Chapter 16: Divergent Courses

It was Joffrey's final edict that kept their attendants from seeking them out. The sun was beginning to set when Arthas walked out of the kingswood, one hand keeping Joffrey's corpse balanced atop Tansy, while the other guided Joffrey's hunting horse even as it dragged Ramsay's corpse behind it.

"Your Grace!" Barristan was quick to spot him emerging from the treeline, vigilantly awaiting their return. He took one look at Joffrey's body and frowned. "What has come to pass?"

"Murder," Arthas confessed, voice cracking and eyes red. He had covered Joffrey's upper body with his silver cloak, though it didn't quite cover all the missing chunks the hounds had taken.

"Gods be good," Barristan whispered, even as men-at-arms under Ser Bonifer formed a cordon against the forest, as if unseen knights would come charging out any second now. "Whose hands dared to strike down a king?"

Arthas' mouth fell open, but no words came. He thought it'd be obvious enough.

"It is the doing of that Northern bastard, of course! Look at those bites," a knight with the markings of Rosby said. "I've said it a hundred times: those bloodhounds of Snow were too wild to hunt with. He never fed them right, and they bit off the hand that didn't feed them. Now we've lost a king to those wretched beasts too."

"That fool Ramsay ought to have kept a better leash on his dogs," Barristan muttered, embracing the theory without much consideration as those around him nodded grimly. Their reactions betrayed how thoroughly despised Ramsay was at court. "There was nothing you could have done, Your Grace. You were but one man against a whole pack. Seven bless us that the hounds did not turn their bloodlust on you as well."

King. Arthas mulled over the word as Barristan and the rest of the men kneeled before him. He'd murdered his brother and received the crown for his troubles.

I will bear any curse for my people. His will steeled itself once more. I was put here for a purpose, and it was not to seek redemption. That much was clear to him now. There was already too much innocent blood on his hands, too many atrocities he'd committed… but by his efforts he might save these people—his people—from extinction. For what other purpose would the Light and the Seven have brought him back?

When the dead were seen to, when his people were saved, only then would he make restitution for Joffrey. The realm would be better for it if Tommen ruled after the war.

"I am yours to command, Your Grace," Barristan said, still kneeling.

"Rise, Ser Barristan," Arthas said, and found he had no tears left to wipe away. There was work to be done.

A heavy escort was quickly arranged to accompany Arthas to King's Landing. Joffrey's body was loaded onto a wagon, though when Barristan tried to return Arthas' silver cloak, he shook his head.

He'd fallen from the Light with the murder of one king before. Why should this be any different?

Their nimblest rider was sent in advance to bring word to the Red Keep. Some of the men left behind would scour the forest, looking for the dogs and putting them to death. Arthas could not kill all of them in time. The forrester's boy though… he yet lived, and he dearly hoped he was long gone by now. Grandfather Tywin would've called him a fool not for the murder, but for letting a witness live.

If word of what he did ever got out, the consequences for the realm would be disastrous. The realm would once again tear itself apart after he'd pieced it back together atop a foundation of corpses. HIs enemies would hound him day and night, and every lord with a grievance would see it fit to ignore his royal edicts when the time came to march north.

His grandfather would have advised him to track the boy down and have him killed. The risks were great. It was worse than a sin to let him live: it was a half-measure. And yet how could he do it? He'd murdered Joffrey for justice, for Bran's sake. How could he murder another Bran for his own gain?

As they neared King's Landing, more knights riding hard from the city joined them, forming ring upon ring of armored men around Arthas' person. Banners bearing the peas of Peasebury, Manderly's mermen, knights from Kayce and Silverhill and Stonehelm, men bearing Karstark's sunburst and Seagard's eagles… their party must have tripled in size by the time they crossed the gates.

His uncle Jaime took his place besides Sers Barristan and Bonnifer, riding close to Arthas, physically putting themselves in the way of any possible danger.

"Has Mother been told?" Arthas asked.

Jaime nodded. "She's waiting to receive you in the Red Keep with the other lords."

She'd been distraught over his own poisoning, he recalled, and between them, Mother always loved Joffrey best. He could scarcely imagine how much worse she must be taking his passing.

His uncle seemed to know his thoughts, for he said, "She's not taking it well."

"I'll see for myself soon enough," Arthas replied. They were making good time with the gold cloaks under Robb already having cleared a path all the way to the base of Aegon's High Hill.

"I did it to save lives, believe it or not," he recalled his uncle's words to him while he slept off the poison. "Half a million saved against a thousand killed… do you think the gods will think kindly of me for that?"

Arthas had lived two lives, but still he had no answer. Still, he hoped that they did, for if even his uncle's reasons fell short, then how much worse must the Light see his own transgressions in just this life alone?

Like Uncle Jaime had reported, all the great lords and men of import still within King's Landing had gathered at the courtyard of the Red Keep. When he entered, all of them knelt before Arthas, from the high lords to the small council. Only his mother remained standing amidst them. Cersei Lannister walked up to him, trembling, though Arthas did not know if it was born from sorrow or anger. There was room enough for both in her eyes.

"You were supposed to protect him," Cersei hissed, cheeks wet. "The both of you should have protected him."

"This is not the time or the place," Jaime said, putting himself between Arthas and his mother.

Arthas bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

Her hands were clenched into tight balls, and blood was dripping from the edges. A lioness' nails were sharp even in mourning. "First, our enemies poisoned you," Mother said. "Now, they've killed even my son, my sweet Joff. Something must be done about this, Arthas! You of all people ought to see reason."

