Chapter 14: Diversion

The door slammed open as Joffrey rushed inside, streaming behind him the Blackfish and Lord Eddard, while Sers Barristan, Bonifer, and Robar kept standing guard outside the door.

The worry Arthas remembered in Joffrey's eyes faded as he rushed forward to embrace Arthas, being helped to sit up by Sansa.

"Brother!" Joffrey said, flinging his arms around Arthas. "I knew you wouldn't leave me! Thank goodness you're too stubborn to die."

"Have you found who did it, Joff?" Arthas asked.

The boy king's eyes hardened. "No, but we will. I promise you, we will. There will be no end to the trials until this treason is dealt with. I've had entirely far too much happening this past week to deal with."

Eddard shifted his weight between his feet, looking at Joffrey with a frown. "How are you feeling, Prince Arthas?"

"Sore," Arthas said honestly, moving his shoulders in small circles. He shook his head. "But it's a minor inconvenience."

Sansa gasped, putting a hand forcefully on his chest when he attempted to stand. "Nearly dying is not a minor inconvenience." Lady barked. "Grandmaester Pycelle said you'd need rest if… when you woke up."

"I agree," Joffrey said. "You need to build your strength back up, Brother. We might go hunting together once you're better."

"I feel fine," Arthas said.

"With respect, Your Grace," Eddard said, tilting his head, "you called your battered state after the Battle of Green Fork a 'flesh wound'."

"You're hardly the best judge when it comes to your own well-being," Sansa added. Lady barked.

"That settles it," Joffrey said. "I'm ordering you to remain in bed until the Grandmaester says otherwise."

"No, only you can protect me, Brother, so you cannot die."

"How can I protect you if I'm confined to this bed?" Arthas asked.

Joffrey gave him a sad smile. "How can you protect me if you're not at your best?"

Arthas sighed and nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."

"Lady Sansa, I trust you'll ensure my brother doesn't do anything silly during this time?" Joffrey asked.

"Of course, King Joffrey," Sansa said, curtseying.

"We ought to send out heralds to proclaim this good news to the city," Eddard suggested. "It will calm the red sparrows some, knowing Prince Arthas has woken."

"An excellent idea," Joffrey said happily, and Lord Eddard's frown deepened. "See to it, but first we have the trial to attend."

"Trial?" Arthas asked. "Whose?"

"Several are being held for questioning," Eddard said. "Sers William Wythers, Mark Mullendore, Bayard Norcross, Hamish the Harper, the Blue Bard, Lady Taena Merryweather…"

As Lord Eddard continued to name knights, ladies, and bards, it did not escape Arthas' notice that they were men and women hailing from the Reach or hedge knights and bards in the employ of Highgarden. Yet, no Tyrells were named directly. It was a delicate balance, showing the lords of the realm the matter was being investigated—for the Tyrells were surely suspected by many in the realm—but refusing to name the Reach overlords until a whole body of evidence had been gathered. To do so might lead to war.

It was rash to think the Tyrells would be behind his poisoning. Olenna Tyrell was wise enough to know how many fingers would be pointed at them should any foul thing befall Arthas, but passions ran hot in times like this. The attempt on his life had become the rallying cry of a thousand grievances, old and new.

"Are we actually any closer to figuring this out? Truthfully?" Arthas asked.

"It is slow work," Eddard said, glancing at Joffrey, "and an accusation like this cannot be made lightly. Have patience, Prince Arthas."

The dead ought not be kept waiting, Arthas thought grimly. "What of the siege of Storm's End? The Iron Islands?"

"Worry not," The boy king said. "Both are underway. Our traitor uncle's left men to hold it but not enough. I swear to you brother, that I'll see Storm's End delivered to your hands soon! As for the Iron Islands, Lords Tarly and Crakehall have already begun the attack while our grandfather is still here." Joffrey smiled. "Everything is taken care of, Arthas. I have kept the peace."

Arthas nodded. "You've done well."

Joffrey's smile grew wider as he hugged Arthas once more..

Eddard cleared his throat. "The trials will begin soon. We ought to leave your brother to his rest."

"Take good care of yourself," Joffrey said, before leading the others out of the room.

After a moment's pause, Arthas turned to Sansa. "Your father was acting rather oddly."

Sansa looked at her feet, and her grip on his hand was tightened. "Was he?" Lady hid under her skirts.

