The Prince of Nothing (WCIII/ASOIAF Crossover)

[nicetauren]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello everyone, after reading The King is Dead (one of my favorite fanfics on this website, by a guy named Halt), I've decided to try and bring a new vision to this crossover. Hence, we're going to have Arthas Menethil, The Prince of Lordaeron, now the Prince of Nothing, being reborn into Lancel Lannister.



**HE WILL BE CALLED ARTHAS IN THE STORY. INSTEAD OF LANCEL, KEVAN WILL NAME HIS ARTHAS. THIS IS AN AESTETHIC CHOICE. I PREFER HAVING HIM NAMED ARTHAS, INSTEAD OF LANCEL.***



We're going to start the story in 298 AC, before Jon Arryn has died, so we have some room to maneuver and set up the scene. Arthas will be blessed by the Light and will display Paladin powers. That might change as the story progresses and he changes as a person, based on his experiences. So he's going to be ~15 years old when we start the story, but Arthas would have already lived those 15 years as Lancel.



For now, all we need to know is he's been tasked by the Light to prepare this world for the Long Night and assume the mantle of king, but he's kind of confused. Why then, is he revived as Lancel Lannister?



The story will see him make a name for himself, accrue power, followers, lovers, believers and eventually assume the mantle of king, all in the name of preparing Westeros for the fight against the White Walkers.



Any discussion is welcomed and encouraged, be it plot or writing. This is my second fanfic, and this time I'm writing without any assistance, straight from the dome, as they say.


CROSSPOSTED FROM SPACEBATTLES.


THE PRINCE OF NOTHING





"My son, the day you were born, the very forests of Lordaeron whispered the name, Arthas."



I had never truly remembered when my father had said those words. I always assumed they had been a memory from childhood, or some figment of my imagination, after assuming the souls of every person I had killed.



What I do know is that I died once. On top of the accursed Icecrown Citadel, bleeding like a gutted fish on the ice, surrounded by "heroes" of the Coalition of the Living. My madness and need for control had driven me a dark path in that life, willing to do unspeakable things to save my people. Or so I thought. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, is a saying I recall frequently.



But I didn't die. Not truly. After darkness, had come the Light. So blinding, it enveloped my entire being, until I could see nothing else. And from that Light, came my mother. Beautiful as the last day I saw her, before I had joined the road with the Order of the Silver Hand. I remember her blonde hair and blue eyes, with a comely face, wearing a green dress, with blue accents. She had been strong, embracing me, wishing me strength of arms, and pious thoughts. Now, her eyes where shining and when she opened her mouth no words came, but pouring light.



"Prince Arthas Menethil, Prince of Lordaeron, King of Lordaeron, Blessed Lord, Paladin of the Silver Hand, First of the Lich King's Death Knights, Champion of the Scourge, Lich King, and now Prince of Nothing. Once a shining beacon of Light, turned into an icon of Darkness." the avatar boomed into my skull. If there was any. The pain was blinding, lancing through my mind, scorching my vision until it blurred.



Visions came to my mind then. Of a different world, a different continent than I had known. One that had a wall to the North, to keep out a land of ice. And far into that ice was a darkness, pulsing and oozing like a cancer. Then the images changed, and it showed me different kingdoms. Lands of rivers, lands of mountains, lands of sand, but none that I knew. Different coats of arms, ones of lions, of stags, of wolves; some of them looked familiar, but none had the look of Lordaeron.



"Darkness stirs across creation, Prince of Nothing. We would have you become a weapon of righteousness once more." it lanced into my mind again.



Images of armies came to my mind then. Different kings, with different arms, arrayed for battle. I could see the men hungry for glory, eager to show their mettle. Then, it showed them fighting, rivers of blood flowing between the kingdoms of the land. The dead piling one on top of another, in rivers, putrefying in the fields. And then from the north, came the cold and the darkness. And all those corpses in the fields started rising.



I could feel that cold, so similar to the one of my second kingdom, Northrend. It made my soul shiver and clench in fear.



"We would have you show your wisdom and strength." the light spewed out of her mouth again, making my eyes roll back.



The vision showed someone with blonde hair being crowned in a giant sept. The people where cheering, frenzied, while the figure was kneeling before a priest. The man was talking, but I could hear no words.



