Disclaimer: Frozen and all its wonderful characters belong to Disney.


"Hail to the King!"

The drunken chorus followed Eric as he staggered out of the Fish and Barrel tavern onto the rain-slicked sidewalk. He turned to wave at his loyal subjects, but almost crashed to the pavement when his companion failed to turn with him. The buxom brunette, already teetering on four-inch heels and her balance compromised by too many vodka shots, collided with him, squashing her chest against his. He reached out to steady her, managing to get both hands on her breasts. When she giggled, he took it as tacit permission and pushed her up against the outside wall of the pub, squeezing and stroking and enjoying her breathless moans.

"Are you really going to be king?" she asked, her eyes heavy-lidded and glazed under the harsh light of the streetlamps.

"Oh yesh. I have the bloodline," Eric slurred out. He snaked his hands under her blouse and pushed her bra aside, fondling her nipples as he pressed his hips against hers. "Jus' waitin' for all the veri-..verif…paperwork."

The brunette slid her fingers along the front of his pants. "Something king-sized in here," she simpered. She worked his zipper open and slipped her hand in to grasp him.

"…Should make you my queen..." Eric bit and sucked her neck as she stroked him.

"Not here, though," she said, nipping at his ear.

"Right, right," he rasped, pulling back from her. Even through his alcohol-and-lust-induced fog, Eric recognized that screwing her up against the wall of a tavern on a public street was not proper behavior for a royal. And it was probably illegal too. He took a few deep breaths to try and clear his head. He'd have to take her somewhere.

But where? His guesthouse was only a few blocks from the Fish and Barrel, but this wasn't the best part of the city, and his rooms, which overlooked the fishing wharves lining the harbor, hardly fit his image of himself as royalty. He still didn't understand why the Chamberlain's Office wouldn't arrange for him to stay at one of luxury hotels near the Castle while they verified his claim.

I am gonna be King, after all, he thought. It's not like the bill won't get paid eventually.

He adjusted himself inside his pants and zipped his fly while the brunette - what was her name again? - straightened her clothing. Then he offered her his arm and his most charming smile. "Let's go to my hotel."

"You're not staying in the Castle?" she asked, her bottom lip pooching out in pouty disappointment.

No, you stupid cow, I'm not King yet. Out loud he said, "Not yet. Once everything is official, I'll move to the Castle. For now, I'm at the Royale." That was a total lie, but Eric figured he could bluster his way into Arendelle City's most exclusive hotel. He wasn't King – yet - but he was Baron Eric Solholm of Grøntfjell, and his title should be good for something.

Even if the holder of that title was completely and utterly broke.

"Oooh!" the brunette squealed. "That's almost as good!" She looped her hand around his bicep and pressed her breasts against him as they walked away from the pub. Eric thought he had enough cash to get a cab to the Arendelle Royale – he hadn't paid for a single drink all evening at the Fish and Barrel – and his credit card would get him into the hotel.

Given King Haldor's current health, Eric might be on the throne by the time the bill came due.

They turned up the alley next to the pub, making their way toward the main boulevard, staggering from both the alcohol and their attempts to kiss as they walked. Eric grunted as her tongue slid from his mouth and along his jaw to finally wind up in his ear. They banged against a dumpster, giggling madly. He pawed at her again, enjoying the feel of the large, soft breasts under her blouse.

A gloved hand flashed out from the shadows of the dumpster and yanked the woman away. Her scream died abruptly as the unseen assailant flung her headfirst against the opposite wall of the alley. She crumpled into a heap at the base of the wall and lay still.

"What the fu – !?"

Eric whirled to run, but his back slammed up against the dumpster, a hard forearm pressing against his throat, cutting off his air. Spots swam in his vision. He grabbed at the arm, fingers scrabbling for a grip against smooth fabric. The pressure increased. Eric thrashed wildly, panicking as he fought for breath.

