Bran climbed confidently up the wall, gripping the small ledges and crevices that had formed in the stone over time. He had always loved climbing roofs and scaling high towers, and even his mother's sternest prohibitions could not keep him on the ground. The young Stark loved the sense of height that gripped him every time he conquered another tower of Winterfell. Even if the servants had already spotted him and would surely report everything to Lady Catelyn, his mother's wrath did not frighten Bran in the least. He was already used to it. Besides, right now the inhabitants of the castle were far too busy to worry about a boy who liked climbing walls. The masters of Winterfell and their guests had much more serious problems.
Prince Joffrey Baratheon, Robb Stark, and Theon Greyjoy had taken provisions, saddled horses, and, to everyone's astonishment, fled the castle, taking Sandor Clegane with them.
The howl raised by the Queen and Catelyn Stark, in Bran's opinion, reached the Heavens, where it was safely lost, unheard by any of the gods. Cersei, overcome by both rage and terror, ranted and raved, demanding that men be sent to all corners of the Kingdom of Stormwind and to find out which brainless fool had prompted her son to run away. Naturally, with the subsequent excision of the culprit's tongue, so the madman would never again dare to talk nonsense and give stupid ideas to young men.
Catelyn Stark was in complete agreement with the Queen, but with the caveat that, in her opinion, she knew exactly who was responsible. For her, it was Theon Greyjoy. A hostage in Winterfell, he almost certainly harbored a grudge against the Starks and Baratheons, and now he had decided to take his revenge this way. Eddard Stark himself stood up in Greyjoy's defense, as he simply did not believe his ward was capable of such blatant stupidity. Robert, who had once drowned the Greyjoy Rebellion in blood, was inclined to agree with Catelyn—surely the cursed kraken had plotted some villainy against the ruling family!
Bran remembered the expressions on everyone's faces well. Queen Cersei's face had turned white, her green eyes darkening with either rage or fear. She constantly cast anxious glances at her brother Jaime, who had also stopped smiling. The Kingslayer was certainly in no mood for laughter. King Robert looked greatly surprised; he apparently hadn't expected anything of the sort from his son and therefore simply didn't know how to react: whether to be happy or angry. Lord Stark's brows were sternly furrowed, and Lady Catelyn pressed a palm to her chest. They were all shocked by the words of Tyrion Lannister, who, as it turned out, knew perfectly well where his nephew had gone.
The young Prince, taking the heirs of two Great Houses of Westeros with him, had left for the Wall. Moreover, it was Joffrey who had initiated the trip, not the unfortunate Theon, who they had already been prepared to blame for the whole affair. Peering through the window, Bran well remembered the satisfied smirk of the dwarf, lounging on a wooden bench and sipping wine.
A strong gust of wind distracted Bran from his memories and forced him to concentrate on the present. One wrong move, and Maester Luwin would have to pick him up in pieces. Bran did not want to become a cripple, for then he could never become a knight, and the boy dreamed of one day joining the Stormwind Royal Guard, wearing a white cloak, and perhaps one day becoming as famous as Barristan Selmy, Arthur Dayne, or even Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight. He would certainly have to work hard to earn the honor of becoming a knight of the Stormwind Royal Guard, which would be simply impossible if he were confined to a bed.
Gathering his thoughts, Bran continued to climb the wall of the First Keep, as always aiming for the window with the broken frame overgrown with wild ivy. He had climbed through it into the tower many times before, but today, for the first time, the boy's ears caught strange sounds coming, without a doubt, from the broken window. Faint cries, an incomprehensible rustling, whimpering, and a sound as if someone were jumping. For a moment, the boy froze, listening to the strange noises and wondering what to do next. In the end, curiosity won, and the young Stark continued his way. Finally reaching the window, Bran peered cautiously inside and nearly let go of his grip in surprise. Inside the tower, desperately swinging a dagger, Arya was jumping, while her direwolf Nymeria watched intently, whimpering and howling whenever the girl shouted particularly loudly. How no one had reacted to these outcries yet was utterly incomprehensible.
