"How did you end up here?" Eddard wondered, pulling his wife to him. "And you, Sir Rodrik? Where are your sideburns?"
"It's a long story, Lord Stark," the knight replied, as if averting his eyes in embarrassment; his cheeks were indeed smoothly shaven, which made him look somewhat unusual.
"I'm sure it's a very entertaining one," Petyr Baelish smirked, but meeting Catelyn's reproachful gaze, he did not continue. "Forgive me, Cat, a poor joke."
"How are the girls?" Lady Stark asked, looking into her husband's face.
"They are fine," Eddard reassured her.
"And Bran?"
"Everything is fine; he's already sleeping and dreaming of becoming a knight of the Royal Guard."
"Praise The Seven," Catelyn exhaled, but immediately pulled herself together. "I have very little time, Ned; I cannot stay here for long."
"That is so, Lord Stark," Baelish supported her. "Lord Varys already knows that your wife is in the capital; very soon the queen will know as well—her spies are everywhere. She will surely have questions for you that you are unlikely to want to answer."
Eddard said nothing, only looked at his wife, awaiting her explanations. Primarily, the Hand wanted to know what she was doing in the capital at all?
"Ned, something is brewing, I feel it," Catelyn spoke hurriedly. "The Lannisters are up to something; even Robb has fallen under the influence of Prince Joffrey, and now I fear I convinced you to agree to the engagement in vain. You are in danger."
"What relation does Prince Joffrey have to the Lannisters' plans, if any even exist?" Eddard asked. "He is a Baratheon, Robert's heir."
"He is not so simple, Ned, I tell you!" Catelyn countered with passion. "You haven't heard Robb, his words!"
"Sir Rodrik?" Eddard turned to the knight. "Is this so?"
"You don't believe me?!" Lady Stark exclaimed.
"You are talking about a possible conspiracy against the king, and that is a very serious accusation," Eddard parried. "I do not trust the Lannisters, that is true, but I must still be absolutely certain that a conspiracy actually exists."
"And what about Lysa's letter?!"
Stark cast a short glance at Baelish, but the Master of Coin was pointedly pretending he wasn't there.
"The letter of a grief-stricken woman whose mind might well have become clouded after her husband's death. That is not enough for accusations; you know it perfectly well yourself—real evidence is needed. Sir Rodrik, I am still waiting for an answer from you."
Casting a short glance at his lady, the knight nodded reluctantly:
"Your son did indeed speak out decisively against our trip. I do not know exactly what it is connected to, but after the trip to The Wall, young Robb has indeed begun to behave somewhat differently. Although," he hurried to add, "I would not claim that your son has fallen under the influence of the crown prince."
"I cannot stay and help you," Catelyn said, "but I have asked Petyr to do so, in memory of our friendship."
Stark looked at the smiling Baelish, whose neck he had almost wrung ten minutes ago. Littlefinger nodded in response:
"I will help how I can, Lord Stark. I am always glad to do a favor for Cat."
"Then perhaps you can tell me how Lord Arryn actually died?"
"Taking the bull by the horns immediately, Lord Stark?" Baelish smirked. "That is a trait worthy of a true warrior, but here in the capital, one must act more subtly. Careless words or unnecessary questions can destroy you as easily as a dagger in an assassin's hand or poison in the hands of a poisoner."
"You did not answer my question," Eddard noted dryly.
"On the contrary," Littlefinger sighed, looking at the Hand with reproach, "I did answer, but you did not understand me. If you want to survive in the capital, you will have much to learn. But so be it, you asked me a direct question, and therefore I will give you an equally direct answer. Lord Arryn was killed, Lord Stark, killed for the same reason they might kill you. Questions. Uncomfortable, inappropriate questions. Questions whose answers could ruin many, many people."
"And what are these questions?"
"Now there, I'm afraid, I am no longer of help to you," Baelish said, spreading his hands. "But I can tell you the following. First, in his final days, Jon Arryn spent a great deal of time in the company of Stannis Baratheon, discussing something at length with him; they even visited the workshop of a certain Tobho Mott together, on Steel Street. Second, almost immediately after the death of the Hand, his squire, Hugh, was knighted."
