298 AC, Red Keep.
The council chamber felt smaller than it ought to have, though its vaulted ceiling rose high above their heads and tall windows admitted a pale wash of morning light. The air lay heavy, all the same.
Arthur sat among the privy councilors of the King, one hand resting lightly upon the pommel of Nightfall. He had not meant to touch it, yet his fingers found the familiar ridges as though seeking steadiness.
Across the table, King Robert Baratheon loomed broad and red‑faced, wine thick upon his breath though the day had scarcely begun.
"Mercy is never a mistake, Lord Renly," Lord Stark said sharply. "On the Trident, Ser Barristan here cut down a dozen good men, Robert's friends and mine." His grey eyes shifted briefly toward Arthur, "Until your father defeated him and brought him to us, grievously wounded and near death. Roose Bolton urged us to cut his throat, but Robert said, 'I will not kill a man for loyalty, nor for fighting well,' and sent his own maester to tend Ser Barristan's wounds."
Lord Stark gave the king a long, cool look. "Would that man were here today. He would not be talking of the murder of babes."
King Robert reddened beneath his beard. "It was not the same. Ser Barristan was a knight of the Kingsguard."
"And he had no claim to the Iron Throne," Arthur spoke coldly. "So long as the Targaryens live, they will plague our realm with horrors and death. You know this to be true, my lord."
Ned Stark's gaze settled on him, heavy with grief, and for a moment Arthur almost looked away. Yet he met his eyes.
"Daenerys is only a girl," Lord Stark said sadly, looking at him, and then turned back to the king. "Robert, I ask you, what did we rise against Aerys Targaryen for, if not to put an end to the murder of children?"
"To put an end to the Targaryens!" the king growled.
"Your Grace, I never knew you to fear Rhaegar," Ned answered with quiet scorn. "Have the years so unmanned you that you tremble at the shadow of an unborn child?"
Honor and Duty were poor companions; together, they were ruinous for a man and his realm. Lord Stark did not understand that yet and Arthur wasn't sure if he ever would.
The king's face purpled. "No more, Ned. Not another word. Have you forgotten who is king here?"
"No, Your Grace. Have you?" Lord Stark defied in anger.
"Enough!" Robert slammed his fist upon the table hard enough to rattle the cups. "I am sick of meaningless talk. I'll be done with this, or be damned. What say you all?"
"She must be killed," Lord Renly declared at once, smooth as summer silk.
"We have no choice," murmured Varys. "Sadly, sadly…"
"A small loss to prevent a larger ones, perhaps. Kingdoms have been lost for less. We must protect our realm," Grand Maester Pycelle spoke, "The blood of the dragon is treacherous, Your Grace. History teaches—"
"History teaches what men choose to learn from it," Lord Stark cut in, weariness had crept into his voice.
But the old toad Pycelle continued speaking of his loyalties to the realm in the same weary cadence he had used for three kings and would use for a fourth if the gods were unkind enough to grant him the years. His words were careful, padded with duty and precedent, yet hollow beneath the weight of habit.
Littlefinger followed with his silk-smooth tongue and an example that coiled around itself, half counsel, half provocation. Arthur noted how both Lord Stark and Ser Barristan stiffened at it. He thought to himself how men like them inspired one to trust, while men like Petyr Baelish reminded you why that trust was folly.
Then the king turned. "And what say you, Arthur?" And then the room waited for his answer.
"The noble councillors have offered reasons both just and prudent," Arthur said calmly. "Those for the deed claim it to be a necessity, and those against it claim the sake of honor. However, both speak truth; therefore, neither can prevail."
All the lords looked at him with quiet apprehension as Arthur paused a moment. Then he looked at Lord Stark and spoke again, "Yet I will ask you only one question, my lord. If before the rebellion began, had you been handed a blade and told that with it you might kill Aerys or Rhaegar, knowing now what their lives had cost the realm and your own blood, would you have refused? Would their deaths not have been both just and your duty?"
Lord Eddard did not answer the pain in his eyes was visible. Arthur had no wish to hurt his foster father, yet he would do what he must, for the sake of peace.
Arthur then shifted his attention to the white cloak beside him. "And you, Ser Barristan. If Duskendale were offered to you again, knowing what he would do later on, would you save Aerys a second time?"
Ser Barristan's pain was quieter, but deeper. A kingsguards' life was built upon oaths; the past was where those sacred vows rotted. There was no doubt that he regretted saving the Mad King many times since. Arthur could see it plain upon the old knight's face.
