Artys
The Sea Strider moved through black waters like a ghost. Through the cabin window, Artys watched moonlight dance upon gentle swells, the night sky clear and starred. A swan ship was a beautiful thing—sleek white hull, graceful lines, faster than any war galley when the winds were right. Seven days to Gulltown, the captain had promised. Perhaps six if the gods were kind.
He had not lingered long at Winterfell after Joffrey's death. The morning after that tense meeting in Robert's solar, he had sought out both king and Hand to take his leave. The king had seemed... different. Energized, even. The grief that had consumed Robert in those first days had burned away, replaced by something harder. Rage, perhaps, or the prospect of war itself.
Robert had never truly cared for Joffrey, Artys knew. Oh, the king had mourned in his own way—any father would mourn a son's death—but there had been no great love there. Joffrey had been Cersei's son more than Robert's, raised in the queen's shadow, shaped by Lannister pride. Robert was ever disappointed in his heir and had no compunctions about showing it.
But war? War Robert understood. War made sense to him in a way courtly life never had. The prospect of marching south, of crushing the Dornish, of avenging his son's murder—that had put fire back in the king's eyes. If Viserys were to invade with his horse lords, even better.
"The Vale needs me, Your Grace," Artys had said. "There are preparations to make. I am Warden of the East, and Lord of the Vale. My duties call me home."
Robert had gripped his shoulder with bruising force. "You're a good lad, Artys. The Crown will need the knights of the Vale. There is a war on the horizon; I can smell it."
"I swear it. Whatever your will, Your Grace, the Vale stands with you."
Ned had walked him to the courtyard after, those grey Stark eyes seeing too much as always. "Safe journey, nephew. And... may the gods be with you."
Artys had merely nodded.
They had ridden hard from Winterfell to White Harbor, a pace that left men and horses both near breaking. Myrcella had endured it without complaint, though he'd seen the toll it took. Now the ship's rocking had stolen what strength she had left. Artys needed to get to the Vale and make full use of the fire he had lit. Artys had sent letters to Alyn written in invisible ink, but there was only so much that could be conveyed by quill and parchment.
It was queer, that. Myrcella loved the sea, always had. She'd taken to sailing like a Velaryon, finding joy in the spray and wind. But these past days she'd been green-faced and retching, confined to her cabin with Marei and Alysanne attending her. Perhaps it was simply the hard riding beforehand and the exhaustion.
The thought brought a flicker of concern, quickly set aside. There were more immediate matters to attend to. Artys would be swamped with work the moment he landed in Gulltown; he would have to strategize while he could in the solace his ship provided. But the stress was getting to him. Viserys getting a Dothraki horselord on his side was not part of his calculations. Artys did not fear the Dothraki—amphibious assaults were hard even with modern technology. Doing it with a bunch of savages who never sailed nor were capable of siege craft? Lunacy...
A soft knock at the cabin door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Enter."
Rosamund Lannister slipped inside, hood drawn low over golden hair. She glanced back at the corridor before closing the door, her movements furtive. Artys gave the girl a lecherous smirk.
"Strip," Artys commanded, not rising from his chair.
Rosamund's eyes widened, but her fingers moved immediately to the laces of her gown. She knew better than to question him. The dress pooled at her feet, followed by her shift, until she stood naked in the lamplight.
"Come here." Artys patted the table.
She moved to the heavy oak table by the window, placing her palms flat on its surface, leaning forward. The position arched her back, displayed her body in the warm glow of the lamp. Artys rose and moved behind her, examining her with clinical detachment.
She was beautiful—there was no denying that. Full breasts that swayed gently with each breath, heavy and rose-tipped. A narrow waist that flared to generous hips, the kind meant for bearing children. Her skin was pale as cream, unmarked, smooth in the lamplight. Between her legs, golden curls caught the light—that particular Lannister shade that marked her blood as clearly as green eyes. It was funny how genes worked in this world Artys thought.
But she was not Myrcella.
