The solar was warm with firelight and the scent of rich food. Platters of roast venison glazed with honey sat beside bowls of buttered leeks, lamprey pie steamed beneath its crust, and a trencher of white bread soaked up juices dark with pepper and wine. A flagon of Arbor red stood open, and a dish of sugared apples waited at the edge of the table. Outside, the night pressed close, but here the room felt sheltered.
Artys sat with Princess Myrcella at his right and Benjen Stark to his left. The meal had begun with easy courtesies, yet Benjen's shoulders remained tight, as though he were more at ease on the Wall than among silk cushions and southron nobles.
"Lord Benjen," Artys said as he cut his meat, "you spoke earlier of shortages. How many castles along the Wall are still manned?"
Benjen swallowed and answered without embellishment. "Three, in truth. Castle Black, Eastwatch, and the Shadow Tower. The rest stand empty. In Aegon's day, the Watch numbered near ten thousand men. Now we barely muster a thousand, builders and stewards included. If you count only fighting men, the number is far more pitiful."
Myrcella set down her cup. "Only three?" she asked, concern plain in her voice. "Forgive me, my lord—I know little of war—but how can that suffice? I have read the Wall stretches a hundred leagues."
"I fear it does not, Your Grace," Benjen said gravely. "The wildlings grow bolder. Their raids are more frequent. We've lost good men to them." He paused, his expression darkening. "Waymar Royce among them."
Artys's hand stilled on his knife. "Waymar Royce? Lord Yohn's son?"
"Aye," Benjen said quietly. "He came to us barely half a year past. Eager, proud as any young lordling. We sent him ranging with two experienced brothers—Gared and Will. Only Will returned, half-mad with fear, babbling about the dead rising and walking. He deserted soon after. We... we found the others later. What was left of them."
"What do you mean, what was left?" Artys asked, his voice low.
Benjen met his eyes. "They were torn apart, my lord. Not by wildlings—the wounds were wrong for that. Will spoke of white walkers, of the Others from the old stories. Lord Commander Mormont believes it was wildlings who butchered them, perhaps wearing strange armor to frighten our men. But Will was no green boy. He'd been on the Wall for years. Whatever he saw, it broke him."
Artys felt a chill that had nothing to do with the northern air. "Raymun Redbeard led an army across the Wall near seventy years ago," he said evenly. "They reached as far as Long Lake, if my history serves. There are threats beyond the Wall, Lord Benjen are quite real. The Wall was not built for amusement."
Benjen's face showed grim approval. "Aye. You understand it better than most southron lords. The Wall is ancient, raised in the Age of Heroes. Men do not build such things without reason."
"Lord Stark tells me the raids have increased of late," Artys continued. "Does the Gift still hold smallfolk? Queen Alysanne granted those lands and their incomes to the Watch. Should that not suffice to keep it armed?"
"It once did, Lord Arryn," Benjen replied. "Not anymore. The Watch is too thin, and the raids too many. The Gift is nearly empty now. Ned has plans, though—perhaps to resettle parts of it, to man a few more castles. Winter is coming, and when it does, the raids will worsen. We fear the wildlings are uniting again, as they did before. Under a man called Mance Rayder."
Myrcella leaned forward. "What draws them to him, my lord?"
"He knows the Watch," Benjen said. "Our habits, our weaknesses. Mance was one of us once—a brother of the Night's Watch who deserted years ago. We do not know how he united so many warring clans, but he has done it. The clans beyond the Wall hate each other almost as much as they hate us, yet somehow he's bound them together."
Artys smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "I know how hard it is to unite mountain clans in the Vale—I used blood and steel to do it. Mance Rayder is doing it with neither, binding a people who despise kneeling. That tells me he is either a man of great cunning or there is something else at work. Something that frightens them more than they hate each other."
He paused, feeling Myrcella's gaze on him. He rarely spoke so plainly of war before her. He preferred she see him as a gallant knight, not as a man who had butchered entire tribes to bring peace.
Benjen inclined his head, respect clear in his eyes. "Aye. That much is certain. The wildlings speak of the cold winds rising. Of things in the woods. We hear whispers from the few who trade at Eastwatch. They're not fleeing south for plunder, Lord Arryn. They're fleeing from something."