"What would you have me do?"

"That foul boy Ramsay murdered him, but he was never one to think for himself," Mother said, eyes flashing dangerously. "They think themselves so clever, but I know the truth! I see what others don't! It was the Starks, I tell you. Them, and that rat Littlefinger."

"Your Grace, I must protest!" Lord Eddard said. "I would never—"

Mother shot him a murderous look. "Do you think me blind? I see how you scurry in the shadows, whispering, always whispering! I know how the game of thrones is played. You murdered my son to make your daughter queen, to take my crown."

"That's enough," Arthas said.

Mother turned her eyes back to him. "Perhaps you and Joff are more alike than I thought. He let himself be seduced away from good counsel too. Tell me, has Stark's whore daughter—"

A white cold rage coursed through his chest, turning his breath into mist. "I said that is enough."

She slapped him.

Arthas blinked.

She slapped him.

"I won't let them take you like they took Joff," Cersei said, tears streaming down reddened eyes. Her hand reared back again—

—but Barristan caught her arm before it hit. "His Grace is the king."

She struggled against his grip, but Barristan's strength had not waned much despite the greying in his hair.

"This has been an ordeal for all of us," Arthas said. "My mother is tired."

"I am not—"

"My mother is tired now," Arthas repeated.

Jaime moved, breaking the impasse, dragging Cersei away even as she screamed profanities.

Arthas turned to Lord Eddard. "I must apologize for her words, Lord Stark, and hope you can forgive her."

"As you said, Your Grace, it has been an ordeal," Stark said, nodding.

"I must retire myself for the night," Arthas said. "I am not feeling myself."

"Understandable, Your Grace."

Arthas walked past him, towards Maegor's Holdfast. His feet dragged him through familiar corridors, though they no longer felt like home to him. Finally, he reached his room. "No guests tonight, Ser Barristan," he said. "I want to be alone. And send word to the High Septon. My brother's body is to be given the utmost care by the silent sisters."

"Of course, Your Grace," Barristan said. The door shut behind him.

Arthas reached for his chest, where he remembered Joffrey's quarrel had struck, but found no wound there anymore. Just a hole where its head had punched through was all that remained. Perhaps it had not drawn blood after all? He did not recall feeling pain.

He laid on his bed, and let his eyes shut…

...and he stood behind the Lich King, with his legion dead, and deadly led. His ever-blue warhammer rested across his massive shoulders, humming a song like the cracking of glaciers, like the slow death of a sun.

Before them was a glowing gate hidden beneath the snow, white as the falling flakes. A face, old and wrinkled and pale as ice had been carved into it—or had always been there.

Its wrinkled white eyes opened. "Who are you?" it asked.

The Lich King strode forward with large strides and his jagged crown of black ice. "I am the watcher beyond the Wall," he said. His voice was clear, musical, like tinkling crystals. "I am the cold that snuffs out the flame, the darkness that smothers the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers."

The king reached out behind him and a White Walker approached, horn in hand. "I am the sword that breaks the realms of men."

A crow flew overhead. The door's lips opened wide, "You shall not pass."

"Oh, but I will," the Lich King said, amused, accepting the horn. "Every king needs a castle, and this is my fort of night, long before it was ever yours." He set his lips on the horn and blew.

The Lich King turned around. He was dark-haired, and stark of face, with eyes like burning ice. Not the Lich King, Arthas realized. The Night's King.

Then the avalanche began to fall—

Arthas woke with a start. That was the Wall. There was no doubt about it. But was it a vision of things to come, or was the enemy at the gates already, poised to breakthrough? They hadn't heard word from the Wall in weeks now, save that Jon was nearing Castle Black with the Ironborn in full retreat.

His eyes opened and he was not in his room. Rather, he was in some cave before a wooden face, corpse white.

"I feel him approaching, coming for me," spoke the face, speaking and not speaking to Arthas. "I am not long for this world. All memory of me will fade from this world, save what the maesters wrote of my old deeds."

"The White Walkers," Arthas said, shuddering. "How do I stop them?"

"You already know," the corpse said.

"Valyrian steel." He'd seen his father kill a White Walker with one, but Westeros had less than three hundred blades of that make. He could not wage a war on the valor of three hundred men! "There's not enough. I need to arm an army." Arthas thought back to his long days spent reading half a hundred myths with Grandmaester Pycelle. "Their wights fear fire, but the White Walkers can kill those with the cold that accompanies them."

"Then you need a fire that does not die, a fire that does not fear, or falter, or flicker," the corpse said.

"A frozen fire," Arthas whispered. That's what Myths of the First Men had said.

The corpse nodded, and held out a hand. In it was a dagger of black, jagged stone,

"Dragonglass?" Arthas asked.

"What the maesters call—"

"Obsidian," he finished aloud. It was a volcanic glass, forged in the fires of the gods, far below the earth. The largest deposits of those were in Dragonstone.

With Stannis, Arthas thought.

TheKingIsDead—

They stood vigil over Joffrey's body in the Great Sept of Baelor.

"The mask will be replaced with something more fitting," Uncle Jaime said from beside him. "Solid gold, with emeralds for the eyes."

"That's good," Arthas said. Grandfather Tywin would never let them hear the end of it if anything less than the best was used. Then a thought struck him. "I'm surprised you were able to find a decent craftsman. I thought Varys had them all thrown into the gaols."

"He certainly seemed to try," Jaime said. "Arthas, this business with the Antler Men—"

Arthas warded him off with a hand. "They'll be dealt with later as soon as I hold a session at court, along with the appointment of a new Kingsguard."