Arthur did not speak any further. He did not need to, for words chosen carefully could strike sharper than swords and bring down even the strongest of men.
King Robert broke the stillness with a grunt of satisfaction. "Well, there it is, Ned. You and Selmy stand alone. The girl's fate is decided." He leaned forward, thick fingers drumming the table. "The only matter left is finding the man to do it."
Renly proposed Jorah Mormont with callous care, as if the task were as simple as milking a goat. Varys opposed Renly's plan and then suggested Tears of Lys, claiming death by poison was cleaner and easier.
The king frowned. "No, poison is a woman's weapon," His voice carried the old warrior in it for a moment. "I'll not have it done like a craven's work."
Robert Baratheon often marked stealth for cowardice. Arthur thought to himself, Robert's bravery had won him a crown, but it would win him an early grave, too.
"You send hired knives to kill a girl of three and ten namedays, and still quibble about honor?" The scrape of Lord Stark's chair cut through the chamber as he rose, his grey eyes hard as winter stone.
"Do it yourself, Robert. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Look her in the eyes before you kill her. Hear what she says to you before she dies. You owe her that much."
Arthur watched the king's face redden. Robert Baratheon had always preferred enemies he could strike with his own hand. Yet the distance had turned the act into an assassination, and that turned into shame for the King.
Andshame, Arthur knew, was the one wound a true Baratheon would never endure. Rhaegar knew it well, too.
"Gods," the king burst out. He seized the flagon beside him and hurled it against the wall. Red droplets slid down the stone like blood seeking meaning. "I am out of wine and out of patience. Enough. Just have it done."
"I will not be a part of murder," Lord Eddard said harshly, "Do as you will, but do not ask me to set my seal to it."
"You are the King's Hand," Robert roared. "You will do as I command, or I'll find me a Hand who will."
The silver badge came free from Lord Stark's cloak. It landed upon the table with a final decisive weight, as he declared, "I wish him every success."
"I thought you a better man than this, Robert," Eddard Stark said disappointedly. "I thought we had made a nobler king."
Robert's fury strangled his voice. "Out. Out, damn you. I'm done with you. Go back to Winterfell, and pray I never see your face again, or I'll mount your head above my gate."
Lord Eddard turned and left the council chambers.
Arthur rose to go after him, "Stop," the king barked. "Let him go. Sit. Your king commands it."
Arthur had no choice but to obey. He hadn't realized how things could have gone this far in the heat of anger.
Robert paced the chamber like a caged bull. "Stubborn bastard. Never could see past that frozen honor of his. Always honor, honor, honor." He spat the word as though it tasted sour. "Insolent Stark. Such ingratitude."
The king halted before him, breathing hard, and fixed his bloodshot eyes upon Arthur. "William would never have defied me so. Your father knew what must be done. He understood what ruling meant. He knew it took hard choices. Ugly ones. You understand that too. I can see it."
Arthur inclined his head. "My duty is to the peace of your realm, Your Grace," he said evenly. "A king may choose to keep his conscience, or his crown. Yet ofttimes the realm requires that he keep the latter."
Robert studied him a long moment, then gave a rough nod, some of the rage draining away. "Aye," the king said. "I won the bloody crown, I need to keep it now."
The matter of the council returned to the girl across the sea, without the presence of honor now. Grand Maester Pycelle folded his spotted hands upon his belly and spoke wheezingly. "In Braavos there exists a society known as the Faceless Men. Their arts are… most reliable."
Littlefinger gave a thin smile. "Reliable, yes. Affordable, never. One could hire a company of sellswords for less, and that for a merchant. For a princess?" He spread his fingers. "We might as well purchase Braavos entire."
Arthur's gaze lingered on Baelish and thought, Of course you'd be privy to what they might cost. He couldn't be certain, but had a strong suspicion that Littlefinger was in league with the Sealord. He had visited the assassin himself to find more about the matter. And to find out why the killer had spared him.
The faceless man in the black cells had worn another's face now. Still, Arthur could recognize him despite the glamor. The runic wards that lay inside Arthur's chambers had not stripped the glamor from the killer back then, and couldn't do it in the cells either. That troubled him more than the attempt upon his life.
What sort of power did these faceless men wield? Arthur wondered still.
Renly leaned forward. "Then what do you suggest, Littlefinger?"
Baelish shrugged lightly and smiled, "Promise lands and a title to whoever delivers the girl's death. Lands we have in plenty. Gold, we do not."
