A Golden Path: Foundation 2.10 (ch. 19)

“Yes! Yes! Brandon- get them! Get them- yes!” Rickard heard his only daughter hiss with approval, and he found himself very grateful for the private booth that was arranged for the Wardens and Lord Paramounts. She was entirely transfixed by the conflict below, as his son and her brother were putting on quite the show. Rickard hadn't quite been sure what to expect from such a grand battle where eight sides fought for supremacy. 

Perhaps that the Melee would be more fragmented. Those that couldn't find ready alliances being crushed beneath those that code, until only the grand alliances survived. Then the same fate would happen to the lesser alliances, until the victorious then turned on each other. One would remain the victor, and with victory came glory and prestige. 

Rickard was a greedy man. He knew that. Which is why he had tried to restrain his hopes -- placing in the top three, with Brandon remaining whole, was the most that he could ask for. That's what he told himself. But, much like his daughter, Rickard found himself hoping for more. 

It had been an hour since the Melee began, and the reality of it was nothing that Rickard had expected. 

The Reach had been eliminated entirely. The Stormlanders carved them in two at the onset, and they simply never recovered. And, with their fall, one of the strongest contenders for the victor had fallen first. Next came the Iron Islanders. On the sea, they were peerless. Rickard loathed them, but he could recognize that. But, on foot and dry land? Surrounded by those whose coasts they had raided and pillaged for millenia? 

The only shock about them being eliminated was that they hadn't been eliminated first. 

The Westerlands weren't fairing so well. Jaime Lannister had fallen to Robert Baratheon in single combat, and they lost their leadership with him. Worse, because of that reckless charge, both they and the Stormlanders had lost their cavalry. They were looking to be the next eliminated as their numbers were being ground away. Meanwhile, the Stormlanders managed to put up a united front with Dorne, and with it, they were hitting Rickard's own alliance -- the North, the Eyrie, and the Riverlands. 

All the while, the Crownlands were being pushed to the side, crushed between the grand alliances.

A dark part of Rickard wondered if he was watching history in the making. A sign of the future. 

“Yes! Yes!” Lyanna nearly jumped out of her seat to cheer, and was only held at bay by Ned grabbing her hand before she could fully rise to her feet. Ned seemed entirely too amused for his own good, but he still did his duty in preventing her from making a scene. Though, Rickard was sure tongues would still wag about her obvious excitement. They'd call it unladylike -- a Northern barbarian who got excited by the fight and bloodshed. 

It pricked at his pride, but Rickard mollified himself by watching the centerpiece of the Melee, and that was the North. 

Or, rather, Paul Atreides. 

In an event that was already going to be spoken about for generations, Paul had placed himself in the center of it. His duel with Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of Morning, was already the stuff of legends. But in the time since, he had also dueled Ser Lewyn Martell and Ser Oswell Whent -- the best of the kingsguard felled one after another. It was with his daggers that he cut lines through the formations that Brandon exploited to full effect. 

And it was now that the legend that Paul was crafting for himself was gaining another stanza as the audience was enraptured by the duel between him and Robert Baratheon. Overwhelming strength against pure speed and dexterity. The rest of the Melee felt almost like a distraction as the two young men fought to dazzling effect. 

Robert had come prepared to fight Paul, that much was evident. Likely armed with knowledge and experience of their time together on Skagos. The young man, who normally fought like a raging bull with entirely too much precision, was fighting defensively, waiting for that one opportunity he would need to end the fight. Paul was no less aware of it, so he sent a dizzying amount of feints, attempting to provoke a reaction that would decide the outcome. 

There was part of him that wasn't certain who he wanted to win. Paul had covered himself in glory already, and any more could overshadow his son. He was gaining great influence and riches already, but that came from trade. Something that all lords looked down upon, but that distaste for it and him could be tempered. Westeros loved its warriors and knights, Northerners and Southerners alike. Rickard had witnessed first hand exactly how much you could get away with when you were good in a fight. 