"We would have you show your restraint, when exercising your great power."



The vision showed another scene. A tall figure, armored, being surrounded by other knights. They were being attacked by other people, trampling one another to get to him. He was shouting orders, but once again, nothing could be heard.



"We would have you stir the hearts of your people"



The vision crystalized on a figure before a mass of people. He was on a podium, gesticulating at the masses. They were frenzied in their madness, shouting, raising their hands, throwing flowers at the figure. All of them were wearing white, with a seven pointed star inscribed on their chest.



"For you shall have to be king."

---

The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands, 298 AC



I shot up inside my bed, fists still clenched at my side. The memory of my resurrection, then. It had started becoming more frequent in the past few years, almost like it wanted me to remember. And how could I not remember the position it had truly put me in?



The Light had claimed me as it's champion. It had directed me to unite this kingdom, prepare it's people and it's lands for the coming darkness. It had named my future as king.



Why, then, did it decide to send me into the body of the queen's young cousin - a lesser lion with no drop of kingly blood in his veins, no true place in the royal line, and no power save what could be stolen from stronger men, won through service, or wrung from a court build on pride, appetite, and deceit?



I remembered Uther then, his voice low in the candlelit hush of a chapel. "The Light does not prove a man by shielding him from hardship, Arthas, but by revealing what hardship leaves behind. Ease hides the soul. Struggle strips it bare. When duty remains after pride, anger, and fear have burned away, then the Light has its answer."



I looked outside my window and sighed. For fifteen years, since my resurrection, I had contemplated questions such as there. Why give me such a quest, but remove the position I would need to accomplish it. Why not make me Prince once more? Was the struggle a part of my redemption?



Outside, I could hear the day beginning in King's Landing: gulls screaming over the Blackwater, carters rumbling through the streets below Aegon's High Hill, and the far-off clang of bells from a sept. This accursed city never truly slept. Even at the crack of dawn it muttered and groaned like some huge beast, all fish-stink, smoke, dung, waking men and the smell of human feces. It still astounded me how different King's Landing was from Lordaeron, the chief difference being the odour and the cleanliness.



Within the Red Keep the servants were already astir, their footfalls soft along the passages, while somewhere below a hound barked and a stableboy loosed a string of curses fit for Flea Bottom.



The questions eluded a clear answer, but what I knew was that I was as much of a servant as the people serving the Red Keep. So I got up from my bed, knelt by the window facing the Great Sept of Baelor and took up my daily prayer.



"Holy Light, hear me so:

Father, make me just.

Warrior, make me fearless.

Smith, make me unbreakable.

Crone, make me wise enough to know deceit when it smiles.

Mother, spare in me what mercy may still serve.

Maiden, preserve what innocence can yet be saved in this realm.

Stranger, wait for me a while longer.

Let me stand in honor…"



A knock on my door interrupted me before I could finish.



"Yes?" I responded, still kneeling in prayer.



"Milord, the king will want his squire at breakfast. He has begun stirring in his bed, so it won't be long before he calls for meat and ale." said a voice outside.



"I know. I will be out in a moment, Gardon." I replied, getting up.

I had insisted on keeping a washbasin in my chamber at all times, a habit carried over from the life I had lived before, where cleanliness had not been such a distant notion as it was here.



I finished washing, then dressed in a fitted crimson doublet worked with the arms of my house, and fastened the cloak I always insisted on wearing whilst serving at court.



Walking outside my room, I could see Gardon waiting for me. The man had served as a house-keep of the Red Keep his entire life, and knew it as well as any maester knew his books. His face was lined like old leather, and little hair remained upon his scalp. Even so,he was full of life and took a quiet pride in his work.



"How goes the day, Gardon?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.



"How else should it go, young lion? You should know better than most. There's always work to be done." Gardon replied, with a whisk of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.



"The King stirs, the servants answer, the Queen complains and the servants obey. Come. Let us find my cousin and see if he has taken his lessons to heart." I said as I moved off down the passage.

---

Tyrek had, in fact, not taken his lessons to heart. The boy had been half-asleep when Gardon and I came to his door. His hair was disheveled, his dress in disarray, and his face still marked by the remnants of sleep; he had all but been dragged from his chamber to the king's solar.