Arthur spoke before the king could consider it. "No."
Robert glanced at him. "No?"
"It invites failure," Arthur replied. "You would loose every ambitious fool in the Free Cities upon her. They will certainly fail to complete the task, and the failure would alert the Khal. After the first attempt, she will be guarded day and night. You might as well send a herald to them and say you wish to kill them."
Littlefinger's smile tightened. "You credit the savages with too much competence, my lord."
"I pay everyone what they are due and nothing more, Lord Baelish," Arthur spoke bluntly, "Your plan would urge the savages to unite faster. A thousand whispers of enemies across the sea fares little in front of a failed assassin who'd mutter the crown's name for a merciful death."
Baelish smiled and said, "Your adventures of the east are famed across the lands, ser, you would know better of how savages think."
Arthur held Baelish's gaze coldly, wondering what Littlefinger could gain from saving the Dragon princess. He answered, smirking, "I do, my lord. In my adventures, I have learned how to think as most men do. Be it lords or priests, heroes or traitors."
Arthur stared at Baelish and continued, "The one thing they all had in common was that they believed themselves to be the smartest man in the room. The victor of the game, all the very way up until they were dead."
Baelish's smile twitched.
Arthur smiled, "And that taught me to think of myself as only the second-smartest man."
Varys giggled. Renly laughed and said, "Wise words, ser."
Robert drained another cup and slammed it down. He said laughing, "I agree, you are the only man here who still speaks plain sense. What do you counsel, Arthur?"
"From what I know of them, the Dothraki fear sorcery more than spears or walls," Arthur said plainly, "They only follow strength and fear what they do not understand. If Khal Drogo believes his Targaryen bride brings ill fortune… we need not slay her. His own people will."
Confusion flickered across Robert's face. Renly leaned forward. Barristan's brow creased in disapproval before the words were even finished. Varys watched, still as a cat in front of a mouse hole. Littlefinger only smiled.
Arthur continued evenly. "Whispers travel farther than blades. Let it be said that the foreign girl bends the Khal through blood rites. Silver hair and purple eyes, marks of an unnatural birth, heirs of a man who burned the others alive. Speak of her father's madness as sorcery, not cruelty, for Dothrakis' care not for it."
Varys nodded and replied, "Indeed, their culture is a cruel one."
Arthur added, "Name them siblings as vile abominations of incest and lustful beasts. Let the unborn child of the Khal be named as Viserys's seed."
Pycelle made a troubled sound. "Such lies—"
"Are sharper than swords," Arthur said coldly, "Use Ser Jorah. He will be believed where a stranger is not. A word in the ear of a bloodrider, a murmur among the kos, a lie repeated often enough becomes truth. Their distrust among each other will do what our daggers cannot."
Robert scratched his beard, considering.
Littlefinger tilted his head and smiled. "Why, ser, you name my plan uncertain one moment and yet give another the next." He turned to the king and said, "Words are wind, my king. Only the gods can command where they shall blow."
"It is still less uncertain than unleashing fools with knives," Arthur replied. "And much cleaner besides. My proposal brings no corpse bearing the king's seal. No martyr for the savages and the exiles to rally behind. If the Targaryens die, they die by barbarian savagery, not our royal decree."
Varys's sharp eyes lingered on him. "A most… elegant cruelty, but whispers are a fragile thing. The khal himself may not believe it, my lord."
"The Khal need not," Arthur said sharply. "He may be blinded by the dragon's cunt, but his bloodriders won't be. If enough men think him enthralled by a foreign witch, a demon god, challengers will come, and they will tear themselves apart."
Varys nodded in understanding.
Arthur looked at Robert and added, "They are not like us, your grace. They hold no loyalty to blood or names. The Dothraki turn upon weakness faster than the Ironborn upon a storm‑wrecked prize."
Robert barked a laugh. "Aye, gods, what savages! I almost pity the girl. Almost!"
Renly chuckled and said, "And Arthur's plan costs us nothing, too. No gold, no lands, no promises to regret."
"Well said, my lord," Arthur said to Renly and then to Robert. "And should whispers fail, Your Grace, I will see the matter ended myself. I will hire the knife and bear the blame. The crown's honor shall remain untouched. I give you my word."
Barristan's mouth had tightened to a thin white line. Arthur felt the old knight's disapproval like a draft across bare skin. Honorable men often recoiled from such things. Yet honor could not save the dragons before, and it wouldn't save them here either.
"So be it," the king said. "See it done, Varys."
