298 AC
The Sea Strider cut through the summer sea like a knife. Artys sat in the captain's cabin as Gendry, the blacksmith's apprentice, was brought in by Ser Shadrich. The boy looked at him with fear and suspicion, a bull's-head helm tucked under his left arm.
"Do you know why you're here?" Artys asked, pouring himself some wine and filling another goblet.
"No, milord," Gendry said warily.
"Here—drink." He thrust the goblet into the royal bastard's hand. "Sit," Artys commanded.
Gendry glanced around the room. Myrish carpets and fine furs covered the floor, and the air smelled of incense and fresh fruit. He sat on a plump goose-feather cushion, though it might as well have been stuffed with broken glass for all the discomfort he showed.
"What did the Hand ask you the day he met you?" Artys said, his tone betraying no emotion.
Gendry frowned, thinking. "He just asked about me mum—who she was, the color of her hair and such."
Artys studied the boy. "Anything else?"
"Umm…" Gendry hesitated. "He asked if Master Mott treated me well. That's it, milord," he said, still wary.
"Gendry, I've taken a liking to Master Mott and his work," Artys lied. "You can work in Arrynton and, in time, own a smithy of your own if that's what you desire. But if you choose to swing a sword instead of forging one, I can make that happen as well—have you trained as a knight, and in time, should you prove your worth, I, Artys Arryn, swear on my name that I will grant you a knighthood."
Gendry gawked. "M–me, milord?" he asked, eyes wide as eggs.
"Yes, you—if it's what you desire?" Artys asked, his tone polite but edged with the authority of noble birth.
"Why?" Gendry blurted, then added quickly, "Not that I'm not grateful."
Artys scowled. "You will train with my master-at-arms and learn your letters with Septon Baldwin. Your food, clothing, and armor will be provided by me, should you decide to be a knight. Serve me and House Arryn well—that is all I ask of you."
Gendry nodded meekly, still unsure what to make of so much noble generosity.
The boy left after a clumsy bow. Ser Shadrich entered.
"You will take the boy to squire. Teach him as best you can. I'll knight him when I think he's ready. Do as you're bid, and speak to no one about where the boy is from or who he is. So far as you know, he's a strong lad with a chance to be a knight. That will be all—and bring the girl to me, then leave."
Ser Shadrich gave him a quizzical look, thought better of asking questions, and said, "As you command, my lord."
Mhaegen walked in wearing a silk gown of blue and yellow, nervous under the gaze of the young lord on whom her fate now depended. Chataya had turned her out, ending the promise of six months' room and board without pay. She'd been ordered to quit King's Landing and board a ship with her babe. She feared for herself, but most of all for the child. If only the king would see that she had borne him a daughter—she did not want jewels or wealth, only that he look once and know the girl had his eyes.
She quivered as she met Artys's gaze. He was very comely, and his eyes regarded her with cool courtesy before he flicked his fingers for her to step forward. Tears pricked unbidden, heavy with worry and fear.
"Please, milord," she heard herself say, sinking to her knees.
Artys appraised her a moment. A pretty little thing; the innocence in her eyes reminded him of Alysanne Lefford. "Come here," he said.
The girl obeyed, meekly. He took her by the waist and settled her on his knee.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked.
"Aye, milord. I saw you joust at the princess's wedding. I thought you were very handsome." She swallowed. "My father was a wastrel who wagered all his money on Ser Barristan and lost our house and shop. I was sold to the brothel to pay his debts."
Artys drew her closer on his knee and chuckled. "Thank you, Mhaegen," he said with a charming smile. His blue eyes locked on her green ones as he stroked a strand of bright red hair. Freckles and all—she was pretty. He ran his hand through her copper hair.
"I was knighted in Lannisport three years ago," he said, matter-of-fact. "The youngest since Daemon Blackfyre. I was the king's squire then. Did you know the king once bedded a serving girl at Casterly Rock and got her with twins?"
Mhaegen blinked, confused. All the realm knew the king's appetites. "No, milord," she murmured.
"Do you know what happened to her and her babes?" the young lord asked, his voice edged with earnest concern.
"No, milord," the whore mumbled.
"The queen had the babes thrown into a well," Artys said gravely, "and the poor wench was sold to Tyroshi slavers. Only the gods know what became of her."
Mhaegen's stomach knotted. "Milord, please! Please—mercy!" she cried, sliding to her knees, tears spilling down her cheeks as she begged for her child's life.
"Calm yourself, girl," he said, gently stroking her hair. "The queen is not a forgiving woman, and I doubt the princess would take kindly to a half sister of bastard birth." He took her chin, guiding her eyes to his. "I brought you here for your safety. Never speak of the king or the babe. I will take you under my protection—you will want for nothing."
His thumb brushed her lips as he spoke. Her eyes were wide and uncertain, her silk shift hanging low
revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts , "you will serve me and me alone is that understood". the girl nodded frantically "good good" Arty said .
