For a moment, Arthur said nothing. Jory dead, the words would not settle in his thoughts. He had been like an older brother to them all, growing up in Winterfell. His wry laugh and his kind manner made him their favorite.
Tristan continued speaking, "They say the attack happened outside a brothel, my lord, in the Street of Silk. Their bodies are still there. If you give me leave I will join Alyn and bring them to the keep. I knew the boys, Jory Heward and Wyl. It wasn't right what happened to them."
Another friendgone in the matterofdays, Arthur thought as grief started to overwhelm him.
But despite the sorrow Arthur paced himself. He drew a slow breath and set his face in order. "Of course, you can," His voice remained even. "And I will go along with you, ready the men."
"At once, lord." Tristan bowed again, relief plain upon his face, and hurried out.
Arthur remained only long enough to take his cloak and sword. The three eyed crow and its promises faded from his mind, pushed aside by blood and duty.
Thunder rolled across the city as if the gods themselves were furious at the deeds committed below. Arthur and his men rode through the rain that kept hammering down in relentless sheets. Even as they rode in that weather, the thoughts would not leave him. Why a brothel? Lord Eddard Stark was not a man for such places.
Arthur's gaze lingered upon the wet stones ahead of his horse as the rain fell steady and cold. WasitChataya's? he wondered. Did he go to check upon Robert's bastard, like lord Arryn did? Did Baelish lead him there?
The notion settled ill in him. He had no way of knowing until Chataya sent word and it was unlikely she could tonight. Tristan could not say anything either, for he, like most of his guards were not aware of his dealings with the brothel keepers.
The handful of men who were out looking for Marie along with Donnel, were told they were searching for a young sailor on their ship who ran away in the city with a girl. That was easy for them to believe, for Arthur had cared for every soul who lived under his care. Even if it turned into a rumor it will only solidify his own name.
The Street of Silk stank of damp straw, spilled wine, and shame washed thin. Arthur spurred his horse through the streets of silk. Behind him, rode Tristan, Sandor, Ser Robert gale and a retinue of his household, along with Alyn, Harwin, and a few of the Stark household guards, all grim and silent.
Arthur swung down from his saddle, mud and water soaked through his boots. The chill of the rain biting through his cloak could not make him as cold as it did when he saw their bodies.
Lanterns guttered in the wind, their light trembling across the bodies of the three northmen where they lay abandoned in the mud. The others dismounted nearby and started readying the carts for the bodies.
Arthur knelt beside Jory Cassel, and closed the young captain's eyes with his hands as gently as he could. He looked smaller in death somehow. He took Jory in his arms and carried him to the cart, placing him inside gently.
Sandor Clegane moved among the fallen, gathering blades with rough care. He wiped each sword upon a cloth and laid it beside its owner, inside the cart.
"A man should keep his steel," the Hound muttered, grimly. "Even if he's too dead to use it."
Arthur nodded, agreeing with the scarred man. "They'll go north with them, where they all belong."
When the last body was placed within, he turned to Ser Tristan. "You will ride with Alyn. Ten men. Escort the dead to the Hand's tower and keep watch over the Stark girls."
"At once, my lord."
The rain had begun to fall harder, drumming against their helm and leather. Arthur swung himself back into the saddle, the chill rain clinging to his soaked cloak, and rode through the winding streets toward the Red Keep. Sandor rode to his left, Ser Robert Gale to his right, and behind them nearly fifty men rode furiously.
The Keep's guards did not hinder him; the weight of Arthur's presence, the storm, the men-at-arms, and the blood on his robes left them wary. They parted quickly, lowering their spears and raising the portcullis without question.
In the outer yard he found Lord Renly Baratheon and Ser Loras Tyrell waiting beneath the archway, lanternlight glinting upon their silken tunics, their expressions lay carefully composed. Yet Arthur could sense the wheels inside their mind turning.
