Chapter 12: Treason

Arthas had to admit that Joffrey and Margaery made for a handsome pair, even if he was convinced that the Tyrells were rotten to the core.

Margaery was draped in ivory silk and Myrish lace, her skirts decorated with floral patterns picked out in seed pearls. If she had any sense of propriety, she ought to have worn Baratheon colors—gold and black—to remember her late husband by or to mark her pending marriage to Joffrey. Instead, she came in a maiden's cloak made of a hundred cloth-of-gold roses sewn to velvet green.

As if dressing in Tyrell colors wiped away the sins of her house.

Was she even a maiden? Arthas wondered. Insinuations had been made in the days leading up to the wedding, but Joffrey could not be moved by Grandfather's words or Mother's shrieks, and Arthas held his peace to keep the peace.

Joffrey might have considered it had his brother been the one to ask, but it had been months since Renly wed the Tyrell, and Margaery's stomach remained flat and her figure slender. She did not suffer from morning sickness or craved strange foods like Arthas recalled when Mother bore Tommen, and she did try to find proof otherwise.

The seven vows, blessings, and promises were uttered before the High Septon and his gaudy crown of gold and crystal. When the wedding song had been sung, the challenge was issued.

Arthas' eyes were drawn to his mother, who he thought might have stood and raged and cursed this sham. But his grandfather kept her under check with a stern gaze and a firm hand as Mace Tyrell stepped forward to tenderly remove his daughter's maiden cloak. Joffrey accepted the folded bride's cloak from Arthas and shook it out with a flourish. His brother was taller at sixteen than Margaery was at nineteen. He draped his bride in crimson-and-gold, then leaned close to fasten it at her throat.

And ever so easily, the Tyrells went from traitors to true friends of the Crown.

"With this kiss I pledge my love!" Joffrey declared, and Margaery echoed his words. They shared a kiss, and when they pulled apart, the rainbow lights danced upon the HIgh Septon's crown as he declared them to be one flesh, one heart, one soul.

Garth Greysteel and Ser Barristan led the procession from the sept in their white armor and silver cloaks. A small army of gold cloaks lined the streets all the way to the Red Keep, keeping the cheering crowds of smallfolk at bay. It was of some small comfort to Arthas that the shouts of "Baratheon" were a tad louder and longer than those of "Tyrell".

Behind the knights followed Tommen and Myrcella, scattering rose petals from baskets before the king and queen. Tommen was all smiles, while Myrcella kept shooting the Lord Commander of the City Watch looks and glances.

Joffrey looked splendid in a doublet of gold, over which rested a cloak of black velvet blazoned with the crowned stag of their father. The crown rested easily on his curls, gold on gold, and a smaller circlet depicting just the field of roses from Joffrey's crown graced Margaery's head, courtesy of Grandfather Tywin.

After the royal couple went Arthas and Sansa, at Joffrey's insistence, holding the edge of their cloaks to prevent it from touching the filthy streets. Following behind was Mother and Lord Tyrell, though she had refused to even offer her arm to the latter, which did not go unnoticed by the crowd. Alerie Tyrell came next with Uncle Jaime, who at least locked arms together, though neither looked at each other all that much, from what Arthas could see. The Queen of Thorns, Olenna, hobbled forward with a cane and the help of Grandfather, each whispering to the other. They were all smiles to the crowd, but Arthas did not doubt each word shared was a verbal knife.

"It was a beautiful ceremony," Sansa whispered to Arthas, smiling as she nudged him with her elbows.

Arthas couldn't help but smile back.

They were the first to offer their congratulations to Joffrey and Margaery atop the steps that fronted on the broad marble plaza. He kissed Margaery's fingers and offered meaningless platitudes, and when he came upon Joffrey, he was pulled into a warm embrace. "I'm glad you're here," his brother whispered, pulling back with an aura of contentment

Margaery and Sansa took a while longer to finish sharing words, giggling over jokes neither twin cared to understand, before they stepped aside to let others wish them happiness.

The time spent had baked their litter under the sun for so long, a whole stag might as well have been cooked. Even the cushioned seat emanated heat before his hand even touched it.