"Sansa?" Arthas asked. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"It's… I shouldn't," she said, looking away, out through the open window. "Father told me not to say."

Arthas squeezed her hand gently. "What is it?"

"It'll upset you." There was worry lurking behind her eyes. "It can wait until you're better."

"I'll be fine," Arthas said, then after six long seconds added, "You can trust me, Sansa. Always."

"Always," she repeated softly. "I suppose Father didn't mean to include you." Sansa took a deep breath as a light breeze ticked her hair. "Father's taking Arya back north once this ugly affair is done with… but when the path to Winterfell is clear, I'll be expected home too."

"I have to leave for Dalaran soon," Jaina said sadly.

Should the Wall fall, the whole north would become a battlefield. His throat felt dry and tight. "When?" he managed to ask.

"I'll have a few more weeks," Sansa said. "We have some time together still."

"Did… did Lord Eddard say why?" Arthas asked, brows furrowing.

"He said to see Bran," Sansa said, her eyes began to water. "It's… someone tried to have Bran killed, while he was sleeping."

His blood turned freezing. "What? When did this happen?"

"A week after we left Winterfell," she said.

That explains the guards when we returned from the Wall, Arthas thought. "But he's a child! Who would have ordered such a thing? Why hasn't Eddard said anything to me? I can have this brought to Joffrey—"

"No, Arthas," Sansa begged, pushing him back down as he attempted to get up. "I wasn't even supposed to tell you. No one else can know. Father insisted."

"But that means—" His words failed him. To utter them would be treason.

If Eddard did not want the king to know, that could only mean he suspected someone at court had ordered it. Someone powerful, and close to the new regime. It had to be someone who'd been to Winterfell recently too, and there were only so many people who'd gone.

That meant a Lannister or a Baratheon.

"Who does he suspect?" Arthas asked.

Sansa shook her head, wiping the half-formed tears from her eyes. "He would not say." But she could guess, and she dared not say for good reason.

"Does he… does he fear for your safety?" Arthas asked grimly. "I've hundreds of stormlanders in the city, some of whom I trust. We can double—no, triple your guard."

"That would only draw attention," Sansa said. Lady let out a sad whimper. "Please, I beg of you. Do nothing. Once I'm in Winterfell, I will be safe."

"What about Robb?" Arthas asked. "He'll be left alone here."

"He knows too," Sansa said, "but if he left just as soon as he accepted his post, it would be noticeable. He will stay for our sakes."

"I'll keep him safe," Arthas vowed. He's lost a hand for me already; he will not lose his life too.

Arthas would not allow it.

—TheKingIsDead—

The days passed slowly in a dull procession of tonics, medicines, and porridge—all tasted beforehand by two men before a drop touched Arthas' lips. The trial against the Tyrells proved an even duller affair, and it seemed they were no closer to finding out the truth now than they were when this whole mess began.

At nights he was plagued by visions to the far north, places beyond the Wall. Each time he closed his eyes he saw the wildlings...

They're being exterminated, Arthas thought. Wherever they go, they are hunted by the White Walkers or the black brothers. They are a whole people on the march, between one oblivion and the next.

He'd wondered why the White Walkers hadn't struck yet after all this time. They'd been gathering their strength, conscripting for their legion dead and deadly led. When they made their move at last, when they came for the Wall, it would be with an overwhelming flood of wights.

Time was running out.

Westeros needed to be ready, and half the war was having the right weapons. Against the Scourge, Arthas had had the Light and the Order of the Silver Hand. Here, the Light was not so strong, and training a whole order of knights in its arts was out of the question—even if such a thing were possible, it would take years they did not have. Yet, castle-forged steel would not do either, as Robert's warhammer proved. It had been finely crafted and without fault, but still shattered against the ice after six exchanges.

But Longclaw hadn't shattered, shattering instead its foe.

"Valyrian steel has not been forged since the days of the old Valyrian Freehold," Myrcella read aloud from a thick tome splayed out across her lap. "Some speculate these were spellforged with dragons."

"A silly thing, magic," Grandmaester Pycelle said. "More like it was some form of advanced crafting technique. Given the volcanic frequency of the peninsula in question, the Citadel suspects the type of ores used there were of a higher purity."

Let us hope it isn't, Arthas said. Magic might be their only saving grace in this war, for there wasn't enough Valyrian steel in all of Westeros to equip more than a garrison, let alone the army they needed.

