Chapter 13: Trials
Voices haunted him every step up the long, spiralling stairs of the Frozen Throne.
"Forget this business," Muradin said, pleading with him not to take up the cursed runeblade. "Lead your men home."
"I would gladly bear any curse to save my people," Arthas said, his gaze fixated, unmoving against the screeching winds of winter. Each step took him closer, closer…
"Your father ruled this land for seventy years," —Uther's hammer trembled in his hand. He'd never seen Uther furious before— "and you've ground it to dust in a matter of days."
He was finally here, before the Frozen Throne, before that ornate helm; spikes and damnation encased in ice. Arthas gripped Frostmourne with both hands, preparing to swing.
"I'm… I'm sorry, Arthas." Jaina's voice trembled. "I can't watch you do this."
Arthas paused.
A crow flew overhead, perching atop the Frozen Throne. "There must always be a Lich King, Arthas Menethil." The bird stretches its black wings, and swept down from the giant slab of ice, slamming into him, passing through him—
Arthas staggered backward, his warhammer, the color of unholy hoarfrost and icy death, growing heavier in his hand with each passing second. He looked down to his sable gloves, dripping red. It stood out against the falling white particles.
A knight in white screamed his name, before driving his roughly hewn lance through a husband and wife locked in embrace. A woman shambled forward, starry-eyed, untiring, breaking into a cave beneath great grey cliffs to the shrieks of the living.
This is wrong, Arthas thought.
Not far from where he stood, a child with legs shattered by a warhammer—his warhammer—lay gutted with a dagger, and a mother too. Arthas sensed more than saw the blood staining the snow, for the white mist came sweeping in, smothering light then life.
Stratholme had falling ash, not falling snow.
Arthas looked at his foot as something wet and warm gripped it. It was a hand coated in blood belonging to a man draped in layers of fur and wool and leather. His hammer moved of its own accord, and the man—the wildling—was dead.
He turned around, and the crow stood there, mist parting before it. This was no memory of his, if it was a memory at all.
Like some prophet, it morphed into a man pale-skinned, pale-haired, and draped in shadows. "Winter has come," the crow said, "for the north."
"North!"
"NORTH!"
"...north soon," Lord Eddard said, in a room lit by moon and candles. There were four of them standing in a room filled with herbs, books, and bubbling tonics, and Arthas glimpsed the barest hint of his body spread on a cot as he peered inside.
Was this a vision of some sort? Was he dead, if he could see his mortal body through the eyes of another?
"Neither can I leave while my grandson lies on the brink of death," Grandfather said, gritting his teeth. "Anyone could have done it."
"It was Varys, I tell you!" Mother said, weeping loudly.
"You have proof of this?" Eddard asked gently. "We can accuse any man or woman we like, but there were a thousand people in that room tonight. The Martells do not love House Baratheon and are known for their poisons, and the Tyrells fear Arthas."
Mother glared at Lord Stark. "The Spider hates my son, I know it! Him and Baelish and Tyrell and Snow!"
"It doesn't matter," Joffrey said, gripping Arthas' hand like a vise, his eyes never leaving his still form. "I will keep the peace. I must."
"Peace?" Mother repeated, choking back a sob. "Peace? They came for your brother! There must be war! War and ruin! Death to our enemies, one and all! Let the Seven sort out the guilty from the innocent." She turned to Grandfather. "Father, surely you, of all people will act."
"And we will," Tywin said. "But not without care. We must move tonight, Lord Stark. Sequester the Reachmen, the Dornish, and the stormlanders in different parts of the keep, with a party of armed men to prevent them from clashing in the halls and to keep them from leaving the city without our consent." He growled. "I will not have the killer slip us by."
"Tonight would have descended into a melee if not for His Grace," Eddard mused, then nodded. "There will need to be a thorough investigation too, or every man will accuse another for their own gain. There must be a panel of men too appointed by the king, sitting in judgment over those accused. I suspect there will be many such men in the coming days."
"You and I will make for two, and His Grace will be our third," Grandfather said, nodding to Joffrey.