His wife was younger, more delicate. Slender where Rosamund was curved, her body still holding that grace between maiden and woman. Small, high breasts, a narrower waist, hips just beginning to bloom. The same golden hair, albeit straighter, the same green eyes, but Myrcella's face was perfection itself—the comeliest he had ever seen save the queen. Rosamund was pretty, certainly. Womanly and ripe. But Myrcella was exquisite, a jewel beyond price.
And he cared for her. Truly cared, in a way that surprised him sometimes. She was clever and kind, brave despite her youth. Somehow, in trying to make her love him, he had also fallen in love, or as much as it was possible for him to love someone.
He ran his hand down Rosamund's spine, across the swell of her rear, then back up. She shivered beneath his touch.
"Tell me all you know about Tywin Lannister," he said. "What manner of man is he?"
"I... I'm only a Lannister of Lannisport, my lord," Rosamund said, her voice unsteady. "I've only seen Lord Tywin a few times, at a distance. He's frightening. Cold as the Wall itself."
"What do people say about him?" His hand moved to her hip, squeezing.
"He destroyed the Reynes and Tarbecks and restored Lannister pride and power. He had the young Tarbeck boy thrown down a well so the Tarbeck line would end. I am sure my lord knows of the Reynes of Castamere and how his lordship diverted a stream and drowned them in their halls."
The whole realm knew that, but he had to pry something out of the girl.
Rosamund continued, "That he had his father's mistress walked naked through Lannisport to restore House Lannister's honor."
"What else?" His fingers trailed between her legs from behind, finding her already slick. Her breath caught.
"There's a story about Lord Farman of Faircastle. This was years ago, when Lord Tywin was Hand. Lord Farman had some dispute over fishing rights with Lannisport, claimed the waters near Fair Isle were his by ancient right. He made quite a noise about it, even appealed to King Aerys."
She gasped as his fingers worked inside her. "Lord Tywin said nothing at first. Let Lord Farman think he'd won. Then one morning, Lord Farman woke to find every ship in Faircastle harbor had been seized by Lannister men. Not destroyed—seized. Lord Tywin claimed they'd been fishing in Lannister waters illegally, that the ships were forfeit under the law."
Her breath quickened. "Lord Farman had no proof they hadn't been, no way to fight it. He lost half his fleet in a single day. The rest of the West learned the lesson—you don't challenge Lannister authority, not even over something as small as fishing rights."
Artys absorbed this, his mind working. Tywin Lannister would not simply demand justice for Joffrey. The man's entire reputation was built on responding to insults with overwhelming force.
If Joffrey's death was publicly declared as done by the Dornish—and Artys had made certain Cersei believed it was, through Rosamund's carefully placed whispers—then Tywin would be forced to react. Not just for vengeance, but for the honor of his house.
To show that no one could strike at a Lannister and live. If it did not become public knowledge, Tywin would take his vengeance more privately because Lord Tywin was not one to let slights go unanswered. Cersei, despite her idiocy, would wait for instructions from her father. Tywin would not want to march all the way to Dorne. He would seek vengeance some other way....
If it did become public, which for Artys would be a desirable outcome, the old lion would demand war openly even if the cost was prohibitive. Tywin would push Robert toward it with all his considerable influence, not that Robert needed any pushing. Tywin had been Hand of the King for twenty years under Aerys, knew how to maneuver at court, how to bend kings to his will. And Robert, already eager for war, would need little pushing.
Ned Stark was managing to talk Robert down from his rage. Artys needed to use Cersei to fan the flames. Artys would have preferred not to use an unpredictable person like her, but alas, a man can only play with the cards he is dealt.
The queen had her own considerable influence—she was the king's wife, mother to the heir, beautiful and cunning. She'd been seething in the background, remembering every slight that had been done to her. Once she was done grieving for the moron Joffrey, she would sink her claws into Tommen. And with Tywin backing her, with the full weight of Lannister gold and power behind their cause...
There was a danger there... A small one, but real. If Cersei grew impatient, if she decided Tommen should be king now rather than waiting for Robert to die naturally... She had the means. Poison in the king's wine, a hunting accident arranged too soon, a dozen ways to remove her husband.
But even Cersei wouldn't be so stupid as to kill Robert before dealing with his brothers. Would she?
