
He glanced at the Lord of Goldengrove, whose wife was a Redwyne and whose cousin married the heir to Hightower, who was kin to the Tyrells in more ways than one. Were they all Targaryen sympathizers, perhaps? Varys had been whispering of horse lords and dragons flocking to the exiled Viserys in Essos.
Perhaps binding the Tyrells to them this way was for the best. Westeros could not afford another prolonged war, and if the Tyrells had an interest in keeping Joffrey on the throne, their vassals would be less likely to raise their banners for Viserys.
Or perhaps they're simply biding their time. Viserys is unwed yet, Arthas thought grimly, and they've shown themselves happy to have their precious rose marry one king after another as it suits them.
Finally, Grandfather approached Joffrey and presented him a crown, larger and more splendid than the one Arthas had brought south of the Wall. Golden lions and stags seemed to be running across a field of roses.
To Arthas, they seemed to be trampling the field of roses.
Joffrey reached for it eagerly and placed it atop his head, to Lady Olenna's displeasure again.
As the breakfast ended, a servant in green liveries approached and bowed. "Your Grace, Lady Olenna has invited you to a midmorning tea, if it pleases you." They had a few hours still before the marriage ceremony would take place at the Great Sept of Baelor at midday.
"It does not please me at all," Arthas said.
"Arthas!" Sansa hissed, gripping his arm.
He sighed. "But I suppose I ought to."
"Be nice," Sansa said. "She's an old woman."
Lady Olenna was waiting by the doors, leaning on her cane, while a pair of ladies attended to her. She stared him down for a long while, assessing him with too-sharp eyes. "I hope," she said, breath smelling sour, "that you don't think I'm going to call you Prince Arthas the Blessed." She began to hobble away, leaving Arthas to follow. "It's really quite a mouthful, and frankly when you get to my age, dear boy, you simply don't have the time to waste on such things."
"Call me whatever you like," Arthas said, keeping pace with her. "Just do not call me your dear boy."
"Oh? But you are a boy. Why would I call you something you aren't?" Olenna said. "Or do you think being in a single battle will win you any respect from me?"
"I beat your grandson in single combat," Arthas said.
"Loras," Olenna said, "is a boy as well, fond of playing with swords as if they were toys."
"He ought to play more often than if he lost to me," Arthas said. "A boy, as you say, who just turned sixteen today."
"So you are a boy then?"
"Did you come to play word games with me? I thought you had something important to say. At your age, you simply don't have the time to waste on such things."
She offered him a toothless smile. "You don't like me."
"I don't like the Tyrells," Arthas said. "You just happen to be one."
"You don't like this peace your brother brokered," Olenna noted.
"You mean this peace whispered to him by your granddaughter? By your son?" Arthas asked.
"Oh," Olenna said, "you think too highly of Mace, the bumbling fool that he is. He proved smart enough at least to be able to repeat the words to King Joffrey."
Arthas blinked, then narrowed his eyes at her. Perhaps not such a senile old woman after all.
"Wisdom is the greatest gift of all," Olenna said dryly, clearly amused by his reaction. "But young men like you are all about the glimmer and glamour; no appreciation for the finer things in life. So tell me, what is it you want, Arthas?"
"Agreements are made between the strong," Tywin said. "The weak are left to bow their heads meekly, waiting for scraps."
She fears me, Arthas thought, and what I might come to represent—an alternative.
"I want to save my people," Arthas said, looking her in the eye, "and for peace to prevail, there must be war."
"What an odd thing to say," Olenna said. "Will you be telling me next how you fucked a girl to preserve her maidenhood?"
"I do not speak of war with you and your kin," Arthas said. "You're nothing to me. Why would I waste the lives of good men on the likes of you? No, the war I speak of will be in the north."
"Ah, this threat beyond the Wall you like to speak of," Olenna said. "You really believe it, don't you? That the Others are coming for us?" She laughed. "Fairy tales! Mayhaps you are still a boy—you and your brother both."
"When winter comes for us, when the snows touch Highgarden, and the dead rise to their feet," Arthas said, "remember this day. Remember what you said to me."
"I doubt I will," Olenna said, chuckling. "I'm very old, you see."
He did not speak with her for the rest of the day. Joffrey's wedding was a splendid affair, filled with laughter and frolics and food, but he took pleasure in none of it.
After all, why would he celebrate a Tyrell queen, even if she were a pretty one?
