Jon Arryn died so suddenly that only the most stubborn or dim-witted lords did not think of murder. Unfortunately, King Robert was among them; he took Grand Maester Pycelle's words at face value—that the Hand had died of a "chill in the stomach"—and didn't even think of conducting any investigation into the death of his old friend and mentor. The King merely wiped away a tear, ordered preparations for the funeral to begin, then got drunk once again and dragged the first servant girl he saw into his bed. Arthas, watching all this, only sighed heavily.
Over the last few years, the man who had become his father had sunk deeper and deeper into the abyss of hopeless drunkenness and debauchery; the King was completely uninterested in the affairs of the state, as a result of which absolutely all duties fell onto the shoulders of the Small Council, which, in the Prince's opinion, only worsened the situation. Making no attempt to influence the King in his indifference and merely indulging Baratheon's whims, the Council members had driven the crown into such debt that it was completely unclear how to get out of it. The treasury was absolutely empty, and the royal debt to Tywin Lannister, the Tyrells, and the Iron Bank had reached an astronomical sum. Moreover, Arthas learned that Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, had been forced to borrow money from several merchants from Tyrosh and even from the priests of The Seven. How they would pay it back, no one knew, but Robert didn't care about anything; he lived only for the day, and even the words of his eldest son, who tried to influence him somehow, achieved nothing. The King, spending most of his time in a drunken stupor, would forget everything he had been told the night before by the next day.
Queen Cersei made no attempt at all to influence her husband, whom she almost openly hated. Now all her attention was focused on the youngest of the Baratheon children, Tommen, and Arthas shuddered to imagine what his brother would eventually grow up to be, having already been spoiled to an indecent degree. No, once he himself, as a small boy, had tormented the inhabitants of the Red Keep with his whims, but the truth was that Arthas... was just having fun. The Prince understood perfectly well how stupid his behavior was, but he couldn't help himself. He had been given a unique chance to feel like a child again, and he couldn't stop himself from the stupid but amusing childishness in which he tormented those around him. But what Tommen threatened to turn into was already starting to scare him. It was becoming clear that the boy needed to be torn away from Cersei's wing immediately, before she completely turned the golden-haired toddler into a walking disaster. The only problem was that a rift had formed in the relationship between Arthas himself and his mother. The Queen, who turned out to be the possessor of an extremely quarrelsome and vengeful character, had never forgiven her eldest son for the events of eight years ago.
"Is it true that we are going to the North, Joffrey?" Myrcella Baratheon asked Arthas quietly while they stood in the Great Sept of Baelor, paying their last respects to Jon Arryn.
"Yes, Father announced it this morning," the Prince replied just as quietly. "He wants to meet Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, and apparently make him some kind of offer. Most likely, he'll appoint him the new Hand."
"And I thought our grandfather would become the Hand," the girl's eyes widened in surprise. The Princess was infinitely far from the politics of the Seven Kingdoms, and Arthas mentally wished she would stay nowhere near them. That thankless business was too dirty and dangerous.
"Only our father can't stand him, just like all of Mother's relatives," Arthas enlightened his sister. "And Lord Stark is his old friend; they overthrew the Targaryens together. So Father's choice is obvious. I think preparations for the journey will begin very soon; the way will not be short."
The crown prince was right; only a few days after the funeral, a commotion arose in the royal palace caused by preparations for the departure. Queen Cersei, not burning with desire to go to the far and cold North, frowned with displeasure, and Tommen echoed her exactly, imitating his mother in everything. Seeing this, Arthas set a goal to tear his brother away from the Queen's influence as quickly as possible before it was too late.
The Prince himself continued to train, entrusting all the packing to his servants. Each of his days began early in the morning with a long run; for added effect, Arthas would put on the heavy training armor he preferred to wear in that life, and this approach soon yielded results, as he became much more resilient. Heavy, exhausting exercises coupled with constant combat training also had results: his shoulders became broader, strong muscles rippled under his skin, and the Prince became physically strong enough that very few opponents could stand against him in a practice bout. One of them was Sandor Clegane, but Arthas honestly admitted that finding an equal opponent for such a ferocious warrior was generally very difficult. He was one of the most skilled swordsmen the Prince had ever met. At least in this world, since on Menethil's native Azeroth, there were individuals whom even Clegane would hardly risk crossing.
