Artys had given instructions to both Ser Robar and Chataya on how to operate in his absence. He needed to tie up all loose ends before departing for the Eyrie, though he was confident he would return within a year to compete in one tourney or another. Now that he had Myrcella in his pocket, it was time to start dismantling all potential claimants—one by one—and ensure none of it ever traced back to him.
He opened a secret compartment hidden inside a chest in Sweetrobin's chamber. It was cleverly built into the woodwork and nearly impossible to detect. Inside were vials of poison, stolen from Grand Maester Pycelle's stores. Artys had replaced them with harmless dyes and, in the case of clear poisons, vinegar. Pycelle would discover the theft eventually, but by then, Artys would be long gone.
That morning, he was in Lord Arryn's solar, discussing his duties as acting Lord of the Eyrie, and the projects he intended to pursue—starting with Arrynton, the new city at the base of the Mountains of the Moon. He spoke of expanding trade routes, introducing glassmaking and steelworks, and luring guildsmen from Essos with generous contracts.
"I've borrowed a hundred thousand gold dragons from Lord Tywin," Artys said. "And another hundred thousand from the Iron Bank of Braavos."
Lord Jon Arryn looked at him gravely. "You are being given a tremendous amount of authority at a tender age, my boy. Rule justly and fairly."
"I will make you proud, Father. Have no fear."
"Be sure to write, darling," Lysa interjected. "Don't forget your lady mother now that you are wed."
Artys forced a smile and gave her a dutiful hug, though he rolled his eyes behind her back. He tousled Sweetrobin's hair and looked down at the boy fondly. He had argued with Lysa, urging her to let Robin squire for him. Artys had hoped to harden the sickly child, but Lysa had thrown such a fit that even Jon had been forced to relent.
The entire court had come to the docks to bid farewell to the Princess and her gallant knight. The smallfolk waved and cheered, calling out blessings and congratulations. Artys did not understand what he had done to deserve such adoration, but he suspected it had something to do with knocking Jaime Lannister on his arse—once in the joust, and once in the melee. That alone had likely earned him the love of half of King's Landing.
The Faith of the Seven taught that the body was the reflection of the soul—that those who were comely were so because they possessed a beautiful spirit. Such a silly superstition, yet it worked tremendously in Artys's favor.
In his previous life, he'd always assumed that his strict demeanor and general awkwardness were what made him unpopular with women. It turned out he'd simply been ugly.
Lady Alysanne had begged to accompany Myrcella to the Eyrie, continuing her service as a lady-in-waiting. With her cousin Tyrek still only eleven and not expected to marry until his sixteenth nameday, Artys saw opportunity. He liked the Lefford girl—sweet, biddable, and genuinely smitten. Goldtooth was too rich a prize to let slip away to some obscure Lannister cousin. Control of one of the most lucrative gold mines in Westeros—and the gateway to the Westerlands—was not to be underestimated.
She'd do anything to please him, he was sure of it. Artys already had plans to find her a pliable husband—someone who preferred hippocras to ale —through whom he could control her lands and her bed.
The Sea Strider sailed smoothly into Gulltown's harbor, her swan prow drawing the eyes of fishers and dockworkers alike. The banners of House Arryn, Baratheon, and the royal crown stag and lion flapped proudly in the wind. The city bustled with anticipation — the arrival of the Hand's heir and his newly wedded princess was no small event.
On the pier, three men of rank stood waiting.
Lord Grafton, portly and red-cheeked, sweated beneath the weight of his silks and chains. Beside him stood Ser Moribald Shett, gaunt and sharp-featured, his cloak lined with sea eagle feathers. The third was Ser Mychel Arryn of the Gulltown branch, distant kin, young and eager, armor polished bright.
When Artys disembarked with Myrcella on his arm, trumpets sounded a short flourish. The lords bowed, the knights knelt, and Myrcella offered a gracious nod, her royal presence unmistakable.
"Your Grace," Lord Grafton began with a deep bow to Myrcella, "and my lord—welcome home. Gulltown is honored to host its future liege and his royal bride."
Artys clasped Grafton's arm. "Thank you, my lord. Let us feast and drink after the Princess refreshes herself."
Myrcella POV
As Artys helped Myrcella down from the Sea Strider, her golden hair caught the morning sun like a crown. She was resplendent in a deep blue velvet cloak trimmed with white fox fur, the royal stag-and-lion clasp at her shoulder gleaming. Behind them, Marei, Alysanne, and Rosamund followed with quiet grace, the handmaid and her ladies-in-waiting keeping their usual places — none of them enough to stir jealousy in Myrcella's heart. She trusted them and they knew their places and did not have ambitions above their stations.