"Queen Alysanne's dragon, Silverwing, refused to fly over the Wall," Artys said quietly. "There is magic in this world, Lord Benjen. Old magic. The kind men have forgotten, but which has not forgotten us. The more I learn of the Wall, the more it troubles me."
Benjen studied him for a long moment. "You see clearly, my lord. I wish more of the realm's great lords did. We send our ravens south, begging for men, for supplies, and we receive silence. Or worse—thieves and rapers sent to us as punishment."
"The Vale will not be silent," Artys said firmly. "Please, my lord—let us eat, and we shall speak more of what the Watch needs."
Benjen took more venison. "You honor us, Lord Arryn."
Myrcella turned to Benjen with gentle concern in her eyes. "My lord, my uncle Tyrion means to visit the Wall. He travels with you, I understand?"
"Aye, Your Grace," Benjen said. "The Imp wishes to see it, or so he claims."
"My uncle can be..." Myrcella chose her words carefully, "difficult at times. He has a sharp tongue and finds amusement in places others might find sacred. I ask that you be patient with him. Beneath his japes, he is not a cruel man. Only a man who has learned to cut with words before others can cut him."
Benjen's expression softened slightly. "I understand, Your Grace. The Wall has a way of sobering men. Even clever ones."
"Thank you, my lord," Myrcella said warmly. "I worry for him, though he would mock me for it."
Artys gestured to Shaddrich, who brought forth an oak box and opened it before Benjen. "A token of appreciation from the Vale for the brothers of the Watch."
The box was filled to the brim with silver moons, and a large pouch in the middle held gold dragons. Benjen's eyes widened.
"My lord... this is..."
"The Night's Watch guards us all," Artys said. "You stand between the realms of men and whatever darkness lies beyond. The Vale has not forgotten its duty to you. I have also prepared several casks of wine for Lord Commander Mormont and the officers of the Watch."
Benjen rose and bowed deeply. "Thank you, Lord Arryn. Your generosity will be remembered. This will feed and equip men who desperately need it."
"Please keep us informed of the happenings at the Wall," Artys said. "Send your ravens to the Eyrie. The Vale will support you as much as it can. We have trying times ahead of us, Lord Benjen. I feel it in my bones. And when winter comes in truth, we must stand together."
Benjen gripped Artys's forearm in the northern fashion. "The North remembers, Lord Arryn. And it seems the Vale does as well."
Flashback over XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Arty sat on the feather mattress gently pushing the hair of the Rosamund Lannister face. Rosamund woke with a start only to find Artys massive hand over her mouth stifling her scream. "Rosamund my sweet.. you know why i am here do you not ?" Artys said with a brow quirked. The girl emerald eyes were filled with terror. Artys face was a mask of cold fury " you have been spying for the queen have you not ?" Artys said in harsh whisper. The girl seemed scared stiff as color drained out her face turning ghostly pale....
Ned Stark
The solar felt smaller with Robert's rage filling it. Ned stood beside the king's chair, watching his old friend's face turn purple with fury. Maester Luwin's words still echoed in his mind—basilisk venom, my lord. I am nearly certain of it.
"Poison," Robert spat, slamming his fist on the table hard enough to make the wine cups jump. "My son was murdered with poison."
"We cannot be certain yet—" Ned began, but Robert cut him off with a roar.
"Cannot be certain? Your nephew suspected it from the start! The maester confirms it! Basilisk venom, Ned. Basilisk venom. Where in seven hells would anyone in the North get such a thing? This stinks of Dorne. Of that snake Oberyn Martell that snake!."
Ned kept his voice steady, though his heart was heavy. "The horses went mad, Robert. They killed Joffrey before anyone could reach him. If it was basilisk venom—"
"If?" Robert's eyes blazed. "You sound like a maester, not a warrior. My boy is dead, Ned. Dead! And I know who did it. The Dornish have wanted Lannister blood since Elia and her whelps were killed. And that Targaryen bastard across the Narrow Sea—Viserys—he'd love nothing more than to see my house burn."
"We need proof," Ned said firmly. "You cannot accuse Prince Oberyn without evidence."
"Evidence?" Robert laughed bitterly. "What more evidence do I need? Poison is their way. The Red Viper himself is called that for a reason. And Viserys has every cause to want my children dead." He stood, pacing like a caged beast. "They struck at my heir, Ned. At Joffrey. They meant to sow discord in my court before the dragon scum invades with his horse lord rabble."