And then the day came when the royal family, settled in a huge two-story carriage, set off with their vast retinue on a journey that threatened to stretch for a whole month. Arthas himself escaped the carriage after a couple of hours, unable to stay any longer in that stuffy box crawling slowly along the road. At the Prince's command, the servants brought his horse, the golden-maned Anduin, named after the renowned commander Anduin Lothar, who had crushed the Horde during the Second War. The horse had been a gift from Renly Barateon, the King's younger brother and Lord of Storm's End, for the Prince's twelfth birthday, which had delighted the boy. Seated on the horse, Arthas immediately rode ahead, finally glad for the opportunity to inspect his future domains. What could be said? The picture was depressing.
The Seven Kingdoms was a terribly backward state, which became clear as soon as Arthas explored the Red Keep and the capital itself. Accustomed to the technologies of gnomes and goblins, the Prince was terribly disappointed by the local realities, but as soon as they left the capital, the picture became even more depressing for him. The roads were broken, filth and lack of sanitation were widespread everywhere, equal to what Arthas had previously seen only in Gnoll camps. Even in Orc military camps, there was far more order than here. There, at least, the green-skinned shamans, who valued order and harmony above all else, kept things tidy, which seemed very strange to the young Prince. In his mind, Orcs and harmony were absolutely incompatible things. The population of Westeros, in its overwhelming mass, was illiterate and unenlightened; the peasants looked at the knights passing them solely with apprehension, expecting some kind of foul play from them in the depths of their souls. Seeing all this, the Prince could only sigh and longingly remember the beautiful days of his youth on Azeroth.
And yet Arthas was glad that he had finally escaped the capital. No, he had traveled out of the city periodically before, most often for royal hunts, but such moments were too short and, as a rule, were limited only to the Kingswood, in which, frankly, there was nothing interesting. This world did not have such a variety of species and races as Azeroth was so rich in. There were no Gnolls here, no Murlocs, no Giant Spiders. Dragons had long since died out, no one created golems, and elementals had never even been heard of. Only old tales remained of certain greenseers, the Children of the Forest, and White Walkers who thousands of years ago had terrified the entire continent and almost exterminated its entire population.
True, there was one point in these tales that very much troubled and worried Arthas. According to the legends, the White Walkers or, as they were also called, the Others, had retreated to the North, where a giant Wall had been built for protection against them, and for its protection, in turn, the Night's Watch had been created—a certain brotherhood that existed to this day. They did indeed protect the Wall, only not from the Others, but from tribes of the Free Folk, people who lived beyond the Wall and periodically staged raids into the domains of the Northern lords. It seemed like nothing special, except that the foul stench Arthas felt came precisely from the North, and the closer the King and his retinue approached the harshest of the kingdoms of Westeros, the more strongly the Prince felt that familiar cold breath of Death.
"I'll need to visit the Wall," Arthas muttered quietly, but was overheard nonetheless.
"Planning to join the Night's Watch, dear nephew?" Tyrion Lannister asked, riding closer. A bladder of wine was tied to his horse's saddle, from which the dwarf periodically took a drink.
"I'm not exactly burning with desire, uncle," the Prince allowed himself a rare smirk and shook his long hair, which fell over his face. Arthas did not like tying it in a ponytail or gathering it in any other way.
"Then what have you lost there?" Lannister inquired.
"I just want to take a look," Arthas replied. "It is one of the wonders of the world, after all; it would be foolish to be in the North and not look at the Wall. And from the Wall itself."
"A good desire," the Fiend praised him. "I've long dreamed of pissing off the edge of the Wall myself and am now firmly intended to fulfill my wish. You can join me."
"In what exactly?" the Prince clarified. "Pissing off the Wall or the trip to it?"
"Decide for yourself," Tyrion smirked, uncorking the bladder.