Artys considered it and dismissed the thought. Cersei was ambitious, yes, and ruthless. But she wasn't that foolish... He hoped. Killing Robert while Stannis and Renly lived would accomplish nothing. Stannis and Renly would launch their bids for the throne—Stannis because he knew the truth and Renly because he had always been ambitious and vain.
No. She'd want Robert's brothers dealt with first. And that was where Artys's plans and her desires aligned perfectly—for now.
He withdrew his hand and moved to his chair. "My princess is indisposed. You wouldn't mind tending to my needs, would you?" Rosamund gave him a sultry smile and took his thumb into her mouth.
"On your knees."
Rosamund dropped immediately, crawling across the floor to kneel between his legs. Her fingers worked at his laces, freeing him. She looked up at him once, those green eyes dark with need, then lowered her head.
Her tongue traced the length of him, slow and wet. Then she took him into her mouth, her lips stretched wide, already dripping spit. The skill was immediately apparent.
"Where did you learn to be this good?" Artys asked, genuinely impressed.
Rosamund pulled back, her hand stroking him as she spoke, spit connecting her lips to his length. "There was an old lord in Lannisport," she breathed. "Lord Lannister—a distant cousin, sixty namedays if he was a day. Wealthy. Widowed. I... I went to him. Made myself available i was but five and ten."
She leaned forward, nuzzling his stones with her nose, her tongue darting out to lick beneath them. Spit dribbled from her chin. "I'd let him put his cock in my mouth, my lord. Swallow his seed. Let him fuck me while he wheezed and grunted. I thought surely he'd wed me—I'm a Lannister, after all."
Her tongue worked along the sensitive skin, then moved higher. "But his heart gave out before the wedding. Three months I'd serviced him; all I have to show for it are some jewels and a samite dress."
She took him deep into her mouth, then pulled back again, more spit running down her chin. "Then there was a Pentoshi merchant. Fat, ugly thing. But wealthy. I went to his bed willingly, let him use me however he wanted. In my mouth, from behind, everywhere."
She pressed her face against his stones, licking, nuzzling, her eyes meeting his. "I'd take his cock down my throat until I choked, let him spend in me, all of it. I thought a Lannister was worth marrying, even for a merchant." Artys was amused at how ambitious and utterly shameless this girl was. Then again, upward mobility was a concept unheard of in Westeros, and as patriarchal as the system was, the only means for women to rise was through their beauty and their bodies.
She took him into her mouth again, deeper this time, her throat working around him. "But he sailed away. Married some Pentoshi heiress. Left me with nothing."
Artys leaned back, one hand resting loosely in her golden hair as she worked him with her mouth and tongue.
He admired it, in a way. Perhaps if she continued to be useful—continued feeding Cersei exactly what he wanted her to hear about Oberyn and Dornish involvement—he'd find her a match. Some minor lord or merchant grateful for a beautiful wife.
His mind turned to larger matters while Rosamund serviced him.
Renly Baratheon. That was the true threat as far as Artys could tell. The real danger to everything Artys was building.
The youngest Baratheon brother was everything Robert had once been—young, strong, handsome, charming. The smallfolk loved him. The lords found him agreeable. He had all of Robert's charisma without the drinking, the whoring, and the fatness. He was no battle commander like Stannis or a warrior of Robert's renown, but there were always other men who could do it for him.
Worse, Renly was ambitious. Oh, he hid it well behind smiles and japes, but Artys could see it. Renly had grown up in the shadow of two older brothers—Robert the warrior king who'd won the throne, Stannis the dutiful commander who'd held Storm's End and broken the Ironborn. Renly had always been vain and pompous. That scheme he had hatched with the Tyrells was a great example of his stupidity. All the young lordlings of the Reach and the Stormlands loved him, though. Most of them were too young for Robert's war, but this war with Dorne would give them all a chance. Artys hoped that they would take it.
Rosamund worked him with skill, her mouth wet and eager, spit dribbling from her chin. But Artys's mind was on calculations, on strategy, on the pieces moving across the board.
