Chapter 15: "...Brother."

Caved in and blackened by fire, the Dragonpit was a ruin dominating the city's horizon from atop Rhaenys' Hill. Thirty knights abreast could ride through the entrance, if it's door had not been sealed for over a century. The air inside felt crisp and thin to breathe, like a silk veil ready to be snatched away.

"This place is quiet, if nothing else," Arthas remarked to Sansa. "So, what's this about?"

Sansa glanced at their armed escort, twenty men of the Lannister household forming a wide enough perimeter that they could move freely and speak with some privacy. His brother, the king, had worried another more direct attempt might be made on his life, while Lord Eddard said with the smallfolk so excitable since his recovery, there was a very real risk he'd be mobbed by his admirers.

"Do you…" She swallowed something hard, her hands clenched into tight, white balls. "Do you think Petyr was the one who poisoned you?"

"I'm not sure," Arthas said honestly, "but I imagine we'll know soon enough."

Varys was hard at work naming conspirators against Joffrey's reign—a worrying number of whom occupied formal positions at court. To date, four Keepers of the Keys, the King's Counter and the King's Scales, as well as harbormasters, toll collectors, and wine factors were now guests in the dungeons. There was little in the way of evidence so far, beyond these people having continued on with their duties during Renly's coup. That was enough for Joffrey these days, and Ramsay boldly vowed to make them sing for him soon.

Only Lord Stark prevented the same from being done to Littlefinger himself once Grandfather brought forth his accusations before Joffrey.

Sansa bit her lip.

"Something else is bothering you," Arthas said. "What is it?"

"I shouldn't say," Sansa said.

Arthas cupped her trembling hands with his own. "You can trust me."

"I think I know who tried to kill Bran."

He hesitated, a chill suddenly in the air. According to Varys' whispers, Lord Stark suspected Joffrey, and even if he were mistaken, judging from Eddard's insistence on secrecy it would mean his mother or Uncle Jaime. Nothing good would come of this.

"We're nearing dangerous talk," he said, glancing about as he made a show of inspecting the bronze doors. To utter an accusation against the king… if it were ever to get out, it might even cost her life.

Sansa nodded, lips set in a thin line.

In a lower voice, he forced himself to ask, "Are you sure you know who it is?"

"It was Joffrey," said the girl suddenly, forcing it out as if struggling for air. "I didn't want to believe it, I didn't want to, but I can't ignore it now. And—"

"Calm down," Arthas said. "Breathe. And then walk me through this."

It was absurd. It had to be.

Joffrey had nothing to gain from this, and no reason to order it. Could his twin brother be cruel and arbitrary at times? Light yes, especially before he had donned his crown. But murder? Of a Lord Paramount's son, no less, when Joffrey had still been but a prince? Bran would have become as much Joffrey's brother as Arthas.

Sansa exhaled. "Lord Baelish described to me the weapon used," she said. "It was a valyrian dagger with a dragonbone hilt, curved like the dagger he'd given Joffrey. You remember how my father reacted when he saw it? How shaken he was?"

"I remember," Arthas said with a frown. "I thought he'd breathed in too much wine to drink it properly, though. Sansa, how did Baelish even come across this information?" It made the Valesman more a suspect than Joffrey, though the Regent of the Vale of Arryn had been nowhere near Winterfell at that time, or ever last he checked. It made it rather unlikely the former master of coin would have ordered it, especially given Lady Catelyn was a friend of his.

"While we were at the Vale, Aunt Lysa and my mother exchanged many letters," Sansa said. "He might have come across the information then. However he knew, I spoke to Robb of it, and he confirmed Petyr's words."

One dagger… he wanted to dismiss it out of hand, for it was hardly damning evidence. Coincidence perhaps, and yet, enough for Lord and Lady Stark, and now Sansa.

"Valyrian steel is rare enough," she continued, "nevermind one with a dragonbone hilt and in King Robert's possession at Winterfell. It's not much, but I don't know who else might have had access to it."

"Anyone in the royal party could have stolen it," Arthas said. Robert loved Ned Stark too much to do something so cruel. "The weapon is suspicious, but that does not point to Joffrey necessarily. There's no motive."

"I've heard talk," Sansa said, taking a deep breath before she plunged into her next words. "That when he was younger, he used to slit cats open and strangle kittens. And now this business with the inquisition. I don't think the dungeons have ever been this full."

"Cruel to animals, and those suspected to be his enemies," Arthas said. "Bran is neither."

"You don't believe me, do you?" she asked sadly.

"I have to think about it," Arthas said, squeezing her hand. "Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of this. Believe me."

"I… I do."

She looked skyward.

The moment passed silently, before Sansa spoke up again, this time a soft smile forced upon her face. "I forgot to tell you earlier, but Lady Olenna has invited us to afternoon tea at our convenience. She seems insistent on speaking with you again."

Arthas thought better than to roll his eyes. Was the woman so scared of him that she had to resort through Sansa as an intermediary now? Or did she feel him more likely to accept if it came from his betrothed rather than a Tyrell liveryman?

Sansa looked at him. "Will you go?"

"I would rather not," Arthas said, then sighed. "But I suppose that wouldn't be very courteous of me."

The rest of the court would see his refusal as belief in the guilt of the Tyrells, and while they were owed nothing, the Red Keep was tense enough as of late. It would be a damned waste after Joffrey had gone through all the effort of keeping the fires contained.

TheKingIsDead—

For better or for worse, there was at least one measure through which Joffrey proved more of a ruler than their father had been. He was not the type to drink or whore while the Hand ruled in his place, and made it a point to attend court each day upon the Iron Throne.

