298AC
Harrenhal
There was to have been a feast to welcome him and Ser Edmure to Harrenhal, but the raven from King's Landing smothered any such celebration.
Artys burned. Jon Arryn had been fit as a man half his years; he did not believe for a moment this was natural. Someone had killed him. Why, unless he had stumbled onto something inconvenient? He needed the truth. Cersei was not in the city—she had gone to Lannisport with Myrcella and Lord Tywin—so she could have arranged it, but would she dare act so brazenly under Varys's nose? Petyr… Petyr had the means. With the royal treasury at his fingertips, Littlefinger could make anything happen. The worst of it: Artys had condoned "dealing with" a problem—he had assumed Petyr meant Stannis, not Jon Arryn.
He had never quite viewed Jon as a father, but he was fond of the stubborn old man all the same. He could not expose Petyr now; the man might drag Artys down with him. Even if the slander were disproved, the stain would remain. In Westeros, there is no worse name than kinslayer. Even a rumor can make a man a pariah—especially among the sanctimonious lords of the Vale, who would not sully their honor by standing beside such a one.
He would ride for King's Landing at first light. For now, he tried to quiet the stampede in his head. During the somber meal a pretty serving girl had caught his eye; he took her to his bed out of sheer exhaustion and the need to think of anything else. "M'lord looks troubled," said Pia, soft-voiced and simple.
"I've had word of my father's passing, Pia," Artys said, not unkindly, reaching for the silver goblet on the bedside table. "It weighs on me."
Guilt was gnawing at his very soul; Artys crushed the silver goblet in his hand as if it were paper. It was time to stop wallowing in self-pity and start being proactive. The Renly faction was the biggest threat in terms of military might, but Stannis was the best commander, with the royal fleet at his command. Even with the Lannisters and the riverlords on his side, he would need the North to match the Reach in the field.
The position of Hand of the King was now empty. There were only two candidates Artys could see Robert choosing: Eddard Stark or Stannis, with Eddard his first choice. He would need to settle his father's affairs and head north. It was time to create a controlled demolition. War always favors the side with initiative; it was time to begin culling the herd.
298 AC — King's Landing
Artys entered the city with an honor guard of goldcloaks greeting him. Ser Robar rode toward him, his usual smile missing.
"You have my condolences, my lord," he said, face grim.
Artys nodded, noting that he was being addressed as "lord" now.
"Your lady mother left with the household before Lord Arryn's bones were cold," Robar said, failing to hide his distaste, as they rode up Aegon's High Hill to the Red Keep.
"Robar, have my father's bones brought to the ship."
He dismounted, let a stableboy take the reins, and strode into Maegor's Holdfast. In the royal apartments, King Robert stood staring at a tapestry, reminiscing. Artys suppressed the bile rising in his throat. How many good men had died to put his fat arse on the throne, while he drove the kingdom into debt and ruin through whoring and drinking? Artys had once been fond of the king; now he felt only loathing. Artys's own rule of the Vale had given him ample insight into all the ways Westeros could be improved, and this tub of lard sat and did nothing while nobles schemed around him.
Artys went to one knee. "Your Grace."
Robert seemed startled for a second and then turned. His usual bombastic cheer was gone; Jon Arryn had been more a father to him than Steffon Baratheon ever was.
"Artys," he said, speech slurred with wine. He gestured for Artys to stand and pulled him into a bone-crushing embrace. The king patted his shoulder. "I'm sorry, lad. There was nothing we could do. Pycelle says it was a fever—it burned through him. May the Father judge him justly."
"I thank you, Your Grace. My father thought of you as a son as well. You knew him longer than I did; I'm sure the loss is as difficult for you to bear as it is for us."
Robert nodded. "Your brother Jon—I wanted him fostered at Dragonstone, but Lord Tywin has agreed to foster him. It's a great honor; Tywin has never taken a ward. But Lysa would not hear of it and fled. Talk some sense into that mother of yours."
Artys bowed. "Forgive my mother if you can, Your Grace. She has always had a nervous temperament, and Sweetrobin's health has ever been fragile. With Father's passing, I fear that removing Sweetrobin from her would be more than she can bear."