We had arrived early enough to see out the whores who had warmed the king's bed through the night. Two beautiful women: one blonde, with a figure fuller than the Mother, and another with skin as black as night, from the shores of the Summer Isles. I despised the king's appetites, but I could not deny his eye.



Inside the room, the king was already boisterous, striding about in an open robe and showing us more than any of us wished to see. Once, he must have been magnificent: great-chested, hard-muscled, and thick as an aurochs through the shoulders, but indulgence had made a ruin of him. The muscle was going to fat, the force of him turned heavy and swollen, so that what remained was less a warrior than the bloated ghost of one.



"Desire is a poor master, Arthas. Any beast may follow hunger." Uther had told me once, when observing the patterns of lesser men. "Only a man of the Light may govern it."



"Come now, little Warrior. Do not tell me you still look askance at my nightly pleasures," he shouted, slapping my back so hard I staggered. Beside me, Tyrek smothered a laugh.



"Squires ought to serve, not judge, my lord," I replied, straightening.



He flung an arm over my shoulder and dragged me against his chest. I could smell the night upon him: wine on his breath, sweat, and the lingering stench of his pleasures.



"You will soon become a man, Arthas. I've seen you in the yard and know your measure. Do not think yourself above such pursuits. A day may come when you're off on the war road, lonely as any man, and needing some warmth to drive it off. When it does, think of old Robert, and the way you looked at him each morning. Ha!" He slapped me again and shoved me off.



"Now bring me breakfast. The king is famished. And more wine. Those cunts drained every flagon in the room last night." He turned away then, lumbering toward the washstand.



In came the servants with trays of food: trenchers of bread, butter, sausages, eggs, cheese, stewed vegetables, and honeyed wine. A breakfast fit for a king. A breakfast that might have fed a small household of twelve souls.



The king fell upon it like a man dying of thirst in the desert. The speed of it was sickening, a great beast shoveling food into its mouth without pause or shame. Here was a man once ruled by a warrior's strength, reduced now to appetite and instinct. His great hands seized sausages and tore them apart before cramming them down his gullet. Grease ran over his fingers and stained the broad shelf of his chest. His shoulders, once fit to bear mail and plate, were flecked with crumbs and drippings. His face had gone red with exertion before he had even finished the first platter.



I watched in disgust from behind his chair. Tyrek swayed on his feet beside me, looking bored beyond endurance. I caught his eye, and he only shrugged. He had seen my expression.



How had a man like Robert: the fear of Westeros, the demon of the Trident, become such a gluttonous fool? Some part of me still thought he might yet be roused, that the warrior he had once been might be called back to life. Yet his appetite for food, wine, and flesh was boundless, while his appetite for rule scarcely existed at all. Each day I thanked the gods for Jon Arryn and the steadiness of his hand.



When at last the king had finished, he leaned back heavily in his seat.



"Bah, boy, now I'm not fit for any training. I'll have to content myself with watching you again," the king said, pointing at me. "How many knights was it last time? Three?"



"Two, Your Grace. My height and strength may outpace my years, but I'm no demon yet," I replied with a faint smirk.



Robert's laughter boomed through the chamber.



"Fifteen years old and already tossing about two knights in the yard, boy. Would that you had been my firstborn..." the king said, and for a moment the mirth soured in his mouth. My eyes shot to the Kingsguard stationed at the entrance. This would get back to the Queen again, I thought.



His lack of love for Joffrey was one of the worst-kept secrets in the Red Keep. The prince was spineless, pampered, and useless, a pretty little leech swaddled in silk. His appetites rivaled only his disdain for the training yard, and for that I blamed his mother more than him. Queen Cersei, bane of every decent soul in the realm.



My hatred for that woman and her incest-born whelps knew no bounds. To my eye, the truth was plain enough that I often wondered whether the whole court saw it and chose only not to speak. I had spoken of it to no one. Still, I could not look upon the royal children and doubt. They were Lannisters entire: golden, vain, and fashioned for luxury, with not a trace of Robert in them. Watching the queen and her twin brother, I found it impossible to believe their closeness was born of mere family affection.



"To the yard, then," said the King.



"To the yard, then." I replied, bowing my head.

