The feast that ended the tourney was a display of Lannister splendor—gold everywhere, and enough torches to light a hundred halls. The tapestries depicting the exploits of Lannister kings from before the Conquest hung from the high walls. Gilded golden lions adorned everything from doorknobs to the cutlery. Artys had never seen anything half as gaudy.It would be a great place to shoot a rap video, he mused.
Music filled the air, and the smell of roasted meats and sweet wine hung thick as perfume.
King Robert sat at the head of the high table, already deep in his cups, laughing loudly at the fools in motley who were hitting each other with sticks. Beside him, Queen Cersei smiled her perfect smile—the one that never reached her eyes.
Artys could feel the hateful glances from Jaime, who stood to her left. His lip was split, his eye swollen, and his head wrapped in linen, though he still stood sentinel behind the King. Artys suspected the wound to his pride was far more grievous. He should be grateful—Artys could have finished it with one blow and humiliated him before the realm. But the Kingslayer did not know that.
Artys Arryn was dressed in fine silks of Arryn blue trimmed with silver. Lord Tywin, ever the stone lion, drank in small, measured sips. Artys was seated at the high table next to him. To his left sat Princess Myrcella Baratheon. He could feel her eyes on him; when he caught her looking, she smiled shyly. She was usually so bold—perhaps the presence of Tywin made her nervous.
"You fought well, ser. I have seen Jaime bested once or twice, but seldom in such a fashion," Tywin said, his tone warm—by his standards, anyway.
"Well, the princess gave me her favor, my lord. I couldn't lose if I tried."
Myrcella blushed. "Artys!" she hissed, but Tywin Lannister simply continued to stare at him, unblinking.
"I believe I am the better lance," Artys said smoothly, "and Ser Jaime the better sword." It was a lie. "I saw that Ser Jaime had strained his shield arm when we broke seven lances against each other. He underestimated me and overextended, and I was able to catch him on the temple. It was a close thing."
Tywin only said, "How modest." Whether he was sincere or mocking, Artys could not tell. The man's face betrayed nothing.
Artys only smiled faintly. His cup was half-full, his expression mild. To anyone watching, he was the picture of youthful grace and humility. Inside, however, his mind was turning like a millstone. The victory had been worth the risk. Baelish had seen to that. And if all went as planned tonight, this feast would seal more than just the tourney's end.
"Silence! I have an announcement to make!" the King boomed as he stood. The Queen winced. Robert's voice filled the hall. "Come here, Artys!" the King commanded.
Artys rose and walked dutifully to the King's side.
"My squire—and now a knight," Robert said, beaming, "and soon he will be my good-son as well! I have decided to betroth my darling daughter Myrcella to Artys Arryn, heir to the Eyrie!"
The hall erupted into applause and cheers. Even the Queen wore a smile and clapped politely. What is going on? Artys thought. Why are the Lannisters playing nice? Tywin must have convinced her this was the best match for Myrcella.
The music resumed, and the trestle tables were pushed aside as servants cleared space for dancing.
Artys extended his hand to Myrcella, who was still dazed from the announcement. "Might I have this dance, my princess?"
She quickly came to her senses and smiled. "You may, ser."
Joffrey was already dancing with Rosamund Lannister. At least he can dance, Artys thought. He sure as hell can't fight—or think, or rule. I'll have to deal with him soon enough. If something happened to Robert, that little shit would find the slightest excuse to have him killed.
Joffrey was a vile, cruel piece of work. He had a serving girl scourged for spilling wine when he was the one who had bumped into her. Not to mention that pregnant cat he killed. Artys had been there when Robert slapped Joffrey so hard a couple of teeth flew out. Not that Artys ever missed an opportunity to mock him in the yard.
When he married Myrcella, he would stand in the royal line—after Tommen. Third in line, if one counted by law and blood. And accidents happened. They always did.
Artys would be in his prime for theoretically hundreds of years—possibly thousands. This world needed a strong, wise king to drag it out of the middle ages. Once he wore the crown, any of his abilities could be written off as god-given.
"Artys…" Myrcella's voice broke through his power fantasy. "What are you thinking about?"
They were swaying together in the center of the hall. "Oh, just wondering how your lips would taste."
Myrcella blushed. "You are drunk, ser," she said with feigned reproach.
"Aye, drunk on my lady's beauty."
She giggled at the clichéd jape and playfully slapped him on the shoulder. "Did you know about Father… the Betrothal?"
"I suspected," Artys replied. "I was his squire, after all. I know his moods better than most. The mischievous glints he's been giving me these past moons were a clue."
They retreated to a quiet corner of the hall to speak as newly betrothed. " Have no fear Cella our marriage will be happier than most " She caught on to what Artys was implying and nodded. " I am happy it was you i have always wanted it to be you " she said . The wine was making her brave Artys thought. Artys simply took her hand and kissed it Myrcella blushed. Lancel was walking towards Myrcella for a dance but scowl from Artys sending him scurrying back.