It had not escaped his notice how thinly stretched they'd been after the Mountain's death. Robar and Blackfish were with Myrcella in Harrenhal at the moment, while Greysteel was constantly following Margaery Tyrell though she was no longer queen. It left three brothers of the white cloak to guard Arthas and the rest of the royal family.

Arthas shut his eyes. "Gods, has Myrcella been told?" he asked, suddenly recalling.

"A raven was dispatched to Harrenhal yesterday," Jaime said. "It would have reached her quite late. She might not have had the chance to read it yet."

"And what about Mother? Is she feeling better?" Arthas asked.

Uncle Jaime's wince told him more than he needed to know. "The Grandmaester gave her some milk of the poppy just to get her to sleep at last. I don't imagine it's entirely out of her system yet."

"Keep an eye on her," Arthas said. "It would be best if she were healthy enough to attend court today, but if another outburst from her is forthcoming…" Mother wasn't doing him any favors if she publicly accused another high lord of high treason.

"I'll see to it," Jaime assured him.

The heavy set double doors of the Great Sept of Baelor creaked open by a fraction, sending loud echoes throughout the chamber. An intention design, Arthas supposed, to ensure that the septon's weekly sermons could be heard on the other side of the room, as well as to shame any latecomers for interrupting.

Ser Barristan marched towards them, with Lord Eddard, Robb, Sansa, and Arya trailing behind him in a single file. The direwolves were notably absent, Arthas noted, and would not likely ever be in his presence if he let Ser Barristan have his way.

"You're up early, Lord Stark," Arthas called out.

Eddard stopped some ten paces away, head dipping towards him. "We came to pay our respects, Your Grace."

"Still, you needn't have come so early," Arthas said. "Do not fear that I've let my mother's words poison my thoughts against you."

"We've uncovered no evidence to suggest Ramsay was not acting alone," Barristan offered.

Some, only some, of the tension in Stark's shoulders drained out. "May we approach?"

Arthas stepped to the side, and invited them forward with a wave of his hand.

The silent sisters had done well to keep the stench of death and decay from clinging to Joffrey's body in the hours he'd been in their care. His crimson armor hid the large swathes of empty flesh where the hounds had torn into, while the twin swords—Lion's Tooth and the broken pieces of Stag's Horn—lay to either side of him. On his brother's mauled face rested a gold-tinted mask.

Lord Eddard took a good long look at Joffrey, staying silent all throughout, and Robb followed his example. Sansa offered him a comforting smile, her hands finding his, and Arya made a face at the gesture, before averting her eyes.

Arthas cleared his throat. "You still mean to return north soon with your daughters, do you not?"

"If I have your leave," Eddard said. "It's been too long since I held my lady wife." They had marched south together over a year ago, and Arthas' poisoning had further delayed Lord Stark's departure by some months. A Stark must always be in Winterfell, especially now, and Eddard's return was long overdue.

"Have you settled on a date?"

He hesitated.

Very soon then, that he fears to offend me, Arthas thought. "I pray you'll be here at least until my coronation?" Arthas asked. "I have not forgotten that you were one of the first lords to call your banners on my behalf, even as you faced dire threats beyond the Wall. It seems only proper that be present when I don the crown later today."

"Of course, Your Grace," Eddard said. "Though are you certain you wish to be crowned so soon?"

"The realm still faces threats on three sides," Arthas said. "It pains me to dither in this city while others bleed for my family's right to the Iron Throne."

Sansa gasped. "Arthas, you can't mean to ride out to war once more?"

Eddard nodded slowly. "She is right. You would make a good king, but you must remain alive to be a king."

"Not immediately," Arthas said. "I will not leave the city in disarray, yet it will soon fall upon me to make war on our enemies."

"Your uncle Stannis has not stirred from Dragonstone since Robert's death," Eddard said.

"One might almost forget he is in open rebellion," Arthas said, "if not for his disparaging remarks of my parenthood."

Jaime sneered at that. "The nerve he has, to hide away at that seabitten rock, spending his days doing nothing hurling insults and writing letters!"

Yet, I may need to sue for peace with him sooner rather than later, Arthas thought. "I hear Moat Cailin has finally returned into your hands?"

"For a few days now," Eddard said. "They were the last of the Ironborn to harry the north."

"What of the Wall? Any word from Jon or the Lord Commander?" Arthas asked.

"Things appear to be well in hand at the moment," Eddard said. "Lords Umber and Karstark are hunting down the few wildlings that have slipped past them, but they wasted their strength trying to take Castle Black. They are scattered now, and those that bent the knee are under armed guard."

"I am pleased to hear that," Arthas said. Better that some were spared from joining the dead at least. "Ser Jaime, Ser Barristan, I wish to speak with Lord Eddard and Sansa privately for a moment."

Arya looked all too happy to leave, though Robb seemed like he wanted to protest. A look from his father put an end to that, and the two Starks followed the Kingsguard down the wide marble walkway leading to the doors. They did not exit, but merely joined the ring of waiting knights hugging the walls.

"Let me be frank," Arthas said in a low voice that did not carry across the room, "There are many decisions my brother made that I did not agree with, matters he did not attend to with haste. I mean to bring things to order, and Lord Baelish is one of those matters."

"Your Grace, he is innocent—" Eddard began to protest, before Arthas cut him off.

"I am not Aerys the Mad to murder my vassals in cold blood," Arthas said. "Yet, neither am I like Aerys the First, who let his lords run amok and did nothing as Ironborn ravaged the realm."

