AN: Thanks to Tacoo from Spacebattles for my cover picture

Chapter 1: The Hand is Dead

Arthas knew he was dead.

It was not that he couldn't tell when Mandon was feinting, or from where the sword would come. Ser Mandon Moore was thirty and two and a white cloak besides, while Arthas had only just turned ten and two with a silver cloak set aside. The overhand killing blow diverted at the last possible second, ripping the warhammer from his hand instead of ripping the head from his neck. Tyrek Lannister moved to retrieve the weapon.

"An excellent bout, Your Grace," Mandon said, glancing at a sky in the midst of shrugging off her summer blues to bathe in sunset's glow. "You improve daily."

"There's no need for mockery," Arthas said, picking himself up and dusting himself off. I was too complacent. I used to be better than this.

"There's always a need for some mockery," Mandon said, letting the flat of his blade rest against his broad shoulder. "We've been at this for hours. Don't you tire?"

He stretched his arms testingly, then shook his head. "Not even sore. Shall we go again?" Arthas asked, nodding a thanks to Tyrek as he accepted the warhammer.

"The queen will be most displeased if you're late for dinner again, and after we've just returned from Casterly Rock too," Tyrek said. He was a handsome, golden-haired lad, like all of Arthas' Lannister cousins in King's Landing no matter how distantly kin. A boy of middling height for their age, so Arthas and Joffrey both had half a head on him.

"Sometimes, I wonder if you're my father's squire, or my mother's," Arthas said.

The boy of two and ten titled his head. "Would that I were your squire instead, Cousin. Mayhaps I might even learn something."

What could anyone learn from me?

"From this wee thing? Not likely," Mandon said. "You want my advice, Lannister? Practice jumping onto a courser in full plate, or do a somersault in your armor, or dance at court while wearing a mail shirt."

"What wisdom you have to impart, ser," Tyrek said.

"Don't mouth off to me, whelp," Mandon said. "It'll help build up your strength. Jumping straight into the practice yard half-arsed without preparing your body properly is pointless. Training and conditioning matter equally. Look at the prince! Those keen eyes of his know what to do, but his arms can't quite keep up."

"I'm not the one who chooses to call an end to the training each day," Arthas said.

"If it were up to you, we'd be at it night and day without pause," Mandon said, pale grey eyes watching the stormlanders who'd come to watch Arthas practice. "That damned Baratheon stubbornness of yours."

Tyrek handed Arthas a ladle from the nearby barrel. "You should be thankful," Arthas said, "for that damned Baratheon stubbornness. It won us the war, and I dare say you'd not fare any better in the court of the Mad King." He gulped down the sweet, cool water. "Besides, I don't train all day."

"Your prayers don't count," Mandon said.

"You ought to have a proper appreciation for the Light of the Seven, ser," Arthas said. "You're an anointed knight after all."

"You're training to be a knight, not a septon."

I used to be both. Arthas thought, as Tyrek walked over to the bench and picked up his neatly folded cloak. "Can't I be both?"

"Baelor the Blessed tried that. I don't think your sister would much appreciate being locked in the Maidenvault," Tyrek said.

"Faith," Arthas said, "ought to be a personal choice. You cannot force someone to keep it."

Tyrek sighed and handed him the cloak. "Spare me the sermon, septon. Princess Myrcella ought to be thankful you're not the crown prince."

"She'd prefer Baelor to Maegor, I think," Mandon said in a low voice, a hint of his rare smiles gracing his lips. "Baelor was the younger brother too," Mandon said. "Look how that turned out."

"I'm just the spare," Arthas said, holding the cloak with both hands like it was a funeral shroud, "and Light of the Seven willing, I will live out the rest of my days as the spare."

"I'm certain Baelor thought the same," Tyrek said. "Baelor was blessed and most beloved, if I recall my histories right."

"I am not Baelor," Arthas said, injecting steel into his tone. To be loved by his people… "His favorite weapon was a prayer after all."

"He also fasted himself to death," Mandon mused. "There'd be a certain irony to it if the prince went the same way."

"Seven preserve us then," Tyrek said dryly. "Westeros is doomed."

As they trekked back into Maegor's Holdfast, Mandon's face settled back into a schooled neutral expression, his eyes oddly flat and lifeless like a fish. It was a quality of his that unnerved even his father, Arthas knew, and something the white cloak found great pleasure in maintaining. The uncertainty a mere knight could instill into the highest powers of the land.