The door opened, and Artys Arryn entered. He wore riding leathers, his face composed despite the storm he was walking into. Ned saw Robert's attention snap to his nephew like a hound catching a scent.
"You," Robert said, his voice dangerous. "You suspected this. From the very beginning."
Artys met the king's gaze without flinching. "I did, Your Grace."
"And you said nothing to me?" Robert's voice rose. "You let me sit through a funeral, let me mourn my son, and you kept your suspicions to yourself?"
"I had only suspicions, Your Grace," Artys said calmly. "Nothing more. The horses do not turn so vicious, and the manner of the prince's death troubled me. But suspicion is not proof. I would not bring accusations to my king without certainty."
"Certainty!" Robert roared. "My son is dead! That is all the certainty I need!"
"Your Grace—" Ned tried, but Robert rounded on him.
"Don't 'Your Grace' me, Ned. They killed my boy. Oberyn Martell and that Beggar King plotted this together, I'd wager my crown on it. The Dornish want revenge for Elia, and Viserys wants my throne." He turned back to Artys. "Well? Do you deny it? Can you think of anyone else who would use Dornish poison?"
Artys's voice remained steady. "I cannot deny that basilisk venom points to Dorne, Your Grace. But I can tell you that accusation without proof will lead to war. The deserts of Dorne bested even Aegon I beg you to be patient."
"War?" Robert laughed harshly. "Let them bring war. I'll march south and drag Oberyn Martell from his water gardens myself. I'll make him confess before I feed him to his own snakes."
Ned stepped forward. "Robert, listen to yourself. You're speaking of attacking Dorne—attacking one of the Seven Kingdoms—based on suspicion."
"It's more than suspicion!"
"Then find proof," Ned said firmly. "If Oberyn Martell did this, expose him. Bring evidence before the realm. But if you march on Dorne without it, you'll look like a tyrant, not a just king."
Artys moved to stand beside Ned. "Lord Stark speaks truly, Your Grace. Dorne is still ruled from the iron throne. If you accuse Prince Oberyn without proof, his brother Prince Doran will have no choice but to defend him. If you what Lord Varys speaks truly Viserys might be on his way with an army as well. I counsel caution your grace."
"Old maids the both of you ! I seek the bastards who killed my son !" Robert growled.
"Then seek them wisely," Artys said. "War with Dorne will cost thousands of lives. It will empty your treasury. It will make enemies of those who might otherwise support you. And if you are wrong—if Oberyn was not responsible—you will have weakened your realm for nothing."
Robert's jaw worked as he glared at them both. Ned could see the fury warring with reason in his old friend's eyes.
"The Dornish hate us," Robert said, but some of the heat had left his voice. "They've hated us since I took the throne. Since what happened to Elia."
"Aye," Ned agreed quietly. "But that doesn't make them guilty of this. Give us time to investigate. Let Artys and the maesters examine the evidence. Question everyone who was near the stables. If there is a trail, we will find it."
"And if it leads to Oberyn?"
"Then you will have your proof," Artys said. "And the realm will support you in seeking justice."
Robert sank back into his chair, suddenly looking older than his years. "My boy is dead, Ned. My firstborn son."
"I know," Ned said gently. "And we will find who did this. I swear it to you."
Before Robert could respond, the door burst open. Queen Cersei swept in like a storm, her beautiful face twisted with grief and rage. Jaime Lannister followed close behind, his hand on his sword hilt, his expression dark.
"Poison!" Cersei's voice rang out, sharp as broken glass. "They murdered my son with poison! Basilisk venom from their cursed desert, and you sit here doing nothing!"
Robert's jaw clenched. "Cersei—"
"Don't you dare tell me to be calm," she hissed, advancing on him. "The Dornish killed Joffrey. Everyone knows it. Oberyn Martell hates my family, who else ! My beautiful boy is dead."
"We know not—" Ned began, but Cersei whirled on him with such fury that he stopped.
" you dare tell me you do not know, Lord Stark. The maester confirmed it. Basilisk venom. That snake who calls himself a prince studied poisons at the Citadel. They are known to use such things." Her voice cracked, trembling between rage and grief. "My son. My firstborn. They took him from me."