Lord Stark locked eyes with him, saying nothing as many seconds ticked by. He was torn between honor and duty and fear for his family.

Arthas breathed out and steeled himself. "Sansa told me what you suspected my brother of doing."

Eddard froze, eyes unconsciously drawn to Joffrey's still form.

"I am not proud of it, but he confessed his crime to me," Arthas said. "House Stark may rest easy, and know that I delivered justice for Bran in the end. How it was done… it was not the justice you may have wanted, but then, what mortal man may pass judgement on a king?" His smile was bitter and broken.

There was a sharp intake of breath from both Sansa and her father as they made sense of his words—and all that they implied.

"I had thought Robert harsh when he spoke ill of your brother's fitness to rule," Eddard said at last.

"So did I," Arthas said, his voice cracking. "I didn't think… I never imagined it would come to this. I never wanted this."

"Why tell us?" Eddard asked.

"Because the two of you deserved to know," Arthas said.

Part of him knew too that the Starks would not betray his secret. Sansa would be the future queen of Westeros now, and though they never sought out that honor, many would not think kindly of their intentions if the truth of Joffrey's death was revealed. They were too close to the matter, especially with how the court had turned Ramsay into a scapegoat. Mother's hysteric words from the day before would suddenly sound believable if the truth was ever revealed.

Yet, there was no coming back from this. Where did it leave them?

"No man is so accursed as the kinslayer," Eddard whispered. "But I confess, there is little I would not set aside for my family's safety."

Even honor, it seemed. "There will be many among your bannermen and at court who would think it better for Sansa to stay here, given we are betrothed," Arthas said. He was of age and Sansa nearly was. While not everyone married as young as sixteen, Arthas was a king now and the realm would demand heirs of his body to secure the succession. It hadn't been an issue when Joffrey still lived.

"She is not their daughter," Eddard said with some heat in his voice.

"Father, please," Sansa said. "Think kindly of him. He only did what he did for our sake."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know. Gods, I know. If I take her back with me to Winterfell, men will whisper that the betrothal is at an abrupt end, given your ages especially. Such whispers would be poison, especially when the court has witnessed the two of you together for so many months."

Some would think there was only one reason why such a thing would come to pass: that Arthas had "discovered" the Stark's treasons perhaps, and only his love for Sansa kept him from levying harsher punishment.

"I ought to stay here then," Sansa said.

Arthas could see clearly it was not what Eddard wanted, and he could hardly blame him for that. "Joffrey did not deign to fill the Mountain's spot in the Kingsguard," Arthas said. "There must be a knight in your service it can be granted to. That might be enough to stop most whispers of lost favor… then in a few months or a year, we can revisit this issue." With any luck, Arthas would be dead by then, having done what little penance he could battling the dead.

"Lord Manderly's second son remains in my party. Wendel remains unwed, and follows the Seven."

"Agreed," Arthas said.

Sansa's mouth dropped. "Do I not have a say in any of this? It is my betrothal after all."

"You are still young at fifteen, Sansa," Eddard said, "and regardless, we do not need to address this now."

She frowned, visibly upset.

"I return again to the matter of Lord Baelish," Arthas interrupted. "He holds no secrets now that might hurt your standing in my eyes. Release him to me."

Lord Eddard hesitated still.

"You have sworn oaths to the Iron Throne as well," Arthas said, his words colder now, an iron to them that was not before. "To my father, to my brother, and soon, to me. Make no mistake, I will speak with Lord Baelish before the sun sets."

At least, Stark bowed, no longer willing to defy the edict of a king he'd fought to crown. "As you command, Your Grace."

TheKingIsDead—

His Lannister uncles were waiting in his room when he returned to the Red Keep.

"Your Grace, Jaime," Kevan started, the necklace of linked golden hands around his neck swaying as his head dipped.

"Is there a problem?" Arthas asked as Barristan and Uncle Jaime stood guard by the door. A dozen more men-at-arms drawn equally from the westerlands and the stormlands waited outside.

"It's the Spider," Tyrion said. "He's gone missing."

Arthas snorted. "It saves me the trouble of exiling the eunuch if he's left of his own accord."

"Exile?" Tyrion asked, waddling up to a chair and seating himself with some difficulty.

"I do not trust that man," Arthas said. "Too many kings have died on his watch. It suggests incompetence, or disloyalty. Either is dangerous in a king's advisor."

"A wise precaution," Kevan said, nodding slowly. "Wiser still to have him killed. Who can say how many secrets the man's accrued during his tenure? Those could be dangerous in the hands of your enemies."

It would be easier, but would it be right? He did not trust the Spider to serve him, but that was not the same as knowing the man was guilty of a crime punishable by death. He who passes the sentence must swing the sword. "Perhaps, but the matter is moot now. He is some other man's problem," Arthas answered. "We do not have the time or the men to spare hunting him down."

"A replacement must be found," Kevan said.

Who could he trust with this if not family, and who was wiser than a man as well read as Uncle Tyrion? Arthas nodded, and pointed to him. "You'll do for now."

"Me?" Tyrion asked, swiveling towards Arthas and away from his freshly poured cup of Arbor gold.

"There are too few men I can trust, and who are suited for the task," Arthas said. He needed someone trustworthy above all. It wasn't as if whispers would be of great use against the dead themselves. "When I march north, many of the great lords of the realm will have to go with me, but someone must remain here. Dissent or treachery suffered at the wrong moment may doom us more surely than cold steel."