They crossed the drawbridge spanning the dry moat lined with formidable iron spikes, and Mandon spared Ser Arys Oakheart a passing glance and nothing more. His face was unreadable, and he looked right through his brother in white.

Ser Arys nodded politely to Mandon, before offering Arthas a cordial smile. "Good practice today, my prince?"

"As good as any, Ser Arys," Arthas said politely.

Arthas stopped by his room, hanging up the never-worn cloak he carried around. He changed into a set of new clothes that were laid out on his bed while Tyrek and Mandon waited outside his door.

"This has mother's hands all over it," Arthas said, assessing his mirrored self's crimson doublet studded with a double row of golden lion's heads. He'd never liked the deep red color… it struck him as all too elvish or zealous. He combed straight his tangle of golden threads. "Nothing more to be done now."

Dinner was in the Queen's Ballroom, as it always was when they were not receiving guests. It was much smaller than either the Great Hall of the Red Keep or even the Small Hall of the Hand, seating only a hundred.

Still, it was brightly lit and beautiful, tucked inside the keep within a keep. High arched windows along the southern wall let the first hints of moonglow stream in, mixing with torchlight in the beaten silver mirrors behind the wall sconces. The walls were paneled with richly carved wood inlaid with gold and silver swirls.

"Maegor ruled cruelly, Maegor fought brutally," Grandmaester Pycelle was wont to say, "but Maegor lived in luxury."

Arthas seated himself next to sweet Myrcella, and little Tommen sat on her other side. Facing them was Joffrey and Mother. Father's seat remained empty, and Mother's lips shrivelled in disapproval. It was an ugly look on an otherwise beautiful woman.

"Did you have a good day, sister?" Arthas asked.

"It was quite pleasant," Myrcella said, her golden curls bobbing. "My new roses bloomed today. Tommen helped me prune them."

Tommen pushed a rose his way.

"Well done to both of you. A prize well-earned," Arthas said, picking it up by the stem and breathing in its scent. He still hoped, prayed to earn his prize one day.

"Earned?" Joffrey repeated. "It's the height of summer, and the longest we've seen in centuries according to Pycelle. Any bumpkin could grow a rose." Joffrey was a Lannister in looks and without fault physically. No, the gods had opted to leave all his shortcomings in his charac—

Arthas shook the thoughts away as Myrcella said, "I'll remember that when you next gift my roses to a fair maiden."

"You've never grown a rose, Brother," Arthas said.

Joffrey smirked. "Gardening is womanly. Of all people, I thought you'd understand, Arthas, but you never did let go of your childishness."

"I let go of it long ago," he wanted to say, but kept his lips shut. He ought to be thankful to Joffrey, the crown was a burden he did not wish for himself. It looked too heavy for his head.

"We're children," Myrcella said. "We're supposed to be childish."

Ser Barristan appeared at the door before Joffrey could respond. "Your Grace, the king is… indisposed, and begs you to begin without him."

Another whore? Arthas sighed. What else could it be? King Robert—Father, liked his food and drink and children too much, and for ruling he had his Hand, Lord Aryn. It was not kingly—but who am I to judge what a king ought to do?

The scowl on Mother's full, red lips deepened and she jerked her head. The servants began to stream in with platters of food. Dinner was a subdued affair of spiced meats, salads of color, and sugared cakes—the last of which Arthas refused to touch.

"Are you certain?" Myrcella asked, savoring the taste of ripe strawberries. "They're really quite good."

"Why bother asking? He never eats anything with an ounce of sugar in them," Joffrey said, spearing the fruits on his plate and turning them into a red mush..

"Sweet things taste bitter to my tongue," Arthas lied.

Joffrey scoffed, sparing him a look with his deep green eyes. "You're speaking nonsense."

"As you say." Joffrey will be king one day. He turned to his mother. "May I be excused now? I need my rest if I'm to rise before dawn."

Mother sighed, pushed her chair back, and walked over to him. The back of her soft, white hand was warm against his forehead. "You're still so cold."

"The cold never bothered me," Arthas said. Not even in this life.

"Well it bothers me," Mother said, cupping his cheeks. "Perhaps you shouldn't go out? Just this once? I mislike you being on the streets without the sun out."

"I'll be fine." Arthas squirmed in his seat. "Ser Mandon will be with me."

Mother frowned. "I do not like you spending so much time with Moore. You ought to take someone else—your uncle Jaime perhaps."

"Ah, I fear uncle is never awake quite early enough," Arthas said.