"Ser Artys , our mystery knight bested the greatest knight of the west and now has stolen the heart of my beloved niece as well" said a familiar voice from behind, he looked behind to find Tyrion. Tyrion Lannister had climbed onto the bench, wine flagon in hand, eyes alight with mischief. "The Fighting Falcon . You've managed to unhorse The mountain, The hound and humiliate my brother—all before fourteenth name day . I'm torn between despising you and buying you a drink."
Artys smiled faintly. "If it's all the same, I'd prefer the drink."
Good man," Tyrion said, filling his cup. "To courage, cunning, and questionable decisions at feasts."
"That covers half the room," Artys said, taking the cup.
Myrcella laughed softly. "And the other half is passed out."
Tyrion raised a finger. "Spoken like a true Baratheon. Though I'll have you know, dear niece, that we Lannisters only drink for political clarity."
"Then you must be the most politically enlightened man in the realm," she teased.
"Seven kingdoms' worth of enlightenment," Tyrion said, grinning. "And not one person who listens to a word I say."
Before Artys could respond, a large hand landed on his shoulder.
"We are drinking tonight—to your knighting, boy!" boomed King Robert Baratheon, grinning from ear to ear. His breath reeked of wine and roasted boar.
"Your Grace," Artys began, but Robert would have none of it.
"None of that 'Your Grace' nonsense tonight!" the King roared, slinging an arm around Artys's shoulders. "You're a knight now! You'll drink like one!"
Before Artys could protest, Thoros of Myr appeared, weaving through the crowd with a jug the size of a child in his hands. "The finest Dornish red in the Rock!" he declared, sloshing the wine into goblets.
"Seven hells, that'll do!" Robert barked. He shoved one cup into Artys's hand and another into his own. "To the boy who fights like the Warrior himself!"
Tyrion Lannister, never far from a bottle or a jest, climbed onto the nearest bench, raising his flagon high. "And to the King who finds his knights in disguise!"
The men laughed and drank.
Robert thumped Artys on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. "You've got the makings of a hero, lad. Reminds me of my younger days—before all this." He gestured to his gut with mock despair. "Gods, how the years betray us!"
Tyrion chuckled. "In your case, they've done a masterful job of treachery, Your Grace."
Robert bellowed laughter and downed his cup in one gulp. Thoros refilled it before the King could even lower it. The table soon became a den of noise and good cheer—Robert roaring, Tyrion spinning filthy jokes, Thoros boasting about the time he set his own robes on fire "for the glory of R'hllor."
Artys drank with them, cup after cup, keeping pace with the King, though the wine barely touched him. The serum in his blood burned every drop away as quickly as it came. No matter how much he drank, his mind stayed sharp, clear as ice.
Tyrion slumped first, giggling into his cup. "I think the gods made you too tall, ser," he muttered. "You've left no wine for the rest of us."
Thoros followed soon after, sprawling on the bench and muttering a prayer that ended in a snore. Robert, still determined, was the last to falter.
"Damn fine lad," he mumbled, gripping Artys by the shoulder again. "Wish you'd been mine, truth be told."
Artys blinked suddenly wary of what ears might be listening.
Robert's eyes were glassy, his voice slurred but full of raw honesty. "Joffrey's got Cersei's face and her temper. Not a drop of my blood in him, I swear it." He hiccuped. "But you—ha! You fight like I did. You'd have made a fine prince. A real son any man would be proud to have."
Artys glanced up. Across the hall, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Barristan Selmy stood at a respectful distance, watching in silence. Jaime's jaw was tight, his gaze unreadable. Selmy's face was sad, old eyes full of quiet understanding.
Robert sagged suddenly, the strength going out of him. "Seven hells," he muttered. "The room's spinning, boy."
"Then it's time you retired, Your Grace," Artys said gently.
He rose and half-carried the King, one arm draped over his shoulder.
"Strong lad," Robert slurred. "Stronger than I was."
Jaime stepped forward to help, but Robert waved him off with a lazy hand. "No, no—let my boy do it."
Artys said nothing, bearing the King's weight easily as they made their way from the hall. The courtiers bowed and whispered as they passed—the new knight carrying the drunken King to bed.
At the door to Robert's chambers, Ser Barristan opened the way and nodded to Artys. "You've done well tonight, ser," he said quietly.
Artys eased Robert down onto the feather bed. The King mumbled something about old battles and hunting then began to snore, loud and deep.
For a moment, Artys stood watching him. The mighty demon of the trident reduced to a weary drunk in a gilded cage.
This realm deserves better, he thought. And one day, it will have it.
Then he turned, nodded to the Kingsguard, and left the chamber as quietly as he had entered.