After this? Defeating three members of the Kingsguard, and one of the finest fighters of his generation? Even as lords would look down upon him for his sparse holdings and wealth through trade, they would admire him as a warrior. It felt as if one of the levers that Rickard could use on Paul was being greased against his palm. 

The other part, and the admittedly much larger part of him, wanted Paul to win. To pave the way to victory, making the North the uncontested greatest warriors of the Seven Kingdoms. To make his son admired because he was the one that led them on the field, and Rickard would make damn sure that everyone knew it. 

Rickard was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly missed it when it happened. 

Robert saw his opportunity or he simply got tired of the feints. His warhammer, three times the size of a normal one, yet he swung it twice as fast. For a split second, Rickard wondered if he was about to watch Paul die as the swing was sent at his head. His heart lurched in his chest, the foundations that he built his vision of the future on felt like they were built on sand. 

Yet, Paul simply leaned his head out of the way by pivoting on a foot so he spun around it. Then, with the very same action, he trusted up at Robert's throat with his dirks. Robert went so still that Rickard then feared that Paul had just killed the heir of the Stormlands, only for Robert to throw his head back. He couldn't hear it, but Rickard recognized the same deep bellied laugh that he had apparently inherited from his father. 

“Robert lost?” Ned muttered, sounding as if he didn't know how to feel about that. “He'll be sore about that. I think he bet all his winning on himself.” 

“Will he hold a grudge?” Rickard asked, startling Ned out of his thoughts, but his son quickly shook his head. 

“Only if Paul refuses to fight him again,” Ned reassured him and Rickard breathed a bit easier. His relationship with Steffon was strained, and it would only grow more strained as Steffon realized what the others were doing in recruiting Tywin. However, Robert and Ned had a fine friendship that reminded him of his own when they were their age. And, as much as it made his heart ache at the thought, if Steffon died then that friendship would be the bridge to bring the Stormlands and Dorne into the fold. 

Five of the Seven Kingdoms. 

There was an errant thought in the back of Rickard's mind that he couldn't quite quash. Even as he watched the rest of the Melee unfold. It was a shameful thought. One that disgusted him, but it came to him all the same and he pondered it as he watched but paid no attention to the Melee. 

The Westerlands were eliminated next, following the Stormlands. Dorne ground away at the Crownlands, with Oberyn Martell being the one to fell Prince Rhaegar. Something that brought only momentary relief that it hadn't been Brandon to do it, as that would polarize things with the Crown and jeopardize the temporary favor they enjoyed. 

After that, Paul defeated Oberyn Martell in another duel, which in turn led to Dorne being crushed under the weight of three relatively intact kingdoms. 

There was a slight twitch from Rickard when both the Riverlands and the Eyrie fell upon the North as they were the last three standing. However, it was to be expected. Brandon dueled Elbert Arryn, while Paul dueled the Blackfish. It became nothing less than a brawl -- three hours of nonstop fighting was brutal, and none had the manpower reserves to cycle the lines that they fought in. The once graceful and noble fight became filled with brawling, exhausted offense against a spent defense. 

The Riverlands were the next eliminated, leaving only a dozen men of the North against thirty of the Eyrie. Rickard braced himself for second place, yet one by one, the Eyrie knights were brought low. 

Then, with Brandon's defeat of Elbert… 

“We won!” Lyanna cheered, and this time Ned didn't bother to stop her because he was on his feet alongside her. The crowd was roaring at the unexpected victor, enjoying a good show even if it had cost them their bets. New life had been breathed into the victors as they began to strut about along the battlefield, arms and weapons in the air as they shouted back at the roaring crowd. 

Rickard breathed in slowly, allowing himself a moment to savor the victory. And hoped desperately that it was a sign of things to come. 