Personally, Arthas thought Joffrey found it amusing to keep his small council standing before him, rather than seat them at a table as Robert had done. Only Margaery was afforded seating, though they'd also offered Arthas one, which he declined. It was not worth distinguishing himself from their grandfather, whose patience with Joffrey at times would thin sharply. To be seated where his grandfather stood would only cause problems.

"An army?" Joffrey repeated with a frown, tapping his fingers in a quick staccato beat against the sharp steel armrest of his throne.

"Yes, Your Grace," Varys said, voice smooth like silk, too smooth for the truth to cling to them surely. "An army of a hundred thousand Dothraki, raiding along the Lhazareen villages for slaves to drive to the Ghiscari markets. They mean to have the warchest for a fleet to sail them west, I fear."

"Ridiculous," Arthas said. "No land could support a hundred thousand horses, least of all the barren and despoiled parts of Essos. This Khal Drogo could have no more than a third of that, with families and followers counted in that number."

Varys tilted his head in deference, his hands hidden in his sleeves. "I am no warlord, Prince Arthas. I can only defer to your military expertise and report what my little birds have whispered to me."

"Your little birds chirp loudly from across the narrow sea," Arthas said, voice scathing, "but hear nothing from the Wall or even from our uncle who is just off the coast of King's Landing?"

"Birds prefer to fly south for winter," Varys said, "and mine never had reason to fly north to begin with. As for Stannis, he has been surprisingly quiet since he managed to seize Storm's End. Through nefarious means, no doubt."

"Sorcery and treachery," Joffrey said darkly.

Rumors had spread quickly of how Stannis had burned the sept at Storm's End, feeding one of their father's bastards to his new flame gods in the process. A fortress built to stand up to the wrath of the gods themselves, whose massive outer curtain wall had held out against the whole might of the Reach under the Durrandons and Baratheons both, would not have fallen to what few swords had rallied to Stannis. Whether there was any truth to it, Arthas did not know, but it proved a most effective rallying cry for the red sparrows.

"While our uncle's movements worry me greatly, but he has only a few thousand men to his name," Joffrey continued. "On the other hand, that Targaryen whore has over thirty thousand Dothraki."

"These screamers are feared in the east, Your Grace," Ramsay Snow said.

"I will fear the Dothraki," Grandfather Tywin said suddenly, "when they teach their horses how to swim the length of the Narrow Sea and learn to conduct a siege. Your Grace, we've more pressing issues than some swarthy would-be centaurs."

"They are superstitious of salt water," Varys noted softly.

At that, the Queen touched Joffrey's arm, and smiled at him. "My love, if Daenerys Targaryen comes for us, she'll find Westeros united against her. Not even the Dothraki will be able to stand against us. Put her out of your mind until we've dealt with the dangers closer to home."

"Perhaps," Ramsay said, "we should take proactive measures to ensure she does not rise higher than rumors. After all, if not her herself, then any sons she bears will be a threat as the Blackfyres were."

Arthas much preferred it when the mute Ser Ilyn Payne had been the King's Justice. At least that man didn't have a tongue to offer an opinion with.

Joffrey leaned forward, eyes glinting with manic enthusiasm. "Assassination, you mean?"

"One man with a knife is all it takes, or poison if you prefer she dies painfully." Ramsay licked his lips at the thought and grinned.

"An excellent idea, Ramsay," Joffrey said, nodding thoughtfully with a softer yet more satisfied grin.

"We shall put a price on her head then, and be done with it," Tywin said. "Ten thousand dragons ought to do the trick."

"With respect, my lord, we'd have the heads of ten thousand Lysene whores if you do that," Varys said. "A single man is all we need."

"Ten thousand dead whores and one Targaryen would still meet our purposes," growled Joffrey. "I don't care how it's done, just see to it that she is killed."

"As Your Grace commands," they all said.

"Good. Now, onto other matters?"

Ramsay stepped forward, and knelt before the Iron Throne. "I'm pleased to report that several of your prisoners have confessed to treason after being flayed."

"Have any of them mentioned Baelish's part in their treason?" Tywin asked.

"Ah, not quite yet, Lord Hand," Ramsay said. "But it's only a matter of time now that they've started singing."

"Good!" Joffrey said with a firm nod. "Their heads will make fine ornaments for the Traitor's Walk when this business is done with!"

Ramsay nodded, smiling fiercely. "Mayhaps we ought to have their bodies on display too—a reminder to the people why you ought to be feared."

Margaery looked appalled. "I hardly think that's necessary, Lord Snow."

"That's a fine idea," Joffrey said. Margaery whispered something in Joffrey's ear and he sighed. "But perhaps too harsh for the sight of women and children."

Ramsay glared at her.

"Better news comes from the west, Your Grace," Tywin said. "Lord Crakehall reports the landings across the Iron Islands a success, and that sieges are being carried out of the major castles as we speak. The Ironborn lack in foodstuffs what the mainland does, so I expect surrenders to begin being tendered within the next several weeks. Soon, we will have done what even the dragon lords could not—pacify the Iron Islands and put an end to their Old Way."

There wasn't really anyone left to continue it, thought Arthas sternly.

All the captains, the priests, and the nobility who were grown men were now dead or soon to be once their keeps fell. Balon's campaign would go down in history as an ignominious defeat that had ended his people's way of life. One in ten men had lived to escape from the north on their ships with most of those burned or chopped up by the northmen wherever they were to be found.

When the dust settled, all that would be left was Theon, who ruled just the seat of Pyke, with a bunch of children chained to regents from the westerlands with daughters to wed.