"Well then take Sers Blount, Trant, or Greenfield then," Mother said.

All men who'd listen to his mother. "Ser Mandon is a Kingsguard," Arthas said. "He has sworn vows."

"Besides," Joffrey said "Who would dare touch Arthas? He might be scrawny compared to Uncle Jaime, but he's my brother, and a prince besides. Anyone who wished him harm would live long enough to regret it. I would make sure of it."

You mean father would, Arthas thought, but he appreciated the surprising font of support. Joffrey will be my king one day, he repeated to himself before saying, "It would be rude to start a panic. I've come to be expected after all these years."

"You'll take care of yourself?" Mother asked.

"My utmost," Arthas said.

—TheKingIsDead—

Arthas was supine against the hard heart of winter, the shards of his two-handed runeblade—the cursed Frostmourne—shattered and scattered around him. He blinked as the king stared down at him.

You're dead, Arthas thought, and as the icy fist gripped around his conscience loosened, he felt a sharp stab in his heart. I killed you.

Terenas knelt next to him, and Arthas reached out with a hand, reaching for his father's chest. "Is it… over?"

"At long last." His kingly father placed a comforting hand on his gauntlet. "No king rules forever, my son."

"I see... only darkness," —Arthas coughed out— "before... me..."

He woke up with a start.

The moon was still bright and high. He could feel her eyes on him, assessing, judging his worth. He stood, stripping off his royal trappings and donning only a plain tunic that was white as snow. Arthas looked at himself in the mirror and frowned.

"Is that silk? Luxury!" Uther barked the first morning he began his training as a paladin. "Is that a mirror? Vanity!"

It was still a thing of silk, though, and to be kept so pristine in King's Landing was hours of work not wrought by his hand. Yet, if he wore anything less, his royal mother would forever bar him from stepping outside the Red Keep.

What was the lesser evil?

He shook his head, tucked his warhammer under the belt on his back, then turned it horizontally so it would not interfere with his legs. He reached for his never-worn cloak and the palm imprinted on it, then stepped outside his room and headed for the stables.

There were already guardsmen there, half a score, and many of them seated, dozing off against wooden posts.

"Wake up you whoresons!" Mandon hollered as he noticed Arthas' approach.

There was a storm of swirling red cloaks as men stood before their eyes were even fully opened. Fine men, fine soldiers wearing mail shirts over boiled leather and steel caps with lion crests.

"You're up earlier than usual," Mandon grunted.

"Rest is for the righteous," Arthas said.

"Then why aren't you sleeping?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

Tyrek came over, offering him the reins to his well-bred courser with a coat of pure night, like he did everyday. And Arthas waved him away, like he did everyday, but not before giving Tansy an affectionate rub on the head, the only part of him with white spots.

"This would be much faster if you just rode with us," Tyrek said.

"Is that a horse? Sloth!"

"It builds character," Arthas lied. "You wouldn't understand."

"You've never explained," Tyrek grumbled, then squinted his eyes. "I say, are those the falcons of Arryn flying?"

Arthas followed his gaze to the Red Keep's gate. Sure enough, it seemed the whole of Lord Arryn's household was on the move, led by Lady Lysa. He stepped towards them, and the men followed after in a sleepy shuffle step.

Lady Lysa froze at his approach, body rigid. A pair of her knights placed themselves a half-step ahead of where she'd stopped, hands resting on their pommels.

Cautious of them… there were many reasons to fear him, but he'd never so much as spoken a word to the Hand's wife, or spoken ill of her. Perhaps she's grasped my true nature at last?

Mandon growled, putting himself in front of Arthas.

"Peace, there will be no bloodshed on my behalf," Arthas said, patting Mandon's twitching sword arm, before stepping up to Lysa. He was tall for his age, with straight, long locks of gold unlike the curled hair his brother and sister and mother shared. But a tall boy of twelve was still a boy of twelve, and he barely came up to her neck. "Lady Arryn, what a fine morning for a stroll. I didn't think you enjoyed this time of day."

"My son and I are leaving," she hissed. "You will not stop me."

Arthas tilted his head to the side. "I've no intentions of stopping you."

She blinked. "What?"

"I am but a prince. It is not my place to rule or give command. If Lord Arryn bids you return to the Vale, why is it my place to say otherwise?"

The knights of the Vale shared puzzled looks, hands dropping to their sides as Mandon continued to glower them into submission.

"So we are free to leave?"