"We were expecting you, Ser," Renly said smoothly, his voice polite but sharp with that familiar ambition.
Arthur dismounted with practiced grace, boots muddy, cloak darkened with Jory's blood.
"My lords," he said, his tone clipped. Arthur did not offer any pleasantries; there was no time for them, not tonight. His gaze swept over them both, "Did the Kingslayer flee the city, or have we a reckoning yet to settle?"
"Aye, he slipped through the Lion Gate with twenty men," Loras said, anger sharpening each word.
Arthur noted the way the younger knight's fists clenched at his side, the gleam of battle visible in his eyes. Ser Loras would have charged after Jaime given the chance, no doubt, eager for a true trial to test his skill and courage, as well as earn his fame.
Arthur should have felt the same, and he did deep in his heart. Yet his mind had to move faster than his anger did. That was a lesson he had learned long ago.
Jaime would be long gone by now, already on the road to join Tywin Lannister, bound for whatever schemes the old lion had plotted. To chase him now would invite war across the kingdoms, and war at home was a currency Arthur could ill afford not with the threads of his other plans still fragile.
Vengeance burned in him, yes, a white-hot desire to see the Kingslayer's head upon a spike. But Arthur swallowed it, hard. War at home would have to wait at least for now.
"I shall see Lord Stark first, then join you at the king's side. You shall have my support." Arthur said, his voice steady. He could not afford to leave Lord Eddard unattended, so he had brought his own physician along, someone he trusted more than that rat Pycelle.
"Splendid," Renly said, keeping his tone light. "The king is already there. We shall accompany you." As they fell into step, he glanced at Arthur's tunic. "Why is it that you've been bloodied? Did you fight with the Lannisters as well?"
Arthur said nothing, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Loras leaned slightly toward Renly, voice low. "That is not the blood of a fight."
Renly's eyes flickered to Arthur and then, understanding. The lord's expression lost a measure of its easy charm, and he did not ask again. Together they passed sliently beneath the torches toward the keep.
They found the Hand's chambers thick with candle smoke and the smell of boiled wine and poultice.
King Robert stood beside the bed like a storm barely held in check. Queen Cersei lingered near the hearth, pale but composed. Ser Barristan watched in silence, whilst Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Meryn Trant kept to the walls like mailed statues. Varys and Baelish hovered together in low murmurs, and Grand Maester Pycelle bent over Lord Stark, winding cloth about the splinted limb with trembling hands.
"The leg is shattered, your grace," Pycelle wheezed, "I have cleaned the wounds and administered a paste and we shall now plaster the leg inside a casket. If the gods have mercy lord Stark may be able to walk again."
Robert gave a curt nod, though his jaw worked angrily. His gaze then found Arthur, who bowed to the king and queen smoothly. "Arthur, you're here. Good," the king said, voice gruff but urgent. "Come, we need to talk. All of you, too."
Arthur straightened. "Your Grace, if it pleases you, I would offer my own physician to attend to Lord Stark."
Pycelle lifted his head, jowls quivering. "Only Maesters are allo–"
Arthur cut him off, sharp and deliberate. "Last I knew, only the King and Queen are addressed as 'grace.' Pray tell, in which of your chains do you keep a crown, Grandmaester?"
The maester's face flushed, lips parting in a weak protest that died before it left his throat. He sank into silence, muttering to himself.
Robert barked a short laugh through his anger. "Of course, he may. Now let's go."
They gathered soon after inside a large chamber at the Tower of the Hand. Rain beat softly upon the shutters.
Cersei sat beside Robert, the green of her gown catching the dim candlelight. Her face was composed, the practiced mask of a queen, yet Arthur could read the tension behind it, the tightening at her jaw, the slight fidgeting of her hands. She feared her husband's wrath, though he would not strike Jaime while Stark yet lived. Even a fool could sense that much.
The council sat scattered, the usual assembly of weary men and schemers: Ser Barristan in immaculate plate, Pycelle heavy with his chains, Baelish and Varys lurking at the edges, and Renly ever eager to please.
