AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello everyone, after reading The King is Dead (one of my favorite fanfics on this website, by a guy named Halt), I've decided to try and bring a new vision to this crossover. Hence, we're going to have Arthas Menethil, The Prince of Lordaeron, now the Prince of Nothing, being reborn into Lancel Lannister.
**HE WILL BE CALLED ARTHAS IN THE STORY. INSTEAD OF LANCEL, KEVAN WILL NAME HIS ARTHAS. THIS IS AN AESTETHIC CHOICE. I PREFER HAVING HIM NAMED ARTHAS, INSTEAD OF LANCEL.***
We're going to start the story in 298 AC, before Jon Arryn has died, so we have some room to maneuver and set up the scene. Arthas will be blessed by the Light and will display Paladin powers. That might change as the story progresses and he changes as a person, based on his experiences. So he's going to be ~15 years old when we start the story, but Arthas would have already lived those 15 years as Lancel.
For now, all we need to know is he's been tasked by the Light to prepare this world for the Long Night and assume the mantle of king, but he's kind of confused. Why then, is he revived as Lancel Lannister?
The story will see him make a name for himself, accrue power, followers, lovers, believers and eventually assume the mantle of king, all in the name of preparing Westeros for the fight against the White Walkers.
Any discussion is welcomed and encouraged, be it plot or writing. This is my second fanfic, and this time I'm writing without any assistance, straight from the dome, as they say.
THE PRINCE OF NOTHING
"My son, the day you were born, the very forests of Lordaeron whispered the name, Arthas."
I had never truly remembered when my father had said those words. I always assumed they had been a memory from childhood, or some figment of my imagination, after assuming the souls of every person I had killed.
What I do know is that I died once. On top of the accursed Icecrown Citadel, bleeding like a gutted fish on the ice, surrounded by "heroes" of the Coalition of the Living. My madness and need for control had driven me a dark path in that life, willing to do unspeakable things to save my people. Or so I thought. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, is a saying I recall frequently.
But I didn't die. Not truly. After darkness, had come the Light. So blinding, it enveloped my entire being, until I could see nothing else. And from that Light, came my mother. Beautiful as the last day I saw her, before I had joined the road with the Order of the Silver Hand. I remember her blonde hair and blue eyes, with a comely face, wearing a green dress, with blue accents. She had been strong, embracing me, wishing me strength of arms, and pious thoughts. Now, her eyes where shining and when she opened her mouth no words came, but pouring light.
"Prince Arthas Menethil, Prince of Lordaeron, King of Lordaeron, Blessed Lord, Paladin of the Silver Hand, First of the Lich King's Death Knights, Champion of the Scourge, Lich King, and now Prince of Nothing. Once a shining beacon of Light, turned into an icon of Darkness." the avatar boomed into my skull. If there was any. The pain was blinding, lancing through my mind, scorching my vision until it blurred.
Visions came to my mind then. Of a different world, a different continent than I had known. One that had a wall to the North, to keep out a land of ice. And far into that ice was a darkness, pulsing and oozing like a cancer. Then the images changed, and it showed me different kingdoms. Lands of rivers, lands of mountains, lands of sand, but none that I knew. Different coats of arms, ones of lions, of stags, of wolves; some of them looked familiar, but none had the look of Lordaeron.
"Darkness stirs across creation, Prince of Nothing. We would have you become a weapon of righteousness once more." it lanced into my mind again.
Images of armies came to my mind then. Different kings, with different arms, arrayed for battle. I could see the men hungry for glory, eager to show their mettle. Then, it showed them fighting, rivers of blood flowing between the kingdoms of the land. The dead piling one on top of another, in rivers, putrefying in the fields. And then from the north, came the cold and the darkness. And all those corpses in the fields started rising.
I could feel that cold, so similar to the one of my second kingdom, Northrend. It made my soul shiver and clench in fear.
"We would have you show your wisdom and strength." the light spewed out of her mouth again, making my eyes roll back.
The vision showed someone with blonde hair being crowned in a giant sept. The people where cheering, frenzied, while the figure was kneeling before a priest. The man was talking, but I could hear no words.
"We would have you show your restraint, when exercising your great power."
The vision showed another scene. A tall figure, armored, being surrounded by other knights. They were being attacked by other people, trampling one another to get to him. He was shouting orders, but once again, nothing could be heard.
"We would have you stir the hearts of your people"
The vision crystalized on a figure before a mass of people. He was on a podium, gesticulating at the masses. They were frenzied in their madness, shouting, raising their hands, throwing flowers at the figure. All of them were wearing white, with a seven pointed star inscribed on their chest.
"For you shall have to be king."
The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
I shot up inside my bed, fists still clenched at my side. The memory of my resurrection, then. It had started becoming more frequent in the past few years, almost like it wanted me to remember. And how could I not remember the position it had truly put me in?
The Light had claimed me as it's champion. It had directed me to unite this kingdom, prepare it's people and it's lands for the coming darkness. It had named my future as king.
Why, then, did it decide to send me into the body of the queen's young cousin - a lesser lion with no drop of kingly blood in his veins, no true place in the royal line, and no power save what could be stolen from stronger men, won through service, or wrung from a court build on pride, appetite, and deceit?
I remembered Uther then, his voice low in the candlelit hush of a chapel. "The Light does not prove a man by shielding him from hardship, Arthas, but by revealing what hardship leaves behind. Ease hides the soul. Struggle strips it bare. When duty remains after pride, anger, and fear have burned away, then the Light has its answer."
I looked outside my window and sighed. For fifteen years, since my resurrection, I had contemplated questions such as there. Why give me such a quest, but remove the position I would need to accomplish it. Why not make me Prince once more? Was the struggle a part of my redemption?
Outside, I could hear the day beginning in King's Landing: gulls screaming over the Blackwater, carters rumbling through the streets below Aegon's High Hill, and the far-off clang of bells from a sept. This accursed city never truly slept. Even at the crack of dawn it muttered and groaned like some huge beast, all fish-stink, smoke, dung, waking men and the smell of human feces. It still astounded me how different King's Landing was from Lordaeron, the chief difference being the odour and the cleanliness.
Within the Red Keep the servants were already astir, their footfalls soft along the passages, while somewhere below a hound barked and a stableboy loosed a string of curses fit for Flea Bottom.
The questions eluded a clear answer, but what I knew was that I was as much of a servant as the people serving the Red Keep. So I got up from my bed, knelt by the window facing the Great Sept of Baelor and took up my daily prayer.
"Holy Light, hear me so:
Father, make me just.
Warrior, make me fearless.
Smith, make me unbreakable.
Crone, make me wise enough to know deceit when it smiles.
Mother, spare in me what mercy may still serve.
Maiden, preserve what innocence can yet be saved in this realm.
Stranger, wait for me a while longer.
Let me stand in honor…"
A knock on my door interrupted me before I could finish.
"Yes?" I responded, still kneeling in prayer.
"Milord, the king will want his squire at breakfast. He has begun stirring in his bed, so it won't be long before he calls for meat and ale." said a voice outside.
"I know. I will be out in a moment, Gardon." I replied, getting up.
I had insisted on keeping a washbasin in my chamber at all times, a habit carried over from the life I had lived before, where cleanliness had not been such a distant notion as it was here.
I finished washing, then dressed in a fitted crimson doublet worked with the arms of my house, and fastened the cloak I always insisted on wearing whilst serving at court.
Walking outside my room, I could see Gardon waiting for me. The man had served as a house-keep of the Red Keep his entire life, and knew it as well as any maester knew his books. His face was lined like old leather, and little hair remained upon his scalp. Even so,he was full of life and took a quiet pride in his work.
"How goes the day, Gardon?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"How else should it go, young lion? You should know better than most. There's always work to be done." Gardon replied, with a whisk of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"The King stirs, the servants answer, the Queen complains and the servants obey. Come. Let us find my cousin and see if he has taken his lessons to heart." I said as I moved off down the passage.
Tyrek had, in fact, not taken his lessons to heart. The boy had been half-asleep when Gardon and I came to his door. His hair was disheveled, his dress in disarray, and his face still marked by the remnants of sleep; he had all but been dragged from his chamber to the king's solar.