"I'm not getting in that," Arthas said, frowning in displeasure. He whistled, sweet and sharp, and Tansy came strutting along, showing off his gorgeous black coat to the crowd of well-wishers. He offered her his hand. "Would you like to ride with me?"

Sansa hummed, rubbing Tansy's muzzle, before mounting the horse on her own with the ease of a practiced rider. "Coming?" she asked.

"Tansy usually doesn't let just anyone ride him," Arthas said as he mounted the horse from behind Sansa, and took the reins from her hands.

"Tansy likes his carrots," Sansa said, rubbing the horse down. "Don't you, boy?"

Tansy neighed.

"Have you been feeding my horse behind my back?" Arthas asked.

"Would I do that?" she asked innocently. "How would I even know when Tansy's in the stables or not?"

Arthas sighed. "Tyrek told you, didn't he?"

"He's not very good at keeping secrets from me." Her rich autumn braid swung as Tansy cantered forward. Her direwolf, Lady, kept pace besides them, whining slightly at the state of the capital's streets. "I think your sister has a crush on Robb. She was glancing at him all throughout the ceremony."

"Perhaps it's the uniform," Arthas said. Robb looked surprisingly good in gold as it made his red hair stand out. "It can make a man look dashing enough, I suppose."

Sansa waved at a little girl with flowers in her hair. "No, it can't be that. She looked at Robb the same way when we were in Winterfell."

"True enough," Arthas said, waving as well to some boys lining the streets.

Sansa leaned back slightly into his chest, and nodded. "I ought to invite my brother to tea one day, mayhaps seat him next to her."

Arthas snorted. "Best not to get my sister's hopes up. A match is unlikely."

"But it'll be so romantic," Sansa said, a hint of playfulness in her tone. "Forbidden loves make for the best stories."

"It's far from forbidden," Arthas said. "Just politically unwise."

"Which is as good as forbidden when your grandfather is Tywin Lannister," she pointed out with a hint of sullenness.

"Forbidden love never ends like the stories anyway," Arthas said, thinking back to Calia. His sister had sworn vows with a lowly footman before a priestess in the dark of night once. They had a daughter, he was told eventually, but she was sent away to be raised by the father, far away from Lordaeron and kept ignorant of her birthright.

He'd learned of this only years later, when it was promised that his niece would be acknowledged and his good-brother raised to nobility once Arthas was wed and had bred. He'd never married, so it had never come to pass.

"Oh?" Sansa turned her face to the side so he could see her raised brow. "And you'd know how?"

"History," Arthas said. "Duncan Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonflies, married a lowborn woman and had to renounce the throne. Duty and love are oft at odds with each other."

"My mother wasn't supposed to marry my father either," Sansa said. "She was supposed to marry my uncle."

But Brandon Stark burned, Arthas thought. "And so she married for duty."

"For duty," Sansa agreed with a nod, "but my parents came to love each other with time. They need not always be at odds."

That much Arthas couldn't deny. "You have a point."

Sansa turned her eyes to the gold cloaks lining the streets. "My brother's been training them quite hard."

"They need to be ready," Arthas said. "There've been dark rumors of late in the kingswood. Not fit for a lady's ears."

"I'm a Stark, not some southron rose," Sansa said. Lady brushed his leg, baring her fangs as if to make Sansa's point. "My father says we do not shy away from these things."

"If you're sure," Arthas said as they rode beneath the Red Keep's spiked portcullis. "They've been finding bodies mauled at by wild animals, according to Robb. It's ugly business all around. We may be seeing the rise of another Kingswood Brotherhood."

"Is that why Margaery's not asked me to go hawking in a while?" Sansa asked.

"Yes."

"But Joffrey still goes hunting," Sansa said.

Arthas sighed. "My brother refuses to show fear to anything if he can help it. Not after Renly. I've begged him not to, but he is the king and better protected than most." He dismounted from Tansy, and helped Sansa down as a matter of courtesy, not that she needed it.

"We ought to go change before the wedding feast," she said. "I'll see you there."

TheKingIsDead—

A stream of guests ambled towards the throne room where the wedding feast would be held. Some were already seated on the benches inside, while others milled by the front of the doors, making polite chatter. Arthas greeted Lord Eddard, then pried Sansa from him to perform the necessary courtesies expected of a Lord Paramount around the yard.

"A fine evening to you, Lady Sansa, Prince Arthas," greeted Beric Dondarrion. "If you'll pardon me for speaking out of turn, the other lords have been wondering when we'll be marching north?"

"If the king is amenable," Arthas said, "hopefully we will march with Lord Eddard when he departs." He noted the frown on the stormlander's lips. "Is there a problem?"

"No, nothing, it's just—" he glanced at Mace Tyrell sharing words with Ser Kevan, "—there are concerns over the logistics. The men are eager to prove their worth to you, Your Grace. Perhaps the queen's family can be convinced to open their storehouses earlier?"

"A prudent thought," Arthas said. "The men are growing restless?"

Beric pursed his lips. "A little. Lord Byrce Caron is leading the vanguard, while Selmy and Swann men are investing Storm's End to take it back from Stannis. Which of your enemies are left for the rest of us to fight?"

Stannis taking Storm's End had come as a surprise. Rumors attributed his victory to some manner of heathen sorcery, and a great trail of smoke had been seen wafting over the ancestral seat of their forefathers. All the while, Joffrey continued to refuse Arthas leave to ride to any of the current fronts—a burden the remaining storm lords in the city shared with him by proxy.

"Lord Dondarrion," Sansa said with a tilt of her head, "I hear you fought with Prince Arthas personally at the Battle of Green Fork."

"I did," Beric said, looking down at his feet.

"You fought valiantly, or so Arthas tells me," Sansa said, giving Arthas a sidelong glance. "We are glad to have you on our side tonight."

"Thank you, my lady."

They continued to make their rounds. Sansa complimented some Tyrell girl's gown, told Lord Gyles that his cough was sounding better, and made the three Royces present beam when she praised their valor and noted how good it was to see Bronze Yohn getting strong again.

"Tyrek! It's good to see you again," Sansa said. "How was your visit to Hayford?"

"It's a fine keep," Tyrek said, grinning at her. "Not too far from here—a half day's ride north, sitting upon a hilltop with the loveliest little stream running alongside the castle."

Arthas blinked. "Why is it Sansa knows more about what you've been up to than I do?"

"Don't be jealous," Sansa said.

"You've been too busy of late with Joffrey," Tyrek gently chided. "Between your meetings, leading your stormlanders in morning prayer, beating the Reach knights in the yards each day, and your daily strolls with Sansa, we haven't really had that much time together recently."

Arthas' eyes bounced between his betrothed and his best friend. "And what is it you two talk about?"

"Oh, we trade gossip about you," Tyrek said shamelessly.

"Like when I leave my horse unattended?" Arthas asked.

Tyrek scoffed. "That doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of it."

"Your Grace!" Sansa exclaimed in courtesy as Cersei Lannister and Uncle Jaime neared the trio. His mother had many fine green gowns that matched her eyes, but tonight she wore a cloth-of-gold gown slashed in burgundy velvet. On her, it was still stunning, and stunningly expensive. "You look positively radiant in that dress. You must tell me where you bought it from."

Mother's smile to Sansa was tight. "Perhaps another time, my darling. I'd like a moment alone with my son."

"I—of course," Sansa said, her smile faltering slightly. "Come, Tyrek, let's give them a moment."

Mother watched them leave, before turning to Arthas. She inspected every inch of him, before clicking her tongue. "You really ought to eat more. You'll need the energy to battle wits with all our enemies."

"You're looking well too, Mother," Arthas said.

Mother frowned at him. "Joffrey needs you to protect him, like Jaime protects me. You always had a special bond, but now you're the only one he truly trusts."

"Joffrey has the Kingsguard, which Uncle Jaime is part of."

"We protect him from the daggers hiding in the shadows," Jaime said, "but he doesn't listen to Ser Barristan even. We cannot protect him from himself, or countermand him when he sends us away while he hunts."

"Nor guard him from the daggers behind smiles," Mother said, her arms sweeping across the room. "Just look at the people he's surrounded himself with: a bastard, a eunuch, and a whore—none of whom we can trust."

The whore, Arthas supposed, was Margaery. "Those are dangerous words to speak at a wedding," Arthas said, keeping his voice low. Wars had been fought over lesser insults, and they could scarcely afford another one.

Mother scoffed. "It's the truth!" she insisted. "Just look at how Margaery endears herself—not Joffrey—to the smallfolk. No, you are the last of his advisors that will keep his best interests at heart."

"You keep his best interests at heart," Arthas said.

"You know he hasn't listened to me since we were taken captive," Mother said irritably. "I warned him of Margaery, and I've warned him about Snow. He refused my counsel both times. There are plots afoot in this stinking city—Varys and his half-truths, seeking to supplant us, Littlefinger and his half-lies, as loyal as his upjumped sellsword of a grandfather!"

"He's a Lord Regent now," Arthas said.

"Another mistake whispered by the Tyrells," Mother said. "Do they think he'll remain loyal to them? I'd wager dragons to coppers that even now, he's trying to bring them down. They forget his roots, but I do not. Blood always tells, in the end."

"Lord Baelish keeps the Vale on our side," Arthas said. "They would not have called their banners in Joffrey's favor if not for him."

She narrowed her eyes, a pair of hardening emeralds. "Do not mistake that for friendship, or loyalty. He's profited much from his duplicity."

Arthas looked dubious. "He brought Sansa and Arya safely to us, risking his life against Renly to do so."

"Is that what you think happened?"

"Isn't it?" Arthas asked, raising a brow is askance.

"My warnings ever fall on deaf ears, I see." She sighed. "Be on guard, always. Even weddings can be dangerous affairs." Mother tilted her head towards the high table. "Look there. See how our enemies close in all around us? There's the real danger, not Stannis or Balon Greyjoy."

You worry about the wrong threats, Arthas thought. "There's the threat to the north."

"The north can go rot," Cersei said. "Your family must come first."

"The Starks will be kin to us soon," Uncle Jaime said.

Cersei laughed bitterly. "Will that matter? Margaery Tyrell is marrying my son, but does that make her family any less of a threat to ours?"

"Marriages are how alliances are made," Arthas said.

"Allies," she repeated. "Stamp that silly notion out of your head this instant. There are only the strong, and those they crush underfoot. House Lannnister is strongest, and I intend to see it remain the strongest."

Arthas frowned. Not even his father Terenas had ruled the lords of Lordaeron this way, and his power far surpassed the Iron Throne's control over the Lords Paramount. "We are strongest, but not so strong as to spite the entire realm. Alliances—compromises must be made."

She faced them, disappointment etched in the grooves of her stony, alabaster face. "A true man does what he will, not what he must. The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy. I thought you understood this." Then she wheeled away, shoes clacking loudly against the stone, leaving Uncle Jaime behind with Arthas.

"That was positively restrained of her, believe it or not," Jaime said with wry amusement. "As upset as she is in Joffrey, I suppose she's hoping to find some common ground with you."

"Perhaps," said Arthas with a nod. "How's your leg, uncle?"

"I'm nearly healed," Jaime said, his easy smile turning to a frown, "though the Warden of the West still deems me unfit for the Ironborn campaign"

"I should hope so," Arthas said. "He's already taking all my cousins with him. Besides, other than Grandfather, you seem to be the only one who can keep Mother from wringing Margaery's little neck from her dainty shoulders."

Jaime winced. "That would be a disaster."

"That depends entirely on who you ask," Arthas mulled, spotting Olenna Tyrell from the corner of his eye complimenting Sansa's choice of jewelry for the evening, and straightening out her hair net.

"They've really managed to worm their way into forgiveness, haven't they?" Jaime asked. "I've never seen Joffrey treat anyone with such warmth other than you."

"Not entirely, but give them a few more weeks and they may very well succeed with all our friends," Arthas said. "And Joffrey is Joffrey. He knows who his family is."

Margaery was proving charming enough though, as day by day she seemed to whittle away at the hatred men held for her in their hearts. Much like at the parley, she struck at those in their coalition most susceptible to her charms—the ladies at court, and the men of the rivers and vales. After all, northerners didn't think much of flattery and did not bring daughters or wives on campaign, while the lords of the west dared not think well of her with Grandfather still looming large. And the stormlanders seemed to hold the Tyrells and their lords at a polite distance, either out of their newfound loyalty to him, or out of distaste for all that had transpired with Renly.

She'd been his queen, after all, and those who had cheered and feted her mummery when Renly wed her were the least disposed to see her play again with another Baratheon.

Arthas sighed. "For better or worse, we need the Reach. Without their grain, our armies would starve in the north or leave people in famine." Either would be disastrous in a war against the undead.

"I suppose you're right," Jaime said. "Doesn't make it any less odd to be the ones on the back foot."

"How's Robb Stark coming along?" Arthas asked to change the subject. Uncle or not, talk of politics quickly built a poor taste in his mouth.

"We make a fine pair of cripples in the training yard. I have to admit, even one-handed, training him hasn't been a complete chore," Jaime said. "Not quite as talented as you, but give him a few years and he'll be a match for any lord with a sword."

"High praise coming from you," Arthas said.

Jaime shrugged. "He pushes himself to excel. I can respect that. Too many fool boys think talent is all there is to swordwork, that putting in a few hours each day is somehow enough to become great." He smirked. "Most of them will still beat him in the yards, but he'll surpass them all one day, much like you did."

"I'm glad to hear that." Arthas noticed Sansa had finished speaking with the Queen of Thorns. "I ought to go get her before another flower latches onto her."

"And I ought to tend to your mother, as I always seem to."

Torches burned in every sconce of the throne room, illuminating the faces of guests as they stood along the tables. Heralds called out the names and titles of the lords and ladies making their entrance. Pages in the royal livery escorted them down the broad central aisle. The gallery

above was packed with musicians; drummers and pipers and fiddlers, strings and horns and skins.

Arthas escorted Sansa to a raised dais beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne. There stood the high table where she'd be seated besides him and her father. Uncle Tyrion came waddling in after them, accompanying Olenna Tyrell, who shuffled along with tiny little steps. A pair of seven-foot-tall guardsmen in Tyrell colors flanked them. Long silk streamers of Baratheon gold, Lannister crimson, and Tyrell green fluttered with the flickering candles each time a breeze came in.

Finally, Joffrey and Margaery rode into the throne room on matching white chargers, pages running before them to throw more rose petals under their hooves. They'd both changed out of their clothes from the sept, with Margaery now in pale green samite with a tight-laced bodice that bared her shoulders and hinted southwards to her slight breasts.

Sers Barristan, Brynden, Garth, and Robar escorted them to the seats of honor—Joffrey to Arthas' immediate left and his bride one seat further away. Joffrey received loving kisses on the cheek from the bride's father and her brothers—the broad-shouldered Garlan and crippled Willas. Grandfather and Ser Kevan did the same for Margaery, though with far less affection, and then it was Arthas' turn.

"Your youngest brother is missing," he noted between kisses.

"Loras ought to be at Highgarden by now," Margaery answered. "His broken arm hurts terribly much, and we felt he'd be more at ease there."

Arthas resisted the urge to cough. Small wonder the disgraced commander of Renly's guard thought King's Landing unwelcoming to an arch traitor.

After a quick prayer led by the High Septon, Joffrey proclaimed for the cups to be filled. It took a whole flagon of dark Arbor red to fill the golden wedding chalice he'd been gifted by Lord Tyrell earlier that morning. He lifted it with both hands. "To my wife the queen!"

"Margaery!" the hall shouted back at him, though it was loudest from the Reach contingent, and more a mumble from the sections where stags, lions, and wolves prowled.

The first dish was a creamy soup of mushrooms and buttered snails, served in gilded bowls. Sansa took three spoonfuls besides him, before pushing it away.

"Not to your liking?" Arthas asked.

"We've seventy-six more courses to go," Sansa said, then smiled wryly. "It's a bit much, isn't it?"