…

“Yes,” Tywin Lannister uttered the words with a heavy since of finality and barely concealed rage outside of the medical room. The Proud Lion’s hands were clenched into fists so tight that they trembled with white knuckles. His gaze was boring a hole through solid stone as he sat with a quite unrelenting fury. 

Rickard hadn't said a word yet. He just made the approach under the guise of wanting to wish his son well, as Jaime had apparently been badly injured during the Melee. Rickard only heard about it after the whole ordeal was over, and he realized it was an opportunity to draw Tywin into the conspiracy. “Yes?” 

“Yes,” Tywin confirmed through gritted teeth, turning his gaze to Rickard and he saw the unrestrained hatred in his bright green eyes. “Your efforts have hardly been subtle, Stark. Fosterings, marriages -- only the goal remained obscure. Aerys is under the impression that it's for coin, especially now. However, I recognize a snake when I see one.” Rickard supposed he should be insulted, but he wasn't. It was hard to take offense when the remark was true. 

“Now, you come to me -- out of favor, my son and heir crippled.” He spat the word out like the bitterest of poisons. “All on the order of the king.” 

Ah. Tywin saw a conspiracy against him. And, perhaps, he might be right to. From what he knew of Robert, the boy didn't have a thought in his head that someone else hadn't given him. Simple but direct. It could very well be possible that Steffon, or even the king himself, had approached him about what should be done should he face Jaime Lannister on the field. There was no guarantee, of course, but luck was simply opportunity meeting preparation. 

“Twenty years. I've given him twenty years of service and this is how I am repaid,” Tywin continued, and Rickard found himself… unsteady. Never before hard he heard such a maddened how of rage be so tightly restrained in a man’s voice. Tywin sounded like he was furious enough to tear the whole Red Keep apart with his own bare hands, yet that rage was bound in a leash and chains. Turned into an ice cold fury as chilling as winter. “Your intentions are plain to me, Stark.” 

Rickard lingered a moment before he walked forward and took a seat next to the fuming Lannister Lord. “How is he?” 

The question got a crack on the mask that Tywin struggled to hide. “He's lost an arm,” he informed, his tone harsh. As if he had to force the words out his mouth. “Not his sword arm, thank the gods, but-” Tywin didn't so much as trail off as he cut himself off, not trusting himself to continue. 

There wasn't really anything to say to that. Ant reassurance would be worthless. The loss of an arm was crippling. Debilitating. Jaime had been reputed as a potential great warrior, and he'd never realize it with a single arm. Still, he had to say something. “He's young. He can adapt.” 

Tywin said nothing, but his jaw clenched. Rickard could hear his teeth grinding, and it was a wonder that they didn't shatter. But, when he did speak, his voice was tightly controlled, “My daughter will wed Elbert Arryn. My son will marry Lysa Tully.” 

Rickard swallowed his indignation that his children hadn't even been considered. “Aye. You'll have to discuss weddings with them, but they're prepared to agree to that.” He agreed, equal parts apprehensive and relieved at how easy it was to bring Tywin on board. “Anything else?” 

“He dies,” Tywin voiced, and there was no room for argument. 

That wasn't ideal. No, it was quite the opposite -- that was the exact opposite of what Rickard wanted. The goal of the alliance was collective bargaining power that would impose limitations on the King. Limitations that should have been put in place the moment the royal family lost their dragons. 

Killing the king delegitimizes the conspiracy. It made it a coup, even if they did install Rhaegar onto the throne after removing Aerys from power. 

Yet, it was a condition that Rickard had been prepared to accept. “The king is ill as it is… and these are trying times,” Rickard replied, his voice low. A public execution wouldn't be accepted, but in the months following the imposition of their demands? When Aerys was shuffled out of sight and forgotten? 

People would suspect, of course. They'd be fools not to. But, without proof, it became difficult to act. 

“So they are,” Tywin agreed, and with that, they sat in silence. 