Robert looked at him and sighed. "Lord Tywin will take umbrage."
"Your Grace, if it is between my brother's well-being or Lord Tywin's displeasure, my choice is made. My brother is heir to the Vale until your grandson is born. I will have him fostered with Lord Royce."
Robert glared at him for what seemed an age, then laughed. "You've been a lord for barely a week, and already you speak like one. Very well—so be it."
Cersei, scheming as ever, meant to use Sweetrobin as leverage, Artys thought. A hostage to compel loyalty.
King Robert handed him a sealed roll of parchment. "It reaffirms you as Jon Arryn's successor and as Warden of the East."
Artys nodded. "Sire, my presence is required in the Vale."
Robert returned to his horn of ale and dismissed him with a wave.
His mother had returned to the Vale in all haste, taking only a few of her household and Maester Colemon. Artys needed to return to the Vale as soon as possible to reaffirm his position as liege lord before heading to Winterfell. Robert was not a man to bestir himself with haste.
Artys summoned his father's squire. Hugh was a gangly lad with a nervous disposition; Father had taken him on out of kindness. He could have given the honor to a more useful house, but Lord Arryn was ever a sentimental man.
"Tell me everything you know of my father's movements before his passing," Artys commanded.
"M–my lord," the boy of seven-and-ten stuttered, "he spent much time with Lord Stannis. Of what they spoke, I know not. They went to a blacksmith on the Street of Steel, and a brothel on the Street of Silk—Ch–Ch–Chataya's."
Artys's eyes widened for a heartbeat. He would sooner believe pigs could fly than that the honorable Jon Arryn—and prickly Stannis Baratheon—visited a brothel, much less one owned by him. But no one knew that. He would have to ask Chataya; she had not mentioned it in her reports.
Artys fixed the squire with a piercing look. Hugh cowered, then offered, "This… this was the book by his bedside when he passed, my lord." He produced a heavy tome: Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
Artys's stomach clenched. His father had been killed for uncovering what Artys already knew—honorable fool that he was.
"What was the name of the blacksmith he visited?" Artys asked.
"T–Tobho Mott, my lord. The one who forged your blade."
"FUCK," Artys breathed.
"Hugh, you will leave for the Vale with me. We sail on the morrow. You will be knighted and serve in my household."
"Th–thank you, my lord." Hugh dropped to one knee.
"You will keep my father's secrets—and mine," Artys said. "Swear it."
"I swear it, my lord."
That night, Artys slipped through the tunnels to Chataya's. He waited on the bed, skinchanging into Black Tom to check for eavesdroppers outside the brothel. Satisfied, he resumed himself.
"My lord, what a welcome surprise. Please accept my condolences on your father's passing," Chataya said in the Summer Tongue.
Artys seized her by the throat and pushed her to the wall. "My father and Stannis visited you, and you did not think to mention it?"
Chataya's doe eyes widened with fear; she gasped but did not resist. "Forgive me, my lord. I did not think it of import."
Artys released her and fixed her with a cold stare. "Tell me everything."
Chataya swallowed and spoke. She had supplied King Robert with a virgin from the Crownlands—a freckled redhead, slender body, full breasts, just as the king preferred. The girl, Meaghan, had fallen pregnant and borne a daughter the mother named Barra.
"I have given them free room and board," Chataya added.
"No doubt because you hoped the king would return for the girl," Artys said, flat.
He stepped closer. "The girl and the babe come with me to the Vale. Speak of this to no one. "
Artys had commanded Robar to bring a blacksmith's apprentice—a boy named Gendry—to the docks and board the Sea Strider. He would serve at the Gates of the Moon as a smith, or so he explained to Robar; Tobho Mott knew better than to ask questions.
Artys waited in a snug, windowless chamber in the north wall of the Red Keep. By candlelight, he read the same book his father had studied. He sat on the stone bed; the room was sparse save for a jug of water. The door opened, and the eunuch's floral perfume reached him before the soft hand on the latch.
Varys's eyes widened. "Lord Artys—you frightened me."
"Sit, Lord Varys. We have much to discuss," Artys said.