R18
Artys' eyes darkened with lust as Mhaegen's lips wrapped around his shaft. She worked her tongue expertly, coating him with her saliva. The sound of her slurping and spit dripping filled the air as she bobbed her head, taking him deeper with each stroke. Her hands gripped his thighs, nails digging into his flesh as she moaned around his cock.
Artys gripped her red hair, forcing her to take him even deeper. "That's it, you little whore," he growled. "Take it all." He felt her gag, but she didn't stop, her eyes watering as she sucked him relentlessly.
He pulled her off suddenly, his cock glistening with her spit. "Suck my balls," he commanded. Mhaegen obediently took them into her mouth, rolling them on her tongue as she sucked gently. Artys groaned, his hips bucking as she continued to pleasure him.
Reaching down, he grabbed her nipples through the thin fabric of her shift, pinching and twisting them until she cried out in pain and pleasure. He yanked her shift down, exposing her breasts, and leaned down to bite her nipples hard, making her arch her back and moan.
Artys pushed her back onto the bed, spreading her legs wide and claimed the girl for himself .
298 AC
2 weeks later
Eyrie
"I know what you did," Artys said, scowling at the woman who had given birth to him. The chill mountain wind cut through the godswood of the Eyrie.
Lysa Arryn's face shifted from confusion to fear to rage in a heartbeat—confirmation enough.
"Why?" he growled.
Lysa's features twisted. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Why? He wanted to send Sweetrobin to Dragonstone to squire for that moron Stannis. You know how sick he gets—it would have killed him. I hated that old man and his foul breath. His weak seed—he gave me nothing but miscarriages, save for you and Sweetrobin. You were never half as good to me as Sweetrobin. You were always a cold boy!" she screamed.
Artys felt a headache building. "Who gave you the poison?" he asked, eyes boring into hers, searching for any scrap of deceit.
Lysa stared at him wide-eyed.
"Was it Petyr?" he pressed through gritted teeth.
The terror that flashed across her face was all the answer he needed.
"If I were feeling merciful, I'd have your tongue out and send you to the Silent Sisters," he hissed.
Artys left the courtyard, stomach turned with disgust. "Ser Vardis," he said, voice cold, "my mother is to be kept to her chambers, save for the sept or the library. No visitors. She is to be escorted everywhere."
"My—my lord?" Ser Vardis stammered.
"You are sworn to obey," Artys snapped, scowling.
"Yes, my lord," Vardis said, bowing.
"I sail to White Harbor in a week. Ensure the preparations are made. We'll wait until Myrcella arrives," Artys barked to Ser Shadrich.
Flashback
Varys's Chambers
"Speak, Lord Varys—and know that if you lie, you will die painfully," Artys said, menacing as he loomed over the eunuch.
The eunuch quivered, but something told Artys the trembling was part of the act. In the candlelight, the eunuch's blue eyes seemed almost purple.
The eunuch told his tale: Jon Arryn had pressed to send Sweetrobin to Stannis; Littlefinger had been meeting Lysa Arryn discreetly. Artys already knew—thanks to Shadrich—that Petyr Baelish had once pined for Catelyn Tully. This fixation on Lysa was new. He searched Varys's eyes for deceit and found none.
Artys exhaled. "Very well, Lord Varys." He did not speak of Cersei's infidelity; even naming it felt like courting Myrcella's death. Better to feign ignorance and strike when the time was right. "Tell me about the new ladies-in-waiting from the Riverlands for Princess Myrcella."
Varys folded his hands. "Fair Walda Frey is said to have entertained Black Walder—more than once. The Bracken girl, Syra, is a shameless gossip, though not malicious by nature. Beyond that, little of note, my lord."
Artys studied him a moment longer. "What do you want, Lord Varys? I know what everyone else wants—gold, marriage, glory. But you? A eunuch has no heirs to advance and no skirts to chase. What do you want?"
Varys bowed, voice soft. "I want to serve the realm."
Artys moved to the door, then paused and looked back. "The realm is best served by peace. I hope we are aligned in that."
"On that, I have no doubt, my lord," Varys said.
Flashback over
Eyrie
Artys sat with the Blackfish in the godswood, staring out over the Vale as they sipped wine.
"Father was poisoned," he said.
The old knight's eyes widened. "What? By whom?" he whispered, glancing around to be sure they weren't overheard.
Artys held his gaze for a heartbeat. Realization hit; the Blackfish set a steadying hand on Artys's shoulder, part comfort, part shock.
"Is that why you had Lysa—"
"Yes," Artys said, finishing it for him. "Sweetrobin is to be sent to Runestone to squire for Bronze Yohn Royce. You'll stay on as castellan and keep an eye on my mother."
The Blackfish nodded. "I'm sorry, lad. I—"
"I am Lord of the Eyrie now, Uncle," Artys said firmly. "I'll grieve when matters are set right—not before." "When Myrcella arrives in Gulltown, we'll rest a few days, then sail on to White Harbor. I leave the Eyrie in your hands. Winterfell awaits."