293 ac
After he spent the entire morning battering every squire in the yard, Artys retreated to take a bath. He was thinking about the conversations he had with his father in the godswood—the only place in the Red Keep where no one could listen in.
"Father, the king's tower and the Red Keep are full of tunnels," he said. "You know how the Targaryan princes were slain by a couple of ratcatchers. We must do something about it. I don't trust that eunuch. He knows too much and does too little. If he was so omniscient, why was he not able to warn us of the Greyjoy rebellion?"
Jon Arryn sighed. "You worry too much, son. As for the eunuch, I shall look into him. So far, he has served us well. We need him to keep track of the foes of His Grace." Jon Arryn was a stubborn man, and Artys knew when the cause was lost.
Artys was serving the king, who seemed to have gained five stone in weight. Gone was the muscular king, the god amongst men who had won three battles in a day; now the king was becoming a drunken lecher. He still had his strength, but his body had gone soft. Squiring for the king was not what Artys had hoped it would be. Robert was surrounded by whores, liars, and lickspittles.
Robert had a prodigious appetite for women, and the women of Westeros were undeniably beautiful. Artys had once assumed that medieval women would be ugly, foul-smelling hags, but that was not the case. With puberty setting in, he found himself perpetually aware of his own desires.
After drying off, Artys dressed quickly in his doublet—the pale blue trimmed with cream catching the sunlight through his chamber window. Ser Harrick had been sent on errands, and the Red Keep was unusually quiet. He moved to the window and peered out across the courtyard, counting guards and noting patterns—their shifts, the way they moved, how many were posted where. Every shadow could hide a watcher. Don't give in to your paranoia. Calm yourself, he told himself.
He remembered his father's words in the godswood: the tunnels. The thought had lingered all morning. He had explored the maps and records in the library; he knew the Red Keep like a book. But seeing it with his own eyes, imagining it from above and below, was different.
Artys had discovered a new passage leading from the Tower of the Hand into the city. He had explored it by warging into Black Tom, one of his favorite familiars besides his falcon and his horses. Tonight, he intended to explore it personally. He slipped out of the tower, wearing a hood with a dirk tucked into his belt, and pressed the loose brick that led to the tunnel.
The dirk, gifted to him by a Gulltown merchant—no doubt to curry favor with the future Lord of the Vale—was made of Valyrian steel, with a moonstone pommel. Truly, it was a work of art.
He climbed down the rungs of the ladder and entered a circular chamber surrounded by many iron-barred doors. A massive mosaic of a red-and-black three-headed dragon dominated one wall. Artys picked the door straight ahead. It was locked, but he simply ripped it off its hinges. At eleven years old, he was already ten times stronger than the average man.
He jogged steadily forward and reached a ladder leading upward. He climbed it, shoving open the door at the top. Perfume and incense hit him first. He had appeared beneath a cellar. A woman with dark skin looked up, shocked at his sudden appearance.
Artys froze for a heartbeat, his eyes scanning the room. Velvet drapes, gilded mirrors, and the faint smell of perfume and incense filled the chamber. Candles flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows. A corridor stretched from the far side, partially hidden behind a tapestry embroidered with a golden lion.
His instincts told him he had found something secret—not a treasury or council chamber, but a place of discretion and intrigue. He stepped closer, his boots making no sound on the polished floor. The woman, dark-skinned and wide-eyed, moved with superhuman speed and put her hand over her mouth as he pressed the dirk to her throat.
He recognized her: Chataya, the woman who sometimes supplied the king with the choicest courtesans in King's Landing. She placed her bejeweled hand on his wrist. He let go of the dagger, and in the Summer Tongue, he told her to be quiet. Her eyebrows rose in surprise—few could speak the Summer Tongue—but she nodded. Even if overheard, his secrets would be safe.
He realized, with a mix of curiosity and calculation, that he had stumbled upon a hidden route into Chataya's brothel, notorious across King's Landing for discretion and intrigue. His mind raced: information. Secrets. Every noble, courtesan, and guest was a potential thread to pull. He could observe, listen, and return without ever being seen.