---

I came out of the armory in a set of plate and carrying a blunted greatsword. It had been decided, after I caved in a knight's floating ribs, that I should no longer be allowed to spar with a warhammer.



Outside, the yard lay bright beneath the sun. Higher up, seated upon the benches, was King Robert, attended by servants already bringing him wine. Ser Barristan Selmy stood beside him, and when our eyes met, he gave me a small nod.



Ser Barristan reminded me of Uther. There was much the same manner to him: the same knightly bearing, the same fidelity to principle, the same sense of a life ordered around purpose and honor. It seemed a simple way to live, if one could manage it: a life governed by noble principles, where hard choices did not need making, only honorable ones. At least so it seemed in Barristan Selmy. I could not say the same for certain other members of the Kingsguard.



Around me, the yard was alive. People were already sparring and I could hear the clash of steel. In the middle of it all, I could spy the master-at-arms, Aron Santagar. The man was a dour Dornish knight, trim and well-kept, with the guarded look of a man who prized order, honesty, and the proper set of his own person. A man I respected greatly in matters of the yard.



"Good day, Ser Santagar," I said as I came up to him.



"Come to show off again, Arthas?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Last time, Ser Myles had to be carried to the maesters after your bout."



"Nonsense, Santagar!" I heard Robert boom from above. "I saw Myles angling for his knee last time. The cub had to finish it before he got hurt, and what a finish it was. Ha!" He slapped his meaty thigh, the sound carrying clear across the yard.



"Who is on the list today, Ser?" I asked. My skill with a blade had become common knowledge in the Red Keep ever since I had entered Robert's service. Men were beginning to queue for the chance to cross swords with the Lion Cub, a name bestowed upon me by none other than the king himself. I rolled my eyes at the memory.



"Ah, the usual suspects, I suppose. Ser Donnel, Ser Mandon..." He leaned closer. "And a little surprise, once you're tired. The king has been in a mischievous mood of late."



"A surprise?" I asked.



He only nodded, smiling, and offered no more than that.



"Very well, then. Keep your secrets," I said with a smirk.



While I waited for the knights to arrive, a memory came to me.



"Keep yourself honed, Arthas." said Uther, overlooking the training yard. "A dull blade fails the hand that wields it; a dull soul fails the Light that trusted it."



A shove broke me out of my reverie.



"You're day-dreaming again, boy," said Ser Donnel Shett. "Had this been a real fight, I'd have had your guts on the ground already. Open your eyes."



"That's the only time you could have my guts on the floor, Ser Donnel," I scoffed, pulling up my greatsword. "When I'm not paying attention to you."



He spat on the ground and smiled. "Good to see your day-dreaming hasn't robbed you of your fangs, Lion Cub," he smirked.



I rolled my eyes and took in the clearing that had been made around us. Ser Mandon Moore stood a couple of paces behind, sword and shield at the ready. He was talking with Santigar, but when he noticed me and Donnel talking, started walking towards us.



"Arthas," he said, giving me a nod.



Mandon Moore was an odd man. Broadly built, with powerful arms, he had something lifeless about him, as though he had been carved from pale stone and taught to move. His grey eyes were flat and cold. He was always dour, always grave, never a man for mirth.



"I trust you have prepared yourself for facing off against the Kingsguard." he said



"Cut the mummery, Mandon. This isn't the throne room," Ser Donnel said, thumping me on the back. "You think the great Lion Cub fears crossing blades with a common knight and one of the king's white shadows?"



I shrugged him off and turned to face them. "No need to mock me at every turn, Ser Donnel. Maybe I won't go as easy on you from now on." I replied, with a smirk on my face.



"Now you're starting to worry me, Cub," he said, getting into a ready stance. At his left, Ser Mandon was readying himself as well.



"Get to the fucking fighting, this isn't a mummers show, Shett. Stop trying to put the boy to sleep and start hitting him for a change!" came Robert's booming voice. I turned to see him red-faced with a wine goblet in hand, Barristan Selmy raising a brow at him, behind him.



Then I heard movement and only just managed to catch Donnel's strike on the flat of my blade. Moore was already coming in low, angling for my middle. I shoved Shett off, turned my sword, and caught Moore's blow, sending it skidding away. Before I could recover, Donnel was upon me again with a probing strike. I leapt back, and he followed with a shield bash that nearly caught me square. Moore came in from the other side at once, cutting high to exploit the opening Donnel had made.