"Imposter," a voice hissed in his ear. Through his dimming vision, Eric caught a glimpse of cold green eyes, a glint of moonlight off metal. Something hard and cold pressed against his temple. "Whatever made you think you could be King?"


The meeting took place in what appeared to be an unused vault below the basement level of the Arendelle National Bank. Metal shelves and safe-deposit boxes lined the foyer behind the thick steel door, whose old-fashioned combination lock had been replaced with the latest in biometric palm-print readers, along with a standard PIN-entry keypad. Only the combination of an approved palm print and valid eight-digit PIN allowed one to turn the wheel that opened the door.

The vault had in fact been a bank vault once upon a time. Then when it looked as though the countries of the Continent might turn in on one another with weapons of annihilation, an enterprising (and paranoid) banking mogul had decided that if the government of Arendelle wasn't willing to provide appropriate shelter for its most important citizens (like himself), then he would spare no expense in protecting himself and others like him from the apocalypse. Once the fallout had settled, they would emerge to lead what was left, even if what was left was nothing but rubble and vapor.

So the vault was turned into a bunker with living space for a dozen or so people, accessible only by a high-speed elevator, with a couple of months' worth of supplies. As years passed and the chances of a war of total extermination looked less and less likely, the bunker's purpose had changed. In addition to being covered by tons of dirt and a highly secure banking building, the bunker's super-thick steel walls had been supplemented by a copper coating, to further protect from electronic eavesdropping. It was now a meeting place for a small group of people, few of whom held official government power, but had their fingers on the pulse of everything important in Arendelle.

This group didn't particularly like coming to this underground meeting place. It was inconvenient, despite being located in the heart of Arendelle City's business district, and too cloak-and-dagger-ish for most of their tastes. But they understood the need for discretion and secrecy, and if there was one place they could get together without fear of their conversations being scooped up by prying electronic ears, this was it. Many of the matters discussed at these meetings were illegal; tonight, they were murderous.

Tonight, they would plot the killing of a woman. It was distasteful to most of them, though they all of them agreed it was necessary. Most of them even believed it was for the good of Arendelle, though it was mostly for the good of their own private agendas. But now another life was also involved, and this one had caused the meeting to become rancorous.

"So along with Kjarensen, we have to kill a National Police agent?" one man asked. "Are you sure that's necessary?"

Eckbert Weselton, the man at the head of the conference table, nodded vigorously, his large head wobbling on top of his skinny neck. He was about at the end of his patience with the bickering. "Yes, yes it is, if we want to maintain our business positions here."

Weselton had organized this group, made them see their common interests despite the fact that they were often competitors. He threatened and cajoled them, and convinced them that his way was most often the best way to success. He was right more often than not, a fact that was neither lost on his colleagues nor ever failed to stoke their resentment. Resentment that was usually quashed as their individual fortunes continued to grow.

Now those fortunes were about to be placed in peril. Arendelle faced an existential crisis, and it seemed that no one in the government was taking any reasonable steps to try and avert it. Oh, there was a search underway, and claims investigated and discarded, but the fact of the matter was that without serious action on the part of this group, Arendelle would fall. True, it would put only a minor dent in the wealth of most of them – they were all too savvy not to be diversified – but the power, the influence – those were commodities that took time to build, and for all of them, that meant keeping Arendelle as it was.

Or with a few nudges here and there, maybe even making it better than it was now.

Weselton rose from his chair to pace, one of his many nervous habits. His compatriots called him Duke, but not for the reasons he imagined. True, generations ago his family had ruled a Duchy on the Continent, but a series of poor decisions on the part of his multiple-times-great grandfather had led to the fall of that land and its eventual absorption into a larger power. But the nickname didn't come from what he imagined to be his regal and charismatic presence, but from the "scepter up his ass," in the words of one colleague.