"You're not prisoners here," Arthas said, frowning.

"It's a trick," Lysa said. "Why else would you be up at this time of day if not to have us seized?'

"Prince Arthas is always up at this time of day," Tyrek said, before adding under his breath, "to my long suffering."

"The prince is on his way to pray," Mandon added.

Lysa glanced at the grey, predawn sky in askance. Unpowdered, her face was pale and puffy and looked a decade older than she had any right to be. "At this dark hour?"

"When else ought we pray but during the darkness before dawn?" Arthas asked. "If the Light of the Seven is to shine on us, we must ask for it first."

She did not respond for a long while, before finally asking, "Will you pray for my husband's soul?"

"I will ask the septons to. I'm afraid my own prayers are of little worth before the gods, old and new," Arthas said, circling around her and never showing the Valesmen his back.

"How is your lord husband?" Tyrek asked, not out of concern for the Hand, but for Arthas. "I heard the maidservants whispering he'd developed a fever not two nights ago."

Lysa did not respond, and the Valesmen shot Tyrek murderous looks.

"We will be off now," Arthas said, as his party finished circumventing Lysa's to reach the gate. They looked ready to draw blood, and if a prince was stabbed, nevermind killed, it would be war. He would not let himself be the cause of one more, not even with his death.

Arthas patted his hammer down, making sure it was still snugly in place, and took off on a brisk jog down the twisty Shadowblack Lane all the way to the foot of Aegon's High Hill. The air was still chilled enough that his breath fogged, though the exertion did not faze him in the slightest. The guards kept pace around him by bringing their horses to a middling trot. Four of them rode ahead at Mandon's behest, checking the alleys for men lying in wait and tossing drunkards aside—though they left the beggars be.

Tyrek brought up the rear, tossing copper stars to anyone who begged, and a silver stag for the pious brothers-in-brown. All done in his name, much as he asked—not ordered, never ordered—Tyrek not to do so.

So he ran, faster and faster and faster, through roads, dirt or paved, through winding wynds and straight streets and past the Guildhall of the Alchemists. Ran from the darkness closing in, ran from the light peeking through the clouds, ran as fast as his long legs would carry him.

Finally, he reached the white marble plaza at the top of Visenya's Hill. Baelor the Blessed stared down at him, tall and serene upon his plinth. The maesters said his face was a study of benevolence; Arthas saw only judgment in those lifeless eyes.

A pair of septons and septas each waited on him by the entrance doors. It ought to be an hour more before the sept opened its doors to the masses, but being a prince came with privilege undeserved. They unlocked the doors and led him through the Hall of Lamps, where suspended globes of colored leaded glass gave guidance in dark hours.

He was brought at last the sept-proper, to be judged before the Light of the Seven Who Are One.

Arthas knelt as the Lannister men-at-arms spread out across the room and the septons and septas kept a respectful distance from their "pious" prince. One of them placed a cushion beside him to kneel on before leaving. It was a waste of effort, but they never ceased to offer it to him.

Beneath the marble floor Arthas knelt on were the tombs of kings long past, some great and others terrible, but none as terrible as himself. After all, what had the worst kings of Westeros done?

"Aegon the Unworthy caused the Blackfyre Rebellions," Pycelle had said during their lessons.

Was he any worthier? Arthas reached for his never-worn silver cloak. I am not worthy, but I hope to be worthy, he thought grimly.

"For want a crown, Aegon the Second and Princess Rhaenyra burned down the riverlands half a dozen times with their damned Dance," was Ser Mandon's answer.

Each step up the tower of ice, each step towards the Frozen Throne left him numb, not from the cold but from the voices echoing in his head.

"You are not my king yet, boy!" Uther fumed. He was the Lightbringer, he was his mentor and Arthas had turned his back on all his teachings for vengeance. "Nor would I obey that command even if you were!"

"You lied to your men, and betrayed the mercenaries who fought for you!" Muradin Bronzebeard, his friend.

And Jaina… Jaina's words cut his heart worst of all. "...I'm sorry, Arthas. I can't watch you do this."

The former Crown Prince of Lordaeron ignored them all, continuing his journey up the steps towards the Frozen Throne and the crown within.

Arthas' shut his eyes tighter, willing the memories away. I donned a crown once, never again. It proved a burden too heavy for him.

"Maegor massacred septons," answered Lord Arryn, long before he'd fallen sick with fever, "and unsuspecting worshippers for sport. He committed his reign to one of constant violence."