We had arrived early enough to see out the whores who had warmed the king's bed through the night. Two beautiful women: one blonde, with a figure fuller than the Mother, and another with skin as black as night, from the shores of the Summer Isles. I despised the king's appetites, but I could not deny his eye.
Inside the room, the king was already boisterous, striding about in an open robe and showing us more than any of us wished to see. Once, he must have been magnificent: great-chested, hard-muscled, and thick as an aurochs through the shoulders, but indulgence had made a ruin of him. The muscle was going to fat, the force of him turned heavy and swollen, so that what remained was less a warrior than the bloated ghost of one.
"Desire is a poor master, Arthas. Any beast may follow hunger." Uther had told me once, when observing the patterns of lesser men. "Only a man of the Light may govern it."
"Come now, little Warrior. Do not tell me you still look askance at my nightly pleasures," he shouted, slapping my back so hard I staggered. Beside me, Tyrek smothered a laugh.
"Squires ought to serve, not judge, my lord," I replied, straightening.
He flung an arm over my shoulder and dragged me against his chest. I could smell the night upon him: wine on his breath, sweat, and the lingering stench of his pleasures.
"You will soon become a man, Arthas. I've seen you in the yard and know your measure. Do not think yourself above such pursuits. A day may come when you're off on the war road, lonely as any man, and needing some warmth to drive it off. When it does, think of old Robert, and the way you looked at him each morning. Ha!" He slapped me again and shoved me off.
"Now bring me breakfast. The king is famished. And more wine. Those cunts drained every flagon in the room last night." He turned away then, lumbering toward the washstand.
In came the servants with trays of food: trenchers of bread, butter, sausages, eggs, cheese, stewed vegetables, and honeyed wine. A breakfast fit for a king. A breakfast that might have fed a small household of twelve souls.
The king fell upon it like a man dying of thirst in the desert. The speed of it was sickening, a great beast shoveling food into its mouth without pause or shame. Here was a man once ruled by a warrior's strength, reduced now to appetite and instinct. His great hands seized sausages and tore them apart before cramming them down his gullet. Grease ran over his fingers and stained the broad shelf of his chest. His shoulders, once fit to bear mail and plate, were flecked with crumbs and drippings. His face had gone red with exertion before he had even finished the first platter.
I watched in disgust from behind his chair. Tyrek swayed on his feet beside me, looking bored beyond endurance. I caught his eye, and he only shrugged. He had seen my expression.
How had a man like Robert: the fear of Westeros, the demon of the Trident, become such a gluttonous fool? Some part of me still thought he might yet be roused, that the warrior he had once been might be called back to life. Yet his appetite for food, wine, and flesh was boundless, while his appetite for rule scarcely existed at all. Each day I thanked the gods for Jon Arryn and the steadiness of his hand.
When at last the king had finished, he leaned back heavily in his seat.
"Bah, boy, now I'm not fit for any training. I'll have to content myself with watching you again," the king said, pointing at me. "How many knights was it last time? Three?"
"Two, Your Grace. My height and strength may outpace my years, but I'm no demon yet," I replied with a faint smirk.
Robert's laughter boomed through the chamber.
"Fifteen years old and already tossing about two knights in the yard, boy. Would that you had been my firstborn..." the king said, and for a moment the mirth soured in his mouth. My eyes shot to the Kingsguard stationed at the entrance. This would get back to the Queen again, I thought.
His lack of love for Joffrey was one of the worst-kept secrets in the Red Keep. The prince was spineless, pampered, and useless, a pretty little leech swaddled in silk. His appetites rivaled only his disdain for the training yard, and for that I blamed his mother more than him. Queen Cersei, bane of every decent soul in the realm.
My hatred for that woman and her incest-born whelps knew no bounds. To my eye, the truth was plain enough that I often wondered whether the whole court saw it and chose only not to speak. I had spoken of it to no one. Still, I could not look upon the royal children and doubt. They were Lannisters entire: golden, vain, and fashioned for luxury, with not a trace of Robert in them. Watching the queen and her twin brother, I found it impossible to believe their closeness was born of mere family affection.
"To the yard, then," said the King.
"To the yard, then." I replied, bowing my head.
I came out of the armory in a set of plate and carrying a blunted greatsword. It had been decided, after I caved in a knight's floating ribs, that I should no longer be allowed to spar with a warhammer.
Outside, the yard lay bright beneath the sun. Higher up, seated upon the benches, was King Robert, attended by servants already bringing him wine. Ser Barristan Selmy stood beside him, and when our eyes met, he gave me a small nod.
Ser Barristan reminded me of Uther. There was much the same manner to him: the same knightly bearing, the same fidelity to principle, the same sense of a life ordered around purpose and honor. It seemed a simple way to live, if one could manage it: a life governed by noble principles, where hard choices did not need making, only honorable ones. At least so it seemed in Barristan Selmy. I could not say the same for certain other members of the Kingsguard.
Around me, the yard was alive. People were already sparring and I could hear the clash of steel. In the middle of it all, I could spy the master-at-arms, Aron Santagar. The man was a dour Dornish knight, trim and well-kept, with the guarded look of a man who prized order, honesty, and the proper set of his own person. A man I respected greatly in matters of the yard.
"Good day, Ser Santagar," I said as I came up to him.
"Come to show off again, Arthas?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Last time, Ser Myles had to be carried to the maesters after your bout."
"Nonsense, Santagar!" I heard Robert boom from above. "I saw Myles angling for his knee last time. The cub had to finish it before he got hurt, and what a finish it was. Ha!" He slapped his meaty thigh, the sound carrying clear across the yard.
"Who is on the list today, Ser?" I asked. My skill with a blade had become common knowledge in the Red Keep ever since I had entered Robert's service. Men were beginning to queue for the chance to cross swords with the Lion Cub, a name bestowed upon me by none other than the king himself. I rolled my eyes at the memory.
"Ah, the usual suspects, I suppose. Ser Donnel, Ser Mandon..." He leaned closer. "And a little surprise, once you're tired. The king has been in a mischievous mood of late."
"A surprise?" I asked.
He only nodded, smiling, and offered no more than that.
"Very well, then. Keep your secrets," I said with a smirk.
While I waited for the knights to arrive, a memory came to me.
"Keep yourself honed, Arthas." said Uther, overlooking the training yard. "A dull blade fails the hand that wields it; a dull soul fails the Light that trusted it."
A shove broke me out of my reverie.
"You're day-dreaming again, boy," said Ser Donnel Shett. "Had this been a real fight, I'd have had your guts on the ground already. Open your eyes."
"That's the only time you could have my guts on the floor, Ser Donnel," I scoffed, pulling up my greatsword. "When I'm not paying attention to you."
He spat on the ground and smiled. "Good to see your day-dreaming hasn't robbed you of your fangs, Lion Cub," he smirked.
I rolled my eyes and took in the clearing that had been made around us. Ser Mandon Moore stood a couple of paces behind, sword and shield at the ready. He was talking with Santigar, but when he noticed me and Donnel talking, started walking towards us.
"Arthas," he said, giving me a nod.
Mandon Moore was an odd man. Broadly built, with powerful arms, he had something lifeless about him, as though he had been carved from pale stone and taught to move. His grey eyes were flat and cold. He was always dour, always grave, never a man for mirth.
"I trust you have prepared yourself for facing off against the Kingsguard." he said
"Cut the mummery, Mandon. This isn't the throne room," Ser Donnel said, thumping me on the back. "You think the great Lion Cub fears crossing blades with a common knight and one of the king's white shadows?"
I shrugged him off and turned to face them. "No need to mock me at every turn, Ser Donnel. Maybe I won't go as easy on you from now on." I replied, with a smirk on my face.
"Now you're starting to worry me, Cub," he said, getting into a ready stance. At his left, Ser Mandon was readying himself as well.
"Get to the fucking fighting, this isn't a mummers show, Shett. Stop trying to put the boy to sleep and start hitting him for a change!" came Robert's booming voice. I turned to see him red-faced with a wine goblet in hand, Barristan Selmy raising a brow at him, behind him.