Arthas merely grunted in response; the dwarf always seemed amusing to him. Unlike many others, the Prince was perfectly fine with his uncle's physical appearance, in no small part because he had once interacted a lot with gnomes and dwarves. What did it matter that the youngest of Tywin Lannister's children didn't turn out a beauty? Arthas saw nothing terrible in that circumstance, especially considering that Tyrion was very smart, which in the Prince's eyes made him even more akin to gnomes, who, though they often looked somewhat comical, could easily outshine very many in terms of intellect. At times it seemed to Arthas that his normal attitude toward the Fiend was one of the key reasons why the Queen had cooled toward her firstborn. It was no secret to anyone that Cersei Lannister hated her younger brother.
The journey to Winterfell indeed took them a whole month, at the end of which a harsh northern landscape spread out around the travelers, evoking not the most joyful memories for Arthas. Someone even noticed that the crown prince had turned strangely somber, but no one could understand the reason. Only Jaime Lannister, accompanying his sister the Queen, suggested that "Joffrey is simply disappointed in the North, the trip itself, and wants to return home as soon as possible." But the Prince himself refuted his words, stating that in these lands it was easier and freer to breathe than within the stone walls of the Red Keep. Hearing this, the King's retinue only threw up their hands. Robert himself, having listened to his son, slapped him on the shoulder with approval.
"It's hard for people like you and me to sit in one place," the King said while a servant refilled his cup with wine once again. During the entire trip, Baratheon had been sober for four days at most. "We are men of action; we need space. Though you don't look like me on the outside, inside you are a true Baratheon, and so I want to warn you. Do you see what life in the palace has done to me? I, once the best warrior in Westeros, have turned into a large wine barrel. I know it's unpleasant for you to hear, and frankly, for me too, but I know that is the bitter truth. I lived for war, but it was peace that finished me. By winning, I lost. Be very careful, my son, or you may find yourself in the same position as I."
Arthas listened to his father, feeling both pity and anger in the depths of his soul. Pity for a father who perfectly understood what he had become but could no longer stop. Anger that the King lacked the willpower to pull himself together and get out of the quagmire he had driven himself into. When the towers of Winterfell finally appeared ahead, many exhaled with relief. The long journey was over, and they could finally rest.
***
Eddard Stark, having carved out a few minutes of rest in his chambers, could only silently marvel at how much Robert had changed since the day they had last seen each other. The King had gained at least eight stone in weight, growing a huge belly to match his considerable height. Looking at the changes that had occurred with Baratheon, Stark felt a wave of sadness wash over him. Robert's arrival did not bring him the joy he had hoped for, but only sowed turmoil in his soul. This was related, first and foremost, to the King's proposal.
He wanted Stark to go with him to the capital and become his Hand, and Ned, to be honest, really didn't want to take on such a burden. In addition, Robert proposed to seal the bonds between their houses in a way as old as the world itself—by marriage. The King had a son, Eddard had a daughter, for whom it was long since time to find a groom. What was stopping them from announcing an engagement right now? In Robert's mind, absolutely nothing. Before Stark's mind's eye rose the image of the crown prince, Joffrey. Tall, broad-shouldered, with intelligence shining in his green eyes, which, according to the information received, had been polished from all sides by the very best teachers Robert could find for his firstborn. There were also many stories about the strength of the young Prince, whom very few could handle even now. How much truth and how much falsehood was in these stories remained to be seen. On one hand, he was an ideal groom for Sansa, except... Eddard took a deep breath. He wasn't sure Sansa herself would be a good wife for Joffrey. His daughter, raised on songs and ballads, was a very shallow girl who saw nothing beyond her own nose and whose dreams were all reduced to marriage with a noble knight. She wanted nothing else.
Eddard remembered how the Prince had behaved when the Stark children were introduced to him, including Sansa herself. The youth was courteous and respectful, which threw the girl into total delight, but Stark himself saw that it was banal politeness. The Prince didn't care about Sansa at all, but she simply refused to see it. Most likely, she already saw her wedding to Joffrey and how she would sit on the throne in the future. The only question was whether Joffrey himself would want to marry Sansa and whether he would fulfill his father's will. On one hand, marriages of this kind, based solely on mutual benefit and completely devoid of love, were commonplace for noble people. On the other hand—something told Ned that if Prince Joffrey refused to take Sansa as his wife, no person would be found who could dissuade him.
