"There is neither repentance nor regret for his actions in him. Have we made a mistake in our choice?"
"Prince Arthas will return to the Holy; such is his destiny."
"But how? Without atonement, attaining the Holy is impossible. We cannot afford to repeat the previous mistake again."
"The Darkness has left a mark on the prince's soul, even if he does not notice it himself. It is what influences him, opening new horizons to his sight but clouding his feelings. I suppose we will have to remind the prince of the deeds committed. There is no other way."
"Agreed."
***
The return of the ruling family to King's Landing was unusually mundane, except that a portion of the townspeople came out to look at the Northerners arriving in the capital—the last time the Stark banners were seen in the city was during the Baratheon Rebellion. And even if the most violence against the townspeople was committed by Lannister soldiers, it could not be said that the Northerners had stood aside that day. After all, the victors are allowed everything, for there was no one to hold them accountable for what they did to the losers.
King Robert, seated on a massive black horse, rode at the head of the procession; on his right hand rode the crown prince, on his left, his younger brother. The Baratheons served as a visual reminder to the townspeople of who held power in the country and that their positions were unshakable. Above their heads fluttered banners with the crowned stag, against which both the queen's red-and-gold banners with the lion and the Stark banners, featuring a direwolf racing across a white field, were lost. Nevertheless, it was a formidable alliance, for those who knew even a little of the history of the Seven Kingdoms remembered what Cregan Stark had done during the Hour of the Wolf, when he briefly became the Hand of the King. Who knows what Eddard Stark, who stood at the origins of the Baratheon Rebellion, would bring with him?
Finally reaching the Red Keep, the travelers hurried to wash off the road dust and tidy their appearance, while their numerous servants attended to their direct duties. Thus, Vayon Poole, Lord Stark's steward, began giving orders to his subordinates so that the Hand of the King and his children could settle into the castle in the best possible way. Eddard Stark himself immediately headed to the solarium, where he sat at a wide table and sank into deep thought. Here, in the capital, he felt out of his element, but such was his duty, both to the king and friend, and to the late Jon Arryn. If the Lord of the Vale had indeed been killed by the Lannisters, as Lysa Arryn claimed, then it was necessary to find out what had caused it and what threat it posed to Robert. There were too many questions in the Hand's head, and practically no answers. And as it happened, there was a man in the castle who possessed them. At the very least, Stark would be greatly surprised if Lord Varys had not yet sniffed out all the details of Arryn's death.
A knock at the door distracted Ned, and he reluctantly said:
"Yes, come in."
"My lord," the faithful Poole appeared at the threshold of the solarium, "a servant has arrived with a message. The members of the Small Council desire a meeting with you to discuss state affairs."
Eddard's first thought was to refuse, to postpone the meeting with the council until tomorrow, but such an act could be interpreted in any way, even as neglect of his direct duties. Denunciations would inevitably begin, and even if Robert let the words of informants pass by his ears, the queen would certainly remember them. As well as the names of those who were whispering to the king.
"Tell them I'm coming now, Vayon," Eddard ordered. "See to dinner; the girls and Bran should eat without me."
Hastily changing and utilizing the help of the servants who ran in crowds through the corridors of the Red Keep, Ned arrived at the meeting hall somewhat late, but felt no remorse about it. The Small Council, which had waited for the new Hand for nearly an hour, wanted a meeting immediately, not deigning to wait even until tomorrow morning; if that was the case, let them endure it—Stark had no intention of apologizing for the delay.
"Let's begin, gentlemen," Eddard announced from the threshold, entering the hall and scanning the assembled men with his gaze.
Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, had hardly changed since the last time Stark saw him, many years ago. Short, slight, with a pointed beard and laughing grey-green eyes. The man was young, but grey already touched his dark hair. Littlefinger, as Edmure Tully had once dubbed him, was dressed in black and silver clothes, and Ned knew that beneath them, Baelish hid a scar on his stomach. It was the result of an old duel.
Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers. The Spider. A spy. Most courtiers, like the other lords of Westeros, could not stand him, but were forced to be civil with him, unless, of course, they wanted to acquire a heap of problems in the future. The eunuch was a master at ferretting out others' secrets and most hidden mysteries; he hoarded them to use at the right moment. How many people had lost their lives because of him during the reign of the Beggar King? It was unlikely a person could be found who could answer that question.
Grand Maester Pycelle, a bald, fat old man, yet not devoid of dignity—his high forehead, furrowed with wrinkles, and long, lush beard gave the old man an important look, and a dozen chains, consisting of all known metals and decorated with precious stones, told the knowledgeable of the volume of knowledge stored in the maester's head. His sleepy, moist eyes with heavy lids seemed ready to close at any moment, never to open again.