The eunuch bowed. "As you command, Your Grace."
Robert shifted in his chair, already weary of secrets and schemes. "Enough of this ugly business, now. I need to hear of war, at least it is honest." His gaze found Arthur again. "When do we sail?"
Arthur also welcomed the change. "The fleet has already begun sailing, Your Grace. Two companies of fifteen hundred men each have sailed under Aurane Velaryon. The remainder waits only upon your presence. Once you embark, the rest of the host follows."
Renly brightened. "The Crownlands have answered well. A thousand strong men-at-arms stand ready for you, brother."
Arthur added, "We also had eight thousand horses loaded inside the fleet, for saddling two thousand mounted cavalry, and for mounts to carry the wagons. The supply wagons would contain grain, salt beef, timber for siege engines, and many other necessities. We shall have enough supplies for a year of campaign."
"All paid for as well already," Littlefinger added lightly. "Courtesy of Ser Arthur's… generosity."
"It is no generosity, only necessity," Arthur replied. "We sail to Tarth first and gather the remaining fleet. From there, we strike Bloodstone. The largest island, the heart of the pirate isles. Break it, and the rest shall fall in order."
Robert's face lit, and he said excitedly, "That's more like it, Gods, I have missed a proper war. A good bloody battle and bloodier siege is what I want."
"If we depart on the morrow," Arthur said, "Our ships would reach the Stepstones within the week."
The king laughed, loud and pleased. "Now that is what a council ought to be, at least one where a man could sit through. Gods be good, we'll be cracking pirate skulls and bed Lysene girls before the moon turns."
The council's talk drifted to other crown matters of levies and costs, but Arthur's thoughts shifted elsewhere.
A while ago, he had ordered Chataya to find proof against Baelish. She would have found something by now. The Mockingbird hid his rot beneath silk and coin, yet rot always scented the air eventually. And the bastard Janos Slynt was his lapdog, too. They needed to be removed. The seats of power did not empty themselves.
Arthur stepped from the council chamber into the corridor that led toward the Tower of the Hand. The late-afternoon light fell across the stone floors in muted bars. He still felt the tension of the council linger upon his shoulders. Lord Stark's honor had not bent to reason, and the king's temper had been pushed to a thin edge. He would need to soothe both, lest the realm fracture further under tempers and stubbornness. Their friendship had held the kingdom together for nearly sixteen years, and it must hold on longer.
As Arthur walked on, a very soft pair of footsteps echoed behind him, one that could barely be heard, but he knew what it was.
"If you wish to speak with someone, you should call out to them, Varys," Arthur said without turning.
A soft giggle came from behind, "I still wonder, Ser," the eunuch said, stepping lightly in Arthur's shadow, "Is it your knightly skills, or something else… that allows you to hear me when most others cannot?"
"Mayhaps, or mayhaps my ears are larger than most," Arthur replied, leaving no room for unnecessary familiarity. "Now, speak. What is it you wish to say?"
Varys caught up beside him and said, "I wished only to speak of our task, my lord. After all, the king entrusted you with the Princess's fate and me with the whispers of its shadow. A curious pairing we make, would you not agree?"
"What is there to discuss, Varys?" Arthur replied softly. "We will do our duty. You send your birds, make them sing our songs. And make certain they are heard. Nothing more. Nothing less."
The spider replied smoothly, "Of course, my lord. They shall sing our song. Yet one still wonders if the savages would believe the songs. My birds sing in many at tunes, some of them are difficult even for me to believe. They bring me songs of a one-eyed kraken hiding deep beneath the ocean, of a pair of lions hiding behind crimson cloaks, of blackened bats hiding in abandoned homes, and one song of a yellow ribbon floating beneath the stars."
Arthur halted mid-step, his boots echoing across the stone corridor. He turned slowly to face Varys, eyes narrowed and cold. "I assume the purpose of this conversation," he said calmly, "Is to remind me of the extent of your power and knowledge. To demonstrate how you can both be a friend or a danger to me. And in doing so, perhaps you wish to discover what I shall do if your whispers fail. Am I correct, Varys?"
The eunuch's expression flickered, subtle as a shadow, and before he could answer, Arthur pressed on.
"Well, let me ease your concerns then. I will see every last Dragon dead and buried. No matter how many spawns Daenerys bears to her savage khal, no matter how many bastards Viserys may sire, I will find them, and I will kill them. No matter where they hide, no matter what hands aid them, no matter what shadows shield them. Even if they are turned to stone, I will break them. This world will only remember them as tales once told."