There was a loud banging against the door, and it swung open. "The Grandmaester," the Mountain said.
Old Pycelle scurried in. "It's the strangler, my lords. I've checked my stores, and have found significant quantities of it missing. Enough to kill a large bear."
The Mountain looked strangely thoughtful to Arthas, or perhaps it was just death skewing his vision.
"Not the Dornish then," Eddard mused. "They know their poisons too well to give dosages beyond what's needed. And they could have brought their own, rather than risk raiding the Grandmaester's stores."
Unless they wanted to be sure, or implicate another, Arthas thought idly. Though he'd had no quarrel with the Dornish all throughout the wedding.
Tywin Lannister nodded. "If it were them, they'd use just enough to leave him beyond help, but not enough that death would come quickly. They're artists of the craft, and Oberyn Martell is no average Dornishman."
"Lord Stark," Joffrey said suddenly, "it's thanks to your quick thinking that my brother is not yet a corpse. You have my gratitude."
As Mother murmured similar pleasantries, Eddard shifted his weight between his legs, silently looking over Arthas' body. "Your brother is a good man, and will honor our family as a good-son. I could ask for no better husband for Sansa," he said at last.
"Will he live?" the Queen Mother asked of Pycelle, dismissing the Stark's musings.
"It is hard to say, Your Grace," the old man said. "There is no known cure for this poison, as the substance is expected to kill within minutes."
"He must live. I command it! Do whatever it takes," Joffrey said, then he turned to his elders. "Leave no rock unturned, to bring me the man responsible. Clegane, you will stand watch over my brother tonight, and I want two—no, three of the Kingsguard with him at all times!"
Arthas felt a tightness against his hand. Throughout the entire conversation, Joffrey had never let go of it.
Lord Eddard and Tywin bowed to Joffrey, then left. The Mountain took up a spot outside, blocking the width of it with his body.
"This would never have happened had you listened to me," their mother said, beautiful still despite her tears. "You should have never married that Tyrell whore and crowned her queen. She pours poison down your ears, and now she's poured poison down your own brother's throat!"
It was not her, Arthas thought. These Tyrells were rotten to the core, but not so stupid. Would she have gone through the trouble of winning him over, only to kill him mere moments later? Her family though…
"It was not her," Joffrey said, bristling. "My Margaery would never do that. Not to me."
Mother rolled her eyes. "Seven save us from young boys pulled by their cocks. Have a few strokes of pleasure from her blinded you to her poison? Without your brother, who will you turn to for advice if not the Tyrells and that bastard friend of yours?"
"Get out!" Joffrey hissed, fists curling into tight balls. "My twin lies there dying and all you care of is getting your crown back. Would you be so callous were it Uncle Jaime?"
"You'll come to regret this," Cersei said, as she slammed the door behind her.
Joffrey sighed, before sinking into a chair next to Arthas' body. He was leaned over, turned away from the window where Arthas watched the room, but he could feel wetness dripping on his cheeks.
He's crying, Arthas realized with a start. Joffrey had never cried before, not for anything or anyone.
"You cannot die," Joffrey repeated like a mantra. "Who will protect me, if not you?"
You have the Kingsguard.
"Even the Kingsguard cannot guard their king—what good were Uncle Jaime and the Hound against Renly's plots? What worth was there in the vows of Oakheart and Moore? Did Trant and Greenfield even save Father's life? And Barristan… he doesn't love me, not after I shamed him," Joffrey whispered.
The old Kingsguard had been a sham, to be sure, but if there was one good thing to come out of Renly's coup, it was the opportunity to start anew. All that served now were fine knights Ser Barristan approved of—even Garth Greysteel, despite Arthas' feelings for the man, was famed with the sword.
"And these new white cloaks… they're your men, all save Margaery's uncle," Joffrey continued. "They fought for you, and they trust you. I'm just a stranger to them." He glanced at the window, as if he could see Arthas. "You know, the room Renly kept me in was much nicer than this, only there were strips of wood nailed down across the windows."
"It was folly of me, to let you leave for the Wall. We're two halves of the same coin. We were not intended to be apart—and the moment we were, all became disaster and chaos."
Joffrey choked back a sob. "No, only you can protect me, Brother, so you cannot die." The cutting lullaby of a winter wind came streaming in as Arthas' body was left to rest—
"Rest," Beric Dondarrion said to a courtyard full of stormlanders.
"—is for the righteous!" they answered somberly.
They'd never seemed to grasp what those words truly meant before, Arthas mulled. for it had always been spoken in good cheer when he had led them. Now though, it seemed a fraction of its meaning had dawned on them at last.
Each bore a silver cloak as they walked out of the Red Keep on their own feet, down the twisting Shadowblack Lane. As they started towards the Gate of the Gods, smallfolk joined their procession in twos and threes, some in tattered cloaks of dirty whites and greys, while a blood red streak illuminated the sunless sky. Arthas kept watch from overhead, and by the time they stood before the Great Sept of Baelor, the procession had grown to a small army.
The doors of the Great Sept never opened before dawn, but today they were.
Arthas drew closer, and he could see here and there coins dangling from people's necks—a copper star, though with a smidge of blood red on the side where the seven-pointed star was.
Bells chimed, calling the faithful to pray for their Pious Prince—
"Prince Oberyn, we do not believe you to be guilty in this crime," Eddard said, seated beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne. Lords hailing from the snows to the sands filled the hall.
"We've sufficient evidence. A trial by combat is unnecessary," Tywin added.
"Unnecessary?" the Red Viper repeated. His lustrous black hair bobbed up and down as he rotated on the spot, dark eyes sweeping the hall before it landed back on the Mountain. "This thing dares sully the honor of Dorne and insinuates we poisoned Prince Arthas." Oberyn sneered.
"There was enough poison missing to kill a large bear," the Mountain growled, his stare fixed upon the Dornishman.
It could have been the Mountain they wanted to kill, Arthas thought, if it was them at all. Prince Oberyn had plenty of reason to poison the Kingsguard.
"He says it again!" Oberyn said, his glower darkening. "No, I will insist on a trial by combat and fight to prove the innocence of Dorne in this affair. Will you fight me, or are you fit only to kill women and little children?"
The Mountain stepped forward and growled. "Do you think I fear you?"
"You," Olenna Tyrell said, "look positively exquisite in that, dear Sansa." They sat under a pavilion by the gardens, not far from where Myrcella's roses grew. At a table between them were lemon cakes, honeycombs, and other sweets Arthas would not touch, as well as a steaming tea being served by attendants.
Sansa was red-eyed as she accepted a cup from Margaery, who sat on her right.
She's been crying, Arthas thought, as he watched her take a small sip.
"What do you think of the tea?" Olenna asked. "The leaves from Leng make for a most excellent brew, or so I'm told."
Sansa forced a smile onto her face, and bobbed her head. "A most refreshing taste, Lady Olenna." Half a dozen men formed a ring around them—northmen and stormlanders, none sworn to Highgarden.
"We are upset about your betrothed," Margaery said, putting a hand on her arm with a sad smile. "It's terrible what happened to him. My lord father has sworn to donate seven thousand gold dragons to the needy of the city should he make a full recovery."
"Terrible is putting it mildly," Olenna said, beating her cane against the hardwood flooring. "The boy was poisoned! It's the Dornish, I tell you. With any luck, that brute Clegane will slaughter Oberyn Martell on the morrow."
"My father says it will be war with Dorne if the Mountain wins," Sansa said, frowning.
"A moment, my sweets. Butterbumps!" Olenna called out. "Do sing a song for us. I'm finding the birds nearby a little grating."
The jester in brightly colored motley began to belt out The Bear and Maiden Fair at such a volume.
Arthas winced at the warbling. Was this necessary? Even while he was half-dead, Olenna Tyrell wished to deafen him.
"Isn't it a bit loud?" Sansa asked.
"Ah, do forgive me," Olenna said. "I'm hard of hearing in my old age, and I so enjoy my songs. You'll humor me, I hope?"
"Of course, Lady Olenna," Sansa said. "My father warned me that even out in the open, there are so many rude men and women listening to things that don't concern them."
"A wise man, Lord Stark," Olenna said. "I knew his father Lord Rickard too, though not well."
"He died before I was born."
Margaery served Sansa a slice of lemon cake as Olenna continued, "I am aware of that, child. It's said that your Tully grandfather—Lord Hoster—is dying too. An old man, though not nearly as old as me. Still, night falls for all of us in the end, though sooner for some than others. You would know that more than most, poor child. You've had your share of grief, I know."
"Even the gods grieve for Prince Arthas," Margaery said, "or so the septons in the streets preach."
"I'm sure she's heard. Who hasn't in this midden of a city?" Olenna said. "Half the trouble with these street septons from the riverlands is getting them to stop yelling about the pretty red rock flying over the sky! One can only hear their warnings of heathen gods and eastern demons so many times before it becomes droning. If we're lucky, they'll faint from fasting soon."
"I would much rather we speak of something else, if you don't mind," Sansa said softly.
"Of course, whatever you like," Margaery said with a kind smile. "Speaking of your father, I'm pleased he hasn't forbade you from seeing us."
Sansa frowned. "Why would he?"
"Do not be coy with me," Olenna said. "There are many silly men at court who think we would poison Prince Arthas. Fools, the lot of them."
"My father doesn't believe that," Sansa said, biting her lips. "Neither does Uncle Petyr."
They don't? Arthas thought, startled. He half-expected them to—it did not take an archmaester to know the Tyrells saw him as a threat to Joffrey, and none had been privy to the words he and Margaery had shared beforehand...
"At least some wisdom is prevailing then," Olenna said, gripping her cane tighter. "Curious, though, that Lords Stark and Baelish are spending so much time together, but not with Lord Tywin. I didn't think they were such good friends."
"Uncle Petyr's an old friend of my mother's," Sansa said. "He was a ward at Riverrun, and when we fled the city to the Vale he'd told me all sorts of stories about mother and her siblings when they were youths."
"Well, friends or not, they spend as much time as Joffrey does with that repugnant Bolton boy," Olenna said, then tilted her head. "Why, I'm beginning to suspect the king takes after his uncle in some ways."
"Grandmother!" Margaery said, flushing.
"Oh, don't pretend otherwise," Olenna said. "The boy's not even bedded you yet."
Sansa blinked. "He hasn't?"
"He's been spending each night watching over his brother," Margaery said with a frown. "It hasn't been the best time, certainly."
"It's never the best time," complained Olenna. "Did you think I waited for the best time with your grandfather?" She sighed. "It's a shame. I knew Renly wasn't fond of women, but I rather thought him the exception, not the rule, with a brother like Robert Baratheon. Mayhaps it's a generational thing? Arthas does take after Robert after all."
"Would that make Tommen Stannis?" Sansa asked. "I can't imagine a sweet boy like him never smiling."
"An apt observation," Olenna said. "Though I'm sure even Stannis smiled once. Bah! You'll learn to ignore the chatter of an old, senile woman, my girl. Especially with Cersei Lannister as a good-mother, the both of you."
"You mustn't say such things, grandmother," sighed Margaery. "The Queen Mother isn't so terrible."
"Bah!"
"You're hardly senile," Sansa said.
Olenna's eyes twinkled. "You're sweet as honey, dear, but I am very, very old. You—"
"You ought to leave," a voice said besides Arthas. He turned his head, and the world turned with it. The petals browned, wilted, and died; stone melted into snow, light to darkness, and the red comet became red eyes, staring back at him. "Tarry too long in one form and he will sense you."
"Who?" Arthas asked.
"The only enemy that matters," the voice said. "I have watched you since you ventured beyond the realms of man, and now I show you what needs to be shown."
This was the voice who called out to me beyond the Wall. "Who are you?" Arthas asked.