I moved faster than I ought to have been able to, pivoted as he closed, and kicked him in the back of the knee. He sprawled. I turned back in the same motion and caught Donnel's strike on my blade.



His sword came once, twice, three times. I parried the last and answered with a brutal overhead cut. He raised his shield in time, but the force of the blow dented the metal rim and cracked the wood beneath. Splinters burst from it, and I heard the ugly crunch of stressed timber.



From the corner of my eye I saw Moore regaining his feet. I pivoted with the greatsword, meaning to take Donnel in his unguarded side while his shield was compromised, but he moved quicker than I had expected. My blow went wide, and I had to plant my feet to steady myself. Moore was up again, spitting dust and glaring at me with narrowed eyes. His bright plate was smeared with dirt. He did not care to be thrown down by a boy of fifteen. Few men would.



They came at me together once more, one high and one low. I took Donnel's strike and drove it sideways into Moore's shield while lashing out with my boot. The blow meant for me rang into Moore instead, and my kick sent Donnel crashing into the other man's body. They both staggered, and I seized the moment to swing the greatsword around and cut Moore's legs from under him. He went down hard. Donnel skipped back, flourishing his sword.



"You are always full of surprises, Cub," he spat.



I knew he was baiting me, trying to buy Moore time to rise again. Rather than answer, I rushed him with an obvious overhead cut. He brought his shield up to meet it. I feinted, drove the point down beneath the rim, and struck into his shoulder instead.



The blunted point bit hard enough to make him curse and drop the shield. My next kick took him in the knee and sent him down. I backhanded him across the face with my gauntlet, and he crashed into the ground, blood and spit staining the yard.



Moore was on me again at once. I turned and caught his strike. His shield came after, driving into me, and I took the hit while readying my blade for the next parry. Somewhere behind me Donnel was groaning in the dirt. I hoped he would forgive the blood. Fighting two men at once was no light labor.



Moore was angry now. I could see it in the sharpness of his attacks. He tested me once, then twice, each strike coming faster than the last. The man was good; of that there was no doubt. On the fifth attack, I caught his blade and turned it wide to my right. Knowing I needed to finish it quickly, I slammed my left elbow into the side of his helm.



The blow staggered him at once. I pivoted and brought the flat of the blunted greatsword into his knees again. He folded instantly.



I straightened and looked around. Donnel was still on the ground, clutching at his mouth and nose while blood ran through the fingers of his gauntlet.



"Fucking demolished, I told you, Barristan!" Robert roared from the benches. "Did you see the force of that backhand? He could knock a whore's head clean off for giving him backtalk!"



A whistle sounded then, and I saw Santagar strolling toward us. The yard had gone quiet. Every man there had watched the bout. I glanced about and saw knights speaking in low voices, gesturing toward the trampled ground where we had fought.



I sighed, walked over to Moore, and offered him my hand.



"Well fought, Ser Moore," I said, giving him a shallow bow. "The Kingsguard does not disappoint."



I received only a grunt in reply. He brushed the dust from his white armor and walked away.



I went to Ser Donnel next. He had managed to struggle back to his feet, though he still held his gauntlet over the lower half of his face.



"Did you truly have to do that?" he asked, his words muffled. "I think you've loosened three of my teeth, to say nothing of my nose."



"I told you I won't go easy on you this time," I replied smirking. Then I clapped him on the back "But seeing you in such a state does bring a tear to my eye. Maybe next time I won't be gauntleted."



I heard clapping coming from behind me, then. I turned around and smiled.



Standing a couple of feet away, resplendent in enameled white plate and a flowing mantle, stood Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. My cousin. The queen's lover. The prince's father. He was tall and golden, built more like a swordsman than a brute: hard through the shoulders, narrow at the waist, long-limbed and easy in his body in a way only great natural fighters ever were. His hair fell to his shoulders in a bright sheet of beaten gold, and his face was so handsomely made it might have belonged in some singer's tale, until one looked at the eyes. Those were Lannister eyes: vivid green, clear and feline, amused and contemptuous by turns.



He had been away for the better part of a year and a half, carrying the king's missives across the realm. I had missed him, and the advice he gave me in matters of the sword. What I had not missed was his peacocking. The man was very good, but he never let anyone forget it.



"Ever since I left I have heard tales of your improvement in the yard, cousin," he smirked. "I had almost feared there would never be competition in our line for the favour of the Warrior, but here we stand. A fifteen year old being pitted against a landed knight and a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, and winning."



"Kingslayer!" boomed Robert, making us both turn around towards him. "Let's see if the road has rotted your sword-arm away, or if it's only fit for running old men through the back! HA!" Robert laughed, wine being spilled from his goblet.



I saw Jamie's eyes tense at the insult. However, he had heard the same tale his entire life. One could never end up being named the Kingslayer and have a thin skin.



"At once, my Grace." he replied, turning towards me. "Let's see how well you have improved, cousin. Sword!" he barked out.



A squire came running out of the arming room, holding a blunted sword and a training shield.



"Shouldn't Arthas be given a moment, your Grace?" Santagar asked. "The boy has just fought two knights and now he would be made to face off against the Kingslayer aswell?"



"Nonsense, Aron! The boy can take it. Gods, look at him! He's built like a gods-damned stag. I never tired and neither would he. NOW MOVE!" bellowed the King.



In truth, being raised again by the Light had left something of its power in me. I never truly tired now. I could train from morning to night if need be. I could run for hours in plate or without it. I had tested the limits of my endurance more than once, and had yet to find them. My new body had been made better. Of that I had no doubt. But such gifts always carried a price. It only remained to be seen what mine would be.



A short cut dropped me out of my reverie. I jumped back and saw Jamie smirking at me.



"I see your greatest weakness remains what it has always been," he said, flicking in a second probing strike. "Your tendency to daydream."



I growled while dodging. He always made fun of me because of that, and always made sure I remember it.



I brought the greatsword around and caught the next few blows. He was only warming himself, taking my measure. His shield hung loose in his grip, eager to be cast aside. I knew my cousin preferred to fight without one. He was a master swordsman, and measured himself most naturally in sword-against-sword contests. In this case, my greatsword gave me reach enough to tempt him, so I baited him.



"I see you need a shield to face off against me now, cousin," I said through breaths. He was pressing me now. His sword working through thrusts, feints and then probes, moving faster and faster.



"Mockery will not win you an advantage, Lion Cub," he drawled. "Especially not when that greatsword gives you the longer reach."



I cursed inwardly. He had seen through me. I took his next slash on my blade, shifted my stance, and drove my foot into his upper thigh. I saw his grimace as the blow landed. I seized the initiative at once and pressed him back with a rain of heavy strikes, each one crashing into his shield. By the fourth, it was half ruined.



He danced back and cast the wreck aside. "I see your strength has improved," he said, spitting into the dust and narrowing his eyes. "I won't be holding back now, Arthas. That kick hurt."



Then he came at me faster than before, every strike landing harder, rattling my arms through the hilt. For all my size, I was still only fifteen, with growing yet left in me, and Jaime was a grown knight with years of true combat behind him.



On the eighth exchange he found an opening, slipped the point of his training sword into a gap at my shoulder, and sent pain jolting down my arm. My hand convulsed and nearly lost the hilt. Before I could recover, he struck me in the side, then pivoted and kicked me between the shoulders, sending me sprawling face-first into the mud.



"HA! Now that's what I call a fight. The boy is good, but he still has ways to go!" boomed Robert. "Kingslayer, I see the road hasn't turned your marrow into slurry. Attend me at dinner with Barristan, your sister will be there. Arthas, Tyrek, you are to be present aswell!" he shouted from the stands.



I groaned and sat up on my elbows. My mouth was full of dust. I spat out a glob and looked up to see Robert getting up and walking away, trailed by Ser Barristan.



"I see you've wormed your way into the King's good graces, cousin," said Jamie, coming around to offer me a hand.



"He respects martial might more than anything, you know that, Ser Jamie. I've begun to impress him in the yard, so he has taken to me." I replied.



"None of that Ser shit, Arthas. We're cousins, seven's sake. If we can't use our names, no one else should." he said, hoisting me up. "But I've heard tales that he has more than "taken" to you. I heard some talk about the Prince aswell."



I stiffened. Jamie noticed and raised an eyebrow.



"His Grace is making unwise comments regarding the Prince and myself," I carefully replied, looking around if anyone could hear us. The work in the yard had resumed, so the only sound that could be heard were shouts and clashing steel. "He wishes prince Joffrey might have taken more after him as a boy. To say nothing more of it… " I let on.



"I have tried to talk to Father about this, but he says I shan't say anything to his Grace. It would be improper, he says" I continued. "Perhaps Uncle would have some better advice, if he would come to King's Landing again. I miss speaking to him." I said.



"Miss him? God's boy, no one has ever missed Tywin Lannister." he said, laughing. "You are one strange boy, Arthas, you know that? Now come, let us wash ourselves and continue our duties while we wait for dinner. I trust we shall find more entertainment there, than in the yard." he smirked.



I laughed nervously, knowing what he meant. Dinner meant the prince. Dinner meant the queen. Always a pleasant time.



"Tyrek!" barked Jamie, turning towards where Tyrek was training his sword-arm. "Move your ass to the wash-room. We are to eat lunch then continue our duties until dinner." Tyrek groaned, but obeyed, taking off running. "You too," he said, looking towards me.



"Yes, cousin," I drawled out, turning towards the arming chambers.

---

The dinner chamber was no great hall meant for spectacle, but a lesser royal room within Maegor's Holdfast, rich enough all the same to remind any man where he sat. Dark carved paneling lined the walls between tall, narrow windows that admitted the late sun in bars of gold and red. At the center of it all stood the long table upon its low dais, with the king seated in the place of highest honor. Close by him sat the queen in all her hard bright beauty, with Joffrey and Myrcella placed near enough to be seen and heard. On the king's other side were Jon Arryn, grave and watchful as ever, then Renly with his easy grace, and Stannis with all the warmth of carved stone. Farther down sat Jaime, white-cloaked and golden, as much at ease at the royal board as if he belonged there more than half the blood seated at it. I sat below him, afforded a place at table only by the king's favor. Tyrek and Ser Barristan did not sit at all, but stood as part of the room itself, one green and restless, the other still as an old white tower.



Once, as prince of Lordaeron, I would have been seated near the king, overlooking such a table from a place of rank and expectation. Now, as no more than the queen's young cousin, I found myself set well down the board, close enough to witness power, too far to touch it.



"Remember this, Arthas: a realm does not suffer first from wicked men, but from weak ones set too high," king Therenas had once told me. And what if those weak ones are family, Father? I asked myself now.



The seat that ought to have belonged to strength, discipline, and inheritance was occupied instead by a cruel, vain, indolent child whose chief delight lay in causing hurt wherever he found weakness. Joffrey's pleasures were small and vicious. When he was not tormenting servants with impossible demands, he was out in the yards and gardens hunting cats, dogs, and other helpless creatures, attended by his favored white shadows, the men called Ser Boros Blount and Ser Meryn Trant.



Of all the mockeries in this kingdom, few offended me more than those two wearing the white cloak. They had not been raised for honor, nor for virtue, nor for any fitness of soul. They had been raised for pliancy, for cruelty, for obedience to the queen and to the golden interests of our house. A man could scarcely begrudge loyalty to blood and banner; such things were natural enough. But Blount and Trant were not men made for guarding a king. They were the sort better suited to a butcher's yard or a slaver's block, where brute hands and empty consciences were counted virtues. Yet here they stood, clad in the white of the Kingsguard, while true honor thinned and rotted beneath silk, gold, and false vows. Such was the state of knighthood in this realm. There was no Holy Light here to burn the oathbreakers clean.



"...the force of that backhand. He near put Shett's teeth down his throat. Gods, he's dreaming again. ARTHAS!" Robert's voice boomed down the table.



His interruption broke me out of my thoughts. I looked up at the table, having everyone turn their eyes towards me. I cringed internally, when my gaze met the Queen's. Her eyes were narrowed and I could see her fist was clenched so tight her knuckles were white. This would need careful consideration, lest it explode at the table. She was ever cautious and annoyed by any praise Robert threw my way.