There was a delicate knock at the door; the short minutes of rest had expired faster than Stark would have liked, and Eddard headed off to perform his duties as a hospitable host before Robert started looking for him. He would still have time to think everything through properly and decide what would be best both for his daughter and for all the Starks. Now, however, he had to oversee the preparations for the feast, although Catelyn was managing everything there and Eddard's own help was not required.
In the evening, the Great Hall was packed to capacity, filled with a loud clamor and smoke curling beneath the ceiling; servants scurried tirelessly between the tables, bringing out fresh delicacies. Musicians were playing something, though it was virtually impossible to hear them over the deafening noise, dominated by the King's booming laughter. Robert was happy and loudly displayed his jovial mood, while Eddard Stark watched the royal family closely.
Cersei sat with a stony face, mirrored by her younger son, Tommen. The Queen clearly did not like Winterfell—she made little effort to hide the fact—and by all appearances, the younger Prince was in full agreement with her. He barely touched his food, only occasionally picking small pieces from a sweet bun lying before him, grimacing as if he had been served a roasted toad. Joffrey, however, was the complete opposite of his younger brother. The Crown Prince was animatedly discussing something with Robb, nodding his head when he agreed with the young Stark, or starting to argue when the youths' opinions diverged. Apparently, they were arguing about something very amusing, as Theon Greyjoy would periodically burst into laughter, and the smile never left Robb's face.
Joffrey himself did not smile once the entire evening.
"Don't mind him, Ned," the inebriated Robert said when Stark shared his observations. "My son isn't the most smiling lad; he's been that way since he was a child. I don't know why."
"And what is he like?" Eddard asked. "He doesn't look much like you."
"I know," the King sighed with a hint of sadness. Apparently, this fact distressed him quite a bit. "But even if we don't look alike on the outside, inside Joffrey is a true Baratheon. A magnificent Warrior; you'll see for yourself soon. Do you know what he fights with?"
Stark simply shook his head.
"A hammer, just like his old man!" Robert exclaimed with much greater enthusiasm. "Just like me! A couple more years and he'll have no equal, mark my words!"
"Does he only fight, or, unlike you, does he also know how to think?" Eddard asked. Anyone else would have been immediately offended, but Robert only laughed loudly, pounding his broad palm on the table.
"Aye, I certainly lacked brains!" Baratheon declared after he finished laughing. "If I were smarter, I would have refused the crown immediately and sent everyone who insisted on it to the Hells! Don't worry, the boy is smart; looks like he inherited his brains from his grandfather. I gave him the best teachers to be found. He'll make a good King. In fact, he probably knows more about ruling right now than I do."
Eddard looked back at the Prince, who was apparently telling his companions something very interesting; Theon and Robb were listening to him so intently, their eyes gleaming with mischief as if they were up to something. And something told Stark that this scheme would give him a very long headache.
***
The following morning began once again for Prince Joffrey with a run, watched with surprise by all the household and the Stark soldiers. The guests were still recovering from the drinking bout, yet the Crown Prince was running around the castle grounds as if nothing had happened. But then the Prince finally stopped at the entrance to the godswood, as if listening for something. No one knew exactly what had caught his interest, but as if by magic, a fragile figure appeared before the Prince, beside whom a massive Wolf stood still. Or rather, a she-wolf.
"What are you doing here?" there wasn't a shred of respect in the girl's voice. In truth, one could expect nothing else from Arya Stark.
"You are the daughter of the Warden of the North," Joffrey stated, rather than asked.
"Yes, and what of it?"
"I want to see what is in there," the Prince nodded toward the godswood. "Can you show me?"
"Why should I do that?" Arya asked.
Baratheon tilted his head slightly, studying the girl. Then he asked directly:
"What do you want in return?"
"Your dagger!" the girl demanded without a second thought, pointing to the blade hanging from Joffrey's belt. The servants froze, holding their breath. If Arya's words reached her mother... it would be a storm the likes of which Winterfell had not known for a long time. And how the Prince himself would react to this demand was also unknown.
"No problem," the youth unclipped the dagger and its sheath and tossed them to the girl. "Lead the way."
***
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