The entire remaining journey to King's Landing, Arthas spent doing exactly two things: namely, studiously avoiding questions about Val and equally studiously trying to avoid the company of Sansa Stark, who in his presence either turned pale or blushed and at the same time babbled such incoherent nonsense that the Prince's jaw literally ached. Apparently, the daughter of the Warden of the North already imagined in detail not only her wedding to Baratheon—where in her fantasies festive garlands already hung everywhere, flags fluttered, and minstrels sang—but also their entire future life. Arthas saw all this in Sansa Stark's eyes during those rare short-term walks he couldn't avoid, no matter what pretexts and excuses he invented. Mother was adamant; the groom was supposed to spend more time with his future wife, especially in light of the fact that the future groom had dragged along heaven knows who. There was no choice, and Arthas, who did not want to quarrel with his mother again, was forced to go on such walks, but all the rest of the time the Prince tried to spend with the forward patrols, returning to camp only in the evening. If, of course, he managed to escape from the camp before Sansa or Mother noticed him first.
And so now Menethil suffered, listening to another babble from Lady Sansa, who rode her mare next to Arthas's Anduin, while following them at a short distance were the Hound on his huge horse and Lady Stark's young maid. After all, young people from the most noble families of Westeros could not be left alone if, of course, they didn't want a trail of the most diverse rumors to follow them. Queen Cersei, as always, insisted on the Prince's walk with his fiancée, and since Arthas didn't want to fight with his mother, he had to resign himself. Fortunately, they would reach the capital very soon.
"I so dream of being in the Red Keep as soon as possible, my Prince," Sansa said, to which Arthas replied with an indistinct grunt. "Even though I have never been to the capital, I am still sure it is the most beautiful place in the world."
More like the most dangerous, the Prince thought. The most seasoned intriguers of Westeros had gathered there, who had such an amount of poison saved up for those around them that the most venomous snakes would envy them. Val herself felt not the slightest desire to go to the capital, but she essentially had no choice.
"In two days we will be in the capital, Lady Sansa," Arthas replied politely, making Stark blush immediately. "You will have plenty of time to look at the beauties of the city; I only fear that you may be disappointed in them."
"How could I?!" Stark opened her eyes wide. Arthas, turning away, rolled his. "King's Landing is the capital of Westeros! The largest city on the entire continent! Aegon the Conqueror himself founded it, and from there his descendants subsequently ruled the Seven Kingdoms, just as your father rules them now, and you and your children will rule them!"
"To whom you have surely already given names..." Arthas finished mentally. From this conversation, he resolutely wanted to spur his horse and gallop into the distance, as far as possible from here and from Sansa Stark. He didn't understand at all why his father decided to conclude this marriage, even if the father-in-law would be the King's best friend. At the same time, the Crown Prince realized that he was judging too harshly, for before him was essentially a child, while he himself was a grown man, just in a young body. Besides, in this world, exactly two things were required of a girl who was to become a queen: impeccable origin and the ability to give birth to healthy children. That was it. Brains in this list of requirements were a desirable, but still optional point.
Only Arthas himself was used to communicating with other people. Jaina Proudmoore was much smarter, and her speeches never boiled down to childish babble that created an irresistible urge to get drunk. Or maybe Arthas himself understood little in those years, and such words didn't cause him rejection? Go figure it out now. The Prince was distracted from further reflections on this topic by a rider on a bay mare; the crowned stag of the Baratheons adorned his cloak. Seeing him, Clegane immediately rode closer, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. Just in case.
Reining in his horse, the guardsman addressed Menethil:
"Your Highness, the King requires you, immediately."
"What happened?" Arthas asked.
"I cannot know, Your Highness," came the reply, "but a messenger has arrived from the capital with an urgent dispatch."
Considering that there were only two days of travel left to King's Landing, something truly important must have happened for the Small Council to need to inform the King urgently. Well, and if one remembered that Robert Baratheon hated dealing with state affairs, preferring to shove duties onto the shoulders of others, the news was definitely alarming.
"I fear, milady, that our walk has come to an end," Arthas turned to Sansa Stark. "Please excuse me for this."
"You have nothing to apologize for," the girl replied, looking at the Prince with loyal eyes. "The King is calling for you."
"Clegane, stay with Lady Sansa," Arthas ordered, "escort her to the camp."
"As you command, Your Highness."
Spurring Anduin, Menethil headed for the camp, on the one hand glad for the end of the walk, and on the other trying to guess what exactly had happened. At one point, the thought even flashed through his mind that the enemy from the North had struck first, thereby catching the Seven Kingdoms by surprise, but arriving at the place, he found that nothing had changed in the behavior of the royal retinue; everything was going as usual. Only the guards standing at the pitched royal pavilion looked anxious, but only because loud voices were coming from behind the flap. King Robert and Lord Stark were arguing.