"Apologies, your Grace. My thoughts had strayed to the yard." I replied, carefully. My gaze took in the rest of the table. Jon Arryn watched me over folded hands, grave and patient as ever. Renly lounged with practiced grace. Stannis sat rigid as judgment. Jaime looked half-amused already, as if he smelled sport coming. Joffrey looked only irritated that the king's voice had risen for anyone but himself.



"I have still to best Ser Jaime," I went on, inclining my head slightly toward my cousin, "and until I do, I'll not think much of my skill,"



That, I thought, was measured enough. Praise given sideways, deference shown where it would be noticed, and no boast left hanging in the air for Cersei to seize.



Jon Arryn's brow rose a fraction, as though he had not expected so neat a turn from me.



Before I could say anything more, I heard our dear Prince sneering before opening his cunt-mouth. "Must we hear of Cousin Arthas's sword-arm every time he bloodies some knight in the yard? If he loves being watched so dearly, perhaps we should set him to juggling for the servants as well."



For one heartbeat my fingers tightened on the stem of my cup.



"Patience is not surrender, Arthas. It is the discipline of waiting until strength can be spent to greatest purpose." Uther's words regarding patience came to me then. My will would be hard pressed in the years to come, if I would have to spend my time in the presence of the Prince.



"Robert has always had a fondness for loud displays. It spares him the trouble of judging deeper qualities." replied the Queen, acid in her voice.



Robert turned his head slowly toward her. "Quiet, woman. What would you know of judging a man? By the set of his hair? The cut of his velvet? The gold on his back?" He jabbed a finger in my direction. "The boy's got more of the Warrior in him than half the silk-roosters in this castle, and if our son had spent less time at your skirts, he might have learned the same."



He turned towards Joffrey then, grabbing the table. "I would have you spar with Arthas, so that you might learn something. He might even turn that slurry you call a spine into something resembling iron, boy," the king said, raising a hand and pointing it at his son. Joffrey had gone pale as milk, his gaze switching from Cersei to Robert.



Cersei's face hardened. "Do not speak of our son so," she said, low and dangerous. "I would sooner see him a prince than some dull brute with mud on his boots and blood in his mouth. Not every man is made for grunting after glory in a yard."



Robert's face darkened at once. His thick left hand closed over the edge of the table until the wood gave a faint complaining creak beneath it.



I had seen that look before. In another world. In other men. It was the look that came a half-breath before cups overturned and old grievances became fresh violence.



Renly leaned back in his chair and smiled his easy smile, as if the room had not just tightened like a drawn bowstring. "Much as I cherish these tender displays of domestic affection," he said lightly, "perhaps we might leave off whether cousin Arthas should beat the prince with a stick until after the sweet course."



Jaime let out a breath that might almost have been a laugh. Even Barristan's mouth seemed to tighten at one corner, though whether in approval or dismay I could not have said.



I could see Jon Arryn and Stannis exchange a glance during the display. I was almost certain the two of them had an inkling of the true parentage of Joffrey and the royal children. However, given my position and house, it was impossible to discuss anything with them.



"Bah," Robert grunted, throwing himself back in his chair with a muttered curse. "My wife always did know how to sour a meal. Jon! What of the realm?"



Jon Arryn dabbed his mouth once with a cloth before answering. "If Your Grace attended the council with greater regularity, the realm would be less mysterious to you."



Stannis did not so much as blink. "That would indeed lessen the need of asking."



Robert snorted. "And rob you all of your pleasures? Never. That is why I have you, Jon. And Stannis to count the stones in the walls, and Renly to smile at the realm until it behaves." He reached for his wine again. "The kingdom's in hand well enough. I've no need to sit through every cask tally and sheep quarrel in the Seven Kingdoms."



I had heard the tales all my life in this world and the last: Robert at the Trident, Robert in his first fury, Robert with a hammer in hand and a kingdom breaking around him. A man made for battle had been handed a crown and found it too small for his appetites. Had he been merely drinking himself toward the grave, it might have been counted one more royal tragedy and done with. But the thing meant to follow him was the creature Joffrey, a vile imbecile, and that made every cup he drained feel like another nail driven into the realm.



As the meal broke apart, Jon Arryn did not rise at once. He only looked at me across the wreck of cups and platters, his old eyes sharper than any young man's. He waited until the Queen had gone out of the room, along with most of the rest.



"Walk with me after," he said.



It was not a request.