Tommen was seated by the window, more staring at the birds outside and the knights down in the courtyard than reading. Still, his little brother refused to leave Arthas.

Arthas' eyes dissected each word of Myths of the First Men, reading each sentence thrice to make sure he had not missed anything. "Daggers and arrowheads made of frozen fire?" He frowned. "Do any of you know what that means?"

"More nonsense," Pycelle said. "Tales told to little children. Fire cannot be frozen—the elements are anathema to each other."

Not entirely, Arthas thought. The greatest frost wyrms raised had a breath that could instantly freeze near anything—even fire.

"Maybe it's metaphorical?" Myrcella said.

"What's that mean?" Tommen asked.

"It's a comparison of one object's traits to another," Myrcella said. "Like when Margaery calls you cute as a kitten before she pinches your cheeks."

Tommen blushed, and hid his face behind an open book.

"A pity dragons only breathe fire," Arthas said. "Perhaps it refers to an… ice dragon? If such a thing ever existed."

"Well… they do, or so the northern legends say," Myrcella said.

Arthas raised a brow at her. "How do you know?"

It was her turn to blush and hide her face. "Robb Stark's been telling me about them."

"The Targaryens had dragons," Tommen said.

"That they did, Prince Tommen," Pycelle said. "Their skulls used to decorate the Great Hall, but your father had them taken down and replaced with hunting tapestries."

Tommen frowned. "Where are they now? And what of their other bones?"

"Oh, stashed away in some cellar," the Grandmaester said dismissively, before pointing out the window without even looking. "As for the other bones, still rotting in the Dragonpit, I suppose."

Three pairs of eyes latched on to the domed black ruin atop Rhaenys' Hill, where fluttering and resting crows were making for a dark halo. Father had never liked the building, or the dragons in general, Arthas recalled. Occasionally in his darker moods he'd bellow a demand to Jon Arryn to see it torn down, before changing his mind in more light-hearted ones, deeming the expense to do so bothersome. The Dragonpit had thus been chipped away slowly during his reign, but it yet remained a relic from when dragons still ruled and dragons were still ridden.

"Well, that's enough of this," Pycelle said, shutting the book. "Come, Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella. Your brother needs his rest."

Arthas scowled and shot his sister a pleading look.

"Perhaps just a few more minutes, Grandmaester?" Myrcella asked. "Not reading, but maybe you could teach us something new?"

Pycelle considered it, before sitting back down with a prolonged sigh. "I suppose it couldn't hurt."

The door swung open. "How about Stannis Baratheon's curious allegations?" asked Oberyn Martell, being shown into the room by Sers Barristan and Bonifer.

"He has been disarmed," Barristan said, though his hand still rested on his pommel and he placed himself between the children and the Red Viper. Bonifer took up a spot behind the Prince of Dorne, while Robar continued to stand outside.

"Your guards were quite—" Oberyn licked his lips and grinned, "—thorough in their search. I can appreciate competence."

"I suppose I ought to congratulate you for defeating a member of the Kingsguard," Arthas said with a frown. "How did you quite do it?"

"He was bigger, but I was quicker." Oberyn took a deep breath. "Justice finally done. Even the people of this stinking shithole of a city cry out for it."

Trial by combat, Arthas thought. It was a barbaric way of settling things, for the better warrior was not always the better man. In Lordaeron, such things would have been decided by a council of judges, such as when Tirion Fordring had been tried for fighting Alliance soldiers in defense of an orc.

"To catch the men who poisoned Prince Arthas," Barristan corrected, glaring at him. "Might I remind that you were under suspicion not so long ago?"

Oberyn waved him off. "Justice is justice. Besides, I was acquitted before the eyes of god and men."

"It might have been more convincing if you hadn't used poison," said Bonifer. "Especially since you insisted on the trial."

"He insinuated that Dorne was behind the attack on yourself," the Red Viper hissed. "My honor could not stand for it—not from that thing. I had to make certain I won with the stakes so high."

It was a dangerous gamble, one that had paid off, but a gamble nonetheless. Had Oberyn Martell died, war with Dorne would have been as certain as sunset, for the political elite of the Seven Kingdoms would have seen his defeat as proof of culpability.

"There was no honor in it," Barristan said.

Oberyn pierced him with a look. "There was no honor in the rape of Elia Martell, or the murder of her children. And yet you kept your sword sheathed for more than fifteen years, ser."