Also present in the hall were Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Royal Guard, and Renly Baratheon, the Master of Laws, who had already managed to change and, unlike Stark, looked fresh and rested, even though they had entered the city together. But the member of the Small Council whom Eddard, to his surprise, did not see was Lord Stannis, the Master of Ships, and the king himself. Their absence planted unpleasant suspicions in Stark.
"We are glad to see you in the capital, Lord Stark," Baelish greeted the Hand with a friendly smile. "On behalf of those present, I offer sincere apologies for demanding a meeting with you so soon, but, alas, state affairs do not tolerate delay."
"Thank you for the welcome," Eddard replied and, since there was no way out now, continued, "in turn, I ask you to excuse my lateness. I needed to tidy myself after the road."
"There is no need for apologies," Lord Varys's voice was soft, even obsequious, but Ned did not let himself be deceived. To too many, such a mistake had cost their lives. "Nevertheless, I suggest we begin, as in the absence of the king and his Hand, too many questions have accumulated that need to be resolved."
"And do we not need to wait for King Robert himself?" Stark frowned, feeling in advance that he wouldn't like the answer.
"My crowned brother does not much like dealing with state affairs," Renly did not disappoint him. "He prefers to give instructions and leaves their execution entirely and completely to us."
"Not today, brother," Baratheon's sonorous voice made everyone present jump up, except for Pycelle, who only slightly rose and immediately sat back down.
Robert entered the hall with a rapid stride, and Prince Joffrey followed on his heels. When the king sat in his place at the head of the table, the crown prince stood behind his right shoulder. Those present exchanged glances—Robert's heir had come to a Small Council meeting for the first time, but it immediately became clear to everyone that they would have to get used to his constant presence—the crown prince clearly intended to become a permanent observer of the council's meetings.
***
Freezing behind his father's back and surveying the gathered men, Arthas mentally returned to an hour ago, when he had to persuade Robert to go to the meeting hall. Having returned to the palace, the king wanted only wine and a pretty servant girl, but certainly not to go discuss state affairs, which he hated with all his soul. But the prince, having shown up in the royal chambers, spoiled everything, kicking out the cupbearer with a jug of Arbor Gold wine, and then slamming the doors in the face of the servant girl who was coming to pleasure the king.
"The Small Council is gathering in the meeting hall, Father," Arthas announced, cutting off Robert's path to the table where a jug of Dornish wine stood with a decisive maneuver.
"So what?" the king inquired dissatisfiedly, measuring his son with a heavy gaze, which the latter completely ignored. The crown prince was growing very fast, and it was crystal clear to everyone that if he would be inferior to the king in height and shoulder width, it wouldn't be by much.
"I want to remind you, Father, that we have a war on the horizon," Arthas noted. "Too many questions need to be resolved as quickly as possible."
"Ned and my brothers can handle everything themselves," Robert brushed it off, while a servant helped him remove his dusty doublet.
"Oh?" the prince smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "And are you aware that Uncle Stannis still hasn't left Dragonstone, ignoring your order? And we, again I want to remind you, need his ships for the rapid transport of troops to the North."
Robert, who was removing his stockings at the time, froze, processing what he had heard, and very soon Arthas noticed the first sparks of anger flashing in the king's eyes. Burdened by his crown and duties, Baratheon was nevertheless accustomed to his orders being immediately executed, and therefore his brother's brazen behavior began to infuriate him.
"Has he lost his mind?" Robert finally said. "I told Stannis to be here by my arrival!"
"Nevertheless, uncle did not come to the capital," Arthas shrugged.
"Maybe the raven didn't make it?" the king suggested after thinking.
"Then ask the Grand Maester about it yourself," the prince suggested.
Without saying another word, the king, with the help of a servant, quickly changed and headed with massive strides to the meeting hall, where Eddard Stark had just arrived. Surprising everyone with his sudden appearance, Robert sat at the head of the table and measured everyone with a heavy gaze. Arthas froze beside him.
"Let's begin," the king announced and immediately turned to Pycelle, from whose face all signs of sleepiness had vanished. "Did you send the letter to Dragonstone?"
"Yes, Your Grace," the Grand Maester replied. "Immediately upon receiving your instruction."
"Then where is my brother?" Robert inquired, his gaze becoming threatening. "Stannis should have arrived in the capital long ago."
