294 AC
The red sandstone towers of Riverrun rose above the fork of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, banners of House Tully stirring in the mild summer wind—a silver trout leaping on fields of blue and red. The drawbridge had already been lowered by the time Artys and his escort arrived at the eastern gatehouse. Word traveled quickly when an Arryn column passed through the Riverlands.
Ser Edmure Tully waited in the yard to receive them, flanked by a small honor guard in trout-liveries. He was broad-shouldered and auburn-haired, not yet past five and twenty, his cheeks ruddy with youth and a touch of wine. When he saw Artys dismount, his expression flickered—surprise at how tall the boy had grown, then restrained warmth.
"Nephew," Edmure said, stepping forward. "Seven hells, Jon said you were shooting up like a weed, but I thought he was being a proud father. You're as tall as a man grown already."
Artys gave a small, courteous bow. "Uncle. You're well?"
"Well enough," Edmure said, clapping his forearm in greeting. His eyes flicked to Ser Harrick and Ser Robar, then lingered a moment on Ser Shadrich, who met the look blandly. "Your men shall have quarters in the east barracks. You, nephew, will want to see my father."
They crossed the yard beneath the shadow of the high keep. The sounds of the castle rose around them—hammers in the smithy, dogs barking near the kennels, men calling to one another atop the walls. Riverrun was alive, but not frantic as King's Landing often was.
They climbed the stone steps to the solar tower where Lord Hoster Tully held court, a man in his fifties but still strong. Though he had put on some weight, he retained the shoulder and arms of the strong man he once was. The corridor outside his chambers smelled faintly of herbs and boiled wine. Edmure paused at the oaken door, glanced once at Artys, then pushed it open.
Hoster Tully lay propped among cushions in a great carved seat, thinner than Artys remembered, though his eyes were still sharp beneath his heavy brows. His hair, once the same auburn as Edmure's, had gone mostly to grey and white.
"Come, grandson! Give your grandsire a hug," the old lord said, voice rough as river gravel. With outstretched arms he drew Artys in. Artys broke free from the embrace and bowed his head. "Grandfather."
Hoster studied him with a long, measuring gaze. "Jon writes of you often. Says you outshoot his best archers and ride like a centaur. I thought it father's pride speaking, but Seven save us, you are almost of height with me, and you have your mother's eyes—Tully eyes," he said with pride.
Edmure gave a faint, embarrassed cough at that, but said nothing.
"I thank you for receiving me, my lord," Artys said evenly. "I've long wished to see Riverrun."
"And so you have." Hoster gestured to a cup of wine. "You'll be staying for at least a week, I hope, and I am throwing a feast in your honor. I have invited my bannermen."
"You honor me, grandfather. I hope it was not too much trouble," Artys said.
"Nothing at all for my first grandson. You were born in this castle, after all, and now you have returned. Guest chambers are prepared in the south wing. Your knights and men will be fed and stabled properly. You'll dine with me tonight, with Edmure."
Edmure spoke up. "Father has had the steward prepare a small supper in his solar before the hall feast. You can speak more comfortably then."
Hoster waved a hand in mild irritation. "Comfort is for the dying. I'll sup where I please. But the boy and I will talk before the meal. Go see to the stablemaster, Edmure, unless you mean to hover like a nurse."
Edmure bowed and departed, leaving Artys with the Lord of Riverrun.
For a time, Hoster only watched him, the flicker of the hearthfire reflected in his darkening eyes. At length, he said, "Your mother wrote to me once that you were cleverer than most maesters and twice as willful. I see the willful part plain enough. What do you seek in the Riverlands besides seeing your dear old grandfather?"
Artys kept his expression calm. "I wished to see my kin, and the lands my mother was born to. The Vale remembers its ties, and so should the Trident." Artys had given Shadrich a fistful of silver to drink with the guards of Riverrun, to dice with them and extract information about Littlefinger and any other gossip that might be of importance.
Hoster gave a low, dry chuckle. "Spoken like a lord already. Aye, Jon has raised you with care. You'll be Warden of the East one day. It's well you look west and south, instead of hiding in your mountains as the Arryns of past have done."
He shifted, a shadow of pain passing across his features before it was mastered. "Tell me of King's Landing. Tell me of Jon's health and of the king. And tell me what games those snakes at court play."
Artys chose his words with care as he answered, watching the old man's reaction. There was sharpness still in Lord Hoster Tully's mind, dulled though his body had grown weak.
When the steward came at last to announce the supper preparations, Hoster raised a hand. "We will speak more of this later. You are Tully blood, and know that Riverrun is with you no matter what."
Artys smiled. It was good to know, grandfather.
Artys bowed once more and withdrew.