Then I heard movement and only just managed to catch Donnel's strike on the flat of my blade. Moore was already coming in low, angling for my middle. I shoved Shett off, turned my sword, and caught Moore's blow, sending it skidding away. Before I could recover, Donnel was upon me again with a probing strike. I leapt back, and he followed with a shield bash that nearly caught me square. Moore came in from the other side at once, cutting high to exploit the opening Donnel had made.
I moved faster than I ought to have been able to, pivoted as he closed, and kicked him in the back of the knee. He sprawled. I turned back in the same motion and caught Donnel's strike on my blade.
His sword came once, twice, three times. I parried the last and answered with a brutal overhead cut. He raised his shield in time, but the force of the blow dented the metal rim and cracked the wood beneath. Splinters burst from it, and I heard the ugly crunch of stressed timber.
From the corner of my eye I saw Moore regaining his feet. I pivoted with the greatsword, meaning to take Donnel in his unguarded side while his shield was compromised, but he moved quicker than I had expected. My blow went wide, and I had to plant my feet to steady myself. Moore was up again, spitting dust and glaring at me with narrowed eyes. His bright plate was smeared with dirt. He did not care to be thrown down by a boy of fifteen. Few men would.
They came at me together once more, one high and one low. I took Donnel's strike and drove it sideways into Moore's shield while lashing out with my boot. The blow meant for me rang into Moore instead, and my kick sent Donnel crashing into the other man's body. They both staggered, and I seized the moment to swing the greatsword around and cut Moore's legs from under him. He went down hard. Donnel skipped back, flourishing his sword.
"You are always full of surprises, Cub," he spat.
I knew he was baiting me, trying to buy Moore time to rise again. Rather than answer, I rushed him with an obvious overhead cut. He brought his shield up to meet it. I feinted, drove the point down beneath the rim, and struck into his shoulder instead.
The blunted point bit hard enough to make him curse and drop the shield. My next kick took him in the knee and sent him down. I backhanded him across the face with my gauntlet, and he crashed into the ground, blood and spit staining the yard.
Moore was on me again at once. I turned and caught his strike. His shield came after, driving into me, and I took the hit while readying my blade for the next parry. Somewhere behind me Donnel was groaning in the dirt. I hoped he would forgive the blood. Fighting two men at once was no light labor.
Moore was angry now. I could see it in the sharpness of his attacks. He tested me once, then twice, each strike coming faster than the last. The man was good; of that there was no doubt. On the fifth attack, I caught his blade and turned it wide to my right. Knowing I needed to finish it quickly, I slammed my left elbow into the side of his helm.
The blow staggered him at once. I pivoted and brought the flat of the blunted greatsword into his knees again. He folded instantly.
I straightened and looked around. Donnel was still on the ground, clutching at his mouth and nose while blood ran through the fingers of his gauntlet.
"Fucking demolished, I told you, Barristan!" Robert roared from the benches. "Did you see the force of that backhand? He could knock a whore's head clean off for giving him backtalk!"
A whistle sounded then, and I saw Santagar strolling toward us. The yard had gone quiet. Every man there had watched the bout. I glanced about and saw knights speaking in low voices, gesturing toward the trampled ground where we had fought.
I sighed, walked over to Moore, and offered him my hand.
"Well fought, Ser Moore," I said, giving him a shallow bow. "The Kingsguard does not disappoint."
I received only a grunt in reply. He brushed the dust from his white armor and walked away.
I went to Ser Donnel next. He had managed to struggle back to his feet, though he still held his gauntlet over the lower half of his face.
"Did you truly have to do that?" he asked, his words muffled. "I think you've loosened three of my teeth, to say nothing of my nose."
"I told you I won't go easy on you this time," I replied smirking. Then I clapped him on the back "But seeing you in such a state does bring a tear to my eye. Maybe next time I won't be gauntleted."
I heard clapping coming from behind me, then. I turned around and smiled.
Standing a couple of feet away, resplendent in enameled white plate and a flowing mantle, stood Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. My cousin. The queen's lover. The prince's father. He was tall and golden, built more like a swordsman than a brute: hard through the shoulders, narrow at the waist, long-limbed and easy in his body in a way only great natural fighters ever were. His hair fell to his shoulders in a bright sheet of beaten gold, and his face was so handsomely made it might have belonged in some singer's tale, until one looked at the eyes. Those were Lannister eyes: vivid green, clear and feline, amused and contemptuous by turns.
He had been away for the better part of a year and a half, carrying the king's missives across the realm. I had missed him, and the advice he gave me in matters of the sword. What I had not missed was his peacocking. The man was very good, but he never let anyone forget it.
"Ever since I left I have heard tales of your improvement in the yard, cousin," he smirked. "I had almost feared there would never be competition in our line for the favour of the Warrior, but here we stand. A fifteen year old being pitted against a landed knight and a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, and winning."
"Kingslayer!" boomed Robert, making us both turn around towards him. "Let's see if the road has rotted your sword-arm away, or if it's only fit for running old men through the back! HA!" Robert laughed, wine being spilled from his goblet.
I saw Jamie's eyes tense at the insult. However, he had heard the same tale his entire life. One could never end up being named the Kingslayer and have a thin skin.
"At once, my Grace." he replied, turning towards me. "Let's see how well you have improved, cousin. Sword!" he barked out.
A squire came running out of the arming room, holding a blunted sword and a training shield.
"Shouldn't Arthas be given a moment, your Grace?" Santagar asked. "The boy has just fought two knights and now he would be made to face off against the Kingslayer aswell?"
"Nonsense, Aron! The boy can take it. Gods, look at him! He's built like a gods-damned stag. I never tired and neither would he. NOW MOVE!" bellowed the King.
In truth, being raised again by the Light had left something of its power in me. I never truly tired now. I could train from morning to night if need be. I could run for hours in plate or without it. I had tested the limits of my endurance more than once, and had yet to find them. My new body had been made better. Of that I had no doubt. But such gifts always carried a price. It only remained to be seen what mine would be.
A short cut dropped me out of my reverie. I jumped back and saw Jamie smirking at me.
"I see your greatest weakness remains what it has always been," he said, flicking in a second probing strike. "Your tendency to daydream."
I growled while dodging. He always made fun of me because of that, and always made sure I remember it.
I brought the greatsword around and caught the next few blows. He was only warming himself, taking my measure. His shield hung loose in his grip, eager to be cast aside. I knew my cousin preferred to fight without one. He was a master swordsman, and measured himself most naturally in sword-against-sword contests. In this case, my greatsword gave me reach enough to tempt him, so I baited him.
"I see you need a shield to face off against me now, cousin," I said through breaths. He was pressing me now. His sword working through thrusts, feints and then probes, moving faster and faster.
"Mockery will not win you an advantage, Lion Cub," he drawled. "Especially not when that greatsword gives you the longer reach."
I cursed inwardly. He had seen through me. I took his next slash on my blade, shifted my stance, and drove my foot into his upper thigh. I saw his grimace as the blow landed. I seized the initiative at once and pressed him back with a rain of heavy strikes, each one crashing into his shield. By the fourth, it was half ruined.
He danced back and cast the wreck aside. "I see your strength has improved," he said, spitting into the dust and narrowing his eyes. "I won't be holding back now, Arthas. That kick hurt."
Then he came at me faster than before, every strike landing harder, rattling my arms through the hilt. For all my size, I was still only fifteen, with growing yet left in me, and Jaime was a grown knight with years of true combat behind him.
On the eighth exchange he found an opening, slipped the point of his training sword into a gap at my shoulder, and sent pain jolting down my arm. My hand convulsed and nearly lost the hilt. Before I could recover, he struck me in the side, then pivoted and kicked me between the shoulders, sending me sprawling face-first into the mud.
"HA! Now that's what I call a fight. The boy is good, but he still has ways to go!" boomed Robert. "Kingslayer, I see the road hasn't turned your marrow into slurry. Attend me at dinner with Barristan, your sister will be there. Arthas, Tyrek, you are to be present aswell!" he shouted from the stands.
I groaned and sat up on my elbows. My mouth was full of dust. I spat out a glob and looked up to see Robert getting up and walking away, trailed by Ser Barristan.