Chataya looked at him with curiosity mixed with caution. "You shouldn't be here, little lord," she said softly, voice smooth as silk. "What business brings you to my establishment?"
The woman, still watching him, held her ground as Artys smiled. "You run a choice establishment here, Chataya, but the king's favor is a fleeting thing. What would you say to a partnership?" It was hardly a choice, with a dirk pressed at her throat.
"I am no ordinary child," Artys said calmly, voice low. "I serve His Grace. I see and hear things others do not. I can make your business safer, more profitable… if you aid me in return."
Her eyes narrowed. "Safe? Profitable? You mean… spying?"
"Information is a weapon," Artys replied. "The lords, the ladies, the eunuchs, even the king—everyone comes here, or sends messages here. You know what is said, what is hidden. That knowledge is valuable. I am cup bearer to the Lord Hand, squire to the king, and future Warden of the East. I did not take you for a fool, Chataya. I am sure you know what I can do for you." He took the dirk from her neck.
Chataya was striking, late thirties but still beautiful, wearing green silk trimmed with gold and nothing beneath. Artys noted the goosebumps on her ebony skin and the scent of sandalwood. He was more aroused than he had ever been in this life.
"Know that I will make a loyal, generous partner, my lady," he said. "Littlefinger owns quite a few establishments. With the right investments, you too could expand and prosper. I will provide coin to buy more inns, more brothels, more eyes and ears for me. You will have the finest establishments in the city, and need only ever answer to me. Discretion is paramount."
R18 warning
A faint smile touched her lips. "The little lord is ambitious."
Artys caught her wrist and pressed her hand to his cock. "Who are you calling little?" he said.
He couldn't control himself any longer. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, licking the smooth line of her neck. She tasted as good as she smelled. He began to take small bites, sucking at her skin and working his way down toward her breasts. She reached down and, gently but firmly, wrapped her fingers around his cock.
"Allow me, my lord," she purred, her tongue flicking into his ear.
Artys froze for a heartbeat as Chataya smiled and began unlacing his breeches. She was an experienced whore—and far hotter than any woman he had ever bedded in his previous life. Her long fingers teased the insides of his thighs with practiced ease. Then, with one fluid motion, she slipped off her silk robe.
She was nearly six feet tall, her breasts the size of oranges, still firm and tipped with nipples dark as sin. She pulled him toward the featherbed nearby and wrapped her long legs around his waist, whispering in his ear, "Let me show you the way of love in the Summer Isles."
Artys could only gulp and squeak, "As you say, my lady."
Chataya sensually licked the palm of her hand and massaged his glans with it, while her other hand gently caressed his balls. She kissed him slowly, her tongue long and sweet, tasting of hippocras and cloves. It took every shred of his self-control not to spill himself all over her soft hands. Then she pinned him to the bed and mounted him in a fluid motion, drawing a groan from his chest.
"My falcon knight," she whispered in the sultry tongue of the Summer Isles.
R18 over
Artys returned to his chambers, flushed with the thrill of his discoveries. He retrieved a small leather journal from beneath the floorboard—kept in Japanese so no Westerosi could read it—and began to write. Names, locations, times, observations. He had four familiars his falcon Horus, his horses a warhorse named omega and palfrey named Zeta and old black cat named Tom The more he warged into them the easier it became like an old boot.
The Red Keep might be a den of vipers, but he was learning its rhythms. His powers—strange to him, but real—would give him an edge no one could anticipate. The king might be soft, the court corrupt, and the streets crawling with spies, but Artys had the advantage of both knowledge and the unnatural gifts the serum had given him.
As he hit puberty the stronger he got the less sleep he needed his body was getting stronger. He closed his eyes to still his thoughts , he could hear the faint scratching of rats in the walls, the whisper of unseen feet, the pulse of a city alive with secrets. He closed his eyes, but his mind did not rest. Tomorrow, he would begin to expand his network. He would train his animals. He would watch and learn. And no one—not Varys, not the queen—would see him coming.