…

Rhaegar felt like someone had kicked his legs out from underneath him, “He said what?” Even now, when he wanted to shout the question at the top of his lungs, he didn't dare to. He whispered the question sharply, his face paling and his mind racing. 

Arthur seemed every bit as uncertain as Rhaegar felt as they recuperated in his quarters. “He said… ‘tell the prince that he has an ally against those that lurk beyond the Wall.’” 

Rhaegar hadn't meant for Arthur to repeat himself, but the words only truly settled when he heard them again. Paul Atreides, the unofficial grand champion of the Melee, and the man who plagued his dreams like a chill he couldn't cast off… was an ally? “How could he… how could he know?” The question felt weak and feeble as he uttered it, and more than anything else, Rhaegar felt…

Scared. 

Fear gripped his heart because everything was tossed into disarray. The assumptions that he was building off collapsed like a sandcastle before the tide. He had more questions than he could count, and he was afraid of the answers. Yet, even as fear gripped him, there was hope. 

An ally. Something he never dared to hope for. Even Arthur, his fastest friend and closest confidant, struggled to believe him at times when he spoke of the White Walkers. Rhaegar didn't begrudge him fir his doubts. Rhaegar rather wished that he was simply mad. 

No, he realized, leaning heavily on a chair. He had hoped that he was. He hoped that every preparation that he would ever make would prove to be unneeded. That all of it was a figment of an overactive imagination. He'd likely be remembered as a fool, but Rhaegar would take that over something dreadfully worse -- that he was right. 

And now Paul was offering a hand in alliance because he also believed in the threat beyond the Walls. 

“I must speak with him,” Rhaegar heaved, struggling to breath through the lump in his throat. 

“Is that wise, my prince?” Arthur quickly challenged him. “He claims to be an ally, but allies don't lurk in the shadows and speak through intermediaries. He's had ample opportunity to speak with you about this. The only reason he would tell you this now is if he wants you to come to him on his terms.” Rhaegar bit his tongue, knowing that Arthur was right. 

Why now? 

What changed? 

“Perhaps,” Rhaegar readily agreed. “But perhaps he had reason to wait? House Atreides is young, Arthur. Very young. Perhaps he wished to solidify himself before rumors swirled around the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms meeting with him? Not many could survive that kind of attention without solid foundations.” 

Arthur clenched his jaw, telling Rhaegar that he didn't entirely disagree but still didn't like the idea of it. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became -- what changed was that Paul had a flawless reputation as an exemplary warrior. There was no question that he was one of the greatest in the Seven Kingdoms -- there couldn't be when he handily defeated some of the greatest one after another. 

It was alarming how skilled he was, if Rhaegar was being honest with himself. He was talented with the blade, and he was trained by some of the greatest swordsmen in the Kingdoms. He never shirked his training either. Yet, Rhaegar had felt nothing short of relief that he hadn't joined the tally of great knights Paul bested. 

“Wait until the celebratory banquet, my prince,” Arthur said, and there was a note of pleading in his voice. 

He considered it, but he shook his head all the same. No. He had waited long enough. Fretted long enough. In every vision Rhaegar had seen of Paul, it was him bringing the Long Night to the Wall. He wasn't yet sure if he was an ally or an enemy, but he wouldn't hide from confrontation any longer. 

“It is not unnatural that I would like to speak to such a renowned warrior,” Rhaegar voiced, standing taller as he settled on a course of action. For better or worse. “Or that I would like to speak to him prior to the banquet. He did distinguish himself, after all.” 

Arthur, his friend, couldn't quite keep his disappointed sigh silent and Rhaegar offered a rueful grin as compensation. All the same, Arthur bowed his head. “I'll bring the message to him myself. Where would you like this meeting to be held?” 

Rhaegar gave it but a moment of thought. “The godswood,” he decided easily. The one place they could speak in peace with privacy. 

There, at long last, he would finally get the answers he so desperately sought. 

Who was Paul Atreides?