"I see you've wormed your way into the King's good graces, cousin," said Jamie, coming around to offer me a hand.
"He respects martial might more than anything, you know that, Ser Jamie. I've begun to impress him in the yard, so he has taken to me." I replied.
"None of that Ser shit, Arthas. We're cousins, seven's sake. If we can't use our names, no one else should." he said, hoisting me up. "But I've heard tales that he has more than "taken" to you. I heard some talk about the Prince aswell."
I stiffened. Jamie noticed and raised an eyebrow.
"His Grace is making unwise comments regarding the Prince and myself," I carefully replied, looking around if anyone could hear us. The work in the yard had resumed, so the only sound that could be heard were shouts and clashing steel. "He wishes prince Joffrey might have taken more after him as a boy. To say nothing more of it… " I let on.
"I have tried to talk to Father about this, but he says I shan't say anything to his Grace. It would be improper, he says" I continued. "Perhaps Uncle would have some better advice, if he would come to King's Landing again. I miss speaking to him." I said.
"Miss him? God's boy, no one has ever missed Tywin Lannister." he said, laughing. "You are one strange boy, Arthas, you know that? Now come, let us wash ourselves and continue our duties while we wait for dinner. I trust we shall find more entertainment there, than in the yard." he smirked.
I laughed nervously, knowing what he meant. Dinner meant the prince. Dinner meant the queen. Always a pleasant time.
"Tyrek!" barked Jamie, turning towards where Tyrek was training his sword-arm. "Move your ass to the wash-room. We are to eat lunch then continue our duties until dinner." Tyrek groaned, but obeyed, taking off running. "You too," he said, looking towards me.
"Yes, cousin," I drawled out, turning towards the arming chambers.
The dinner chamber was no great hall meant for spectacle, but a lesser royal room within Maegor's Holdfast, rich enough all the same to remind any man where he sat. Dark carved paneling lined the walls between tall, narrow windows that admitted the late sun in bars of gold and red. At the center of it all stood the long table upon its low dais, with the king seated in the place of highest honor. Close by him sat the queen in all her hard bright beauty, with Joffrey and Myrcella placed near enough to be seen and heard. On the king's other side were Jon Arryn, grave and watchful as ever, then Renly with his easy grace, and Stannis with all the warmth of carved stone. Farther down sat Jaime, white-cloaked and golden, as much at ease at the royal board as if he belonged there more than half the blood seated at it. I sat below him, afforded a place at table only by the king's favor. Tyrek and Ser Barristan did not sit at all, but stood as part of the room itself, one green and restless, the other still as an old white tower.
Once, as prince of Lordaeron, I would have been seated near the king, overlooking such a table from a place of rank and expectation. Now, as no more than the queen's young cousin, I found myself set well down the board, close enough to witness power, too far to touch it.
"Remember this, Arthas: a realm does not suffer first from wicked men, but from weak ones set too high," king Therenas had once told me. And what if those weak ones are family, Father? I asked myself now.
The seat that ought to have belonged to strength, discipline, and inheritance was occupied instead by a cruel, vain, indolent child whose chief delight lay in causing hurt wherever he found weakness. Joffrey's pleasures were small and vicious. When he was not tormenting servants with impossible demands, he was out in the yards and gardens hunting cats, dogs, and other helpless creatures, attended by his favored white shadows, the men called Ser Boros Blount and Ser Meryn Trant.
Of all the mockeries in this kingdom, few offended me more than those two wearing the white cloak. They had not been raised for honor, nor for virtue, nor for any fitness of soul. They had been raised for pliancy, for cruelty, for obedience to the queen and to the golden interests of our house. A man could scarcely begrudge loyalty to blood and banner; such things were natural enough. But Blount and Trant were not men made for guarding a king. They were the sort better suited to a butcher's yard or a slaver's block, where brute hands and empty consciences were counted virtues. Yet here they stood, clad in the white of the Kingsguard, while true honor thinned and rotted beneath silk, gold, and false vows. Such was the state of knighthood in this realm. There was no Holy Light here to burn the oathbreakers clean.
"...the force of that backhand. He near put Shett's teeth down his throat. Gods, he's dreaming again. ARTHAS!" Robert's voice boomed down the table.
His interruption broke me out of my thoughts. I looked up at the table, having everyone turn their eyes towards me. I cringed internally, when my gaze met the Queen's. Her eyes were narrowed and I could see her fist was clenched so tight her knuckles were white. This would need careful consideration, lest it explode at the table. She was ever cautious and annoyed by any praise Robert threw my way.
"Apologies, your Grace. My thoughts had strayed to the yard." I replied, carefully. My gaze took in the rest of the table. Jon Arryn watched me over folded hands, grave and patient as ever. Renly lounged with practiced grace. Stannis sat rigid as judgment. Jaime looked half-amused already, as if he smelled sport coming. Joffrey looked only irritated that the king's voice had risen for anyone but himself.
"I have still to best Ser Jaime," I went on, inclining my head slightly toward my cousin, "and until I do, I'll not think much of my skill,"
That, I thought, was measured enough. Praise given sideways, deference shown where it would be noticed, and no boast left hanging in the air for Cersei to seize.
Jon Arryn's brow rose a fraction, as though he had not expected so neat a turn from me.
Before I could say anything more, I heard our dear Prince sneering before opening his cunt-mouth. "Must we hear of Cousin Arthas's sword-arm every time he bloodies some knight in the yard? If he loves being watched so dearly, perhaps we should set him to juggling for the servants as well."
For one heartbeat my fingers tightened on the stem of my cup.
"Patience is not surrender, Arthas. It is the discipline of waiting until strength can be spent to greatest purpose." Uther's words regarding patience came to me then. My will would be hard pressed in the years to come, if I would have to spend my time in the presence of the Prince.
"Robert has always had a fondness for loud displays. It spares him the trouble of judging deeper qualities." replied the Queen, acid in her voice.
Robert turned his head slowly toward her. "Quiet, woman. What would you know of judging a man? By the set of his hair? The cut of his velvet? The gold on his back?" He jabbed a finger in my direction. "The boy's got more of the Warrior in him than half the silk-roosters in this castle, and if our son had spent less time at your skirts, he might have learned the same."
He turned towards Joffrey then, grabbing the table. "I would have you spar with Arthas, so that you might learn something. He might even turn that slurry you call a spine into something resembling iron, boy," the king said, raising a hand and pointing it at his son. Joffrey had gone pale as milk, his gaze switching from Cersei to Robert.
Cersei's face hardened. "Do not speak of our son so," she said, low and dangerous. "I would sooner see him a prince than some dull brute with mud on his boots and blood in his mouth. Not every man is made for grunting after glory in a yard."
Robert's face darkened at once. His thick left hand closed over the edge of the table until the wood gave a faint complaining creak beneath it.
I had seen that look before. In another world. In other men. It was the look that came a half-breath before cups overturned and old grievances became fresh violence.
Renly leaned back in his chair and smiled his easy smile, as if the room had not just tightened like a drawn bowstring. "Much as I cherish these tender displays of domestic affection," he said lightly, "perhaps we might leave off whether cousin Arthas should beat the prince with a stick until after the sweet course."
Jaime let out a breath that might almost have been a laugh. Even Barristan's mouth seemed to tighten at one corner, though whether in approval or dismay I could not have said.
I could see Jon Arryn and Stannis exchange a glance during the display. I was almost certain the two of them had an inkling of the true parentage of Joffrey and the royal children. However, given my position and house, it was impossible to discuss anything with them.
"Bah," Robert grunted, throwing himself back in his chair with a muttered curse. "My wife always did know how to sour a meal. Jon! What of the realm?"
Jon Arryn dabbed his mouth once with a cloth before answering. "If Your Grace attended the council with greater regularity, the realm would be less mysterious to you."
Stannis did not so much as blink. "That would indeed lessen the need of asking."
Robert snorted. "And rob you all of your pleasures? Never. That is why I have you, Jon. And Stannis to count the stones in the walls, and Renly to smile at the realm until it behaves." He reached for his wine again. "The kingdom's in hand well enough. I've no need to sit through every cask tally and sheep quarrel in the Seven Kingdoms."
