Two weeks had passed since Artys returned to King's Landing. Long enough for the Red Keep to feel familiar again, though the heat and stink of the city still clung to everything. That night, he sat at the high table in the Hand's private solar with Jon Arryn, Lady Lysa, and little Robert.
The servants laid out the meal—roast duck, peas in butter, capons with Dornish peppers, warm bread, and a cooled summer wine. Jon Arryn ate sparingly, as always. Lysa kept close to her younger son, one hand constantly brushing crumbs from his tunic or feeling his brow as though he were made of glass.
Robert Arryn sat beside her, small for his five years, with wide blue eyes and lips pale as milk. He coughed once, then beamed at his older brother."Mother says you killed many bad men, Arty! I want to fight too!"
"My sweet Robin is so brave," Lysa cooed.
Artys wanted to roll his eyes, but the earnestness in his brother's face stayed his tongue. He smiled faintly."When you're older, we'll deal with the mountain clans together," he said.
Lysa frowned. "Are your wounds well, Artys? I have barely slept since you left. I told your father it was dangerous—"
Jon Arryn sighed, a tired sound that told how many times he'd endured the same argument.
"I am well, Mother," Artys said. "The wounds healed quickly. I'm heir to the Eyrie, not a boy to hide in the capital behind your skirts."
Lysa's face tightened as though struck. "Pray pardon your mother for caring!" she snapped, voice sharp and brittle.
Artys held his temper. His mother had suffered another miscarriage only a moon ago, and her fragile mind had frayed further since. He softened his tone and reached for her hand."I am fine, Mother. The Seven protect those who fight for just causes."
Lysa only pouted, eyes wet and trembling.
"Robin," Artys said, changing the subject, "how would you like to train with me in the yard? Wooden swords only."
"Truly? Mother, may I go?"
"No, sweet Robin," Lysa said at once. "Only when you are older."
She turned to the septa. "Take him to bed."
As the door closed behind them, she rounded on Artys. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Sweet Robin was never as strong as you. The Joffrey boy struck him with a stick once, and he shook for days. I won't have you endangering him!"
Artys started to reply, but Jon raised a hand, firm and wordless. Lysa glared once more and excused herself, saying she needed to feed Robin.
The silence that followed was long and heavy. Jon Arryn broke it first."Your mother is taking the loss of the babe poorly," he said quietly. "You and Robin are all she has. Forgive her her misgivings, son."
He cut his meat in slow, precise strokes. "I've ordered a halt to the sortie Ser Brynden was meant to lead."
Artys frowned. "Why, Father?"
Jon looked at him, the weight of his years plain in his pale blue eyes. "You are all a lord could ask for in an heir—brave, clever, and too proud by half. But now is not the time to throw stones at a beehive."
"When you asked for peasants to train with bows, I agreed. When you offered land to bowmen from across Westeros, I saw the sense in it. But sending men into the mountains again is unwise. Wasteful. I can imagine losing Ser Harrick has made you wroth, but a lord must learn patience and prudence."
Artys clenched his jaw. "As you say, Father."
He excused himself soon after and made for the godswood. Horus waited there, his falcon perched silent on a branch, watching him. The air was thick with summer warmth and the smell of weirwood sap.
"Artys!" a voice called.
He turned and saw Princess Myrcella approaching, her ladies—Alyssane Lefford and Rosamund Lannister—trailing behind like bright birds.
"Princess," he greeted, bowing with a grin.
"I am most wroth, ser," she said, slipping her arm through his.
"Who is the scoundrel who's dared displease you, princess? Say the name, and I shall bring you his head," Artys said, all mock solemnity.
Her ladies giggled behind her, but Myrcella only hid a smile. "'Tis you, ser."
"Me?" Artys asked, feigning surprise as they strolled beneath the shade of the heart tree.
"You have my heart, princess—do you require my head as well?"
The girls' laughter followed them as Myrcella's faux stern expression broke into a grin.
The godswood was alive with the soft hum of summer—the trickle of water, the flutter of leaves, the call of doves. Artys noticed the faint click of her slippers on stone, the whisper of silk, and the scent of orange blossoms and lavender that clung to her hair. She held his arm close, her breast brushing his sleeve now and again in a way that made his thoughts wander despite himself.
"I was worried, you know," she said suddenly, her voice quiet, earnest. "You were gone so long in the Vale. Tales of hill tribes reach even the Red Keep. I heard you were wounded—Father was boasting of it when he was in his cups. He said you slew a dozen men. Joffrey was furious."
That last part drew a smirk from Artys. The little shite deserved it. Spoiled, cruel, and insecure, Joffrey hated him for his closeness to the king and for every praise Robert Baratheon ever spoke in Artys's name. The boy's tantrums had earned him a bruising in the yard, and Cersei's outrage nearly cost Artys his head—until the king put his foot down, drunk and laughing, calling her "a bloody fool." Even Ser Jaime had looked almost apologetic. Almost.
"I'm unharmed," Artys said. "A few arrow wounds, nothing more."
"Have they healed well?" Myrcella asked, her brow creasing with worry.
"Had I known there was a princess waiting to nurse me back to health, I would've returned at once," he said lightly.
Her lips curved in that way that made it hard to tell if she was mocking or flirting—or both. "Father should have knighted you already."
"I would ask something of you, my princess," he said.
"Oh?"
"The tourney at Lannisport," Artys said. "I would wear your favor, if you'd allow it."
Myrcella blinked, then her eyes sparkled with realization. "But you're still a squ—oh."
He only smiled, and she gave him a coy look. "Then I expect to be rewarded for my generosity, ser."
"You have my word."
Her voice softened. "Please be safe, Artys."
He lifted her hand and brushed his lips against her fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. "For you, princess," he said. And then, as her cheeks flushed pink, he turned As he walked past the princess Artys gave Alyssane Lefford a look and slight wink that made her blush scarlet.