Arthur's voice sharpened. "And whatever you believe you know of me, spider, know that I am aware of a few buried secrets of your garden, too. I know the truth of your little birds, I know what you do to them, and I know where you hide them."
Varys's eyes widened just slightly, the false amusement that usually lurked in his face paling, replaced by a momentary unease.
"So do your duty, and I shall do mine."
Turning on his heel, Arthur continued down the passage, leaving the Spider to its web. He hated Baelish, of that there was no doubt, but Littlefinger was simple to read. He desired gold, he craved power, and he craved recognition above all. Littlefinger could smile, plot, and pretend to serve everyone, but still, he would remain predictable. Because in the end, he would only do what served his ambitions.
Varys, on the other hand, was a riddle wrapped in giggles and powders. The spider was moving in currents Arthur could not see. He commanded whispers and shadows at a terrible cost, little birds, children cut and silenced, made into speechless slaves. The thought chilled him, as much for its cruelty as for its reach.
Arthur remembered that Marie had known one of those little birds, a mute girl with a crescent-shaped scar she called Moon. Through Moon, Marie had discovered tunnels running from his manse to parts of the city they had never otherwise known. And then after a year, the girl had stopped coming, as if she had disappeared.
Arthur's mind traced the unspoken truth that the girl had been replaced, or silenced. Perhaps both. He pitied those children, but they are required, for now. He will tolerate Varys so long as he is useful, and once his own network is stronger than Varys', then the spider will be gone.
Most understood King Robert's hatred of the dragons. The king's fury was loud and simple, born upon the grounds of Harrenhal, and still unsated even with the blood-soaked rubies of the Trident. Lord Stark's mercy was understood as well, though few agreed with it. Lord Eddard was a noble man who prized honor, he often clung to it as a drowning man clung to driftwood.
Arthur's hatred, however, few understood, and fewer still approved.
Many believed it sprang from kinship: from Lyanna's fate, or the murders of Brandon and Lord Rickard. Yet they had been names to him when he was young, distant figures spoken of in low voices. Their deaths were tragedies of history, not wounds of the heart. Even his father's fall had never birthed hatred in him.
Ser William Manderly had died, sword in hand, beneath banners and sunlight. A glorious death, as the singers would say, and so, Arthur had never blamed the blade that slew him.
No, his hatred had been born elsewhere. It had been born in lies.
As a child, he had been given gentle tales. Brandon and Rickard were beheaded. Young Lyanna died of fever and sorrow. His mother was taken by fever after a difficult birth. Each story was rounded smooth, as if the truth were too rough. Arthur had grown up on a foundation of lies. His grandfather, his uncles and aunt, even Lord Stark had offered him stories meant to soothe or conceal.
But not anymore. Arthur learned of Brandon's strangled death and Lord Rickard's burning in the wildfire. A noble lord cooked alive within his armor as his son choked himself to death trying to save him; all the while, the whole court just stood and watched. Lyanna's story came in fragments, dishonored, defiled and left to die in the sands of Dorne. Still, those tales had not been his true grief.
Arthur remembered the night he bound Bartimus to his will, the old gaoler's mind opening beneath rune and prayer alike. The man had wept as he spoke, though he could not stop himself. The Targaryens had come to White Harbor near the end of the rebellion, after the battle of the Trident. They came not as soldiers, but as killers sent with purpose, sent for the lord and the heir.
Bartimus had fought them in the corridors of New Castle. Lord Wyman himself, too, axe in hand, roaring like a maddened whale. Steel rang and blood ran. The killers had failed, yet death had taken its due.
Lady Helena had somehow been struck in the struggle and had been wounded enough. Enough to bring pain, enough to bring fear, enough to bring the child she was bearing, bring to the world too soon. She died in her bed while giving life to a child who never drew a single breath.
The dragon had missed its mark and still destroyed their world.
Arthur had not raged when he learned it; anger was for boys and kings. He had made a vow instead, a vow that did not demand revenge but protection. To never let anyone harm them ever again.
Arthur pitied the Targaryen children killed in the sack. He would pity the Targaryen princess, too. But pity was not mercy, and mercy would not keep the realm at peace. Had he stood beside Lord Tywin in the sack, knowing what he knew now, he would not have stayed the lion's claws.
Three hundred years of life beneath the dragons had given the realm only fire, ashes, and graves. So, Arthur would see their line ended before Fire and Blood ever touched his house again. And if that demanded a blade in the night, he would wield it himself.