"You want to kill a child, Robert! A child who has done nothing to you!"
"That child is a fucking Targaryen, Ned! Soon she'll spread her legs and start birthing other Targaryens! After which that bitch will lead the Dothraki to our doorstep!"
"And so what?! I will start to fear this girl and her savage husband only when the Dothraki horde learns to gallop on water! And if they even by some miracle get hold of ships, we'll throw them into the sea as soon as they land!"
"I will not allow that cursed dragon-woman even to set sail from Essos!!!"
The servants passing by the pavilion felt their legs give way at the King's mad roar; they couldn't even imagine what Baratheon might do in such a rage. Arthas, however, entering cautiously, saw firsthand that Baratheon and Stark were good friends and comrades-in-arms. Any other lord who dared to raise his voice at him, King Robert would have killed with his own hands. The disputants themselves were found on opposite sides of a round table, looming over it. Renly Baratheon and Ser Barristan Selmy were also present, but judging by their pale faces, they would have preferred to throw themselves at a living dragon than intervene in the argument.
"What's all the noise about, and no fight?" Arthas asked, although he already knew the answer.
Targaryens.
"Here, read," Baratheon handed him a letter, while trying to burn Stark with his gaze. The latter answered him with the icy look of gray eyes.
Unrolling the tightly wound scroll, Arthas read an urgent report from Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers. He was responsible for intelligence and gathering information about all the lords of Westeros and their plans, as well as what was happening outside the Seven Kingdoms. The eunuch's "little birds," as he called his spies, had flown all over the continent and even far beyond its borders, and this time they brought news from Essos. News, in Arthas's opinion, quite alarming and completely untimely.
"To be honest, I didn't think the Beggar King would decide on such a desperate step," Menethil said, placing the letter on the table. "To marry off his only sister to a real savage... An unexpected move. How does this threaten us?"
"If we believe the information Lord Varys obtained for us, this savage, Khal Drogo, has forty thousand riders," Lord Renly replied. "His khalasar is the strongest in the steppe; he is feared and respected. He could become a serious problem, especially if Viserys Targaryen enlists the support of other allies. For example, among the lords of Westeros."
"Some of them still consider me a usurper," Robert explained, noticing the bewilderment on his son's face. "During our rebellion, they stood on the side of the dragons. If they suddenly feel our weakness or, the Seven save us, decide that the Targaryens have a chance to regain the Iron Throne, they will immediately betray us. This means we must ensure that this little brat Viserys doesn't have a single chance. His whole adventure is built on this alliance with the savage. It must be destroyed."
"That is, to kill," Arthas looked into the letter again, "Daenerys Targaryen? Did I understand correctly?"
"Exactly!" Robert exclaimed, ignoring Stark who was shaking his head. "That bitch must be killed before she births a child for that bare-assed savage!"
"The decision is not the most pleasant, but I see no other way out," Renly Baratheon supported his brother.
"I disagree," Lord Stark intervened. Barristan Selmy remained silent. "The girl is not dangerous to us, nor are the Dothraki. No matter how strong they are in their steppe, here everything is different. Even if they by some miracle cross the Narrow Sea, we will crush them."
"Damn it, Ned, you're at it again!" the King cried out. "Even without an army of those fucking savages, that bitch and her idiot brother are a threat to my power! There will always be traitors who want to help them! And I told you back in Winterfell that I will not rest until the last cursed Targaryen is dead! And I don't understand why you are against it!"
"Because I do not live in the past," Stark's calm voice hit the king like a bucket of ice water. "Because I do not take vengeance on a child who is not to blame for the sins of his family."
"One more word about the past, Ned, and I'll punch you in the face," the king promised. "You may have forgiven them, but I never will!"
"Father, you said the Targaryens still have allies in Westeros," Arthas intervened in the conflict. "Who exactly?"
"The most powerful of them are the Tyrells and the Martells," Renly answered instead of the king, casting a keen look at his nephew. Arthas knew what the Lord of Storm's End was thinking right now.
A week earlier.
"So, what did you want to talk to me about, uncle?" Arthas asked.
"Nothing special, dear nephew," Renly waved a hand, flashing a smile. He was always smiling and often laughed at the slightest provocation. "I'm just interested in your opinion."