"Arya?" Bran called to his sister and climbed through the window.
"Seventh hell!" the girl exclaimed, Nymeria immediately at her side. "Bran?! What are you doing here?!"
"And what have you forgotten here?" came the counter-question.
"I'm training," Arya tilted her chin up proudly, her eyes gleaming, but she moved her hand behind her back so Bran couldn't see the dagger. But he had already seen enough to remember whose belt that very dagger had been hanging from just a few days ago. Could Arya have stolen it? Impossible, his sister was no thief. It followed that the Prince had given her the dagger himself? Но why?
"Let's do this," Arya suggested, "you don't tell anyone you saw me here, and I won't tell anyone you're climbing walls again. Deal?"
"The servants already saw me, so Mother probably knows," Bran shook his head.
"And I'll say the servants are lying and we spent the whole morning together," Arya suggested with pure childhood naivety.
"And what if Mother believes the servants instead of us?"
"So be it. The worst that awaits you is the Night's Watch and the Wall, where they'll send you. But it will be much worse for me."
"And why is that?" Bran wondered.
"They'll make me use that stupid needle again and do embroidery with Sansa and the Princess," the girl sulked. "Oh, look how beautifully everything turns out for Princess Myrcella! How wonderful, how magnificent! Not like Arya, who's only fit for shoeing horses!"
"Has Septa Mordane heard you imitating her?" Bran asked.
"No," Arya ruffled Nymeria's scruff. "By the way, have you thought of a name for your wolf yet? Even Rickon calls his Shaggydog."
"Not yet," Bran sighed. Indeed, of all Lord Stark's children, only his direwolf still went nameless.
A loud caw made the children jump. Turning, they saw a massive black raven sitting in the window frame, watching them. Cawing once more, the bird spread its large wings and flew out, rapidly turning into a black speck until it vanished completely.
***
"You're a lot tougher than you look, Joffrey," Theon was smiling. In fact, he was always smiling, which sometimes irritated the Prince, though he didn't show it. Arthas himself didn't know the reason, but it was there. "How did you manage to subdue those smart-alecks!"
"They were ordered to return us to Winterfell, but not by force," Arthas tossed branches into the fire. "So they had no choice. Either they come with us, or they return empty-handed, which for them is equivalent to death. Knowing my mother, I can be certain she would order them all executed."
"And I thought you didn't get along with the Queen," Robb said. "Sorry, if..."
"It's fine," the Prince waved it off. "Yes, our relationship hasn't been great for a long time, but a mother is always a mother. Even if she doesn't show it, a real mother will always worry for her child. Otherwise, she isn't a mother at all. It's the same with the Queen."
The Hound remained silent, looking displeased at the young men who had wandered off to who-knows-where, while he would be the one to answer to their parents later. Not far from them sat the soldiers sent by the King. They had been ordered to return the three fugitives to the castle, but they had unexpectedly run into a problem—the young men had no desire to return at all. Moreover, they were determined to continue their journey, and if necessary, carve their way by force.
"You have a fairly simple choice, Captain," Arthas had said then, tossing his hammer over his shoulder. The Prince stood on the road, legs braced wide, making it clear that no one would move him against his will. The Hound and Stark had placed their hands on the hilts of their swords, and Theon had notched an arrow to a drawn string. "You can come with us to the Wall and return with us, and send a messenger to Winterfell with the news that the Prince and his friends are under your protection. At the end of our trip, we will return immediately, so there is nothing to worry about. Or you can all clear out of here together, leaving us alone, which certainly won't please my father, my mother, or the Warden of the North. And then there's the last and stupidest option. You can try to force us to go with you; there are more of you and you might even win, but what they would do to you for that, I'm afraid to even imagine. What do you say?"