I had heard the tales all my life in this world and the last: Robert at the Trident, Robert in his first fury, Robert with a hammer in hand and a kingdom breaking around him. A man made for battle had been handed a crown and found it too small for his appetites. Had he been merely drinking himself toward the grave, it might have been counted one more royal tragedy and done with. But the thing meant to follow him was the creature Joffrey, a vile imbecile, and that made every cup he drained feel like another nail driven into the realm.
As the meal broke apart, Jon Arryn did not rise at once. He only looked at me across the wreck of cups and platters, his old eyes sharper than any young man's. He waited until the Queen had gone out of the room, along with most of the rest.
"Walk with me after," he said.
It was not a request.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I managed to finish this before I have to go to bed. I hope you guys enjoy Chapter 2. I will try to write daily after work, so I'll try to update as much as I can.
As always, thank you for reading and I appreciate all the comments talking about the story or general criticism on writing. It helps with my flow and will to write!
"When rot is old enough, men stop naming it rot and begin calling it order."
King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
As the gate of the Red Keep opened before me, I looked around me to have a look at my companions. Tyrek, in his usual garb, with his blonde locks, fidgeted with his belt. Standing three paces behind him were two guards, in Lannister colours: Johne and William. Two levy-men from the Westerlands, who had once shown competence and promise under my father, Kevan, promoted as house-men for the Lannister, to serve as guards in the Red Keep.
"Must we always go through that shit-hole, cousin?" whined Tyrek. He was referring, of course, to my usual pattern of detouring to Flea Bottom every time we left the Red Keep.
I had made myself a promise, the first time I had seen the state of that place, to always return and give alms to the poor and diseased of that wretched side of the city. The place was a festering pit of suffering and crime, nestled into the bosom of King's Landing, hugging the Red Keep to the north-east like a cancerous mole.
"Give where there is need, Arthas. The Light does not bless the closed hand." Uther had once told me while we were visiting the refugee camps wrought by the Scourge invasion. "It shines first upon the meek, the broken, and the burdened. If we are strong, it is not so we may stand above them, but so we may bear what they cannot."
"Yes, cousin." I replied, beginning to walk. "We must always go through that shit hole." I deadpanned, while shooting him a raised eyebrow.
"One must always remember the favour we have been granted in our station, while also giving back to the ones less fortunate. It is the mark of a true knight, and a true believer in the salvation of the Seven. You would do well to remember that, if you still wish to become a Knight and meet the Stranger on good terms," I continued.
The place was indeed a shit-hole. The ground was covered in brown-green slime, the walls of the houses were run-down, beggars were crowding every corner, while children, naked as the day they were born, ran around laughing. It was the most downtrodden version of humanity one could find in such a world. Even the people north of the Wall had it better, I reckoned.
"Milord, some alms for the poor? We'v not eaten in half a sennight, m'lord." a voice interrupted me from my thoughts. The wretch was malnourished, gripping a bundle of cloth, that I realized was a small child, to its chest. I opened my purse and flung the figure a couple of stags.
"Bless you in the light of the Seven, young lord." the figure said, kneeling so far that her head touched the ground. I could see her matted hair absorbing the slime on the road. Such suffering, such poverty, left unchecked.
I turned around and kept walking. By the time we had come out of Flea Bottom, my purse was a great deal lighter. Every time I had the chance, I came here to unburden myself and hopefully give back to people that needed the coin more than me.
As we kept walking, my thoughts always turned back to Lannisport and Tywin Lannister. King's Landing and Lannisport were alike in the broad strokes that mattered: both were great cities, swollen with trade and ships, with harbors full of masts and quays crowded by sailors, merchants, fishwives, carters, dockhands, and every breed of man drawn to wealth. Both smelled of salt, horse, tar, sweat, and the labor of thousands. Both ought, by their nature, to have been noisy, rough, imperfect places. A port city would never smell like a maiden's garden.
Yet the likeness ended there.
Lannisport was no spotless wonder, but its filth was the filth of labor. Fish guts, brine, spilled ale, forge smoke, wet rope, dung by the stables, the honest grime of commerce and crowded life. King's Landing was fouler in a different way. Its stench came not only from too many bodies pressed too close, but from neglect. There were no proper canals worth speaking of, no firm discipline to keep waste moving out of the streets, no lasting will to master the chaos. Shit baked in alleys beneath the sun. Piss ran in the gutters. Flea Bottom festered like an open wound in the city's belly, breeding hunger, theft, sickness, and all the other miseries that lords preferred to name unfortunate rather than intolerable.
That was the true difference. One of those cities was ruled.
Under Tywin Lannister, men in Lannisport knew there were boundaries that could not be crossed without cost. Refuse was cleared because someone would answer if it was not. Crime was checked because fear traveled faster than rumor. Disorder did not vanish, but it was driven into corners and kept there by the certainty of punishment. Tywin's hand was hard, often harder than mercy would counsel, but it was a hand that compelled obedience. In the west, even corruption had learned to stand in line.
"Remember, our line has always ruled with wisdom, and strength." The words of my Father came back to me.
The Capital of Lordaeron had been kept in better order than this as well, though its burdens had been heavier than most kingdoms could bear. My father had not ruled in an age of idle peace. There had been wars with the orcs, ceaseless border anxieties, refugee burdens, and then, at the last, the shadow of the Scourge itself. A kingdom beset by enemies has no luxury for laxity. Filth, disorder, hunger, and indiscipline were not merely eyesores. They were weaknesses. A ruler who let them fester was not being patient, but careless with the lives placed beneath him.
King's Landing had no such hand upon it. Robert had strength enough once to break princes and smash armies, but the strength that might have ruled a realm had gone instead to wine, meat, and whores. He had no care left for drains, streets, granaries, watch discipline, or the crawling misery of districts like Flea Bottom. And the men beneath him: clever, cautious, prudent, tiresomely conservative, preferred the old rot they understood to any great reform that might disturb their balances. No one wished to tear down the warrens and build them anew. No one wished to cleanse the streets at scale, or curb the petty tyrannies of the gold cloaks, or force the crown to spend silver where silver would not return doubled in comfort and vanity. So the suffering remained, because suffering, unlike rebellion, was quiet enough to ignore.
And that, more than the smell, was what damned the city. King's Landing did not stink because it was large. It stank because no one with the power to change it truly wished to.
The men with the power to mend it feared the cost of it. Even when they saw the suffering plainly, even when they knew such misery ill became the rule of King Robert, they shrank from anything that smelled of real change. Jon Arryn, as Hand, held power enough to govern in the king's name, yet he spent it where he trusted it most: easing merchants with tax relief, feeding coin to food sellers, lending support to smiths and guilds. Useful measures, all of them, but small. Safe. Nothing that truly reached the common man where he bled.
Jon Arryn. He had always struck me as a pious, cautious man, prone to measuring action well before employing it. A good man and a powerful ally, to have, if one had need of it.
Imagine my surprise when he had called on me the other night, after dinner.
He had waited for me to catch up before leading me deeper into the Red Keep, away from the dinner chamber and its lingering heat. We went by torchlit passages and quiet turns of stair, past old stone worn smooth by generations of servants, courtiers, and kings.
At last he stopped beneath a narrow window slit and turned to look at me.
"Ever since you came to court to squire for Robert, you have made an impression, Arthas," he said. His voice was mild, but there was no softness in it. "The yard speaks of your strength. The king speaks of your strength. Those are not always the same thing, and neither is without danger."
I kept my face still.
He studied me a little longer, his pale eyes missing very little. "Impressing the right men may raise you. Impressing the wrong ones may bury you. In this place, a boy may be ruined as easily by favor as by disgrace."
I inclined my head. "I never sought to make a spectacle of myself, my lord."
"No?" One grey brow lifted a hair. "That much I believe. Which is one reason I asked you to walk with me."
He turned then and resumed our pace. I followed at his shoulder, saying nothing.
"I have met your father," he said after a few more steps. "Not often, but enough. Ser Kevan is a sober man. Dutiful. Steady. The realm has too few such men, and too many who mistake noise for worth." He glanced sidelong at me. "You have more of him in you than most of your blood."