Baratheon took a medallion from his neck, opened it, and showed Arthas a portrait of a beautiful girl of fifteen. Long hair fell over her shoulders, and from a pretty face, brown eyes shone with a sharp intelligence. The girl's portrait was framed by golden roses, which clearly spoke of her belonging to House Tyrell.
"And who is this?" the prince inquired.
"The one I plan to call my wife in the future," Lord Renly replied cheerfully.
"Has the seventh hell suddenly frozen over?" Arthas wondered. "Well, seriously though, it's about time, uncle. Of all the lords of the Great Houses, you are the only one without heirs, which could lead to serious problems if something, gods forbid, happens to you. So who is she?"
"Margaery Tyrell, the only daughter of Lord Mace Tyrell; she has three older brothers. The girl has already blossomed, so her father is actively looking for a groom for her, someone sufficiently noble and respected."
"Well, I can only advise you not to waste time," Arthas said, not quite understanding why Lord Renly needed his opinion specifically. The prince even suspected that his uncle had arranged this semblance of a viewing for him personally, though it was unclear why.
Now.
Deciding not to clutter his head with his uncle's strange maneuvers right now, Menethil turned his attention to the current problem standing before him in full height—specifically, right now he needed to calm the king, who instantly lost his temper at the mention of the deposed dynasty.
"The news isn't the most pleasant, to tell the truth," Arthas began, feeling as if he were stepping on very thin ice. "The Targaryens are certainly a threat to our power, but at this moment, Father, if I were in your place, I would listen to Lord Stark's opinion."
Everyone was taken aback by these words, including the mentioned lord. Meanwhile, the prince continued:
"As long as the Targaryens and their savages sit on the other side of the sea, they pose no danger to us."
"Are you seriously saying this to me?" judging by his voice, the king was ready to explode at any moment.
"Who is Daenerys Targaryen, Father?" he had to exert every effort to speak as convincingly as possible. "Nobody. A non-entity. A girl who has spent her whole life trailing after her mad brother. The Beggar King is a laughingstock to all of Westeros and a good half of Essos. No one has taken him seriously for a long time. And especially now, when he has given his sister in marriage to a Dothraki..."
"I agree with Prince Joffrey, Your Grace," Sir Baristan spoke up for the first time. "Viserys Targaryen made a mistake by betting on the Dothraki—barbarians who are worse than the Ironborn. None of the lords of Westeros, if they are in their right minds, will want to link their fate with a man who leads a mob of savages. Viserys has doomed himself to defeat; in the event of an invasion, all Seven Kingdoms will stand against him. Even the Dornish are unlikely to agree to such an alliance."
"And what do you suggest?" Lord Renly inquired, while his crowned brother processed what he had heard.
"Do nothing for now," Arthas replied, feeling much more confident. Since the king wasn't stomping his feet or threatening to execute everyone present, it meant he was actually listening to their words. "Let them wander the steppe until the end of time for all I care."
Seeing the dissatisfaction on his father's face, Arthas added: "After all, we will always have time to kill the last Targaryens."
***
"So what did they decide?"
"To do nothing for now. Prince Joffrey suggested waiting; Sir Barristan Selmy supported him."
"And the usurper agreed?"
"As you can see, my friend. The prince possesses enormous influence over the king, which he does not hesitate to use."
"He could become a threat."
"Could? No, my friend, you are mistaken. He already has."
"And what shall we do?"
"Oh, do not worry. I have already prepared the necessary steps. We will use Stark."
***
"Lord Stannis, a letter has arrived from King Robert."
"What does he write?"
"The king commands you to prepare the fleet for the transport of troops to the North. He also demands your presence in the capital for the arrival of the new Hand."
Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, silently reached out, took the letter, and studied it thoroughly. A tomb-like silence hung in the hall; everyone awaited the decision of Baratheon, who in turn turned his gaze to the woman in red standing beside him. Taking the royal order, she threw it into the brazier, then stared intently into the flames, as if trying to see something inaccessible to the eyes of others.
"Everything is proceeding as it should," said Lady Melisandre, priestess of the Lord of Light. "King Robert's death is inevitable, after which you will take the Iron Throne, which belongs to you by right."
"Such is my lawful right, which no one dares to dispute," Stannis surveyed the present vassals with a heavy gaze. "After my brother's death, it is I who am the rightful king, as Queen Cersei betrayed my brother."
The lords murmured in agreement and nodded their heads, but none of them uttered the sacred, exposing words. For right here and now, while building plans for the future, Stannis himself was betraying his brother, not saying a word to him about the conspiracy being prepared against him, nor about the true origin of the king's children. Stannis Baratheon already saw himself on the throne, and woe to anyone who dared stand in his way. Including his own brothers.
***
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