Actually, there was nothing to think about. The Captain, cursing the Prince in his heart in every way possible, was forced to agree to the first option. One look at Clegane's fierce face was more than enough to understand how a confrontation might end. One of the soldiers was immediately sent back to Winterfell to convey the Prince's words, knowing full well he was risking his skin. It was unlikely the King and Queen, or Lord Stark, would like what they heard.
"Right, the rabbits are almost ready," Theon announced, checking the roast. Being an excellent archer, he had quickly secured fresh meat for his companions. Three rabbit carcasses, skinned and cleaned, were dripping with hot juice and giving off a divine aroma. Grey Wind, Robb's direwolf, paced near the fire, eyeing the nearly finished meat hungrily.
"You'd better keep your wolf away from our dinner, Robb," Theon grumbled, watching the beast. "I shot these rabbits for us, not for him. He's hungry? Let him go into the woods and hunt there."
"Hear that, buddy?" Robb wrapped an arm around the direwolf's neck. "Greedy Theon doesn't want to share with you; says you should get your own rabbits. That's how stingy he is."
"Say what you want, but he's still getting nothing. Joffrey, here, your rabbit is ready."
Thus, with jokes and bickering, the young men spent the evening. Deciding not to bother with trifles, they immediately agreed to address each other solely by their names, dropping titles and other formalities, and they quickly became friends. It was still a long way from a full, one might say, brotherly friendship, but in Arthas's opinion, it was already a good start. If he intended to successfully rule the Seven Kingdoms, he needed to start surrounding himself now with loyal people who could be trusted in the future. Besides, King Robert would only be happy that his heir had befriended the son of his best friend.
Sharing his dinner with the Hound and eating heartily, Arthas climbed into his sleeping bag and fell asleep very quickly. As a rule, he slept without dreams, and if he had them, he completely forgot their content by morning, as if they had never happened. But this time was different. The Prince found himself standing in the middle of a vast icy wasteland, swept by winds that howled so viciously they seemed alive. Because of the snow carried by the wind, almost nothing could be seen around him; only occasionally did clearings form, as if creating a path.
Not wishing to stand still, Menethil moved forward, shielding his eyes from the wind and snow. He walked stubbornly toward the unknown, feeling his limbs go numb from the cold and his face burn with fire. But then a glimmer of light flashed ahead, and Arthas rushed toward it until he saw a figure wrapped in a cloak, standing with her back to him. And even though her face was not visible, the Prince recognized her immediately.
"Jaina?" Arthas called. It seemed the wind drowned out his words, but the girl turned around immediately. But was it her? Where had her golden hair gone, of which only a single strand on her bangs now remained? Where did that expression in her eyes come from, full of hopeless longing, pain, and sorrow?
"Forgive me, Arthas," Proudmoore said softly, but the Prince heard her clearly and distinctly.
"You have nothing to apologize for," Menethil replied. He wanted to step closer, but an unknown force seemed to pin him to the ground. "You are not to blame for anything."
"I am to blame toward you," the Wizard shook her head. "Had I gone with you then, everything might have turned out differently."
"Most likely, you would have shared the fate of all who went with me," the Prince countered. Swords rang in his ears; he could hear the screams of those being killed. All those who had gone with him to Northrend. All those he had betrayed and personally killed. "I am glad you were not there."
"But there was a chance to fix everything," Proudmoore sighed, "but I pushed you away myself. I sent you into the Darkness myself."
"You didn't send me anywhere, Jaina," Menethil countered, "please, don't torment yourself. There is no point in grieving for what never was."
"My time is running out. Farewell, my love," Jaina said, dissolving before his eyes. "Forgive me for everything."
The girl, or rather the woman, turned into a scattering of sparks and flew away, driven by the wind. Arthas watched her go:
"It is I who should apologize to you."
And again he walked forward, drawn by an unknown goal. Arthas knew he had to walk this path to the end; he had no other choice. He noticed a flash of light immediately and rushed toward it, but he was soon met with disappointment. He had not the slightest desire to speak with this man.