"Is that all?" Stark asked.
"At the moment, only the Spider can tell you more than I."
***
The royal tournament in honor of the appointment and arrival of the new Hand had not even begun yet, but it had already caused everyone a considerable amount of trouble, which pleased neither the Commander of the City Watch Janos Slynt, nor the Master of Coin Petyr Baelish, nor the Hand himself. Knights of all stripes had flocked to the tournament from all across the Seven Kingdoms, but so had all sorts of rabble, leading to an immediate increase in murders and robberies in the city, and the city dungeon was overflowing. Furthermore, this mass of people was rapidly devouring food supplies like locusts, causing the city granaries to empty very quickly. This fact did nothing to lift the spirits of either Lord Stark or Lord Baelish.
Arthas knew all of this perfectly well, and so he had made several attempts to raise the subject in conversations with his father, until Robert finally exploded with indignation. It had to be admitted that the King was utterly terrifying in his rage, and so all the inhabitants of the castle tried to huddle in the furthest and darkest corners of Maegor's Holdfast, just to stay out of Baratheon's sight.
"Cut off thieves' hands on the spot!" Robert roared, standing in the armory half-naked and swinging his monstrous hammer. "Hang murderers on the fortress walls! I have been merciful to them for too long!"
"Your Grace, the people may protest," Janos Slynt, who had appeared by royal command, was pale as death and all but shaking with fear. Looking at him, Arthas immediately thought about his replacement. Such a person could in no way be trusted with the command of the City Watch.
"The people can kiss my hairy ass, I am their King," Robert growled, then narrowed his eyes, looking at Slynt with suspicion. "Or are you shaking for your own skin? Afraid they'll flay it off you?! Answer me, coward! Or do you think I've forgotten Jon Arryn's accusations?! Well, I can remember them!"
Slynt's eyes widened, palpable fear splashing in them, and there was no one nearby who could attempt to protect him from the royal wrath. Bought three times and sold seven times over, he was mired in bribery, a fact known to everyone. Last time, he had been saved only by a miracle in the person of Petyr Baelish, who interceded for him, but at any moment he could be reminded of all his sins, old and new, after which either the block or the Wall would await Slynt. Looking around once more, Janos quickly realized that no support was coming. The White Cloaks, for the most part, didn't give a damn about him, and the Crown Prince was staring at him with a gaze that sent a chill through his bones.
"Your Grace, you have no servant more loyal..."
"Shut up and do as you're told," Robert ordered. "Now get out of my sight!"
Slynt beat a hasty retreat, nearly tripping over his own cloak. Watching him go, Arthas shook his head and said:
"He needs to be replaced. And it should have been done back when the late Arryn brought the charges. You were wrong to forgive him then."
"There's no time for that now," Robert dismissed him. "We'll decide after the tournament ends. By the way, since you suggested it, I'm charging you with finding a replacement for that cowardly piece of shit."
"Is this truly my first royal commission?" Arthas smirked. Strangely enough, every time Robert showed some backbone, the Prince felt like smiling. It was as if the King, coming to life before his eyes, was resurrecting something in his son's soul.
"Exactly," the King became more serious. "After we head off to war, we must leave a strong rear behind us. Only the gods know what might happen in our absence, and so the Guard must be commanded by a very experienced man, one in whom we can be absolutely certain. Do you understand?"
"I will find such a man," Arthas assured him, then pointed at the massive bare belly. "By the way, how much longer do you intend to stand around like that?"
"Remind me again, why did I even agree to these training sessions?" Robert inquired, while servants tried to pull a gambeson and chainmail over him.
"And do you intend to go to war with a gut like that?" the Prince asked in return. The servants diligently pretended to hear nothing, but their red ears gave them away completely. "How do you even plan to crush giant heads unless you're planning to laugh the Free Folk to death? Though, if you're planning to just stand aside and give all the glory to me, I don't mind."
"Never!" the King bellowed, trying to cuff his son on the back of the head, but he missed. "Boy, you'll see, when it comes to the fight, I'll strike down more Free Folk than you've ever dreamed of!"