His uncle's mismatched eyes bored into him. "Your grumpkins and snarks?"

"Humor me," Arthas said. If the Wall had truly been breached, they'd hear soon enough.

"I always do." He paused. "That's a great deal of power for a little man like me."

"I'm sure you'll adapt to it admirably," Arthas said.

He knocked back his drink, then pinned him with a look. "Then, if I may be so bold as your new master of whisperers, to bring up the other issue at hand: the Tyrells. Lady Margaery was married to Joffrey for a month and some days. She may be with child."

Arthas frowned. "I thought Joffrey would not sleep with her while my body fought off the poison?"

"That accounts for a week, but not the rest of the nights after you woke," Kevan said. "A few minutes is all it takes."

A son born from her union with Joffrey would naturally have a claim to kingship, though it would not be a claim they could act on anytime soon. "The coalition which broke Renly remains intact for now," Tyrion said, "and few lords would be willing to throw their weight behind the Tyrells after their failures in the past year, but a son with Joffrey's blood may be a thorn to your side in the years to come."

"We'll know soon enough if she is pregnant," Jaime said, speaking up at last. "Keep her under observation for a month or two. If no signs are forthcoming by then, it becomes difficult for them to pass off a child as Joffrey's. The timing wouldn't fit."

"Tread lightly," Tyrion said. "The Tyrells are not to be trifled with. You will need their grain for any adventures in strength beyond the Neck."

"Nevermind that," Kevan said. "The storehouses are running low, and Stannis' blockade makes it difficult to feed the city. The Tyrells could starve the smallfolk with the stroke of a quill if they wished."

Arthas intertwined his fingers. The Kings of Westeros were not the Kings of Lordaeron, he reminded himself. He could not have Mace Tyrell and his whole family seized without cause, nor overturn Joffrey's pardon, for that implied either the Iron Throne's edicts were without worth, or that he never recognized Joffrey as a king. Unpopular as the Tyrells were, the lords loved their ancient rights more than they hated them.

Any attempt to coerce them through force of arms alone might cause bloodshed, and his uncles had just laid out how much damage could be done if it came to that. With time, perhaps, and without an army of dead things to deal with, it could be done.

It does not do to dwell on luxuries I do not have, Arthas thought grimly. Appeasement. "If force is out of the question, then we will need to bring them to the table somehow. What is it they want?"

"That's obvious, they've already told us with their actions," Tyrion said. "A Tyrell queen, from whom a half-Tyrell king can be born."

"Out of the question," Kevan said immediately. "The Starks fought with us, and to set aside Lady Sansa for a Tyrell would be to spit on three great houses. No one is worth that price."

There would be no sense in bringing them into his coalition, if the coalition frayed in the process.

"It would be disastrous," Tyrion agreed. "We did not win a war only to lose the peace. I wonder though..."

"What is it?" Arthas asked.

"Olenna Tyrell was to wed a Targaryen prince, Daeron, in her youth, but he broke off that engagement. Are her efforts today to give her granddaughter what she had lost?" Tyrion mused. "Well, I suppose it's not truly relevant. The Queen of Thorns is the pragmatic sort. She will not risk everything unless we force her to."

Kevan nodded. "Lesser prizes ought to be sufficient for your purposes, Your Grace. Confirm Joffrey's pardon, and perhaps a marriage can be arranged between your sister and Willas Tyrell instead of Dorne?"

"I wasn't aware we were already in the process of bartering away my sister's hand," Arthas said, thinking of Myrcella and Calia.

"We are at war," Kevan said plainly and without remorse.

It was simple enough for Arthas to throw away his honor when he had none left. Not so simple when it was his sister's life he was playing with. Better that he bear this burden than his siblings, but even this the gods would not give him. Forced again to pass on the burden to another.

Arthas cursed softly, and sat across Tyrion, reaching for a spare goblet.

"We'd be trading one set of snakes with another," Jaime said, the distaste twisting his handsome features. "Neither can truly be trusted."

"Tommen is much too young for Arianne Martell," Tyrion said. "As for Margaery… well, until you have an heir, the lords would find it about as distasteful as giving your own hand away."

"Myrcella to Willas is the better choice," Kevan added. "Dorne was never going to march on our behalf. They are still sore over the murders of Elia and her children. A royal marriage would be a bandage, but not a balm."

Better for whom? Arthas wondered. For her or for us?

"Plus," Tyrion added with a smile, "we can't eat sand."

"My sister is a person, not a prize."

"It is our privilege to rule, and our duty to marry," Kevan said.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. It swung open to reveal Lord Baelish, flanked by a pair of northerners. Uncle Jaime scowled.

"Lord Baelish, join us," Arthas said.

"I didn't expect to be speaking with you in private so soon, Your Grace," Baelish said as the door shut behind him. "Though I confess I do not know what brought this about."

"We know of your treason, Littlefinger," Kevan said. "We saw the letters warning the Tyrells of Renly's defeat. If not for you, we might have dealt cleanly with the Tyrells."

Baelish's wormy smile wavered. "I did what I thought best for Westeros," he said. "Forcing the Tyrells into a war would have been ruinous."

"I'm sure you did it out of the goodness of your heart," Tyrion said jovially. "Certainly not for all the honors they threw your way. Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, master of coin, and a marriage to Lysa Tully. Did you deliver the goldcloaks into Renly's waiting hands too? I cannot imagine them acting so boldly without being bribed."