"I have many names," the voice said, "but none of them matter now. Know that I am a friend to the living." There was a pause, as if the voice was listening for something. "Do not forget my words, young prince. You must go onwards, ever onwards. To falter is to fall, to fall is to fail, so fly, Arthas!"
Arthas flew, and flew, and fell in a body not his own. He was everywhere and nowhere, watching through a hundred eyes as a legion dead and deadly led marched to war. He was sealed beneath an icy lake, but did not drown. He watched as the bloated carcasses of beached whales were carved out, with long slabs of glaciers besides them.
In the darkness, he tasted tears, felt warmth grip his hands, heard familiar voices.
"Who'll knight me if you die?" Tommen whimpered.
"You inherited Cersei's looks, but none of her nature," Tyrion mumbled, his breath heavy with the scent of wine. "You're much too young to die."
Myrcella wrapped the scarf she'd weaved for him around his still form. He could smell roses near him. "Keep yourself warm, big brother."
"He's always prayed to the gods," Tyrek said bitterly. "Why won't they bring him back?"
"Come back to me," Sansa prayed. "Please, Arthas, Don't make me watch you die."
"You're more a knight than I ever was. I see the best of myself in you," Uncle Jaime said, alone in the room, his heavy white cloak fluttering with the cold breeze. "Can you hear them outside, praying for you? Shouting your name?"
There was noise, but Arthas could not pick out the words.
"They weep for you," Jaime continued. "They see the goodness in you, and love you for it." He smiled bitterly. "That's a rare thing, to be loved for a good deed. So many men revile me for my finest act."
Which act?
"Kingslayer they call me," Jaime answered, as if he could hear Arthas' thoughts. "As if it were a shame to have taken my sword and driven it through his stomach—he never expected it, not from his own Kingsguard."
"What is this?" Father asked. "What are you doing, my son?"
"Succeeding you," Arthas whispered in his ear, "Father." The runeblade in his free hand drove forward, and the crown toppled off, bloody and broken.
Arthas felt numb.
"I did it to save lives, believe it or not," Jaime said, looking out the window, right at Arthas. "I did it to save King's Landing from burning green, as Aerys would have ordered the pyromancers to do." He turned around, looking down at the still form on the cot. "Half a million saved against a thousand killed… do you think the gods will think kindly of me for that?"
Would that someone had been able to kill Arthas in his old life, when he'd donned a crown by bloodied blade. A king who cared not for his people was no king at all.
"As if you're here listening," Jaime muttered, chuckling darkly. "A silly thought, that—"
"That's a fine shot, Joff," Ramsay said, picking up the rabbit by its ears. It's fur was as white as his new cloak, made of heavy wool.
"Is it?" Joffrey asked, distracted.
Ramsay whistled sharply, and the bloodhounds with them went running deeper into the Kingswood, hunting for prey. "You can hardly be blamed for the poor game we're having today. We'll try one more time; otherwise we'll come back. A few days, maybe a week at most, and we'll have better game to hunt then. I'm certain of it."
"If you say so," Joffrey said absently enough.
"I do." Ramsay smiled toothily. "We've a talent for these things, us Boltons."
"So you say, but you still haven't taught me to skin one of these," Joffrey said. "But now the rabbit's been got, tell me what's been got of your other hunt?"
"Not much," admitted the bastard ruefully "I've had the guards bring me every serving boy and girl they can remember and throw them in the cells. A surprising number of them are illiterate or mute, and that's made it difficult to extract answers. I've taken to piecing together which areas they were serving, to narrow down witnesses."
Joffrey ran a hand through his golden hair. "You'll kill them all after we're done. Those little wretches let someone poison my own brother, which means they'll not hesitate to strike at myself or Margaery." He sighed. "Though I'm sure I'll hear whinging nonetheless. My hand will be forced after that, and I'll probably dismiss you from that post."
Ramsay shrugged. "As you desire, Your Grace. But I imagine I won't be heading home?"
"Hardly. I still have need enough of you here."
There came a rustling from an underbush, made by a small animal.
"Our prey reappears!" Ramsay cried out, pointing gleefully. "Your Grace, the hunt begins anew! Let's finish the day strong!"