As the CEO of Northern International, Arendelle's largest and wealthiest corporation, Weselton had his fingers in almost every major industry in the country. Fisheries, shipping, banking, energy - even ice harvesting, though that was mostly a tourist industry these days. Along with that wealth came access to the country's power brokers, money being the key to every door worth opening. His compatriots in this room might not like him, but they respected him, both for his business acumen and the utter ruthlessness of his climb from the pit of his family's devastated fortunes. Weselton's rising tide had lifted all of their boats.

Another man, this one a high-level Castle official, spoke up. "I'm still not completely convinced it's necessary to terminate the woman, but killing a NP agent can only lead to disaster."

Heads nodded around the table, and Weselton paused his pacing. "Not having to eliminate the agent would be ideal, of course, Minister," he said. "However, the fact is that the NPs have her under 24/7 surveillance. The only time she's exposed is when she goes to the cabin. They may place her in witness protection at any time, with no warning. We have to move on her at the safe house."

The lone woman at the table, the Botoxed, collagen-injected president of a prosperous cosmetics company, said, "So we get eliminate Kjarensen, but let the agent live. Why borrow more trouble?"

Weselton shook his head. "Too risky, Gothel. It would be a loose end. A loose end dangling inside the country's most resourceful police agency, I might remind you," he said with a bite in his voice.

"For God's sake, Duke," the first man protested again, "do you know what will happen if the NPs tie this back to us?"

Weselton turned beady blue eyes on him, peering out from behind pince-nez glasses that had gone out of style a hundred years ago. "None of us got here without being able to keep secrets, Rosholm, especially secrets of this magnitude," he snapped. "Surely I don't have to remind you that lives have been lost for this before."

Silence reigned for several minutes, as Weselton's words reminded them that they were all in this until the end, that past decisions and actions were now driving the present ones.

Another member of the group scooted forward in his chair. His hoodie and jeans, along with his wild mane of red hair and abundant freckles made him look like a student, and he was, in fact, decades younger than everyone else at the table. But Pine's voice commanded the same respect as all the others. He had made his original fortune designing a rather addictive social media site, but unlike many others his age who'd found the same type of success, he had not been a one-hit wonder. He'd kept growing his empire through laser-like focus, shrewd business decisions, and the occasional brutal arm-twisting.

"Have we considered another scenario?" Pine asked. "We're eliminating Kjarensen to halt or at least slow down the Erikksen investigation. Is there another way to accomplish that goal? Don't we have people in NP headquarters? Can we apply some pressure to get them to drop the investigation? Then there's no unnecessary killing, which means no unnecessary scrutiny."

Weselton opened his mouth to respond, but a dry chuckle from the shadows along the edge of the conference room stopped him. "You really want to try to persuade the NPs to give up their biggest corruption investigation in years so that we can manipulate the future of the country?" the voice said. "And where would you like to spend your prison term? For this crime, I guarantee it won't be house arrest in a Castle guestroom."

A tall man stepped into the light. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, a handsome man, expensively dressed. His dark auburn hair fell stylishly over a high forehead, and sideburns of the same color framed a strong jaw. Those who had noticed him earlier had simply assumed that he was one of Weselton's bodyguards, but closer inspection revealed that to be false. The man's green eyes gleamed with a sharp intelligence that was conspicuously missing from Weselton's thugs.

"Who the hell are you?" Gothel demanded.

The auburn-haired man waved his hand dismissively. "That doesn't matter right now, although I can assure you that I have as much at stake here as you do."

"That's difficult for us for us to believe without knowing who you are and what your stake is," Gothel retorted.

"I'm afraid you're just going to have to trust me on this one, Gothel," Weselton said. Gothel snorted. Trust was a commodity in short supply in this group. "Our young friend here has provided much of the information we needed to put this plan into action."

The young man continued, "What does matter is the information coming out of the NP headquarters, and none of it indicates that they would be willing to back off the Erikksen case. Suggestions to the contrary will only draw unwanted attention to our people."