"Well, boy, are you pleased with yourself?" Uther asked sternly, leaning on his hammer. "You have turned entire kingdoms to ruins, destroyed thousands of families, broken countless lives."
"It is not for you to judge, Uther!" Arthas exclaimed. "The man who was afraid to take responsibility for the fate of Stratholme! You knew there was no other choice, yet you fled!"
"Fled?!" the Paladin exclaimed, raising his hammer. "I did not wish to see what you were doing to the city that was home to me and my brothers!"
"Did not wish to see?" the Prince smirked, feeling a rising rage in his soul. "Then why didn't you stop me? Why didn't you interfere?! Because you knew there was no other way! And you fled, so you could later blame me for everything. And so you are all light and noble, and I am the culprit of the hour!"
"You are but a foolish boy, incapable of calculating the consequences of the decisions you make," Uther parried. "Incapable of understanding that by your actions you nearly destroyed the entire Order, and thereby only worsened the situation!"
"I understand everything perfectly well, Uther," Arthas hissed, feeling the rage burning stronger and stronger, turning into anger. "And I can assure you that if that situation were to happen again, I would do exactly the same. You see a murderer in me, but I see that I saved hundreds of people from a much more terrible fate, to which you, by your inaction, condemned them. If you expect an apology, you can leave. I have nothing to say to you."
"The day I took you as a student was Cursed," Uther replied, turning into a mist of light that was immediately dispersed by the wicked and cold winds.
Arthas trudged forward again. If the meeting with Jaina had moved the Prince to the extreme, the meeting with Uther had naturally infuriated him and made him feel that very rage that sometimes pushed Arthas to reckless actions. For a long time, Menethil had thought he had long since gotten rid of it, but here it was, again.
Arthas came to the foot of the throne quite suddenly. One moment it wasn't there, and the next he was standing before it. One didn't need to be a genius to understand who sat on the throne. Menethil looked up and gazed at the dead King, whose crown was missing one prong.
"Father," Arthas said, looking into the King's eyes.
"Hello, my son," Terenas replied. "You have come so far in your travels."
"I wanted..."
"No need for words," Menethil cut him off mid-sentence. "Just remember, my son: kings do not rule forever."
A powerful blizzard enveloped the throne, hiding it from view, but when the wind died down, Arthas froze, refusing to believe his own eyes. Before him stood a tall Warrior in heavy armor, clutching a sword covered in sinister runes. On his head sat a jagged helmet that looked more like a crown; his eyes blazed with blue fire.
"For the glory of the Scourge," the Warrior said in Arthas's own voice, then plunged the sword into the Prince's chest.
Ice bound his soul, the world began to sink into gloom, but with his last breath, Arthas saw the wind die down and the snow stop falling, revealing to his sight a vast army of the dead marching across the icy wastes. His eyelids closed; the world was swallowed by The Darkness. He floated in this darkness, not feeling his own body. There was neither heat nor cold here, neither joy nor regret. Sometimes it seemed to him that he saw the glimmers of distant stars, but a universal indifference swallowed him whole.
"You are lost, child," a gentle, caring voice sounded as if from nowhere. A figure woven from the Holy itself appeared before him, but he could not make out its outlines. "Poor boy, let me help you."
"Mother?" Arthas asked. The light began to dim; he noticed the first outlines, so strange and unusual that...
"Joffrey!" someone was persistently shaking his shoulder. "Joffrey, wake up!"
Opening his eyes, Arthas saw Robb leaning over him, with Clegane looming nearby. The camp was asleep, so Stark's whisper seemed louder than any shout.
"What happened?" the Prince asked, propping himself up on his elbows.
"You were moaning in your sleep," Robb replied. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes, everything's fine, just a nightmare," Arthas assured him. "Thanks for waking me."
Of course, he was not all right. And yes, he was not at all grateful for being woken up early. For now Arthas knew that there, in the Great Beyond, something had happened to him. And now he very much wanted to know who was behind it and what they were trying to achieve.
***
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan