Chapter IV
The Kingsroad
Days turned to weeks as the King's company rode south along the Kingsroad. At first they rode through the broad, grassy highlands of the North, and Isildur slept under a vast expanse of stars each night. The weather was cool, but pleasant, sunny with little clouds and no rain. And so south they rode, the climate growing gradually milder and warmer as the miles passed away and they went further and further south. Though the Kingsroad this far north was only a dirt path, it was dry and hard-packed, and the going was easy. For days and weeks, they rode south, until finally they reached Moat Cailin, at the northern end of the Neck. There the company passed a night in the cold, silent ruins of the once-great fortress, amongst toppled towers and massive slabs of black basalt that were once walls. They were not smooth like walls of Numenorean stonework, but marked, pitted and hewn. Isildur ran a hand along the rough surface of one of the blocks.
'How long did it take them to cut this block and move it here? How many lives of men were spent putting up this fortress to guard the gates of the North?' Isildur mused, for he knew that the First Men did not have the art of the Men of Numenor with which to shape stone, they had done this with no great power or craft, just simple hands hewing away at hard rock over years and years. Though they had built Moat Cailin with less artistry and grace than Isildur and his people had erected Minas Ithil and Annuminas and Minas Anor and the other great fortresses of the Dunedain, in a way he found Moat Cailin to be even more impressive, for it was far more primitive, short lived people with less knowledge that had raised this castle and it's towers and walls.
A quiet, surprisingly restful night they passed amongst the silent walls of Moat Cailin, and then at dawn's first light they set out again, onto the causeway that led into the vast swamp known as the Neck. No longer was the world green and grassy, in the Neck it was damp and swampy and full of mist. The waters were cold and clammy, and their dark, greasy surfaces were covered in the scum of weeds. The ragged shadows of dead grass and reeds loomed in the mists, and here and there were lonesome, half-drowned trees covered in moss and fungus. For the most part the Kingsroad was dry, raised high above the marshes on a causeway, but in some places the Neck had worn down the causeway and the road became wet, muddy and boggy, treacherous for both horse and cart. More than one of the footmen lost a boot or other article of clothing in the deep, sucking mud.
Even worse than the mud and the persistent dampness were the insects, huge swarms and clouds of insects. There were horseflies as bigger as half a grown man's thumb, black clouds of biting midges, mosquitos in abundance; hosts of insects, armies of insects, numbers so great that the air was filled with an ever-present buzzing of tiny wings. At night the swarms grew even bolder, and the men passed the night in an agony of bites and swatting, or else wrapping themselves in their bed rolls and trying to endure as best they could. The midges and flies sought out eyes, nostrils, and ears; they tormented man and animal alike. Each day was silent but for the buzzing, each man enduring his own private hell of insects. Out in the mists, they heard the deep-throated hisses and roars of lizard-lions, and more than one man awoke cursing in the night with a snake slithering beneath his sheets for warmth. The days seemed to run together into one never-ending blur of wet misery.
Then one day, just over a week since Moat Cailin, the mists rolled back, the ground grew dry and solid, and the world became green and fair once more as they broke through the Neck and into the Riverlands. The company continued south along the Kingsroad, on the eastern bank of the cold, swift-running Green Fork. The valleys were fertile, the woodlands a verdant green, and they rode past fields rich with grain, past thriving towns and villages, past hilltop castles whose banners bravely proclaimed the sigils of the Riverlords. A constant stream of boats passed up and down the Green Fork, bearing goods and merchants up and down the Green Fork. It was a welcome change after the unbearable experience of the Neck, the men's spirits were raised, and their journey became merry once again.
"Gods, now this is country!" Robert declared as he stepped out from behind a tree where he had been urinating. The sun was warm on Isildur's face, and a pleasant breeze rustled the leaves in the trees. They had stopped alongside the road for a noon meal. Fresh Riverlands fruit, good white bread and meat roasted on an open fire were spread out, using boxes and crates for tables for Ned, Isildur and the King.
"I've half a mind to just take my horse and keep going, leave them all behind" Robert said as he sat down and grabbed a mug of brown beer.
"I've half a mind to join you" Ned replied.
"What do you say Ned, just you and me on the Kingsroad, swords at our sides, couple of tavern wenches to warm our beds tonight" Robert said with a grin.
"Just you and Ned?" Isildur asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Only because I know you'd never come with us!" Robert laughed.
"Oh I can think of a time when I might have" Isildur replied with a merry twinkle in his eye.
"When was that, four hundred years ago?" Robert teased.
"More like three hundred actually" Isildur replied, scratching his chin thoughtfully. Robert and Ned exchanged glances.
"Gods Isildur, how is it your people live for-bloody-ever anyways? No one's ever told me" Robert asked.
"Death is a gift Robert. My people are just given longer before they must accept the Gift of Men" answered Isildur. Immediately Robert scoffed with derision.
"'Death is a gift' you say, 'Gift of Men' you say. Bunch of mystical Numenorean bollocks I say. It's a load of shit that you get to live on and on for hundreds of years doing as you please, like your eighty year old son out in the Free Cities adventuring, whilst me and Ned never even got a chance to be young" the King said.
"Oh, I recall a few chances" Ned said with a grin. Robert broke into a hearty laugh.
"There was that one, that common girl of yours" he said to Ned "Becka, with the big tits you could bury your face in!"
"Bessie" Ned corrected him "She was one of yours"
"Bessie! Thank the gods for Bessie and her tits!" Robert laughed. Isildur rolled his eyes at both of them.
"Oh don't give us that look Isildur, I know you must have taken at least one nice plump whore to your tent at some point" the King said merrily.
"No, I didn't" Isildur replied flatly.
"How about you Ned? Who was that common girl of yours? Alena? Merril? Your bastard's mother" Robert said to Eddard.
"Wylla" Ned said quietly.
"She must have been a rare wench to make Lord Eddard Stark forget his honour" Robert teased "You never told me what she looked like"
"Nor will I" replied Ned coldly. Robert looked at him hard.
"We were at war, none of us knew if we were ever going to go home again. You're too hard on yourself, you and Isildur both, you always have been" Robert said.
"You know Isildur, there was this one Numenorean girl I was with this one time, Silmarien, Gods there are some benefits to a girl who can live for hundreds of years but keep a young woman's body" Robert said with a laugh.
"Silmarien is my granddaughter's name" Isildur said flatly, staring hard at Robert. As Robert's faced paled, Isildur burst into laughter.
"My granddaughter is only twelve. You should have seen the look on your face!" Isildur guffawed, slapping his knee.
"It's a good thing I'm your King, between you and Ned being so embarrassed about his wench, one of you would have hit me already" Robert said with a grin.
"The worst thing about your coronation was that I'll never get to hit you again" Ned said drily with a smile. Suddenly, Robert's face seemed to darken.
"Trust me, that's not the worst thing" he said. From a pocket, he took out a small piece of parchment paper. "There was a rider in the night" Robert explained, and handed it to Ned. Ned read over the letter, and then grimaced and threw it down upon the table.
"Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horselord, what of it? Shall we send her a wedding gift?" Ned said.
"A dagger in the night perhaps, and a bold man to wield it." Robert replied harshly.
"Perhaps sending them a few dragon skulls would-" Isildur began, but he was cut off.
"Oh you actually want to send a gift!?" Robert snapped, "What Rhaegar Targaryen did to the woman I love was unforgivable, what the Mad King did to Ned's family was unforgivable. I'll kill every single Targaryen I can get my hands on and whoever stands in my way!" he finished with a snarl.
"Well this one is across the Narrow Sea, and she's little more than a child Robert" Ned said. Robert's eyes were hard and cold.
"Soon enough that child will spread her legs for this 'Khal Drogo' and start breeding, and what then? There's still plenty in the Kingdoms who say I'm a usurper, and if a Targaryen boy crossed with a hundred thousand screaming Dothraki behind him? There's scum who will join him. This is why you will build me an army Ned, and you'll give him everything he needs to do it Isildur" Robert replied, voice harsh and commanding. There's was a moment of silence, and it was plain that Eddard carefully considering his next words.
"As you wish, Your Grace" Ned said finally. The breeze was rustling in the leaves and the grass, and Robert took a long swig from his beer, which calmed him.
"You speak the truth Your Grace, however sending assassins after the Khal's wife will only aggravate the Dothraki, and even though they cannot cross the Narrow Sea, I do not think sending her a dagger to be planted in her breast is the most prudent choice of action" Isildur advised, his voice even, conciliatory.
"Isildur, in that letter it reports that Daenerys is being accompanied by an unusual mercenary. Very tall, with dark hair, and he carries a steelbow" the King said. Isildur furrowed his brows.
"My people aren't sellswords Robert… And if you're suggesting that it was my son-" Isildur's tone was rising.
"No, no, I'm not suggesting anything" Robert said immediately, raising his hands diplomatically. "But it sounds like one of your people. All I'm suggesting is that you should write your boy, check where he is, what he's doing… I'd hate for him to get mixed up in any bad business across the Narrow Sea"
Isildur took a deep breath.
"It couldn't be my son, he wouldn't. He would never debase him so. I taught him better than that" the tall Numenorean said at last. Again they sat in silence, their food untouched, until the King broke the silence.
"There's a war coming, I don't know when or who, but I can feel it coming" he said, staring hard at Ned and Isildur in turn.
Their ride continued south, the weather growing warmer with each mile they passed closer to King's Landing. The Kingsroad grew busier as they traveled deeper and deeper into the rich, populous, southern heart of Westeros. They were still on the northern shore of the Trident, far from the heartlands of the Reach, and yet traffic on the Kingsroad was growing with every day, merchants and travellers heading one way or another. The smallfolk bowed as the King and his company passed them by, but Isildur caught a few awed glances cast up his way. 'Numenorean' they whispered as he passed. He would never get used to such awe from others, and already he felt the yearning for Minas Ithil, the fair highlands of Ithilien and his own people.
Then at last it came time for them to cross the Trident, at the Ruby Ford.
It was unnaturally quiet when they came to the Ford. The kind of quiet that Isildur felt would precede an ambush, though he knew that no such attack would come, for they were not at war. It was a hot day, the second hour of the afternoon, with the sun just beginning to sink from its zenith. There was no wind, no rustling in the trees or grass, no songs of birds, and even the burbling of water over the rocks of the shallow ford and the sounds of horses and carts crossing it seemed subdued.
Robert sat sullenly upon his horse as Isildur rode up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at Isildur, showing a face deep in contemplation. Isildur gently pulled back on Fleetfoot's reins to halt next to his King.
"You remember this place Isildur?" Robert asked.
"I remember it well" Isildur replied.
"I remember like it was yesterday. The royal army's ranks were all massed on that bank over yonder, with the colours and shields and sigils of the Targaryens and the Martells and dozens of different loyalist houses, and I remember how there was that great pause as both our armies stopped and stared each other down, and then, as if on a signal, we all charged right into the middle of them. By the Gods, we hit them like a thunderbolt, all of us at once" Robert reminisced, his eyes cloudy and distant.
"A fine way to open the ball" said Isildur.
"The ball! I like that, maybe if you called a battle a ball, you'd get my little brother out on the field. I remember charging right at that cursed dragon Rhaegar, right for his dragon standard, with the hammer in my hand. But I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there with us" Robert went on, sighing deeply.
"You would have won, with or without me. I just made it easier. It doesn't change the fact that you won that battle with a swing of your hammer" Isildur replied.
"Aye" said Robert, "Aye, I remember like it was yesterday. I'll remember that blow to the day I day. You and your housecarls had just smashed your way through the locked shields of the Warguard. I found Rhaegar in the ford, slogging through the water on foot. His visor was up; he was catching a breath when he saw me. I put everything into that blow, all my strength, all my rage, all my hate. Collapsed his breast plate, broke every bone in his chest I bet, sent those rubies scattering into the river. Gods, I still remember the look on his face, the shock on those sneering Targaryen features, the shockwave traveling up through my arms from how hard I hit him…"
Isildur stared at his friend. Robert's face was unreadable even to the Numenorean and his tone strange. There was a certain sense of vindictive satisfaction in his voice, but also regret. Not regret for Rhaegar, of that Isildur was certain, but perhaps regret for Lyanna, all that he had done for her sake, and all that had all come to naught.
"What do you remember about that day?" The King asked. Isildur closed his eyes for a moment.
"I remember duelling Barristan Selmy on the far bank of the river, before you struck down Rhaegar" the Numenorean said, reopening his eyes. "Ned had fought him to a standstill, and I intervened when I saw Ned begin to tire and struggle. I had been routing the loyalists wherever I came against them, so I didn't expect much from Ser Barristan, yet to my own amazement he stood when no other would. He must have known he was outclassed; I was larger than him, stronger, a longer reach, more experienced. But still he stood, and he fought hard, the hardest fight I've ever gotten from an Andal, he fought bravely. I was so impressed that I disarmed him rather than kill him. Good man, Ser Barristan, the best Andal knights I've ever fought, the best I've ever seen" As Isildur spoke, his tone was melancholy, and his face was pensive.
"We should be riding on, Your Grace," Isildur said. Robert sighed.
"That we should Isildur" he agreed, and squeezed at his horse's flanks.
As the column passed out of the ford and Robert rode away, Isildur looked around at the Ruby Ford. It seemed so odd that a place that had seen such horrendous carnage could be so quiet and tranquil. The Trident had been stained red with blood, the stream littered with bodies of the dead and dying, the ford filled with struggling men, the air had been full of shouts, screams and battle cries, with the clash of armour and weapons. And yet, the Ruby Ford showed no trace of the horrors it had seen that day. It was just another ford on the mighty Trident, filled with the sounds of water running over rocks. The company was drawing away now, so Isildur spurred Fleetfoot across the ford, and followed his King.
Now south of the Trident and coming closer to the heartlands of the Eight Kingdoms, the King's procession rode through along southern bank of the Trident, through well-cultivated farmlands, dotted with small septs and villages, and here and there on the hilltops there were the holdfasts of the lords of the region. Tall hedgerows separated the fields and ran along the road, punctuated here and there by ancient oaks and stately elm trees. From time to time they would pass a common meadow, grazed upon by cattle, oxen and herds of bleating sheep. The climate was warm, in the full heat of a southern summer, with the sun bright and hot.
They came to an inn not long after the crossing at the Ruby Ford, late in the afternoon as the sun began to sink towards evening. It was a fair inn, two storeys tall and built of stone, with a wide grassy meadow across the road from it, and surrounded all by forest. It sat upon a crossroads, where the Kingsroad running from King's Landing to Winterfell was intersected by two other roads, one running east to the Vale of Arryn, another west towards the Riverlands and the Westerlands. A sign above the door proclaimed it as "The Crossroads Inn", an apt name. The glade in which it sat was quiet enough, but in the distance they could hear the rush of the nearby Trident, now a swift, mighty river from the merger of its three forks. Robert announced that they would spend the night at the inn before continuing on in the morning. Immediately, the men began to pitch tents and pavilions all around the inn.
"Will you be taking a room in the inn milord?" asked Ohtar. He was standing next to the Dunedain cart, helping the men unpack the gear for making camp. In one smooth motion, Isildur dismounted Fleetfoot.
"No Ohtar, I think I'll sleep outside tonight, with the men. Pitch my pavilion somewhere amongst our people, I'll leave it to you" Isildur answered, beginning to loosen off the saddle straps on his horse. Fleetfoot tossed his head and neighed at other passing horses as his master removed the saddle, and then retrieved a brush from the baggage and began to brush him down.
"Let me do that milord, you needn't trouble yourself" Ohtar said.
"It's fine, you have enough of your business to attend to, I can take care of Fleetfoot myself" Isildur said with a smile.
When his horse had been tended to, and tied up with the other Numenorean mounts in a pasture of good grass, Isildur made his way to the inn. As he opened the door to the common room, a greyish flash streaked across the floor and ran into one of his legs.
"Nymeria!" cried a voice. It was Arya Stark, dressed in her usual tattered common garb, a brush in her hand. Looking down, Isildur saw that the grey flash was one of the direwolf pups that the Stark children were raising, now grown to equal a good sized dog. It had a fierce aspect in its flashing yellow eyes that spoke of a wildly independent spirit. 'Just like its master' Isildur thought as he knelt down, smiling at the wolf. Gingerly he carefully extended a hand towards it, holding eye contact with the wolf. Cocking its head to the side, the wolf sat down on its haunches, tail wagging slowly. Isildur slowly patted the wolf along its shoulder; the fur was soft and silky, but matted with dirt and mud.
"Nymeria?" he said to Arya as she knelt by her wolf and began to brush the mud out of its hair.
"I named her after the Warrior Queen of the Rhoynar" Arya said, almost bashfully, as if the name was silly or childish.
"A worthy name for a direwolf I think" Isildur said. He had always liked Arya, a fiercely independent little girl, so adventurous, making friends amongst highborn and commoners alike. Lately had often seen her with the butcher's boy, running here or there, going far afield of the column, exploring everywhere as they rode south. With her dark Stark colouring and long face and wild nature, she reminded him very much of her aunt, Lyanna.
"She got all muddy when we crossed the river; I was trying to get her clean. Stay still Nymeria, I need to do the other side!" she said as the direwolf tried to squirm away from the brush. Nymeria tried to spring away again, but Isildur seized her firmly but gently and spoke to her softly in the Elven tongue, and the direwolf quieted down and sat patiently as Arya began to brush the other side.
"How did you do that Uncle Isildur?" Arya asked with wide, wondering eyes.
"Sindarin, the tongue of the Grey-elves." He said with a chuckle "Ever since I was a boy I have found Quenya more beautiful, more elegant, but animals always seem to respond best to Sindarin. I've yet to meet a beast that did not seem to understand its words" Nymeria regarded Isildur with brilliant yellow eyes as he scratched her behind one of her ears.
"Could you teach me?" Arya asked eagerly. Isildur stood up with a good natured smile, whilst Nymeria still sat patiently as Arya brushed the clods of mud out of her fur.
"I shall be quite busy when we get to King's Landing, but when I am free or one of my men is unoccupied, we shall teach you what we can of the Elven tongues. You are so much like your aunt, she was eager to learn as well" Isildur said with a laugh.
"My aunt Lyanna could speak Elvish?" Arya asked, voice full of wonder.
"Aye, one of my best students in fact. She often came to Minas Ithil, and travelled many times to Annúminas, Minas Anor, Osgiliath, all our great cities. She was so eager to learn anything she could about us, our homeland, our history, our language. She was equally at home in the sparring yard as she was discussing philosophy with my brother. You are very much like her, quite unlike your sister" he answered. Arya rolled her eyes at the mention of her sister.
"She's just so… Ugh! Her and Septa Mordane both, they never want to do anything fun. They want me to ride in the wheelhouse with the Queen tomorrow, but the wheelhouse doesn't even have windows! You can't see anything. I'd much rather go riding; there are so many things I've never seen before in the south!" Arya complained. She finally finished brushing the last of the dirt and mud from Nymeria's coat. The young direwolf had a savage beauty to her, with long, dark grey fur on her back and flanks and lighter, creamy fur on her underside and neck. Her limbs were shapely and strong, and Isildur could tell that her friendliness around Arya belied a far more savage nature.
"Well it is a great honour to be asked to attend the Queen" Isildur said. 'An honour I can do without with that woman' he thought, but did not say it. Arya did not look too impressed by the honour either.
"Mycah and I are going to go exploring instead" Arya said "We're going to go looking for the rubies!"
"The rubies?" Isildur said. It was then that he remembered the rubies that had been encrusted in the shape of a dragon on Rhaegar's breastplate that day at the Trident, and how they had been sent flying like a spray of blood when Robert's war hammer had caved that breastplate in, and he remembered the soldiers of both sides, rebel and loyalist alike, scrambling to gather up the precious stones.
"Rhaegar's rubies, do you think there's still any left?" Arya asked. Isildur smiled warmly at her.
"Perhaps, if you look hard enough" he told her, ruffling her hair. With a wide, beaming smile, she ran off, Nymeria loping along at her heels.
"There is a lot of the wolf's blood in her" said Aratan's voice. Isildur turned to see his son behind him, just outside the door to the inn. Like all Numenoreans, he was tall, almost a spitting image of his father and eldest brother, but for his mother's blue eyes rather than the grey of his father and siblings. In one hand he held an envelope, sealed with black wax, which Isildur knew was the seal of the Night's Watch.
"A rider just arrived from the North, he said this was addressed to you by your old friend Mormont, Lord Commander of the Watch. The rider is one of the brothers; he said he set out as soon as the word reached Castle Black of your appointment as Hand. He's been on our trail for weeks" Aratan said, extending the envelope towards his father. Isildur walked out of the inn common room into the warmth of the southern air, taking the letter from Aratan's hands as he did. He broke the thick, heavy seal and opened it up.
"Ohtar!" Isildur called over to his squire, whom he spotted speaking to the lean, rangy black-clad Watchman who stood, looking weary and worn by hard riding, by a sweating, panting horse. Ohtar snapped sharply to attention, an old soldier's habit, at his lord's address.
"See that the Watchman is given food and rest, and plenty of drink" he ordered. Ohtar led the grateful messenger off towards the inn.
"Definitely Mormont's hand" Isildur said as he read over the letter. Isildur and Aratan, standing head and shoulders above most of the Westerosi, headed towards the Numenorean encampment, which stood separated by a short distance from the rest of the camp.
"What news?" asked Aratan.
"Seems that news travels fast in the Kingdoms, my old friend the Lord-Commander already knows I am the new Hand of the King" Isildur said. "He is asking for my support to help renew the Night's Watch. They have barely a thousand black brothers left, barely enough funds to maintain them, barely enough food to keep them fed… Valar above, I always knew the Watch was neglected but never so shamefully or so badly" he said incredulously, eyes sweeping over the letter again.
"Anardil went north to the Wall" Aratan said quietly.
"Aye, one of our folk shall be a great boon to them there, but not enough I judge" Isildur replied.
"Shall you speak to Tar-Robert about this matter?" asked his son.
"I must. If the tales about what lies beyond the Wall are even half as true as our tales are, then letting the Night's Watch fall to such a state would be an extreme folly."
"But, the Westerosi say those things have been gone for thousands of years…" Aratan said.
"We thought that our Enemy was gone too, lost in the War of Wrath, but he came slithering back up from the east to haunt our halls again." Isildur said in a hard voice, folding the letter back up. He deposited it in a pocket on the inside of his tunic, to show the King later.
"Aratan, when you begin training the recruits for Robert's host, I want you to select a fair number, several hundred to a thousand at the least. Good, brave, dependable young men with few family associations to hold them back, the sort of men that the Watch needs. I'll leave their selection to you, but have a list ready so when I convince Robert of the need to reinforce the Wall, we can have them ready to send, already trained by you and our masters-at-arms." said Isildur.
"Yes father" Aratan said, nodding his head.
"And I need you to do something for me as well" replied Isildur, his tone deadly serious. He stopped and faced his son, placing a hand on Aratan's shoulder.
"Anything father" his son said.
"I need you to relax sometime Ari" Isildur said with a fatherly smile, ruffling his son's hair just as he used to do when Aratan was a boy.
"I relax plenty!" Aratan protested with a laugh.
They turned and walked into the Numenorean camp, amongst tents and pavilions of black and white, silver and blue. Merry fires were crackling amongst the tents, and here and there gathered groups of the Dunedain soldiers, laughing and talking amongst themselves as they began to prepare their evening meal. The aroma of meat beginning to roast over an open fire wafted amongst the tents.
"Relax plenty you say? Ohtar tells me that every day you're up before everyone else, going through sword forms. At lunch you spar with one of our knights. And I've seen you up after almost everyone else, still working on forms. Aratan, the exercise of arms has ever been your joy, but do not overwork yourself. There will be much to do when we reach King's Landing. Don't make me set Ohtar on you, you know what he's like" Isildur threatened good-naturedly.
"Oh I know" Aratan laughed "He's got that saying: 'a good squire's greatest duty is-"
"'To make sure his fucking knight gets some fucking sleep'" Isildur finished "Trust me son, I've heard it many times". They both laughed. The father and son found a fire near the centre of the camp and sat down amongst their men for the evening meal. Isildur always made a point of eating amongst his men whenever possible, of knowing them as best he could, of sharing in their laughter, their triumphs and their hardships. His father had told him when he was a boy that no man would follow a stranger who stood behind him.
The cook was just dishing out joints of roasted lamb when a cry arose from the inn, and then suddenly there was a cacophony of noise and commotion from the building. Men were shouting, dogs were barking, and amongst the noise was the more distinctive bark of Sansa's direwolf. Isildur shot to his feet, followed by Aratan, and they strode towards the inn swiftly. They were met at the crossroads by Ned Stark and many of his men, who were kindling torches and assembling their horses. There was a stricken, worried look across Ned's grim features as he took a torch from one of his men.
"Arya has gone missing" he said, seeing the question in Isildur's eyes. Isildur paled, and then shot a look at Aratan. His son immediately understood without even a word, and took off running back towards the Dunedain camp.
"There was some incident by the river, I didn't hear the whole story, Sansa and the Prince are in there now, his arm is bleeding. Arya has run off with her wolf, Sansa doesn't know where she went" Ned explained. Torches in hand, his men began to fan out and enter the woods between the inn and the Trident, calling out Arya's name.
"My men and I will help search" Isildur said. Aratan had already roused the Dunedain of his household from their camp, and they were kindling torches of their own to join in the search with the Stark men.
"My Lord Isildur" said an urgent voice behind them. It was the King's squire, a young, sandy-haired youth with the look of a Lannister about him. "The King is asking for you" he explained.
Isildur locked eyes with Ned. They both already guessed what Robert wanted.
"My men will help you search; I will see to the Prince's wounds and then join you as soon as I can" Isildur said. Ned nodded and headed off towards the dark, dense woods, calling out his daughter's name with the rest of the searchers.
The common room of the Crossroads Inn was lit by many candles and a blazing fire in its hearth. It was crowded, too crowded, as it was filled by the serving staff of the inn, Lannister men, Baratheon men, and many of the servants and retainers crowding around a table near the end of the hall. Looking above their heads, Isildur could see Robert and the Queen standing near to their son, talking in heated, argumentative tones. One of the servants was cleaning out the wounds on the Prince's arm, whilst the Prince snivelled and whimpered with each touch of the damp cloth. The crowds parted before the tall Numenorean lord as he walked in, heavy boots thudding on the flagstones of the common room's floor.
"Isildur, finally a man with some common sense! Come talk some of your Numenorean wisdom into my wife" Robert said, turning towards him as Isildur approached.
"Yes Lord Isildur, please tell His Grace the King of the seriousness of his son's wound" Cersei said, a touch of venom and a dash of motherly concern in her voice.
"Serious wound? Seven Hells woman, I've seen serious wounds. This will give him some good scars and nothing worse, it was just a dog bite" the King said.
"Wolf" Cersei spat. "It was one of those northern savages' wolves"
Wordlessly, Isildur walked past them and approached the Prince. The servant stepped back with a bowed head, for he knew that Isildur had far greater knowledge as a healer and physician than himself. Seeing that the servant had only pushed up Prince Joffrey's tunic sleeve to clean the wound, Isildur unsheathed his dagger from his belt and swiftly cut the remains of the sleeve off to expose the arm. He knelt by the bench that Prince Joffrey sat upon and gently took the Prince's arm in his hands to examine it. Joffrey gave a whimper at Isildur's touch. The bite marks in his arm were bloody, but not severe. Isildur tested the motion in each of the Prince's fingers, and then the motion of his wrist, testing to make sure that the bite had no damaged any of the sinews in the arm. It was just as Robert had assessed it: Not a severe wound. There would be scars, but nothing worse.
"He'll live" Isildur said, standing up and turning around. "Wash his wound out well, bandage it in clean linen and change the bandages regularly. There'll be scars but no permanent damage, you have my word"
"'No permanent damage'? My son has been savaged by a wild beast!" Cersei hissed. Ignoring her, Isildur started towards the door.
"Where are you going my lord Isildur? Your prince is wounded, he requires your attention" the Queen said vehemently. Isildur spun around on her.
"If the Prince was mauled by a bear, perhaps he would. But he wasn't, and there is a young girl out in the woods right now who is lost. Your son will live, I promise you. Your servant was doing a perfectly adequate job of cleaning his wound. The Prince is safe. Arya Stark might not be. I go where I am needed, your Grace" he said, deadly quiet and calm. In his eyes they could see the restrained anger and outrage. No one spoke a word as Isildur stalked out of the common room, the crowds once again scattering before him like leaves in a gale.