"Many words and little action," Arthas teased his father.
"Oh, just you wait," Robert promised. "And what are you staring at?!"
The last sentence was directed at the King's squire, Lancel Lannister, one of the Queen's numerous relatives. Arthas hadn't really thought about what this youth was to him, but Cersei called him cousin, which meant the son of Kevan Lannister was some kind of uncle to the Prince himself. For the most part, Arthas didn't care about the kinsman who annoyed Robert by the mere fact of his existence.
"Lannisters," the King growled. "I am surrounded by cursed Lannisters."
"Ahem."
"What?" Baratheon turned to his son.
"I am also half Lannister," Arthas reminded him.
"Your only flaw, and one I'm willing to overlook," Robert waved it off. "You're nothing like those pompous jackasses, except maybe in looks. Well, what are you gawking at, you blockhead?! Bring the gauntlets!"
Poor Lancel, jumping as if a bee had stung him in the ass, grabbed the plate gauntlets and tried to pull them onto the King's broad palms with stiff fingers, but because he was in such a hurry, he couldn't manage it. In response, Robert only spat contemptuously, snatched the gauntlet away, and put it on himself:
"My little daughter could have done better," he muttered as he did.
"Well, are you ready?" Arthas asked, tossing a practice hammer onto his shoulder.
"I should have personally checked what you're worth a long time ago," Robert replied with the same gesture. "Let's go, I want to make it for the start of the tournament."
A few hours later, having washed away the sweat and dust, Arthas sat in the royal box and watched the tournament participants as they met in combat. The flower of Westerosi knighthood had gathered here, from Dorne to the North, though Lord Stark's vassals looked at all knightly traditions through their fingers and, being followers of the Old Gods, could not become knights. Very few Northerners could boast of knightly spurs, but right now, few cared. Clad in expensive armor, decorated beyond measure, the warriors charged at each other at full gallop, eliciting genuine delight from the spectators. Beside Arthas himself, Sansa Stark was squealing happily; the Prince had invited her to the box at his mother's insistence.
An hour earlier.
"Why do I have to do this?" the Prince asked plaintively while Cersei adjusted his doublet.
"She is your betrothed, a fact everyone already knows," the Queen lectured her son. "It will look very strange if you sit apart."
"Do I absolutely have to marry her?" Arthas decided to scout the topic of the future marriage.
"Yes, if you want the North to bow before you," Cersei stepped back slightly and looked the Prince over from head to toe.
"Isn't having good relations with the Starks enough?"
"Who knows how life will turn out; today you are friends, tomorrow—enemies," the Queen shrugged her bare shoulders, clad in a red dress with gold embroidery. Her long hair was braided into intricate coils, and an emerald necklace of incredible beauty rested on her neck, making the woman's green eyes seem to sparkle even brighter. It was a gift from Arthas, bought by him the day before from Essos merchants at the market by the Old Gate.
The Prince winced as if he had eaten the sourest lemon in the world, which did not escape Cersei's notice. Smiling, she took his arm and led him toward the exit. Tommen followed, seething with indignation and jealousy. Since the day his brother had reconciled with their mother, a substantial portion of her attention now went to the Crown Prince, which the youngest Baratheon did not like at all. Arthas saw this and understood perfectly well that in the future, his younger brother could cause him a heap of trouble, which meant this issue should be resolved as quickly as possible.
"You will invite your betrothed to our box," Cersei said in a tone that brooked no argument. "And so as not to waste time, you will do it right now. You will come to the tournament together, and you will be very polite in your interactions with her."
"Maybe I don't have to?" Arthas made one last attempt.
"You do," the Queen cut him off. "And don't even try to move me to pity. What are you even unhappy about? Sansa Stark is young and beautiful."
"Not more beautiful than you," the Prince noted.
"Flatterer," Cersei replied, but it was clear she liked her son's words. "Be that as it may, very soon she will bloom and be able to bear you heirs. And nothing more is required of her."
"I know, Mother, but her head is empty!"
"Then you will be able to put into that empty little head whatever you need. Otherwise, someone else will."
