298 AC
Ser Shaddrich was buckling the last strap when Artys decided he needed squires. It was past time. The honor bound men to him, and he could reward useful allies while training the next set of captains. Tommen would be his first choice—King Robert could be persuaded—but Cersei would howl. That was a fight for another day.
It was Myrcella's fourteenth nameday—and Joffrey's as well. Since the raven, Myrcella had wanted to see Tommen and even her mother; it had been more than a year. Artys hadn't the heart to refuse her, and he had business in the capital besides. He needed fresh gold. The works in the Vale were growing fast—roads, glass, schools, the Exchange—and revenues were tripled, but expansion ate coin. A new line from Tywin Lannister would carry the pace another season. While he asked for money, he was also laying rails for war: strengthening the Vale's reach, settling old passes, stitching quiet alliances, and building an information web—nascent beside Varys or Littlefinger, but deeper than most great lords could boast.
A trumpet sounded outside the lists. The final tilt was called: Artys against Ser Barristan Selmy. He checked his gauntlets, rolled his shoulders once, and nodded to Shaddrich.
Three clean passes Artys thought . Then he would end it.
He would give the Lord Commander his due before unhorsing him. Keeping Barristan Selmy in good humor cost nothing and might be priceless later. Artys set his lance with a straightness only a superhuman could muster. The warhorse thundered beneath him, and he struck Ser Barristan square in the chest, lifting him clean from the saddle. The older knight, with grace that belied his years, rolled to break the fall and rose at once, saluting and yielding.
Artys wheeled Omega as the stands erupted for their champion. He took a slow circuit to appease the crowd. His new armor—enamel-white half-plate with a falcon-helmed visor, inspired (to himself alone) by a figure named Griffith from another life—caught the sun like fresh snow. The High Septon placed the crown of love and beauty upon the tip of Artys's lance; Artys cantered to the royal box, bowed to king and queen, and laid the garland in Myrcella's lap. She beamed with pride, rose, and curtsied with the easy grace of a princess. Lord Arryn—pale but present—watched with quiet approval.
The feast spilled from the great hall onto the terrace in layers of gold and noise: boar glazed with honeyed ale, skewers of river trout, wheels of sharp goat's cheese, flagons of Arbor white and Dornish red. Minstrels played, fools capered, and the talk swung between wagers and whispers.
Myrcella kept close to Artys until the first course was cleared. Then, in a softer voice: "Mother means to go west for a time—Tommen too. To Lannisport, then the Rock. She asked me to come." She searched his face. "It's been a year."
Artys weighed the room—Cersei smiling for the court; Joffrey pretending not to sulk; Tommen devouring a trencher as if it might vanish. "Go," he said. "See your family. Take Alysanne. Marei as well." He touched Myrcella's hand. "Write often."
She squeezed back. "I will."
Artys drew Petyr Baelish aside, away from the roar of the feast.
"I assume you've heard of Lord Renly's plans."
Baelish's mouth bent into its familiar half-smile. "Renly is not as subtle as he thinks. But fear not, ser—the king has no appetite for that arrangement. Hating the queen does not mean he'll stomach a Tyrell girl in his bed. Robert has not forgotten the Tyrells, unlike our dear Lord Renly."
He paused, weighing Artys with bright, calculating eyes. "What should concern you, however…"
"Speak plainly," Artys said. "You're a trusted friend. I know you keep your liege's interests close."
"You honor me," Baelish replied, smiling with everything but his eyes. "There are… forces intent on blackening the queen—and her children."
Artys's jaw tightened. Neither man spoke for a long beat. Across the hall, Joffrey pitched a bone at Moon Boy and laughed.
Artys's gaze did not leave the prince. "Valar morghulis."
Baelish's brows flicked up. "All men must die."
Artys's voice stayed low. "Sometimes deaths are… convenient—for those on the right side. These salacious fictions—and the hands digging for them—must be silenced. Quietly. No matter who they are."
Baelish opened his mouth. "Even if it were—"
"No matter who they are," Artys repeated, cutting him off Stannis too intelligent for his own good thought Artys . "And I'll be very grateful to those who keep such calumnies from ever finding air."