They spent hours searching in the forests along the banks of the Trident, northmen and Dunedain alike, first in the failing light of the evening, then on into the night, with the orange lights of their torches casting flickering in the darkness. "ARYAAA!" many voices called out, echoing in the silent woods. Ned led them, and with his daughter potentially in danger he seemed tireless, striding forward, calling out his daughter's name ceaselessly.
Then, near to the midnight hour, Isildur spotted torchlight in the distance, down towards the banks of the Trident. The light was too far ahead of their own line to be one of his men or Ned's. Leaving Eddard and Aratan to continue the search, Isildur headed towards the light. The night air was cool on his bare face, and as he tramped through the underbrush he was surrounded by the nocturnal sounds of a forest. Crickets chirped and insects buzzed around his ears, and in the distance there was the forlorn, eerie noise of a hooting owl. The search party's calls for Arya echoed amongst the trees while he walked. Isildur drew closer to the light he had seen, and he spotted figures standing amongst the trees, four of them, men by the look of them.
"Where's your wolf, girl?" asked the voice of one of the men.
"She ran off" said the small, but distinctively defiant voice of Arya, unseen behind the figures.
Isildur emerged from the trees into a small clearing, near to the roaring river. Four men stood in the clearing, two in the white armour and garb of the Kingsguard, two wearing the livery of House Lannister. Even from behind, Isildur could recognize the golden hair of Jaime Lannister.
"Good evening sers" Isildur said loudly, walking towards Arya. Her eyes flashed up towards him, she looked deeply relieved by his presence. The two Kingsguards and the Lannister soldiers whirled about to look at him sharply, watching him while he passed by to stand between them and Arya. The other Kingsguard was Meryn Trant, as Isildur identified him by his red beard and the cruel curl of his smirk. Jaime Lannister was fingering the hilt of his sword, and Isildur noted that Meryn Trant's hand was around the pommel of his sword.
Isildur locked eyes with Jaime, looking at the handsome, golden-haired knight intently. There was silence, but for the continued calls of Arya's name in the distance, and the chirping of insects all around them. Slowly, Isildur looked to each of the other men in turn, affixing them with his stern eyes, hard and grey as a steel blade. He was taller than any of them, as he was taller than almost everyone, and they had to look up to meet his eyes. It was Jaime Lannister that held his gaze the longest. It seemed to Arya, in that long silent moment, that it was as if there was an invisible line of smoldering fire drawn between the eyes of Isildur and Jaime, one that might burst into sudden flame at any moment. Long they held each other's gaze, as if each was studying the other, testing the other's will. At length, Jaime Lannister, still staring at Isildur intently, flashed his white, wolfish smile once again.
"Glad we found her and she's alright, might have gotten hurt out in these woods at night" Jaime said with a laugh as he and his men turned around and started back towards the inn. "I hope you know, my Lord Hand, that my sister the Queen has ordered her brought before the King directly" added Jaime offhandedly while he walked away.
It was only when they were out of sight that Isildur released his grip on Narsil's hilt.
"Come on little one, we best get you back to your father" Isildur said, and they started off through the woods, heading towards the sounds of Ned's voice calling through the trees. And while they walked, Arya told him what had happened. She and her friend, the butcher's boy Mycah, had been playing down by the river, fighting with sticks, when Sansa and Joffrey had come walking up to them. Joffrey challenged Mycah to a duel, drawing his sword, and when the butcher's boy failed to fight, he started to cut open his face with the tip of his sword. To save her friend, Arya had struck Joffrey with her stick, and only when Joffrey tried to hit her with his sword did Nymeria come to her rescue, biting his arm to save her. She called Nymeria off, and then threw his sword into the river.
Ned rushed to Arya and wrapped his arms around her protectively when Isildur had brought her to him.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Arya repeated, over and over again, her words muffled as she buried her head in his tunic.
"Shh, it's alright, are you okay? You hurt?" Ned said, and Arya said she wasn't. In her father's arms, she looked very small.
"Ned, some Lannister men had found her before I did. The Queen has ordered her to be brought before the King directly" Isildur said. Arya looked up at her father with frightened eyes.
"What? What for? She's just a child" Eddard said, and followed it with several curses in a dark voice.
"Back! Back to the inn! Get back!" Ned roared out to his men, and Isildur followed him, heading back towards the inn. He could feel an apprehension growing in his mind about this night.
Eddard stormed into the inn when they reached the crossroads without even a word to his men. The common room had grown even more crowded than before, and many Stark and Dunedain men added to the press of people within. Despite the packed quarters, Ned pushed past the crowd with ease, and the men made a channel through their ranks for him.
At the end of the hall sat Robert, his face stony and impassive, and to his right stood the Queen and the Prince. There was nothing but naked loathing on Joffrey's face, Isildur noted, but the Queen was a different sort, and Isildur could read a cold fury in her.
Eddard stood in a hollow circle in the crowd before the King, as if he was in court. Arya stood behind him, and Isildur to the side, observing quietly.
"What's the meaning of this? Why would you order my daughter brought before you rather than to me?" Ned demanded.
"You dare speak like that to your King-" said Cersei.
"Quiet woman!" Robert silenced her "I'm sorry Ned, I never meant to frighten the girl, but we need to get this business done quickly"
'Never meant to, but you let it happen' Isildur thought, but he kept his peace.
"Your girl and her friend attacked my son, and that wolf of hers nearly ripped his arm off" said the Queen. At this Isildur raised an eyebrow, he had examined the wound himself, it was very far from being nearly ripped off.
"That's not true! She just bit him a little" Arya protested. Both Robert and Cersei looked taken aback that this young girl would speak back to the Queen herself. "He was hurting Mycah" she added.
"Joff told us what happened. He said you and that butcher's boy beat him with clubs and then she set her wolf on him" Cersei continued.
"That's not what happened!" Arya protested again.