"Why are you here?" Arthas asked.

"To wish you a speedy recovery," Oberyn said. "And perhaps to teach you a lesson, if the Grandmaester will indulge me. Stannis Baratheon has made some bold claims of your parentage."

"This is a most inappropriate line of conversation," Pycelle said, banging his hand against a shut book. "Disgraceful of you, Prince Oberyn. His Grace is still in recovery and does not need to hear of this vile filth—"

"Worse things about us will be said before this is over," Arthas said. "Speak your piece. I'm curious to hear it."

Oberyn smiled and turned to Pycelle. "I've read your most verbose defense of the Baratheon-Lannister children."

"It was the work of many hours," Pycelle said, huffing, "to refute the disgusting lies Stannis peddled."

"It makes for rather dull reading though," Oberyn said. "Maesters would have loved its… exhaustiveness, but their lords less so."

"But you read through the whole thing?" Arthas asked, picking up on the implication.

Oberyn's eyes lit up. "One does not forge six links in the Citadel without parsing through long texts." He turned to Pycelle. "You began your defense by saying Queen Cersei had a child beforehand, dark-haired as a Baratheon ought to be, that died hours after birth. That does not refute much of anything, surely? I do not mean to imply anything untoward, but that just means at least one of her children was Robert's, not all of them."

"Children can take after either parent," Pycelle said heatedly. "If you need further proof, take a good, long look at Lord Eddard and his three children at court. Two take after his wife, and one after himself."

"Ah, but there have never been any Baratheon children who were golden-haired before Robert's four," Oberyn said.

"And children born from House Lannister have always been golden-haired," Pycelle said immediately. "Matches between Baratheons and Lannisters are a rarity, and do not provide an exhaustive body of evidence. I also point to Rhaenys Targaryen, Aemon Targaryen's daughter by Jocelyn Baratheon. She had Targaryen features, which proves Baratheon's are not always dominant in looks."

"What do rights matter?" Arthas asked.

Both men paused, mouths open as they stared at him.

"Your Grace?" Barristan asked.

"I see the best of myself in you," Uncle Jaime's words echoed in the privacy of his own thoughts.

"Uncle Stannis claims we are not Baratheons," Arthas said. "He claims to be the rightful king. I ask you, what has he done for his people? War comes for us from beyond the Wall, from the Ironborn… what has Stannis done but hide in Dragonstone and steal into Storm's End?"

Oberyn raised a brow at him. "Are you saying you believe Stannis' claims?"

"No, I'm saying they don't matter. The truest victory is in stirring the hearts of your people," Arthas said, remembering his father's words. "Stannis has done nothing, so what are his rights truly worth?"

"Popularity? This is the same argument Renly used," Oberyn said. "You fought a war for your brother's right."

"Renly's popularity was built on shifting sands and no great works," Arthas said. "And he did worse than nothing, he inflicted war on the realm for his own gain. His claim to power was might, where Stannis' claim is right. I say it is neither—the king ought to be a man who cares for the realm, first and foremost. By keeping the peace, my brother has done more for the realm in this last week than either of them have all their lives."

Myrcella tilted her head. "But surely Arthas would be Father's son? His eyes demonstrate that well enough. And if Arthas is Father's son, then obviously Joffrey is as well. They're twins after all."

Arthas blinked. "What?"

"Haven't you noticed?" she asked. "Your eyes always tended to be a blueish-green depending on the lighting, but they're definitely more blue than green now."

Arthas turned towards the mirror.

—TheKingIsDead—

"You don't like me very much, do you?"

Arthas glanced at the master of whisperers dressed in soft silks and slippers, stomach pressing against the marble gallery's railings. He turned his attentions back to the floor beneath where Lord Baelish was interrogating a handful of Tyrell flunkies. "No, I do not."

Varys tilted his head. "May I ask why?"

"If it were up to me, I'd have run you out of this city when we took it back," Arthas said. "Your failure to inform my brother of Renly's treason in a timely manner is inexcusable, and it cost the realm thousands of lives."

"Ah," Varys said, looking utterly unsurprised. "Even I am not infallible, Your Grace, though I hear of many things. I serve your brother as I served your father, to the best of my abilities."

"You served the Mad King as well," Arthas said, staring him down. "Who is it you truly serve?"