"Speak, Littlefinger," Robert's growl cut across the hall. "You were the one who brought him to us. Tell me what happened!" He slammed a hand on the table, making the goblets jump. "And someone bring me some damn wine!"
Renly leapt from his seat and returned almost immediately with a goblet of deep red and placed it into the king's hand. Robert drank deep, red spilling into his beard.
Baelish inclined his head, all courtesy and careful measure. "Your grace, I only saw Lord Stark get out from some brothel in the streets of silk," he said, choosing each word with care. "I saw Stark and his men start fighting the Lannister guards. I could not tell who threw the first blow. But before the fight started Ser Jaime rode away on his horse. That was all I saw, your grace."
Arthur watched him as he spoke. Truth, half-truth, and deception all mingled here, as always it was with Baelish.
His own informants had seen Baelish depart the Red Keep with Lord Stark earlier, and the two had been seen oft together of late. Yet now Petyr Baelish placed himself at the edge of the tale, no more than a witness to chaos.
The queen did not wait for the king's temper to cool.
"Do you believe me now?" Cersei said at once, voice sharp as drawn steel. "Jaime and his men were attacked by this savage Northerner. Jaime is your brother-by-law. First Stark's wild daughter and her savage wolf attacks Joffrey, then his wife abducts my brother in the middle of the tavern and now he himself attacks Jaime in your capital. Are you going to do anything or will you let them attack Tommen, Myrcella or me next?"
Her green eyes shone bright with anger, though Arthur saw the fear beneath it. She pressed hard because she must, a lion cornered often showed more teeth than strength. Her words were meant to sting, to force the King's hand, and to frame chaos as threat and Stark as villain.
"Calm down, woman," the king growled, weary more than wroth. He drank again, wiping wine from his beard with the back of his hand. "Gods spare me from this squabbling."
Robert's heavy gaze shifted searching and landing on Varys. "Where is the Kingslayer?"
Varys folded his soft hands into his sleeves and said, "Ser Jaime was seen leaving the capital through the western gate, your grace."
A murmur passed the chamber.
Arthur spoke then, his eyes settling upon Baelish. "If I may ask, Lord Baelish," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "what business took you to the streets of silk in the dead of night? Or was it just the will of fate, or perhaps the gods good graces, that guided your steps there?"
Littlefinger's smile came easy, practiced, and disarming, "Forgive me, ser," he said smoothly, "I did not think the matter fit for discussion in the queen's presence. Yet, to satisfy your curiosity I shall answer."
He continued, "I was on my way to Chataya's establishment. A fine establishment, I'm sure you have heard of it," his grin lingered, all charm and insinuation. "I intended to make an offer for purchase."
Arthur kept his face still. He knew Baelish was plotting to sway Lord Stark away from him. Lead his foster father into a trap veiled as friendship. But no matter how much he tried to convince Lord Eddard it seemed he still listened to this snake more.
"Your grace," Barristan said firmly, "I have told you before, the Kingslayer does not deserve this white cloak. Time and again he proves his lack of honor. He abandoned his du—"
"Who are you to preach, ser?" Cersei's interjection was sharp, cutting through the old knight's words. Her words were laced with disdain. "What do you know of duty… of honor? You served the mad king through all his crimes and horrors did you not?"
The words fell cold in the chamber. Even Robert's cup paused halfway to his mouth.
Renly broke the silence lightly, though his eyes were watchful. "The matter is clear, your grace, Lady Catelyn took Tyrion Lannister prisoner, Ser Jaime tried the same with Lord Stark but failed. This is just bad blood."
Robert's patience broke at last. The king hurled his cup across the chamber; it struck a pillar and burst, dark wine running down the stone like fresh blood.
"Damn you all," the king roared, eyes sweeping the council.