"The Tyrells are paying for it all," Arthas said, adding, "and whatever we don't eat, they'll send to the poor by the good graces of Margaery."

Margaery giggled at something Joffrey had said, and they shared a drink from the great seven-sided wedding chalice. On her side of the table was a proud Lord Mace, the handsome, silver-haired Lady Alerie, the unassuming Lord Baelish, the fat eunuch known as Varys the Spider, and Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper. It said quite a bit about the Reach's popularity that a Dornishman was seated with their ancient Tyrell rivals.

Singers sang songs to flatter them—"A Rose of Gold" for the Tyrells, "The Rains of Castamere" for Grandfather, "Mother Maiden, and Crone" for the High Septon, and "My Lady Wife" for all the little girls and boys who dreamed summer dreams.

Arthas listened idly while chewing on sweetcorn fritters and hot oatbread baked with bits of date, apple, and orange. It was only when he began to work upon a rib of wild boar that greybeard Hamish the Harper announced a song "ne'er before heard in all the Seven Kingdoms." It was a fast-paced song, half mocking the Ironborn for their foolish ways and half praising the valor of those who fought them.

Distractions came quick thereafter, a flood of delicious food, free-flowing spirits; singers from two continents, pipers and trained dogs, sword swallowers, pyromancers, and a juggler.

A dish of buttered pease, chopped nuts, and slivers of swan poached in a sauce of saffron

and peaches were being served when the heralds blew their trumpets. "To sing for the

golden lute," one cried, "we give you Galyeon of Cuy."

The Reachman was a barrel-chested man with a black beard, a bald head, and a booming voice. "Noble lords and ladies fair, I sing but one song for you this night," he announced. "It is the song of a stag, and how a realm was saved." The drummer began a slow ominous beat.

"The Stag Goes South" was a fluffed up piece following Arthas from the Wall to King's Landing. Joffrey was absolutely delighted by it, and at Arthas's side Sansa offered her betrothed a few pleased glances.

"Half of that didn't even happen," Arthas whispered to Sansa, "and the other half so exaggerated it might as well not have happened."

"At some point rhyming with just the truth becomes too difficult," Sansa answered. "Don't trouble the singers on account of your humility."

The night was dark outside the tall windows when Gayleon finished his seventy-seven verses, and the guests were deep in their cups and providing half the amusement. Old Pycelle fell asleep as dancers from the Summer Isles swirled in robes of bright feathers and smoky silks. Roundels of elk stuffed with ripe blue cheese were being brought out when one of Lord Rowan's knights was stabbed by a Dornishman. Robb's gold cloaks dragged them both away, one to a cell to rot and the other to get sewn up by Maester Ballabar.

There was dancing next, led by the king and queen, and when the song finished, Joffrey asked for Sansa's hand, while courtesy dictated Arthas do the same for Margaery.

He bore it with a forced smile.

"You ought to know," Margaery said as the dance began, "that the musicians won't stop playing this song until I signal them to."

He twirled her around, and when they were face to face again, asked, "Dare I ask why you'd trouble them so?"

"Because you haven't spoken more than three sentences to me since you arrived at King's Landing, Prince Arthas," she said. "I'd like for us to be friends." Margaery tilted her head to the side. "Lady Sansa went hawking with me regularly, at least before the recent unpleasantness. You wouldn't mind a ride out of King's Landing, surely? Sansa speaks well of your Tansy, and my brother Willas is an ardent hippologist."

"I don't care much for other horses, so I'm afraid I would only disappoint your brother," Arthas brusquely said. "And I thought we put a stop to excursions? For Your Grace's safety, of course."

"Of course," Margaery said, rolling her eyes. "Well Sansa still knits with me, and she speaks so highly of you whenever we're together I do not understand why we cannot get along as she and I do."

"I'm afraid," Arthas said, "that needles don't agree with me. My fingers were never so dextrous."

Margaery giggled. "My grandmother tells me she shared words with you earlier today. I apologize for that. She can be rather outspoken."

Does Olenna Tyrell think I'll be won over by honey instead of vinegar? "I'm sure she has her charms."