"I abetted no treason. All I wished for was to reconcile with the least of our enemies," Baelish said. "The Ironborn and Stannis and the wildlings beyond the Wall are all more deserving of our attention."

"You deny you were in bed with the Tyrells from the beginning?" Kevan asked. "That you poisoned King Arthas on the day of his brother's wedding to protect your masters?"

"I deny it!" Baelish looked almost indignant. "Do you have any proof? I warned the Tyrells of Renly's defeat, but that was the first and only favor I did them. Even if you should ascribe to me, falsely, base motives, what did it benefit me to have His Grace killed? I am guilty of no crime."

They had none, Arthas knew, not for the greater crimes his uncles accused him of. The letters to the Tyrells were hardly damning by themselves.

"You ought to know that as of this morning," Arthas said, "Lord Stark no longer extends you his protection. Ramsay Snow's death left the position of King's Justice unfilled, but I'm sure a replacement can be found just for you. An innocent man should have nothing to fear."

Littlefinger's face contorted and turned white. It was a visage that would not be out of place on a heartwood. "Lysa would never stand for this!"

"She would stand alone," Tyrion said. "And, more relevant to you, she's not here."

The man's eyes shifted around the room nervously, seeking, searching. It landed on Arthas. "Your Grace, please… you must believe me! I rallied the Vale to your side, I saved your betrothed from Renly—"

There, Arthas thought. There was the fear he needed to put Baelish off balance. "I've not forgotten," Arthas said. "And luckily for you, I'm in a magnanimous mood." He had never intended to have Baelish killed. He had his wrongs, perhaps, but were they on the scale of continents and civilizations? No, Baelish was the Tyrells writ small—a reluctant ally to be shepherded towards the true enemy.

Baelish let out a breath, and some healthy color returned to his cheeks.

"But," Arthas continued, "there will be a price. As the master of coin for many years now, I'm sure you understand."

He nodded shakily.

TheKingIsDead—

The golden crown which the High Sparrow placed atop Arthas' head was shaped into a galloping herd of stags with black diamonds for their eyes. It was their father's crown, which he'd carried back from beyond the Wall, and not the one Joffrey favored during his short rule.

He could not bear the thought of having that bloodied crown resting upon his brow.

Uttering the last syllables of his prayer to the Father Above, the High Sparrow bid Arthas to rise a king. He ascended the twisted monstrosity that was the Iron Throne, each step placing him higher over his subjects. He remembered the voices of those who'd called out to him before, the voices he'd ignored.

Then, at last, those rasping whispers of Ner'zhul before he seated himself on the Frozen Throne: "Return the blade… complete the circle… release me from this prison!"

Arthas flinched, pausing mid stride as he stared at the chair he'd spent his whole life avoiding.

Where did it lead him but back here in the end? He ought to have known better. Rest was for the righteous.

He took a deep breath and took his seat.

Then came the oaths of allegiance from Lords Stark, Tully, and Tyrell, from Uncle Kevan, from Oberyn Martell and Petyr Baelish on behalf of Dorne and the Vale, from the stormlords, crownlanders, and Reachmen. At last and as one, the court proclaimed, "Long live King Arthas, and long may he reign!"

Not too long, I hope, Arthas thought, though wars seldom ended when men willed, and especially those waged against the dead. His eyes combed through the crowd, waiting in silence for his address.

"The man who sits on the Iron Throne is Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," Arthas said. "My father's death made lies out of those truths. My brother wished to restore them, and now it falls to me. My lords and ladies, I intend to succeed without delay."

Polite applause met his words. It was nothing unexpected.

"The Iron Fleet is either broken at sea or burned at shore. The Ironborn quiver in their keeps as Lord Tarly puts them to siege. They pray to their Drowned God for mercy, but they will receive only the mercy of death from my grandfather." His fists clenched over the throne's sharp armrests, but drew no blood. "'There will be no more Iron Islands after this.' Those were my brother's words to me after a year apart, and it was for those words that the Ironborn murdered him and poisoned me."

Shocked gasps and murmurs moved through the crowd like a tide. None thought to gainsay him, to ask for a shred of proof, for Balon Greyjoy was without friends or admirers. This was the real price of the Old Ways they loved: to become the enemy of all mankind. They thought themselves apart from other peoples, and now they'd die alone.

Arthas forced himself to quash the stirring discomfort born from his lies. Balon and his ilk were guilty of many crimes deserving death, just not these crimes. He did not even think his own poisoning ought to be considered a crime, for who could bring justice to a king? Westeros could not afford to be divided by the intrigues of court, and the Ironborn made for useful scapegoats already beyond pardoning.

The Ironborn were other, and hate would bind the Seven Kingdoms together, until they knew to fear the Others.

It was a shame truly. Another fleet manned by experienced sailors would have been a boon, but the Ironborn had proven themselves time and again to be the exact sort of people that could not be trusted when all hung in the balance.

This was not just, not honorable, but hadn't he always known this truth: honor would be the first casualty of this war.

"If Balon Greyjoy thought such cowardice would earn him victory or reprise, then he is a fool," Arthas said with a practiced snarl. "Him and his kin and all those lords who still follow him shall die. Those who submit will have their heirs taken hostage, to be civilized by my good lords in the west. Lord Theon Greyjoy shall take up stewardship of Pyke. Grandmaester Pycelle, send word to Lord Tarly and my grandfather."

In truth, it was no more than continuing what Joffrey intended all along. There might be rebellions for it, but if it kept the Ironborn subdued until the true threats were dealt with, then that was a price Arthas was willing to pay. Turning Balon into a scapegoat merely gave him a reason to do what he needed to next.