That, from Jon Arryn, was praise enough to make lesser men glow. I only said, "You honor us both, my lord."
His mouth twitched, almost not a smile. "Perhaps. Though praise is not the purpose of this walk."
We came out into a narrower gallery overlooking one of the lesser inner yards. Below us, a pair of servants crossed with lanterns between them, and somewhere farther off I heard the muted clang of steel being put away for the night.
"I have watched you," Jon said. "Not merely today. Not merely in the yard." He folded his hands behind his back. "You are careful with the king. Careful with the queen. Careful with the prince, even when he gives you cause not to be. You know when to answer, when to bend, and when to let an insult go by unanswered. That is not common in men of twice your years, much less boys of fifteen."
I said nothing. There was danger in speaking too soon.
"You diffuse them," he went on. "The queen's vanity. The prince's spite. Even Robert's humors, when you can. You praise where praise buys peace. You yield where yielding costs you nothing. You swallow much that others would answer in anger." His eyes narrowed faintly. "That suggests either a rare gift for governance... or ambition ripening too early."
The words hung between us. He coughed once, then.
At length I said, "Would you have had me answer the prince in kind?"
"No." His answer came at once. "I would have had you do precisely as you did."
That gave me pause.
Jon Arryn looked away, down into the darkening yard. "Do not mistake me, boy. Restraint is a virtue. It is also a weapon. Men who learn that young tend either to become very useful... or very dangerous."
The stone beneath my feet felt colder all at once.
"I serve where I am set, my lord," I said carefully.
"Yes," he replied. "So does every man in this castle. The question is always whom he truly serves in his heart."
That was as close to a blade as he had yet put to me.
I held his gaze. "You think I play some game."
"I think," he said, "that a young man who sees as much as you do and says as little is always playing one game or another, whether he means to or not."
He let that settle before continuing.
"The king likes you. That is plain. More plain than is comfortable. The queen has seen it. So has the prince. Ser Jaime sees more than he lets on, and your father, if he has any sense at all, will know the shape of things soon enough. And so will your Uncle." Jon's expression hardened. "That makes your footing here uncertain, however well you balance."
"I understand," I said.
"Do you?" Jon asked. "Good. Then understand this as well: the safest place at court is not always nearest the king. Nor is the most dangerous place always far from him."
A silence followed that. Then, just as I thought he had said all he meant to say, his tone shifted. "I have a small errand for you tomorrow."
That, more than anything else, sharpened my attention. "My lord?"
"A piece of armor is being finished in the city. A gift intended for the king." He turned toward me fully now. "You will go to the Street of Steel and collect it."
I nodded once. "From whom?"
"Tobho Mott." Jon watched me as he said the name, measuring whether it meant anything to me. "A Qohorik armorer. Stubborn, expensive, and one of the few smiths in this city worth the price he asks. His shop stands high on the Street of Steel. You will know it when you see it."
There was something too deliberate in the simplicity of it.
"You have men for such errands," I said.
"I do." His voice remained mild. "Yet I am sending you."
I let the meaning of that sit. A test, then. Or the beginning of one.
"What is it you would have me observe, my lord?" I asked.
That brought the ghost of a smile back to his lined face, before another cough took him.
"There is hope for you yet." He drew a slow breath through his nose. "Observe the man. Observe the work." His eyes rested on me a moment longer. "Then come back and tell me what you saw, not what you think I wish to hear."
That was no simple errand.
"I will do as you ask." I said.
"I know." Jon Arryn started walking again, and I fell into step. "One last thing, Arthas."
"Yes, my lord?" I asked.
"Do not let the king's favor make you careless, and do not let the queen's hatred make you proud. Both have undone better men."
Tobho Mott's shop, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
"...thas. Arthas!" shouted Tyrek, shoving my shoulder. "We've arrived, cousin. Stop dreaming of better pastures."
I could hear Johne smother a laugh, while William elbowed him. I sighed. Day-dreaming had become one of my most displayed weaknesses and most joked of attributes.
I turned around and took a look at the place we had been tasked to arrive at.
Mott's place stood a little apart from the meaner smithies, broader in the face and prouder in its bearing, as if the building itself knew the worth of the work done inside it. The front was of dark timber banded with iron, the wood smoke-cured and old, the lintel above the door carved in a Qohorik style not native to Westeros. A heavy sign hung above, worked in iron rather than painted wood, and it turned with a low complaining creak whenever the breeze caught it. Beneath it, the doorway stood open to the furnace-glow within, breathing out waves of heat so fierce it was like walking toward the mouth of some patient red beast.
"Wait outside," I told the three, starting to move towards the door.
"You aswell," I told Tyrek, when he started moving with me.
"Why?" he whined. "This place has the best armors and weapons in King's Landing." He gulped when a man at a different shop shot him a dark look. "... Or so I hear." he continued, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Fine, but you'll only observe the arms; I've been tasked with retrieving the piece alone, you understand?" I replied, and with that we entered.
Men moved inside with the quick economy of long habit. Apprentices in singed aprons hurried bars from rack to anvil. A journeyman leaned all his weight over a grindstone, drawing sparks in bright orange fans. Somewhere deeper within came the measured thunder of a master hammer, slower than the rest and heavier, each blow placed with the assurance of a man who knew exactly what shape the metal ought to take before it had yet agreed to it.
"I'm looking for Tobho Mott," I said, while looking over the counter.
A voice answered from deeper within, thick as iron and impatient. "You've found him, if your eyes work better than your ears."
He came into view from beyond a hanging curtain of mail: a broad, heavy man with black hair gone to iron-grey in places, his beard trimmed square and his arms thick as forge-posts. His leather apron was scorched, his hands blackened, and there was a look in his eyes I had seen before in master craftsmen. Men who thought little of lords sent to fetch for them.
"Well?" he said. "What does a pretty lion want in my shop?"
"I come from Lord Jon Arryn," I said. "He bade me collect a piece commissioned for the king."
Mott grunted, as if that explained little and impressed him less. "Aye. It's ready." He jerked his chin toward the rear of the shop. "Boy! Bring the breastplate."
There was a clatter from within, then a youth emerged carrying the piece in both arms.
For half a heartbeat I said nothing.
The boy was thick through the chest and shoulders, black-haired, blue-eyed, with a square face and the blunt, powerful look of a young bull. He was younger than I, perhaps by a year or two, but hard in the way city boys seldom were. More than that, he had Robert in him plain as anyone with half a brain could see. Not merely some passing likeness, but the shape of him: the jaw, the breadth, the eyes set deep beneath a brow made for anger and laughter both.
One of the king's get, I thought at once.
Behind me, Tyrek was watching a master-crafted sword, with an engraved pommel. He wasn't paying attention.
The boy set the breastplate upon the bench with care. "Here," he said. "Mind the edge. Fresh polished."
He had a smith's voice; direct, unadorned, a little rough. No bowing, no court scrape in him. Good.
Mott laid one hand on the steel. "Fine work," he said. "Tell Lord Arryn the fitting was true, though the king's belly won't stay where God put it. If Baratheon grows much broader, he'll need new steel every year."
"I'll tell him," I said.
The smith's eyes narrowed at me. "See that you do. And see that it's carried proper. I've no wish for my work dropped in the muck by some gold-cloaked fool."
I grunted in affirmation, and the black-haired boy started turning back toward the forge.
"Your name?" I asked before he could go.
He glanced at me over one shoulder. "Gendry."
When I stepped back into the street, the heat of the shop still clung to me, but it was not the armor I found myself thinking on. Black hair. Blue eyes. The king's jaw worn younger and without the fat.
The Great Sept of Baelor, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
"The Great Sept now, Lord Arthas?" asked William. They knew the patterns I employed by now.
"No doubt that's what he's thinking, William," replied Tyrek, dragging his feet. "Morning's are for mucking around in the shit of Flea Bottom; and the afternoons are for washing it away in the Great Sept of Baelor. My dear pious cousin, Arthas, everyone."
He spread his arms around, while making a face.
"Shut up, Tyrek." I said, giving him a shove.