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I cannot know," Pycelle cast a quick glance at the others, as if asking them for protection from the royal wrath. "I sent my best raven; the Master of Ships should have arrived in King's Landing exactly by your arrival."
"Perhaps something delayed him, brother?" Renly suggested, drawing the king's attention to himself.
"It's better if that's the case," the first growling notes were heard in the king's voice. "Send another raven, Pycelle. Unless Stannis is on his deathbed, he must arrive in the capital immediately."
"May I ask, Your Grace, why the great haste?" Baelish inquired, leaning forward slightly.
"We have a war on the horizon," Robert answered shortly.
"Oh?" Littlefinger's eyebrows shot up. "And with whom, if I may be so curious?"
"With the Free Folk, Lord Baelish," Arthas answered instead of his father. "They are gathering beyond The Wall in great numbers and are preparing for an invasion of the kingdoms. The strength of the Night's Watch is insufficient to repel such a massive attack."
"Are the Northerners not capable of handling this problem independently?" the Grand Maester inquired, but immediately regretted it.
"Are you still here, Pycelle?" the king inquired sternly. "I believe I gave you an assignment?"
"Yes, but..."
"Do it!"
The king's voice was like a whip-crack to the Grand Maester; he flinched, then slowly stood up and headed for the exit, turning back only at the doors and casting what seemed to be a sad look at the king, but Arthas, watching Pycelle closely, saw something else in the old man's eyes—anger mixed with contempt, a hidden resentment that would one day make itself known. With incredible clarity, the prince suddenly realized that Pycelle could not be trusted under any circumstances.
Until the Grand Maester's departure, a deathly silence stood in the hall, which no one dared to break, but finally the doors closed behind the old man, and Lord Varys was the first to decide to speak:
"I would still like to hear the answer to the question the Grand Maester asked, Lord Stark," the eunuch fixed his gaze on the King's Hand.
"Of course, we are capable of dealing with the Free Folk, Lord Varys," Stark replied. "I am sure that my son is already gathering troops and, most likely, they are already moving toward Castle Black and preparing for a raid beyond The Wall."
"Why?" Renly wondered. "Wouldn't it be better to wait for the Free Folk at The Wall itself?"
"It is not our custom to wait for the Free Folk as guests," Stark replied, the ring of cold steel heard in his usually calm voice, his eyes becoming truly icy. Before the Small Council suddenly stood a warrior accustomed to leading men into battle. "When our lands are threatened—it doesn't matter if it's Southerners or Free Folk—we prefer to strike first. To discourage them."
Lord Stark's words made Arthas tense; an immediate invasion of the Northerners beyond The Wall was by no means part of his plans. He had already begun to come up with arguments for objections, but King Robert beat him to it:
"Do you want to deprive me of all the fun, Ned?!" the elder Baratheon exclaimed. "I forbid it! Immediately send a letter to your son, tell him to wait for the arrival of the main forces! I want to personally go beyond The Wall and smash a couple of giant heads!"
"They do not exist," Stark countered, "the last giant probably died hundreds of years ago."
"Then someone else's head, I don't care!" Baratheon exclaimed.
"Apparently, Father," Arthas spoke up, "there will be enough heads for everyone there. And this time no one will keep me in the castle; I'm going with you. Besides, Lord Stark," the Hand turned his gaze to the prince, "I promised Robb that we would go beat the Free Folk together."
"Hear that, Ned?" the king laughed, stood up, and slapped his son on the shoulder. "Our sons have already decided everything without us! That's it, no more objections! Let your son wait for the arrival of our forces. I have spoken!"
"As you command," Eddard nodded.
"Lord Baelish, I charge you with providing the army with everything necessary," Robert ordered. "Send out all the necessary letters, let them prepare provisions, forage for the horses, in short, everything that will be needed for the march beyond The Wall. Renly!"
"Yes, brother?" the Lord of the Stormlands immediately responded.
"Summon the vassals; I will need your army. I fear that the weaklings found in the Crownlands will not be enough."
"It will be done."
"The combined armies of The North and the Stormlands," Lord Baelish mused thoughtfully. "No Free Folk can stand against such a force."
"Exactly!" Robert exclaimed, shaking his massive fist. "We'll drive those savages into their filthy caves, so they'll forget even thinking about coming at us in the future! Let them sit beyond The Wall and pray to whomever they like that we don't slaughter them all!"
"And what about the Dothraki, Your Grace?" Lord Varys's question cut off the king's boastful tirade. "The risk of an invasion from across the Narrow Sea is great; we cannot ignore it. I would be glad to be wrong in my forecasts, but my little birds report that the alliance of Khal Drogo and Viserys Targaryen is still in force."