There'd be some rebellions no doubt, and an uptick in pirates and banditry. It would be the work of many more generations to stamp out the Old Way, but the formal institutions were already being done away with.

Now it was a question of who had the will to fight longer: Tywin Lannister or a bunch of outlaws and reavers?

"I have, haven't I?" Joffrey said, looking like a prized peacock. He leaned forward. "Perhaps a tourney to celebrate this unpleasant affair should be held when the last keep falls. Balon Greyjoy's head could certainly join the traitors at our door in being mounted on a spike, to tell all what happens to traitors."

The afternoon court was adjourned at last after a few more pronouncements of relatively little

import.

After that, it was tea time with Olenna Tyrell.

He recognized the table by the gardens from his dreams—covered with lemon cakes, Beesbury honeycombs, and even a pumpkin pie topped with ground nutmeg and a healthy dash of cinnamon which sorely tempted him. There was an assortment of colorful fruits too; red and green apples from the Fossoways, Arbor grapes, and blood oranges. Some were fresh (or as fresh as could be expected) and others candied in sugar bought from traders who had shipped it months before the current state of affairs.

All things either he or Sansa had eaten before, and would eat again in the future.

"Good sers, some privacy if you will?" Olenna asked.

"The king has tasked us with protecting the Crown Prince," Barristan said. Robar nodded alongside him.

"And protect him you shall," Olenna said, pointing away with her gnarled finger. "Standing over there. Or are you afraid a frail, senile woman like myself is some great threat to the 'Young Demon'."

They remained where they were. Courtesy did not let either of the Kingsguard retort, but duty would not let them leave, no matter the sharpness of one old widow from the Arbor.

Finally, Arthas broke the impasse. "Thank you for your concern Ser Barristan, but I'm sure if there's to be another attempt at my life, it wouldn't be from poison again. At least," Arthas said, looking around, "not here and now without a scapegoat in sight. She isn't stupid."

"As you say, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, and the pair of white cloaks stepped back.

"I didn't know you thought so highly of me," Olenna said, unfurling a silk fan patterned with roses and thorns.

Sansa poured them all some tea—a steaming brew from Leng, Arthas recognized. It was grassy, light, and left one's palette refreshed.

"I trust you value your family's lives," Arthas said. "If I were to fall to poison today, yours would be the first head to roll, and the rest of your family's not long after."

Sansa gasped. "Arthas! Lady Olenna, I apologize—"

"It's quite alright, dear. Are we dispelling with pleasantries so early on?" Olenna asked, sipping her tea.

"Let us not pretend," Arthas said, "that my coming here to speak with you and sending the Kingsguard away at your behest were not favors. The excitement at your granddaughter's wedding tarnished your family's image. Imagine how much worse it might be if I refused to speak with you."

Olenna smiled tightly. "If we're done pretending then it's also in your interests to help us," she said. "You'll need our grain, if not our swords, for that northern campaign you like to speak of. You do still want that, don't you?"

"Would I be speaking to you if I didn't?" Arthas wondered. War with the Tyrells couldn't come at a more inconvenient time. If he thought they were guilty… well, he might even have suppressed what evidence there was for the sake of the living. There were greater crimes than trying to kill him.

"Possibly not," Olenna said. "You haven't mentioned it since you recovered, certainly."

"Joffrey will not let me leave the city without him, and that will not occur until the Ironborn and Stannis are fully subdued," Arthas said. Even before he'd been poisoned, Joffrey refused to let him leave.

"Besides," Sansa added, placing fruits on her plate to busy herself, "your strength is not wholly back yet. A few more weeks won't hurt anything."

Arthas could only hope she was right. Still, it gave him the time to continue his research into the White Walkers. Grandmaester Pycelle had resorted to consulting with the Citadel's repository of books. If the answers he sought had ever been written down anywhere, the Citadel would have it.

"You speak of campaign, yet you didn't believe me about the Others when we last spoke," Arthas said. "Has something changed?"

"Oh no, it all still sounds like nonsense to me," Olenna said. "But wanting a war is something I can understand. That means you can be bargained with."

Arthas took a sip of his green tea, before setting it back down on the table. "Well, you know what I want. What is it that you want?"

"To see my great grandchildren on that ugly little chair one day," Olenna said. "There's no reason our causes should be mutually exclusive."

It wouldn't hurt the Tyrells anything if the greatest rallying point for anti-Tyrell sentiments was busy in the frozen north, rather than conveniently available as the face for a coup.

Not that he'd ever want to bear the weight of a crown again.

"Ah, Margaery!" Olenna said, wobbly pushing herself up with her cane.

"Your Grace," Sansa greeted, curtseying to the queen.

The crown Margaery wore today was a humble circlet of beaten silver. A fitting choice considering many lords still resented having a Tyrell queen, and this was likely the best she could do to soothe those feathers short of running back to Highgarden. Greysteel stood guard over her, like he always did. He was the only member of the Kingsguard so far whom the Tyrells could trust, though that might change soon with the new appointment in contention.

It spoke volumes to many, however, that Arthas had two white cloaks guarding him, where Margaery had but one.

"I hope I'm not intruding?" Margaery asked with a shy smile.

"Not at all," Sansa said quickly, moving to cup her hands with her own and leading her to a chair.

"I think a change of scenery would suit me quite well," Olenna said suddenly. "Didn't you say Princess Myrcella grew roses near here?"

"Yes, though they're no longer in bloom, I'm afraid," Sansa answered.

"Well, I would like to see them," Olenna said with a grandmotherly smile. "Sansa, would you be a dear and keep this old woman company?"

Sansa stood. "Of course."

"Should I go with you, Grandmother?" Margaery asked.