Sweet, innocent things died by his hands too. His blessings were a curse and his curses a blessing.

"Fools," his grandfather had said, "think Baelor the Blessed a good king. What had he achieved in the end? Outlawed prostitution? Persecuted whores, and their children? He beggared the realm to provide free bread for King's Landing, then appointed a lackwit and a boy as High Septons. He fasted himself to death, and did anything he do last a day after?"

For my lack of faith, I became the ruin of kingdoms, Arthas thought. May Mother have mercy on me.

"The Mad King murdered two heirs and a Lord Paramount, then ordered the deaths of two more," Robert roared. "He ordered me and Ned killed after his rapist of a son stole Lyanna from me!"

The doors slammed open and as he walked forward. His father stood from his throne as Arthas drew out Frostmourne and knelt.

"Ah, my son," Terenas said. "I knew you would be victorious."

Frostmourne whispered damnation into his ear. "You no longer need to sacrifice for your people," Arthas said. He rose to his feet, swiping back his hood. "You no longer need to bear the weight of your crown." Behind him, his death knights—Falric and Marwyn—departed in opposite directions, ready to draw blood and buy him time.

Each step he took forward forced his feeble father back. "I've taken care of everything," Arthas said, reaching out, feeling the weakness in his hands and pulling down.

"What is this?" Father asked. "What are you doing, my son?"

"Succeeding you," Arthas whispered in his ear, "Father." The runeblade in his free hand drove forward, and the crown toppled off, bloody and broken.

Arthas shook his head. It is not my place to command. It is not my place to judge… not after all the evils I have wrought.

"Was that all? Is that the sum of their sins?" Arthas asked himself each time, between the shadows and the silence.

How could he, of all people, judge them? How could he judge any of them?

His uncle Jaime was called the kingslayer, but Arthas was kinslayer and kingslayer both. He'd murdered his father then massacred his own people—the people he'd sworn to protect. Even his own men... men who followed him into the cold north, faced down the biting chill and legions of death, undaunted... not even them he had spared.

Some kings committed genocide. Arthas had sought an end to all life.

Maegor spat on the gods.

Didn't I do the same half a hundred times over?

Beneath the marble floor Arthas knelt on were the cells for the penitent. He had asked, once long ago, if he might stay there for a while.

The High Septon had laughed first, then gaped like a fish when Arthas asked again. He'd not seen the great whale of a man since, and dared not ask again lest his parents hear of it. I should've asked again… were he a braver man, had he a will of steel.

He could give out all the gold his father gifted him as allowance, but it would buy him no salvation. Penitence was the journey, not the destination. The finest steeds and swiftest ships could not carry Arthas there—only by his own two feet.

The doors slammed open. Arthas heard the scuttling of feet, the rattling of maille.

Had the Stranger come for him at long last?

As he opened his eyes and stood, he found it was only Ser Barristan and more men sworn to his father. "Your father had bid you return to the Red Keep at once, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said.

He was not yet absolved of his sins.

"What has come to pass?" Arthas asked. I will never be absolved.

Barristan's face twisted into something grim. "Lord Arryn is dead."

—TheKingIsDead—

Riding was an unavoidable pleasure for Arthas. Whenever possible, he preferred his own two feet, but he was expected to ride when it was deemed proper for appearance's sake, or if matters required urgency.

Barristan had brought with him Arthas' courser—a colt not two years of age with a fine, dark coat. His grandfather Tywin had gifted it to him for his nameday, perhaps after Mother had complained one too many times of how often he was seen on foot. He named the colt Repentance, and he carried him safely through the streets of King's Landing.

But they did not go all that swiftly.

"Seeing you delivered to the Red Keep safely is our chief concern," Barristan said.

Dawn was well and truly left in the past and King's Landing had come to startling life from the dead of night. The smell of baking bread occasionally wafted through the air, a temporary reprieve from the particular odors of King's Landing. It was not even the smell of death that bothered him, but the odd mixture of fish and feces made his stomach roil.

Then there were the people, his people.

They crawled out of dark alleys and whorehouses and beneath leaky roofs. They came from Flea Bottom, from River Row and the Muddy Way—all in the hopes of catching a copper. Arthas did not understand why the crowd continued to come when Tyrek had long ceased throwing coins.

"Mayhaps we ought to tell them we've run out and will be back tomorrow?" Arthas asked.

Mandon stared at him disbelievingly. "We're already moving slower than a turtle. If the crowd presses in any closer, we'll come to a dead stop."