He stumbled backwards a couple of steps and looked up at me. "Hey! Pious people should not hit others without reason!"
"Maybe your constant complaining has become a reason. Now come, it's our last stop before heading back to the Keep. Once you'll be older, you'll understand." I said, turning towards the Sept.
Walking up Visenya's Hill, I could see the grandeur of the building long before I reached its doors. The Great Sept of Baelor rose above the city like some dream of holiness made stone: seven crystal towers catching the late light, pale marble gleaming clean above the smoke and filth below, great rainbow windows drinking in the sun and pouring it back softened and sanctified. From a distance it looked as a holy place ought to look. Pure. Elevated. Untouched by the city crouched at its feet.
That, perhaps, was what I hated most about it.
The streets beneath were full of beggars with split heels, children with hollow bellies, women made old before their years by labor and hunger, and men coughing their lungs into rags in alleys that stank of piss and old grease. Yet above them all the sept shone spotless, rich as a king's vanity, as if the gods it housed had never once set foot in Flea Bottom. I had seen that contrast so many times over the years that it no longer surprised me. It only sharpened the old bitterness, turning it into bile.
"Try not to pray us into another hour of standing about," Tyrek muttered behind me. "I'd like to return to the Keep before I die of holiness."
William snorted at that, but said nothing. He knew better.
I still came here to pray, even if the act had become more symbolic than sincere. The whole place stank of pharisaism, hollow ritual, and sanctity worn like perfume, with no trace of true Light anywhere beneath it. Yet still I came. Habit, perhaps. Or defiance.
The great bronze doors stood open, and we passed within.
Cool air met me first, scented with incense thick enough to drown thought. Then came the silence. Candles burned in their hundreds. Marble gleamed beneath them. The light through the colored glass washed the floor in soft reds and blues and golds, so that even dust seemed made sacred.
The seven altars stood in their accustomed splendor. The Father stern and bearded in judgment. The Mother mild and merciful. The Warrior with his sword. The Maiden in innocence. The Smith at labor. The Crone with her lamp. The Stranger half in shadow. Men knelt before each according to need, asking justice, sons, safe births, victory, wisdom, craft, peace. I had spent fifteen years watching them come and go with those same hopes, and fifteen years watching the city outside remain much the same.
Johne had remained outside, while Tyrek hung back near one of the side aisles with William, as I knew he would. He caught my eye once, rolled his, and leaned himself against a pillar with weary resignation.
I rolled my eyes back at him and went forward alone.
At the foot of the Stranger's aspect I stopped, though I did not kneel at once. My gaze moved instead from face to face, stone to stone, candle to candle. The place was as it had always been: rich, ordered, composed, filled with the gestures of piety and almost none of its burden. I had met good men in Westeros. Honest men. Even holy men, perhaps, once or twice in some village sept where the roof leaked and the septon's hands were callused from doing half the work himself. But this place was not built for such men. It was built for display. For reassurance. For the sort of religion that comforted the powerful by letting them believe they had done their part when they had merely looked solemn in costly light.
I sank to one knee at last and brought my palms in prayer.
Holy Light, hear me.
Father, keep my judgment clean.
Warrior, keep my hand steady.
Smith, keep me from breaking before my hour.
Crone, let me see deceit before it draws blood.
Mother, leave me enough mercy to be worth the strength I ask for.
Maiden, guard what innocence can still be saved in this city.
Stranger, keep your distance a little longer.
Grant me respect without softness, tenacity without cruelty, compassion without blindness.
Let me walk in honor. Let me spend strength where it is needed. Let me not mistake patience for cowardice, nor necessity for righteousness.
I let the silence settle after that. Prayer in this place never gave comfort. Only measure.
"Once again washing away the stench of improper parts of the city in our great sept, my lord?"
The voice was oily with old irritation. I looked up without surprise.
Septon Hullen stood a few paces off, hands folded neatly into his sleeves, his robes spotless, his beard trimmed, his face pink with the sort of health that comes from good kitchens and indoor life. I had known him for years. He had disliked me for nearly as long. In fairness, the feeling was mutual.
"Septon Hullen" I sneered, rising.
Tyrek, seeing who it was, immediately turned away and examined a nearby candle stand with the fascinated emptiness of a boy avoiding adult unpleasantness.
I looked at Hullen. "I walked Flea Bottom again today and noticed no great improvement. Will the Faith let the smallfolk rot in that cesspit forever, or are the gods waiting for the smell to reach them first?"
His eyes sharpened at once.
"The smallfolk have been poor since before either of us was born," he said. "They will remain so after we are dead. The Faith tends souls, my lord, not drains."
"Well spoken, my good man," I drawled lazily, knowing that would annoy him. "Your Faith does seem remarkably skilled at making peace with misery, provided it belongs to someone else."
A flicker crossed his face. Annoyance, I thought with satisfaction.
I had become, over the years, a particular nuisance to men like him: too well-born to dismiss, too persistent to ignore, and too devout in my own way to accuse cleanly of irreverence.
"The Faith feeds who it can," he said. "Comforts who it can. Buries who it must. We are not masons, nor gold cloaks, nor the king's reeves."
"No," I said. "That much is obvious."
He gave me a long look. "You mistake the world for something eager to be fixed."
"I would rather act, than let it all rot. Unlike some of my more pious peers," I sneered again, unable to control myself.
That got a reaction from Tyrek, who coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.
Hullen heard it and looked past me. "Your cousin might learn some reverence."
"My cousin is learning a great deal today." I drawled again.
The septon's mouth thinned. "You come here often for a young man so dissatisfied with what he finds."
"I pray to the Light and under the eyes of the Seven. That has very little to do with your satisfaction." I said.
"Ah yes," he said. "The Light. Your favorite word for every impulse you'd rather not examine."
That was better. He had teeth today.
I stepped closer, just enough that he had to tip his chin to keep the distance feeling his rather than mine. "And yet somehow I still manage to examine more than the men who spend their lives standing under crystal domes while children starve at the foot of the hill."
His nostrils flared. "You think charity is governance. It is not. You toss a few coins into dirty hands and imagine yourself a savior. By nightfall they are hungry again. By morning they are filthy again. Flea Bottom does not want saving. It wants feeding, breeding, drinking, rutting, and being pitied for it afterward."
William looked down at the floor. Tyrek stopped smirking.
There it was. The true voice beneath the sermon. A rotten, cold-hearted old man, who had no love for his own belief.
Uther had once told me, after we left a refugee camp in the wake of plague and fire, "Beware the shepherd who grows to despise his flock, Arthas. Men who lose their love for the weak will always clothe that loss in the language of order."
I looked at Hullen's silk-trimmed sleeves, his fine chain, his polished sandals.
"And yet they crawl up this hill to pray," I said. "Which says something worse about you than it does about them."
That one made Tyrek choke outright.
Hullen's face went tight. "You are very bold for a boy."
"And you are very well-fed for a shepherd." I mocked.
A beat of silence.
Then he said, voice clipped now, "If you come here to provoke, my lord, you may find there are better uses for the gods' house."
"I asked you a question." I replied, calmly.
"And I answered it." he said, drawing himself up.
I looked him up and down then. "You answer that you have done and will do, nothing. Is that an answer worthy of the faith?"
He took a breath through his nose, slow and measured. "What would you have the Faith do? Tear down Flea Bottom stone by stone? Feed half the city until the crown treasury runs dry? Encourage every beggar from every road in the realm to flock here for bread? Misery is endless. Wisdom lies in knowing its limits."
I smiled at that, though there was no warmth in it. "There it is. The fat man's gospel."
Tyrek made a strangled sound behind me that might have been horror or delight.
Hullen stared. "Mind yourself."
I couldn't help myself, gods save me. I actually snorted in his face.
He looked as though he wanted to slap me, but years of this dance had taught him the danger. I was not some gutter zealot he could cow with pious thunder. I was a Lannister cousin, favored by the king, and just devout enough to make open hostility awkward. So instead he did what I always saw him do when cornered by me: he retreated into his false sense of superiority.
"You are young," he said instead. "When age has cooled you, you may learn that the world is not cleansed by indignation."