"No, no, you stay here with Prince Arthas," Olenna said. "No need to drag all of you along."

Arthas caught a meaningful glance passed between the Tyrells before Olenna departed. Nothing so far has been coincidence, he concluded.

"I believe you haven't been formally introduced to my uncle?" Margaery asked as she poured herself a cup of tea.

"I know of him," Arthas said. He thought the Hightower was a decent swordsman, better than Loras had been judging from the one time they'd sparred.

"You're not one for pleasantries or small talk, are you?."

"Not with Tyrells."

"No, not with Tyrells," Margaery said ruefully. "You broke your promise to me, Prince Arthas. We were to be friends after I wed your brother."

Arthas stared at her in derision. "I merely promised we wouldn't be enemies," he corrected.

"Well, are we enemies?" she asked, giving him a mother's disappointed look.

Changing tactics already? He almost felt ashamed, if he wasn't keenly aware of what she was trying to do. "I was taught how to wage a war with swords, not words," Arthas said. He'd never had to play this sort of game in Lordaeron. No lord would have ever thought to defy Terenas Menethil.

"You ought," Garth Hightower said, "to speak to your queen with more respect."

"And you'll be the one to make me, Greysteel?" Arthas asked.

"Uncle, please." Margaery sighed. "I'd like to speak with him in private."

The Greysteel frowned at that, but assented, joining his Kingsguard brothers watching nearby.

"You're a very hard man to speak to, you know."

"I wasn't aware we had anything more to discuss after we utterly failed to convince Joffrey of my departure," Arthas said.

"There are many things we could speak of," she said, folding her hands on her lap. "The situation in the north, for example. You must be pleased to hear Moat Cailin will be seized from the Ironborn soon?"

Though Lord Eddard remained in King's Landing with some trusted retainers for the time being, most of his northerners and the stormland vanguard under Lord Caron were investing it from the south. Combined with Lord Bolton's host from the north, the Ironborn were stuck in that ruined fort with little means of resupplying. It had caused no end of headaches for the Starks, but soon that would be in the past.

"It's good news," Arthas said. "The sooner the Ironborn are dealt with, the sooner our attention can be focused on the other threats." The true threat.

"Your uncle Stannis, and then the north," she said. "In the end, what's keeping most of the stormlanders here is a lack of supplies, isn't that right? My father might be convinced to part with grain to feed your men. That would be within his rights as Lord Paramount. You might be stuck here, but at least there would be men ready to aid Lord Stark."

"And in return?"

"This business with Lord Baelish has turned rather ugly," Margaery said.

"It's not within my power to declare him innocent," Arthas said.

She blinked. "No, nothing of that sort. After all, he might have done it as far as we know. But his associations with my family makes the whole matter complicated. If you were to make it known to the court that you believed House Tyrell had nothing to do with the incident, well…"

Arthas snorted. "If you're going to bribe me, at least have the decency to be direct about it."

To be sure, his opinion mattered quite a bit at court now with so little evidence to go on and Joffrey inclined to listen to him.

"With how long summer lasted, it's bound to be a long winter," Arthas said. "It will be twice as cruel to southrons, and there won't be much surplus forage in the north to feed an army with. The campaign will be a protracted one too."

The stormlands and riverlands could provide some of the food they'd need, but those would run out too quickly and the last thing he needed was a famine killing people while fighting a war against the undead. Letting people die en masse behind their front lines was a recipe for total disaster.

A part of him thought there might be no need for this. House Tyrell would be wholly committed once the Ironborn were finished off and Joffrey ordered the armies north, but by then would it be too late? If the Wall was breached…

"How many men will you need?" Margaery asked.

"I would take as many men as I could," Arthas said, "and even then I fear it would not be enough."

"Well the Wall is in no danger of falling yet, or we'd have heard of it by now," Margaery said. "Sending the whole strength of Westeros north, waiting for a threat that will appear who knows when, seems a bit… extreme." She tilted her head to the side. "They could all very well starve to death before battle is even had."

"And if they march north too late, we would have lost countless thousands to an ever growing, ever moving army," Arthas said. The undead would not fight like the living did.

She nodded. "A compromise then? Send enough men to hold back this enemy of yours for a few months, and the Reach will feed them. Time for the Seven Kingdoms to call the banners if need be. I can convince my father of that much."

"We'd need ten thousand more men at least," Arthas said. It would be double the stormland vanguard under Lord Caron. At its height, the Night's Watch had boasted that many men, and he'd bet on his stormlanders over the black brothers any day.

He expected her to bargain down.

Instead, she nodded. "Done. You'll stop avoiding us like the plague? Sharing words every so often would do wonders for silencing the nasty rumors."

"With you and your father," Arthas said, before grimacing. "But don't force me to speak with your grandmother."

She giggled. "Is the Young Demon of the Trident worried about an old woman who needs a cane?"

"She spars with words too much for my liking," he said. Then after a moment, asked. "You don't even believe this threat is real, do you?"

"I don't know," Margaery said honestly. "If it is, then we will have an army ready to meet it. If nothing comes of it, I would have made truce between you and I at least."

"You're risking a fortune over the mere possibility?" Arthas asked, scarcely believing it.

"I have seen a grievous evil under the sun: wealth hoarded to the harm of its owner," she quoted from The Seven-Pointed Star. "What good is gold if it can't buy me what I want?"

"And you want peace."

Her soft curls bobbed. "More than anything."

TheKingIsDead—

The contrast between his grandfather and his sister could not have been greater today. The Lord of Casterly Rock had dressed for war, donning his armor of deep crimson with highlights of gold, while sweet Myrcella had armored herself not in steel, but silk and sweet smiles.