"As the court has found Balon Greyjoy guilty of the insidious acts which have plagued us since my brother's wedding, I call an end to the treason trials," Arthas said. "The innocent will be released and restored to their prior standings, or paid their due if they no longer wish to serve the crown."

Most of those Varys named, Arthas suspected, were guilty of nothing at all. As for those who'd died under Ramsay's cares… nothing more could be done for them. He offered up a quick prayer to the Light for their deliverance.

"Lord Paxter," Arthas said, addressing his master of ships and the man who controlled the only loyalist fleet left, "what is the state of the fleet at this time?"

"We took but a few losses against the Ironborn, Your Grace," Paxter said proudly. "They were unable to reconvene their fleet with it scattered all across the north. They've not ten ships left in the Sunset Sea."

Arthas nodded. "Could the task of supplying Lord Tarly fall to other ships such as the merchant fleets of the Arbor instead? The Redwyne Fleet has done well, but there is still Stannis that must be dealt with." And he needed leverage if he were to reach a compromise with his uncle.

"By your will, Your Grace," he said with a bow.

He could not go north until those two were at last dealt with. Dragonglass to fight the dead with, and open seas to keep his southron armies fed throughout a northern winter.

More royal orders were proclaimed, telling the lords to muster once more, to prepare provisions for a winter war, and to recognize Lord Stark's authority as Warden of the North. Missives were sent looking for a source of dragonglass, in case Dragonstone could not be returned to royal control in a timely manner. Stannis had done little since the war began, but Arthas was certain his uncle was no fool.

"Ser Barristan," Arthas called out at last, and the knight presented himself before the throne. "My brother was unable to fill the ranks of your honored body before he passed. I wish to rectify that as soon as possible. Do you know of any man who might serve his king loyally and ably?"

"I would be honored to welcome Ser Wendel Manderly as my brother in white," Barristan said. "No man here can doubt the value of his honor."

Arthas nodded. "Then come forth, Ser Wendel.".

Wendel's immense figure and large walrus mustache was not difficult to spot among the crowd of nobles.

"I understand you are a second son, and unwed, and a knight ordained before the Seven too," Arthas said.

"Aye, Your Grace. You speak truly," Wendel said in a loud, booming voice that fit his image. He knelt in deference.

"Do you vow to defend your king from harm so long as you draw breath?" Arthas asked. "Do you swear to obey your king's commands, to keep your king's secrets, to counsel me when asked, and to keep silent when not? To defend my name, and my honor, and my kin from any and all harm?"

"I swear it before the Old Gods and the New," Wendel said. "I will rule no lands, take no wife, and father no children."

"Then rise a brother of the Kingsguard." And with those words, Arthas inducted him into a sacred brotherhood. Ser Barristan clipped the white cloak over Wendel's shoulders.

TheKingIsDead—

He spent his nights in vigil over Joffrey's body, and his days at court, dealing with this complaint or that, lords asking for exceptions and exemptions and petitioning to have "ancient" rights or boundaries restored, listening to the endless grievances of his subjects, to excuses, proposals, suggestions for the war, defusing arguments and the birth of bloodfeuds even as he felt the dead's inexorable march through the Wall.

It was maddening.

The hours of day and night, then the very days themselves blurred in his mind. To think that in his youth, he had wanted to succeed his father Terenas. Ruling the dead was nothing like ruling the living.

"Lady Olenna seeks an audience, Your Grace," Wendel Manderly said.

"She may bring her petition to court on the morrow," Arthas said.

His large walrus mustache twitched. "Begging your pardon, but do you mean later today, or tomorrow? She will not leave until I give her a clear answer."

Arthas glanced at the candle in his room, noting it was already burning low. Where had all the time gone? Then his brows furrowed. "Are you saying she's outside right now?"

Wendel nodded.

"Let her in," Arthas said. "I can spare a few minutes. And call for some tea please."

The Queen of Thorns hobbled in with her cane. "About time," she said, helping herself to a seat across Arthas. "You don't mind if I rest my weary legs, do you? Strength fails you at my age."

"It seems pointless to ask after you've already taken a seat," Arthas said.

"It is the courteous thing to do, nevertheless, just as you ought to have offered," Olenna said.

"An odd hour for you to come and visit," Arthas said. "At your age, I didn't think you could stay awake this late, your strength being what it is."

"You do understand that boys need sleep to grow up, I hope," Olenna shot back.

Arthas rolled his eyes. "Why are you here?"

She sighed. "Are we done with the foreplay already? Young men are always so overeager."

Was that how she wanted to play it? "I thought you didn't have time to waste on such things at your age?" Arthas asked. There was a knock on the door as a serving in golden livery brought them a tray and began pouring the tea.

"One must learn to appreciate the small pleasures in life," Olenna said, smiling kindly at the serving girl when she was served. She took a moment to savor the taste of the steaming brew. "Don't look so anxious. Though the hour is late, I am much too old for lovemaking. No one would think you were staining dearest Sansa's honor."

"She would never think that of me," Arthas said.

She studied him for several long seconds, before saying, "You were never trained for this, were you? I suppose not. Who would expect the second son to inherit, after all? A terrible oversight by your mother."

"Did you come here merely to criticize me?" Arthas asked. That couldn't be it surely.

She sipped at her tea. "How are things between you and Sansa? I've been privy to the most worrying gossip, of a boy and a girl having a falling out. You've not been seen together since your brother died."