She turned back to Robert, and her eyes blazed with accusation. "I want justice. I want armies marching south. I want Dorne burned to the ground, every castle torn down, every well poisoned, every field salted. I want them to know what it means to strike at a lion."
"Your Grace," Artys said carefully, stepping forward. "We do not yet have proof that—"
"Proof?" Cersei's laugh was wild, nearly hysterical. "My son is dead! His body broken by maddened horses poisoned with Dornish venom! What more proof do you need? Or do you counsel my husband to do nothing while murderers walk free?"
"We counsel caution," Ned said firmly. "Not inaction. If we accuse Prince Oberyn without evidence—"
"Without evidence, you will tear the realm apart," Cersei finished for him, her voice dripping with contempt. "Is that what you were going to say? How noble. How wise." She turned to Robert, tears now streaming down her face, though her voice remained hard as steel. "Are you going to listen to them? Are you going to let the men who murdered your son and heir go unpunished?"
"Cersei—" Robert began, but she cut him off.
"My father will hear of this," she said, her voice shaking with rage and grief. "I will write to Tywin Lannister tonight. I will tell him how his grandson was murdered by Dornish poison. And I will tell him how his king sat in Winterfell doing nothing while the Starks and Arryns counseled patience. Counseled mercy for the vipers who killed his blood."
Jaime stepped forward, his voice quiet but edged with steel. "The queen speaks truly, Your Grace. Lord Tywin will want justice for Joffrey."
"Is that a threat, Kingslayer?" Ned asked sharply.
Jaime's green eyes fixed on him. "It is a fact, Lord Stark. My father does not forgive those who harm his family. And he does not wait for proof when he knows who his enemies are."
Cersei moved closer to Robert, her face inches from his. "You are the king, Robert. Act like it. Give the command. Send your banners south. Show the realm that no one strikes at House Baratheon without paying the price. Show them that you are still the warrior who won the throne, not some fat drunk who hides behind his advisors."
Robert's face turned purple, and for a moment Ned thought he might strike her. But the king's voice, when it came, was low and dangerous. "You forget yourself, woman."
"I forget nothing," Cersei shot back. "I remember that I am a mother who has lost her son. I remember that I am a Lannister, and Lannisters do not suffer insults unavenged. And I remember that my father has armies, Robert. Armies that could march tomorrow if their king will not."
Robert's face darkened. "I am the king, woman. Not Tywin Lannister."
"Then act like it!" Cersei shouted. "My father would not hesitate. He would already have armies marching south. But you sit here, listening to these fools tell you to wait, to gather proof, to do nothing while my boy's murderers laugh at us!"
"Cersei—" Jaime tried, but she shook him off.
"I will write to my father tonight," she said, her voice trembling with rage. "I will tell him how his grandson was murdered, and how his king does nothing. How the Starks and Arryns counsel mercy for the vipers who killed him."
"That is enough," Robert said, rising to his feet. His voice was not loud, but it carried absolute authority. "I will not be threatened in my own solar, not even by you. Tywin Lannister does not rule this kingdom. I do."
Cersei stared at him, shock and fury warring on her face.
"Joff was my son too" Robert continued, his voice rough. "My heir. But I will not start a war without knowing who I'm fighting. We will investigate. We will find proof. And when we do, whoever is responsible will pay. Whether they are Dornish, Targaryen, or anyone else."
"And in the meantime?" Cersei asked coldly.
"In the meantime, you will write to your father and tell him exactly that. Tell him his king seeks justice, not blind vengeance."
For a long moment, Cersei said nothing. Then she turned and swept from the room, Jaime following after casting one last dark look at them all.
When the door closed, Robert slumped back into his chair. "Gods," he muttered. "This will not end well, Ned."
"No," Ned agreed quietly. "But it will end worse if we act in haste."
Artys moved to pour wine for the king. "We will find the truth, Your Grace. I swear it."
Robert took the cup and drained half of it in one gulp. "You'd better, boy. Because if Tywin Lannister decides to seek his own justice, there will be hell to pay."
Ned exchanged a glance with Artys, seeing his own worry reflected there. The king was right. They had bought time, but not much. Ned knew that somewhere out there, whoever had killed Prince Joffrey was still free.