"While I'm away, I entrust you to keep things here under control," Tywin said in a low voice to Kevan, so as to not be overheard. He turned to Arthas. "You will have a role in this as well. Your brother listens to you, so counsel him."

"I'll do my best, Grandfather," Arthas said.

"Good," he said, and took a few steps away to speak with Mother and Uncle Jaime, sparing no words for his other son.

"This all seems rather sudden," Arthas said, whispering to his dwarf uncle.

Tyrion snorted from beside him. "Did you know he tried to purchase a Valyrian steel sword once from an impoverished knight?"

"I take it he was refused?" Arthas asked. If such a sword existed in Grandfather's possession, he would have it with himself, or gifted it to Uncle Jaime.

"Those weapons are priceless," Tyrion said. "The Ironborn have more than a few though, and given how they'll all be dead soon… well, they'll have no use for such weapons. I imagine there'll be no one left to protest his seizing of them."

Arthas nodded. The first of the Ironborn keeps were about to fall according to missives from the Lords Crakehall and Tarly. Still… "Why wasn't I told?" Arthas asked, a tad hurt to have been excluded. "At the very least about Myrcella's departure." She was on her way to Harrenhal for a brief stay with Lady Whent, and would be proceeding to Casterly Rock after the Ironborn were dealt with.

A laugh ripped out of Tyrion's throat. "Not used to that, are you?" he asked. "Tywin Lannister never tells anyone everything, not even you. Best you don't forget that."

"I don't understand why Grandfather insists on sending my sister to stay in that dreary, overmighty keep though. She'd be far safer here," Arthas said.

"The Ironborn and her safety are but an excuse," Tyrion said, mismatched eyes turning dark. "The Whents of the male line are extinct, I remind you."

Arthas raised a brow. "He has designs on Harrenhal?"

"It's a rich fief," Tyrion said.

"That seems a poor way to repay the Tullys after they stood with us."

"Perhaps he's made an arrangement with them. Handing out Harrenhal's lordship has always been the Iron Throne's prerogative in the past," Tyrion said.

And Joffrey isn't likely to care if Grandfather puts the matter before him, Arthas thought. "Still, I thought he'd stay until the end of the trial at least." He'd been a natural choice to oversee it, alongside Lords Eddard and Edmure in their roles as Arthas' soon-to-be good-father and the master of laws respectively. It helped that they hailed from the only three kingdoms who had no reason to have him killed now that Baelish was a suspect.

"We seem no closer to the truth now than a month ago, it seems. We increase the number of suspects each time a new piece of evidence is brought forward," Tyrion said.

"Well, we no longer suspect the Dornish at least," Arthas said.

"Because their prince killed the Mountain?" Tyrion asked.

Before Arthas could answer, Myrcella stood before them, gently holding onto a weeping Tommen. She took a moment to readjust the scarf she'd gifted him, before pulling him forward into their hug. "I'll miss you, Brother."

"Take care of yourself," Arthas said loudly as she pulled herself and Tommen away. He sent a pointed look at Robar Royce and the Blackfish, standing a few feet behind her. The two tilted their heads, acknowledging his order.

"I should be saying that to you," she said, putting a hand on her hip. "I'm not the one who's been stabbed and poisoned as many times in as many months."

"The Battle of Green Fork only ought to count as one," Arthas protested.

"No, it really shouldn't," Myrcella said. "Thank the Seven Sansa will be here for a while longer. She tempers your recklessness... as much as anyone can hope to."

"I can't deny the truth behind your sister's words, Prince Arthas," Margaery said, walking up to them with Joffrey.

Arthas frowned.

"Don't chide him too harshly, sister mine," Joffrey said. "He did win me the war at Green Fork."

Myrcella sighed. "You aren't wrong." She offered them one last smile. "Take care of yourselves while I'm away."

The bells of Baelor's Sept echoed across the city, and Myrcella stepped into her waiting carriage. She was still their sister, and a princess besides, which made for a whole procession to escort her out of King's Landing, including a particularly round septon whose belly jiggled distractingly at the slightest movement.

A fat priest… it was almost unheard of back in Lordaeron, where even the highest rungs of the Church of Holy Light would personally give alms to the poor and other shows of physical piety.

Beggars lined the streets like they always did whenever Arthas or Margaery returned from the Sept of Baelor. He'd been giving alms to the poor for years, and Margaery had been trying her best to surpass him. Either way, it meant the royal party was progressing far slower than the king liked.

"Is this necessary," Joffrey asked, scowling.

"We do this in your name, my love," his Tyrell wife pointed out, handing him a purse filled with coppers. "Would you like to hand them some? Almsgiving is good for the soul."

He wrinkled his nose, but stuck his hand in the offered purse and threw the coins at the beggars, sending them scuttling after the scattered copper stars. Joffrey laughed at the sight of it, before frowning as he saw how many laid ahead. For at the foot of Visenya's Hill, near the Guildhall of the Alchemists waited the slowest and weakest of the beggars; the old, the infirm, and the crippled.

As the procession passed, the king stopped before a boy who could not stand, perhaps seven or eight years old. He raised a brow at him, sneering before dropping a few coins on his head. "A cripple," Joffrey said to Arthas. "It would be better to die, don't you think?"

"That was ill said, my love." Margaery placed a hand on her husband's arm.

"It was a jest," Joffrey said, waving her off. "The close season is drawing near. We ought to get one last hunt in while we can. What say you Arthas?"

"I think I know who tried to kill Bran…" Sansa's words echoed in his head.

Arthas swallowed, but it did not remove the dryness sticking to his throat. "A fine idea."