If he were Renly, what would he do?
First, volunteer to lead the Stormlander forces. Storm's End was his seat, the Stormlords his bannermen. They'd follow him eagerly—a Baratheon leading them against the Dornish, the ancient enemy. It was the natural choice, and Robert would approve. The king would want his brother leading men, would see it as proper.
But Renly wouldn't stop there. No, he'd reach out to the Reach. To Lord Mace Tyrell, the fat flower who fancied himself a great commander. The power of the Reach was nothing to scoff at, though.
Renly spent an inordinate amount of time at Highgarden. More than could be explained by simple courtesy or friendship. And there was Loras Tyrell—the Knight of Flowers, young and handsome and always at Renly's side. The whispers at court suggested they were lovers, and Artys believed it. He'd seen how they looked at each other, how Loras followed Renly like a shadow.
But that was irrelevant to the larger game. What mattered was that Loras was Margaery's brother, and Margaery was Mace Tyrell's daughter. The Tyrells wanted their blood on the throne, had wanted it since Robert took the crown. They'd tried to offer Margaery to Robert himself, to replace Cersei with a younger, more fertile queen. Robert despised the Tyrells and what they had done during the Rebellion. No matter how much Robert hated Cersei, he would never do something that stupid.
It was a wonder Renly had not yet married Margaery. If they did, it would make him nigh unstoppable—more than a hundred thousand swords and the bounty of the Reach. This would be a nightmare for Artys to deal with. He had no doubt he would win, but Artys did not want to rule over ash and cinder, especially with a winter coming.
Renly wasn't a warrior, wasn't skilled with sword or lance. But he was charismatic, inspiring. He'd ride at the head of the column, wear fine armor that caught the sun, give stirring speeches that made men want to follow him. The young lordlings of the Reach and Stormlands would flock to his banner, eager for glory, eager to serve a lord who seemed to embody everything a knight should be.
He wouldn't need to fight duels or lead charges. That's what champions were for. That's what men like Loras Tyrell and Randyll Tarly were for—to win battles in Renly's name, to make the lord look glorious by association and possibly a future king. Why follow a fat boy like Tommen when the lords could follow Renly, who seemed like Robert come again?
And it would work. The songs would be written about the gallant stag lord who'd avenged his nephew, who'd led a great host against Dornish treachery. The smallfolk would sing his name. The lords would speak of his leadership, his ability to unite the Reach and Stormlands.
When Robert eventually died—and Robert would die, whether from drink or hunting or the simple strain of being fat and angry—Renly would be positioned perfectly. He'd have the Reach's full strength behind him. He'd have military victories to his name. He'd have a beautiful, clever wife from the wealthiest kingdom. He'd have the love of the smallfolk and the respect of the lords.
The succession should go to Tommen by rights—Robert's remaining son. But Tommen was a boy, soft and weak, easily dismissed. "The realm needs a strong hand," Renly would argue. "A proven leader. Not a child." And with a hundred thousand Reach swords behind him, who would argue?
Stannis might try, not because he was ambitious but because he alone knew the truth. Stannis had the better claim by law—he was Robert's brother, older than Renly. But Stannis was rigid, humorless, unloved. He'd grind his teeth and speak of duty and justice, and the realm would ignore him. His strength was his fleet, but that meant nothing against the might of the Reach in open battle.
No. If Renly survived this war, if he married Margaery and won glory in Dorne, he'd take the throne when Robert died. And any child Artys had with Myrcella would be pushed aside, dismissed, forgotten.
That could not be allowed.
The key was timing. Renly had to die in Dorne, before he could solidify the Tyrell alliance. Before any potential marriage.
An ambush would work best. The Boneway or the Prince's Pass—those were the routes into Dorne. Narrow, defensible, perfect for killing. Renly would likely take the Prince's Pass, the wider route, better suited for moving large forces. He'd be near the front, visible to his men, inspiring them.
Dornish raiders striking in the middle of the night before melting into the desert. It had to look like Dornish treachery, like the same enemies who'd killed Joffrey striking again at another Baratheon .