Now.
"My head is about to explode," Val hissed, sitting behind Arthas in her capacity as his personal servant. "As if the stench following me everywhere wasn't enough, now there's this monstrous racket. Even a herd of mammoths makes less noise than this useless rabble."
"Soon we will head North, where you can return to your people," the Prince replied quietly.
"And then what?" the question followed.
"It all depends on you," the Prince shrugged.
"And are they going to keep staring at me for much longer?" Val asked.
"You are young and very beautiful, and therefore you attract attention," Arthas smirked, listening with one ear to the happy chirping of his betrothed and Jeyne Poole, Sansa's close friend. Arthas hadn't objected to her presence, though Cersei looked upon the girl quite coldly, which the latter felt immediately. "Besides, everyone thinks you supposedly serve me. So everyone is curious how you achieved that."
"Yesterday I broke a pot over some soldier's head," the wildling said in a matter-of-fact tone. "He decided he could just grab my ass for nothing."
"I was informed," at that moment Barristan Selmy knocked some young knight from the Reach off his horse, and the stands erupted in a jubilant roar as the Lord Commander of the Stormwind Royal Guard rode past, raising his lance above his head.
"Are you aware that Stark's daughter is practicing with a blade?" the sudden change of subject made Arthas falter for a moment. In surprise, he glanced at Sansa, whose attention was completely absorbed by the tournament.
"Not her, you fool," Val hissed. "The younger one!"
"A bit strange, of course," the Prince admitted the obvious. He might have expected something like that in that world he left many years ago, but not here, where daughters of noble families had very specific and strict duties.
"She is wild, untamed," the wildling continued, "reminds me of my people in some ways."
"Then I suggest you start talking to her," Arthas replied sarcastically. "I expect you'll quickly find common ground."
"That's exactly what I'll do, don't you doubt it."
This image appeared before the Prince's mind's eye, and he shuddered inwardly. He was even afraid to imagine what a wildling, who had only by a miracle avoided serious trouble with the Queen so far, could teach the little Stark. Cersei was already unhappy about the appearance of a strange northern woman in her firstborn's retinue, so any inappropriate stunt from Val could lead to disaster.
At that moment, Gregor Clegane, nicknamed the Mountain for his massive height, met in combat with a certain Hugh of the Vale. At the last moment, just before the collision, his massive lance jerked upward and pierced the gorget of the armor, entering the young knight's throat and getting stuck there. Death was instantaneous. The crowd immediately began to roar, agitated by such a tragic death, but it seemed to Arthas that they were drawn far more strongly by the scent of spilled blood. Strange as it was, people were always extremely hungry for someone else's death; it beckoned them like a candle flame beckons a moth. The crowd leaned forward to get a good look at everything, their eyes shining like those of a pack of small predators scenting prey.
"Now the tournament's getting much more interesting," Val perked up. Arthas, turning to Sansa, saw the girl's pale face, then took her hand to calm her. The wildling was no stranger to blood, but for the Hand's daughter, this was the first death she had seen with her own eyes. Jeyne Poole didn't look much better, horror splashing in her eyes.
"Val, take her away," Arthas ordered. The wildling's eyes flashed angrily at him, but she didn't object—Cersei was watching her far too intently.
"Come on, girl," the wildling took Poole by the arms, pulled her to her feet, and led her away. The Hound followed them, so no one even had a shadow of a thought about interfering with them. Clegane's exceptionally foul character and cruel disposition were known to all, so no one dared stand in his way. Besides, it was his brother who had just killed a knight right in the middle of the tournament.
"Lady Sansa, shall I escort you?" Arthas asked, addressing his betrothed.
"I would like to stay, if you don't mind," the girl replied, despite her paleness, which greatly surprised the Prince.
"Hmm, I must admit, you are stronger than you seem," Arthas noted, as Eddard and Bran Stark came into his field of vision. The King's Hand, with his arm around his son's shoulders, watched with a very grim gaze as the body of the fallen knight was hastily carried off the tournament field. And something told Arthas that it was by no means the accidental nature of the death that had so soured Stark's mood.
***
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