TheKingIsDead—

Grandfather's departure from King's Landing broke the tenuous stalemate which plagued the treason trials, though not in the way Arthas imagined.

"We're to be kin soon, Lord Eddard," Arthas said from across him.

"I should hope you think better of me," Lord Stark said, "than to use family to convince me I ought to abandon Lord Baelish."

"No," Arthas said, "but my grandfather's departure does highlight a problem you'll soon face yourself. Time is of the essence." Lord Stark needed to depart soon to secure the north against their enemies, both living and the dead. "You cannot tarry here for much longer either, and the trial has come to a standstill. Something must change."

"I intended to leave my son Robb here," he said. "His hand is not wholly recovered. He might act as my proxy, like Lord Kevan does. Besides, he has duties keeping him here."

"This trial is naught but a distraction. It is nothing. Meanwhile, our enemies continue to circle us."

Stark raised a brow at him. "That is cavalier of you considering the trial is over your own would-be murderers. I understand now why my daughter constantly fusses over your wellbeing."

Arthas had the decency to blush and ducked his head. "I'm still alive, aren't I?"

"To be young again," Eddard said, sounding wistful. "I was never so free spirited and reckless when I was your age, but your father certainly was. You continue to prove yourself his son in more ways than one."

"Why do you insist on extending your protection to Lord Baelish?" Arthas asked, steering the conversation back on topic before nostalgia led them astray. "Because he is a friend to Lady Catelyn?"

"Because it is the right thing to do," Eddard said softly, yet sternly. "Because he is innocent of the crime."

Because he might betray your suspicions about Joffrey? Arthas wondered. He could hardly blame the man for that, for if it were to come out then the repercussions... They could scarce afford conflict between the Iron Throne and Winterfell at this dire hour.

"Baelish has many enemies at court," Eddard added.

"It is the court," Arthas said. "Anyone who's anyone has many enemies, and Baelish is now Lord Regent of the Vale. Do not make him out to be a hapless babe."

Yet, it did bring about another issue. Arthas could not know how well-liked Baelish was in the Vale, but surely Lady Lysa would not have married the man if there was not some affection between them? There was every chance the Vale might ignore the Iron Throne's edicts if he were found guilty, if it didn't send them into outright rebellion that is.

Arthas sighed. As if the realm wasn't fractured enough.

It would be good for the Tyrells too, Arthas thought a tad dourly, if Baelish is found innocent. There was no risk of being tainted by association then. How many more men could he extract from the Reach if a compromise had not already been reached?

Before another word could be uttered, there was a hurried knocking against the door. A man in Stark livery barged in at Lord Stark's command to enter.

"My lord, Your Grace," the bearded man said, "King Joffrey commands you attend to him at the black cells. The servants being kept there have been murdered!"

Arthas shot to his feet. "What?"

The prisoners were kept in a squat, half-round tower with only one obvious entrance, an elevated walkway. The Traitor's Walk led to the uppermost floors where high, narrow windows allowed light in. Knight and lordlings were kept in relative comfort here, awaiting ransom. The floor just below held the common criminals in cramped quarters, and Ramsay Bolton, who'd been waiting to guide them down, seemed to delight in rapping his sword against their bars. The bastard smiled wickedly as men over thrice his age drew back from the sound of steel on steel.

"I recognize some of these men," Arthas said, picking out faces from the huddled crowd. "Why are they here?"

"I'm sure you would," Ramsay said. "They are blacksmiths, craftsmen, and merchants. The cockless man called them the Antler Men. They plotted to turn this city over to Stannis."

How long had Varys known about them only to reveal it now, Arthas wondered. Another move to ingratiate himself with Joffrey no doubt. King's Landing was still host to a formidable army of loyalists that far outnumbered Stannis' fleet.

"There's proof of this?" Lord Eddard asked.

The ugly writhing worm of a smile on Ramsay's lips shriveled and died. "We had confessions."

"Had?" Arthas asked.

"Aye, had. The undergaoler Rugen poisoned those who'd confessed, before he made his escape. Same with the servants being held for you, Prince Arthas."

Arthas frowned. Just how many men had this Rugen killed and why hadn't anyone noticed?

Finally, they reached the third floor where the cells were smaller still, with doors of thick wood that blocked all light. "If I'm being honest," Ramsay said as he inserted his key into the only room not for prisoners, "it's the floor below that's my favorite. Ah, here we are, the undergaoler's apartment."

The only good thing that could be said for the place was that it was slightly larger than the black cells. It was just as damp and dreary, and the straw the undergaoler might have slept on was mildewed.

Joffrey stood at the center of the room, directing guards in red or yellow livery, in a mood blacker than the cells. "I'm surrounded by traitors!" He scowled, waving Arthas over. "Can you believe this? The sheer incompetence!"

"What can you tell us about this Rugen?" Eddard asked Ramsay.

"Not much," Ramsay said. "I haven't been the King's Justice for long. He was a quiet fellow and without much in friends, family, or fun. The other gaolers I've interviewed all sound deathly scared of him, but I can't for the life of me understand why. The scariest thing about that coarse, unkempt lump was his smell."

Joffrey gritted his teeth. "I want every inch of this room searched. Tear down every brick if you must, but I will have answers!"

His brother's mood only grew worse with each passing day no answers were forthcoming. It was not to say that there weren't any clues, just that who had planted them remained a mystery. The only balm seemed to be when the day of their hunt finally arrived, near the last days of fall. Befitting Joffrey's personage, a large entourage followed them to the edges of the kingswood.

Arthas was dressed in a black surcoat made of sable and golden trimmings, the crowned badge of his father over his heart, while Joffrey wore red, with his sleeves shielded with the lion of Lannister. They were dressed as they had been at the hunt of Winterfell, before Bran fell.

Ramsay wore something plain—a motley huntsman's cloak that made him blend with the trees as they trotted into the kingswood. His pack of hounds barked and bayed and snarled at every living thing they passed, to Ramsay's chortles.

Joffrey raised his hand and the party came to a halt. "The rest of you will wait for us here," he said.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, "I must strongly advise against this."

"You always do," Joffrey said. "I've not been harmed since I started hunting, and I don't see what's changed since."

"The attacks, Your Grace," Barristan said. "We've yet to find the bandits stringing men up in the woods."

Joffrey merely laughed. "Bandits? I'd like to see what a few arrogant smallfolk think they can do to me. What will these bandits do when we release the hounds?"

Ramsay chortled. "I hope they run. The dogs love a good chase."

"All it would take is a lucky arrow," Barristan warned, "or a man with a sword to get too close for your life to be endangered. It is a great risk."

Joffrey narrowed his eyes. "I am the king. Your first duty is to obey my commands and keep my secrets."

"With respect, You Grace, our first duty is to defend you from harm," Barristan said.

"Like you defended my father from harm?" Joffrey asked rhetorically. "Like you defended the Mad King from harm, or Rhaegar at the Trident?"

Barristan flushed in anger. "Your Grace—"

"No, Selmy. You're too old to defend anyone, and so you will remain here," Joffrey said. "I order it. Besides, I will have my brother to protect me."

"Perhaps a few more guards would not be amiss. I have only the sword you gave me," Arthas said. His warhammer he'd left behind—not an appropriate weapon for hunting, Joffrey had said.

"It'll do," Joffrey said. "It's a fine sword, isn't it?"

It was a poorly made one as castle-forged steel went, but Stag's Horn would be good for a few stabs at least. "As the king commands."

Arthas offered a silent look of apology to Ser Barristan. For his part, the old Kingsguard knight bent his head, before riding away from the king's side.

While the white cloaks and red cloaks stayed put, the three of them headed deeper into the woods, and soon they were out of sight, shrouded by the thick trunks, twining branches, and slithering vines.

"I'm so glad you finally decided to join me on a hunt," Joffrey said. "It's been too long since we've done this."

"Not since Winterfell," Arthas said.

Joffrey shook his head. "Oh, this will be far different from Winterfell."

"This will be a real hunt," Ramsay added with a grin. "It's a thrill like nothing else, assuming you're like His Grace."

"Of course he is," Joffrey said confidently. "He's my brother."

"I don't see how this would be any different though. Do the animals of the kingswood run faster?" Arthas asked.

"No pesky snow to slow them down," Ramsay said. His dogs barked. "The trick for a good hunt is to make sure you starve the hounds beforehand. It makes them eager."

"You'll enjoy this," Joffrey said with a firm nod. "Ramsay, we're far enough away now. Do go and look for our prey." When Ramsay disappeared, he turned to Arthas. "You know, I wanted to invite you earlier, but with your health and Ramsay's reservations…"

"I don't mind," Arthas said. "Does Ramsay not like me?" The feeling was mutual to be entirely honest. Something about the man just rubbed him the wrong way.

"No, no, nothing like that." Joffrey shook his head. "He just didn't think your tastes and mine ran the same way. A silly concern really. You've already killed so many people for me."

Arthas' brow rose a little, not quite following. "We're twins."

"We're twins." Joffrey beamed at him, then after a silence lasting seconds passed, he said, "You know I still don't quite understand why you insist on Dorne's innocence."

"Oberyn Martell won in a trial by combat," Arthas said.

"That proves nothing, save that he was the better fighter," Joffrey said. "We found their coins in Rugen's quarters."

"The golden suns of Dorne are a rare coinage," Arthas said. "They've not seen any use since the Aegon the Conqueror stamped them out."

"You say they are rare. Where else to find them but in Dorne then?" Joffrey asked.

Baelish might have had the means to get some, Arthas couldn't help but think. He was the master of coin after all. "Perhaps," Arthas said, "but the Martells aren't so stupid as to pay in something that could be traced to them. Whoever it was paying Rugen wants us to think its Dorne."

Joffrey scowled. "Assuming I believe that, we're no closer to answers than before."

"Unfortunately, no," Arthas said.

His brother sighed. "I never imagined ruling would be this hard." Joffrey looked to the skies, where a flock of birds flew further south. "Did you know Varys wanted me to take your head when you entered King's Landing?"

"Are you going to?" Arthas asked.

He snorted. "Of course not. Why would I do such a silly thing? You're my brother, my shield. Who would protect me if not you?"

"There are many men who would—"

"Many who would fawn over me, flatter me. Men who would swear oaths as easily as they would break them. Men cannot be trusted. The Hound was loyal as his name, but even he died in the end to Renly's treachery," Joffrey said. "You are the last one I trust with my life. There is no one else. Ask anything of me, and you shall have it."

"It was Joffrey," Sansa said suddenly. ,forcing it out as if struggling for air. "I didn't want to believe it, I didn't want to, but I can't ignore it now. And—"

Arthas breathed out, and the air in front of him turned to fog. The wind picked up and his silver cloak fluttered behind him. Tansy neighed uneasily, shifting weight between his legs. They were alone now, away from prying ears. It was the best chance to know the truth, without starting any damaging rumors. "Joffrey, do you remember Bran Stark?.

"Hmm?" Joffrey looked at him. "Lord Stark's crippled boy? What about him?"

It was now or never.

"Did you… did you know someone tried to kill him after he fell? With a Valyrian dagger that our father had."

"Yes," Joffrey said. "I'm aware."

No, Arthas begged in his head. Don't tell me you did it. Deny it, please.

"Then I ask for the truth then," Arthas said, swallowing. He could hear screaming, and dogs barking. "Did you do it? Did the order come from you?"

"Yes," Joffrey said calmly. "I did."

Why?!

"Why?" Arthas asked, trembling. "He was a boy."

"He was a crippled boy," Joffrey said. "Did you not hear what Father said to Mother that night after his fall? It would be cruel to keep a cripple alive. Better to die quickly than be kept in some half-life, don't you think?"

"Bran lost his legs," Arthas said. "Not his mind. That's no reason to kill him! He's my good-brother."

Joffrey shrugged. "It was no reason to let him live either. What use is a legless man in the North?"

Arthas stared at him, dumbfounded. "I didn't want to… to believe, but you… you..."

A boy no older than eight rushed into the clearing, breathing hard. He got to his knees before them, wide-eyed. "M'lords! Mercy! Dogs!" he said, struggling to breathe, pointing behind himself frantically.

Arthas pulled out Stag's Horn from its sheath, moving towards the blonde-haired Bran who looked nothing like him.

"Start with his wrists," Joffrey advised. "The blood riles the hounds rather well."

"Y-your Grace?" the boy asked.

"Why?" Arthas asked. "You'd have him killed for what reason?"

"Why not?" Joffrey asked in turn. "What business is it of his to be in my woods? The punishments for poaching in the kingswood are high."

"His family could be foresters. He could have every right to be here."

"They could. But what does it matter in the end? I'd kill him because I can, Arthas. That is a king's right. And we are in my woods."

The strong do what they will, and the weak suffer what they must.

Ramsay walked out from between the trees to them, whistling a jaunty tune. "Starting without me, Your Grace? Ah well, I suppose your brother can go first since it's his first time."

Arthas gripped his sword tighter.

"Go on then," Joffrey said, dismounting from his horse with his crossbow in hand. "I'd prefer to shoot the boy to get him running, but cutting him works as well."

"You've no appreciation for it," Ramsay chided. "Cutting can be drawn out. There's an art to it. Will you need instructions, Prince Arthas?"

"Y-your Grace, please," the boy said, eyes shifting between each of them.

"You are the shield of the faithful, the hammer of the just," Uther said proudly.

"Close your eyes," Arthas said, doing his best to soothe the boy. "Do not move. This will be over quickly."

The boy obeyed, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked too tired to run even if he wanted to.

"Quickly is bori—" Ramsay opined, cut short as he began choking on his blood.

Arthas drew the sword from the bastard's gurgling neck with a pull, kicking Ramsay's body into the dirt.

There was silence in the clearing save the ravenous hounds' growling—then they leapt, tearing at Ramsay's body with sharp nails and sharper teeth. Ramsay' body spasmed as they tore into him.

The boy tried to open his eyes, but Arthas barked at him, "Keep your eyes shut!"

He turned around to face his brother, and his shoulders sagged.

Joffrey stared at Ramsay's corpse with interest. "You certainly know how to keep things interesting," Joffrey said with a fierce smile. "Shall we get on with the other one then?"

"We need to unite the realm under one king," Mandon said, a spark of life and ambition in his normally dead eyes. "The right king. That's you. Seize the crown."

Arthas trembled, eyes shifting between his brother and the boy. "No."

"No?" Joffrey frowned, not quite comprehending the idea of defiance from his twin.

To kill kin and king was accursed by all the gods, no matter where one was. Had he truly learned nothing? Without Joffrey, without the Tyrells and their grain, he'd have no means of feeding his army in the north. His old kingdom had tried to stand alone before, and it had failed. What sense was there in letting whole regions starve for the sake of one boy? There was no justice in this for Bran, but he might prefer it if his home was not overrun by the dead. There would be time enough for justice after the wars.

"Arthas? Are you alright?"

And yet… "This wasn't the first time," Arthas murmured. All those reports of dead smallfolk being found in the kingswood… that had been Joffrey, hadn't it? If he let his brother live, this would happen again, and again, and again.

"Justice shall be done!" Hadn't that been Arthas's refrain as a paladin? Who could bring a king to justice but his conscience or the gods, and Joffrey had little regard for either.

Arthas took a step forward, then another. "I will bear any curse for my people." His eyes stung painfully, but he soldiered through it.

Joffrey pulled the drawstring on his crossbow back with a practiced ease. "Snap out of it. Don't make me shoot you, Brother," he said, his features pulled back with genuine concern.

Arthas felt the quarrel thud into his chest, but did not feel any pain as a strange coldness numbed him to sensation. What I do, I do for my people. I command, not because I am worthy, but because no one else is left.

Arthas stepped forward again.

Joffrey dropped his crossbow, pulling out Lion's Tooth and waving it against Arthas with the mark of a clumsy, untrained boy. As he did, Stag's Horn came out swinging with such force that it tore its twin from his brother's grip, but found itself breaking too. Arthas was left standing there with a hilt and the jagged edges of a broken sword in one hand, his brother's shirt in the other.

"What are you doing, Arthas?" Joffrey asked, eyes fearful and breathing panicked.

He pulled Joffrey close, whispering in his ear, "Succeeding you, Brother." The broken blade in his free hand drove forward, and the crown toppled off, bloody and broken.

The hounds howled and they surged forward, another corpse for their waiting maws.

Arthas pulled off his twice-tarnished silver cloak. He wept for his vows broken and kin lost.

He wept for Joffrey.

He wept for his own damned soul.