298 AC
Mrycella POV
The past few months had been a whirlwind for Myrcella. She was on her way to Lannisport when she had received the news of her good-father's passing. Artys had held his father in great respect, and she knew he would want her by his side to mourn. But Artys, as ever, simply drowned himself in his duties, his grief a private, heavy cloak he refused to share.
Though sailing to White Harbor had been some of the happiest times of her life. At sea, her love could not be disturbed by missives from his lords or the grand plans he had for the Vale. For once, he had to stand still, and she could bask in the entirety of his attention, a warmth she cherished more than any title or land. Despite a year of marriage, however, Artys had not taken her maidenhead. He pleasured her in other ways, his touch and his devotion a source of both deep satisfaction and profound frustration. She yearned to give him a son, to fulfill her duty as his wife, yet Artys was firm in his refusal, a barrier that maddened her to no end.
She had even begun the exercises he had prescribed to strengthen her private parts, hoping to prove her readiness. When she had pressed him one night, desperate for an answer, he finally revealed the truth that haunted him: he feared he would lose her to childbirth, and he would not be able to live with the guilt.
His words had pleased and angered her to no end. The thought that he loved her so much that he would deny them both an heir, that his fear of her loss was greater than his desire for a legacy, was a balm to her heart's deepest insecurities. Yet it was also a cage. To be loved so fiercely was to be protected so completely, and in his protection, she felt the sharp sting of her own purpose being denied. She was his wife a princess of the realm and she was not made of spun glass.
Marei was massaging her feet while Alysanne was brushing her hair after a long bath in Winterfell's hot spring. Myrcella had resolved on confronting her husband. She had commanded Rosamund to request her husband's presence; he seemed to have buried himself in Winterfell's library, reading obscure tomes written in the Old Tongue, the language of the North before the invasion of the Andals.
The huge oak door creaked open, and Artys walked in with Rosamund Lannister trailing behind him. With a smile, he said, "My love is radiant as the sun, even in the cold North."
Myrcella's eyes narrowed. "Clearly not radiant enough for her husband to share a bed with."
"You may leave," she said to Rosamund, her voice sharp. Myrcella disliked the Lannister cousin her mother had foisted on her. Marei and Alysanne stirred to leave as well, but Myrcella stayed them with a gesture.
Artys winced. "Forgive me, my sweet. It was not my intention to ignore you. Father's death has been hard on me. Let me make it up to you," he said, moving towards the bed.
Myrcella seized the opportunity. "You may make it up to me in the bed, Ser. Unless..."
Artys looked at her for a heartbeat and then smiled. "Very well. My lioness will no longer be denied, it would seem."
Myrcella felt victorious, allowing herself to smile.
"Marei, get my sweet princess ready," Artys commanded, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I plan on taking her maidenhead."
Myrcella's heart skipped a beat. Artys removed his silk tunic and his breeches as he looked at her hungrily. He pulled Alysanne towards him and put his hand on her head, bringing it to his groin. Alysanne did not need to be told; she took his manhood in her mouth, spit dribbling over his cock as she swallowed him. The whole time, Artys's eyes were on Myrcella, drinking in her body, making her blush.
Myrcella could feel Marei's skillful tongue slip into her silken folds with practiced ease as her dainty fingers ghosted over her nipples, which stiffened on command. Myrcella moaned as her back arched. When she felt Marei's warm mouth being removed from her soaking quim, she felt the hard, warm stiffness of Artys's cock gently nudging for entrance.
She opened her eyes to find Artys's face hovering over hers, a smile on his lips. He gently lifted her head so they looked into each other's eyes as she felt the sweet pain of his cock entering her. She grit her teeth in agony one second and felt ecstasy the next. The sharp sting of her maidenhead breaking gave way to a deep, fulsome pleasure as he began to move within her, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, then growing in intensity. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her nails digging into the powerful muscles of his back. All thought of duty, frustration, and fear vanished, replaced by the overwhelming reality of her husband's possession.
After what felt like an eternity, Artys let out a deep groan and shuddered, his release flooding her. He collapsed against her, his weight a welcome comfort, his breath hot against her neck. For a long moment, they lay tangled together, the only sounds in the room their ragged breathing and the crackling of the fire.
Finally, he lifted himself off her, his gaze soft and possessive. He looked at the two waiting handmaidens.
"Clean her," he ordered, his voice still husky. "With your mouths."
Alysanne and Marei moved to the bed without a word. Alysanne knelt between Myrcella's legs, her expression reverent as she lowered her head to the mess between her thighs. Myrcella gasped as she felt the gentle, thorough sweep of the woman's tongue, lapping away the mingled evidence of her and Artys's passion. At the same time, Marei knelt by Artys's side, taking his softened, slick manhood into her mouth to clean him with equal care.
Myrcella watched, her body still humming with pleasure, as her husband was tended to. The act was possessive and intimate, a clear declaration of his ownership over them all. When Alysanne finished, she placed a soft kiss on the inside of Myrcella's thigh, a gesture of submission.