"Why, the realm, my good prince, how ever could you doubt that?" Varys asked. "I swear it by my lost manhood. I serve the realm. The realm was not helped by this war."

"You let the realm go to war," Arthas said.

"A short war," Varys answered. "Is it not better to cut out the rot before it takes with it the whole leg?"

Arthas leaned forward. "I would prefer not to have rot at all."

"So would I, Your Grace," Varys said, "but alas, we are all subject to the whims of the gods."

"I find your excuses lacking," Arthas said.

Varys dipped his bald head towards Margaery, seated besides Joffrey below. "Fortunately, King Joffrey is far more forgiving than yourself. I was one of many who advised him to wed Queen Margaery, you know."

"You did, did you?' Arthas asked. "And why did you do that?"

Varys smiled. "Like I said, I serve the realm. His marriage would bring House Tyrell back into the fold, much as it displeased those who fought to seat him on the Iron Throne. It put an end to needless bloodshed that might have taken years to resolve itself."

"It resolved nothing," Arthas said. "The Lords Paramount were close to mutiny when we first heard of it outside the gates of this city—"

"Close is the key word," Varys said. "But who would they have turned to as their king? You? You were always a quiet child, but even I knew you would never have taken the Iron Throne for yourself, not if it meant turning on your brother." He dabbed his face with a sweet-smelling kerchief. "I trusted your nature to keep the other lords from acting rashly, and I was right. I've no regrets over that."

"I suppose you'd feel that way. You're still alive, after all."

"So much distrust, Your Grace," Varys said. "Perhaps I shall tell you another secret then, for the realm's sake. Lord Baelish is not the man you think he is."

"He fought with us against Renly."

"Did he really?" Varys asked.

"Lord Stark trusts him," Arthas said.

"He does," the Spider said, "but it may prove to be his undoing. Do you know what it is Lord Baelish seeks to accomplish?"

"I suppose you're going to tell me?" Arthas said. Or lie about it at the very least.

Varys sighed. "I thought not. Who can tell with that man, really? He acts in the most peculiar ways, switching sides as easily as one flips a coin."

"I grow tired of your meandering. Get to the point, or get out of my sight," Arthas said.

"Very well," Varys said, looking him dead in the eye. "Lords Baelish and Stark are not just concerned over who poisoned you, but also over the attempted assassination of Bran Stark."

Arthas' grip around the marble railing tightened. "How do you know of that?"

Varys smiled. "It's my job to know of these things. I am the master of whisperers after all."

"Do you know who did it?" Arthas asked.

"No," Varys said, "but I believe they mean to accuse the king."

Arthas went numb. "The king? But… that's ridiculous. That would be…"

"It would be a treasonous accusation," Varys said. "Yet, Lord Stark's honor would compel him to see it through, once it's been voiced."

He could be killed for that, Arthas thought. At a time when the north needed him most to lead the defense against the dead too. It could not be allowed to happen. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"I serve the realm and I serve King Joffrey," Varys said. "I wish to see him seated on the Iron Throne for a long while, and killing his Warden of the North would be a poor way of ensuring the crown stays on his head."

—TheKingIsDead—

Word of his recovery spread throughout the city like wildfire. It did not quite calm the red sparrows, so much as turn their anger into joy. His first foray into the city was to the Great Sept of Baelor, and it was hoped his presence would diffuse the tensions there. The whole way there, people in dirty white cloaks raised bloodied copper stars to salute him. How many of them were red sparrows, and how many were men caught up in the heat of the moment?

"At least they're not throwing rocks at the gold cloaks anymore," Sansa said quietly as they rode side by side. "Though I'd still not bring out Lady with us into such crowds."

"They're looking at me like I'm some sort of prophet," Arthas muttered. His silver cloak fluttered. "I'm just a man."

"Their pious prince was near death, but on the seventh day he rose again," Sansa said. "Sounds like something out of the Seven-Pointed Star."

Tansy neighed agreeably.

Turncoat, Arthas thought fondly, patting the horse.

They dismounted before the double doors of the sept, waving a few more times to the cheering crowd, before entering the building. Margaery, Arthas noted, took care to remove her crown, letting her softly curling brown hair flow behind her back freely. It was the two of them that led the procession forward to meet the new High Septon—whom some at court were calling the High Sparrow for the simple garbs they wore.

Everywhere in the Great Sept, sparrows lurked in their grey robes, with their rods and coppers, while septons and septas wore notably humbler garbs than they had even a week prior.