"It's a shame Lord Eddard's leaving us so soon after this," Margaery continued.

"He's needed north," Arthas said. "We all are."

"Against the White Walkers," she said. Margaery didn't laugh at least, and seemed to consider the matter.

That nearly gave Arthas pause, though years of drilling under Uther had taught him to stand still in battle was to die. "You believe they're real?"

She bit her lip. "I believe you think they are at least. Joffrey does too."

"Yet he won't let me go north," Arthas said with a hint of frustration. He understood the need to secure the realm first, but he was not allowed to join against the Ironborn campaign, nor could he do anything against Stannis at the moment. What was he doing here in the capital?

"We could work together then, you and I," Margaery said. "We might convince him to let you leave once we're seated again."

"I'm sure you'd sleep better, knowing I was far away."

"Is that what you think?" asked the new queen, her demeanor as innocent as Tommen's. "That I desire you to see away from court? Joffrey thinks the world of you. A queen cannot replace a brother."

"This doesn't make us friends," Arthas warned her.

"We wouldn't be enemies," she said.

Arthas nodded his head slowly. "Not enemies."

Margaery smiled, and nodded twice. The music gradually came to a stop, and they returned to their seats as the pumpkin pie was served. Sansa took one look at him, and adjusted the brooch pinned to his chest. "They made your favorite," she said.

Arthas smiled, allowing himself a slice.

"Your Grace," Margaery began, "your brother and I have been speaking."

"You have?" Joffrey asked.

"Let me ride north with Lord Stark on the morrow," Arthas said. "Lord Caron and five thousand men are already going."

"No," Joffrey said, frustration already clear in his features. "Absolutely not. I need you here, Brother."

Margaery tilted her head to the side, frowning. "I'm sure he'd leave more than enough men to protect King's Landing against anything Stannis might do. And you have several fine knights in the Kingsguard too."

"They would not be him," the boy king said, his displeasure mounting. "You can wait a few months and we'll go together, when the other threats are dealt with. I'll hear no more of this until then." He looked up. "Ah, it's the dove pie! Come, my lady."

The pie was a crusty, golden-brown thing two yards across, escorted by Ramsay Snow and half a dozen cooks. The doves inside squeaked and thumped against the crust in fear, even as men shouted, women clapped, and cups were smashed together.

Joffrey and Margaery met the pie below the dais. Ramsay knelt with a wormy grin, before offering Joffrey a sword to slice it with. The bride and groom joined hands to lift the sword, and swung down to release the birds—scattering every which way, making for windows, raters, and the door. A roar of delight went up from the benches, and more music from the gallery began to play.

New goblets filled with wine were brought out to toast Joffrey with as he returned to the dais with Margaery on his arm. Arthas accepted one from a young serving boy, and despite himself toasted as well.

"To peace and House Baratheon!" Joffrey said, raising his goblet.

The hall repeated his words with cheer, and Arthas knocked back his cup, swallowing in two long gulps and—

The cup slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor and spilling out its contents. The cold shrieked, gathering at his throat and spreading from there.

Joffrey laughed and slapped him on the back. "Had a bit too much to drink, little brother? Someone get my brother another cup!"

Poison, Arthas realized with a start. It was working quickly, coursing through his body. He dropped to one knee, shaking. There will be war over this. More killing. The wedding was tense enough, underneath all the cheer. All the men needed was an excuse.

"Arthas?" Joffrey asked, crouching besides him with a worried frown. "Are you alright?"

"Joff," Arthas choked out, grasping at his brother's hand, "keep… the peace." He felt his head hit the floor.

Sansa screamed his name. Lord Eddard was at his side in an instant, sticking his fingers down his throat to make him throw up the poison.

Arthas' vision began to blur, hints of Sansa's red hair flashed. He struggled to breathe, struggled to move, to do anything at all. Above him, he saw white scale armor pressing in.

"Treason!" someone howled, accompanied by the singing of swords. "Treason against the prince!"

"YOU WILL KEEP THE KING'S PEACE!" rang Joffrey's voice like a bell.