Arthas frowned.

"Make way in the name of the king!" Barristan said, and though it made the crowd in front of them step aside, it seemed to attract men like flies to honey.

Ser Barristan's reputation is formidable, Arthas thought. That a crowd of smallfolk would flock to them at the mere sound of his voice…

"Good fortune to House Baratheon!"

"Seven blessings on you, Your Grace!"

"It's the Pious Prince!"

Arthas flinched. The boy in dirt rags who shouted it meant well, he hoped, but the words always sounded mocking to his ears.

"We'll have to make a path," said Mandon, urging his coal-black stallion barded in white ahead of the party. Half a dozen guardsmen went with him, while the rest of the party—a score of westerlanders, crownlanders, and stormlanders all together—closed ranks tightly around him.

Mandon was not one well-loved by the smallfolk, but he was well-built in a classical Valesman way and dangerous with a sword—only less so than a handful of men in all the Seven Kingdoms, and two of those men his white brothers. The crowd parted like water before the vicious white cloak and they reached the Red Keep without further issue.

The white cloaks escorted him to the Great Hall, where his father held court, where the Iron Throne sat. It was a looming monstrosity of twisted metal; a hint of something dark and eerily familiar clung to its sharp edges and angry frame. Father towered over all of them from his ugly chair, and Robert was a towering man to begin with.

Only Mother, the Kingsguard, and half the small council were present before the king.

"Boy," his father said, but not unkindly, as he approached the Iron Throne. Father never called him by his name, as if he sensed the weight of Arthas' sins. "I'm told by the sentries you came across Lysa Arryn before she left."

"We exchanged words," Arthas said.

Mandon crossed his arms and snorted.

"Something to add to that, Moore?" Father asked.

"Her knights were awfully twitchy, Your Grace," Mandon said. "Nearly drew their blades on us without provocation."

"They did what!" Mother shrieked. "Robert—"

"I heard what he said, woman! Now, be quiet while I think!" Robert said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Arthas grimaced at the show of rage. Rage was dangerous even when channeled into the best of causes. It was the ruin of men, the death of great ones, and he did not want Father to die.

"Recount your conversation with Lady Lysa in as much detail as you can," Father ordered.

Arthas did as he was bid, speaking of Lysa's fears, how she leapt at shadows, and thought herself a prisoner. "She seemed scared, Your Grace. She asked me to pray for Lord Arryn," Arthas said when he finished.

"That woman knows something," Mother said. "Asking Arthas to pray for his soul? She knew Jon Arryn had just died."

"I don't like this, not one bit," Father said.

"Jon Arryn was a man of advanced age, Your Grace," Varys said, keeping his hands hidden in the fold of his sleeves. "Fevers are not uncommon."

"And this business with Lysa Arryn?" Father asked. "Why did she run when her husband's body had not yet even cooled?"

"She must've thought your court unsafe, Your Grace," said Baelish. "Lord Arryn may have been poisoned. He had his share of enemies."

Father's eyes turned as stormy as his homeland. "If Jon's been poisoned, it must be by the hands of Targaryen sympathizers! But Lysa ought not to have run if she suspected as much. We could have protected her here." He glanced at Varys. "It's your job to tell me if my enemies are nearby. Are they?"

"It's as safe as it ever was," Varys said in that soft, womanly tone of his. "Prince Arthas' account is curious though. Like you said, why would Lady Lysa flee like a thief in the night or think the prince was a threat to her and her son? To think the king's own children are Targaryen supporters is a silly notion."

Mother narrowed her eyes. "Could she have been a sympathizer?"

"Lysa Arryn?" Father said in a voice like cracking thunder. "Lysa Tully, the good-sister of Ned Stark, a Targaryen sympathizer? Anyone who thinks that has lost their mind."

The heavy double doors swung open again, and Uncle Renly walked in, lips in a tight line. "Stannis is gone too. He was seen leaving for Dragonstone after dawn."

Father seized the sides of his chairs and pushed himself up. "The sharks are closing in all around us, and my small council is now lacking two members."

"What are you going to do about this, Robert?" Mother asked.

"Lysa Arryn fled. Stannis fled! Give me an honest man, and a straight sword, and we'll sort out the treacherous from the true," Father growled out. "Mark me north! I need a new Hand."

Mother scowled, and Renly frowned, but both knew better than to sway Father from his course when he was like this.

Where the king went, Arthas followed.