But when the red priestesses approached, Melisandre and Vaera, clad in their crimson robes and veils like fire given form, Myrcella's posture shifted—subtly, but her husband's gaze seemed to linger on the priestess.
As they walked past the bowing priestesses, Myrcella kept her chin high and her smile poised — the smile of a princess, trained and practiced. But inside, her thoughts were far from serene.
Their robes were indecent.
Silk so thin it clung to every curve. Necklines that plunged scandalously, leaving little to the imagination. The way Melisandre moved — slow, deliberate, like every step was meant to be watched. And that other one, Vaera, with her Lyseni drawl and eyes that flicked over Artys like a cat eyeing a bowl of cream. No modesty, no shame. They carried themselves like courtesans in temple robes.
She hated how beautiful they were.
And worse — how Artys hadn't even looked away.
Myrcella glanced at her husband as they walked side by side. He was calm, unreadable as ever, offering her his arm like a dutiful lord should. His hand was warm over her corseted waist, his touch light — but her skin burned beneath it, thinking of who else might have shared it before.
Did he find them alluring? Did he think her plain in comparison? Myrcella had never had to compete for attention in the Red Keep. She was the princess. The men bowed, the women obeyed, and no one dared outshine her.
Until now.
She felt a flicker of resentment twist in her chest — not toward Artys, not even truly toward the priestesses, but toward herself. For feeling small. For letting their sultry smiles and clinging silks get under her skin.
But she would not show it.
Let them bow and purr and whisper riddles about fire and fate. She was his wife. Crowned before gods and men. And she would not be cowed by two red-robed witches playing at prophecy.
Still… as they moved toward the city gates, she clutched his arm a little tighter. Not out of fear.
But to remind him she was still there.
They were beautiful in a way that was different. Not courtly, more sultry, exotic, and otherworldly. Melisandre's ruby choker glowed faintly even in the daylight, and Vaera's silver-blonde hair fell in waves over her silks, the priestess bowed low revealing their ample pale mounds. Myrcella's own breasts were still growing and but they not yet as large as Alysanne's, Myrcella suppressed her jealousy, her brow arching slightly and said, "You're… the fire priestesses I've heard about?"
"Yes, we are," Melisandre said, rising only at Myrcella's nod. "Though titles mean little before the one chosen by the flames."
Myrcella's fingers tightened slightly around Artys's arm. "Do all your visions speak of my lord husband?"
"Only the ones that matter," Vaera said with a warm smile, eyes never leaving Myrcella's.
Artys smirked slightly at Myrcella's side, sensing her curiosity and the flicker of rivalry that sparked behind her calm exterior. She was not one to show jealousy openly — no, Myrcella Baratheon was far too poised for that.
"You've traveled far," Myrcella said at last, her voice polite. "I hope you'll find your time in the Vale to be... productive."
"Only as much as you allow us, Your Grace," Melisandre said, bowing again. "We exist to serve the lord of light and his champion Azor Ahai."
Myrcella looked to Artys, then back to the women. "See that it stays that way."
She gave them a court-perfect smile, then turned, drawing Artys forward by the arm, leaving the red women to follow behind — and leaving Marei and Alysanne to exchange quiet, knowing glances.
Lord Grafton approached, his brow furrowed. "Lord Artys… a word."
Artys nodded and stepped aside. "My lady, would you entertain our guests while I confer with Grafton?"
Myrcella nodded, gracious and composed. But as Artys turned away, she stole another glance at the red priestesses.
Ser Mandon Moore followed like a silent wraith in white, ever watchful. Marei and Alysanne trailed more casually, feigning distraction while their eyes darted to every movement in the crowd.
Artys POV
But Grafton's smile faded. He leaned closer, voice lowered. "Begging your leave, my lord, but there is… a matter troubling us. The red priestess—Melisandre."
Artys arched a brow. "She's been here but for a few moons."
"Aye, and yet she's gathered followers like gulls to a fishmonger's boat," Grafton grumbled. "Fisherfolk, miners, even merchants. The poor hang on her every word. Worse still, she's made allies of the Burned Men, of all clans. They've sworn to her fire god!"
That surprised Artys. He would have to talk with Melisandre and Steffon to know what they had been up to in his absence. "What of Vaera?" "Lady Vaera is well liked, my lord. She heals people and is quite popular with the small folk, but still, she preaches of her foreign god, my lord. We may bring wrath of the Seven upon us."
Lord Grafton quivered. "Have no fear, my lord. I shall talk to them and ask them to temper their fervor."
"They may pray to the gods they wish as long as they keep the peace. Braavos has a thousand gods and still is peaceful and prosperous."