"Yes it is! They all attacked me and then she threw my sword in the river!" Joffrey retorted.
"Liar!"
"Shut up!"
"ENOUGH!" the King roared, shocking them both into silence. "Seven Hells, she tells me one thing, he says another. What am I to make of this?"
"Your Grace" Isildur spoke for the first time since returning to the inn. "Perhaps if we get them both to tell their sides of the stories, the truth will reveal itself to us" he suggested.
"Aye. Both of you, one at a time, without interrupting the other, tell me what happened" Robert said.
First Arya recounted her tale, just as she had told it to Isildur before.
Then Joffrey told his own story, and it was much different, a tale of how he had been walking by the river with Sansa when Arya and the butcher's boy ambushed them from the bushes, beating him down with clubs before he could get his sword out, letting the wolf attack him and then throwing his sword into the river out of spite. As he spoke, Isildur began to extend his mind towards the Prince's, observing, seeking and finding, searching, perceiving, knowing, seeing through the words and the practiced face, seeing the truth of the matter. And as he spoke, Joffrey grew more and more visibly uncomfortable, fidgeting and squirming as he felt Isildur's will working upon him. Isildur kept his silence though, carefully watching the King's face as he took stock of their stories.
"Damn it, still she tells him one thing and him another. Your other daughter was there, where is she Ned?" Robert demanded.
"She's in bed, asleep" Ned replied defensively.
"Ah, she is not" said Cersei Lannister, her voice deceptively soft. "Sansa" she called gently towards the end of the hall "Come here little dove"
Despite everything, Isildur noted that Sansa had still taken the time to make herself lovely. Her hair, the reddish auburn of her Tully mother, had been brushed until it shone, and she wore a fine dress of pale green fabric. Around her shoulders was a fur-lined cloak, fastened with silver at her neck. The crowd made a path for her up towards the King and Queen, and Isildur noticed the fear in her eyes as she looked at the sworn swords and freeriders all around her. Despite that, she kept perfect posture, and she walked up to the King and curtsied. Her eyes were fixed on the Prince now, and Isildur could see the longing in them now.
'Damn' Isildur thought. He could see where this was going.
"Now, child, tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It's a grave crime to lie to a king" Robert commanded.
All eyes were on Sansa now, Isildur's, the King's, the Queen's, Joffrey's, Arya's, her father's, every man in the room watching her.
"I don't know" she said at last, hesitantly. "Everything happened so fast. I didn't see"
"LIAR!" Arya screamed, and then leapt up and seized her sister by the hair and began to pull, hard. With a squeal of pain, Sansa doubled over, her sister ripping at her long locks.
"LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!" Arya shouted at the top of her lungs, enraged.
"Stop it! Arya!" Ned roared, pulling his daughters apart.
"She's as wild as that wolf of hers. I want her punished" the Queen said after Arya had released Sansa's hair. Cersei Lannister's smile was equal parts beautiful and cruel.
"Seven hells woman, what would you have me do? Whip her through the streets?" Robert asked, rhetorically. Wisely, the Queen kept her mouth shut.
Isildur made eye contact with Robert, steely Baratheon blue locking with stormy Dunedain grey. In a single look, Isildur understood. Robert had seen the same thing Isildur had.
"Your Grace" Isildur said "May I speak freely?"
"You may" Robert replied.
"Forgive me Your Grace, but I believe your son is lying to us"
"How dare" Cersei began, her tone full of anger.
"Quiet woman!" Robert cut her off immediately. He turned to his son. "Is that true Joffrey?"
Joffrey's silent shock was as good as a confession.
Robert looked at his son hard, and then turned back to Ned.
"Ned, discipline your daughter. I'll do the same for my son" he said.
"Gladly Your Grace" Ned replied.
Isildur felt a wave of relief wash over him as the King stood up from his chair and made to leave. It was not long lived however.
"And what of the direwolf?" Cersei said, quietly but maliciously. "What of the beast that mauled your son?"
"I had forgot the damn wolf" Robert said with a curse.
"We found no trace of the wolf Your Grace" said one of the Lannister men.
"We have another wolf" said the Queen. Her words seem to hang in the silence of the common room, ominously, like a grim omen.
"She doesn't mean Lady does she?" Sansa said at last, unbelieving. She was growing hysterical, tears welling in her eyes. "No! No! Lady didn't bite anyone, she's good!"
"Lady wasn't there! You leave her alone!" said Arya fiercely.
Robert glanced at Isildur.
"Don't punish the innocent Robert; you are a nobler man than that" Isildur said in a low voice, but not low enough for Cersei not to hear.
"So you take commands from these Dunedain?" Cersei snapped contemptuously.
"I take commands from no one, I am the King!" Robert snarled, and then cursed and looked back and forth between Isildur and Cersei. He turned his gaze towards Prince Joffrey.
"Boy, was the other direwolf there? Tell me the truth" he demanded. Joffrey lowered his eyes, unable to meet his father's gaze.
"No" the Prince admitted.
"There you have it, my lady. I shall not punish an animal that was not even present" Robert said with an air of finality, as if that settled the whole issue. The look on the Queen's face, however, plainly said that it was not. Wrathfully, both King and Queen stormed out of the common room, the royal family following in their wake, and the great crowd began to dissolve.
Isildur sighed; somehow the trepidation he felt in his heart had not disappeared. Nodding to Ned, he left the inn. The night air was cool on his face and the moon and stars were bright in the ink-dark sky. Even after three centuries in Westeros, the stars still looked strange to him. Isildur heard a clop of hooves on the cobbles of the road, and turning he saw Sandor Clegane, the Hound, on a tall dark horse. The Hound was covered in layers of dark grey plate, mail and boiled leather, battered and plain armour with no hint of heraldry or chivalry upon him. His greatsword was sheathed on his back. Across the front of his saddle was laid the body of a boy, thin and rangy, with red hair, bloodied and cut. Isildur recognized the corpse almost immediately.