Or perhaps poison. The Dornish were known for it. A cup of wine in camp, a gift from a supposed defector, and Renly dies writhing in his tent. The Dornish were known for disgraceful tactics—if they could fell King Daeron during a truce, they could certainly get rid of this pompous idiot.
Either way, Renly had to die early in the campaign.
Rosamund's efforts continued, eager in her efforts to please him, her tongue snaking under his cock, but Artys grit his teeth as he grabbed her hair and thrust himself into the girl's throat.
The marcher lords would be key to any Dornish campaign. The Stormlanders—Caron, Dondarrion, Swann, Selmy—could muster twenty thousand swords. Hard men who'd spent their lives fighting Dornish raiders. They knew the terrain, knew the enemy.
The Reach could field eighty thousand in a month, perhaps a hundred thousand given time. But only the marcher lords truly mattered—Tarly, Rowan, Oakheart, Fossoway. Another fifteen thousand veterans who'd fought Dornishmen their whole lives.
The rest of the Reach knights were tourney fighters. Pretty boys who'd grown up in gardens and practice yards, never seen real battle. Put them in the red mountains facing hit-and-run raids and poisoned arrows, and they'd break.
But the trained men-at-arms and knights? Those were precious. Each one represented twenty years of training, of learning to fight in plate, of understanding tactics and command. Lose a thousand peasant levies and you could raise another thousand in a season. Lose a hundred trained knights and you'd crippled your house for a generation.
Let the Reach and Stormlands march into Dorne. Let them bleed their best men in the mountains and deserts. The Vale would contribute ships—forty warships, perhaps a thousand knights under Artys for coastal landings. Enough to prove loyalty, not enough to weaken the Vale's true strength.
Occupying Dorne would be a nightmare. Everyone who'd tried had learned that lesson. The Young Dragon had conquered Dorne at fifteen, won every battle, forced every lord to kneel. Four years later he was dead and Dorne was free again. Fifty thousand men dead, all to rule Dorne for a short summer.
Seventy years before that, Aegon the Conqueror himself had tried. Even with three dragons and two sister-wives who were warriors, it had taken years. The Dornish had fought from the shadows, killed Rhaenys Targaryen and her dragon Meraxes, made the occupation so costly that even Aegon gave up.
Any army marching into Dorne would face the same. Supply lines left open to raiders as they crossed the Dornish sands, leaving them open to raiders. The Dornish would let the desert do the killing—for them, all they had to do was poison the wells. The Dornish wouldn't fight pitched battles—they'd ambush and fade, strike and retreat, bleed the invaders with a thousand cuts.
Artys wanted this to happen. Let the Reach and Stormlands shatter themselves. And when the dust settled, the Vale would stand strong, ready to guide a weakened realm with his Riverland and Westerland allies, of course.
Artys felt his release building. His hand tightened in Rosamund's hair and he thrust deeper. She took it, swallowed around him, sucking him down to the root.
He came, pulsing down her throat. She swallowed eagerly, taking everything, then pulled back slowly, spit and seed on her lips. She gave him a sultry smile and kissed the head of his cock. He ran his hands through her hair. "Get on the bed," he said. "On your back. Wait for me there."
She rose and moved to the bed, climbing onto it and arranging herself, legs parted slightly, inviting.
Artys moved to the window, pouring wine.
Four deaths. Renly first—essential. Then Robert, once the war was underway and the king's death could be attributed to a hundred different things; his reckless nature was known to the whole realm. Then Stannis, unless he kept his mouth shut, which, knowing Stannis, was never a possibility, but dealing with him will not difficult as he has never had any support. Finally Tommen, when everything else was in place.
All of it blamed on the evil Dornish and their mad Targaryen allies. All of it justified by Joffrey's murder. If all went to plan, the Stormlands and the Reach would exhaust themselves and Artys could assume the throne with his power intact.
He drained his goblet and turned from the window. Rosamund lay waiting on the bed, her legs spread, revealing the golden thatch between her legs. She bit her lips, giving him a seductive grin as she ran her hands over her ripe breasts.
He moved to the bed and climbed in beside her.
The first domino had fallen.....