294AC
The Riverlands in summer were green and drowsy beneath a washed-blue sky. The party moved at a steady pace along the river road, past grassy banks and willow-lined streams. No smoke rose on the horizon, no armed bands haunted the hedgerows—Robert's peace still held the land in a firm, quiet grip. Westeros was at war every generation, and the Riverlands were almost always dragged into it. Despite its navigable rivers and fertile lands, the Riverlands were not as wealthy as the Vale. They lacked natural defenses; every time Westeros sneezed, it was the Riverlands that caught a cold.
Artys rode at the head of the column, astride his palfrey Zeta. Horus, his falcon, flew ahead, and Artys skinchanged from time to time to feel the thrill of flight. He wore no armor, only a sky-blue doublet bearing the silver falcon of his House. Artys was to attend the wedding of Lady Myranda Royce and Lord Eon Hunter in place of his father .It was a pretext for the Lords of The Vale to gather and look upon their future Liege. To either side rode Ser Harrick and Ser Robar Royce, both vigilant despite the calm of the realm. Behind them came four more knights and twenty mounted men-at-arms in Arryn livery.
Ser Robar Royce broke the silence first.
"You could have sailed directly to Gulltown, my lord. Why suffer the dust of the kingsroad?"
"It isn't suffering," Artys replied mildly. "I've never seen Riverrun. Lord Hoster is my grandfather—it's past time I visit his hall, and my uncle Ser Edmure."
Ser Harrick gave a curt nod. "Best to remind the Riverlords that the Vale remembers its friends."
Artys only smiled and said nothing more.
They camped that evening near a slow-bending tributary, where reeds whispered in the breeze and frogs croaked in the shallows. The men set tents and built cookfires while Ser Harrick inspected the perimeter out of habit, though no threat was expected.
When the sun had dipped low and the camp had settled into its evening rhythms, Artys rose from his meal and dusted crumbs from his breeches.
"I'll walk a while," he told Harrick. The night sky was lit by a bright moon. Artys wanted to walk away from prying eyes and exercise. He was constantly watched in King's Landing, but here in the woods he could have some privacy and test the limits of his strength.
"Not far, my lord," the knight protested. The land was tame here, and they were a well-armed company. Horus landed on his shoulder to stand sentinel.
Artys slipped quietly into the trees beyond the camp's edge. The forest floor was soft with old leaves and moss, and he found the clearing he'd marked earlier—a ring of pines and a fallen oak half-rotted into the earth. Here, alone, he elbowed a pine tree with his full strength. It splintered and fell with a great crash. Too loud, he thought.
He shed his doublet and shirt, bare-chested beneath the fading light, and moved through his exercises—pushes, lifts, leaps, strikes. He let loose; he could jump roughly three stories and run faster than a stallion in full gallop. He ended as he always did: at the foot of the boulder. Time to test my strength, he thought.
The boulder was the size of a small horse cart—no man of sound mind would attempt to move it, let alone lift it. Artys squatted beside it, set his hands under its rough curve, and heaved.
The earth trembled under his feet. His breath came out slow and controlled as he lifted the massive weight clear off the ground—three tons of ancient river rock, held in the hands of a single boy. He stood with it for a count of five, then eased it back down with a grunt. Horus chirped sharply. A twig snapped.
Artys turned.
Ser Shadrich of the Shady Glen stood at the tree line, his small mouse sigil glinting on his jerkin's clasp. The hedge knight's eyes were wide, but his face held the stillness born of long caution.
"My lord," Shadrich said quietly. "I meant no intrusion."
Artys regarded him in silence. The man was no fool—that was why he'd been taken into the party at all. Ser Robar Royce had vouched for the hedge knight; he had known him from a raid against the mountain clans of the Vale. Ser Shadrich had proved himself both competent and cunning. Artys himself had found the man quite capable and had thought of recruiting him to his retinue, but now the hedge knight had discovered a secret no one knew—not even his father or Ser Harrick.
"You saw," Artys said at last.
"I did," Shadrich admitted. "And I've sense enough to know I did not see it at all, should that be your will."
Artys stepped forward. He towered over the knight, though Shadrich had a good twenty years on him. The man did not back away, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—fear, but also sharp calculation.
"Kneel, ser," Artys said softly.
Shadrich hesitated only a heartbeat before sinking to one knee among the pine needles.
"Swear to me," Artys said. "By the Seven."
The hedge knight bowed his head. "I, Ser Shadrich of the Shining Fields, do swear by the Father's judgment, the Warrior's strength, and the Smith's binding oath, to keep your secrets, serve your cause, and speak no word of what I have seen without your leave."
Artys studied him a moment longer, then nodded. "Rise, Ser Shadrich. And I, Artys Arryn, will ensure that you have a place at my hearth and ask no service of you that would dishonor you."
Shadrich stood, flexing a hand that had curled against his thigh. "I know an opportunity when it lays itself bare, my lord. And I keep to the oaths I make."
"Good," Artys said simply. He pulled his shirt back over his head. "From now on, you ride in my service—not merely in my company."
"As you command, my lord."
"A knight has no secrets from his liege. Why did you follow me?" Artys asked.
Shadrich hesitated, then said, "Lord Baelish asked me to join your service. He paid me to keep an eye on you and inform on you."
So that is why he followed.
"Did he ask you to kill me?" Artys asked, not unkindly.
"Nothing of the sort, my lord."
Artys appraised the knight before him. "You will inform Lord Baelish and take his coin."
"My lord—" Shadrich began.
"You will feed him information that I want him to know," Artys said with a sly smile.
Shadrich looked at him and nodded. "I am your man, my lord."
"Hope you stay that way."
They returned to camp beneath the first stars, saying nothing further. Only the rustle of night birds spoke among the trees.
He could hear the sound of crickets calling and frogs croaking as he settled into his pavilion, thoughts turning inward. What does Baelish want to know? Why is he so curious? Does he want me dead? Artys had called the man a friend, and they had both profited from the relationship—and Petyr would profit even more when Artys became Warden of the East. What is his game