A pang of guilt struck him. Had he been ignoring her? "I've been busy," Arthas said. It felt wrong to spare himself a moment's respite after resting for so long, with all that was at risk.

"Too busy to even show up for dinner. Sansa looked distressed sitting at the high table without you," Olenna said.

"I didn't know you were privy to her thoughts," Arthas shot back on instinct.

Olenna offered him a toothless smile. "You understand that despite keeping my granddaughter under watch, Lady Sansa still visits her, yes? That they are, dare I say it, friends? I'm sure the idea of befriending a Tyrell is quite foreign to you, but it really shouldn't be. We're feeding your smallfolk and your soldiers after all."

A slight pressure was building up in the back of his skull.

"Maesters often talk of Aerys' madness," Olenna mused. "Rhaegar they call a rapist, but they forget he was a madman of a different sort. Always so sad, so grim, and so worried of prophecies." She leaned into her seat, pinning him with a look. "You'd think the whole world had been placed on his shoulder."

"You think me akin to Rhaegar?" Arthas asked.

"The similarities can't be ignored," Olenna said. "And like Tywin Lannister, I recognize that Aerys cannot be reasoned with, but Rhaegar can. Why else do you think he tried to have the Mad King killed at Duskendale?"

"That was the work of the Darklyns."

Olenna rolled her eyes. "The grandmaester fills your heads with nothing but half-truths. If nothing else, the way Tywin negotiated with Denys Darklyn after the Mad King had been seized proves he intended to see him dead. Half a year he put Duskendale to siege, refusing parley or terms beyond absolute surrender. No promises of clemency, no bribes to whoever would free the king." She brought her thumb and index finger together. "He was this close to storming the place."

"He let Ser Barristan rescue the king," Arthas said.

"He had to, otherwise, it'd be too obvious. Plausible deniability is the key to such schemes," Olenna said. "I don't think he honestly expected Barristan to succeed so spectacularly."

"What is it you want?" Arthas tried again.

"You've something of a brain," Olenna said. "I'm sure you can work it out."

The survival of her family, Arthas thought. "You worry for Margaery."

"And you worry too much about her. You've practically locked her up!" Olenna said, laughing bitterly. "How long did she have to sleep with Joffrey? Is she even with child? If she is, it may be a daughter first, and if it were a son, what would a babe king be worth to us with half the realm behind you, and the other half far more likely to murder Margaery than help her? Who is it you fear would rise with us in rebellion? The Dornish who we've warred with for generations? The Ironborn who reave us? Stannis who hates us?"

"She is my guest, not a prisoner," Arthas said.

"So she can leave then?" Olenna asked. "I will take her with me back to Highgarden on the morrow."

Where nothing could touch them. "If she is pregnant, it would be a great risk to travel," Arthas said. "You forget that any child she bears would be my kin as well as yours."

"Much as you'd wish it were otherwise," Olenna said dryly.

Arthas narrowed his eyes. "You ought to have no cause for complaint! Your family rebelled against mine, and instead of ruin you were given a queen. Now, my uncles barter away my sister's hand to one of your grandsons who abetted that treason in the first place. The terms to your family have been more than generous."

"You say the shield of royal patronage is extended to us," Olenna said, "yet you use Margaery as a hostage in all but name. It certainly fills my old heart with confidence!"

"Your family crossed the Trident when you involved yourselves with Renly," Arthas said. "When you play the game of thrones you win or you die, and you aren't dead yet."

She snorted. "You think this is winning?"

It's not losing, Arthas thought, though he didn't voice it.

She folded her hands in her lap. "You say the Others are coming for us all. You say we have more to fear beyond the Wall than mere wildlings, that the things which lurk in the night and the terrors of yore are no longer content with being children's nightmares." There was still doubt in her voice. "I think you believe that to be true, if nothing else. You despise my family, but you love your people more, or you'd have no qualms starting another war. You want to save the north and House Stark, and that Lord Eddard you so admire."

He shut his eyes. "I would do anything to save my people. I would bear any curse."

"You would give up that honor Lord Stark has no doubt taught you?"

"My grandfather taught me to temper it with pragmatism," Arthas said.

"Good," Olenna said. "You may succeed yet. You know, when you get to my age, there isn't much to do but think of what you'll leave behind."

For her, Arthas knew, it would be her family whom she loved dearly. That was the only thing he was sure about when it came to the Queen of Thorns.

"As for this," Olenna continued, tapping the papers in front of Arthas, "you ought to learn to delegate. A king does not have enough hours in a day to do the work of seven whole kingdoms, and you'd be a fool to try."

"It is difficult to know who I can trust," Arthas said. Lord Eddard would be leaving soon, and those of his family all had their own tasks to see to. Trusting too freely was… dangerous. His hand reached for the spot in his chest where the Dark Lady had struck him with a venomous arrow. That night had nearly been the death of him, though a part of him wished Sylvanas had succeeded, grisly as her threats were.

Olenna shrugged. "Then start small. Already some in the Citadel are calling this the Year of the Six Kings, and we'd best not tempt the gods. Someone as devout as yourself should know how much they like their sevens. The work is not going anywhere, but I hear Lady Sansa will be leaving for Winterfell soon."

"That's what Lord Stark and I agreed upon," Arthas said. "Her place is with her family."

Olenna shook her head. "A queen's place is by the king."`

"We are not married yet," Arthas said.

"No, I suppose you aren't," Olenna said, eyes glinting. "Do take care of yourself, Your Grace. I don't like change, and it would be most bothersome to have to address your younger brother this way."