Outside, Edmure waited in the corridor. "He likes you," his uncle said quietly. "As much as he can like anyone these days. He's been ill in fits, waking and sleeping by turns, but his mind is still keen."
"I could tell," Artys replied.
Edmure nodded toward the stairs. "I'll show you to your chambers. You'll meet my father's bannermen and their heirs—good friends all—during the feast."
Artys was surprised. "So many noble lords come to see a boy not three and ten?"
Edmure laughed. "You are the son of the Hand, squire to the king, and the future Warden of the East. No doubt they seek to curry favor with you and take your measure."
As they walked, the sounds of Riverrun wrapped around them—quiet, ordered, untroubled. Yet under it there was always the hush of rivers.
The guest chambers were broad and cool, built of thick red stone that drank in the day's warmth and released it slowly as the night drew on. A high-arched window opened to the tumbling waters below, the ceaseless roar of the Red Fork rising faintly to Artys's ears. He sat at the edge of the bed, still dressed in his sky-blue doublet, hands clasped loosely between his knees.
It was strange, he thought, to be here. Riverrun was no foreign castle—it was the hall of his mother's kin, the place of his birth. Yet he felt a guest. He had grown fond of Chataya and Marei. He had commanded Chataya that Marei was his personal property, and was to be taught the sigils of the great houses, horse riding, bookkeeping, and other education fit for a noble lady. Marei was intelligent and perceptive; she would be an asset with the proper training. Artys had begun to speak to her in the common tongue, but he kept the blindfolds on. She could not betray what she did not know, he thought.
The eunuch had spies everywhere. Artys hated the feeling that he was being watched. What did Varys want? He was a eunuch, had no family, no sexual desire—no one scared him half as much as Varys. Artys was not fooling himself. "The game of thrones," the nobles call it. He was dismissed as a child, and that was a good thing: being underestimated until he could gain his own strength. It wounded his pride to be overlooked, but he would bite his tongue and bide his time.
The supper weighed on his mind. His grandfather Hoster had been sharp, sharper than the letters Artys remembered from years past. Not as frail as rumor suggested, though there was a tremor beneath the surface, a shadow of weakness. Still, Hoster Tully's eyes had pierced through him, measuring, weighing. Tully eyes, the old lord had said. Pride, yes—but also expectation. He had subtly hinted at potential matches he could broker. Artys had resigned himself to be wed through arranged marriage. It was part of the deal: the privilege that he enjoyed as lord came with the duty to his house and kingdom. When you are the future Lord Paramount, and if he wanted to make a favorable match, there was only one girl.
Artys stood and walked to the window. Horus wheeled somewhere in the fading light, a speck above the rivers. He felt for the falcon and let his senses slip into the sky. The bird's wings beat steady, the air cool against feathers, the castle spread below like a child's carved toy. His heart quickened with the thrill of flight before he returned to his own skin.
The boulder in the woods came back to him, the weight of it in his hands. Ser Shadrich had seen. That could not be helped. But perhaps it was not misfortune. The hedge knight had bent the knee, sworn by the Seven. Artys had read the calculation in the man's eyes, but also the fear. That fear could be useful. People in Westeros were superstitious; the display of strength had shaken the grizzled knight to the core. The knight would keep his vows, and no one abandons the winning side. He needed to just keep winning, and just keep rising.
Baelish, though… Baelish was the greater matter. Artys had pressed Shadrich into his service, yet the mouse had already been feeding on Petyr's crumbs. Why? What did Baelish want? Coin, surely. But coin alone was never the game. He was too slick, too eager to ingratiate himself, like a market hawker gilding rotten apples. Artys smiled faintly at the thought. He liked the man well enough. He was clever, amusing even, and their betting schemes had profited them both. But no—he did not trust him. Trust was for Harrick, for Robar, for family.
Baelish would have his uses, unlike the eunuch.
A knock came at the door. A servant entered with wine and bread, bowing low and speaking of the feast to come. Artys dismissed him with a word. Alone again, he poured the wine but did not drink. Instead, he looked at the silver falcon stitched across his doublet.
Arryn. Tully. Royce. Piper. Blackwood. Mallister. Vance. Most young lords or their heirs. Artys was flattered that so many had shown up. Hoster Tully was their liege lord, and the Tullys wanted to display him for the Riverlands to see, to see that the son of the Hand and the squire to the king had Tully blood. To quell any quarrelsome lords, Artys was the point where they joined. His father's voice whispered in memory: One day you will be Warden of the East. Act always with that in mind.
He clenched his hand until his knuckles whitened. In another life, Artys had been a lieutenant fresh out of West Point. Even now, it rankled how the NCOs mocked him—they called him "The Last Samurai." An insult to his Japanese heritage, and to his nature to be by the book. Few things were crueler than being mocked and laughed at by men who were meant to respect and follow you.