Artys pulled Myrcella into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. "Are you well, my lioness?" he murmured, his hand stroking her hair.
Myrcella could only nod, a contented sigh escaping her lips." you are the most important person in my life Cella" Artys said as he kissed her forehead "now sleep".
Artys POV
The King had arrived a week ago. The party was exhausted from the long travel. The feast was a lavish affair, well, lavish by Northern standards. Artys did not think less of the Starks; such a harsh climate meant that the people here had to be austere to survive. The King was planning on going on a hunt into the Wolfswood, now that his men were rested from their travels.
Fate had forced Artys's hand. With his father dead, he needed an heir, and quickly, to demonstrate stability to his vassals and to the realm. Myrcella was still young at fourteen, and despite Westerosi women maturing faster than their counterparts on Earth, childbirth was risky. Artys had instructed her to do Kegels and leg and abdominal exercises, which would make birthing easier. It would be weird for a Westerosi noble woman to do, but Myrcella was very smart and understood the reason behind it and did as she was bid.
With the plan Artys was planning to enact, an heir was essential to secure the succession. As the Kings party departed for the Hunt Artys hung back with Robb, Theon and Jon while The King road at the head with Ned stark and Barristan Selmy at his side. Jon had agreed to become Artys squire and was allowed to join the hunt . Artys looked at Jofferey and The Hound to the left of the party surrounded by a posse of Lannister guardsman in their crimson cloaks. Artys took a deep breath here it goes he thought to himself.
Ned Stark POV
The morning mist clung to the edges of the Wolfswood as the hunting party set out, breath steaming from horses and men alike. Ned Stark rode ahead with Robert, the ground soft beneath the hooves of their palfreys. Behind them came Robb, Theon, Jon Snow, and Artys Arryn. The crown prince, Joffrey, Ned's goodson-to-be, was riding to the left with the Hound.
Robert was in high spirits, as he always was in the saddle, the forest air flushing life back into him. "Seven hells, Ned," the King laughed, "I love how the North smells. Quiet. Clean. Gods, I wish we could just ride and keep riding. What do you say, Ned?"
Ned smiled despite himself. "Would that we could, Robert. Would that we could."
Robert barked a laugh loud enough to send a flock of crows rattling into the sky.
Behind them, Robb and Artys rode side by side, japing and nudging each other's horses like young knights in the practice yard. The sight warmed Ned. His son was growing into a good man; it pained him to leave the North in his care at such an early age, and Artys—gods help him—seemed to inspire loyalty easily. Even Jon rode with them now, a squire in truth, not merely in name. Artys had seen worth in the boy, and for that, Ned was quietly grateful. Jon rode tall in the saddle, pride held carefully behind his solemn expression. He belongs, Ned thought. Finally, he belongs somewhere.
A streak of white flashed through the treetops. Ned shaded his eyes. "That hawk," he murmured, "is that his?"
"Aye," Theon said. "Lord Artys keeps it trained. Follows him near everywhere."
Ned watched its spiral in the distance, a pale falcon sweeping the sky with eerie precision.
The hunting party was large enough that they eventually split into three groups, each taking a different arm of the forest. Ned rode with the King, as duty demanded, though he cast a fond look at Robb and Jon as they peeled away with Artys to the west.
"He's a good lad," Robert said, nodding at Artys's retreating back. "Jon raised him well."
"Aye," Ned replied. "He is far better than we were at his age."
"Ha! You sound old, Stark. Lords with honor are as rare as pious whores these days." Robert's grin dimmed. "The realm could use a few more."
They pressed deeper into the trees, the baying of hounds fading behind them. The sun climbed. Birds scattered. Hooves thudded. For a time, there was only the quiet rhythm of the hunt.
Then came the rider. Bursting from between the pines, pale-faced, reins tangled, breath ragged, Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon.
"Your Grace!" Boros gasped, nearly falling from his horse. "Your Grace, the prince! Prince Joffrey… he's wounded!"
The woods seemed to hold its breath. Ned felt a cold sweep through him. Robert stiffened like a man struck. "What?" the King barked. "How?"
Boros swallowed. "He… he fell, Your Grace. The horses went mad. And the Hound's mount as well. Both beasts—they reared without warning and began biting and kicking everyone. The prince was thrown."
Robert's face darkened. Fury and fear battled behind his eyes. "Is he alive?"
"Yes, Your Grace. Badly hurt. Bleeding. The Hound carries him back toward camp."
Ned spurred his horse without thinking.
"WHAT ARE YOU ALL WAITING FOR? LET'S RIDE!" Robert bellowed.
What happened? Ned wondered. He hoped for Sansa's sake and for Robert's that the boy was not badly injured. If it were merely a fall and a broken foot, the Kingsguard would not have ridden so hard to reach them. Ned and the King rode hard, hoping some gnarled root did not trip their mounts.