Robert's glare fixed on Cersei. "Damn your smug, sharp-tongued brothers. Damn the stupid Tully women. And damn this stubborn bastard Ned the most." His voice shook with anger, yet beneath it ran a fear, the fear of what the world might become if his authority faltered.
"These years of peace," Robert continued, "made you all forget who the true enemy is, made you dumb enough to turn on one another." He slammed a fist against the table. "But no more. This ends now."
"You'll have me forget the pain, the slights against my blood," Cersei said angrily, "A Lannister pays their debts."
"You'll do as your king commands, and you will make peace!" His voice was sharp and filled with fury. "Now, tell me, my seven damned counselors, what is the best course to make everyone happy here?"
Littlefinger was first, as he often was when advantage might be found. "Order Catelyn to release Tyrion and a monetary payment from both houses, and perhaps a light admonishment with that," he said with a smile. "A little spanking makes the children behave."
Arthur noted how easily he claimed coin where honor had been wounded.
"I will only be satisfied with my family safe and an apology from the Starks," the queen demanded at once, the word apology spoken like a sentence passed.
Renly leaned forward, bright and composed. "I say bring them all here and settle it properly before the crown," His tone was pleasant, yet Arthur heard the purpose beneath it, law spoken before the crown was still law spoken by the Master of Laws.
"The wisest course would be a mutual forgiveness from both sides, let bygones be bygones," Varys added softly, his eyes drifting from face to face as though measuring reactions more than offering counsel.
"I agree with Lord Renly," Ser Barristan added, his voice grave.
Arthur waited until the voices faded. The chamber still smelled of wine and temper, and he could feel every eye turning when he finally spoke.
"No matter what you do, Your Grace," he said at last, "there will be discontentment. What you must do is find what will endure beyond the anger of the moment. A solution that lasts, not one that merely appeases."
Robert eyed him across the table, thick fingers drumming once against the wood. "What do you suggest then?"
Arthur did not waver. "Dismiss Jaime from the Kingsguard."
The queen's voice erupted immediately. "How dare you!"
"Silence, woman!" Robert bellowed, slamming a hand on the table. "Let him finish!"
"It is meant as no slight to Your Grace," Arthur said, his words careful. "It is the only way to a lasting peace. Lord Stark will be pleased to see that some measure of consequence follows, while Lord Tywin will be glad to find his beloved heir safely returned home, at last. Of course, Lord Tyrion must be released as well."
Arthur thought this through before. He had told Lord Stark to release the imp when they first heard of it from the black brother. He even suggested to rescind the summon given to Tywin in return for the debt the crown owed to house Lannister.
With that they shall pay some coins as restitution to Dorne and the rest for the improvement of the crown. This way they weaken house Lannister while also gain and ally for the throne. But of course Lord Stark had refused, Arthur had not given up yet.
Arthur leaned slightly forward and spoke again. "But this does not end here. To make the peace endure, we shall arrange a joint fostering, Prince Tommen, Rickon Stark, and Lord Robert Arryn, under the guidance of a lord of your choosing. This way they shall be raised like Your Grace, Lord Stark, and my father were, as brothers. It may even lead to more familial bonds that shall temper these enmities and render petty vengeance obsolete."
"You forget yourself, Manderly," Cersei spat, her voice sharp, "You will not take my son away, nor send my brother from my side. This is no peace, it is a punishment, and an insult to House Lannister."
"With all due respect, your grace," Arthur began, careful to temper deference with firmness, "you now belong to House Baratheon. The decisions His grace makes in this matter are his alone, and any offer to House Lannister shall, of course, be considered by your lord father, Tywin of House Lannister, the head of his house."
Cersei's glare cut into him like a knife. Arthur did not flinch. If looks could kill, he might have already been fed to the crows.
Robert rounded on the queen, temper still hot. "You didn't let Joffrey ward in Winterfell like I wanted to, and look what it got us. Bad blood. That's what I get for listening to a woman's whims."