"And you don't think murdering an agent will bring undue attention?" Rosholm said. "Do you know how cops react to cop killings? The NPs will go on a crusade to find whoever is responsible! Then where are we?"

Grumbling and nods of agreement circled the table, and Weselton looked around at his colleagues nervously. The people in this room formed a shaky alliance. They were all powerful and successful, and used to keeping their own counsel. It was a miracle that he had managed to bring them together at all, much less keep them on the same course for so long.

What was that phrase about hanging together or hanging separately?

The young man grinned, and the grin was so wide, so incredibly handsome, that everyone around the table fell silent, transfixed. Weselton imagined he could actually feel the balance of power in the room tipping from himself to the auburn-haired man. Perhaps he had miscalculated in allowing his young trump card to attend this meeting.

"Of course the NPs will do everything in their power to solve the murder of one of its agents, as well as the murder of the primary witness in their most important investigation in years," the young man said. He picked up the pitcher in the middle of the table and poured water into one of the crystal tumblers. "I propose we give them the answer." He sipped his water as they all looked at him curiously.

"What answer is that?" Pine asked.

"The answer that we want them to have. That after years of helping Erikksen with his dirty little scheme, Elsa Kjarensen had an attack of conscience. Or paranoia. Or whatever. Either way, she went to the National Police and started telling them everything she knows. Right now, Erikksen has no idea that she's turned on him. Nor does he know that we're planning to kill her. Only we know that."

"What's your point?" Rosholm asked.

"My point is, the NPs may suspect that he knows about her betrayal, or that he might find out in the near future. If he does find out, then no one, I repeat, no one, has more motivation to kill Elsa Kjarensen than Agdar Erikksen."

"And?" Rosholm persisted.

The auburn-haired man rolled his eyes. "And," he said patiently, as if talking to a slow child, "we tip the NPs that Erikksen and his clients found out that Kjarensen double-crossed them, and had her and the agent murdered."

"But when they grab Erikksen, he'll tell them everything!" the minister protested. "We'll all be exposed!"

The auburn-haired man put his face in his hand and shook his head. His contempt was almost palpable. Then slowly it dawned on the group what the man was talking about.

"So we tip the NPs about Erikksen posthumously," said Gothel. "Three murders rather than two."

"Problems with that?" Weselton asked.

Silence. Distasteful as it was, it seemed the only feasible course of action.

"Very well," Weselton said. "I'll make the arrangements."

That question settled, the tension in the room eased marginally. The auburn-haired man withdrew back into the shadows at the edge of the room.

"Any further news from the Castle?" Pine asked.

"He remains in critical but stable condition," the minister replied, quoting from the latest medical report out of Arendelle Castle. "Given his age and mental state, it is only a matter of time. However, there is no sure projection of how much time may be left. We must be prepared to move forward as soon as an announcement is made."

"Have any new claimants been found?"

"The playboy from Corona still appears to have the strongest case, but his lineage hasn't been verified yet," Weselton said. "And apparently a penniless baron from Grøntfjell turned up at the Castle a few days ago, claiming to be a distant cousin. But he's a drunk and a womanizer whose personal debt may actually exceed that of the entire country. Quite frankly, I'm surprised more lunatics haven't come out of the woodwork, given what's at stake."

"How is the background for our own claimant proceeding?" Gothel asked.

"We have enough to get him a hearing," Weselton answered, his eyes darting over to the tall auburn-haired man.

"Do we have all the votes we need?" Rosholm asked anxiously.

"Yes," Weselton reassured. "Erikksen has one last meeting to make to ensure we cannot be denied, and then his usefulness is at an end."


A/N: Here we go, we'll see if this works. Hope you'll stick with me - this is a pretty complex story in my head, and getting it onto paper (screen?) the way my brain sees it is proving to be a bit of a challenge. You can see there are already characters involved that I wasn't able to list in the summary! But Anna and Elsa will be here soon!