After the festivities, Artys was going to inspect the temple first thing in the morning. It was not uncommon for noble couples to have separate chambers, and Artys had insisted since he needed less than an hour of sleep and would spend hours writing letters, reading ledgers, and books. There was a knock on his door and Marei slipped in quiet as a cat and slid on to his lap , Artys rubbed the Maesters ink on a rag and said "what is it my sweet ?". "my lord , The queen insisted on Rosamund Lannister accompanying the princess because she wanted eyes and ears on you" Marei said her green eyes flecked with gold were full of concern . Artys kissed her fore head and sighed " I had thought as much have no fear , I will deal with her" he said . Marei rubbed her perky arse into his cock " My lord , The princess is jealous of the priestess tis best you assuage her subtly and quickly " Artys chuckled "i will, Thank you my sweet". " Can i assist you in anyway my lord " Marei whispered in his ear eagerly with her nimble finger trying to unlace his breechs. " No rest well my sweet. We have had a long voyage "sleep well " and planted a kiss on her head.
Dawn the next day Artys rode straight to the Fire Temple with Ser Steffon Storm .Lady melisandre went into the woods with ten men and a couple of those eunuch she brought along with her from Essos. I advised her not to my lord but she said the lord of light would protect her and left Lady Vaera commanded me to stay in her house of healing to serve her my lord . A moon later Lady Melisandre returned with the savages these Burned men, It almost came to blows with the city guards, The savages are camped outside and so far have caused no trouble , They seem a quarrelsome bunch but they Obey lady melisandre without question. Artys mind racing Very impressive, but is she loyal , Westeros had many problems but the lack of religous conflict was one of the few upsides was i wrong to trust this fanatic . The Mountain clans were Fierce and Hardy thought undiscplined they could do well if armed well and used as a beserkerer skirmisher rather than heavy infantry not to mention inexpensive, when he took the throne he will need loyal but expendble troops and the mountain clansman who could be tamed was worth looking into.
The morning air hung heavy with smoke and salt, as the city of Gulltown stirred awake beneath a red-tinged dawn. Outside the temple walls, the sound of rhythmic marching grew louder.
Ser Artys Arryn, flanked by Ser Steffon Storm, stood before the basalt steps of the new Fire Temple. Its veined red stone gleamed in the morning haze, catching the first rays of sunlight like blood on polished steel.
Steffon had changed since their return from Myr. He wore no sigils now, only a crimson sash tied at his hip. Where once he would have scoffed at incense and flame, now he bore the ruby of R'hllor on a chain, his expression solemn, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.
"They're coming," Steffon said softly. "The fire had shown the true, my lord."
"You've become quite the true believer," Artys muttered.
Steffon nodded. "I've seen things in flame my lord what else can explain your strength you are destined to save the world my lord ".
Artys made no reply. The gates groaned open.
They came in columns—bare-chested warriors, their flesh scarred and painted, faces daubed with ash and old blood. Some bore clubs, others jagged swords or axes made from chipped steel. Their eyes were wild, but they marched with discipline.
At their head strode a short, terrifying figure. One red eye gleamed from a socket of scorched flesh; the other had been burned away. His armor was a patchwork of scalemail and boiled leather, and in one hand he carried a heavy spiked mace blackened with soot.
Timett son of Timett. A red hand tattooed on his cheek. Leader of the Burned Men.
Lady Melisandre of Asshai walked beside him, her crimson robes untouched by the dust of the road, her ruby pulsing with quiet light. Behind them came her eunuchs and acolytes.
At the temple steps, the procession halted. Timett said nothing—only knelt.
"Azor Ahai," Melisandre called in a voice clear as bells. "He who draws light from shadow. We bring you swords, sworn in fire."
Artys raised a brow. "You tamed the Burned Men?"
"They saw your face in the flames," Melisandre said, her voice reverent. "Timett burned his other eye to prove his faith. He says you are the last fire before the great darkness."
Timett stood and growled, "This was phrophesized by the fire witch many years ago the burned men remember ."
Steffon stepped forward, addressing Artys in a low tone. "They follow her now. But through her, they follow you. "
Artys studied Timett and the savage host behind him. Obedient—for now. Dangerous always. But they were loyal. That made them useful. If he could use the tame or destroy the rest of the mountain clans The Vale will know prosperity like no other kingdom.
He turned to Melisandre. "Keep them outside the walls. No raiding. No fires without my leave. The city will not burn in the name of your god."
Melisandre bowed low, her red hair spilling like flame. "I live to serve my lord."
As the Burned Men moved to make camp beyond the city.
Artys exhaled. "Just be sure you keep your sword pointed at the enemy, Ser Steffon. The gods have enough fanatics already."
Melisandre " My lord , I have another gift for you" She walked to him and put her arm into his and lead him into the center of the temple . On a velvet cushion was smooth Oval Stone with Obsidian black swirls with flecks of gold . Artys jaw hit the floor " is that a ....."