"You seem to understand political intricacies much better than I, Lord Varys, but nevertheless you are mistaken," Arthas stepped forward, not allowing his father to explode at the mention of the hated name. "By linking his fate with the Dothraki, Viserys Targaryen has doomed himself to defeat. Even if they manage to cross the Narrow Sea, all Seven Kingdoms will stand against them. No one, not even the Dornish, will tolerate nomadic savages on their lands. Besides, the Dothraki know neither how to storm castles nor how to fight against heavy cavalry. Losses are inevitable, but we will crush them anyway. The time of the Targaryens has passed; our time has come."
The eunuch said nothing, only bowed his head as if agreeing with the prince's words, or at least taking them into consideration.
"Since we are finished with this question, I suggest we consider the next," Lord Baelish pulled out a paper backed by the royal seal. "Your Grace, I have questions regarding the tournament in honor of the new Hand..."
After several hours of tedious arguments, reproaches, and choice swearing, during which the king almost fell out with Stark over unnecessary expenses, the Small Council finally finished the meeting. Lord Stark, whom Baelish offered to escort to the Tower of the Hand, departed; the others followed after them, leaving father and son alone.
"How stubborn Ned is at times," Robert said. "Quarreling over some lousy tournament? I don't understand..."
"But there is logic in his words, Father," Arthas countered. "The treasury is empty, we are mired in debt, and it's unclear how we will pay it back. We need to cut expenses."
"If you think about it, we don't spend that much," Baratheon snorted. "My brother Renly spends much larger sums every day, but his gold doesn't get any less."
"Exactly, Father," the prince leaned forward, resting his fists on the tabletop. "I constantly hear that when you seized power, the treasury was practically bursting with gold and jewels. So why are we sitting in debt up to our ears now?"
"What are you hinting at now?" Robert frowned.
"I'm not hinting, I'm saying it straight—we are being robbed and, apparently, have been for a long time."
"Nonsense! If that were so, Jon Arryn would have noticed it long ago and reported to me!"
"But Littlefinger manages the money," Arthas countered, "and the late Lord Arryn trusted him. Baelish could say whatever he liked, change the papers, forge the records, and so it turns out that we supposedly squandered it all ourselves. I don't believe it. Where are the results from the tax collection? Where is the income from the sale of goods we supply to Essos?"
Without saying a word, Robert rose from the table and silently headed for the exit; the prince followed him, not disturbing the king's thoughts. The Hound and two royal guards followed on their heels, clanking their armor.
"I need a couple of clever treasurers; let them check all of Baelish's papers," Baratheon finally decided. "If it's discovered that Littlefinger was robbing me, I'll personally wring his skinny neck."
"We could invite people from the Iron Bank," Arthas suggested. "They are very interested in the return of the debt; I think the bankers will notice any manipulation immediately."
"I'm not exactly burning with desire to let bankers into my treasury," the king brushed it off. "No, we need someone else."
"It's your decision," the prince did not insist. For now.
"By the way, I keep forgetting to ask you about that servant girl you dragged along with you," Robert livened up somewhat, returning to one of his favorite topics.
"What about her?" Arthas only sighed, roughly guessing where this was going. "Val serves me."
"Only you?" the king squinted, merry sparks flashing in his eyes.
"Only me."
"And you won't even yield to your old man?" Baratheon asked directly.
"She is mine, Father," Arthas stopped, looking intently into the king's face. "Mine."
Robert answered him with an equally intent look, but it was clear the king was openly amused. Finally, he couldn't contain himself and laughed loudly, slapping the prince on the shoulder with such force that the latter's knees almost buckled. Even if the king had grown a massive belly, his strength had not diminished because of it.
"You know, son, ten years ago I might have even thought your mother had cuckolded me," Baratheon admitted; Arthas raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You were so unlike me that if someone had claimed you weren't my son, I would have even believed it. Now, however, I see how stupid and ridiculous those accusations would sound, for you are a true Baratheon, in blood and spirit. And since you clearly got your brains from your grandfather, I have no doubt you will become a worthy king. Certainly better than me."
"Thank you, Father," did it seem to Robert, or did his son's face actually change somehow? "I won't let you down."
"Let's go; all this talk has made my throat dry," Robert froze and looked questioningly at the prince. "Can I drink now?"
"Now you can," Arthas smirked.
Father and son departed, never noticing Jaime Lannister, who was watching them intently. The Kingslayer squeezed the hilt of his sword until his fingers cracked; anxiety and questions overwhelmed him. And there was no one to dispel them.
***
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