He let a slow smile show. "As you know, Lord Baelish, the Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts."
Baelish dipped his head, coin-bright smile returning. "Prince Tommen is a sweet boy."
"My princess," Artys said, "is sweeter."
Petyr's grin sharpened. "Then we understand each other."
Artys rejoined the revelry .
Artys slipped back into the warmth and noise of the hall and made for his uncle.
"Uncle Edmure." He clasped forearms. "How is Grandfather?"
Edmure's smile sagged. "Worse. The fevers come and go, but they take more than they give back. Vyman keeps him comfortable. He asks for you."
"I'll ride with you to Riverrun," Artys said at once. "If he fades, I won't be absent."
Edmure gripped his arm, grateful. "At first light after the feast, then."
They were joined by Tytos Blackwood, sober in black and crimson. He bowed the bare inch courtesy demanded.
"Ser Artys."
"Lord Blackwood."
"My second son, Hoster, is near fifteen," Tytos said without embroidery. "Bookish, but his heart is true."
"I'll take him to squire," Artys said. "The realm needs more than men who swing a sword. And it will be a change to speak with someone who doesn't think books are only for maesters and septons."
Blackwood's eyes eased a fraction. "You'll have him within the fortnight." A short nod, and he withdrew.
A moment later Jonos Bracken shouldered in—broad, bronzed, smelling of horse and wine.
"Ser Artys, you rode well. I've not seen such a tilt—the way you unhorsed Ser Barristan himself," Bracken boomed, grin a little too easy. "I hear your princess keeps a tidy household. I've a daughter with steady hands and a better tongue than most. If Princess Myrcella would have a Riverlands girl to wait upon her…"
"My lady wife chooses her own attendants," Artys said evenly, "but I'm sure she can be persuaded if the girl is steady."
Bracken laughed. "Then I'll send Syra—comely, but willful. Serving the princess should temper her." He clapped Artys's shoulder and moved on, trading a barbed nod with Blackwood as he went. Old grudges, politely sheathed—at least under the King's roof.
Last came Lord Walder Frey, thin as a whip, tongue like one too.
"Ser Artys," he rasped. "Your lady mother would not send young Robert Arryn to me, and your lord father would not take my grandsons as his wards. The Twins recall such discourtesies."
Artys kept his tone smooth. He had no wish to set the Lord of the Crossing against him; Walder was old, proud, vain—and he remembered slights. "Lord Walder, we've all been ill-used by timing. Forgive my mother—Sweetrobin's health has ever been fragile, and she would be distraught if anything befell him. I've yet to take a squire. I'm sure you have a son or grandson you'd be willing to part with."
The old man studied him with rheumy eyes, then smiled through bad teeth. "Olyvar, then. Eyes open, dutiful lad. And since the princess is looking for company, my Walda would do as lady-in-waiting. Biddable, and eats little. The princess will like her."
Greedy old bastard, Artys thought. Aloud: "Ensure Olyvar is at Riverrun—Lady Walda as well. They'll both accompany me to the Eyrie once my business is done."
"Tis good to see the heir of the Eyrie remembers his courtesies," Frey said, waspish smile returning.
Artys inclined his head while Black Walder glared from behind, still nursing the bruise to his pride from the first tilt.
As Frey drifted off, Edmure reappeared at Artys's elbow. "You meant it?" he asked, low. "About riding with me?"
"I did," Artys said. "We leave at first light. If Grandfather means to go, he won't go without his grandson's face in the room."
Edmure exhaled. "Good. Pack light."
"First light," Artys repeated. "Riverrun."
He caught the queen's eye as she rose to withdraw, while the king laughed with a serving girl on his lap. Artys followed, falling in a pace ahead; Ser Boros trailed behind the queen.
"Your Grace, might we speak in private?" Artys asked.
Cersei regarded him with those emerald eyes, as if to see through him, then gave a small nod.
They entered the royal apartments. "Wait outside," Cersei told Ser Boros. The Kingsguard hesitated, then took his post beyond the door.