Cersei's lips thinned, though she held her tongue this time.
"I must admit, Ser Arthur gives wise counsel. Lord Tywin shall be amenable to these conditions," Pycelle wheezed, "I would also like to add, Your Grace, that the summon Lord Stark made based upon the lies of the false knight Clegane's testimony should also be removed. It will make the peace more certain."
Arthur looked at Pycelle and wondered what coin or favor had Lord Tywin given to this rat that bought such faithful service towards him.
Baelish smiled faintly. "Wisely spoken, Grand Maester. Though the plan seems difficult to achieve, Lysa wouldn't be too keen on parting with her only son."
Varys steepled his soft fingers. "Oh, such a poor boy, so sickly."
Robert muttered in exasperation. "That damned woman. The boy should be raised by a man. Gods above, he bears my name."
Arthur added immediately, "That can be arranged too." He looked to the king and said, "We must restore the Warden of the East title to the boy but grant his regency and the title of Lord Protector to Lord Yohn Royce. So he may rule in Lord Arryn's stead until he comes of age. Bronze Yohn is both honorable and capable who could protect the Vale of Arryn and continue her loyalty with the crown. Also this way Lady Lysa could be returned to Riverrun where her lord father may arrange another marriage for her."
Ser Barristan spoke, "I agree with young Arthur's advice, Your Grace. It seems to be the wisest counsel."
The other councilors looked towards Robert, who seemed to approve the idea too, but before he could speak. Cersei rose from her seat and shouted, "Fools and sycophants, all of you!" She turned to Robert and said with venom, "Be careful of whom you consider friend, Your Grace, snakes wear different colours."
Her voice softened then, almost pleading. "Jaime and Tyrion are your brothers. And this northern savage lapdog is speaking of sending your young boy as a hostage."
Arthur did not answer her anger. He merely watched the king.
Robert leaned back in his chair, red-faced and heavy with drink, yet his words came plain enough. "Ned is more my brother than any of them. Tommen is a boy, aye, but all boys must become a man some day. Because as the northerners love to say… winter is coming, and it is no place for a boy."
The queen's mouth tightened. Without another word she swept from the tower, Ser Meryn and Ser Boros hurrying after her. The door was closed behind them and for a moment only the crackle of the hearth remained.
"Damn her," Robert muttered, rubbing at his brow. "I will make my decision when Ned wakes up. Without him agreeing there will be no end to this."
Renly glanced toward Arthur. "You haven't said where they might be fostered if this is decided."
"I did not wish to presume," Arthur replied evenly. "It will be the decision of His Grace and Lord Stark."
Robert grunted. "Cersei wanted Robert Arryn fostered by Lord Tywin. But now it will not be the best choice. Ned would never let his son foster under the old lion."
Arthur took the opportunity and suggested, "Perhaps they can be raised at Stormlands under Lord Renly's care. He is the uncle to the royal children, and Storm's End is the Baratheons' ancestral home. It is closer to the capital, too, which would allow both Lord Hand and The Queen to see their children more often."
"A wonderful suggestion, my lord," Varys tittered softly.
"Indeed," Baelish said, though the amusement in his eyes did not follow his smile.
Renly's smile returned, bright as summer. "Of course, a brilliant solution, I can take them as my ward. It'd be my honor. They can grow up at Storm's End alongside Edric."
Arthur knew Renly would jump at the chance to foster the boys', it was an honor and a leverage, something he would hardly deny. He also suggested Renly because any other lord such as Hoster, Tywin, or Mace would be too out of reach for him. But Renly was his ally and more than eager to stay that way. He could guarantee the boys' safety and his influence with Renly.
Robert seemed pleased enough. "I will think on it. Now I need wine and a girl to get these weary aches from my head away. The ones I always get from council meetings… or when Cersei is near." He barked a laugh.
Baelish and Renly joined him, their mirth filling the dark chamber.
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