"...strong," the fat High Septon said, his crown glittering in the midday sun. Arthas was above a crowd now, looking down at the Sept of Baelor's marble plaza, packed to the brim. "Therefore, the Grandmaester assures me that His Grace's chances of recovery are good."
A thousand voices jeered, and shouted questions until it was a jumble of noise no one could decipher.
"That will be all for today," the High Septon said, raising his hands to quiet them, but the noise only grew louder.
Suddenly, there was the sound of hardwood beating against the floor once, twice, thrice. Men in simple wool tunics that reached their ankles—off white and dirty grey—stepped forward, each with a shepherd's rod, and a copper star hanging from their necks, a bloody fingerprint streaked to one side. Arthas swept in closer, until he could pick out their faces—lined and windburnt and sunburnt. They had leathery skin and nails filled with dirt.
"Assurances!" spat one of the men. "Six days of assurances! Has anything changed, I ask? Has anyone been caught?"
"The King's Justice and Lord Confessor are investigating, as is the Hand of the King and the Warden of the North," the High Septon said.
"And what names did they discover?" the septon demanded. "Who did they name as culprit?"
"This is a serious matter," the High Septon said, his fat jiggling as he dabbed his neck with a cloth. "Accusations will not be made lightly."
"Look to the sky, all of you!" the septon said, pointing at the blood red streak that had covered half the sky for nearly a week now. The man held up the copper star around his neck, and many others in the crowd did likewise. "Even the gods know a crime has been committed! A red sky for a red act!"
There were angry murmurs now, a sound of growing discontent, especially from those who had coppers around their necks—three in ten men, Arthas guessed.
"I was there in the riverlands when war broke out, and I saw the pious prince for myself. Each day he would rise at dawn to pray. He would give food to those who needed it, and his army sheltered the poor and the pious." The man sneered, pointing a finger at the High Septon. "While this man has forgotten the gods! Look how he dresses, in fine silks and golds like some highborn lord? He bathes in scented waters and grows fat on lark and lamprey, while we fast for our prince's sake! When did any of you last see him give alms to the poor and the hungry?"
The High Septon flushed. "You will—"
"I will not," the septon said, voice sharp and scolding. He pointed again to the comet. "Corruption! There is the warning! Here stands a bought man, content to murmur whatever assurances his masters tell him to. Was it Stannis Baratheon who paid you? Was it Balon Greyjoy? Red devils and drowned gods! Heathens and heretics! The Pious Prince stands against them, and was poisoned for it in that foul keep!"
Folly, Arthas thought, eyes sweeping the crowd. There were too few gold cloaks if things got ugly—and all the armed men would be in the Red Keep, keeping the lords under guard. Even what few guards were here seemed to sense the danger, and were backing away.
"Not half a year past, who was it that crowned the usurper Renly Baratheon king?" the septon asked.
"The High Septon!" someone cried out, one of his followers.
"Who sold out King Joffrey and his family for a few gold coins?"
"The High Septon!" came the answer, louder now and even some in the crowd who merely wore the white cloak in remembrance of Arthas' silver joined them.
"Who has abandoned our prince while even now vileness lurks in every shadow?"
"THE HIGH SEPTON!"
"False I name you, who crowned Renly!" the septon cried out. "False, I name you who abandoned our prince! Seize him in Prince Arthas' name, whom you love! Seize him for the gods you worship!"
His followers in the crowd surged forward, each bearing the bloodied copper star—coppers Tyrek had handed out in Arthas name each day for years on end. The gold cloaks retreated in good order, pulling back from the crowd and closing ranks, likely to call for assistance. "Together, we will find the truth! Death to the villains, and justice for Prince Arthas!"
The rest of the crowd parted for them as they forced their way to the High Septon, who was beating a hasty retreat to the Great Sept of Baelor's double doors.
"Justice! JUSTICE FOR PRINCE—"
Arthas' eyes opened, and he breathed out in measured counts, letting the air before him mist.
"Arthas?" Sansa's eyes went wide. "Arthas!"