They entered the sept proper and found it empty, save for a grey-haired man on his knees, scrubbing the floor. Arthas recognized his windburnt face as the septon in his dreams.

"Good afternoon," Margaery said with a smile. "Would you happen to know where we'd find the High Septon?"

Does she not know, or is she pretending? Arthas wondered.

"Ah, Your Grace," the crownless old man said, getting up to his feet. "You're not wearing your crown."

Margaery glanced meaningfully at the statues surrounding them. "It seems a bit silly, wearing a crown when you're supposed to be humbling yourself before the gods."

Pretending it is, Arthas thought.

"If only all lords and ladies were as wise as you," the High Sparrow said, then looked at Arthas, eyes alight. "I have prayed to the Seven day and night for you to arise, Prince Arthas! It lightens my heart to see you well."

"I know," Arthas said. "I saw you while I was sleeping—how you roused the crowd in my name, justice for me you called it. I remember you accused the former High Septon of many things."

"Oh?" the High Sparrow asked. "Like what?"

Arthas told him, and as he spoke Sansa and Margaery looked on with curiosity.

The High Sparrow beamed. "You speak the truth. You are truly Blessed then, to receive visions from the gods. No one can deny this."

"Where is your predecessor?" Arthas asked. If this were any other time, he could not imagine Grandfather Tywin allowing some random septon taking the crystal crown of the Faith by force, but the trials had kept the royal court far too busy to intervene in a timely manner, and by the time they could, this High Sparrow was already entrenched in the eyes of the people. Ousting them would require bared swords, and it would only incite the city to riot.

"Atoning for his sins," the High Sparrow said, tapping his foot against the marble flooring. "Beneath us are—"

"Cells for the penitent," Arthas finished. There was a certain irony to the situation, that the fat whale of a man who'd long ago denied Arthas penance through the cells now resided in them. "I know of them. He's alive then?"

"He is slightly bruised, and learning what it means to fast again, but to kill him would be wasteful and sinful," the High Sparrow said. "He might one day confess a name to us."

The fat High Septon wasn't likely to have been paid to poison him, but he had a lot to answer for certainly. The Faith had never had a more corrupt man leading them in all its long history. "That was wisely done," Arthas said. "The… gods showed me other things too, while I dreamt, if you'd care to hear them?"

"Of course!" the High Septon said, bobbing his head. "I would be honored to hear whatever the gods wish to tell me through their vessel."

"It was a warning of dangers beyond the Wall."

"The White Walkers," the High Septon said, nodding gravely, "whom the wildlings call the cold gods. We are surrounded on three sides by heathens—to the west the Drowned God, and to the east the red god, but the Faith of the Seven will prevail in the end."

Will it? Arthas wished he had the old man's faith. "But we will need to rally true and faithful men to our cause."

"To your banner," the High Septon said. "Only the Faith's champion can lead us against these enemies."

"King Joffrey greatly values his brother's counsel. Prince Arthas will be his chief commander when they ride north together," Margaery said.

"Ah, and where is His Grace at this time?" the High Septon asked.

"Continuing to oversee the trials," Arthas said. "He's eager to bring the perpetrators to justice."

"It's why we're here, Your Holiness," Margaery added. "King Joffrey invites you and some of the Most Devout to witness the ongoing trials, that it might assuage what concerns you might have of it's conduct." If the leaders of the sparrows were too busy listening to testimonies, they'd have no time to start another riot at least.

The High Septon tilted his head and smiled. "That is most kind of His Grace. I accept wholeheartedly."

—TheKingIsDead—

Ascending the Tower of the Hand in the dead of night was slow work.

"Shouldn't you be resting your leg?" Arthas asked as his uncle took in a long breath to hide his wince. Such injuries took time to recover from, and it didn't help that his uncle refused to step back from any of his duties as a Kingsguard.

"You need an escort to see your grandfather," Jaime said.

"It didn't have to be you."

Jaime smirked. "Well, the Mountain's corpse is in no state to guard anyone, not even himself."

Arthas glanced at his bandaged leg, and raised a brow. "Some would say the same to you."

"Not to my face," Jaime said. "I could still best your stormland pups in the yard, and most of these new Kingsguard too, save maybe the Blackfish."

"Speaking of, who's going to take up the white cloak?" Arthas asked. Joffrey had refused to name a new Kingsguard until this whole mess was over with, much to their grandfather's frustrations.

Jaime's lips tightened into a thin line. "It hasn't been decided yet. I've heard Hobber Redwyne and Ser Tallad the Tall suggested by Margaery Tyrell."

It was always Margaery Tyrell with Uncle Jaime, never the queen. "The Redwynes are kin to House Tyrell."

"Close kin," Jaime said, nodding. "Lady Olenna was born a Redwyne, and her daughter Mina is the wife of Lord Paxter."

"I've faced Hobber before, he didn't impress me." Arthas said. "Who is Ser Tallad? The name isn't familiar to me."

"He's a hedge knight," Jaime said.

"Is he good?"

Jaime paused. "He shows promise, but his loyalty is doubtful."

"I suppose Grandfather has his own ideas for the post," Arthas said.

"The Strongboar is his pick," Jaime said with a hint of approval. "One of the strongest men alive, and far more restrained than either of the Cleganes. I'd rather have him by my side than either of them."

A westerlander, Arthas knew, and the second son of Lord Crakehall. A pair of Lannister men showed them into the private audience chamber of the Hand, before shutting the door behind them. When Lord Jon had held the post, the room had been decorated with warm Myrish rugs, tapestries showing the Arryn ancestry, and homely candles for lighting, but Grandfather had stripped all that away. Now the room was decorated excessively in gold, lions, and golden lions.

Great-uncle Kevan stood to his grandfather's right, ever dutiful. No doubt he'd be the acting Hand when Lord Tywin left to campaign in the Iron Islands. "Prince Arthas," he said, "it's good to see you walking again."

"Thank you, Ser Kevan," Arthas said, then was struck by guilt. "Your son, Lancel... he served King Robert bravely beyond the Wall." He'd not had the time to offer him his condolences over the death of his eldest son, not with the war and then his poisoning.

"He was so young still," Kevan said.

Tywin nodded. "His death was a waste." He nudged his head towards the goblets on the table. "Wine?"

A test, Arthas thought. It was always a test with his grandfather, never courtesy. "I'll pass, Grandfather. It's quite late, and I'd like to keep a clear head."

Tywin nodded approvingly, but poured him and Jaime a goblet each anyway. Then, he glanced at Arthas and waited.

With Lannister to men guard the doors, and only Lannister men here at so late an hour… it could only mean— "So what treachery have you uncovered?"

"Not uncovered, just made privy to," Tywin said. He tossed a letter onto the desk.

Arthas picked it up and skimmed through it and felt his skin go cold.

"Renly Baratheon was being tipped off by an ally of ours," Tywin said, and he slid another letter towards Arthas. The handwriting was the same, and at the bottom of the second letter was Lord Baelish's mockingbird seal. "Renly attempted to retreat with his army three days after he pursued you across the Ruby Ford."

They'd sent a rider to the Vale of Arryn to inform Lord Baelish of the trap as soon as they heard of it… likely he was already at the Bloody Gate by then. Three days… enough time for a rider to head for the Bloody Gate and return to the kingsroad.

"Now we know how the Tyrells reacted so quickly to Renly's defeat," Kevan said. "They were warned."

He bent the knee first, and too easily, Arthas thought. Baelish had offered token resistance against the Tyrells at first, and now they knew why he'd been targeted first by the Tyrells. He'd named his price and been given it, and in doing so split off the Vale from their coalition early, before a unified front could be presented against the Tyrell marriage. Yet…

"What does it matter now?" Arthas asked, looking up. "We must be wary of him moving forward, but why all this secrecy? It seems to be old news."

"It establishes motive," Tywin said, leaning into his chair. "He's in bed with the Tyrells, and between them, they handled all the affairs of your brother's wedding. If a servant was paid off to poison you, they could have easily organized it."

"The Tyrells would have known that an attempt on my life would see them blamed," Arthas said.

Kevan crossed his arms. "We suspect Baelish was merely looking out for his Tyrell masters, but did not think through the aftermath of it. It's no secret that you have no love for the Reach, and if you were to succeed your brother, well…"

"Does Lord Stark know about this?" Arthas asked. It was weak evidence, and to try a Lord Paramount in fact over something so flimsy… they would need to be united for there to be any chance of avoiding war.

Tywin's lips set into a thin line. "He does, but he insists this is not enough evidence. He has Stark men guarding Lord Baelish as we speak."