"Then perhaps, when comfort has finished doing your thinking for you," I said, "you may be made High Septon yet."
That made William turn away entirely. His shoulders were shaking.
Hullen saw it. His lips flattened to a line. "Have you finished, my lord?"
"For today," I said. "I only stopped in to pray and be disappointed."
He gave me a sharp look. "Then I shall spare you further disappointment."
I turned and walked back toward Tyrek, leaving Hullen behind me.
Tyrek stared at me, eyes bright with badly hidden amusement. "One day he is going to have you thrown out. Or worse."
"One day he might try. Until then, he'll have to contend himself with glaring and waiting for me to grow out of asking questions." I replied.
"And will you?" smirked Tyrek.
"No. One day I'll do more than question," I replied.
Tyrek gave me a look, then we started back toward the doors, William in tow. I could see both of them had enjoyed my daily sparring with the faith.
Outside again, the air felt almost honest after the incense. King's Landing sprawled below us, filthy and immense, smoke rising from cookfires and chimneys, roofs crowded tight as fleas on a dog's back. From up here the city looked almost manageable.
Tyrek came beside me as we started down the hill. "You really do come here just to annoy them now, don't you?"
I snorted and shot a look at the Sept behind us.
"Not just to annoy them…" I murmured, while looking at the "holy place".
Small-council chamber, The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC
Sitting behind King Robert and listening to the small-council debate, I was suddenly struck by the realisation that nothing would ever change in this realm.
The small council chamber had none of the throne room's vulgar theater, nor the false warmth of the king's dining chambers. It was a working room, close-walled and heavy with use: a long table of dark polished wood, high slit windows admitting a hard afternoon light, shelves lined with ledgers, dispatch tubes, seal boxes, and rolled maps tied with fading ribbon. Candles had been lit despite the hour, and their smoke mingled with the smells of old parchment, wax, dust, and men who spent their lives deciding which burdens were cheap enough to ignore.
At the head of the table sat Robert Baratheon, broad as a gate and red beneath his beard, thick black hair falling about his temples and meaty hand gripping a goblet filled with wine. Once he must have looked like an avatar of the Warrior. Now, he looked sloven and fat: sweating, restless, impatient with numbers and papers and all the lesser irritations of rule. His hand drummed the table, while the other kept close grip on the goblet.
I had seen this scene numerous times as the King's Squire. I shot a look to my right and saw Tyrek falling asleep on his feet, Ser Barristan Selmy behind him. When he caught my look he plunged an armored finger into Tyrek's ribs, causing him to stiffen and yelp.
Tyrek caught my eye and I smirked, shaking my head. He scowled back at me.
Returning to the table, I saw Jon Arryn seated to Robert's right. The right Hand of the King, as they would say. If Robert ruled the room by sheer mass, Jon ruled it by gravity. Thin, dry and grave, the old falcon kept his papers ordered in small neat stacks, each ribbon untied, each seal broken with care. His eyes missed little.
After returning to the Red Keep, I had delivered the package to him as promised. He had asked me to report what I had seen, and something in me had hesitated. What good would come out of me recognizing the signs that were plain to see and speaking true?
I was a Lannister at the end of the day, even though I would never approve of what I suspected. Throwing the Prince and the royal children to the wolves would only bring about the downfall of our house, me along with it, however noble my actions would be. Better to wait a few years and grow my influence. Then, one could act with the freedom of choice.
Still, if I wanted to have Jon Arryn as a potential ally, I would have to report at least something that would pique his interest. So, I told him the truth as I saw it, not as I suspected it: that the Gendry boy, the blacksmith's apprentice, was a Royal Bastard, sired by none other than our Great King, Robert Baratheon, the Demon of the Trident.
Of course, this wasn't the first time we had heard of something like this. Robert's appetite for flesh was common knowledge, and not all whores who supplied their flesh took moon-tea when they should have. So, Robert's line had multiplied over the entire Realm, starting with the Rebellion and ending at King's Landing. A prodigal line, fit for a warrior king, I mused sarcastically.
The Hand had looked satisfied with my answer and promised to talk more of it another time.
A hacking sound interrupted my thoughts. The Hand had a handkerchief over his mouth, a deep cough wracking his entire body. Once finished, he took a sip of water from his nearby glass, and the meeting continued.
Stannis Baratheon sat further down the table, dressed in black and gold, with a face that looked carved into stone. Hard mouth. Hard jaw. Hard eyes. With a balding head. Besides the stone-man, Renly looked almost indecently easy, handsome and dark-haired like Robert had once been, though finer in the face and livelier in the eye. It would have been easy to discount Renly as a pompous fool, if not for the speed which his amusement sharpened whenever the room turned dangerous. For all his vanity and pomposity, the man could read a political situation and navigate it correctly, I thought.
On the other side of the table sat a rotund, plumb and most importantly, completely bald man. Vary's face was powdered and most round, with an expression of gentle concern that had fooled many kings in this very room. Littlefinger sat three places off with one leg crossed, sharp-featured, slight and smiling. His eyes never laughed when he did. The man was even worse than the Spider, if one would account for the way he made his money.
Flesh-peddler, I thought. The man was running the largest holding of whore-houses in King's Landing.
A moan turned my attention to the last member sitting at the table. That last member was none other than Grand Master Pycelle, an old man with a face full of white beard and a dumb look on his face, sagging beneath his Citadel entrusted links. The man's bumbling and frankly stupid way to speak, made me suspect more was at play with our good man.
No person smart enough to hold as many links from the Citadel could be such a stupid buffoon, I thought, turning around and looking at the door.
At the door stood Ser Barristan Selmy in white, still as a pike. Jaime had taken the other side of the chamber, near the window and out of the council proper, one white hand resting slightly at his belt. He stood ramrod straight, watching nothing in particular.
"Three cargos from Gulltown came in underdeclared within the fortnight," Stannis was saying when I let my attention settle back. "Either the harbor clerks have all gone blind at once, or they are being paid not to count."
"Blindness pays better than honesty," said Littlefinger lightly. "The lower sort.."
"How much?" Jon asked, interrupting Littlefinger.
Stannis answered at once. "We have lost so much that we no longer suspect a leakage. It's enough to smell organized."
"Everything in this city smells organized if you stand near it long enough," Robert muttered. "Especially the docks."
No one laughed. I looked on and wondered again what would become of this kingdom.
"Remember this, Arthas," my father had once told me. " Kingdoms rarely fall to one great failure. More often they are eaten hollow by smaller ones no man wishes to name."
The Hand took up the next matter with two fingers pressed onto a ledger. "Bread has risen in price three times since the last accounting. Grain barges from the upper Blackwater have come in light, and the city stores will not stretch far if arrivals continue to fall short."
"Then buy more grain," Robert said, draining his goblet. "More wine, Arthas!"
I quickly moved once I heard his bellow. The carafe was sitting on a table a couple of paces away.
Pycelle cleared his throat softly. "Your Grace, the city always buys more grain. The question is from whom, and at what price, and wether the treasury –"
"I said WINE, gods damn it, boy! Move your ass!" he bellowed, as I arrived at the table and started pouring.
"The treasury is always the answer when men want to tell me no. A king offered you a solution and you would dismiss it. HA! Am I wrong, Lion Cub?" he laughed, slapping me on the back. The weight of it made me stumble and spill wine on the wood table. Light save me, but I hated when he did that.
"The treasury is merely the answer when the question is expensive, Your Grace," said Littlefinger, ignoring the earlier display.
Jon Arryn's hand closed over the ledger as he coughed once into his sleeve. It was dry, brief, and stubborn. Pycelle turned his head at once, but Jon ignored the glance.
"If food prices continue to climb, unrest will follow. Flea Bottom is already sharp-tempered. The Street of Flour has had two fights over carts this week, and one baker's shutters were broken in." he said.
"Then put more watchmen there," Robert said.
"We can," Stannis replied, "if Your Grace wishes the watch pulled thin elsewhere."
Littlefinger leaned back. "Or we can reduce certain river duties for a short span, encourage more barges in, and let the problem solve itself for less noise."
"For less noise now," Stannis said. "And less coin later."