"The butcher's boy?" Isildur said. "Why!?" he demanded in a roar.
"He ran" the Hound said, quietly, callously. "But not very fast"
Cursing the South and the Queen and the Lannisters and all, Isildur retired to his pavilion that night in a foul mood, and fell into a fitful sleep. Again he dreamed of his homeland, covered in snow, and the great icy wave crashing down upon it.
They had weeks yet upon the road before they reached King's Landing, and every step of the way was plagued by a new tension between the Starks and the Lannisters, and a gloomy air pervaded over the entire party as they rode finally into the Crownlands.
The royal demesne was fair and fertile, for being north of Shipbreaker Bay, the Crownlands were not wracked by storms, but rather basked in the warm air brought in by the sea. Despite the warning he felt in his heart, Isildur could not help but feel his spirits rise at the familiar, salty smell of the sea as they climbed the last hill of the journey. He could not see the city yet, but he could smell it, even from far off. The city had a great stench, the kind of stench produced only by hundreds of thousands of people living together in cramped quarters. Then Fleetfoot crested the hill, and Isildur set his eyes upon it at last: That beating heart of the Eight Kingdoms, that nest of snakes, that scheming hive of corruption and villainy, that unsightly royal heap, the city of King's Landing.
'Valar above, nothing has changed' Isildur thought, looking down upon the vast, sprawling capital. Much of it was just as he remembered from all the years of the Targaryen dynasty. There stood the Great Sept of Baelor, with its seven towers, atop Visenya's Hill. To the north was the Dragonpit, its once-great domed roof now collapsed, looming upon Rhaenys' Hill. Between and around and upon the hills, sprawled a vast, twisted, crowded city, their thatched roofs and shingled roofs freely intermixed, with half-timbered buildings of wood and stone and brick, many of them so ramshackle it would stun a Numenorean builder, and between them an occasional more stately manse. And there was more than that, for King's Landing was filled with taverns and storehouses, granaries and merchant's stalls, trading posts and brothels, all along the long, wide, tree-lined roads, or the winding, crooked streets, or the back alleys so narrow that a man could barely squeeze through. Dozens and dozens of quays and wharfs lined the waterfront, forming the havens of King's Landing. Out in Blackwater Rush and the Bay, the water was filled with fishing boats, ferries poling along, and merchantmen from the Free Cities. Isildur spotted a dozen slim, deadly, golden-hulled dromonds sitting at their docks. Above it all loomed a great frowning castle on Aegon's Hill, ringed with seven massive towers, surrounded by a mighty curtain wall, built ever upwards with rampart heaped upon rampart: the Red Keep.
The King's company rode towards the city from the northwest, approaching the Old Gate, one of the seven gates of King's Landing. Even from a distance, Isildur could hear the noise of the city. He heard the shouts and calls of merchants and fishmongers hawking their wares, the clatter of wagon wheels, the clop of hooves on cobblestone, and beneath it all, the persistent chatter of hundreds of thousands of people's voices.
Isildur examined the defenses of King's Landing with a critical eye as they approached the Old Gate. The gate itself was stout, with a portcullis and a strong wooden door barred with iron, and a squat, strong gatehouse that overlooked it with murder holes and arrow loops. The walls, on the other hand, left much to be desired for Isildur. Rather than a layered, concentric defense, such as the Numenoreans were accustomed to constructing, the walls of King's Landing was but a single curtain wall, of great height and thickness perhaps and dotted with tall towers, but Isildur doubted that it could hold a determined attacker for long, if they threw all their weight at any one point.
The new Hand of the King put these gloomy thoughts out of his head as he rode through the gate, his black banners fluttering above his head, and he entered King's Landing for the first time in sixteen years.
Looking down from far above the pomp and ceremony of the King and his Hand's entrance to the Red Keep, a man stood upon one of the many balconies of the Red Keep. Upon his chest, a silver broach in the shape of a mockingbird fixed his cloak about his shoulders. His grayish green eyes were fixed upon the white tree and silver stars of the Numenorean banner born behind the royal stag banner, in particular upon the white crescent moon that sat above the tree and stars.
"Observing the new player in our little game?" said a soft voice behind him. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw the portly, plump, powdered figure of Lord Varys approaching him soundlessly, hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his tunic.
"Yes, I'm sure you had nothing to do with our King's selection, didn't you?" said Lord Petyr Baelish.
"Me? Oh no, my Lord Baelish, I am a mere servant, I do not presume to command" Varys replied silkily. He came to stand next to Petyr upon the balcony, a soft hand on the bannister, looking down at the courtyard beneath them, watching the tall Numenoreans dismount from their tall horses.
"He is a rather impressive specimen, do you not agree? Almost as tall as his father, I am told, and his father is the tallest man in the Kingdoms" Varys said in his usual candid tone.
"A tidbit from your little birds?" Petyr asked.
"My little birds? Nay, my good Lord Baelish, I receive few tidbits from my little birds about those people, for very few of them have taken roost in the good realm of Gondor" replied Varys, turning his head towards Petyr with a faint smile.
"I'm sure. Then you know nothing about our new Lord Hand?" said Lord Baelish. Varys turned his eyes back down towards the Numenorean lord that strode across their courtyard, his faint smile still plastered on his face.
"Only what everyone knows" he said innocently. "He's tall, strong, stalwart, wise, honourable, courageous, and of course utterly ruthless to those who incur his wrath, like those poor, foolish Greyjoys"
Lord Baelish's face was an unreadable mask. Lord Varys folded his hands within his sleeves once again, and turned to depart, but then turned back, as if suddenly remembered something important.
"There is one thing you should be absolutely aware of at all times with this man, my good Lord Baelish" Varys said, suddenly serious.
"And that is?" Petyr asked.
"It is difficult to deceive this one. And perilous to those who try"